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cheolhub · 9 months

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sarrrrrrr🩷 happy bday to cheolhub!!! you are fr one of my favourite accounts on here. i always get so happy seeing ur name pop up on the dash whdjshsjs, i hope you’re doing well & drinking your water & looking after yourself 🫶

coulddddd i possibly req ❛ let me come in you, please. i want to fill you up. ❜ & precious vernon for your event? 🫶

8:01 p.m. – hansol vernon chwe

prompt. “let me come in you, please. i want to fill you up.”

wc. 2k+

warnings. unprotected sex for the first time, creampie, saying ‘i love you’ during sex, pet names [baby], a very needy couple ^^!!! — MINORS DNI 18+

note. j u are too sweet im gonna cry !!! thank you thank you thank you !!! i love u sm, i hope u like this >< i’ve been wanting to write vernon a lot recently so i went a little bit overboard with this one,,,, and it’s not my best so i apologize bsgsgs [not proofread, kinda rushed]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ join the birthday bash! ࿐ྂ

hansol vernon chwe has never been one for public displays of affection. any type of affection– kissing, hugging, holding hands, etc. it’s just awkward. it always is and he’d rather keep it to himself. keep you to himself.

and vernon is usually so patient when it comes to his hunger for you. he’s so virtuous and so composed. it’s admirable, really. but there are nights, like this one in particular, where he just wants to sink his teeth into you and mercilessly fuck you into the mattress.

these nights don’t come by very often. they rarely ever do, honestly. he only thinks tonight is different because he hasn’t touched you in over a week. there was no real reason for it, you just kept missing each other due to your taxing schedules.

so you planned a date on a night that you knew you were both free. something nice, giving you an excuse to doll yourself up for your boyfriend.

you did exactly that and vernon’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he picked you up from your apartment. he thought you looked so fucking pretty. you looked so pretty gazing out the window in the passenger seat of his car. you looked so fucking pretty when you kindly laughed at the waiters joke (that wasn’t the slightest bit funny). you look so fucking pretty when you asked him, “are you okay, baby?”

he wasn’t. how could he be okay when all he wanted was to put his hands on you and inhale the scent of your seductive perfume? how could he be okay when his cock was straining in his pants begging to be inside of you? how the fuck could he be okay when he needed you so fucking bad?

of course, you could tell he was anything but fine. your boyfriend was stoic sometimes, but he always wears his emotions all over his pretty face. his carnal desire became obvious when he placed his hand on your thigh, squeezing at your flesh. and even more obvious when he pressed a few kisses to your jaw. and then blatantly obvious when he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear and said, “i’d rather eat something else.”

so you ate half your meal, paid the bill, and got the hell out of there because, if you were being completely transparent, you missed the way his cock felt inside of you. you missed tugging at his hair and marking his skin and the messy, messy kisses you always share. you missed him and a week apart from your lover was 5 days way too long.

he’s already pressing his lips to the back of your neck by the time you get up to your apartment’s door, leaving wet kisses on your scolding hot skin. it’s distracting and your hands keep fumbling the keys, but you eventually get the two of you in. you lock the door and he practically chases you to your room, both of you breathily giggling.

upon arrival, his hands are grasping and pulling at the clothing on your body in attempts to rip them off while yours do the same with his.

“need you so bad, baby.” he mumbles during his conquest, pulling almost everything off of you.

when he sees the pretty set underneath your date outfit, he’s left breathless. shocked. and it’s not because he’s never seen you in something this pretty, but it’s that he’s right about to bust a load in his jeans.

he groans, “fuck, i think i’m gonna cum.”

“you’re cute.” you smile cheekily, pulling him on the bed with you. “better not be before i get to feel you, though.”

“i’ll try,” he grunts, his cock twitching and throbbing in what feels like the world’s tightest boxers.

you lay against your plush pillows, slipping your panties off and throwing them to the side, exposing your soaked pussy to the cool air that circulates through your room. you suck in through your teeth, spreading your legs open. “condom?” you ask expectantly.

he furrows his brows. “you don’t have any?”

you crack a grin at the frown that appears on his face when you shake your head. “you’re the one with a dick here! you should always keep one on you for emergencies. this would’ve been the perfect emergency.”

“baby, we used all my emergency condoms and i forgot to buy more.” he huffs in frustration. “i can just run to the market and grab some. it’s not that big of a deal.”

it is a big deal. his cock is aching.

you look at him in awe, “you’re that desperate? you’re gonna go all the way to the store and buy condoms, hansol?”

not that you’re any less desperate the way you clench around nothing and ruin the sheets under you.

he deadpans at your subtle teasing, “yes.”

you hum, stomach twisting in anticipation at a vulgar thought that pops into your head.

he could… just not use one.

he could fuck you raw and you could feel everything. “what if…” you shudder before you can even get the thought out. “what if we don’t use one?”

you think his face drains of color. “w-what?” he stutters, unsure if he heard you correctly. “baby… what did you say?”

you bite your lip for a second, feeling heat spread like wildfire through your entire body. “we can do it… without the condom. if you want?”

vernon is going to cum– untouched, in fact– just at the mere thought of it. of-fucking-course he wants to, what kind of idiot would pass that up? (read: someone who isn’t actually an idiot)

“what about…” he trails off as his wide eyes look at your tummy.

“i started birth control a while ago, baby, don’t worry.” you whisper. “it’s only if you're comfortable… but i’m okay with it… i trust you. and i wanna feel you.”

his heart pounds erratically and he’s tugging his boxers down before he can even form a proper response. his hard, leaky cock slaps against his abdomen and all either of you can think about is how it’ll feel without the latex barrier.

he breathes out his words, as he presses against your drooling hole. “i’ll pull out.”

“okay, baby.” you pant, hands already gripping at the sheets in preparation.

though, you fear there was nothing you could do to prepare for this moment. feeling vernon’s cock— all of it— is amazing. heavenly… hot. you find yourself wishing you would’ve done this a lot earlier. you can’t believe how much of a difference there is.

you feel all the heat, all the veins that trace through his gorgeous cock, all the delicious friction and you’re fucking addicted to it.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” vernon moans, jaw going slack and his face pinching in euphoric pleasure. “baby, fuck, you’re so tight— feels so good.”

vernon has never felt anything so perfect in all his years. he feels your walls flutter around his bare cock as he bottoms out, finally buried deep inside of you.

you wrap your arms around his neck and bring him down to press his mouth against yours. the entirety of the kiss is intense and passionate and you can’t think of a time you’ve felt this close to a man during sex. you can’t even recall a time you were this in love with a man.

you break, whining against his lips and tightly clenching around him. “move, please. need you to move.”

he nods hotly, pulling his hips back and pushing them back against yours. he does this a few times, slowly thrusting into you until he builds a steady, consistent speed. the bulbous tip of his cock rams into your sweet spot with every shove. you can’t help the cry that bubbles in your chest or the way your legs wrap around his waist tightly.

