#so I flipped the image to read the stuff on the back of the bottle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pondslime · 1 year ago

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??? FINALLY got the chance to sit down and read this

jfc, meg. ur really sending my ass straight back into the swamp. u have pitched me directly into the bayou and now I'm being pursued by a blue-eyed gator. how DARE u (I love u dearly)

FIRST OF ALL!! the prose in this is absolutely stunning.

u really captured this feeling of heavy, dense, INESCAPABLE heat. we're back in ambrose and it's SWELTERING. oof. reading this was like crashing ur car straight into a bog and having to trudge thru the muck!! waving ur 2005 flip phone in the air desperately trying to get service!! so u can call roadside assistance!! but surprise!! there's no reception and the only roadside assistance u get is some vile hick w/mommy issues!!!

bojangles in a wifebeater. the fact that u gave me that mental image. wild....................much. to ponder

favorite lines under the cut bc I'm howling about them. as we speak

The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

LOVE THIS WORDING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO VERY MUCH !!!!!!!!!!!!!! REPTILE BOY !!!!!!!!!!!!!! CROCODILIAN MFER !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

NOW THAT'S THE JUICE RIGHT THERE

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry. “Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

I cannot. physically put into coherent words. how much I love this bit.

just............OOF. the reader stuck in this house with who she is vs who he thinks she is vs who she has become!!! and @ the end of the day she decides it doesn't matter and eats the candy bc whatever. one of them should probably enjoy it.

THE FAIR DON'T COME AROUND HERE NO MORE AND THE TAFFY WILL ALWAYS GO DOWN WRONG !!!!!!! OH MY GOD !!!!!!!

oh. ILL. ill and diseased. excellent stuff

Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world. Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away.

n o w o r d s

gagging. throwing up even. ur prose. ur P R O S E

I'm in space...............the stratosphere..............I suspect

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that. In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

my jaw absolutely DROPPED at the transition between the nightmare to waking up in bed jhsdfjhsfdjhdf getting eaten out by this FREAK!!!!!!!! do alligators eat each other???? I'M ROTTING AWAY!!! love love LOVE that SO much. god. that's the juice that's my JAM that's everything!!!!!!!!

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops. The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

U M ?????????????????????????? thinking thinking THOUGHTS

wow??????????????? wowza???????????

ANYWAY. any shred of coherency that I have left is steadily dripping out my ears and I'm just yodeling gibberish @ this point. this is SUCH a drop-dead gorgeous piece. your prose is so so so immaculate. it's so wonderful to get to read ur stuff again. u always knock it out of the park. luv this and luv u

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#will hopefully gather enough braincells v soon to write a slightly more Comprehensible comment on ao3 #but just know. meg. u really fried my synapses w/this one #house of wax #📖💞: fic recs

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hot-hellboy · 11 months ago

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Already Forgiven - A Percico Fanfic

Summary:

Percy says something stupid during sex, little does he know it hurts Nico more than he lets on.

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3rd Person POV

Percy always thought of Nico to be an innocent little Angel. More accurately, his innocent little Angel. But that image of his boyfriend was quickly shattered as they made out passionately on Percy's bed. Nico was on his lap and attacking his lips aggressively while his large dark wings fanned out behind him, it was a truly impressive and a sexy sight that Percy got to behold.

One of his hands crept up Nico's back and in between his shoulder blades. Percy rubbed the places where his wings met his back and Nico almost screamed in pleasure. He gasped as he gripped Percy's broad shoulders and tried to calm down but his boyfriend happened to be in a merciless mood that night. Nico's wings flapped wildly as he squirmed on Percy's lap, trying hard to ignore the intense arousal from getting his wings touched and groped like they were currently.

"P-Percy!"

He moaned loudly as the older boy continued touching him and eventually Nico went limp in his arms. The pleasure had gotten to be way too much and now he could do nothing but clutch at Percy's shirt while his whole body quivered and his wings laid still.

"You...This is so not fair."

Nico managed to say weakly as he started to cry. He was so overstimulated and Percy's cock wasn't even inside him yet. Nico felt pathetic at the moment and it didn't help the fact that Percy wore a devilish smirk on his face while his fingers dug into Nico's soft feathers.

"Am I hurting you, baby?"

Percy asked mockingly and Nico almost wanted to scream "yes". His whole body ached and he clawed desperately at Percy's chest. Suddenly, the other boy's hands left him and Nico finally got to catch his breath. Unfortunately, he didn't get a break for long before Percy flipped their positions and Nico ended up pinned down under him on his stomach. Percy grabbed his ass almost as hard as he was gripping his wings and Nico whimpered loudly into the pillows. Although he really wanted to destroy Nico that night, Percy still wouldn't forget the lube. He paused briefly to grab the bottle sitting not-so-conspicuously on their nightstand.

He roughly kept Nico pinned down while thrusting a couple fingers in him after making good use of the lube. His wings fluttered gently as Percy worked him open. He gave Nico's ass one more hard smack before thrusting his cock inside him and immediately started fucking him harshly. Nico had to keep his moans muffled into the pillow he was holding onto to try and keep the volume down. Percy didn't seem to care in the slightest and simply thrusted into him at a harder pace.

"Percy!"

Nico screamed as Percy's cock kept pounding his sweet spot.

"Did you say something, beautiful?"

He panted from behind Nico.

"T-Too much..."

He sobbed and Percy slowed to a halt. His dick was still hard inside of him and it took every bit of effort not to resume moving. He leaned across Nico's back, being mindful of his wings and he kissed his cheek while whispering soothingly sweet things to him.

"We can stop and I can leave if that's what you want."

Nico knew Percy wasn't being serious. He never was when he said that kind of stuff, but it still upset him. He didn't know why, but a big part of him was angry that Percy was threatening to leave, even if it was in a joking manner.

"You can't say things like that to me, you know."

He shot back. Maybe now wasn't the time to argue, considering Percy had complete control over him when he was in this vulnerable state.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Nico. You might have to break it down for me."

Percy said beside his ear. Unmistakable humor highlighted his voice. Nico winced as he rolled onto his back, his ass hurt and his wings stung and he felt like crying again.

"Oh shit, babe I didn't mean that...You know I didn't."

Apparently he noticed Nico's clear distress. About time, he thought. He turned his face away from Percy, such a childish thing to do in hindsight, but he couldn't look at him.

"Yeah. You never "mean" it."

Nico couldn't hide the hurt in his voice anymore. He ignored Percy's playful kisses and the hands on his slender hips. He even ignored his boyfriend's pout that usually managed to win him over many times before. Percy gave up trying to get his attention after a few minutes and resumed fucking him. Nico gasped and his mind snapped back to attention.

"Jackass."

He growled but it quickly turned into a highly non-threatening squeak as his prostate was touched again and again. Nico's hands reached up to clutch the pillow behind his head but Percy took this as the perfect opportunity to pin his wrists down with his own hands.

"You were saying?"

Percy said smugly, enjoying watching Nico fall apart again for him. Nico wanted to cuss at him, get angry and yell, but all he could do was moan and whine like a fucking whore. It didn't take much longer before he came, although he wanted to hold back his own orgasm as to not give his boyfriend that satisfaction. After cumming, Nico was too tired to do much else and allowed Percy to do whatever the hell he wanted with him. He felt boneless on the bed and he felt like falling asleep. However, Percy was finished a lot sooner than Nico thought and he whimpered as he pulled out and jerked himself off. Percy stroked his cock until his hot cum spilled onto Nico's thighs.

He sighed, not even trying to conceal his overall contentment as he flopped down next to Nico and tried putting his arm around him. Nico quickly reacted to this and shielded his body with his giant wings. That was the cool thing about having them, they were like his own personal armor. He was still mad, and even having sex didn't make him feel any better. Nico gave Percy his back as he tried putting the covers over both of them. Unfortunately, this left his back exposed and he shivered when he felt Percy's fingertips brush over the bases of his wings.

"I'm sorry."

He murmured.

"It was a stupid thing to say and it's not like I would have just gotten up and left out the door like that, Nico."

Percy was being sincere and he hated it. He wished he was joking, maybe he thought it would have hurt less. Nico didn't say anything so Percy continued.

"I'm not expecting you to forgive me, but I promise I'll stop saying shit like that, I mean it. I guess I...I guess I never noticed how much it hurt you, and I'm sorry for that, too."

Nico really, really, wanted to stay mad. He wanted to stay fuming but he couldn't find it in himself to do so. He still didn't talk, but he visibly relaxed his wing muscles and hoped Percy took the hint. It seemed he did because he moved closer to Nico and petted his back, running his hands over his fragile frame and overall keeping contact with him.

"I'm sorry."

Percy said again and kissed Nico's neck with a gentleness unmatched by anything they ever did. He would be lying if he said his heart hadn't melted by then, and that's why he opened up his wings and allowed them to not be pressed against his body like a second skin anymore. Percy made a tiny sound of relief and eagerly cuddled up close to the boy. He kissed every one of the bruises left on Nico's body by him during the heat of the moment, and he made sure to hold him tight as well.

"Thank you."

Percy whispered, nuzzling Nico's cheek as he interlaced their hands underneath the blankets. He felt very hurt when Nico started moving away from him, but quickly realized he was just turning over to face him. Nico opened up his wings a little more and wordlessly invited Percy to get closer. He obeyed excitedly and wrapped both of his arms around Nico's torso with one leg slipped between his. Percy knew Nico wasn't great with communication, but he also knew that this was his way of showing forgiveness. And Percy wouldn't trade anything in the world for being able to be embraced in Nico's wings. Nico stayed silent but held Percy tightly in his wings. He was already forgiven long before Nico would have ever said so, but that hardly mattered. He just enjoyed the fact that Percy understood him better now.

The End.

#smut #percy x nico #just reposting really old fics #cross posted on wattpad #cross posted on ao3 #hellboy

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barbiewritesstuff · 2 years ago

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Fantasies : Part 3

-- Part 3 is here (finally!!) Thank you to @lgg5989 for proof reading, you're the best bestie 💜💜

(Picture has nothing to do with the fic, he's so done and I love him)

Tw. NSFW, p in v sex, unprotected sex, etc

Previous part

Taglist: @luckyladycreator2 @feedthemadness-sweetie @ravensmadreads @whywhathowseriously

He thinks about what you sound like for the next week and a half, not really sure what to do with himself. His thoughts are going haywire, not giving him a minute of respite, constantly presenting images of you fingering yourself in a shower stall, or rubbing your clit, or even getting off on the jet of water alone. He’s started making mistakes, Warlock’s even asked if he was okay. And worst of all, he ran out of lube three days ago. He feels a little shameful that half a bottle took so little time to disappear, but the shame lies more in the fact that even porn can’t seem to do it anymore.

Only you.

Fantasies of him pressing himself deep inside of you, til you’re so full it almost feels overwhelming, and then fucking you til you drench his cock and milk him til he has no cum left to give you are the only thing that even get him off now that he knows you want it too.

But as much as he wants it, Beau’s not stupid. He knows, rationally, that he can never act on his urges -- needs. His needs to feel you, taste you, see you -- despite what his post-orgasm brain told him in the showers. He just wasn’t thinking clearly. There’s rules against fraternisation and as an Admiral, whatever goes for the lower rank navy personnel goes triple for him. If he acted on his needs, and someone saw, or something happened, it would ruin his career. It would ruin your career.

And despite how much he wants this, he just can’t risk ruining this for you.

So when he sees you in the carrier’s gym room in booty shorts and a sports bra, alarm bells are ringing in his head and he tries so hard to remember how bad this could get.

“Everything alright Lieutenant?” he asks and the alarm bells ring louder, telling him to stop right now and turn around. Telling him that sex isn’t worth losing a thirty year career over, or destroying a budding one.

“All good,” you smile, stepping away from the punching bag you were destroying not a minute earlier. It still sways slightly in the air, less to do with the fact that the open seas are turbulent tonight and more to do with your assault.

Your cheeks are flushed and it looks ever so flattering on you, Beau thinks, taking in your form. Your legs are slender, graceful and long. Your torso, usually hidden underneath a beige navy uniform is now on display for him and Beau has to stop himself from staring at the dark line between your full breasts in order to avoid growing hard.

“I usually spar with Lieutenant Trace, but she couldn’t make it,” you say, “So I have to make do with the bag,” you over explain. It’s not an invitation to anything but his groin takes it as one and speaks without asking his brain for permission.

“I could always replace Lieutenant Trace. I may be older, but I’m sure I can make up for your youth in years of experience,” he replies, fairly certain he’s not talking about sparring when his mouth forms the second sentence.

You seem surprised for a second, and then your face breaks out in a large smile that makes hs stomach flip, “You’re on,” you say and Cyclone is vaguely aware of familiarity with which you address him and he might have said something, if only to keep up the appearance he didn’t want to rail you into next week, but you turn around and bend down to pick up your towel and your phone and the words get lost in his throat as he stares.

You move towards the mat at the other end of the room. It’s an assortment of thin multicolour mattresses, fitted into each other like puzzle pieces, placed there more to keep health and safety off their backs than to actually prevent any injuries. Beau drops his stuff off next to yours and follows you to the middle. You stand a few feet apart and in a show of both sportsmanship and self control -- because he wants nothing more than to pull you close and kiss you -- he shakes your hand.

Beau’s impressed, the second he says ‘go’ you jump into action and he really has to fight you off, ducking left and right to avoid swings and kicks, his training kicks in eventually though and soon he has the upper hand. You fight fair for ten more minutes, but he sees you getting frustrated, not thinking you would cheat -- and technically it isn’t cheating -- he bumps his foot against your leg and you yelp. You make such a pitiful sound that he stops short, too focussed on seeing if you’re hurt to see your leg swing behind his and wipe him to the floor.

You move up to him and in a move practised by years of sparring with Lieutenant Trace, you swing one leg over his hip and grab his hand, pinning them above his head. And then, as your brain gets overridden by the months of wet dreams and masturbation sessions, you involuntarily roll your hips against him. You let out a moan as Cyclone groans before both of you freeze, realising what has just happened.

“I’m so sorry, Admiral, I didn’t -- I don’t know what h--”

"Again," he orders his voice immediately dropping two octaves. The alarm bells in his head have stopped ringing now, it's too late. He was toeing a line and with one accidental movement, you have caused him to sprint across it.

You look at him for a moment and Beau's afraid you might not do it, that you're stronger than him and can resist the urge but after a moment, so gently he might have thought it was a dream, you roll your hips again. And then again. And again. And again. Your pupils dilate more with every movement and Beau is overtaken by the sudden urge to kiss you.he sits up, knocking you to the floor and he doesn't waste any time in moving up to you to crash your mouths together.

His lips dance against yours until neither of you can breathe and when you come up for air, the passion of the moment doesn't have the time to dissipate before you take each other's clothes off. Or rip, in Beau's case. He takes one good look at your attire and decides it needs to go, now. Grabbing your sports bra with both hands, he pulls and rips it in half.

For a second, when the arousal induced brain fog has lifted, he feels bad. That is, until he takes in your dilated pupils, hard nipples and the way you just let out a soft little 'oh' and he realises that you liked it. Taking it as a silent invitation to do it all again, he rips your booty shorts off, accidentally snapping your underwear in two at the same moment.

Spurred on by his surprising display of strength, you waste no time pushing off his shirt, and pushing off his gym shorts.

