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syoddeye · 2 months ago

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consequence / snowball

price x f!reader | 2k words series directory | ao3 tags: exes, angst, cheating, references to depression. a/n: good things come to those who wait. ☕

it’s strange to think there’s a man in the living room.

by invitation. you’d extend it further and lure him down the hall to your room, but he might not appreciate it, considering you shit the bed by crying like an infant in front of him.

it’s the beer and ben. you should’ve arranged for delivery or left his things on the street. would’ve been less personal that way, safer, but you had to know—if you’d feel anything, if he’d ooze regret. you came out two for two, slapped with clarity. not only was ben unrepentant, he was happy. happier without you.

you gaze at the hyacinths above your bed. they remind you of john’s eyes. soothing.

~~~~

there’s a weight on john’s chest when he wakes.

cece purrs contentedly. she butts into his chin as he stretches, one hand stalling her advance to his face and the other scrubbing over his eyes. he tucks her to his chest as he stands and scratches under her chin while staring at the door at the end of the hall, pushed open to the width of a cat. not a sound.

he starts the kettle. it’s only polite.

in her cupboards, he finds the coffee and a collection of novelty mugs. he settles for ‘not paint water’ and ‘black coffee’ in the style of black flag.

she can’t meet simon. he’d steal her.

john refills cece’s water, then tiptoes around the living room. with the added context, he examines the decor and art in a new light. he wonders if she looks at them with pain or contempt. if any inspire positive thoughts, or if they’ve been stripped of them. if she, like him, keeps tokens regardless of sentiment. monuments to his own failings, shortcomings, and triumphs. and, if she does, how he’ll drown out the bad with good.

she startles him.

“morning.” she stands at the mouth of the hall, in sweats and a t-shirt, voice thick with sleep. “did you…?”

“hope you don’t mind.” he watches her shuffle languidly. “i don’t know if you prefer coffee or tea, but figured the kettle’s necessary either way.”

she hums and retrieves a glass pour-over from a cupboard. “i’m just impressed you’re here at all.”

you of little faith.

“not the type to flee a woman’s flat without a proper goodbye.”

“no? you often stay over at women’s flats?” her back is turned, but he hears the smile in her voice. “what constitutes a proper goodbye?”

his gaze lingers before he joins, ignoring the questions for his own sanity. “sleep well?”

after pouring water over the coffee grounds, she turns and leans, the picture of nonchalance, save for the puffy and still somewhat bloodshot eyes.

it’s not right to burn paintings, but he’d set fire to her ex’s studio, gallery—wherever the rat held his collection—if he believed it’d make her feel better.

“yes, actually. last night was, um, cathartic.”

he tilts closer, laying a palm flat on the counter beside her hip. “i assume there’s more to the story, but it’s your choice. i won’t pry any further. just say the word.”

“no, no. i want to tell you.” she sighs, focusing on the drip. “you’re right. i didn’t get to the best part.”

to that, he has no immediate answer. no inclination to rush her into conversation when she’s barely awake. in the brief silence, her dejection and shame seep into the space like the water filtering through the grounds.

john pulls out his phone, tapping through screens. “gonna need somethin’ to eat, sounds like. you been to…hm. ‘for goodness bakes’ bakery?”

she frowns over her shoulder. “john, i’m not suitable for public consumption.”

he lifts a brow. “debatable, but i mean to pop out and pick up breakfast. do you have a preference?”

slipping from his place beside her, he weaves around cece and heads for his shoes and jacket.

“you don’t have to–”

“i know. preference?”

across her flat, she fights back a smile and he fights his impulses.

“raspberry-filled doughnut.”

sweet. suits her. “rog. lock the door after me, shower, and i’ll be back before you know it.”

~~~~

the water feels hot, no matter how low you turn the temperature.

such a complicated influx of thought. flirting with john is effortless. talking is easy. he cuts through your guilt and grief like an icebreaking ship with none of the force or command. and he listens. really listens. you could stare at the divot between his eyebrows all day, the way his face grows serious, and his eyes somehow warmer.

for the first time in months, you genuinely fuss over clothes and skincare beyond moisturizer. are you pathetic? is this pathetic? you ask cece, she slow blinks and slaps the tie to your robe. inconclusive.

a knock at the door. you yank a shirt over your head, assess, and force yourself to walk calmly from your room.

don’t rush this.

~~~~

she smells faintly of citrus. coffee, too. though that may be the steaming mugs set between them.

“good?”

“the best,” her cheek bulges with a bite. her eyes don’t stray from the pastry, its fruity entrails spilled onto a plate. “thanks.”

they eat in relative silence, but he catches her staring at his bicep twice.

“rethinking your compliments?” he flexes the mermaid’s tail, dusting croissant flakes off his fingers.

her turn to ignore a question. she asks her own. “y’know, i never asked. do you live far?”

“across town.”

“and yet you come to the shop, what, three times a week when you’re in town?”

four, if he’s lucky. “good coffee. decent service.”

“right.”

she finishes and licks sugar off her thumb. john tears away to clear the table, ignoring another protest. last thing he wants to do is turn a lovely morning into an awkward one. he joins her on her couch, taking what feels like is quickly becoming his spot and prompting cece to sit on his lap.

“where did i leave off?” she asks rhetorically, staring into her mug. “ben’s big break. right. he was only originally supposed to be away for two weeks painting a mural for an architect’s office. well, midway through the job, the architect introduced him to a friend who happened to own a gallery.”

“the snowball.”

“yes. of course, ben’s gifted, but like i said, he’s got personality. the, uh, hustle. i can’t blame him for seeing an opportunity and taking it. at least that opportunity.”

john hesitates to address the continued self-deprecation with how her voice wraps around the very telling ‘that’. he bites his tongue and picks his battle. another day, he’ll help tear that veil of doubt from her eyes.

“anyway, his two week long trip spun out into six.” she winces. “he didn’t end up coming back once. not to grab more clothes or anything. he just had me send some along with selected pieces. he said there was no time.”

“and hannah?”

“neck-deep with the final school exhibition.” she goes quiet, lost in her barely-touched coffee. swallowing, her gaze lifts. “she was…busy.”

john sets his mug aside out of concern for the ceramic’s integrity.

“things became difficult. ben said he wanted to try long-distance before, so i thought six weeks was a decent trial run. i wasn’t well, but texting and calling him kept me afloat. then he started getting busier, and couldn’t text or call every day. one weekend, he didn’t answer at all. he did apologize, though, and sent me flowers—not as nice as yours, though. yellow somethings. kind of garish.”

he mirrors her small, sad smile, dropping it when she looks away. it’s deeply selfish and painfully juvenile to revel in that detail, but he does.

“eventually, his trip ended. things improved, rapidly, like he was eager to make up for lost time. dates, gifts, love notes. it was nice. he booked more work, but he bought a car, so he’d stay home during the week and travel on weekends. i couldn’t tag along often, since weekends are the busiest days at the shop, but he promised he’d be home for our anniversary.”

cece migrates. the ball of warmth leaves him for her mum, tucking her purring self into his girl’s lap. she sets her coffee down and idly strokes the creature, leaning hard into the cushions, holding her cheek with a palm. her focus drifts elsewhere for a minute.

he knew the story would inevitably reach this point. the crash. it’s difficult to believe he was so angry over a stupid dent.

“you don’t have to continue.”

“no, i want you to understand, john.”

his name’s enough to shut his mouth.

“at dinner, ben gave me his phone to show the photographs that a local paper was going to publish alongside an article about his work. i didn’t think anything of it, other than i thought he looked handsome. so i kept swiping.”

a gear turns in his head.

“and in the background of the last picture, ben and hannah were attached at the mouths.”

his blood boils. it is good his hands are empty.

“you know, i think he wanted me to find out like that. in public, where he didn’t think i’d make a scene.”

~~~~

ben called you crazy. crazy.

he’d taken his phone back with this look on his face and immediately demanded you lower your voice. you asked him point blank—how long?

he muttered something. months.

you’re not proud that you tossed a glass of wine into his face. knowing him, he was going to turn the breakup into a fucking piece. when he shot back from the table, he had the gall to act surprised and embarrassed. you contemplated throwing your glass, too, as he stormed out.

but he wasn’t worth it.

you’d lose your job. which you’d need, since you were definitely on your own now.

the bottle of wine you drank that night couldn’t cover the bitter taste in your mouth, nor could it erase the fact that ben won.