“hansol,” you mewl, one of your hands snaking between your bodies and rubbing at your clit. “i-i love you.”

he delivers a sharp thrust upon hearing your words. “i love you more, baby.” he responds with a wavered voice. “i missed you.”

you nod in agreement, clamping around him again, ultimately making vernon hiss. “me more,” you declare on a whine.

“not a chance.” he grunts out but it falls on deaf ears. his words are practically silenced by the lewd squelching and your cute sounds that bounce off the four walls.

and it’s all because vernon fucks you like his life depends on it. he feels your walls tightening around him with every thrust but there isn’t a single ounce of vigilance in his body. he wants to memorize every single second of this. burn all of this into his head. he wants to be able to recall the way your blunt fingernails dig into the smooth skin of his shoulders, your moans that sound even prettier in this moment, how your velvety walls flutter and pulse and grip around him as your cunt swallows him up.

his abdomen tightens, balls drawing up as he nears his desired release. before he can warn you, your breathing alarmingly picks up. your chest rises and falls rapidly, your whines and mewls get louder, you trap his cock in a tight grip, refusing to let him go, all the telltale signs of your impending orgasm.

“vern–vernon, baby,” you gasp, back arching off the bed and heels of your feet digging into his back. “baby, ‘m-m gonna cum. keep fucking me like that,” you plead, eyebrows coming together in gratification.

he obliges, snapping his hips against yours over and over till the tightrope in your tummy snaps. you come undone choking on a dry sob as your body seizes underneath his. you’re panting unevenly as you go lax, limp body weakly clinging to his as you attempt to come down from your high.

your orgasm is almost too much. too overstimulating for how high strung vernon is. he’s just about ready to explode, but he can’t bear to leave your spasming cunt.

“baby, i— god, i-i know it’s not safe— fuck—“ he babbles, anxiously panting out his words. “i know… know it’s not safe—but let me cum in you, please. i want to fill you up.”

you cry, nodding your head and weakly clamping around him at the thought of his warm seed flooding your cunt. “y-yes, fuck yes. please fill me up, ‘sollie!”

he curses under his breath, his cock twitching and brain fogging over at your permission. he gives you a few sloppy thrusts before he groans noisily, stilling and spilling his cum inside of you.

he twitches ceaselessly above you as his orgasm washes over him, head digging into the crook of your neck so he can drown out all of his throaty moans. they still echo throughout the room with your whiny pants.

the sensation of his release has your entire body surging with warmth. it has you feeling nothing but bliss and pure exhilaration— you’re on cloud nine.

“sorry,” he murmurs into your neck as his body collapses on top of yours. “couldn’t help it.”

your hand comes to thread through his hair, scratching at his head. “‘s okay, ‘sol.” you mumble back. “felt really good. don’t worry.”

“do you need a plan b?”

you snort, shaking your head. “no, i don’t think so, baby. told you i’m on the pill now.”

he lets out a breath— probably one of relief— followed by a muffled, “then… can we do this again soon?”

you smile, “yeah, babe, we can do this again soon.”

#[ birthday bash ! ]#[ ⭐️: mutuals ! ]#[ 🌎: j ! ]#[ 🐻‍❄️: hansol ! ]#vernon smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #hansol smut

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belovedmuichiro · 2 months

Text

I saw a post once that entertained the idea of Tsutako being in the background of Sanemi’s hometown in the anime, and it got me thinking about a sanegiyuu childhood meet cute.

…

- When Giyuu was 13, he took a trip with Tsutako to a neighboring city where her fiancé had come from

- Though Giyuu was a much friendlier person as a child, he was still quiet, reserved and nervous. As a result, being in a bigger city was overwhelming and he struggled to keep up with Tsutako as they walked

- Before they could reach her fiancé’s home, Giyuu was separated from her in a crowd

- Without any people skills to speak of or the confidence to ask for help, Giyuu let the crowd swallow him up until he found a small spot he could cower in

- He ended up hiding under the stairs of a shrine where nobody could see him. He cried so quietly, nobody could possibly hear him either, but a boy did miraculously find him

- The boy was strikingly beautiful with stark white hair and piercing eyes. His presence made Giyuu stop crying almost immediately, but only because he was mesmerized.

- When the boy spoke, he was blunt and sort of rude but Giyuu hung onto every word he said as if he was a kind spirit come to save him

- “You cry like my little siblings,” he observed. It was a simple, random sort of thing to say but it perplexed Giyuu so much that he didn’t cry any longer

- Giyuu learned that this particular shrine is where the boy would find one of his brothers hiding, so when he saw Giyuu curled up, he thought something might’ve happened to him

- Giyuu reluctantly explained he was separated from Tsutako while visiting. In truth, he wasn’t sure if he should trust a stranger but they were clearly of a similar age and that put him at ease compared to an adult

- The boy gave Giyuu a small canteen of water before they could continue because the crying had obviously overwhelmed him. He then asked for the fiancé’s name, which he scowled upon hearing, surprisingly knowing the person

- “Is that bad?” Giyuu nervously asked

- “He’s one of the sons of our landlord,” the boy explained, “He’s fine. His family’s a buncha dicks.”

- Profanities aside, Giyuu asked if he could lead him there, and the boy agreed

- “What did his family do?” Giyuu asked on the way

- “Their kid brother said some shit about my family bein’ too big and my brother got into a fight with him about it.”

- “How big is your family?”

- “Nine of us. I have six siblings.”

- Giyuu learned that his mother had just given birth, which prompted the rude comment from their landlord’s son. He also had a father who he didn’t want to talk about on account of him angering some violent people

- Though the boy didn’t seem terribly interested in prying into Giyuu’s life, he still asked, “What about you?”

- “I just have my sister. My parents died when I was young.”

- “Lucky you have a sister.”

