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eowynstwin · 24 days ago

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Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. - ao3

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would��” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

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heytherebuds · 2 months ago

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Fanart for @erinwantstowrite fic (Leap of faith),aka the fic that’s been cooking my brain on low heat for the past 2 months (in a a good way 😀👍)

#leap of faith #ao3 #erinwantstowrite #Loki in the new chapter is so powerful he’s managing to piss me off #lof #leap of faith fanart #ao3 fanfic #spider man #peter parker #damian wayne #dc robin #batfam #batfamily #+ Peter #🗒️✍️

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lyralee333 · 8 months ago

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"If Percy Jackson ever went to therapy, his therapist would probably need therapy."

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pinkykats-place · 2 months ago

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BakuDeku ft. Midoriya-Sensei

Some include the new hero suit

AO3 Fanfic Recommendations

Disclaimers!

None of the stories below are mine.

Some contain mature content.

Read tags. Check Ratings.

@kyuriart gave permission to use art.

Note: If you read any of these stories and like them please let the author know with a kudos and/or comment!

Midoriya-sensei's boyfriend by @silverynight

Summary: "Midoriya-sensei?"

"Yes?"

"Is pro hero Dynamight your boyfriend?"

Izuku wishes he didn't blush that often because it makes it look like he's lying. He gets those questions a lot, but hasn't gotten used to them.

"No."

"Are you dating a pro hero?"

"No."

"Is he your husband then?"

"No." Izuku holds himself back from covering his red face with both arms like he did in high-school when he was too flustered. "Ka–I mean, Dynamight-san and I are friends. There's nothing else to it."

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

Eight years and counting by @silverynight

Summary: "For young Midoriya?"

All Might already knows it's for Izuku, but the question is not exactly about that and Katsuki is perfectly aware of it; he can see it in the soft smile of Izuku's mentor, he can see it in the way his blue eyes shine with knowledge.

Katsuki blushes, but he doesn't look away from the former symbol of peace. He's not that middle schooler hot-heated kid anymore. He's done hiding his feelings behind anger and he's not ashamed about what he feels for Izuku. He's pretty sure All Might knows about that, he's probably waiting for a confirmation.

Katsuki nods, blush spreading down his neck.

"It'll take years to make something like that."

"I'm aware."

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

how i long for our trysts by nikkiRA

Summary: Most nights the only thing he has the energy for is crawling into bed beside Izuku and falling immediately to sleep. It’s why they’re taking such a risk and doing this here.

That and because it’s hot. Sneaking away to fuck like they were teenagers again. That and Izuku’s suit. Katsuki has a Thing for Izuku’s suit, how nicely it contours to his body, how strong he looks in it. Anytime Izuku got dressed up, all Katsuki could focus on was how much he wanted to undress him.

{One Shot}

Rated - Explicit

all my emotions feel like explosions (when you are around) by tiffaniesblews

Summary: He really could not think of a time in his life that didn’t include Midoriya Izuku.

OR: Bakugou pines for 4200 words.

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

see you at home by marsbarrss

Summary: “Deku, you dumbass, you forgot your lunch again,” he grumbles, pushing the wrapped lunch box into his hands. The floral print flashes up at him.

“Ah, Kacchan, you don’t have to make me lunch, seriously!” Izuku flounders, but he accepts the offering anyway. He sort of has to, or else Katsuki will flip his shit. “I can just eat at home…”

The class immediately erupts in chatter, jumping to question both men about their relationship.

Five times Katsuki disrupted Izuku at work, and one time Izuku disrupts Katsuki at work.

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

have you heard about the rumors? by DetectiveKirigiri

Summary: Everyone assumes pro hero Dynamight and infamous UA-teacher-slash-pro-hero Deku have been together for the longest time, but the thing is, they aren’t even dating, and Katsuki hasn’t even grown the balls to confess yet.

So what do their ever supportive and encouraging classmates do? Help Katsuki plan out the perfect confession to Izuku.

The only problem? So many rumors are starting to spread all at once. Also, they barely have any free time, and Izuku has papers to grade.

WIP | 14/? Chapters

Rated - Teen & Up

love is a gentle thing by tenthuser

Summary: Izuku takes pride in knowing Kacchan better than anyone else, but as they grow older, he realizes there are still things left to learn.