and you lost.

~~~~

outside, john loiters at the top of the stairs. the cooler air helps mellow his temper.

“sure i can’t sort him out for you? i know a man or two who’d help. there’d be no connection to you.” he smiles. if only she knew the sincerity of the offer.

“i’m sure, john. i’ll let you know if that changes. walk you to the corner?”

he shelves his anger for later. when her arm slips through his without asking, it’s swiftly shoved to the back. he squeezes her hand against his ribs.

“i’m curious about something.” john admits. “earlier. you insisted on tellin’ me everything so i’d ‘understand’.”

she hums.

“it’s not as though i didn’t follow. i did. i do, but i’m not entirely sure what you meant by that.”

at the corner, she withdraws and shoves her hands into her pockets. “i needed you to hear all the, uh, gruesome details. so you know what you’re getting into.”

“getting into?” his chest tightens.

a look of resolve falls over her face. her voice is the firmest he’s heard outside the shop, calling customers to pick up their orders.

“i made the mistake of rushing things before. i’m not keen to do it again. if you like being around me, john, which i think you do,”

more than you know.

“you should know i want to take whatever this is slow and steady. i don’t want to screw up again.”

he grasps for the right thing to say. slow and steady. he can do both. he’s laid on his belly for days waiting for a shot and knows the consequences of missing. to seize opportunity when it’s in front of him.

and this one’s finally wandered into his crosshairs.

#i swear to god do NOT junk this up again tumblr #john price x reader #john price x f!reader #price x reader #price x f!reader #loser barista

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save-the-villainous-cat · 4 months ago

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could you write something with the hero and villain fake dating? (you totallt dont have to if you dont want to or something I just wanted to ask cus I loveee the trope!)

"Kiss me," the villain said.

"No fucking way." A horrible blush started to spread over the hero's neck. The worst thing about this was that this had been their idea in the first place.

They were ashamed to admit it but when they had arrested the villain a few months ago, they had suggested to the judge a different kind of punishment. At the time, there wasn't much evidence of the villain's criminal activities, so the hero had thought it to be more practical if the villain had to work together with other heroes. As a kind of community service.

After all, the villain was smart when it came to these schemes.

However, for whatever reason, they had been paired together. The hero didn't quite know what to do with themselves now. Ever since the mission had started, their brain wasn't functioning at all. It was quite self-explanatory. The villain was incredibly attractive and they were joking around, seizing every opportunity to flirt with the hero.

The hero suspected it to be some scheme to throw them off their game. But they couldn't be sure.

"These guys over there have been eyeing us the entire evening. If you ask me, they're not buying our little act." The villain let their fingertips ghost over the hero's knuckles and the hero's heart started to throb. The hero didn't turn around to look at the suspicious people the villain had been talking about. Their mind was somewhere else entirely.

On this after show party, they were supposed to observe highly influential people for suspicious activity. An election was coming up and although the hero loathed politics, it was obviously the right thing to do. They weren't supposed to be the ones being observed.

Usually, the hero wasn't very fond of undercover work. They were a horrible liar and improvisation wasn't their strong suit either. For the last few days, the villain had saved them more than once from embarrassing slip-ups. It was quite pathetic.

"And you have been flirted with already," the villain said. Somehow, their voice sounded bitter.

"They were just being nice," the hero said. They shifted on their chair. If someone was indeed observing them, maybe kissing the villain was the right thing to do. God, the hero didn't have much experience and they feared they would make a fool out of themsleves once again.

The villain probably had a new lover every week or so.

"They wanted to buy you a drink."

"Ehh," the hero said. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It's compromising the mission."

"Is that person who wanted to buy me a drink one of those guys who have been 'eyeing' us the entire evening?" the hero asked. They leaned over and took the villain's hand. Whenever they looked into the villain's eyes, their stupid heart skipped a beat but they tried to come closer, to appear more in love.

It was quite strange for them to display physical intimacy in public. They had never really considered themselves to be fit for relationships - work got in the way every single time but the villain brought enough casualness into the (fake) relationship to somewhat ease the hero's nerves.

The villain didn't answer their question, though.

"All I am trying to say is: when someone wants to buy you a drink, we don't look like a couple," the villain said. Their eyes dropped to the hero's lips and the hero leaned over, holding onto the villain's hand.

"Well, you could have come with me to the bar," the hero said. They shrugged and took a sip of their drink with a shaky hand the villain observed a little too long.

"I will keep that in mind." The villain followed the little veins on the hero's wrist of the hand that was holding onto them. The hero was so nervous they weren't sure if they had to cry or laugh.

"Okay, be honest. Is someone watching?" the hero asked. They managed to scoot over towards the villain.

The villain's eyes were still on the hero, observed every little move. To say the villain could be relentless was an understatement.

"They have the audacity to check you out." The villain's voice was low, even though their mouth formed a sweet smile. The hero hadn’t even realised how tight their grip was around the villain's hands. "Probably some disgusting perv. I can’t blame them, though. You look incredible."

The villain leaned in, touched the hero's forearm gently and immediately, the hero’s heart sped up.

"You have to be very careful or I will actually fall in-"

And then, the hero kissed them.

For whatever reason, they kissed them. They put their flat hand on the villain's neck and pulled them close until their lips met. Later, the hero would blame their own nervousness but truthfully, they didn't know exactly why they did it.

The hero considered themselves inexperienced - rightfully so - and heard their own heartbeat in their ears as the villain smiled against their lips. The hero felt clumsy and stupid; they didn't know exactly what they were doing. So, it was even more embarrassing when the villain put a hand on their thigh, squeezed softly and responded with slow kisses, forcing the hero to adapt.

Although the hero was painfully aware of their own nervousness, they were also calming down slowly. The villain was guiding them through it perfectly and they hated themselves for being in need of it.

Eventually, the hero pulled away and found it to be quite hard to look into the villain's eyes.

"Impressive," the villain murmured. Their smirk wasn't leaving their face.

"Sorry, I- uh-"

"Don't apologise."

"Oh, yes, uh..." The villain leaned over once more until they could whisper into the hero's ear.

"You did so well, don't you know that?"

"Are - are they still watching us?"

"No, my love." The villain gave the hero a peck on their temple. "How do you feel?"

"Nervous," they admitted.

"You're not really a fan of being undercover, are you?" The villain took their hand and the hero squeezed it, trying somehow to stop their hands from shaking.

"It's my least favourite thing about this job," the hero said. They took in a deep breath and tried to gather their thoughts.

The villain could be so sweet - the reassurance and the gentleness were so foreign to the hero that it scared them. Most of the time, their job was focused on performance and results. There wasn't much space for emotions. They weren't used to someone praising them.

"Don't worry, you are amazing at this," the villain purred. "If it's too much for you, we can always leave."

"But the mission..."

"Well, if you want my honest opinion: I couldn't care less about it. I am just enjoying my time with you."

The hero had to chuckle.

"You are terrible."

"It's your call. I can take the blame if your boss gives you an earful."

"Really?"

"Really."

Once they were back in their hotel room, the hero dared to sleep in the bed with the villain next to them and awoke unsurprisingly in their arms in the morning.

#If i saw those two in public i would throw up #because I am sorry I do not know why but I hate seeing couples in public especially when they are eating off the other's face and look i #would not consider myself a bitter individual i am very happy in my relationship but oh my god I am always so annoyed by other couples HELP #it is actually so bad I hate seeing them #writing snippet #heroxvillain snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroes and villains #hero #villain #heroxvillain #hero x villain #an answer for an ask #request

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jewishvitya · 6 months ago

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I'm annoyed, I need to vent. I keep seeing this "a few bad apples" kind of attitude:

The reply isn't wrong. Yes, he's considered an extremist. Just like Ben-Gvir is considered an extremist. Just like Smotrich is considered an extremist.

Ben-Gvir and Smotrich got 10% of the votes in the last elections.

Just a bit ago someone sent me a video of Smotrich calling for genocide and asked me "are those subtitles real?" Because people check with me for Hebrew. And it was real. He said, explicitly, "Rafah, Deir al Balah, Nuseirat, total extermination." None of this is surprising from them. They've always been like this, this isn't new, and they won 10% of votes.

Often on posts by myself or other anti-zionist Israelis, especially posts showing protests, I see people saying "remember the people aren't the government" and yes, that's true, we're not, it's so important to remember that. But it's so infuriating to me when I see people talking like Israeli society wants to reach fairness and justice and coexistence and politicians are getting in the way. Like we aren't in line with our government on a lot. Why, because we hate Netanyahu?

Hating Netanyahu means nothing. I know people who hate Netanyahu so they voted for Bennett, who is further right than him. I know people who hate Netanyahu because he isn't brutal enough for them, they think he's holding back, they'd want someone like Ben-Gvir or Smotrich to be Prime Minister. I don't know many people who hate Netanyahu for being too far to the right. The biggest group are on the same page as him in terms of what the goal is (no Palestinian state), they just think he's doing a bad job of it and he's too corrupt. They're good with the Likkud, they just want to get rid of Netanyahu and his people, and then the party will be fixed in their eyes.

That's why, for me the next question I always want to ask is, who are we voting for. Which policies are we voting for. And the left-leaning political parties don't get voters.

In Israel "left" and "right" are practically decided according to opinions about Palestine. You could be pro-LGBTQ, pro socialist policies, pro all sorts of lefty ideas, but if you're right wing on Palestine you'll call yourself a right winger in Israel. I knew an antifeminist pro-capitalist MRA incel who considers himself a leftist because he supports a Palestinian state. I am not exaggerating, I'm not making up a character, I met him a few years ago through shared friends, he visited my apartment at some point.

So when I'm saying leftist parties don't get votes, that's because Israeli society broadly agrees with the right wing ABOUT PALESTINE. It's the first priority most of us have when voting. And we don't vote for anything that has a chance to improve their lives, because we're scared. We want to keep them in check.

Israelis are in denial about the fascism in our own society, so those who are too explicit about it, too outspoken about being nationalist, are just... "who can take them seriously?" All while they have the support of 1 out of 10 Israelis.

I'm not saying "assume that every Israeli is evil, you should want us all dead." Just... we're in denial about our own society, and it drives me crazy when people pretend like the problem isn't as big as it is.

#riki babbles #venting

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 10 months ago

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Y’all, I am being forced back onto my LOTR Háma soapbox because people have now tagged me in several posts that I consider to be Háma slander!

Forget the movies for a minute and look at the books. Háma is NOT a dummy. He knows who Gandalf is, and he knows what a wizard can do with a staff. That’s why he flags that the staff should be considered a violation of Meduseld’s weapon ban in the first place. But the fact that he subsequently allows Gandalf to bring the staff in does NOT mean that he suddenly and inexplicably changed his mind about the status of the staff or was tricked into doing so. Look at what he says:

“The staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age,” said Háma. He looked hard at the ash-staff on which Gandalf leaned. “Yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom. I believe you are friends and folk worthy of honour, who have no evil purpose. You may go in.”

He says very clearly that 1) he knows the staff can be dangerous; 2) in this situation, he’s going to use his own judgment rather than worrying about what the rules say; and 3) his judgment tells him that Gandalf is a good person who won’t do anything evil. Nowhere in there does he say that he’s decided the staff itself isn’t a potential danger. He’s decided that Gandalf with the staff isn’t a danger. He trusts Gandalf not to use the staff to hurt anyone or harm anyone’s interests. And he was right!!!

So this is just a reminder that literally every single thing Háma says or does in the books is right and righteous:

�� (Politely) calling Aragorn on his BS about refusing to leave his sword outside because Háma is no pushover

✅ Trusting Gandalf to bring the staff in because he’s an excellent judge of character and knows that good will come of that choice

✅ Giving Éomer his sword back even though he hasn’t been ordered to do so because, again, he knows who is good and who is bad and always wants to help those who are on the side of good

✅ Nominating Éowyn to be leader of the Eorlingas because he isn’t afraid to challenge antiquated ideas about gender roles

✅ Telling other skeptical Rohirrim to trust in Gandalf’s leadership because Háma is wise enough to see past the elements of Gandalf’s behavior that others find unsettling

✅ Giving his life in the effort to protect and defend others

In summary: Háma, Captain of the Guard and Doorward of Meduseld, 10/10 no notes. He is perfect.

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #hama #háma #rohan #justice for háma #a truly flawless individual #who deserves more respect

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cuubism · 9 months ago

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I'd love something about Dream who's very aware that he's way too intense romantically while also being not intense enough sexually because he's ace. His partners usually prefer it the other way around. If that's something you'd be willing to write (if not that's okay too)

hmm yes, we can always do ace dream. though we didn't quite reach 'aware' 😂 human uni au is what popped to my mind

When Hob gets back from class, Dream is lying facedown on the couch, one long arm trailing morosely down to the floor, face smashed so deeply into a pillow that Hob can only see the tufts of his hair. He seems to have been there for some time, and doesn't move when Hob comes in.

"Horrors insurmountable today?" Hob asks as he puts down his bag and heads to the adjoining kitchen to grab a snack. He'll probably need to grab one for Dream, too, now that he thinks about it. Doubtful he's eaten.

Dream just makes an mmph sound against his pillow. Then, once Hob's returned to the living room with a plate of apple slices, Dream pops his head up, lines all over his cheek from the pillow, fluffy hair going every which way, and says, "How much do you care about sex?"

Hob nearly trips and flings his apple slices everywhere. "What?"

"In general," Dream persists, heedless of Hob's shock. "Do you subscribe to the belief that individuals past puberty, particularly men, think about sex constantly, or is that an exaggeration? Which do you think is more important in a partnership: compatible personalities, or compatible sex drives? And why?"

"What is this, a sociology assignment?"

"Answer, please," Dream insists.

Hob sighs and gives in to the mad questioning. Joke's on him for having an insane roommate. "I thought about sex all the time when I was thirteen, maybe. Right now I'm just thinking about how I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm fucking starving but we're playing Twenty Questions instead of eating. And as to the second one, I don't know, Dream, I think both are probably important."

"So you think about sex an amount you would consider 'frequent'," Dream presses.

Hob's cheeks heat. Sex is not really a topic he wants to discuss with Dream of all people. Those two thoughts don't meld together into anything good for polite company. "I don't know, I guess!? Doesn't everyone?"

Dream lets out a despairing wail and thumps his head back into his pillow. "I am outnumbered."

Hob still has no idea what the hell he's on about. He finally gives up and just starts eating the apple slices. He offers one to Dream, holding it by the corner of his eye until he finally sees it and takes it, turns his head to the side just enough to start nibbling on it.