- “Yes… I’m Giyuu, by the way.”

- For a moment, the boy looked hesitant to give anymore details about himself, but must’ve decided he doesn’t have much to lose.

- “Sanemi.”

- On the way to the landlord’s home, it began to rain so Sanemi pulled Giyuu aside near a food stall to wait it out.

- Giyuu, as luck would have it, did have a small amount of money on him and suggested they share a meal.

- Sanemi agreed, not letting on that he rarely has enough money to ever eat out. However, Giyuu became curious when Sanemi awkwardly held his food at his side and wouldn’t take a bite.

- He didnt want to admit it, but his plan was to pocket whatever Giyuu bought him to bring home to his family. He wasn’t going to tell Giyuu, but the boy’s earnest, honest face pulled it out of him

- In response, Giyuu bought him another and asked that he feed himself as well

- When Sanemi finally did eat, Giyuu smiled for the first time. It flustered Sanemi, who quickly learned he couldn’t handle a pretty face

- When the rain ended, people came flooding to the streets in overwhelming numbers that scared Giyuu again

- To reassure him, Sanemi grabbed his hand and returned his earlier smile, promising he’ll be okay as long as they stick together

- Giyuu took to Sanemi with awe. The crowd was still scary, but Giyuu grounded himself in the feeling of his companion’s hand and trusted his word.

- Eventually they did find themselves at the landlord’s house. Most of the family was out looking for Giyuu, but luckily Tsutako stayed and was there to greet him.

- This was also a relief to Sanemi, who wasn’t sure he would be able to resist driving his fist into the face of the boy who fought with Genya

- Sanemi intended to leave with no commotion, just an odd empty feeling at the notion of leaving his new acquaintance, but Giyuu stopped him

- “Thank you for helping me,” he said with much more confidence than the first time he spoke. “You’re very kind, Sanemi.”

- Sanemi, flustered, shrugged and promised it was no problem. “Couldn’t just leave ya there…”

- “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

- When Giyuu said this, he held onto the hope that because Tsutako new husband had close ties to Sanemi’s, they would surely meet again one day

- It was hard to explain but Giyuu felt drawn to Sanemi, like he was a special person he was meant to meet

- Of course, he couldn’t predict the tragedy that would befall both of them

- Years later, long after Tsutako and the Shinazugawa family were murdered, Sanemi was welcomed into the Hashira and finally met Giyuu again

- Only this time, he was quiet and cold. He didn’t give any indication that he remembered Sanemi and didn’t have any of the kindness he was full of as a child. Sanemi decided that he must’ve turned into a conceited ass with no time for the little people, he probably didn’t even remember him.

- But it was impossible for Giyuu to forget who Sanemi was. Even under all the scars and curses, he was still the boy who saved him that day. But Giyuu knew they had fundamentally changed as people, and clearly Sanemi wanted nothing to do with him any longer

- Unfortunately for them, the draw remains there no matter how far apart they try to drift.

#emmie speaks #I’m. love them.#sanegiyuu #demon slayer #kimestu no yaiba #kny manga spoilers #baby sanegiyuu

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greyfics · 24 days

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even if it's handcuffed, I'm leaving here with you.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

pairing: the ghoul (cooper howard) x reader fic type: enemies to lovers, no smut, mild spice + eventual fluff slow burn meter: ◈◈◇◇◇ word count: 3.8K inspo: TPD lyric prompt list, reblogged on main reader type: assumed wastelander background, gender neutral, 'I don't need a knight to save me', assumed negative views of BoS, assumed gun for hire cw: strong language, violence, reference to fictional drugs, mild dismemberment summary: reader is a gun for hire who has gotten themselves into a bit of trouble in the form of a moderate bounty with a local segment of the brotherhood- and cooper howard knows he can get all the drugs he needs for what seems like an easy job.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

"We can do this all day, darlin'. Even if it's handcuffed, I'm leavin' here with you." you feel the pressure of a pistol barrel pressing against the base of your skull from behind, and a disgruntled, defeated sigh slips through your lips. The game is up- you're out of ammo, down to the ripper hanging from your side, and 'gun against the brain-cage' is the indisputable checkmate.

Up to this point, you'd been pretty successful in shaking off the swathes of bounty hunters and jet-scrounging raiders that'd been on your tale since you became an enemy to the brotherhood- which, nowadays, seemed to be a pretty fucking easy feat to accomplish. The rusty knights were getting a little big for their oversized, several-tonne boots- and you had never been a fan of self-asserting authorities using their power in the name of 'order', especially not when they could hardly organise their own little sectors across the expansive, sparse remains of the USA.

As good with a revolver as you are, today it seems your luck has ran out and your karma has caught up with you, because you've finally met your match in a ghoul with a face so smug you wish you at least had a chance to slap it before losing the game of cat and mouse you'd been playing for a couple days now across Junktown. Your face collides into concrete and a quick click combines with the feel of steel against your wrists, The Ghoul's threat having evolved into a promise.

You spit a ball of blood and saliva from your mouth, wrought up by the hard impact with the ground below, "Alright, you win this round you freak- I'll come with you, just get these off of me." You hear a smirk from above, "Now how stupid do you fuckin' think I am? No, I gave you a chance to come willingly, you chose to shoot me in the leg. Lucky I ain't returned the favour." He gives you a light, sharp kick in the side with the tip of his boot, "Up. We got a long way to travel, and sooner we get there, sooner I get paid. I'll be reminding you now that I only get a bonus for bringing you alive, so make my life hell and I'll live without the extra caps." "Not exactly easy when my-" you hear the chick of a safety being cocked, and awkwardly shuffle back until you can jut sharply up onto your knees and slowly stand, turning to glare daggers into your now captor. The Ghoul's expression remains stiffly affixed with the wry, smug facade he bears: relaxed, squinting eyes peeking out above a thin, ever-upturned lip- you swear to yourself to you'll smack that smile off his face- but by all accounts, beneath the withered, decaying skin that had festered in his ghoulish transformation, the man had the stature (and admittedly, the jawline) of a filmstar.

You shake off the irritable possibility of monster like this getting lucky with the gene pool as a calloused hand secures a vice grip on one of your wrists and tugs you in suit as it's owner sets into motion, dragging you away from the remnants of an old civilisation and towards a military base miles away you are all too acquainted with.