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

Happy with that? by polkahdotti

Summary: The first issue was that he and Midoriya hadn’t spoken in seven years, and likely the stupid brat didn’t even want to be a hero anymore, and had completely moved on from Bakugou for good.

The second issue was that the suit was nearly finished.

And Midoriya didn’t know a damn thing about it.

— — —

Or: Bakugou manages to be a pining loser and oblivious about his own feelings and Midoriya isn't much help. They'll figure it out.

Complete | 2 Chapters

Rated - General Audiences

wreck my plans (that's my man) by Icantthinkofagoodusername7

Summary: One of the students raises her hand and upon being called on asks, “Dynamight, sir? Is Mr. Midoriya your husband? Your rings match,” She points toward the chain around his neck.

With that assumption, the other students also start to whisper about how right this student likely is.

”Wait, that’s so right. Plus they seem so close, Dynamight’s always hanging around here.”

”Oh also a couple weeks ago when Yui, Haruko, Mizuko, and I came here for lunch, Mr. Midoriya was on the phone with his husband and called him Kacchan, which could be a play off of Dynamight’s given name.”

“Oh my gosh that’s so cute, y’know if they aren’t married I wanna figure out who goes by Kacchan, that’s so cute.”

”Also, remember when Dynamight showed up like a month ago or something and then after he left, Mr. Midoriya was wearing his wedding rings?”

”I’m just seeing evidence after evidence.”

OR 5 times Midoriya and Bakugou nearly reveal their relationship to Midoriya’s students + the 1 time they actually do

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

Recharge by @silverynight

Summary: "Your childhood friend is taking too many extra shifts; he'll pass out soon at this rate."

Aizawa does that a lot lately; he casually walks into Izuku's classroom or his office, only to drop random information about Katsuki. It's usually something Aizawa disapproves of.

Izuku sighs, looking up at the window from all the essays he has to grade. Lately, Katsuki is making him worry too much.

The funny thing is that Aizawa believes he has some secret power to make pro hero Katsuki stop or change his mind; sure, they're friends, and he often listens to Izuku (yes, he also pays him a lot of visits) but it's not like the young teacher can work miracles.

***

A glimpse into their lives during those eight years.

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

"Midoriya Izuku to the help center (your students are looking for you)" by Gyrotoes

Summary: Izuku Midoriya and Bakugo Katsuki and their cycle of behavior on field trips.

— — —

or Deku and Bakugo goofing off on a field trip when they're supposed to be in charge of 20 teenagers

Complete | 2 Chapters

Rated - General Audiences

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hazel-islivingtrash · 7 months ago

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New chapter sneak peak :)) Satoru is head over heels for Suguru, but finds out something that throws his world off its axis. His drunken confession is finally revealed to him~~

For those of you who read my story, I know I said this chapter may be posted later than normal but I have decided to just get myself out of bed early to post it! It will be up some time around 12pm Eastern time on Saturday!

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Sneak peak of chapter 14: Baby, You Have Become My Addiction (Spoiler free!)

Gritting his teeth, Satoru stepped out into the rain and made his way over to the gates. He let himself in where other parents waited for their kids, umbrellas in hand. He stood, cold and wet, against the fence, eyes locked to the doors, waiting for them to open.

He felt himself start to shake as he became soaked to the bone, and he clenched his eyes, trying to trick his body into thinking he was back home, warm in his bed. It didn’t work.

“You poor thing,” a voice purred from beside him and suddenly an umbrella was above his head.

Satoru opened his eyes and looked over to his left, finding Suguru gracefully holding the umbrella over the both of them, his shoulder leaning against Satoru.

“You looked like a wet cat. You’re soaked! Where’s your umbrella?” Suguru asked, looking over Satoru’s drenched figure.

“You’re one to talk,” he joked, “Last I remember it was you who was drenched in the rain.” Suguru chuckled and leaned closer to Satoru, not caring about the wet spot that was growing on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it was going to be this bad,” Satoru admitted, a slight pout to his words. He leaned right back against Suguru, thankful for the coverage and the warmth.

“You really need to start checking the weather,” Suguru hummed. His free hand drifted up to brush away some of the hair that plastered itself to Satoru’s forehead.

“But then we wouldn’t be able to share an umbrella,” Satoru teased, sliding back into that easy rhythm with Suguru.

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If this intrigues you, it would be amazing if you could check out my fic! Updates are posted every Saturday!