Beau looks down at you, naked in front of him. You look perfect, his dreams and fantasy did not do you justice and the way you're staring at his dick like you're not sure it's going to fit is something he didn't think he'd ever get to see, and now he does, he never wants to not see it again.

With one strong hand, he pushes you back on the mat. He grazes your skin with his fingertips, looking at how your eyes flutter shut and you lose yourself in his touch, however little and fleeting it is. Eventually he reaches your core. His thumb grazes over your clit and your back arcs off of the ground like you've been struck by lightning.

"Been thinking of this for so long," you admit, embarrassed at how your body reacted, but he doesn't mind. He wants more, in fact. His thumb leaves your clit as his index finger roams down to your aching core, you're dripping. Your slick juices coat your folds, making it glisten under the fluorescent lights.

Beau groans before sinking his finger into you until it reaches the knuckle. Before you can stop yourself, you release a pornographic moan and your hand comes to cover your mouth a second too late.

Beau smiles, "So wet for me," he groans, "Been wanting me to fuck you for so long?"

"Yes," you say breathlessly, rocking your hips up to meet his fingers half way when he fucks them into you.

"Think you can take me?" He asks, removing his fingers from you before wrapping them around his cock and jerking it a few times, smearing your wetness over his tip with a finger.

He lines himself up with your entrance,"Finally mine" he says, breathless, slipping his length in your soaked pussy

"Yours, yours, yours, yours," you chant, unable to think about anything other than the way he's stretching you, tearing you apart. He doesn't leave you any time to adjust to his size and you're grateful for it. You've been so desperate for him for months now, unable to cum to anything but the thought of him. If he'd taken the time to let you adjust, you think you might have just cried.

"Mine," he growls as his lips attack your jawline, nipping, kissing and licking his way down your neck to your collarbone.

"Mine," he says again, sinking his teeth in the soft flesh he finds there, and sucking an angry hickey. He raises his head and admires his work with a smirk, before lowering it back down and soothing it with a few licks of his tongue.

His hand moves to your breasts. Beau takes your nipple in between his thumb and index finger and rolls it gently, making you mewl in response.

"Please," you beg, your voice needy and high pitched, "Faster."

"Is that what you want?"

You nod

"Sometimes it's not about what you want, Angel. It's about what you need," he says lowering himself down so his chest is flush against yours. He's trapped you in and the idea that you're entirely at his mercy makes you both wild. With his lips next to your ear, he whispers, "And you need to be patient."

Beau pulls out and you whine, sounding deliciously bratty. It sends a shiver up his spine and lights his brain on fire. When he lines up with your entrance again, his legs shake with the effort it takes for him to gently glide in instead of slamming into you like he desperately wants to.

He manages it though and even gives you a few lazy thrusts to satiate you a little. Soon you’re mewling under him, desperate for something more. You try to lift your hips to meet him halfway, and he stops.

“Please,” you beg, letting out a frustrated sob.

Beau furrows his brow, “You want more, little brat? You want to come on my cock?” he asks and you nod furiously

“Please, please, please,” you say, “Please, Admiral.”

“Okay. Do it yourself,” he says, pulling out again and laying down on his back on the mat. In an instant, you’re straddling him again, immediately sinking down on his length. Even though he’s felt you before, it knocks the breath out of him.

You look so beautiful riding him. Your perky, round breasts are bouncing up and down as you lift yourself up and fall back down, your soaking core swallowing him whole. Your face contorts and he can feel you tighten around him. He’s so close behind but he holds it in just a moment longer. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your eyes shut tight and your legs shake as your orgasm washes over you. You’re pussy is gripping him so tightly that keeping his resolve not to cum right then becomes a herculean task, but he hangs on, wanting you to make one last fantasy come true

“I need you to hit me,” he groans as soon as you seem to recover slightly from your high

“What?” you ask, groggily

“With your hand. Just slap me across the face,” he repeats

You obey, slapping him hard. The sharp sting is followed by intense pleasure and he teeters over the edge. He doesn’t even have time to warn you, or to pull out and ejaculate against something else, and perhaps he doesn’t want to. You whimper as he fills you, shooting ropes of cum deep inside your belly, your oversensitive core feeling every pulse.

Once he can think again, he flips you underneath him again, wanting nothing more than to lay with his head on your chest. He tries to pull out, barely even thinking of the mess it would make on the mat but you stop him.

“Stay,” you whisper, “Stay.”

“Okay,” he says, all too happy to listen

“Stay,” you whisper again when he accidentally moves, subconsciously trying to lighten the load on his knees, the mat not thick enough to make prolonged kneeling comfortable.

“Needy,” he chuckles, “I’ll need to pull out eventually,” he says and you pout, sticking your bottom lip out and giving him your best rendition of puppy dog eyes. He chuckles again and drops his head into your knees. After another moment of comfortable silence, he starts lazily thrusting into you. Overly sensitive and very full, you gasp softly.

“Good?” he asks

“So good,” you reply, “you?”

“Very good,”

“Think you can come again, Angel?”

“Mhm,” you answer, biting your bottom lip to stifle the loud moan that threatens to release itself when he hits the spongy bit inside you.

“Been wanting to do this for so long, Angel. Been wanting to bury my cock so deep inside you, fuck you till you come, fuck load after load inside your pretty pussy,”

“Trying to breed me, Admiral?”

“Fuck,” he gasps, “Yes. Yes, I wanna breed you. Make you mine,” he whispers. He suddenly lifts himself up on his forearms, one of his hands coming to rest itself against your throat. Cyclone squeezes gently, enough to stop your breathing but not enough that it hurts.

“Tap my leg if I’m hurting you. Three taps means stop,” he says

“Mhm” you managed to humm

He picks up the pace, thrusting himself into you, hitting your sensitive spot with every movement. The stifled moans coupled with the sight of you brings about a familiar sensation in his stomach. Even though he came not too long ago, the idea that he’s just fucking his cum into you and is about to empty himself in you again is making him feral. His hand releases your throat and before you can voice your disappointment, Beau grabs your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth and Beau spits straight into it. He watches you swallow and lick your lips. He lets out a growl, the kind that starts from a rumble deep in his chest.

Your pussy tightens around his cock and he can tell you’re getting close. Wanting to give you what you so desperately want, he picks up the pace once more, forcefully driving himself into you. Bottoming out and pulling out almost all the way, eliciting pornographic moans until you can’t take it any more and that tight coil inside you snaps. Your eyes roll back into your skull and the beginning of a scream escapes your lips. Quick to act, Cyclone covers your mouth with one of his large hands, and with one last thrust, fills you again.

After a few moments, he pulls out without too much protest on your side. He gingerly stands up and thanks himself for bringing a bag and a change of clothes. Your sports bra and shorts are ruined with no chance of repair so he hands you one of his shirts with a wink. You pull yourself up on your legs and put it on. Because he's so much taller than you, the shirt falls just above your knee. It smells like him, and you're not sure you'll ever give it back. You'll keep it as a souvenir of the best sex of your life, in case you never get to do it again.

“You should drink something, you’ll feel better,” he says, noting how wobbly your legs seem as he ruffles through his bag and fishes out a water bottle. He twists the cap off and takes a swig, no doubt as a miracle cure for his own unsteady legs.

“I didn’t bring my bottle,” you say

“Well, you could always come to my room… I might have something for you to drink,” Beau says, thinking of the bottle of whiskey he snuck in on boarding day.

“I’m sure you do, Admiral,” you reply, staring straight at his crotch with hungry eyes, licking your lips. He swallows, all thoughts of the whiskey forgotten as you stand up and pull yourself against him, “Lead the way,” you whisper into his ear, your hot breath fanning across the skin of his neck, making goosebumps appear in its wake.

“Is that an order, Lieutenant?” he asks, half-joking, well aware of what your words are doing to him as a shiver shoots up his spine

“Would you like it to be?” you ask, “Do you like receiving orders, Beau?” you say, your teeth coming to nibble at the shell of his ear.

“Yes, ma’am,”

#fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun x reader #fanfiction #original fic #cyclone simpson #cyclone smut #beau simpson #beau cyclone simpson #cyclone x reader #cyclone

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chrisevansredbelt · 3 years ago

Text

The Snow Maiden

pairing: bucky x reader, hydra experiment!reader basically super soldier/enhanced!reader.

warnings: none i don’t think. only like brief mentions of torture, OH small mention of like s/a but only very small and not revisited. oh violence and blood and stuff.

summary: small story i worked kinda hard on,, i’m part slav so i really enjoy this! uh hm okay where to start, there’s not much reader pov in this FOR NOW but basically reader is a suspected hydra experiment, perhaps she was with bucky?

SORRY WHAT A SHIT SUMMARY but that’s the best i can do without giving much away!

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*･ﾟ☆

Bucky looks around the room a little nervously as Tony, Steve and Natasha all sit in front of him- well Natasha a little more sitting adjacent to Bucky, but still.

They were all in the room before he was and called him in here, so she obviously knew what was going on. Bucky on the hand did not.

As they wrap up their small whispers that Bucky was too slightly agitated to pay attention to, Tony holds the stack of papers up right and straightens them out against the table.

Steve turns to Bucky now, giving a curt nod and reassuring smile, “Thanks for coming.”

Bucky can only nod as he eyes the chunky manila folder that sits in the middle of the desk- and the TV screen that Natasha’s setting up.

“Don’t worry, Terminator, you’re not in trouble.” Tony quirks, only earning a harsh glare from Bucky, “But someone else is.” He starts off, “Do you, by any chance, recognise…” Plucking out a stray piece of paper and sliding it across the table to land right under Bucky’s chin, “This woman?”

Bucky grabs the paper in front of him, getting a closer look at the blurry picture on the page filled with annotations and other text he doesn’t care to read.

The picture makes him squint his eyes in hopes of somehow improving the quality but it’s no use. The picture is of a girl- he can only presume. It looks like some kind of store CCTV footage. But it’s strange, even through the lacklustre quality of the image, he can somehow still see the tiredness of her eyes.

Furrowing his brows, he shakes his head, looking back up at Tony and Steve who look at him hopefully, “Who is she?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Steve sighs, “Our best guess is that she’s been held captive in the Hydra facility. They’ve clearly trained her.”

“How do you know?” Bucky asks curiously, wondering how Steve was able to gather all that information from this shitty little photograph.

“She made quite the scene at a convenience store in Sokovia.” Tony answers for Steve, then handing over what looks like some kind of newspaper.

It’s all in Russian and Bucky has no trouble reading over it. His heart drops when he sees the destruction of the small convenience store that he can only assume will take a lot to recover from whatever had happened there.

Windows smashed, produce all over the floor, shelves dented and knocked over, glass bottle broken.

“Any casualties?” He asks, the newspaper lacking in any information in regard to who was hurt.

“Just a few shocked civilians and one fatality.” Natasha answers now, making Bucky whisk his head around to meet hers. He looks to her worriedly, before she answers, “The agent that was after her.”

Curiously, he flips the paper in his hand, but it’s only one clipping of the newspaper and the back only outlines a half assed story about some rise in abandoned houses in Sokovia.

“Have they experimented on her?”

“We don’t know for sure, but it’s most likely.” Steve answers, nodding sympathetically as Bucky can’t even begin to imagine what they’re trying to do now, “What it is they’ve done to her, we have no clue. But from the footage we received, she’s a highly skilled assassin.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed even more at the mention of footage, and soon enough the TV switches on and shows the CCTV footage from inside the store.

All 4 of them watch intently as a girl, clearly disguised to hide her identity chucks countless items in her basket- seemingly specific supplies: medicines, bandages, canned food, water.

A man trails behind the girl- hiding just in time every time she skittishly turns around to make sure she’s not being followed.

Yet, it all happens so quickly. She must’ve been on to him from the ways he abruptly runs for the exit. The man doesn’t hesitate to get hot on her trail and unlucky for the girl, in her efforts to look back, she trips over a carton of produce in the middle of an isle.

She tries to scurry away from him but he grabs ahold of her ankle and pulls her towards him. Hastily, she grabs a glass bottle from the shelve right beside her head, swinging it into his face and it shatters white vinegar all over his face.

He lets out a yell and lets go of her ankle just enough for her to escape. Running once again, she doesn’t get far before he pushes a whole metal shelf over- crushing her in the process.

She’s trapped against the shelf and the floor- but the man still struggles with the vinegar that burns his eyes. She squirms under the shelf and Bucky almost finds himself itching to just get up and help her through the screen. He knows the adrenaline of running away- and the fear that comes with getting caught.

She just manages to slip out from under the shelf and duck down to another isle momentarily as she thinks about her route. The exit now blocked because of a fallen wooden shelf that was knocked over by the other metal shelf she was trapped under.

The CCTV footage is unable to capture her- and Bucky himself finds it difficult to spot where she went.

The man- angrier than ever now that he can see, looks around himself frantically. Pulling his gun out of his holster now, he shoots almost every noise that interrupts his silence- in hopes that it was her.

A particular scraping sound catches his attention and the peculiarity of the sound forces him to take caution as he nears the sound.

Before Bucky can even blink, the man is clutching his neck and falling to his knees- the girl reappears, a thick glass shard in her hand disappearing into his chest.

Steve turns away and shifts uncomfortably, and the noise of her dragging the glass down his chest and the spilling of his organs against the floor quickly explains why.

Just as she drops the glass against the floor and shovels her stolen items into her backpack, Natasha pauses the video.

“Killed him with the lid of a tin can.” Tony swings around in his chair, a stunned- but impressed look on his face. “Thrown so fast it wasn’t even caught on camera.” He marvels with a laugh. “And that finale, didn’t need it but it was sick.” He claps.

His praise falls on deaf ears however as Bucky stares up at the paused video- the girl staring frantically down at the fallen man she’d just killed… her hands forming a white glow from the palms- almost like a white orb or pearl just appeared in her hands.

“Her hands.” Bucky squints, speaking to no one in particular as all 4 of them now stare dumbly at the TV. They hadn’t picked up on that before.

“Looks similar to Wanda’s.” Steve notes.

“Nat, screenshot that and send it to Fury.” Tony orders Natasha, who nods. He then turns to Bucky, “You don’t remember her at all?”

Bucky shakes his head, hating how helpless he feels as he stares between the page in front of him and the paused video on the TV, “I’d need a name or a clearer picture, a voice.”

“By all means, take the case file. There’s not much in there but it’s a start.” Steve slides the manila folder over to Bucky, who takes it hesitantly as he processes Steve’s words.

“A start for what?”

“Who she is and where to find her.” Tony answers, leaning back in his seat- almost throwing in the towel. Bucky just looks at all 3 of them confused- there’s probably hundreds of people that Hydra’s kidnapped and tested on… what’s so special about her? “It’s got something to do with Dreykov. Her combat mannerisms are almost identical to Natasha’s.”

“So, what? They want a super soldier widow?”

Steve cautiously eyes the others in the room before speaking lowly, “There’s suspicion that a distant relative of Dreykovs is starting the Red Room Program again. Only with stronger widows.” In Bucky’s peripheral, he can see Natasha shift uncomfortably in her chair.

“We, of course, want to grant her safety. But we also need to see what they’ve done to her and what she knows.” Tony adds, “Plus, with combat skills like that, she could be great for the team.”

