#but she has no patience and leaves him stuck in the air | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

melzula · 8 months ago

Note

I JUMPED WHEN I SAW REQUESTS OPEN

zuko unintentionally saying something he doesn’t mean to reader (ex. ur clingy/annoying) and makes the reader like kinda distant cus they don’t wanna be annoying or clingy yk? then he comforts them and says sorry and it’s very much a angst to fluff moment!

a/n: i love this trope

summary: your sudden disappearance makes zuko reevaluate his behavior

The apartment is empty when Zuko returns from the tea shop. His bones ache from standing all day and his mood is sour from having to serve customers, but it doesn’t distract him from the fact that something is missing. The place feels dull and lacks its normal warmth, and the change unnerves him.

“It seems y/n has not yet returned home,” Iroh observes as he flicks on the lamps to rid the room of darkness.

“Where did she go?” Zuko murmurs, doing his best to mask his anxiety over your absence. It’s not like you to stay out late, especially considering your apartment isn’t exactly in one of the safer rings of Ba Sing Se, and it worries him.

“I’m not sure. She seemed to be in a hurry when she left this morning,” the older man recounts as he scans the room to look for any trace of her left behind. “She didn’t even have her morning tea!”

“She could be in danger. I’m going to search for her.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, one of us should stay here in case she comes back,” Zuko states before making his way out the door. “I don’t want her to come home to any empty apartment.”

“Be sure to watch your temper if you do find her, nephew. Y/n is struggling to adjust to this new life just as you are, and it is important you are patient with her.”

The Prince says nothing in response to his Uncle’s words, but he immediately feels the guilt and shame that they bring him. His warning serves as a reminder for his recent behavior, and Zuko is then able to figure out why you were nowhere to be found.

You’d been eating breakfast together that morning before he had to leave for work, and despite his irritable mood you seemed to be eager to start the day.

“I was thinking of visiting the market place to buy fresh groceries for dinner tonight. Maybe I could stop by the tea shop and bring lunch for you and your Uncle,” you suggested with a pleasant smile.

“Sure,” Zuko had grumbled in response before forcing another spoonful of bland porridge down his throat.

“And after dinner we can visit the fountain,” you had said with an excited smile. “I’d love to take a walk through the city and get some fresh air. We hardly ever leave the apartment.”

“This city is nothing but dirt. There’s nothing to see out there.”

“Oh,” you had murmured, your features deflating slightly at his negative comments. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe we can just stay in and play a game of pai sho instead. I’m not exactly sure how to play, but I bet you could teach me! It could be fun!”

“Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself speak?!” Zuko had finally snapped harshly, his patience finally having been worn thin by your ceaseless suggestions. He didn’t want to take a stroll or play pai sho or have any sort of fun, and he didn’t understand why you couldn’t get that. “This isn’t some little vacation. I failed to capture the Avatar and now we’re stuck here, do you understand? Go play pai sho with someone else.”

The room had grown deathly silent after Zuko’s outburst, and he was too annoyed to notice the way you kept your gaze glued firmly to the table to avoid him see the welling tears in your eyes. Without another word, you quietly excused yourself from the table and made your way out the door without an explanation or a goodbye. Zuko hadn’t seen you since.

“I’m such a jerk,” he curses himself as he roams the streets in search of you. You’re not in the market place and you’re not by the fountain, so where could you be? He’s beginning to worry, his mind conjuring up multiple scenarios where you’re in trouble and he can’t help you. It’s pure torture.

A familiar laugh floats through the air, and Zuko feels the hairs on his neck stand up at the soothing melody. He’s quick to follow the sound, and as he shoves his way through the crowded streets he finds himself coming to a stop at a small noodle shop. The shop is practically tucked into a corner and isn’t much to look at, but the inside is full of life as patrons eat and converse and enjoy the camaraderie. At the heart of the restaurant sits a table full of people focused on the game of pai sho before them, and at the center of the table you sit with a large grin and a white lotus tile in your hand.

“I can’t believe I won!” You exclaim with an excited clap of your hands before looking to the older woman sitting next to you. “Thank you so much for teaching me how to play. This is the most fun I’ve had in months!”

“Y/n?” Zuko calls, garnering the attention of you and your new friends at the table. The airy laughter and pleasantries die down at the sight of him and the room is suddenly filled with tension.

“Oh, hello, Lee,” you greet dully, your cheerful demeanor immediately disappearing when you make eye contact with the boy.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home?”

“You said to go play pai sho with someone else, so that’s what I’m doing,” you state bluntly, and Zuko looks away guiltily after hearing his own words repeated back to him.

“Can you please just come home? You shouldn’t be out on the streets this late, it’s dangerous.”

“Why do you care?” You retort harshly. “I’m having fun here. These people actually want my company.”

“Y/n,” Zuko says with an irritated sigh, doing his best to remain patient. “Please. If not for me then for Uncle. He’s just as worried for your safety as I am.”

You hesitate at his words, but after a moment of contemplating you finally excuse yourself from the table. You bid your new friends goodbye and promise to return for another game sometime before following Zuko out of the restaurant and beginning your walk back home.

“The moon is out tonight,” he notes quietly in an attempt to make small talk, but you don’t reply. You keep your gaze forward and maintain a respectable distance from him as you walk. “Maybe I was wrong about this place.”

“Congratulations for figuring that out,” you retort sarcastically with a roll of your eyes. Having finally had enough, Zuko grabs your wrist to stop you in your tracks and force you to look at him.

“Y/n, please talk to me,” he begs earnestly. “I feel horrible for what I’ve done.”

“Good, you should feel bad!” You exclaim angrily, harshly yanking your hand away from him. “You’ve been nothing but a jerk since we got to Ba Sing Se, and now that I’m finally giving you the space that you wanted you come and ruin my fun!”

“I don’t want space from you,” he insists desperately. “I was being an idiot! Y/n, I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just feeling irritable and I took it out on you, but that isn’t fair of me.”

“I’m not going to be your punching bag for the rest of my life, Zuko,” you relent quietly, blinking back the tears that begin to form. “All I want is to start over, but you’re making it so difficult. Why did we even come here?”

“We came here because I realized you deserved better than to constantly live your life on the run,” he admits softly, carefully taking your hands in his own. “I know I’ve failed to make you happy or treat you the way you deserve, but you have to know that I care for you. The best part of my day is coming home to you after work, and I never want you to feel like a burden because you aren’t.”

“Thank you for saying that,” you sniffle with a meek smile, and when he pulls you into his arms for a hug you don’t protest. “I know this has been hard for you, but you have to understand that all I want is to support you and make the change as easy as possible for you.”

“I know, and I’ll forever be grateful for everything you do,” Zuko says before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Now let’s get home before Uncle begins to worry.”

You say nothing more as he puts a protective arm around you and guides you through the streets of Ba Sing Se. The move has been tough, but he swears then that he’s going to do his best to improve his attitude and give you the support you need.

He has a lot of making up to do.

| zuko tags: @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @taeeemin @lora21 @livelaughlovekuni @lovialy

| atla tags: @sirkekselord @niktwazny303

#melzula writes #request #zuko #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko imagine #atla #atla x reader #atla imagine #avatar the last airbender

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 8 months ago

Text

Cherry Pie. aka - Cherry, Part Three.

There are certain things in life that can’t be denied. You’re starting to think maybe you and Steve are one of them.

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing.

word count - 2.6k

authors note - part three has arrived!! thanks for your patience, angels. thank you for all your continued enthusiasm and support for this series. I love them and I love you <3 as always, please reblog if you enjoyed!! it’s the only way to circulate my fics <3

masterlist. inbox. series masterlist.

“The prettiest girl in the world just walked in.”

“Your mom?”

“Funny, Harrington. Try again.”

“My Cherry?”

Robin smiles knowingly, nodding her head. Not only did Steve automatically associate you with the phrase prettiest girl in the world, but he called you his. Some days, she wished she could slap him square across the face in hopes of waking him up to what everyone else could see so clearly.

“Hi, you two. Working hard, or hardly working?”

You giggle, and the sound bounces off the metal shelves of the Family Video Store. Steve’s mesmerised, stood unmoving with a beaming grin on his face.

“I’m the first, Steve’s the second.”

The boy kicks his coworker in the shin, laughing when she pinches the bare skin of his arm in retaliation.

“Not true.”

Steve takes you in for a second, stuck still in his place. You’re wearing his favourite sundress, all patterned and pretty in front of him. Your lips are glossy and skin glowy, sneakers on your feet a perfect white. The perfect picture of a summer day.

“What are you doing here?” Robin asks, breaking him out of his haze. He snaps back to reality and throws an arm around your shoulders, kissing your temple sweetly.

“I was nearby anyway, thought I’d come in and see if you were busy. And I had to remind Steve to pick a movie for tonight.”

“We’re not watching a romcom.”

“We’re watching a romcom,” you say at the same time as Steve while Robin laughs.

“I better grab the new stock from the back. See you later,” she says, winking at the boy who still has you pulled tight into his side.

He rests his chin on the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your cherry conditioner and vanilla body wash. If Steve gets to heaven, he’s convinced this is what it’ll smell like.

“I finish here at 6, so I can come and get you, or you can wait for me at my place? Your choice, Cherry Baby.”

“I’ll wait for you. I was thinking I’d make us some dinner anyway, ready for when you get home.”

Home. Steve’s brain short circuits, a vision of a domestic life with a white picket fence flashing across his mind. He cups your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Sounds perfect,” he whispers.

You’re a little confused by all this sudden affection, but the last thing you’ll ever do is complain. If he wants to kiss you until you’re dizzy in the middle of this Family Video Store, then so be it.

“I should leave you to get on with stuff.”

“You could stay all day, if you wanted. We could make you wear the uniform and everything - no one would suspect a thing.”

You laugh, nudging his foot with yours.

“As tempting as that is, I have a little more shopping to do. And I have to get ingredients for later.”

You pick up your bag, swinging it over your shoulder as you look at him.

“See you later, Stevie.”

“See you later, Cherry Pie.”

You’re halfway out the door when he calls your name, head whipping around to face him.

“You’re so pretty. You know that, right?”

You look at your shoes, suddenly bashful at his boldness.

“You too, Stevie. Prettiest boy I know.”

You both go about the rest of your days floating on air, high on the giddy sweetness of it all.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Steve almost passes out when he unlocks his front door.

There’s candles lit and music playing softly, the kitchen alive with movement. Something smells delicious, and he can hear you humming along to a song he thinks he recognises as you chop and stir. He can picture it perfectly before he even enters the room, but the sight still knocks him off balance when he finally gets a good look at you.

“Honey, I’m home!”

You spin from your place at the stove to grin at him, petticoat trimmed apron tied around your waist to protect your dress.

“Darling! I’ve been waiting all day for you!”

You curtsy in mock greeting, which makes Steve laugh much harder than it should. He strides over and gathers you in his arms, squeezing you a little tighter than necessary.

“Steven, I saw you a few hours ago. You’re acting like you’ve just returned from war.”

“Forgive me for missing you,” he mumbles into your hair.

You sink into his embrace anyway, tangling your fingers into the back of his shirt and inhaling the familiar scent of it.

“Something smells really good.”

“It’s my famous cherry pie,” you grin, pulling back to look up at him. “Made it just for you.”

“You’re an angel,” he exclaims, spinning you around on the tiled floors. “An angel sent just for me.”

You try to ignore the way heat rises across your chest, his compliments warming your skin.

“Let me take it out of the oven, and then we’ll eat. You must be starving.”

He laughs, because you know for a fact he’s always hungry. You know everything about him. It should scare him, spook him, make him nervous. Instead he hums with the excitement of it, body alive with the anticipation of it all.

Steve changes out of his work clothes as you plate up dinner. He comes back downstairs to see you sat at the table waiting for him, all patient and pretty. He wonders momentarily what he’s done so right in life to be rewarded so greatly.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

“So you totally brought me a romcom, right?”

Steve wants to deny it, wants to tell you that actually he stood his ground and stuck to his word. Instead, he says,

“Of course I did.”

And you laugh, all silvery and melodic, because you knew he’d cave. He can’t say no to you, even if he wanted to. You don’t use it to your advantage as often as you should. Steve wishes you did a little more.

“I’ll make popcorn if you get the video set up.”

Snacks made and movie ready, you settle in next to Steve on the couch. The two of you always follow the same routine - you sit separately, a fair distance between you, watching the movie with your hands to yourself. Then, slowly, you migrate towards each other, until you’re pressed together without an inch of space to be found.

The same thing happens tonight.

You end up being spooned by Steve, both of you laying across the couch cushions. Your back is pressed to his front, legs tangled together, his arm keeping you bracketed in to him. He’s hooked his chin over your shoulder to watch the TV, pressing kisses into the skin of your neck absentmindedly every now and again.

The film Steve picked is one you’ve seen before, but you’re not about to tell him that. Instead, your eyes slowly slip closed, the steady rhythm of the boys breathing lulling you into a sleepy haze. He traces patterns over the exposed skin of your stomach with his fingertips, chuckling slightly when you flinch as he brushes a ticklish spot.

Your hips roll back into his as you try to adjust your position, and Steve’s breath hitches in his throat. He inhales deeply, waiting for you to settle back down.

You don’t. You keep wriggling, clearly uncomfortable as you sink further into the couch cushions. Steve tries to help you, strong arm pulling you up and into him. You jut your hips once more, and he can’t help the small groan that leaves his lips.

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the flashing lights of the TV illuminating the room. The movie is still playing, but you know it’s almost finished. Steve’s arm is tight around your waist, his breathing heavy against your shoulder. You shift your hips to alleviate the pressure on your tangled legs when Steve sucks in a harsh breath, startling you.

He’s warm behind you. So warm. His chest is moving ragged, panting against your bare skin. His fingers grip your thigh tightly for a second, before letting it go and soothing over it.

Oh. Oh.

You’re wide awake, suddenly. Liquid heat spikes its way up your spine, all prickly and electric. You’re not sure what your next move is, but lust is clouding all five of your senses.

“Steve.”

“Cherry.”

“Steve.”

You try to say his name more firmly, but it just comes out as a whine. The sound shoots straight to Steve’s core, his hips bucking into your ass involuntarily.

