#I was soaked to the literal skin lads | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonlights-inkwell · 4 years

Text

Demand an Encore

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,958

Summary: anon said: hello! i see your requests are open...! could i maybe get a Jaskier x reader where the reader very shyly explains (maybe after an embarrassing moment?) that they are into spanking? and Jaskier indulges them and it is fluffy/smutty? if not, that's okay!! i figured I'd ask. thank you! 💜

A/N: Anon. I literally owe you my life, because Dom! Jaskier now literally lives rent free in my head. A fic from Jaskier's perspective? It shocked me too. Oops. Also. Clapping joke title on a spanking fic? I think I’m way funnier than I am

Warnings: Smut. Spanking. Oral (female receiving). Clothed sex? Sorta. Discussions of Sadomasochism. Canon complicit violence. A very bad take on Jaskier's perspective.

Title from Wild Blue Yonder

“Oh wank!”

The expletive draws his eyes from his lute and upwards, to you.

You’re busy, always busy, swinging that blade about and clashing it noisily into Geralt's. Parry, swipe, dodge, sword fighting is as boring a sport as Jaskier can even imagine, only marginally better than fencing because at least there’s some danger to sword fighting. Paint drying is a more interesting thing to watch, lectures less painful to listen to. Jaskier hates it. Sparring holds no interest to Jaskier, beyond when he tries to describe how sword fighting looks for a new song, but there are no new songs. The monsters have seemingly realised that Geralt is about, and have kept themselves to themselves, and so the well of songs about danger and adventure has dried up- like a brook during a heatwave. There’s no song about battles to be won, and if he plays Toss A Coin once more then he’s quite sure that Geralt will shove his lute up his arse sideways. All he wants is to work on a new melody and the clanging is quite possibly the worst thing he can imagine. The clanging, clanking, crashing of steel on steel is enough to drive him to distraction. All he needs is a new song, but no. He simply must be tormented by the sound of metal hitting metal. Needs must apparently, at least when it comes to sparring.

He’s sure Geralt is doing this to spite him specifically. Revenge for years upon years of songs and mindless chatter and taunting, wrapped up with the knowledge that the bard would never complain about your training- that your safety is paramount to him, even if it is noisy as all hell and infuriatingly distracting.

Cornflower blue eyes scan up and take you in, on hands and knees and holding your sword at such an angle to block Geralt’s swipe; face crumpled with effort and concentration while the Witcher above is as stoic looking as ever, bringing his blade down closer and closer until you slide to the ground and roll away from the sword. The buckles of your over-bust drags against the ground and knocks loose two of the buttons of your blouse, revealing an expanse of skin below the clavicle and to the dip in skin between breasts.

He wonders, not for the first time, how you manage to fight in a corset. When he was a lad, a little longer ago now than he’s quite happy to acknowledge, how a girl at a ball had collapsed because her corset was laced too tight and even after fetching a healer, the girl walked awkwardly until he left for Oxenfurt, probably long afterwards too. Yet, you can fight in one, swing that blade around with a relative ease that Jaskier can’t even manage if his trousers are tailored too high in the crotch. It’s strange. Watching you duck and twist, bend and thrust that blade around all while being held in place by tightly laced bones, it’s impressive- like watching someone dance. You aren’t a master swords-man but you’re skilled and it’s nice to watch. The exhilarated grin across your face, panting with heaving chest: it’s beauty. Pure, unadulterated beauty, even with a smear of dirt across your cheek, sweat beading about your forehead and a nick on your arm that’s letting out a small but steady stream of blood trickling down from your upper arm.

“Better.” Geralt says firmly, Jaskier watches as your face breaks into a grin and you just glow. A relaxed, genuine smile that makes you look younger than you are. You've mocked him before for how he just soaks up any validation, but even the slightest praise has your skin all but shining, cheeks flushed and mouth upturned. He understands entirely. Praise, acclaim, acknowledgement, it’s addictive; more so than any ale, any drug. Praise leaves you desperate for more, shaking and craving a next hit, almost insecurely hoping against hope that any second will bring that much needed praise. Bard's are like faeries, they require attention to survive while thriving on the energy people give, And Jaskier has been desperate for attention long before he became a bard.

Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given gift- one that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been given- but he praises you. Training is important, and Geralt seems to have realised that he’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so sparring is when he speaks most, even then it’s minimal though; but he compliments. Your form, your grip, the strength of blows. Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given thing.

Jaskier isn’t jealous.

He isn’t.

Jealousy implies that there’s something to be envied, like a possession that he wants. You aren’t a possession, he knows that, and even if you were, you wouldn’t be Geralt’s. His fingers fall from the frets of the lute, sending a sour note that makes him cringe out through the clearing.

“Gods, Dandy- if that’s a sign of what your new song sounds like then I don’t think I want to hear it!” You call over to him, head tilted as the sword twirls between your fingers. “I thought you were supposed to be a good bard.”

“You wound me, Love. Wound me.”

“No good bard would write Toss A Coin.” Geralt says, but there’s humour in his voice- well, humour enough for it to be noticeable against Geralt’s signature style of stoicism. Must be a good sort of day, for Geralt to be joking about and complimentary. These sorts of things don’t happen every day.

“Leave him be, Bully!” You swat at Geralt's side, grinning at Jaskier. “Don't you worry, Dear Heart, I love you- even with this brute insulting you.” It’s as if you don’t even remember that you started the insults, but that smile is enough to keep him quiet. That must be a sign of love, that Jaskier could be quiet for you: he’s never been silent for anyone before, even when he had himself half-convinced that he was in love with every person he's spent more than a night with, he’s never been able to keep quiet for more than a few minutes or so, he’s felt an overwhelming need to fill the silence. It’s pleasant to just bask in atmosphere that comes from being about you.

The swat at Geralt had not gone unnoticed, even if it took a moment or so for him to strike you. Geralt, facing Jaskier, lifted a hand to thump you on the back, too absorbed by the simple pleasure of retaliation to have perceived two very simple things with those enhanced Witcher senses: that the laces of your boots have come undone, and that you had bent down to tie it.

Time slows sickeningly, as Jaskier realises what’s about to happen only a second before the SLAP comes through the air at a volume none of you anticipated. Not to the lower back, a spot that while painful is little more than inconvenient when hit, but instead to your arse- angled upwards as you bent to fiddle with the ribbons of your shoes. The white-haired man had wanted something vaguely friendly but still running with undercurrents of the same energy that comes from sparring, but instead he had brought one enormous hand down onto your arse with some force. Unexpected, and completely out of nowhere as it is, it somehow is not the most surprising part.

The moan is.

A loud, broken moan- somewhere between pain and pleasure- which Jaskier knows all too well. That sound haunts his dreams. Jaskier would know it blind, dumb and senseless. Your moan, normally reserved for during the nights when his fingers slide inside of you, when his tongue breeches you. It’s weak, beautiful, and oh so very unexpected. Its a noise more beautiful than music, more beautiful than the sound of children’s laughter- always his , finally heard by another. Geralt looks horrified, cat-like eyes wide and filled with something akin to fear, but nothing like the unadulterated horror written across your face; sun-coloured skin turning red with embarrassment, lips parted wide but slowly contorting into a grimace, eyes wide but watering.

Jaskier forces himself up and towards you, while Geralt steps back, saying your name softly and apologetically,

“I am so sorry-"

“Little Miss-"

“I'm going to the stream to wash!” You say loudly, side-stepping around Jaskier to make a beeline into the thicket of trees, where a stream was hidden. Without any thought, Jaskier groans and looks up at the Witcher, eyes narrowed into accusatory slits.

“So much for those Witcher senses of yours.” It’s a ridiculous thing to be annoyed about. Geralt does not have any feelings for you beyond the platonic, and Jaskier knows that, knows full well that Geralt wouldn’t do something like that to you, least of all in front of your lover and a man far too willing to write humiliating songs about Geralt.

“It was an accident.” All stoicism has returned to Geralt’s voice, despite the still apologetic look written across his features. “She’s going to hate me. She sounded so pained.”

That almost made the Bard splutter with laughter. Moans like that are many things but not pained, at least not in a way that isn’t seen as pleasurable. Somehow, he manages to keep the laughter down and instead claps a hand to the taller man's shoulder.

“I doubt she hates you. Missy is a resilient little thing.” He tries to sound comforting, but some humour seeps through, making Geralt turn and squint at him.

“This isnt funny, Bard.”

“I’m well aware.” Jaskier nods. “I'm going to check on her though. To make sure she hasn’t drowned herself.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.” He trills as he walks along the step-worn path to the trees.

The stream is a pathetic little thing really, barely a foot in width and surrounded on all sides by the thickest section of trees which almost blocked out all light. It was easy to believe it was around dusk, but it couldn’t be much later than midday, the shade made it appear so much later than it was. And there was you, hunched over by the reeds and moss, scooping up water and splashing it in your face and onto the gash still trickling blood to try to clean it. Even in spite of the shadows, your flushed cheeks are still clear to him and he stops to take you in.

He’s had many lovers. Too many to list really, but not one of them holds a candle to you. Every girl before you was perfectly primped and polished, in fine clothes with perfect hair and made up faces, and they were beautiful but artificially so. Made that way by clothes and corsets and cosmetics. You though, you’re something else. Beautiful with the sun in your eyes, unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. Indescribably perfect cast half in fire-light, with bags beneath your eyes and blood across your cheek. Sonnet worthy while drunk and stumbling, singing out of tune to his ever songs. Godly in the dark, mouth open and back arching towards him as you stumble headfirst into climax. He loves you. He loves you, and it’s the first time he thinks he has ever really loved anyone: more than infatuation, more than lust, but actual love. Love that makes his head muddled and heart sore. He doesn’t deserve you. Wants you, needs you, but will never deserve you. Reckless, wild and brilliant you, willing to leave a life behind to fight monsters. A fool. Beautiful little fool, selfless and-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“Hard not to stare at a goddess. Careful, I hear some gods will drown pretty things like you out of jealousy.”

“Fool.” You say softly, but there’s a chuckle in your voice so he comes closer to you, stepping behind you to twist your hair away from your throat to press a kiss to the crook of your neck.

“Your fool.” He breathes out shallowly, letting his chin rest on your shoulder while his arms wind about your waist. “Are you alright, Dear Heart?”

“Embarrassed, I suppose. My pride will recover though, Dandy.” The lightness of your words combined with your stiff posture makes sure Jaskier knows you’re lying.

“Little Miss-"

“Geralt must be embarrassed as well. I should have apologised to him before-"

“You moaned.” He cuts you off, making you shut up, stiffening even more. “And you may try to deny it, but I know that noise. I might just be the only person who knows that noise.”

“Jaskier.” It sounds like a warning, but he doesn’t care.

“If it’s because it was Geralt, I understand.” He says softly, feelings coming out unbidden. “I understand, of course, and I love you but I understand if I’m in the way.”

“I liked it. Be... being hit. Not Geralt.” You whisper.

It truly is a day of surprises. Jaskier can feel the grin slip onto his face and his hands move from your stomach to your hips to begin tickling.

“Is that so?” He asks softly, revelling in your choked-out laughter and how you lean back against him. “My Little Miss wants to be spanked. Well, darling, you should have told me earlier.”

“I didn’t know it was a thing!” You argue between laughs. Jaskier so often forgets that you were a virgin before he got his hands on you, so of course you hadn’t known. His tickling doesn’t stop as he pulls you backward, rolling you onto the ground and climbing on top of you to continue his assault.

“Would you like a lesson in masochism, Dear Heart?” He teases, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you.

“Maso-what?”

“The pleasures of pain.” He explains, and watches how your face turns pink once more. “Oh, she does!”

“Stop taunting me!” You argue, thrashing beneath him but not with any intensity.

“Taunting? Never. I’m just trying to work out if I need to rent two rooms when we next go into town.” He too easily grabs at your arm when you reach up to swat at Jaskier. “For your lessons, I mean.”

“You... weren't joking?” You ask lightly and he shakes his head.

“I never joke about teaching My Muse about what brings her pleasure.” He says lightly, climbing off of you to sit by your side. “If you want me to.”

“You Wouldn’t mind?” You ask incredulously, drawing out a chuckle from the bard.

“Darling-heart, don’t be a fool, of course I wouldn’t. You know how I like pleasing you, and having you know what pleases you pleases me. Besides, it’s hardly my first dalliance into sadomasochism; there was a countess I used to know who couldn’t achieve orgasm unless tied up, with wax melted on her and at least three people watching her-"

“Jaskier.” You say softly, and he stops.

“Sorry. What I mean is, liking someone slapping your perfect bottom isn’t something to be embarrassed by, darling. Alright?”

“Alright. Thank you, Jaskier.”

“No need to thank me, Dear Heart.”

It takes weeks for Jaskier's plan to come to fruition. Weeks of traveling and camping in the woods until the three of you are able to find a town in need of a Witcher and his services. It’s a simple job, just a few drowners, but the pay is good and there is a very decent inn more than willing to accommodate all of you, and with two rooms none the less- which is far easier to negotiate while the two of you are off to do what you do. The inn-keep is a pleasant, portly man in his middle forties who seems to appreciate Jaskier's way with words, and is more than willing to forgo payment on the rooms in return for a show- and who is Jaskier to disagree with a deal such as that?

His friendly demeanour is welcome too, means the Bard actually has someone to talk to while he awaits your return- but that plan dies a death when the job takes significantly longer than he expects. Normally, it only takes a few hours for something like this, but the sun is set and his songs just coming to an end when you finally return.

The crowds, cider-drunk and rowdy had sang along to every song they knew, and sang over these they didn't- but that was fine. Drinking songs were always nice to hear, but their song dies when the door to the inn-cum-tavern opens and you pad in, followed closely by Geralt. Both drenched from tip to toe and scowling, hair stringy and clothes dark with saturation. That explains a fair bit and even with how upset you look, Jaskier grins, grip on the lute loosening and stage persona rolling off of him. Wet and angry as the two of you are, the sight of you is enough to make the crowd let out a loud, drunken cheer before beginning an enthusiastic if out of tune rendition of Toss a Coin. For once, the Bard is uninterested in joining in and instead opens his arms wide for you, it takes less than a minute for you to run to him and wind your arms around his middle while the people mill around Geralt to interrogate him about monsters and the like. Jaskier sighs and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You had me worried.”

“Almost drowned. But I’m fine.” You say apologetically against his jerkin. “Tired though.”

“I’ve booked our room. And I think my performance is over.” He says soothing, fingers carding through your wet hair. “Come on, Darling-heart.” He offers a hand, though it takes you a moment or so to reluctantly pull back from him you take it and follow him up to your rented room.

The room is tiny, little more than a box room with just a bed and small table but it’s clean and that is more than enough for you. Before even a minute can pass, you release Jaskier's hand to flop down onto the bed, moaning when you sink down into the mattress.

“Comfortable?” He asks playfully and you hum in agreement.

“I got you wet.” You reply after a minute and Jaskier chuckles.

“I don’t mind, now wait here. I’ve something to sort out for you.” The door clicks as he slips out of the room and you’re alone in the room, just you and the tingling sensation running through your body and making your brain feel as if a mist has descended over it, yet you don’t even realise it until the door opens once more and you lift your head up to look at the noise. It’s a girl, looking about fourteen or so, carrying two large buckets to the archway across from the bed which you had not even noticed, and in your drunken haze you consider why she would be taking buckets to another room through yours. Jaskier follows after her, buckets hanging from each hand and you notice how steam is billowing from the buckets until he disappears beyond the doorway. Confusion comforts your mouth into a frown, so instead of giving it much thought you let yourself sink back into the mattress, deciding it not worthy of a second thought. Water crashing against water echoes from the other room as your eyelids grow heavy and slip shut. Someone had told you once that the sound of water is enough to drive even an insomniac to sleep, you believe them in this moment, the sound of water is so relaxing to your dazed mind that you don’t question why you can hear it at all, so you simply shut your eyes and listen. You have no idea how long you lay there, listening and breathing, it could be seconds or millennia.

“Are you awake, Dear Heart?”

“hmm?”

“Come on, I ordered you a bath, you need it.” A bath. You smile and he grins at you. “Now, darling. Come along. You'll soak the sheets through.”

“I'll soak you through.” You retort tiredly, rolling off of the bed and toeing off your boots before following him into the bath's room. He watches as you walk through and is upon you within seconds, unlacing your corset and unlacing your chemise before you can move your fingers to do it for yourself. “Julian, I know you find me attractive but stripping me?”

“I don’t want you dying of cold.” He chides playfully, kissing the exposed akin of your shoulder as he pulls off the blouse. “Forgive me for loving you.”

“I love you.” You say softly and untie your trousers, pulling them and your underwear off in a single movement. He smiles at the sight and presses a hand to your lower back once you step out of the sopping fabric.

“I know, muse. Now in.” He says encouraging you into the bath, turning to fiddle with a few vials of scented oils. “Rose, Lavender or honeysuckle?”

“Lavender. It smells like you.” You say softly and sink into the water, letting out a loud moan when the heat overtakes you. He turns back to you with a smile and pours a little of the oil into the water.

“Oh, you like the smell of me?” He teases and moves around towards you.

“Of course, I do.”

He smiles at that and sinks down to his knees behind the tub at your back and picks up a rag, soaking it in the water and then moving it up to rub at your shoulders and the knobbles of your spine. The sweet floral smell is carried on the steam coming from the water, sweet and familiar and made all the better by the contented noises that come from you. He likes you like this, all pliant and sleepy and willing to let him help without complaint, it makes him feel useful in ways he never can on hunts. You shoulder so much, act so brave and mature and it’s so nice to see you just let him take control and look after you. He hums a little tune as he washes your back and feels your back move as you chuckle.

“Tickles.” You say, giggly and more awake than before. “What song is that?”

“It’s something my mother used to sing.” He says gently, scooping up some water with his hands and pouring it over your head before working out some of the tangles in your hair. “I don’t think it has a name.”

“It’s pretty.” You hum, head tilting into his hands like a kitten. “Why aren’t you in here with me?”

“I got the bath to warm you up, Silly Little Miss. I’m warm.” He says with a sigh and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“I want to touch you." You whine, twisting around to face him.

“There's time for that later, Dear Heart. “ He shakes his head affectionately and kisses the tip of your nose. “I have plans for you tonight.”

“Oh?” You ask, leaning up on your knees and allowing your breasts to lean against the lip of the tub. It’s a trick, trying to lure him in, and he knows it, but gods above it’s tempting. Far too much willpower is exerted to not reach out and take them into his hands. A siren, sent to toy with his heart and mind. He sighs and leans in to kiss you gently.

“You remember a few weeks ago? When Geralt slap-"

“Yes!” You interrupt quickly and he rolls his eyes, reaching up to smooth your hair down.

“And you said you liked the feeling?”

“I remember, Jaskier.”

He smiles and rubs his thumb across your cupid’s bow.

“Well. We have the room to ourselves, so I thought that we could experiment with that."

You blink at him owlishly before squinting at him. It would almost be enough to worry him, but he knows you too well to think you’re angry- you’re confused, but still very relaxed.

“Experiment.”

“Yes.”

“With you... hitting me.”

“With you letting me dominate you, spank you, and make you feel good.” He clarifies. It sounds foolish, and far too perverse when laid out so candidly to someone not well versed with this. You nod sagely.

“...And if I ask you to stop them you will.”

“Of course I will.” He says seriously and rests his hands on your shoulders, leaning in so you are eye to eye. “This is for your enjoyment, if you say stop, this stops. Just like always.” You smile and close the gap between his lips and your own. It’s soft and lazy, with no indication of proceeding any further than just chastely kissing, his hands still on your shoulders and your hands creeping up into his hair. It’s perfect, always is, and not for the first time, Jaskier considers that he could spend the rest of forever just kissing you and never be bored. Still, all too soon he pulls away, fetching a towel while you heave yourself out of the tub waiting for the bard and the towel. Even though you reach for it, Jaskier ignores your outstretched arms and instead swaddles you in it himself, drying you.

“I can do it myself!”

“You can, but you won't.” He says firmly, rubbing your skin. Beneath the soft fabric, he can feel you start to struggle which makes him hum and swat at your arse. It’s not enough to hurt, especially through the towel, but it serves as a good warning for who is in charge tonight. Dominance is nothing new for him, but he isn’t dominant with you. You were a virgin when he met you, all sex had to be approached with kid-gloved hands, even now that you are confident with it Jaskier has never felt any need to try and guide you towards that sort of thing. Submission, he had assumed, would be a difficult thing for you; you spend so much time fighting and fending for yourself during fights, asking you to hand over control never seemed to be a good idea. Control keeps you safe but you trust him. Trust him enough to give him control. It’s enough to rush to his head, that level of trust. Of course, it’s flattering when anyone allows him control, but it means so much more when someone who loves him, someone who is so dangerous would allow themselves to be vulnerable. He loves you, has since the second he clapped eyes on you, but this is more than love now, this is adoration. “Now, be a good girl and don’t argue.” Seldom does Jaskier have a need to be stern, so you doing as he says is to be expected. You go limp, eyes wide as he towels you dry. “There’s my good Little Miss.” He says once he finishes, folding the cloth while you stand stock still, pupils blown wide.

“Good.” You repeat back to him, starry-eyed and blushing, so he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before nodding.

“Well, you are my Good Little Miss, aren’t you?” He asks gently, watching the enthusiastic nod he gets in response with a smile. “I know.” He says with an air of finality, turning away from you and heading back into the bedchambers to sit on the bed. It takes a few seconds of silent sitting for you to finally walk to the doorway. You’re naked as the day you were born, wet hair hanging in snakelike tendrils around your face, skin glowing gold from the warm light of the fire reflecting off of the still damp flesh. You’re beautiful. Too beautiful, comfortable in your skin and his looking at you, pale criss-crossing of scars running across the planes of your body like gold holding formerly broken ceramics together. How Jaskier has ever gotten a chance to lay his hands on you is beyond him, why a bard such as himself can even look at you, never mind touch or kiss you. A goddess, battle-hardened and wise, intoxicating and intense but oh so soft and kind.

“You’re staring.” You laugh, leaning against the door frame and smiling at him.

“Yes. Yes I am.” Jaskier says simply and beckons you closer, which you do with a slight swing of your hips that he is entirely sure isn’t purposeful. You settle beside him, looking at him with a look somewhere between reverence and fear- like he's simultaneously the most beautiful and awful thing you’ve ever seen. He hates how much he likes it, the power it feels like he possesses in this moment. You look so small and defenceless, and he is too aware of how large he is by comparison. Usually, Jaskier feels slight- especially in comparison to Geralt and his hulking mass of muscle and manliness- but he’s suddenly far more aware of how big his hands are compared to your own, how he almost dwarfs you in height. You aren’t dainty, and he knows how much damage you can do with little to no effort, but you look so now.

