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ecliptsukki · 4 years ago

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his delinquent phase ❧ kaoru sakurayashiki // cherry blossom

navigation | music

➣ genre: fluff

➣ warnings: adam’s existence

➣ request: can i request a one shot where you’re cherrys s/o and like childhood best friends with joe and cherry and adam and you’re gushing over cherrys old bad boy look with piercings and everuthing and cherry one day goes to S with his piercings and hair the same way as before just to see you fawn over him skjfks

➣ a/n: this took me three times to type up because the first two times i did it, tumblr thought it would be funny to delete it. i’m not sure if i love how this came out, but it’s still better than my original plan. hopefully this was correct to what the anon requested. enjoy!

ps: i’m also going to be going on a trip for four days tomorrow, so i’m not sure if i’ll be able to post. i’ll definitely try to start working on my other requests!

You had known Joe, Cherry, and Adam ever since the four of you were in high school. Out of the three, you had met Joe, first, not soon before you met Cherry.

You were walking down the eventful streets of Okinawa, admiring the sights and getting accustomed with the area. You had moved to the city not too long ago and already were growing attached to the place. In your defense, the city was your perfect and desired location to live in.

A gentle breeze blew through your hair, rustling the leaves of the green trees. You sighed at the feeling of the cool breeze tickling your warm skin. Not long after that breeze had gone, another, harsher breeze blew past you. You flinched at the abnormally sharp wind, snapping your head to the side, in its direction. You were met with honey red eyes and short, green locks, swaying.

The male slips past you, stopping abruptly.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled, embarrassed, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You were in awe, seeing what the boy was standing on, and on alert because you had always been taught to be cautious around strangers, especially when you were walking alone.

“Um, no. I’m alright, just shocked,” you shrugged, replying quietly.

Another harsh, but gentler than before, wind blows past you, revealing a pink-haired male. He had three piercings on his ear and one on his lip. Half of the boy’s face was hidden by his long bangs, allowing your focus to lock on his golden eye.

“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps at his green-haired friend. “Sorry about him,” he apologizes, giving you a polite smile.

All the sirens were going off in your head.

He has so many piercings! Is he a delinquent? Are both of them delinquents? If they are, I can’t fight them off on my own. What do I do?

“I’m Kaoru,” the bubblegum-haired male suddenly said, “This is Kojiro.”

Kojiro nodded at you, an embarrassed blush still grazing his cheeks.

“Hey, aren’t you the new kid?” Kaoru asked, finding your puzzlingly familiar.

“Oh, that’s why I felt like I’ve met you before,” Kojiro spoke up, nodding his head when he realized who you were.

Awkwardly, you shyly respond, “Sorry, I can’t seem to remember seeing you guys at school. Are you in my class?”

Until dusk, the three of you talked, getting to know the each of you better. You were also able to befriend the boys you were so afraid of, becoming your first two friends in the city.

You met Adam in the dark of night, beside Cherry and Joe.

They had brought you along, one night, wanting to skate with you. You already knew the basics of skating, nothing more, nothing less. Therefore, as your closest, and only, friends, they wanted to get further acquainted with you in something they loved.

“Who’s the sweet cheeks?” His hoodie-covered eyes left an eerie pressure on you, causing goosebumps to emerge from your skin.

“This is our close friend, Y/N L/N,” Cherry spoke up.

“She goes to school with us, and we wanted to bring her skating. Mind her tagging along?” Joe asks his hooded friend.

“Not at all, just as long as she can keep up,” he spoke in a cocky tone.

The pretentious attitude the unnamed face had was irking you in the wrong way. He seemed too mysterious for your liking. A third of the boy’s face was hidden in the shadow of his hoodie, leaving you only able to see the blue tips of his hair and his structured nose.

He must’ve noticed your timid stare because he looks at you, under his hood, “Call me Adam.”

Cherry and Joe look at you expectingly.

“Just call me sweet cheeks, for now,” you reply, distantly, not ready to let your guard down just yet.

You hear your two friends sigh, chuckling to each other.

“Don’t worry, she’ll warm up to you, soon,” Cherry told Adam, “We know firsthand how she is with meeting new people.”

You blush, remembering your first encounter with the pair.

Thinking back, you still regret letting your walls down and accepting Adam as a friend. Not a day goes by that Adam doesn’t linger in your mind, as much as you’d hate to admit.

You despise that man with a passion. From your first interaction, you should’ve known that there was something off about the blue-haired male, but pondering on these frustrations now wouldn’t change anything. As much as you’d like to curse the man for hurting your friends’ and your feelings, you knew you had to move on.

You sat on the soft mattress of your shared bed, scrolling through old pictures stored on your phone. You saw pictures taken by Kaoru when you guys went on dates. Majority of the photos were candid, seeing as he always had told you that you were the “most photogenic woman” he had ever met.

You remember the day he had told you that. You also remember your laughed reply.

“Then you’ve got the whole world to explore, my love.”

Although, honestly, you thought Kaoru was quite the photogenic one himself. His gorgeous, sorted, pink hair matched with his golden eyes and perfect face never looked bad, not even at the crack of dawn or in the late of night.

Speaking of which, you scrolled upon a photograph of Kaoru sitting all pretty with his piercings on display. Those piercings brought back many memories, humorous and lustful.

Ironically, the thing that brought you fear before now brings you yearning.

Honestly, once you had befriended Kaoru and came to trust him, the piercings no longer frightened you but instead, fascinated you. Those metal hoops further increased your attraction to the ponytailed man, leading you to the relationship you were in now.

Obviously, Kojiro played a big role in setting the two of you up together because both of you were completely oblivious to the other’s feelings. It got to the point that Adam almost had to step in and wack some sense into the both of you.

Anyways, ever since Kaoru had started working in the calligraphy business, he removed his piercings to maintain a professional image. You detested the idea, but you also knew that it was the best for his business.

Now that you were looking back at photos of Kaoru as a teenager, you began to crave seeing him in those metal rings once more. You missed the “bad boy” look your boyfriend used to have, not that you didn’t appreciate how he looked now. It’s just that there’s a different vibe to his current and past aesthetics.

As you stalked through more pictures of teenage Kaoru, you were unaware of the very man you were thinking about watching you. He noticed the longing and craving in your gaze. Then, he caught a glimpse of what was being projected on your screen: it was him but in his teenage years.

Suddenly, everything clicked for Kaoru, and he had the perfect plan in mind.

Something was off. Usually your boyfriend would insist on bringing you to “S” himself but not today. If anything, he was urging you to go with Kojiro.

“He’s been your friend for the same amount of time as I. You should take this time to your advantage and catch up,” was Kaoru’s excuse.

First of all, catch up on what? It’s not like you haven’t talked to Kojiro in months. Actually, you talked to him a day ago, at “S.” Secondly, what’s up with the sudden lenience and weak excuses?

Joe, who was also in on the plan, tried to help his friend out, making a feeble attempt to lure you with free food.

“I can get free food from you whenever I want,” you replied, squinting suspiciously at your friend.

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.” That pulled a raised brow from you and a regret-filled face from the muscular man.

Though you weren’t fully convinced that nothing was off, you still left with Joe, caving into their terrible attempts of covering up whatever they were hiding from you.

You had arrived at “S” with Joe for about ten minutes now, but there was still no sightings of your beloved, Cherry. Joe caught glimpse of your searching eyes and reassured you that he would be coming, be it later than usual.

Reki, Langa, and Miya had made their way over to you, sparking up a conversation with you, making you forget about the missing presence of a specific male.

Miya was explaining the new training regiment and diet he was to use in order to advance his strength, leading you to worry for the small teenager. If he didn’t eat enough, it could become fatal to him. You didn’t understand why a child was being treated so harshly by his managers, forcing him to eat barely anything and train long hours of the day.

You were concernedly asking Miya if he was feeling alright and offered him an energy bar you carried around in case of emergencies, which he gratefully accepted, when you heard the cheers of fangirls behind you. Knowing they weren’t meant for Joe, you turned around to meet the golden eyes you’d fallen in love with.

This time, there was something different. His face wasn’t hidden by his mask. You could see the pale skin of his cheeks and the pink of his lips. Besides the absence of the black cloth, you noticed metallic rings decorating your boyfriend’s lip and ears. Also, his hair wasn’t whipping behind him, as per usual, but laid low, drifting in the wind.

For a hot moment, you had thought you had finally lost it, but when you blinked your eyes, looking at Miya then back to Cherry, you realized you were still sane and your boyfriend still looked like he aged back into his high school days.

“Is that Cherry?” Miya asked from beside you.

You nodded, speechless.

You heard someone let out a loud laugh beside you, “Since when did he have piercings?”

Ignoring the redhead’s outburst, you were mesmerized by the Cherry you had been obsessing over a couple days ago. It felt like one extravagant dream that you didn’t want to wake up from. In your defense, as he stepped of his skateboard, coming to embrace you, he looked straight out of a fantasy. His skin was practically glowing, and his hair gently floated perfectly onto his shoulders.

“Hello, darling,” he spoke in a sultry voice, placing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you in his muscular arms.

“K-Kao—” you quickly realize your soon-to-be mistake and fix it, “Cherry.”

His eyes shrink as he laughs, endearingly, admiring the flustered and confused look you were portraying.

“Is this why you and Joe were being so weird earlier today?” You asked, cheek pressed against his slim, toned chest.

“Indeed, my love. What do you think? Definitely brings back some memories of the old days,” he lifts your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“I love it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” you smile brightly, eyes lustrous. Pushing yourself up on your toes, you whisper into his ear, “You also look really hot.” You quickly pull away, turning a vibrant red.

“I think you broke her,” Joe told his friend, placing a heavy hand on the pink-nette’s shoulder.

After the supposed one occurrence surprise, you began to avidly ask him to wear his piercings, loving how attractive and domineering he looked in them. If he denied, you would ask him to, at least, tie his hair in the relaxed half up half down hairdo. He didn’t mind the different hairstyle as much as he did the piercings so it became a normal look for him. The only times he would willingly put on his piercings were when he was going to “S” or when the two of you were safe in the comfort of your own home, for research purposes.

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thepissingbus · 3 years ago

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Restricted Use

Omovember Day 1: Wetting in front of the toilet.

In a town where few bathrooms for men exist, it's become a custom for men to have full bladders

Warnings: Bladder control, really weird AU.

A/N: Anxiety is biting me fit posting this lol. Hope you enjoy my first omo fic on Tumblr! A little feedback on the story would be great, if any, but please be gentle?

A drop seeps into my boxers.

Frantically, I grab myself and cut off whatever flow threatens to follow. The chair beneath me squeaks as I rock back and forth before I'm hit with another wave of desperation. Groaning does little to make me feel better and I look to the bathroom, my leg bouncing. She's been in her bathroom for an hour.

Sweat beads my brow as another sharp pang leads me to lean forward. With great difficulty, I stand up and hobble to the bathroom, my knees knocking together as gravity takes its toll on my abused bladder. My knuckles rap against the door as my voice cracks. "Honey, please hurry."

My wife opens the door, worried a little. “Is something wrong?”

“I have to pee,” I admit, a little ashamed.

“Oh. You can go across town then.”

"I waited too long." More like I skipped my morning pee and spent the first half of the day working so I could spend the afternoon with her. “Can you just drive me across town? I haven’t gone since last night.”

She sighs. "Let’s go shopping first, then I'll bring you to the bathrooms.

My bladder spasms upon hearing those words and I have to twist my legs to keep myself dry. Briefly, I consider begging her for relief, but what good would that do when she has control over my bladder anyway? I can only nod before shuffling towards the car upon her demands, where I wait for her to come drive.

In this city, men aren't allowed to pee anywhere except at a few designated bathrooms scatted about the city. Even home bathrooms are restricted, although men who are single, underage, elderly or have a severe medical condition are exempt from this rule. Often, this leads to long days of holding, and it’s common to see men bouncing from foot to foot, dying for a piss. As for women, they can go anywhere they want: in their own designated bathrooms, at home, or even in an alleyway if need-be without penalty. They also get to determine when their husbands get to use the bathroom.

My wife takes the driver's seat a few minutes later, seemingly ignorant to my shaking and bouncing on the passenger’s side. I’ve held my pee longer than this, but I’ll never become fully accustomed to the discomfort and pain of desperation. Not to mention my bladder bulge is just barely noticeable when I pull my shirt up.

"You know," my wife says. "If you put on a sexy pee dance for me, I may let you use my bathroom tomorrow."

"What counts as sexy?" I ask. "I'm always dancing around when I need to go.”

"You'll know." She winks. I don't think I do know, my brain useless on all other topics except holding myself.

When we reach the store, I can't get out of the car without worrying I might leak. My wife eases me out, then stays in stride with me as we walk into the store. She offers me a job requiring only one day: push the cart.

Wonderful.

We enter the store. I try and keep my hands away from my crotch as much as possible, though my full bladder doesn't allow for many moments. My legs refuse to be more than a few inches apart, but even that is sometimes too much. Walking hurts, but standing makes me feel worse when my wife browses the shelves.

At least I can tell my wife likes it when I whimper and squeeze myself, unable to stop moving. She’s also quite tuned on as I coax myself to keep holding under my breath. I know she likes it when I beg for a bathroom as I'm starting to leak and I think she’s waiting for that moment to become a reality since I’ve never done it before. One problem: my bladder doesn’t know what leaking is. If I lose control over one spurt, the floodgates open and it’s nearly impossible to stop them until I’m almost empty or completely empty.

The stabbing throbs are becoming just one string of pain. I caress my bladder, trying to ease the raging liquids inside me. It does nothing but encourage the urge to go to worsen. I suppose it’s a good thing on a social scale. A desperate husband is a sign of dominance among women. As far as I’n aware, foreigners often see dominance as tall and muscular. Here we measure by bladder control. A husband with a strong bladder meant a woman married well and the marriage would be a powerful one.

We pass another wife and her husband in the middle of the store. The husband has a small patch of wetness at his crotch which only continues to steadily grow the longer they stay in their spot. The wife looks a little embarrassed. She starts dragging him along since he can barely stand, never looking back at the pee trail her husband is leaving. I feel bad for him as much as I want to curse him for making me have to fight my need harder. Just seeing his damp pants fills me more and I’m tempted to just let go.

The shopping trip is surprisingly quick by my wife’s standards, and we’re out the door shortly, even if it doesn’t feel like it. By now, I’m practically in tears as I help her load the car with the groceries, my eyes scanning for a distraction but only seeing other desperate men walking he parking lot. Somewhere behind us, two women are chatting and bragging about their husband’s capacities, both which are bigger than mine.

What I would do to have a bigger bladder right now.

I attempt keep my mind off everything as we drive towards the toilets, my wife occasionally asking which way to go and I having to provide directions on the spot. The tip of my dick hurts, piss gathered behind it and ready to go should I relax for one second. I’m fairly sure I’m going to burst any second. I consider suggesting we head home and I use her toilet for one time only since the distance is far shorter than reaching the men’s bathroom. But the thought is quickly discarded.

When we finally arrive at the toilets, I jump out and practically skip across the parking lot to the stalls. My heart stops as I see a line of desperate man dancing about in front of the one stall. Of the 20 bathroom stations set up around the city, she happened to bring me to the busiest.

Reluctantly, I fall in line and join the others in dancing. Every muscle in my body screams. Fatigue has set in long ago, but I'm not losing this battle against my bladder. Not when I have so much at stake. All I have to do is wait until I’m at the bathroom and then I can go and feel better.

Why is the line taking so long?

A few minutes pass before the like turns to chaos. One guy tries to cut in line and gets into a fight. Two other men lose control. A third grabs the current guy on the toilet and shoves him away to take over. Those that aren’t involved isn’t he fight eventually become involved when they try to sneak past to use the stall. Someone even jams the door shut, since it doesn’t have a lock. As for the rest of us, all we can do is struggle and do our best to ignore the sounds of piss cascading to the ground as the men fighting lose both their fist fight and the contents inside them.

After what felt like an hour, I'm the second in line to finally having a turn. I haven't leaked still, and I'm sure I'll jinx myself, but I'm kind of impressed I haven't. Not that that will last long. If the current guy on the toilet doesn't hurry up so the guy before me can go, I might just flood myself.

The guy before me is still verbally announcing how full he is, partially through bragging and partially out of desperation. He's getting on my nerves and many other guys behind me. No one wants to hear a retelling of how they feel, thank you very much.

"My god, I'm probably the fullest guy around here!" He says. "I've been holding it for 30 hours without a break and now another 23 minutes just waiting in line—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I snap so loudly it startles him and he leaks. And then horror follows. The leak has given his body the perfect excuse to let go, and I watch him soak his pants before me. He's mortified for a moment before glaring at me with the most menacing green eyes I've ever seen. "This is all your fault, you fucking asshole!" He screams before slapping me across the cheek. I spurt.

Oh no.

My own urine starts drizzling from me as I double over in hopes of stopping it. Nothing. Crossing my legs, pinching myself, begging to stop, none of it actually works against my body, and I’m left hunched over as urine spoils my pants and the ground below me. The guy before me is still insulting me, but his voice is drowned out by my noisy steam.

My senses come back briefly and I shove him out of the way to reach the stall, hoping to finish emptying in the toilet. Naturally, the door is still jammed from the other guy who is still going. By the time I’ve undone my pants, I realize my efforts are fruitless. I’m already so soaked it wouldn’t matter if I made it to the toilet or not. Everyone will know I’ve pissed myself no matter how much I try and hide it. I do still stand inside the stall once the other man has exited.

My poor wife must be dying inside, knowing her husband can’t hold himself.

Relief finally kicks in, earning less groans from my throat. After 20 hours of holding, I can finally let my body be. The sharp pain that once overtook my mind slowly decreases in intensity until it’s just a dull ache as my stream trickles out, causing me to shiver. The sound of urine hitting the ground is music to my ears, the stream adding to the giant puddle that grows at my feet and mixes with the other unlucky folks who also lost control.

I don’t know how long I’ve been going, but I do know someone is pissed. I’m shoved aside by someone who is swearing up a storm. “Don’t block the fucking stall if you’re not gonna use it, asshole.” Another man makes his way to the toilet while I stumble from my spot, suddenly aware of just how much I lost. Now I’m embarrassed to continue peeing and clamp down upon my body, wincing as I manage to stop the flow, or reduce it enough that it’s not completely noticeable. I consider shoving him back, but give up and make my way towards the car, still leaking.

My wife meets me outside the car, concern across her face. “Sorry for taking so long," I say. "I went. I'll be okay until tomorrow."

She doesn't say anything but instead waits until I have my stream under control. I maybe have stopped it, but I still feel so desperate, maybe even worse than before. Not in the way it hurts, but in the way that I’ve let my body taste relief, and now it’s locked on achieving it.

My wife fishes a towel out from the back of the car. She wraps me in it and dries me off the best she can. I squirm in my spot, passing my weight between each foot and biting my lip when she accidentally puts pressure on the exhausted organ.