“You okay?” he mumbles into your ear, grip on your thigh tightening. His fingertips dig into your skin, and you pray you’ll still be able to feel it tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you breathe, but it’s a lie. You’re not okay. You’re on fire, every nerve ending in your body alight with molten heat. You think you might be shaking with it, hoping Steve doesn’t notice.

His hand smooths up from your thigh to just under your breast, resting gently on your ribs. Your heart is fluttering like a hummingbirds wings, frantic and delicate. He can feel it through his fingertips.

“I love you, Cherry Baby.”

You lose your breath momentarily, reminding yourself how to inhale. He always does this, always catches you off guard by telling you he loves you in the moments you expect it the least. It always means more, in times like these. He could have said anything to you just then, but he chose I love you. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or neither or both.

“I love you too,” you choke out. “So much.”

You grind your hips back into his, grinning when he groans all low and buttery. His hand glides up to cup your chest, squeezing gently as you arch into him.

“What do you want?” he asks slowly. “Tell me what you want, babe. I’ll give you anything. Need to hear you say it. Wanna hear you say the words.”

You let him ramble for a minute, trying to put your thoughts in order. You try as hard as you can, but all you can say is,

“You.”

Steve buries his nose into your hair, pressing a kiss into the space behind your ear gently.

“You’re killing me, baby.”

“Want you so badly, Steve. Please.”

The hand that’s on your chest dances down to your stomach, slipping underneath your sleep shorts. He traces his fingers over your underwear, moaning when he feels them completely soaked through.

“Shit.”

“Stevie.”

He strokes you gently, hips rutting into your back when yours jolt into his hand. Eventually, he pulls your underwear to the side, running his fingers through your wet heat before slipping two inside.

You keen instantly, back arching into him. His lips find home in the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, teeth biting down occasionally to try and stifle his desire. You move your hips in tandem with his rhythm, grinding down to try and find the right spot.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s it. Atta girl. Ride my fingers, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

His voice is like melted honey, all golden and warm. It’s making your bones turn to liquid, sinking further into the hold he still has on you with his other arm. Every inch of you is plastered to every inch of him, not a millimetre of space between you. You’ve never been so connected, both physically and emotionally. It’s like the tectonic plates are shifting, the very foundations of your lives changing right in front of your eyes.

Your chest is heaving, panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. All you can focus on is the white heat building in the pit of your stomach, volcanic and bright. When Steve crooks his fingers, you cry out, tumbling over the edge into a blind freefall with no parachute.

“That’s it, baby. Good girl.”

“You’re so good f’me. Doin’ so well.”

“Ride it out, pretty girl. Fuck.”

“Make a mess, there we go. Just like that.”

You’re not even registering his words, but you know that he’s praising you. He always is. He thinks you’re an angel, sent down from heaven to teach him what love is.

Steve ruts his hips into your back, groaning as he finishes. He can’t even find it in him to be embarrassed. The feeling of you writhing in his hold as you tightened around him was his undoing, whether he wanted it to be or not. He doesn’t mind.

You go boneless, head dropping back into his shoulder. He presses kisses onto your temple, your cheek, your neck, anywhere he can reach. You sigh in contentment, and Steve wishes he could bottle up the sound and take it like a shot of espresso every morning.

“You okay?”

You nod and then giggle, dopamine rushing through your blood. You’re almost lightheaded with it, floating on cloud nine.

“Steve?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

You turn in his hold to finally face him, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and messy hair. You rest your sweaty forehead against his, panting into his mouth.

“Want it to be you.”

He pulls away slightly to get a good look at your face, eyes a little wide with shock.

“You mean…”

“Yeah. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, but if you do, I guess I, um… there’s no one I trust more than you.”

“You know you can only lose your virginity once, baby.”

“I know. Which is exactly why it should be you.”

He grins at you, all giddy and love drunk, bumping your nose with his.

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Steve leans in to press his lips to yours, all slow and tender, kissing you as if you have all the time in the world.

Perhaps you do.

“Not tonight, obviously,” you murmur, chuckling under your breath. “Don’t think you could handle that.”

He scoffs, pulling back from you in disbelief.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just came in your pants and I didn’t even touch you. Who even knows if we’ll make it to actual sex.”

Steve pinches your sides, wrapping his arms around you so you can’t escape. You laugh, trying to squirm out of his hold without luck.

“You’re gonna be eating your words, Cherry Baby.”

You shake your head, blinding smile still etched on your face.

“You know what I am gonna eat? My cherry pie. I’m starving.”

Steve groans at the thought of the dessert sitting on the counter in the kitchen. No one does a cherry pie quite like you.

“Hell yeah. Let’s do it. There’s ice cream in the freezer, too. That vanilla bean one you like.”

You peck his lips before standing up on shaky legs, wincing as you do it.

“You good?”

“I’m gonna need a new shirt. This one’s sticky.”

You look at him with a raised eyebrow and he can’t hold in his laughter, the sound of it booming around the quiet room.

“Shut the fuck up,” he jokes as he throws you over his shoulder. Despite your protests, he carries you up the stairs, smacking your ass a few times on the way for good measure.

When he puts you down, he cradles your face gently, looking into your eyes with sincerity.

“It’s me and you forever. You know that right?”

You know what he’s trying to say. I love you. You’re it for me. There never has been and never will be anyone else.

But neither of you are quite ready for those words. So instead, you say,

“I know. I’ve always known.”

And that’s enough, for now.

@psychicnerdcat @allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @internallysalad @saucypeanuttt @empathyroad @niceskyler @spookysins @theoraekenslover @7minutes-tomidnight @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @livsters @diffrent-spokes @regular-joe-shmoe @ihatepeanutss

for some reason I didn't tag some people from part one in part two... no idea why. sorry!

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x bestfriend!reader #bestfriend!steve harrington #bestfriend!steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x bestfriend reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things fluff

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mattsfavoritestar · 25 days ago

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THAT’S SO TRUE, chris sturniolo

synopsis… you're usually able to contain yourself whenever chris decides to mess with your head but for some reason this new girl was really starting to get to you.

warnings… angst, mean!toxic!chris, player!chris, situationship, ocs mentioned: nora and leah, little bit of manhandling (not in a good way)

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

“you okay?”,nora asks as she rubs your back. you completely disregarded her question as you stared, no, glared at the side of chris’s head while he flirted with his latest fling. nora calls your name to get your attention then repeats the question. “hm? yeah, i’m fine” you replied with a fake smile. damn near everyone knew of your on and off relationship with chris, no one knew why you still stuck around considering the fact that he constantly publicly embarrassed you.

chris knew you were looking at him, he gave you a quick glance as a smirk grew onto his face. it was sickening once you realized how familiar this scenery was. you were in the same position that girl was not even a few months ago. big blue eyes looking at her the same way he looked at you for the first time. you blinked only to see chris walking over with his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“thought i’d introduce leah since she’s hanging with me today,” chris says with a smile. you looked away from him— you refused to watch this unfold in front of your eyes. some of your friends greeted her while others stayed silent and nodded or gave her a tight lipped smile. it wasn't the first time that chris brought girls over just to get a rise out of you, your friends were used to this routine by now.

“so what made her catch your eye?” you ask in sarcasm. chris shrugged, he looked over leah with an unimpressed look before replying. “she's pretty cool i guess” he says. the room felt tense— your friends felt awkward as you avoided eye contact while chris tried to catch your eyes. “i was talking to chris about going to the fright fest, do you guys wanna come?” leah asks. Your stomach churned at her tooth rotting voice. of course she has the voice of an angel. you gave her a tight-lipped smile before getting up and walking out.

you felt your eyes burning as warm tears slipped down your face. you quickly pulled out your phone to call for a ride home but jolted in a shock as it was snatched from your hands. “think y’can just embarrass me like that then walk off?” chris says in an angered voice. you sighed as you reached for your phone, but he puts it higher in the air. “chris i don’t have time for this, just give it back,” you say in a hoarse voice. your throat burned from containing your emotions for the past few hours.

“nah cause— wait are you crying?” he asks in an almost concerned voice. you knew he wasn't being genuine with his question as he searched through your empty eyes with a small smile on his face. you wiped your face for the millionth time then looked away from him. he grips your jaw harshly and forces you to look directly into his eyes. “chris the window–” you try to say as you glanced at the large window that showcased the living room where everyone was sitting. He said nothing as he grips you tighter causing you to wince then finally meet his eyes.

“go back inside and wait f’me in my room” he finally says before releasing your face. you blink at him with a shocked expression as you glance back to the window. “are you serious?” you asked as you felt venom burning through your veins, “leah is standing in your living room waiting for you, yet here you are trying to get me to wet your dick” you spat. you feel your fingers curl into a fist as his smirk grows into a sinister smile as he watches you practically break in front of him. “i mean if you really wanna go then leave, i’m sure she can do what i need her to,” he shrugs before tossing you back your phone.

he waits a bit for you to change your mind but loses his patience as he opens the front door. “last chance” he says as he takes a step inside and turns to look at you. you look back at him with an empty expression but make no move. chris scoffs before shutting the door leaving you out there, standing on his porch with your thoughts and empty emotions.

#𝓒𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝓢.#𝓒𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝓢. ♡︎ 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 #the sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo angst #𝓒𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝓢. ♡︎ 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑠 #Spotify

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devoutekuna · 6 months ago

Text

Cooking with him.

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

Sukuna-

He can cook but chooses not to, why would he cook if he has a personal chef to himself. Stood in the kitchen as he searched for some fruit, daughter tracing the markings he had on his legs. "Daddy lets cook for mama" the thought of spending time with her father was the only reason she wanted to cook. "No" a straight no, she knew that he'd need some convincing though.

"But, I've seen mummy and Uraume cook, I can do it!" Grabbing onto his leg as he tried to walk off, acting as if she was too heavy to kick off. "No you can't! Your incapable of cooking" Looking down at the pink haired girl staring so profusely up at him, doing her puppy eyes which would win anyone over.

Cutting up a few onions from the dish, sat ontop of the counter as she placed the onion in her lap, knife inches away from her thigh. "Don't do that, it's stupid" putting the onion and knife on the table so that he could place her on the stool. "Don't be stupid" stood right beside her as she cut it up, it was going so painfully slow,he was starting to get tired especially since she had two more to go. Having the dismantle technique, of course he's gonna use it to his advantage, throwing the onion up in the air as it sliced, leaving diced cubes along the counter top. "Awe, you got it all over the counter daddy" trying to brush the vegetable into a pile. "Shut up, you were going to slow."

Nanami-

An expert as he cooks most nights, especially when your too tired to prepare meals for the week, it was a simple task to him. "Lemme help you papa!" Hands making it onto the counter as he kneaded the dough, eyes sticking up from behind the counter. Glancing down and the blonde realising she was on a stool, no wonder she got so tall, already got her hair tied back into a ponytail and apron on. "I'm almost done darling" he felt a bit bad but he was so busy so he wanted to finish this quickly.

"Please!" Her crys, only convincing him that she should help him, all he had to do was cook the rice after washing it and cook the chicken. "I mean, you can do the rice?" He didn't trust her much with food since he knew that she was just a toddler and would make a mess.

"Uh oh" seeing the rice poured down the drain, all of it in the sink rather than the bowl. Atleast half of it going through the drain pipe already. "What happened here?" It was bound to happen, he tried not to act annoyed but he definitely was.

Gojo-

He doesn't know anything about cooking since he rarely cooked for himself, if he did it would just be a precooked meal.

"Right, how small am I cutting this?" Glancing at you for some guidance here, a look of distraught and confusion on his face as she saw what he would be cutting up next. He was tasked with all the vegetables since you thought it would be easier for him rather than the meat which you tasked your son with. "Dice it Satoru" looking over his shoulder as you inspected how small it should be.

"Hurry up! Mum says the vegetables go in before the chicken!" He clearly took his father's personality when it came to patience. "I'm trying my best here!" Though he says that he's good at everything, he was horrible when it came to food. Grabbing another knife from the drawer as you helped him out, you were hungry and wanted food already.

Geto-

He was smart about it, giving her an easy task like stirring the pot, somehow she messed that up, hearing the clutter of a pot hitting the floor, body in the fetal position as she looked at the mess. "Uh oh" the sound of his daughter's voice made him respond quickly, hands on his hips as he scanned the mess on the ground, food spilled all over the floor, boiling water all over his new tiles too. "Sorry papa" feeling a bit bad for the mess. "It's fine" it clearly wasn't as that was one of the main dishes. "As long as you aren't hurt then we're good" nodding her head in response.

Toji-

"Your lucky I can't find my wallet" stuck cutting up some potatoes into long rectangular shapes. His daughter clearly was enjoying this, pouring a bottle full of oil into the pan. "No! That's too much baby" taking the bottle from her hands as she giggled, watching as the oil started to splatter up into his face, throwing a lid onto the pan.

"Turn it down!" Shouting at him, she had seen you do this multiple times, so she acted like the boss when it came to cooking. "It's on the lowest heat!" Going back to the cutting of the potatoes. "Hurry up daddy!" Slapping his leg as she jumped up and down, it was her first time being allowed in the kitchen whilst someone was cooking, let alone helping them.

It was a few minutes after he poured the potatoes into the pan, he didn't know anything about making chips so it was a new experience for him. "You took too long! Mummy woke up" she wanted to surprise you with her cooking skills, making you a plate of chips before you woke up.

#geto fluff #gojo fluff #sukuna fluff #nanami fluff #toji fluff #geto x reader #gojo x reader #sukuna x reader #nanami x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #geto suguru #gojo satoru #sukuna ryomen #nanami kento #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #jjk #𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝙺𝚞𝚗𝚊

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libraryofgage · 10 days ago

Text

Mermaid/Pirate Steddie Six

One | Two | Three | Four | Five

This fic was line-jumped! If you'd like to learn more about line jumping, please see this post

Anyway, thank you line-jumper for your patience, I know this was a little late orz but I hope you enjoy it!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

---

“Why do they look so weak?”

“Do you have more of these?”

“Can he really not breathe under water?”

“Does he understand bubble patterns?”

“He’s not the worst swimmer.”

“I could probably break his ribs with one tail swipe.”

“Please don’t break my mate’s ribs.”

Of all the words echoing in the water around him, those last few are the ones Eddie gets stuck on. He perks up as the curious hands of adolescent merfolk poking and prodding at him pause. From the determined expression on Steve’s face as he tugs Eddie closer, he definitely meant to say that.