You lean in to him slowly and tilt your head, taking him in before smiling with a raised eyebrow. Well? Your face seems to scream. I'm waiting. It’s all the encouragement he needs to put his hand between your shoulder blades and push your torso over his lap unceremoniously. Every jutting bone, every knobble of spine, outline of rib exposed when you let out a noise of mild confusion, but rest there with your stomach over his thighs. His fingertips, calloused from lute strings but still soft from the warm water, trail down your back slowly; his skin is colder than yours, leaving goose pimples in his wake as he moves towards the rounded flesh of your arse.

Pink and pert, the flesh juts out from the dip at the base of your spine, like a peach. Jaskier loves it. Loves all arses really. There is something so strangely enticing about them, likely the fact they’re so often covered that seeing them seems taboo in a way that seeing tits isn’t. Every inch of your skin that he gets to see is a luxury not afforded to others, and while his hands finally reach the plump skin, he had been moving towards he kisses your back, gripping one cheek firmly while rubbing soft circles into the other. A moan, airy and musical comes from you spurring Jaskier in his ministrations: shifting the cheek to the side, revealing a hole he had never paid much mind to at all, only to release his hold and watch as it bounces back into place. The jiggle is hypnotic, he thinks to himself wordlessly as he repeats the act on the opposite cheek, earning another moan from you in response.

“Jask.” You whine out and he hums in confirmation, feeling you push yourself back against his hand. “Don't tease.” He chuckles. Teasing is hardly what he'd call it. No, this is isn’t teasing, teasing is something gentler than this. This is preparation. He can hardly just start spanking you, especially when you've never done it before, but the whining makes him smirk. “Jask, if you don’t hurry, I’ll go to bed.” You insist and try to push yourself off of him, so he presses down on the middle of your back and brings his hand down on your arse harshly.

The sharp sound of skin-on-skin rings through the air, followed by a gasp. A tingle ran across his palm, and he snicks at the sensation.

“I thought you were my good girl, not a brat, Missy.” He says, voice low and on the verge of a growl. “I told you, I am in control tonight. Not you.”

Brat. You shiver at that, going still, and he smirks, grabbing the cheek he had just struck before tugging at it. He releases it before sliding his hand up your thigh.

“I. I can be good.” You whisper meekly. That isn’t enough though and he swats at the cheek once more, lighter this time.

“You will be good.” He corrects you, leaning in close to your ear and catching sight of your red cheeks and misty eyes. “I know you will be, won’t you Darling?” You nod quickly and he smirks. “That's my Princess.”

At that, your posture loosens and you relax against him. Praise. That’s good to know. Lazily, he rubs a circle against the curve of skin before striking it once more.

“I'm going to hit you ten times, and I want you to count them out loud for me. Can you do that for me?” He asks gently and you nod instantly. “I need you to use your words, Darling.”

“I. I can do that.” You say, tilting your head to look at him with a sweet smile. Jaskier smiles back at you, then brings his hand back down with a hard slap.

“One!” You say loudly, jolting forward and dragging your stomach across his crotch. He’s been so invested in planning and preparing that he hasn’t even noticed the hardness developing between his legs until it’s rubbed against. The moans from the bath had been enough to make him half hard, but seeing you like this, lips parted and the skin of your bottom turning an inviting shade of pink, it’s enough to have him fully hard.

“Two!” You shout out after his hand lands hard against your rear before two more swats come in quick succession.

“Three! Four!” The numbers are more moans than words, loud and needy. In the back of his mind, Jaskier wonders if the drunks downstairs are still singing and making noise, shouting and swearing, or if they too can hear the moans of pleasure. It’s sick, but he wants them to hear. Wants them to hear the pretty song that you’re moaning out, to look at you in the morning as you shift uncomfortably in your seat and know how you loved every second of it, see him smirk and know exactly who drew every noise from you.

He’s a bard. He knows how to make noises, but these might just be the prettiest ones yet. A hand rubs at the pinking skin and then, quickly as it comes it's gone and brought down, this time to the space where arse meets thigh.

“Five!”

He could listen to you moan all day. Sex, or at least sex while travelling, is normally a quiet affair. Quiet murmurs of affirmation, whispered begs and pleas, it’s not enough. Jaskier loves sex, loves the intimacy that comes from being as close to someone as humanly possible, but more so than the enjoyment of sex, Jaskier loves the theatrics of sex. Sex is like performing. Doing all possible to please an enthusiastic audience, listening to the sounds of enjoyment as it builds and crescendos, fingers moving faster, doing his best to not make a fool of himself.

“Six!”

Slap!

“Seven!”

He can’t help himself from hoping that this won't be a one-time occurrence. For a few stolen moments you can hand over control to him and give the both of you what you need.

“Eight!” Your stomach rubs against his cock once more and he chokes back a moan. You'll be the death of him. Ruin him entirely. It isn’t enough that he loves you, isn’t enough that you are the most beautiful person he could dream up, no you have to do things like this. Unintentionally ideal. Perfection given human form.

“Nine!”

His hand comes down one final time and you scream out a broken, “Ten!”, and Jaskier heaves out a sigh, rubbing the red skin as gently as he can to soothe you when you begin to tremble. Calloused fingertips slide softly across the abused flesh.

“Oh Darling. My good girl. My good, brave little miss.” He coos sweetly, gently guiding you up to sit on his lap, one hand still running the skin while the other threads itself in the hair at the nape of your neck. “You did so well.” Gently, he presses his forehead against your own, staring into tear filled eyes. “Oh, Dear Heart, did you not like it?” Worry washes over him suddenly. He should have reminded you that you could say no once more, that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Kiss me.” You breathe back against his lips and he sighs softly, hand shifting to your jaw to tug you into a chaste kiss. You tremble against his lap, but kiss back far more forcefully than he had kissed you. Gentle but seeking, tongue pushing between his lips to make its way into his mouth. He smirks slightly, but doesn’t open his mouth, feeling you rock against his lap- sweet nectar between your legs dripping through the fabric of his trousers while shaking fingers toy with the lacing of his doublet.

“Darling-"

“You're wearing far too much.” You whine pulling back to stare at him. “Take it off.”

“Take what off?”

“Everything.” One word has never held so much weight. He could look at you like this for always, so soft and desperate and wanting- it makes his heart beat faster and his cock jumps against the heat of your core. He wants to strip himself, rid himself of the offensive articles and just let you take from him all that he has, but he holds your jaw gently instead, using the warm skin as a means to ground himself once more.

“Ask nicely.”

“Jaskier.” You say with a slight scowl, but he narrows his eyes and tilts his head, trying not to laugh at your intent look. “Please. Please strip.”

“I think you can ask nicer than that, Dear Heart.”

“Julian, please take off your clothes. Please.” You ask softly and trail your hands along the chemise beneath his half-unlaced jerkin. “Please, Dandy? I want to touch you- can I?”

The pet name brings a soft smile to his face, hands moving to your hips to shift you onto the bed before undoing the rest of his jacket and shucking it off, to toss it to the side. Ducking down, he peppers a few feverish kisses to your thighs, toying with the ties of his chemise while you tug it over his head. Needy and half frenzied is unlike you, but he can’t say that it isn’t perfection. Shy, unsure sex has been too common, the occasional rushed shag when you two can spare a few seconds less frequent, but this magically manic need is sweet. Jaskier is a performer; performers preen under the watchful eye of attentive audience, need the knowledge of a job well done, which he normally gets from you in the form of moans and frantic rutting. This enthusiasm is perfection, especially while his face is so close to your cunt that he can smell the arousal dripping from it.

Nudity can wait, The Bard smirks, grips your thighs in a vice-like grip and widens the distance between them so he can get his mouth on your sex, tongue gathering slick and relishing that sweet, musky taste. Sweeter than any fruit, more addictive than any wine. Jaskier’s lips find your clit, that bud of nerves that might as well contain every breathless moan that you can fit in your body, and sucks, tongue flicking across it with the moans and curses that such an act wrings from you. Nose buried in the curls that cover your mount, cornflower eyes look up to take you in, writhing in ecstasy, breasts quivering with every stuttered breath. He knew that he had missed something while spanking you’d but it falls into place now. Your face.

Every emotion flit across it, as clear to read as sheet music to him. You have an expressive face at the best of times, but it only seems heightened by sex. He knows many men prefer not to face their lovers and, hell, in his more adventurous days had preferred it himself, but seeing how you feel written across your features is part of the joy of sex. It had taken a while to convince you to stop silencing yourself during intimacy, that those moans are his and hard earned, but those expressions mean even more. Miniscule twitches of the brows and lips that let him know that you enjoy what he is doing, he loves them. Loves you. Those noises are meaningless without that face, pink and contorted with pleasure. That face. He could stare at it all day.

He doesn’t miss Lettenhove, not for a minute, but he does miss paintings. Portraits, moments trapped in time, forever perfect. He wants a painting of moments like this; nothing pornographic, just your face, with not a care for anything but pleasure. To see him through those nights when hunting takes too long and he's long asleep by the time you return. A little painting to have with him always.

“Jaskier-" You whimper, fingers curled into his hair and tugging. “Please. Please.”

He hums softly and slaps your thigh, revelling in the sweet little gasp that comes from you before a gush of fluid hits his lips. The Bard pulls back and blinks in shock. You’re shaking, twisting in the blankets as he just breathes you in. Squirted. You just squirted on him. He was half convinced that such a thing was just A rumour but... you did it.

Blinking rapidly, Jaskier stares up at you awestruck and starry-eyed, trying desperately not to spill into his trousers.

Oh yes. This is going to be a regular occurrence.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier x you #dom jaskier #witcher imagine #jaskier smut

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mycrofts-gunbrella · 4 years

Text

Seamus Finnigan x Reader- Explosive Love Part One!

Check my pinned masterlist for part 2!

'I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna ask her.' Seamus spoke to his best friend as he watched you wait outside potions class. Dean shot him a look of shock before Ron butted in.

'Ask who, what?' He said, attempting to follow the Irish boy's gaze.

'Y/N. I'm gonna ask her to the Yule Ball.' Seamus responded, peeling his eyes away from you to look at the ginger boy beside him. Ron (badly) attempted to stifle a laugh and just clapped the shorter boy on the shoulders.

'Hate you tell you mate but I think she's a bit out of your league.' The Weasley laughed. 'She's literally the most popular person in our year. Even her grades are putting Hermione to shame in some classes... don't you bloody dare tell her I said that. Not to mention the fact she's turned down half the boys at Hogwarts who have asked her.' He finished, making his way over with the boys to the potions room. Seamus inwardly sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, Ron was probably right. A girl of your status could have anyone they wanted. You're a pureblood, constantly surrounded by friends and the smartest person he knew. Sure, you spoke to him from time to time- said 'hello' with the brightest smile whenever you'd spot him in the corridors and you'd even help him with studying if he happened to be in the library at the same time as you before exams. But there wasn't a chance in hell that you'd go to the ball with him... at least unless he stepped his game up.

'Miss L/N and Mr Finnigan, you'll be together today.' You heard Snape's voice from across the room as he began to pair up his students for today's lesson. You inwardly celebrated at being paired up with the smaller Irishman, having wanted to spend more time with him after the study sessions you had with him in the library weren't enough anymore. Unlike many of the other boys at Hogwarts, Seamus could have a conversation with you without trying to get in your trousers. He could make you laugh at the most stupid of jokes and cheered you up whenever you needed it. He was honestly the most loveliest person you'd ever met but with his friendship group being tight you'd never brought yourself to join him on your free classes in fear of looking stupid and feeling out of place. After the prior mentioned library meets you'd found yourself really liking Seamus and have been trying your best to show him that. Even going as far as planning your library trips to days you knew he'd be there.

'Hey.' You spoke with a smile as Seamus took a seat beside you. He smiled back in response and went to fetch the right ingredients you needed for today's potion.

'So Y/N.' His voice began, stopping his movements to turn to you. 'Rumour has it that you've turned down everyone that's asked you to the Yule Ball. Care to share as to why?' He finished, trying to lace his voice with confidence but silently cursing himself when it came out quite shaken. You laughed a little and carried on weighing out the ingredients.

'Well you see the right person hasn't asked me yet. With the Yule Ball getting as close as it is I think I'm going to have to ask him.' You grinned, stirring the concoction that had formed in the cauldron. Seamus felt his heart drop to his stomach. Who hadn't asked you yet? He swallowed deeply and forced a smile.

'Oh yeah? And who might this lucky lad be.' He asked, pretending to not be too interested as he peered around at the other boys in the classroom. You tried to feign your brief laughter and instead just sighed dramatically.

'I don't know Seamus. I'm not the kind to go spreading my love life... or lack thereof.' You chuckled towards the end, following his gaze to see who he was suspecting. His eyes suddenly stopped at Malfoy. Seriously? Surely he didn't think you were pining over Malfoy. Before you could say anything the blonde boy in question made his way over to your work station, physically pushing Seamus away from you to sit on his chair.

'So Y/N I've heard that you're still dateless to the Yule Ball next month.' He flirted, leaning one arm against the table as he looked you up and down. You inwardly gagged and decided to put on a smile.

'Good to know you're not deaf then Draco.' You stated, turning back to your potion in hopes he'd leave.

'Come on Y/N. Us purebloods have to stick together. I've seen the way you look at me, you've been dying for me to ask you for weeks.' He drooled, moving his hand to cover yours. You took his hand in your own and looked at him sadly.

'Oh no. You're not deaf but I'm afraid you may be blind my dear boy. I can assure you I haven't looked at you once. Come on, how many fingers am I holding up?' You teased, waving your hand in front of his face. Behind Draco you heard Seamus laughed and felt proud of yourself. Snatching his hand away, Draco huffed in annoyance and stormed off.

'Not Draco then?' The Irish accent filled your ears as Seamus took his seat back beside you.

'Definitely not Draco.' You responded with a small laugh. However your laugh was cut short as you watched Seamus pick up a small purple plant from the table.

'Is this meant to go in there?' He asked, hovering it over the cauldron.

'No I don't think so, I can't see it on the list.'

'Must be a printing error. Happens all the time.' Seamus responded, attempting to sound as though he had an ounce of intelligence about him when it came to potions class.

'Seamus don't. It's not worth the risk just because it was in the ingredients.'

'Y/N look at Snape's example. It's definitely purple and ours is definitely not. It must go in.' He said, releasing the small plant.

'Seamus-' BANG. 'No.' You finished, looking as the boy's face had become black alongside the equally as thick dusting of black on his robes and tie. He almost froze, staring in disbelief at the mess in front of him. You failed to hold back your laugh, clutching onto your stomach as you doubled over.

'What on Earth is going on?!' Snape's bellowing voice came from behind you.

'Sorry Sir, we'll clean it up straight away.' You spoke between laughs, trying to remain the slightest bit serious when talking to your professor. Perks of being the best student in Snape's class is that he's actually more lenient when it comes to detentions for you, trusting you enough to catch up on what you missed outside of class. With a slight roll of his eyes and a swish of his robes he was gone again to sit at his desk. The rest of the class began to erupt in slight laughter at the usual occurrence they witnessed with Seamus, becoming distracted from their own work.

'L/N! Finnigan! Out! Come back when you're cleaned up and decide that you want to work again.' Snape shouted, becoming angered at the rest of the room. Realising Seamus had still barely moved you grabbed his sleeve and dragged him outside the classroom.

'You know I think this is a new record. We were about 3 minutes away from finishing the potion this time so you've definitely improved.' You joked, frowning a little when Seamus still remained quiet. Definitely nothing like himself.

'I'm sorry.' He said, scratching the back of his neck in clear nervousness before realising that he was just making more of his body covered in the black on his hands and face. 'Thought I was doing the right thing but I shoulda listened to you.' He muttered in embarrassment.

'Seamus what's the matter? This is like the fifth time we've been paired together this year and it's always ended the same. I love it when Snape pairs us together because, although I never finish the potion, I have the best time and it helps me forget how boring potions with Snape can actually be. I'm thankful for it.' You smiled, nudging his arm with your own as you made it to the toilets. Looking inside, you realised the room was empty. 'Just come in here and I'll help you get cleaned up. You'll only end up getting it everywhere.' You laughed, guiding him over to the sink. Seamus felt like an idiot. In his attempt at seeming a little smarter in class he'd only ended up making a fool out of himself as usual. It was hopeless at this point. There was no way you'd agree to go with him now he, once again, became the laughing stock of the classroom.

Taking his robe and tie off you hung them on the coat rack ready to clean in a moment. You picked up the hand towel and soaked it in soap and warm water, rinsing it out before turning towards Seamus. 'You don't have to do this, you can go back and finish the potion. Don't want your grade to mess up because I made you leave the classroom.' He told you as you lifted your hand. You rolled your eyes and smiled, placing one hand on his cheek and the one with the cloth slowly down his face to remove any dirt that had covered his skin. Upon the contact of your skin both of your stomachs began to flip as red dusted the pair of your cheeks. It wasn't until you started that you realised just how close you and Seamus would be. You continued your movements but spent the rest of the time washing his face in silence, occasionally meeting your eyes with his own only for one of you to look the other way. Finishing the last spot on his neck you looked into his eyes and brushed his hair back into position.

'There... perfect.' You breathed, not moving your hand off the boy's cheek. 'So. Are you gonna tell me why you were so adamant on that purple thing going in the potion or?' Your smirked, refusing to move from your current position.

'I uh. I wanted to look smart and make the right decision.' He began, blushing further at the closeness between the pair of you but not being able to bring himself to move away. 'Because then I thought that you'd say yes when I asked if you...' He stopped himself, deciding that he'd spare himself of any further embarrassment today.

'Ask if I what?' You pressed, already guessing where this was going and being incredibly thrilled.

'Ask if you wanted to go with me to...' he stopped himself again and inwardly slapped himself in the face. Instead of pushing him further you decided to lean forward and press your lips against his unsuspecting ones. Wrapping your arms around his neck you smiled as you felt him kiss back and place his hands on your hips. Pulling away for air you urged him to continue, hoping he'd have a new surge of confidence. 'The Yule Ball. Come with me?' He asked, face and voice laced with utter shock and confusion. You laughed and pecked his lips once more.

'Jesus Seamus I never thought you'd ask.' You grinned, pulling him into a hug. 'Of course I'll go with you.' You confirmed, taking his hands within your own. He smiled back and laughed.

'Thank God for that.' He laughed, putting his arms around you and feeling a lot more confident than usual around you. 'Just let me know what colour you're wearing and I'll find a tie to match.' He explained.

'I'll look forward to it but please don't try and turn the water into rum again. I don't want our outfits destroyed.' You half joked, shaking out his robes and tie before handing it to him.

'I'll try my best.' He laughed, taking your hand in his as you walked back into potions.

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #seamus finnigan #seamus finnigan x reader #seamus finnigan x you #reader insert #harry potter imagine #harry potter oneshot

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isitgintimeyet · 4 years

Text

Just A Friend

Wow. I’m so, so grateful for the lovely response to chapter 1 of this story. I’ve never had so many notes on one of my posts before, so many, many thanks to everyone who took the time to read, like, reblog and comment on it. i do appreciate it

Thanks also to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Previous chapter

AO3

Chapter 2: From Scrubs to Sauvignon

Sunlight streaming through the shutters wakes me before the alarm. After the previous seventy two hours with too much alcohol, not enough sleep and shared hotel rooms, last night’s sleep was a solid nine and a half hours and I feel so much better for it.

Trying, for a moment at least, to ignore both the demands of my bladder and my desperate need for caffeine, I gaze up at the ceiling and contemplate the surgery ahead of me. Whilst it’s a comparatively routine procedure for me, I always think about the families — parents, grandparents, siblings. It’s an anxious time for them, never routine, a step into the unknown and they are putting their trust in me to look after their precious child. Their faith in me is something I take very seriously.

I have a ritual I follow every time before theatre. I take a few minutes to close my eyes and let the procedure play inside my head, my hands echoing the images in my brain. I trace the path my scalpel will take on the skin; I position, in mid air, the locations of the clamps; I work with my imaginary mallet and chisel honing the bone, the X-ray images clear in my head.

By the time I’ve finished closing the incision, the demands of my bladder can no longer be ignored. That’s my cue to get out of bed and start my day.

***********

Before I put my scrubs on, I pay a visit to the side room where Robbie, my seven year old patient has spent the night. His parents have already given consent for the operation, but I like to go and do a final check.

Robbie is sitting up in bed, a bit subdued but in good health. His mother is sitting expectantly, nervously playing with the skin around her nails. The foldaway bed has already been put away, but, judging by her red rimmed eyes, I don’t think it got much use. Robbie’s father follows me into the room, two coffees in his hands.

“Sorry, Doctor Claire,” he nods at the coffee. “I didna get ye one. D’ye want one?”

I let the doctor reference pass. As a surgeon, my title is no longer doctor. Officially, I am Miss Beauchamp, but prefer my juvenile patients to call me Claire. Quite a lot of the parents seem to call me Doctor Claire. I suppose they like the reassurance that I am actually a proper doctor.

“No, thanks.” I smile. “Are we all set then?”

They nod nervously.

“Aye,” Robbie’s father agrees. “We need tae get it done.”

“How long will it take?” Robbie’s mother looks directly at me, wanting a definitive answer.

I hesitate. I don’t like to give precise times. If the surgery goes longer then parents start to fear the worst, and that’s not always the case. So I give a vague answer. “‘Till lunchtime… you could always go and sit outside in the little garden, it’s a lovely day.”

His mother looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “No, I want tae be right here …”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

I turn to Robbie, blissfully unaware of his parents’ thoughts. He beckons me to him.

“When I wakes up,” he begins in a stage whisper. “Can I have a treat?”

“What sort of treat did you have in mind?”

“Can I have a MacDonald’s? But no’ a kid’s meal. I’ve never had a Big Mac.”

I glance at his parents who nod at me before I whisper back, “Of course you can, but don’t let nurse Geillis see, will you? She can be ever so naughty. She’ll be trying to steal your chips away, if you’re not careful.”

And with that, I stroke Robbie’s little cheek before saying my goodbyes and head out to get changed.

