#[ distraction between orders || dash games ] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

Text

To Hunt a Silver Stag (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, blood, gore, sword wounds, stitches, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The wedding was fast approaching.

Your nightly conversations had now taken the tone of urgency—a newfound anxiety that perpetuated every inch of the courtyard. Discussion of all manner of flight; boats and horses, magic, and the simple act of dashing away in the small hours. Gaz would not be able to come with you, but he would give you all the time and distraction you would need when the time was right. The best option right now was the horses in the stable—cloak yourself as your knight made a commotion about an intruder on the opposite end of the castle. It was coming together, day after day. Until tonight.

Until you’d been summoned to have supper with the King and his court.

You sit now at the very opposite of the table from your betrothed, many eyes darting from the sides of sockets for even a glance at your face. Your crown is still present, along with your belt; your dress is of your collection, and you had seen the looks of disdain when you proudly wore it in—Gaz trailing behind through the main doors of the dining hall.

No one has called in the food yet. Now is the time for talk.

“I imagine you’ve had time to settle in, My Lady?” The King smiles like a snake, and your silver eyes miss nothing as the lines of his face contort; harsh leather and the dunes of sand. “Has my castle become a home to you?” In the corner of your vision, Gaz stands with his hands behind his back at the side of the room along with many other knights. A show of strength? Maybe.

But you don’t feel nervous about your confidant, though. The time for hesitation between the two of you has passed—it was all or nothing.

You speak slowly and clearly, face the picture of calm.

“It is a great thing to be able to see the works of mortal hands. It is an achievement, to be sure.” Your lashes move in a slow blink. “Yet, nothing can be a home such as the one I came from.”

“Ah,” Michael takes it in stride, nodding as the men at the sides of the table glance at one another, sneering. As if saying that you were homesick was a sin of some sort. Brown eyes continue to be locked on your measured body—sitting straight and your hands in your lap. “Yes. I understand. Many have heard of the splendor of your homeland.”

The sconces on the walls flicker. This feels like more of an interrogation than a supper.

“It is a place very few see,” you speak slowly, thinking what this game might entail. “Those that do are left changed. Such is how it has always been.”

“My children will have equal claim, then?” Michael smiles, and the court’s eyes glint. “To the lands?”

Your body stills, gaze unwavering as your piercing orbs level across the table. The very air shifts in an instant.

“Repeat yourself,” you order slowly.

The court blinks quickly, some even straighten in their chairs. Gaz’s feet shift near the window—his lips flattening on his face as he takes a low breath down his nose. Your tone made the hairs on his arms raise by themselves, something primal in the way you articulate.

Yet, the King seems to not know that there’s a line not to be crossed with you. He can’t understand the nearly inextinguishable loyalty to your own—to your people. No rat-like mortal man would ever amount. No kingdom made of stone and iron.

Your fingers tighten under the table, sharpness breeding in your skin.

Any further insinuation on his part was suddenly very detrimental to his survival rate. Your magic flows through you, and the sparse, and nearly dead, potted plants near the corners of the room quiver. Gaz notices immediately, his jaw subtly clenching.

Not here, he wants to tell you, his feet shifting with anticipation. Fucking hell, not here, Stag.

But he served a King that he could never love—you served a kingdom that you would give your immortal life for in an instant.

His Highness tilts his head, eyes glinting as your silver hue sparks up like a candle’s flames.

“It’s an honest question, is it not?” Michael huffs, moving one of his hands to call the servants to bring in supper. Your senses go into overdrive as the large doors open, blinking quickly at the humming in the air that only increases as the staff moves closer.

Your mouth opens and closes for a moment, eyes lightly flinching as a headache begins to form. You can’t even answer the King, and your magic halts itself immediately as your head snaps to the side in horror.

Iron.

You can’t see the King’s slow smirk as the iron platters are carried in, placed on the table in great heaps of glorious spoils. Large pigs and birds stuffed with vegetables—on the very material that makes your hands begin to shake as the tops are taken off with great showmanship. As if this was an achievement.

A platter is dropped ahead of you with a clink of metal to wood, but your eyes only stare at the dead ones that smugly look right back as your heart constricts.

Gaz’s wide expression is frozen on his face, body immobile at the cruel display so openly perpetuated by the court. His hands tighten into fists, eyes darting back and forth from you to the iron and the death on the table. He can see the way your muscles tense, the way your fingers twitch and flinch.

“So,” the King motions again. “I ask, will my Heir have a claim to the Fae thrown?”

“Not in a million years,” you say slowly at first, your mind addled and skin beginning to sweat. The King stills—just like everyone else in the room. A shiver of rage filters behind those rat eyes as you continue. “Not in the seasons of the Mothers, not in an hour of contemplation, a day of rage, or even the seconds it would take for a Basilisk to devour your wretched corpse.”

It was a wonder you kept your composure as your hands rose from under the table—heart palpitating as a low growl raised from the table. Yet, everyone is shocked at what you do next.

Your hands grasp the ironware and Gaz has already set a firm step forward in a mute panic of wide eyes and a sucked-in breath—but he’s too late.

You ignore the burn; the agony that rips through your hands and your bones, killing your soul and making your skin itch like it was on fire. Maybe it was. The iron is heavy in your hands as you glare at the King with every ounce of hate a creature as old as you can hold.

You stab at a piece of food, hold the fork aloft, and hiss on a tight, strained breath.

“Not even if the cold iron in my palm turns to pure gold will I see any child of yours growing in my womb.” Your hand moves forward, and with a slow bite, you take down a piece of the greasy and roasted corpse; holding back a gag as your skin boils and blisters under the iron’s hold.

The food slams into your stomach as if a rock.

It’s a curse you level with no magic besides your hatred, and that in and of itself is far more potent.

The King’s shocked nature turns to confusion, and then to a swift and all-consuming rage.

“Chain her,” he whispers at first, a quiet murmur above the horror of the faces of the court. Then he screams and stands up, slamming his hands to the table with actions half his age. A petulant child. A greedy little boy. “Chain her!”

A hand grasps yours and rips the fork from your grasp, hurling it halfway up the table by the time you can register above your blackening gaze that Gaz is forcing a ripped strip of his cape into the weeping flesh.

“Christ,” he gasps, quickly glancing at your face as your crown dips and moves as your head does. Everything is buzzing—even being close to this much iron leaves you weak.

You suck down large breaths, but there’s no time for this.

“Chain her!” King Michael screeches. “I want her in the dungeons!”

Your arm is taken up, your feet sliding over the floor as Gaz drags you up, shoving you behind him. The sound of a sword being drawn is enough to momentarily snap you out of your agony, your hand shaking violently as you breathe hard and bend your spine forward slightly.

You blink wildly, gasping at the scene ahead of you.

Your knight stands firm ahead of you, his back wide and shielding you from the risen court and the King. The other knights in the room watch with wide eyes, hands on their weapons in utter confusion.

“I’d stay back if you knew what was best for you,” Gaz eases out, casual in his delivery but you can hear the rapid pound of his heart. He’s nervous. Incredibly so—adrenaline striking through his veins just as it does yours.

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t right; he wasn’t supposed to be involved.

“Gaz,” you stutter, so strange to hear yourself in a state of anxiety after so many years of calm and elegance. There’s nothing elegant about you now. “Do not.”

He was throwing away everything he’d worked for.

“Stay behind me,” the knight mutters, his dark eyes searching the room for anyone to move forward and attack—none do. “Don’t move until I tell you to, yeah?” He had a reputation for being a skilled swordsman; no one here would risk rushing without more weapons at the ready.

Gaz’s sword rests easily in his right hand, the left going to unsheathe his dagger and let it rest at his side, fingers twitching around the hilt as he takes a slow breath, eyes traveling the room.

They land on the King, face contorted into the picture of wrath, wrinkled, and old body shaking.

“Step aside, boy,” Michael says lowly. “And I’ll let you walk with your head.”

“Wouldn’t be much good to me if I allowed this to happen, would it,” Gaz tilts his skull, a flicker of a smirk on his lips. Seriousness slips back in on the backs of knife edges. “Cut your losses. Let her leave, she doesn’t want this.”

“I don’t care what this creature wants,” the King shouts, moving out from the table and taking firm steps forward, his knight flanking him as the court goers, back up quickly; panic in their eyes. “It’s going to give me power.”

A greedy gaze finds yours behind the swell of Gaz’s back—hearing your Knight’s growl at the next words to enter the tense dining hall.

“Whether she agrees to it or not.”

Your face twists, a sliver of fear making your legs back up a step. Magic, you needed your magic. But the iron—there’s so much of it here; it’s infecting your mind like a bug in the back of your brain. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

You shake your head, uninjured hand coming up to dig your fingers into your temple.

Gaz spits, “Not fucking happening, you old bastard.” His silver sword raises, and with a twirl of his wrist, sending the blade in an arch, the tip is leveled into the air. “You’ll have to get through me first, won’t you?”

“I will not—!” The King stumbles for a moment, body shaking and legs loose. One of his hands snaps to his chest and he blinks to himself, cape dragging across the floor. A ragged cough moves out of his mouth.

You move forward sluggishly, hand resting itself on the back of Gaz’s armored spine as he startles and looks over his shoulder at you.

“Stag,” he warns in an accented mutter, but your eyes are not gazing at him. They’re on the King.

On his failing heart and its broken beating.

The man’s breath is in a gasp, his orbs snapping to and fro like a rabbit as he reaches out a hand, a swift cry from the other men making the knights dash. They grab at him just before he slams to the ground, but one of the court’s men shouts out fearfully, “It’s her—she’s done something!”

“Grab her!”

“Cast her into the irons!”

“She’s killing out King!”

Gaz dashes on his heels, hooking an arm around your waist as you pant, unbelieving as to what is happening. Killing? No, you hadn’t even done anything—this wasn’t your fault!

“Run,” the knight barks, shoving you out of the door and into the hallway. “Damnit, Stag, you need to bloody go. Now!” His browns lock with your silver eyes, stiff until they soften at your blatant shocked fear. A beat of nothingness comes back to the both of you—memories of a courtyard and a cape around your shoulders. You stare, fingers shaking and blood pooling into the makeshift bandage of your palm.

“No, no! What about you?” He shakes his head, and in a swift moment, his gaze goes back to the clamor of commotion—of horrible cries of ‘the King is dead! The King is dead!’

A thin smirk makes your face burn with panic.

“I need to give you an exit, remember?” A tiny wink. “Thank me later, Princess, when you’re safe. Go home.”

He nods pushing on your shoulder delicately. Backing up and twirling his sword again as he licks his lips. You watch, crown more heavy than it had ever been before.

Gaz looks at you as if you’re the only person to ever exist—just as he had when you’d restored the courtyard to glory he’d never seen it in before. He glances down your face, down your body, in all of the time those few seconds were before the yells from the other knights start up—angry, furious, from behind.

He calls firmly, bluntly, but the words are more layered than even you can know. Gaz whispers, his eyes so light and open it leaves you breathless like all of the air has turned to water. You’re drowning in it.

“You don’t belong here.”

You try to step forward, desperate in a way you’d never been to grapple for this mortal man, but the door has already shut right in your face with a heavy boom. An iron bolt is locked in place.

—

The trees try to pull their branches aside as you rush through them, but your fast feet are too quick. Sharp wood slaps your cheeks, pulling at the long strands of your dress and the broken straps of your corset.

You run over rocks, and feel the earth guide you along deep in your soul, not once do you stumble, not once do you falter besides once—to turn and glance. To cast your wide eyes on the fading fire-light of the castle; the sounds of bells ringing out.

Gaz.

He was still back there—fighting. When you had to rip yourself away from the door and rush down the stone corridors, you’d heard the clash of iron and silver against one another; shouts. Like battling wolves, all rabid teeth and a flurry of slitted eyes. Such violence here—such baseless malice.

A King was going to put you in chains, and by whatever deity is truly out there, his heart had given out just in time. And your knight. Your sacrificial knight was left behind.

He can take care of himself, you try to ease, bare feet jumping a stream as your injured palm burns with a thousand suns. I have to place my trust in him. I have to.

He had told you to go home—flee. Back to your castle that touches the sky, back to magic and trees older than any man, woman, or child. Sliding along the ground, you halt.

Atop your head, your crown is crooked, and some of the gems have fallen off, glinting behind you in the upturned earth. Panting, you twist on your feet, moving them like a deer and unable to properly think. This had never happened to you before—this…this pain. Not just the one in your hand but the one that emanates from your heart.

Gaz.

In such a short time, day, weeks, he’d grabbed your immortality and made it stop. You had become mortal with him, and a part of you is mortal yet. He’d touched you—he’d grappled into the place between your ribs and made you care about him. His wonder; his awe for no other reason than he was kind. Hand coming up to grasp at your neck, you fight the burn in your eyes, something that had not happened in decades, trying to drag you back into tears.

You cover your mouth, eyes shut tight.

No, no.

“This cannot be happening,” you gasp in a whisper that moves the trees; eyes watch from bushes. “No, no this isn’t true, do not speak of it,” you whimper to the branches, to their hidden words that pierce your heaving lungs. “I need to go home, I must see the ages pass with no bias—I can not grow attached to a knight. Not to one that death can touch so easily! Do you not understand?!”

Shouts ring into the trees, and your head snaps up, face tight.

Why can’t you go any farther? No curse holds you here! No spell, no enchantment! You are a God to them! You make the world grow with only a word, you carry life and death as if it is a suggestion! This is not probable—it isn't logical.

And then you think about the man who had freely given up everything for you in chains, and your sob echoes over the woods like a brand.

Fleeing once more, you go not in the direction of home, a place so very far away, but in the direction of a large mound of stone—speaking to them through bitter tears and making you lick at the sides of your mouth. Torchlight moves through the trunks of silent sentinels as the rock itself splinters and breaks, your body slipping inside a cage of your own making before you collapse.

The stone groans and breaks and it is like you were never there as the ground shifts—moving the tracks you’d left behind in newly tilled earth. Countless horses rush past, their knight riders with iron bindings swinging from their fists, oblivious.

But the stone you panic inside of is no worthy prison. Even you knew: there was no greater cage for a Fae than love.

—

Gaz stumbled through the woods, his right leg dragging behind as he gritted his teeth harder, panting through the drops of blood that slipped over his lips.

“Fuck,” he grunts, collapsing against one of the tree’s trunks and resting the side of his head against it. “Fuck.”

He’d barely made it out.

The castle was overrun with knights, guards, the people, and the court—all of them. The King was dead. Dead, and they were blaming it on you.

“Serves him right,” Gaz pushes on, eyes fluttering shut as blood slides over his armor. He doesn’t know where the wounds start and where they end, but he does know that he has to keep walking. There’s a trail to follow, and the earth is showing it to him.

The man can’t stop until he knows you’re alright.

Panting, the gems on the ground are one by one plucked and pocketed, kept safe in the same pouch that once held his sigil ring; an achievement he’d been proud of himself for.

A knight, he’d told his family—his friends. It was a station of the highest honor.

Look what that had gotten him. Serving a bastard who called himself a God. Who pushed judgments and demanded utter loyalty to them.

Gaz would rather hang.

Coughing, blood splatters to the ground, and on the bank of a small river, his dragging feet fail him. Falling forward, the tattered remains of Gaz’s cape fluttered around him as his hands splattered through the water. A chilled breeze rushes through the trees, waking them.

He restrains himself from crying out, eyes clenched shut as his forehead skates the water. The clear liquid goes crimson with every wave, like the remnants of a fresh kill.

Body too weak to move, Gaz growls in defiance, slamming a fist into the mud and shoving forward.

He had to find you. He had to make sure you were making your way back home safely—he…he had to fix the wrongs that he hadn’t even been a part of. Even by association, the knight was layered with a horrible guilt. Gaz can’t forget your eyes—your silver tint and the way your head moved; the way you spoke.