And so, Bucky and Natasha had got together to try and, in a way, combine their brains and all their memories.

Tony and Fury weren’t sure if she came from the Red Room or Hydra- where she started out first or where they trained her for majority of her torture. But either way, they guessed it didn’t really matter. She was supposedly on the run now.

The two had quite different approaches to finding the girl. Bucky had since been entranced by the newspaper clipping and all the things in your file, wanting to start at the root and work his way up. Natasha, on the other hand, wanted to get straight into security footages, current sightings, strange activity seen around Sokovia. No one strategy could be deemed better than the other, however, they were both good plans, which was why they were both perfectly contempt in sticking to their roles.

Bucky’s brow almost forms a permanent furrow as he reads over the extract in his hands over and over, highlighting and circling things.

Currently, however, his eyes are trained towards the bottom portion of the clipping where the print has somehow faded in the photocopy process perhaps.

After a few minutes with a magnifying glass and a range of obscure tactics to try and decipher the text, he finally got it.

‘Witnesses heard the man refer to her by the name ‘Snegurochka’.’

“Nat.” He calls behind him to where the red head sits square-eyed looking across all three of her computers. She spins around in her chair, eyeing the concentrated look still plastered on her colleagues face as he stares down at the paper. Standing from her chair, she situates herself beside him with a hum, “What does this mean?”

The tip of his pen points to the word… ‘Снегурочка’.

Natasha tilts her head for a moment, a bit of confusion running through her as she familiarises herself with the word.

“The Snow Maiden.” She hums and Bucky just looks up at her expectingly, hoping for an explanation to the name, “It’s a character in Slavic fairytales and folklore. Shes like Santa’s helper.” She briefly explains before pulling her laptop over from the table and typing into google, pulling up a photo of said Snow Maiden, “The original story is that a man and a woman who had always regretted that they didn’t have any children, made a girl out of snow. She came alive and became the daughter they never had.”

Bucky thinks to himself momentarily, taking in all the new information and applying it to the situation, surprising himself when he comes up with, “If they injected her with something or-or trained her, she came alive and became the super soldier widow they never had.”

Natasha’s mouth opens slightly at the realisation. Thinking herself on what else she knows about this mythology and what other aspects come into play, “There’s plays about her being immortal too.”

“Serum.” Bucky nods.

“Lives in her fathers winter forest.”

“Bases, Pierce or Dreykov.”

“Unable to love.”

“Brainwash, captivity, manipulation.”

“Snegurochka is lonely and would happily give up her immortality for the ability to feel and love, like normal humans.” Natasha reads from her computer screen, voice trembling a little at the last line, “I’ll give it to them, it’s clever.” She sighs, swallowing the breath the crept up in her throat, threatening to turn into some sort of panic.

Bucky stays silent, deep in thought once again. He’s unsure why he’s so invested in this case. Like he said before, this is just another random girl who was captured and tested on- but yet he can’t help but feel like he needs to know. Like… sort of like his heart is taking over his brain.

Suddenly reaching for his own laptop, he plugs in the USB that sat lonely on the desk in front of him and waited while the file loaded before clicking on the security footage.

Natasha watches on cautiously, eyeing Bucky’s very so often to try and realise what he’s looking for and if she can somehow help.

He skips to a few parts of the videos before rewinding a certain one in particular- the part where the girl gets crushed with a shelf. He replays it over and over again- each time seemingly edging closer and closer to the screen as if he could miss any other detail the 5th time round.

“Is it just me or does she not seem as strong here?” Bucky finally speaks after a hot minute of silence.

Natasha blinks dumbly at the screen, more so surprised to hear Bucky’s voice than what’s on the screen, “W-what do you mean?”

“She gets crushed by a shelf here.” He points out, pausing the video as the frame captures how badly the shelf had seemingly felt on your bones, “If she was injected with something, she should’ve been able to just throw it off her.”

Natasha nods a little, understandingly before thinking to herself. He was right, if what Tony and Fury had said what happened to her was really true, then she could’ve easily been able to escape out from underneath that shelf.

“Maybe… maybe it was a failed experiment. Maybe the serum reacts different to females…” She tries to justify, brain coming up empty.

Bucky just shrugs at her question before pointing out another thing on the video, “And what about her hands?”

“Or they tried to add different enhancements to it but it backfired?” Natasha adds, “But, if it backfired and failed, they would’ve just killed her.”

“Maybe it wasn’t as failed as they thought.” Bucky concludes. If it was a failed experiment and, say, she was fleeting her subsequent death and managed to escape there is no way they would go through that much trouble to get her again. Sure, she could tell the authorities, but they had connections so that they didn’t have to worry about that.

So why? Why do they want her so bad?

Maybe…

“Maybe they’re using her for pleasure.” Natasha speaks Bucky’s thoughts timidly, eyeing Bucky slightly before asking, “Did you-“

“I don’t remember her at all.” He slightly snaps, immediately shutting down the idea that he would willingly do something like that, “For all I know, I was alone down there. I think I would remember if there was a girl.”

The pair had left it at that. The uncomfortable aura of the room prompting Bucky to call it a day and report all their findings back to Steve. It was getting late anyway.

But Steve didn’t seem to mind how little they had found. At least they didn’t have nothing.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of much help.” But of course, it still didn’t help Bucky feel like he was useless. Looking down at his feet as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

At first, Steve was just going to wave him off and tell him not to worry about it. But then he saw how clearly it was affecting Bucky, feeling so useless for someone who was going through something so similar to himself- Steve was almost certain Bucky was forced to relive a few of his own unpleasant memories, “Don’t let it get you down. We’ll figure it out… Thanks for all your help.” He pats his shoulder reassuringly, to which Bucky just nods softly and offers a curt smile before backing out of the room, “Goodnight, Buck.”

“Night.” He all but mumbles, making his way to his room.

Bucky wished he could be like normal people and see his room and bed as some sort of solace, something to look forward to at the end of each day. But he didn’t. What lay before him at night, in that bed was probably scarier than what he faced on the daily and on missions.

And it didn’t help that he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. Where she was. What they’d done to her. What if she was dead? What if they found her already? He hopes she’s okay.

She seemed to have… gathered… stolen a lot of goods from that store however long ago. But the fact that she needed so many medical supplies clearly wasn’t a good sign- or maybe she was just being cautious?

He fell asleep trying to think of an answer. Surprisingly falling into a deep slumber pretty quickly.

And then the dreams began.

‘Where are you hurt?’

‘I feel safe with you.’

‘I trust you. It’s okay.’

‘Come back in one piece, will you?’

‘Bucky!’

‘Y/N!’

Opening his eyes and sitting up, Bucky found himself diagonal in his bed, blankets thrown everywhere, pillows on the floor, body hot and forehead shiny with sweat.

He makes his way to his bathroom, splashing his face with water as the contents of his dreams make their way back to him.

Quickly patting down his face, he grabs the notebook from the side of his desk, frantically searching for a pen before sitting at the edge of his bed and word vomiting everything that came to mind from his dreams.

‘Girl. Nice smile. Sweet. Not afraid of me. Hands? Warm feeling?

Y/N.’

He squints down at the name he had unconsciously scribbled on the paper. Fleeting memories of the face of said girl appearing in his mind before disappearing, the only thing remaining was her voice- he thinks. It’s screaming, his name, painfully.

Swinging his head around to look at the digital clock on his bedside table, he stands when he realises it’s only 10pm and that Tony’s sure to be awake.

Swinging the door open, uncaring for anyone else in the compound as he storms through the house and towards Tony’s lab.

Lucky enough, Steve is there too- probably recounting all the findings Bucky had given him earlier.

Picking up his pace, Steve’s head picks up at the sight of Bucky’s distressed state entering the lab. But before he can even take action, Bucky’s spewing out words, “I remember her.” The two men both raise their brows expectantly, “Well, not really- it’s all disconnected, but I had a dream about her.” He stutters over all his words in a hurried manner.

“I think her name is Y/N.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*･ﾟ☆

CHAPTER TWO HERE!

PLS PLS PLSSSSSS TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK

i think i def will finish this story but i just wanted to see if you guys liked this idea or not first bc i might make it a long one 🤩

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #tony stark #james buchanan barnes

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mello-jello · 3 years ago

Note

hi jello!! what about post timeskip levihan? commander hanji is working very hard and rarely, rarely sleeps (let alone eats and bathes properly. its worse than before now though.).

what if one time levi discovers hanji passed tf out due to sheer exhaustion in the most weird and random of places. he doesn’t want to wake them up bc hanji def needs the rest so he carries/tucks her into bed.🥺❤️

JAZZY thank you for the prompt! I kind of combined it with this one too:

Thank you, Anon!

Preview:

Hange gave a small laugh before saying, “Thank you Levi, I feel much better now.”

“Tch, you haven’t even done what we came here to do,” Levi scoffed.

Hange made a confused sound.

“Drop the dish.”

It had been 3 years since Shiganshina. Levi climbed into the carriage and sat across from Hange, who was still reading through her notes from the long and grueling meeting that lasted for the better part of the day. All the highest ranking military officials had been called to the capital to discuss Paradis’s best course of action. Queen historia was there, along with her staff, advisors, and of course Zackley. Levi had been to plenty of these meetings before, but this time was different in a bit of a distressing way.

Over the years, Levi had watched Erwin defend the scouts countless times. From questionable means of gathering information, to explaining away hundreds of lives lost, he always had an answer for everything and he always managed to leave with a favourable image. It was something Levi truly admired and even envied about Erwin.

But now he had been watching Hange flounder. She has indeed improved over the last 3 years, but she still doubts herself and while it might not be known to those around her, Levi can’t help but feel sympathetic to her situation. Today however, the other officials had been particularly ruthless.

“Take a break, Hange,” Levi ordered. Hange just sighed. Then her stomach growled. “Have you eaten today?”

“Uuuuuuuhhh,” Hange mused as she genuinely struggled to remember.

“Tch, there’s your answer,” Levi crossed his arms. The rest of the officials had a big dinner scheduled for tonight, but of course the Survey Corps got shafted and had to leave early in order to prepare. Hange met his eyes again with an exhausted look he was all too familiar with.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Not great,” she admitted. Levi’s stomach sank. He had dealt with his own insomnia his whole life, but it seems worse on Hange. Perhaps it was the stark contrast from her former bubbly and loud personality. Hange pinched the bridge of her nose and let out another long sigh. Levi couldn’t help feeling inadequate and helpless. He rarely got himself to sleep, how could he help Hange?

Levi looked out the window at the setting sun when he got an idea. He realized what Hange had been neglecting while trying to be a good commander. Something that wasn’t just eating and sleeping. Something that was unique to Hange.

“Hange, there’s one more thing you need to do before we leave.”

Hange raised an eyebrow.

Levi told the driver to wait for them and escorted Hange to the dining hall.

“Levi, we were technically invited, but I don’t think showing up for food after we already said goodbye is a very good look for us,” Hange practically whispered.

Levi opened the doors and they were greeted with a sweet aroma of bread, appetizers, and whatever was going to be the main dish. Hange’s mouth watered. The long elegant table was decorated with ornate candles, beautiful china, crystal glasses, and there were 4 sets of cutlery for each place setting.

“Relax, they won’t be here just yet. They will all be busy getting dressed for dinner.”

Hange grabbed a bread roll and took a huge bite, not bothering to chew before she commented, “I never understood ‘dressing for dinner’ ugh. What’s the point?”

Levi was about to make a half hearted comment about how Hange could never fit in with “civilized” society, but he stopped himself when he saw she was eating and was a little bit more relaxed. He found a small plate of savoury looking appetizers and handed it to her. She immediately took one.

“MMM, Levi!” she exclaimed, pointing at the plate. She popped another in her mouth before saying, “you gotta try these!”

Levi put up a hand and said, “you enjoy.”

Hange enthusiastically cleared the whole platter in less than a minute, and Levi was watching her, endeared at the behaviour. He had missed this side of her. Despite how gross it was, there was a glimpse of the carefree Hange he once knew. A small hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then Hange belched.

“Disgusting,” Levi waved the air in front of his nose.

Hange gave a small laugh before saying, “Thank you Levi, I feel much better now.”

“Tch, you haven’t even done what we came here to do,” Levi scoffed.

Hange made a confused sound.

“Drop the dish.”

Hange’s one eye widened as she processed what Levi was saying.

“C’mon, you need to blow off some steam. They were total assholes to you today, and for what? You didn’t know the exact amount of your food budget? And yet,” Levi gestured to the banquet. He then picked up a delicate looking wine glass. He held his arm outstretched, and loosened his grip, letting it crash to the ground. “Oops.”

A mischievous smile stretched across Hange’s lips. “Oops,” she mimicked Levi and let the empty platter fall to the floor, breaking into dozens of pieces. She slowly started to lap around the long luxurious set up, like a predator admiring her prey before pouncing.

“Right? And Nile, ugh, what a hypocrite! Giving me shit for not knowing about that small thing, belittling me in front of everyone,” Hange snapped a salad plate against the edge of the table. “It wasn’t too long ago when he would have been the first to admit he had no idea what the first interior squad were up to! We had to find out for ourselves. Erwin was almost hanged!” Hange kicked a chair over on its side.

“Yeah, fuck Nile,” Levi egged her on. He took a seat at the head of the table and started sipping from one of the water glasses.

“Is this his spot?”

Levi shrugged but Hange was already pouring out a glass of wine all over the white seat, staining it a deep crimson. Levi hid his delight behind another sip.

“And did you catch what he said at the end? ‘Some of us have wives to get home to’”, she imitated in a mocking tone as she casually pushed a platter of dumplings off the table. “Yeah, run home, Nile. Run home to Erwin’s SLOPPY SECONDS!”

Levi blew water out of his nose, and before he could react, Hange reached under the short side of the table and flipped it over, sending its contents hurtling across the room. Hange was elated at the result, laughing almost maniacally.

“Idiot,” Levi hissed, grabbing Hange’s wrist and leading her out the side door. He heard footsteps, and so he instinctively dove into nearby shrubbery, taking Hange down with him.

They hid in the bushes for minutes, Levi pressing his hand to suppress Hange’s uncontrollable laughter. It had been so long since she’d laughed like this. It was infectious and Levi might have actually laughed himself, were it not for the fear of getting caught. He had no problem telling the MPs where to shove it, but he didn’t want Hange to get in trouble. Her whole body was convulsing, and it was rattling the leaves around her. Levi used all his body weight to stop her jerky movements.

After about another minute of total silence, Hange tapped Levi’s arm, signalling to let go. He was hesitant, but he obliged. Hange drew a couple deep breaths, fanning herself, trying to calm down from laughing so hard. Levi was transfixed by the way the moonlight danced on her tear-stained face. They stared at each other for a moment before Hange snickered once more, causing Levi to cover her mouth yet again. “You’re impossible,” he said, pushing her head back down.

Once the coast was clear, they ran back to their carriage, hand in hand. Partly because Levi wanted Hange to keep up, and partly because it felt nice to hold her hand. They ducked their heads until they were off of the main roads. A few minutes later, Hange started giggling again.

“What?” Levi asked.

Hange bit her lip playfully as she reached into her coat and pulled out a bottle of expensive wine she must have swiped from the banquet.