**********

Robbie’s surgery went to plan, no nasty surprises or tricky complications. I call in to check on Robbie’s parents before they head to recovery. They look totally different to when I saw them this morning. Still worn out of course, I don’t think they’ll sleep properly until their little lad is home with them, but their faces shine with sheer relief. I have warned them about the long road ahead, with many hours of physiotherapy and exercises, but, for today, I’ll let them have their moment of pure happiness. Reality will hit them again soon enough.

As I leave the waiting room, making my farewells, Robbie’s dad thanks me once more. I can tell he’s unsure whether hugging me is appropriate or not, so he settles for a handshake. His wife has no such qualms, wrapping me tightly in a hug, whispering her thanks until her husband reminds her that they need to be with their son. I point the way and head down to the nurses station.

Geillis is sitting there, looking very busy on the computer. I pull up a chair and sit next to her. The screen is filled with images of our weekend in Barcelona.

“What?” She looks at me as if I’ve accused her of something. “I’m on ma lunch, aren’t I?”

“How was your night then?”

Geillis beams from ear to ear— she’s like the cat who got the cream. “Nay bad, nay bad at all. After two nights away, Dougal realises what he’s got wi’ me, and he dinna hesitate tae show me, if ye ken what I mean?”

She winks at a poor medical student, who blushes and busies himself with a set of medical notes.

“Geillis,” I warn. “Behave yourself.”

“Anyway, pet, how was yer evening? Another tryst wi’ Professor Randall?” Her face says it all. Geillis thinks about as much of Frank as he does of her. Literally the only thing they have in common is me, and it’s getting pretty wearing.

“No, I was worn out and— oh, that reminds me.” I fumble in my pocket for my phone as I carry on talking. “I’ve got someone else’s suitcase. I hope they’ve got mine.”

I glance at the screen. Two missed calls and one message. All from the same number. All from the number I called last night, the James-Fraser-isn’t-here-don’t-call-again-ever number. Looks like this James Fraser has a jealous or suspicious wife-partner-girlfriend-housekeeper.

“Catch up later, Geillis, I need to deal with this.”

I rush back to my office to try and sort the suitcase problem out.

The message is brief and to the point.

Hi, Jamie Fraser here. I think I have your case too. Can we arrange a swap? I live in Glasgow. Hopefully you too. Where and when? I’m free after 5 today.

After five will work for me too, I just need to pop home and pick up his case. Now, based on his wardrobe choices and his one message to me, he doesn’t actually seem like an axe murderer or sex pervert, but you can’t really tell, so I think about a public location.

How about the benches by the cafe at Kelvingrove Park? 5:30? Claire Beauchamp

A couple of minutes later his reply appears on my screen.

Fine. See you then. I’ll be the one wheeling a black Samsonite. JF

**************

It’s another glorious sunny day here in Glasgow. Just ideal for going for a stroll in the park. I do feel a bit conspicuous with a suitcase trailing along behind me — kind of like an upmarket bag lady.

There are no other suitcases around, so I perch on a bench. I fire a quick message to Geillis, just so that she knows where to direct the police if I disappear and then wait. It’s not too bad waiting. The sun is still warm, so I stretch my legs out trying for a tan. With my eyes closed, I lift my face up to soak up the rays. I may get panda eyes with my sunglasses on, but I don’t really care. The warmth is so good and I can feel myself relaxing totally —

“Ahem.”

I am conscious of a shadow across my face. I open my eyes and quickly stand up.

He’s tall. That’s the first thing I notice. A good few inches taller than me, and I’m 5 feet 9. And broad. Broad enough to block my sun. His hair is red, very red and the sun behind him creates a fiery corona around his head.

He’s a Viking. A Viking in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt. How many of those white shirts does he own, I wonder?

“Claire Beauchamp, I presume. I recognise the case. That red ribbon on the handle, such a unique idea.”

He smiles, a lopsided half grin and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Jamie Fraser.”

“Claire Beauchamp,” I say somewhat unnecessarily as we shake hands.

He sits down. “So,” he begins politely. “I hope ye havena come far out of yer way.”

I join him on the bench.

“No,” I gesture vaguely to my right. “I live not too far from here. How about you?”

That lopsided grin appears again. “Nah,” he gestures to his left. “No’ too far at all.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence. We are not really here for small talk, but is it too rude to just dive in and do the swap?

“So,” Jamie breaks the silence. “About the cases…”

Apparently it’s not too rude.

“I ken ye have ma case there, on account of ma contact details being in it, but what about this one? How do I ken this is yers? Black Samsonites with wee red ribbons seem to be awfa common ‘round here. As proof, can ye mebbe tell me something that’s in it? Something identifiable?”

And at this, my mind goes blank, what did I pack?

“Er, denim shorts… black flip flops… white vest—”

“Weel, they’re all verra common. Is there anything a wee bit more… unique?”

Is it my imagination or is there a twinkle in his clear blue eyes as he says this? And then I remember exactly what’s in my case and start to blush.

“There may be some hen party bits and pieces in there too. It was my friend’s hen weekend, so I think there may be some, er, stuff from that, you know, er, handcuffs… shot glasses…”

He puts me out of my misery. “Och, that’s fine. It’s yers, right enough. Here ye go.”

And we do the exchange, just like in the spy movies. Except in those, the cases are filled with bank notes and the top secret blueprints for a submarine base, and not white dress shirts and an assortment of shot glasses shaped like penises.

Our phones beep practically simultaneously. I pull mine out of my pocket. Jamie does the same and glances at his phone.

Mine is a text from Frank confirming tonight’s arrangements “I’d better go. Plans for tonight, you know.”

“Snap. Plans here as well.”

“Goodbye then. I’m not sure whose fault it was, the mixup at the airport. So why don’t we both say sorry, or neither of us?” I suggest as I stand up and smooth the creases from my skirt.

“Sounds good tae me. How about neither?” He smiles again. “Ms Claire Beauchamp, nice to meet you.”

“Mr Jamie Fraser, likewise I’m sure.”

And with that we head off, me to the right and Jamie Fraser to the left.

************

Frank had said 7:30, and, sure enough, at 7:28 my intercom buzzes and I let Frank in. He arrives at my door carrying a large bunch of lilies and roses. No, not a bunch, I can’t describe it as a bunch… carrying a large bouquet of lilies and roses, beautifully arranged and hand-tied. Clearly not a supermarket purchase. Nor is the wine he also hands to me. A chilled bottle of my favourite Sauvignon Blanc, only available from quality wine merchants in the city.

Frank can be incredibly thoughtful and generous, and I am suitably grateful. I pop the flowers into the kitchen sink while I try to locate a vase big enough to hold them. He walks in as I’m scrabbling around on my hands and knees, bum in the air, head buried in the cupboard under the sink.

“So what are we having for dinner?” He asks as he pours the wine. “Are you cooking?”

I emerge victorious, having found the vase wedged between a bottle of sink unblocker and an unused can of spray starch.

“Sorry?”

“Dinner?” He repeats, helping me to my feet.

“I’ve not had a chance to cook. I told you about the suitcase confusion, didn’t I? Well, I had to get that sorted. I thought we could have something delivered. That’s ok, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure that will be fine, darling. What would you like?”

What would I like? What I would really like would be a huge, great pizza full of carbs and grease and pepperoni and cheese that pulls into strands when you try to take a slice. And to sit on the floor with the pizza box between us watching Netflix and drinking beer.

But, that is clearly a rhetorical question.

“Thai?” Frank doesn’t wait for my answer.

Thai is the only acceptable takeaway in Frank’s eyes, eaten at a table, on proper plates. I nod my agreement. After all, he’s brought me wonderful flowers, and a gorgeous bottle of wine. He deserves to have the choice. And I can have pizza with my friends any time.

“You ring the order through then, while I arrange these beautiful flowers.” I say and kiss his cheek.

And that is our evening sorted - takeaway, a couple of glasses of wine, Newsnight on the television and then to bed for a bit of sex.

So, that’s food, drink, mind and body all sorted. I should go to sleep feeling satisfied with everything. I should… shouldn’t I?

#outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #Just a Friend #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Chapter 2 #fluff

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itswildwinters · 4 years

Text

Seeing as it’s the holidays for me, I’ve had time to read (and re-read) quite a lot of fics, and I felt like sharing some of them with you. It’s my first time doing a fic recs post, so I hope it’s useful and not too much of a mess, especially since it’s quite long!

If you do end up reading any of these stunning fanfics, don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to show your appreciation!

Enjoy!! ✩

✩ baby blue by @soldouthaz (39k)

summary: Harry Styles takes his time coming out to greet them. Louis only knows what he’s seen on file and what he’s heard them talking about, but he fully lives up to the image he had inside of his head.

He saunters down the front steps of the farmhouse in his Levi’s, brown snakeskin boots curving out from underneath the denim Louis’ sure he had specially made. He’s got on a plaid button-down tucked into the jeans because of course he does, curls spilling out from either side of his cowboy hat around his sunglasses and country-tan skin.

“Harry Styles,” he drawls, extending a hand to Louis’ manager, “Pleased to meet ya’ll.”

I loved the dynamic between Cowboy Harry and Celebrity Louis. What I also really enjoyed about this fanfic is that the depiction of farm life was accurate. The way the story is written really gets you into action, so that you can picture everything quite well through the Louis-centric third point of view.

✩ The Space Between by @lads-laddylads (39k)

summary: Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why. Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

A/B/O fanfic. I loved how Alpha Harry acted upon seeing Louis for the first time. You can really feel the tension and attraction through the screen, which is one of my all time favourite things. The way their relationship builds up is a delight, and Louis is a darling and so courageous in the end with how he deals with Harry, even when Harry is being an idiot. The connection they have at the end... just wow!

✩ fae series: Boiling Blood Will Circulate and Warming The Air Of The World by @crazyupsetter (42k and 3k)

summary of Boiling Blood Will Circulate: The wait isn’t long before something starts rustling in the bushes. Harry takes aim, squeezes the trigger, body moving unconsciously. They’re motions he’s done a thousand times before, and his body knows how to do it without the input of his brain now. It’s what makes him such a good shot.

He misses. The shot misses.

Something howls in the woods, a pretty clear indication that Harry hit it, but there’s no telltale sounds of a big body dropping, no animal charging out at him to take him out before he can finish the job.

Something does turn and run, though. “Fuck,” Harry spits out, scrambling to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, giving chase. He’s not going to lose this hunt.

The trail of blood goes on longer than Harry thought it would. He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but his muscles are burning, chest heaving with exertion, until the trail just - goes dead. No more blood, just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

I am a sucker for fantasy/supernatural fanfics, and this one is absolutely incredible. The suspense in there is well-built, and the dynamic between Louis and Harry leaves you hungry for more. There’s a lot of blood in this series, so if you’re not into that you should be careful, but for me the author really puts into perspective how complicated and different from mankind faeries are.

✩ With a whimper by @kitundercover (132k)

summary: Dystopian AU. Louis has been alone for too long to remember how not to be, and Harry has too much to worry about to deal with a scrawny, wild, stranger.

---

The man grips his arm tightly. “You’re not going to say anything.” It’s not a question.

Louis shakes his head, his body twitching.

“Fine.” Large green eyes survey him before letting go. “It’s cold. Take this. Wear it.”

Louis can’t help another flinch as the man’s long scarf is wrapped around his tender neck, it’s still warm. He touches the soft material. “Thank you.”

The man bears his teeth. “Don’t thank me. Don’t ever thank me.”

If you are into dystopian works, and doesn’t mind violence, blood and gore, this fic will make your day! I loved the world-building, the way it’s written, how Louis’ character is portrayed and how strong he is. I just couldn’t stop reading once I began. The secrets of the plot, the fear of the characters, and the curiosity that sparks within you as you read contribute into making this fic a unique one that’s so worth the read.

✩ Soaked In The Blood Of Angels by @crazyupsetter (40k)

summary: The boy looks drugged, caught between a man who’s almost twice his size and a girl who looks like she wouldn’t even break a sweat snapping him in half despite her small stature, eyes closed and mouth open as he pants, arching up between them almost as if he’s trying to escape.

Normally, Harry would ignore it and continue on his search for someone to drink from, someone who wouldn’t mind his sharp teeth and rough hands. He’s seen plenty of boys like this one, ones who picked the wrong playmates, and if he stopped to rescue every single one of them he would have died from thirst a long time ago.

This one, though. There’s something about this one, the sheen of his bright blue eyes as he blinks slowly, looks around as though he doesn’t know where he is, the weakness of his hands as he tries to push the girl off of him and make his escape.

Another magnificent creatures/fantasy fanfic. The writing is absolutely exquisite, and I love how hard to get Louis is. The violence between Louis and Harry might bother some people, but to me it really spiced up their relationship and made Louis and Harry, who are creatures of gloom, particularly interesting and even real, somehow.

✩ Play Pretend, Find a Friend? by @angelichl (40k)

summary: They had to pull back for air. Louis surveyed the guy’s face, in awe of his blown pupils and sharp jawline, the way their shared spit glistened on his lips.

“Hi,” he breathed. He blinked, and came back to himself a little bit, blushing at his own boldness. “Sorry. Is this okay?”

The stranger removed his right hand from the curve of Louis’ waist in order to cup his jaw, tilting it up to the angle he desired. He pressed their lips together, murmuring, “Definitely.” And then he kissed harder.

When Louis sees his ex-boyfriend kissing a random girl at a party, he acts out of blind jealousy. He kisses the first guy he can find. It turns into a thing.

Where do I start? I usually don’t like fake-relationship AUs since most of the time Louis and Harry are famous, which make it less fun to me. But in this fic, they’re students and Harry is a frat boy while Louis is a nerd, but it’s not cliché or anything. It’s actually so well-written and the relationship between Louis and Harry takes time to progress which I absolutely love, seeing as I am a sucker for slow burn. Harry is so sweet as a frat boy, and Louis is an angel. Really loved reading this.

✩ at your fingertips by @risthebrave (27k)

summary: He finds himself wrapped up in sheets in bed on Thursday night, staring at the familiar name on a new story that was posted the night before.

His fingers twitch, ready to hit play and surrender to his impulses, saving the regret and turmoil for later.

And still he hesitates, internally praying that he’ll somehow gain the strength to exit out within the next few moments before he inevitably loses his patience and hits the button.

Three…

Two…

One.

Play.

Or, Louis really should have seen it coming.

Besides being well-written, the whole plot is quite original. I absolutely loved Louis in there, especially since all of his insecurities made me relate to him. He’s so sweet, and I’m glad Harry was there to get him to open-up and see how amazing he is. I had so many moments of secondhand embarrassment haha, and they made the fic all the more amazing. Honestly, what really struck me in this fic is how the author managed to make Harry such an amazing person, and how intrepid Louis is while he learns to overcome his insecurities.

✩ Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense (83k)

summary: Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

It was such a joy to read this fic. Even though Harry pissed me off on more than one occasion, I took great satisfaction in how Louis ignored him or replied with one of his witty comebacks. The plot twist was just awesome and Harry’s stubbornness ended up being very much welcome.

✩ push you out, pull you back in by @behisoneandonly (31k)

summary: Harry grips his head in his hands helplessly, yanking the base of his dark curls and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Fucking hell,” he whispers, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping the strands of his hair.

“Hey, hey,” says the petite stranger in front of him, quickly standing up. “Stop, you’re hurting yourself.”

–

Or Harry hates feeling vulnerable. Louis is set on breaking through his tough facade.

Oh my god, this was truly wonderful. The size difference made me go crazy! The smut was just wow too. What really made this fic so incredible is how protective of Harry Louis is, and how Louis seems to just... understand Harry despite his issues. Jealous Harry also! I loved it. Moreover, Louis’ character is literally perfect in this.

✩ thinking about the t-shirt you sleep in by @absoloutenonsense (52k)

summary: Harry's alpha fraternity donates to a local thrift shop (because of Liam's latent crush on a cute beta in his lecture). Louis' financial situation (and confusing omega instincts) lead him to make some interesting fashion purchases. Lots of pizza, feelings, and not-really-lying.

I’ve read and re-read this. I love Louis and Harry’s dynamic, and how they solve their troubles in the end. Harry is such a sweet soul, and Louis deserves the world!

✩ Canyon Moon by @eeveelou (40k)

summary: For as long as Louis has remembered, he has been promised to be mated to Harry, his best friend and the future pack alpha. But Louis’s heart belonged to the forest and to the hunt more than he could ever imagine it belonging to Harry.

Then Harry’s father dies in a violent accident, and Louis’s future alpha disappears on the wind.

An A/B/O Lion King AU

What really drew me in is that I’ve never before seen a larry fanfic on the Lion King, and honestly? It was so beautiful. The way the author made the plot of the cartoon go along with the A/B/O world was truly surprising, and absolutely interesting to read. Also, when Louis is introduced to the modern world? It’s such a sweet part of the fic.

✩ a trail of honey through it all by @yvesaintlourent (27k)

summary: The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

Or, the TPH fic we’ve all been waiting for.

Trailer park Harry? HELL YEAH! The concept has been going on in the fandom for so long that when I saw someone finally wrote it, I was genuinely excited. And I wasn’t disappointed! The writing is wonderful and the way Louis and Harry grow closer is just so sweet. Loved it!

✩ The Healing Song series: The Healing Song and The Wedding by 2204 (111k and 3k)

summary of The Healing Song: Louis was carrying the large stuffed elephant like it was a baby, it’s trunk hanging over his shoulder and down his back and it’s front legs were resting around his neck, like it was hugging him. Said elephant was a present from Louis’ close friend Steve, who had thought Louis needed something to hug on bad days and had gifted him with a stuffed elephant the size of a one year old.

Steve had been right. Some days Louis did need something to hug, and this elephant was as good as anything.

Louis was having one of the rougher days. The harmonious state of the anxiety free life of a fearless Louis had ended the week after he met with Harry. It ended as abruptly as it had started. It was like pushing a button. Lights out. Almost as if the universe said “You’ve had your fun, crazy one, now go be sick” and slammed the door in his face.

Or where Louis is a single father of two, suffering from PTSD, and Harry is there providing soulmatey and loving support while he heals the wounds of past abuse.

God, this fic I swear! This made me cry, laugh, scream... this is a roller-coaster of emotions. It’s quite a hard fic to read, because it deals with past abuse and trauma. And it’s even harder knowing this story is based on real life events that the author went though. But the way it’s written, the way Harry helps Louis through his struggles and issues, it’s so beautiful and inspiring.

✩ Sunrise and Pixie Dust by @moonyblouie (14k)

summary: Harry's taking a walk at sunrise in the forest he knows like the back of his hand when the wind starts blowing, the sky turns pink, and golden glitter starts to fall from the sky. He’s not sure about what’s happening, but when he comes face to face with a gorgeous winged-creature, he can’t help but be immediately mesmerized.

Or an AU in which Harry finds himself crossing the borders between two worlds.

I loved this, the smut is so hot!! But the end... I really hope there will be a sequel! But other than that, the way Louis is written? Wonderful!

✩ Weightless by @smittenwithlouis (25k)

summary: He hopes that Harry still thinks of him. God knows Louis thinks of him every day.

Or: Harry is the best dragon racer the world has ever seen and Louis is an almost-vet who feels like he is carrying the weight of the world.

This was... just amazing, honestly. I loved loved loved every time Louis interacted with dragons, I could picture it and it’s just so so sweet. The way Louis is concerned about Harry’s safety, and Harry’s will to make Louis’ life better, to give him the freedom he deserves... it’s just beautiful.

✩ The Blood of Love by @mugglemirror (25k)

summary: Harry is a nurse and Louis is a painting worth more than a thousand words. As desire and darkness encompasses him, Harry has to learn the secrets of Thorne Hills manor before he succumbs to the mystery that surrounds him.

I absolutely loved this! The plot, the writing, the suspense, the secrets... everything was on spot and left me yearning for more. The atmosphere really makes the reader completely engrossed into what’s going on, and the end doesn’t disappoint. Dark fics have always been something that I enjoy reading, and this one definitely didn’t disappoint. Just wow!

✩ Latibule by @quelquesetoiles

summary: Louis had worked in the infamous resort placed in the median point of all worlds for longer than he could remember. He went through everyday with a soul-crushing emptiness filling his mind, going through the same routine over and over again. Despite all the happenings around him, his soul never wavered, his emotions stayed superficial, and nothing took his breath away anymore.

Nothing, except the intoxicating smell of lavender and the contemplating green eyes that came along for the ride every now and again. His heart always seemed to wake up full force whenever those pretty lips formed around even prettier, yet empty promises, and he felt the magic sizzle in his bones again only when contact was made between the divine body and his own deceivingly normal one. He hated it for the fact he really didn’t.

Or : A Spirited Away AU of sorts where Louis just wants to heal and be left alone, only for all his plans to be destroyed by the hands of an infuriating British God.

I have read this at least three times, that’s how good this fic is. I am a sucker for mythology, like truly, and Louis and Harry’s dynamic in there had me screaming! Jealous Harry is the best thing, and the semi plot twist at the end made my heart jump. But besides the universe we readers are diving into, it’s also the writing that’s left me pleasantly drunk. The words flow together perfectly, at after each paragraph you just long for more. Also the pet names!!! Just beautiful.

✩✩✩

If there’s any mistakes, please let me know!

#fic recs

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jadethest0ne · 4 years

Text

When the Moon meets the Morning, Chapter 1 - Fire under the Blood Moon

Summary: Raphael is going on missions with Captain Jupiter as he always does when he meets an orange-wearing turtle yokai who feels oddly familiar.

Word Count: 2154

Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences; some minor harrowing moments, but mostly fluff, emotional overload, emotional manipulation, self-deprecation

Notes: A longer chapter this time! This was the first thing I wrote for this story. I do enjoy starting out with some action! Big thanks to @undercoverwizardninjaturtle, @fraymotiif, and @frasierverse for helping me workshop this.

Read on AO3 For the RotTMNT Fantasy AU

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The thing about the Unforgiving North was that despite its reputation for being an icy snowscape it wasn't always cold and unforgiving. Sure the summers were maybe only a few weeks long and their spring was just an extended period of slush and snowmelt, but there was a time in the fall where the temperature was okay and not everything was covered in snow. Unfortunately, it was also a time where there was barely any rain either, and all the dry, dead leaves made all too good kindling for causing forest fires, much like the one that Raph had found himself in the middle of combating at the moment.

James Jupiter, the famed heroic bounty hunter, had gotten the call that the nearby forest had caught on fire due to some folks using mushroom fires irresponsibly. It was threatening the neighboring town of Bedu, as well as a group of small woodcutter huts and cabins that were within the forest's borders. As usual it was up to Captain Jupiter, his trusty sidekick Red Fox, and his protege, Raphael the “Red Angel of Preventing Harm” to save the day. Or the night rather.