Current status of fic:

Current status of fic: 13 out of 25 chapters complete, just over 72k words ❤️❤️

**The story is rated mature and with a warning of graphic depictions of violence.

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cosmicwhoreo · 6 months ago

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NEW CHAPTER OF MY BLACAVIAR FANFIC OUT NOW!

Sorry it took a bit to update, my ass is inconsistent as all hell plus real life and comms are a doozy among other things... But I hope it was worth the wait! Cross yer fingers the next one comes out in a more timely manner...

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run #crk #captain caviar cookie #black pearl cookie #Cosmic Writes #fanfic #beached mermaid AU #AO3 #blacaviar #NEW CHAPTER #Don't expect art on every chapter update-

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genocidalfetus · 1 year ago

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The corresponding chapter posted here!

This was something I worked on for a bit. I don't do these kinds of bulk narrative screenshots often, as they are time-consuming, but when I get an idea in my head, I have to get it the fuck out or it will torment me like an annoying ghost. So here they are! Dino and Vilem FINALLY getting back together. I also want to do some little narratives of Dino and Kerry rekindling their relationship while Vilem and Kerry get to know one another. I have ideas and hopefully the patch doesn't bork those plans!

#cyberpunk 2077 #virtual photography #vilem davydkin #dino dinovic #shippy saturday #fanfic stuff #new fanfic chapter #ao3fic #kept you waiting huh #two of The Three Of Strings reunited at last #OTP: The Three Of Strings

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everythingisromant1c · 4 months ago

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It's Always Been You - Chapter 8

james potter x fem!reader

summary - With James having acted so strangely the night before, you couldn't stop worrying about him. So you decided to go talk with him, even if he was set on being alone. Luckily for you, you knew just where to find him. After all, he was your best friend.

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The next morning, you sat with Marlene and Lily for breakfast, deciding you needed a break from the boys and all their sudden weird behavior. Your plan to escape them didn't seem to work very much though, since after only a few minutes Sirius was taking the seat next to you.

Marlene glared at him from across the table, recalling all that you'd told them about his interrogation over Sebastian to you last night.

"Lovely to see you too, McKinnon," he greeted sourly before turning to you. "Have you seen James?"

You frowned. "No, I thought he was with you guys."

"Well he's not. He's not in the dorm either. None of us have seen him since last night when he was in his weird mood."

You recounted how quiet he was the last time you saw him, hardly stopping to say goodnight before hurrying off to the dorms. You lowered your voice to a hushed whisper. "Have you checked the map?"

"Not yet," Sirius said back.

You thought for a moment, and an idea came to mind that told you the map wouldn't be needed. "I have a feeling I know where he is."

Without another word, you gathered up your things, and maybe a pastry or two, and took your leave out of the Great Hall. A confused-looking Sirius watched you all the while, but you felt as if you needed a moment alone with James anyway. Especially after seeing him look so closed off the night before.

It took a few minutes to make it all the way across the castle, but soon enough you'd made it down to the locker rooms next to the Quidditch pitch, somewhere you knew James frequented when he spent some time alone.

The hall was mostly empty, which you blamed on the fact that breakfast had only just been served, though you managed to catch one boy on his way out of the locker room.

"Hi," you greeted, and the boy stopped in his tracks to peer curiously at you, who clearly did not play Quidditch. "Do you know if anyone's in there?" You motioned towards the locker room behind him.

He followed your eyeline and, after a beat, turned back to you with the ghost of a smile creeping onto his features. "Looking for Potter?" he asked, his tone somewhat amused. You nodded, hiding your confusion.

"Yeah," he then added, tilting his head towards the door in front of you. "He's in there."

You gratefully smiled at him and mouthed a 'thank-you,' striding towards the locker room.

"James?" you called softly as you opened the door, all too aware that technically you weren't supposed to be in the boys' locker room, but figuring it would be empty besides James anyway. To your suspicions, you were right and there was no sight of anyone. That was, until you turned the corner and saw the boy you'd been searching for.

James was standing in front of his open locker, though he'd disregarded it the moment you'd stumbled upon him after what looked like his post-practice locker room state. That is—shirtless. Very shirtless, and practically glowing underneath the sweat from whatever Quidditch skills he'd been drilling.

"Oh, um," you began messily, eyes widening and trying their best not to so obviously take in any area beside his face, but the gleam of his bare and sun-kissed chest was certainly not making it easy. "I can come back-"

"No," James cut in, and the timbre of his voice echoing in the empty locker room had you pausing. "Stay."