A stag. A deer. A hart. A creature that needed to be set free from the confines of stone and iron. He’d do it all over, but that was just his nature. Gaz was just—he was good. Kind.

Even the trees knew that.

Raising his head, vision blurry, brown eyes lock onto the tiny body of a white dove.

Staring, Gaz’s face slackens, blinking through the water and the blood until the image in front of him becomes clearer.

“L,” he stutters, voice failing before he clears his throat and forces himself further upwards as his arms scream at him. “Lysander?”

The bird has its head cocked to the side, a black obsidian orb stuck on him. It doesn't coo or flap its wings—it watches. Waits. Without anything, it takes to the air and flutters over to a large stump, body hopping until it rests once more with tapping feet.

Again, it stares.

Gaz gapes at it, moonlight over his armor, making it glint and shine even with the dents and long cuts. A flicker of hope beats in his breast, and with a deep breath and a broken groan of pain, his failing body is once more on its two feet.

“Take me to her,” he pleads in a breathy exhale.

Gaz may not be able to stalk like a wolf, or even walk like a human now, but if there was a sliver of a chance that a Fae princess was waiting for him, he’d follow even if he had to drag himself there on busted legs.

Lysander’s beak clicks and the bird flies from one landmark to another, following the trail of gems and leading the broken knight behind him.

On and on Gaz walks, not able to stop for fear he may not be able to get back up again. His pouch becomes heavy, his body likely to give out any second, when Lysander flutters atop a large stone face and finally stops. Collapsing to the ground, the knight coughs up blood to the ground, body a heap on the ground earth as he rests his head and pants like an animal.

“Christ,” he gasps, eyes fluttering as darkness begins to swallow him; a maw of a dragon right over his form, waiting to chomp down. “Where…” Gaz begins to ask, flesh shivering even through all of the layers of sweat he carries.

Where are you?

Brown eyes move from the bird to the trees, through the gaps between the trunks and the spilling moonlight. You were nowhere—nothing to be seen except the eyes of animals and the wind moving the branches of the silent watchers of this place. The trees here move, trying to tell him something. Ever since he’d met you, everything had taken on new meaning.

Gaz tried to focus on breathing, but it was getting harder and harder to keep conscious.

Lysander was doing something at the rock face—tapping his beak against the surface in steady intervals, only pausing to look down at him and tilt his head as if to ask, ‘Still alive down there?”

The knight glares at the bird, body losing strength until his chest connects down to the ground, eyes gazing off into the trees as the wind caresses his cheeks.

It was calm here. Gaz’s ears twitched at the sound of rock and stone, but the rapid hands on his cheeks captured his attention more than anything. His body is forced onto his back, a wide, terrified face blurred in front of him.

But that voice…

“Gaz!”

Oh, he could fall into this abyss happily if the last words he heard were you calling his name.

—

You rip the last of the hem of your dress to use as bandages and see your hands quiver in all of their blood-stained glory. Along the cuts in Gaz’s skin, you had threaded through the gold that had once belonged to your antlered crown—the needle, a fragment of the very same bone you had broken along a rock. You’d raced to the river and asked the water for help, and it had followed swiftly with the help of the wind to clean wounds and aches.

Now, you were wrapping what was left, the night beginning to slink back into the morning as you kept the break in the cliff face open to the air. The grass was awash with blood.

You both can’t stay here if you want to live by tomorrow.

Lysander had brought Gaz to you, and now, he lays on the ground with his cape under his head—your hands healing him the best you can. You poured your magic tirelessly, hour after hour, but you had to focus on the worst wounds first.

The slit on his stomach, namely—from an axe or some larger weapon, you know not, but it had left most of the carnage that needed to be attended to. If you were anything less than Fae, Gaz would be dead.

The thought ravaged your mind like a boar through undergrowth.

“You were not supposed to do that,” you mutter, fingers running the length of his tunic and grasping it, pulling the article down to hide the large scar that now moves up his stomach. Your head is light from the power it took. Plants and animals were so much easier; less to work with than human flesh. “Damn you, Knight. I would damn your name as well if I had the horrific pleasure of knowing it. Damn you.”

Such words were below you, but you can’t help how they come out.

You stare at his face, the light of morning barely giving it illumination. He breathes softly, and it is your only relief to watch his chest rise and fall—broken armor discarded to the side by your panicked fingers. His heartbeat.

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Your eyes flutter to it, trying to ease yourself as you take a deep breath and think.

You’re still too close to the castle for your liking. But he’s far too broken to move so soon.

Finger reaching out, your tips trail the raised skin of your glinting stitches, gold stuck between the flesh, peeling it back together along the forearm. All of it will scar. Violently so.

Your chest constricts, and you glare at his face.

“Why would you do that,” you hiss, growling in a tone that is foreign to you even if it still sounds elegant. A Fae’s wrath is one to behold. “Why? You owe me nothing, do you not understand that? You’re supposed to be a beast—a little man who…who…” you trail, teeth snapping as your head raises and whips away, nose to the air.

Yet, your crown had been broken just to save this human’s life. Willingly.

Mortals were supposed to be selfish. They were supposed to be like King Michael—that was what you’d been taught; that was what you knew.

But everything Gaz did was the opposite of that.

Love is a cage, you tell yourself again, and keep your face to the side. Unwilling to look down at the body that had been so eager to defend you.

You don’t like the wild feeling it makes breed like rodents in your heart, little claws moving up your throat and scratching at your teeth.

“...Gonna finish that sentence, Love?”

Your body startles, head snapping down to meet half-closed browns in an instant—you hiss. “Don’t speak, fool.”

“Fool?” A weak chuckle wafts out, a hoarse voice as a head tries to shift on numb bone. “That’s not very nice, then.”

“I should make your lungs turn to dirt,” your sentence makes his brow flinch upwards, amused despite it all. “Change the very fabric of your muscle into oak wood.”

“Moody, are you?”

Your eyes flash, and the grass around you shudders in answer as Lysander cleans his feathers a short distance away. Gaz tries a low smirk, softening his voice as his mind tries to focus above the noise in his head. “Joking.”

Your face is troubled, jaw clenching. You can’t admit to yourself how much at ease his open eyes put you. You sigh, blinking away the sharp edge of your expression—it shifts back to the perfect calm it always wears.

Gaz watches, your clothes torn and your palm still hidden away behind his cape’s cloth. He grunts suddenly, and the pain comes back in sharp pins as his face tightens.

You can only watch, mind trying to come up with a solution that you know you don’t have. Magic can only do so much...but you have to try. He’s earned that much from you, at the very least. Your hand goes and hovers over the man’s cheek, pulling back only once before it captures the swell of it.

Gaz swallows hard, and his eyes shift back through the haze of his shaking agony.

A kiss is leveled on his forehead, and it’s like the wounds cease to exist. He sags back onto the ground after a moment, skin tingling as magic runs its course through him like a stream of fire. It burns away the bad bits—keeping only the sensation of a princess pushing away his ails with a willing gift of her lips.

A small noise is made in the back of his throat before Gaz takes a long and steady breath. His eyelids flutter.

You pull back and place a hand on your head, grunting as the strength drains from you one wisp of magic at a time. Your skull pulses, and you know you’ve reached your limit. There was nothing more you could do.

A calloused hand runs up to grasp at your wrist, and you let Gaz pull it back, his fingers twitching with healing nerves as he takes the limb and levels it at his lips. He holds it there until you open your eyes and look at him, a line of sweat running your temple. The knight watches it fall, skin hot.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your hand, only letting it move away when he knows you understand his words. Gaz whispers even as his eyes fight sleep. “Are you hurt, My Lady?”

“Right now,” your injured hand still burns—it always will. You restrain a flinch because of it. “You must focus on yourself, Knight. Such concerns are not needed. You almost gave your life for me.”

The last sentence is uttered no more than a squeak of a mouse in an open field. The thought…troubles you. It…it makes you want to run.

Gaz smiles slowly, body mostly still.

“Well, I can’t let a beauty like you get hurt now, can I? That would just be bloody wrong of me.” A pause. You don’t seem to find his jokes very funny. Gaz’s heart skips beats when you look at him like that. He softens, and your hand once more runs the length of his bandages, making him shiver. It was addicting: touching him. Feeling the heat of his flesh.

“I’d do it again,” Gaz mutters. “I took an oath.”

“An oath to a King that was worth less than a rock on the bottom of the ocean,” you whisper. “It means nothing now.”

“It was never nothing to me.” Gaz’s eyes don’t leave yours. “Fighting for you will never be nothing.”

You shake slightly, face heating up. All of this is wrong to you—foreign. But why does it make you feel like everything will be okay?

“I didn’t ask for your protection, Gaz,” you try once more. One final attempt to keep your slipping self-control. Weak fingers skate your chin, usually such a high and mighty thing, now stooped low and bent just to gaze upon the feeble body of a broken mortal man.

A man who will die in a blink. A man that should never have made a dent in your unbreakable mind; your knowledge of lives innumerable. A man that you can’t look away from as he smiles at you like that. Softy. Openly.

Kindly.

Love is a cage.

“You never had to ask me, Stag…I would give my name to you, even if it was the last thing I had left of me.”

Your eyes widen; your breath hitches as if you’d been stabbed in the heart. You nearly reel back, horror and something more trapped in every vein in your body. Ludicrous. That…that was absurd. Laughable!

His name? No, no never. That was a lie; a trick. Something so powerful, just to be uttered away like that by a bloodless mind. No.

But not a single part of him is lying. Your jaw is slack in pure wonder. Struck dumb.

He wasn’t lying.

A low breeze goes through the trees—it slips past tattered clothes and the crimson grass. Whispering; talking in tongues you can’t understand at the moment above the noise from Gaz’s eyes. He’s still smiling at you, a knowing glint in his orbs as his fingers squeeze your chin. You catch his hand before it falls, grasping it without looking away. His pulse sings, and his throat releases a hum.

If love is a cage, you’d never wanted to be a prisoner more.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

588 notes · View notes

lacollectionneuse1967 · 5 months

Text

remembering you - part 2

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the truth of your and theseus's shared past comes to light at a very public venue.

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: romance.

warnings: brief but GRAPHIC descriptions of gore (war flashback).

part one / part two

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t expected of me.” The curse of the good son. The thought comes to Theseus unbidden.

Even joining the magical resistance at the beginning of the war felt like some preordained line of reasoning that he only had to follow.

He’d vowed to his parents that he’d always do what’s right for his community. He’d been asked to help, so he did. In all realms of life, he tried to be helpful and do what was asked of him.

He didn’t have to think about it.

But then: You.

Y/N swept into his life and spun his head around, turned his whole belief system upside down. He can only think of one other girl who struck him so profoundly, reached inside his chest and tugged him back into his body and the present moment, but that was years ago, and their encounter had been so brief…

The principles by which Theseus lived his life were simple ones.

Restraint. Generosity. Order.

All dashed to pieces with the touch of your lips. When you'd asked him to kiss you his only thought had been "Mercy." He’d started undressing you by instinct. He’d taken you on his desk, it seems more like an unwieldy fantasy than a memory.

He’s at home now. Dumbstruck at his kitchen table, glass of whiskey untouched.

He has the strangest desire to call his brother.

Newt, of all people! But he was probably galavanting around the world looking for Wrackspurts or trying to teach a Doxy to play fetch. They hadn’t spoken in so long, and Theseus had been negligent when it came to showing interest in his brother’s work besides that. He couldn't call on him now.

Theseus just needs someone to tell him what to do.

He doesn’t know what happened in his office. He just wanted to put his hands on you and then, once he did, he started burning up inside and couldn’t stop.

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N….

Your name was like a drumbeat driving him to insanity. A trance-inducing chant.

“What’s become of me?” he thinks, helplessly, head in his hands. “I’ve gone mad.”

He was supposed to marry well, unfussily and unremarkably. Find a respectable woman from a good wizarding family after building up his reputation as an Auror. He’d never touched a woman the way he'd touched you, so brazenly, so honestly, so entirely overcome with desire.

He’d never thought much of love.

Even before today, he’d been distracted at work. Powerless, really. Writing to you occupied his every thought. Even when you took a little longer to respond, what he felt wasn’t impatience but agony. He hung onto your every word. His default daydream had become storming down to the Department of Magical Games and Sports and standing before you, making you see him, he loved you and he wanted you to deal with it too.

“Tomorrow,” he thinks and it eases some of the tension. He blows out the candle floating above his kitchen table and gives up on the whiskey, snatching the glass and pouring it down the drain.

Tomorrow he’s decided to tell you that he needs you, that he loves you, although he’s not sure what it means yet. Maybe that will help him clear his head, silence that roaring need. Confessing to you will be like letting blood.

Yesterday your beauty had taken him by surprise, discomposed him, yes. But he reminds himself that he knows you. From your letters.

He loved you then too.

And, aside from his feelings, he doubts there are any real secrets now between you.

-----------------

You want to ask Theseus if he dreams about the war too.

You wonder how many people in Britain return there, to that same reeking, muddied place lit-up with gunfire, in their dreams every night. You wonder if you could meet him there.

But no, Theseus wasn't in the trenches. He wouldn't know about how the mud is different there. Evil. Cursed. You'd long given up on trying to describe it to your sister, make her understand.

No wizards, not even those a part of the underground resistance, were in the trenches.

Your powers were wasted down there, how silly and indulgent magic seemed with people dying everywhere, dying badly, with less dignity and honor than stray dogs.

You remember trying to use magic wherever you could anyways. You remember your hands and your medical knowledge being, shockingly, more useful. When a man's limbs are shattered in opposite directions, when a man's face has been shot off, when a man is bleeding out, when a man....

You remember that first night, after Theseus and your family had left you, the numb-shock of seeing a man's brains for the first time. The sensation that came over you was less startling and more like paralysis or ice water. They were grey and had splattered onto your face and the ground before you. The men shoved his body over the top of the trench, throwing him at you to save him, not realizing he had a hole in his head. You stared at the soft, grey chunks on the floor and your mind unfeelingly conjured up images from the kitchen: chicken hearts, boiled ground meats, uncooked egg whites. It was so random you'd almost laughed.

War made the grotesque banal.

And all for what? That pointless tract of wasteland. Bodies at various states of decay, laid out like a rotting carpet.

You wonder what Theseus did to get called a war hero, you didn't think there were any heroes in the Great War. To you it was a tragedy of gross political malpractice.

They made a grave of your home in France. You couldn't have returned there, not ever.

You only ever went back there in dreams, where you couldn't seem to remember that the war was over.

It made you feel guilty in a distant, half-realized way, how you never wanted to talk about it or think about it in your waking life. When your siblings wrote down your name in a tribute to the combat nurses at last year's Armistice Day, you'd been blind with rage. Inconsolable with a nameless, blooming betrayal. "Nameless" because you couldn't say what they had betrayed.

Which is why this year's Armistice Day, today, you'd resolved to avoid all grief celebrations and talk of glory and war and to think only of the future. Of happy things. Of Theseus.

Theseus.

Yesterday you'd slept with him.

You'd actually taken him into your arms and body and then just let him take and take and take. You'd only asked for a kiss, but you'd found yourself unable to say anything but yes and please to him.

This fact made you blush the whole way home. Made you unfold his "goodnight" message from days before and read it again and again just to see the ink of his writing on paper, just to prove that what existed between the two of you was real.

At work yesterday he'd kept writing to you, just like he promised. Afterward, at the end of the day, he came to your desk and walked you to the Atrium, kept his hands in his pockets and looked at you fondly when you spoke, with an attention like sweetness. He was a gentleman--what happened in his office aside--indisputably so. You'd felt good and safe by his side. Like you belonged there.

Until you got home.

It was your mistake to open up to your sister. It didn't help that she kept saying that she couldn't believe you, that she'd kill him, that "it's all so unromantic."

You spared her the details, but you wanted to just blurt out and admit that it was the both of you begging for the other at intervals.