Raph can feel his power swelling with the rise of the moon as he forms large red projections of his arms down a path among the trees blocking the flames to allow a family from one of the huts to pass through. Raph hears some screams behind him. He sees the Captain at the edge of the forest patiently directing everyone to safety with a confident smirk. The entire night he had been there greeting everyone that Raphael and Red Fox had brought out of the flames and giving them a strong guiding hand, letting them know that everything is going to be okay. Raph thinks wistfully for a moment what it must be like to have that confidence. He could use some of that right about now. He waits until he sees the family make it past the flames to dispel his corporeal magic into a smaller shield around himself. The heat is strong and he wishes he doesn't have his heavy cloak on him, but his shielding spell is at least enough to keep the fire at bay.

He turns towards where he heard the screams. He sees a child in a clearing wreathed with flames looking scared, with desperate eyes scanning the canopies. They look to be like some sort of squirrel yokai. He rushes over, batting away the flames with his magical aura formed into large hands as he goes.

When he reaches the child he imagines how the Captain would act in this situation and he puts on his most heroic face and states in his most heroic voice, "Don't worry, the Red Angel of Preventing Harm is here to save you!" The child stops crying momentarily and gives him a look of confusion. Raph falters. "Er, along with Captain James Jupiter..." That last part seems to make the child perk up and they manage a weak, tear-stained smile. They point a shaky finger up to the trees and say "My family is still up there!"

Raph looks up to see a literal treehouse, mostly in flames with at least half a dozen scared faces of squirrel yokai poking out. That's a lot of people, Raph thinks. It'll be hard to carry them all. But they're small, so Raph can handle it. Probably. With resolve and in a voice more confident than he feels, he calls to the family shouting above the flames, "Jump down! I will catch you!"

The yokai look at each other worriedly, so Raph lifts up his hands allowing his arm projections to expand and cupping his transparent red hands in a makeshift cushion for the family to land on. The family of, five, six, seven, Raph counts, leaps down into his waiting arms. As he lowers them to safety, he hears a cracking sound and sees the tree that the family just leapt from wobble dangerously. There's no time to wait for the family to get their bearings, so he just lifts them all up onto his broad shoulders, and grabs the child around the waist, and flings himself and the family out of the way of the collapsing tree; the rush of flames from the falling branches licking at his heels and tail as he runs. With him focusing on trying to carry the panicky family, it does not allow him much room to maneuver through the fiery forest, and his concentration on trying to avoid the flames prevents him from accessing his magic effectively. Still he does the best he can to move around the burning trees. He thinks he sees a path out, but then he hears a moan. Raph scans the forest and sees another young yokai - some sort of lizard - on the ground and looking very out of it. A nearby fallen tree branch tells him that maybe they got hit in the head. If Raph gets the family out of the forest, he may not be able to make it back to the lizard. But if he grabs the lizard, then both he and the folks he's carrying may not make it out. Raph doesn’t hesitate in his decision.

Raph rushes over to the lizard yokai, and, having no hands left to carry him, bends down and grasps a fold of his clothing in his teeth. Sometimes it's handy to have the strong jaws of a snapping turtle. There’s some more creaking from above and several large limbs from the trees fall down towards Raph and the people he’s carrying. There’s no time to dodge out of the way, and with so many people, he doesn’t think he can. So Raph stands his ground. His eyes darken over, and where his iris and pupil would normally be the shape of a blood-red moon appears, glowing even brighter than the fire surrounding him. He takes a deep breath, and wills his magic form around him. A red projection, mimicking his body’s shape and features, grows from him and surrounds both himself and the yokai he is protecting. Raph grunts as he forces the magic to hold as the blazing branches glance off of it. When the barrage of burning wood stops, Raph shakes off any errant cinders and dissipates his large red form.

He whirls around to try to get back to the path to safety but he can no longer see it. Everything is in flames now and the heat is really starting to get to him. The smoke is stinging his eyes, and he takes some heavy breaths through his nose, trying not to choke on the hot air or on his own rising anxiety. What would the Captain do in this situation? Would someone like him let a stupid fire stop him? Would he be disappointed at Raph for the tears threatening to spill over right now? They're from the smoke, not fear, Raph tells himself, of course, but his mind still conjures that disappointed look of the Captain in his brain. Raph has to remind himself to not bite down hard on the fabric that is in his mouth keeping the lizard yokai in place.

That's when he sees a flash of green through the blaze.

There's a section within the maelstrom of fire that contains no flames. A pocket of darker coolness that is inhabited by a freckle-faced yokai. He looks to be about Raph's age, maybe a little younger, and definitely much smaller. But he's wearing this brilliant smile and seems to be completely unfazed by the situation he's in. The boy cups a hand over his mouth and flames seem to come from it. Anger fills Raph’s gut and he's about to shout at the yokai as he momentarily thinks that the guy is adding to his troubles. However, Raph stops when he realizes that the kid is not breathing out fire, but sucking it in.

The yokai's already round face puffs out and becomes rounder as if storing the fire in his cheeks. The yellow freckles on his face stand out on his green skin, even among the yellow flames. The boy pulls in a deep breath, extinguishing enough of the fire to allow for a path out of the forest and to safety. Raph looks at the boy in wonder for just a second as he looks over cheerfully at him and winks. A sense of familiarity comes over Raph as he looks at the yokai. He's not sure why, but Raph is sure that he's a turtle yokai despite his orange clothes covering up where his shell would be. The smaller turtle yokai gives an "after you" gesture at Raph which snaps him out of his thoughts, and he quickly barrels through the burnt, but no longer flaming, woods.

He makes it out to where Captain Jupiter is still directing folks to safety. Once in the clear, Raph heaves a huge sigh of relief and lowers his load to the ground. The family of squirrel yokai scramble off of him and quickly go over to the Captain, excited to meet the famed hero. Captain Jupiter soaks in the praise and pats the heads of the younger yokai as he sends them on their way. Man, the Captain is so cool, just remaining calm this whole time, Raph thinks. He doesn’t even look like he’s got a burn on him - not even singed clothing! That’s in direct contrast to Raph’s soot stained clothes, and dirty face and claws, which he now feels somewhat self-conscious about as the Captain looks over to him.

The Captain gives Raph a toothy grin. "What have you got there, my boy," he says, smile fading into a grimace, "...in your teeth?”

Raph raises his brow realizing he’s still carrying the lizard yokai. He opens his mouth and gently places the young yokai in his arms, taking care to cradle his injured head. "Oh, um," Raph starts nervously. The Captain didn't like it when he used his more turtle-y features. "I, uh, ran out of arms to carry people with," he explains.

The Captain gives a discouraging look. “Remember, lad, ‘act like a beast, become a beast,’” he says tapping at his own teeth where Raph’s snaggletooth would be. He waves over his sidekick that Raph only just noticed was there, "Better let Red Fox take him then. Don't want you injuring him further, after all."

"Ah yeah," Raph says, wilting a bit as he lowers the lizard guy down to the sweet-faced red panda yokai in question. She’s also covered in no small amount of soot, and he can see some of her normally tidy auburn fur is lightly singed.

Red Fox looks up to him in concern and asks in her usual motherly tone, "Are you hurt?" She sniffs the air around him as if trying to discern his state by smell, causing the pink scar above her nose to crinkle and stand out behind the soot dusting her face.

Raph gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile and says, "Yeah, I'm fine." He gestures behind him to where he last saw the turtle yokai, saying, "It was really thanks to--" but he cuts himself off when he sees that no one is there. "Where did he go?" Raph asks himself.

There was a turtle yokai there, wasn't there? The smoke and fire hadn’t messed with his brain that much, had they? His thoughts are interrupted when he hears the Captain give his usual rundown of the situation. "Well that seems to be everybody, and it even seems as though the fire is dying down now, so that is some luck. All families are accounted for thanks to my steady guidance. Red Fox did well to listen to my commands, too. But kid, please do not rush off into the woods recklessly again, it may be too much to handle for a protege like yourself."

Raph’s shoulders sag under the Captain’s criticisms, but gives a "Yessir" all the same.

The Captain turns away to gather the victims of the fire to him, gaining statements and directing them to the necessary healing houses if need be. Raph watches on, and not for the first time tries to imagine what it's like to have such a leaderly tone that folks automatically respect.

He feels a warm hand placed on his own and he looks down to see Red Fox giving him a proud grin, "You did great out there, Raphael."

A smile spreads on Raph's face at her words and she gives a wink as she walks away with the lizard yokai in her arms.

Raph looks back at the once blazing forest, now mellowed out to a light flicker, and wonders what happened to the yokai that gave him a similarly kind wink and why he felt like he'd met the guy before…

<--previous /// next-->

#rottmnt #rottmnt fantasy au #rottmntfantasyau #when the moon meets the morning #rottmnt raph #rottmnt mikey #michelangelo #raphael #red fox #jupiter jim #captain james jupiter #marcus moncrief #fic #fanfic #my writing #jadethest0ne #jadethestone #fire

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mikkomacko · 5 years

Note

OK SO I HAD THIS SAH THOUGHT TODAY AND LORDY I NEEDED TO SHARE IT IF YOU WANTED TO WRITE A BLURB FOR IT CAUSE WOWZA - so maybe after a big win or something h and wifey and friends all decide to celebrate and when they’re about to leave h sees her in a short dress (or whatever, he’s just feeling really cocky so literally anything she wore would turn him on) and try’s to convince her to stay home but she’s like no all your friends are expecting us so they go but he’s attached to her hip (1/2)

(2/2) the entire time and keeps whispering things about what he’s going to do when they get home and at one point he just whispers “daddy needs mommy” or somethiNG LIKE THAT AND WHY DO I PUT MYSELF IN THESE SITUATIONS WOW

(SAH Harry and y/n smutty)

"S'not a big big deal darling."

The snort that leaves y/n's throat makes Harry sigh, and the roll of her eyes has him pouting. "You just won district finals Harry, it's a huge deal."

She turns away from the mirror, the skirt of her dress blowing up around her thighs from spinning on her heel, and Harry groans at the sight of her, his bones seeming to ache for her. She's beautiful. She's so beautiful and tonight she'll be with him, she'll be on his arm. She could be on something else of mine, thinks Harry and a little smirk tugs at his lips. He fights it, exaggerating his pout and hunching his shoulders forward as she tip toes towards him.

"I've got something else that's a huge deal right now too."

She giggles at the whine in his voice, eyes twinkling with amusement and Harry knows she sees right through his boyish act. Still, he lets her stand between his thighs in her pretty pink dress, and brush her fingers over his stubbley cheeks. "Yeah, and what's that?"

Harry blinks up at her, letting out a little huff of air that might hint at him being upset. "My cock," he mururms innocently.

Y/n laughs, that cute laugh that shakes her shoulders and scrunches her nose. The laugh that she passed on to Arlo.

"Harry we don't have time for you to be getting boners."

He quickly wraps his arms around her waist before she can tug away, whining loudly as he presses his face into her soft tummy.

"Please?" He presses a hot kiss over the fabric of her dress. "Want to feel it. Want you to feel me all the way in your belly," His hands squeeze her hips tightly. "stretch ya so deep you can't even walk tomorrow. Fuck your-"

"Harry stop!"

He frowns at her decline, tilting his chin up to meet her amused gaze. "Don't wanna stop."

"All of your friends and colleagues are waiting for you at the restaurant and we are not keeping them waiting because you're so full of yourself."

He grunts like a child, huffing and puffing to calm his racing heart and tingling veins as y/n tugs him to his feet. She straightens out his coat and combs his hair out of his face, ignoring his pleading face as she kisses the corner of his mouth. "Don't pout," she instructs, poking her finger into his cheeks and pulling them into a grin. "we'll just eat dinner and thank everyone, and then I promise you can fuck me as deep and as long as you want."

Nick and Liam picked the fanciest fucking restaurant in the whole city. Normally, Harry would appreciate that they cared enough about him to pick this place. But he's been hiding his stiffy with his napkin for over an hour and this restaurant is too nice for that. It's also too nice (and too packed) for Harry to have his left hand up his wife's dress but he doesn't stop. Because he can't stop thinking of the way his dick had pulsed at the house when she promised him a good fuck. And technically they've eaten dinner already, and he has thanked the whole group of people that came to celebrate. So he isn't doing anything wrong, even if y/n's nails are digging into his arm warningly. He's just trying to take care of her.

"From the first time I saw Harry, I knew that fucker could fight. Quick and tough you are." Nick smiles proudly at Harry from across the table, sipping his wine. Harry shrugs, wishing he could remember what they were discussing that prompted a compliment but his brain is mushy with the softness of y/n's thigh on his fingertips.

Liam picks up the conversation, him and Nick launching into a story of one of Harry's first training sessions, and Harry's grateful because it gives him the chance to lean into y/n. His knee pushes into hers, pining her thighs shut around his hand as he presses a wet kiss under her ear.

"M'ready to go home darling."

Her nails dig a little further into his skin, enough to make little stings run up his veins. He pinches her thigh in retaliation, smirking when her fingers immediately loosen.

"Don't play games with me, s'my night after all."

She turns him, lips brushing and bats her eyelashes. To any outsider, it'd appear they're just happily fawning over each other. His smirk grows, pushing his fingers higher so he can feel the edge of cotton panties.

"I'm not playing games, I'm just trying to be decent, ya animal."

Harry presses his lips to hers, swallowing the squeak she lets out when he slips two fingers under her underwear and attaches the pads of them to her clit.

"Harry-"

"Let's go home darling." He circles his fingers, dick twitching pathetically when her thighs clench. "Please? Just let me make us feel good."

She's brought her hands up to his neck, fingers burying in his hair and taking out her frustration there by discretely tugging.

"Need to feel ya," he pries one of her hands free, stroking his thumb over the back before bringing it down to his lap under the table. "Daddy needs mumma, please darling."

She strokes her thumb over his hardness, tracing the outline of him and paying extra attention to the head of him. His toes curl in his shoes, fingers momentarily pausing as he soaks in the feeling of her rubbing his tip so tenderly.

Knowing they've been pressed together for too long, y/n pecks his mouth once more and untangles her hands from his hair. Harry grins as she fakes a yawn, nestling her cheek against the bicep that's still subtly flexing under his button-up with the movement of his fingers. She wraps a hand around his forearm, adjusting the other so it appears she's still just holding his hand and not cupping the tent in his trousers.

"Getting tired darling?" Harry asks innocently, loud enough for the group to hear. At his words Nick, Liam, and the two trainers Harry works with all turn to them. Her fingers squeeze his arm as she realizes Harry's getting her off with all of them watching.

"Too much excitement tonight, eh?" Liam grins softly at y/n. Harry feels her nod against his arm. "Cheered ya head off for this one."

Nick laughs in agreement as Liam gestures to Harry, and Harry's insides seem to inflate. Y/n cheering for him, being proud of him, celebrating him, taking his fingers so fucking good under the table all his friends are eating dessert at. God he loves her.

"Maybe I should take ya home then?" Harry murmurs sweetly, kissing the top of her head and slowing his fingers to soft strokes around her sensitive button. "Pamper ya after all this rooting ya did instead of making ya sit here with this lot, huh?"

She nods, humming her agreement. The lads all chuckle fondly at how placid she's gotten, thinking it's sleepiness and not the wetness between her legs.

"Alright then," Harry swiftly removes his hand from her panties, squeezing her knee softly. She does the same to him, giving him a chance to secretly rearrange the bulge in his pants. "better get going 'fore I'm carrying this one home."

He pushes his chair back, rising from the seat and turning to help y/n up. She takes his free hand, meeting his gaze just as he rubs the two fingers that had been between her legs over his lips. She falters, stumbling into Harry with dark, glossy eyes on his lips as his tongue darts out to lick over them.

"Ready darling?" He asks, lifting his eyebrows suggestively and he knows by the tint in her cheeks that she's remembering the words she'd said to him before they left the house. Almost challengingly, he cups her chin in that same hand, two fingers dangerously close to her pink lips. He feels her throat bob as she swallows, and then she's nodding once, softly kissing the fingers next to her lips. Harry's cock throbs, chest shuddering because she's giving him permission to do whatever he wants. By the pout of her lips, it looks like she's even begging for it, begging for him to fuck her like he wanted to earlier, and Harry might forget to say good-bye to everyone before he's ushering her out of the restaurant and into the car.

His whole body is hot, heart thumping loudly in his naked chest. Y/n is combing her fingers through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and thighs clenching under his strong hold. Though she's only covering about a fourth of his body, she's everywhere. Her skin under his fingers, her scent lodged in his nose, her body arched above him, her juices on his tongue, and the soft pants of his name reaching his ears despite her legs straddling his head.

He slips his hand further down her thigh, fingers stroking over the swollen bud his nose had previously been bumping. Y/n gasps, hips rolling over his chin and lips, sinking his tongue deeper into her wet heat. His eyes flash open, grunting gruffly at the sight of her.

The hand tangled in his hair blocks his view a bit, but not enough to stop him from seeing her naked chest heavy with gasps or her lips forming his name or the way her eyes keep fluttering. He can't bring himself to remove his mouth from between her thighs so he drops his other hand to her bum, urging her to keep rolling her hips over his tongue like that. She meets his gaze, eyes wet and needy as she gets the message and follows his guidance. Harry, overwhelmed with ecstacy for her, can't stop his hips from jutting up into nothing. A moan catches in his throat, hard cock bouncing on his abdomen. A choked gasps leaves her mouth and before Harry can stop her, she's releasing his hair and reaching behind her for his dick.

Harry whimpers at the feeling of her warm digits wrapping around the head of him. She rolls her hips back, ghosting her hand to the base him and bringing it back up with her hips. Desperately, Harry swaps his tongue and fingers. His ring and middle finger fit between her soaked lips easily, sinking nuckle deep before stopping to stroke the sensitive walls. Tongue first, his mouth latches over her clit with soft suckles and furious flicks of his tongue.

Y/n seems to go hazy above him, shoulders slumping as she moans into the sticky air. Her hand falters on his cock but he doesn't care. He just wants her to come on his tongue, just once, before he fucks her.

Harry pumps his fingers in and out, sinking in a little deeper each time until she's riding his face and twitching on top of him. Her walls tremble around his finger and he knows she's going to come so he forces his eyes open to watch her. He nibbles on her clit, just enough to get a breathy "Harry!" out of her lips as she pulses around his fingers and soaks his chin. Almost animalistic Harry grunts, cock twitching for attention next to her hand that's digging into his thigh.

"O-ok Harry," y/n whimpers, dropping her hand from the headboard to his hair. Harry slips his fingers out of her, immediately catching them in his mouth for a quick cleaning. Y/n squeaks when he pushes his tongue into her pussy, licking up the remainder of her orgasm.

"Harry, please."

He wants to stay between her thighs, tongue making her come over and over again but his dick is painfully hard. Reluctantly, Harry delivers one more peck to her clit and pats her thigh, sucking in a disgustingly fresh breath of air when she falls onto the bed next to him.

"You're a fucking fever dream."

Lazily, Harry lulls his head in reaction to her words. She's laying on her side, watching him with dreamy eyes and flushed cheeks.

"You're one to talk." Harry rolls towards her, moving her with him until her back meets the mattress and he's got her caged under his body. She giggles, left arm coming to rest on his shoulder.

"You're a mess," she wipes at his chin with her other hand, holding her palm in front of his face. "a beautiful mess." Harry smirks, eyes flickering over the slick she'd wiped off his face. He drags the thick of his tongue over her palm, chuckling when she immediately shakes her hand and slaps it to the rumpled sheets beneath them.

"You made a mess," Harry retorts, leaning down to catch her lips. "a beautiful, delicious mess darling." She chuckles bashfully, this time leaning up to kiss him. The fingers that had previously been lying on the sheets come up to his side, ghosting over his hip and the small of his back. He dips his tongue between her lips, grinding his cock over her lower tummy. She gives his tongue a gentle prodding before pulling back with a small smacking noise.

"Condom?" She rubs his side affectionately. "Before you go making a mess all over my belly?"

Harry chuckles, kissing her lips and then her cheek and then her jaw. "Mm the belly I put a baby in?" He reaches over to the nightstand, face still tucked into her neck. "The belly I'm gonna stuff full with my cock again?"

Y/n shivers, hands tensing around his skin. He offers a few more sensual pecks to her sweaty neck, managing to dig out a condom. He pulls back just enough to get the condom open and over his cock, goosebumps rising on his flesh when he drags his hand over himself.

"Hate using a rubber," Harry mutters mostly to himself. "s'not right, letting me feel ya bare and then shoving me back into a bloody condom."

Y/n chuckles, slinging a leg over his hip as he guides himself to her entrance. "Unless you feel like being the real life Cheaper By The Dozen we're keeping the condoms bub."

Harry shrugs, pushing just the head of him beween her legs. "Wouldn't mind baby, 'specially with how fucking horny you get when you're pregnant."

Something like a scoffs sounds in her throat but it's cut off with a deep groan when Harry thrusts all the way into her heat. His toes curl, chest shuddering from the way she squeezes him. As if it were instinct her other leg finds it's way around his hip, pulling him even deeper.

"Fuckin' shit-" Harry grunts, pulling back and ramming forward again. Y/n whines, hands gaining purchase on his shoulders. He presses himself tighter to her, lips attaching to her neck. His hips are relentless, not giving her even a breath of air before they're fucking into her over and over.

"Oh," she strokes over his shoulder lovingly. "fuck Harry."

He groans into her hot skin, using her encouragements as leverage to rut into her harder. The headboard above them thumps into the wall but they ignore it. There's no one here to be considerate of besides them.

Harry lifts his torso enough to slip a hand between them, pressing his palm into her tummy. He rams his cock into her dripping walls, whining pathetically when he feels the head of him under his hand.

"Tha's it, got it right where we want it yeah?" Y/n nods at his words, biting her lip to try and keep her moans at bay. "Nice and deep in your belly."

"So deep Harry,"

Her voice is tight and wrecked, shivering through his body and making him jump forward harder. She gasps, back arching, and Harry can't help but continue that rough thrust.

"Doing so good for daddy," he praises her, pecking her cheek. "just need ya to come on me. Show me how good you are for me darling."

Her limbs tighten around him, swollen lips latching onto his with such fever and need Harry's bones feel like jelly. He meets her kiss with matched urgency, body thrumming as her hot walls clamp around his cock. Y/n trembles and shakes around him, lips falling slack with moans that Harry swallows eagerly.