“Seriously?” Robin asks, curling around Steve’s other side. Her hair floats across Eddie’s vision before settling, and bubbles rise from her fluttering gills. “You’re already mated? How did that even work?”

She glances down as she asks, and Eddie follows her gaze to Steve’s tail. It looks normal to him. His wound has healed, leaving only a faint scar behind. If anything has changed, it’s that the inexplicable splashes of orange across his scales make sense in the water. They glimmer and shine like gold and silver coins in the wavering sunlight that manages to break through the surface. Eddie is hypnotized by them, and it takes a conscious effort for him to look away.

Steve’s flush tells Eddie something important has been alluded to, and he’s starting to get an idea of it. “Robin! Not in front of the guppies!” Steve tells her. She cackles in response, bubbles bursting from her gills as she curls around Steve’s right side and flicks his forehead.

“But we already know about that stuff,” one of the guppies, Lucas, says. A few bubbles rise from his gills, too, and Eddie is starting to wonder if they’re important when Robin and Steve pause to study them.

Another one, Dustin, nods and places his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. He pushes up to float above him, holding tight so he doesn’t end up floating away. Somehow, this results in Dustin’s tail smacking against his back a few times, but at least it doesn’t hurt. “Yeah,” Dustin says, “You taught us during the last cold tide trip. Remember? Joyce and Hopper got together and started talking about more guppies, so then Erica asked what they meant and you got all red like a lobster as you tried to explain it.”

“Teaching you about reproduction and discussing…recreational enjoyment are very different things,” Steve says, his firm tone undermined by his flustered look.

Eddie taps Dustin’s hand, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in a curious expression when Dustin looks down.

“Oh, do you wanna know?” he asks.

“No, he doesn’t,” Steve says at the same time Eddie nods. When Steve glares at him, Eddie grins, salty water rushing into his mouth. He doesn’t mind too much, especially when he points at his throat and Steve’s glare immediately melts into fondness and concern. He leans in, kissing Eddie and pushing more air past his lips.

“We are just teaching Eddie about reproduction,” El says when Steve pulls back. She pushes under Eddie’s arm, wrapping her tail around his leg to stay in place. With her there, Dustin’s tail is no longer hitting his back, and Eddie hesitates before patting her head.

Between her, Dustin on his shoulders, Steve holding him close, Robin practically wrapped around Steve, and the rest of the guppies surrounding them, he’s starting to realize how touchy merfolk are. Or maybe this is just Steve and Robin and their guppies. He’ll have to ask later.

“Why are you making such a big deal when it’s boring?” Max asks, huffing as two lone bubbles rise from her gills. “Two merfolk decide to have a kid. One fertilizes the other, they carry the egg for a while and birth it. After that, caretakers watch the egg until it hatches. Simple.”

Yeah. Eddie has so many questions. He can’t ask any of them now, though. All he can do is nod along, forcing his expression to remain serious as he listens. Max seems to like the attention, her gills fluttering again and letting a stream of bubbles rise to the surface as she perks up.

“Man, it sounds boring when you say it like that,” Mike tells her, grinning as he turns to look at Eddie. “So, anyway, dicks an--”

Robin laughs as she smacks her hand across Mike’s mouth, using her other hand to ruffle his hair until it’s floating wildly in the water. “All right, all right, let’s stop before dingus goes belly-up,” she says, pinching Mike’s cheek when she pulls his hand away.

He huffs and sticks his tongue out at her. “Eddie asked,” he says.

“Eddie didn’t ask anything. He can’t talk, and he doesn’t make bubbles,” El says.

“No, like, he used his face.”

“Oh.”

As they talk, Eddie tugs on Steve’s hand, pointing to his throat again. Instead of immediately kissing him, he glances up at the surface with a frown. It’s not like Eddie was actually running out of air, so he doesn’t tug on Steve’s hand again. “How about we go up,” he says, looking at Robin. When she just looks confused, he adds, “You could see Eddie’s ship.”

“Really?!” Dustin and Will ask, both of them looking at Eddie hopefully.

Eddie considers for a moment, figures the guppies can be entertained by his crew if they get too bored, and nods once.

“Yes!”

----------

“They have so much energy,” Eddie says, carefully setting Steve on the bed before collapsing into it next to him. He rubs his fingers together, feeling how wrinkly they are after spending most of the day in the ocean. They still haven’t smoothed out despite being on the ship for an hour already.

Steve hums softly, reaching over and taking Eddie’s hand. He laces their fingers together, rests their hands on his stomach, and says, “They liked you.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell between Mike trying to drown me and Erica trying to bite me,” Eddie says, squeezing Steve’s hand.

The drowning attempt had happened when they surfaced. Mike had grabbed Eddie’s ankles and yanked him back under, grinning as Eddie yelped and swallowed half the ocean in the process. Somehow, Steve had managed to both kiss Eddie some air and smack Mike upside the head with his tail.

The biting had happened while trying to get all the guppies onto the ship. It involved nets and ropes and straining muscles, but they’d managed. When Eddie was getting Erica untied from the ropes, she’d leaned over and snapped at his shoulder. Robin saved him in time by yanking her back, refusing to hear her excuse about Eddie smelling like “really fresh krill” and her being hungry.

Things had been chaotic between getting the guppies and Robin settled, figuring out food, and keeping them entertained so they wouldn’t destroy the ship out of boredom. Eddie had never been so relieved as when they’d started nodding off in a giant tub they secured to the mast.

“They were just…testing you. A little. It’s normal when caretakers introduce a mate,” Steve tells him.

“What, are they making sure I’m sturdy?”

“More that you can handle them if you join the pod,” Steve explains. “Caretakers don’t leave their pods. If they mate with a merperson from another pod, that merperson just joins it. Guppies are overprotective and want to make sure mates deserve their caretakers.”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Eddie says.

Steve nods in agreement, shifting around some until he can turn to face Eddie. The bottom of his tail curls around Eddie’s leg, a heavy weight that he finds reassuring. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Eddie can hear the questions lying beneath. Did he like the guppies? Did they manage to scare him away? Is he going to end their courtship?

“They’re cool. I like them,” Eddie says, the words spilling out so he can reassure Steve. He feels something light and happy bubble in his chest at Steve’s smile. “I am wondering about something, though.”

“What?”

“How, uh, how does all of that…work?” Eddie asks, his face burning as he gestures to Steve’s tail, focusing on the general area Robin had looked at before. Despite the embarrassment of asking, he can’t help the heat that simmers through him at Steve’s knowing smile.

“Are you interested in theory or practice?” Steve asks.

“Practice. I am so, so, so interested in practice,” Eddie says, throwing an arm around Steve’s waist and tugging him closer. “But I wouldn’t mind a little theory so I know what I’m doing.”

Steve laughs, pushing against Eddie’s chest lightly. When he lets go, Steve sits up, gesturing for Eddie to sit behind him. Once they’re settled, Steve is nestled between Eddie’s legs and Eddie is resting his chin on Steve’s shoulders. “There’s a slit,” Steve says, taking Eddie’s hand and placing his palm on a patch of scales just below his waist. “When a merperson is aroused, it opens to provide access.”

Eddie swallows, nodding as he feels the cool slide of Steve’s scales under his palm. He glances at Steve and moves his hand, brushing his fingers over the area until he can feel where the slit is. It’s a slightly raised line, barely noticeable if he weren’t looking for it.

“And, uh, how does it work? For two mermen, I mean,” Eddie says.

He feels more than hears Steve hum, the vibrations pulsing through him from where Steve is resting against his chest. “Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Steve says, reaching up to tug on a loose strand of Eddie’s hair. “You humans have a word for it, I think, but all merfolk have the ability to carry or fertilize. It really just depends.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, biting the inside of his cheek as he presses his palm flat against Steve’s scales again. “So, which…I mean, what do you…you know, prefer?”

Steve thinks for a moment, twirling Eddie’s hair around his finger. “Anything that feels good,” he finally says, tilting his head back to grin at Eddie. “How about finding out what does?”

Not for the first time, Eddie thinks, perhaps, the merman in his arms will be the death of him. It’s a good thing he doesn’t mind one bit.

------

Tag List! (tags are full, please follow #high seas steddie)

@mugloversonly, @raisedbylibrarians, @thegirlwiththelibrarybag, @savory-babby, @vankaar,

@beckkthewreck, @itcanbepalped, @imfinereallyy, @finntheehumaneater, @mightbeasleep,

@weekend-dreamer7, @whenindoubtb72, @troublemaker2azz, @just-a-tiny-void, @upallnightogetloki,

@mxmakessense, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @haelreadsshit, @y4r3luv, @starman-jpg,

@littlewildflowerkitten, @estrellami-1, @stevieschrodinger, @gaelicblue, @they-reap-what-we-sow

@5ammi90, @noodle-shenaniganery, @acrolius, @hallelujahimatheist, @rainbow-freckle,

@desidrarry-wolfstarshipper, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @79chevyimpala, @aliea82, @hopefulcookieoperatorpersona,

@sani-86, @queenie-ofthe-void, @goosesister, @hello-fellow-nerds, @luthienstormblessed,

@xtkxkrzrizir, @potato-of-the-lord, @geekymagicalpotato, @child-of-cthulhu, @aizawa-emma,

@m-owo-n, @newtstabber, @cartercaptainofthemoon, @spectrum-spectre, @a-little-unsteddie

#steddie #steddie fic #high seas steddie #mermaid/pirate au #steve harrington #merman steve harrington #eddie munson #pirate eddie munson #robin buckley #the party stranger things #steddie fluff #my writing

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danisdistant · 4 months ago

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sunday - your past sins are meaningless now - part one

[intro blog] | [taglist] | [masterlist] | [table of contents]

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

sunday x stellaronhunter!reader

although it was only three days, it felt almost eternal when you’re locked up in a dark room. it doesn’t help that hunger has been gnawing away inside his body.

jade had been checking up on him periodically from time to time to remind him that her offer still stands. even hours before the trial was in preparation, she gave him one last chance. granted, her patience was growing thin.

“are you really going to die like this, sunday?” she said, walking up to him as she lifted his chin. he was already pale-skinned, but even in the dark she could tell he was almost as white as a ghost.

even with this confrontation, sunday refused to maintain eye contact with her. “i’ve told you, for the past three days. i do not want your pity.”

“…well then.” jade sighed, releasing his chin and turned around for the last time. “i’ll go ahead and let the rest know that the trial is still under way.”

“you should already know that your death won’t be quick and painless.”

and just like that, the door shut once more, sealing his faith. sunday felt numb. he knew he could’ve accepted her offer in the first place, at least for robin. but right now, he couldn’t bare to see her face again. not after what he’s done.

he can’t run away from his sins, after all.

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

“wow, golden hour is so… golden.” you mumbled, walking around the hustling and bustling city. “it almost makes me feel like i wanna spend all my money on the casinos.”

“yeah yeah. do that and you’ll get caught by the bloodhounds.” silver wolf spoke through the hologram as she crossed her arms. “oh yeah. kafka told me to remind you about her gift. seems like she really wants some new shades.”

“shades huh?” you placed your hand on your chin. “doesn’t she already have like fifteen pairs of them?”

“well yeah, but i’m sure she’d like some from penacony.” she looked around before pointing at a store on the side. “over there, they’re selling some sick looking things.”

“wolfie… that’s a game shop.” you stared at her in disbelief before shaking your head. “unless you want me to get kafka some shades based off some paper birds.”

“anyway, how much time left do i have till i have to break a bird out of its cage?”

“three system hours and twenty-five system minutes.” silver wolf typed something in the air before her relaxed expression turned slightly more serious. “you better start moving [name]. some bloodhounds are getting close.”

“alright. i’ll move and get something for kafka. and a new console for you.”

“haha, that’s what i’m talking about, [name]. alright, i’ll get back to you once you break in. try not to get spotted. i hope you maxed out your stealth points.”

“yeah yeah…” you muttered, turning off the hologram before placing the device into your pocket.

as you set your eyes on the game store, you wondered what kind of games they would be selling in a dream?

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

“thirty system minutes.” silver wolf said in your headset as you started to walk to sunday’s supposed location. “apparently, his trial is in about an hour, so security in the area is a lot more tight.”

“should it really matter if i make a big scene or not when i break in?” you mumbled quietly into the mic as you passed by some people. “i mean after all, we’re here for one person. break in, save him from the cage or whatever, and leave.”

“eh, if you’re all in on min-maxing your bounty when you’re caught, i’m fine by it.”

“what?! no way, i’m stuck on 6.9 billion credits.”

you could hear silver wolf’s smirk over the mic. “nice. well, it doesn’t matter anyway. it’s about to go up to 7 billion.”

“hey! you aren’t authorized to enter here.” an ipc guard blocked your way to the entrance of an ipc building. “turn around, or i’ll have to resort to force!”

“7.1 billion. sorry, miscalculated.” silver wolf replied as you pulled out your weapon. “don’t worry, i have the screenshot of your bounty, and i’ll share it with the others. anyway, the guard just called back up. good luck.”

“thanks wolfie. i’ll take it from here.”

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

sunday sat still. he was counting the seconds, minutes, and hours, he had left once jade closed the door. he had been stuck in complete silence, minus his own heartbeat and breathing, for four hours now.

as soon as he heard footsteps, he knew that his time was up. he stopped counting. at this point, he wondered if he should finally look at jade in the eye.

“dang it, it’s locked!” an unfamiliar muffled voice came from the other side. his wing twitched, suddenly curious at the foreign voice.

that’s… not what he was expecting at all. was someone else besides jade going to escort him? or is it someone unauthorized trying to break in?

“ugh, i’m just going to brute force it.” the voice said before a loud audible thud filled the room. sunday noticed only a small dent appeared on the metal door.

“dang it, it’ll take me forever to open this!” you groaned as you looked around for some kind of lock or code. you weren’t tight on time, but you did wish to get out of the creepy dark hall and room as fast as possible.

“tsk.” silver wolf clicked her tongue after a brief pause. “if you’d wait a second, you wouldn’t have made yourself noticeable to five other ipc guards. anyway, the code is six-nine-four-two-zero.”

“ok- got it.” quickly, you punched in the numbers and the door opened before you.

you weren’t exactly sure what you were expecting when you heard that sunday was locked up in a room. but, you certainly weren’t expecting him to be chained up in a chair.

“jeez.. the security on you is quite impressive.” you mumbled, causing sunday to finally look at you confused.