He'd gotten down on his knees, for crying out loud! He didn't coerce you into anything. All he coerced were inappropriate noises from your mouth, but, no, you couldn't tell your sister that...

Your argument continues in the morning, picks up where it left off right after breakfast.

"I just feel like you gave up more than you bargained for, Y/N. Because you like him so much you're more at risk of-"

"I didn't 'give up' anything! God, I can't believe you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No, it's fine, really!" You're grabbing your keys and shoving them into your purse with force, pointedly not fine. "For the record, he was the one who said he liked me. And I was the one who asked him to kiss me, again! I'm not a child. The only thing I'm at risk of is finally getting what I want."

Your sister cries easily, famously. You can see it mounting now in the tremble of her lip. It almost topples over into a sob when she whines, "I love you Y/N! I don't want you to get hurt."

"He likes me! He's my friend. We've been talking for weeks."

"What if he..." your sister hesitates and for some reason it humiliates you, her censoring herself for the sake of your feelings.

Your shoulders go rigid.

"What?" you snap. "What if he what?"

She shakes her head but when you don't relent she speaks grudgingly.

"What if he does this a lot? Casual sex. Spontaneously sleeping with women. Maybe even coworkers. I just want to be sure you're on the same page, Y/N. He means so much to you, I know that, and he always has. But he doesn't even remember you...."

Sick. You feel a swaying illness in your chest and gut. For a moment you taste bile.

Her words hurt so bad that you don't even feel pain, the fight in you just dies instantaneously.

He doesn't even remember you...

"Okay," you say, staring blankly at her. "Okay..."

"Y/N-" your sister stands from her chair suddenly, but you jerk away from her.

"It's fine. Theseus can do what he pleases. Thank you for your concern, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."

You leave for work.

------

The chaos at the Ministry mirrors the chaos in your head, which isn't any real consolation.

Whizzing baubles and streaming banners are still being put up in the Atrium, the center of which lies a hulking, rectangular platform, scattered hauntingly with red poppies. It sort of reminds you of gallows, though you doubt anyone else would appreciate the humor in your observation.

The Ministry always did some sort of luncheon or memorial for Armistice Day.

Speeches, honors, sometimes a little parade, sometimes, conversely, observing four minutes of silence. The thought of being asked to go on stage horrified you more than the Western Front had.

As you walk to your desk, you think about Theseus again. You think about the war. Both inevitable, given the circumstances.

You think about the service he rendered your father and your siblings that night. You think about the chivalry he demonstrated in letting you hold onto your girlhood for a bit longer, his hand framing your face as he left it untouched and denied you a kiss.

You think about him letting you stay for the Battle of Verdun, and how it never made sense to you and it still doesn't now...

You have to know.

"I'll tell him," you think. "I'll tell him today."

------

There's a memo waiting for you at your desk. It makes your heart patter in gross relief.

"He likes me. He likes me," you remind yourself.

Your sister's words this morning must've really gotten to you.

"Urgent matter for the Interdepartmental Liaison of the Department of Mysteries!!!"

You roll your eyes. You're smiling stupidly at the paper as you write your response.

"Theseus, you can't keep writing 'URGENT' at the beginning of all of your memos. It's cryptic and dishonest and it loses its intended effect."

"Okay, fine. I was just going to ask if it would be terribly uncouth if I asked you to meet me in my office before the memorial so I could kiss you a bit?"

The thought of him putting his hands on you affects you more than you'd ever admit. You look around the office, blushing, as if anyone could read the paper from so far away. This man was driving you insane.

"Well, that's one way to honor the troops. You are a veteran so I suppose there's no turning you down."

You want to see him, you do. But you have a mission today from your Department. It couldn't wait and he couldn't know.

You're hoping to use the Armistice Day events to talk to Mr. Bragg, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or maybe sneak into his office. Too much time has elapsed already, you need to find out whether or not he is really betraying the Ministry for Grindelwald.

Theseus's reply is surprisingly earnest.

"Huh, I always thought today was more about honoring the fallen than honoring the veterans."

"True. Maybe no kissing until it's over?"

"Deal. I'll see if I can write you into my schedule."

"Not funny."

"If you want to see me so bad you could always commit a crime and I'll come arrest you?"

"Hey, you're the one who asked to see me!! And threatening me with a good time is beneath you."

You see a lone blot of ink fade-in from where his quill is pressed down onto the paper on his end. He's trying to decide what to write.

When the words come at last they are so simple and candid and enticing. Theseus has never been afraid of honesty or affection.

"I like you so much."

You laugh aloud. If he was here you'd kiss him breathless.

"Yes, you said that already."

"Forget the kiss, I'd kill even to hear your laugh in person. To see your face."

"I like you so much too."

-----

You're the last person from your level to make your way down to the Atrium for the Armistice ceremony. The noise from below sounds more like a motorcade than a memorial. Honking trumpets, trilling drumroll, applause. Funnily enough, you think your coworker Ana is the one speaking now, snatched the microphone from the Minister of Magic himself.

In fact, by the looks of it, you might've missed some of the ceremony already.

The Atrium is packed with people. Ministry workers brought their spouses, some their entire families. Well-dressed witches and wizards not affiliated with the Ministry have also come in droves.

You scoot along the edge of the room, moving sideways towards the stage, craning your neck to find Mr. Bragg.

The periodic sound of applause crashes down like heavy rainfall, the way it drowns everything out. It's a bit stuffy from all the body heat, and your clothes cling to your body uncomfortably.

As you approach the stage, you stop pushing forward and look up in shock to see Theseus's face. He doesn't see you, and you're glad for the chance to just look at him outright. God knows you could look at him forever.

He's waltzing down the steps of the platform smiling broadly. His gait is relaxed, he's comfortable in his skin despite the attention of being on stage, which is something you envy. There's a ribbon on his lapel and a red flower stuck in his suit pocket, a few men and women are trailing behind him.

They must have just honored the wizards who fought.

Next would presumably be some ceremony for the Ministry workers to honor their dead. Last year they'd done a magical memorial with floating lanterns. This year you'd been told it would involve stones, or maybe it was flowers? You didn't want to stick around.

It was painful enough carrying your losses inside of you, seeing loss and grief paraded and exploded all around you didn't feel therapeutic or healing for you the way it seemed to feel for the rest of the nation.

"Y/N!"

You turn without grace, neck jerking painfully. The sight of Mr. Bragg's face startles you, makes you feel found out. It's difficult for you to rein in your surprise. You have to shout over the sound of Ana talking onstage.

"M-Mr. Bragg!"

The older man smiles. He's with his department friends and his cheeks are rosy. Drunk, maybe. They're holding the flask between them like schoolboys, drawing more attention to it really.

It seems disrespectful to you. Most Ministry workers waited until after the memorial ceremony to start celebrating the end of the war and drinking to "peace."

But Mr. Bragg and his colleagues look positively jubilant.

"My girl! I was just telling these gentlemen how we have a real Unspeakable in our midsts now! Tell them how good the Department of Magical Games and Sports has been treating you, why don't you? Better than the Department of Mysteries, eh?"

The men he's with laugh and jostle him, they're about to turn back to the stage.

You're still reeling, sputtering from surprise, but you have to spit it out now, take your chance.

"Mr. Bragg! Wait!"

His colleagues' eyes go wide in delight, one of them looks as if he's about to bark an inappropriate comment. Mr. Bragg looks taken aback at your newfound attention.

It was nearly 1930 and some of the men in the Ministry still had such backward ideas about women, even coworkers, it took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Yes, darling?" Mr. Bragg's answering smile is eager and smug. Self-satisfied.

Gag.

"Um, I was hoping to talk to you in your office after the ceremony? About my position as liaison." He looks suddenly bored, turned off, so you give him your most flattering smile and add, coyly, "Alone. If you're not too busy, that is?"

That seems to gratify him. He adjusts his jacket impressively in front of his colleagues. One of them wriggles his brow indiscreetly and nudges him.

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N! It's about time you and I had a good talk, one on one."

Again, gag.

You smile, and it's a strain to, before bowing your head in thanks and moving on.

Well, at least that was settled. You could drill him with questions after the ceremony and, during the ceremony, you could poke around in his office for evidence of betrayal. It was perfect.

Too perfect.

It was your mistake for lingering near the stage. For coming at all, really.

It sends a jolt of liquid panic down your spine when you hear your name, magically amplified for the whole crowd to hear. It booms throughout the entire Atrium. It's bizarre to the point of feeling dreamlike.

"Oh, and is that Y/N? Miss Y/L/N! Please join us on stage! Everyone, how can we forget to honor our wartime nurses?"

This isn't real. If the crowd hadn't parted to stare at you after all of Ana's pointing, you would've continued walking away.

A man jumps off-stage to escort you to the staircase.

You're past the point of being able to speak or object.

Once onstage you stare out at the crowd unseeingly. The tops of so many heads. You'd rather be at the summit of some great height, looking out at some cloudscape. Your fear of heights seemed healthy, whereas your stage fright was a simultaneously useless and formidable thing.

You regret befriending Ana. You regret telling her about the war, telling her anything about yourself at all.

You are sweating.

And, impossibly, Ana is still talking.

"-and at only sixteen years old! As a volunteer wartime nurse, Y/N Y/L/N stayed for the entire ten months of brutal fighting at the Battle of Verdun in Northern France. 300,000 dead and 400,000 wounded. She saved countless lives, muggle and wizardkind alike, indiscriminately. These combat nurses were the foundation of-"

Her last commendation draws some uncomfortable shifting and impressed gasps from the crowd. It's a mixed reaction, as views of blood purity were equally mixed.

Ana, in an asinine but expected turn of events, is still talking.

But you're no longer listening. You can't.

There are so many people in the crowd, but your gaze locks on Theseus almost immediately. You see his expression change in realization, his eyes widen and his jaw flexes, almost undetectably.

When he tears his gaze from Ana to you, you turn away.

He knows. Even if he doesn't remember, he knows.

You only know Ana's finished talking because of the crashing noise of applause, like the shore breaking on a cliffside. Your ears burn. You keep your head low as you exit the stage.

This isn't how you wanted it to happen.

You're torn between wanting to explain yourself and wanting to escape. Heart hammering, cutting through the crowd, you choose the latter.

You make for a secluded alcove of the Atrium, far from the crowd at its center, and sit on a marble bench.

You never lied to Theseus. If anything he was the one who lied. He said he'd remember you. He'd promised.

"It's okay," you repeatedly run your hands over the material of your skirt, over your thighs. It's meant to be reassuring, grounding. You don't feel like it's working. "It's okay, Y/N."

You'd like to say it was the stage fright at work, but no. It was the way he looked at you that was so upsetting. He looked at you like the earth was shattering.

"Y/N!"

Your head lurches upwards from where it's bent over.

It's shocking to you, the sight of him. As shocking as it was to see him in his soldier's uniform, standing in your doorframe on that night all those years ago.

"Y/N," Theseus walks over with heavy footsteps. He looks winded and undone, like he'd run to find you. His voice is weak. "It's.... How can it be you?"

There's a desolate longing to your returning stare. Your chest hurts. You're shaking your head, trying to dispel some of that tightness in your heart.

"You said you didn't need a name to remember me...."

"Did you remember me?"

"Of course," you're speaking so fiercely, he doesn't deserve it but you can't help it. "Right away."

Why is it more embarrassing to be the one who remembers? It's even more embarrassing than being forgotten.

"That's why I stopped writing to you that day," you add pathetically. "After I saw your face at the Ministry, I'd put the pieces together. All it took was once glance."

Theseus sits down beside you on the bench, still looking adrift. At a loss of what to do with this information.

"You must be disappointed," he says at last. "And you must think me a fool."

"Well... I don't think you're a fool," you hope that doesn't reveal your disappointment, but his pained wince suggests the opposite.

"I should have known," he says with newfound vigor. "You really haven't changed, have you? Even after your coming-of-age, you're still as stubborn as ever."

That makes you laugh, dreary as the sound is.

"I didn't come of age I just sort of... came through."

He laughs at that. "You know, I've seen far more of your siblings."

"Really?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"No, not really..." None of you liked to talk about your father's death or the period surrounding it. Too painful.

"Well, I spent a good week with them. With your father too, obviously. I had to make sure he was receiving proper care."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Your sister didn't understand much of what I was saying, the same for your father. But I spoke with your brother often, his English wasn't half bad."

You groan. "What did you talk about?"

Theseus seems pleased. Eager to demonstrate to you how much he remembers.

"Of course I asked him if you really were a combat nurse, had to make sure I didn't just send a teenager to her death," Theseus explains. "So he told me about the first time you came to help out in the trenches. Some story about the men catcalling you, telling you ways to make yourself prettier, and you shouting 'It's not my job to be beautiful!' at them and tightening the tourniquet of the man you were working on. Your brother told me he yelped so loud that none of the other men dared to bother you again."

You laugh breathlessly. It's so strange to hear the memory come out of Theseus's mouth. Everything about this feels impossible. Ridiculous.

"Did my brother share any other anecdotes about me?" You turn to Theseus with a wry look on your face.

This is oddly pleasant. Doesn't feel so awful anymore, unearthing the past together.

"I wish," Theseus's smile is toothy and endearing. Sly look in his eyes. "Naturally I asked almost exclusively about you. When he talked about you he called you by some pet name? I tried to use it to find you after the war before I realized it was only a nickname."

That makes your heart stir.

It was stupid. Impossible.

An unhappy coincidence. Those were all that seemed to keep you apart.

Theseus had tried to find you.

But [your brother's name] was so young at the time, he'd only ever thought of you as [your nickname] and never "Y/N." It wasn't his fault.

"I was so curious about you," Theseus continues. "Although I was proud of myself for not kissing you... You were too young. And I was relieved it was me who left last and not one of the other poor sods who came along, who knows what they would've done if a girl like you asked for a kiss."

"I wouldn't have asked them!" you protest, and his smile as he shirks off your playful hit splits your heart, you love him so.

Theseus raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "No? I thought you just wanted your first kiss before the battle. Didn't matter from who."

You shake your head.

"No.... I didn't even think to want to be kissed until I saw you. And until I realized my life was going to change forever. I'm an opportunist, I guess..."

The last part is meant to be a joke but he's not reacting accordingly anymore, he's hanging onto your every word.

And he's definitely looking at you too seriously for you to admit that you found him severely attractive. And kind. Observant and receptive, like he saw through you. Mostly handsome.

"I just," you cringe at yourself. Cower away from his searching eye-contact.

"What?" he prods. His smile is teasing this time, like he's hoping to charm the truth out of you.

"I just wish..." you wince at the words as you say them. "That you would've remembered me. It sounds silly, but I used to think about that night a lot as a girl. I handed over my siblings and my father to you, and I would've given you my first kiss, and more than that maybe... I still don't understand why you let me stay and fight in Verdun. I suppose it makes me feel even more silly, knowing it didn't mean as much to you."

The more you speak the more you watch his expression dampen. Theseus purses his lips unhappily.

"I'm new at this, Y/N."

"New at what?" You don't know what he means.

"And I'm already messing it up, aren't I?"

"Theseus," you say. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"I just," he dips his head back in frustration. "I have thought of you and that night, often. I just never imagined you as a grown woman, Y/N. During the war, you'd become something like a guardian angel in my mind. Forever sixteen. But when I met you two days ago, I knew..."

It's so difficult for him to find the words it seems. He keeps grimacing and shaking his head to himself.

"I knew when my body reacted that way to seeing you. Every part of me rejoiced when I saw you sitting at your desk. It wasn't like meeting you for the first time, it was uncanny. Like... immediate recognition. It felt like I was remembering you, Y/N."

You place a hand over his sympathetically. It's warm under yours. It still makes your head spin, touching him at all.

"You made such an impression on me, Y/N," he reassures.

"I was just a girl," you say, dismissively. "I was naive."

"You were courageous, more than me or any of my men. Braver than all the British Ministry. It shook me, meeting you. Reminded me why I decided to fight, I'd become so jaded."