You had been so caught up in the wild ride of adrenaline that came with being on the lamb that you briefly detached yourself from the catalyst of the chase- but as concrete and clay inevitably crumbles away to distant sandy dunes and cacti, the dread stirs in your stomach like a plague. It was easier to wave off the consequences of your actions when you weren't being marched towards the gallows to face them- it wasn't like you made an attack on the organisation. You kill one knight trashing up a town in the name of redundant technology, and suddenly you're on a hit-list. You know The Ghoul probably doesn't know this, and you know for certain that even if you tried to give the man a sob story he wouldn't care. This was it. "You about to be sick?" You snap from your pessimistic daze at the sudden interruption of silence, "No. Why?" "You look like you just ate a mouldy iguana, that's why- and I don't want sick on my boots." You let out an irked groan, and sharply snap your head to face the horizon in the opposite direction to your captor. You hope this will satiate his sour jabs for the time being-

Your hope is crushed five minutes later.

"Go on then. I'm bored shitless and I'm outta jet, so spill." He says with an almost theatrical exasperation in his voice, "Spill what, exactly?" you coldly respond in a mute tone, focus still fixed on the horizon to the west, "Well what's the big story? Someone's always gotta be the victim when they got a bounty on their head, so what's the tragic tale behind 'Y/N', huh?" the muscles in your neck and shoulders tense up at the mention of your name- you weren't exactly a known associate or long-time rival to the brotherhood, and the wanted poster you had wrestled from the stiff fingertips of a raider last week only had a sketch and a scrawled account of the incident. You falter for a moment before replying, but ardently avoid taking the bait, "If your plan is to get me to tell you how we got to where we are right now just so you can mock me, then I think I'd rather carry on enjoying the view, if you don't mind." The sweet-toned sarcasm at the end of your sentence seeps with venom, and the hostility it implies does not slip away from your adversary.

This time, his laugh is a soft, whisper of a chuckle- something spiteful, foreboding- followed by matching words, "You should hear what your little community had to say about you for a couple caps and a promise not to shoot anybody- well, anybody else-" his words cut into something personal, then- and though you would normally know that attacking someone with your hands cuffed behind your back is never going to end in your favour, at this moment you couldn't care less as you swing your leg round in a swift roundhouse motion, and raise your knee towards the only place you can think to leave a mark-

You hit your target, but instead of howls of pain you are met with a split second of awkward silence as the ghoul cocks his head, unimpressed, before slamming it into your own, sending you staggering back a few paces-

Before you can reorient your vision, a heavy dull force plummets into your ribs- the sand cushions your blow slightly better than the concrete you met face-to-face with an hour ago, at least. Your arms, however, are not grateful to be pressed beneath you as a familiar, withered hand pushes into your throat, putting as much pressure on your trapped limbs when your upper body presses back as it does on your esophagus, halting your air supply as he lowers himself down to a kneel and fixes your gaze onto his,

"If I wasn't already a walking corpse, that could've really hurt- not a very nice thing to do to someone just tryna have a little bit of light conversation now, is it?" All you can do is glower through eyes blinded by the sun, which gleams behind the shadow of the ghoul's head, bearing on it a smile tweaked with frustration- you need to breathe- you can't keep this up, your heartbeat is louder than the sun in your eyes and-

The pressure releases. You turn your head to the ground and suck in air between dry, heavy coughs, and after you've finally steadied your breath, you find a minor fleck of relief in being hoisted up from the ground this time instead of scrabbling to get up at gunpoint. You wonder, perhaps, if this is some small act driven by guilt- perhaps this man had a conscience once and a set of values beyond doing what it takes to ensure one's own survival. You were a gun for hire yourself, so it would be hypocritical to criticise your captor for his line of work- mostly, you preferred to stick with jobs guarding merchant caravans and to take out bands of raiders harassing the cities you passed through, but you never questioned the legitimacy of the requests you received, or the cargo you oversaw; you had settled for a little while, having stuck around the same little settlement for a few years now and had started to develop some semblance of a connection to the people there-

or so you thought.

You know you're going to be walking for a while- so with a resigned breath, you begin saying what little there is left to say about your present situation, "Well, you probably know most of what I can tell you from the sounds of things, but I guess there's nothing else for me to do right now, and the horizon is the same no matter where you go around here. I guess you could say we're in similar lines of work, but that's not really what got me in trouble with The Brotherhood. They think they can rock up in a power armour with a logo on it and wreak havoc as they please because it's for 'the greater good', but they leave towns half-destroyed when they pass through. I didn't want that to happen to... well, I didn't like the sound of that happening where I was. So, dude gets out of his power armour and starts waving guns around screaming about some piece of pre war tech or the other, and I tell him with... a strong choice of words, to get going. He starts running for the power armour, guns blazing- and I just have better aim, I guess. Not even like I got paid for killing him, either. Maybe that would've made this whole thing a little bit sweeter."

Your profession leaves a silence hanging in the air for a little while after, but it feels appropriate. The dunes filter sand from the far west to respond to your story- the horizon quivers, but only through the illusion of heat; the sand dries your eyes before they have reason to shed tears. A loaded sigh escapes the ghoul in front of you, and the clasp on your wrist softens but for a moment before stiffening to pull you onwards, "Yep, well, caps keep you going a little longer round these parts, but money can't solve all your problems." "You should tell that to the Brotherhood. They seem to be doing pretty well for all the wealth they've hoarded- can even pay big time bounty hunters to do their shitwork from the looks of things." You retort, but after a moment follow up with, "Wish I could say I was upset about it but hell, if I were you, I'd turn me in too."

You hear that soft chuckle again, but when you turn around to catch a look at the face that matches it, you see relaxed muscles and a far-off stare- he won't let you go, but he has let his guard down but a little bit- perhaps when we get closer to my story's end, he'll even let me walk to my death with my hands unbound.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

After trudging on in silence for a while, head bowed to your fatalistic contemplations, you find as you drag yourself out of the pit in your head and look over the horizon once more that the scene has changed: the atomic orange dewdrops spattering the sky not long ago have quickly to faded into a bruised overhanging shadow of violent, lavender, crimson; twilight approaches, and you're still surrounded by desert hills and illusions.

One of these illusory quivers catches your sharp eye, a dark blip that has appeared somewhere in that distance; it's moving, but it isn't close enough for you to determine whether it's just a trick of the heat or whether it's something heading in your direction. Your brow furrows, but you say nothing yet.