"You'll choke if you eat that lying down," Hob warns.

Dream begrudgingly pushes himself up, collapsing against the back of the couch, and goes back to nibbling on his apple slice.

"So," Hob continues, awkwardly, when Dream doesn't say anything else, "sex life not going so well, then?"

Dream glares at him, though it's not very intimidating considering the apple halfway into his mouth. "Too well, by most standards," he finally sniffs, and eats the rest of the slice.

"Oh, yeah?" Dream having sex is another thing Hob doesn't really like to think about. Why'd he bring that up again?

"Indeed. I have suitors falling over each other to bed me," Dream says.

Do all classic literature students talk the way Dream does? Hob doesn't know. It's been two years that they've lived together and he's still yet to definitively figure out if it's an affectation or just the way Dream is. He's leaning towards the latter.

Unfortunately, he can believe Dream's statement. Dream is a snitty little prick most of the time, but he's also unbearably beautiful.

"So what's the problem, then?" he asks.

"I don't want them to bed me," Dream says.

Hob's not following. "Say no, then?"

Dream rolls his eyes. "I don't want them to bed me, I want them to want me." His voice loses some of its determination halfway through the sentence, and he looks away.

Ouch. "Sounds like they do want you?"

Dream snorts. "Only so long as it suits them. Only so long as I fit their parameters. Today I spoke to Cori--"

Ah, yes, Cori, Dream's most recent ex-boyfriend. Dream's had a lot of ex-boyfriends, but Cori really tops the list, and not in a good way.

Now that Hob thinks about it, all of Dream's relationships kind of go the same way. Dream comes home after the first date bouncing off the walls with stars in his eyes insisting this person's the one, and within two months the thing's somehow torpedoed into the Underworld and Hob's scraping Dream up off the bathroom floor.

He's starting to see where the initial line of questioning might have come from.

"--and he, at last, was straightforward with me when no one else has bothered to be all this time. I demanded to know, truthfully, why he ended things, and he told me that I 'care too much, but won't put out'--"

Hob winces.

"--which does not make sense, as we had sex frequently? I do not know what else I am meant to be 'putting' and where. I said as much, and he laughed, and said--" he imitates Cori's voice with a surprisingly passable American accent-- "'It only counts if you at least pretend you want to be there, doll. Next time try initiating occasionally.' He left before I could question him further."

Hob doesn't like the picture this is painting. And Dream is looking at him beseechingly, like Hob might be able to explain the bizarre encounter. "So... now you're trying to figure out if your understanding of sex is wrong or something?"

"I felt that, as a neutral observer to the situation, you would be appropriate to survey," Dream says.

(Neutral is a stretch, Hob thinks.)

"So I ask you, Hob Gadling, as a man demonstrably unbothered by 'hookup culture'--"

"Are you calling me a slut?"

"--what do you think is the correct amount that one should care about sex? Because I--" he breaks off, twisting his fingers in his hair, suddenly anxious-- "I do not know what I am doing wrong."

Hob moves to sit beside him, lays a hand lightly on his arm. He's about to say, you're not doing anything wrong, except... that may not precisely be true. At least in terms of how Dream is actually handling it with his partners.

"How much do you care about sex?" he asks.

"Not as much as I am supposed to, evidently," Dream says. Hob just waits for him to elaborate. "Not very much. I prefer not to think about it." He looks at Hob, weary. "Now you will tell me that this is abnormal."

"I don't know what's 'normal'," Hob says. "But it does sound different from how Cori felt about it."

"I suppose," Dream says, sadly.

Hob doesn't particularly like where the intersection of 'I don't care about sex' and 'we had sex all the time' lands him. "If you don't care that much, why keep doing it?"

"It is what is done, is it not?" says Dream. "Besides. I do not mind so much. But even when I do participate, it is still not good enough. Or so it seems."

It's because they're picking up on the fact that you're not really enjoying it, Hob thinks. No one wants a partner who's not engaging. Least not anyone decent. But not saying anything and then just dipping out suddenly is kind of a dickish move, in his opinion.

"Do you want to participate?" he asks.

This seems to give Dream pause. "Mostly I would prefer to do other things. Like. Dates. Only that does not seem much appreciated either." He twists his hands together. "Perhaps Cori is right. I. Care too much."

"No." Hob takes Dream's hands and untwists them. "Cori's a dickhead. You just need to find someone who's on the same page as you, that's all."

"But it seems that book is rather empty," Dream says. He hasn't taken his hands back from Hob.

"Well, was there anyone that you did like having sex with? Or has it always just been--" he can't help but cringe-- "you just putting up with it because you thought you were supposed to?"

"Calliope," Dream says instantly, and Hob lets out a relieved breath. At least it's not all bad. "Because, no matter that it ended poorly... I felt that she truly liked me. And not. Just sex."

"Okay, see?" he says. "You just have to find someone like that."

It... hurts, to try to push Dream into someone else's path. But Hob's long accepted that Dream doesn't feel that way about him. Dream rarely seems hesitant about trying to date anyone he is interested in. Surely if he felt that way about Hob, he would have made it clear by now.

"Someone," Dream echoes, looking down at their joined hands.

"Just because what you want isn't common doesn't mean it's not out there," Hob says, trying to be encouraging. "And hey, if you know now, you can avoid the whole 'not on the same page' rigamarole, hm?"

"Yes," Dream says. "I suppose so." Finally he takes back his hands, instead taking another apple slice from the plate Hob's left on the coffee table and chewing on it slowly.

I would love you right, Hob thinks, unwanted, unbidden. It's not a productive thought, and it's a painful one, too.

"Perhaps I will take a break," Dream decides, though doesn't sound entirely happy about it.

"Could be good," Hob says. "Get your head on right."

"Yes," Dream agrees. "This has been. Illuminating. I thank you for your counsel. I suppose I will have to also thank Cori, 'dickhead' though he may be."

And with that he retreats to his room, still seeming a little off-kilter. And Hob can't help but feel like he's gone wrong somewhere, said something wrong, though he doesn't know where, or what.

#i don't actually know if you specifically wanted dreamling or what whoops #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #ask #anonymous #ace dream #left it on a cliffhanger goddammit but they just didn't seem emotionally aware enough to confess their feelings then XD

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the-marshals-wife · 10 months ago

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Angel Shot (John Wick x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: Just a little something because I missed writing for John and watching all the movies again on winter break has got me feeling inspired. ♥

Description: John Wick x Fem!Reader, protective John fluff | Warnings: mild language, alcohol, suggestive themes, Y/N is harassed/threatened and John intervenes | Setting: before Helen (or AU without her, you decide) | Word count: 1,474

Gif credit: user johnswick

Imagine John coming to your defense when a former associate won't leave you alone

It had been a long week. All you wanted was a moment of peace and a cold drink. Normally, you had no trouble finding that at the bar within the New York Continental. On this night, however, you found yourself wishing you had gone elsewhere. No sooner had you taken the first sip of your cocktail did Rico Augustine spot you from across the room.

You keep your eyes fixed forward and pretend not to notice his approach on your right.

"Look who it is," he announces, mockery in his voice, "The rooftop sniper."

"Rico," you acknowledge placidly. You could already sense this interaction would not remain civil. A quick glance his direction allowed you to take notice of his haggard, unshaven face and wrinkled suit. Even in the subdued glow of the mood lighting, you could see the wildness in his bloodshot eyes as he clutched the edge of the bartop.

"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he starts, leaning in closer, "but considering I'm a little light of funds right now, maybe you should be the one getting me something, huh?"

The alcohol on his breath was strong enough to burn your nose. Apparently, he'd managed to evade both sleep and sobriety since you last spoke.

"I already have one," you say, gesturing with your glass, "And I'm not sure you need another."

"It really is the least you can do, after what you stole from me," he provoked, his disgust poorly veiled.

His proximity, paired with his odor and audacity, set a fire in your blood.

"Are we really going to go over this again?" you ask, turning toward him, "I didn't know you were there last night. I wouldn't have taken the shot if I had. I don't work like that."

"You know that's my territory. I followed that mark for two hours and you took him right out from underneath me. I needed that money," he seethes, drawing out his next words, "You owe me."

You pivot back to the bar, your temper flaring. "It was an open contract, Rico. Just because we worked together on the Morocco Exchange doesn't mean I owe you," you state, taking a swig before speaking once more, "I already gave you a 30% cut, from a profit you didn't earn in the first place. That means we're finished."

His hand flies up to grab your wrist, causing you to drop your drink. The glass rattles and liquid sloshes out as it hits the bartop, but it does not fall over. With the dull roar of music and conversation filling the room, the noise isn't enough to catch the distracted bartender's attention.

"What if I say we're not?" he asks, his voice growling in your ear, "What if we're only finished when I say we are?"

Before you can answer or go for the dagger concealed in your shirt sleeve, you feel the cold steel of a concealed blade begin to dig into your ribs.

"I tried being polite, but you just had to keep flapping those lips of yours."

"You don't want to do this," you warn through gritted teeth.

"Wrong again," he sneers, his gratified tone sending a shiver down your back, "Why don't we continue this conversation up in my room, hm?"

You try to make eye contact with the bartender, but his back is still turned toward you, occupied with a chatty patron. Only one option remained: be even less civil. You try to free your dagger slowly from its sheath on your forearm without Rico noticing. It starts to slide loose as he pulls you toward him with a sickening laugh. The hilt is almost in your palm when, in the mirror on the wall of liquor bottles, you catch a glimpse of someone approaching from behind. They come to stand at your left a few seconds before you hear a voice that brings immediate relief.

"Hey, Y/N."

"Hey, John," you say.

"Nice night," he remarks.

"Sure is," you reply, glancing to him from the corner of your eye.

"Evening, Rico. Can I buy you a drink?" John asks.

"Thanks John, but Y/N and I are about tapped out for the night. Ain't that right?"

You attempt to turn your head towards John, but Rico pushes the blade harder into your side in response.

"Yeah," you say unconvincingly, wincing from the sting, "Thought about ordering an Angel Shot though."

There's a brief silence before John speaks again. "That so?"

"This doesn't concern you, Wick," Rico snarls, his fake cordiality gone in an instant, "Mind your business."

"Actually, you made it my business when you pulled that knife," John responds calmy, "Now, how about that drink? Or shall I make a dinner reservation instead?"

You feel the grip on your arm loosen a bit. Your assailant knew as well as you did what that meant. One of two things awaited him: a whiskey, or a body bag.

Despite the warning, Rico scoffs, looking past you to glare at John.

"Come on, Wick. You and I both know you don't have the balls to break hotel rules," he retorts, his thin lips curling into smirk.

John doesn't blink. "You willing to bet on that?"

You suppress the urge to smile as you watch the reflection of your harasser's face lose its gusto, along with most of the color.

"Last chance, Rico," John says, "Take your hands off her, and walk away."

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Rico narrows his gaze, but lets go of your arm. "Of course. Whatever you say, Baba Yaga," he jeers, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve.

You exhale, but the sweaty brute leans back in close to your face and hisses, "The Boogeyman won't always be there to save you. This isn't over."

Rico starts to walk past you, but John grabs his arm, and tilts his head ever so slightly. "I didn't catch that last part."

He clears his throat, avoiding John's piercing stare. "It was nothing."

"Uh-huh," he deadpans, "Didn't think so."

"What's the matter, Wick? We're all professionals here, aren't we?" he poses; more a begrudged plea for mercy than an inquiry.

"Some of us more than others, it would seem," John replies, proceeding to lower his voice, "If you threaten her again, you'll find out just how professional I can be."

Rico clenches his jaw, his eye twitching in rage. Even as he choked on his own venom, he knew he was beaten. He violently recoils as John releases his arm, straightening his jacket and running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. You, John, and the rest of the room watch him retreat until he's completely out of sight.

Boogeyman or not, John had a way of drawing attention. The hush that had fallen over the room fades as customers return to their drinks and conversation, no doubt now discussing what sort of gruesome scene they were nearly witnesses to.

John finally turns to you. "Are you alright?"

You nod and smile a bit, "Thanks to you."

"I'm sure you had it handled."

"Yeah, but I wasn't looking forward to scrubbing his blood out of this fabric. You can never find this color, I'd hate to toss it," you chuckle, looking down at your shirt.

"We wouldn't want that," he says, amused.

You replace your tousled hair behind your ear and meet his softened gaze. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome, Y/N," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket, "You look like you could use a refill."

He holds up an all-too-familiar gold coin, then places it on the bartop. "On me."

"That's two I owe you then," you counter, giving him a knowing look.

"No. You don't owe me anything," he states, kind but firm. The look he gives you in return makes you feel that you shouldn't argue.

"Fair enough," you say, watching the now attentive bartender top off your beverage, "But at least let me get you a bourbon."

John retrieves his phone from another pocket, reading the screen and stowing it back as fast as he'd produced it.

"Thank you, but I'll have to take a raincheck," John says, touching your shoulder before walking away. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."

"You have business elsewhere tonight?" you question, calling after him.

"Yeah," he answers, pausing a moment, "But I won't be checking out for another day or so."

You smirk. "Be seeing you, then?"

He nods, the smallest trace of a smile on his face.

"Be seeing you."

He turns to leave, and your eyes follow him until the last. Drink back in hand, your heart continues its excited drumming. You press the cold crystal to your lips and grin. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad night after all.

"Give 'em hell, John."

#john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick #keanu reeves #my writing #first fic of 2024 #to many more 🥂

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powderblueblood · 11 months ago

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FOUR — HOT SKIN and a HALL PASS

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summary: rules, you've recently learned, are for breaking– sanity is also, apparently, relative. after making a statement in the cafeteria, you play hooky with eddie in main street vinyl. content warnings: MINORS DNI tension you would need a chainsaw to cut through, farm-to-table snarking, do they even know they're yearning, nancy wheeler i'm sorry i shittalked you again (it will get better i swear) word count: 4k

Dear reader, do you ever feel like you’re completely losing your grasp on reality?

You’ve cruised through life almost seamlessly up to this point. Yours is a well-oiled machine, one you painstakingly built yourself. But do you ever feel like you’ve spent so much time constructing something so carefully that it doesn’t make sense to you anymore?

Like you can’t see the forest for the trees, or the treason for the thrill.

Do you ever want to light your whole life up in flames, just to see what’s really fireproof?

“So, which is it?”

You’re standing at your locker, making a bad job of touching up your now-flaking under-eye concealer when a voice rings out from the other end of the hall. It bounces off the cool metal of the lockers, the tack of the linoleum. It makes your shoulderblades go tense.

“Has little Lacy been hiding a pair of brass balls this whole time, or is she on a suicide mission?”

You’d roll your eyes, but your face is aching.

“Showing up with me this morning would have been one thing, but sitting yourself at my little table of outcasts? At lunch? The most important social event of the day?”

Munson lets out a low whistle from where he leans, a couple of lockers up from yours.

The hallway is deserted save for the both of you; you, out on a forged hall pass and him, probably just ditching to ditch. You peer at him from behind your locker door. He’s standing slanted in a long, lithe line made bold and jangly by his carefully curated metalhead armor.