“…you’re not the ipc..” he muttered, trying to recall where he has seen your familiar appearance before.

right, you’re a stellaron hunter, specially [name]. he had seen you on the ipc broadcasting channel here and there after your interference with the company.

but, what exactly are you doing here? what exactly are you going to do with a man who’s going to be dead soon?

“nope, not with those suckers.” you smirked slightly, partly listening to silver wolf’s keyboard as she tries to find a way to release the chains. “i’m [name], one of the stellaron hunters if you haven’t heard about me before.”

“right now, your trial is upcoming in a couple of minutes, but i’m here to get you out.” giving a thumbs up, sunday shook his head.

“…don’t. i deserve what i’m going to be charged for, even if it means death.” he muttered, turning away as you looked at him surprised. you were honestly expecting him to be ecstatic to leave.

well, it doesn’t really matter how he feels. after all, the script did say to free him from the chains.

“uhuhh..” you said, listening to the footsteps outside that seem to be getting closer. “well, a little birdie told me to get you out of your chains, is to just snap them.”

“wait- you’ve.. disabled them??” sunday looked at his wrists to realize that the dull purple glow was gone. at a slash of your weapon, both of the chains snapped off his wrists.

he gasped, although he wasn’t sure why. surprise that the chains actually broke? relief that he’s free? or infuriated that a stellaron hunter is helping him?

“alright bird man.” you turned around as more ipc guards appeared at the door, aiming their weapons as you prepared to attack. “i’m going to save you, whether you like it or not.”

really, sunday himself wasn’t sure if he did mind being saved or not.

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

“alright, that’s the last guy.” you huffed as the final body fell to the ground with a satisfying thud. “we’ll be leaving penacony as soon as we wake up.”

“and if you’re thinking about running away, i have a small bird keeping my eye on you.” you glared, causing sunday to respond with a small nod.

so, it seems she really is serious about breaking me out and taking me hostage. it’s no secret that the stellaron hunters are planning something.. yet, i’m in no condition to fight and resist. sunday said mentally as he followed you out of the area. although, i wonder who’s the other stellaron hunter she’s referring to as her bird…?

despite his suspicions, sunday believed that the best course of action is to do as you say as the two of you break out.

“alright wolfie, we’re at a safe area. get us out of the dreamscape before more ipc guards catch up to us.” you placed two fingers on your headset as silver wolf gave you the clear.

[previous] | [next]

»» ──────ஓ๑ ★ ๑ஓ ────── ««

#honkai star rail #hsr #sunday hsr #jade hsr #silver wolf hsr #kafka hsr #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #sunday x reader #reader is gender neutral #no beta we die like misha

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wiliowisp · 1 year ago

Text

Heatwave ❦

Word Count ➻ 2.5k

Pairings ➻ Sebastian Sallow x fem!MC

Warnings ➻ NSFW 18+ ONLY

Tags ➻ third person POV, smut, face-sitting, giving head, penetration, sub!sebastian, aged up characters, married characters

A/N ➻ every day i fight for my place in heaven. this is the first smut ive ever written in my many adult years of life and also possibly the easiest thing ive written. funny that. hopefully u wonderful, sinful lot will enjoy <3

୧ send me prompts! i may write them! ୨

Summary:

A heatwave has descended upon Sebastian and MC's happily married life. The warmth unties the strings of restraint and allows, often hidden, layers to be peeled away...

The heat of the August sun bore through the windows of their home like thick honey, making everything stick. She sat at the table, hands melting into the wood, a cup of water sweating in front of her. England had not known heat like this in years; the Daily Prophet had warned of winds carrying hot air from Africa but she didn’t think that it would swell the atmosphere the way it had.

Over the last few days, she had steadily reduced the layers of clothing that she normally donned. The corset went first; stuffy, abysmal thing. Then the petticoat, three layers under a skirt was simply too much. The chemise got traded out for the more contemporary brassiere, a thin lacy thing that was all but transparent under the sheen of sweat that she’d been drenched in these past few days. Her skirts got shorter and her patience thinner. She wanted to wring herself out like a towel.

Luckily, the only person who had seen her in such a state of impropriety was her husband and school sweetheart, Sebastian Sallow. They had been confined to their remote cottage in the highlands, sweating their souls away as the sun reaped across the country. Sebastian wasn’t bothered by her state of undress, they’d been married for almost five years and together for much longer—he had seen her in much more vulnerable states.

However, she had noticed his growing restlessness of late. They scarcely touched due to the heat; where they would usually be wrapped around each other in bed, they erected a boundary in the centre of it, loathe to touch each other’s skin and boil in the scorching nighttime fever. Now, she had developed a bronze tint to her skin, all the way down to her legs, her face flush with a sunny glow. Sebastian’s eyes had noticed this. He had noticed the layers slowly peel away, and the way the fabric stuck to her flesh, lathed along it like a tongue.

The tension was thick in the air like rope. Sebastian did nothing to pursue her though, either by the heat sapping him of his virility or simply some form of chivalry. The rope tightened.

She had noticed him too of course—that was her husband after all. He was shirtless most days, a tan settling into his chest like varnish on a prized painting. His freckles darkened, set alight like sparks on his skin, the tone he had built from his career as a curse-breaker brought out in the daylight. A god cut in the stone.

When he entered the room, then, clad in a white cotton shirt, she was almost disappointed. He strode over to the sink, pouring himself his own water, and chugging it. His throat bobbed, adam’s apple prominent as the liquid ran down his chin and neck.

“I don’t think I can take another day of this,” he gasped.

“It’s not supposed to last much longer—we can go for another swim in the lake today?” she offered.

Sebastian took his wife in, his eyes dragging across her sweat-slick collarbones and jaw. “Maybe.”

The rope tightened.

He put down his glass and the sound seemed to shake the foundations. His eyes did not leave her. After what seemed like a fraught but quick internal battle, he stepped over to her, hand sliding along her shoulders. His fingers slipped the shoulder off her loose blouse, revealing more of her glowing skin. His breath stuttered. Then, Sebastian leant over, ghosting his lips over her clavicle, tasting salt on the tongue, as he kissed a trail up to her throat.

“You don’t know…how difficult it has been,” he whispered, “to keep my hands off you.”

She tilted her head, offering her neck to him, as his kisses got sloppier, more desperate. He used his hand to force her eyes upon him and she knew that look instantly.

It’s not often Sebastian gets like this. Sex usually had him taking the lead, it was hot, heady and banal—as she liked it. Sometimes, though, Sebastian would get this glazed look in his eyes, when his desperation had mounted to a point he no longer knew what to do with himself. Most times, he was a half-full cup, the empty half allowed him some sense and reason, and he was able to control his desires. When left too long, his cup became full, there was no room for anything else except wild, desperate want.

Right now, that need was etched into his expression. Sebastian’s eyebrows were pinched in a silent plea and his eyes were glassy; once he had started he no longer knew how to contain the water in his cup. The heedless want that pulsed through his senses until all they could perceive was her.

She maintained her composure. There was a delicacy to moments like these.

“Why is that?”

A frantic half-whine escaped his throat. “Because—because you’ve been practically naked in front of me all week and I—Merlin it’s so hot,” he was exasperated and whiny, and words failed him at times like these. Which made it all the more fun.

“What do you want, love?”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered between hers, he swallowed dryly. “So many things.”

His wife rose from her chair, levelling herself against him, bringing their faces closer. It’s not often Sebastian gets like this. But it’s so fun when he does.

She slipped her fingers under his shirt, running them up his flushed skin and around his waist. She pulled him closer, pressing his front to hers. He bit back a moan as the pressure met his hardening cock.

“Use your words, Seb,” she goaded, breath dancing across his cheeks.

He swallowed around nothing again. “I want your mouth on me.”

She surged forward, capturing his lips between hers. He responded immediately, an airy groan leaving his teeth as he gripped her hips and parted his mouth. She slid her tongue along the inseam of his lips, teasing him. Sebastian backed her into the table, arching her back slightly as he devoured her lips. Hunger stalked his every movement, his hips rutting into hers mindlessly as his hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head so he could kiss her more deeply, lose himself more entirely.

She pushed him away. “You wanted my mouth there?” she asked innocently.

He tried to kiss her again, but she dodged. He tried again. She dodged. Sebastian’s head slumped into her shoulder.

“Please,” he whined.

“Please, what?”

“Please put your mouth on my cock,” he begged her, pressing more wet kisses into her collarbone.

His wife grinned, trying to bite back the smile and regain composure. “Maybe,” she mused, “come with me.”

Sebastian was led easily, trailing behind her like a puppy in a way that warmed her abdomen. The heat persisted, whilst the sweat had her baby hairs sticking to her hairline, as well as Sebastian’s chestnut curls going slick around his ears. But a new fever had started to pool low in her gut, one that begged for satiation.

Now in the bedroom, she wasted no time ridding Sebastian of his shirt, peeling it off him as it clung to the perspiration. He kept trying to kiss her as she did so, which she swatted away while he petulantly whined. To shut him up, she ducked and licked a stripe up one of his nipples.

“Aah—!”

Then she licked the moan right out of his mouth. They kissed sloppily once more, Sebastian’s hunger disarming him of any prowess as his hands roved desperately over her clothed figure. When he was like this, Sebastian became putty in her hands. Despite her smaller stature, she manoeuvred them to the bed, separating their lips with a wet sound and pushing him onto his back.

He fixed his gaze on her. Leveraging his raptured attention, she reached under her skirt and slipped out of her underwear, watching as his eyes followed the lacy material when she dropped it to the floor. He was panting.

She climbed atop him, kissing him once more, before levelling her gaze with his. “First, you’re going to use your mouth on me, then maybe we’ll see about you.”

Sebastian readily nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yes, yes please,” he panted.

His wife smiled, something softer, fonder, before her expression settled back into her role. She shuffled up his body, Sebastian’s hands already greedily grabbing the meat of her thighs from under her skirt, dragging her towards his eager mouth.

Before even settling, he began, dragging a long stroke of his tongue across her cunt, a throaty moan leaving him as he tastes the sweetness coming out of her core. Like sugar. Sebastian forcefully urged her to settle more of her weight on him, wanting to feel her pressing against his nose. The last vestiges of sense in him commented how dying like this would probably be the best way to go ever. His wife sat, with a strangled moan, as his mouth sucked around the bundle of nerves that set her alight.

Obscene, wet sounds filled the room as Sebastian ate her like a man starved, coupled with the mingled moans of himself and his wife, her hips rocking back and forth against his tongue. The pool in her abdomen had now grown into a tidal wave that surged, pulsed. It’s crest rearing.

“Oh, fuck Sebastian,” she purred.

Spurred by his wife’s pleasure, Sebastian reached a hand towards his throbbing cock, palming it through his trousers, unable to help himself.

“You’re doing so good,” she rasped, “love, keep going.”

Sebastian rubbed the tip of his tongue against that sweet spot in tandem with the movements of his hand, shameful whines leaving his throat. His wife keened, her lithe body arching, head thrown back, a guttural moan leaving her throat as she came. Sebastian moaned in tandem, running the flat of his tongue across the seam of her cunt, feeling her pulse around him.

She panted—breath leaving her lungs like sap—and rolled off of her husband.

“C’mere,” she breathed.

Sebastian obeyed. She took his mouth into hers, eagerly licking the remains of her pleasure from him, savouring the wet slide of their lips. He was all but inconsolable at this point, wet patch at the front of his trousers, dick still painfully hard in its confines.

“Please,” he mewled, devouring the air of his lover.

She obliged him, taking charge once more, crawling over his supine body to suck bruises into his neck. Sebastian clutched her, a whimpering mess at the victim of his wife’s whims. Slowly, her mouth carved a path down his body, leaving wet kisses over his chest and nipples, before following the trail of hair at his sternum.

She undid the buttons on his trousers, shucking them over his waist and taking his cock in hand. Sebastian breathed heavily, watching her with undivided focus. She opened her mouth, sliding her tongue up the length of him, to his wet tip. Sebastian’s head thumped back onto the bed, a wanton moan escaping his throat. She licked him a few times more, savouring the salty taste of his skin, before swallowing him.

Sebastian’s hands flew to her scalp, gripping her hair, urging her mouth deeper. She began slow, tantalisingly dragging her mouth up and down his length, before bobbing in earnest. Sebastian’s resolve fissured as his hips met her movements, thrusting into the heat of her mouth. Stuttered whimpers left him, punctuating the movement of his hips. His throat was dry from the heat and how his pleasure worked his voice raw but in the wet cavern of his wife’s mouth he found it difficult to care.

His climax reared, any stamina drained from him after the restraint he displayed the past days, now completely abandoned.

“Ah, love—so good—m’ gonna—”

Before he could even utter the words, his wife pulled off his cock with a wet pop. Sebastian’s brows furrowed.

Quickly, she began pulling her sweat-soaked blouse from her body. Sebastian got the idea. He sat up, helping her out of her clothes. They kissed desperately in-between, his wife’s inhibitions being held together by a thread, as she hastily undressed.

Now naked, Sebastian couldn’t help but admire her, his own lust shelved momentarily while he worshipped the divine figure he was somehow married to.

“You’ll have time for that later, love,” she teased, “now sit back against the pillows.”

He situated himself at the head of the bed, cock wet and red against his stomach. His wife climbed atop him, hovering over his length. She took him in hand, lining them up, before sinking down.

They moaned in tandem, his hands gripping her waist like a lifeline while he fought off his climax right there and then.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” she breathed.

Sebastian replied with a broken moan, the tight heat of his lover distracting him from all sensations other than that rapture. Then she started moving.

Slow tentative rolls of her hips that undid Sebastian like a bow. He groaned, latching his mouth to her throat and leaving searing bruises. His wife clutched his head to her, her pace on his cock increasing with each roll. He wanted his hands everywhere. He wanted his mouth everywhere. Having to settle for the bud of her nipple, causing his lover to cry out in pleasure.

He started rutting his hips back into her, chasing the crest of pleasure he’d denied himself for so long. Losing all sense, losing all reason.

“Please—ah—please, I’m so close,” he keened.

His wife only increased her pace, all but bouncing on his length, torturing him divinely. More staccato whimpers left his abused throat, not caring how undignified he sounded. He was so close.