"Do you want to go again?" She asks.

I shake my head as my need rapidly worsens. "I'm empty," I lie. I know she knows I’m fibbing. But I don't want to go to the bathroom. Not here, anyway.

She helps me in the car and drives home. My legs remain pressed together and to my dismay, I’m already reaching the level of need where I was before. It’s getting harder to sit still, my bladder overreacting to the hit of urine still sloshing around inside me.

I regret not saying yes to a second bathroom break.

When we get home, my kidneys dump more pee in and I can’t help but return to pinching myself. I’m quick to let go, but my quick enough to avoid my wife seeing how severe my current state has become.

"Sweetie," me wife says. "Go use my bathroom."

"What??" I stare at her.

"You're losing control. Just go for now before you hurt yourself. I'll take you to the bathrooms later today."

“But what if you get arrested?”

“Oh don’t be silly. I gave you permission so they can’t really charge me. Now go before you have another accident.”

I thank her and kiss her on the cheek before rushing for the bathroom. Her bathroom is very clean and smells nice unlike the men’s restrooms. Even better, I have a little privacy, though I forget to shut the door. Just seeing a toilet and knowing I don't have to rush myself to finish makes me start going right then in my pants. My hands tremble as I free myself from my pants and sloppily aim into the bowl, relief right at the tip of my tongue… or cock.

For the second time that day, my urine gushes out. This time I don't have to sit through the pain before feeling relief. The relief comes immediately. My hand grabs onto the counter and I moan, shivers running up my body once again.

I don't remember when my wife entered the bathroom, but when I finally notice her, my cheeks heat up. I'm still peeing. Men are supposed to be discrete about their bathroom uses to avoid showing weakness to their girls. My eyes can't meet hers and suddenly the floor becomes the most fascinating thing ever.

My wife drops off some UTI pills on the counter then leaves. I remain still embarrassed, even after i finish peeing, hiding in the bathroom for a good ten minutes after finishing and even having a quick third pee before finally deciding to face her.

I pull my pants up and flinch at the cold, hardened urine touching my tip. I flush the toilet and try to sneak to the bedroom where I can change my clothes. My wife stops me on the way there instead. "Feel better?" She asks, kissing my jaw.

"Much better. Thank you." I still feel heat tingling my ears. How is she not disappointed in me?

"Why don't you take a shower? I'll get you new clothes.”

I nod and kiss her on the forehead. "You're the best."

"Well, you were pretty sexy in the store today." She chuckles and I find myself doing the same. We then part ways for a bit and I wash up as she entertains herself with her book. The rest of the day is quite pleasant, the two of us deciding to spend the rest of the day lazily and at home.

After that day, my wife brings me to the men's bathrooms late that night when most men aren't there and again early in he morning before others get up. From that day on, she's more willing to drive me to the men's toilets, and if I absolutely cannot hold myself any longer, she will allow me to use her toilet. She still likes keeping me desperate and multiple days I barely make it, but I wonder why the change of heart. When I ask her why, she responded, "I didn't know how badly men treated each other at the bathrooms. I don't like it when people do that to you."

My wife is going shopping again. I'm pretty desperate but not as bad as before. While she readies for the day, I drink two cups of coffee, knowing that the drink will go straight through me. The least I can do for her in return for her kindness is give her the best bladder control performance of the entire city.

#omorashi #pee #omovember #I am probably going to regret posting this later lol

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yanderecandystore · 4 years ago

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Hello, this is the first time I’ve come here and I’d like, if possible, you could place my order, I don’t remember if I already placed that ask or something, so if yes, sorry to bother you...

I can order something with Yandere! Vampire with a Vampire Slayer! Reader, please...

Welcome in!

Well yes boo, you did make a very similar request, and I'm sorry if it took me like a long time to answer you (at least to me it feels like a whole month has passed, time has been so slow and so fast somehow-) it's just that I'm dealing with a lot of stuff outside of Tumblr and although I try to not think about it, it does affect my performance in writing. Also you're not bothering me at all boo!

Also I just realized something, normally when I write I put really mean remarks about the reader but it's not supposed to be taken seriously by you guys, as it's mostly either an look into the perspective of the ocs (normally the bullies who are very mean and cruel-) or even an exaggeration on the reader's current mind state (if the reader feels dumb about a certain action they have chosen, I try to make them sound very exaggerated since I don't want any of you to take it personally, y'all are beautiful okay? Don't worry about the snarky comments and rude remarks that I may write).

I'll try to make it more obvious that it's mostly a character's exaggerated perspective next time, or maybe put trigger warnings about degrading language/mean comments.

TW/Tags: mentions of addiction (to blood) // male x male // male reader // vampy vamp // monster(vampire) x (human)reader // mentions of death // unofficial OC/just a random character I decided to create for this specific piece // captivity/kidnaping // mentions of torture/infliction of pain // mind control/gaslighting/manipulation and stockholm syndrome // being drugged/poisoned // kinda sadistic but not so much so cause I like giving y'all some softness.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

True love is found in small bites [Yandere!M!Vampire x M!Vampire Hunter!Reader - Headcanon]:

Who doesn't like a little one on one with an immortal creature in a fight filled with sexual tension? Who wouldn't want to prove their worth to their dad who is a lonely vampire hunter?

Your dad had hunted vampires all by himself for years now and he won't stop until the day he drops dead, or at least that's what he told you.

He taught you everything that you needed to know, and honestly- You probably know a lot more than some of the guys who are paid to do this every month, Hell, your dad hunts them basically every week! That's kinda the reason why he won't accompany you this time, too busy dealing with vampires in a neighboring village, some rumours of some high profiled vampires coming into your hometown… He was very concerned for your safety before deciding that whenever these rumours were true or not, he needed to check them for himself regardless.

You decided to go on a hunt on your own, hunt one down and prove to your man that you'll do just fine all by yourself.

However, you have the knowledge from the books you read and from what your father taught you, but you don't have personal experiences in fighting vampires. So that's why you're finally going to take down a vampire all by yourself.

It took you some time to find the right target, but after hearing complaints about some odd things happening in the less wealthy part of town, you thought you had a pretty clear picture of what happened. You thought that maybe some vampires have been attacking the poorest people in town to not cause a bigger panic in the population, and sadly enough, you were right.

Apparently the vampirism started to spread uncontrollably as the newly transformed vampires weren't accustomed with the new malevolent power. Some would get addicted to blood and to the power they hold against humans, and start to bite more than what they can chew on.

You found someone who was acting suspiciously, a commoner who was acting more aggressively towards his neighbors and family, he had created a lot of enemies in only a couple of days after being transformed, as he was now acting like "royalty" surrounded by peasants. The poor bastard was out of his mind, and sadly you needed to take care of him before he would hurt more people.

The work of a vampire slayer (or at least, one who works on their own accord) isn't as glamorous or "pleasant" as most may think, it involves you constantly questioning yourself and your morals, the guy you're hunting has a family but from what you heard and from what you have seen as you observed him from afar- He is clearly gone, consumed by the addiction of human blood, he would end up hurting his own family if you didn't intervene.

You had to stalk him for basically the whole day, collecting information and waiting for a good opportunity to strike him- Sadly enough, you didn't know that someone else was also interested in killing him.

It was pretty quick now that you think about it- You were about to tackle him when someone else got to do it before you. You didn't know about vampire society's inner relationships but you are aware that there is some form of hierarchy, and that those who were transformed into vampires were considered to be closer to the bottom than those who were born into it. The bottom of their social structure being those who they could all feed on, so in other words humans.

As you have already prepared yourself to attack the blood addictic, this guy who seemed to have come out of nowhere has already noticed that he wasn't alone, you wouldn't be able to hide yourself at this point and running wouldn't be an option considering how fast he moved.

The only option was left was to fight this vampire who was clearly way too powerful for your newbie ass. It was a pretty tough fight, and even if you have lost- You did manage to prove that you weren't just a random human who found themselves in the wrong place, in the wrong time.

You were very well prepared- Idris was pretty impressed by your resistance, but from his eyes, you were lacking a lot in the intelligence department. You were a good brawler, but not a decent vampire slayer by far- He would question you about your level of skill constantly, even mocking the idea of you being an "newbie" at this job.

Idris had won in the end, making you his prisoner who he would bring back to his clan to be used as an easy food source while also giving them info about other vampire slayers. Of course you wouldn't give them anything, no matter how bad your situation was you would still fight to the very end.

Idris had used one of his abilities to bring you two to his clan's hideout in a blink of an eye, you weren't expecting it to be so quick. You were tied up and inside an "abandoned" mansion filled with vampires, you were sure you wouldn't survive this at all- Yet you had promised yourself to not give them any information about other vampires slayers, especially your father.

You have met them, all of them- All of the Nox clan of pure vampires (or at least the last of them), in one single place. They were all so eager to jump in and start the "fun" with you. To torture you, drink from you, control your mind so you would spill all that you know, they tried to but you wouldn't stop squirming and fighting their touch- However, your attitude has only helped to aggravate them.

Idris was in charge of taking care of you- And by that they meant he was the one who would be screwing with you the most. He would keep you alive with your bare necessities but would also be the one to punish and torture you to speak up.

Interestingly enough, Idris wasn't interested in violently taking the truth out of you- Oh no, boo- He was much more sadistic than that.

He saw you as a plaything, like a cat he would see you as something he should toy with before devouring- He would try to push you to your limits verbally, trying to trigger some sort of wound you may have. You were stronger than he assumed, he should have known you weren't so dumb to give in to his insults and threats.

He would still bite you though, hey, a man needs some blood before continuing his private interrogation, right? It's not his fault you're both his snack and the one being interrogated.

You were strong minded, you weren't feeling too awful about being taken as a prisoner, since you felt as if deep down you could still escape this- So the effects of the poison that he would inject on you weren't showing up at first, but after sometime of being under this terrible living condition with only him to talk with, you started to feel some type of weird way around him.

It could be the poison finally taking over, but you have started to notice some… Particular choices that Idris took when interacting with you. Again- It could be all some magic shit in your mind, but you could swear that the lingering touches from him weren't rough or painful as his threats.

Idris was never physically harmful towards you, even to his peers dismay as they would constantly scold him for being too soft. He was indeed very off putting and sadistic- But could he be hiding something deep inside his literally cold exterior? You started to think so… Well, you started to hope so.

See, although the poison is already making your mind dizzy and making you feel some kind of weird attraction towards Iris- It wasn't completely just your mind playing tricks on you, Idris has been trying a new tactic with you and it was working.

Maybe you haven't noticed yet, but for the last few weeks he has started to flirt with you more, touch you more and whisper less concerning things into your ears, and you were eating it all up due to your isolation and his poisonous bite.

The more he sucked your blood, the more enamoured you were with his softer "side", the poison becoming stronger with each bite. But everyday you two spend time together, Idris can't help but feel just as interested in you as you are to him. He may play it off as a sadistic manipulative (which he kinda is-) vampire who is above you and his own feelings- But whenever it's just you and him, he just feels like there is a bigger connection being formed.

The more you two get to know each other the more he'll start falling for you, to the point he doesn't know if he is faking empathy and care or if he actually likes you in a weird way. He has started to feel very satisfied whenever you start acting clingy, desperate even for his attention (again- He is the only one willing to even talk with you before biting you and sucking your blood), the sensation of power he feels is a little bit overwhelming- But very much appreciated.

You have started to feel some side effects from losing so much blood everyday, which has made Idris concerned and incapable of drinking from you for at least some time while you recover from it. But since you need some time to rest without being injected with more venom from fangs, which will cause you to start waking up from your brainwashed state and remember that A: It has been months since you were gone, your dad is out there looking for you and it's possibly thinking you're dead; B: You're trapped in a mansion filled with the last vampires of a powerful clan which has been massacred by vampire slayers like you; and C: You were starting to catch feelings for the one who brought you here- Regardless of manipulation and freaky vampire shit- You were indeed falling for his charm.

Whenever that happens, it will be obvious that you'll start trying to fight them and escape again, even if you're very, very weak from all these months without proper training and healthy eating habits.

You may try your hardest dear, but you'll need a better plan than just going feral on Idris. He is a lot stronger than you, especially since you can't even stand up on your own, and even hurting him makes you feel oddly awful- You had relied on him for so long, that it feels like you would be betraying him if you actually do hurt him, it seems like some of the effects of so much time under his manipulation are still present.

You can't hurt him, but you can still try to sneak out. You should still try to escape!

You would eventually come up with a plan to run away while it was still morning, even if it was a very flawed plan considering that the only place you knew in this entire mansion was Idris's room and bathroom. For some miracle reason, you would find a way to sneak out, it was pretty hard considering you have no strength in your legs, yet luckily no one seemed to be aware of your sudden movement around the corridors- Apparently the whole clan is composed of heavy sleepers.

Your escape was successful, but you wouldn't be able to reach safety anytime soon in your condition- And you knew that eventually they would wake up again and Idris would find you soon. Yet as you had promised yourself and your father, you weren't going down without a fight.

Idris is responsible for you, so whenever he notices that you were gone- He would first assume one of his kind has took you, but considering how everyone else in the clan considers him to be a nuisance and incompetent, he couldn't possibly ask around where were you. If he did, they would end up yelling at him and take you as their personal blood bag- He couldn't let them know that you have escaped.

He would search for you and be honest to god thankful that you weren't dead yet- He would be pissed but more concerned about your current state, after all you were supposed to be resting from losing so much blood and yet here you are: Trying to survive the wild nature around the mansion in a stupid attempt of escaping the vampires.

Idris would have to bite you more often while also giving some days off so you could rest, but doing in a way that you never lose the effects of the poison- He can't stand to see you fighting him so much.

I mean- He thinks that it's pretty attractive how fiesty you are, but he needs you to stay still in his bedroom and to start giving him those confused yet passionate eyes again- Idris doesn't know whether or not you're in love with him or is just acting in instinct considering your current position, and he soon will find himself begging for you to truly give in to this weird fantasy he has built around you two- But for now, all that he wants is the smallest affection that may come from you, even if it's not as true and morally correct as true love is supposed to be.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

#yandere #sheep's stuff #yandere oc #yandere vampire #yandere x reader #yandere vampire x reader #yandere male x male reader #yandere male #male reader #yandere male x reader #yandere monster #yandere headcanon #yandere oc headcanon #special delivery headcanons #special delivery request

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krisingtons · 3 years ago

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So I got a sick!Izuku cared for by powered All Might request a while back from @nanami85240 that I've been hanging onto for a while. For reasons, I don't normally write powered Dadmight, but I took a stab at it! I felt like it fit Tumblr a bit better for no particular reason, so enjoy!

He's Fine

(Dadmight Sick fic)

Something’s off about Midoriya today. All Might can tell.

He’d grown accustomed to his protege’s moods and abilities over the course of their ten months of training. The boy has an excess of spirit, a spirit that will serve him well as a hero but causes problems as a hero in training. If only All Might could get Midoriya to pace himself on his own rather than needing to readjust his regime again. And again. And again.

So All Might can tell that something is off about Midoriya today. To the untrained eyes of his new classmates, nothing seems amiss. They continue the exercise All Might set for them in Heroics as if everything is fine, thinking only ahead to the upcoming Sports Festival in their determination and not behind to the disastrous USJ attack.

The attack that almost took All Might and Midoriya both.

All Might had been right that he could only hold his powered form for an hour after that, although if he didn’t fight at all in it, he could maybe stretch it to an hour and a half. It was a stretch, but he did it for the citizens, the students. For his successor.

So when All Might sees Midoriya’s sluggish movements and his glassy eyes, unnoticed by his classmates, All Might sucks in his gut even more, determined to keep his protective armor on.

Now he wears it for him and Midoriya equally.

Had he noticed the problem a split second earlier, All Might would have had the sense to stop the exercise and pull Midoriya out to assess the situation. But he’s still new to teaching and he still wants to encourage his student’s spirit and he still doesn’t want to single Midoriya out, so he hesitates. And that moment of hesitation is all it takes for the boy to collapse on the field, much to the surprise of the other students.

“Shit,” All Might mutters. He leaves the observation booth in a leap and lands right at Midoriya’s side. The boy pants heavily, attempting to lift himself up with his newly-muscular arms but fails spectacularly.

“What seems to be the problem here, young Midoriya?” All Might hears himself boom as his mind whirls with concern. Is anything broken? Is he dehydrated? Does he have cuts? Did someone hit him too hard? Midoriya once fell off a pile of trash during their training, and although the situation now seems much less dire than that, the concern All Might feels has somehow only grown stronger.

When the boy attempts to speak, perhaps to say, “I’m fine” but in a way that indicates he clearly is not fine, All Might leans over his small, fragile body to keep prying eyes away. “It’s okay, young Midoriya, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, quieter than he normally speaks in this form. Before he can question himself, before he remembers that UA has designated medical robots to take students to the infirmary, he scoops up Midoriya into his arms. It poses no strain at all, really, even if he’s been in this form for forty-five minutes already, but he notices how much stockier his successor has become since the time he fell off the trash.

“Alright, class, keep going with the exercise! Young Iida, watch over everyone for now.” Before anyone can question it, All Might leaps into the air and is gone.

He’s at the infirmary in no time, but to his dismay, he doesn’t see Recovery Girl right away. With a cough, he adjusts himself to keep the hold on his muscular form, not wanting to drop it yet. Not yet.

All the cots are open, so he sets Midoriya down on the one by the window. He’s been here enough to know that Midoriya prefers that cot, and knowing that sends a jolt of guilt through All Might. His successor has been here far too many times already. Now, though, it’s not through his heroics but through… what? All Might still doesn’t know.

Midoriya groans as he blinks his eyes open, peering about the room. All Might finds a cup and a pitcher of water, pouring it for the boy and handing him the glass.

“Here. Have some water and tell me what’s going on, young man.” Midoriya blinks a few times, takes the cup from All Might’s large hand and has a sip. He sits up, then stares down at the bed with a flush on his face. Before Midoriya can say anything, All Might brings a large hand to the boy’s forehead and frowns.

“You have a fever,” he says flatly. Midoriya’s face falls, as if he knew that already. “Be honest, young Midoriya: did you know you had a fever when you came to class today?” The boy flinches.

“I… kind of woke up feeling bad. But I didn’t think I had a fever, I swear!” the boy cries, his wide eyes pleading to All Might. “I felt fine most of this morning, but I don’t know, the heat was just a lot. I’m fine, I swear!”

“You’re not fine,” All Might scolds, causing Midoriya to shrink a bit. “You passed out in the middle of a training exercise. What if that had been a real battle, young man?” What if that had been the USJ? All Might thinks.

“I’m- I’m sorry, All Might. You’re right.” Midoriya says this in a way that indicates he’s not so sure if he believes All Might is right, but he’s also not yet at the point of refuting his hero. Then, his face scrunches up in confusion as he looks up at All Might. “Um, should you still be holding your hero form like that? I don’t want to make you use your time limit,” he whispers. All Might shakes his head.