Within a minute, the object comes into better focus- or, rather, the creature. Your heart skips a beat, and you open your mouth to utter some kind of warning, managing to rasp, "Get the handcuffs off of me." "Now, darlin', I thought we managed to get past this already-" "No-" You tug your bound wrists, pulling the ghoul into your side- his other arm steadies itself against your shoulder before slipping up to your jaw and dragging it to face him, his own clenched and unaccompanied by a smile this time- the pallid complexion of your own face gives him enough pause for you to blurt in a fruitless, strained whisper, "Deathclaw."

If The Ghoul's skin could have paled more than it already had in his lifeless state, then it might have at that moment. The tight grip holding you against him slackens completely and you thud onto your ass as he draws his guns and casts you a playfully pitiful glance from above, shrugging and saying, "Sorry, darlin', guess I forgot to pick up the keys." He steps in front of you as a curse rips out of your throat in the sudden panic that ensues, and you try to muster enough brain cells in this moment to figure out a way of not dying, prematurely, and becoming just another skeletal curio.

There's the back-up plan, the 'if shit goes south' plan that you still hadn't gone through with because of the possible dismemberment that it might entail- but you had not been unarmed when you had been restrained earlier, and the phantom hum of a ripper blade always strapped to your waist as your last resort. You won't be able to wield it with any competence with your hands restrained as they are, but you can hit the power button from your current position-

Though, usually, you'd prefer to do it when the blade was already in your hand, not digging into the side of your leg.

shredded leg is better than deathclaw snack. Your astute analysis confirms your decision, and with a grunt and a whack, the blade starts chugging into a steady whirring action by the will of the dregs of an energy cell embedded inside- the next couple of seconds are far too long.

The blade begins it's excursion into your thigh as the gunslinging ghoul whips around at the sound, eyes wide at the sudden display of spraying crimson. You scream, struggle to try to align the cuffs without jerking your shoulders out of place. The deathclaw bounds into the mid-distance, closing in upon it's approach- it caught your scent before you could even see it's silhouette-

The tip disappears as your leg reflexively jerks, responding to the dancing jig of the chainsaw blade- you see pathetic sparks as the thing bounces off of the cuffs- strong enough to sever a leg, too rusted and battered to cut through metal. Your plan is failing. Your leg is bleeding. The cowboy falters as the deathclaw closes further-

You make a snap decision: fingers are easier to fix than legs.

You twist your wrist, and the pain just melts into the already existing burn emanating from your leg- a bloody, three-fingered stump slips from it's cage, and you swing your still-cuffed hand around in a fluid movement to drag the ripper from its sheath within your leg, snapping the cord that ties it to your waist-

You hear a frenzied firing of a revolver, but the approaching thunks are unimpeded- and though you know your leg may give way when the adrenaline finally dies, and though you know you need to find the two fingers you lost before sand vipers snatch them up and you're known as three-fingered y/n for the rest of your life- you launch yourself from the ground on your good leg, and stagger towards the approaching beast.

You grew up in the wastelands. You grew up in a settlement up here that, like any of the rest, was constantly plagued by critters and beasts- and if you were taught anything by the survivors that surrounded you, it was the following:

If you can't blow the bastard up, get 'em in the belly.

The deathclaw- a baby, thankfully- has it's gaze fixated on the man that had in the past half a minute become it's primary aggressor- so when you stumble forward, low and bleeding, with what to the creature is just another indistinguishable bit of metal in your hands, it does not see reason to change the track of it's jump.

As it launches itself above you, you pray to lady luck that you hit your mark.

An ear-splitting yowl and a sudden muffled crash tells you she's listening, for once.

Finally, after a few ragged breaths, the adrenaline wears off and you feel the weight of your body pressing into the wounds that liberated you- and the blueberry sky fades to black as you become weightless. This time, your fall is of your own accord- and this time, something stops you from hitting the ground.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

When you come to, you do not open your eyes at first- awake though you might be, your body is heavy with exhaustion. Before your encounter with the ghoul, you had been on the run for weeks, and in the last twenty four hours had not had time to stay put long enough to sleep. Coupled with the rough journey and the blood loss, you couldn't move if you wanted to. That being said, in those few dark minutes, a few things of note still catch your attention.

There is a faint crackling to your side, and the lulling warmth of a fire that brushes in waves against your face- and though you feel the silky grains of sand cushioning most of your resting body, your head lays higher up, neck leaning up to a more elevated surface- your attention snaps to the light sensation of fingertips absently grazing your neck in a repeating pattern, and the distant hum of an old country song embedded into muscle memory. The surrounding sensations are a strange comfort for all the brutal imagery this post apocalyptic world usually beholds; but it is brief, as your neck tenses, giving away your lucidity. The hand pauses, lifts- settles somewhere to the side.

When you dare to open your eyes, you are unsurprised to see the question-begging smirk and sharp eyes peering down from above, "Have a good nap?" You bolt upright, and immediately regret it when the bending of your leg snags one of the stitches you didn't know had been sewed into you until just now. Defeated, you flop back down, turning your head to the side to gaze into the dying embers of the fire beside you- praying you can brush off the flush of blush creeping into your face to the influence of the fire. Eventually you garner the courage to speak, "Feels like I've only been out for an hour." He snorts, shaking his head, "You went down around sunset, and it'll be sunrise in a couple hours." This catches you by surprise, and not just because of the amount of time you've lost, "What happened to getting your caps as soon as possible? Lost a lot of time waiting." He frowns, but does not lose his grin, "You trying to get yourself killed? 'Cos you've done a damn fine job of that so far. No, I've just been doing some thinking." "Congratulations. I'm proud of you." His eyes narrow into slits and he tuts at your sarcasm, following your gaze into the fire, "See, it could be argued that I would've been minced ghoul splattered n' buried six feet under the dunes if you hadn't gone all psycho slicing yourself up like that to get that baby deathclaw where it hurts." "That was a baby?-" "Anyway, guess my point is I might be willing to do a lot of things, but I still got my principles- only human thing I got left, probably. So I'd say I owe it you to not kill you at least. When you can walk, we'll go east to- well, to what's left of Shady Sands, and then you can do whatever the fuck you want."