Levi rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help his smile. She looked like a child that just got away with stealing more dessert. She looked joyful for the first time in a long time. She yanked out the cork and took a swig before offering the bottle to Levi. He graciously accepted and tasted the wine for himself. It was too sweet for his taste, but he couldn’t deny that it was spectacular.

“That’s nice,” he commented.

“Pfft! It tastes the same as the cheap stuff!” Hange scoffed as she took the bottle back. Any other time, Levi would have teased her and started an argument, but not today. He wanted to cherish this moment. He leaned over to look at the stars through his window. Not a bad ending to an otherwise terrible day.

After Shiganshina, he and Hange had lost so much. Their comrades, friends; life as they knew it had completely changed and they barely had a moment’s breather to come to grips with it all. Levi was unfortunately accustomed to it, but Hange wasn’t. Hange had been so strong through all of this and Levi wanted to find the right words to tell her. Maybe it was the exhaustion they both felt; maybe it was the close proximity, but for some reason, somehow, Levi felt a tiny bit of courage surge through his veins.

“Hey, Hange, I-”

When he turned to look at her, she was fast asleep, neck crooked as she cradled the bottle of wine. Levi smiled at her. She looked peaceful, like she was getting quality sleep. He took the bottle from her arms and gently maneuvered her to a more comfortable, lying down position. He removed his jacket and draped it over her, as a make-shift blanket.

“Goodnight, Four-Eyes,” he mumbled to himself and returned to his seat. Hange slept the whole way home. When they finally arrived in the southern barracks, Levi couldn’t bring himself to wake her up. He quickly ran their luggage up to their rooms, and came back for Hange.

Being as gentle as he could, he scooped up the commander and ignored the curious look he got from the carriage driver. She was taller than him, and her long limbs made the trek a little difficult, but he was determined. Her steady breaths tickled the skin of his neck.

He carried her up the winding staircase and into her quarters. He lowered her on the bed, careful not to go too fast. He cradled her head for a split second longer than he needed too. He took off her long boots one at a time, placing them silently on the floor at the end of the bed. He undid the top two buttons of her jacket and shirt, just for comfort. Then he pulled the blanket up to her chin, and tucked around the sides.

Finally, he removed her glasses and eyepatch, caressing the tender skin underneath. Placing them on her night stand, he got up to leave. The door hinge creaked as he opened it, and Hange stirred.

“Mmm Levi?” She called out.

Levi wasn’t sure if she was actually awake, or if she was sleep-talking. He was still deciding whether he should answer when she continued, “Thank you, Levi. For everything.”

“You too, Hange,” he spoke just above a whisper, as he closed her door.

#levihan #levihan fanfiction #fluff

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lunaastoir · 4 years ago

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cute things i think the genshin characters would do

characters included: diluc, kaeya, venti, and albedo

****minor lore spoilers for diluc!****

an: i’m thinking of making this into a series bc this was such an adorable concept to write so lmk if you’re interested 👀 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

diluc

sorry kind of starting off with something a little sad

i think diluc would have a habit of rubbing his vision

ok seems kinda dumb at first but let me elaborate:

after the death of his father, diluc was quite obviously devastated

he basically withdrew into himself after letting all the grief, pain, and rage flood his senses

i think during this time of grieving, he would’ve developed this habit of running the pads of his fingers across his vision to calm himself down

(v similar to katara from atla)

since his father had always been proud of diluc’s vision, the thought of touching something that reminded him of his father has always been able to bring him some sort of relief no matter how short lived

it serves as a constant memory of his dad and i think being able to have that kind of connection - no matter how small would hold a significance to him

stressed? you’ll see his fingers dance across his vision as the crease between his eyebrows gradually loosens

ok here’s a bonus habit (bc the previous one was sad)

whenever he’s bartending at angel’s share, he always flips the bottles in this cool bartending way before pouring the drinks

like the whole shabang - flips in the air, shakes it in a way that the drink foams just right

people are usually v surprised when they see this bc woah mans has got some sKILLS

but also bc he’s known for being pretty serious and reserved so seeing a “trick” is kind of breaking the stoic image they have of him

after he’s done pouring the drinks he’s also really precise about closing the bottles

he makes sure that the caps are on tightly and that nothing is leaking (which ig is another reason why he does flips with them so he can make sure that the bottles are tightly closed)

yes he’s rich but he also wants to make sure the drinks don’t go bad bc 1) kind of a loss if they do and 2) his customers deserve the best

sweet man pls protect him <3

kaeya

when he’s sitting down at his desk, he brings his legs up so he can sit on his chair criss- cross applesauce

since he’s in his office and the only other person who’s in there with him is jean, he feels like he can drop the suave, charming cavalry captain facade he puts on when he’s in public and just dial it down slightly to who he really is in that moment

jean doesn’t say a word the entire time even tho she quite obviously notices

don’t get me wrong, he’s still the smooth talking kaeya but just,,, more relaxed and comfortable?? if that makes sense

so since he’s a lot more comfortable in his office, he usually folds his legs into his chair bc damn they hurt from walking around all day

this is kinda dumb but i also think he has a lot of ink stains on his hands from writing so whenever he sees a fresh one he just likes to stamp it onto a piece of paper

usually that piece of paper ends up being an unimportant report that goes to jean

dw he also has a bunch of pretty small towels in his bottom drawer that he uses to wipe his hands on bc the public can’t see the pretty cavalry captain w ink stains!! the world would end!!

oH kind of a side note but i also think he would keep a small folded up picture of something klee drew him in his pocket

he thinks it’s very sweet and he periodically takes it out just to look at it soft for this man

last one for kaeya but since he wears boots that have the little lip on the bottom (not really a heel but enough to make some noise) he makes sure to always try his best to walk quietly around the streets of mondstadt at night

if anyone catches him doing it he’ll wave it off and say something like “oh me? i’m just practicing my stealth - it comes in handy when you have to sneak up on enemies you know?” but in reality that’s just bs

he really just doesn’t wanna risk waking people up <3

venti

this adorable man is obviously notorious for drinking

he loves alcohol!! i mean he’s the anemo archon of the city of wine and freedom so is anyone really surprised 💀

anyways venti always jokes abt not having any mora (he really doesn’t he’s not wrong) but he always makes sure to pay his tab at angel’s share

the only reason diluc lets him drink sm is because at the end of the day, venti always comes through w the mora

he really is a talented bard so everything he makes in singing and composing music for other people to listen to always goes straight to angel’s share (debatable if that’s for the best or not but i’ll leave that one to you)

so yeah <3 basically venti pays back his tabs even tho he’s an archon since he doesn’t want people to experience a loss bc of him

it’s the archon nature coming out but also the venti nature bc he’s a sweet boy

anyways getting onto the actual habit 🕺

he has a tendency to skip/hop regardless of wherever he’s going

he uses his anemo elemental skill a lot while doing this just he can feel a light breeze whenever he skips around

i also think he carries around extra bard strings in his hat bc he thinks it’s a cool party trick to take them out and be like tada i have extra strings no need to worry!!!

people are usually not that amused but he does it anyway

also yeah uh those strings sometimes fall out when he’s skipping 💀

he’ll be hopping and suddenly bOOM they fall out, he loses them, a kitten by the name of prince takes them, and he has to ask for help to find his strings (i believe this is exactly how venti lost his strings to prince during the windblume festival and no i will not take any criticism and if venti says something different he is lying 🔪)

also has a habit of putting his hair into a bun sometimes!!!

he loves his pigtails but he finds that he gets bored of them occasionally and his hair needs a break from its wavy tresses so he just plops it into a bun instead

so so cute 10/10 hairstyle he can do my hair

anyways love this man thanks for coming home <3

albedo

i had a feeling i would kind of have a hard time w albedo since he is a little hard to read so i hope this is ok LMFAO

he has paint stains. everywhere. no you cannot change my mind.

they are subtle tho i will give him that

you can’t notice that anything is amiss until you really pay attention and then you’ll start to see the pretty pastels and greens of the sunset he was painting up on dragonspine softly smeared across his clothes

very rarely you’ll see a cute swipe of paint across his cheek or neck and it’s honestly adorable

he was probably pushing his hair out of his face while he was painting and some excess paint on his finger landed on his cheek :,)

he doesn’t really care tbh he thinks it’s just a part of him and it really isn’t that noticeable so he just leaves it

also!!! since he is a big alchemist and he’s constantly working on labs and experiments i think he would accidentally misplace a lot of his written work

he seems very organized but w someone as intellectual as him w his brain running miles a minute, i’m sure he has definitely forgotten where he’s put stuff away

so!! in order to help him remember, he has little notes across his lab detailing where everything is

if he was working on something and he immediately has to put it on hold bc something came up (klee came in demanding attention or sucrose needs help) then he’ll quickly jot down a note and stick it to his desk so he’ll remember when he comes back just in case he forgets

sucrose as a result has noticed A LOT of notes across the lab and it’s simultaneously funny and endearing

“started experiment with sweet flowers to try and turn them into a youth elixir: papers --> on the desk right next to klee’s photo”

final point: he lets klee braid his hair sometimes if she wants to

she doesn’t really know how given how young she is so she ends up messing up but albedo always walks her patiently through the steps again

always makes time for klee no matter what bc he really does care a lot abt her :,)

i love him sm pls

#diluc #kaeya #venti #albedo #genshin imagines #genshin scenarios #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #genshin diluc #genshin kaeya #genshin venti #genshin albedo #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #diluc ragnvindr #kaeya alberich

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hangovercurse · 4 years ago

Text

Blind Date (continued)

You invite Colson in after your blind date

Request: “I loved this so much! If you get the chance and are up to it, I’d love a second part!” ”I would like to read a second part of it”

Colson X Reader

Warnings: cursing

A/N: Have I edited this? No. Did I even look back over this after I wrote it? Also no

Word Count: 1974

Your hand touched the handle before you turned around, finding Colson in the same situation at his car door, still looking at you. “Do you maybe wanna… come in?” You asked, biting your lip. His face lit up, a smirk highlighting his features.

“I would love that.”

The man’s lanky figure strutted over to your front door as you opened it, pausing as he entered to take in the smell of your house that screamed you. He let his eyes wander around the place as he stepped further in, taking off his coat and shoes at the front entryway.

You moved into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of red wine while he made his way into the space. You found a note on the counter from your best friend and roommate.

Staying at Eric’s tonight in case you and your date need the place to yourself <3

You rolled your eyes at the note, chuckling as you tossed it in the trash. You rustled through your drawers to grab a corkscrew, fiddling with the bottle as Colson shuffled into the room, standing behind you to encase you in his arms.

He took the corkscrew from your hands and opened the bottle with ease. “I was getting there,” you whined jokingly.

He chuckled, “I could see that.” You turned around and allowed your lower back to rest against the counter, squeezed between the surface and Colson. His arms rested on the countertop on either side of you, his figure leaning to be level with you.

You couldn’t help but admire his features, his bright blue eyes and the stubble on his jaw sparking your artistic mind. “I wish I could sketch you right now,” you murmured your thoughts aloud.

He smirked, leaning closer into you, your lips almost meeting, “why don’t you?”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before softly speaking, “you would get bored being my model.”

He pulled away from you, fingers running across your waist until they found your hands, intertwining your fingers. “I would be honored to be your model.”

You perked an eyebrow, “seriously?”

He shrugged, “I’ve done it before for cameras, and you are much more interesting than photographers.” He pulled you away from the counter, “go get your stuff and I’ll pour wine.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked towards your art room, which was really just your bedroom, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When you returned, he was wandering your small living area, a glass of wine in his hands and one on the small coffee table. His eyes danced along the picture frames you and your roommate had placed around the house when you first moved in, which you honestly hadn’t looked at since.

You stepped into the room with your sketchbook and pencils, making your presence known. His gaze drifted to you with a smile, watching you settle onto the couch, “so, is this your roommate?” He motioned towards one of the pictures.

You glanced up, smiling at the goofy picture you two had taken at graduation, “yep, that’s us.” You turned your head back to your book, flipping to the next blank page as he continued asking about your pictures.

“Who’s in this one?” He asked, pointing to a photo of your roommate and her boyfriend, Eric.

You chuckled at the image of them pulling funny faces in the front seat of a car while you sat in the background looking bored, “that’s Eric, her boyfriend. We went on this huge road trip and they swore I wouldn’t have to third wheel, but I obviously did.”

Colson let out a small laugh, taking a sip of his wine, “and who is that?”

You had honestly forgotten about the picture he was pointing to, but seeing it made your stomach fill with unease. “Oh, I forgot that was still up,” you sighed at Colson’s curious expression, “that’s me and my ex, TJ. We broke up months ago, I thought I’d gotten everything of his out of here.”

Colson could see the discomfort in your expression, sitting down on the armchair next to your couch, throwing his legs over the side and posing dramatically. “Bad ex, huh?” You nodded, not wanting to make him uncomfortable with the conversation, though you wanted nothing more than to open up to him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You rolled your eyes, turning so you could face him, “of all the poses, that’s what you pick?”

He smiled innocently, “yep.” A chuckle fell from your lips as you looked down at your sketchbook, pressing your pencil to the paper. “Fine, I’ll go first,” he began, “can’t really get to know each other if we don’t get at least a little bit of trauma out of the way.”

You looked up at him and giggled, “you got me there.”

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine, “Baze told me not to talk about it, but the look on your face when I asked you about him tells me you might be able to relate.” You raised an eyebrow but kept drawing, giving him a silent signal to continue. “I was dating this girl for a while, you’ve probably heard of her, Megan Fox.”

Your eyes went wide at the name, looking up at him in shock, “yeah, because that’s not an intimidating act to follow at all!”

Colson waved you off, “you’re doing great so far, don’t even worry about it.” You gave him a stern look, but he only continued with his story, “anyways, we were together for a while and she told me all the time she thought we were soulmates, and I believed her, you know?” You bit your lip, starting to feel slightly intimidated as he spoke about the woman. “But then she cheated on me after, like, 9 months. And I realized after we broke up how wrong we were for each other and how much she manipulated me.”

You frowned as he spoke, his tone getting sadder with each word. “That’s so shitty. I don’t understand why people cheat in long term relationships, especially after you’ve given them so much hope and trust. Like someone convinces you that they love you and then they go around and pull that shit. It’s evil.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his face, “I’m over it now though, in case you were worried. Came to the realization about a month or two later that I was better without her.”

You held the pencil in your hands still, trying to find the words you needed to say. “I, uh, I was dating that guy, TJ. We had been friends for a while and he asked me out and I said yes. Everything was great, you know? And then like almost a year end he starts acting all weird and possessive. Like just because we had been together for so long means he doesn’t have to treat me like his girlfriend anymore. He would make me feel like shit in front of our friends and just all around was being a shitty boyfriend.” Colson stared at you intensely with a frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed.

“A guy should never do that shit to his girl. You don’t deserve that shit, no one does.”

You nodded sadly, “yeah, well, then I found out like 4 months into all of this that he had cheated on me and gotten the girl pregnant so… I ended things real quick.” You let out a sad huff, turning your attention back to the book and continuing your sketch of the beautiful man in front of you. “I was really upset at first but now I’m just kind of angry. Dude was a dick.”

Colson let out a dry laugh as you took a long sip of wine, “sounds like it. I’m sorry you went through that shit.”

You shrugged, smiling up at him, “if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

He chuckled, biting his lip, “guess something good came out of it.”