Sebastian sealed their lips, stiffened, and came. His release pulsed out of him, come seeping into his wife’s core as he groaned into her mouth. His dick throbbed, climax milking all his frustration dry, letting it drain him. When their mouths separated, he pulled her onto his chest and panted.

They remained like that for some time, his softening member seated inside her while they regained their breath. She placed a kiss on his chest and carefully pulled him out, before rolling next to him.

Finally able to think, Sebastian took in the sight of his wife, haloed in post-coital bliss. Sweat coated every inch of her skin, making her shine under the daylight. He reached a hand out to stroke across her cheek, his fingers coming away sticky.

“Better?” she asked.

“Better.”

A thunderclap broke their reverie. They turned to the window, finding the scene beyond submerged in a grey cloak. His wife crawled off the bed and stalked to the window, he got up to follow. Sure enough, as they peered through the threshold, a thick cover of rain descended over the highlands, coating everything in a petrichor hush.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sebastian remarked, “I think we broke the heatwave.”

She giggled, a sound like birdsong, and overcome with affection he bent down and kissed her by the open window, the cool air caressing their hot skin.

“I think we did.”

#i want people to know i had the lords prayer typed out at the top of my doc whilst i was writing this #willow writes #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow smut

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merganalogy · 6 months ago

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Part 4

Parts 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

This one takes place in the 60s (Part 1)

Her hesitation was palpable. The timbre of her voice pulled him from his reverie, evoking memories long buried within his mind’s depths. He shook his head, dispelling the ghosts of the past. Now was not the time for nostalgia.

Yet, he found it impossible not to study her. She remained unchanged, as beautiful as that fateful night forty years ago. But beneath the surface, darkness lingered—a truth he should have recognised. After all, Morgana excelled at hiding it.

“Merlin?” Her call drew him fully into the room. His day had already been wretched; it was about to worsen.

“I must insist you vacate the premises,” he said, his anger simmering since he learned of her presence. “Immediately.”

Morgana tilted her head, her green eyes searching for something no longer present. Still, she smiled, as if he jested. “You’re mistaken, Merlin. My stay at this hotel has been paid in full.”

“I care not,” Merlin snapped. “This is my establishment, and I determine who stays. You, Morgana LeFay, are unwelcome here.”

“It’s Pendragon,” she corrected, surprise flickering in her eyes. She hid it well, his newfound aggressiveness marked a shift in their dynamic—one that she concealed adeptly.

But he knew better than to believe her innocent act, years of relentless pursuit had led him to the spell Morgana had employed for her salvation. Its discovery shattered his very existence. No longer the smitten servant, he now faced her as Emrys, resolute in keeping her at bay.

“I confess, Merlin, I harbored suspicions over the years. This land never remains barren. Castles, palaces and mansions torn down and rebuilt over the years where Camelot's castle once stood. And now, a hotel. An peculiar choice.”

“For Arthur,” he replied curtly.

She hummed, unimpressed but that, "Did you have to name it Camelot?" Her disapproval evident, she twirled her hand in the air, gesturing around her. " It lacks creativity,” she declared.

His patience waning, Merlin asserted, “I will not ask again, Morgana—”

She cut him off. “Then don’t.”

Ignoring her, he continued, “You shall collect your belongings and leave at once.”

Morgana shook her head. “What’s the matter, Merlin? If this is about that night—” then realisation dawned on her, “I see. I am not allowed in Camelot.” The irony, the symbolism. “It was once my home too, you know.”

“Not anymore,” Merlin replied. “It stopped being your home a long ago.”

“Did you decide that?” she challenged.

“Yes.”

“I won’t leave,” she held her head high, arms crossed like a defiant child.

Merlin’s resolve remained unyielding. “Then I’ll have you removed.”

“I won’t be threatened.”

He glared, closing the distance. “Without magic, how will you retaliate?”

Morgana’s humourless laugh echoed around them. “Millenniums later, and you’re still stuck in the past? You started all this, Merlin, remember? If only you’d trusted me, if only you had explained before handing me that waterskin, we would not be here."

I blame myself for what you've become.

“I, too, once believed that. Yet, as the Millenniums passed, contemplation became my companion. I bear no responsibility for the path you treaded or the malevolence you wielded. You got what you deserved."

From this list, send me a prompt if you’d like.

#mergana #merlin x morgana #this is just part 1 of this era #it turned out to be a long one #confrontation are never simple #mermor #this is not what i meant when I wanted to write ficlet for this ship #i hope you enjoy this one

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middleearthpixie · 7 months ago

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Brilliant Disguise ~ Chapter Twenty-Three

A/N: I apologize that it's taken me four months to update this, but between school and trying to figure out just how to work Sophie facing off with her husband, well... it's been a time. But, if you've stuck it out, thanks so much for your patience!

Summary: Speech therapist Josephine Asharm has been brought into Erebor to work with Bifur, but trying to find her place among people who eye her suspiciously would be difficult enough under normal circumstances, but when Sophie finds herself caught between the king, his most trusted lieutenant, and the dwarf she’s there to help? She’s certain no good can come of it. Being of Man, not only does she stand out in the dwarf kingdom, she’s not entirely certain she’s actually welcome there at all.

Thorin only agreed to allow Sophie to live amongst them out of a sense of duty to Bifur, who is recovering from an odd head injury (is there any other way to describe having an axe blade lodged in one’s head, only to have it later dislodged during the Battle of the Five Armies?) Before the battle, he spoke only khuzdul. But since it? He’s regained the ability to speak Westron—if only he could but remember any of it. As for Thorin? He’s trying his damndest to ignore the speech therapist, not to mention his own growing feelings for her, even as he is also recovering from his near fatal wounding in the same battle.

Both Sophie and Thorin are haunted by their pasts and are uncertain of their futures, but sometimes, chances must be taken…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC Josephine (Sophie) Asharm

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.3k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard

@legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being

@rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-mer-6195 @sherala007 @enchantzz

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@dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith

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@night-ace

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

As she neared Erebor’s main gates, Sophie’s heart sped up. The sentry smiled down at her. “Morning, Mrs. Asharm. Off to Dale?”

“I am, yes.”

“Just let me send word to Dwalin. His Majesty has let it be known he does not wish you to be traveling to Dale unaccompanied.”

Her gut twisted sharply and sent a sour taste into her mouth, one she swallowed hard against. “He—he has?”

He nodded. “Aye. He said it’s not safe and that if you must leave, you are to go with Dwalin.”

“Oh, but I’m sure he has far more important things to do than to keep watch over me.”

“Be that as it may, Mrs. Asharm, I have to fetch him. His Majesty was very clear in his instructions.”

Impatience seared her insides, but she tamped them down as she peered over her shoulder. No sign of Thorin yet. “Very well. But, please hurry. I’d planned on doing a bit of Yule shopping for His Majesty and I want him to be surprised.”

“It won’t take but a minute or two.” He smiled as he started past her. “I’ll be back as soon as I find him.”

“If you insist.”

He didn't reply, but made his way down the corridor toward the Great Hall and as soon as he rounded the corner, she turned and made haste to slip through the door and out into the wintry air.

Dale was busier than normal, as the Yule holiday was only a week out and more than once, Thorin found himself being knocked off to the side by an impatient man or woman, who then offered up an automatic, “I beg your pardon.”

He paid little heed to those he passed as he hurried along the walkways toward Stone Street. He wanted to find Jora as well as Sten. He had a score to settle with both of them.

A hint of snow hung in the air once more, the breeze crisp and cold as it stung his cheeks. He ignored it at he neared Lucy’s. From there, he walked to the end of the street, and turned toward the alley Jora had taken them down. His heart beat faster as he drew near the door with the peeling black paint. Asharm was not taking him by surprise this time, so Thorin carefully drew the Orcrist and moved closer to the building itself, close enough that he felt the cold of the stone through his leather and fur overcoat.

At the door with the peeling paint, he paused, drew a deep breath, then grabbed hold of the handle, although he didn’t expect it to actually be unlocked.

But to his surprise, the door wasn't locked and instead swung open with only a soft whine of somewhat rusted hinges, which immediately put him on his guard. He carefully stepped over the splintering threshold, into the dingy main room. The air felt stale and cold, the room giving off an absolutely abandoned feeling.

Still, the hair along the back of Thorin’s neck prickled and stood up, which made him even more aware of his surroundings. He held the Orcrist at the ready, carefully moving along the room’s perimeter toward the kitchen.

It was empty—no dishes in the drainer, not even a drop of water in the sink basin. There was no sign of life at all anywhere in the flat. If it weren’t for the fact that he still sported a small lump just above his temple and the healing cut above his eye, he’d swear he’d imagined what happened the previous night.

“Wherever Asharm is,” Thorin muttered, “he’s not here.”

“Thorin?”

He jumped, jerking the blade clear as he spun about to see Dwalin in the doorway. “Are you trying to make my heart stop?”

“Sorry,” Dwalin pushed the door wider and stepped over the doorsill. “Is Mrs. Asharm with you?”

“No.” Thorin shook his head as he slid the Orcrist back into its scabbard. “She’s still in Erebor.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“What?” He looked up to meet Dwalin’s worried expression. “Of course she is. Where else would she be? I left clear instructions with Lon that she was not to leave Erebor unless she was accompanied by you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She wanted to confront Asharm and I told her we do so together. But, instead, I decided to keep her safe and in Erebor.”

“So, you lied to her.”

“Do not look at me that way. I would have to be mad to let her come with me, to let her get anywhere near Asharm, and if that means telling a harmless lie, I’ve no qualms about doing so.”

“She’s not in Erebor, Thorin. Lon did as you told him and came to get me and when we got back to the front gates, there was no sigh of Mrs. Asharm.”

“Did you check her apartments?”

“Thorin, she left. She was no where to be found.��

“Did you look—”

“She isn’t there.”

A sour taste flooded his mouth as his heart splashed into his stomach. Had she done to him what he’d done to her and set out to find Asharm on her own?

His initial reaction was anger, but then fear replaced it. Was that why Asharm’s flat was vacant? Had Sophie already found him, and had he done something to her?

“So, where are they?”

Thorin moved to the single window along the south wall. There the alleyway opened to a wider road whose name he did not know, and beyond it, was the Long Lake and then Esgaroth. “Take a guess,” he replied softly, squinting through the snowflakes sifting this way and that at the new structures on the bulkheads and docks that made up Esgaroth’s foundation.

“I hope you will take no offense, Thorin,” Dwalin growled in a way that made Thorin fairly certain he would absolutely take full offense at what he was about to say, “but I thought she had more sense than this.”

“We don't know that she confronted him,” Thorin replied softly.

“She snuck out of Erebor after already planning on confronting him with you, Thorin. Only a fool would think she did not take it into her head to do it alone.”

He continued to stare at Esgaroth as if he’d somehow be able to see where she was and that way know she wasn't in too much danger.

But that was foolish. Of course she was in danger. And he had no idea where to begin searching for her. Esgaroth wasn’t exactly a big city, such as Erebor was, but it was big enough that searching for someone could be a nightmare. And that it was still under construction meant it was also a bit of a dangerous nightmare.

However, all was not lost because he knew where to begin after all. “We need to pay Bard a visit. I think he might have an idea of where we can look for both Asharm and Sophie.”

“And when we find her?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

Snow fell to create a near white-out as they hurried back toward the center of Dale and the Provincial House. Snow covered the streets, the walkways, and roofs and showed no signs of stopping as it settled in Thorin’s hair and beard and on his shoulders as well. He shook it off as they mounted the steps to the Provincial House and he rapped firmly on the door.

It opened with a squeak and he found himself eye to eye with Sigrid, Bard’s eldest daughter, who narrowed her dark eyes at him. “What do you want?”

He smiled, quite used to her blatant hostility toward him. He had the feeling she would never forgive him for what happened when he and his Company unleashed Smaug upon Esgaroth, no matter how much time passed or how much restoration or reparation he offered. “Is your father home?”

She nodded, tugging the door wider. “Come in.”

He and Dwalin thumped into the man hallway, stamping snow from their boots and brushing it from their coats as Sigrid called, “Da! King Thorin is here.”

A chair creaked, boots thudded dully across the floor and Bard came around the corner from where his study was and smiled. “Thorin, I was wondering when you would arrive. And then I was beginning to think perhaps you weren’t and that left me at a bit of a loss.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Asharm is in my study and I was running out of ways to stall her.”

Thorin glanced at Dwalin and then, without a word, shoved past Bard to march into the master’s study, where Sophie whipped about from the front window to stare at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same, Sophie. I thought we were to meet at the front gates,” he replied, his calm tone belying the irritation that now bubbled in his gut. Never mind that he planned to do the same thing—to go after Asharm without waiting for her—he knew she’d have gotten herself into serious trouble, had Bard not been of a mind to stall her.

“I just came to do some shopping.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He shook his head. “It insults both our intelligence. You knew you were to wait for me or for Dwalin—”

“And you were supposed to wait for me,” her eyes swirled with pewter anger as she looked from him to Dwalin and back, “and yet, you did no such thing, either, did you?”

“If you think I was about to let you get anywhere near Asharm, you are mad.”

“Why? I know him, remember. You were running off to confront him without knowing a single thing about him.”

“Sophie, tell me, how would you have defended yourself when he attacked, because if you think he wasn’t going to, you—”

“I would have been just fine.” She reached into her satchel and withdrew one of the knives from the Great Hall. “I am not entirely stupid, you know.”

He looked down at the knife in question and it was all he could do to hold back his laughter. “You would not have stood a chance, you know. Not with that.”

“I bested him with a skillet, remember.”

“And for this, you would have to be up against him for that blade to be effective.”

She stared at him. “I could still use it, if need be.”

“If need be?” Dwalin growled. “Are ye serious, lass?”

“That’s enough,” Thorin said, holding up a hand in Dwalin’s direction. Then, he turned back to Sophie. “And why would think you would even have a chance to use it?”

“Because I—that is, I mean…” Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. “I’m tired of being afraid, Thorin. And I do not want Heather to always be looking over her shoulder. And you were going to go without me, so you have no right to be angry with me, you know.”

He sighed softly. “I do not want you anywhere near him at all, so yes, I was going to go without you and I’ll not apologize for that. I want him out of our lives and I want him out for good and I care not what I have to do to make that happen.”

“Do you wish me to take her back to Erebor?” Dwalin asked.

“No,” Thorin said softly, shaking his head, “I don’t.”