“Nonsense, young Midoriya! You’re not feeling well, and that means I’m still on the job, so of course I’d still be a hero! Besides,” he adds in a lowered voice, “we don’t know who might come back with Recovery Girl whenever she returns, so it’d be best to not risk it.”

Midoriya nods as if that makes sense, but All Might knows that’s not the full truth of it. He doesn’t admit this, not even to himself, but as he stares at his successor in this cot, his mind flashes to him bandaged and broken after the USJ. All Might’s insides turn at his recent conversation with Tsukauchi and the implication of who created the nomu, and what that means for the boy lying in this bed. All Might’s mind whirls with all the dangers that could befall this boy before him, this boy he chose for these dangers, and the longer he knows him, the heavier the dread becomes at what could befall him.

So, All Might can stay in this form a little while longer. He needs to be ready to protect his student. He’ll protect him this time.

All Might’s pulled from his thoughts when he sees Midoriya almost drop the half-full cup of water, his eyes falling closed. His smile feels a little less strained at the sight of it, a little more genuine. It feels strange, but nice, to hold a genuine smile in this form.

“Young Midoriya, lie down. Go ahead and rest until Recovery Girl returns.” As Midoriya curls up on his side, All Might grabs the blankets and another pillow from one of the other cots. He sets the pillow gently by the boy’s arms, which prompts the kid to grab it and hold it close. Then, All Might draps the extra blankets over him. He shivers when they make contact, then settles into the bed. Soon enough, he’s asleep.

All Might pulls out his phone and calls Aizawa.

“Aizawa, it’s All Might. I need you to watch Class 1-A for me for the rest of Heroics. Midoriya came down with something and Recovery Girl isn’t back yet to check on him.” He pauses as he listens to the voice on the other end. “No, no, I’ll stay here,” All Might assures his colleague. “The class already has their assignment, so they just need someone to spot them. There’s no sense in us both moving around when I’m already here. Besides, there’s not much time left.” After begrudging agreement from the fellow teacher, he ends the call with a, “Thank you, Aizawa.”

After he ends the call, it still takes a while for Recovery Girl to come back. Later, All Might realizes that he’s held his hero form for longer today than he had since the USJ. But he’s fine, he feels fine. He doesn’t think much of it at all, honestly. He’s only watching the boy in the bed, the boy who was too stubborn to stay home when sick, the boy that All Might knows will be a wonderful hero someday.

But for now, since he can, All Might will stay vigilant over his boy. For now, he’ll ignore the fact that young Midoriya has become “his” boy somewhere along the way. For now, he’ll pretend like he’d react the same way with any student. And for now, he’ll silently hope that Midoriya feels better soon, not wanting him to hurt any more.

#dadmight #all might #izuku midoriya #bnha fanfiction #self promo #fic request #sickfic

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years ago

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Washing Machine Heart

Day 22, Story #2 is by @rosequartzstarswrites

Title: Washing Machine Heart Author/Artist: rosequartzstars - @rosequartzstarswrites (Because of Tumblr settings, this is posting from my main blog, but it’s me!) Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (and background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger) Prompt: 5+1 Rating: T (only for some strong language and non-explicit insinuations) Trigger Warning(s) (if any): none apply!

“I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” huffed Hermione, struggling to keep up the brisk pace Ron was marking on the sidewalk.

“You never believed you’d have to, did you?” Ron said gleefully, seemingly unaware of just how hard his long-legged strides were to keep up with.

“You never told me you were that good at chess!”

“No, more like you never thought anyone could be better than you at anything!”

Despite only having been friends, close friends, with them for a semester, Harry had already become accustomed to the constant bickering between Ron and Hermione, to the point even of endearment. Coming from the Dursleys’, arguments and rebukes were something he was used to, but the undertone of friendship with which Ron and Hermione faced off was a welcome change (and a very entertaining one). Still, he tended to side quietly with Ron, and this particular time was no exception: part of him was delighted at the prospect of seeing Hermione get a tattoo.

This had all started from a ridiculous bet, born of boredom in the lounge of their dorm building. Ron had eyed the communal chessboard, battered and chipped from years of usage, and challenged Hermione to a match.

Hermione had scoffed: “Only if you want to lose, Ron.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ron had said, exchanging a look with Harry as a sly smile crept onto his lips.

“I’m completely certain.”

“Certain enough to bet?” Ron had prodded her.

The competitiveness that, before becoming friends, was all Harry had known of Hermione had flared up in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“When you lose—”

“If I lose, and I won't—”

“When you lose,” Ron had reiterated, “you have to get a tattoo of my choosing.”

Hermione had smirked. “Game on.”

In Hermione’s defense, Harry thought, she hadn’t ever considered she might lose. There really was no way of expecting how good Ron had turned out to be at chess, especially since —Harry thought— Hermione had based her certainty on how abysmal his grades were, against her own straight A’s, in their proofs-based mathematics class, which relied entirely on strength of reasoning. But, as it turned out, Ron was actually a master logician, if only somewhat lazy at his math classes, and this he had proved by absolutely obliterating Hermione with the fastest checkmate Harry had ever borne witness to.

And that is how they had come to find themselves out on the streets of their little college town that night, wrapped in their scarves and their winter coats to battle the first of the December chill, walking to a tattoo parlor Ron knew in the area so Hermione could be forever reminded of her loss by a tattoo Ron would choose. And if Harry knew Ron well, and knew how much he relished teasing Hermione, the reminder would be a strong one.

“I didn’t even want a tattoo,” Hermione was mumbling, more to herself than at either of them. “I never wanted one— did you know that you might not be eligible to donate blood if you have a tattoo? I mean, not that it’s impossible, but it’s a factor against you, like your weight and your age. And my family has a history of needing transfusions— oh, God, what if my grandfather needs a donation, like, tomorrow? The three-month period of eligibility won’t have elapsed, and my father can’t donate, and– and–” She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, God, have I killed my grandfather?”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, throwing a fraternal arm around her shoulders and squeezing her half in an attempt to get her walking again. “You’re halfway across the country from home. You wouldn’t be able to fly out on such short notice anyway.”

Harry had to stifle a laugh at how Hermione gaped at Ron then, a billion other dire possibilities to worry about racing through her head now. Ron, however, was less successful at keeping down a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Hermione. Besides, a tattoo will make you look badass.”

“I don’t want to look badass!” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “I’ve never been remotely interested in looking badass!”

“Well, interested or not,” Ron said as they came up to a dark brick building with a neon sign reading LOVEGOOD’S flickering above the door, “it seems like you don’t have much of a choice, because we’re here.”

Hermione let out a noise that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a whine as she looked up at the storefront that, to her, was synonymous not only with her doom but apparently that of her grandfather.

“Ron, please?” she said meekly.

Ron, however, looked gleeful and would not be deterred. “A bet’s a bet,” he declared, grabbing her wrist and beginning to march her up the three or so stairs that led up to the door of the tattoo parlor from the sidewalk. Harry lingered behind for an instant, watching the backs of his two friends as they waddled up the stairs, smiling as he listened to Ron debate whether he would make Hermione get a skull or a sailor’s “Mom” arrow-pierced heart, and Hermione pleading shrilly with him not to do either of those things. Watching them, Harry’s smile widened. He was lucky to have them as friends, that much he knew, despite the short time he’d spent knowing them. Why he hadn’t found them his freshman year was beyond him— but now, now that he had these wacky outings and constant bickering to enjoy, he felt overwhelmingly lucky that they had found him.

“Harry, are you coming in or what?” Ron beckoned him. He had stopped on the topmost step and was still gripping Hermione, whose face was a mask of pure, crystallized terror.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, hurrying up the steps with a little hop. “This I’ve got to see.”

Ron pushed open the door to the parlor with a little too much gusto, and Hermione cringed at the metallic sound of the chimes above the door as they tinkled with the announcement of their entrance. The front of the shop, sealing off the rest with a counter that had seen better days, was empty, the backroom separated by a beaded curtain.

“Hellooo?” Ron called into the backroom, marching right up to the counter. “Is anybody here? We bring a very eager customer!”

Hermione began to protest, but just as she did, an employee came out of the backroom to stand behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of her, Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest: she was stunning. She was tall and slender, her toned arms visible through the ripped-off sleeves of her vintage Hole tee, with a curtain of straight orange hair pulled back into a long high ponytail. Her bright brown eyes glimmered atop a button-like nose that matched her small, round mouth perfectly, the pale fine face finished by a spattering of freckles. Even before she had spoken a single word, Harry felt the confidence coming off of her in waves, simply by how she propped her elbows up on the counter and eyed their party somewhat playfully. He was frozen to his place with the sight of her, hoping his jaw hadn’t dropped as low as it had felt in the wake of his awe.

Upon seeing her, however, Ron had had exactly the opposite reaction. “Ginny?” he said incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” the woman —Ginny— said without any greeting, returning Ron’s frown.

“I thought you weren’t working today!”

“I’m covering a shift for Demelza, she had a gyn appointment today.”

“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have come in,” grumbled Ron. The tips of his ears were beginning to pink, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as a hint of extreme emotion in his friend.

“Well, you’re here now, so… what can I do for you?” Ginny said. “I mean, you can’t possibly be the one getting inked, Ron. You’re too much of a wimp.”

“Shut up, or I’m telling mom you got your helix pierced. That’ll make for a fun Christmas greeting when we’re back home, I’ll wager.”

Then the similarity became apparent to Harry: the freckles, the aggressive red of their hair, the same glint in their eyes… Ginny was Ron’s sister. Somehow, he didn’t know whether that was something he should feel good or bad about.

“Tattletale,” Ginny said, swatting at him. “And it’s called an industrial piercing. Not that you’d know.” Only then did she seem to remark on the rest of the party.

“Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry gulped as she crossed her muscular arms over her chest and leaned back, surveying him. “Come to get a sixth tattoo?”

“A sixth— how do you know?” Harry said, befuddled. Out of all the opening lines he would’ve expected her to use, this had not been one of them.

“You can credit the rumor mill at school,” Ginny shrugged, still eyeing him with interest. “You’re a topic of interest. Or at least among the soccer teams.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Romilda swore you had a griffin tattooed on your chest, but I told her I’d heard it was a dragon. Much more macho, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully. What else was he supposed to say?

“Don’t mention it,” Ginny gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And if I were you, I’d find out who on the boys’ team has been giving you the eye in the shower enough to count your tats. I bet it’s Ron.”

“It’s not!” Ron said angrily, the red from his ears bleeding out onto his cheeks.

“I bet it is,” Ginny mouthed to Harry, giving him another wink. “But it’s not you?”

“Pardon?” said Harry, for whom the ‘it-is-it’s-not’ exchange had grown somewhat confusing.

“For the tattoo?” Ginny said, and Harry felt like an idiot. “It’s not you who’s getting it?”

“No, ah, actually— it’s Hermione,” Harry was knocked back into his senses as he gestured toward Hermione, who had stood, utterly baffled, throughout that whole exchange.

“Hermione Granger?” Ginny said, and Harry was almost glad when she turned her gaze away from him and toward Hermione. “As in, Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger?”

“The one and only,” Ron declared proudly, happy to be back off a topic that bothered him (teasing Ron) and back on a topic that delighted him (teasing Hermione).

“I wouldn’t have chalked you up to the tattoo type,” Ginny said.

“Oh, she’s not,” Ron said, his face lighting up as if Christmas had come early.

Ginny’s eyes darted between the dismal face of Hermione and the cheerful face of Ron, her eyebrows rising as she took it in. “Okay, I’m not going to ask about whatever this is. What am I doing on you?”

“I’m designing it,” Ron said brightly. And if Harry had thought that Hermione’s face couldn’t get more desolated, he’d been wrong.

“Christ, Hermione, what has he got on you?” Ginny said, already opening a drawer on the counter to pull out a sketchpad and a pen.

“I’m such an idiot,” Hermione grumbled.

Ron pored over the sketchpad, shielding the paper from Hermione’s eyes as he sketched. When he was done, he handed it to Ginny with a quick flick of the wrist that, much to Hermione’s dismay, ensured she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what was on it. Ginny looked over whatever it was Ron had drawn and then looked up at her brother with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then,” Ginny shrugged. She lifted the counter to open a gap through which Hermione could walk. “Follow me.”

Looking like a lamb led to the slaughter, Hermione looked up to heaven as if making one last, futile plea before scrunching up her nose and following Ginny through the beaded curtain to the backroom. Because yes, she hated the idea of getting a tattoo, but she hated the idea of letting Ron hold one over her even more.

Ron watched her leave delightedly, relishing in the jangle the beaded curtain made as it swallowed Ginny and Hermione into the backroom. “This is going to be good,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden. He startled himself as much as Ron when he said it, though he was glad he’d been able to pare down the question from what was actually swirling around in his head: Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister that looked like THAT?

Ron looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

“You told me about every other one of your five brothers, but not the sister.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age and plays soccer.“ And is hot.

"Nope.” Ron paused and frowned. “She’s a year below us, anyway.”

“Oh, then that explains it,” Harry said sarcastically.

“It seemed like more of a second-semester-of-friendship revelation.”

“I see.”

Harry held the silence between them for a few moments more before he allowed the next question out. “She plays soccer?”

“One more of the long line of Weasleys that get athletic scholarships to Hogwarts College. Except for Percy— no, he was a disgrace, he got in on an academic grant.”

“The family disappointment, truly.”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but he held his tongue. His friendship with Ron was the most precious thing his sophomore year of college had yielded him, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by prying further or making it seem like he had the hots for his sister. Even though he did. He suffocated that small voice at the back of his mind: he hadn’t even spoken properly to Ginny, just stood there like an idiot and let her quip freely about his tattoos— which, mind him, apparently were fodder for locker talk back at Hogwarts.

The buzz of the needle in the backroom as it started up brought Harry out of his thoughts, just in time to see a shit-eating grin appear on Ron’s face.

“I wish I could see her face right now,” he said gleefully, and Harry let himself stop thinking about Ginny to join Ron in picturing what Hermione Granger must look like seated in a tattoo parlor chair.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” admitted Hermione as they exited the tattoo parlor and went down the little steps back onto the sidewalk.

Despite his pretensions of malice, Ron’s nobility (which had never been in question, even despite his teasing) had shone through and yielded a considerably modest tattoo: a small, capital “R” in his own handwriting. Hermione, who had almost cried with relief after Ginny showed her the design, had chosen to get it on her left thigh, on the side and at the very top, right under her hipbone.

“Why did you get it there?” Harry asked as they resumed their brisk walk back to campus.

“It’s not a place you usually show. That means if a sleeve shifts or an interviewer sees, I don’t know, my ankle or something, they won’t notice it.”

“As if a tiny ‘R’ would disqualify anyone from a job, let alone you,” snorted Ron.

“Professionalism is a virtue, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, though her cheeks had gone red. “Besides, since that part of me is always covered, I’ll save myself from having to explain the story behind it to anyone that spots it.”

“Yeah, except the bloke that eventually undresses you and sees you in your panties. Try explaining what that 'R’ means to him,” said Ron. But Harry suspected Hermione wouldn’t have to: from how Ron’s eyes had widened and his gaze had lingered when Hermione had pulled down the side of her jeans ever so slightly to show them the finished product, exposing a sliver of her underwear, Harry could almost wager that Ron would be the bloke in question.

They walked in animated chatter for the rest of the way, the tattoo forgotten until Ron made a quip about Hermione now having crossed the gateway to joining a biker gang and Hermione going positively beet-red in the face with outrage. Then Harry, his hands in his pockets, simply smirked to himself and resigned himself to their bickering for the rest of the walk, knowing he was no longer needed in their exchange. Instead, he let his mind drift to Ginny. She hadn’t really spoken to him again, merely ducking out from the beaded curtain backroom and instructing Hermione on how to take care of her tattoo, saying only a general goodbye to the three of them as they exited the shop. There had been nothing in Ginny’s manner to suggest that she might be thinking of him as strongly, as irremediably, as he was of her, and yet there he was.

The main quad was mostly deserted, except for a few scattered groups of late-night library frequenters or sneaking couples, as the three of them crossed it to get to their dorm. Ron and Hermione didn’t stop arguing as they climbed the four flights up to their floor (the elevator, as usual, was broken), and only broke it off because Hermione reached her room before the boys reached theirs, slipping inside it and shutting the door before Ron had a chance to get the last word in.

“Well, that went well,” Ron shrugged as he and Harry kept walking down the hall to their room.

“You actually got her to get a tattoo,” Harry said with some admiration as they reached their door.

Ron grinned as he swiped the key card. “I may drive her crazy, but if anyone was going to get her to do something like that, it was going to be me.”

Ron pushed the door open and let them into their dorm room. He closed the door and, without taking off his coat, immediately flopped onto his bed— or, well, what could be seen of the bed under mountains of dirty or otherwise discarded clothes. Away from his mother’s chore-mongering for the first time, Ron had let himself go wild and go to the other extreme, but even Harry had to admit that the army of socks draped over the foot of his bed was beginning to smell a little stale.

“So,” Ron said, propping his head up, “no parties tonight?”

“Well, it’s a Wednesday,” Harry said.

“So what? There’s no party spirit around here?”

“Ron, it’s the last Wednesday before final exams. People are studying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was rooming with Hermione,” Ron grumbled. Harry had to admit she might have gotten to him a little. However, Ron’s irritation was short-lived, a grin appearing on his face again. “Wait, but we’re not people. We’re not studying.”

Harry surveyed the room and, despite his desire to throw in the towel for the night and have fun with Ron, felt a pang of dismay at just how much grosser it would be if they caved and did that (last time they had, they’d had a Pringle-eating contest, with devastating results for their sheets, which still had some crumbs). “No, Ron. We’re doing laundry.”

Ron groaned. “Jeez, now I’m rooming with my mother.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to do the laundry. I’ll do it for the both of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go hang out with Dean and Seamus or whatever, see if you can get Hermione to do her second wild-card act of the day and make her stop studying to hang out with the guys.”

“Now I’m a man with a mission,” Ron said, perking up in delight at the prospect of teasing Hermione, or even seeing her once more that night.

“Just shove your clothes in the laundry bag before you go, won’t you? I don’t want to touch your nasty briefs more than I have to.”

Ron obliged, tossing all the clothes on and around his bed into his orange laundry bag and pulling the drawstring to close it. “I’ll update you on the Hermione thing,” he said cheerfully, hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the left to the room they’d left Hermione in.

Harry laughed to himself, wondering how long it was going to take Ron to realize why exactly he always seemed so eager to do anything Hermione-related, as he too threw his dirty clothes into a checkered drawstring laundry bag. Then, he hoisted one sack over each of his shoulders and opened the door using his ankle and leg to let himself out, his hands full with the laundry bags. He stifled a smirk as he passed Hermione’s room and heard the familiar bubbling sound of she and Ron rowing. If Harry knew her at all, he knew however much she might argue she’d be out of that room in an hour tops.