You, and this comes with a hefty dose of begrudgery, have to hand it to him– he leans great.

“Talk about blowing up your reputation beyond repair.”

You know he’s making fun of you– he’s not exactly subtle about it, nor is he about anything. It’s all in the lilt of his tone, how ridiculous he thinks the interwoven politics of the cafeteria are, how dumb he thinks you are for considering that in the least bit important.

Munson’s idea of survival in high school is attacking conformity with a nuclear bomb, whereas yours is a little more artful.

“I know this might be hard for you to comprehend, Munson,” you sigh, and the sound rattles through your ribcage– you are tired, tired of him, “given that your understanding of object permanence has clearly been stunted at an infantile level, but the world does not revolve around you."

"No?!" he croons, sarcasm slicking out of him.

"I was catching up with Ronnie.”

“Right, because you guys have been such good gal pals up to this point,” Munson scoffs.

His face, framed by those wild waves, materializes in the reflection of your locker’s mirror, peering over your shoulder. You slam the door and pivot to face him properly, impact ringing out like a gunshot.

He does a little jump, a shadow of his shock at you on Harrington’s porch.

That reaction is like a shot of espresso straight to the veins.

Good. Be afraid. Asshole.

You're sure as fuck awake now!

“Lab partner love never dies,” you say, leveling his stare. “You’d know that if you showed up for Biology once in a while.”

“Maybe I need a tutor. I could use someone to help me brush up on anatomy.”

“Sorry. I don’t teach remedial.”

“Maybe you should start. Rehabilitate your image.”

“Again, who died and made you my parole officer?”

His expression cracks; a gasp of a laugh. “Oh, so you remember all that?”

“My hippocampus is alive and kicking.”

“Your hip– what?”

Your lips purse, and just as you’re about to throw another verbal dart at him, the voice of Ms O’Donnell cuts through the both of you.

“I hope you two have a damn good excuse for loitering in this hallway– because if not, Mr Munson, I believe you’re less than one detention away from suspension.”

Munson’s got this terminal disease where he’s more smarm than charm, despite his warped perception of himself. There’s no way he’s going to handle this with the grace that’s necessary, because O’Donnell hates him anyway.

He keens his head in the teacher’s direction, ready to roll out some useless excuse.

Before he’s even got the chance to speak, you cut him off.

“Hall pass, Ms O’Donnell.” You flash the fake yellow slip at her, careful to obscure the names– you’ve usually got one of these forgeries to hand, just in case you need it, and teachers generally trust you enough not to check them out. It comes with the whole work-life balance you’ve been treading for the entirety of your high school career; you’re well-liked and you’re maintaining an impressive grade point average. They don’t give a shit what you do other than that.

“The Weekly Streak has run into a printer snag and Nancy Wheeler’s car is on the fritz. Eddie,” his first name, which you never ever use, feels weird and heavy on your tongue, “offered me a ride to the printers to make sure it gets worked out– it’s a big issue. What with the game this weekend and everything.”

O’Donnell’s eyes narrow. You nudge Munson right in his funny bone– hard enough for him to wince.

“Right?”

“Right! That big game. Front page news, Ms O’D. Gooooo Tigers.”

The teacher clicks her tongue against her teeth, her rock hard stare challenging the delinquent beside you– it’s entirely likely that Munson could have blown it for himself just by virtue of being alive and in O’Donnells sight line, but you know she’s got no reason not to believe you.

See, your reputation at the school newspaper precedes you; it’s just about the only thing that really holds your interest within the monotonous structure of Hawkins High. With your finger on the pulse of Hawkins’ student body, it only makes sense that you serve as a fierce and unforgiving editor of the Streak’s society pages– funnily enough, that hardline professionalism included never giving Munson’s infamously lame Dungeons and Dragons club a single mention in them.

Vetoed, you’d drawled at one of the more well-mannered members that had shyly approached you about writing a piece. Not Ronnie– she knew better than that.

How come? they’d whined, as their fearsome leader glowered near the lockers just like he was doing now.

On grounds of irrelevance. I’m not wasting valuable inches on a make believe board game club.

This activated Munson. Lacy, you wouldn’t know valuable inches if they rammed you in the–

“Make it fast,” O’Donnell decrees, and you feel her watch you as you take off down the hallway. With a snappy quirk of your painted fingers, you gesture for Munson to follow your lead. And you better believe he does, almost tripping over his ratty Reeboks trying to keep in step with you.

You both heave open the double doors, squinting against the unseasonable late autumn sunshine. Heels of your ankle boots clicking against the concrete, you make an unconscious beeline for the parking lot– for Munson’s van.

“So– what now?” he asks, dur-dur dumb as all hell.

“What now is I just got you a free pass to play hooky,” you say, little miss cactus flower, prickly with annoyance. You shield your eyes against the blazing light. “Weren’t you ditching anyway?”

“Yeeaaah,” Munson hums, scratching the back of his head, “But… the plan kind of was to smoke a joint and go to the record store.”

“Doesn’t sound like a complete waste of time,” you hear yourself saying before you realize it, yanking at the van’s passenger door. You pause, raising an expectant eyebrow at Munson. Isn’t this your cue?

Baffled, bewildered, but grinning despite himself, he extends that silver ringed hand and helps you haul your ass into his beat up chariot.

Completely losing your grip on reality.

–

It’s a fugue state. It’s an out of body experience– you’re watching yourself from outside your corporeal form and you have no logical control over what you’re doing.

That’s the only way to explain why you’re standing in Main Street Vinyl, elbow to elbow with Eddie Munson.

But that might also be the weed talking.

You don’t know where the hell he gets this stuff, but it’s strong– way stronger than the shit he’s sold to your friends ever since he started dealing. Well, you guess it makes sense that he’d keep the good shit for himself. You’d do that too, if you were him.

What if I was him, you idly wonder, peering up at him as he flicks through letters R through T in the metal section. His tongue peeks out of his mouth as his ringed fingers work though the vinyl, carefully considering each one.

This is what you mean by obvious– you, for one, would have the good conscience not to look so stoned while you’re so stoned.

You definitely don’t look stoned right now.

No one can even tell that you’re looking at him, up from underneath those thick lashes of yours.

He’s got thick lashes too, come to think of it.

Munson is actually not completely unfortunate looking– but again, if you were him, there’s no way you’d wear your hair like that. You’d keep it long-ish, though, you think. He’s got a point there; a nice curl pattern. Maybe to your ears. And the clothes obviously have to go– that denim vest is a patchwork disaster. Did he sew all those patches on himself?

A vision of him hunched over the thing with a needle and thread in hand flits through your brain, pricking himself more than he can pick up a stitch. He’s gone out of his way to make himself look like this– kind of similar to the way you pick up your skirts so they’re always impeccably just short enough.

Now, the leather jacket you could forgive if at least the collar was different. Maybe one of those Brando-style biker jackets, you could rock that. Or a brown leather number, to bring out your eyes– which are his eyes, of course, his crazy dark empty universes of eyes.

The kind of eyes with the kind of stare that nails you in place and makes you want to do crazy shit like ditch class and get loaded and stand dumbly in a record store. Those eyes.

That are staring at you. He’s staring at you. Right back at you.

“I can read your mind,” Munson monotones, unblinking.

You go flush, heat crawling all the way up to your ears. “Wh–what?”

Then he nudges you and snorts, breaking the spell.

“You have gotta stop thinking such dirty thoughts about me, ice princess. You’re gonna melt.”

You scoff, shaking your head– but the cartoonish move is more to ground you in reality than a reaction to him and his idiocy. You’re Wile E Coyote after blunt force impact with an Acme anvil, shaking the circling birds away.

“They don’t even have what I’m looking for here.”

Stalking around the stacks of records, with no clear direction in mind, you feel Munson’s laser stare follow you. “Yeah, they don’t usually file Madonna next to Motörhead, Lacy.”

They’re both filed under M, aren’t they? is what you want to say. “I don’t listen to Madonna,” you protest instead, all quietly miffed and earnest with a crinkle in your brow.

“Mm, don’t think that’s true,” Munson smirks, rounding on you around the rack. “You gave me a pretty spot on rendition of Like a Virgin– or does your hippocrampus not recall?”

“Hippocampus,” you breathe out, but it’s lost in the din of Main Street Vinyl’s quiet, carpeted atmosphere, “I don’t listen to her, like, recreationally. I can’t help if that song’s an earworm.” A beat. “I also can’t help if you’re a particularly serenadable virgin.”

“She’s gonna touch me for the very first tii-iime…”

“That was a threat.”

You make an active attempt toward tunnel vision as you slowly tread through the store, feeling the high starting to turn on you– this was the part smoking weed that you hated, the few times that you’d imbibed in it. That lack of control over the way you were coming across. For a girl trained in the art of saying all the right things, this was dangerous. Your tongue felt both loose and heavy in your mouth, like it could come out with anything and you couldn’t stop it, it’d just roll on out.

The malevolent presence of Munson and your pathological need to one up him wasn’t helping matters.

Ever since the parking lot at school, you’ve been stalking around like there’s a target on your back. Evidently, you’re not the kind of girl that chills out when you smoke, which is equal parts a relief and a disappointment to Eddie. He wonders what you’d look like, mellowed out and floating. Your eyebrow unarched and your lips not poised for attack.

He’s also acutely aware that he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with you then, either.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you, a hyperfocus that he’s assuming is a symptom of his own buzz. Every little twitch and jump you do– it’s like it’s begging him to pay attention. Like if he looks away for even a second, he might miss something.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, eyes trained on you while you thumb through the records.

As much as you love music, and you do, you have a tough time describing exactly what you want to listen to. The notes in the songs that you revisit again and again read more like physical feelings, sparking off in your nerve endings. For example, listening to River by Joni Mitchell feels like something heavy is sitting on your chest. Listening to Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie and the Banshees feels like you have fairy lights at the end of your fingertips.

“I want something that sounds…” you say, noticing the distinct feeling of cottonmouth setting in, “Ticklish.”

“Ticklish,” Munson deadpans back at you.

“Something that sounds like someone’s running a xylophone mallet down my spine.”

He regards you for what feels like an excruciatingly long timewith this terrible, awful look on his face– brows ticked up over his glassy bloodshot eyes, pink mouth peeling into a grin, and this look, this look of wonderment. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re saying shit like this to him.

Join the club.

“... You don’t get stoned a lot, do you?”

“Ugh!” you groan, a little louder than you mean to– the cashier shoots you a glare as you stalk past Munson, stalk past him, cheeks flaring pink. “I know what I’m talking about. I know it when I hear it– I heard a record just like that earlier this year! It’s like, some band from Scotland or something? Totally incomprehensible lyrics, yeah, but that’s what it felt like. It was like… bone deep.”

You hear Munson emit the teeniest hehe! and you just about snarl at him over your shoulder.

Rounding on the alternative section, limited as it is, you feel a welcome sense of familiarity. You haunt this corner when you can, when you’re out of sight from prying eyes. There’s only one other regular purveyor of this little corner of Main Street Vinyl that you know of. You trace a thumb over the spines of the cassette cases–it’s mostly tapes, rarely ever records because tapes are easier to import and harder to damage, and it’s always haphazardly organized–and then you spot it.

Victoriously, you thrust it in Munson’s face, which is right over your shoulder. He’s frequenting that spot a lot recently. “Ha!”

“Oh!” he chirps, sounding almost pleasantly surprised and plucks the tape from your fingers. “... Cocteau Twins?”

You falter, eyelashes flickering as you look up at him. Dammit. He even pronounced it right.

“You know them?” You hate how high your voice sounds.

He runs a thumb over the plastic casing, edging a little closer to you. That came outta left field.

“This shit… sounds like what a haunted music box would sound like.”

Aaand we’re back in the room.

“Okay…?”

“This is creepy, cursed doll music.”

And the room is filled with assholes.

“Alright.”

“This is what you hear right before you’re about to get possessed by the ghost of Tiny Tim. The whiniest little bitch ghost of all time.”

And all the assholes are named Eddie Munson.

“I get it.”

“You better be careful with this stuff, Lacy-Wacy,” he teases, mocking that fraudulent concern ripped straight from an episode of Donahue. He taps the cassette case against your forehead. “Music like this is a gateway drug. A gateway drug to hanging out with, like, Jonathan Byers.”

You reach out and grab his wrist, tugging his hand and that damn tape away from your face. You’re shocked to find that the skin under your fingers is blazing hot–same as you felt through his shirt when he helped you to the door in your drunken stupor.

Does he always run this warm? you wonder. Is it all that Satanic poseur poison coursing through his stupid veins?

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” you tell him, and you’re not quite sure why. Probably because every secret you swore would die with you is slowly but surely punching its gnarly hand from the grave, like fucking Carrie from fucking Carrie.

Munson doesn’t even express any overt shock, like he’s learning to roll with the punches of you revealing bits and pieces of yourself through sheer annoyance with him. He just cocks his head, challenging you with a silent, Really?

This chick. This blink-and-you’ll-miss-it chick.

“I ran into him in this corner a lot,” you explain breezily, tilting a shoulder up like it doesn’t bother you, like it’s never bothered you. “We’d always be standing next to each other at the listening booths, and I’d be listening to stuff I couldn’t take home and he’d be listening to stuff he couldn’t afford to buy and… We like a lot of the same music. We went out on like, one date if you could even call it that, and it didn’t work out.”

“Because he’s a creepazoid?”

“Because he was hip deep in it for Nancy Wheeler,” you supply, a green monster gurgling in the pit of your stomach. “Like every other respectable member of the male species.”

It was the summer before junior year, a punishingly hot one even by Hawkins standards. You’ve never been good in the heat and that summer made your entire body feel ill-equipped, your skin ill-fitting. Main Street Vinyl had those big, big box fans right near the cash desk which was right near the listening booths, so you would spend the majority of your time there when you weren’t being forced to the lake or Skull Rock with your friends.

Jonathan would look at you with alarm at first, like you were trespassing. Then he’d spy what you were listening to and sneak these small, shy smiles at you that you indulged in– at first, because you weren’t copping a lot of male attention from anyone else that summer. Eventually, it was because his shadowy eyes were always ringed with this tenderness, with knowing. Like you two were sharing a secret. It made you be able to look past the greasy hair and crippling social awkwardness.

You know you rocked his world the day you breezed past him at the listening booth, leaned in and whispered, I love Linda Thompson's voice, don't you?

But still, the Love’s Baby Soft scented specter of Nancy Wheeler loomed large. You picked what you thought was a secluded spot in the park for your ‘date’, which included a conversation that was almost entirely cruise directed by you. Said conversation completely flatlined when you both spotted Nancy Wheeler cresting a hill, walking her family dog.

At this point, you and Nancy were most familiar with each other from the school newspaper– she, the peachy-cheeked junior, the rising star that was sure to make editor and you, the girl who knew where the parties were happening and where the bodies were buried.

The picture of coquettishness, she offered you and Jonathan an awkward, stilted wave. Jonathan spoke a grand total of three words after she left, zeroing in on the spot where she appeared like a man possessed.

You didn’t acknowledge his existence after that.

It’s not that you were particularly hung up on Jonathan Byers, but you didn’t expect someone like him to be able to elicit that cold sinking feeling you were used to experiencing at the hands of other boys and their ignorance. Maybe it hurt more because you thought you had something in common– something real, something that wasn’t shotgunning a can of Busch. Whatever it was, it made you sure of two things.