“Thorin, ye aren’t thinking—”

“Thorin,” Bard broke in, “it’s madness to even consider it.”

“Thorin,” Sophie’s voice was low and steady, “let me do this.”

He brought his hand to his forehead, rubbing it as a dull headache took root behind his eyes. “Sophie, it is too dangerous.”

“I lived with him for years,” she replied without hesitation. “And I lived to tell the tales. I want to talk to him. Perhaps he will be reasonable.”

“And think you he will?”

“I don't know for certain. But it’s possible. Let me speak with him and if he refuses to be reasonable, he is all yours.”

“All yours?” Bard looked from him to Sophie and back. “Thorin, you aren’t thinking of doing anything rash?”

“Bard, you should probably step aside now,” Thorin told him, “for I cannot say what I will do, but know this, he will have it coming regardless.”

“You cannot simply kill the man.”

“I won’t, unless provoked. But, I absolutely expect to be provoked.”

Bard sighed, his shoulders sagging a bit. “I had the feeling you were going to say that.”

“He is no man, but a worm,” Thorin told him, ignoring the look Sophie shot him as he added, “He raised his hand to Sophie, to Heather, with full intent to do harm. Killing him would be too good for him.”

Bard looked over at Sophie. “Is this true?”

A hint of color came to her cheeks as she nodded. “It is, yes. He was—is a cruel man and what’s more? He enjoys being such.”

Bard let out another sigh with that. “I cannot condone it, Thorin. You know this.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“But, if I neither see nor hear it, there is nothing I might do about preventing it, either.”

“Good.” Thorin replied softly. “Because there is nothing you could do to prevent it at all.”

Dwalin folded his arms. “So, where do ye think ye’ll find him?”

Sophie cleared her throat. “I know where he’ll be. But,” she looked directly at Thorin, whose gut twisted with apprehension as she went on, “I’m going alone. You can follow after, but he must think I’m alone.”

“Sophie—“

“I’m not asking you, Thorin. I’m telling you.”

Continuing to debate it would be pointless. He’d come to know her well enough to know that. And despite the uneasy feeling he had at the thought of her meeting Asharm by herself, he nonetheless let out a slow breath and nodded. “Very well. But we will be right behind you.”

She didn't respond at first, but then, it was her turn to nod. “As you wish.”

“I don't like it, though, Sophie.”

“I know. I don’t like it, either.”

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Romance #Richard Armitage

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astralisbelle · 2 years ago

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Dead Man's Hand 11 - Such Pretty Eyes

Dead Man's Hand Masterlist tags: engineer!reader, gambler!reader, loose canon timeline, eventual smut, fluff, action, casino aesthetics, touch starved reader, touch starved din, reader and din get on each other’s nerves, also they’re idiots, defrosting ice king din, cinderella vibes, everybody loves grogu

chapter summary: He has to find her soon, otherwise, he won't know what they'll do. warnings: show-typical violence

At first, everything is numb and quiet. Then she regains feeling in her toes and fingers, both sets feeling like icicles. Her neck throbs like it does when she sleeps wrong and it has no support. She tastes her dry tongue and tries to move her arms, but her wrists are stuck together.

Her cheek presses against the ground and her brows crinkle as she regains herself. With a soft groan, she rolls onto her back, made all the more uncomfortable when she realizes she can’t move her arms out of the way.

Din!

Her eyes fly open and she sits up, panting. The first thing she notices are the soldiers clad in white armor, their dark visors all turning towards her. For the first time in years, she is face to face with a squad of Stormtroopers. A horrified gasp leaves her breathless and when she tries to pull with her hands, she feels the cold metal around her wrists. They’ve stripped her of her shoes and accessories, just to add insult to injury.

“You’re awake.” She whips her head around and sees Bras sitting at the table, flanked by two Stormtroopers. He cuts a piece of well-grilled fish with his utensils, continuing his dinner without an ounce of remorse. Behind him, against the metal wall, is a sprawling banner of the Empire’s symbol, albeit with burns and holes. Her eyes survey the room, noticing no windows, just the large door at the end. Along the walls are crates and canisters, many of them dented and dirty in some way. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Where am I?” she growls.

He pats his lip with a cloth napkin. “Patience, sweet one. You understand how playing cards makes one completely famished.”

You’ve never starved a day in your life. That much, I can tell. She keeps her glare fixed in her eyes, her vein protruding from her neck. Bras finishes his meal, washing it down with a glass of red wine. He makes a refreshed “ahh” sound and then stands, circling around his desk. “I warned you,” he says. “Did I not? You should have taken my deal.”

“I wasn’t interested.” She puts on her bravest face.

“And look where that got you. Regretting that decision now, aren’t you?”

She sneers at him. “Is this supposed to scare me? Look around you, old man. If you weren’t scared of me winning in the first place, you wouldn’t have set this whole thing up.”

Bras grins. Then, he tosses his wine glass towards the wall and in the moment it shatters, he wraps his fingers around her neck and lifts, his thumb pressing against her trachea. “What is it with pests like you being so stubborn? You could have had the galaxy in the palm of your hand!” She gasps for air, her chest crying out for relief. “But no. You throw it all away for what? Pettiness? Nobility?”

“Ah… hah… why not both?” she chokes out. His nostrils flare at that. Dropping her back onto the ground, she lands with a pained sound, then he delivers an open blow to her cheek with his palm.

“It’s a damn shame.” He kneels down, clawing her hair with his hand and forcing her to look up at him. “A beautiful mind is wasted on you. You could have been greater than this.”

She shivers, expecting another slap on her red cheek. Her heart races and she’s certain that the end is coming for her and it won’t be pleasant. “So… now what?” She breathes fast. “You’re gonna kill me?”

“Oh, sweet one. Not yet.” He flashes a sinister smile. “I’m certain the Mandalorian is well on his way here, coming for you.” Her face pales. “And when he arrives, we will be sure to greet him.”

“H-He has nothing you want!”

“No? He has a full set of new beskar armor. It will be perfect to add to my collection, in addition to the grand prize.” No! It is only now that her defiance drops and pure terror enters her eyes. The image of Din walking straight into a trap and being brutally assaulted, murdered, by the Stormtroopers robs her of words. She shakes her head. “My…” Bras breathes out in wonder, tilting her head. “You have such pretty eyes, especially when they are so full of despair.” With a dark chuckle, he drops her again. “I’ll tell you what, my little pest.”

The tip of his boot slips under her chin, tilting it up. “When he dies, I will remove his helmet. And you can look upon him all you want with those pretty eyes.” His foot presses down against her neck. “Let the sight of him be the last respite during your slow death.”

---

The doors of the elevator slide open and the Mandalorian aims his blaster, expecting an immediate confrontation. When he sees that the coast is clear, he enters a brisk pace making his way down the dimly lit hall. He’s taught Grogu well so far on how to keep himself clear of the danger so all Din has to do is focus on rescuing her.

He hears boots jogging towards him about to turn the corner, so he flattens himself against the wall. When they come into view, he immediately opens fire from their flank, yanking the nearest one towards him as a meat shield. It’s at this moment that his eyes widen at the familiar armor, but he does not hesitate in tossing the meat shield towards the ground and kicking its head. “Stormtroopers?”

Grogu’s face crunches in animosity, wrinkles deepening in his cheeks and forehead.

“Dank farrik.” His walk turns into a jog as blood rushes to his head. He hadn’t encountered these since Moff Gideon, since someone else stole someone important to him. Din expects there to be loads more of them up ahead, so he has to exercise some caution if he wants all three of them to make it out of there alive. When he hears more footsteps, he stops in the hallway and reaches for the small bombs in his belt. “Get back, kid.” Just before the Stormtroopers turn the corner, he sticks them on the wall and charges them, listening to the tempo of its beeping.

He stashes the blaster and his hand hovers over his choice of blade: the Vibroblade or the Darksaber. The latter is the more powerful weapon, but it still feels like he’s trying to lift a Mudhorn. No, he doesn’t have time for that. Din grabs the Vibroblade and readies himself. The Stormtroopers come in hot, their blaster fire lighting up the hallway while he hides around the corner. All he has to do is wait for the bomb to go off.

As soon as a Stormtrooper rounds the corner, Din delivers a hard left hook against its helmet to knock it back. In the small window of vulnerability, he darts his Vibroblade forward into the space between the helmet and chest plate, piercing through the softer mesh and disposing of the clone quickly. Just before he falls, Din relieves him of his blaster rifle, using the extra heat to return fire. The tempo of his bomb reaches its finale and he hides behind the wall just before it bursts into a cloud of fire, shaking the ground and scattering the Stormtroopers. He walks past the fire, coming up on a trooper trying to push himself off the ground. Din swiftly uses the flat end of the rifle to slam on the back of its neck, knocking it out cold.

The bottom floor is a maze of winding, dark walls, but he figures that as long as he follows where the Stromtroopers are coming from, he will find her.

Just hold on, please. I’m coming.

---

They hear a distant rumble and the lights flicker for a second. She lifts her head, listening for anything more in the dead silence. Bras leans back in his chair. “He’s here,” he says melodically. “Get ready.” The Stormtroopers make a crescent shape around the door, their rifles at the ready. Her heart goes into overdrive and her eyes glue to the door. Please don’t come in, please don’t come in, please don’t come in!

Another boom in the distance shakes the room, this time louder and closer. Muffled blaster fire and grunts of battle reach her ears. She breathes hard, as if her lungs cannot get enough air, and sweat cakes her forehead. Then comes silence. The door slides open and she holds her breath.

No one stands there.

The Stormtroopers exchange glances of confusion with each other while one takes a step forward. From the corner of the door, high pitched whistles startle them all and tiny blue lights fly through the air. They hone in on the Stormtroopers, piercing through their armor with precision and speed. One by one, the pins explode and make short work of many of them. She watches Bras’s sadistic smile drop in the matter of seconds.

The Mandalorian steps into the door frame and opens fire. Some blaster shots bounce off his armor but others make purchase on his unprotected areas, staggering him and making him grunt in pain. Two troopers gang up on him, using the ends of their rifles to knock him upside the head. “Din!” He takes a knee and a beating before he slaps a button on his vambrace and a stream of fire emerges. Pushing them back and igniting them, he stops his flamethrower and pulls out something that she had never seen anything like in her life.

A high-pitched hum fills the room as a blade of pure black light emerges from the hilt. Din has to hold it with both hands, but one swing slices through Stormtrooper armor clean. With Bras’s forces dwindling, he pulls a blaster out of his desk and stomps towards her.

As soon as Din finishes off the last trooper, Bras yanks her up by her neck, making her scream as he points the barrel towards her cheek. “Mandalorian!” he announces.

The Mandalorian slowly turns towards Bras, his weapon scraping against the floor and making sparks. Following him close behind and opening the canopy of his pram is Grogu, his big eyes narrowing. When he speaks, his words are clear with the bite of seething rage. “Let her go. Now.” He takes a step forward.

“Not one more step!” Bras spits, jamming the barrel deeper against her skin. “You’re going to listen to me, or you can walk out of here carrying her corpse.” Din doesn’t move. “Good boy. Now, let’s make a deal, shall we? I know you’re after the beskar. Let me go and I’ll give you two ingots from the grand prize. How’s that?”

She can’t see it, but she can feel Din’s glare. His shoulders tense and he takes a few more steps forward, the blade scraping against the floor. “No.”

“Th-three ingots!”

“No. Hand her over.”

“I warned you not to take another step!” She shuts her eyes, waiting for the click of the trigger near her ear. It never comes. Instead, the hands around her tremble and she hears pained gasps coming from Bras. Peeling her eyes open, she looks up and see his eyes widen, his tongue peeking out as he chokes. From what? The blaster falls to the floor and he lets go of her entirely and drops her, grasping at his neck.

Din does nothing, but Grogu has his claw extended towards Bras, his eyes focused with murderous intent. As he curls his fingers in, she puts two and two together, sliding away from Bras. Din storms up to him, lifting the saber and driving it through his chest. He clicks the button to draw the blade back, leaving Bras to fall to his knees. He wheezes as he collapses over, the last of his life extinguished.

Finally, she can breathe in relief. “Din!” He faces her and rushes to kneel down. As soon as he’s close by, he takes a tool from his belt and goes to work on the restraints around her wrists. The second she is free and the thick cuffs fall against the floor, she throws her arms around his shoulders and holds him tight. “Oh thank the stars! I thought he was going to kill you!”

He freezes, his hands sitting in the air awkwardly. But then he gives in, resting on hand on the small of her back and the other across her shoulder. “You… you were worried about me?” She was the one who was taken, she was the one being held at gunpoint, she almost died a minute ago. But she was worried about him.

She’s either really brave or really nuts.

“It was a trap. He wanted your beskar.” She pulls away, keeping her hands on his arms. “I--” Grogu jumps into the space between their bodies, his hands clinging to the cloth of her dress. She laughs in relief, hugging him close. “Thank you, Grogu. I can’t believe you came here… I…”

It’s a beautiful sight, Din thinks. Happy tears roll down her cheeks as she presses her forehead against Grogu’s her nose brushing against his. His hands cup her cheeks: a feeling he himself knows well. Din had only seen that level of protectiveness from Grogu for himself, never anyone else. She lifts her head, smiling despite what she just endured.

“Thank you, Din.”

His chest flutters and he feels his face flush again, despite the battle have ended. Words don’t come to his tongue, so he settles for an awkward nod. He helps her to her feet, letting Grogu remain in her arms for now. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

He keeps an arm around her waist just in case. She uses one hand to keep Grogu against her and the other to wrap around Din’s shoulders, leaning on him occasionally when she needs it.

As they walk past the small fires and scattered, knocked-out troopers, Din has a funny thought that he keeps to himself:

In that moment, they feel like a clan of three.

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfic #work: dead man's hand #do you guys realize the smut is next #do you

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philliam-writes · 1 year ago

Text

on that tree i'll carve our names (03)

pairing: Ominis Gaunt x fem! Hufflepuff Reader / Sebastian Sallow x Male MC

summary: St. Jude thinks about that. You see his jaw work, as if he’s trying to speak around a word. “You’re friends?” As if he can’t believe you are capable of having one. He isn’t wrong. “Friends is a bit much.” If you had a Galleon for every time you have made out with Weasley in a corridor to throw off prefects from the One-eyed Witch Passage, you’d have two Galleons. Which isn’t a lot, but it is weird it happened twice.

notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

words: 6k

a/n: almost finished with hogwarts legacy, i can't believe it's taking me so long. done with sebastian's questline i think 🥲 feeling lotsa feelings about this one

03: arsonist's lullaby

The Howler explodes at the end of corridor, echoing through the Central Hall and drawing everybody’s attention to a stocky little Gryffindor boy who might be in his first or second year. It seems they get smaller each year.