A blush spread across your cheeks, “oh yeah, the food was amazing.” Your words were full of sarcasm, yet the pout on his face still made you giggle, “I’m joking, loser.”

“You better be miss second-date.” You giggled but didn’t respond, turning back to draw him. It was quiet for a few moments, your pencil tracing along the paper.

He shifted, at which you glared up at him, “I told you you’d get bored.”

With a chuckle he said, “I’m not bored. I get to look at you while you draw, it’s far from boring.” You tried to look annoyed at him but failed miserably at his flattering words. “I was thinking though, since it’s my picture and all, I should get to make some executive decisions.”

You scoffed, “you chose your pose, what else would you like oh great model Colson?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, stretching his arm out to set his glass on the table. “Well, I mentioned that I have some tattoos,” he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, “you should draw them.”

Once his shirt was fully removed from his body, you couldn’t help but gawk just a little. His entire chest was covered in ink, designs beautifully engraved into his skin. “I was gonna make a joke about this only being our first date but holy shit, these are beautiful.”

He blushed, looking down shyly, ”I was honestly scared you weren’t gonna like them.”

You looked at him with wide eyes, “Seriously? This is so cool. I’m an artist, you really think I’m not gonna like tattoos? Its an art form in itself.”

Colson shrugged, moving back to his pose, expecting you to continue your drawing. Instead, your eyes wandered his torso, taking in every detail of the work. “If you’re lucky,” he commented slyly, “one day I might show you all of them.”

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, moving back into drawing position, “you think you’re so cool.”

A breathy laugh fell from his lips, “I do, actually.”

The two of you continued banter-laced conversation while you drew him, his likeness coming to life on your page. At some point it turned into 3 am, and you were struggling to keep your eyes opened, but you were finished.

“Here.” You turned the book to him, letting him take in your work. He didn’t speak for a few moments, causing worry to build in you. “I mean, it’s no Mona Lisa but-“

“That is fucking amazing.” He cut you off with a wide smile, “you make me look hot.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, “I’m not going to feed your ego by saying something super lame like “that’s just what you look like,” but I’m glad you like it.” He chuckled at your response, climbing off of the chair to stand in front of you.

“Damn, I was really hoping to get my ego fed tonight.” He grabbed the sketchbook from you and threw it onto the couch next to you before grabbing your hands and pulling you up to stand.

You smiled to yourself, chest shaking with silent laughter, “does the sketch not feed it enough?”

He shook his head, “I need the approval of a really pretty girl to satisfy its hunger.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned up into him, “you gotta work harder than that, Rockstar.” Your words came out breathy against his lips as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

His mouth connected to yours, the kiss deep and passionate. His soft lips meshed perfectly with yours, his hands pulling you up to stand on your tiptoes. Once you pulled away you stayed close to him, breathing in his intoxicating scent. He whispered, “I never thought a blind date could turn out so well.”

#mgk #mgk imagine #mgk fluff #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #Colson baker #colson x reader #colson baker imagine #colson baker fluff #colson imagine

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elias-code · 4 years ago

Text

Two Left Hooves [2/7] - Choice II

Choose your own adventure ~ “What’s Better than Breakfast in Bed?“

Characters: Technoblade x gn!reader, Philza

Summary: You've asked Techno whether he wants to sleep with you or not, and he makes up some excuse to join you. He cuddles with you into the night, but you're greeted with a nightmare, Dream's voice warns you of something to come, but refuses to specify what. Techno pulls you out of the dream and you sleep undisturbed until he greets you with breakfast in the morning.

Warnings: Cussing, Nightmares

IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE INTRO AND CHOSEN YOUR ROUTE, DO SO HERE: INTRO

— The Bird —

"Techno-" I said, kneeling to his level, "What do you want? I mean, you can sleep with me if you want to."

He paused, expecting a quip, but instead, I'd forced him to choose for himself.

"Seeing as you’re already cold, even with the fire..." He clicked his tongue, testing his words, "I want to keep you warm."

Holy shit that's adorable, I thought. Techno never let emotions shine through his words. When I talked to him, I had to constantly read between the lines. His monotone speech was, I supposed, a product of his repressed emotions. Ever since meeting him, I felt like it was my responsibility to dismantle the fortress he’d put around his heart.

"Excuses, excuses," I teased, “but you’re right, I’m gonna freeze without you.” I smiled at him. He let out a small huff, but his expression was unreadable.

"It's not an excuse, it's a reason," he said, turning to me, "They're desperate for me to be at the banquet, but they won't let me go alone, alright? If I let you freeze to death, it wouldn't make for great PR."

I rolled my eyes and scoffed, standing up. I offered a hand to him, to help him stand, "Thank you for not killing me so you don't have to go," I whispered.

"No problem, heh," he took my hand and stood, "I'll be back in a bit, alright?"

"Where are you going?"

"Just downstairs, get ready for bed," He said, dodging the question. He let go of my hand and awkwardly pat me on the head, leaving the room.

I didn't know how the ball was going to work out. On the one hand, Techno would go to the banquet and it'd be as awkward as it's always been between us. On the other, I'd manage to tear down his walls and reveal his emotions, changing our relationship forever.

Techno presented himself as untouchable, calling himself 'the blood god,' but I saw him hold back tears when Tommy betrayed him. I saw the destruction his wrath brought upon L'Manburg. He has compassion, but if he bottled them up any longer, there's no telling who he'd become. He couldn't keep letting everything out as anger, or we'd all pay the price.

I dressed for the night, setting his cape on the back of his chair. I chose a simple shirt and pants, the thickest ones I'd brought with me. I was still cold, but I took the opportunity to inspect his room.

He lives in the attic, a small loft with sparse decoration. What little furniture he did have was extravagant and of the highest quality. His desk chair was made of dark oak wood, the velvet red cushion was well worn. The table matched, a knife was stuck in it, too hard for me to pull out. It was dull, probably used to open letters.

His bed was made, probably just before I got there since it was only roughly put together. Next to it, there was a giant bookshelf pushed against the wall. Most of the books were unmarked and dusty, but a few of them were clean, recently put back. The Art of War, Odyssey, and the Iliad were among them. Their spines were worn and multiple bookmarks were sticking out of the top of each.

"Do you read much?" Techno asked, startling me.

"Um, oh," I stuttered, "I don't know where to get books from, so..."

"No?" He reached over and pulled The Art of War out of the bookshelf.

"I live out in the middle of nowhere," I shrugged, "The only thing I read is my mail."

"That's pretty sad," he said matter-of-factly.

"I have plenty of things to occupy my time with, Technoblade," I crossed my arms.

"Mhm," he handed me the book. Its cover was more worn than its spine, the old leather was cracking at the corners. "Take that home with you, I've read it a thousand times. Might come in handy."

"I suppose I can use it to knock intruders out," I flipped it over. It was like a brick in my hand, heavy and hard enough to break a window. "Thanks."

I yawned, realising how late it's gotten. I left my house almost a full twenty-four hours ago and I rode endlessly until I got here. I was exhausted.

I walked over to my pile of stuff and carefully placed the book in my bag. I then took a bit of a running start and jumped onto the bed, landing in a pile of furs and knitted blankets. "Don't wake me up in the morning," I muttered.

Techno came over and sat on the bed next to me. "I'll try not to," He said.

I shuffled under the blankets and shivered. The furs were enough to keep my body heat in, but I wouldn't tell Techno that. I heard him pick the covers up to join me. Soon, I felt his arms wrap around me, his chest to my back.

My cheeks flushed bright pink and I stifled a giggle. The blood god is snuggling with me... This is not what I thought was going to happen when I joined the server. I smiled and put my hand on his, wrapped around my waist. No one was going to believe this ever happened.

--- The Bird's Dream ---

He’s there, he’s right there. I need to go see him, I need to get there before it’s too late. There are so many people in the way, I’m not going to be there in time to dance. Who are all these people? They whisper about him as if they know him, as if they watch his every step and live in his mind. Left and right, they whisper things about me, about him.

“Did you hear, he’s going to the ball!”

“Oh and with that beautiful bird,”

“If only they knew. Tsk.”

Their eyes were unmoving, fixated on me. I shoved my way through the crowd, suddenly falling into the void.

“Did you really think it was going to be that simple? That you’d just seduce him with the snap of your fingers? He’s not a dog, he can’t be trained. He’s a wild animal. He’s unstable, He’ll break your heart, little bird.” Dream's voice boomed, echoing in my mind.

"Who are you?" I tried to yell, but only air came out.

"I'm the one who whitelisted you, the one who trusted you."

"What does that mean?" I was desperate to stop, to wake up, but I was falling infinitely.

"That's not for you to know, Puppet. You're here because I have a job for you, nothing more. You're the only one that can get through to him."

"What- What's my job? Why am I here?"

"You'll know soon enough-"

--- Technoblade ---

I slept soundly until I felt them stir under me. It sounded like they were having a nightmare, they muttered my name. What the hell are they dreaming about? I pulled them closer, brushing my hand through their hair. I wanted to wake them softly, so they'd forget about whatever was just racing through their mind.

They took a deep breath, signalling their waking. I continued to stroke their hair, "You ok, Bird?"

They mumbled an 'ok' and turned to face me, burying their face in my neck. I did the same and took deep breaths for them to follow. Within minutes, they were asleep in my arms. It felt right.

I didn't have the heart to admit it. If I did, I'd just have to tear it all away again, I'd be the one thing I truly hated. I'd be a traitor.

Don't get attached, Techno. We get to break hearts now, not just crush them! If you name this one, you'll regret it. Nothing screams ruin more than you do.

I woke up to birds chirping outside my window. The weather had finally let up, now I could finally get real work done. It took me a couple of seconds to remember the person fast asleep in my arms. A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it.

Carefully, I picked up the covers and snuck out of bed. I wanted to keep my promise not to wake them up, and so I immediately left the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards as I descended the stairs to the kitchen.

I pulled half a dozen eggs out of their box and cracked and cooked them over the fire, adding the occasional spice so it wasn't too bland. I toasted some bread and stuck it all on separate plates. Four eggs for me, two for them. I was two times their size, after all. The image of them laying on my bed flashed in my mind, making me smile. I shook it off. I couldn't get attached any more than I was now.

I pulled myself together and went back upstairs with the food. I put my plate on my desk, pulling the knife out of it and stashing it in my drawer. I walked over to the bed, placing their food on the nightstand. I reached over and gently pat them on the head, slowly waking them.

"Good morning," I whispered.

They opened their eyes and mumbled "G'morn'n,"

"I made you some eggs," I said, still petting their head, "You should eat them while they're hot,"

"Ok," they sat up and I moved back over to my desk, sitting in my chair.

They yawned and stretched, their shirt raising over their waist, exposing their belly button. I looked away and busied myself with my food.

Oh, look at them, they're so cute... so naive... so vulnerable.

I wanted to scream at the voices to shut up. They had been plaguing me ever since Phil suggested I invite them. For some reason, they had a vendetta against the bird. They wanted to see them suffer to, in turn, make me suffer. The voice's presence itself was enough to turn my hair grey, but this added a whole extra layer to my agony.

"Techno?"

"Hmm?" I didn't look up from my food.

"Did you make me breakfast in bed?"

I looked at them, hiding my embarrassment, "You told me not to wake you, but I was hungry, and I thought you'd like some too."

They blushed and shrugged. "You know me so well," they sighed.

"And I thought you'd appreciate the origin of the eggs," I added.

"Oh, and where are they from?" Their mouth was full, making them mumble a bit. They looked a bit scared.

"Well," I leaned towards them in my chair, "They're from The egg."

"Bullshit," they called, stuffing their face with more eggs. Maybe I should have given them more.

I laughed, genuinely, "They're just chicken eggs, I doubt the egg would taste very good,"

We ate and joked like nothing was wrong in the world. They were so good at making me feel at home, but the voices were eager to remind me of my past. I wouldn't let them spoil this. What we had was new to me, and I wouldn't just lay down and take the voices at their word. Gods know they aren't worth their weight.

— Philza —

“Hey, you two…” I creaked open the front door to Techno’s cabin.

The bird smiled at me from the breakfast bar, “Hey Phil, good morning!” They seemed very chipper for having just woken up. Both of them were already dressed in the day’s clothes, excluding overcoats that hung on the hooks by the door.

“Hello, Phil,” Techno nodded at me. His hair was neatly braided and they were both already dressed.

"How was your morning?"

"Techno made me breakfast!" They laughed. That was a surprise, he didn't even cook for me.

"Ooh, nice," I said, "What's better than breakfast in bed, eh?"

"Riches beyond your wildest dreams," Techno chuckled. I guess they were both in a good mood this morning.

“It’s nice to see you, mate,” I said to the bird, wandering over to join them at the breakfast bar. I sat down on a stool next to them, putting the notebook on the counter in front of me. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Ooh, what is it?” They said, sliding the notebook over to them. I reached over and opened it to the page I was referring to.

“The banquet has a dress code, and I’m assuming you don’t have anything that matches it,” Everything they wore was forest green or yellow, sometimes they had black or white clothes, but it was few and far between.

“What’s the dress code?”

“It’s blue, black, white, and gold,” I pointed to two drawings on the page, “I’m thinking either I make you a dress or a tuxedo, or I can mix the two. A tux top with a skirt. What do you think?”

They pressed their lips together, surveying their options. I tried my best to draw them, although they were rough sketches of a fancier design in my head. I could draw buildings and architecture for my blueprints, but flow-y things were not as easy.

/// UNDER CONSTRUCTION, BRRRRR ///

Choose your garment! It only affects the story slightly, I promise! There is no gender attached to them, it just changes how you’ll interact with people :)

Dress

Tux-dress

Tuxedo

#technoblade x reader #techno x reader #c!techno x reader #c!technoblade x reader #dreamxd #dreamsmp #dsmp #mcyt #dreamsmp x reader #dsmp x reader #philza #elias original #two left hooves

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regrettablewritings · 4 years ago

Text

Preference: You Move In Together

Characters: Tadashi Hamada, Dewey Finn, Diana Prince, Cassian Andor, Clark Kent

Tadashi Hamada

It started out with a kiss – how did it end up like this?

“This” being you holding a flashlight as high up as your crossed arms would let you as you bemusedly watched your boyfriend fiddle with the generator. Though, you already knew that answer: You two had finally settled down to relax and watch a movie (a little treat for getting through your third day of moving into your new apartment), when a flickering light coming from the kitchen began to distract you from your peripheral. Ever the assure-er, your beloved boyfriend insisted it wasn’t anything serious, that it could easily wait until the morning, and give you a kiss of comfort for good measure. But no: It could not wait until morning. It would not wait until morning.

Instead, whatever was going on waited until the climax of the movie to decide to blow the power out, plunging you both into a well of darkness. You groaned loudly, realizing that this meant the both of you would have to wait until morning to get somebody out here to check it out.

“Why wait?” Tadashi asked. “You have one of SFIT’s finest living with you!”

Surprisingly, robotics and electrical engineering were not quite the same – even one of SFIT’s finest could (and did) find himself struggling to figure out what the problem was.

And for as bemused as you were about the entire situation . . . some part of you couldn’t help but find the tiniest kernels of enjoyment in it. It was that part of you that knew that, a couple years in the future, this would be looked upon as a sweet moment. One of those moments older couples remember when looking back on how far they’d come together.