You have nothing to say to that. He fills in the silence.

"So you didn't want to become a nurse after all then? After the war, I mean."

"I never wanted to be a nurse, I just..." Death all around you. You just wanted to stop feeling helpless. "I wanted to help."

"I never wanted to be a soldier," Theseus offers congenially. "I just wanted to do what's right. That night you reminded me why I was there in the first place. You reminded me to be brave. I was ashamed of how little I thought of the muggles. And there you were, going off on your own, risking your life for them. Before you, I just wanted to minimize losses. But you made me want to save people."

Your lip wavers. You're staring into his eyes, into that pure blue, that dark sea. It's entirely inappropriate, but you'd like very much to kiss him now. You won't ask this time. You'd like to press yourself against his suit, no words can articulate what you feel for him, but maybe you could show him.

But then he speaks again.

"Y/N," there's a guarded, defensive edge to his tone that makes you hesitant. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer this at all, but I have to ask. Was that your first kiss yesterday? In my office."

You can't help but bristle. You're embarrassed. The look on your face reveals everything, so there's no use in hiding it. Damn him.

"Yes," you admit, hotly. "Was it obvious or something?!"

He groans, looks pale. His reaction horrifies you further.

"I shouldn't have done that," he's saying, he looks like he's going to be sick. "Falling all over you like a dog---I should've made it gentle. Sweet. Demonstrated an iota of self-control-"

"It's fine," you raise a hand, made shy by his self-deprecation. "We didn't do anything wrong."

That does give him pause. Theseus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. He has to recompose himself.

"You're right," he relents with a gentle shake of his head. "We didn't. I just mean... I would've made it good for you, Y/N."

"It was good," you insist. You're not sure if he's talking about kissing anymore.

"Let me try again, I'll get it right this time."

Your heart races.

You wonder when you'll get used to this, the knowledge that he wants to touch you, that he's going to give you what you want. Wonder when your body will stop reacting like a prey animal's every time you're near him, so strong is his effect on you. You want to run. No, you want to bare your neck, submit. Let love kill you.

Your sister's words from this morning are the only thing stopping you.

You have to close your eyelids before speaking.

"Theseus, do you...."

"Yes?" his smile is almost too dazzling for you to formulate a response.

"With other women... Do you do that sort of thing often? Not that it matters..."

For a stunned moment he doesn't react.

Then he is laughing at you. It startles you and hurts your feelings.

"Y/N, I don't--Oh, Y/N!" He hurriedly moves to reassure you when he notices the look on your face, reaching out and grabbing your arm. "Oh, no! I wasn't laughing at you, I swear."

"Theseus," you groan, hiding your face, humiliated.

"No, no," he says again, trying to gently pull your hands away so he can look you in the eyes. His hands are firm and persistent. He's still half-laughing as he speaks. "It's just that I've never done something like that before. Y/N, I don't know how to say it better, but I am dreadfully in love with you."

You look up sharply, instantaneously, to read his expression. It is serene and sincere.

No sign of a prank, no sign of a psychotic break.

Oh god. Your stomach plummets. He loves you.

He loves you.

"Theseus, I-"

"Y/N!"

Once again, Mr. Bragg has taken it upon himself to surprise you. You jerk away from Theseus on the bench.

Theseus closes his eyes and doesn't turn to greet him, his wrath is only barely veiled.

"Mr. Bragg!" You stand abruptly. "What-What are you..."

"The ceremony is over!" He seems annoyed that you don't remember, his pride bruised. "If I'm not mistaken you and I have a date in my office?"

Theseus makes a comically disgusted face, looking between you and Mr. Bragg in rude astonishment. If you weren't afraid of offending you might've been amused.

"He means an appointment, Theseus," you hiss in clarification. That seems to sedate Theseus if only slightly.

"And yes of course," you say to Mr. Bragg with a placating smile. "I'm all yours."

---

next part here

-----

author's note: part 3 (LAST PART) incoming! i had to break this part into two because it was getting too long :(

hope you enjoyed! more drama and smut in part 3

(spoiler: mr. bragg sucks + drunk!Reader and caring!Theseus)

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus x reader #theseus scamander x reader #hp fanfic #fbawtft

538 notes · View notes

k-atsukibakugou · 28 days

Note

congrats on two years!! what an amazing milestone to hit! 💕 i feel so lucky that i'm here and caught this!

if it's alright with you, i'd like to order one bloody mary (my fav) + one bakugo please. can't wait to see where this drink takes me 🙂‍↕️

bunny!!! thank u so much! n ty for being here my love! i hope you like your cocktail ehehehe birthday bash intro + rules + menu | event masterlist

a bloody mary, a classic, and the bartenders personal favourite, his speciality, the process second nature to him after years behind the bar; his muscles moving on their own accord to chop the celery, slice a lemon and pour the vodka, juice and sauce. he hardly even measured anymore, the recipe was something he could do in his sleep, he could probably rake in tips doing his pours blindfolded, they were always perfect anyway, he wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.

they’d even started making it a special the nights he worked the bar, but sometimes he needed a break from the monotony of it all, of pouring, of shaking, of measuring, of chopping, of straining. sometimes he just needed a pretty distraction.

“can i get a bloody mary please?” the moment you handed him the token for your free drink, bakugou knew you’d be the perfect choice for his game, so gorgeous, all done up to dance with your friends, your dress a little short and your shoes a little high, you even wobbled a little on your way up to the bar.

“sure you can handle it? we have margarita’s as well,” his eyes rake over you, his tone playful enough, poking fun even as he leans closer, resting his forearms on the dark wood. you stare up at him, distracted momentarily from fiddling with the strap of your shoe, meeting his vermilion eyes, a wicked twinkle shining nearly as much as his pointed canines, his lips pulled back into an easy, confident smirk, “i like bloody mary’s, thank you very much.”

you can’t help the attitude sneaking into your tone; first you wait in line for nearly an hour, your shoes are already hurting your feet, and now the bartender can’t even make you the drink you want? what kind of night did your friends rope you into?

bakugou tries not to let it show how your attitude makes his hips jump, how his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his skull at how you spoke to him, this game was always more fun with brats; getting to watch the attitude melt the wetter he got you, he wouldn’t even have to fuck you to leave your brain blank. nodding, he tried not to let his mind wander too far making your drink, the routine doing nothing to distract him of the thought of you under him, only able to spit out his name.

the chopping, squeezing, measuring and pouring happened before the bass dropped on the song blasting out of the speakers surrounding the bar, the only break in his routine when he got to the tabasco sauce. spinning on his heel to face you once more, he talks again in that infuriatingly seductive voice, “how much can you take, sweetheart?”

if your drink had been ready, you’d have choked on it, the gravelly tone of his voice making your heart spike and your legs wobble, even with the strap of your shoe fixed, “i’m sorry?”

“i’m just askin’ how much heat you can handle, baby,” the expression on his face is anything but innocent, holding the neck of the tabasco bottle between two thick fingers, shaking it gently for emphasis when you stared back at him. with a hot face, your eyes drop to the diamond label, a bloom of embarrassment burning low in your stomach. you were too sober for this kinda flirting.

“oh,” your voice is hardly a squeak, nodding rapidly for him to shake the bottle over the glass again, stirring the glass as he dashed more in,”when.”

“that much? that’s how hot you like it, huh?” he steps closer, impossibly lowering his voice, “c’mon, i know you can take more than that.”

your heart pounds against your chest, your thighs subtly clenching together at the sound of his husky voice, the dirty line making your mind wander further toward the gutter.

“tell me, baby, you want it?” your drink is forgotten underneath the counter, your only focus on the plump of his bottom lip, on the thin chain dangling around his throat, “you want it hot?”

you feel like you need to pinch yourself, surely this is a dream, you didn’t even know this bartenders name—”bakugou! you done with this?”

his eyes don’t falter from yours for a moment, humming deeply in response, “yeah, one second.”

still armed with that lethal smile, he garnishes your cocktail, displaying the neatly chopped celery, two slices of lemon and a couple of leaves of basil beside your straw, the final touches to his speciality. flipping over a napkin, he sits your finished drink atop it, you’re almost certain the drink isn’t as hot as you are right now, your body burning and buzzing without so much as smelling the savoury cocktail. sliding it across the short counter towards you, his dark eyes don’t miss a single one of your movements, eyes sparkling like he could see the daydreams already plaguing you, “enjoy your night, sweetheart.”

#mercurys birthday bash #「mercury answers」#「bunny <3」#「kat <3」#「mercury writes」#bakugo drabble #bakugou drabble #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader

58 notes · View notes

faithforgottens · 1 year

Text

𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆.

from the writer’s desk: i’d tell you i started this a year ago after deciding i needed closure on post - crying on newport beach about how i’m incapable of being loved but that would mean me unloading all over the dash, and nobody needs that. i’m just a girl, out here projecting like tomorrow’s not coming, and thought i’d share. please know that i love carol, i just had to pick a character that i didn’t have strong emotional attachment to in order to play my villain. motivation to continue this would be much appreciated, thnx. summary: you’ve been stuck in carol’s web for nearly four months now, and you need a distraction before you go postal and commit a capital crime or worse, tell her you love her. fortunately for you, natasha’s willing to offer her services. contains: college!natasha x female reader —— warnings include toxic relationship dynamics that involve infidelity, gaslighting and cheating, marijuana use, alcohol consumption, nsfw content [ fingering, dirty talk ]. → inbox status: OPEN don’t repost my works anywhere.

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN 💬 am i gonna see you tonight?

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN 💬 :(

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN 💬 hellllllooooooooooo??

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN 💬 I WANNA SEE U I MISS UR PRETTY FACE

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN 💬 pls come tonight. it would mean everything to me

You’ve never claimed to be smart.

In fact, you’re pretty sure you have to fall on the opposite end of that spectrum in order to bother showing your face tonight at the behest of Carol fuckin’ Danvers. Satan. It’s the work of the goddamn devil pulling you from the clutches of your apartment’s comfortable silence where you’d be much better off riding through the nuanced gut-punching waves of disappointing Carol guilt instead of the hell storm that is being played once again by Carol guilt. You even put on eyeliner for such an occasion, because if you’re going to get fucked over (either physically, emotionally, or both), you might as well look good doing it.

Her name’s still lighting up your phone as the Uber drops you off at the curb, boasting a flood of pictures on Snapchat that illuminate the awaiting scene inside of the frat house through blurry streaks of glass bottles and marijuana smoke and the pale expanse of her neck where a glint of her gold necklace flashes is promised to you to do as you wish, leaving behind bruises or lip prints. It’s an enticing picture painted for you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think maybe tonight will be the night she tells you she’s free from the clutches of Maria, her perfectly sane girlfriend that you’ve only ever known through Carol’s jilted lens, and that she’ll even let you climb her like a tree in front of her friends.

Lucky you.

Except you do know better. In the pit of your stomach, you know the reality is that you are in closer proximity than Maria, which therefore makes you the most convenient piece of ass at Carol’s disposal, that Carol believes — and is likely right about how — you’re still wound tight enough around her finger to make you drop to your knees like a good little girl, blinded by her golden halo of hair and the whiskey-soaked taste of her lips and ready to excuse her shit treatment of you. That even feeling like you have her for the beat of a butterfly’s wings is worth your sanity. And despite it all, it isn’t enough to keep you away. It’s not enough to exile the parts of a masochistic heart beating in your chest that somehow loves her, even if the only part of you she loves is your willingness to show up for her.

Carol’s fraternity is co-ed, which means that between all of the brothers, their social circle extends to the farthest corners of the university — they consume a fair bit of your own, considering you have at least two classes a semester with Bucky, sit with them at Wanda’s softball games (mostly so you can talk shit about your high school ex that made the team), and rent study rooms at least once a month with Thor, Bruce, and Val to spiral into late night insanity while you all contemplate the meaning of life and attempt to memorize vocabulary words. You slip in through the door, bass thudding into your molars and the heavy blanket of smoke and sweat covers your bare shoulders as you weave your way through the house.

“Look who finally showed up!” Behind the counter in the kitchen is Sam Wilson, running position as makeshift bartender. You detour long enough for a vodka and Diet Coke, stopping next to the barstool that Bucky’s perched on. He tucks you underneath his arm for a side hug, other hand tipping his own solo cup back as he tries to drain the last bit of liquor down his throat.

They’re good friends to you. It’s why you hate doing this dance with Satan — because at some point, you feel that there’s going to be a tectonic shift between the two of you that dredges up a rift in the concrete and you don’t know who will be left on your side. You don’t know who you’ll be able to look in the eye and lie to about Carol, who would pick you over her. You don’t even know if any of them would believe you or would write you off as crazy as you’ve been writing yourself off as of late.

You tell yourself that you’re trying, goddammit, to shove that piece of yourself back into a locked drawer and enjoy the company of your friends.

“Anybody seen Danvers?” you pitch as nonchalantly as you know how, planting your elbows down onto the granite of the counter while you watch Sam mix your drink. He goes heavy on the vodka, which you quietly appreciate.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, we’ve seen her alright.”

“She’s in the dining room trying to rally everyone into a round of strip beer pong,” Sam explains. “Last we saw, she got her shirt stuck in the chandelier.”

“The face of class, this fraternity,” you tease as Sam hands you your drink. He can’t help but laugh, a jovial, guttural noise that makes you smile, even though your stomach is currently in your throat.

You bid them farewell and snake through the living room, trying to avoid the furniture or the bodies of other people and almost always fail in avoiding both at the same time as you carve out a path to the dining room. It’s densely packed, which forebodes the game of beer pong that the boys mentioned. You try not to cut your elbows into the bones and flesh of others to make your way through, but your adrenaline is humming at the thought of seeing Carol, the thought of her body glowing in the house lights and the cut of her physique out on display for anyone, including you, to openly ogle without abandon.

“Goddamn, Danvers!” someone yells mirthfully. “Keep it in your pants!”

Whistling down to one thought, one track, your mind lasers in and you’re positive that the sharp point of your elbow nails T’Challa directly in the ribs as you finally make it to the inner lip of the circle around the dining room table. It’s desperate. You know it’s desperate. You'll care about it later, you’re sure, but for now, all that’s on your mind is her.

“For the love of fuck, I—” Someone stumbles back into you, dark hair in frizzy waves and the bill of their baseball cap nearly jabbing straight into your nose. Wanda Maximoff spins around, her eyes lightening up at the sight of you as she grabs onto your wrist to stable herself. “Oh! Hey, babe,” she says with a smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Me either,” you tell her, trying not to be blatant as you scan for Carol. “Carol didn’t tell me until last minute.”

“Boo,” Wanda pouts, before turning to yell over her shoulder, “Danvers! Fuck you!”

“Get in line!” Carol calls back, and your head locks in on where her voice comes from. Your stomach plunges into free fall when you see her: as promised, she’s standing around in her sports bra and jeans, white teeth glinting and blonde hair curling around onto her tanned shoulders, biceps on display and her arms snaked around — her.

Maria Hill, in the flesh, pressed against Carol’s side and her chin balanced on Carol’s shoulder as Carol makes a shot one-handed that successfully lands in a cup on the opposite end of the table. Carol cheers victoriously, and Maria kisses her cheek, and you notice that Carol’s hand on Maria’s side drifts down towards her ass.

All of Carol’s messages swim inside your mind, the ones where she assures you that it’s all real, that she and Hill are done, that Hill’s holding her back, that she’s felt things for you since the moment she laid eyes on you and just knew; the ones where she paints a beautiful picture of a future with you, the same picture she’s just doused in cheap spirits and ruined for the dozenth time. Your drink suddenly tastes like arsenic, heavy and uneven in your stomach, the room shrinking and heat crawling up your neck in an uncomfortable panic. You are going to be sick.

Wanda’s voice comes through in the midst of the ringing in your ears. Fuck you, Danvers.