“HOW DID YOU EVEN GET YOUR HANDS ON DUNGBOMBS?! DID YOU SNEAK INTO HOGSMEADE?! HAVE YOU NO SHAME EMBARRASSING YOUR FAMILY LIKE THIS?!”

Poppy Sweeting tugs a loose thread from the hem of her robe, waiting for you to play the next card. Her never-ending patience seems almost menacing, stretching bottomless like the Black Lake until you dive too deep and find yourself swallowed by darkness. “Indeed, how did he get his hands on Dungbombs,” she wonders aloud, raising her dark eyebrows at you. Her gaze is the sort of steely that passes judgement and falls for nothing.

Sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground in front of the Potions classroom, you pass time until the lesson starts playing Exploding Snap. With soot-black fingers and a singed collar, you’ve made your peace that within the next turns, you might lose your eyebrows—and worse, the game. If only Poppy’s expression would give away any hint, but she has an impressive poker face, and is still impeccably put together after three rounds.

Your skills are horrid. Or maybe the old suit of armour behind you is helping Poppy out, which you wouldn’t put past it after you accidentally knocked it over last year. These suits can be so resentful and petty. Whenever you lost a round, it creaks and clanks, laughing wheezily.

“Curious, isn’t it?” you muse. Poppy knows of your side business, but she’s been a good friend since year three, and not quite innocent herself when it comes to disobeying rules. “I don’t remember us having such a generous service when we started at Hogwarts.”

“Generous?” Poppy snorts.

Your answer gets stuck in your throat—you feel his gaze on you before you see him rounding the corner from the Central Hall. The feeling in the pit of your stomach is less that of a hook pulling you than a black hole sucking you in, leaving you breathless. The only satisfaction dampening the blow to your gut about how you react to this appearance is that St. Jude isn’t left unaffected as well.

He stops dead in his tracks—comically so, as though he’s walked into an invisible wall—and stares as if he’s seeing you for the first time. His chest is rising and falling, as though he is a drowning man who just got out of water and breathes air for the first time.

It’s just seconds. It feels like a lifetime—and then Sallow flings his arm around St. Jude’s shoulders and leans into him, lips almost brushing the shell of St. Jude’s ear as he whispers something.

St. Jude flinches at the sudden proximity but the grin splits his face, and he laughs at whatever Sallow said.

They walk past you inside the classroom, St. Jude doesn’t spare you another glance and the moment he disappears out of sight it’s like a noose lifting from your neck.

It takes a minute to shake off the heavy feeling, like fog lifting from your head. You wonder if St. Jude spent the night with your face imprinted on the back of his closed eyes. Like you did. You wonder if that is a side effect of whatever strange magic spun your wands together, so tedious and annoying you had stuck your wand tip-down into the pot of a young Kris plant in your bed chamber, only to wake up this morning and find the plant completely wilted and dry, much to Lenora’s horror who’d gotten that plant on a trip to Africa. Her cries were just background noise as you’d stared at your wand. The hawthorn whose cut branches smell of death.

Poppy’s small hand settles on your shoulder and the contact disperses your thoughts. When you look up at her, you reel back at Poppy’s knowing gaze, the secret smile flirting with her lips in the half-shadowed hallway.

“A troubling pair,” she states as though you’ve given any indication to the opposite. “But quite good-looking, aren’t they?”

You leave that without comment as you let Poppy pull you up to your feet and follow her inside the classroom. You assume people call Sallow handsome, the sort of generic handsome any growing boy with acceptable features might be.

St. Jude though—St. Jude is pretty in the same way the larkspur lining the road towards Hogsmeade are pretty: pretty dangerous, pretty lethal. Even brief contact with the flower can cause skin irritation or allergic reaction—which is pretty much what you feel crossing paths with St. Jude.

You shove the thought of him away.

Contrary to what everybody believes due to your grades, the subtle science and exact art of potion-making is one you sort into the more interesting classes. The classroom always smells pleasant—of dried herbs and rich fumes, of burnt wood and charred coal which you enjoy most with your love for setting things on fire. But you have no patience for looking after a softly simmering cauldron day after day, the care more demanding than looking after a delicate newborn.

Where you usually sit next to Javi, the seat is occupied by Imelda Reyes, which is the first warning flag that something is off.

“Right on time.” Professor Sharp rises like the fog over the Black Lake, stepping right between you and Poppy, and brushes the non-existing speck of dust from his handcuffs. “Despite my clear instructions that in your fifth year, you will switch your potions partner, I have yet to see any actual change. Thus before we waste any more time, let me do it for you.”

You flick your eyes to Javi. He doesn’t seem too sad about losing you in favour for Reyes, which is no surprise with his embarrassingly raging crush on her: he looks at her as if she is the moon and he the ocean’s waves, her pulling him in with such gravity he can do nothing but let her do what she wants with him. It is a bit embarrassing, really.

You quickly turn to Poppy. “Poppy, would you—”

“Miss Sweeting will pair up with our new student,” Professor Sharp announces. “And you will work with Mister Gaunt.”

Your stomach drops to your feet. Better than St. Jude but compared to them all it just feels like the lesser of two evils.

You trudge over to his potions station, unsure what face to make after what happened yesterday. It takes you ten seconds to realise how stupid that is because Gaunt can’t see you, so you just slide up right next to him and shrug off your robe. It won’t take long until the classroom feels like an oven, hot and humid from the fire and steam rising to the ceilings in swirling tendrils.

“So, what are we cooking?” you ask.

Gaunt’s head slightly turns your way. He looks very unimpressed. “Ah,” he says, recognition dawning upon hearing your voice. “You.” Only it sounds as if he’s addressing a servant or house elf.

“Me.” You throw your robe over the chair’s backrest and yank your sleeves up. “A pleasure, Gaunt.”

“We’ll see about that. If you think you’ll get easy grades from working with me, I must disappoint.”

“Disappointment is pretty much what I expected.”

Gaunt’s milky eyes flicker towards you, sending a scathing look in your general direction. Without another word, his hand reaches across the table, and he yanks the textbook towards him. With an impatient flick of his wand, the book snaps open to today’s lesson: how to brew the Draught of Peace.

After Professor Sharp’s usual instructions about the powers and dangers, and emphasizing twice that it often comes up at O.W.L.s, he leaves you to work.

You skim over the ingredients and see what is already at your station and which ones you have to collect from the ingredient shelves.

“I’m going to grab some syrup of hellebore,” you tell Gaunt, and from the trunk under the worktable, pull out a few stewed mandrakes. “Here, cut the mandrakes into cubes.”

Gaunt doesn’t move. He barely dips his head towards the sound of you shoving the chopping board his way. “Bold of you to trust a blind man with a knife,” he states.

You click your tongue. “Fine. Then portion the powdered ingredients. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know what the ingredients look like.” A hint of impatience steals into his voice. “Do you want us both to end up at the hospital wing?”

“What can you do then?” you snap back. As if you’ll do the whole work and just let him ride on your coattails.

Gaunt raises his chin. “Read the instructions.”

“Oh, yes. You prefer ordering people around, what a surprise.”

“If only people would actually listen.”

Merlin’s beard, you want to be done with this. You leave Gaunt at the station and get the remaining ingredients. Gaunt reads the whole recipe out first, loud and clear, the tips of his index and middle finger following after the flashing tip of his wand as it runs along the black lines on the page. You’re not sure how that magic works, but as long as he assists, you don’t care (you still make sure he doesn’t read something wrong off the list, glimpsing at the book whenever you finish one step).

The more Gaunt reads the more you get used to listening to his voice—and realise he has a nice, soothing voice, slightly higher in pitch than his other male classmates. Clear as spring water, like pearls gliding off a smooth surface and then you don’t listen to the words he’s saying, just his voice.

When he suddenly stops, it’s like a rope snapping in half and suddenly you’re in free-fall.

“You are not paying attention,” he snaps, slicing your thoughts apart with his sharp voice. You blink through the dark grey steam rising from your cauldron. Gaunt must have picked up on the small cues; he must have heard you’ve stopped moving about, stopped measuring the ingredients and just left the cauldron on the stove without reducing the heat. The smell itself doesn’t give away that your Draught of Peace is in danger of becoming a catastrophe.

You quickly lower the temperature of the flames, knocking over half of the other glass bottles and an inkpot as you reach for the hellebore. Black spills over the surface, drenches your parchment scrolls, the textbook; fizzes as small drops fall into the gentle fire beneath the cauldron.

Gaunt’s hand moves out in a flash, slender fingers curl around your wrist, pressing into the inside of your thin skin where your pulse hammers against his fingertips.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, and for a moment you think he sounds like a snake.

“Adding the hellebore, just like the recipe says.” You try to move your hand, but for someone with bony wrists Ominis Gaunt is surprisingly strong. He pushes your hand down until the small bottle smacks with a decisive clink on the table and your hand becomes trapped between the hard, cool surface and his warm, rough hand.

With a deceptive calm, Gaunt says, “You’re supposed to let it simmer for seven minutes. I’ve heard you don’t care much about grades, but I cannot afford to fail Potions.”

A snicker crawls its way up your throat, spills like the ink. The black pool has reached the table’s edge and leaves dark smudges on your white shirt, sticks to Gaunt’s long sleeves dragging over the surface. Somehow this is far more satisfying than anything you could say. “And now your grade hangs on how well I perform. How does it feel having to rely on other people your whole life? Maybe you should be a little nicer to me, Gaunt.”

His nostrils flare. You feel him dig his nails into your skin and you brace yourself for his retort, ready to devour any ammunition fired your way.

A familiar redhead pops up beside you. Garreth Weasley has one of the kindest faces you have ever known, and gentle green eyes. None of which means he is the innocent sheep walking among the students. He slumps against the desk, leans his waist against the edge and considers the mess on your potions station.

Weasley grins. “Am I interrupting something?”

Gaunt immediately shakes your hand off as though burnt and retreats to his side of the station. You turn to Weasley, scowling. You are spoiling for a fight and looking for trouble, but that trouble wasn’t supposed to be 6’5’’ tall, broad-shouldered, freckled-faced with almost any type of powdered potions ingredient perpetually embedded under his fingernails. “What do you want, Weasley?”

“My darling Hufflepuff,” he starts, and you see the warning signals for what they are.

“No.”

His face falls. “I haven’t even asked—”

“I don’t want to know.”

Weasley groans. “Come on, do your favourite Gryffindor a tiny favour, will you?”

“You’re nowhere near my favourite Gryffindor. I’ve also decided I am going to live an honest student’s life from now on.” You solemnly place your hand above your heart. “Steer away from any trouble.”

Weasley snorts. He looks like he doesn’t believe you. Gaunt looks like he doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t even pretend he’s not overhearing your conversation, eyebrows drawn together, head slightly inclined towards you. It seems he barely endures your presence as if you are a stone in his shoe, a minor but constant annoyance.

“Thing is,” Weasley says as though you haven’t said anything, “I sent the new kid to fetch a Fwooper feather for me from Sharp’s office. He hasn’t come back yet.”

Involuntarily, your eyes swivel through the classroom—and indeed, you don’t find St. Jude.

You exhale air very, very slowly. “Why in Merlin’s tits would you ask him to do that?”

Weasley rolls his eyes as if you’re some simple-minded Muggle incapable of comprehending that Unicorns indeed exist. “Well, I can’t just waltz in and take it. I’m pretty sure Sharp has enchanted the door with some anti-Weasley spells.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“And besides,” Weasley continues, ignoring you, “you’ve just run out of hellebore.”

“We have not run out of—”

With a swift swipe, Weasley pockets your glass vial, and winks. You feel an awful itch to cast a toenail-growing hex on him as he turns around and strolls back to his station.

There’s an awful silence as your potion simmers on its flame. In another corner of the room, you’re pretty sure Arthur Plummly is having a crisis because his brew keeps spattering and splashing like hot oil in a pan.

Gaunt clears his throat. “Did Weasley—”

“Yes.” You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration. “Yes, Weasley did.”

Gaunt crosses his arm. He looks as if he’s aged a couple years, which you feel is a common reaction to being subject to Weasley’s shenanigans.

You yank your sleeves back down and shove your chair out of the way—an awful screeching sound which doesn’t go unnoticed by Gaunt. He narrows his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“You heard the man. We’re out of hellebore.”

You don’t wait for his response. Sharp’s office is on the other side of the room; Sharp himself is currently trying to calm down Plummly, so this might be your only chance to slip in unnoticed.

The wooden door opens without resistance, and to your surprise and relief without any noise. In all five years you have only been inside Sharp’s office two or three times—for reprimands, to fetch ingredients, to prove Prewett you could indeed cast Alohomora flawlessly in your first year. Not much has changed. The desk is much messier than the one in the classroom, as though a storm has swept through. Shelves with ingredients line both sides of the room, the usual you recognise from lessons and some you’ve never seen before.

The only thing out of order is St Jude who, with hair askew and dust smudges on his face and shirt, is currently crawling on the grimy, dusty floor, hands scrambling inside a half-opened cupboard. You wait another long minute, just to really cement the picture into your brain.

“Looking for your dignity?” you ask aloud, watching St. Jude start hard enough he wrenches his hands back and hits his wrists against the cupboard’s edge. It looks painful. Good. “I’m afraid you won’t find it in there.”

St. Jude glowers at you, his grey eyes cutting like a sharp blade. It’s a gaze that crawls under your skin and chisels off the carefully constructed walls around the well where you’ve drowned any sort of curiosity at the very beginning of fifth year when you wanted to know who this mysterious new kid is. The fact that it is resurfacing when you thought you got rid of it is more than annoying.

“It’s only your second lesson and you’re already stealing from Sharp.” You whistle, making sure you’re extra loud just to see some fear or anxiety in those scrutinising eyes. “I don’t know if that’s brave or stupid.”