You two had only been moved in to your apartment for less than a month and already your lives felt so full of potential memories: From Tadashi attempting to make “the first breakfast of the rest of your lives” (and subsequently setting off your kinda crappy fire alarm); to you slipping down the stairs on your butt and thus earning his light taunts as he inspected the damage; to the both of you waking up to find your inflatable mattress had deflated overnight after only two nights of sleeping on it.

Your lives felt so full . . . yet it was clearly only the beginning. And that was certainly something to look forward to. Well, that, and having dependable electricity.

“Okay!” you heard Tadashi exclaim, rising up from his previous position. You didn’t need to direct the flashlight at his face to know that he was sporting that confident smile of his. “This time, I think I’ve got it. ‘And the Lord said --” He positioned his finger on the switch. “ ‘Let there be light!’” And with that, he gave it a victorious flip.

Nothing. Still darkness. The only thing that changed was that the silence was now awkward and well-earned. It was only broken by a single clap of hands.

“. . . You craving McNuggets? I’m craving McNuggets.”

You blinked. “McNug -- Tadashi, it’s almost midnight.”

“McNuggets, (Y/N)! Let’s go! We can pick up donuts after!” Tadashi insisted, gently pushing you towards the coat closet to retrieve a jacket. In the hustle and bustle, you gave up trying to stay unimpressed about the entire evening: You simply had to let out a laugh.

“Oh, Tadashi,” you sighed as you shook your head slowly, though not completely without adoration.

Yeah, you were both in it for the long run. And if you had known this sort of thing would happen, you still would’ve chosen him to be with. After all, if this kept up, your lives would be truly full before you knew it.

Dewey Finn

Statistically speaking, Staten Island is the cheapest borough to live in. However, New York is still New York. Meaning that you two are the very image that comes to mind when someone thinks about a young couple trying to make it work: The apartment is small; the walls aren’t paper-thin per se, but let’s just say you’d made cardboard club houses from sturdier stock; the quality of certain utilities isn’t exactly stellar, either, given that it was the best the two of you could afford; and you were both in positions that didn’t normally pay especially well in terms of making six figures.

And yet you both were pretty satisfied with the living situation.

Sure, moving your stuff in together was like playing life-size Tetris (with the added “bonus” of having to pick and choose what would be moved into storage and what you’d have to just give away). But after you got into the groove of things, it seemed to pale in comparison to the lives you’d begun to develop as a cohabiting couple.

For one, this was the first time in a long while where Dewey had actually lived in a clean/livable living space. Maybe not pristine, but there had been an established regimen of sorts: Dishes would be cleaned (even if begrudgingly) amongst the two of you; trash was taken out instead of left to grow into a mountain of pizza boxes and soda bottles and whatnot; and for the first time since he’d left his ma’s house, the mattress lay upon an actual box spring rather than a bunch of milk crates filled with records.

Completing the picture of the young struggling pre-famous by way of Dewey becoming a rock god couple was the assortment of Struggle Meals™ that had become a part of your day-to-day lives. Sure, you tried to eat healthy, but let’s be real: Cooking can be such a pain in the ass. It took a while, but you eventually had to agree for the betterment of your budgets to limit eating out to the weekends every other weekend. Until then, weird salads and Chili Mac and crockpots full of “let’s see what happens when we throw all this stuff in because their best by dates are coming and we kinda need to not waste this shit” stew would have to hold you guys over.

And yet, it wasn’t all bad.

There would be nights when Dewey would be on a song-writing kick up until one or chord would stump him, or nights where you’d have to bring paperwork home and you would begin to contemplate the consequences of just flinging it out the window. In moments like those, you were one anothers’ biggest cheerleaders.

You would continue to be one of the only people that could get Dewey to take a break, insisting that maybe going on a walk might help or maybe he can stop for a moment and just join you for a couple rounds of Mario Kart. And he would fix you up your favorite tea or, in turn, insist that you take a break before you slammed your face into the wall. It rarely actually mattered what one did for the other in that specific moment because no matter what it was, it was all the other needed to get over that roadblock.

And then there were those quiet moments . . . Dewey was never a quiet person, never really was into the quiet. But when you two moved in together, he sort of had to learn to respect those for your sake. And even though it was (and still can be) a bit of a struggle . . . you make it so much easier for him. Just by linking your hands together or running your fingers through his hair while you read. Or by rubbing his shoulders while you lounge behind him on the couch while he messes around with a lesson plan . . .

All in all, in some awkward yet beautiful way, you’re making in work. You try to take turns and share responsibilities, you both go and work your butts off to keep the lights on in this World’s Most Expensive Animal Cracker Box you call in apartment. It’s far from easy. But there’s just this massive feeling of satisfaction that hits the both of you when you come home after a long day of work, collapse on the couch, glance at each other with the most exhausted faces and go, “Wow, you look like shit.” Punctuated with a kiss, of course.

(Hey, it’s a Staten Island love story.)

Diana Prince

It all just sort of happened, really. There wasn’t any actual intention of you two living together-- at least, not at first. It had actually just started off with you coming over to Diana’s place just to house-sit whenever she had to go on a mission or even back home (after all, who better to watch her home than her beloved). Of course, this didn’t occur too often at first: She’d mostly retired from the vigilante life by the time you two had established anything. But once Bruce gathered up the Metahumans for a common cause, Diana’s need for you to come by became more frequent. So of course that meant you stayed over more often -- which, of course, meant you would have to make yourself right at home.

When Diana found an article of your clothing mixed in with her own laundry, though, that was when it occurred to her that perhaps it might be more beneficial for you to just stay there. Without the whole going back to your place bit.

You never pushed for it before: After all, for as loving as she was, Diana was still a woman who needed her space, given her history. You felt honored enough that she deemed you worthy of sharing her secret with, you weren’t about to apply more pressure to her by demanding that she let you move in.

Thankfully, no regrets were had.

You felt such childish glee in the moments when you’d wake up and see your gorgeous girlfriend in the kitchen, boiling coffee -- you were actually a little embarrassed at first. But given that Diana was never one to hide her feelings, it didn’t take long for you to realize that she actually felt the exact same: With you around more frequently, the apartment felt far less lonely. Far more warm and welcoming.

It wasn’t just filled with "her" stuff because now it had "your" stuff -- as in things that belonged to the both of you now. And sure, it might've been just little things like desk plants or jello molds or gimmicky little mugs, but it didn't matter to her-- they were yours. Together. Like an actual unit!

There were discussions of comfort zones to avoid as many clashes as possible; you communicated with one another about what idiosyncrasies were and weren’t going to be potential problems and how to possibly combat those.

It wasn’t always perfect, of course, but neither of you would have traded it for anything after you became accustomed to your new living situation.

But the very best moments were when she’d come home after being gone with the League. Tired, sometimes even still in costume, she’d trudge into the apartment, right into the bedroom, before collapsing on the bed next to you. Even if the feeling of your Amazonian girlfriend crashing down didn’t wake you, the exhausted yet relieved sigh she’d release most definitely would. And every time that happened, the first thing you’d feel wouldn’t be irritation at being woken up: It would be excitement.

She’s home! you would cheer on the inside, even if your tired body wouldn’t portray as much excitement as you would try to sit upright to greet her.

“Welcome home,” you smiled every time, voice husky with sleep. And she would smile back. Tired, yes, but always with so much love.

“Hello, beloved,” she would greet. “How was your day?” She would ask this every time. And she would listen, no matter what you responded with.

It was a good life.

Cassian Andor

You fought in a war, you survived a deadly mission that turned the tide for the war, the war ended . . . Now what? You buy a home together.

Oh, if only it were so simple.

Neither you nor Cassian really had much of an idea of where to move to for starters. Sure, you talked a big game about the places you wanted to travel to and see for yourselves, but vacations seemed far more within reach than a milestone like moving in together. At one point, you humored the possibility of just traveling around to those places you’d marked and just settle down in one of them, but they were hardly places you could see yourselves actually living in.

But in the end, you picked Takodana: Lush, green, neutral. Cassian was admittedly hesitant at the idea of settling on neutral territory: To him, that would’ve been just as bad as going somewhere where they didn’t care that a war was happening. But you insisted upon it, voicing how perhaps the influence of a quiet life might rub off on him. Plus, it was hard for him to argue with how calm and quiet it all was. An adjustment from the bustle and yells of a rebel base as he had literally grown used to, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

He never knew that crickets could sound so soothing.

Really, the adjustment of moving in together came from the fact that it wasn’t moving into a small section of living quarters sanctioned by an army: It was an entire home, just for the two of you (and K2), surrounded by forests and near enough to civilization while still being far enough away to assure privacy.

It felt weird to Cassian, who’d spent virtually his entire life living with the opposite: Constantly surrounded by people, constantly surrounded by dust, near enough to others while simultaneously being . . . alone.

Only he wasn’t alone: He was alone with you. And that’s what made all the difference for him. Sure, he wasn’t going to entirely give up his insistence on investing in protective measures. And just because it was your home, didn’t mean you were allowed to slack off on the order of the pantry or how fabrics like towels were folded, as though you were tossing away years of mandated regimen.

But so long as he has you, his link to regaining his sense of self? Who Cassian Jeron Andor is without the war? He’s pretty sure he can make that leap and start his next mission: Starting a family together.

Clark Kent

You two liked to joke that it was done in order to better brave the ridiculous Metropolis housing market. Which wasn’t far from the truth, actually. But the reality clearly had more to do with the fact that moving in together, after being a couple for so long, just felt like the right thing to do. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the most mystical or romantic of reasons, but why complicate things? This was already a relationship composed of the Kryptonian alien who caused a calamity and the woman who helped to try and kill him for it.

The beautiful thing about your new living situation was that it was a unique blend of the mundane and the strange. Unique: You were living with Superman which meant that after a point, it became somewhat necessary for you to know how to clean his suit and cape in the event he couldn’t be home to do it himself. Mundane: Clark liked taking care of you, and that meant sometimes you woke up to breakfast in bed or came home to find that he’d run you a nice, hot bath.

Unique: Dusting and vacuuming high corners and hard-to-reach places was a thing of the past since Clark could easily lift the heaviest of furniture, lift you up himself, or even fly up to perform the task. Mundane: On some evenings, you two could just end the day by relaxing on the couch, you lying on your back as Clark rested his head on your tummy so that you had access to play with his curls. Unique and mundane: You now had the option of completing grocery bag trips in one go. It wasn’t advised due to the whole issue of discretion, but, like, at least the possibility was now there.

Mundanely unique: His fast metabolism meant that your fridge, freezer, and cabinets were stocked to the bring with snacks of all kinds. Uniquely mundane: Clark snored a bit in his sleep and as much as you loved him, no amount of love could make snoring cute.

But compared to everything else, you’d take it in a heartbeat. You never imagined yourself having a life quite like this, to say the least. But now you could never imagine yourself having anything different.

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

Text

Insanity

Prompt: Hi... I uh... I’m back, again anonymously.... to see if maybe... you could... write a thing? No pressure but if so... maybe a hurt/comfort?

Remus is used to dealing with feeling like he is loosing his mind on his own. Like he puts up an insane front so that the others don’t notice when he is loosing his grip on his sanity. Then he ends up laughing as he is falling apart and thinking that he has indeed found the real meaning of going insane. And he just laughs until it hurts and the laughing fades but the tears don’t stop. He’s thinking of doing something drastic like just running away to the subconscious so he doesn’t have to exist as a side anymore, but on his was he runs into Janus and Virgil or other people if ya want. Then they talk him down out of his insanity and realize remus needs a lot more help than they ever imagined.

I know this is a really long prompt and if you don’t wanna write it no pressure whatsoever. I just like your writing better than mine lol. Uh, thanks if you do and thanks for having boundaries if you don’t! <3

Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Part 2 (ish)

Warnings: as you can guess, this revolves not just around Remus, but on intrusive thoughts. Self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychosis, insanity. There is a happy ending where our boi gets comforted and grounded, but the way to getting there ain’t pretty. Take care of yourselves please

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

Remus doesn’t know why his brain decides that right fucking now is the perfect time to swan dive off a balcony into a wrought-iron fence, he just knows that the wind on his face cuts his cheek like ice because of how cold it is.

He doesn’t understand the compulsion to stride to the middle of a volcano and dive into the magma just to see how the lava flows on the inside, he just knows that the burn in his hands from being even this close to a volcano is only matched by the burn in his head to just fucking go.

He really doesn’t know how he ends up wanting to rip his brother apart, piece by piece, so he can see how every inch of his muscles work, he only knows that hat he’s got his arms tightly around Roman, it’s the most grounded he’s felt in fucking ages.

Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

The light switch would look perfect controlling the precise contractions of his organs. The bird that flies by outside the window tears his trachea out with its razor-sharp beak. The water bottle Patton uses would screw into his eye sockets until his corneas shattered.

Remus knows to laugh them off. They can’t hurt him, they’re his! His ideas! They’re supposed to be disgusting, revolting, it’s a good sign if it’s him they revolt too. After all, he’s sure as hell got higher standards.

On the other hand…is this what it fucking feels like?

The idea of using a knife sometimes makes it feels like ants are crawling through his bone marrow. The steel glints way too harshly in the light as he picks it up and suddenly all he can see is blood, blood, and more blood, cuts in his arms, throbbing muscle, it hurts, why doesn’t it hurt that bad, make it stop, make it go away —

Remus takes a deep breath and puts the knife down.

He’ll walk past a window on a bad day and all he can feel is glass, sharp glass, in his skin, in his eyes, in his tongue, broken glass, inside him, cutting little nicks and tears and it hurts, it won’t stop hurting, why can’t he taste the blood, what’s happening to him—

He draws the curtains and walks away without another word.

The Sides are all there in the living room and his hands itch for his morning star, for a sledgehammer, something, anything to break them apart, put them back together, stitch them up in horribly beautiful ways, listen to their screams as their vocal chords break, why can’t he hear them screaming, why are their screams so loud—

He smiles feebly and sinks out.

Remus curls up in his bed and howls, the room collapsing in on itself, pressing against his lungs. He keeps screaming and screaming and screaming until he’s laughing. He laughs. He keeps laughing until his voice dies in his throat. He keeps laughing.

Something has its wriggly little talons in his stomach and he can’t stop laughing. It hurts. He can’t breathe. He wants it to stop. He never wants to know what it’s like to laugh again. He never wants to stop laughing.

He wants it to stop.

He knows exactly what this fucking feels like.

He can’t open his eyes sometimes because he can’t look at what he knows will appear in front of him. He can’t close his eyes sometimes because he’s too terrified of what will be carved into the underside of his lids. He can’t speak because he knows what horrifying thing will tumble out of his mouth. He can’t stay quiet because he knows what happens when all the voices stay trapped in his head.

He can’t be because it hurts too much.

He can’t not be because then it will stop hurting.

The others don’t know about this. Of course they fucking don’t. They don’t listen to him when he fucking wants to talk to them about shit, why the fuck would they pay attention to the stuff he doesn’t want to tell them?

Patton doesn’t give a single flying fuck about him. He made that perfectly fucking clear.

Logan thinks he’s boring. That’s the most fucking offensive thing Remus has ever heard, and that’s fucking saying something.