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

Y/n pets at his hair, and rubs her hand up and down his back as he comes heavily. She mururms praises into the shell of his ear, clinging to him as she shakes and heaves above her.

"You're so good Harry."

He chuckles tiredly, pecking her cheek. "Hafta be good for ya. How else would I keep such a sweet little thing?"

She giggles, flattered yet shy, and continues to rub over his muscles tenderly. Harry settles himself on top of her, head resting on her shoulder.

"Harry?"

He let's out a questioning grunt.

"You gonna fall asleep with your cock in me?"

"I could if ya hadn't made me wear a fucking condom."

She tugs on his hair. "I'm not having the condom fight with you again Harry."

"M'still gonna cry about it and you're still gonna listen because you love me and I won district finals."

"I do love you."

"I know."

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #sweet as honey blurb #sweet as honey talk #requested #husband harry

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connorspiracy · 4 years

Text

Not The Kind of Snacc I Had In Mind || Connor & Luis

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @connorspiracy and @ontheluis CONTENT: Recreational drug use, NSFW SUMMARY: Connor and Luis decide to meet up after chatting on a dating app and absolutely nothing goes wrong.

Grindr dates were weird. Connor was far from opposed to a simple shag, but he usually felt like he was supposed to not be so blatant about it, to try and be a gentleman. Was it customary to clean the house before a Grindr hookup came over? He wasn’t sure, but he did what he could to make the place presentable; ran the roomba, made the bed that he was sure would be messed up again pretty soon, lit some Yankee Candles. He’d showered, changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, and was debating starting on a beer when the buzz of the doorbell stirred him from the couch, indicating his date’s arrival. Connor answered, giving the other man a smile in greeting. He’d had no clue this was wolfbane-dude when he’d proverbially swiped right, but seeing the young man in front of him, he put it together. Not that it mattered. He was still certainly curious, but seeing the profile pics come to life before his eyes gave him little desire to revisit that conversation anytime soon. “Hey, Luis, right? Come on in, I was just about to grab a drink if you want one?”

The cold freshness of the Whye River single lingered in Luis’ nostrils even after the water had dried off his skin and hair. Bathing in the river outside his date’s upscale neighborhood might not exactly be classy, but the brutal pragmatism of Luis’ new life had weaned him off feeling embarrassed about trivial things. Piers’ place reminded Luis of the houses along Boca Chica, eliciting a sharp prick of unwanted remembrance amidst the more arduous thoughts in his head.

Connor turned out to be just as gorgeous as his profile picture, and Luis had another pang of guilt for placing yet another innocent person in danger of being eaten just for the sake libido and company. But the less human part of Luis brain, the aspect of himself that was all primal instinct and cold pragmatism, didn’t see why that danger should get in the way of shelter, sex, and free food?

The corners of Luis' mouth drew up into a knowing smirk as he closed the door behind him, enjoying the randy tension in the coy game these types of meetups often started. “Sure.” Luis placed his backpack against the wall by the door. “Hey uh....are you the ghostuber dude by the way?”

If it hadn't already been obvious from the risque Grindr conversation, then the grin tugging at the edges of Luis' lips confirmed to Connor that this lad was well up for it. He doubted it would take them too long to get down to business. "Right, we've got got beer, shots, cider, whatever you want, mate." He helped himself to a White Claw, handing Luis whatever he'd chosen. "Heh, Ghostuber dude," he chuckled. This was why he didn't send dick pics with his face in them. He didn't want it to end up on twitter or reddit once someone realised who he was. "Y'know what? I like that. Might nick it for my instagram bio.” He gave him a little grin. “I wanna ask what you do for work but I don’t even know how much you wanna talk and stuff. I never know how personal folks wanna get.”

“I mean there’s part of me that just wants to jump your bones,” Luis confessed as he leaned forward to accept a White Claw with a wink, the werewolf perhaps being a bit more literal then the words necessarily implied. But Luis didn’t necessarily want to give that primal part of more leeway over his life then it already had.

“But I don’t mind talking,” Luis admitted helping himself to a seat on one end of the couch. “I’m hiking cross country,” was a rather selective version of the truth. “So I’m just taking whatever work I can find along the way here y’know?”

In spite of being in media and in the public eye just enough to receive decently regular flirtation, Connor wasn't always the smoothest at this. He gave a kind chuckle, toasting their White Claws together. "That's very flattering, but yeah, we can talk. Come on." He gestured for Luis to follow him, heading onto the deck and lighting up the fire pit and sitting on the outdoor bench. "Figured this'd be a bit better than watching telly," he snickered. "So are you in White Crest for long then? Just passing through?"

Luis had been an easygoing and social person before his life had become a runway train of carnage. Connor definitely had the sexy British angle for him, and a sinewy muscularity to go with the baby face, but perhaps was a bit blunt for coy games. Though Luis couldn’t (or didn’t want to) explain why, his sense of hearing and smell had sharpened to the point of being painful at times. He caught the fragrance of the soaps that Connor had used in the shower as his host passed by and listened to the steady background noise of his heartbeat.

As they went out on the deck Luis looked out over the East End evening. The sun was sinking like a golden torch in the Whye River's horizon, staining the tufty lines of Stratocumulus clouds ablaze with bright magenta against the deeper blues and violets of the upper atmosphere. East End’s upscale houses and shops trailed off at the harbor where ships slept on a liquid mirror of the sky, seeming to bob up and down on cloudy stained glass. Boat masts and pier poles stood out stark like thin black columns against the prismatic sunset.

But though Luis’ couldn’t see most of those colors anymore, the shadows of the sunset city strangely didn’t impede his sight at all. Luis glanced to smile playful at Connor, the fading light briefly reflecting off the tapetum lucidum blue in his eyes in a flare of electric blue.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Luis admitted as he leaned his elbows on the deck rail, breathing in the faint scents of fish and smoke on the chilly autumn air. “Got this gig at a fighting ring, doing Cutman work and whatnot for the fighters,” he mused. “Guess we’ll see how well that pays huh?”

"Bit of an amateur boxer or something, are you? That's pretty hot," Connor said with a smile. Most people's Grindr photos didn't leave that much to the imagination. There was usually at the very least a topless selfie in there, maybe a post-workout pic, complete with sweatpants bulge. Luis had a casually athletic build, more compact and slightly bulkier than Connor's slimmer frame. He imagined Luis being able to hold his own. "I... couldn't fight my way out of a paper bag. Have to talk my way out, hope they fall for the accent. This is all for show." He looked at Luis' bright blue eyes with a self-deprecating smile.

"Well, this place is fuckin' weird, which is why I'm here, but it's not for everyone." In the back of his mind, he was still kind of suspect about the eating wolfsbane thing, but Connor left that alone. He actually wanted to get off with the bloke tonight, not scare him away by interrogating him. "Smoke?" he asked, pulling out a pack of tobacco and everything else he needed for a good joint.

“Luis shook his head with an aimable wrinkle of the nose at the notion. Learning to fight hadn’t been something he’d willingly picked up or enjoyed, but it came naturally to the less human part of him, way too much so honestly. “A cutman is just the dude who makes sure the fighters don’t bleed out too much,” he explained, finding it wiser to not going into detail what sort of illicit fights would just hire some rando off the street who knew his way around an enswell. “I try not to get into fights if I can help it,” said the fellow whose rap sheet contained a bit too many charges of manslaughter for that claim to be entirely plausible. “You’re better off avoiding it honestly dude. Like...I dig some macho dom vibes much as the next guy, but that aggro life isn’t worth it,” confessed Luis, having woken up too often amongst grotesque carnage to glorify violence.

“It is weird,” Luis admitted with another look out at White Crest’s innocently picturesque panorama stretching out beyond them. “Guess that works for a ghostuber though?” Luis didn’t believe in spirits or magic, but a metaphysics argument wasn’t he wan’t to get up to with Connor tonight, so he just let that be.

Then it turned out Connor knew the way to heart: weed. “Duuude, you must be into some weird shit if you’re buttering me up this much,” he teased with an assenting nod.

“Oh,” Connor said with a chuckle, feeling just a little bit stupid. “I guess that makes sense. It’s in the name.” Hearing that Luis avoided fights if he could help it only made Connor more attracted to him. He had no patience for that toxic masculinity bullshit. Knowing someone could defend themselves was one thing, being good at a sport was another, but seeking violence for violence’s made someone the type of person best avoided, even for a one night stand. “Yeah, couldn’t agree more. Save the macho dom vibes for the bedroom,” he teased, rolling them each a joint with a grin.

“The views are fucking gorgeous too, I mean, look at this ocean.” He gestured to the sand and sea that spread out before them, glistening under the moon and stars. “And I never run out of stuff to film.” Even if sometimes, the thing he happened to film was someone being murdered in the woods. That’d be a mood killer, though. His grin only widened when Luos accepted his offer of some light recreational drug use. “What can I say? I like being a good host.” And once he handed Luis the rolled joint, he leaned in for a brief kiss, lips brushing against Luis’ and lingering for barely a moment before he sat back to light up, handing Luis the lighter too.

The lighter’s flame was a momentary spark against the oceanic sunset as Luis breathed deep. Substances had come to be Luis’ escape from the train of violence his life had become, and the unwilling werewolf closed his eyes and breathed smoke into the night for a time, letting it soak into his blood and cloud out unwelcome thoughts. “Definitely gorgeous,” he affirmed, before turning away from the sea.

Luis gently lowered himself down to straddle Connor’s lap. He looked down into Connor’s eyes for a moment with a questioning raise of tawny brows, silently asking if this was ok. “So what made you want to do youtubing stuff,” Luis asked with an unconvincingly innocent smirk as he ran both hands up the front of Connor’s shirt. Luis played it slow, his splayed fingers consciously tracing the lines of Connor’s body beneath the fabric, traveling up until he caressed the bare skin of the Brit’s neck. He leaned forward from his perch on Connor’s lap to meet his host’s lips in a long kiss, taking time to just savor the take and smell of him before parting with a breath chuckle. “So were you legit born in England,” he asked in a murmur, pulling down the front of Connor’s shirt slightly to press his lips to the firm skin of Connor’s pectorals. “Or are you actually some Cali-boy whose doing the Brit thing for sex appeal.” Luis continued to lay exploring kisses up the curves Connor’s upper chest and neck as he glanced up. “Won’t mind either way,” he assured with a grin.

Connor closed his eyes for a moment as he inhaled the joint and blew out the smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. He took another sip of his beer, not expecting the next events that unfolded, but certainly appreciating them. His breath hitched in anticipation as he felt the warm weight of the other man's body on top of him. He lifted his hands to wander over Luis' upper legs and waist. "Started to video journal for myself," he answered, closing his eyes again and sighing as Luis' hands and lips caressed his skin. He curled his own fingers into Luis' sides, sliding them just beneath his shirt. "Ran out of space on my hard drive, started uploading them to YouTube," he snickered. "And the rest is history."

Thankfully the neighbours' houses weren't right on top of them and there was a bit of space between the houses along the beach, so he didn't feel too self-conscious about the display they were putting on. At least for now. "I'm a born and raised South West London boy, darling," he whispered, playfully exaggerating his own accent. "What about you?" he asked, fingertips tracing tiny lines along Luis' abs. "Hispanic?"

“Chicano,” Luis confirmed with a nod, closing his eyes for a moment and just letting Connor touch bring on a trembling flex of his abdomen that brought a hitch to his breathing. “South Texas chico my dude,” he elaborated in a teasing imitation of Conner’s phrasing, as if the Coastal Bend was somehow on the same cultural tier as an ancient city of eight point nine million. Luis shrugged off his white cotton shirt onto the deck, ignoring the chilled autumn air as it brought goosebumps along his bare skin. Luis’ shoulders and chest rose and fell with deepened breaths as drank in the scent of Connor and the taste of his lips with a hungry insistence.

A voice in the part of Luis' brain warned that he needed restraint. He needed to not lose control here.

“So why ghosts,” Luis asked as he reluctantly parted from Connor. He kept running one hand affectionately though his date’s hair while leaning back to take another drag from the joint he’d left on the railing. “You could easily get internet-famous with other stuff,” he pointed with, exhaling smoke at one end of a smile that left the ‘other stuff’ ambiguous.

Connor’s stomach tightened and he felt himself becoming more and more aroused, especially as Luis pulled off his shirt. His own was unbuttoned all the way down to the navel, so he unfastened the rest of it, letting it hang open to reveal his chest and stomach. For a moment, he thought they were going to shag right there on the decking, but thankfully (at least for the neighbour’s sake), Luis pulled away to take another drag, smoking from his position straddling Connor’s lap. “Right, you’re one to talk about sexy accents then. You can get anyone to drop their trousers by saying romantic shit in Spanish,” Connor teased, continuing his own beer and joint.

“Why ghosts?” He repeated. It felt like he was about to open a can of worms, so he did his best to put the pushy, opinionated part of him aside, at least for the sake of getting his dick wet tonight. “Ah, well, suppose you’re either a believer or you’re not. Hard to believe in ghosts when you can’t see them. I just happen to be someone who can.” His fingers absentmindedly continued drawing shapes on Luis’ forearm as he spoke.

The claim about his ability to make people drop drow with Spanish elicited a snorting laugh from Luis, who’d endured less complimentary claims about his background in the past. He pressed his lips to the skin about the hem of Connor’s pants, laying teasing kisses along the muscled v-shape below the Brit’s abdominals, toying with his tongue down the very edge of the curve before relenting.

“Te voy a joder los sesos guey,” Luis promsied with a soft murmmer in Connor’s ear.

Connor’s answer clearly brought Luis up short, confusion mixing with the more straightforward lust on his features. Luis wasn’t particularly good at it, but could pick up sometimes when people lied sometimes. The beat of their heart changed. Even though they were skin to skin Luis hadn’t heart any falter in Connor’s aroused pulse. Maybe Luis wasn’t really in any headspace beyond screwing this guy, but it sounded like he thought he was telling the truth.

Luis sat up on Connor’s lap for a moment and looked at him with reflective blue eyes that grew brighter at the darkness deepened, lips in cast in a half frown of vexation and both hands lifted behind his head.

“Shit, don’t even know what to fucking make of you Con,” Conner mumbled after a while, the frown broadening in a toothy smile. Luis stood up and reached down for Conner’s hand with a come-hither look that made clear Luis’ personal suggestion to resolve this quandary.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Connor murmured under his breath, jeans tightening as he got hard when Luis kissed and licked along his pelvic bone. He’d had a few flings in town, and it hadn’t exactly been that long since his rendezvous with Nell, but there was something incredibly alluring about Luis, the way he took what he wanted, unapologetic and confident, just a little filthy, behind a blue-eyed cherubic face you could take home to your mum. “You’re the kind of lad I could take home to family dinner and give you a blowjob in the bathroom after,” he chuckled.

Connor ran his fingers through Luis’ light brown hair, tugging it gently as his fist clenched with arousal. “I have no clue what you just said, but it was sexy as hell,” he snickered, practically pulling Luis back to his lips so he could kiss him more firmly, more deeply, more desperately. When their lips parted, his breath caught in his throat, and he twisted the joint out in the ashtray. “Why don’t we go inside and you can make whatever you want of me?”

Luis let himself be led back to Connor’s bedroom, putting up coy resistance at times, pretending to look around the house with wide innocent eyes but wearing a cruelly teasing smirk. One hand in Connor’s and the other tracing the lined of the cool-colored walls, Luis let the adrenaline of anintipation buoy him up like a chemical tidal wave. For a little while he was just a normal guy horny out of his mind and climbing into a hot brit’s bed.

There came a cracking sound from somewhere outside the room, like a piledriver being used as a nutcracker.

Luis jerked up instinctively as it hit his lupine hearing like a gunshot, looking around. “Did you...” But the sound had stopped or maybe hadn’t existed. Fuck it. “Nevermind,” he murmured, busying him with trying to make out with Connor and get unzip his pants at the same time.

Connor headed inside, kicking off his shoes and leaving them deserted somewhere in the hall. He threw his shirt on top of the laundry basket, climbing on top of the bed with Luis. He heard nothing, ears not as keen as the werewolf, and let himself be in ignorant bliss for a while. They continued to kiss, leaving him with tousled hair and pants half-unfastened, blood rushing between his legs as they got hotter and heavier. “What?” he whispered against a jawline that could cut glass, but whatever Luis had heard, he’d quickly forgotten.

He whispered compliments, sighs and groans against Luis’ skin, hands wandering his torso. Their bodies were warm against one another as Connor pressed into him, haphazardly reaching to unfasten his belt before he heard it, an obnoxious sound, miniature saw blades gnawing away beneath him. “What the..” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes and looking at Luis as if to question if he was losing his bloody mind. He rolled over, begrudgingly separating himself to look under the bed. “Oh, FUCK.” Connor scrambled back on the bed, scrambling for the closest object to throw on top of the creature. He was trying to get his rocks off, and there was a fucking demon rat under his bed.

“Dude…please...” Luis moaned, breathing fast and craving release with all this built up tension. He tried to pull Connor back down to him, skin flush and burning with the raw need that turned every nerve into a livewire.

But before either batter or pitcher could make the final run towards home base, one corner of the bed vanished in a cloud of sawdust. There was the sound of claws scaping up wood, and Luis choked on another flurry of dry sawdust in his mouth, dust clinging to the sweat on his skin

Luis found himself face to face with an obese beaver-shrew the size of a dog at the ruined end of the bed, and wondered for a surreal second if he’d gone insane from sheer Blue-Balls.

“What….holy shit….whu…”

Connor really, truly would have preferred to just stay in bed and take the rest of Luis’ clothes off, doing unspeakable things to one another for the next several hours before having another cigarette and maybe sneak in some cuddling. White Crest, however, had other plans. “Bro! What the fuck--” He scrambled to fasten his pants, willing his boner to go down, which thankfully wasn’t too difficult “You little bugger, I rent this house!” He didn’t know if it was dangerous or not, so he instinctively grabbed for Luis to pull him away, then scrambled for the nearest pair of flip flops. “We gotta go, dude. I have no idea what that thing is.”

Why...how did this rat have horns? Even while gagging on sawdust and woodchips Luis could smell that this thing wasn’t a dog, rat, squirrel, shrew, or beaver. His rational mind recognized it was impossible that a person could smell that well, but his instincts just sorta knew on a gut level that this wasn’t any animal he’d ever seen before. There was a moment of confusion as his brain and gut disagreed on what was going on. But as usual when shit went down, guts won out.

Luis let Connor pull him away and he rolled off the side of the bed not occupied by a giant woodchipper on legs. Stumbling into the shoes he’d shed at the bedroom door, he sprinted with Connor through the house and out the front door, the frigid outside air extinguishing the amorous fire in his skin.

Great. This was just great. He’d found a nice, handsome, and incredibly seductive boy to take to bed, and now he had an infestation of God-Knows-What chewing on his furniture. Connor shook his head, more annoyed than panicked. “I’m so sorry. This is--not what I planned for tonight. I have to call an exterminator.” Or a hunter. “But… this was nice, before it got ruined. I’ll call you, okay?” And with that, he pulled out his phone.

#paras #with: luis #enjoy! some non angsty fun times

6 notes · View notes

joopiterjoon · 4 years

Text

Agust D- JHS

Pairing: Hoseok x reader

Genre: PG13, Not really fluff and not really angst

Warnings/Tags: Drag!Hoseok, Bartender!Kook, Clubowner!Namjoon, drag, pronoun changes, dance performances, kissing, alcohol vague references to the larger story

Wordcount: 4k

a/n: This is from a story that I work on and drop frequently. I have enough to just need to fill in some plot holes now. I’m posting this to see if anyone would want to read it? So let me know if you want to know more

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo!

“Ladies and Lads with our without nads, our next woman of the night. It’s the dazzling, the soul-stealing, Hope!”

Jungkook rolls a cloth over a glass he turns with the over hand, nodding to the stage. “There’s who you’re looking for.”

You swivel on the bar stool.

“Hoseok?” you squeak in shock.

A stunning woman walks from the back of the stage. She has on a sleek, glittering blue dress that shines in the lights as they sway across the stage. She stares this way and that, to the beat of the music. Even from here, Hope’s face is dazzling. Literally. Rhinestone’s line her high cheek bones, lips ice blue and glistening. Her eyes are large from the makeup, popping and making her nose sharp. The dress falls over sculpted shoulders and dips into bellsleeves that glisten white. A deep dip from muscle appear around her clavicles as she positions her hands on her hips, where the dress fans out around her.

It’s stunning, and you find yourself leaning onto the counter as you slouch in the chair. The dress sparkles as she spins, waving to the crowd and bending over backwards to the song. It’s a sultry beat, filled with something soft and longing. She drops to the floor, body bobbing in time with the base as she now lies backwards on the floor and wistfully twirls her arms above her. You swallow when she rolls up, turning to display an open back.

She stretches a hand to the sky with the rise of the music. You can tell she’s lipsyncing, jaw over exaggerating if the original soundtrack wasn’t giveaway enough as the vocals and crescendo of sound reach a breaking point. You jump when her arms fall to the side, fists balled and the music drops. You raise your hands to clap, but the crowd is unusually silent.

When the white flood lights alight the stage, Hope’s head snaps up, a conniving smirk on her face. She reaches up, one hand tearing off the wig and the other smearing the makeup off her face. She squats down, gathering the dress before she rips it clean off, breaking away at the side.

And there, on the stage a yard away from you, is Hoseok. Shirtless, Balenciaga waistband peaking above ripped jeans that were hidden beneath the tulle of the dress. He raises his arms to get the crowd going, snagging a mike and a snapback from off stage. When he spins back, his arm is raised high, arching the entire side of his body, tongue curling out of his mouth toward the microphone. His core is tight, back strong as he rolls his hips to the beat.

And then your breath catches.

They call me new thang

The recruit is here, to take over everything

The whole world, concert so sick

His voice is its own music, filled with the words, the beat, the sounds needed to add to his display. He crawls onto his knees, rolling towards the edge of the stage, knees popping up from the floor as he runs a hand through his hair and turns the hat around.

I’m different from the hyungs

That ignore their duties

An uprising of celebrities

Damn only strong ones can mess with me

He swivels then, kicking his feet under him and twisting to a standing position once more before you can even fathom how the motion happened. He swings himself off the stage on one hand, rolling into people shoving money into his waistband, stroking their chests or necks as he saunters through the crowd. Everyone cheers and screams, one man practically faking as Hoseok fakes a bite in his direction.