It takes you a moment to realize that Wanda’s voice isn’t just a reverberation inside your mind, but is right in your ear. “Hey!” She calls your name again, and you finally snap your attention back to her. She scans over your face for a moment, eyebrows folding in the center of her brow. “You alright? Where’d you just go?”

The shock is fresh on your face, salt water from the crashing wave that’s irritating your eyes — you refuse to let yourself cry, here in front of everyone, because all that’s going to do is open the door to a conversation you don’t want to have, incite a fight with Carol that you’ll surely lose, leave you feeling even lower than you do at the moment. You shake your head, trying to shake whatever emotions that aren’t nonchalant off of your face. “Noth—nowhere,” you stammer, voice an octave higher than usual. Wanda’s perplexity only deepens. “More crowded than I thought. Got beer-splashed.”

Wanda breaks into a smile, seemingly buying your excuse. “C’mon, what’d you expect?” she ribs. It’s a loaded question, and if Wanda wasn’t Wanda, you’re sure it’d be enough to light your rapidly shorting fuse. The thin strain in your falsified smile must give something away, because she softens the slightest bit and wraps her arm around yours. “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll kick your ass sideways in pool.”

You appreciatively take Wanda’s out, allowing her to guide you away from the Carol show and the crowd of people you have steeled yourself in order to not cry in front of and head with her towards the basement, which the frat has renovated into a lounge space with a giant television, sectional that is infamous for its hosting of The Threesome, and the pool table. It hasn’t garnered quite the same audience that the beer pong game has, but less people means you feel slightly less suffocated. Carol’s still got her foot on your throat, but down here, it’s easier to maneuver and act as though you haven’t just had yourself made a fool in front of everyone without them knowing.

Relieved for the little things, like elbow room, you sit down on the arm of the sectional and take a long drink from your cup — if you’re going to survive the rest of the night without your tail tucking between your legs (and you’re determined to further your self-sabotage by going the extra mile to ensure Carol knows she fucked up, even though it’s likely she doesn’t care) you’ll have to be drunker than this. Wanda adjusts her hat on her head and picks up a pool cue, glancing back over her shoulder at you. “Want someone to show you how it’s done?” she teases.

You lift your cup in acknowledgment, smile shedding off of your lips. “Go for it.”

As Wanda weasels her way into the current game of pool, you do a quick intake of who all’s downstairs. There’s a few of the brothers, a few of the brother’s dates, people that are otherwise background characters designed to make campus seem at capacity but not so many people that no one would notice if you threw up in the corner or worse, started crying. You purse your lips around the rim of your solo cup, scanning the company around the pool table. Wanda sidles up next to another one of her brothers, poking her with the pool cue. “Nat!” Wanda whines. “Give me room.”

Natasha Romanoff shuffles out of the way with the roll of her eyes. “Poke me with the stick again and it’s gonna go somewhere less than ideal.”

Wanda flicks her middle finger upright before hunching around the shape of the pool cue. “You don’t scare me, Natty.”

“Your funeral.”

Your eyes follow Natasha out of the way, and she feels their weight because the next thing you know, you’re off the cliffs and deep somewhere inside the greenery of her eyes. They’re pretty eyes, you idly note, and you find yourself mulling over Natasha Romanoff, as a person, as a concept, as Natasha. She’s the oldest of the girls in the fraternity, a senior to your junior, and she’s been around for so long that it’s hard to remember a time when she wasn’t there. It’s hard to imagine a room without her in it, a constant fixture on the mantel that you don’t even bother acknowledging it anymore.

She cocks an eyebrow at you after what’s sure to be a long moment of staring, and Wanda, who is unfortunately more observant than you’d like to believe, begins laughing. “Am I interrupting this little staring contest?”

Natasha smirks. “I could win a staring contest and kick your ass at the same time, Maximoff.”

“Show off,” Wanda grumbles as she passes the pool cue over to Natasha. She then looks at you, and whatever grumpiness dissipates, her shit-eating grin returning. “Now, you on the other hand,” she preludes with a gesture towards you. “There’s no way.”

You drain the rest of your drink and discard the cup off to the side. "You talk a lot, Wan,” you inform her as you walk up to the side of the pool table. Wanda just grins as you turn to Natasha, gesturing for the pool cue. “Let me have a go.”

Natasha acquiesces and passes you the pool cue, giving you the space you need coupled with a low nod of encouragement. There are a few clusters of balls around the table and you’re trying to eye up a shot that’ll give you not only a handful of points, but will get Wanda off your back — even if you are grateful for the timing of her diversions.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough; you can still hear the laughter and music through the walls from upstairs, a raucous noise that scatters your train of thought. Is it Carol? What’s she doing? What’s she whispering into Hill’s ear? Does she know you’re even here? Does she care?

Probably not.

You take the shot without thinking, balls ricocheting off the sides of the pool table. Wanda barks out a laugh. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Just getting warmed up,” you say stiffly, handing the pool cue off.

Wanda’s face is alight with amusement, nodding slowly as she moves around the pool table for her next shot. “Okay.”

You’re too far in your head, and you know it. You’re content to linger on the outskirts of the game while everyone else that Wanda goes about recruiting takes their turn. It’s a few minutes or an hour before the cue ends up back in your hand, like a rickety sort of clockwork that is unexpected but also entirely predictable. You assess the situation and find a decent enough angle now that the game has progressed, significantly so.

You bend over slightly, eyes fixed on a blue ten that’s not too far from the cue. Before you can make the shot, you hear someone behind you muttering. “Do it like this.”

When you glance over your shoulder, it’s Natasha, only a few inches from where you stand, hands hesitating before she reaches out. “Back up,” she guides, her hands stationing on your hips and forcing you to take a half-shuffle of a step backwards. “And lift your elbow like this.” You’re clay and she shapes you how she wishes, her touch feather light. “Okay. Now try.”

You do exactly as she says, pool cue shooting from your hand and colliding with the cue ball. The ten you’ve had your eyes on sails into the pocket without any interference.

“Nice shot, sweetheart,” Natasha says, her voice ghosting along the back of your spine. As you straighten up, you glance behind you, noticing the faint grin along the curve of her lips.

“Well that wasn’t sexual at all,” Wanda comments with a low whistle as the pool cue returns to her grip. “Do losers get laid still? I wouldn’t know.” With a toothy flash of a grin, she draws the cue back and makes another shot — you’re not entirely focused on her efforts, thanks to the gravity of Natasha’s sights still pressing deep into your skin.

Wanda talks a big enough game that she recruits nearly everyone standing around the pool shot to give it a go, which provides a window of opportunity for Natasha to brush a hand along your shoulder and steal you away. “Up for a smoke?” she asks, and you nod. You allow her to lead the way out through the basement’s French doors, slipping outside into the backyard where the sky is dotted with stars, the air smells only the slightest bit cleaner, and the music is nothing but a dull pulse from inside the house.

Natasha steers you away from the patio where other fraternity brothers and their guests are sitting around, enjoying their drinks and laughing amongst their idle, stoned conversations around the fire pit. You follow her into the grass, trailing around the side of the house until the two of you don’t have any other company aside from each other and Thor’s knockout rose bushes that he takes great pride in.

She leans up against the wall, hands fishing in the pocket of her jacket for her lighter. For someone who’s devoted the rest of their evening to shooting metaphorical (or even literal) middle fingers in Carol’s direction, you’re still too far on edge to be nonchalant about any of it. The quiet is all consuming, maddening inside of your buzzing mind. Natasha produces a joint, embers burning on the end as she lights it and brings it up to her lips. You’re left to watch as she takes a long, casual drag, a cloud of smoke billowing from her lips on the exhale. Her wrist then extends, offering the joint up; if there is such a thing as too eager, you’d be the poster child for it, the way you pluck it from her fingers and take a hit.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, her voice a low drag of gravel against the muted bass thud inside of the house. You open an eye and glance over at her, her green eyes burning holes through you as she watches.

“Eh,” you mutter half-heartedly with a shrug. “Not worth it.”

You pass the joint back to her after you take one more drag, your eyes fixed on the steady stream of smoke that you forcibly control the exit from your mouth. It’s nice to have control over something, you think, even if it is, to some degree, just seeing how long you can hold your breath.

“Seems like you could use a distraction,” Natasha comments, fingers idly rolling the joint between her fingers as smoke still curls from the tip.

You laugh, a low and guttural noise that’s passive at best. “Yeah, probably.”

Natasha turns so her entire body is facing you, and it doesn’t register, the way that she’s looking at you, until you feel her brush your hair off of your face. Your eyes fully open, somewhat surprised by the action, watching her carefully. Natasha’s a lot of things, but gentle isn’t one you’d readily associate with her. It’s almost like she’s handling you like glass, waiting for the right moment to shatter you. It’s a hiccup in your chest, a strange feeling washing over your body.

“Let me distract you, then.” She says it simply, like it’s the most logical conclusion to arrive at.

“Nat, what...”

“C’mere.” One of her hands encircles your wrist, guiding you closer. You follow wordlessly in her guidance, unsure of what she’s doing or what’s to come. She takes another hit of the joint, her eyes glowing the same way the end of the joint does, a low burning fire that seems to grow hotter the longer your eyes are connected.

The hand holding your wrist slides up your body until she’s cupping your jaw, her thumb darting across the expanse of your face to swipe across your lips in a prompt to open them. She lowers the joint, bringing her face inches away from your own as her mouth forms a perfect circle and releases smoke. You’ve shotgunned weed before, but never at such a close proximity. Natasha breathes out and you breathe in, eyes fluttering shut at the intimacy of the moment.

“Gonna let me distract you some more?” she whispers, and you barely register yourself nodding before her lips capture your own. Her mouth is plush and soft but nothing about her is gentle anymore — this is where she forces a spiderwebbing crack across your surface, the deft way in which she manipulates your lips to do exactly as she’d like, her tongue skating across the skin and opening your mouth to allow her access. You can’t help but to sigh into the kiss. She is exactly what she claims she is: a distraction, a welcome reprieve, and the golden halo around Carol’s head seems fuzzy and jilted now.

Natasha kisses you like she’s trying to set you on fire; at some point she has absconded the joint and ground out its remnants into the mulch, both her hands cupping your face as she boxes you in with her legs and adjusts the two of you so your back is now flush against the wall. “How’s this?” she murmurs against your ear, lips starting a descent down your neck that is feather light and the gentle scrape of her teeth.

“Very... very distracting,” you stammer out, fingers curling into fiery red hair.

“Good,” Natasha hums, her mouth vibrating over a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone that causes your grip in her hair to tighten. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be so far in your head.”

You nod, thankful for the reward of her body pressing against yours.

“What d’you say?” Her voice ghosts over your skin, and for a moment, you’re not sure what it is she’s asking. It takes a moment, the weed and the liquor clouding your mind, but the dig of Natasha’s blunt fingernails into your hips and the graze of her teeth along your skin serves as motivation. “Huh? What d’you say, princess?”

“Thank you,” you gasp, the feeling of her mouth tightening around your skin wet and hot sending a glimmer of electricity down your spinal cord. Natasha chuckles, a dark and melodic noise that buzzes through your body.

“You’re welcome,” she croons. “’S that all you needed? Or do you need more?”

More. It’s the knee jerk response you have, the way your world has narrowed down to just her and the scent of her heady perfume and each individual curve of muscle is now flush against you. Your eyes open only to see Natasha grinning like she’s the fuckin’ devil.

Maybe you were misplaced somehow.

Natasha’s hands drag over your sides, up and down roughly as she kisses you and forces your legs farther apart so she’s able to snake one of her thighs in between them. She rucks your top up on the edges, fingers brushing over your skin in a delightful contrast to the cool evening air. Natasha is hot, her touch burning and singeing the skin wherever it moves. She’s painting you out of ashes and making you into something beautiful, something uniquely her own. Her hands slip underneath your shirt and you feel one hand trail upwards, fingers wrapping around your breast before squeezing. It elicits another tiny moan from you, which Natasha swallows down with a kiss. “Shh,” she hisses against your lips. “Be quiet.”

You arch into her touch as her fingers slip beneath the cup of your bra and pinch your nipple tight, another squeak of pleasure groaned into her mouth. It only encourages her further, the other hand of hers moving in the opposite direction. “Want me to touch you?” she whispers in your ear while you press your mouth into her shoulder, breath warm against your ear and her teeth just barely missing your earlobe. “Bet you’re not distracted now; only thing you and that pussy are thinking about is me, huh?”

“Fuck, Nat,” you mumble into her skin.

“Yeah you are,” she replies with a shit eating grin, your head tilting back until it roughly meets the back of the wall as her hand goes up your skirt.

You’d been meticulous prior to coming over, thinking on whatever lone star trailing in the sky that you’d be seducing Carol tonight; you’d purposefully worn your skimpiest pair of underwear just to show her what she could have if she was with you. It’s only when you see the look on Natasha’s face, the way her pupils dilate and her jaw slackens the slightest bit as her fingers skim in between the folds of your thigh and vulva and feels lace that you feel something resembling satisfaction. “You came ready for a distraction, princess,” she grumbles, moving your underwear to the side and swiping her fingers through what is now sheer want dripping from you. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“N... Nat,” you whine, squirming around in the pursuit of pressure. “Touch me.”

She places the tip of her finger at your entrance, just barely teasing it in. “Ask nicely, honey.”

The words spill from your lips without thought. “Please, Nat, please touch me, fuck m—” She cuts you off as she slips her finger inside of you and you all but rocket up the side of the wall at the feeling. Her free hand, still underneath your shirt, wrestles out from beneath the fabric and is slapped over your mouth to muffle whatever noise you make.

“Thought I told you to be quiet,” she says between her gritted teeth. “Here.” She presses her index and middle fingers against your lips and you acquiesce, opening them wide enough to allow them to slip in. “Suck.”

You do as you’re told, happy to oblige as she begins to finger you. There’s nothing soft or sweet about the way she fucks you; she adds another finger and finds a steady rhythm, curling each time she’s knuckle deep inside of you just so she can be rewarded with you humming around the fingers in your mouth. It amuses her to some extent, the way her eyes have darkened and her mouth is slightly agape. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and considering how tight you are wound, you’re not going to last long.

"Clench around me, pretty girl,” she hisses amongst the other litany of dirty things she’s whispering in your ear. “Such a sweet pussy, does whatever I ask it to; what if I want this pussy all to myself? You gonna let me have it?”

You nod, Natasha withdrawing her fingers from your mouth before she hauls you in for the filthiest kiss of your life. “Fuck,” you whimper against her lips. “Yours, Nat, your pussy.”

“Yeah, I know. This is my pussy now, all tight and hot and wet and desperate just for me. This was what you needed, wasn’t it? Needed me to fuck you silly until you forget how to put one foot in front of the other.”

“Please, Nat, gonna...”

“What?” she teases, her thumb flicking across your clit and you know that she’s doomed you, mind and body barreling down a track that there is no return from. “What, baby? Use your words.”

“Gonna come,” you manage to get out, and she fucking laughs.

“‘S right,” she agrees. “Gonna make this little pussy come all over my fingers, since I’m the only one who can. That right?” You nod; her fingers tighten in your hair and pull your head back so your neck is exposed for her. “C’mon, baby, wanna see you make a mess on my hand. Come for me like a good little slut. You know you want to.” You do, you do, and everything is bordering on the edge of too much the way Natasha is sucking your neck and rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Show me who’s pussy this is. Come.”

Another few thrusts and flicks of your clit and you are gone, Natasha bringing her mouth back to yours to swallow the keens and cries of you hitting your climax. The brick wall underneath you scratches at your shirt but it is a heavenly feeling, losing control underneath Natasha. She just smiles when she pulls away and you slump into her, perfectly sated.

“That was hot,” she says with a wicked grin, pulling her fingers out of you. She doesn’t break eye contact as she brings them up to her lips, sucking your taste off of them. Her eyes alight with pleasure, a contented hum reverberating from her vocal cords. “Thanks, pretty girl.”