You hated Nancy Wheeler, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

You wished you didn’t hate her. But you also wished she’d dissolve into a fine mist.

“Wheeler’s a priss,” Munson pulls you out of memory lane in a harsh left turn, face contorting into a half-grimace. It’s the general consensus on Wheeler– the shoes are too goody for everyone to be falling head-over-heels with her, if you want Eddie’s honest opinion. There’s no there there, not like with–

“I’m a priss.” It sounds like you’re defending her. In some weird way, you might be.

I know what guys like you think of me.

“No, you’re a bitch.”

His weight on the word bitch makes your knees feel unsteady. The way he says it. It’s not enunciated like an insult. It’s a dagger cloaked in velvet. It’s warm, like he is. It’s almost filthy. It makes you look at his mouth.

“You’re a stone cold killer bitch,” Eddie’s voice hums low in his chest. His heartbeat is picking up, and he wonders if you can feel it where your freezing fingertips are squeezing his pulse point, “and I think–”

“You two truant assholes gonna buy anything today or am I gonna have to call the goddamn dog warden on y’all?”

Heaved back into reality by the clerk at the cash desk. A trickle of cold sweat runs from the nape of your neck into the collar of your sweater. Heaved back into reality to see you’re still clutching Eddie Munson by the wrist, and he’s looking at you like you’re the last Popsicle. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day.

It gets so hot here in summer.

“I think,” you breathe as you unstick your fingers from him, suddenly aware that you’re parched and starving and your face hurts, “it’s time for me to go home.”

“I– yeah,” Munson stumbles, also perturbed by the interruption. His red-ringed eyes gain a little more clarity. He’s seeing something you’re not seeing. He shouldn't be letting himself see that. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go back to the van. Let me make you look at me like that again. Let me see if you’re cold all over. I can fix that.

“No, I gotta…” Your head pounding, your thoughts swimming– the sharp and stupid realness of this whole afternoon coming into perfect view. What are you doing? “I need to walk it off.”

He inhales sharply, a strangled chuckle– oof. That other shoe, that buckled heel of yours, clattering to the floor. He should have expected that, right? There’s no way you’d wanna… Because you’re you and he’s…

Eddie retreats back into himself a step or two; it looks like he’s gone all bashful, a little color dropping out of his cheeks. His hands clasping behind his back. His heart is in his big intestine.

“That’s the second time you’ve turned me down today, sweetheart. Keep it up, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

Munson, get the fuck out of here before I ban you again! and Jerry, can’t you see me talking to somebody right now! explode in a cacophony, the boy and the keeper of the keys to the record store hollering at each other. You take this moment of interruption to nudge the door open with your shoulder. But you don’t start into the street without giving him one more look.

“Lacy.” He’s grinning this dumb grin, eyes gone soft at the corners.

He’s giving this one last nudge.

Your heart thumps. A reminder– this is really happening. Shit. Fuck.

“That’s the thing, though,” you say, attempting to smooth your expression out with a frosty smile. “I don’t like you, Eddie.”

author's notes: of course, my eternal eternal ETERNAL THANKS for all the love you have shown this story and the anons you've sent!!! writing is crazy so thank you for caring about mine. onto the fun stuff because you know i love a reference: - he leans great. a shameless my so-called life drop but eddie to me is a kind of stunning midpoint between catalano (left back twice) and krakow (would go down on you for days) - someone in the tags said ronnie and lacy should hold hands and i don't disagree. lab partner love never dies! - there's never a bad time to listen to ace of spades by motörhead - there's also never a bad time to listen to treasure by cocteau twins, which is the album lacy is referencing - i always fee like the zombie hand reaching out of the ground motif is unfairly accredited to the living dead franchises or something like that, but of course the most iconic instance to me is from carrie (1976) because women own horror - god, we really need to bring back listening booths in record stores! like we really need to bring them back lest romance die forever. - richard and linda thompson, also forever!!!!! my headcanon for this re: jonathan byers is this particular record is a joyce byers influenced choice. joyce and lonnie loved this record (when they were happy... lol) and played it all the time when jonathan was a baby. their original copy got lost (or destroyed) and sometimes jonathan will play it in the main street listening booth but he won't bring it home because he knows it's painful for his mom. - all my stone cold killer bitches in the house make some noise - jerry from main street vinyl you will always be rob from high fidelity in MY HEART (eddie is barry even though he doesn't work there lmao) - ok my hellcats! that's all the cultural education for this chapter!! thanks again for reading, reblog and scream at me in the asks because i so appreciate (and need) the support and i'd also love y'all to send me prompts! don't be shy! i love an in-universe blurb!

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson x f!reader #e. munson by powder

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seongwars · 4 months ago

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away with the wind | vii

Pairing: dragonrider!Seonghwa x ex-dragonrider!Reader AU: dragon rider au | strangers -> lovers Summary: a spinal injury forces you to retire from dragon racing, and with it, the end of your engagement to Song Mingi. Park Seonghwa, a rising star in the world of dragon racing and heir to the prestigious House Park, seeks a new dragon after an unfortunate accident on the skyway. As the saying goes, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Word Count: 6.8K Warnings: description of dragon anatomy, swearing, power saw and gore, mentions of attempted unaliving on someone

Fic Masterlist

Mingi, Age 14

“Hey, if I throw this egg into a volcano, do you think it’ll hatch?” you asked, poking the egg in your sling. Mingi chuckled, poking the egg alongside you.

“You’ll never know unless you try. I heard Mount Hala is due for another explosion.”

“It has been 150 years,” you added with a sigh, resting your chin on the egg. “Have you decided on a breed yet?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “No, I’m not feeling any of the options that I’ve been presented with.”

“You can always borrow one of our dragons. I’m sure San’s family also has some out in Dune.”

“Your dragons are too…” he racked his brain, trying to find the word to describe your family’s brood of Dreamwoods. Delicate? Feminine?

“Your dragons are too… refined,” he teased. “I need something with a bit more edge, you know?”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Refined? That’s a polite way to put it. But seriously, you should consider it. Dreamwoods are pretty rider oriented.”

Mingi nodded, his expression turning serious. “I know. And I appreciate the offer. But I want to find a dragon that feels like it’s truly mine, one that I can bond with from the start.”

“I get it. The bond between a rider and their dragon is special. You’ll find the right one, I’m sure of it.” You smiled, understanding his sentiment.

The courtyard was quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of the academy momentarily paused. The two of you sat on a stone bench, the egg nestled safely between you. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the grounds, creating a serene atmosphere that contrasted with the usual energy of the place.

“You’d let me know if you found the one, right?” you asked, your voice soft but earnest.

“Of course,” he replied, his eyes meeting yours with a promise of honesty and trust.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that only close friends could share. After a moment, you broke it with a sigh. “Those girls in your anatomy class approached me again. They insist that we’re dating.”

Mingi raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “Is it really such a crime to fall asleep on my shoulder?”

“Yes, to your fangirls at least,” you teased, leaning your head on his shoulder for emphasis. “They might riot against me.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Well, I guess I should be flattered. But honestly, they have nothing to worry about. You’re the only one who gets this privilege.”

“Lucky me,” you chuckled, lifting your head.

Mingi’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mix of affection and sincerity. “You are lucky. And so am I.” His words carried a deeper meaning, one that spoke of the unspoken connection you shared.

“Well, not so lucky that I’m stuck on cavern duty. Again. Sunmi has another date and promised she’d take the next shift,” you pouted, your lips forming a small frown. The thought of spending another long, lonely night in the caverns was far from appealing.

“Make sure you don’t get too bored down there,” he chuckled, earning a punch to his arm.

Mingi was in the middle of a nap when your, specially designated ringtone, woke him up. He groggily reached for the device, blinking away the remnants of sleep as he launched the hologram.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asked, concern evident in his voice as he rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to focus on the screen.

“It’s…it’s a baby,” you said, holding up your newborn hatchling. The tiny dragon squirmed in your hands, its scales shimmering in the light. Its eyes, still adjusting to the world, blinked slowly as it nestled closer to you.

Mingi’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and excitement. He leaned closer to the hologram, his face lighting up. “You mean it hatched? That’s incredible!”

“Yeah,” you sniffled, tears of joy welling up in your eyes. “She’s finally here.”

Mingi’s expression softened, a look of genuine happiness spreading across his face. “She’s beautiful, Y/N. Have you thought of a name yet?”

You nodded, wiping at your runny nose. “Cirrus.”

“Cirrus… that’s perfect. I’m happy for you,” he chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a hint of wistfulness.

“Come over! Please, you have to meet her!”

Mingi wasted no time. He quickly threw on a jacket, his heart pounding with excitement. The journey to your family’s home felt longer than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of meeting the newborn hatchling. When he finally arrived, he barely had time to knock before you flung the door open, a wide smile on your face.

“Come in, come in!” you grabbed his hand, leading him inside. The warmth of your home enveloped him, and he could hear the soft cooing of the hatchling from the den. The tiny dragon was nestled comfortably in a pile of soft blankets, looking around curiously as you approached her with Mingi.

“Here she is,” you said softly, picking up Cirrus and cradling her in your arms. “Mingi, meet Cirrus.”

“I guess since you have a dragon, you can start flying with her,” Mingi said with a grin, gently poking Cirrus’ snout as you offered her your shoulder. Cirrus blinked up at him, her tiny tongue flicking out as she sniffed his fingers before leaning into his touch, purring softly.

“Give it a year,” you replied, stroking her delicate wings. “I’d squish her right now if I tried.”

Cirrus chirped, her bright eyes darting around as if she understood the conversation. “She’s going to be amazing,” Mingi said, his voice filled with certainty. “Just like her rider.”

“I’ll punch you,” you squeaked, your voice high-pitched with embarrassment as a blush crept onto your face. Your cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink, and you quickly looked away, trying to hide your flustered expression.

Mingi watched you with Cirrus, a pang of envy twisting in his chest. He tried to mask it with a smile, but the feeling was hard to ignore. It wasn’t that he was picky, he wanted a dragon that could match his ambitions and soar to the heights he dreamed of. Seeing you with Cirrus, already so effortlessly bonded, made him yearn for that same connection.

Mingi, Age 15

“Come to Halazia with me.”

“Are you crazy?” Your eyes widened in disbelief. Mingi chuckled, shaking his head.

“Not at all. The recruiter from Cromer Labs said he has a contact in Halazia who might have a dragon for me.”

“Really!? What kind?”

“A hybrid.”

You stared at him, trying to process the information. “Hybrid dragons? Like, between different breeds?”

“Exactly,” Mingi replied, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “They’re creating dragons with unique abilities. It’s the future of racing!”

Curiosity and fear churned in your stomach. While you adored Mingi and supported his desire to become an accomplished rider, your philosophies when it came to dragon breeding were the complete opposite. You valued the generations of dragons that had been carefully nurtured and respected the ancient traditions that guided their care. The notion of interfering with their natural evolution felt like a profound betrayal of your core beliefs.

Mingi, on the other hand, was captivated by the potential of hybrid dragons. He saw them as the future, a means to transcend the existing boundaries of what dragons could become. His enthusiasm was infectious, yet it also underscored the significant divide in your perspectives.

“Mingi, I don’t know,” you began, your voice tinted with uncertainty. “I mean Halazia is a two and a half hour train ride. What if something goes wrong?”

Mingi’s expression softened as he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently grasp yours. “I get that you’re worried, but think about the possibilities. These dragons could change racing, and bring something new to the sport. We could be part of something groundbreaking.”

“You mean you could be a part of something groundbreaking,” you said with a small smile. “I’m perfectly fine with Cirrus.”

Mingi nodded, his expression serious. “I understand, and I respect that. But sometimes, to honor the past, we have to embrace the future. And I can’t pass up a Longhorn and Fury hybrid! So please?”

A knot of apprehension tightened in your stomach. The hybrid pairing was uncharted territory, and certainly intriguing, but it also carried uncertainties. Star Furies were an incredibly rare and protected species endemic to Mount Hala, whereas Longhorns were primarily used in war. You knew that combining the traits from both dragons could result in an unpredictable and volatile mix.

“Did the recruiter leave a card with you?”

“Yeah, he did.” Mingi dug into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, holographic card, handing it to you.

You turned the card over in your hands, the surface catching the light and reflecting a rainbow of colors. It felt cool and smooth, like dragon scales, shimmering with every move. It struck you as odd that there wasn’t a name on it, just a contact number and an address in Halazia. The mystery of it all made your heart race a little faster.

“Are you really thinking about this?” you asked, your voice a mix of excitement and worry.

Mingi nodded, his eyes shining with determination. “I know it's risky, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The recruiter said that they’ll sponsor me after graduating if I commit to the organization. I’ll finally be able to have a dragon of my own.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the determination and hope there. It was hard to resist his passion, his vision of what could be. “Alright,” you said slowly, “I’ll go with you to Halazia. But we take it one step at a time, and if it feels wrong, we come back.”

The train ride to Halazia was a journey filled with anticipation. You and Mingi had boarded the first train out of Aurora, eager to embark on his adventure with him. As you settled into your seats, you couldn’t help but notice the blend of old-world charm and cutting-edge technology that defined the train’s interior. Plush seats with intricate embroidery provided comfort, while large windows offered panoramic views of the passing landscapes.

Before boarding, you had made sure Cirrus was safely waiting close by the station, ready to fly to you at a moment’s notice.

The train glided smoothly along the tracks, the scenery outside transformed from Aurora’s bustling cityscape to the serene countryside, with rolling hills, dotted with vibrant wildflowers, stretched out as far as the eye could see. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks created a soothing backdrop, but despite the tranquility, a sense of unease lingered. Your mind kept drifting back to thoughts of danger, the anxiety gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, refusing to be completely drowned out by the peaceful surroundings.

As the train drew closer to Halazia, your fidgeting intensified, an unending feeling of dread filling you. The landscape began to change once more. Mount Hala loomed in the distance, its peak shrouded in mist, hinting at the wild, untamed beauty that awaited beyond Halazia’s neon lights and bustling markets. Mingi’s head rested on your shoulder, weary from a night spent in eager anticipation of acquiring a new dragon.

The bustling market of Halazia’s center was alive with vibrant colors and the hum of countless conversations. You and Mingi navigated through the crowd, the neon lights casting a surreal glow on the cobblestone streets. Still groggy from his sleepless night, held your hand tightly as he approached the pickup point.

You arrived at a quiet corner of the market, where a small booth selling exotic herbs stood. Behind the counter, a woman in a sleek, dark jacket and a wide-brimmed hat awaited. Her sharp, discerning eyes met yours as you approached.