You nodded, his voice soft but strong enough that you found yourself standing there, unmoving. He'd clearly not been expecting any visitors, especially not you of all people, to show up in the locker rooms. But if he knew you at all, and he did, he should've known you'd always find him even when he didn't exactly want to be found.

That fact and the unwelcome wandering of your eyes over his chest and abdomen, as if he wasn't staring straight at you watching you do it, had you feeling slightly guilty. You cursed yourself the moment you realized what you were doing, trying to salvage yourself as much as you could.

You cleared your throat. "You weren't at breakfast," you said after you remembered why you'd come to find him in the first place. Your throat felt tight, the spacious and brightly-lit room suddenly feeling cramped.

"I wasn't that hungry," James said simply, and if he felt at all off-put by his shirtlessness and your obvious fit of staring he didn't show it.

"You need to fuel your body if you're gonna be playing Quidditch all the time, James," you chided.

He shook his head at you, eyes maybe a little warm but probably slightly annoyed. "You sound like my mum."

You breathed in your laugh at the warm memories of his mother from every summer you spent with him. "I'll take that as the highest of compliments then, J."

You swore you saw his lips quirk up at the nickname at the end of your warm sentiment. Maybe he was thinking of your summers together then, too, or maybe he was still questioning why the hell you'd chased him into the locker room. A silence passed over you both for a moment. You were still standing by the door, him at his locker some feet away, wordless.

"But seriously," you continued, taking an intentional step closer to him as you spoke. "You okay?"

James's eyes lifted from where they'd been settled off somewhere in the distance, meeting your own for only a split second. "You really love asking me that question."

You tilted your head at him, knowing he was only being avoidant. "James."

His expression revealed little to nothing, and it was like he refused to meet your gaze from that point on. "I'm fine." Following through with his dismissiveness, James turned away from you then, his front to his open locker and his back, his very bare back, to you. He began putting away his things, the muscles visible to your eyes churning with each action. You ignored that on top of his aversion.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "Because I know that last night you didn't exactly seem 'fine' and all, or, I don't know, you seemed upset," you fumbled to voice. "And then I talked with Remus and he kind of mentioned that you might be upset because of me and-"

"He did?" You could see him tense as his words broke your rambling. Either you'd begun to melt his sudden cold exterior or you'd frozen it even further.

"Yeah, he did." You spoke slowly, words cautious. "Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it, I promise." You paused there, giving him an opening to respond, but he didn't. He didn't even turn your way, his back still to you as he began organizing whatever he had in his locker. Your worrying kept your mouth running. "And if I did something to upset you, then- "

"You didn't." James finally turned around, shifting your view of him from his back to his front, and you could see in his eyes that he was holding something back. He looked uncharacteristically shy, his voice coming out softly but withdrawn. "You didn't do anything to upset me."

"That's good to hear," you said, even if you didn't truly believe it. "But you're clearly upset about something. I mean, you're out playing Quidditch before half the school's even woken up."

He shrugged his bare shoulders. "I do that all the time."

"Without telling any of the boys?" you questioned. "Sirius didn't even know where you were. We were gonna use the map."

James stared at you silently for a second, as if he was considering something up in that brain of his, but he stopped the action with a slight shake of his head and another shrug. "Look, I don't know what you want from me." His tone was growing more irritated with every word you pulled from him, and it was starting to not only annoy you but hurt you.

"I just want you to tell me what you're upset about-"

"I'm not upset, alright?" He practically cut you off, shutting his locker door with a jarring echo, but the sound was less alarming than the flinch you noticed in James's face. You shifted your gaze downward. Maybe you'd been too distracted by his reserved front or his unexpected shirtlessness to notice the bandages on his wrist.

Your brows pulled. "What's wrong with your wrist?"

James's eyes darted to yours at the question, and then down at his wrapped wrist as if he'd forgotten all about it. Knowing James and his unruly way of living, you reckoned he probably had. "It's nothing." He threw the shirt he'd most likely recently taken off over his shoulder, apparently ready to ignore your prying all over again.

You stared him down disbelievingly. "James."

He paused his endless movement to offer you a better answer with a sigh. "It started bothering me a few days ago during practice." When you continued frowning down at the injury, he added, "It's no big deal. I hardly notice it."