He groaned as he looked down the stairs, and rued the day he had been placed in the dorm with the shittiest elevator on campus. Resigning himself, he began to walk slowly down the poorly-lit stairs to the basement, where the laundry room was. However inconvenient this descent was, Harry was at least comforted with the knowledge that the laundry room would not be crowded, which would be the greater inconvenience once the elevator was fixed.

The basement was even dimmer, the white lights flickering and buzzing with electricity as Harry walked to the laundry room almost at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the laundry room was deserted, oddly quiet with none of the familiar hum and rattle of the machines as they worked. Harry knelt in front of a washing machine and began unloading the contents of the laundry bags into it, cramming them in so they’d fit because he sure as hell wasn’t shelling out quarters for two washers. When he’d made it all fit (which had involved the use of force to jam the door shut), he went to the shelf that held the communal detergent and poured it into the soap compartment. With that done, he dug out eight quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the washer’s slot, pressing the “Start Cycle” button when he heard the clink that let him know his quarters had been accepted. The washer rumbled slowly to life, jets of water trickling out as it began to spin in one direction and then the other, and it was a couple minutes before it was spinning at a hearty pace.

Rising from his crouch (he had always liked to watch the washing machine as it booted up to wash in earnest), Harry took the laundry bags and turned to head back upstairs, already thinking of what he might do to pass the time in the hour he had before he had to switch the clothes to the dryer.

He was so caught up in thinking of this that he didn’t see the person entering the laundry room at the same time as he was exiting, which ended in an awkward clash between them.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry too— Harry?”

Only then did Harry realize who he had bumped into, and only because she kept standing there did he believe it. “Ginny?”

She still wore her Hole shirt, but had discarded the ripped jeans, combat boots, and round-the-waist flannel he’d seen at the tattoo parlor. Instead, she wore frayed gray sweatpants and flip-flops, her hair pulled up from the long ponytail into a messy bun. She, however, somehow still managed to look almost unbearably beautiful. What’s happening to me?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the only thing he could think of right that second. Spotting the laundry basket she was cradling, he added: “No laundry in your dorm?”

“No, yeah, there is one, but it’s always too crowded, it being a freshman dorm and all.” Harry nodded: his first year, he too had done entirely more laundry than he had to, and was thankful by the quarters he saved just by realizing he could wear a pair of pants more than once before they were dirty. “So I use the one here. Much quieter. I know Ron’s ID and password—”

“You do?”

“He gave it to me once so I could pick up his books from the library. And my memory’s great.” She gave him a half smile and looked beyond him at the laundry room. “Doing laundry?”

“No, I just like the ambience down here. The shitty lighting and bleach smell are really my style,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, and Harry felt a rush of pride at what was probably the first witty thing he’d ever said to her. “Need a hand?”

“I’d appreciate one, sure,” Ginny said, again smiling at him. Harry moved so she could walk into the laundry room, and watched her pick one of the washing machines that lined the wall. When she’d settled on one, he crouched down next to her and help her lob the clothes into the maw of the machine.

“Tattoo parlor let out early?” he asked as they placed the clothes inside.

“More like you guys came in really late. You were my last customers— I just cleaned up and closed after you left.”

“And you work there?”

“Sure beats a regular work-study, doesn’t it?” Ginny grinned. She tossed in a Tide pod that was left at the bottom of the basket, closed the door to the machine, and rose to find the quarters needed to activate it. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet in my other pants—”

“I got you,” said Harry, digging for eight more quarters in his pocket. For once, he was glad of his bad habit of carrying an excess of loose change in his jeans, something Hermione already got on to him about (sometimes, like when she’d gifted him a money purse, not too subtly).

“Thanks,” Ginny said, picking the laundry basket up from the ground.

Harry listened for the telling clink and then pressed the button. The washing machine whirred to a start, but for once, Harry didn’t feel compelled to watch it boot up: instead, he turned to Ginny. “So how did you come to work there?”

“At the tat shop?” Ginny asked, hopping to sit on the top of the washer where her clothes were spinning. “My friend Luna’s dad, Xenophilius—”

“Gesundheit.”

“Shut up,” Ginny said, but the hint of a laugh was (to Harry’s satisfaction) visible on her lips again. “Anyway, Xenophilius owns the place. He set up in a college town because he knows college is the first time kids are truly free to make rash, impulse decisions.”

“Like getting a tattoo?”

“Exactly. And besides, all the college students love his New Age bullshit, they think it’s very 70s, so his shop is always full. He got a big boost after he started placing crystals in the shop windows.”

“He’s in with the kids, then?”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll be mortified. But he’s great, really. A little eccentric, but great. He knows me from when Luna and I took an art class together in 10th grade, and he’s always complimented my art, so he helped me get my tattoo artist license as soon as I turned 18 and hired me.”

“Is Luna the girl with the shaggy blond hair and the weird glasses?”

“That’s her. Though I’m surprised you didn’t know her by her bottlecap necklaces. That’s usually what people comment on.”

“Does she work there too?”

“Yeah, though not as an inker, she’s useless with a needle. She designs a big chunk of the tattoos, though, both original designs and commissions or requests.”

“That’s awesome,” Harry said. He realized that was the first time through the whole conversation that he had stopped. He’d never hesitated on what to say next: conversation with Ginny had flowed easily, naturally, and he hadn’t had to think too hard to keep it going. Still, he was a little disappointed that it had stopped. Ginny, however, seemed to share in this, because rather than say goodbye and take her leave, she opened up a new topic.

“So how long have you and Ron been friends?”

“Er– since the start of this school year, actually.”

“Really? You’d think from how he talks about you, he’d known you forever.” Harry felt a flush of happiness at hearing that Ron talked about him.

“Well, I got him for a roommate this year, and we just clicked. Then it turned out we had a lot of the same classes. And we’re both on the soccer team, so it just got better from there.”

“It seems strange that you never crossed paths your freshman year.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, freshman year is weird for everyone. I certainly felt like I was just bouncing from one place to another. I still hang out with a lot of the guys from last year, but my friends have changed. It makes sense— the first year, everyone is trying to meet as many people as possible, as if it’s a race, but by sophomore year you know more of what you want and what you’re looking for. In a way, I’m glad I met Ron now that I’m in a more stable place, now that I know my way around the college and have a better grip on things. I have a feeling he’s a friend I’m gonna keep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sticking around the Weasleys,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a tingle run up his spine. Was she… flirting with him? “And Hermione?”

“Oh, Hermione’s great, Ron and I would be dead by now if not for her— I don’t know how I got through a full year without her.”

“But she’s very different from you guys, isn’t she?”

“Well— on the surface, sure, but not in the things that matter. The fact that she went through with the tattoo tonight when she could’ve kicked up a fuss and bailed out tells you all you need to know.”

“So what I’m hearing is that Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger is as much of a bonehead as my brother at heart?”

“Stubborn, is the word I’d use. And only when Ron’s involved, actually.”

Ginny smirked. “Idiots. They haven’t even realized it.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. “You think it too?”

“Oh, I’d bet on it. Ten bucks says they’re together by the end of the year.”

“Hey, did our visit by the parlor today teach you nothing about bets? They can be dangerous.”

“But I’m betting against you, aren’t I?” The way she said you made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Fine, not ten bucks. But I’ll bet you a load of laundry, how’s that?”

“Deal,” said Harry, taking Ginny’s extended hand to shake it. The touch of her palm, with its long, slender fingers, sent warmth coursing down from his hand and the length of his arm. They let go and dropped hands, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance in Ginny as they did.

Harry leaned against the washer, his propped elbow almost brushing up against her thigh. “How about you? How’s your first year going so far?”

Ginny winced. “As well as you’d expect, I suppose. Lots of people still behave like it’s an extension of high school, and I’m very much over that. But as things go, I’m having a blast. Being on the soccer team certainly helps.”

“Congratulations on that scholarship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, her wide smile revealing a row of perfect, square white teeth. “You’re on a scholarship too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My aunt and uncle would’ve never paid a single cent for me to go to college, so it was the only way. But I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me anyway.”

“They sound like lovely people,” Ginny said sarcastically.

“I should introduce them to this Xenophilius sometime. My uncle Vernon would have a stroke just walking into that shop.”

“Well, if you ever swing by, you have an insider contact,” Ginny offered, and Harry loved the implication of something, even something as simple as an 'insider contact’, between just the two of them. “I’d be happy to arrange a meeting, especially for such esteemed patrons.”

“I might take you up on that, if I ever planned on seeing them again,” Harry said. The words came out a bit more harshly than he’d expected, and the second silence in their talk set in, brought on by the darker implications of his family situation. Desperate to break it, Harry cleared his throat and geared up to talk again: “So, do you have any tattoos?”

He was relieved to see the smile, that coy, almost lopsided smile, appear on Ginny’s face again. “Actually, no, not a single one.”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Ginny thought for a second. “I might, if something meaningful enough came around. And only if I was 200% sure. But really, I feel like one tattoo would lead to another, and then I’d never stop and run out of room on my skin. So it’s more of a containment mechanism, really.”

Harry smirked. “Hm. Interesting.”

Ginny broke out onto a full grin as she watched him. “What?” she asked, but when Harry’s smirk only deepened, she shoved him playfully, her touch on his shoulders eliciting the same warm sensation as the handshake. “What, Potter, tell me! Why is it interesting?”

“I mean, since you work at a tattoo shop, and you’re wearing a Hole t-shirt, I just thought you might be the type—”

“The Hole tee? Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna gatekeep it, like you’re the type of guy who’d be like 'name three songs'—”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a lot of music by Hole. I really only know who they are because of that one Fall Out Boy song Courtney Love was featured in—”

Ginny winced. “Not Fall Out Boy, please.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”

“Harry—”

“I know they get a lot of shit, but really, their first albums are pretty good—”

“Harry, you’ve gotta stop right here, or you’re going to make me stop finding you so attractive.”

And just like that, there it was, out in the open. Harry felt stun: he felt his mouth open to offer a witty retort, but no words came out. Because the girlish grin had evaporated from Ginny’s face and turned into a different, more mature look, her eyes smoldering slightly and her mouth slightly pouted.

“What about you?” she asked, her words slower, as if she was choosing each one individually. “If the soccer team gossip is true, I know you have five tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice having dropped as well. “Yeah, there were a few tat shops around my neighborhood where the rules were pretty lax.”

“What are they?” Ginny asked.

“The tattoos? Well, the first ones I ever got were my mom and dad’s birth and death dates, on my wrist,” Harry said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to display two small lines of numbers, in plain black ink, on his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said softly.

“Don’t be, I was really small when it happened. But I still wanted to pay them homage. Anyway, I’ll not bore you with my family history right now.”

“But tell me sometime?”

Harry was ecstatic at the implication that Ginny wanted to spend even more time with him. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at her. “Yeah, I will.” He moved on to the second tattoo, shifting the other sleeve up a bit to show Ginny a small black paw print in the center of his wrist. “This was my third one. My godfather was the only person my aunt and uncle would let me see while I was growing up, and even then only because he threatened them. And he had this huge, black shaggy dog, I think it was a Newfoundland, that looked almost like a bear, named Padfoot. I loved that dog, and every time I think of the happiest moments growing up, Padfoot’s in a lot of them. So when he died when I was sixteen, I got this to remember him by. It seems like a tribute to my godfather, too, so I like it doubly.”

He didn’t need encouragement from Ginny to keep going. He raised his left leg and propped it up on the washing machine by where Ginny’s legs hung, rolling his sock down a bit to show a green, line-art tuft of grass snaking above his ankle. ��I got this when I got the soccer scholarship to come here. I wanted something to commemorate soccer, seeing as it’s not only, y'know, my passion, but also what got me out of that damn house for good. But I thought something like a soccer ball or a net or even the pitch outline would be too cheesy, so I got a bit of grass, y'know, as in the field…”

“Tasteful,” Ginny nodded her approval, and Harry felt newfound appreciation for that tattoo. “That’s three down, Potter.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry brought his leg down from the washer and turned his back to Ginny, taking his hand up to the nape of his neck and using it to shift the hair there upward to reveal the back of his neck where it turned into his back. “Can you see it?”

“The little lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the story of that?”

“That was my second one. To be honest, I was a little ink-happy after my first one, so a couple of weeks after I got it I went back and got this.”

“But why a lightning bolt?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, turning back around to face her. “I guess it was just cool.”

“Oh, very,” Ginny said, and the edge in her voice let him know she was teasing him. “That leaves us with one, then. The emblematic chest tattoo.” Again, the playfulness disappeared from her face and was replaced by that strange look, the one Harry couldn’t really decipher but really, really liked. “Tell me, then, Harry— is Romilda Vane right?”

It was only because of the suggestiveness in Ginny’s voice and the permanence of that look on her face that Harry did what he did next. His movements slow, he pulled his shirt off over his head, setting it on the washing machine right by where Ginny sat. He heard Ginny draw in a breath and it hitch in her throat as she saw him, her eyes moving over his bare skin to spot the ink blot that had brought this all on. Curled above his right pec was a small, S-shaped dragon, colored in red and gold.

“I win,” Ginny said, her voice still husky, as she extended her left hand to touch the dragon with her fingertips.

“Are you going to tell Romilda?” Harry said, his own right hand settling lightly on Ginny’s thigh.

“No, actually,” Ginny said, her palm now coming down flat on Harry’s chest. Her other hand had also drifted to him, and she had placed it on Harry’s left side, right below his ribcage, as if to hold the side of his torso. “I think I’d rather keep this moment to myself.”

And then she was leaning in and kissing him, touching her lips to his first with tentative softness that turned into a stronger, more determined fire as the kiss deepened. With both of Ginny’s hands on Harry, and one of Harry’s on Ginny’s thigh and the other supporting the weight of the kiss against the solidity of the washer, they leaned into one another. Harry’s mouth sought out Ginny’s eagerly, overcome by the fiery feeling pooling in his stomach and rising up to his throat through his chest, by the fact that everything he’d thought about on their walk back from Lovegood’s was coming true much sooner (and much better) than he’d expected. He felt Ginny’s tongue nudge at his lips and opened his mouth to let her in, engulfing more of her lips with his as he did so. Ginny kissed passionately, her tongue meeting Harry’s even as her teeth dug lightly into Harry’s lower lip, making him kiss her more deeply. With her this close, he was invaded by the flowery smell of her hair, by the soft feel of her skin, by the low humming sound she made as she kissed him. And everything was coming together, making the fire in his chest grow, and it was a good kind of burn, better than whiskey, better than anything—

The loud ding of the washer as it announced it had concluded its cycle startled them, and they pulled back from the kiss looking a little dazed, that one upbeat chime having been all they needed to bring them reluctantly back into the real world. Still Ginny didn’t take her hands off Harry, and Harry felt less than inclined to move his from her leg.

“I should, uh, switch to the dryer,” he said, the only thing that popped into his mind there.

Ginny tightened her hold around his middle and moved her hand from his chest, wrapping it around his upper back to draw him closer. “Oh, let it wait,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, and Harry was finding that the dryer could wait for hell to freeze for all he cared.

The sleepy sound of the chimes above the door didn’t even make Ginny raise her gaze from her stats study guide, which she’d pulled out to make the best of the not-too-busy lull at Lovegood’s. “We’re almost closed,” she announced to whoever had come in.

“You can’t make room for one last customer?” a familiar voice said, and only then did Ginny perk up immediately.

“Harry!” she said brightly, shutting the stats book as it became all-but-forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to add one more tattoo to the five I’ve already got,” said Harry. “Think you can give me my sixth?”

Ginny didn’t even need to say yes, just opened up the lift-up counter door and disappeared through the beaded curtain. “Flip the door sign to 'closed’ before you come through, will you?”

Harry obliged and flipped the sign before following Ginny to the backroom. He sat patiently on the tattoo chair as Ginny milled about, getting the supplies ready.

“Y'know, you never did tell me the story behind your dragon tattoo,” Ginny commented as she went through the sterilization procedure for the needles. “Seeing as we were, um, otherwise occupied…”

The memory of the kiss flooded through Harry with the same fire that he’d held in his chest ever since, the flame growing to engulf his whole body just hearing Ginny mention it. “Should I tell you now?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I got it as a tribute to my old headmaster back home, Albus Dumbledore. Funny old man, and incredibly cryptic, but he’s the one that first gave me the idea of applying for the scholarship and helped me get all my grades and papers in order so I could make it here. We were very close, and he had this saying that he used to tell me whenever I ended up in his office for getting into trouble— 'never tickle a sleeping dragon’, he’d say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry laughed briefly and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But it was his catchphrase. So after I graduated, I wanted to get something to commemorate him, so I got the dragon from his favorite saying. He came with me and got it too.”

Ginny turned to him and eyed him quizzically. “Your headmaster got the tattoo along with you?”

“I told you he was a funny old man.”

Ginny pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her hands and rolled a wheeled office chair over to Harry, the needle in hand. “So by what I’m hearing, you only ever get tattoos of things that are extremely meaningful to you, right?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“So, Mr. Meaning, what’ll it be this time?”

Harry smiled. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it slightly upward, just enough to uncover his lower trunk. He pointed to a spot on the left side of his torso, right under his ribcage— right where Ginny’s hand had been, where her touch had been burned into his skin. “Right here,” he said. “I’d like a little washing machine.”

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #canon fest romantic #submission #hinny #harry x ginny #side romione

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shirophantomvox · 4 years ago

Text

Chrollo, Hisoka, and Illumi Headcanons

Chrollo, Hisoka, Illumi, and Leorio headcanons

Hello, anon! I am so sorry for taking longer than usual to respond to this post. I have been so busy with A LOT lately but I have time now! I don’t know if you want N/SFW, romantic or non so I’ll go based on what comes to mind! I know many Tumblr users have made these types of assumptions for them a lot but I wanted to join in. I started writing this last night so forgive me if there are any unbearable grammar errors. I hope you like it anon, I tried my best. I have to work on my headcanons for them because I try to keep them in character. Since we don’t have much background info on ⅔, I have to keep it as realistic as possible. FYI N/SFW content is mentioned.

Discord for Voltron and HxH fans

Let’s start with Chrollo.

Chrollo (SFW)

I’ve seen on here that a lot of you headcanon Chrollo to be an understanding man when it comes to feelings for his significant other. Given his soft voice and calm demeanor, I’m sure that is somewhat true.

It seems like Chrollo isn’t on board with over-the-top PDA meaning he would agree to hand-holding and his arm around you but nothing more. He saves the...other stuff for when you two are alone. Because of Chrollo’s past, it seems like he wouldn’t want to be seen in public that much because that can cause him to get caught by the authorities.

He takes your safety very seriously. You understand that when he is with the Phantom Troupe that you are not to interrupt until the business is over. He doesn’t allow you to get involved with the missions because of how dangerous they can be (example: the auction). He knows you can handle it, he prefers for you not to be involved. Feelings and work can make things difficult.