Mingi cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “My heart is fierce, my spirit a race.” he said confidently. The vendor nodded and slipped behind the stall. You scanned your surroundings, identifying the clearest exit routes through the bustling crowd, just in case the meeting took an unexpected turn.

Moments later, the vendor reappeared, cradling a small bundle wrapped in a soft blanket. She gently unwrapped it to reveal a tiny dragon hatchling, its red scales amplified under the neon signs littering the main street.

You watched as Mingi reached out to gently stroke the hatchling’s head. The hatchling responded with a soft, contented chirp, but you noticed a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of its tail. Its eyes, though curious, occasionally flickered with a hint of agitation, reflecting the neon lights in a way that seemed almost too intense. The vendor’s quick, almost nervous glances at the dragon and her hurried movements suggested that there might be more than she initially let on.

“He’s got a fire in his eyes,” Mingi cooed, reaching out to the hatchling. The hatchling’s grip was surprisingly strong, its tiny claws wrapping around Mingi’s finger with a determined hold. The dragon’s eyes, a vibrant shade of amber, reflected a fierce intelligence and spirit.

“The payment?” the vendor asked, her voice cutting through the moment.

“Right.” Mingi handed the hatchling over to you as he completed the transaction. The dragon squirmed slightly in your arms, its scales warm to the touch. You could feel its tiny heart beating rapidly, a reminder of its fragile yet fierce nature. As you held him, you sensed an underlying restlessness in its movements, a subtle tension that hinted at a temperamental instability.

Mingi, Age 19

Mingi and Ajax descended from the sky after another round of practicing flight patterns. The wind rushed past them, the exhilaration of flight still fresh in Mingi’s veins. Ajax folded his wings with a graceful sweep, the powerful muscles rippling under his crimson scales as Mingi climbed down from the saddle.

The crimson dragon’s nose twitched, as if sensing a threat. His nostrils flared, and he let out a low, rumbling growl that reverberated through the ground beneath Mingi’s feet. The sound was deep and menacing, a clear warning. Mingi turned to see another dragon, an equally large, imposing creature with green scales, entering the training area with its rider, Hong Jisoo.

“Hey Mingi,” the elder waved. Mingi returned the nod, his eyes still focused on his dragon.

“Easy,” he said, placing a calming hand on Ajax’s side. But his focus was entirely on the newcomer, his body coiled and ready to react. The other dragon let out defensive chuff, and Ajax responded with a growl, his wings flaring out in a display of dominance.

Mingi knew he had to act quickly to prevent a confrontation. “Ajax, focus,” he commanded, skillfully swinging himself back into the saddle. Ajax’s eyes flicked to Mingi, but the presence of the other dragon was too much. With a sudden burst of energy, he lunged forward, his claws digging into the ground as he prepared to attack.

“Ajax, no!” Mingi shouted, pulling hard on the reins. But Ajax ignored him, his eyes locked on the green dragon. Mingi could feel the strain in his arms as he struggled to hold his dragon back, the strength overwhelming.

The dragon’s growls grew louder, his body trembling with the urge to fight. Mingi’s heart pounded in his chest, the realization hitting him hard: Ajax didn’t respect him. The bond they were supposed to share was fragile, and in moments like this, it felt almost nonexistent.

“Ajax almost got into it with Hong Jisoo’s dragon,” Mingi sighed, plopping down next to you on the bench. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and he ran a hand through his tousled hair. Your eyes widened in alarm, and you immediately grabbed hold of his shoulders, your grip firm and concerned.

“Is everything okay? How’s the other dragon? What are they gonna do with Ajax–” you blurted out, your words tumbling over each other in a rush of worry. Your mind raced with worst-case scenarios, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

“It’s fine,” he reassured you, bringing your hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Jisoo barely stepped out of the pit when Ajax went after them. He was able to turn back and close the gate before any damage could be done.”

“You do know that his father is a member of the Council.”

“Yeah, but unlike his father, Jisoo knows how unpredictable dragons can be, especially when they’re still getting used to their riders.”

But it’s been four years, you wanted to say. Fours years later and Ajax is still as defiant as ever, his unpredictability and stubbornness a constant challenge. You bit your lip, holding back the words, not wanting to add to Mingi’s stress. Instead, you squeezed his hands, offering him a comforting smile.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Statement from the Inferno Cup Organizing Committee

[AURORA, EMPIRE OF AURORA] – “The Inferno Cup Organizing Committee deeply regrets the abrupt cancellation of the Inferno Cup following an unexpected and unprecedented altercation that occurred during the event. Our primary concern remains the safety and well-being of all participants, spectators, and staff.

We are working closely with local authorities and experts to investigate the cause of the altercation and to implement measures that will prevent such occurrences in the future. The safety of our participants and spectators is our utmost priority.

The ICOC remains committed to the spirit of the competition and the community it fosters. We are exploring options for rescheduling the event and will provide updates as soon as they become available. Our goal is to ensure that the Inferno Cup can continue to be a safe and enjoyable experience for all.

We extend our gratitude to the keepers, security personnel, and staff who acted swiftly to manage the situation. We also thank our supporters and participants for their continued support and understanding.”

Yechan closed out of the article with a sigh, the screen dimming as he leaned back in his chair. The lab, normally a bustling hive filled with activity, was eerily quiet. The usual chatter of colleagues were absent, leaving an unsettling silence. He glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time with a slight frown.

“Dr. Kang! You have a necropsy report due at the end of the week!” he called out to his boss, Dr. Kang Yeosang. Yechan, ever so practical, always kept track of schedules and ensured that the lab ran smoothly.

“Eh?” Yeosang looked genuinely surprised, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. He was engrossed in his own world, muttering to himself as he examined a set of data on his tablet.

“The Council ordered it to be done before making a decision on Song Mingi’s investigation,” the assistant explained patiently, used to Dr. Kang’s forgetfulness. “Dragon 809.”

Yeosang’s quirky demeanor was well-known among his colleagues. Despite his airheadedness, his brilliance was undeniable. He had a habit of talking to himself, often lost in thought even in the midst of conversations.

“Oh, is it about our failed experiment? Shame,” Yeosang sighed, dragging his feet over to Ajax’s giant, severed head, playfully patting the snout. His lab coat was slightly askew, and his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose as he shuffled away from the examination table.

“Perhaps the Kuku’s intellect overstimulated the Longhorn,” his other assistant Minjae chimed in. “It explains his independent nature and inability to bond with his rider.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Yeosang tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Although the Kuku component of 809’s DNA did show promise. He was able to mimic that Dreamwood’s movements with remarkable precision.”

He scratched his head, his hair sticking up in odd angles, a testament to the long hours he had spent in the lab. “I suppose we’ll have to move on to the next experiment. Again.” Yeosang let out a tired chuckle. “Perhaps next time we should consider neural compatibility more carefully. The synaptic responses of the Kuku might have been too advanced for the Longhorn’s neural pathways,” he mused aloud, Minjae already jotting down notes for the next iteration of their experiment.

“Ah, poor Mingi. All he wanted was a dragon,” Yeosang mused, slipping the gloves on with a snap. Donning a mask and face shield, he marveled at his creation—the culmination of years of genetic engineering. The large lab lights cast an eerie glow on Ajax’s lifeless form, highlighting the intricate details of his scales and the sheer size of his head.

The Nettled Kuku’s agility and intelligence had been merged with the Lunar Longhorn’s brute strength and resilience, resulting in a creature of unparalleled power and terror. He recalled the first successful fusion, the moment when Ajax had taken his first breath. It had been a moment of triumph, a vindication of his relentless pursuit of perfection. But the dragon was only one of many monsters born of Yeosang’s hubris.

Ajax’s eyes, now lifeless, were partially open, revealing the once vibrant amber that had held so much intelligence and fire. Yeosang approached with reverence and curiosity, his gloved hands steady as he prepared for the necropsy. The dragon’s massive jaws were slightly ajar, showcasing rows of razor-sharp teeth. His tongue, now still, lay limp against the lower jaw.

“Open wide, Ajax,” he sang, as he began to saw his way into the massive skull. The sound of the tool was jarring, but Yeosang’s steady hands and focused expression showed his expertise. The lab was filled with the scent of antiseptic and the quiet hum of machinery, a stark contrast to the vibrant life the Ajax once had.

The days following the abrupt end of the Inferno Cup were a whirlwind of media frenzy. Reporters were lined up outside of the training grounds, the House Park estate, and skyway, jostling for a position, microphones in hand, eager to capture the next big scoop.

The once vibrant grounds of the skyway now stood eerily silent. Training and events for all riders were postponed indefinitely as a safety precaution, leaving the usually bustling training grounds deserted.

Mingi found himself at the center of the storm, his every move documented by the press and scrutinized by the Council alike. He couldn’t step outside without being bombarded by questions, each one more probing than the last. The pressure was immense, but he maintained his defiant stance, refusing to show any sign of weakness, especially after the Council’s snap decision to put Ajax down.

The keepers had neutralized Ajax, forcing him into submission as they corralled him into a containment unit. Mingi watched helplessly, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see the defiance in the dragon’s eyes, the way Ajax’s muscles tensed against the restraints, every sinew straining in a futile attempt to break free.

His eyes darted over towards you as Cirrus lowered a wing, creating a makeshift ramp for you. The scene was surreal, the contrast between the chaos of the altercation and the serene, almost gentle gesture of your dragon. He envied the bond you had with her—a bond forged through trust and mutual respect, a complete contrast from his partnership with Ajax.

He watched as you ascended down from her wing, your movements fluid and confident, despite your life altering injury–a testament to the deep connection you shared with Cirrus. The dragon’s eyes followed you with unwavering loyalty, a silent promise of protection and companionship.

“Mingi, it’s over.”

Your words echoed in his head. Your cheeks were flushed and breath coming in gasps as your body was reeling from the blows Cirrus had delivered to Ajax. He looked at you, pleading to reassure him that it wasn’t over. That everything he worked for was still within his grasp.

“Mr. Song,” a keeper interjected, his tone grave and respectful.

Mingi turned, a frown creasing his brow. “What is it?”

The keeper hesitated for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the message he had to deliver. “I regret to inform you that the Council has reached a decision regarding your dragon. They have determined that euthanasia is the only viable option.”

Mingi’s face paled, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief. The weight of the keeper’s words settled heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the harsh realities they all faced.

“Is there no other way?” he asked, his voice trembling with desperation.

The keeper shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid not. It’s the only way to ensure the safety of everyone.”

The keeper bowed and returned to the crowd of other keepers preparing to transport Ajax to his death. Mingi watched them, his heart breaking with each step they took. While he occasionally regarded Ajax as a partner, the dragon primarily embodied his ambitions, serving as a means to achieve his goal of becoming a top dragon rider. Now, watching Ajax being led away, Mingi felt a profound sense of loss. It wasn’t just the dragon he was losing, but the dreams and aspirations that had driven him for so long.

The Council of Aurora served as the governing body entrusted with the oversight of the political and social welfare of dragon riders within the empire. Under the leadership of Chairman Jang, the Council was chiefly responsible for administering Aurora’s political matters, including the arbitration of disputes, the regulation of dragon care standards, and the promotion of the esteemed history and traditions of dragon riding. This mandate also encompassed the supervision of the rules and regulations governing dragon racing.

The fight had drawn significant attention, not only because of its ferocity but also due to the involvement of Park Seonghwa. With Seonghwa’s status, the Council was alarmed by the potential implications of such a powerful and unpredictable dragon, like Ajax, instigating the altercation and threatening Seonghwa’s life. Consequently, they initiated an investigation to ensure that all rules and regulations had been strictly adhered to.

“Thank you for coming today, Mr. Song.” Chairman Jang’s voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority.

Mingi stared coldly ahead, without a hint of emotion. His posture was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he faced the Council. The room was grand, with high ceilings and walls adorned with tapestries depicting the rich history of dragon riding.

Chairman Jang, a man of gentle demeanor but firm principles, leaned forward slightly. “I trust you are aware that your dragon caused quite a disturbance at the Inferno Cup?”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“The Council had the opportunity to review the footage and would like to ask for your account of the situation.” Jang’s tone was measured, seeking understanding rather than confrontation.

Mingi’s eyes flickered with frustration, but he took a deep breath and began. “I saw an opportunity to push Ajax to his limits, to see how he would handle the pressure. I provoked him intentionally.”

Lady Lee interjected, her voice sharp and cutting. “And you believe this justified your actions, Mr. Song? Provoking your dragon in such a public and dangerous setting?”

Mingi’s jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding together. “I didn’t plan for things to get out of hand. Lord Park’s reaction,” he stressed Seonghwa’s title with a hint of disdain, “was unexpected.”

“So you admit that your actions directly led to the confrontation?”

“I admit that my timing was off.”

“Your timing led to chaos, Mr. Song. You endangered not only yourself and your dragon but also the lives of others present at the race,” Lord Hong said, his expression stern and unyielding. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, a reminder of the gravity of Mingi’s actions. “For the sake of experimenting with your dragon’s strength and fortitude?”

“Risks are necessary in our line of work, Lord Hong,” Mingi retorted, his eyes flashing with determination. “I assumed you of all people would know since your son is a rider himself.” His words were a calculated jab, meant to provoke a reaction.

Lord Hong’s eyes narrowed at Mingi’s audacity. He leaned back slightly in his seat, his fingers drumming on the armrest as he scowled. “Your confidence is commendable, Mr. Song, but overconfidence can be your downfall. Might I remind you that while you may be a skilled rider, you can be unseated by a single misstep. In your case, losing control of your dragon.” His voice was low and measured, each word a deliberate warning.

Chairman Jang sighed softly, his gaze steady but filled with disappointment. “Recklessness cannot be justified by the pursuit of strength.”

Mingi��s shoulders tensed, but he remained silent, his eyes locked on the unimposing elderly man. “With all due respect, Chairman Jang, pushing boundaries is how we grow stronger as riders.”

“Your arrogance is astounding, Mr. Song!" Lady Lee shook her head, clearly exasperated.

Lord Kim, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. “Mr. Song, what is your relation to Lord Park?”

Mingi’s expression hardened. “I consider Lord Park to be a rival.”

“And how did this rivalry come to be?”

Mingi thought for a moment before replying. “We were both competing in the Auroran Gran Prix. During the race, I saw an opening and made a bold move to gain an advantage. It was a risky maneuver, but he managed to recover.”

Lord Kim nodded thoughtfully. “So, it was a competitive encounter?”

Mingi nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t personal. We both wanted to win, and that’s how racing goes.”

“And what of Lady L/N? She did try and intervene on Lord Park's behalf.”

Mingi froze when Lord Kim brought up your name. His feelings towards you were complicated. His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Lady L/N has nothing to do with this.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Song,” Lord Hong pressed.

Mingi clenched his fists, struggling to maintain his composure. “My former fiancée and Park Seonghwa’s current trainer,” he finally admitted, his voice laced with bitterness. The words tasted like ash in his mouth, a painful reminder of what he had lost.