"You just flinched." You narrowed your gaze. "Now stop being all mysterious and let me at least look."

Giving in to your doting, James took a seat beside you on the wooden locker room bench, his legs facing the opposite side of yours. The skin of his shoulder brushed against your own, which you ignored.

Ever-so-carefully, you picked up James's hand and laid his wrist in your palm. His skin was surprisingly soft, something that contrasted the material of whatever bandage he'd used to cover his injury that'd clearly been chafing angrily against his skin. You eyed the messy bandage work and suppressed any urges to scold him, figuring he was already sitting here against his will.

You glanced up at him from where you sat, only a few inches between the two of you, and looked at him for approval to do more. His eyes searched yours for a beat, maybe in question, and then he nodded.

Steadily, you used your other hand to begin unwrapping the greying gauze, focused on the sound of your own tight breathing and the steadiness of your hands working the bandages. They'd definitely needed rewrapping if not just being thrown out and replaced altogether.

The silence in the empty locker room was distracting you, or maybe it was the fact that James sat so silently next to you, watching your every move. In your peripheral, you could see the hard plain of his chest rising and falling as you worked on his wrist. You chased the view away, lowering your head more until all you could see was your hands and his.

It took another moment to fully unwrap his wrist, your perturbation only heightening each time a new inch of bruising skin was revealed. You held the uncovered limb in your hands, frowning and fighting back a gasp at how not-fine the injury seemed.

"Merlin," you whispered, taking in the redness that'd come from both the bandages and the visible swelling. Slowly, you bent his hand forward ever so slightly, and even that action had James tensing in your hands, the small inhale he took more than audible to you from next to him. "You're telling me you hardly noticed this?"

James gave another aggravating shrug. "It only got this bad this morning. Must've slept on it wrong."

"Or maybe it was from you overworking it out on the pitch just now." You gave him a look. "You're lucky it's your non-dominant hand."

You scanned over the injury for another second and then placed his wrist on your lap gingerly. You turned to get your wand out of your bag but remembered the pastries you snagged from the Great Hall for him.

"I brought you food from breakfast, for after I finish with your wrist." You nodded to your bag. "I even got a chocolate croissant. Your favorite." You felt your lips tugging into a smile. Godric, you really did sound like a mother.

"You didn't have to," James insisted delicately, though you saw his eyes soften momentarily.

"I had to pay you back somehow for all the food you sent up to my room the other day. I never got to thank you."

James shook his head. "I got your thank you note."

It took a second for you to recall the scribbling of your quill against napkin, something you'd done in a hurry in your dorm but meant every word you wrote. You felt your cheeks warm at the memory and under James's gaze that you swore you could feel dancing across your face.

You focused back down at his hand that rested on your lap, taking ahold of your wand and pointing it steadily at the discoloration around his wrist. You certainly were no Madam Pomfrey, but you'd learned some basic healing spells over the years from being the boys' honorary on-hand nurse every time they came back still achy after full moons.

Even with that knowledge, you knew not to try anything too experimental on James's sensitive wrist. Delicately, you lifted his arm again before softly muttering the most appropriate healing spell you could recall. His arm felt especially heavy in its limpness, but you could tell James was still tense. You moved the fingers that held his arm back and forth slightly, a soothing gesture as you dragged the tip of your wand over the bruises. The pointed wood grazed over red-and-purpled skin but left it void of discoloration as it moved.

Your lips parted at the sight that never failed to seem brilliant to you, no matter how many nights you spent alongside your friends in the nurse's wing as she tended to them. You didn't look up to see his expression, but you could feel James's fingers soften in your grasp, hear his breathing shallow.

You worked on his wrist with your wand for another minute before you were satisfied, moving it around slightly and humming softly at the lack of discomfort he seemed to have. For safe measure, you lifted his arm from atop your thigh again and began rebandaging it, more neatly this time. Your fingers grazed against now healthy-colored skin, his long fingers limp in your hold but seeming more alive now that the wrist they were attached to was stronger.

You closed off the bandage, tucking in what needed to be tucked and scanning over your work once more for good measure. You leaned forward slightly to make sure the bandage wasn't twisted on the side of his hand you couldn't see and felt a soft and featherlike something brush against the top of your forehead.

Taken out of the intense focus you'd had on his wrist, you looked up to find the culprit of the feeling. It'd been one of James's curls that'd brushed against the top of your head, a sensation nauseatingly familiar, but you were more concerned with the way he was looking down at you.