Although Chrollo hides in the shadows, I imagine he lives in a penthouse with expensive furniture, white and black color pattern, and large windows that have an astonishing view of Yorknew.

After you both have worked long and hard, you open the door just to see the lights dimmed so dark that it matches the night atmosphere. There are rose petals leading to the bathroom where a bubble bath is waiting. As you enter the bathroom, your boyfriend is waiting there, submerged in bubbles sticking his arms out. Candles light up the tiny room casting a romantic shadow from your body. You grab his hand and gently sit in the tub. The warm water felt amazing; it helped your aching muscles (from exercising) feel better. Chrollo gently grabbed your arm and pulled you into a warm, loving embrace. He wrapped his toned arms around your body and rested his chin on your shoulder. He didn’t say a word but instead breathed heavily, kissed your shoulder, and leaned back against the wall. On days like this, he didn’t say much but his actions spoke louder than words.

Chrollo NSFW

I think Chrollo is a passionate lover. This assumption comes from his calm demeanor. He seems to be incredibly patient so if you aren’t positioning yourself the right way or something, he’ll work with you to make sure you get it and you are comfortable.

He is touchy. That means during the nitty-gritty, he likes to touch your face, chin, lips, and your torso as a way to show more affection.

When he is in the mood, he moves slowly then very fast. He cannot resist the urges and feelings he has for you.

He loves to do this while the drapes are open although you have expressed that you like your privacy. It’s ironic. He doesn’t like extreme PDA but is ok with sleeping with you while the lights from the city shine near your penthouse window. Ah, guys are confusing.

After the climax, he lays flat on the bed and pulls you close. He leaves about an inch in between because heat is still radiating off your bodies and it’s summertime.

Hisoka (SFW) If his significant other was shy.

People have mixed feelings about Hisoka, feelings, and whether or not if he is gentle or not. I don’t think that Hisoka is gentle but begins to lay off the harsh jokes or pranks as he sees that you both have fought before and you’re not as weak as he thought.

Unlike Chrollo, he is all for PDA. This ranges from hand holding to playful kisses to passionate kisses. When I saw Hisoka for the first time, I immediately thought he was a fuck boy. A fuck boy is a boy that is only interested in sleeping with someone and doesn’t intend on pursuing a relationship.

He’d take the pleasure of appreciating your presence as well as testing your patience. If you are shy and are easily flustered, he will change that. He’ll do things like kissing you, calling you affectionate names, or anything that will cause you to respond. You hit him jokingly. Still not getting the message, he continues and you hit him harder. This is where he releases a medium moan which causes everyone to look in your direction. You freeze; face flushed and he’s laughing his ass off.

“What’s the matter,” he asks, covering his mouth. “You look flushed~♥.”

“You’re doing too much. Stop playing around! People are staring~💯.” You cover the side of your face. True enough you were a little mortified but in a good way. You knew he did this because he liked you but sometimes he played too much.

This is when he pulls you closer to his face, your ear next to his mouth, and whispers something in your ear that sent chills down your spine that made you blush more than before. He nearly puckered his lips as he spoke. He took his index finger and thumb to caress your cheek.

“Raising your voice at me? That simply won’t do. Aren’t you aware of the consequences~♥?”

You knew better than to not say anything because he would cup your cheeks and pull you into a deep kiss, and wouldn’t let go until he was sure that everyone was looking.

Both of you enjoy red, white, and rose wine. To him, wine equals classiness and sophistication. After fighting each other for hours (which he considers training for you and exercise for him) drinking wine and watching Lifetime (television for idiots) is a great way to end the night.

NSFW

As stated above, I originally thought that Hisoka was a fuck boy, so I am going to roll with that thought. This man has the potential of being rough and if he is too rough this is the time where you can speak up and say so. He’ll listen to you. Similar to Chrollo, he can be very romantic if he wants to. The rose petals gimmick was played out.

Instead, he hides in the darkest part of the living room waiting for you.

You turn on the lights and immediately head to the kitchen to drink a bottle of ice-cold water. Summer nights in Yorknew were hot and humid, almost unbearable. It felt like you were being suffocated. Becoming impatient, Hisoka clears his throat loudly causing you to nearly jump out of your skin; choking on the water you were drinking. He released a sexy chuckle. When you turned around, there stood your chiseled buff boyfriend bare with a ribbon tied in various directions around his body. Your birthday was two days ago and he was your gift. Although you have seen him like this before, for some reason you were too flustered to make a move. He already knew that you were tired from work, so he carried you in his arms to the Exercise Room and laid you gently on the floor. You smiled as a rush or passion took over your body resulting in you tearing off the ribbon tightly wrapped around his body. Since this was your birthday gift, he made it a night you’d remember forever! Surprisingly, no roughhousing, just soft and gentle. This proves that Hisoka has the capability of being humane. His strokes were to your liking and the gazes that you both exchanged were mind-blowing. Why couldn’t he be this way all the time? After it all, you fell asleep at her quickly. You were on the floor but now on top of your king-sized bed, with the message control on high. He stayed awake, watching TV, and thought about how he was going to pick a fight with you at the crack of dawn.

Hisoka’s ability to flirt and send the intended person swooning is a talent of itself. Lots of people do not possess this talent. Sometimes it's intentional and sometimes it's not. He speaks softly and smoothly, are he has to do is ask and it shall be done.

Illumi SFW

Illumi gives the impression that he is a “quiet” freak. This means that true enough he is focused on his job but if the moment comes along he will give in. He isn’t into PDA at all and if he does feel like showing some affection it will be done in private. Even though he appears to be a zombie, laying on or even cuddling with his significant other will help him relax for once. Imagine having to complete many missions in a day, exhausted, and have a wonderful person waiting to act as a human pillow for your weary head. Even Illumi can’t resist that.

If he likes you and plans to marry you, he will make that known to everyone to avoid confusion. Illumi represents the stereotypical shy boy; he is anti-social, prefers to only be around people he knows and trusts, and carries out the duties of his job.

After everything has been completed for the day, he wouldn’t mind ( and secretly begs) for silent cuddles with his significant other and to just fall asleep. At this point, you are used to it so this is all you want and you are satisfied. When he does talk, it’s usually about something he found out from work that he knows should be kept quiet but he tells you anyway. Late nights are the time of day where Illumi vents for a few hours. The details of these vent sessions could range anywhere from “I wish you were there to see it” to “No, it would be too much”. As quiet and reserve as he is, his love is shown in a unique way that you have grown accustomed to.

NSFW

When the urge slaps him across the face like a sack of rocks, he cannot resist. Usually, he fights off the urge by exercising (mainly because you are out of the house or sleep) but this time he couldn’t shake it.

Before he gets started with anything, he styles his long hair in the shape of a bun so it doesn’t get in the way of action.

Although he is portrayed to be an emotionless zombie, he has some feeling deep inside him that he unleashes just for you. This is shown by gentle moist kisses being placed along your neck and once he reaches your shoulder that is when you wake up. Halfway through your sleepy eyes, you see a man with a devilish smile painted across his face. Who is this man? This couldn’t be your boyfriend. No way, no how.

Once he sees your sleepy smile, he just releases so many kisses that you throw the blanket off and he pulls you in closer.

Illumi will allow you both to switch the roles meaning he is in charge one time and you are on another day. Since you were still asleep, he decided to take on the role. He is surprisingly gentle in the beginning but as soon as it takes off, your ride him like a donkey. It ironic; he releases more noises than you! You have to remind him that noise travels! Great, you’re doing your job well! While it is important to take your job seriously, you need to have time to release that stress.

He uses his large eyes to stare into yours; you always found yourself lost in his gaze.

After it all, you lay back down waiting for your boyfriend to return from the kitchen. Illumi craves food like crazy after a good session. What’s better than donuts at 3 AM? COMFORT FOOD!!

These urges also come when you two are training together. Several times he’s had to guide you from behind on how to aim his needles. This time you noticed the packing of his pants which surprised you.

“Any questions,” he asked in a monotone voice.

“Yes. Why did you wear jogging pants? You’re giving yourself away.”

It was at this moment, he knew he fucked up. But let’s be honest, ok? He is standing behind the most beautiful person in the world, nostrils full of perfume, hair tied up, and has his left hand placed loosely on your thigh?! What was he thinking by wearing jogging pants when he was with you? He acted as if he didn’t know what you were talking about.

“You really don’t know?”

You kicked your backside out against him causing him to fall to the ground.

“Wow! Your legs are like jelly!”

“Why tease me,” He asked breaking out a small smile.

“You’re the one denying it.”

“Just get to it. I can’t wait any longer or else I’ll explode.”

The quiet ones are always the freakiest.

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paper-n-ashes · 4 years ago

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sparks and embers - chapter 1

Characters: Poe Dameron x Original Female Character, Kylo Ren x Original Female Character

Story Tags: Explicit (18+), Canon Compliant/Divergent (Set after TLJ), First Person POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Porn with Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren hates Poe Dameron

Summary: Alexys is a doctor living a life of exclusivity on Raxus, hoping to survive through a peaceful existence, concealing herself from those she believes would use her, or kill her. When fate intervenes and instigates a perilous journey she'd been desperately trying to avoid, Alex finds herself caught in the middle of two sides in both war and love.

Preface: Let me say, I am immensely nervous about this. After months of back and forth inside my mind, I’ve decided to go for it and begin the long process of moving my long running series to Tumblr, along with changing the name (something I’ve wanted to do for a long time). I hit a big emotional road block after over a year of writing and posting, so I’m hoping this move will eventually get me back into the swing. But for now, I’m looking forward to revisiting the beginning of this space love triangle.

If you’ve already read the saga, absolutely NO pressure to read again. Each chapter will be edited a little, but no major plot points will change. To any newcomers who find themselves interested, the story is already posted on AO3 if you are desperate to continue. Otherwise if you prefer reading on Tumblr, or simply like the forced breaks between chapters, I’ll be posting a new chapter every couple of days. I know it’s not written as reader insert, but I just couldn’t make the story work out in any other fashion. I poured a lot of love and heart into Alexys so I hope you’ll give her a chance.

Chapter 1 - Crash Landing

Words: 3.4k

Chapter Tags/Warnings: descriptions of severe injury including blood and bone, medical procedures

Read on AO3

I felt it before I heard it.

A booming crash of metal and glass, sending a shattering vibration through the walls and furniture around me. After the years of mostly silence I’d become accustomed to, the noise that came pummelling into my ears almost made me shriek in surprise. It was short lived, coming and going in a flicker so quick I had to wonder if it was real at all.

Lights began to flash, blinking rapidly in uneven time. The mixture of harsh beeps indicated something was faulting my electricity circuits, plunging me into the darkness of night over and over.

I could only question myself again at the plausibility of this being a dream, but the slow, increasing creak emanating from beyond the walls of this building brought me to a certainty.

Something had crashed outside.

Fear radiated through my limbs, leaving me stuck where I was standing for a few moments, before an uncontrollable urge of selflessness and honestly, curiosity, forced me to move and exit the safety of my clinic.

There wasn’t really a way to prepare for what I saw not metres away from my front entrance. A ship, an X-wing of some variety, was wrecked into itself, varying metals twisted and curled over each other, flames beginning to billow out from the creases. I could feel the heat of them rise as I cautiously stepped forward, taking in the scene with wide eyes. Only seconds had passed when I saw it – the movement of something – no, a person, demanding my attention. The pilot of this battered machine had been thrown just beyond the edge of its hull, broken transparisteel smattering the ground around them.

Hm, the Resistance should probably investigate their flight safety measures.

That thought quickly flittered away when the pilot moved again, this time with a painful moan echoing into the atmosphere. The switch inside quickly flipped, and an all too familiar feeling of conviction flooded through.

This is your cue Alexys.

I raced quickly to the pilot and knelt on the ground before them, fingers carefully removing the black and red helmet with both urgency and restraint as to not cause any more possible damage to their head or neck. The moan I'd heard just moments before let me know this person had some kind of airway, but it was pertinent I assess further. With the helmet gone I noticed the short, lightly waved black hair of a man, his eyes pulled closed, a few bruises and smudges of grey soot smattered over his face. His chest was moving, laboured breathing with the occasional heave on inhale.

At least he’s breathing.

“It’s alright,” I insisted. “I’m here to help you.”

There wasn’t any discernible response from the pilot other than a groan that withered away slowly, and that in itself was worrying. Kneeling over his body, I placed two fingers under the line of his jaw, halfway down, trying to feel for a pulse. I could sense the thump of blood under my fingertips, but it was too slow, too faint, too uneven.

Not great, but it was enough for now.

I began to scan over his body, knowing it was time to assess what was giving him reason to cry out in pain. There were severe burns on his left arm which had caused some of his flight suit to stick to the skin, with more scalds reaching down to his torso and abdomen. His right arm was almost definitely broken with the limb morphed into an irregular angle almost halfway along.

Without being able to look at them directly to ascertain whether I was going to be able to move him, I pressed on his hips gently, silently praying he hadn’t broken his pelvis. He muffled softly, but anyone who had actually shattered the bone would have screamed. As my eyes continued to scan down, it became obvious all too suddenly the shattered edge of his right femur bone poking out of the orange flight suit.

Kriff, this is not ideal.

I wanted to kick myself for not noticing it before, but there was no time, not with the very real possibility of him bleeding out in front of my eyes. My feet moved under me, racing back to the clinic room, knowing where the bandage and splint lay waiting, along with the anaesthetic injections I had stocked in the pharmacy cupboard.

He was certainly going to need them.

Within minutes I was back to the ground with the pilot, clicking together the injector handle and vial, piercing the needle straight into his thigh above the fracture site. I wouldn’t be able to wait for it to dull most of the pain, so internally, I braced myself for the scream I was about to elicit from this poor human's chest. The second I started to wrap the bandage around the splint, a piercing wail echoed through the air, almost causing me to hesitate. Still, my hands continued to haphazardly wrap the white material around his leg, pushing through the guilt it ignited.

Suddenly, the noise stopped.

My eyes darted to his face as his head slumped over on its side. “Hey!” I shouted into his face as I scrambled back to the top end of his limp body. “Hey can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me!”

There was no response.

I pinched at the muscle on his shoulder, harder and harder to elicit any kind of reaction. Nothing. My hand pulled into a closed fist and grinded against his sternum. “Come on, open those eyes if you can feel this!”

Still nothing.

Again I took check of his breathing, chest still rising and falling, yet shallow and with little power. His heartbeat had begun to race, but through my fingertips I could feel the strain in the muscle. Something was seriously wrong, even more so than his other injuries. Something internally. If I didn’t get him into the clinic, he was going to die.

In a snap decision, I chose to forgo an attempt to run back and locate the hover-stretcher. It would take too much time to set up and power on, time this man didn’t have. I would have to move him myself.

How the hell am I going to do this?

With my arms hooked and locked under his armpits I began to drag the pilots hefty body backwards towards the clinic behind me, thankfully only a few meters away, barely making it past the entryway when a roar of flames overtook the X-wing. I looked up to see the blaze almost completely engulfing the ship, a ferocious heat searing into my eyes and face. With even more urgency I heaved the body into the large clinic room, getting up and slamming the door just in time. Just before a house rattling explosion sent shockwaves into the atmosphere.

Lucky didn’t seem to be an appropriate feeling considering the situation I was in, but at least no one had died. Yet. With my last bit of brute strength, I hoisted the pilots limp body onto the closest hospital bed, noticing then the trail of red liquid I’d brought along with me.

Oh no no no.

With him still lifeless, I tugged at his body and limbs to lie flat on the bed, scurrying to my medical trolley and hauling it back to where the pilot laid, ragged breaths still thankfully escaping into the air. Snatching the heavy shears from the top drawer, I began to tear through the thick fabric of the flight suit, unclipping and removing as much of the life support vest and belt as I could. I had to be careful not to rip away the fabric that melted into the burns scattered all over his body, the number of them increasing as I peeled away the suit, starting from his legs, up to his abdomen and chest over to his upper arms. His torso was in full view now, a smattering of dark hair over his pectorals, underneath which showed the bruises of his crash’s impact.

Oh he’s definitely got some broken ribs.

As my gaze scanned over his skin, I could finally isolate where all that blood had escaped from. A deep penetrating wound just below the last rib on his left flank. As I registered his quick shallow breaths and the uneven rise in his chest, it became obvious.

Collapsed lung.

Whatever had pierced through his chest had poked an extremely damaging hole in his lung, the pleural space now filling with air, leaving no room for his lung to expand. My following movements were swift and calculated, almost automatic. A pointed scalpel was soon in my hand, poised to cut. But I couldn’t help but hesitate. It had been so long since I’d had to do this. And yet, somehow, concern for this stranger’s life was quick to weave it’s way through, dissolving my fear into pure resolve.

I made my incision in between the 4th and 5th ribs, using a clamp to push into the underlying tissue and past the pleural cavity, a gloved hand then entering to check I’d made it through. With an instinctive confidence, I guided the chest tube between the layers of tissue, undoing the ratchet of the clamp to an immediate rush of air. The pilot’s chest heaved in relief, along with my own.

One crisis averted.

But there was more to do. Connecting a drain to the tube, I haphazardly sutured it in place, before flying to the pharmacy cupboard. My stock of bacta was limited, returning with an already prepared vial into the pressurised injector, reminding myself I would need to use it sparingly if this stranger was going to make it through the full extend of his injuries. I had cursed at myself only a few times in the years past at being so far removed from a higher level medical centre that would be overflowing with bacta and medical droids that could help in exactly this kind of situation, but the thought had never burned me so badly. There was no way to know if I could keep this man alive with the resources that yesterday I had been more than comfortable with. I would just have to try.

I injected some of the bacta solution throughout the surrounding area of the wound and covered it with heavy dressing, knowing the bleeding would quickly be curbed. Unfortunately, the wound itself would take a few days to fully close, only ever being able to afford lower quality bacta. Before moving on to the burns, I placed some basic monitoring, lines extending from electrical dots over his chest, wrist and neck to the data monitor above the bed. As the numbers lit up on the holo screen, I felt myself breathe a small sigh of relief, having prepared for a much worse result. His heart rate was better, oxygen levels returning to normal, blood pressure not optimal by any means but high enough to sustain his life, for now.

After securing an oxygen filter over his battered face, I continued to inspect and clean as many of the small and more sizeable burns dotting his body. Even with the many I had uncovered, the one extending from his shoulder past his elbow was the one of most concern. Third degree and extremely unhappy looking. If I wasn’t quick to treat this, it could leak even more fluid from his already compromised circulatory system. I was thankful he still remained unconscious when I began to slowly shed the charred material melted into the skin layer. I couldn’t help but shudder as I remembered the initial scream this man had let out, knowing I would be hearing it now if not for his comatose state.

Covering the immense scald in as much salve as I could spare, I began to wrap it in protective antibacterial bandage, soon moving on to protect his many blisters and deeper burns with dressings. Glancing at the monitor screen, he was still stable, and swallowed hard. Now it was time to attempt possibly the most daunting part of this patient’s treatment.