You consider his words, and not knowing how to express appreciation or what to begin to make of this mysterious stranger and his obscure appeal, you find yourself rejecting this suggestion, though you don't know why- and so naturally, you dig yourself into a hole, "Well, you could also say that I would have died of blood loss if you didn't stitch my leg up." He studies you then for a minute, before shrugging and clasping your hands together at the wrists. You begin to stammer indecipherable protest and with a smirk he pulls you up, your hands still held rigid in your lap by his own, his head resting on your shoulder as he murmurs, "Now, I'm starting to get the impression you want me to march you up to our friends at the brotherhood just to keep my company." If he can't see the warm hue in your face now, he can certainly feel the heat flushing through your flustered face- you fight against the feeling, if only to make sure you stand a chance of winning this little exchange,

"Says the man who watched me sleep all night." You feel him shrug your comment off as his grin extends, "I might look like a monster, but I was a gentleman once upon a time. Like I say, I got principles." He lets you slip forward out of his grasp when you move to shuffle yourself around. As you do, you feel for the first time you are looking at him properly, sincerely- face to face, on equal grounds, with no threats of death or necessary facades of false confidence. After soaking in as much as you allow yourself to without losing yourself to curiosity entirely, you crossing your arms across your chest, and reply,

"Well, I have principles too- and if you're oh so graciously not turning me into the brotherhood then I still I owe you, so I guess I'll just have to stick around until you nearly get yourself killed again- that's all. No other reason." The ghoul rises, resting a hand on his pistol,

"You tell yourself that, darlin'- I'm gonna enjoy this change of scenery, I think."

#greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ 01 ]#greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ cooper howard ]#greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ fallout ]#greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ x reader ]#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #fallout fanfic #cooper howard fanfic #the ghoul fanfic #x reader #greyfics #fallout tv series #I know that the way I used the lyric does not match the lyric but hey don't knock the weird literal train of inspiration #may rewrite to polish a couple details nagging at me but have put way too much time into fidgeting around with the words for now hehe #also I feel like this definitely has second part potential if I want to divvy into it in the future so #note to self for that one

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httplilyyy · 10 months

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 || 𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐅

pairing: lena oberdorf x reader

summary: you're best friends so what's wrong with one little cuddle?

warnings: nothing but fluff

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i haven’t written for the woso world in a while and due to the wwc going on i thought it was only fair to write a couple fics. send in ideas and prompts for people you want me to write for and i’ll see if my brain can work something out :)

woso masterlist request

You've known Lena for what seemed like forever. From the moment the two of you met you couldn't be kept away from each other. Now three years on, the two of you were as thick as thieves.

Only up until recently, you had been thinking of Lena in a different way. Going from longing gazes to discrete touches. You knew you were falling for the girl but you just couldn't stop yourself.

You knew you couldn't do anything with these feelings so you kept them buried deep down. Not telling anyone. Not a single soul.

Due to hiding your feelings you had been different around Lena, and you were sure she could sense it. As much as it pained you, you tried to put a little distance between you both but you were just not able to keep her from running around in your mind.

You were currently sitting on your sofa at home, scrolling through instagram when you noticed that Lena had posted. Clicking on her account you could’ve sworn you had heart palpitations.

Immediately liking her new photo, your heart nearly jumped out of your chest once you saw a message pop up at the top of your screen.

[ lena: 6:56pm ] eager much?

[ you: 6:56pm ] i’m sorry?

[ lena: 6:56pm ] check when i posted

Opening instagram back up, you saw how long ago she posted. And it wasn't long at all. 1 minute ago. Shit.

[ you: 6:57pm ] what? I can’t like a photo of my best friend?

Playing it cool and definitely not acknowledging the way your chest pained after typing the reply.

[ lena: 6:57pm ] oh no, you can. just seemed a bit quick, no?

[ you: 6:57pm ] i refreshed the app and you popped up

[ lena: 6:57pm ] mhm sureeeee

[ you: 6:58pm ] i hate you

[ lena: 5:58pm ] no you don’t

[ you: 5:58pm ] i’m pretty sure i do

[ lena: 5:58pm ] so if i invited you over for pizza and a movie you wouldn't come?

[ you: 5:59pm ] i hate you

[ lena: 5:59pm ] i’ll see you in a bit

You huffed out a laugh, getting up from the sofa with a sinking feeling in your stomach. You couldn't help but wonder what it’d be like if you actually told her how you felt. Shaking your head, you got rid of that idea.

Grabbing your keys from your kitchen counter, you put your shoes on and made your way over to Lena’s. It wasn’t a long drive and before you knew it you were standing outside her front door, waiting for her to let you in.

“The stalker’s here.” Lena grinned as she opened the door.

“Ha ha, very funny.” You deadpanned, walking past her and into the living room where there was pizza laid out on the coffee table.

“Wow, I don't even get a ‘hi’ and you’re already digging into the pizza.” Lena scoffed, sitting beside you on the sofa.

“I only came for free food and a movie.” You said with a grin, discreetly trying to put space between the two of you.

“Whatever.” Lena said, rolling her eyes as she tried to fight off a smile that made its way onto her face.

“What movie are we watching?” You asked, taking another slice of pizza.

“Ten things I hate about you.”

“Really?”

“What? I like a good romcom.” Lena shrugged, taking a slice of her own and pressing play on the movie.

As the movie went on, your concentration became less and less. Your brain solely focused on the person beside you. No matter how much space you put between her, you still felt yourself being drawn back to her. Like an unexplainable force pushing you together.

Shifting in your spot, you tried to get comfortable but it was no use. Every position seemed to be more uncomfortable than the last and unbeknownst to you, Lena seemed to be having the same problem.

From all your shifting around, the two of you were now sitting next to each other. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Lena rested her head on your shoulder, still trying to find a comfortable position.

Accidentally, Lena let out a small grumble, becoming fed up with being uncomfortable.

“You okay?” You chuckle, looking down at Lena.

“No.” She huffed, moving off your shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“I can’t get comfy.”

“Neither.” You agreed, a small tight-lipped smile making its way onto your face.

“Lay back.” Lena said, placing her hands on your waist, pushing you to lay on your back.

“Wha- um, okay.” You said, heart pounding as you let Lena guide you back.

You got yourself in a position so your head was rested on a pillow, being slightly propped up by the arm of the sofa so you could fully lay down.

Once you had stopped moving, Lena crawled on top of you, laying her body across yours.

“Is this okay?” Lena questioned as she let out a content sigh against your neck, her breath sending goosebumps to spread like a wildfire over your skin.