Beat that, Danvers.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow x reader #black widow x you #black widow imagine #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #avengers fanfiction #avengers imagine #carlie writes things #writing: fics #i am a fan of wanda starting shit tysm #let wanda be the villain if she wants!!!! <3 #i have played pool exactly 0 times before so leave me alone

277 notes · View notes

paintedgrilledcheese · 3 months

Text

The DOA/RITHOTD preschool au!

The burning kitchen

It's another day in Mr. Goncharov's preschool class. The children were enjoying their free time in the classroom, playing nicely together so far. Little Sigma, the youngest of the class, was dashing back and forth between the pretend kitchen playset and the snack table where the kids normally eat their lunches. He was playing as the manager of his little pretend restaurant, and he was serious about it. Sigma wanted all his customers to be satisfied with his service, including satisfying the stubborn Mushitaro.

Mushitaro was a little vex to these games. If he was going to play, he made sure to be the antagonist and make the game much more difficult than it needed to be. Mushitaro liked playing the role of a food critic, always giving Sigma the unfortunate 4 star rating. This would always make poor Sigma upset. He believed that his restaurant was the greatest and DESERVED a 5 star rating.

After receiving another 4 star rating, delivered on a pink sticky note with poorly drawn stars and scribbles, Sigma huffed and stomped his little feet back over to the kitchen playset.

"PUSHKIN!" Sigma yelled in a high-pitched voice, which startled Pushkin. Pushkin was Sigma's one and only chef. "We got another 4 star rating from Mushitaro. I don't know what we're doing wrong. Are you slacking?" Sigma accused.

"I'm not slacking. I'm the one who's cooking, not you." Pushkin defend as he put a wooden block of milk into a plastic bowl with wooden eggs in it. "Mushitaro is being a meanie. That's what's happening. He doesn't know how hard I work to cook his order. I should put a dead cricket in his order next time." He muttered.

Sigma shook his head and protests. "No, don't do that. We'll lose customers."

"Why not? Crickets have nutritional value, my dad told me so." Pushkin argued.

"Nuh uh, bugs are gross and not meant to be eaten, you weirdo." Sigma was getting a little upset since he was scared of bugs.

"Yeah huh. You're just a scared of trying one." The two started to bicker. Despite this being a fun game for pretend, it was serious for them. If Sigma lost customers, the world would end in his little child mind.

The back and forth continued, calling each other names and getting so caught up in their petty argument (that was completely off-topic now) that Nikolai came over and threw balls of red paper into the plastic bowl Pushkin was using.

"Uh oh, seems like you got a fire!" Nikolai laughed loudly as Sigma screamed high pitched. Sigma yanked the bowl away from Pushkin and threw it into the pretend kitchen sink. But Nikolai continued to throw more red and orange balls off paper into Sigma's kitchen, causing a "fire." Nikolai was giggling joyfully as he watched Sigma try to put out this fake fire.

With all the commotion going on, Sigma screams, and Nikolai's laughter, Nathaniel came over wearing a plastic fire fighter helmet from Firehouse subs.

"Is there a fire?" He asked, holding an empty water bottle that he found.

"Yes. Please help." Sigma said in a panic. Nathaniel had a good look at the scene, seeing all the red and orange paper balls scattered across the kitchen playset.

"Hmmm, pay me first." He demanded.

"Why would I pay you?!" Sigma yelled, being extra loud.

"Because I'm going to need a lot more water to put out this fire, and I'm out of water." Nathaniel said with his logic.

"The money is burnt." Pushkin informed. Nathaniel looked at him straight in the eye before shrugging.

"Guess you guys are on your own then." Nathaniel turned to abandon them. Wow, what a great firefighter. Nikolai laughed more, watching all of this before running to leave the scene he caused. Sigma looked upset. He was upset. Sigma was about to throw a fit before Ivan announced it was snack time.

All the children were distracted by the announcement of snack time, including Sigma. Today was sugar cookie day, which cheered him up in an instant, forgetting all about his little game for now. During nap time, Ivan picked up and cleaned some of the room, picking up Nikolai's mess he caused in the pretend kitchen area. This brought joy to Sigma's face to see his kitchen wasn't on "fire" anymore when he woke up. All was well once again. Expect for that 4-star rating.

#Bsd au #Ivan Goncharov #nikolai gogol #sigma bsd #nathaniel hawthorne #pushkin bsd #mushitaro bsd #Took me over a hour to write #bsd preschool au

9 notes · View notes

wastheheart · 2 months

Text

tagged by: @newbrn | tagging: whoever hasn't & wants to steal from the dash!

— BASICS.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE ?

Short/average — 5'3".

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ?

Yes. It's not really something she's ever worried about until her first marriage, and even then it concerned her only in the way that her height put her at a disadvantage. It wasn't hard for Charles to really throw her around when he wanted to and there was little she could do to prevent it unless she used her nails.

As a child, she loved her stature as it allowed her to get into smaller places others couldn't fit. She often was tucked away reading or climbing trees, so being on the shorter side allowed her to be more nimble in these ventures.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ?

As a child, she was very blonde. Her hair gradually got darker as she got older, but her time spent outside maintained caramel highlights which naturally occured throughout her hair and complemented brown eyes.

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING ?

It has a loose curl pattern to it which, if she puts the effort into it can become far more obvious and pronounced, but she tends to throw it up into a messy bun while painting or working. Having worked on a farm, she knew the importance of keeping it out of her face and it's a habit that's followed her into this life, too.

If she's really trying with it she might use a curler to compliment natural curls, but she only really wears it down when she's sure it's not going to get in the way of her doing things. A lot of the time, she wears her hair down at events with Carlisle or if she's retired for the evening and curled up reading a book somewhere.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK ?

She does care about her appearance, but to the extent that she enjoys being put together in the eyes of others. With Charles, he had expectations in the things she wore, the way her hair was styled and even a dislike for natural freckles.

A lot of that carried into her immortal life, but with Carlisle's help, Esme began to really embrace the styles she enjoyed the most and more importantly, actively made her feel good about herself. When Alice joined them, the new addition to their coven didn't spare a moment in taking Esme shopping and helping her try new styles she was previously too scared to try out.

She might be self conscious about how others see her, but she's done a lot of work in learning not to care. After all, she's got an eternity of fashion to go and she's already gotten many a trend under her belt so to say.

— PREFERENCES.

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? ▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? ▸ FOREST OR BEACH ? ▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR / AND GEMS ? ▸ FLOWERS OR / AND PERFUMES ? ▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? ▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? ▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY ? ▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? ▸ SCIENCE OR / AND MAGIC ? ▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT ? ▸ NIGHT OR DAY ? ▸ DUSK OR DAWN ? ▸ WARMTH OR COLD ? ▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? ▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME ?

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ?

Giving until the point she burns herself out, but unable to accept the same in return.

Distracting herself from negative emotions instead of allowing herself to truly feel them.

She is also horrendous at reading just one book at a time. Becoming a vampire really shot her in the foot with this one since she no longer gets muddled between the books she's reading, so she can justify doing this far more often. It drives her coven up the wall with the amount of books dotted around the place, bookmark tucked in various places.

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ?

She lost her son after 9 months of waiting for him and only two days to truly love him. This is the loss that absolutely devastated her and caused her to end her life.

It should have just been the end there, but with Carlisle's intervention, she has had to spend eternity not only remembering that loss again, but having to deal with it again, too. Being able to work on the blame she held for herself in believing she was was the cause of her son's death has gradually helped her overcome the raw pain, but she still feels it every now and then.

Being able to do something with the love she carries internally is also a massive help. She can't be a mother which is admittedly a painful subject for her, but being able to provide that maternal role for her coven allows her to feel some sort of purpose.

Her other loss was that of her parents. Not in the traditional sense which made it all that much worse. Instead, she had to grieve them while they were alive and come to terms with the fact that, after their unwillingness to help her out of an abusive marriage, she could never have a relationship with them again. This hit all that much harder when she left Ohio for Wisconsin.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ?

Finishing her first novel as a child. It really opened up a whole other world for her and from that moment she was hooked.

Meeting Dr. Cullen after breaking her leg in that small, Columbus hospital.

Holding her son for the first time and inhaling that intoxicating newborn smell.

Waking up to Carlisle after her transformation.

Her and Carlisle's first date; the first time they told each other they loved one another; his proposal; their marriage; their honeymoon.

The first time Edward called her mother and watching each member of her family become comfortable enough around her that they feel okay to seek her out for help/comfort when needed.

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ?

As a general rule, no. Even as a vampire, she's not exactly a fan of taking anyone's life. As a newborn she cared very little about killing and what it meant— she just wanted the burning in her throat to cease.

When she gradually regained her human memories and built up her control, Esme began to feel differently; much like she had as a human. As her anger faded in exiting her newborn stage, Esme's compassion and empathy simply deepened and she began to feel things more intensely such as the value of life and what she could do to improve things with her newly gifted immortality.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ?

Ugly, mainly. She does a very good job of being there for everyone else all the time that she absorbs a lot from them as well as carrying her own baggage.

Usually it accumulates over something miniscule and usually only in the safety of Carlisle's presence. He is the safest person in her life and so, unfortunately, is also the only person she can truly bear her entire soul to.

It takes her a long while to recover from them too. It's frustrating and she is always working to handle things more healthily, but she is comforted that Carlisle loves her the same regardless.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE?

Yes. Carlisle is truly the person she trusts with her entire life; it's more meaningful to her knowing that she was his singer and, even when he changed her, he had the self control and desire not to kill her.

She also trusts her coven with her life too, but the trust and bond she shares with Carlisle is incomparable.

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ?

Esme genuinely thinks that she is amazing at playing it cool around the person she loves. It was beyond frustrating for Edward when Carlisle and Esme realised their mutual attraction. Neither her or Carlisle wished to make the first move and she cannot thank Edward enough for his patience.

She is someone that notes every single thing that brings her significant other happiness; from the mundane to the grandeur, Esme knows what can bring a smile to their face.

She is also very big in spending quality time with them and just appreciating them as a person. She is invested their beliefs, dreams and any regrets they might have. She doesn't just want to love them, but be a friend and confidant. Needing to know the good, the bad and the ugly is essential in making sure she can love every aspect of them.

#;the heart (esme) — character study #;dash meme

2 notes · View notes

l-lend · 1 year

Note

Congrats on your follower milestone!! We aren’t terribly close but I enjoy seeing you on my dash and wanted to help you celebrate! So, for the requests, I wanted to ask for a fluffy fun cooking scenario with Wrecker and Kimber (or reader if you rather, but I’m a sucker for OC’s and always want more of them -v-)

Hey there,

I'm glad you messaged me after making the request. It would have changed the tone of the fic entirely if it was Wrecker and Kimber cooking together instead of Wrecker and Rina. Hope you like some cute cooking fluff, and thanks for being patient.

Wrecker x OC (Rina)

Warning(s): fluff

A com device chirped for a few moments before a hand groped blindly to find the offending noise.

“Yeah?”

“You sound tired, Rina.”

The woman chuckled, “I'll sleep when I'm dead, boss lady.”

Rina could hear the half hearted huff through the device.

“Just thought you'd like to know, we're coming in now. Might have some down time for a few days while Tech has some repairs.”

Rina clicked her tongue, “I'll make myself decent.”

Once the line was cut, Rina rolled out of bed plucking up some clothing that lacked the odor of work.

A short walk and a drink order later, Rina curled up at her post by the bar. Her back to the door as she kept an ear out. The clinking of credits changing hands. The systematic clicking of the parlor's rigged games of chance happily snatching up credits to feed the house.

Her drink was nearly gone by the time the familiar commotion met her ears. She raised her drink in greeting, but the feeling of a strong arm curling around her waist curled the corners of her mouth.

“Hey big guy.”

“Hey pretty lady. When'd you get in?”

“Couple of rotations or so. The girls are out today with smol so I'm not even babysitting today.”

“Yeah? Means we coul-”

“Wrecker, are we going?”

The pair turned to see the smallest member with her head cocked to the side. Rina huffed a bit of a laugh before tapping the clone's hand with her own.

“You're not breaking tradition because of me. Go on, you can meet back up with me later.”

His eyes searched hers for any sign of dissent, but violet hair swished as Rina jerked her head to the door. A grin tugging at her lips.

“Get going. I'll tell em where you went.”

After a quick squeeze and the a peck to her head, the partners in crime bounded off to the markets leaving the lady mercenary with her now empty drink. The blush along Rina's cheeks showing no signs of settling down due to his previous proximity. With Cid occupying the rest of the squad, Rina shot off a message for Kimber before she headed out. At least with him distracted, the hangar that passed as the girls' domicile could get some attention.

The door swung open with Rina making a b-line for the canvas lined space that passed as her room. The ruins of what could only be described as a clothing bomb were snapped up to be stashed away for laundry day. Her datapad moved from its usual post as her bed fellow to the crate currently doubling as her night stand. The woman's cleaning supervisor, a black and blue tooka doll, keeping watch atop her pillow as the sheets were snapped into some semblance of order.

At hearing the door swing open paired with the sound of heavier footfalls, Rina straightened up and parted the canvas that granted the space its privacy. Her target locking eyes with her as soon as she peered out from the canvas curtains. The large clone quickly closing the distance between them. His smile broadening as he plucked her up. Color blossoming across her cheeks as his lips graced her heated skin.

“Missed you.”

She melted in his hold, her head nestling against his chest, “Missed you too, big guy.”

She remained for the moment breathing him in before she tilted her head up finding his gaze fixed on her.

“Got a surprise for you from my last job, doesn't come with a payload though.”

“'s alright, what is it?”

“Gonna need you to get the heating element and that grate down for me.” Her lips feigned a pout, “It's too high up.”

“You got it.”

The contact of his lips against her cheek still held warmth long after he set her back down. After she took her time watching the large clone retrieve the items from the shelf as if they weighed nothing, Rina revealed the vacuum sealed packages with a triumphant flair.

“Some nerf herder liked how Lex and I handled poachers on his property, so we got a little something extra sent home.”

The look she got in return had her suppressing a smile, “The guy was actually a nerf herder. Promise."

A brief series of clicks brought the heating element emitting an orange glow with the grate plopped on top shortly after. The packaging crinkled under Rina's fingers, as she soon freed their dinner. A quick sprinkle of a spice or two and the two slabs of meat spat and hissed as soon as they made contact with the grate.

"Had no idea you could cook."

Rina chuckled, "I'm passable with a few things. Just don't tell Irys or she'll rework our chores arrangement again."

An arm coiled around her waist, "wouldn't dream of it."

Being brought back into his hold was a welcomed inevitability. As routine as a moon pushing and pulling the tide. She tilted her head back to met his gaze.

"You staying the night? Been a bit cooler on planet lately."

Wrecker's expression twisted up in concern.

"Is the heating out? I-I think we may have some extra-"

A mirthful sigh through her nose and her hands captured his head. An attempt to keep his mind from running off with his worry.

"Easy, big guy. I just didn't know if you'd be sleeping over with me. I know the ship's cramped."

"I don't mind it. Not a lot of things built for a guy like me."

Rina pulled free only to tend to the steaks. The aroma pleasantly wafting to the rest of the hangar. He watched as she tested the give of the meat as she regarded it with a much focus as he had seen in his brother when piloting the Marauder. Her lips pursed every so often practically begging to get another kiss.

He easily slipped a finger under her chin before guiding her to his lips. Heat spilling into their veins that spurred them further into their lip lock. It was the petite smuggler that abruptly broke free of his kiss. Her affection drunk mind surfacing long enough to bring her attention back to the steaks.

“Shit.”

A flick of her fingers in a clipped upward arch separated the steaks from the grate to avoid charring the poor cuts beyond recognition. Once a plate was under them, she relaxed her gesture allowing the meat to drop. Her face scrunched as she studied their meal.