His femur was still sticking through the tissue of his thigh, slightly dried dark red blood creating lightning strike looking lines extending from the wound.

I need to get some blood into him before moving this.

I quickly got to work on an IV cannula, his poor blood pressure making it significantly more difficult than it should have been. Two bags of O- blood were all I had, and a wave of dread coursed through me with the thought of that not being enough if this all went wrong. My fist squeezed the fast flow pump of the IV line, pushing fresh blood urgently into his system, making his blood pressure rise only slightly. With the last of the red liquid trickling through the line I wheeled over the portable X-Ray. It was so old the mechanical arm screeched at me as I positioned it into place over the pilot’s leg. The bone had to be at least somewhat in place before getting the bacta to work its magic or this guy might walk with two uneven legs for the rest of his life.

If he actually made it through the rest of his injuries, that is.

Shaking my arms out at my side, I sucked in a few deep breaths to build my stamina. Unfortunately, this stranger was stuck with a small framed female to attempt reducing his severe fracture. With one last inhale, I drew the courage to pull as hard as I could horizontally at the knee joint, digging my fingers into a vice grip around the limb and yanking it towards me. To my relief, the fractured edge of the femur to slipped back into the hole it was peeking out from, settling back under the skin.

Thank all the stars in the galaxy he’s not awake for this.

I quickly pressed the image button on the X-ray to assess the progress I’d made. The faint white lines of bone edges were stark enough on the grey background of the image. The fracture wasn’t reduced even nearly enough. I prepared myself again, with another deep breath I pulled hard. This time my efforts were forced into angling the lower portion of bone to try and lock it back into place. The grinding of bone edges could be felt through my fingers, pushing myself to pull even harder, creating more space between the fracture in the hope of giving a fighting chance of lining up the splintered edges. My muscles were whining, begging for this to be over, tears of exhaustion soon stinging at the edges of my eyes.

With one final twisting motion there was a sudden click.

Finally.

My relief was short lived.

It was slow at first, before racing faster. A stream of dark red blood pooling at the wound the broken bone had made.

Oh maker no.

Within moments the pace of the blood quickened. I shot my hands to the open flesh site, pressing down hard in an attempt to disturb the flow. The liquid quickly covered my gloved hands, already sure I’d sliced into the femoral artery. The pressure of my hands into the area made the blood spurt out onto my arms, my clothes, my face, everywhere. The monitor was screaming, blood pressure falling quickly. Wiping some of the hot coppery fluid away from my left eye, I slid my fingers back into the gash, moving desperately to stop the overflow before the man lying in front of me bled out, knowing it would all be my fault.

You have to do it Alexys. He will die if you don’t.

The voice nagged at me, pleading to do what it wanted.

He’s with the Resistance! If he survives, if he contacts them, they’ll find me. And they’ll know.

It is time to decide. His life. Or yours.

Seconds ticked by fleetingly, numbers flashing on the monitor trickling down, the speed of blood flow from the pilot’s leg stubbornly keeping it’s intensity.

Everything I’d done to get here, to isolate myself so no one could find me. It would all amount to nothing. My easy, albeit lonely life, would be gone. All because of this stranger.

But I couldn’t let him die. Not like this.

In one flash, I removed my hands from inside the wound, ripping off my gloves and placing two palms at either side of the leg. With closed eyes, I willed the energy out of the depths of its slumber. From the darkened corner of my mind I pulled it back into existence, opening the gate I’d locked it inside for so long, letting it finally burst through and fill up my brain. From there it down through my neck, through my chest and down my arms, right to the end of my fingertips. Its warming glow was almost comforting, friendly. I would have basked in it for a while if not for the life that hung in the balance before me.

Through the pads of my fingerprints I pushed the stream outwards, connecting past the skin of this innocent human being, and felt the overwhelming heat of pain and dimming of energy.

Hurry, he’s dying.

I began to map out the tissue of his leg, frustratingly slowly, starting at the smallest of capillaries, weaving and winding through the flesh, connecting them through the maze of fat and muscle. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead, my breathing forced and harsh. The vessels grew bigger as I pushed the energy through, skipping past broken points of other smaller injuries. I could fix them later.

Finally, I felt a molten warmth radiating close to where the maze had guided me. Racing to it, I sensed something pushing me back, the pressure of escaping fluid holding my efforts. I’d found the cut, but now I had to somehow knit it back together.

You’re taking too long.

The alarms of the monitor started to echo with a hollow ring inside my ear, fading until I could hear almost nothing. The world around me was blurry, only the image of vessel tissue and all-consuming redness visible in my minds eye. The energy I was expending began to burn me - I wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer. I reached out with it, what felt like many hands grasping desperately at the severed edge of the vessel, frantic yet delicate, pulling whatever tissue I could hold back into place.

Several fringes connected, the pressure pushing forcefully against me, making it harder to hold. I couldn’t help but begin to shake at the strain, the sound of my own heart pounding over the slowing heartbeat of the pilot. My grip was already beginning to fade before I started to sew the pieces of artery back together, an ache growing behind my eyes as I pierced an invisible needle through the tissue, over and over, still clawing at the unsewn edges as I made my way around the tube.

I was so close, the tension of the fluid still being driven out of the broken seal almost overcoming me. The unseen thread had almost made its way full circle. I was almost there.

My entire body rattled with exhaustion and pain. One final thread wove itself around the artery, its abrupt closure alleviating the strain on invisible fingers that had been clutching it all together.

You did it.

The energy dissipated quickly in a rolling wave, letting it retreat back into my mind, scampering to the secluded area of my brain, hidden once more. I felt light suddenly, dizzy, the world coming back into focus, screaming alarms growing louder. It was too much, all at once.

A sharp pang of fatigue enveloped every part of my senses and I faltered back, knees giving way, slumping to the floor.

Then, there was only darkness.

Next Chapter

Tag list: @tlcwrites @roanniom @foxilayde @blackberries45 @hopeamarsu @caillea @princessxkenobi @direnightshade @mariesackler @leatherboundbirate @blowthatpieceofjunk @mylifeisactuallyamess @poedameronloverx @millenialcatlady @jynz-andtonic @lightsinthedistancee @star-killer-md @morby @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @paterson-blue

Just let me know if you would like to be removed or added, no judgement!

#poe dameron #poe dameron x original female character #kylo ren #kylo ren x original female character #star wars #star wars fanfiction #adcu #adcu fanfiction

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hauntedlibrarian2222 · 2 years ago

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Part 1.A

October 6th, ####

I work in a haunted library.

Take it as silly as you want to, but I’m telling you it’s haunted. Or, at the very least, extremely paranormal. I don’t even really think ‘haunted’ is a good word to describe it. I don’t know, and I don’t really care either. But it’s a running theme, here, with ‘running’ being a big part of it at the end of the day. It’s like Scooby Doo, but a lot more HD and a lot less pulling off masks to see they, too, are human at the end of the day. I don’t believe anything that walks through these doors is human, anymore.

I live up North, vaguely, in a tiny, crummy town, and in this town is my library. Keeping it vague, since, y’know,.. privacy, or something. When it comes to the library, through, I’m just about the only person who really runs it. It’s decently sized, but still kinda small— or maybe I’m just not used to libraries. Dunno. I’ve lived in this crummy town for the majority of my life, so maybe I’ve just got a bad scope. At the end of the day, it’s just a large space, and although it has a second floor— that’s cut off from the rest of the library due to some accident I don’t know about. Well, more so just taped off. Nothing really stops anyone, just.. no one wants to go up there. I ask them, sometimes, because even some rowdy kids will come in, and a lot have said it makes them feel cold? I dunno. I don’t feel that, maybe my nerves are finally dying off.

Not many people visit, leaving just me and the books for a majority of the day. Save for when someone, or something, does come in. Usually, stuff coming in sucks, but sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve grown very accustomed to most things that walk through the door, whether it be a group of kids from the school a few blocks away (they come on ‘field trips’ sometimes); just a person looking for a quiet space; or something on all fours with eyes bigger than they should be with an oddly humanoid shape; I’ve grown used to it. It freaked me out at first, don’t get me wrong— I’m sure most people would at least pause if they saw a person with a deer head walk in and, formally, request a book on a bear hibernation’s cycles— but I’m just not affected by it anymore. At some point, weird stuff blends in with the normal and just becomes a different genre of normal if you see it enough. Most things that walk through the doors aren’t hostile, anyways, so I just help them find what they want and help them leave. Or, I help them find a nice spot in the library, which actually feels.. kinda nice, sometimes. Most of them don’t care to try and hurt or intimidate me, surprisingly enough— going solely off of appearances and how most people would call them ‘monsterly’. But maybe that’s just because there isn’t much valuable here other than the books— nothing to rob, so why put in the effort? It makes me feel kinda nice, though, like if someone were to come after me— I’d at least have the back of a handful of odd creatures who really like their books. Like, really— really like their books.

With all of this, though, I’ve got a good few stories crammed up in my head— and I thought it’d be interesting to share them. Whether you believe they’re true or not, it’s still a story, it’s still entertainment at the end of the day, right? That’s the whole point of reading. Plus, it finally gives me a place to, uh,.. write it down. Journal it, store it, whatever. Who needs a therapist when you have a Tumblr blog, huh?

So, I work in a ‘haunted library’, and it’s given me more tales than the books on the shelves (that sounds insanely cheesy but my friend really wanted me to write it down, sorry). I hope you enjoy your read.

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#hl #hauntedlibrary #1.A #writing #story #in character #ic #paranormal fiction #fiction #fantasy #multiple parts

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

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part 3 of Escape Your Destiny (Star Wars Wangxian AU) - on ao3 or tumblr part 1, part 2

He had been right to reject seclusion, Lan Wangji thought grimly. The sweet siren call of calm contemplation had nearly seduced him, the Dark Side seeking to eat away at him through other means now that anger and hatred had not done the work – he would have meditated himself into a stupor, becoming little more than a vacuum within the Force, a black hole of deathly intent.

More than that, though, he would have missed – this.

This disaster.

Wei Wuxian’s lips were pale from blood loss and hypothermia. Two of his limbs were at odd angles, probably broken, and Lan Wangji feared that there were more like them beneath the body that was bruised like a tender peach – he had been shielding as many people as he could, Lan Wangji knew, because he knew his Wei Ying too well to think that he might have done anything else.

Lan Wangji still didn’t know all the details, what exactly had been the disaster or why Wei Wuxian’s starfighter had crashed when he knew (with painful recollection) exactly how good a pilot Wei Wuxian was, but it hadn’t really mattered. Xue Yang had rushed into his chamber shouting excitedly - not exactly a rare event - saying something about an alarm and a disaster and a crash and can I have one of these gadgets? possibly two, maybe, I’m thinking two but haven’t really committed yet, it’s a big decision you know, and Lan Wangji’s blood had run cold when he realized what alarm he was referencing.

(A proper Jedi would never have tagged the object of his affections like an endangered bird or a criminal, injecting the tracking chip so deep into bone and muscle that standard scans wouldn’t pick it up and even in-depth scans might register it as a naturally occurring aberration. A proper Jedi would think of such intimate surveillance as cruelty, dehumanization, the caging of a free bird –

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have known what happened.

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have been able to rush over at once, wouldn’t have been in time to retrieve the body from the wreckage, finding it still warm and breathing but swiftly fading into the Force.

A proper Jedi would have been worthless.)

“That looks pretty bad, Master,” Xue Yang said, the comm crackling in his ear, and for once his tone was almost solemn. Perhaps the lessons on empathy were working, following the introduction of the rancor Xue Yang had named Chengmei with an expression so pained and vicious that Lan Wangji had refrained from asking. Perhaps it was that he’d grown so obsessed with his pair of bounty hunters and their foundling assistant, a little not-blind Bothan girl who liked to mouth off at him. Or perhaps it was just something as simple as knowing that if Wei Wuxian were lost, Lan Wangji would have no reason to –

No reason to anything at all.

“It is within the limits of what a bacta tank can heal,” Lan Wangji said, because it was, it would be, as long as he got him there in time.

Time that was swiftly running out.

Later, when Wei Wuxian was safe, Lan Wangji would return to that obscure little space station that had nearly caused his beloved’s death and he would find out what had happened properly. He would find out, and he would slaughter every one of them that caused it, torment them for days if he needed to in order to know who to blame – it didn’t matter if their contribution were accidental or deliberate, major or slight. He would offer up a sacrifice of their suffering to the Dark Side, as solemn as lighting a stick of incense at a temple –

When Wei Wuxian was safe.

Because he would be. He had to be.

Lan Wangji’s Wei Ying would not die so easily.

“Uh, Master? We don’t have a bacta tank.” Xue Yang was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know that many people around here that do. This is Outer Rim, remember? Not even the Hutts have one.”

“There is one in an outpost in the Quiberon sector,” Lan Wangji said. His attention was split between piloting their stolen ship as fast as he could and monitoring Wei Wuxian’s vital signs. He had transferred a certain amount of energy into him already, but the Dark Side was poisonous in overly large quantities, especially if one was not accustomed to it; a pure Jedi like Wei Wuxian couldn’t tolerate it, and Lan Wangji would not risk making him worse. “Inat Prime system. I’ve entered the coordinates. Set us up for a jump to lightspeed.”

“Inat Prime,” Xue Yang repeated, instead of doing as he was told. “Isn’t that – near Rothana?”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

“Rothana’s a manufacturing planet. Heavy engineering – warships. It used to belong to a subsidy of the Jin Engineering Corps, maybe still does, I don’t know, but either way manufacturing planets like that are where those sleemos keep their precious IP. And that means it’s going to be guarded and booby-trapped up your chubba. Who in their right mind would set up an outpost anywhere near there?”

Xue Yang was descending into Huttese slang again, Lan Wangji noted to himself, keeping his calm only by sheer force of willpower even as the Dark Side screamed in his mind that now was the time for rage and pain and blood. Given his hatred of the entire species, Xue Yang only did that when he was especially anxious and didn’t want to admit it.

Later, when he didn’t have more pressing things on his mind, Lan Wangji would have to inquire of his apprentice – which he had previously believed was as transparent to him as a sheet of transparisteel – how he had learned about things like top-secret Jin Engineering manufacturing planets and IP and such things like that.

Later. Right now, he didn’t care.

“Prepare for jump,” he said again, the threat in his voice clear, and this time Xue Yang scrambled to obey, mumbling curses as he went. This was more typical of Xue Yang, but in this case it signified that he was concentrating, and that was all Lan Wangji cared about.

The rest of the trip passed as if in a daze, time counted in the beats of Wei Wuxian’s heart. Still strong, because Wei Wuxian was strong – this wouldn’t be the end of him. It wouldn’t.

Lan Wangji would make sure of that.

“We’re here,” Xue Yang said, breaking through Lan Wangji’s extreme focus on the rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest. “I’m going to guess that our destination is the third planet? If you can call those other ones planets, they’re barely more than asteroids…”

Lan Wangji hummed, affirming.

“So, you going to tell me what this place is? Some super-secret Sith hideout?”

“No.”

“Smuggler’s base? Bounty hunter lair? Mandalorian terrorist cell? Clone factory?”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. Xue Yang had been reading too many historical action comics again.

“No, but seriously, Master! I deserve to know what we’re getting into, don’t I? What is this place?”

Lan Wangji was tempted to say you deserve nothing but what I give you, you filthy-tongue swamp-rat, but that was the Dark Side speaking, not him, and not only because the Gusu Lan Jedi order in which he had been raised did not permit cursing. It was simply anathema to him - he was Sith, but not a Lord, and he had encouraged this self-same insolence because it was better than having Xue Yang cringe before him like a kicked dog.

No matter how irritating it might be at times like this.

“It’s Jedi,” he said shortly, and to his amusement that actually shut Xue Yang up for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry, Master, I think I temporarily went insane due to Dark Force poisoning,” Xue Yang finally said. “But did you say that we’re planning on popping over and ‘borrowing’ the bacta tank of a bunch of Jedi?”

“Mm.”

“Master. Master. Please tell me you remember that we’re Sith, right? Sort of the sworn enemy of the Jedi? Arrest-on-sight orders? Any of this ringing any bells here? No? In short, have you lost your mind?”

Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s pulse again. It was getting increasingly thready; he frowned.

“Take us in,” he ordered, and Xue Yang made a whining sound not unlike an especially agitated cat, but he obeyed, finding the planetary base and flashing them with a urgent medical attention required signal and transmitting the passcode Lan Wangji recited to him.

The base opened its doors in silent invitation.

Xue Yang took them in, apparently resigned to his fate and determined to pointedly suffer and judge him without saying a word.

This determination cracked the second they passed through the gates.

“Master!” he shrieked. “Master, Master! That’s the Qinghe Nie emblem!”

“It is,” Lan Wangji agreed. Foreseeing Xue Yang’s next question, he added, “It is here because this is an outpost of the Qinghe Nie Jedi order.”

Xue Yang sounded a bit like a rusty door when he hyperventilated, and even more so when he started laughing hysterically. How had he ever survived being a Sith before, if this was how he reacted to stress?

“Great, right, yes,” he said, nearly howling. “Sure, why not? Let’s go knock on the door of some Jedi and ask them for a bacta tank like we’re borrowing a cup of sugar, sure, okay, we can do that. Jedi are chumps, they’re all about mercy and sympathy and bantha fodder like that; we can con ‘em - it’ll be tricky, but it can be done when you’re in a pinch. I’m fine with that, up for it, it’s cool, all cool. You know who we can’t con? Qinghe Nie, that’s who. ‘Suppress evil no matter the cost’ Qinghe karking Nie.”

Lan Wangji ignored him, scooping Wei Wuxian into his arms and heading out into the saber hall.

Three grim-faced Jedi dressed in the immediately identifiable colors of the Qinghe Nie were waiting there, hands on their lightsabers and droids lingering in the corridors, but they did not attack. Instead, they led Lan Wangji, a nervous Xue Yang dogging his heels, to the medical bay, never uttering a single word.

The medical droids took Wei Wuxian from his arms – Lan Wangji forced himself to recall the Lan sect mantras on restraint and allowed them to do so without ripping out their wires for daring to touch him – but it wasn’t until Wei Wuxian was firmly encased in the bacta tank, the oxygen-rich liquid flowing into his lungs to heal him, the colors on all the screens all showing positive signs, that he was finally able to release the breath it felt that he’d been holding since he first saw the broken starfighter that encased Wei Wuxian’s broken body.

This was fine.

“Wangji,” a low voice said from behind him, and Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

This was not fine.

The Qinghe Nie were a strange order of Jedi – almost heretical, really, by any traditional measure. The orthodox Jedi order, for the most part, valued calm and serenity and selflessness, prioritizing the logic of the mind over the yearning of the heart, preaching detachment from worldly concerns and attachments…

Qinghe Nie, in contrast, valued righteousness, and cultivated rage.