Then, he turns, snapping his hips as he drops lower and lower where the crowd dispersed. He drops low, popping his hips, and you giggle a bit. It looks more carefree, silly in his get up and the alcohol-soaked floor. But just like that, he kicks off, spinning to the floor on one knee before he slides towards some man, rolling his chest up his thigh.

It gets to you. Your heart flutters a bit, and you find yourself sitting a bit straighter.

But not as much when he locks eyes with you. You wonder if you’ve been caught, somewhere you aren’t supposed to be. But instead, that same smile curls on his face, knowing and crooked, as an eyebrow cocks while he continues to rap.

Doesn’t matter if I’m nasty or if I’m a wack or fack

I’m the guy that will carve history on the ground

He saunters towards you and the crowd oo’s and ah’s as he, for what feels like the hundredth time, drops to the ground at the word and swings back up with a hand cupping his groin. As he gets closer, you recognize that same teasing glint he always has when he’s about to fuck with you.

You reach behind you to push off the counter and run, but Hoseok is there before you can stop. He’s between your legs, lowering until his crotch is level, and pumping up into the seat. Your jaw is dropped as you laugh incredulously, not sure what to do with your hands behind you when he leans in, microphone just tracing up your chest as he moves up your body. The crowd is screaming, but at this point, you can’t even breathe from the shock of your tenant air fucking you. The roughness of his jeans catches on your own, his hot breath fans over your chest as he makes his way up to your agape expression. This close, you can see the sweat from his effort glittering over his skin in the varying shades of the strobe lights.

Your body finally leaves you, or as the announcer mentioned, your soul is eaten, when Hope reaches out, delicate fingers tucking hair behind your ear, running his index down your cheek as he starts stepping back, curling his finger in. You shake your head and the crowd boos. Hoseok waves to the booing crowd, pout on and eyebrow cocked, tempting you as he continues to rap along. You shout no louder, crossing your arms in front of you. Your legs feel like jello, and your heart might launch out of your mouth if you have to speak again.

Hoseok shrugs, reaching out to the closest person. He snatches up a man who he grinds into, using his shoulders to help him jump back on stage before he’s on his knees holding the man’s face in front of him, rolling his hips just close enough to touch before throwing the man’s head back, who then fake faints (or maybe it’s real?) when he falls into a friend.

The song starts to dial down, and on the final note, Hoseok is in center stage again, hand held high.

“Love you, Gemini!” he blows a kiss, drops the mic, and the crowd goes wild as he walks off stage.

“Not looking for a debut performance?” a voice calls beside you, and your soul almost leaves your body again. Namjoon sits next to you, leaning on his elbow on the counter as he watches Hoseok leave. “He wanted you up there.”

“He wants a lot of things,” you roll your eyes, trying to take in eveything you saw as you take a sip of the drink.

When you turn back, Namjoon is eyeing you up and down. You probably don’t fit what he wants you to wear in the club, in jeans and a jacket. “He does, doesn’t he?” is all he says, pushing off the counter and straightening the lapels of his black coat.

“Off to woo the partygoers,” he chuckles and heads out. You wonder just how long he’d been there, watching you watch… the show.

You shake it off, swiveling back around to the counter. Jungkook is serving people who are grabbing drinks between sets, so you reach for your drink. Before you can pick it up, warmth crowds your back and a hand reaches passed yours to snag the glass.

“Is that for me?” Hoseok’s voice teases in your ear. You swivel back around, following your drink. He has that damn half-smile on, holding the drink by the rim as he throws it back. He’s clothed now, a light sweatshirt but still the same ripped jeans. He smacks his lips after he finishes your drink. You grimace as he sets it back down.

“So this is what you look like with a shower?” You tease. Hoseok laughs, nodding as he collapses in the seat next to you. He lazes onto one arm, fingertips playing with the glasses on the other side of the bar. The angle emphasizes his sharp jawline, and the crystals still under his eyes remind you of how beautiful he looked earlier.

“How’d you like the show?” He asks with a playful wink.

“I was too busy trying not to be part of it.”

Hoseok laughs again, eyes closing as he sits upright. “I was just trying to say thank you for coming to pick me up,” he shrugs. For some reason, that makes your heart fall a bit. Or maybe it was your stomach? Maybe you’re sick.

“Wow, you really go all out,” you mock your appreciation.

“I do when I know what I want,” Hoseok explains. But his fiddling with the glasses has stopped, his eyes locked on yours. Hope stretches up, standing on the bars of his stool. “I hope good ole betty is okay in the shop. It’s cold tonight,” He pouts, leaning over the bar for a yellow bottle, maybe because it’s same yellow as Betty.

As he tips the bottle back into his mouth, Yoongi comes over to take the bottle out of his hands. “Wow, must have gotten some tip,” the man quips, tucking the bottle on the shelf behind the bar. Hoseok laughs, looking down at the bar. He can’t seem to look Yoongi in the face. Even in the bustling of intermission between acts, you can sense the awkwardness. There’s an odd stretch of silence before Yoongi finally speaks.

“Yeah, I bet. Thanks,” he gives a smile, but it’s fake. Even you can tell. Yoongi can tell too, and he moves to say something, but Hoseok is on his feet.

“Welp, this old landlord needs to get home,” he swings an arm around your shoulders as you gawk at the “old” he tagged on. He looks down at you, and the smile starts to dazzle. You look back at Yoongi instead, giving him a short nod. “It’s past her bedtime.”

Hoseok is pulling you out, elbows linked before you can say goodbye.

As you break into the night air, you slow down. The thumping of the music can still be felt in your shoes, but the chill in the air makes the night feel frozen in time. “Hoseok, you still haven’t talked to him?”

“No,” Hoseok answers quickly, walking towards your car. You trot after, his gate wide.

“But…” Hoseok turns, eyebrows raised, so you pause. He looks like he’s wondering what you have to say, but his half-set eyes send a different signal. “It’s just, I’d get my parking spot back if you guys could settle this.”

Hoseok’s walking backward, humming at your reasoning. It reminds you of him beckoning you towards the stage. You both stand at your car now.

“Why…” you clear your throat as he leans against your car, fist against his temple, completely at home, smiling at you. It makes the words disappear from your head. You shake it, hoping they’ll jumble back into place. “Why do you keep this up? Why not just find somewhere to live and a decent job instead of scraping by?”

“Ah, this question,” Hoseok starts. He rolls onto his back, putting his hands in the jacket pockets. He turns and winks. “Guess you really are interested after all.”

You shove his shoulder to let him know he needs to get on with it.

He chuckles, scuffing the heel of his shoe in the gravel parking lot. “If having my dream means being a bit uncomfortable, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

You understand what he means. Not even living paycheck to paycheck, sacrificing your livelihood for your studies. It’s a sacrifice out of passion for passion. It’s something he understands. It’s part of what has him creeping closer and closer to you. Inside your home. And closer to you.

You tuck your own hands into your pockets, trying to fight the cold. “Um, can I try something?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, even process where you are headed with this. The world is suddenly very warm. A sensation, an urge suddenly overpowers you. Something you haven’t acknowledged that is now determined to crack the surface and pour out.

Hoseok rolls his head to the side, then his body follows suit. You push off the car, standing up straight. Hope’s smile edges up his face. Your eyes are trained on that smile as you take a step forward, drawing in a sharp, cold breath for confidence. Hoseok stands as you take another step closer.

“Are you gonna ask to kiss me?” Hoseok says with lilt.

You give a short nod. Yes, that is exactly what you are doing. You didn’t even want to voice it to yourself. That these feelings had appeared, manifested, and broken loose while Hoseok was on the stage, doing what he loved. You can’t ask, too nervous, so you just look into his eyes, those soft, pretty brown eyes, and hope the question transmits.

Hoseok gives a short nod back, the smile turning soft, something else flickering in those eyes besides softness. “Okay.”

Your cold fingers reach out, lingering around the curve of his neck before your fingers fit under the jut of his jaw. His eyes flutter at the cold touch, mouth parting a bit. But he keeps his eyes on you as you lean in hesitantly.

You lick your lips. Hoseok smirks a little bit, but now his eyes are trained on your lips, not boring into your eyes with that daring glint.

And that’s all you need. You push forward, pulling him into you at the same time. As soon as your lips touch his, he’s in motion, one arm around your waist and the other sliding up your back, a physical request not to pull back. So you don’t, you snake your arm around his neck til your elbow locks behind him, lips parting at the slick touch of his warm tongue across your bottom lip.

You whimper when he nibbles at your bottom lip, sucking lightly before mouthing at you again, tongue behind your teeth as yours twists with his. You taste your drink in his mouth, but something more. Something sweet, almost floral as he bends you back, holding you into him with one final, firm kiss. When he tilts you upright, you grab onto his jacket collar for dear life. He blinks down at you, clearly amused by your sudden shock at almost falling over.

“Not bad,” he teases. You frown at the off-handed remark and jerk your elbow around his neck. He pretends to almost drop you. You both giggle.

He swivels you both, moving his hands to your waist as he lets you fall back into the car. The warmth of his weight contrasts with the cold exterior of your car. He looks down at you, then back up to your face, lips pressed then with a deep sigh.

“What?” you ask, hands now on his chest, curling your hands under the hoodie for some extra warmth. Hoseok shakes his head.

“That was a decision,” he states. “That was a turning point.”

You tug on his hoodie, pulling him flush against you again. “I think so, too,” you murmur, then find his lips again.

#hoseok x reader #kind of a fic teaser?#hoseok fic #fwlbingo #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanhq #hoseok #jhope #ficswithluv

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galoots · 4 years

Note

roller disco⛸🎼

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119300/chapters/56962717

Leave me comments!

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The roller rink wasn’t exactly Scrooge’s idea of a good time. It wasn’t the worst place to spend a few hours, especially when one had a hyperactive duckling to entertain, but it wasn’t Scrooge’s first choice of locale by any means. Even so, the pizza was cheap and greasy, the drinks refillable, and the distractions plentiful. The perfect environment to spend a Saturday afternoon with his young nephew. What Scrooge had found slightly perplexing was Donald’s insistence that both Scrooge and Duckworth should come along. And when Scrooge had suggested Donald invited a classmate to join them, Donald had flatly turned him down.

It was no skin off his back. One less person meant one less strain on his poor wallet. He wouldn’t shed any tears over the thought of all the pizza money he’d be saving by not treating another hungry mouth.

Scrooge would have been happy to post himself at a cracked pleather booth with a crossword and a pen, occasionally glancing up to watch Donald glide by with a smile and a wave. Instead, he found himself turning in his spats for a pair of rollerblades soaked with the sweat of strangers.

He strapped them onto his feet with a hesitant manner. The thought of falling and breaking a hip out on the rink wasn’t filling him with the urge to skate. But before he could raise a word of protest, Donald had shoved him off the carpeted surrounding area and into the fray. He could hear Donald chuckle as he wildly waved his arms in an attempt to regain his balance. Soon Donald was by his side, grabbing his hand and pulling him along after him.

“Slow down, lad!” Scrooge cried. Duckworth effortlessly skated by the two of them with a bemused expression. Scrooge scowled at him.

Taking notice, Donald broke away from his uncle, sending the elderly duck wobbling uncertainly to the wall.

“Need a hand?” Duckworth spun around to address Scrooge, skating backwards to keep his forward momentum. He made it look so easy. Like skating were as natural to him as breathing air.

Scrooge shook his head and clung to the wall of the roller rink. “I’m fine! Don’t let me ruin your fun!” He couldn’t stop a blush from gracing his face. He avoided looking at Benedict. If he did, he might be tempted to ogle the patch of exposed chest his friend was showing. Blasted Duckworth and his sparkly, low-cut shirt. It was perfect for the disco, but Scrooge knew if he caught glance of it, he wouldn’t be able to look away.

Duckworth shrugged and took off without a word, skating elegantly around the rink, throwing in the occasional spin and fancy move here and there. Scrooge watched longingly after him.

They had only just begun to see each other romantically, and Scrooge would be lying if he said he was totally comfortable with the change yet. As he crawled along the perimeter of the rink, he cursed at himself for not taking advantage of Benedict’s offer. He’d wanted to, but he let his timidity get in the way.

In his mind, he could see the two of them gliding along in tandem. Scrooge could cling to Benedict’s waist as his newly minted boyfriend twirled him around. He shook his head to clear his mind of the vision. It was impossible. Too lovey-dovey for a man like Scrooge. Why, he’d positively die of embarrassment if he were seen behaving so lovestruck in public.

No, it would do him better to continue to inch his way carefully down the rink to the nearest exit. Then he could find a seat and get to what he does best when it came to romance: absolutely nothing.

He searched around for Donald rocketing around the arena to call for his help, but a simple scan of the area bore no fruit. Squinting his eyes to look past the rink walls, Scrooge could see Donald over by the arcade, plunking quarters into a skeeball machine. So much for that plan. Why had Donald insisted on coming here if he didn’t even want to skate? Surely, they could have gone to the arcade if Donald wanted to waste an afternoon frittering away his allowance.

Scrooge heaved a self-pitying sigh. Abandoned at sea by the only two people he cared about! He couldn’t help feeling sorry for himself, despite knowing he could have easily prevented the situation by taking accepting help when it was offered.

What shook him from his misery was the whine of the overhead speaker coming to life. A voice crackled over the airwaves to the entirety of the roller rink’s population. “How ya’ doing guys and ladies?” The announcer spoke in a cheesy manner of a shock-jock radio host. “We got a very special song request to start us off tonight! This is from one rad little dude who skated his way up to my booth. Grab someone you’d like to squeeze up to tonight, cause we’re kicking off couple’s skate with a song dedicated to Scrooge and Duckwoooooooooooorth!”

The drone of the announcer drawing out Duckworth’s name rung thunderously in Scrooge’s ears. He had barely a moment to collect himself when Benedict zipped by to wrap his arms around him. The words “couple’s skate” still buzzed in his mind as Benedict quite literally swept him off his feet.

“What fun!” Benedict yelled over the din of the pounding music. “I love this song!”

Scrooge clung helplessly to Benedict as he was placed back on his feet. “Did you plan this?” He squeaked back. He wanted to shout at Benedict but couldn’t muster the anger towards him.

“I thought you planned this!” Benedict shot back with a surprised, bewildered look.

In tandem, the two of them turned their heads to the far end of rink. Sitting at a bench with his arms clasped around a large, stuffed bear, was Donald. He was watching them intently with a mischievous grin plastered across his face.

“The little sneak!” Scrooge gasped.

Benedict guffawed. “What a trickster! He set us up!”

The two men burst out into a fresh peal of laughter as they realized that Donald had planned this all from the very beginning. Neither of them had expected their ward to spring a surprise date on them, nor could they have predicted he’d succeed in pulling it off. All they could do was laugh.

As they twirled around the arena in each other’s arm to the beat of the song, Donald smiled and hugged his prize tighter. Everything had worked out perfectly.

#ldu #loots duck universe #duckverse #mcduckworth

30 notes · View notes

elisha-am · 5 years

Text

Learning Fear

also on : ao3 (edit: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862372)

Newt heard the most horrifying scream in his life. He whipped around to see Tina knocked down by a blue strike from her opponent.

“Tina!”

He rushed toward her, and his wand point right at her assailant, who was also lying on the ground. But after a quick glance that told him the man was already dead, he wasted no more time on him and focused on his wife. Tina was lying on her side, curled into the fetal position. Her face was screwed together and ghostly white.

“Tina, where were you hit?” The fear grew inside him when she didn’t respond. “Tina, I am going to check where you are hurt, alright?” He patted all over her body, trying to locate where she was hit when he heard her spoke.

“Knee—,” Her word came out between her jagged breath, barely audible, but it sang like a song of hope in his ears. He quickly looked down at her knee, which was clutched in her hands. Pring her red-covered hands away, what he saw underneath was so horrid he gasped. The magical strike bust opened the side of her right knee, the whole area was a crimson mess. He could even see a few spots of ivory white peeked out from the wound— her wound was deep to the bone, literally. What made the matter worse was the blood that kept pouring out. A few touches and his hands were painted red. He moved his hand higher on her leg and felt another cut on her inner thigh.

"Merlin's beard." He swore.

Newt quickly took off his coats, and then his waistcoats, which was the cleanest fabric on him as it was worn between his shirts and overcoats— stopping the blood was more important than worrying about infection now, but he still had to do the best— and then pressed the fabric onto her wound. She merely whimpered, having no more strength to scream. Newt flicked his wand and conjured up two ropes to wrap around her leg, keeping the pressure intact.

Newt looked up and did a fast swipe around to see the battle was still heated and no medic in sight. He made a quick decision and picked Tina up in bridal style as carefully as possible, tried not to jolt her wounded leg. "Tina, love, I am going apparate us to the healer, hold on." He muttered, not sure if she was conscious enough to hear him at all.

So when he felt her curled closer into his chest, he couldn't help but smile. And then he disapparated.

The moment they apparated right in the middle of the medical tent, the healer and assistants all stopped whatever they were doing for a second and looked at their way. They were so in sync that it was rather comical if not for the situation.

The motion resumed in the wake of a gray hair wizard rushed toward them and started barking in a heavy accent, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?! " He pointed his bony finger at Tina and her wound, "You wanker apparate her in that condition? You want to bust her wound more open?”

“My wife is bleeding to death and there was no one that could help me carry her here in the time she needed,” Newt stared right into the older wizard’s eyes," And I think we are wasting more time discussing this."

"Brats these days think they know better!" The healer grumbled and rushed them to a bed that was already prepared by the assistants during the small altercation.

As soon as he put Tina down on the bed, Newt was pushed aside by the healer and assistants coming around. He was anxious to stay close, even though he knew there was nothing he could do. He found a stool nearby and sit down. An assistant carrying a clean towel approached him, pointed at a makeshift washstand in the corner. That was when he realized his hands were still covered in Tina's blood.

He walked to the washstand, scrubbed his hands under the faucet until the water drained down went from deep red to pink and finally clean again.

Newt jumped when a hand tapped his shoulder. He turned around to see his brother stood there covered in dirt and dry blood. Like always, Theseus drew him into a rough embrace without a word. He didn't know how much he needed it when he returned the hug.

"I've heard, Newt." Theseus looked over his shoulder to where Tina was with sympathy on his face. "She will make it."

Newt didn't restate the obvious. "You are not just here for that, aren't you?"

“They need you at the Dragon Squad. The dragons are getting agitated and aggressive all of a sudden, they need you to find out what’s causing it.” His brother sighed, seemed reluctant to deliver the request, especially under the circumstance.

“I am sure someone else can do that.” He tried not to sound annoyed, "They are all qualified magizoologists or dragon trainers like me."

“Yes, but you can do it the fastest and most accurate. They need to stop it as quick as possible before anyone gets hurt. I don't think you need me to tell you what would happen if a team of dragons loses control."

“Theseus.” He pleaded.

“I understand, brother, but there’s nothing you can do here.”

He hated it so much as Theseus’s words echoed his own conclusion earlier.

Before Newt could answer, an assistant interrupted them. “Mr. Scamander, your wife is conscious and asking for you. You would want to hurry because she wouldn’t stay awake long.”

No need to be asked twice, Newt rushed back to Tina’s bedside. The healer was still working on her knee. Her face was still pale as a ghost, but it seemed like the healer had done something to dull her pain because her body seemed much less tense.

“Tina—“

“Go.” She breathed out, apparently heard their conversation. “Help people, and the dragons.”

He swore to Merlin he might just fall in love with her all over again. Only his Tina would worry about the other and the dragons' safety— especially the dragons, not much cares about them but treating the creatures like powerful weapons in war — when she was the one nearly bled out and now lying on the medical bed with a shattered knee.

And wasn’t that just made leaving her even more difficult?

“Newt, I am in good hands now,” Her voice was getting slurry again, which meant she was about to go under again. “Do the right thing.”

Tina fell back into unconsciousness.

“Tina!”

“Listen to your wife, lad,” The healer said without looking up from his work “She is right, they are always right, that she is in good hands—not that I'm bragging. And no smart man would dare to disappoint a woman like her. You don’t look stupid, my boy.”

Newt almost chuckled. He took a deep breath, looking down at the love of his life. He saw a strand of hair stuck on her forehead because of the sweat, so he reached down and pushed it aside. He indulged himself to linger on her skin a few moments more.

Newt turned to his brother, who had been standing there waiting for him. “Lead the way, These.”

***

Turned out it sure was the best for them to bring Newt into it.

They found thick needles that pricked into the skin between the dragons' scales whenever the creatures moved, tucked under the harness of every dragon on duty. It wouldn't cause any serious damage, but surely gave the dragons a hell of discomfort and annoyed them to the point they started to think bitting humans and spitting fire could solve the pesting little problem.

The culprit was the Luietenat, who recently converted to Grindlewald. He would've been the one to 'inspect' the dragons if the Captain didn't seek out to Newt. They captured him on his run. The only reason his Captain didn't just feed the man to the dragons was that he had human decency, the Captain himself told Newt. Newt responded with a half-hearted smile.

"I just received a message from Healer Lynch," the Captain pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket," Said your wife has been transferred back to the St.Mungo. My apology, Scamander. I wouldn't pull you away from your wife if I had known."

"Actually, she's the one who pressed me to come." This time Newt smiled fully.

"I shall thank her then." The elder man laughed. "Now, go back to your wife and give her my regards for me, young man."

"I will."

*** Some perk did come with fame when he was lead right to Tina's bed the moment he stepped into the St.Mungo's, not many questions asked.

Tina was changed into the hospital gown, out of her blood-soaked clothes. And she was sound asleep on the bed, and her right leg was bandaged in layers and slightly elevated.

Newt stood at the foot of her bed and just stare. He felt some weight lifted from his chest, seeing some of the colors back on her face. Before he sat down beside her, he stopped a young healer walked passed them to ask about her condition.

"We were able to piece her bones back together and close up the wounds, those should heal up in no time. But..." the healer hesitated.

"You can tell me the truth," Newt assured her.

"There is a great chance she wouldn't gain the full use of her right leg back due to the severeness of her injury." The healer told him solemnly.

"You mean she could have some trouble walking in the future?"

"I am afraid so." The healer left them alone after making sure Newt know where to find help if he needed some.

Newt walked back to the left side of Tina's bed and pulled a chair over to sit. He watched his wife sleep, and his mind kept shifting back to what the healer just told him.