Virgil’s a scaredy-cat. And he’s gotten boring to terrify. Virgil’s afraid of fucking everything.

Janus is so nuanced, it’s fucking annoying.

Roman’s his brother.

Remus growls and rocks himself faster, clutching the sides of his shirt until the fabric tears. He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the pain in his ribs. The voices howl and cackle as the winds swirl around him. He ignores them as best he can.

It’s fucking cold in here and it’s too fucking hot.

They don’t see this part of the fucking mess that is Remus’s existence. They don’t see the un-fun parts of the crazy. They don’t see the reality of what Remus has to deal with.

They see the sex jokes, the crude puns, the horrible images he plants in their funny little heads. What must it be like in there, it must be so boring.

They don’t see the way he has to hold himself back from jumping onto every sharp object, throwing himself from every high height, digging his teeth into his own flesh and stripping it away from the bone.

Remus growls as he shoves the pillow between his teeth. The cotton tastes awful but it keeps his teeth away from his own tongue. He’d tried that once, tried biting it off, maybe the horrible taste of battery acid would leave his mouth if he had no tastebuds. He just wound up on the floor of the bathroom, vomiting up chunk after chunk until his tongue grew back, twitching against the roof of his mouth. He started biting the pillows after that.

It’s so fucking stupid, that they can’t fucking see this shit. He knows he can’t let them, he’s got fucking wires crawling around beneath his skin. He’s convinced of it. He can’t listen to Patton being condescending, he can’t listen to Logan flatly telling him he’s off his fucking rocker, he can’t listen to Virgil flip out at him, he can’t listen to Janus’s snide disapproval.

He can’t fuck up his brother.

So he just laughs.

Long and loud and hard and obnoxious because if they’re listening to the laughter they’re not listening to him.

There’s always going to be something they fucking want to pick on with him; they’re so fucking boring they can’t tolerate a little bit of difference. But if they start poking at his scars with their razor-long nails he’s going to rip open his skin and let the swarm of wasps inside him devour them whole. So he just laughs and laughs and lets them stare at him in disgust.

Disgust is better.

Sometimes his laughter is fucking hysterical, rising and rising and rising until they’re all screaming at him at the top of their lungs just to be heard. They say that he’s scaring them. Good. They should fucking be scared.

Sometimes his laughter is just in his head. They say they can’t hear him but he’s laughing. He’s laughing and they can’t hear him. Could they ever?

Sometimes he doesn’t realize it’s him. Someone will be laughing and they’ll all be glaring at him and oh, yeah, that’s him.

Sometimes he just can’t shut the fuck up.

Maybe it would be easier if he fucking could.

If he could shut his brain the fuck up for two goddamn seconds maybe he could actually make this work. Maybe he could be palatable enough to be tolerated. What does being tolerated feel like? What does it look like? Is it red, like blood, does it run in rivulets down his arms?

Is it dry, like the pillows? Does it just sit there in the corner, begging to be torn apart by razor-sharp teeth, or does it actively try to suffocate him as he wraps his mouth around words that won’t ever fit?

Or is it empty, hollow, like the blood vessels in his heart? Does it make him ache when a strong breeze blows by? Does it taste like steel, ozone, does it burn his tongue as he tries to breathe?

What does tolerance feel like, Remus wonders, because he’s all too familiar with isolation.

He’s never really alone. The voices won’t leave him be. They scream and cackle and whisper and taunt him with their awful, awful words and ideas and images and sensations. But he’s alone in every way that matters.

Except for the monsters.

He and Roman haven’t told the others about the Subconscious. It’s the one thing they’ve both consistently agreed on. The others don’t get to know about the Subconscious.

It’s not a nice place. It’s not even really a place. It’s a void, deep and vast, populated by things darker than darkness. The things in there are terrifying enough to make Remus’s skin crawl. They drag things down into the depths and rip them from the inside out, shredding tissues as they’re flipped inside out.

Monsters live in there.

Beasts. Creatures. Things.

They whisper to Remus sometimes. Their tongues are soaked in fear. Not Virgil’s type of fear, a thicker type of fear. It oozes out of their gaping maws and coats Remus’s limbs until he’s stuck, drowning in a tar pit. Insanity.

Sometimes he can struggle out of it.

Not this time.

The monster purrs in satisfaction as its shadows whip about the walls, crawling up to the ceiling, tapping their long, bony fingers against the very edges of the eye. His ribcage creaks, rent asunder by the sudden invisible weight. Dark passages yawn at the foot of his bed, around the fuzzy edges of the candle’s glow. Is there a candle in here? He’s not allowed a candle. Why is there a candle in here?

The shadows creep closer, up the long winding staircase—staircase? Where is he? Is he moving? Are they moving him?—through the banister, dancing up the curtain strings. There is insanity here, delectable, soaking through the walls, coloring the soft breaths that sigh in the still interior. The shadows creep closer, luxuriating in the darkness, the unseen. Remus stands at the brink of madness, teetering, awake, dripping head to toe in insanity.

A single candle burns atop the nightstand. He’s not allowed a candle. Its light flickers. His head pokes out above the sheets, fingers curled around its edge. He didn’t tuck himself in. He isn’t in bed. Yes, he is. The bed is standing up behind him. Now it’s lying down. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

He dares not move, lest the shadows hear him and find him, and yet he dares not close his eyes. A chill reaches a long finger through the window pane and lightly strokes the space between his shoulder blades. He keens.

The fingers lift his hairs to stand aloft, tugging them as if they are puppeteering his arms. They aren’t his arms. They never were. The chill cackles, diving to squeeze his legs, massaging its frigidity into his thighs. A knuckle comes up to trail along the soft skin under his arms, laughing as he curls up tight, trying to block the probing touches from snatching the rest of his warmth. He’s too warm. He’s too cold. The air atop him merely flutters, letting the chill dig and prod and one at him with its relentless talons. The insanity merely rumbles, soaking him to the bone. Is that what it wants? To steal his bones?

As the insanity drips through the air, it fills his ears, sending the shadows along the walls, up the ceiling, down beneath the skin. The light flickers. The insanity pours into his eyes. The chill rubs it in, still reaching wiggling fingers toward the soft meat of his tummy, blowing the insanity into ripples across his pupils. It reaches two fingers into his mouth, sliding across his tongue. As he gasps, it wriggles back under his arms and cackles anew. The insanity simply hums, sliding across his skin, down to pool in the hollow of his arms, nestled against his chest. Crueler hands dig into the meat at the back of his knees, the undersides of his rear, delighting in how he shivers. He whimpers. A knuckle runs over the very edge of him and lingers, coaxing the insanity to its wiggling lure.

The pit yawns beneath him, the monster voice luring him in, closer, deeper, come, down…

He does the only thing he can do.

He laughs.

Loudly. Heartily. He laughs so hard it bends him in half, cracking his spine. The sound scrapes along his throat. It rips spittle out of him, flying off into the darkness. He laughs. He laughs. He can’t stop laughing.

Spittle is joined by tears.

He can’t stop.

It won’t stop.

They won’t stop.

Nothing ever stops.

“Remus? Remus!”

“Jesus Christ, Remus, what’s going on?”

“Come away from there, sweetie, you’re going to fall.”

“Remus, come on, come here, listen to us, come on, you’re—you’re gonna fall.”

Hands wrap around his arms and yank, sending him hurtling back from the edge. He falls into something soft.

“Hey, hey,” comes the quiet growl, “hey, dude, it’s okay. Shh, shh, breathe, Remus, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Too late.

“You gotta breathe, man. It’s gonna be worse if you don’t.”

I can’t, Remus thinks frantically, I can’t breathe.

He’s still laughing. There are still tears running down his face.

“In and out, Remus, you can do it…”

Virgil? Is that Virgil? Isn’t Virgil scared of him? Why is Virgil here?

“There you go, Remus, it’s okay…” Virgil’s rubbing his arms. Arm? How many does he have? “It’s okay.”

Something hits his chest like a thunderclap and he gasps.

“That’s it, that’s it…it’s okay, Remus, it’s gonna be okay.” Something’s strangling him. No—no, trapping him. Also no. What’s happening? “You’re alright now, Remus.”

“V—Virgil?”

“Yeah, Remus, it’s me. J’s here too, it’s gonna be okay. We got you.”

Remus cranes his head backward to look up at what’s holding him. Janus smiles down at him, concern written plainly all over his face.

“Hey, sweetie,” he says softly, stroking Remus’s damp cheek, “you gave us quite the scare there.”

“S-scare?”

“You looked like you were hurting,” he says, not unkindly, “and that you were scared.”

Something twists in his gut.

“What would you know about being scared?”

To their credit, neither of them fucking blinks.

“I know that I care about you,” Janus murmurs, still cupping Remus’s face, “and that the thought of you falling into that pit scared me.”

“I care about you too,” Virgil says, “and you were hurting.”

“Everything hurts,” Remus hisses, yanking at Janus to get him to let go, “there are ants crawling around inside of me and monsters force-feeding me insanity.”

Virgil shoots Janus a worried look. Janus reaches behind them to fetch a tissue box, silently cleaning Remus’s face.

“It won’t stop,” he mutters, “it never stops.”

“What never stops, sweetie?”

“Everything.”

Janus glances up. Then back down.

“The others are worried,” he says softly, “they want to come see you. Should we let them?”

He can’t hold back the scoff. “Why would they care?”

“Because they care about you, sweetie, you’re important.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Of fucking course you are,” Virgil says immediately, “don’t say that.”

“You’ve got a fucking funny way of showing it,” Remus hisses, “you don’t want me around.”

“That’s not true!”

“Patton.”

“No, Logan! He doesn’t believe we care about him, let me go—“

“Patton?” Remus turns his head.

Patton…Patton is also crying?

The other Side drops to his knees in front of Remus, reaching out to catch another set of Remus’s tears in his palms. His lip wobbles, curling around Remus protectively.

“Of course we care about you, kiddo,” he manages, “you’re so wonderful.”

“You can’t fucking stand me.”

“I don’t understand you,” Patton corrects, “but I could never hate you. You’re so passionate. I love the way you love things.”

Fucking pause.

“You—you what?”

“I care about you, kiddo.” Patton presses his forehead against Remus’s. “Please don’t leave.”

What the fuck is going on? The monsters pull back, uncertain, but the ants have no such qualms. They burrow deeper into his bones, crawling through his muscles in searing agony.

“Remus,” Logan calls softly, “Remus, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah, I can hear you.”

“Good.” There’s a gentle hand under his chin. “What’s the matter?”

“There are ants in my bones and monsters trying to drown me in insanity.”

Logan just nods. He fucking nods. “Why do you think there are ants in your bones?"

“I can fucking feel them,” Remus growls, “they chewed through my veins. They’re in me.”

“Where do you think they started,” Logan says softly, “can you show me?”

Remus just lifts his wrists limply. Logan takes one in his hands, frowning in concentration as he runs his fingers gently over the skin.

“There aren’t any marks here,” he pronounces after a moment, “no holes, no bite marks.”

“There…there aren’t?”

“Not here.” Logan holds his hand out, palm up in offering. “Where else?”

He lays his other wrist shakily in Logan’s grip. He looks it over with the same attentive care, pronouncing no bite marks. No ants.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he promises, rubbing his thumb over the back of Remus’s hand, “is there anywhere else you’d like me to check?”

“Behind my ears,” he blurts before he can stop himself, “I—I can hear them.”

Logan nods and stretches his arm forward. “Come here, then.”

Has Logan always been this…soft? The gentle fingers pressing and stroking behind his ear, carding through his hair, have they always been so…kind?

“Would you like me to take a picture,” Logan whispers after a moment, “to show you there’s nothing?”

Remus nods. There’s a quiet click of the camera shutter.

“See?”

“…yeah. Yeah.”

“Anywhere else?”

“My back. My spine. It—it hurts.”

“May I have a look, then?”

Logan checks him over. Every single spot. He doesn’t once roll his eyes or huff that Remus is being ridiculous. He doesn’t scold him for it. He doesn’t pretend that the ants are real and he knows how to get them out. He doesn’t tell Remus that he’s going to be eaten alive from the inside.

He just…checks. Patiently and thoroughly. His hands are warm. His voice is quiet.

“I can have an x-ray ordered,” he says after he checks the last spot, “if you’re still unsure.”

“N-no,” Remus manages, shaking a little, “I—I believe you.”

Logan nods. He reaches out to cup Remus’s chin again. “Are you alright?”

Is he?

Has he ever been?

“N-no.”

“That’s okay.” Logan smiles—fucking smiles—at him and glances up at the others. “Can I show them how to check for you, in case it happens again?”

The question shocks him to his core. He barely has the wherewithal to nod.

Logan’s hands are back on his skin, turning and pointing carefully. He can feel their eyes on him as he works. Janus gently undoes the top of Remus’s collar so they can make sure his neck is clear as well.

“Roman?”

Remus’s heart sinks.

“Roman, do you want to see how to—Roman, what are you doing?”

Remus peers nervously over his shoulder to see Roman standing in front of the pit. From the line of his shoulders, he can see how tense Roman is. His hands are shaking.

“...Roman?”

He turns. His face is deathly pale. His gaze finds Remus and he swallows heavily.

“…Re?”

“Roman?” Remus swallows. Is that what his voice sounds like? “Ro?”

“Were you…” Roman glances over his shoulder. “Did you…?”

Shame.

Shame bubbles up so fast it springs hot, guilty tears behind Remus’s eyes. He ignores the worried noises from the others as he slumps.

A truly wounded noise comes from in front of him as Roman barrels forward, knocking his brother flat on his ass and wrapping his arms so tightly around him that Remus gasps awake.

Warm. Real. Roman. Roman is here, Roman is safe, Roman cares about him, Roman is fucking here. He lets out a cry of his own and clings to his brother.

“Not one of them is gonna touch you,” Roman swears, his voice shaking, “you hear me? I’ll gut them myself. They’ll have to get through me before they can even touch you.”

“I know, Ro—I know—“

“Swear to me,” Roman whispers frantically, “tell me you know I would never have let them take you. Tell me you know I’d’ve torn that place apart just to get you back.”

“I know, Roman, I—I—“

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, Re, I can’t take it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re staying right here—“ Roman holds him tighter and it’s the good kind of sore—“right fucking here.”

Distantly, he hears Janus chuckle and there’s another warm swirl across his back. He looks up from the crook of Roman’s neck to see Logan settling in, reaching out to give them a hug. Janus sits behind him. Virgil and Patton grab blankets and join the pile.

It’s…it’s good.

“Listen to us,” Roman keeps whispering, “not them. They’re not gonna lay a hand on you. We got you, Remus, we’ll keep you.”

“Gonna keep me?”

“Always, Re.”

“R-Roman—“

“Let it out, Remus, come on. We’re not going anywhere.”

Remus cries.

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

But sometimes, as Patton ruffles his hair, as Virgil leans his head on his shoulder, as Janus rubs a hand across his tummy, as Logan starts talking very softly, as Roman holds him tight, sometimes it doesn’t.

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#sanders sides #fic #sympathetic deceit #sympathetic remus #remus sanders #deceit sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #dragonbabbles #self harm #tw: self harm #tw self harm

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dracosaurusrex · 4 years ago

Text

Bookworms (Part 2) | Draco x Reader

Summary: The feelings that Y/N and Draco have for one another continues to increase as their relationship begins to bloom.