“Huh- I- what?” You blushed, eyes wide as you scolded yourself for not being able to form a complete sentence.

“Do you want me to get off?” Lena asked, placing her hands on the arm of the sofa, either side of your head, so she could look at your face properly.

“No! I uh-” You coughed and let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t think so?”

“You don’t think so?” Lena repeated with a teasing tone.

“I don’t want you to get off.”

“Okay.” Lena smiled and moved back to the position she was in originally.

By now the movie was long forgotten and you couldn't help the way your heart sped up at how Lena was on top of you.

Not knowing what to do without malfunctioning, you kept your arms up in the air, deciding that was the better option.

“You can touch me, y’know. I’m not fragile.” Lena said softly, reaching her arm out to grab yours, placing it around her waist.

“Mhm, yeah. I know that.” You said, placing your other arm on her back, slowly drawing intricate patterns.

The two of you didn't say anything for the rest of the movie, the both of you enjoying the tranquillity of the moment. As the credits played, you had failed to notice that Lena had drifted off to sleep.

You had tried to slide out from underneath her but it was no use. Shifting in her sleep, Lena mumbled a few incoherent words and you knew that you had fallen so hard, you don’t think anyone would be able to save you.

Letting yourself drift off into a deep sleep, the only thing grounding you was the person on top of you.

Many hours passed and it was now the early hours of the morning, the sun peaking through the blinds caused Lena to wake up from her sleep.

Some time during the night, the two of you had shifted so she was trapped between you and the cushions of the sofa.

Lena froze, noticing the position she was currently in and letting a blush take over her features. Her leg was draped over yours, tangled together and her hand had made its way up your top, resting on your stomach.

Snapping herself out of her thoughts, Lena quickly removed her hand from under your top, suddenly feeling her fingertips grow cold.

Shifting in your sleep, you wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her just a tad closer and resting your head in her neck.

“You’re staring.” You mumbled, eyes still closed as you let a small smile take over your face.

“I’m not.” Lena protested, weakly trying to get out of your hold.

“You’re lucky I like you.” You smiled, moving your head back to the pillow and tightening your grip on her.

Lena laid quietly for a while, assuming you had drifted back off to sleep before she spoke up again.

“I like you too.” She whispered, brushing a strand of hair that fell over your face.

“I knew it.” You smirked, pulling her closer into you. “Now go back to sleep.”

Lena let out a small chuckle, pressing her lips to your cheek before cuddling herself into you and drifting back off into sleep.

#lena oberdorf #lena oberdorf imagine #lena oberdorf imagines #lena oberdorf x reader #woso #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso x reader

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happiest-hotch · 1 year

Text

3 AM

part one

Summary: Aaron shows up somewhere he shouldn't be with some words for you

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader (Angst/Fluff)

Word Count: 1.4k

Content Warning: mutual cheating

You go home to a house that doesn't feel like home, which isn't anything new, but today, it upsets you. Maybe it's too late, and the case drained you too much. Your self-preservation instincts refuse you to consider an outside factor.

Thankfully, your need for sleep trumps any chance of facing an existential crisis, so instead of staring at the ceiling wondering how your life got to this point, you're asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow.

It doesn't last long. Too soon, a knock on your door wakes you, and you reach for your phone to check the time. 2:52- great. If it were BAU-related, Penelope would have called and left messages before pounding on your door in the early morning. You run through who it could be. Maybe your pathetic excuse of a husband lost his keys, but nothing would inspire him to come home unless he learned of your affair and was hypocritically mad. Or it could be much more mundane; police, firefighters, a neighbor.

Speculation gets too exhausting, so you get up and walk to the front door, checking your gun is sitting on the side table before opening the door.

It's one of the last people you expect. You wrap your robe tighter around yourself, defensive and hyper-aware that he's in jeans and a shirt, and you're in a tank and sleeping shorts.

"Hotch." You greet him coldly, colder than the chilly DC night air.

He didn't expect a more positive reaction. "Don't call me that." He says slightly too pathetically.

"What can I do for you?" You ask, unsure what's compelling you to continue the conversation and not just slam the door in his face.

He shouldn't be here.

He knows it, you know he knows it, and you know it.

"Let me in." The Unit Chief tone, commanding authority, is nowhere to be heard, no matter how hard he tries to muster it up.

You sigh, momentarily weighing the pros and cons before stepping aside. Aaron follows you in carefully. Houses, thus far, have been off limits, like there was some unwritten rule neither of you would show up at the other places, knowing the consequences, but he's here, and you're still not sure why.

As you lead him down the hallway, Aaron keeps his head down, obviously trying to avoid being nosey. It's amusing since the personal pieces he assumes you have and refuses to look at don't exist. You wonder if he's drawing similarities between you and where you live, both beautiful on the outside and empty on the inside.

"Is he-" His question quickly gets reframed. "Are you alone?"

"I was." You answer. "He's in Pierre, South Dakota."

"Our case was in Pierre, Sou- Oh." Unsurprisingly, he put it together quickly. Pierre, South Dakota, is not a big enough place for you not to have run into your husband.

You laugh humorlessly. "I know. It's smart to have an infallible lie, but maybe not that specific." You remark. "He's actually in Miami. I checked the credit card and told him our case was there, so he always has to look over his shoulder."

Aaron doesn't smirk at what you consider a wonderfully devious plan. Instead, he looks concerned. "You still have joint credit cards? Are you keeping any money he can't touch?"

"Surely you didn't come here to discuss my financials." You shoot back, but he raises his eyebrows, and you know you can't progress the conversation without answering his question. "Yes. I've been to a lawyer and an accountant. He's only running himself into massive amounts of debt." You assure him. "Although, I'm not sure when this became your business."

His answer doesn't come quickly, and when he speaks, it's inadequate. "It's not."

"Okay, so what are you doing here?" You prompt. "Because you look like hell, Aaron, and you could really do with some sleep."

"I went home and sat there for an hour just thinking." He tells you. So, he didn't get lucky enough to fall asleep and avoid dreadful spiraling thoughts.

"You want to talk about your feelings?" You ask incredulously, unsure how he conjured the audacity to come here. His lack of answer is an answer. "No." You shake your head firmly. "You don't get to do this. Whatever we are, we don't discuss feelings."