Looking didn't seem a proper word for it, maybe studying or staring a better fit, but all train of thought had gone off the rails when you met his eyes. They were hazel, you knew that fact better than you knew the back of your hand, but now they seemed to sink into a deeper color, something heavy behind the way he was looking at you. And maybe you were only imagining it, but you could've sworn his gaze was angled to an area near your parted lips.

You blinked in alarm as your breath caught in your throat, not knowing what to do with all the weight of his stare but feeling like moving was impossible anyway with the way he seemed to suffocate you, all without moving a muscle. You were so close to him, close enough to see the heavy rise and fall of his very bare chest and every movement in his face. His breathing was thick, and yours was getting heavier by the second. Something shuttered inside of you as your brain recalled the only other time he'd looked at you in this way, right before he kissed you over Spin the Bottle.

You tried to chase the fluttery, dizzying feeling away, but it stayed fixed in place within your stomach. Did he know how he was looking at you right now? Like he was deep in thought, but as if his mind was blank, hypnotized. Like you'd entranced him. Like he didn't mind. Like he wanted to ...

The door to the locker room slammed open, and you'd never turned your head so fast in your life. You were sure James did too, but you were too busy staring at the unfamiliar strawberry-blonde boy standing in the doorway to be sure.

"Crap, I'm so sorry Captain," rang the short boy nervously, eyes shot wide as he took in the proximity of you and James, his shirtlessness, and most likely the flush in your face. James stood up and you followed suit, noticing the distance he'd already put between the two of you. "I didn't know you were in here. I just came for my broom polish. "

James cleared his throat, curtly nodding at the boy. "It's alright, Crembley." His voice took on the assertion of a levelheaded Quidditch Captain and showed no sign of the unstableness you were feeling from beside him. You didn't know how the hell he did it.

That thought, along with seemingly hundreds of other ones, ran through your head whilst the kid James addressed as Crembley ran through his things in the locker by the door. All you could hear was the shuffling of his things and the ringing in your ears as you waited. Daring to look over, James's head was perched downward in the silence, and he didn't show any signs of discomfort besides the subtle tick of his jaw.

It felt as if an eternity had passed before the boy found what he needed, carrying a round container in his hand as he closed his locker and walked back towards the door. "See ya Captain," he smiled thinly, probably noticing the thickness in the air. He nodded to you politely as well, albeit awkwardly, before taking his exit, leaving you and James alone in the locker room once more.

The silence was deafening. You looked down at your shoes and then at James, who somehow seemed like he was standing even farther away from you than before. You took a breath in to speak before you even knew what you were going to say, but James beat you to it.

"You should go." His voice cut through the silence and echoed through the room and your head unwelcomingly, tone low and sober.

You blinked at him, brows pulling into a line. "What?"

"I mean," he continued, seeming to correct his blunt tone before you could question it. "You're gonna miss Transfiguration."

His explanation didn't have you feeling any less confused. Your forehead creased and you squinted at him and his tense, broad shoulders. "So are you. James, what-"

"I'll meet you there, okay?" he still hadn't looked at you fully, eyes pitched somewhere too low or too shifted to either side of you to be truly at you. You didn't know what was going on, the questions you'd been trying to get answers to still swirling across your mind, unanswered. You tried to force him to meet your eyes, at least give you that respect, but he wouldn't. As you stared at him and the unwavering projection of his hardened gaze, you gave up trying to shift it.

"Okay."

Your heart throbbed in your chest, tired from the work it'd been put through in the span of a single minute. You suppressed the feeling, gathering your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. You took steps towards the door and James, but paused, remembering something.

"Here." You reached into your bag, pulled out the pastries you'd brought for him concealed by a napkin, and held them out for him to take. For a second, he didn't move, and you thought he might reject your offer entirely from whatever mood he'd been consumed by and send you on your way. But he was still James, the one you'd known since forever, and he took them from your hand timidly.

"Thanks," he said, almost a whisper, and he met your eyes then for only a second. You didn't miss the flush of his cheeks that you were sure matched your own, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. His eyes were guilty and quiet and a muscle in his jaw worked as he looked down at the food in his hand. He kept his gaze on it as you pushed open the locker room door and rushed away, feet moving you as your mind stayed stuck in the locker room, replaying its scenes like they would make anything that'd just happened clearer.

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