“They..might not be as rare as I'd like em.” She said offering the plate, which he took while she shut off the heating element.

The silence between the pair stretched until Wrecker broke it.

“You know, this is kinda nice.”

Rina offered a shrug, “Well, might start having to make nerf a staple then if you like it.”

“No...I mean yes that'd be great, but...” His free hand pointed from himself to her, “this. I like this.”

The playful roll of her eyes was all he needed.

“Alright big guy, I'm not getting all sappy until after we eat."

#wrecker x oc #L's follower celebration #this was fun #I can enjoy some domestic stuff #wrecker #tbb wrecker

25 notes · View notes

franstastic-ideas · 11 months

Note

Oooo, O Y Z for that alphabet ask game!

O - Choose a song at random. Which ship or character does it remind you of?

Sometimes I think about Mizuki singing Not Into You by Brooksie to Green whenever he tries and fails to capture Leaf's heart post-HGSS, in an effort to harass him into leaving her alone.

"Dude, she's just not into you. Gotta move on, move on..."

It doesn't really work, maybe slows him down with doubts at most, but it's the thought that counts?

Y - What are your secondhand fandoms (i.e., fandoms you aren’t in personally but are tangentially familiar with because your friends/people on your dash are in them)?

Monkie Kid!

I've been meaning to watch the show for a while now, I've seen several scenes from the first season, but I always end up distracted with another series or something whenever I tell myself I'm going to.

(Ao Lie is soooo cute, though. He's a silly man.)

Z - Just ramble about something fan-related, go go go! (Prompts optional but encouraged.)

Whenever I write, my chapters or stories usually span between 15K to 20K words, and sometimes even more than that. So it usually takes a lengthy amount of time to produce a single chapter or one-shot more often than not, and that's been a point of contention between myself and past readers on occasion.

I've been told that I should break up my writing into smaller sections so that way I can post/update more often, but I have an order and because of this doing that feels extremely messy.

2 notes · View notes

galactic-pirates · 10 months

Text

Saw a lot of Ahsoka posts on my dash earlier and had a small ahhhh!! that I had misremembered the air date. But no it’s ok it is still August 23rd.

Anyway I have a lot of fears about this show (and a lot of anticipation) because it’s my beloved Ghost crew.

Honestly though the biggest fear in my mind right now is that Ezra is going to be the masked bad guy. I know he dabbled with the dark side at the start of season three, and it’s a lifelong struggle. I know in Jedi Survivor Cal Kestis faced his own version of that struggle which might lead to more in the next game (I presume there will be a third). So it’s not without precedent and maybe that’s why I don’t want it.

It just feels tired to have Ezra fall to the dark side. Yeah he could find a way back to some kind of life like Reva did. I also know that as Ezra played no part in the sequel, with Luke or Rey, that he has to be written out somehow and that a happy ending probably isn’t on the table. A similar fate no doubt is in store for Cal Kestis to keep him off the board somehow.

I’m not one of those that hate Order 66 survivors because there is still only a handful out of 10,000. It feels a hell of a lot more realistic to go with the idea that a first cut got a lot of them. First strike decimated the masters especially, as they were in the thick of the war, or had younger Jedi to protect. After that it was hunting down the escaped Padawans, or the knights who had been on solo missions etc. They would have never established the Inquisitors if there hadn’t really been any to hunt. Time on the run cleared up almost everyone over the years between Order 66 and A New Hope. So I find it realistic that there were survivors, I like it as a story, but I hate it because they decided that Luke had to be the only Jedi from A New Hope on which puts an unfair expiration date on all the other characters that we care about.

Personally I don’t see why they had to go in that direction. The rebellion was more than one cell. It always was. So yeah there weren’t any other Jedi alongside Luke for the three original trilogy movies. Didn’t mean they weren’t out there - could just have meant they were doing other things. The first Death Star mission got laid on fast, the second they had time so it’s a little more suspect they wouldn’t have called back any other Jedi to help, but then again they didn’t need them. Just people blew up the second Death Star, just people dealt with the ground force. Luke’s mission was more personal than anything and yeah a great distraction and ensured the Emperor ‘died’ but that was hardly the main goal.

Anyway I want Ezra to have made friends in Wild Space, connected with more awesome cool creatures. To have a lot of stories to tell his family when they find him, and it can all be warm and loving because they didn’t doubt one another. And he has that solid certainty of a Jedi that he really came to own in season 4, and he protects his family and tells Jacen all about his dad. Just Ezra being grown but still himself and still family.

Maybe it’s a cheat to say “just because we didn’t see it doesn’t mean it wasn’t always there”. But why not? Adding new material is at its core filling in blanks. If some of those blanks include more Jedi being alive for longer then I am ok with that.

I just don’t want to see Ezra all twisted and agonised, and have to witness Hera and Sabine grapple with him being lost, and all the anguish of having to fight their family. Just no. Been there, done that, bored with it. Give me supportive family instead, thank you.

#sam rambles (a lot)

1 note · View note

fmp2georgiathompson · 1 year

Text

Different types of sidescroller backgrounds

I decided pretty early on that I wanted my game to be a sidescroller so I discussed this with Chris

Parallax - Parallax scrolling is when the background is moving at different speeds depending on hoe far away it is from the foreground of the image (as seen in the video below). This can be achieved in many different ways such as layering, this technique only works in systems that support multiple background layers that can be scrolled independently in horizontal and vertical directions and composited on one another, simulating a multiplane camera. On such a display system, a game can produce parallax by simply changing each layer's position by a different amount in the same direction. Layers that move more quickly are perceived to be closer to the virtual camera. Layers can be placed in front of the playfield the layer containing the objects with which the player interacts for various reasons such as to provide increased dimension, obscure some of the action of the game, or distract the player.

youtube

Platformer - A platformer game is essentially Super Mario Bros and that sort of game, in order to be a platformer game the player must navigate through an environment to get from points A to B by going in one continuous direction, and must consist of uneven terrain and suspended platforms of varying height that require jumping and climbing to traverse. Other actions might be needed to cmpleate the game and travel to different platforms such as using vines or grappling hooks, jumping off walls, air dashing, gliding through the air, being shot from cannons, or bouncing from springboards or trampolines.

2.5 D - 2.5D was first created by the game company SEGA and are essentially a mash between a 2D sidescrolling game that has 3D elements to it, most 2.5D game use a 2D sprite/character and combine it with a 3D environment. 2.4D game can also have a different perspective to a normal sidescroller, for example, a game may be played from an isometric perspective (seeing a 3D object in 2D), which is also referred to as axonometric perspective (same thing but with parallel lines), will use 2D objects that will present as 3D. The isometric viewpoint gives the illusion that the game is 3D when it isn't.

Scrolling - A side scroller is a type of video game where a side view camera angle is used for action viewing. Side scrollers are generally in 2D with game characters that move from the left to the right side of a screen. Some side scrollers require users to move in one continuous direction, most of the time its done from left to right because that's the way that the English read.

Scrolling game doesn't just have to be a side scroller it can also be a vertical scroller such as Commando or even a Multidirectional scroller like Fortnite.

2 notes · View notes

eldmandate1 · 11 months

Text

Here Is a Lowdown on Ensuring Fleet Safety ELD Mandate

Safety is a crucial aspect of being a trucking business owner. There are a number of safety concerns that every driver should be aware of to stay on top of remaining safe at all times through their journey. Any compromise on fleet safety practices and one could be at the receiving end of a mishap.

This blog by the well-acclaimed ELD Mandate, known for our new-age trucking technologies that have contributed to the trucking industry in more ways than one, aims to give a lowdown on some safety tips in order for you to run your trucking business worry-free:

The driver is at the center of ensuring fleet safety due to their (crucial) role behind the wheel. Everything and everyone will seem to be alright when the person at the helm is exercising all the cautions.

Stay Focused: in no way can you (drivers) be distracted while on the road. Steer clear of phones, kids, billboards, scenery, etc. as you are driving on the highway. Loss of concentration even for a minute can have some grave repercussions for you and your owner. So stay laser-focused when on the road, and allow nothing and no one to distract you.

Avoid Fatigued Driving: this is one of the major reasons of highway accidents, especially in the context of long-haul drivers who keep on driving hours on end without any break. This must be avoided at all costs. It is important for drivers to take breaks for their much-required rest. So pull over to the side to get rested. Experts also recommend rotating driver duties.

This also highlights the importance of an ELD device for fleet owners. This will help drivers strike a good balance between work and rest. With the device in place, one is able to view real-time record of the time one has already driven and number of hours left before calling it a day. The real-time tracking will make the working environment much easier and safer for the driver.

Exercise Caution in Poor Conditions: this is a no-brainer. You should have the expertise of driving well and good in conditions, such as snow, rain and fog. It is always wise to pull off to a place of safety as you await the storm and wait for it to pass.

Vehicle Maintenance: this is one of the most crucial aspects of vehicle safety that unfortunately, often is ignored (not paid much heed to). There is nothing like making sure your vehicle undergoes maintenance at regular intervals. The importance of always staying updated on your brake work, tire rotations, tire pressure, headlight/taillight bulbs, oil changes and all fluids cannot be stressed enough.

Some other crucial tips for drivers include for them to always keep a tab on their speed (in no way should one exceed the speed limit or drive below the stipulated speed limit), having the seat belt on (it reduces the likelihood of someone getting injured by as much as 50 percent), and avoiding any danger arising from driving under the influence of alcohol.

ELD Mandate has been a pioneer in bringing to the forefront some cutting-edge trucking technologies that have proved to be a game changer for the trucking industry. Our technology solutions in the form of the Tail Light GPS Trackers, Smart Dash Cams, and more have revitalized the whole trucking industry. If you wish to know more about our products, without further ado call us on 800-968-1869 to speak to our representatives who are available to attend to all your doubts and queries around-the-clock. Make an informed choice in regards to investing in the right trucking technology with our experts in tow.

#gps tracking #smartdash cam for trucks #eldmandate #eld hos #eld #smartdashcam

0 notes

sweatertheman · 1 year

Text

I havent finished Homestuck, but I have in my mind a general picture of where it's going. More complications where a goal is set, dashed against the rocks, and everyone just sort of runs around staring into the cold uncaring universe and having discussions that don't really go anywhere, forever, until eventually the bad guys, (probably Lil' Cal or some derivative as I recall someone saying English is not very important) are beaten and our heroes retire to doing the same things they usually do, just as immortal gods now.

And frankly, I sort of wish it didn't have to be this way, as much fun as it is.

I had some thoughts about an alternate version of Homestuck more focused on the issues our beloved Beta Kids have.

I was thinking about John (alternatively June, I don't think a Toblerone is the best reason to make a character trans post-canon, but, I won't judge what people like) and how his story could have been different. Along with the other kids too.

Forget everything you know about Homestuck, and imagine that John Egbert is the heir to the Betty Crocker Corporation, or some analogue to it. That, or in some way his father is important in the company. John is 13. He's an immature and irresponsible child, and the pressure of one day taking his father's position, making money, having responsibility, is something he is very worried about. It weighs on him a lot. He stops wanting to talk to his dad, who is always talking abkut the business and baking cakes. In fact, he can't stand even looking at any kind of baked good. He shuts himself in his room, playing video games, chatting with friends online, and generally distracting himself from that weight. His Strife Specibus is a hammer, as it is the prospect of work, of responsibility, that causes him strife. And here, on his 13th birthday, too paralyzed by the prospect of a responsibility he isn't ready for, John Egbert has become Homestuck.

Now consider one Dave Strider. Dave lives with his enigmatic older brother, who spends all his time locked up in his room, managing his various multimedia endeavors. Most days, Dave doesn't even see his brother, barely anything more than a whoosh as he moves between rooms. Dave too, is 13. He's feeling insecure, but his brother isn't there for him. His brother barely provides him the basic ammenities he needs to survive, and most of the house is a wreck, filled to the brim with puppets and swords and the like. Dave doesn't have anyone else. He needs love and support from his brother. He needs to be seen. He hides behind shades like his brother does. He acts stoic, so as to seem cool and capable. He tries to mimick his brother to connect with him, and he spends every day trying to do something, anything, just to earn his brother's love and support. Dave's Strife Specibus is the Sword, as it represents glory and stoicism. Dave wants to be seen, needs to be the best, because maybe then, someone will actually respect him. And just like his friend John, he too, is Homestuck.

Skipping Jade and Rose for now because its 1 AM.

I think in this alternate Homestuck, the events Sburb might ONLY be game constructs. In order to truly win, John and his friends, have to stop hiding away. They have to confront their issues. The purpose of Sburb is to help these kids grow, to come into themselves and see the world in different ways. In the end, perhaps, They would all return to their houses to turn off the game, only to find themselves back at home as though nothing had happened.

John telling his father he isn't ready for the responsibility of being an adult.

Dave confronting his brother for being neglectful.

Jade being able to move on from her dead grandfather and let go of her anger towards him.

Rose asking her mother if she loves her, as opposed to assuming she hates her and that people are just naturally terrible.

And it is in confronting their anxieties and their anger, that they can Unhomestuck themselves.

That being said, smuppet ass, self-fulfilling clusterfucks, troll cum buckets, Doc Scratch Definitely Not Being Mad When Things Don't Happen Exactly How He Wants, alternate universes, and Fruity Rumpus Asshole Factories are also acceptable.

#homestuck

0 notes

izoryotaro · 2 years

Text

The Screwtape Letters

This book was interesting! I was prepared for it to be Christian but it was really just Lewis’s skeptic-turned-Christian philosophy in epistolary form. So I can’t say I loved it as much as I thought I might, especially given that there were no real characters nor plot involved, but I did enjoy it, and there were some great lines! I’ve collected my favourites here, in the order they appeared in the book. (keep in mind the demon Screwtape is always the speaker)

It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.

I gather that the middle aged married couple who called at his office are just the sort of people we want him to know -- rich smart, superficially intellectual, and brightly skeptical about everything in the world. I gather they are even vaguely pacifist, not on any moral grounds but from an ingrained habit of belittling anything that concerns the great mass of their fellow men and from a dash of purely fashionable and literary communism.

If prolonged, the habit of Flippancy builds up around a man the finest armour-plating against the Enemy that I know, and it is quite free from the dangers inherent in the other sources of laughter. It is a thousand miles away from joy: it deadens, instead of sharpening, the intellect; and it excites no affection between those who practice it.

... as one of my own patients said on his arrival down here, ‘I now see that I spent most of my life in doing neither what I ought nor what I liked.’

Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one -- the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turning, without milestones, without signposts.*

You should always try to make the patient abandon the people or food or books he really likes in favour of the ‘best’ people, the ‘right’ food, the ‘important’ books.**

Your efforts to instill either vainglory or false modesty into the patient will therefore be met from the Enemy’s side with the obvious reminder that a man is not usually called upon to have an opinion of his own talents at all, since he can very well go on improving them to the best of his ability without deciding on his own precise niche in the temple of Fame.

... in making them think about it we make them think of unrealities. In a word, the Future is, of all things, the thing least like eternity. [...] gratitude looks to the past and love to the present; fear, avarice, lust and ambition look ahead.***

Men are not angered by mere misfortune but by misfortune conceived as injury. And the sense of injury depends on the feeling that a legitimate claim has been denied.

The pleasure of novelty is by its very nature more subject than any other to the law of diminishing returns. And continued novelty costs money, so that the desire for it spells avarice or unhappiness or both.

The use of Fashions in thought is to distract the attention of men from their real dangers. We direct the fashionable outcry of each generation against those vices of which it is least in danger and fix its approval on the virtue nearest to that vice which we are trying to make endemic. The game is to have them all running about with fire extinguishers whenever there is a flood, and all crowding to that side of the boat which is already gunwale under.

Once they knew that some changes were for the better, and others for the worse, and others again indifferent. We have largely removed this knowledge. For the descriptive adjective 'unchanged' we have substituted the emotional adjective 'stagnant.' We have trained them to think of the Future as a promised land which favoured heroes attain -- not as something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes per hour, whatever he does, whoever he is.