Halfway to Sith, Lan Wangji’s uncle had once remarked after a glass of something stronger than tea. He’d regretted it later, of course, and tried to walk it back, smooth over his uncharacteristic rudeness, but Lan Wangji still remembered.

The adherents of Qinghe Nie were of the view that for every virtue there was a fault – that the Jedi’s emotional remove would at times render them passive, that self-control could too quickly shade into indifference. They argued that it was the duty of the virtuous to be enraged by evil, intolerant of it, and that only through that anger would they be motivated to act to eradicate it.

Their philosophy often led to their deaths, whether through reckless action or through the corruption of rage into madness, but even their harshest critics had to concede that they were devastatingly effective.

Lan Wangji had always thought that there was something heartbreakingly sincere about all the Jedi that took the harsh vows of Qinghe Nie, each one willingly trading away long lives for the sake of righteousness, for the ability to make a change in the world, each one unable to tolerate life if it meant they weren’t striving to make things better. Perhaps they did not match the Jiang for creativity or the Lan for elegance, perhaps their techniques were more brutish and less refined, their diplomacy little short of appalling, but no other Jedi order could match them for sheer power.

Very few people wanted to be between a Qinghe Nie Jedi and their target, and still less if they had allowed themselves to succumb to the beserker rage that sometimes took them on the battlefield – indeed, in a crisis that called for force of arms, most people who knew what they were about would rather have a single Qinghe Nie on their side than an entire battalion of war-droids from the Jin or Wen engineering corps.

Still, even that efficiency might not have been enough to convince the ancient sticklers of the Jedi Council to condone such a Sith-like view of the Force, but the Qinghe Nie also had an unsurpassed connection to the kyber crystals that were essential to the creation of lightsabers – the mines under their hands were far more numerous and more fruitful than any other order, and for all that they seemed to have dubious connections to the lightsabers they crafted and wielded, with their highly unusual one-sided edge, they were always open-handed and willing to let other Jedi pick freely from their stores.

With the ancestral weapon of the entire Jedi order at stake, even the Jedi Council unwillingly bowed its head to reality and compromised.

Not very happily. Especially since the fierce young head of the Qinghe Nie order – the great Chifeng-zun, Nie Mingjue – had been constantly causing trouble for them ever since he had been admitted to their deliberations.

More relevantly, though, was that Nie Mingjue was also a good friend of Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s elder brother by blood, and it had been the gift of his token, his passcode, never revoked, that they had used to enter through the gates.

(Look what happened to the Twin Jades you prized so much, my old clansmen, Uncle, Father, Grandfather. Look at me now. Begging for scraps from a Nie -)

Lan Wangji turned and saluted, bowing deeply and ignoring Xue Yang, who had progressed so far into hysterical laughter that he was now hiccupping.

Nie Mingjue caught his hands and raised him up, just the way he always had, and that grim face surveyed Lan Wangji from top to bottom, those searing eyes seeming to pierce into the depths of his corrupted soul.

“You look well,” he said, which surprised even Lan Wangji, who had thought himself beyond surprises. “That’s good.”

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang muttered. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck – you guys are with me here, right? This is kriffing insane…”

The Qinghe Nie Jedi ignored him.

“Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji said politely, and ignored the man’s raised eyebrow. He was not about to fall back into calling him da-ge the way he’d done back when he was in the Jedi crèche, no matter how tempting – everyone had called Nie Mingjue da-ge back then, too young to be afraid of his fierce and barely leashed energy. “Thank you for lending us temporary use of your base.”

There wasn’t really a polite way to say I wasn’t expecting to run into you here under the circumstances, but from the way Nie Mingjue snorted, Lan Wangji suspected he’d understood regardless.

“Checking up on the Jin,” he said, an explanation that Lan Wangji didn’t deserve to hear. “Treasonous svapers, the lot of them. Is this Wei Wuixan?”

Lan Wangji nodded. His heart was unexpectedly in his throat as Nie Mingjue studied the other Jedi through the glass of the bacta tank, though he wasn’t sure why.

He was Sith now, after all. Why would he care what Nie Mingjue thought?

It would have been easier if Nie Mingjue had been angry at him, full of rage the way he so often was. Easier if he’d turned his tongue as sharp as any lightsaber to scolding him, or turned his face away in coldness. Nie Mingjue notoriously despised the Sith, had probably meant to call the Jin Sithspawn instead of svapers earlier, had probably switched the word only in deference to Lan Wangji’s current occupation – which meant he knew, because of course he knew, there was no way Lan Xichen hadn’t told him even if his position on the Council hadn’t already entitled him to all such secrets.

He knew, and he still persisted in acting like – like –

“Cute enough,” Nie Mingjue commented, and Lan Wangji covered his suddenly burning face with both hands. “You have good taste.”

“Please stop,” Lan Wangji mumbled, mortified beyond all belief. Xue Yang was looking back and between the two of them with his jaw gaping wider than a Gungan’s.

Nie Mingjue snorted, amused. “I carried you around on my shoulders when you were knee high, Wangji. I think I’m entitled to torment you a bit about your crush.”

Xue Yang looked like he was going to forsake the ways of the Sith, convert to Qinghe Nie, and start logging prayers at the temple of Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame him.

“Don’t you have anything to say about –” Lan Wangji shut his mouth with a snap.

He didn’t actually want to hear Nie Mingjue exorcising him for his choices, no matter how little he regretted them.

Nie Mingjue was silent for a moment, contemplative. “No.��

Lan Wangji blinked, not understanding.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Nie Mingjue clarified with a shrug. “I can’t say I entirely understand why you chose what you did, but we all choose our own paths in the Force, Wangji. I have faith that even though your path leads you to the Dark Side now, it will eventually lead you back to us once more. If you keep your sense of righteousness about you and continue to stand up for what you believe is right as you always have – and avoid engaging in the wholesale slaughter of innocents the way so many Sith do – I will never be disappointed in you.”

…maybe Lan Wangji would allow the people in that spaceport to live.

But only because it would hurt Wei Wuxian to know that he had sacrificed so much for nothing, of course. It was pure selfishness, nothing more.

(The Dark Side hissed in his head, bitter-angry-vicious-hate-hate-hate, but Lan Wangji hadn’t been Hanguang-jun for nothing. He controlled himself, allowing for only the influences he chose to accept – it was his independence that had led him to the Dark Side, and his independence, he believed, that would allow him to forge his own path, as Nie Mingjue had said, even inside the ways of the Sith. His uncle would say that such thoughts were pure arrogance, pride before the fall, but, well. He’d already Fallen, hadn’t he?)

“Would you like to stay with him until his vital signs have recovered?” Nie Mingjue asked, and Lan Wangji nodded, grateful despite himself.

Grateful, too, that Nie Mingjue did not speak of Lan Wangji reconciling with the rest of his old order.

“I will not stay longer,” he added. “I know it must be a burden to you, opening your doors to one such as me –”

“Ridiculous,” Nie Mingjue scoffed. “This is a secret base, Wangji. If you don’t say anything about it, who’ll know? And before you ask, I’m going to tell Wei Wuxian that you saved his life whether you’re here for him waking up or not, so take that into account when selecting your leave time. And I’ll exaggerate.”

He would, too, Lan Wangji thought fondly. Nie Mingjue had always been big brother to all the Jedi younglings, no matter how grown up they eventually got, and he never let them forget it.

“I’ll consider it,” he allowed, and settled into a meditation pose at the side of the room.

“As for you,” Nie Mingjue said to Xue Yang, who straightened up so quickly that he might as well have attached a ruler to his spine. “I hear that you’re the one that’s been attacking Hutt palaces?”

Xue Yang glanced at Lan Wangji, who sighed.

“You shouldn’t encourage him, da-ge,” he murmured. “He gets into enough trouble as it is.”

“Comradery does more to defeat evil than any amount of solitary philosophizing,” Nie Mingjue proclaimed, certain as ever in his own righteousness. It would be unbearably irritating if it was anyone less sincerely bullheaded about it, earnest but full of flaws. “Anyway, it’d be good for some of our padawans to see a Sith in action without needing to go up against one right off the bat. You in?”

“…in? I don’t – there aren’t any Hutt palaces around here..?”

“They take their travelling palaces on the Quiberon Line,” one of the Qinghe Nie Jedi said, and Xue Yang’s eyes lit up at the promise of what he undoubtedly thought was an opportunity for wholesale slaughter. It wouldn’t be, of course, not when he was going to be fighting alongside the strict Qinghe Nie, but it would keep him busy for the time it took Wei Wuxian to stabilize and recover.

Maybe Lan Wangji would even stay long enough to speak with his Wei Ying before retreating to be his silent and unwanted protector again.

Maybe.

#mdzs #lan wangji #wei wuxian #xue yang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #escape your destiny #star wars au

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

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Geralt decides to retire to Toussaint. He takes Jaskier with him.

Words: 4360, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Retirement, Getting Together, Domestic, Fluff

I promise I’m still writing stuff!! this is a soft little one shot I wrote a while ago and just cleaned up. read on tumblr below the cut!

In the end, it’s the weariness that does him in.

Once when they were both younger men, Jaskier had asked him about retirement for witchers. If they retreated to Kaer Morhen in their old age to train the new pups, or if they settled down across the Continent, or gave up the hunt to have families of their own. Geralt had snorted. “We don’t retire,” he’d said, mixing potion ingredients by the light of their camp fire. Jaskier had looked at him with wide, curious eyes. “We get old, and slow, and something kills us. We don’t - buy seaside cottages, or whatever.”

Jaskier had hummed at that, a mournful note that seemed to resonate in the air. It was unfair, Geralt had thought, that his friend managed to convey so much in such a sound while the witcher always managed to say so little. “Seems a bit unfair,” Jaskier added.

Geralt had blown out an amused breath, not quite a laugh. “That’s life, bard.”

But now, three decades and countless battles older, he just felt tired. Jaskier no longer traveled with him as frequently, and the Path was a lonely place. He and his brothers no longer met at Kaer Morhen to winter, not once Vesemir had passed. They would stop occasionally to meet up on the road, but never for too long. Even Ciri was going her own way nowadays, though he saw her the most frequently. As the years wore on, Geralt found himself visiting Oxenfurt more and more often. Itching for companionship, for a cease in the ever grinding motion of the Path. The routine that had once been a comfort was now grating.

Maybe it was time to take a break.

It was with this mentality that he turned to Jaskier on the last day of his stay in Oxenfurt and said, “Come to Toussaint with me.”

Jaskier blinked at him owlishly, the expression making him look ten years younger. These days his hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and when he chose to grow out a beard it was as silver as Geralt’s. “What’s so important in Toussaint?” he asked. They were seated at a table in the rooms Jaskier had been provided, for accepting a temporary lecturing position. The term had ended a few weeks ago, hence Geralt’s visit. Jaskier shuffled his gwent deck as he spoke, the cards weaving together like a cascade. Geralt found himself watching the bard’s slim fingers dance through the motions with an old fascination.

“I have an estate there,” he replied, pulling his gaze from the cards. He meant to look Jaskier in the eye, but a brief moment of contact with the bright cerulean had him turning his head, his heartbeat growing ever so slightly faster. It was too hard to ask this if he could see Jaskier’s face. Instead, he looked out the small window, overlooking the red tiled roofs of Oxenfurt. The city was painted a rich gold in the light of the evening sun, reflected warmly off of the river beyond the docks.

Jaskier spluttered across the table. “You have an estate? Since when?”

Geralt felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “It was payment for a job,” he said. “There’s a vineyard, gardens. I can send word ahead for them to start renovations on the guest bedroom. Come with me,” he said again, softly. He wasn’t above begging, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Jaskier looked at him with a confused but affectionate look spread across his fine features, and said, “Okay.”

Geralt sent a letter ahead to warn the staff of their plans to summer at the estate, and they began their journey to the Duchy.

It was a long journey, but not an arduous one. For once, Geralt allowed them to stick to the main roads, and at this time of year even Velen was bearable. The sweeping fields spread out around them in swaths of green and gold, punctuated here and there by defiant patches of wildflowers. Jaskier wasn’t as quick as he used to be following Geralt on the Path, but they weren’t on the Path anymore. They purchased a second horse and rode side by side at a leisurely pace. When the day grew hot, they would post up in a convenient spot of shade and let the horses graze, lunching on sun warmed bread and sweetmeats. Jaskier rambled the hours away with stories of his students and old antics at Oxenfurt, and Geralt responded with his own tales of hunts and growing up in the keep with his brothers. It was good to have another voice on the road again after months of traveling alone. It was good that it was Jaskier. Geralt had missed him. Once he wouldn’t have been able to admit it, even to himself, but it seemed silly now to hide it. A wall put up against someone who had been inside for years.

They slept beneath the stars and in cramped inns, sharing small spaces like they had for decades. It was different, Geralt thought. Something had released in his shoulders when Jaskier had agreed to come with him. They weren’t in a rush - there were no contracts to fill, no galas to play at. Jaskier’s purse was heavy from his time spent lecturing, and Geralt was able to pick up a few simple contracts as they went. Easy jobs that would put some extra coin in his pocket and lift the tension from the shoulders of the locals. But for the most part it was just the two of them, drinking sweet summer mead and browsing morning markets, getting accustomed to each other’s presence again.

Sitting across the fire from him one night as they camped, Jaskier said, “You’re different, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head from where he’d been skinning the pheasants for supper. “Hmm?”

Jaskier smiled, his eyes soft. “Well, maybe not that different.” At Geralt’s odd look, he went on. “You told me once that witchers never change. That they’re set in their ways. I think you were talking about something like your potions routine when you said it at the time, but I thought it applied to the whole of the witcher experience.”

Geralt hummed again. “It’s true. We age slowly. Get set in our habits.”

“But you changed,” Jaskier said. “I’ve seen it. After Ciri, and now, since we’ve left Oxenfurt. You’re different.”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. They’d never been on the road together like this, just the two of them as companions. Before Geralt had been focused on the Path, and Jaskier had been cataloguing his deeds as if he were some kind of hero of legend. He knew Jaskier admired Geralt’s drive, his ability to push on towards the next contract. Maybe the bard would think less of him, knowing that he was content to leave the Path behind for so long. “I’m still me,” he said aloud.

Jaskier gave him another smile, warm and honeyed. “I know it’s you, daft man,” he said. “It’s good. To see you… put down the torch for a bit.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just gave an agreeable rumble in his chest. And then, because he’d spent so long learning how to use his words around his daughter, he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Jaskier.”

A brief moment of surprise passed over Jaskier’s features, his eyes widening. Though Geralt had become better at voicing his affections over the years, he knew that the bard was always taken aback by the behavior. After a second Jaskier’s smile became a grin, and Geralt felt something in him relax even further. “I’m glad to be here, my friend. You know I can’t resist an adventure.”

They arrived in Toussaint quickly after that, both eager to end their days on the road. The countryside spread out around them slowly transformed from the muted colors of the north into the vibrant greens, purples and reds of the vineyards and forests. Geralt always forgot how stunning the Duchy was, with its colorful houses and flashy clothes. For once Jaskier fit in with the crowd flawlessly; it would take more than a bright doublet to stand out in Toussaint. Geralt had always liked it here. The peasants tended to be less prejudiced against non-humans, witchers included, and the knights he’d met always treated him as a brother in arms rather than pest control. The winters were mild and the summers sweet, and the wines were rich even if they were impossible for him to pronounce at times.

Of course Jaskier proved to be fluent in the local language - “What do you think the Seven Liberal Arts even entail, Geralt?” - which was helpful when they passed through smaller villages. Those away from the common crossroads or larger settlements tended to have fewer people who spoke the common northern tongue. They made their way to Geralt’s estate through a series of inns, barns and guest bedrooms as Jaskier relentlessly charmed the locals in grandiose displays of hospitality.

As they approached the estate, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop at the top of a hill. “This is it,” he said, nodding to indicate the view.

Jaskier gaped, craning to look out over the small collection of buildings and the dozens and dozens of grapevines that were nestled in the valley below. Geralt could see several workers out tending to the fields; his majordomo must have been overseeing things as agreed upon. They would have to get to know the rest of the staff while they were here. “This is all yours?” Jaskier asked, snapping Geralt’s attention back to the present.

“The house, most of the fields. I’ve not paid all that much attention to it before now, honestly. The house needs work. Never had any reason to sink funds into it before now.” He’d sent a fair sum of gold ahead to Barnabas-Basil to get started on renovations, but it likely would have only been enough to make the main complex habitable. Geralt was confident that he could undertake much of the repairs himself, in time. It would be good to have a project.

“It’s expansive. You produce wine here?” Jaskier asked, turning back towards him.

“Yes, but you’ll have to ask the majordomo which ones.”

Jaskier nodded to himself as they continued down the hill, soon approaching the main gate to the small villa. Members of the staff bustled throughout the property, though many stopped to look as the two of them passed by. As they settled their horses near a storage shed, the majordomo approached them, apparently already made aware of their arrival.

“Ah, Master Geralt, I trust that your travels were smooth? Please, come inside - I will have someone come and tend to the horses.” Barnabas-Basil Foulty was a clean shaven, bald man with sharp, almost bird-like features, and the head of the estate in Geralt’s stead. He stood at perfect attention at all times, shoulders back and head held high. A proud man, if not also an extremely polite one. Geralt liked him immensely, because he was good at his job and could keep up in the cups the one time the two had drank together.

“Ah, this must be the famous Barnabas-Basil. Fantastic to finally meet your acquaintance, my good man,” Jaskier said, jumping in to give the majordomo’s hand a firm shake. “Geralt has praised your skills from here to Redania and back.”

Barnabas-Basil inclined his head towards Geralt, though his spine did not stray an inch. “I thank you, sir, for your kind words. Please, allow me to show you the progress that we have made on the main house so you might get settled.”

The domo walked them through the estate, giving Jaskier a brief tour and pointing out new additions to Geralt. He’d not been to the estate in at least two years, but it was clear that the workers were making good use of the space. The small collection of colorful houses down the road had fresh coats of paint, and children played in the courtyard below the main house. A garden flourished in the space between the manor and the vineyard, dominated by root vegetables and herbs.

“If you would like, we can have it cleared out so that you might use it for your own purposes,” Barnabas-Basil said. His face betrayed no feelings on the issue.

Geralt grunted. “No need. The staff can use it as they wish.” He refused to meet Jaskier’s gaze as the bard beamed at him proudly. After decades of friendship Jaskier still seemed to find it a delight anytime Geralt did something he thought was particularly chivalrous. Geralt was not eager for him to meet the knights, with their virtues and heroic deeds.

The house, as he suspected, was functional but only just. “We’ve done what we could in a short amount of time, sir,” Barnabas-Basil said, his tone politely apologetic. “I assure you renovations are far from complete.”