The new would devastate her. Tina might be quiet in her manner, but she never stayed still. Always something to do, always someplace to go. Being a driven, dedicated Auror, she would not rest if the dangerous dark wizards still out there threatening the safety of the wizardry community.

"She was born to run." He recalled how he described the Zouwu years before in Paris. Years after now, it suddenly occurred to him it was also a perfect description of Tina.

With the aid of magic, physical disability normally wouldn't confine the wizardkind, but to people like Tina, who energized by activity and purpose, half use of a leg would still be troublesome.

He decided to put it aside. He would worry about it with her if it really happened.

Newt picked up her hand resting on the bed, caressed the back of her hand with his thumb over and over. He stared at the golden wedding band on her ring finger; it caught the late afternoon sun shined through the window and glinted into his eyes.

He recalled what Dumbledore told him when he delivered the news of their engagement to his former teacher. "Newt, love is the most powerful magic in the world, but to learn it, you have to pay the price that is learning the fear."

He thought he knew. But today, he finally understood.

"Newt?"

He looked up as he heard her called his name, in time to see the small smile fell. " Tina, are you still hurting? Shall I get the healer?"

She didn't answer, only to pull out the hand clutched in his and reach for his face. As she wiped his cheek softly did he realized that he was crying.

He let his emotion guided him forward and rest his forehead gently on her shoulder. He felt her arm wrapped around his neck, hand stroking the back of his head.

"I'm alive, Newt, I'm alright now."

#newtina #newtina fanfic #my fic #mom i wrote an full one-shot!#long post #in case the cut doesn't work on mobile

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whumpywhumper · 5 years

Text

Oryn--Part 4

@castielamigos here’s part four! Part One, Two, and Three

So this one has some conlang in it that I played around with for my big OC work. I put the translations in the parenthesis cause I wasn’t 100% how best to show what he was saying--lemme know if you have any ideas? I could’ve re-worked it but I wanted to leave it in.

Oryn doesn’t get a whole lotta feed back, but I appreciate all of you who seem to like him :) @0idril0 as always was a huge help

Oryn was paralyzed, his limbs refusing to move, left panting as fire enclosed him, lapped over his face with lazy swipes of its tongue. His body was useless, unable to struggle, at the mercy of the inferno that crackled over his skin. He panicked, unable to calm himself, and couldn’t stop his horrible pants of fear that sucked in huge lungfuls of smoke. He couldn’t see to reach for anything to pull himself free of the heavy weight that held him and ignited his body in heat suffocating smothering heat. Flames seared his airways with white embers and he was going to die, he was going to burn, no no no—

The soft thud of a door slipping closed woke Oryn with a harsh intake of smokeless air. He cracked his gritty eyes open and his desperate hands clutched at his blankets. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, were assaulted by a bright lantern that had been left in the corner. He whimpered in instinctive fear, withdrawing from the fire. His skin was still alight with the searing heat of the fire from his dream. Slick drips ran down his forehead, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The image of his skin sloughing off in the heat and pooling around his bones danced in front of his eyes but, other than the lantern, there was no flames in sight. Nothing devouring his flesh.

Where? Where was he?

Oryn held back a weak gasp as his sore muscles strained to turn his head and take in the rest of the room. He flinched when a soaked rag flumped onto the pillow next to his face--the movement sending a sharp bolt through his neck. Eyes swimming, Oryn swallowed back nausea until the room finally settled into fuzzy detail.

Heavy wooden blinds kept the obvious moonlight from reaching into what was clearly a study, filled with papers, specimen jars, and other baubles. He had not been in this room before, but it was not outside of Soren’s scope to want to run an experiment with his notes or tools nearby.

The tools glimmered in the moon and fire light, sending sparks across the room to ignite the walls and play with the dripping shadows. Dread heaved it way up through Oryn's gut and he watched in transfixed terror as the sparks grew into a grin. White, pupil-less eyes looked down on him from the ceiling and he shrank back into the mattress. He can't, he doesn't want to, no more--he panted at the burgeoning panic rising in his chest.

He raised his arms to defend his face and blinked in sudden confused realization. He looked down. He was alone and he wasn't chained down. The metal cuffs were still around his wrists, cutting him off from his magic, but he wasn’t chained down. The scabs and sores from his struggles had been bound with tight bandages underneath the cuffs. Thin splits were wedged into the bandages to keep the broken bones of his wrists straight. But he wasn’t chained down.

Looking back to the ceiling, the monster that had appeared was gone but the lingering shadow of terror drove him to action.

He had to get away.

Oryn struggled with the blankets tucked around him. His hands trembled as he pushed at them, fingers clumsy and lacking their usual dexterity. A throaty groan poured from his mouth as he managed to pry his torso from the bed. Pain was building like the burgeoning cascade of water behind a beaver dam, held back only by a thin barrier of drugs and terror. A violent shiver wrench through him as the blankets slipped from his fever hot skin. Echoing cracks sprinkled through, pain starting to hiss through his frame.

He set his teeth and tried to drag himself upright but he gagged at the onrush of pain, barely managing to hunch forward. His head became a heavy, unwieldy weight on his neck and it pulsed in time with his heart beat. Vision spiraling, he tipped forward with a quiet moan. Oryn fell with a heavy thud to the floor, unable to stop himself, his legs tangled in the bedding. Sharp, splintering agony erupted from his broken bones as he connected with the stone floor, white flashing across his vision. A scream fluttered behind his clenched teeth as a wet slick slide poured down his side from popped and snapped stitches.

He panted, wet and small. Unable to pull in a deep enough breath. The barely conscious Fae felt more than heard the thundering boots that rushed toward the room. Oryn was unsurprised to find tears falling down his hot cheeks as he gasped and scrabbled at the stone floor. He didn’t fight the childish need to worm his way under the cot, seeking any kind of safety, before the door slammed open with resounding bang as it bounced off of the opposite wall.

A pair of scuffed boots were all that Oryn could see from his vantage point on the floor. It was pointless to hide, there was a trail of bedding that led to his hiding place, but he couldn’t suppress the curling of his body around the blanket he had accidentally drug under with him. Trying to make himself smaller. Less of a target.

A heavy knee dropped to the floor in front of Oryn’s shelter accompanied by a gray, wrinkled face with deep set brown eyes that peered under the cot. The stranger’s concern was illuminated by a stray beam of light from the lantern. “Oh lad,” the rough voice whispered, “what have you done to yourself?”

Oryn’s pitiful growl sounded like a mewl even to his own ears. He pressed his back against the cold wall, giving himself mere inches of distance from the stranger. The narrow cot was not deep enough to keep the strong hands that gripped the side of it from reaching him, and he wheezed with fright.

“I know you feel safer under there, little pup,” the older man tried to soothe, “but I think you have opened your stitches.” He didn’t reach for him, but held his gnarled palm out.

Oryn flinched and drew his blood-tacky hands further away, pressing at his stomach to stem the bleeding. He grunted, turning his face away to the cool stone. Shivering violently, his gut sank as his eyes arrested on dark wiggling lines on the floor. Fear crawled up his spine. He snarled, showing sharp teeth when those shadows became reaching claws.

“What are you seeing, lad?” the man questioned.

Fevered, yellow eyes snapped over to the one speaking, and he shuddered. Shadows ate away the stranger's face, leaving it gaunt and misshapen. The shadows would eat everything, everyone, taking it from the Mother’s embrace. He couldn’t do anything, he was powerless, weak. He was already cut off from Celüne's power, he could not be taken by their corruption too.

Oryn squeezed his eyes shut and he shook his head. His ribs ached. “Mi’hael naught," (Don't touch me) he wept, sudden sobs tearing from his throat, "n’ya triske, Celüne, därog pæl.” (I don't want to, Celüne, please (emphatic)) The sæthe spilled from his lips in a fervent prayer, and he sniffled through his tears.

"I don't understand, lad," the voice murmured to him, trying to soothe. "You have to come out of there, pup, you're burning up with fever."

He didn't understand. He didn't want to be burned up. He didn't want to be corrupted. He wanted to be left alone.

A wail forced its way through Oryn's teeth when a dry hand brushed against his bare shoulder and he jerked away. "Naught," (Don’t) he pleaded, "naught! Mi'zenÿa salleine!" (don't! Leave me alone!) He flailed under the bed, "Celüne, mi'cuita!," (Celüne, help me) he gasped beseechingly, eyes still squeezed shut. Panic raced through his chest. Panic and pain. He coughed and a lance stabbed through his ribs--forcing the air from his lungs. He cried out, gasping for air.

A curse from the man, and he called out, "EMRIK! Get in here!" The hands returned to his body, and he thrashed to keep them away. The cot thunked as the wooden frame knocked into the wall, "Fuck, lad, I am not going to hurt you! Be still!"

"Galen?! What's wrong?!" A young voice interrupted the coarse cursing of the man trying to wrangle Oryn, and he opened his eyes to see tiny boots run into the room.

"His fever is spiking. I think he’s hurt himself. Help me calm him. I don't know what he's saying."

A silvery silvan face dropped into view beside the now normal wrinkled one. Shimmering blue eyes met Oryn’s panicked yellow, and the Fae hissed with his remaining air at the lesser seelie when he raised a hand toward him.

"Naught-ila råné," (Literally-- "We don’t hurt") the silvan murmured in a harsh accent, jumbling and forgetting syllables.

Oryn startled at the sæthe, eyes growing wide as he panted air through a reed.

"Please," he continued, and Oryn watched his fingers knot a spell, a dyät, for calming but didn't release it, waiting. "Triske-ila—damnit—we want to - to- cuita, that’s it!—triske-ila cuita.” (We want to help)

The Fae continued to struggle against the hands that were trying to drag him from under the cot by his shoulders, movements becoming uncoordinated and jerky. “N’ya regrovat-il,” (I don't believe you) he panted between tiny gasps of air. His chest was screaming like a banshee, impossible to ignore, making his hands feel numb.

A concerned frown creased the young seelie‘s unlined face. “Let him go, Galen,” the silvan murmured. “Just for a second.”

Galen looked at the silvan with worry, "We have to get him out from under there," he said, but removed his hands. Holding them at the ready as he backed away.

The injured Fae trembled and used the last of his remaining feeble strength to pull his arms back to his chest. His throat was raw, and he couldn't get enough air. He writhed under the cot, pressing at the pain in his chest. He whined, everything hurt, tears cascaded down his hot cheeks and he curled in on himself. "Celüne," he implored, his voice wet and breathy.

“Galen, open the blinds,” Emrik whispered urgently, and the human moved with creaking agility to do as the silvan asked. “El-aith, look.” (She is here)

Oryn’s heart clenched as the blinds were drawn away from the windows to allow moonlight to spill across the floor. Gentle light reached through the room and without thinking he moved his hand forward to meet it. He sobbed, thin reedy noises of his lungs barely able to bring in air.

A sound of skin on stone, and Oryn saw the silvan reaching for him again, the delicate bird-like bones standing out in the moonlight. “Mi’regrovat,” (believe me) he said.

His bloody hand didn’t twitch away from the dyät knot that Emrik showed him this time, allowing the warm feeling of comfort to envelope him. Eyelids fluttering, Oryn's body relaxed into the stone of the floor. The pain wasn't less but the overwhelming panic that surged through him had faded to a low thrum in the back of his mind.

The silvan slumped as the magic ran from himself to Oryn. The Fae watched through cloudy eyes as Galen caught his shoulders before the lesser seelie face planted and deftly moved him out of the way.

They turned to face Oryn, and he felt a buzz of fear push at the dyät knot, "Easy, it's okay," Emrik murmured, sending a note of peace. He brushed Oryn's hair back from his forehead before leveraging his arm under the dark head. "Galen, get his legs."

Galen moved in synchronization with the silvan, drawing his limp body out from under the cot with gentle hands. They settled him on the floor, stretched out on his back, and Oryn wheezed at the strain on his chest. "I know, pup, I know," Galen murmured, his hands prodding at his ribs. "There's no movement on this side," he said to Emrik. Oryn felt the slide of a hand on his side and saw the old mans face turn dark, "fuck, that's air. Grab my bag from that table."

Oryn drifted as the two others worked around him, the dyät knot keeping him limp and malleable. He turned his face toward the windows, glassy eyes settling on the waxing moon. He struggled to breathe still but the lingering panic from the shortness of breath had been shuttered away.

His caretakers jostled him, moving his arm to the side, and he moaned softly when pain rolled down his body. He shuddered and reached out instinctively, finding the sleeve of the silvan. The silvery face appeared over his own and grabbed his cheeks. "I need you to listen to me," Emrik said, "this will hurt but it has to be done, okay?"

The lack of understanding must have shown on his face because he grabbed Oryn's left hand and held it tightly, up and away from his chest and placed his other hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Creases appeared at the corners of Emrik’s eyes, and he sent a wave of comfort through the dyät. "Now, Galen," he ordered.

Oryn cried out when something popped into his side, between his ribs, and he tried to arch away. The tiny silvan held fast, using his weight to keep him from moving. Panic surged and broke through the dyät when Oryn felt something move inside of him. This hurt, it hurt it hurt make it stop, he couldn’t breathe and this hurt. He opened his mouth, trying to shove air down his throat and heard a wild croak erupt from his lips. "Därog! St--Stagni!" (Please! Stop!)

They said that they didn't want to hurt him. He didn't understand. Why? He shook his head, desperate, and clawed at the dyät, feeling it shred and weaken in places.

Emrik grunted at the attack, "Hurry!"

"Almost," Galen said to himself, with the metallic clink of a metal tool being thrown away.

With a last jolt of pain, the huge weight that had settled on Oryn's lungs was removed. Air, blessed air, filled his chest and the wave of oxygen sent a high through him. He threw his head back, taking as big of gulps as his broken ribs would allow. His body sank into the relief of being able to breathe—muscles spasming with exhaustion and fatigue. A low overwhelmed moan rumbled in his throat. He hovered at unconsciousness, feeling his heartbeat in every injury.

“That’s it, breathe.” He heard a great sigh and a hand rested on his breast bone, his skin sliding under a calloused palm. “Breathe, pup.”

Emrik released Oryn's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to his hand as the Fae settled. The silvan slumped back with a slight thump on the floor. "Fuck," he muttered, "That was, uh, what the fuck."

"Are you alright?," Galen asked.

"Yes," Emrik murmured, "that, shit, that took more than I thought it would."

“You sure?” the human asked as he continued his work at Oryn’s side, the clink of bottles and rustling of cloth.

“Hmph,” a dismissive noise, “let me go get the water and miscallum while you finish.”

Oryn allowed himself to float between consciousness when the silvan left the room, listening to the quiet humming that the human started. It was a lullaby, the simple melody soothing on the coarse vocal cords. Exhaustion coated every fiber that made him, and he could feel the heat of fever on his cheeks as it flared. Small sparks of pain rose from his side where the old man's hands remained, but they weren't enough to draw him back.

He stirred a time later when he was moved by hands under his shoulders and knees. His eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, “Nuh…”

“Just getting you back in the bed, lad,” a voice murmured into his hair. He whimpered at how his bones ground together at the movement, but they settled him quickly, wrapping him in warm blankets. He shivered when a cold weight was placed on his forehead and tried to turn away.

"I know, I know it feels cold-" fingers pushed through his hair, "-but your fever needs to come down."

A whisper, "This should help him get to sleep."

Oryn flinched when something pricked the soft skin of his inner elbow but the hand didn't leave his hair, rubbing at his scalp with soothing circles.

His caretakers murmured between themselves, and Oryn allowed the black tide of sleep to take him under.

#Oryn #my oc's #my writing #whump #painful care taking #medical whump #fear #fever #care taking #punctured lung #conlang #constructed language #Fae #fever dreams #delirious

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hoopdiddies · 5 years

Text

Rashes (J. D imagine)

A/N: I've added a few touches since I got carried away by the fluff @deakysgurl! Thanks for the request! I hope it's good enough.

14 +49. Road accidents + when they're injured

Warnings: Just mentions of a road accident and some rashes and a bucket load of fluff

Word count : 2k+

Xx Masterlist xX

Here you are, out in the terrace enjoying an egg sandwich in the middle of a heavy, evening downpour– something you ought to question yourself later on. After popping what's left of the sandwich in your mouth, you dust your hands together and make your way back into your room, coming to hear five frantic knocks echo from the front door.

Who could that be in this hour?

"Y/N! Y/N!"

"Please open up! It's us!"

The familiarity of those calls gets you rushing down the steps leading to the door and you hurriedly grapple the knob, swinging the door open to the lads dripping wet from running from the other side of the road in the misty storm with their arms draped around John who appears to be in an utterly bad shape.

"Boys! What happened? Thought you were doing a gig," You assist them in settling John down on one of the couches, paying no mind to the wet mess their soaked clothes are leaving on the tiled floor– and certainly on the couch.

You immediately go by John's side and kneel to check what went wrong. Nothing afflicting his head, that's swell considering the dangers that would have caused him although he's got his forearm and leg wrapped in dressings, hinting that they might have taken him to a hospital to get treated prior to parking at yours.

"He's got nasty road rashes– one running from the side of his left forearm down to the point of his elbow and the other from his knee down to the middle of his leg." Replies Brian who's got his arms crossed at the unfortunate events.

"What happened out there?"

"Motorbike accident. Right after the gig, he rode downtown on one of the sound engineers' bikes to fetch a few parts to fix two of his amps," he kneels down beside you and you tell Freddie and Roger to fetch the first aid kit from one of the cupboards, feeling John's temperature rise with your hand on his moist forehead– he's getting a fever from the rain.

"And?" You get up and settle down beside John, wiping his face free of sweat, combing his damp hair back to calm him down.

"A sudden halt. A man ran recklessly down the pedestrian and caused James to swerve. "

"Bastard," You mutter irritatingly and ask John how he's feeling. So far he's only shaken his head which gives away the obvious. Freddie and Roger return promptly with the kit, a damp cloth and a glass of lukewarm water to ease some heat into John's shivering body.

"Deaky, you'll be fine." Freddie coaxes softly in his ear to alleviate him of his current uneasiness, accidentally nudging his afflicted arm and earning a quick grunt from John. You tell the boys to dry themselves in the bathroom while you take care of him from there.

Some time later after letting him take an antipyretic to reduce his fever and mopping the slippery floor, John insists that the boys go ahead as they have a hectic studio session to push through tomorrow. You've assured them that you'll take care of him and they leave him under your unrelenting watch to which, of course, John cocks a slick eyebrow at in amusement.

Since he's feeling quite under the weather, you'll have to conjure up an activity to keep yourselves entertained through the evening deluge as the night is barely young and neither of you can sleep.

"Want to watch a film?" You crouch carefully between his legs, your elbows propped up on either of his thighs.

"And a cup of tea too, love." He smiles and you rise up to kiss him chastely before heading to the kitchen heat up the kettle.

Halfway through having it whistle, a clap of thunder followed by a power outage seizes all your chances of going through a movie night and you hear John scream briefly from the living room at the sudden spread of darkness.

He's always been that jumpy– and it cracks you up in the slightest.

The kettle whistles and you grab a lamp from under the sink to light up your space as you make John a cup, figuring it would be a hassle if you'd include one for you.

Speed walking to the living room with the lit lamp and his cup in your hands, you worry that he might've jerked his leg and disturbed the wound, rushing to him hastily and panting upon stepping foot into the space.

"John, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Lifting up the lamp to shed some light on him, you find him hugging a throw pillow with his head down, nodding.

He's so vulnerable like this and his position just craves for your hold. A tender smile forms on your lips as you position the lamp next to the couch and the cup on the coffee table within arm's reach.

"I didn't startle you with my fiendish screech, did I?" He looks up at you bashfully through his fluttering lashes, the light spilling from the lamp emphasizing the build of his nose and the refined curves of his lips.

Albeit a little frightened, his soft features outstands the weak shadows cast by them against the low light; giving him a delicate yet fascinatingly heartwarming image that just thaws your heart from the bottom up.

You shake your head and take the space next to him crossing your legs and weaving your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles. "Nothing's ever fiendish with you, Deaks."

He turns his head to you and smiles back, his lips pressed firm together almost in a pout. "Hmm, thank you for taking care of me. I'm sorry that I had to come home like this. We would've had an easier night, you and me. Don't worry though, a few days and I'll be able to get back out there."

"I'm sure you will and don't be sorry, the important thing is that you're home to spend this gloomy, powerless night with. Besides," you shift in your space and turn your body towards him, the distance between your faces sealing, "despite your rashes, I could use some body heat."

As tempted as you are to do some things with him that don't involve making him scream out bloody murder at the nudge of his dressed rashes, the corner of his lips rise and he shifts closer to you, planting a long kiss on your lips. You giggle into it as he begins chewing on your bottom lip and tugging playfully on it, his hands creeping their way to the back of your neck to draw you in deeper.

"Mmm, John- baby, not tonight. You're badly hurt and with a growing fever." You remind him as you pull away but not far enough to not feel his hot breath fan against your lips.

"You said you needed some body heat."

Your throw your head back in a giggle. "Not in that manner, silly. I'd love to but I don't wanna add to your injuries."

He pouts and his eyes narrow to lazy slits, sighing in defeat. "You're the best kind of medicine for me."

You cock a brow at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, lover boy. We could go for a quick round but for now," you rest your head carefully on his lap and gaze up at him from that angle, his eyes gleaming in a pale glow against the low light as he peers down at you, his hand tangling itself in your hair, "why don't you sing us a little song to lighten the mood?"

Knowing very well that doing so was never his strong suit, he gives you an implying look yet you softly encourage him to go for it– with you being the only one who's going to enjoy the first-hand privilege. You know he can sing, he just doesn't have the confidence to push it out of him. His talking voice is already soothing, how much more if it were his singing voice?

"Y/N, come on. You know I can't-"

"John."

"But I have a fever, as you said."

"You do but you sound fine. When did an injury ever stop you from playing bass?" And you're definitely referring to the time he stuck his hand through a glass window drunk and had to get a few stitches afterwards. He stares down at you as he contemplates on it, drawing a deep breath in to start.

"Tonight the darkness seems so deep and silent stars watch as we sleep. The drifter cross the sky, never stop to wonder why," he has his eyes shut during the first line but as he goes on, his eyes open to you in awe at the sound of him finally singing.

"Million eyes could never weep, she lies dreaming like a child. Here beside me all the while. She'll just dream away, until the break of day and gently wake me with a smile." The touch of his warm palm against your cheek as he loses himself in your eyes as he sings sends you up high in cloud nine. Here you are, hearing his mellifluous singing cut through the sound of the harsh storm, unable to believe that this man is actually yours.