A woman means by Unselfishness chiefly taking trouble for others; a man means not giving trouble to others. [...] a man will live long in the Enemy’s camp before he undertakes as much spontaneous work to please others as a quite ordinary woman may do every day.****

Cowardice alone of all the vices is purely painful -- horrible to anticipate, horrible to feel, horrible to remember. Hatred has its pleasures. It is therefore often the compensation by which a frightened man reimburses himself for the miseries of Fear. The more he fears, the more he will hate. And Hatred is also a great anodyne for shame.

[the Enemy] sees as well as you do that courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means, at the point of highest reality. [...] Pilate was merciful til it became risky.

The creatures are always accusing one another of wanting ‘to eat the cake and have it,’ but thanks to our labours they are more often in the predicament of paying for the cake and not eating it. Your patient, properly handled, will have no difficulty in regarding his emotion at the sight of human entrails as a revelation of Reality and his emotion at the sight of happy children or fair weather as mere sentiment.

----

*This quote was what made me add this book to my to-read list way back in high school!

**From a wholesome (but not succinct) passage where the patient goes for a walk and reads a book he enjoys, and Screwtape chews Wormwood out for it. 'Didn't you foresee that it would just kill by contrast all the trumpery which you have been so laboriously teaching him to value? And that the sort of pleasure which the book and the walk gave him was the most dangerous of all? That it would peel off from his sensibility the kind of crust you have been forming on it, and make him feel that he was coming home, recovering himself?' (It's not concise but it's great!) And later: 'I would make it a rule to eradicate from my patient any strong personal taste which is not actually a sin, even if it is something quite trivial such as a fondness for county cricket or collecting stamps or drinking cocoa. Such things, I grant you, have nothing of virtue in them; but there is a sort of innocence and humility and self-forgetfulness about them which I distrust.' A few lines later is the quote I included above.

***The best parts of an interesting (but again not succinct) passage about how the Present is the closest to eternity (Lewis actually names Boethius later, but not here); how the Enemy wants people to only think about the Future insofar as planning tomorrow's acts of goodness is part of today's duties; how on the other hand, Screwtape wants a man "hag-ridden" by potential Futures that he either wants to attain or avert. Another good line: 'We want a whole race perpetually in pursuit of the rainbow's end, never honest, nor kind, nor happy now, but always using as mere fuel wherewith to heap the altar of the future every real gift which is offered them in the Present.'

***The sentence cut from the middle is about how women drive men up the wall with the fussiness of their form of Unselfishness. It just wasn't as snappy of a criticism as the line about men. There also follows a great passage about how with more than two players (such as a group of adult siblings), he suggests the Generous Conflict Illusion, where no-one says what they really want, but make it clear that they'll do something they don't want 'for the others' sake', while it's clear to the others that they're doing it for 'petty altruism', and pretty soon 'a real quarrel ensues with bitter resentment' on all sides.

#quotes #C.S. Lewis #The Screwtape Letters #bette reads

1 note · View note

turnmarket4 · 2 years

Text

Playing A Better Game: Guidelines For Baseball

Basketball is among America's passions once and for all explanation. Lots of people enjoy playing the overall game only for the pure fun from it, when other attempt to be the better player they are often. Eventually you can find people that grow to be skilled gamers. But regardless of your cause of enjoying, follow this advice to assist you to boost your game. Uncover your best talent in baseball and concentration on that, as opposed to trying too much to become superstar person. Mentors need to have particular plays and gamers, not expensive display-offs. Process and perfect the best drills and ensure you can get involved with these exact goes as soon as the coach and group demands you most. If you wish to involve the entire family in a game of soccer, make it flag soccer that you simply play. Flag soccer is significantly less dangerous than dealing with, therefore it works well for all many years of participants and all of sexes too. You may have a whole bunch of loved ones connecting time with all the activity. An effective football tip would be to usually continue to be low if you're around the offensive or protective range. Staying lower allows you to keep grounded and gives that you simply stronger position to block or dash the other gamer. Furthermore, it causes it to be much harder for you to get knocked on your back.

Whenever a new baseball technique is a winner, usually do not overuse it within your video game. You may be lured to repeat it mainly because it worked well, but utilizing it regularly will quickly have the opposition mindful of what you're up to. To enhance accuracy and reliability as being a kicker, find out the best way to strike the soccer ball. A lot of kickers create the blunder of kicking together with the front side from the ft .. Instead, they will be kicking together with the aspect in the feet. It can raise precision along with extended distance and could acquire the overall game. When your aim is to become a quarterback, be sure you process with plenty of distractions. Though Tom Brady tends to make maneuvering within the wallet appearance effortless, it's really quite intensive, and that's enough time most players get some things wrong. Practice when you're beneath a lot of tension and learn how to make clever choices with lightning speed. สล็อตออนไลน์ Area targets help your team earn games. When you're all in the fourth-lower maneuver, make an effort to perform a industry goal. That ought only be done when your crew is around sufficient for your kicker to kick in between goal posts in to the finish region. A prosperous industry objective will internet you three details. Nothing is more valuable than teamwork. It's not at all times simple to recall the crew in order to be an NFL star, however you should. One person cannot succeed a baseball online game. It will require a group. The genuinely fantastic gamers comprehend the importance of a group. They already know that amount is a lot more crucial compared to personal components. Learning to obstruct when you have the soccer ball is essential to scoring points. You are unable to seize your hands on the defender's jersey whilst stopping. To help guarantee you may not get yourself a call of keeping, keep both hands off of the defender by only utilizing your forearms during the obstruct. Try to find community instruction courses to improve your routine. Some health clubs may possibly provide baseball-certain courses or lessons that can assist you build up your capabilities before the year commences, or perhaps in the course of it. Their knowledge can provide you with assistance that you simply couldn't get out of your trainer or another athletes on your own crew. Get in touch with assist your teammates. You could possibly perform another situation than they do, however, you may still offer you help. If you see someone having difficulty, provide to perform drills with him, for instance. It may be that they need help from the industry. Search for approaches to be helpful which will create teamwork. Work out whenever you can. Soccer gamers can usually benefit from strength training. Weight training can help you execute greater on the discipline. Operate every part of the body. Don't only focus on your forearms and chest area. You need energy within your hip and legs to force off of properly within the scrimmage collection. Take note of what your location is in the field constantly. You must maintain your brain up and know where the other gamers as well as the soccer ball are always. This will help avoid unintended accidents that can injure you or even the other player. Never ever see the floor whilst working. The most effective reaction you can have to teach your athletes how to become far better baseball athletes is to train the fundamentals. Continue to keep issues simple and easy educate. As gamers grow older and a lot more experienced, you are able to train them harder takes on. Even then groing through basic principles will keep even most knowledgeable person on the right track. As you can tell, there exists significantly to discover football and how to be a better participant. The real key to becoming a fantastic player has just as much with regards to actual expertise because it does with the perspective on and off the sector. Utilize the recommendations from above to be a far better throughout player about the discipline.

#12iwinr #คาสิโนออนไลน์#สล็อตออนไลน์#หวยออนไลน์

0 notes

ohmysparkle · 3 years

Text

📖🍑📘 Pretty please 📘🍑📖

Pairing: Hyunjin (Stray Kids) x Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: anal play (male receiving)

Note: this was previously posted on my old account. It’s been reworked.

🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘🍑📘

You’re lying against the pillows and headboard of your bed. The apartment is quiet, the sun is setting, and you’ve got a warm light coming from your nightstand to illuminate the book you’re reading.

Hyunjin is laying over your legs, your body and his making a strange cross that meets at your hips. His pelvis rests against yours, his long legs to one side of you and his torso to the other, face down, playing games on his phone. Your book rests atop his buttocks and you hold it open with one hand as you stroke up and down his back, all the way to his hair, mindlessly petting him with the other hand as you read. He seems so cute like this, occasionally making a little hum in content or tilting his head back so it fits into the cup of your hand. He’s wearing a soft set of a matching gray sweatshirt with sweatpants, and his hair has just dried after his shower and it’s all soft and plush.

Soft soft soft all over he is, and you can’t resist his warmth and at some point slip your hand under his sweatshirt to stroke the line of his spine over his soft and warm skin. It still has just a tinge of moisture and plumpness from the shower, with an almost suede like texture. Even just feeling him under the pads of your fingers is a comforting pleasure,but he’s just so scrumptious that you could eat him up and that fills you with shivers and the urge to pinch and squeeze him from time to time.

Eventually you’re tempted to just circle one of his perky little bum cheeks with the palm of your hand, rubbing around in gliding figures over the grey cotton. You don’t think much of it, it’s almost mindless on your end until your books start to shake around because Hyunjin wiggles his hips and arches his back so his peachy bottom is raised. You quirk an eyebrow, and give him a playful spank as a warning to stay still. After all, you’re just getting to the good part of your novel. It’s more of a pat with the tips of fingers than a spank, and yet Hyunjin continues to distract you by making a nasally whine that lets you imagine the matching pout on his face.

“Pretty please.” He finally pleads, setting down his phone.

“Shh. Just give me a moment, pretty man.” To soothe him a little, you continue to rub your palm over the curve of each of his buttocks, with more intention and intensity than before. Nonetheless, you keep reading.

You just love feeling the firm flesh and it’s warmth beneath the fabric. The crest of each cheek fits perfectly in your cupped palm, your fingers mindlessly trace over the valley where they both meet, and your favorite part- you find the softest, tenderest bit of flesh in his body right in the junction where his cheeks meet his thighs. You slip your hand between his thighs so that you can cup that area and rub over it with your thumb, admiring how it’s the only part of his lean body that has such squishiness. He’s so so so soft and warm there, you could pinch the softest and plumpest bit of flesh right in that corner and he’d squeal like a little piglet - damn it, you’d already lost all interest in your book.

You pretend to read while you focus on teasing the waistline of his sweats, slowly slipping them away. Unfortunately for both of you, there is yet another barrier met in the briefs he wears beneath, and Hyunjin is still wiggling his hips to help you slide the bottoms away.

You snap the book shut and toss it aside. You grip the hem of both bottoms and he immediately understands he is to arch his back and raise his hips for you to slip them away and expose the beautiful milky curves of his bottom in one swift movement. Smooth, soft, warm, perfect. His clothing rests at the bend of the back of his knees, and you run one hand over the back of his thighs up to his ass, back and forth, while your other hand kneads one of the mounds of flesh, taking care to grope it so it spreads from the other in order to expose his pretty hole. Admiring the colors and textures of his flesh makes you emit a whiney sigh to match Hyunjin’s increasingly loud mewls. He’s reaching an arm across his side of the bed to rummage about his nightstand, and he eventually hands you a little bottle.

He’s eager and impatient. You’ll take your time though.

You spread both cheeks, seeing how the little ridges of his hole spread about as well, that pretty darkened skin that contrasts against his pale cheeks, and the pretty pink flesh within that just threatens to peek out if you just spread them enough. You can feel his cock nudge against your thighs and the valley that leads to your pussy, it’s still soft, and you’ll go slow and make sure not to touch him too much so you both enjoy this for as long as you can.

You tease and tease, tickle and rake with your nails, push his flesh apart and together, pinch the little supple and jiggly bits of his inner thighs. Just a pinch, you think, just one little pinch to hear him cry, and so you latch onto a tender little pocket of fat that’s just too damn cute to resist and he cries. It’s a pathetic and needy, airy whine, that’s oh so beautiful and makes you throb between your thighs.

“Pleeeaaase.” He whines again. He bends as best as he can to cast a look over his shoulder towards you, and you pet his hair back comfortingly, to which he responds by nudging your hand with his head like a kitten.

“Alright prince, just lay down.” You say, stroking his back as you press him down and you feel him sink into the mattress with his next exhalation, letting his body rest limply. You push up his sweatshirt as best as you can to expose more of his body and his fit little waist.

You take the bottle of lube he handed you, clear and unscented, velvety in texture. You let a dollop plop right over his tight little pit, and of course you maneuver his hips to let the glob of liquid spill around, earning another desperate whine that makes you giggle. It’s so beautiful how his puckered pink hole looks all glossed up, and how it twitches when his muscles clench with tension and anticipation.

Hyunjin cries out again, more of a whine that accompanies the exhalation of his breath. He’s more relaxed, and peacefully resigned to the fact that his body, and it’s pleasure, are completely at your will. He knows you won’t mistreat his trust and vulnerability toward you - you never would. All you do is treat him well, lovingly, protectively. Even if you tease him, and you give him a certain type of pain and suffering, it all adds to the sensual and intimate pleasure you give him, and it’s never something he doesn’t enjoy. So he accepts your delay in giving him what he wants, because you know more than him how to bring pleasure to his mind and body.

After enjoying the little hymns of pleasure he emits, you decide to end his suffering, and drag your index finger back and forth on the line along his ass to make sure you’re coated and slick with the lubricant, before beginning to prod at his hole with just the tip. His natural reaction is to clench in his neediness, and as soon as he releases his hole is more eager to take you in and he effortlessly swallows you up to the first little bend. You nudge at the ring with the sides of your digit until you feel he’s stretched enough for the rest, and as soon as you feel the smooth and velvety texture of the walls inside him, it’s like he just sucks your finger in. So warm and wet, you slowly remove your finger and add more lube for good measure, before plunging right back in.

He’s all quiet, focusing on the sensations and admiring them, and anticipating your next move. He doesn’t know if you’ll be gentle and tender and you’ll kiss him and caress him all over, or if you’ll go into one of your wild moods and you’ll make him cry and slap him around. He’d love either one equally, but for now he’s just treasuring the feelings you give him. You knew exactly what each nook and cranny caused him to feel, you knew all his sweet spots and you could feel your cunt pulsating with every whimper and moan that he’d let out due to your actions. You focused on just poking the right part of his walls enough, twirling your finger around for extra effect occasionally, until you finally added your second finger. Hyunjin whimpers and let’s out such high noises that would be almost uncharacteristic of him in his composed state, you love this display of his vulnerability and sensitivity.

As much as you admire how his hole stretches along with the movements of your fingers, Hyunjin eventually snakes one arm to his back with his palm faced upward. It’s a gesture that means he wants you to hold his hand, which you gladly do as you lock eyes with him until his own lids are screwed shut from the pleasure. You can only admire his creasing features, his wet and glossy lips, that slimy little tongue that looks like a piece of candy that occasionally pokes out. Your fingers lace with his and you treasure every little squeeze he gives you and the meaning behind it.

He’s shaking more now, and with all the stretching you can press and rub the right spots hard enough and he lets out little yells in the tunes of “aaah”s and “ouuuh”s and they are loud and adorable and vulnerable. They get even louder when you press even more firmly on a tender and wet bundle of flesh inside of his tiny bottom, and he’s squealing and tensing all over.

You feel the moment the tip of his warm cock becomes wet, you can feel the patch he’s left against the bare skin of your thighs. You wind him down with your fingers, massaging him with more softness and rubbing the top of his hand with your thumb. His little hole pulsates, clenching and releasing rhythmically as your fingers continue to fill him. Eventually he slides off of you and you dash off to wash your hands, and once you return to him you peel your clothes off at the end of the bed and hug his cozy, clothed torso, nudging your head to his and kissing him back to his senses.

“You okay, handsome?”

“Mmm…” he nods, poking your face with the tip of his nose until his lips meet yours in a tender peck.

“My turn?” You ask with an eager wiggle of your hips, rubbing your folds against his somewhat soft cock.

“Please.”

“What do you want?” You purr, and you can feel him turn to jelly all over again as you press your naked figure against his front.

“Sit on my face. Pretty please.” His smile is lazy and becomes brighter as he awakens once more with arousal.

“My pleasure.”

#hwang hyunjin smut #skz smut #hyunjin smut #sub!hyunjin #sub!skz #sub!idol

305 notes · View notes