St. Jude climbs to his feet, quickly dusting off his pants where the dust left grey spots on his knees. “What do you want?” he asks, quickly moving past Sharp’s desk to the other side. He looks paler than usual, and there is an urgency to his stride as though he’s trying to run away. You almost ask him if something is wrong. Almost. “I’m busy.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Though you should have told Weasley you don’t know what a Fwooper feather is. You wouldn’t be wasting all our time like this.”

St. Jude stops dead in his tracks. He turns slowly to you, and with grave satisfaction you notice the crimson pinpricks spreading high on his cheeks. He opens his mouth, closes it. He looks like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar, which makes you realise two things at once.

“How do you—” he begins.

You nod at Sharp’s desk. “You’ve walked past it twice.”

He swallows. His chin juts out and his Adam’s apple catches—it’s a whole scene as he wearily eyes the clutter on the desk, and finally spots the glass container stuffed with dozen different feathers in every rainbow’s colour. He still doesn’t move.

“It’s the bright pink one,” you tell him.

Very slowly, St. Jude moves over and stuffs the Fwooper feather inside his robe’s pocket. A grin spreads slowly on your face. “You’re not from the Wizarding world, are you?”

Just as quick as the flush has spread across his face, it drains and St. Jude blanches.

“Because I don’t know what a Fwooper feather looks like? Pretty sure I’m not the only one.”

“Because you just told me.”

St. Jude blows a stray curl from his eyes. He looks as if he’s … pouting? “Does it matter?” he asks, casting his gaze from your head to your feet. “You don’t strike me as a pure-blood elitist.”

“I’m not.” You cross the room to the other side and grab another vial of hellebore-syrup from the shelf, shuddering at the dozen unblinking blowfish eyes pressed against the inside of a glass bottle. “Just wondering what your deal is.”

When you turn around, St. Jude stands in front of the door, staring at you for a long minute. “That isn’t what you said yesterday,” he says.

You shoot him a quick, warning glance. “Nothing has changed.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Why are any of us here? The universe is funny like that—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Obviously. Weasley seems to worry about his new protégée. Or he just really wants this feather for his new concoction.”

St. Jude thinks about that. You see his jaw work, as if he’s trying to speak around a word. “You’re friends?” As if he can’t believe you are capable of having one.

He isn’t wrong. “Friends is a bit much.”

If you had a Galleon for every time you have made out with Weasley in a corridor to throw off prefects from the One-eyed Witch Passage, you’d have two Galleons. Which isn’t a lot, but it is weird it happened twice. The conversation after was beyond embarrassing. Weasley had a hard time articulating any words—I’m not interested, I mean there is hardly time; it’s not you, it’s me; I’m not interested in romance to be frank—He’d pulled you out of breakfast for that, doughnut still in hand which you had shoved into his mouth to shut him up. No, you’re not interested in him either, it is called distraction and, no, you don’t care he’s neither into women or men, that’s all his own business.

Weasley had looked relieved—more than relieved. Thankful someone doesn’t ask how and why and are you sure it’s not a phase?

“It’s none of my business,” you had said.

“I think you’re nicer than you let on,” he had insisted.

You’ll show him how nice you are next time you smash a Bludger into his face during a game.

“Having friends is good.” St. Jude’s voice pulls you back to the present. “Beats being alone.”

You shrug, feeling this is the moment to go, to leave and turn your back on him. Your feet don’t move. “Why are you doing all this?” you ask instead, and then you bite your lip because why are you still talking to him?

One black brow twitches up. “Doing what?”

“Being everybody’s errand boy.”

St. Jude leans against the dungeon wall, arms crossed. It seems he’s also building up a wall behind his eyes, they begin to flick from you to the shelves, up to the ceiling—everywhere except your face. “I’m the new kid. It’s kind of hard to get in with people who have known each other for five years.”

“And you think they will like you if you do their dirty work for them?”

A shadow falls over his eyes, the bright grey darkens like a brewing storm over the sea. “I like having people in my debt,” St. Jude says slowly. “You make friends faster than throwing money on the ground.”

“That sounds a lot like something Sallow would say.”

St. Jude’s eyes settle on you. His gaze is like a physical weight on the back of your neck. “You don’t like him.”

You snort. “What gave it away?”

“Why is that?”

You don’t have to think about it—the memory rises unbidden: you high up in the sky and Sallow on the broom approaching with neck-breaking speed. Your spiralling thoughts—He won’t; Sallow isn’t mad enough to fly right into me—though of course Sallow is ruthless and determined enough to do whatever it takes to win. The fall, the pain, the weeks spent in the hospital wing. “Because he is a bad person pretending to be good.”

“And you are a good person?”

“Maybe not. But I don’t pretend to be something I am not.”

“No.” His voice is disarmingly soft. “No, you do not.”

You meet his gaze head on as if it’s a challenge. It feels like everything with St. Jude is a challenge.

Then, all of a sudden, he asks, “Sebastian’s sister. What’s she like?”

“Why all those questions about Sallow? You could just ask him yourself.”

St. Jude gives a slow, inconspicuous shrug as though that is reason enough. You chew on your bottom lip, tipping the vial of hellebore upside down and back. Anne Sallow, now that is a name that has turned into a wisp since her leave last year, nothing more than a phantom’s memory to most students.

“If you think Sallow is good at duelling,” you start slowly, “you should see his sister. She even gave sixth-years a run for their Galleons.”

You remember Anne Sallow—not that she was easy to forget—always in her chequered trousers leading Sallow and Gaunt from mischief to mischief, her laughter boisterous and loud, filling the rooms and halls and announcing her presence. To this day, nobody knows why exactly she hasn’t returned to Hogwarts, but the rumours ran wild. Until people stopped caring. “They were always trouble, but Anne … when Sallow does something, sometimes you might think he actually intends to cause harm. Anne was bolder, and more mischievous. But she was also kinder.”

You see her face, peaking around the curtain, wincing in sympathy at your broken arm stuck in the sling. Only in your third year you realised the Sallow twins had the same eyes. When Sallow had said sorry, he wasn’t sorry for kicking you off during the Quidditch game, he was sorry that he’d been caught and punished for it. When Anne had said sorry, you believed her.

“Interesting,” says St. Jude. “You can say nice things about people.”

You brush past him and stop in front of the door for a moment to listen if anyone is walking past on the other side. “Don’t think you’ll get the same treatment, St. Jude.”

“Callum.”

You wait for him to add something, but nothing comes as he looks at you expectantly. “Yes, that is your name,” you say after a moment.

“You should start calling me Callum.”

You consider him with a blank expression. “No thank you.” With that, you push the door open, ear pressed against the hard surface to listen to Sharp’s limp.

St. Jude hesitates for but a moment, a shadow flitting over his face.

Before you can remind yourself you don’t care, your mouth speaks, “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head as though trying to shake off a weight. “I am not fond of the smell of smoke and fire.” There is a scratch to his voice, like a broken record that keeps on spinning despite the damage. You don’t know what to say to that—you can’t remember a time where that smell has not brought you comfort.

“You’ll get used to it. I mean, it’s not the worst smell that can stick to your clothes down here.” You don’t know what you’re trying to do—reassure him or make light of the mood. Anything that would wipe away the pale, blank slab that his face is.

St. Jude sighs, resigned. He waves his hand at you with impatience, your cue to leave. You push the door open and squeeze past the narrow opening, slipping back out into the classroom. When you return to Gaunt, the damage is long done. Thick, black curls of smoke rise from the cauldron. The Slytherin boy sits on his stool, arms crossed, a slender finger tapping against his arm.

“I take it I was gone for more than seven minutes,” you say with the clinical observation of someone who messed up and does not want to admit she has messed up, or take the responsibility for it.

Gaunt has switched from sulking in his seat to trying to balance his wand on the tip of his index finger. “At least it seems most of the class has failed the task,” he says sullenly. “Professor Sharp advised us to ‘use that pile of pudding we call brain for once.’”

You assume Sharp’s mood might be worse than an offended Hippogriff, which also means that hopefully Weasley’s concoction works out for once instead of causing even more trouble—which is of course the moment Weasley’s cauldron explodes in a fit of colourful blasts, sparks, and a pungent odour of rotten eggs that has the surrounding students ducking away, retching.

From across the room, you meet St. Jude’s eyes. It takes exactly five seconds for Sharp to appear beside Weasley’s potions station despite his limp, rising like a Dementor ready to deliver punishment. There is no need for words: Sharp dips his chin, and then his eyes swivel like a compass and they settle on you first, then on St. Jude. Again, Sharp does not speak. Again, you meet St. Jude’s eyes, and you both move towards Sharp who is waiting for you two with an unreadable expression. You imagine facing a real Dementor might be more pleasant.

“When I allowed you to fetch what you needed from my office,” Sharp speaks and you can feel St. Jude deflate beside you which should give you some sort of satisfaction, “I did not mean that you can hand out my ingredients as if this is a common marketplace.”

St. Jude recovers quickly, lowering his eyes to the ground in unabashed guilt that reeks of shameless pretence. “I simply helped a friend in need, Sir.”

Two sets of dark, unimpressed eyes spear him; Sharp turns to you next, even more annoyed. “And you were not allowed to set a foot inside my office in the first place.”

“We’ve run out of hellebore essence,” you say, not looking at Weasley. “And I heard an Auror once say it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

It is a dirty card, quoting Sharp himself and he does not appreciate it judging from the glare he bends on you. When he cuts his gaze to Weasley next, the Gryffindor standing next to you actually flinches.

“There is only so much I can say to you Mister Weasley before turning into a broken record. Yes, you might have a gift for potions, but no, it does not give you permission to brew chaos—certainly not during class.”

“Sorry Professor,” is all Weasley says, crestfallen. He seems more disappointed about the fact his little project didn’t work out than getting caught.

“That’s ten points from Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor. Again. I do hope that in the future, should anything happen, it won’t always be you three causing trouble. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” choruse you, St. Jude, and Weasley in surprising and probably never-to-be-repeated unison.

“Good. And since all four of you seem so keen on taking responsibility, detention for the whole next week will suit you just fine.”

Weasley and you sputter at the same time. “But, Quidditch—”

“Sir, Quidditch practice starts next week!”

Only St. Jude picks up what you other two miss. “Four of us?”

“Precisely. I can see you listening in on our conversation, Mister Gaunt.”

Three heads swivel around to Ominis Gaunt still sitting where you left him, his face turned towards you. His brows are tightly knit together. “Why me, Professor? I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly. To my knowledge, Mister Gaunt, you are blind. Not deaf. You could have stopped your potions partner from embarking on something stupid. It is in all our interest to teach students to look after each other.”

Now that leaves Gaunt actually speechless. It would be funny were it not for a tiny prick of guilt settling in your chest for dragging him into this. As though he can smell your guilt, like a hound on the scent, his grey eyes glare in your direction as though everything about this has been your very idea from the start.

“Until Monday evening,” Sharp says. He dismisses you with a curt nod, then limps back to his class as he dismisses class with a sharp flick of his hand.

You scuff back to your place to get your robe and schoolbag, bracing yourself for whatever Gaunt has in store for you because going for conflict seems to be your default setting for anyone hanging around St. Jude lately.

But Gaunt just packs up his scrolls and quill and manoeuvres around the stations towards the exits, his wand flashing an angry red on his way out.

~ ⋆｡°✩ ~

It starts with a hunger.

To be touched, to be loved, to feel anything at all. It is such a familiar feeling that at first, nothing strikes you as out of order. Then comes the laughter—bright like clear bells, innocent. Unmistakably young, children’s voices.

They echo down a decrepit, narrow hallway drowned in shadows, the lily-of-the-valley wallpaper damp and overgrown with something dark and reeking of waste. Portraits, framed in rotten wood, hang askew, showing cobblestone alleys and crooked church towers. The only light crawls from open doors to adjacent bedrooms with bunk beds and half-deteriorated cabinets. Children’s toys lie scattered on the muddy ground as if recently used. On these walls hang crude crayon drawings of small children crying blood and adults hanging from the gallows, their neck crooked and twisted. A feeling of wrongness blooms within your chest, thick and sharp vines that grow up your lungs and make it hard to breathe.

You pass these corridors, eyes roaming over the unfamiliar faces on the portraits—James, Annabel, Theodore, Alice—but how? You have never seen them before.

The corridor ends in a wide-open hall with long tables and benches placed in an even distance from another. There are just leftover scraps on the dirty plates, an amount not meant to satisfy anyone’s hunger. The hunger in the pit of your stomach grows, snarls, gnaws at you.

The sense of wrongness spikes, a steady built up at the back of your head until you find him, cowering in a corner, face hidden behind his hands, save for the narrow gap between his small fingers where one eye is peeking through—looking right at you, at the world, like a single silver star flashing in the dark night.

The pressure is a steady column building, growing, pushing until you feel it overflowing from your pores.

Destroy it.

Destroy what?

Everything.

Everything?

And then everything is swallowed in flames.

You come out of the dream with the scent of burnt flesh and thick smoke in your nose and the taste of hot ash in your mouth. The fire took a dozen lives—the orphans whose name everyone forgot, everyone but you. James, Annabel, Theodore, Alice—except it wasn’t you who blew up the orphanage. Your sense of self shudders before separating enough for you to get a grasp of who you are and who you are not.

Callum St. Jude.

“What about him?”

You blink away hot tears from your eyes. Lenora shakes you with an urge as if she’s trying to shake the sense back into you. “Wake up. You’re scaring the other girls.”

“Fire—” You gasp, and choke as your lungs fill with clean air free from smoke and fire. “There’s a fire—”

“There is no fire.” Poppy’s wand swirls through the air and a small cup with water floats into your shaking hands. “It was just a bad dream.”

No, not a dream. A memory.

Poppy yelps when you shove the cup back into her hands, spilling half of its contents onto your and her nightclothes. Scrambling for your robe, you tumble out of bed and grab your wand before rushing out of the bedroom, the racing of your heart in your ears drowning the other girls’ voices.

The common room is dark and abandoned, the only light the softly crackling fire in the chimney still burning and for the first time you look at it and feel terrified. But the terror mashes and mixes with a rapidly swelling anger that chokes you up, sits on your chest and squeezes your ribs because why does he do that to you? What exactly is it about this boy that holds you like a bird in a cage?

The barrel’s entrance swings open and out of your way, revealing the dark kitchen dungeons and before the entrance, soaked in vinegar, St. Jude, staring at you.

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