Word count: 3.3k

Genre: Fluff; enemies-to-friends-to-lovers

TW: Slight bullying, but not too bad.

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for all the support @.@ Here’s another chapter! It’s might not be much, but I think I like it hehe. Love is in the small things, I suppose. There’s not much dialogue in the beginning, but that’s compensated towards the end :) I hope you enjoy! Feedback is very much appreciated :D

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You wake up to the feeling of warmth. Warmth in your fingers, in your arms, and in your face. It covers the expanse of your body as your surroundings come into view. As your eyes and consciousness adjust to your environment, you immediately go red. Looking down, you see that your fingers are interlocked with someone else’s, the owner’s right arm is draped over your waist, and your legs are entangled with his. You were in someone’s embrace. Before you could identify who this person is, small breaths of air brush your forehead, alerting your attention upward. You gasp silently at the sight of Draco’s peaceful face while your heart speeds up to a rate that is comparable to that of a seeker attempting a 50 m dive for the snitch--it was very fast.

You don’t dare to move your fingers from his grasp. Rather, you begin to analyze all of his features. It is then that you notice the way his eyelids are shut peacefully, and how his lashes feather his cheeks. The scowl that usually graces his face is absent, relieving the tension that is often settled in between his eyebrows. His lips are opened slightly--his bottom one pouting more outward than its upper counterpart. His platinum locks flutter slightly over his eyes, making him look more angelic in contrast to his typical gittish appearance. Your focus travels down to where your fingers interlace into his. His hands are comparable to yours in size and in texture. While you had long fingers and soft hands, his was slightly bigger, longer, and much more rough in characteristic. And yet, they caress yours so well. You take the opportunity to completely intertwine your fingers with his, giving his hand a squeeze with hopes that he wouldn’t stir from his slumber. With full consciousness now, you press your ear against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

A couple minutes pass by, filled with the soothing sounds of his lingering beats. You begin to gently untangle yourself from his limbs, lifting each with care and placing them delicately on the bed. As soon as you slid off, you began to loosen the sheets from underneath him, trying your hardest to be as discrete as possible. Taking them with a firm grasp, you lift it over Draco’s body, stopping just below his shoulders. A smile appears as you stand and stare at his peaceful face. With much care, you sweep stray platinum strands away from his eyes. Your fingers gently stroke his porcelain skin. He was a beautiful boy.

Stepping away from the sight, you walk towards your belongings and rummage through them before pulling out a quill and paper. You then take a seat at his desk, settling yourself comfortably, while looking at the items left astray on the surface. Books and parchment littered the space. An ink bottle was left open, and a quill was perched on a stand. Lined up against the wall was a small collection of books. Ones that contrasted greatly from the vibrant cover of the memory police. Each of them were written on subjects that weren’t taught at school. You suspected that he probably studied them due to the demands of his parents.

Tearing your attention away, you gently dip your quill in the inkwell, totally focusing in on your task at hand. On the piece of parchment before you, you lay down a pattern of dots, connecting them with lines to form a familiar constellation. It was Draco. Recalling a few facts you knew from the astronomy books you’ve read, you write one with much care followed by a small message. It causes your mind to drift to the boy behind you, knowing that he’s much more than the image he portrays to the world. A sense of fondness overcomes you and you smile at the thought of him. You begin to fold the paper as soon as you place the quill down. Its creases and folds form into a crane. Satisfied with your work, you reach for the Happy Prince, and tuck the crane within the middle of the pages.

Sounds of shuffling interrupt your train of thought. When you look to your side, you see the boy stirring from his sleep, opening his eyes shortly. His eyelashes batter innocently before realizing that you were gone from his grasp. He jolts upward in response, looking for any signs of your presence. Once he sees you, the frantic look that was fixed on his expression dissipates.

“You could’ve woke me up.” He states. You throw him a soft smile.

“You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Draco’s heart flutters before he recomposes himself. He shifts his body, so that he’s sitting at the edge of his bed.

“What are you up to now?” He asks with yawn.

“Something for you.” You hand the object to him. As he takes it, he begins to scan the cover with adoration.

“I suppose this is for you as well.” He picks up the book from his nightstand and passes it to you. As you grab it, you begin to trace its edges before flipping it to look at the back for the summary.

“Did you enjoy it?” You ask.

“Very much. I hate to admit it, but muggles are quite the storytellers.” His statement shocks you.

“Oh shove off, Y/N. Don’t give me that look.” He scowls at you. In response you raise your hands up in defense and his eyes soften.

“You have a good point. I’m compelled to read it now. Thank you.” You say simply. Within the silence, the faint sound of the bell erupts, indicating the time.

“I should get going. I still have studying to do.” You announce as you stand up from the bed. As you gather your belongings, you turn back to look at him.

“Thank you for spending time with me again.” The sweet smile that you give elicits a matching one from Draco’s lips. He raises himself to lead you to the door. As you step into the hallway, you turn around to give him your farewell.

“Do you think we can do this again? Saturday’s at Avenoir and Sunday’s in the dorm?” He asks while he scratches the back of his neck. You nod happily.

“It’s settled then.” There was an undeniable gleam in your eyes. One that makes his heart flutter for the umpteenth time that day. After you depart from his room, the boy walks to his bed, picking up The Happy Prince. As he flips through the pages, the paper crane falls out. He gingerly picks it up and delicately unfolds it. What he finds inside creates an explosion of warmth in his chest. Depicted is his constellation, and below it, “The guardian of the star that never moves.” He moves his fingers to trace the lines that were etched into the page and smiles as his eyes scan over your message: “Hope you’re ready for another adventure :)” It’s so characteristic of you. He folds the crane back up and inserts it within the pockets of his book bag.

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The week goes by as it usually does, with the exception of an eventful Wednesday night. While you normally study in your dorm alone, Draco studies in the common room surrounded by the company of his friends. To his dismay, however, his companions tend to engage in conversations that are irrelevant to the assignments given. On most days, he is able to tune the noise out and concentrate on his work, but on this particular day the mentioning of your name piques his attention.

The assignment given out for potions that day was particularly difficult, resulting in complaints being made by those around him. As they do so, he initially keeps his focus on the information given in his textbook.

“Snape is really out to get us now, huh? This assignment is a killer.” Pansy is the first to speak. Daphne agrees.

“Agreed. What’s the point of writing an essay on the properties of Moonstone when you can just read the book like a normal person?” She exclaims.

“I bet that Y/L/N is breezing through this, huh? Why is she even in Slytherin? She might as well be in Ravenclaw with all those books she buries herself in.” Theo took a turn to speak. Draco stops his writing at the sound of his statement, but keeps his head facing down as he tunes into the conversation.

“Tell me about it, the sorting hat must’ve been sick when she was sorted.” The group starts laughing. When Draco looks up, he sees that Blaise had also kept his head down, eyes staring hard at the parchment in front of him. He looks up at him and gives an exasperated expression. A tinge of annoyance kindles in the blonde’s heart, yet he makes no sound.

“Y/L/N should really know her place. Did you see her when I spoke to Draco this past Sunday? She really had the nerve to mock me. She ought to keep her nose stuck in those books if she knows what’s good for her.” Astoria finally spoke out. Astoria, who was two years younger than her sister, Daphne, had a massive crush on the boy. She ensured that everyone knew of it also--even Draco himself. Unlike Y/N, she was proud. Proud of her family name, proud of her looks, proud of her blood status. She would be the perfect fit for him within the eyes of his parents’ standards. However, she wasn’t anything like you. Furthermore, it angered him knowing that these people spoke so lowly of you. You were much more than anything and everything that they had to say.

As the boy immersed himself in anger, he catches sight of you as you enter the common room from the dorms. His eyes linger on you as you swiftly make your way to the entrance of the dungeons. Without any hesitance, he collects his stuff and places it into his bag, preparing to follow you.

“Draco, where are you going?” Daphne asks.

“Somewhere else to write this bloody essay. You all are damn noisy.” He says with a cold tone embedded in voice. The group looks at him in shock. He’s normally very tolerant of the insults that are thrown amongst them. As he steps away from them, he looks back with vile-looking eyes.

“You idiots know nothing of Y/N. Leave her alone.” The ordeal attracts the attention of every student in the common room. They look at the boy with astonishment as he exits the Slytherin confines. It was the first time he defended anyone other than his family, and he had done so with just as much passion. He doesn’t care much about the shocked eyes, however. Instead, he’s more concerned about your whereabouts, envisioning the smile that gives him peace of mind. As he walks out, his mind remains occupied with anger. He mentally throws insults to the sorry excuse of a group, without giving much attention to where he was going. As a result, he bumps into something hard. It was you.

“Hey! Watch where you’re go- Draco! Are you on your way to the library too?” The genuine look in your eyes automatically relieves him of the bitterness that lingers in his mind.

“Yes, I am actually. I couldn’t concentrate in the common room.” He says truthfully. You nod your head in understanding.

“It can get rather loud in there. I don’t blame you.” His mind drifts back to the conversation his friends had just a few minutes ago. He then drifts to you. Beneath your quiet and focused demeanor was a vibrant and genuine personality. One that was so intelligent, witty, and resourceful, yet caring and empathic to a select few. He can’t help but to get angry for you.

You both enter the library and quickly find a seat. As you do so, you pull out your materials before exploring the sections for books on Moonstone. The boy sets down his belongings to follow you. When he finds you, you’re seen with an arm outstretched, struggling to reach a book from the top shelf. Draco gets behind you and reaches for the book with ease. He chuckles at your stunned face.

“You seem to have forgotten my height in comparison to yours.” You roll your eyes, trying to get the book from his grasp.

“Give it here you git. I found it first.” You spew out as you jump to retrieve it. Instead he snickers at you, and raises it higher.

“Draco!” You whisper harshly before jumping again. This time you grip his shoulders and push off, successfully retrieving the book from his hand before landing. However, your feet don’t touch the ground quite properly, resulting in you stumbling over. With quick reflexes, Draco wraps his around the small of your back, and holds your body against his in attempts to steady you. The action makes you both freeze in shock. You felt his warmth before, but you were sleeping then. Now that you were fully awake and conscious, the feel of his body against yours becomes so real, and there’s a flush of red that covers both your faces. After realizing the amount of time that has passed, the boy loosens his grip on you, and you step back.

“Let’s go back?” You ask him nervously.

“Uh yea.” His response holds the same kind of energy as you turn to walk towards the table. You get through your work with racing hearts. It was the first time you two had sat together with a purpose other than reading. You would’ve expected that it’d be easier to concentrate on your work in comparison to reading when he was around. With the whole scene playing in your mind, however, that is proven to be less likely. Nevertheless, you make an attempt to progress, flipping through pages and taking notes. Your efforts in focusing are fruitful as you continue to wrap your mind around the subject at hand. However, it is only when you feel someone’s gaze that you stop.

You catch the conflicted look on Draco’s face, making you stop yourself from writing.

“Are you alright?” The question catches him off guard, and his face contorts when he thinks of the conversation yet again.

“Draco, is there something bothering you?” You ask again with a little more concern. He lets out a sigh.

“Y/N, in a hypothetical scenario, how would you deal with people talking behind your back?” You sit there without reacting for a moment, recollecting an appropriate response.

“It hurts to find out, but I guess reading or being in my own world helps to tune out the irrelevant stress.” It’s a truthful response, that much Draco knows. It’s you after all.

“Have you ever wanted revenge?” The boy props his head on the palm of his hand, his elbow on the surface of the table. He looks at you with pure curiosity.

“It’s pointless, don’t you think? To stoop on the level of those who already showed they’re beneath you? Regardless of what they said, if I didn’t do anything wrong, the only problem lies with them. Not me. I would appreciate it, though, if someone told me if I ever did something wrong or offensive. Besides that, revenge is a waste of energy. To be frank, it’s more satisfying to see the karma go back to them. Sorry for sounding harsh.” He shakes his head in objection to your apology.

“But why?” He asks as he begins to question himself.

“It’s a waste of energy, it gets in the way of my business, and I don’t need anyone to throw me off.” The way you respond conveys a fire in your eyes. No one can stop you from achieving the things you want, and your awareness of that excites him. At the same time, however, his knowledge of your independence and sense of responsibility enforces the feeling of worry within him.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Draco?” The boy sits up and shuffles slightly in his seat. The words that he wants to say next are not things others would typically hear him say.

“Slytherin’s code.” He says simply. When you don’t understand what he was referring to, you quirk a brow upward.

“Come again?” He sighs. You can see him fidgeting with his fingers.

“You’ve seen me at my worst and took care of me. I’ll look after you too..if you let me that is.” You look at him stunned. It wasn’t like him to express his feelings so openly. As a few minutes pass, he begins to grow weary of your lack of response. Before you could say anything, he beats you to it.

“I understand if you don’t want it. I-” Your eyes widen.

“No! I do!” You raised your voice mindlessly. After remembering where you were, you repeat yourself slowly with a softer tone.

“I do, truly. I enjoy your presence, Draco. I treasure you.” Your genuine words come out stumbling, and the flush that you tried to suppress finds you again. You look down at your lap, starting to play with the edges of your skirt. Silence fills the air for a moment until you cautiously look up at him. A satisfied smile graces his lips and his eyes are filled with something you can’t exactly comprehend. It makes your heart race, nevertheless.

“D-don’t look at me like that.” You glance back down before looking up again. He still has the same expression on his face. You push his shoulder slightly.

“Stop.” You say again as you try to suppress your smile. You fail miserably. Draco on the other hand is filled with joy and relief at the sound of your words. His focus is fixated on you with much adoration. There were plenty of things people could say about you, yet your response has always been so eloquent, elegant, graceful, and wise. You were resilient. Today, your hair was up in a ponytail, but in Draco’s eyes, your beauty surpassed that of physical appearance--one that Astoria could never top. You were amazing, you made him better, and he was aware of all of that.

“I for you and you for me?” He asks earnestly. The sincerity in his voice prompts you to come to terms with the seriousness of the matter. As you meet his gaze, you see that he has a pinky extended upward and outward over the table.

“Blaise told me it’s a muggle thing to make promises with pinkies. I think it’s stupid, but in this case I suppose it’s...fitting.” You chuckled as the hint of his familiar arrogant tone emerges when he tries to defend himself. You wrapped your pinky delicately around his, and pressed the pad of his thumb with yours to seal it.

“I for you and you for me.” You say softly, yet so contently. Neither of you break from the position. Instead, you simply resume your work--you write and cross reference with your right hand, while Draco reads, using his left to flip pages from his textbook. You’d glance at the view occasionally, heart skipping beats at the sight of his finger wrapped around yours. After working for a while, you take a break and stare at his focused expression. If your past self saw you, she’d be raging, but now his presence represented new beginnings. For once, you didn’t feel alone within the school grounds. For once, there was someone who was willing to care for you as much as you for him. For once, you felt safe right where you were--pinkies tangled together and all. Draco being there encompassed all those things, and you couldn’t be more content.

You tightened your grip around his finger. Without looking up at you, he does the same.

A/N: I want to thank you again if you make it this far! Let me know what you think :D Other than that, I hope you have a good day!

A few tags! C:

@fadesbrina @redheaded-hobbit @ccabian @rottenhexrt

#Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagines #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco x reader #draco x you #draco x y/n

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