When Mingi first learned that you had been hired by Park Seonghwa, he brushed it off, indifferent to the news. He convinced himself that it didn’t matter, that your decision was inconsequential to him. However, as time passed, the reality of your choice began to eat away at him. It wasn’t about wanting you back; it was about not wanting Seonghwa to have you.

Lady Lee raised an eyebrow. “Are you indicating this altercation stemmed from a lover’s quarrel?”

Mingi’s eyes flashed with anger. “No. I assure you, Lady L/N had nothing to do with the fight. This matter is strictly between Lord Park and myself.”

“Personal entanglements are not relevant to the investigation, Lady Lee.” Chairman Jang cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation back to more pressing matters. “We need to look at the facts presented before us. How did you go about sourcing your dragon, Mr. Song?”

Mingi took a deep breath, grateful for the shift in focus. “I was approached by a recruiter from Cromer Labs. They came to the academy looking to sponsor a few riders for a scholarship. The recruiter was particularly interested in my performance during the trials and mentioned that they would provide riders with a dragon should they commit to the organization.”

“Commit, how?” Lord Hong asked, his eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.

“Commit to racing for the organization,” Mingi replied, his voice steady. “After graduating from the academy, Cromer Labs became one of my primary sponsors. With their support, I’ve been able to participate in high-profile races and competitions, as well has have access to a state of the art training facility.”

Lord Kim sat up, his interest clearly piqued. “What else can you tell us about Cromer Labs?”

“Their research is aimed at reducing the prevalence of inherited diseases in dragons,” Mingi replied, his tone measured and precise.

“Is that all?” Lord Kim pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Yes,” Mingi confirmed, maintaining eye contact.

The elder Kim nodded, signaling the end of his questioning. Despite his composed exterior, he felt uneasy, his mind racing with thoughts about the lab’s work. The implications of such research were vast, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Cromer Labs than met the eye.

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of the discussion hanging heavily in the air. Each member of the council seemed lost in their own thoughts. After a few moments, Lord Kim finally broke the silence. “I suggest ending today’s round of questioning,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of concern. “I have a number of other obligations to attend to. Shall we resume at a later date?”

The other council members nodded in agreement, their expressions serious. Chairman Jang nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a prudent course of action.”

As they began to gather their belongings, the atmosphere remained tense, heavy with the implications of what they had learned—or failed to learn—from their initial round of questioning. As Mingi exited the chambers, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, grateful that his pride remained intact.

The doors creaked open, and he stepped out of the council room, his eyes meeting yours. You stood there with your arms crossed, heart pounding as you prepared to confront him. You could see the weariness of the last few days etched on Mingi’s face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “A friend of a friend said you’d be here.” You glanced behind Mingi toward the grand council room.

He scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Park Seonghwa’s got you spying on me now?” His tone was accusatory, but there was a hint of hurt in his eyes.

“He doesn’t even know you’re here today,” you replied, your voice firm and unwavering. You took a step closer, closing the distance between you. The air between you was thick with tension. “I came because I wanted to talk.”

In the days following the fight with Ajax, uneasiness consumed you as the confrontation replayed in your mind. But you didn't have to what drove him to such extremes—you already knew. To find clarity in the chaos he created, you knew you needed closure from Mingi.

Mingi sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” he muttered.

“I want to know the truth.” Your words were sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he struggled to maintain his composure.

He glanced around the room, before finally meeting your gaze. “Let’s go somewhere more private. Please.” His voice was softer now, almost pleading, and you could see the cracks in his exterior beginning to show.

You followed him outside. The late afternoon air was cool, a stark contrast to the stuffy corridors of the Courthouse. The courtyard was quiet, a small oasis of calm amidst the bustling city.

Mingi leaned against the stone wall, his posture tense. He studied you, his eyes searching for any sign of deceit or hidden motives. “You’ve changed,” he finally said.

He observed the way you stood, the determination in your eyes, and the strength in your stance that hadn’t been there before. It was as if the challenges you faced during your recovery had forged a new version of you, one that was both familiar and foreign to him.

“We’ve both changed,” you corrected. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the ground, as if the weight of his actions was too much to bear. “Why’d you do it?” you finally asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“You do know, Mingi,” you replied, your tone filled with disappointment. “You knew exactly what you were doing by going after Seonghwa.”

Your words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the consequences of his actions. Mingi’s eyes hardened. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice trembling. “I had to prove myself, to show that I could be just as good, if not better.”

“Don’t lie to me. You weren’t out there trying to prove yourself,” you said, your voice breaking.

Mingi’s defiance wavered, his shoulders slumping as the reality of his actions weighed heavily on him. He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours filled with desperation and vulnerability.

“I didn't want to lose you to him,” he confessed, his voice barely audible, filled with a raw honesty.

You were at a loss for words, the weight of his confession hitting you like a wave. You chuckled darkly, wanting to lash out at him for his pathetic excuse.

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you chuckled bitterly. “Stop with the excuses Mingi, you cheated on me.”

“I know I don’t have the right to feel hurt because I cheated on you but when I saw you him I just–” he began, his voice pleading.

“No. The truth is that you didn’t want to be with someone broken,” you spat bitterly, your words laced with pain and anger. You noticed the corner of his lip twitch, a signal that there was truth to what you had said.

"You, an S-class rider, at the top of your game, didn't want to be with someone who could have been disabled the rest of her life! Because it would've been horrible for your reputation."

Mingi’s eyes widened at your words, the silence between you was deafening, each second seeming more like an eternity. He thought about saying something, denying your claim, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

“You are selfish and reckless, blinded by your own ambitions. You’re jealous and insecure and have no problem sabotaging others to get what you want. And that means taking out Park Seonghwa.”

“You’d choose him over me?” he glowered, his eyes narrowing. He clenched his jaw tightly, the muscles in his face twitching with barely contained fury. "The same way you took his side and attacked me as well?"

Your jaw dropped. You were flabbergasted, at a complete loss for words at Mingi’s audacity. “Choose him over you? Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about picking sides. This is about your murder attempt.”

Mingi looked away, unable to meet your gaze. His silence only fueled your frustration and confirmed your suspicions. You could see the gears turning in his head, desperately trying to find a way out, but there was none.

“You’ve always known Ajax was a monster. You knew he’d lose control, and you let it happen, because it'd be easier to put the blame on your unstable dragon than to admit you were deliberately trying to kill Seonghwa.”

In that moment, Mingi understood that he had been caught, and there was no escaping the consequences of his actions. His whispered admission, “They put him down,” was a hollow echo of the remorse he should have felt, a final acknowledgment of the truth he could no longer deny.

Your expression softened for a moment, pitying him. “I know,” you said, your voice laced with cold satisfaction. The words were a bitter acknowledgment of the justice that had been served. Pity the murder weapon had been tossed out, you thought.

Mingi’s shoulders slumped further, his eyes filled with resignation. The realization that he had lost everything—his dragon and his ambitions—was a heavy burden to bear.

“I never wanted it to get this far,” he murmured, but you were already turning away, unwilling to listen to his excuses. “I never wanted this to happen, Y/N. I admit I was wrong and wanted to prove myself, but I let my ego get the best of me–” His voice cracked, desperation seeping into his tone, hoping to grasp at any remaining sympathy you might have for him.

You shook your head. “You made choices that hurt everyone around you, Mingi.” The finality in your voice was like a door slamming shut, leaving no room for return.

Without another glance, you walked away, each step feeling lighter as you left him to grapple with the mess he had created. The weight of unresolved tension lifted from your shoulders, replaced by a newfound sense of freedom and closure from your past.

Mingi stood frozen, his world crumbling around him. The realization that he was truly alone, left to face the consequences of his actions, was a heavy blow.

<< vi | viii >>

taglist: @litolmochi @syubseokie @park-simphwa @szakias

#away with the wind #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #ateez #ateez au #dragon rider au #fantasy au #seonghwa x y/n #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa x you #seonghwa

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dcartcorner · 1 year ago

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a fantasy/dnd au because i can't help myself and the thought of ancient blue dragon simon who disguises himself as a human brings me joy.

please enjoy this small one shot ft. s1 adventuring crew (please excuse any errors, writing is not my strong suit!)

Rumours at the Tavern Characters: Tim, Simon, Sasha, Martin, Jon Ships: none

It wasn’t what Tim would consider a nice tavern. He had performed in nicer ones, ones where the counters were meticulously cleaned and the patrons were at least passably polite to the serving staff, and a mug of ale would set you back a silver piece. This place was not quite like that.

Then again, Tim had been to worse sorts of dives.

The Lazy Storm sat right smack in the middle of the two kinds of taverns, perched on the cliff side overlooking the choppy seas of the western coast, amidst the fjords in the town of Killn’s Rest. Not a bad place, not a good place. Just a place, somewhere to find some warmth, a quick meal, and something to drink. It was also the sort of tavern that didn’t take fire hazards all that seriously, if the number of people making merry that evening within its walls was any indication of the owner’s outlook on safety. It was busy, to the point where crowds spilled out onto the street even though the summer had come to a close and the winter, with its biting chill, was fast approaching.

Perhaps that’s why Tim noticed him - the old man. Because he was sitting on the bar top.

There were few other seats around. Sasha had managed to charm their way to a table of their own earlier in the night while Martin tried to see about rooms, and their party had stayed planted at said table all night as the crowds slowly but surely filtered in for the evening. They were lucky, in this regard, as many other people were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder. Not that old man, though. Perched on the edge of the bar like a bird, smiling kindly at the person next to him.

And his choice of seat was not the only peculiar thing about him, Tim thought. He wore clothing that Tim could only describe as ornate. If this was one of those nice taverns Tim had played in, he might have expected that sort of the look, but this wasn’t one of those places. This was the Lazy Storm, and that man was incredibly overdressed.

“It’s weird, right?” Tim said aloud. Martin looked up, then glanced around. Sasha craned her neck to look at him. Jon didn’t look up from his book. Tim nodded in the direction of the old man. “Someone dressed like that in a place like this. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Sasha shrugged.

“Where?” Martin asked.

“Good on him, getting dressed up to go out for a night,” said Sasha.

“I think it’s weird,” said Tim. Because it was.

“Where?” Martin asked again. “Oh. Him? I mean. I suppose it’s… well, it’s a little odd.” The twist of a frown at the corners of Martin’s mouth. “Someone should offer him a seat.”

“Seems happy enough where he is,” Sasha said with a huff of a laugh as the other man at the bar leaned closer to the old man and whispered something to him.

“Could we please focus,” Jon finally interjected, shutting the book.

Tim rolled his eyes as he took a swig of his drink. It wasn’t silver coin ale. This was a copper-piece-per-tankard-ale, and it tasted like it. Which was to say, it tasted like a good night in the making.

“Have any of you actually asked anyone about any jobs yet?” Jon said.

“Asked just about as many people as you,” Tim said. By this, Tim meant: none.

“There’s a rat problem in the sewers,” Sasha said, “according to one guard. Doesn’t pay well, but at least it pays.”

“There are bandits, too,” Martin added. “Uh, just out east of here. Somewhere. Apparently they have a den in the woods? But I think someone might’ve already taken that one.”

“Mm.” Jon was not impressed. He looked over at Tim. “Anything?”

Tim raised his hands. “Don’t look at me, I can get a job whenever.” Plenty of people out there who were willing to pay for some good music. “Or did you forget who bought the rooms and drinks?”

Jon leaned his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands momentarily. Then looked up at Tim and said, “Could you please just. Ask.”

“Jon, maybe we should just… take a night off?” Martin suggested. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

Jon shot him a look and that was the end of that conversation.

Well, didn’t matter. Jon didn’t have to join them in having a good night if he didn’t want to. Tim wasn’t going to let it bother him, and he got up to go order another drink with his own hard earned money, ignoring how much lighter his coin purse was compared to earlier that day.

Why was it his problem anyway, that they didn’t have much in the way of coin? He wasn’t going to let it get to him. It wasn’t getting to him. He and Sasha and Martin were just some poor souls dragged along on Jon’s pointless quest to find some answers that had nothing to do with any of them. So why did it matter?

It didn’t matter.

Dammit.

The old man was not the first person he asked that night about a job. As he waited for a drink he asked the person to his left and to his right, but neither of them were keen on talking - and it took him a little too long to realize they were part of their own adventuring party based on the matching bands on their arms, and wouldn’t be sharing any information with him. He tried to ask the bartender as well, but she was too busy to give him any answer that was not a look of inconvenience.

Tim sighed. And he kept asking, until finally his route around the tavern brought him to the old man at the bar. Sat there, dressed strangely, looking for all the world like he should be just about anywhere else.

“Are you quite alright?” the old man asked him. Tim blinked. “Not that I mind, but I’ve been told it’s rude to stare.”

Had he been staring? “Sorry,” Tim said. The old man smiled at him.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked.

Tim looked around briefly. The other person with whom the old man had been speaking earlier that night was gone. “Don’t suppose there is,” Tim said. “Unless you know of any get rich quick jobs around this place.”

The old man chuckled. “Well now, I can think of a few, but I’m not entirely sure those are the type you’re looking for,” he said, resting his hands on the head of his cane which he had propped up on the empty edge of one of the bar-stools. “Tough times, out there. Or so I hear. Something about the supply and demand of it all, I think. Too many adventurers, too few problems that need solving! At least around these parts.” The old man sighed thoughtfully. “This coast isn’t what it used to be. Time was you couldn’t take two steps on the road without running into bandits or cultists or a proper mountain troll. Now you’d be lucky to find a good sized rat nest to clean up.”

“Yeah, well. Killing rats doesn’t pay well,” Tim said.

The old man smiled, watching Tim over the rim of his glasses. His eyes were sharply blue, Tim noticed. “No,” the man agreed. “No it doesn’t.” He tilted his head. “Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go further afield to find anything.”

“Thanks anyway,” Tim said, defeated.

“Although,” the old man said as Tim was turning away. Tim paused and looked back at him. “I’ve heard a rumour. There have been a few ships that have come into the harbour with some particularly strange news out of the Shivering Straight. Up north. Word is there have been a handful of whaling ships that have gone missing around Helkelson Bay. Only a couple of survivors. Those that do manage to best the frostbite say… well. You know how sailors can be, always creating the most fanciful stories. A ghost ship, they say! The mayor of Helkelson isn’t altogether convinced it’s anything so peculiar as that, though I hear he’s offering a handsome reward to anyone willing to… solve the problem. Whatever that problem may be.”