"She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She brings down and takes me high. She fills my life and makes it real. No matter what she does, she makes me feel." And you are his. The air hangs thin between you both as he swallows upon finishing, just anticipating for your reaction. "Y/N?"

With no words to describe what he's made you feel all over again with his singing, you lift your head up to meet his lips and hook your arms around his neck to haul him in deeper. His skin flushed against yours feels heated, literally and it could be from his high body temperature. He whimpers into your mouth and shuts his eyes as he adjusts himself gingerly to feel you better while avoiding grazing his afflicted arm and leg against a surface.

You break away slowly with barely any breaths slowed down, his smile further radiating as he caresses your cheek lovingly through the temporary darkness enveloping you. "You make me feel."

"God, John... I love you so much."

"I love you too, Y/N."

"And I promise, the mark of your singing will remain sacred in this house." You put your hand up as a sign of swearing and he chuckles softly, brushing his thumb delicately over your cheek. "I honestly sound better when I'm looking at you. You really are my best medicine."

With his attention firmly set on you for the night, there's no way in the world he's going to touch the now cooling tea on the coffee table.

#queen #borhap #john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon imagine

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

Text

Hold the door (BC x Reader)

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader

Warning: Spoilers for GoT S4 & S6 E5

Summary: Fantasy can be brutal yet be addicting after a long day of work. Fortunately, a dearly loved kangaroo knows how to lessen the pain of the politics of Westeros.

Author’s Note: Top o’ the morning!

This is my first piece for Stray Kids since they are slowly taking over my life and especially Chris (Bangchan). Hopefully, despite this being not BTS-related for once, it is still an enjoyable read.

For any Stays reading this and who are not acquainted with my works as of yet: I hope I do not disappoint.

Masterlist

A good story evokes emotions with its imagery and plot line, even more so when actors play out the scenes which are craftily adapted to a visual new format despite being written first in ink. The series ‘’Game of Thrones’’ is a splendid example of what might happen in a scenario in which the story hits harder than expected, beloved characters dying left and right while the audience can merely look on in horror.

Or cheer in delight in Joffrey’s case.

The day at work at the café in the centre of town had been hazardous, the arrival of spring break ensuring lots of tourists to come in to taste and photograph the seasonal specials while enjoying the gradually becoming warmer sunny weather. The entire shift literally consisted of creating soft sweet sakura custard buns and sweet lush green mochis decorated with a rice dough cherry blossom and petals, slicing up the slightly floral cheesecake with a pink inside that had to be remade perhaps four to five times due to the high demand. Not to speak of the effort to deliver with making the time-consuming coffees and hot or cold cocoas befitting the abundant fall of sakura around the village. However, such are the duties of being part of the already small team: each person has to be able to work all-round when this time of the year comes despite there not being too much patronage otherwise since the city is not that big nor well-known.

But every exhausting shift makes a mini-marathon in the evening of the new season of ‘’Game of Thrones’’ all the more deserved, simply sitting back on the comfortable creme-coloured love seat with a cup of freshly prepared ice coffee and either a tub of cookies and cream ice cream or a protein bar in the same flavour. Fortunately, it is not minded by the boyfriend of one and a half years since the blonde athletic boy can mostly be found at the gym in the evenings when not hanging out with friends.

Nonetheless, Chris’s absence is more of a curse since the first episode of the night has a grander impact on the psyche than expected, making a firm hug that is mostly tried to be escaped from under normal circumstances now dearly desired. Too many impactful emotional events follow each other up at the end of the sixth season’s fifth episode, triggering the rare reaction of tears in eyes that can merely watch and a palm wrapped over a speechless mouth.

The response is even powerful enough to miss the click of the front door of the shared apartment and the dull thump of the ashen buffalo bag filled with sports gear in the tiny entryway leading to the studio, much less so the giggle following the habitual greeting of “I’m home, babygirl”, which is still awkward despite the many times it has been uttered.

‘Hey, Y/N, are you, wait, are you crying?’ As soon as the credits roll over the screen and the DVD is paused, fingers unclasp from paralyzed lips to wipe away the watery traces of the damage done by mere yet gripping fantasy which stirs the youth to rush over to the couch and rapidly take place on the empty spot formerly occupied by bare feet, making a sorrowful being bounce slightly with the impact of the sudden additional weight. Firm veiny arms are immediately clung onto when they initiate an unbreakable embrace, one slender hand placed protectively on the top of the head, cradling it against the shoulder. ‘What happened?’

No answer comes per direct, first throwing out every bit of frustration thanks to fantastical explicit cruelty while holding on to an oversized sweat-soaked onyx shirt but not minding the hint of sourness to the characteristic scent of minty soap. The golden-haired lad resembling a kangaroo when fired up with energy has taken on the tranquil appearance of a koala, its counterpart, and simply waits patiently until the incoherent blabbering attempts at voicing a reason for the silly behaviour gain a sense of logic. Simultaneously, the left upper arm is being rubbed in uncomprehending close solace, chin resting on the crown of the head when not giving soft caring forehead kisses and whispering soothing nothings.

At last, after a good while of crying, it is dared to look Chris in the eye to tell what forms the reason for the curious distress. Nevertheless, it is an obvious fact the thumb caressing the cheek while explaining forms one of the support pillars which keeps speech steadier than it would be without. ‘Geo- George R.R. Martin is a bastard. He- He let Bran’s wolf be killed by Whitewalkers and- and... Hodor...’ A heavy sob. ‘M- mea- means “ho- hold the door”...’

The very vivid thought about the death of the kind giant at the door arises, initiating a continuation of the lament created by a splendid bastard of an author’s writing. The hug tightens, a rumble in the trained chest beneath the slick flowy fabric resulting in an adorable chuckle as tears stream down a pale neck. ‘You take it way too seriously, Y/N. It’s just a story. Nobody’s actually dead, everything is fine.’

‘Shut up, Chris, you do- don’t know what power George has.’ It is incredible how ‘’Game of Thrones’’ has escaped the attention of the Australian platinum youth, but at the same time places him in a disposition of ignorance about how sensitive talk about the show can be. Certainly for long-time viewers who have likely seen their favourites be brutally murdered in favour of plot progression.

‘No, I don’t, but how about you show me and I’ll try to protect you from it?’ Hazel irises light up at the prospect at one of the most loved things aside from the steady relationship with a girl who gets carried away into fantasy too often and, judging by the broad smirk that begins to form, the continuation of the proposal is nothing surprising yet deliciously loving. ‘With food?’

‘Tha- That’s your solution to ev- everything, isn’t it?’ A careful curl of the corners of the mouth forms out of the sorrowful expression at seeing the genuine giddiness at a second dinner or, rather, late night snack together. Although, it also arises out of the vivid images quickly flashing by of the personified koala’s silly movements whenever something tastes incredible, the funny habit always a cause for affectionate laughter and a source of confidence in the at times doubtful personal cooking skill.

‘It always makes you smile,’ a stray strand is tucked behind the ear, plush roseate lips placing a sweet kiss on the forehead, ‘I’ll first take a shower and then prepare some tteokbokki. How about that?’

Unconsciously, a consenting eager nod is already given before the reaction can be even thought about, the stomach having overtaken demeanour out of anticipation of the small rice cakes. ‘Extra spicy?’

A slight nervousness slips into attitude, eyes holding a silent plead for toning down on the spice levels because the last time they were too high for most to handle, Cris’s friends who came over for the monthly movie night all frantically reaching for cucumber and milk to nullify the impact while trying to save the fellow Australian of the group at the same time. Withal, howbeit while clearly contemplating to adjust the amount of gochujang regardless of the request, the proposal is agreed to. ‘Sure, extra spicy it is. Now, don’t you dare continue in the meanwhile or I won’t cuddle you for the rest of the week.’

A sceptic roll of the eyes, finding no credibility in the statement considering the personality of the speaker. ‘Oh, come on, we both know that’s an empty threat.’

The slightly loosened embrace tightens to a literally breathtaking degree once more, but now it is tried to be escaped as is normally the case when the blonde youth tends to get cheesily clinging. ‘Or I hug you to death, your choice.’

‘Let me go!’ Any type of resistance results in the opposite, becoming more and more the prisoner of secure loving arms instead of a free woman. Notwithstanding, it cannot be said it is minded, though the rumbling in the stomach betrays the recently realized craving for food that can only be had when giving in.

‘Not before you answer.’ The heavy weight suddenly tipping the scales cannot be prevented from being the oppressor of the strength that is unable to lift it, head hitting the soft pillows of the sofa on the other end as the sporty lad with dewy skin maintains the firm hug. A delighted playful chuckle sounds at the realization of having the held figure exactly where she is apparently wanted, unable to be freed before having made a decision. ‘Well, what’s it gonna be?’

‘Either way, you’ll suffer. Option one leaves me alive but you’ll get cuddle withdrawal symptoms. Option two leaves you without your favourite squishy.’ An eyebrow rises in challenging mockery which will only worsen the circumstances though the sarcasm cannot be helped. Just as in the brutal series, if you play smart, you shall survive. And this preferred victim of affection, this most beloved fighter of clinging hugs, has plans to survive the night.

‘Aren’t you clever, turning my own words against me?’ A lopsided smirk forms on the koala boy’s face, eyes illuminated by playful lights.

‘In the Game of Thrones, you live or you die and I intend to do the former.’ Henceforth, a cute sweetness slips into speech as lips irresistibly pout, manipulating Chris even further into hurrying up in fulfilling the promise of tteokbokki and stop stalling the rest of the well-deserved marathon. ‘I’m hungry.’

Blonde locks bow in amused defeat, shaking briefly with acknowledged surrender before gazes lock again. ‘I have no idea what that reference means, but you win this time, Y/N. Can’t let my babygirl starve.’

The characteristic awkward laughter accompanying the nickname by default ends the topic of debate, the kangaroo boyfriend lifting himself off a half-crushed no longer entirely torn by fantasy figure to finally shower. In the absence filled with the lingering traces of songs sung with an angelic voice, more pillows and a thin ornately decorated blanket are gathered for properly snuggling up with delicious food and an amazing but heartbreaking brutal show.

Sweater paws clad in a soapy mint oversized sweater wrap around the platinum youth’s waist to give him a taste of his own medicine, trying to show how inconvenient it can be when a person is basically glued to you during household tasks, which lets them become increasingly more complicated due to the loving gesture. Withal, it does not have the intended effect as the young man manages to get along with making the rice cakes coated in a fierce red sauce just fine although it does pose a bit of a risk when a small hand reaches out for the gochujang tub to add more to the sauce and the chef obviously not consenting to this idea, the dispute resulting in play fighting that almost turns the fire pit open too far without further notice.

The tickling almost results in burns and burned clothing, the just as touchy retribution barely short of ending in a trail of sauce stains leading from the kitchen floor to the fake black leather loveseat thanks to fingertips poking sides. Regardless, it is managed to be reached without further ado, the cruelly incredible series resuming with one strong arm wrapped around the shoulders, a warm meal split in two put into two laps sitting side by side. Occasionally, a chewy tteok is fed with a content smile from the bigger portion of the athlete eating like a starved man, who is evidently as happy with the result of the obstructed cooking as the appreciating look in the eyes of the accepting mouth, going by the happy wiggles accompanied by tuneful hums.

And thus the imaginary intriguing political game synonymous to crimson onslaught continues, because the questioning, at times shocked, comments made out of ignorance brighten the mood due to their silent request for an explanation, delighting the nerdy fangirl within to no end.

Keeping the worst of silly emotions at bay.

Holding the door.

#Stray Kids #SKZ #Stray Kids x Reader #Bangchan #Bang Chan #Chris Bang #SKZ x Reader

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azaraspirit · 5 years

Text

Daughter of Thor CH2

this is an oc x peter fic. peter will appear in ch3!!!

tagging: @petersboyfriendsonofthor @starksparker @mcuspidey @spiderboytotherescue @hollandsosterfield @spideypeach @fanboy-tom @keepingupwiththeparkers @aestheticstom @independentauthor @pmvelez97

word count: 2118 warnings: um nothing really mild language, fluff

chapter one

Zander never let go of Hannah’s hand as she took him to her home. She was smiling the whole time and so was he. To think she wasn’t going to help the boy. Now she’s glad she did. Not only did she save him but she also made a friend. He felt right. Almost like it was fate.

“Thanks again for saving me.” Zander smiled.

She smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

“You were pretty bad ass out there, taking him down like that. I mean I couldn’t see what happened but it sounded like it hurts.”

Hannah blushed. “Yeah? My Uncle taught me that among other moves. Maybe I can show you sometime.”

Zander nodded. “I’d like that.”

The sky was dusted with stars when she made it home with Zander at her side. She guided him through the kitchen area to get to the dining room where sure enough her family was sitting waiting for her. A crackling fire warmed the entire room.

“You’re late.” Thor spoke.

“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“My fault sir, she saved me.” Zander explained.

“And who might you be?” Thor asked with great interest.

“Zander. I was being bullied when your daughter stepped in and defended me.”

Loki gave her a perplexed look. “Saved you how exactly?”

“She pinned one of the guys down and ordered them to leave me alone.”

Loki smiled to himself. She used one the moves he taught her against them. He was so proud.

Hannah waved her hand. “Please. It was nothing.” She faced her father. “Can he have dinner with us, Father? Please?”

Thor looked over at Jane. They whispered a few words. “Wouldn’t your parents worry?” Jane asked.

“Oh um. They’re dead. Been on my own since I was eight.”

Hannah looked over at him with sad eyes. “Dead?”

Zander nodded solemnly.

“So you don’t have a home or a family?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“I say the young lad shall stay with us then, don’t you agree?” Loki spoke up. “Can’t let an orphan boy be out on the street.”

Thor sighed. “I suppose we have plenty of room.”

“Thor.” Jane spoke.

“What? He seems like a nice fellow.”

“Please, Mom?” Hannah begged.

“Alright he can stay.”

Hannah rushed up them and hugged and kissed all three. “Thank you guys! Thank you!”

“Now can we eat before the food gets cold?” Jane asked.

***

Zander never felt so grateful in his life. He’s literally been running since he was eight and now he had a home and a family. His stomach was full for the first time in who knows how long and now Hannh was running him a bath in the bath house. “I have some fresh clothes set out for you. I hope they fit?”

“That's kind of you, thank you.”

“Maybe we can trim your hair too.” She said tugging on one of his many lose, straggly strands. “Your hair is a mess.”

They both laughed. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

“You’re not staying?” Zander gave her puppy dog eyes.

Hannah blushed. She’s just met him and she already adored this boy. All he wanted was her company. “Uh I figured you’d want your privacy for your bath but once you're dressed I’ll come back okay? My room is right across the hall.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “You’ll be fine, Zander.”

They shared a smile before Hannah left him be.

Zander sighed. He finally felt like he could relax. Till he met Hannah he was always dodging bullies and catching sleep in strange places. But now he had a place to call home and a new best friend. He’s been blind since birth. He knew how to get his way around using his other senses. He listened carefully, hearing the trickling water of the bath Hannah ran for him. He could hear Hannah across the hall. The scent of fresh water and soap filled his nostrils. He undressed and carefully stepped into the bath. He explored the new surrounding area, finding it was an oval shaped bath, rather large and made of natural stone. The water ran from a spout from the wall, made of the same stone. He relaxed, letting the hot water soak away the dirt from his skin. He went under, his hair now soaked. Zander leaned against the edge of the bath.

***

Zander gently knocked on the door, now clean for the first time in years and in fresh clothes. Hannha opened the door and smiled. “Well, well, well. Look who cleaned up.”

He blushed. “The clothes are a bit big though.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll grow into them. Come in so I can trim your hair.”

“You sure?” Zander was a tad nervous getting his hair cut even if it was Hannah.

“I’m positive. Trust me.”

“Okay.” He trusted her, he didn’t doubt that. He wished he could see what her room looked like. What she looked like.

“What do you look like?” he asked.

“What?”

“I don’t know what you look like. Not really.” Zander spoke sadly. “I bet you’re beautiful.”

Hannah blushed, playing with her French braid. “You can touch my face if you want.”

Zander closed the distance between him and Hannah. He reached out to touch her face, making her blush as well as Zander. He smiled. Her skin felt soft. His fingers gently brushed along her cheekbones and jawline. Hannah giggled when he stroked her nose then her lips. His hand led down to her hair, feeling the softness of her braided ponytail.

“I wonder what your hair looks like. What mine looks like.” Zander wondered allowed. He’s never seen color before. But Hannah’s was soft and welcoming. He wanted to keep playing with her braid.

“Well mine is blonde and yours is black.”

Zander chuckled. “I have no idea what those colors look like.”

“Oh...uh…” Hannah faltered.

“It’s okay. You’re beautiful just like I thought.”

She blushed. “Let’s cut your hair shall we?”

***

“Think I did pretty good.” Hannah said, her fists on her hips, feeling rather proud of her creation. She cut three or four inches off at least. His locks original reached past his shoulders but now they were just past his ears.

Zander felt along his head, getting a sense of how much she cut off. “Wow.” he said.

“Yeah. I like it too. I even curled your bangs a bit.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He stood up from the stool he was resting on in front of Hannah’s mirror. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, Hannah. You and your family.”

Hannah blushed and she thanked the gods the boy couldn’t see it. “You’re welcome, Zander. It was the right thing to do. My father taught me that.”

“Your father is a wise man.” smiled Zander.

“I’m going to turn in for the night. You want me to show you your room?”

Zander rubbed his arm. “Uh, actually, I was hoping that I would sleep here with you. I spent a lot of nights sleeping alone. I’d rather avoid it if I can.”

Hannah blushed even more. She’s never shared her bed with anyone before, let alone a cute boy. “I suppose we could.”

Zander smiled to himself.

Hannah crawled into bed first then Zander. Her bed was a large round oval shape, much like the bath. There was more than enough room for both of them but they laid facing each other, inches apart.

“Good night, Zander.”

“Good night, Hannah.”

***

Jane made breakfast for her family but saw that neither her daughter or the new boy Zander has came down yet. After the adults finished eating, she went up to her room with trays for both of them. She peeked inside to see them in her bed. She smiled. Hannah really seemed to care for the boy she rescued.

“Hannah, honey I made breakfast for you and Zander.”

Hannah’s eyes fluttered open. She immediately noticed Zander’s fingers were curled in her palm. She fought the blushing aside, sitting up as she stretched her arms. “Thanks, Mom.”

“So uh, how’s he doing?” Jane asked, Zander still asleep.

“Seems to be doing okay.” Hannah said, looking down at him. “I cut his hair. He was a mess.”

Jane chuckled. “You like him don’t you?”

“No.” Hannah lied.

“Sure, honey. I’m glad you helped him. I’m proud of you.”

Hannah smiled. “He looked so helpless, Mom. I had to do something.”

“You did the right thing.” Jane assured her.

Hannah nodded, smiling. “Zander, wake up. Mom made breakfast.”

Zander groaned and woke up. “Did you say breakfast?”

Hannah giggled.

“I made extra for you, Zander.” Jane smiled.

“Thank you.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Jane smiled and left them be.

Zander had no problem eating his portion. Hannah giggled as she watched. “Geeze, Zander. It’s like you have two stomachs.”

“I’m hungry like all the time.”

Hannah was still eating hers.

“You gonna finish that?” Zander asked, pointing at her fruit.

“I plan to but you can have some if you want.”

He snatched her bundle of grapes. “No take backs.”

His antic made you laugh. “What do you want to do today?”

He stuffed his mouth with grapes. “Whatever you want to do.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re your own person, Zander, you can do whatever you want to do.”

“I want to follow you. You saved my life.”

You smiled softly. “Zander…” You really didn’t know what to say.

“I’ll be with you always. I’ll do whatever you ask except stay away from you. That I can’t do. Your act of kindness means so much to me, Hannah and I’ll spend every day proving my worth to you.”

***

Three years later...

Hannah peeked out from behind the column she was hiding behind, trying her best to stay quiet. She was looking for Zander but he was nowhere to be seen. She quietly stepped out from the column, knowing where he would be hiding. She crept on the smooth tiled floor and up the stairs. She was prepared to tackle him from behind the throne but it was empty. “Huh?”

“Gotcha!” Zander materialized in thin air, grabbing her from behind.

“Zander!” she laughed, trying to get away from him.

He laughed along with her. “Got you!”

“Not fair! You can hear everything!” She grunted trying to throw him off but he grew quite strong the past few years since she first brought him to the castle. They tumbled down the stairs with Zander underneath her.

“Ha!” she said in victory, holding his wrists. “Who’s pinned now?”

Zander was swift and switched places. “Still you.” he grinned.

Hannah groaned in annoyance. “You cheated.”

“No. just don’t like losing.”

Hannah stuck her tongue at him. He stood up and offered his hand. She took it but quickly submitted him to the ground, her arm around his neck. “You forgot about my signature move.”

“Nah, I just let you use it to feel good about yourself.” Zander smirked.

“Shut up.” She let him go.

“You’re fifteen today.” Zander told her. “You know what that means?”

She scoffed. “You seriously think Dad would take me to Earth? I doubt it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt. I could come with you.”

“You would?”

He nodded. “I’m always on your side, remember?”

Hannah smiled as she embraced him. He hugged back. She was grateful for Zander and her friendship with him. They have grown closer over the past few years since he was first here. Recently something seemed to be more than friendship between them. Zander felt protective of her but whenever they hugged or held hands or shared a look, he never wanted it to end. He felt warm all over like a roaring fire.

Someone cleared their throat and they broke their hug to find her father and Loki. “Were we interrupting something?” Loki asked.

“No. We were just training.” Hannah spoke, quickly.

“Training, right.” Loki smirked.

“Hannah, may I speak to you alone?” Thor asked.

“Sure.” She shared a look with Zander before walking off with her father.

She looked back to see Zander and Loki sparring with their blades.

“You’re fifteen now.” Thor spoke.

“And?”

“Remember the promise I made you?”

“You would take me to Earth?”

He nodded. “I thought I’d check in on the Avengers, see how they’re doing. Thought you would like to come along. Zander too.”

“Really?”

Thor nodded.

“Thanks, Dad!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

She rushed back into the throne room. “Zander! We’re going to Earth! Pack your bag!”

“Really?” He spun around and Loki took advantage and pinned him.

“Hey!” Zander protested.

“Distractions have consequences remember?”

Zander sighed. “Damn it.”

#all-about-tom #my fics #daughter of thor fic #sorry no moodboard today #just wanted to get this posted

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