“It’s fantastic,” Jaskier said, already darting off to explore the other rooms. There was a small kitchen, a bedroom, bathroom and an upstairs loft that could be made into a second bedroom. The additional bed wouldn’t arrive for another week or two.

“We can share,” Geralt said without looking at Jaskier, and did not elaborate further. “Show me what else needs done.”

They fell quickly into a routine. Geralt spent his days working with the locals on renovations, slowly breathing vitality back into the old manor. When he grew tired of working with lumber, he waded into the vineyards, to help pluck the delicate grapes from their twisting vines. A pair of women admonished him for his sloppy work on the first day and taught him how to gently cut the branches away and check the grapes for ripeness. Jaskier fluctuated between helping out with the building work and composing, though he also made the occasional day trip into the city to perform. In the evening they would retire to the house to eat, drink and chat over games of cards. At night they would curl up in Geralt’s bed, as they had when sharing quarters on the road.

It was a strange new intimacy, to learn what Jaskier was like in his bed. They had shared bedrolls many times over the years, but never with any consistency. When the nights were too cold or the inn too full, they would sigh and grumble and agree to share a space for the night, as a matter of convenience. But as soon as they had the coin or the resources to do so, they would always put distance between themselves again. Geralt supposed it had been a kind of self preservation instinct, but he now found little threat in the warmth of Jaskier next to him at night. He learned that some days Jaskier woke before the sunrise, throwing himself out of bed in a tangle of limbs to scramble for a quill. Other days he slept late, sprawled out across the sheets and dozing until the heat of the day forced him up. Often Geralt woke to the bard curled around him, an arm thrown across his broad chest, nose tucked under the witcher’s jaw. Those times always made something tighten in Geralt’s throat. No one should trust a witcher like Jaskier did, but he was grateful for the bard’s foolishness. Jaskier had always believed that Geralt would keep him safe, even when the witcher had refused to even admit that they were friends. Jaskier deserved better, but it didn’t stop Geralt from turning into his warmth each morning, wishing to reach out.

When the second bed came, Jaskier made no effort to relocate to the guest room. Geralt didn’t bring it up.

It only took a month for him to openly think about it, but when he finally did he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He looked up from where he was carving a notch in a new post for one of the fences and saw Jaskier sitting on the steps of the manor, the end of his quill hovering near his lips. His mouth moved around abstract syllables as he reached for the next lyric in a new song. The soft, repetitive notes rose and fell in the still summer air, and Geralt could see a small spot of ink on Jaskier’s cheek where he’d tapped himself with the quill by accident. Later that night, Geralt would point it out and they would both laugh, and Jaskier would play at being angry Geralt hadn’t brought it up sooner, and then Geralt would offer to help him clean up. Jaskier looked up from his place on the stairs and met his eye, feeling the attention on him as he always did. When he saw Geralt looking he smiled, as brightly as if he’d not seen the witcher in months, instead of moments. Geralt’s chest swelled with an unspeakable feeling, thick and heady affection and trust and something else even beyond that, and he thought, Oh, I love him.

Geralt suggested a picnic. Jaskier was ecstatic, though he tried to act as if he had to consider the notion.

“Will there be wine?” he asked, eyebrows raised playfully.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, fondly exasperated, “we live on a vineyard.”

So they grabbed some bottles from the storeroom, packed a light cotton blanket and some food leftover from lunch and set off up the nearby hill. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the top, but once they did they were quite near the place they’d first stopped to look over the estate. It was nearing evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and making the shadows of the workers coming in stretch out long across the fields. The two men spread out their things, sitting to watch the landscape move below them as they uncorked one of the bottles.

Geralt let Jaskier chatter away about nothing for a while, letting the sound wash over him as they shared the bread and wine. After a while Jaskier fell quiet, leaving them both to gaze out at the beauty of the land around them. Geralt turned to look at Jaskier. The sweep of his brow, the soft bow of his lips. The smattering of freckles he’d collected from weeks on the road, lying in fields and letting the sun kiss his cheeks. To be jealous of the sun, Geralt thought wryly.

Jaskier turned to meet his gaze, realizing that he was being watched. “What is it?” he asked.

“Why did you come with me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier chuckled a bit, leaning back on one hand. His shirt was unlaced a ways down the front, leaving his dark chest hair exposed. Geralt wanted to put his nose in the hollow of his throat and just breathe there for a while. “I’m not one to turn down a free holiday, my dear.”

“No,” Geralt said, trying to ignore the way the pet name made his stomach flip. “I mean, why did you always come with me? Everyone… People come and go. But you always came back. Why?”

Jaskier gave him an admonishing look. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. “You know the answer to that,” he said, and his tone held a warning that the witcher didn’t understand.

“I know you value our friendship,” Geralt replied, “but I could say that of many. It’s not the same.”

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, his face full of fondness and exasperation and, strangely, an old sort of grief. “You truly are the most unobservant man in the land. You’ve been far more than a friend to me for many years.”

Geralt felt his heart rate pick up at that, the slow thud speeding up to match Jaskier’s. “You’re saying…” He found himself unable to complete the thought. Even after so many years of trying to do better, it was still impossible to form words past the thundering in his ears. This moment felt delicate, like the wrong phrase might shatter it apart.

“I assumed you knew,” Jaskier said with a shrug. The line of his shoulders was just slightly too tense, his body radiating faux casualness. Anyone else may have been fooled, but Geralt had been watching Jaskier for years. “I would never have let it change anything between us, you must know that. You were always involved with someone else - Yennefer, and then Triss and Shani… I didn’t want to get in the way of that. Something that could make you happy.”

“I thought it would,” Geralt said honestly. His gaze flickered over Jaskier’s impassive face. The bard rarely showed his nerves in his expressions, too much a performer for that. Instead it made its way to his hands, twitching over his thighs and worrying the fabric of the blanket, and his heart, which raced in his chest. “I wanted to be the right person for them. Yen wanted me to be useful. Triss wanted me to be a knight in shining armor. They made me feel like I was better than just a witcher.” Jaskier’s lovely mouth twisted slightly, a note of bitterness in his gaze as he looked out over the vineyards. Geralt hurried on. “But you’re the one who made me feel like being a witcher was already good enough.”

Jaskier turned back to him, blinking in surprise. “Well of course it is,” he said, and naturally the bard had missed the point, honing in on his favorite subject: the reputation of witchers and Geralt’s sense of self worth. “You’re already useful, and noble, and good and kind besides all that. You don’t have to be more than what you are to deserve - fuck, basic human connection and love.” He settled slightly, his gesturing hands falling into his lap once more. “Is that why you left them?”

“The Path always calls,” Geralt said with a shrug. “No one but you ever wanted to follow me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, blushing. Geralt watched the color rise up over his cheek bones with something like fascination, or maybe hunger. “Well, now you know why,” he continued, with obviously false cheer. He gave Geralt a rueful smile. “I promise I won’t make things awkward. I’ve had decades to practice. I mean, it’s been thirty years. If you were going to fall in love with me you probably would have done so already, hmm?”

“You’d think so,” Geralt agreed. “Sorry it took me so long.” And then he leaned into Jaskier’s space and kissed him.

It wasn’t a very good kiss. Barely a kiss at all, really, considering that Jaskier had frozen under him. Geralt pulled back, lifting a hand to run it gently over Jaskier’s side. The bard was absolutely still, his eyes closed tight. There was a small crease between his eyebrows that Geralt wanted to kiss away, but he wasn’t sure if he should. “Sorry,” he said softly.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. It was unfair that a man could have beautiful eyelashes, Geralt mused, but here they were. “You mustn’t toy with me, witcher,” Jaskier croaked. His voice was raw, as if he’d been singing for hours.

Geralt moved his hand to the bard’s face, his thumb following along the line of his jaw and up to trace across his cheekbone. Freckles like stars under his fingers. “I’m not,” he rumbled. “I swear it, Jaskier. I just -” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. “You were always there. No matter how shitty the Path was, or how miserable people were to you because of me, or how much I pushed you away. You stayed. You made me feel like I was worth something, and you made other people think that way too. Every day without you on the Path was always misery. I should have realized sooner, but I’m not… good at this. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s head dropped forward, his brow resting on Geralt’s collarbone. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you apologize in the span of a minute,” he said, voice thin. “This is a lot to take in. Are you saying that you… that you love me? You, Geralt of Rivia, are in love with me?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, smiling into Jaskier’s hair. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Jaskier pulled away to stare at him. Geralt tried to let his affection through, drinking in Jaskier’s beloved face like he hadn’t allowed himself before. The last rays of the sun played over Jaskier’s hair, turning some of the strands to brilliant amber. His eyes were over bright. Whatever the bard saw in Geralt’s expression must have been enough, because the next moment they were kissing again.

It was, Geralt thought, a miracle that he had ever gone so long without doing so. Now that they’d begun, he never wanted to stop. Jaskier’s lips were warm and soft against his, and when Geralt licked slowly into his mouth he tasted of old wine. They stayed like that for a long time, Geralt holding Jaskier close, decades of tension not so much breaking as releasing like a quiet sigh of relief.

Finally they pulled apart, Geralt nosing at Jaskier’s cheek as he hummed contentment into the bard’s skin. He could feel deft fingers petting through his hair, easily working around the tangles that had formed on the walk up the hill. “I love you,” he said, pressing the words below Jaskier’s ear as if he could speak them into his core that way.

Jaskier shivered once under him. “I love you too,” he said, and Geralt could feel him smiling in the way his jaw moved. He knew Jaskier in his bones. “I’ll follow you wherever you go, you know.”

Geralt pulled back, pushing Jaskier’s fringe back with one hand as he met his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just stop running from you,” he said, smiling. Jaskier grinned back, and neither of them mentioned that his eyes were slightly damp. Geralt pushed himself to his feet and reached down a hand to his bard. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

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janghoefett · 4 years ago

Text

Smoke and Mirrors - Chapter 4

BOBA FETT X PRINCESS F!READER

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ NO MINORS Pairing: F/M Chapter word count: 1.9k

Warnings: f*ngering, oral (m receiving), lots o’ kissing, sneaking around… that’s it?

Okay I know I look like a clown for making a new post, but I realized I had set my Tumblr to a weird setting so nothing was showing up in the tags!!! Trying this again. I know. Hope you enjoy, and thank you to those who have already read!

SERIES MASTERLIST

—————————-

Perhaps Boba had been reckless.

Many people lean on a vice, be it drugs, alcohol… but Boba had no interest in either of those. No, for Boba it was sex. And he should have known better than to sleep with his asset.

Boba was accustomed to quick encounters; women who charged a fee, perhaps other hunters who passed in the night. It was a faceless release. He could imagine whoever, whatever he wanted — if he imagined anything at all. And though Boba Fett never forgot a face, he certainly didn’t carry any of the memories with him.

Boba Fett had no one.

But the girl who smiled at him so sweetly as she placed her life in his hands, who laid the workings of her heart bare, whose little fingers he could still feel intwined in his own… well, for her, Boba knows he is capable of doing terrifying things. And perhaps it was his instinct to get rid of those feelings the only way he knew how: by burying them inside of her.

A bounty hunter had made love to you in the darkness and returned you home as if nothing had happened. If it weren’t for the lingering feeling between your legs and the faint trace of a love bite on your breast the next morning, you would have believed it was a dream.

A week had gone by.

Boba made himself scarce and you rarely had a moment alone together after that night. There was no sign of him the next morning and no sign of where he slept either; you wondered if sleep was a luxury he ever allowed himself.

Jamie started coming by more frequently. Your time together was enjoyable and you found yourself growing closer to your old friend.

But you could hear Boba’s spurs pacing in the other room.

Tss, tss, tss, tss…

With every step you are reminded of him. You wished it was his hand on your thigh, you wished you were resting easy in his lap. You didn’t need Jamie’s drunken anecdotes, you needed Boba’s pensive mind and frank speech.

At least when this was over and he was gone forever, you’d be left with a perfect memory only the two of you would share.

———————————————

It was your engagement party. Or, some kind of party… the families insisted on fanfare to promote “good spirits” and to let Arcada know that things were on the mend. Frankly, you didn’t have the energy for it. You didn’t want to be there, you didn’t want to make small talk, you didn’t want to pretend that anything was alright.

But Boba was there. And you could be at ease knowing he was by your side.

The bounty hunter stands much like the way he did on the day you first met, ominous, completely still except for the way his head tilts to lock you in view. He nods once in acknowledgement.

“Fett,” you manage to choke out.

“Princess.”

Your heart stutters at the cold greeting, but still you both stand in painful silence as roaring chatter fills the air.

You watch Jamie schmooze his way through the crowd as an entourage of girls and scummy guys hang on his every step. Both his parents and your own are seated at a table in deep conversation. Friends, relatives, and those who pretend to be of any importance to you come to give their well wishes and congratulations.

But you weren’t the main attraction, thankfully. There was food and booze and plenty of debauchery to be had at this party for a fake marriage.

You’d take Jamie to bed like he always wanted and you’d let him fuck you to his heart’s content. And you’d enjoy it. You had danced the dance for years together, had many close calls and drunken nights— nights you thought were induced by genuine lust and passion. But you were bored and sad, and stars, you didn’t know what sex could be until he came.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Boba observes, snapping you out of a trance.

You say nothing. There’s so much you want to say, so much you wish you could confide in him.

Boba was like a fucking anesthetic. He knew how to cut you open like a surgeon, and you’d let him. You’d pour your guts out to him like the lost girl that you are and his clear mind and sharp words would put you back together again.

But tonight you just don’t have the words. Your chin wobbles and your breath comes out ragged.

“Mesh’la,” he sighs, so quietly, it’s as if the word reaches through the air and caresses your skin.

It’s a private word, one that leaves him surprisingly vulnerable to you, one that was a stark reminder from that night.

“Can we— can we get out of here?” you ask.

“As you wish.”

———————————————————

You ended up in a closet.

Boba shoots out the door’s control panel, and the moment his helmet comes off you are breathing each other in, pressing tentative kisses against each other’s lips. It’s heady and desperate but you cling to Boba as if your life depends on it. His strong arms prop you up on a table and he’s all over you, lips working eagerly against your skin, as his helmet rests at your side.

“You want me to touch you?” he rasps darkly.

“Uh huh.”

You lift your skirt up and Boba uses his hands to lift your legs up and back, grinding himself against you.

“I’m going to need you to be quiet for me, princess,” he breathes in your ear. “Think you can?”

You nod eagerly, accepting another open-mouthed kiss from the bounty hunter. His fingers rub you soothingly, moving your underwear to the side, before slipping two digits inside of your wet cunt.

Your exhale raggedly. Boba grunts involuntarily; he wasn’t being pleasured, no, but the feeling of your tightness on his fingers alone was enough to make his cock twitch.

“Has the prince ever done this to you, little one?”

“N-no…”

Boba curses under his breath, curling his thick fingers into you. You whimper quietly. “That’s it, mesh’la. Tell me what you like.”

You reach instinctively for the bulge in his pants, barely ghosting your fingertips against the metal codpiece in silent want. Boba’s hands leave you only for a moment to free himself, using the moment to pull your panties down and off in a swift motion. His hand comes back to work with a vengeance.

Boba’s fingers provide that pure, unadulterated pleasure that can only make you feel good; it was the kind that came without the tinge of pain like the prick of his thick cock, it was like velvet was coursing through your veins as he chased your high.

Boba’s motions become more intense, more hurried. His thumb comes to your clit and you clench around his fingers, snapping your thighs closed against his hips.

“Oh shit!” you gasp.

Boba stops his motions and, slowly, places a finger against your lips. “Quiet, princess,” he chides you darkly.

Boba’s fingers continue their work, establishing a new rhythm. Your hips can’t help but move against his hand in search of your release and still your hands work at his cock. He growls quietly; it’s a strangled sound, one that you can feel in his body by the way he tenses.

“Please, Boba…” you whine.

His skin burns hot and smells of musky soap, and you press your cheek firmly against his neck, nuzzling into grind of his stubble.

“Let go, little one,” Boba grumbles. “I’ve got you.”

It’s sex. Just sex.

That’s what you tell yourself when Boba’s hand fists your hair so he can see your face as you come on his fingers.

Just sex. Nothing more.

That’s what you tell yourself when he uses his lips to stifle your broken cry of pleasure, letting you sob into his mouth.

Boba removes his fingers and strokes you softly, allowing you to come down from your high. “Did so well, mesh’la…” he whispers against your lips.

“Please fuck me,” you breathe.

“Yeah? You want that?”

“Mmhm,” you whine, bucking your hips against his.

“You’re gonna have to let me fuck you later then, sweet girl,” he smirks. “Can’t now.”

Your legs stay wrapped around his waist as Boba leans forward to kiss your mouth greedily, lewdly, grinding his hard center against yours. Your cunt flutters around nothing, weeping to be filled by something bigger than his fingers, when suddenly he breaks off from your lips.

Boba holds your jaw gently and searches your face. You’re underneath him, panting and exposed, when Boba decides to place his helmet back on. He comes to the side of the table and continues to stroke you, using one hand to rub you gently as the other pets the side of your head.

The bounty hunter was doting on you.

Boba’s dark eyes are hungry, depraved, but a sly smile finally plays across his lips. The sight below him is enough to clear his mind of everything until his thoughts are only of you. Your skin is dewy and heated, your eyes are closed and the smallest sounds of pleasure escape your lips. Boba fumbles for the toggle on the side of his helmet and turns his audio receptors up, increasing the internal volume to the maximum setting — his cock throbs at the result. He can hear every shaky breath, every whispered plea and exertion as if your lips were at his ear.

Your hand jerks his cock lazily from this new angle. It’s heavy and thick; to aid your hand, you eagerly turn your head to bring your watering mouth down on him. You lick up the shaft and nestle your lips around the tip, sucking mindlessly, when Boba suddenly pulls your head back.

“Careful, princess,” he huffs. “Or do you want to walk outside with my cum on your face?”

You laugh softly and bite your lip, your cheeks practically aflame as you blink up at the faceless bounty hunter through your lashes. “Who says I won’t swallow?” you reply.

His reaction would have been well-disguised if his cock hadn’t twitched in your hand in response.

Boba pulls you upright and angles himself between your legs that hang over the edge, pulling your waist flush against his stomach. “I’m too old for games, mesh’la,” he says gruffly, holding your chin. “When can I see you?”

“Tonight,” you pant. “My place.”

Boba nods slowly, tracing your jaw with the back of his finger. “Alright,” he agrees. “Tonight.”

Your hand comes to his side, to the place where his armor leaves him soft and exposed, and your hand runs lightly down the length of his torso. His breathing quells and you can feel the visor looking you over. His rough hands adjust your messed hair and his thumbs wipe the faint traces of sweat and tears from your face, admiring your disheveled state.

The rest of the party is a blur. You don’t dare turn around to look at Boba who trails you like your shadow, slinking behind you like a hunter stalking its prey.

It was going to be a long night.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba x reader #boba fett x you #star wars #the mandalorian #smoke and mirrors

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