“Helkelson?” Tim said.

“That’s right,” the old man replied with a smile. “Ask around the docks, I’d say. Plenty of merchant ships coming and going that way. Of course, it’s only a rumour.”

Tim smiled back. “Better than nothing.”

It was at that moment the old man’s companion returned and gave Tim a wary look. Tim took it as his cue to leave with a nod of thanks and an imaginary tip of the hat before he returned to the table to join his companions.

“Let me start,” he said to them, “by saying you’re welcome. Now, any of you been to the Shivering Straight?”

#tma #the magnus archives #dnd au #fantasy au #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #simon fairchild #fic #one shot #yes tim is a bard #fanart

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0mg-bird · 4 months ago

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Loom ~ R. Abbott x Fem! Reader

Summary: Rhett doesn’t know how long he can live with his tormenting thoughts while you live without him.

Warnings: Angst! A whole lotta angst, jealous Rhett= stupid Rhett, violence and language.

A/n: Inspired by one of my favorite Zach Bryan songs, Loom.

His jaw might fall out of its socket, the way he grinds his back teeth, back and forth, back and forth. Beer in hand, he’s watching from across the bar at the shape of you. Your Wrangler bell bottoms and little black top made you a sight for sore eyes, the way you spun around the dance floor with your friends had him in a trance.

Perry comes back to sit beside his brother, but upon seeing Rhett’s strong gaze, he follows the line of vision straight to you.

“Here we go again.” He laughs, making Rhett face him. “What are you talking about?” He asks, trying to act casual.

Perry gives him an amused glance. “I’m talking about the Tillerson girl.”

Rhett shrugs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh please don’t do this act with me, it’s a beat horse at this point.” He says, huffing. “You ever gonna get over this little fantasy of yours?”

Rhett swallows hard, looking away. “It ain’t a fantasy, it’s ain’t anything.”

That was a lie, Rhett knew it. You were like forbidden fruit, so sweet, he was desperate to get a taste but how could he when you were you? Entirely too good for him, with a name that couldn’t be seen next to his.

He used to never consider you, not until you came back from college all grown. Now you were as sweet as honey, funny as ever, looking finer than any mountain view he’s seen. The moments you’ve shared alone, the unusual tension, the words that go unsaid, it’s things you think about often. But Rhett never made a move, and in those moments he doesn’t lift one finger to you, you can only think of the way your father and brothers ruined this love affair chance.

At some point you decide it was no use to pine for a cowboy who you pushed you away, so you were going to move on with your life.

Here you were now, dancing with a charmer. Your two step beat was fun, he was a looker too. While you two spun around, Rhett was clenching his beer bottle with a white knuckled grip.

He has this reoccurring dream sometimes, where you and him ran away and made a life of your own. He isn’t so angry, he isn’t feeling anything other than some type of emotion that makes him feel like he’s going through the floor.

It’s the thing that haunts him, it teases him to a life he does not have.

A life he’s afraid to admit he wants.

“I’ll be back.” Perry states, navigating his way to the mens room.

As Rhett is left alone, he finishes his last swig, then goes to get another beer.

That charmer you were dancing with has his hand on the small of your back as he leads you to get a drink. As you stand beside him, slightly leaning over the bar as you talk to the bartender, the man’s hand slips down your back side, playfully pinching and squeezing. You push his hand off, the action makes Rhett alert.

When the man does it again, leaning over to whisper in your ear and getting pushed off again, he steps back into Rhett.

“Hey, could you fucking watch where you’re going?” Rhett snaps, making you turn and face him. “Sorry, Rhett, he didn’t mean too.” You glare at your guy.

“You’re right, sorry.” He throws a half hearted apology to Rhett before diving to kiss your neck.

Rhett knows your awkward laugh well, the one you give when you try to be polite but are still uncomfortable. You give it to the guy you continue to push away.

It feels wrong, his hands on your body, his lips on your skin. It makes Rhett’s breath quicken.

“Hey, I think she wants you to back off.” He grabs the guys shoulder, pulling him off of you.

The man grows defensive, smacking Rhett’s hand away. “I think you should mind your own fucking business and not pay attention to what me and my woman are doing.”

You pause, taking a large step away from him. “Who said I’m yours?”

He chuckles lowly. “Oh come on baby, don’t start this teasing shit now.”

“How about you go fuck yourself.” You call back, turning back for your friends before he tugs at your arm.

Just as you’re about to gasp, Rhett is standing in front of you, gripping the man’s wrist.

“I don’t want to have to do this right here in front of everyone, but I will if you don’t get your hand off of her right now.”

The expanse of his back is shielding you, you can’t see his expression but you know it’s angry.

Your arm is dropped, deep fingerprints are left in your skin.

“I would’ve let you had a go at her after I was finished, all you had to do was ask.”

Those disgusting words fall from his lips and the next thing you know, he’s on the ground.

The ones around leap back, watching as Rhett tumbles around with this charmer you thought was great ten minutes ago.

“What the hell?” Perry shouts, pushing past bodies to pull his brother away.

The two put up a fight, but when Rhett gets pulled one direction and the man gets pulled another, it’s over.

You follow the Abbott brothers out the back door of the bar, Rhett’s still seething, spitting out a mouth full of blood. You slink back quietly, looking up at Perry.

“I’ll pull the truck around.” He tells you, making himself scarce.

“Rhett…” You’re tone comes out quieter than you imagined it would.

He looks at you with confusion and question. “Why do you do this? Why do you find the biggest assholes and hang on their arm?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air colder than expected. “I don’t intentionally do it.”

Rhett scoffs, then pushes his hair out of his face. “Tell me what you want me to do.” He demands. “Put me out of my damn misery and tell me that you’d rather not think of me.”

Your brows furrow. “I don’t want to say that.”

He’s running his hands down his face, blood on his split knuckles. “Then tell me how I get this to stop. This-this back and forth, coy game we play.”

“What game?” You shout, stepping towards him.

“The one where we both know what we’re feeling but don’t do a damn thing about it!”

Maybe it’s the few drinks in your system that’s making you feel like dropping in tears. You blink them back.

“And what am I supposed to be feeling, Rhett? Stop speaking in fuckin’ riddles and just say it with your chest!”

He stomps to you. “How do I make you fall in love with me? How?” He demands, your bodies close in proximity. You stare up at him, not missing the way his chest rises and falls quickly.

“I would’ve fallen in love with you years ago if you hadn’t been so damn stoic. All this talk about our family feuds, about how you don’t bring much to the table and I need more than that…” Your voice shakes, you reach out to hit his chest with both of your hands. “You never once cared about my feelings, so why now?”

He takes the hits you give, though they didn’t really hurt like you intended them to. They hurt deep in his lungs.

“I thought I was doing right by you.” Is all he says, making the first few tears fall down your face.

“I would’ve loved you with everything I had, every fiber of me, Rhett.” Your hands are in your hair, then you take a step back.

“You would have?” He asks, and you nod. “I would…I’m just not sure about now, anymore.”

His heart aches, his fingers itch to reach out for you.

You wipe your face. “Thanks for intervening back there.” You say, then disappear back inside.

He watches the spot you just stood, and the overwhelming feeling of lost love, looms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n: aghhhhhhhh this was so angsty omg. If y’all like it, lmk, maybe I should do a part two???

#Spotify #rhett abbott #rhett abbot x reader #lewis pullman #angst #outer range #rhett abbott angst #zach bryan

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blingblong55 · 11 months ago

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If I could lie to you-Philip Graves

Based on a request:

! jealous ! Phillip Graves x F! Reader??? Hera me out🙏🙏 Ok so let's say shadow company & TF-141 (reader is like a sergeant in 141) are like working together for a mission, but graves has a crush on reader, but we'll just tells himself that he doesn't like her even though he really does...Let's say graves explored around the base cause she was curious on how it looked but just his luck he went into room where training usually happens and he saw reader sparring with one of there recruits seemingly helping them improve their skills, And graves did not like it one bit. The way reader holds the recruits arms, hips, shoulders everything. Despite she was just trying to help he felt jealous. That should him who she's touching like that. Not that recruit. He watched as the sparring session between the two, his attention was at her(reader) and her only. When he saw that she pinned down the recruit he felt even more jealous considering how close they were. The rest is up to you🙏🙏 sorry if it's long🙁

A/N: Don't worry anon, nothing is ever too long...well...you know what I mean

---- F!Reader, fluff, romance, soldier!reader, jealous!Graves ----

Task Force 141 and Shadow Company worked together on another mission and intel operation. You and Gaz were sent first to help Commander Graves gather intel from a base located in the Middle East. After coming back with a successful amount of intel and a day-long rest, Philip found you training and sparring with the men on his team. Velikan was instructed by Gaz himself to be rough with his training and sparring session with you, he was hesitant at first but soon warmed up to you. Graves admired you from far away the whole time, always in the back just observing and chuckling to himself when you'd win or lose a sparring match.

This kind of day has become usual for you all. So much so that you grew close to the people in Shadow Company. Eventually, Laswell instructed you to leave back to the Task force's base. Time passed and you heard little from Shadow Company.

Months pass and eventually, the task force needs the help of Shadow Company. As all the others get settled in the bunks, Graves walks around the base. He checks out all the training rooms and overall enjoys his walk around the base. From afar, a lit room could be seen. He gets curious and when he walks in, he sees Velikan and you. Originally he asked for some tips back at the Shadow Company base and this time was no different, you were teaching him ways to improve his stance and some other easier ways of fighting.

Graves leans on a darkened wall, lights dim on that side where he was at. All those months when you stayed with Shadow Company, he admired you from afar, rarely talked to you but was always so polite. If you asked Gaz about why Graves was that way with you, he would smirk and shrug. It eventually created a small fixation in Graves's head, liking you was more of a hobby when he would learn things you liked, all so he could impress you someday. When that someday didn't arrive and Gaz and you flew back to England, he lost hope in confessing. After that, he told himself he didn't like you, that it was just him being some desperate single military man and that, that was the reason behind him improving himself for you. It had to be, right? Not because you were so smart, funny, strong and beautiful…not that.

Now as he watches a man from his team be so close to you, it seems unfair. What does he have that Graves doesn't? Not charisma, that's for sure. So, he kept cool and walked away. With time, he got close to the others in your team. He was brave enough to command an army of men and women yet he couldn't confess that he liked you and that he would do his best to be the man you deserve. And then…your hand went to his shoulder, Velikan's hand on your hip as you taught him one of your favourite yet best moves. You and he laughed trying to stay serious and as he and you fought using all the moves taught that is when Graves walked to you both.

Before you even noticed him, Velikan was pinned to the ground. It was impressive but Graves did not like it at all. He was supposed to be the one there, to have you in his arms, both for comfort and for other activities. Maybe for lovemaking. "Sergeant, get off my soldier and Velikan, get out." He said through gritted teeth. Shit, did Soap get him in a bad mood again? You thought. "Graves we are training-" the man tried to explain. "Do not give me a reason to make you run around the base- a matter of fact go fucking run." He snapped his fingers in the direction of the door. "Don't abuse your power-" Velikan tried once more but failed. "OUT!"

When he left the training room, Graves turned to you. "You know, you didn't have to be rude to him," you speak calmly. "I did, especially with what he was doing." Your brows furrowed, "What was he doing?" Graves shook his head in disbelief, it was as if you didn't notice how the man touched his girl…his fucking girl. "He was touching you, what's more to explain." You chuckle, "Oh that? No we were sparring," you explain but still, he didn't see it that way.

"No…not the way he looked at you, not how he grabbed you and especially not how he stared at you. What, are you training him on how to get women?" You sigh, a stubborn man he is. "No, and besides that is still no reason to get mad." "Maybe it isn't but-…fuck it- I like you…no I feel strongly about you. I like you Sergeant R/N, you are a sweet girl and you are so independent and funny and so cute and…why can't you see me?" You were taken by surprise and before a smile fully formed on your lips, he continued. "Do you have any idea what I'd do for you?" "…I don't think so-"

"And that is our problem. I would do it all. I like how you are so positive and so naive, it's absurd how it took me so long to say this. If one day you look up to the sky and see no stars, it's because I stole them for you. Even if you weren't real I would make you up, I'd brag about how beautiful your heart is, even if it gets me killed. I like how smart you are, and how you glow when you share a fact about something, it's beautiful to watch you stand up for yourself and how gorgeous it is to see you be so independent and I'll admit I want to be the guy you depend on for basic needs."

He walks closer, "I wouldn't disappoint you, trust me okay? I want to see you shine, want to see you glow and be the centre of a room. I want to be the guy you go home to. I want you, the good, bad and everything you can give me." His hands hold yours, placing them over his heart. "If I could lie to you, I'd say I don't believe in love at first sight. But when I saw you be you, how you didn't change no matter the situation, that's when I fell in love."

"Graves-" "Let me confess it all, R/N…please just let me say the words I've been dying to say." One nod from you and he goes on. "One stare from you, just one and it makes my day. You pat my back after a long day and I go to my room excited to prove the next day that I am worth more than a pat. That I can be the guy to watch from the stands as you shine. I get it now, I get why those romance films get you excited, why you read romance, I do because now I know and understand how good and strong real love feels."

"What if I'm not the girl you think I am?" "You see, that's where you are wrong." "I am?" "Yes, let me explain, okay?" "…okay." your voice small "With every girl I've ever met, I never felt this strong about them. With reason, I know now that all those kisses from past lovers were missing something, they were missing you…" "But-" "My love, please let me explain further." He takes a deep breath and looks at you with conviction, "I was full of doubt, I was scared of why I didn't feel so strongly about someone." He kisses your hands and places them back over his heart. "It's so lovely to get to know you, truly. I promise that someday, when we get married, you'll be the one who runs it, whatever you say goes and that is final." You chuckle and he smiles. "I'm being serious here."

"I want to give you reasons to fall for me every day of our lives. I need to be the guy who you look at and smile and go, 'Yeah…I did right' and I swear to be that forever."

"What if you are fooling me?"

"I'm not, I swear by all that I care for that I am not."

"Pinky promise?"

He chuckles and holds his pinky finger out, "I pinky promise to always love you, to be the man who stands here today and pours his heart out. I pinky promise to be good…to be excellent and never make you cry…well unless we laugh too hard…or if we get rough when we make love…" When both of your pinkies link he kisses them and wraps his arms around you. His warm lips are on your forehead as he kisses it repeatedly and whispers sweet nothings.

If this were a lie, your heart and his wouldn't sync, and your heartbeats wouldn't beat for each other. If he could lie to you, you wouldn't be preparing to walk down the aisle a year later. If he could lie to you, you wouldn't be home, sitting on the sofa, his arms wrapped around you as you chose names for the child you carry. The same one that was made out of pure love. If only he could lie…

A/N: isn't he so perfect....besides the war crimes of course....

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