"We could," Aaron begs desperately. It's not hard to profile that he keeps his emotions bottled up until he's bursting, so you know Aaron's here for a different type of release, for you to drain yourself listening to his problems and leave before he can consider that you have feelings.

You could hit him hard enough that he stops talking, and it's tempting.

"I'm okay with running to you when you want to have sex, but I can't be who you run to when you want to talk to someone about your day." You explain it as simple as you possibly can.

"I don't think of you like that," Aaron assures you, his eyes softening as his words fall short of being stern.

Frustrated, you huff. You're tired and wound up, easily upset, and Aaron shouldn't be here. "Well, I have to think of you like that... or I can't sleep with you and not feel anything."

"You're not hearing me." He argues, a tiny flicker of the fire you saw before appearing in his eyes. "I want you to feel things."

You bit down on your bottom lip to avoid crying. You've become so callous to everything around you, bottled so much of it up that it's difficult to let any emotion show without breaking the floodgate.

"You don't." You fight back, although it comes off far weaker than you expected. "I'm messy, my whole life is just one disaster after another, and I'll never excite you if we're not sneaking around."

Aaron's hands come to cup your cheeks, surprising you completely. It's a soft touch that has your lips closed in a second. "Don't say that." He instructs, speaking firmly but gently. "You're not a mess, not at all."

"Look at where we are, Aaron!" You remind him, throwing your arm at your side. For a detail-orientated person, he's only focusing on the big picture. "I'm married, you're married, and this is so damn messy."

"I know, I know." He nods. "It's... less than ideal, but we can get through it." He promises, holding you tighter now, like he's worried you'll slip away. "I want to be there for you. I don't care about any mistakes from your past. And please, please don't say that you won't excite me because I will always be excited every time I see you." It's enough to have you in gentle tears, not angry, heavy sobs, and he does his best to wipe them up delicately. "But if you don't feel the same way..."

Aaron's waiting for your decision, and he isn't about to add more pressure, but he will stand there for as long as you need to decide.

"I do." You affirm. "God, Aaron, I want to be with you more than anything, but I'm not sure I know how to." Being married is just a technicality now, and a divorce is something you're fiscally ready to do now.

"Tea." He decides, his permanently furrowed brows relaxing.

"Tea?" You repeat.

He moves slightly away from you. "Where's the kitchen?" You're still confused about why now is the right time for tea, so you wait for him to explain. "I'm going to make you tea, and we're going to drink it while you tell me how you're feeling, and then whatever you want- a drive, breakfast, you name it, it's yours."

You pull away from him, offering your hand to take him to the kitchen. "Sleep is what we're doing after this." You tell him. "I don't say it to be mean, but you do look like hell."

"Wait." He stops you before you're in the kitchen, turning to hold your hands in his. "You need to know that I don't care about anything in your distant or soon-to-be past, but it's always going to be my privilege to be part of your future."

Aaron isn't meant to be here, and you aren't either, but wherever you're meant to be, it's with him.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds angst #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds family

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abibliophobiaa · 1 year

Note

firstly I love your new blog layout it’s so fucking cute, secondly I love you 💕 thirdly, for your baby prompts, I’m thinking……… butterfly

happiness is a butterfly

got a little carried away with this one. 3k words of modern day!best friend!eddie munson x afab!reader. contains: fluff, alcohol, confessions of feelings, bisexual reader, two friends in a room who might kiss (they do), suggestive innuendo (eddie’s a sweetheart), and argyle’s matchmaking ways. thank you @breddiemunson and @ghost-proofbaby for always calming my wild thoughts, and katie’s line where eddie asks reader not to make him say what she already knows. genius, that one.

“happiness is a butterfly

try to catch it like every night

it escapes from my hands into moonlight…”

happiness is a butterfly - lana del rey.

Photo after photo. Swipe after swipe. Endless hopefuls that aren’t really hopefuls, because there aren’t many of those in Hawkins these days.

No—there are merely boys, wearing the skin of men, playing with hearts with a carelessness that leaves damage in their wake. Leaves your heart ripped to shreds; battered and bruised. Wounded, but not broken, with jagged lines where smooth surfaces had once been.

Tonight is no different. Tonight you mourn your relationship with Travis. Travis, who played hockey and apparently a different girl or guy in every state. You’d only found out through social media.

One of the girls he brought back to his hotel room had posted an image on her story while he slept, which then surfaced on another person’s social media account, and then eventually became a social media article on some gossip website you couldn’t, for the life of you, be bothered to remember.

You suppose the “Travis debacle,” as Eddie has been calling it, is your fault. A guy from out of town. The allure of some famous player with a broken down car in front of the Hideout, where you worked as a bartender, that you’d had your friend Eddie fix up as a favor.

You’d tossed him his keys as the sun set, burnt orange and red across the summer sky, and he’d asked, “How much?”

And suddenly you’d spent the week welcoming him around Hawkins, as well as the intricacies of your susceptible heart. Had preened and praised him while he perused his options in the next town over on his problematic apps.

The same apps you’re now frowning at, watching the population around you continue to dwindle with every pass of your thumb.

“You know, they say insanity is—”

“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”

You shoot a glare Eddie’s way, watching his dexterous fingers pull his hair back into a makeshift bun at the back of his head. Those same fingers reach down to grab your glass, chipped black nail polish capturing your attention as he draws your drink up to his lips and takes a long sip.

“Tequila. Travis really fucked up.” He chuckles. The movement has his cropped shirt billowing around his hips, tattoos on his sides visible where the holes his arms extend through as he settles down beside you. “You know, I think you need to ditch the apps. I did, and I’m much better for it.”

“You got a puppy a few weeks ago,” you point out, finger jabbing him in the ribs. He hisses, cupping his pec. “Getting a puppy is code for throwing in the towel.”

“Ozz is the cutest puppy, I’ll have you know. Look—” He waves to Gareth as he passes by, drumsticks twirling in his hands. “Delete the apps. Take a break. Isn’t there some quote about happiness? That Nathaniel Hawthorne one. You know, the ‘happiness is a butterfly’ one you used in a paper back in school.”

“One, I can’t believe you remember that.”

Your nose wrinkles at the thought of your teenage years. Of you with braces and he himself being the first person to welcome you to sit with him on your first day of school, snapping at Jason Carver when he’d brushed by you and thumped your shoulder a little too hard for his liking.

“And two, the quote is actually ‘happiness is like a butterfly, which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp. But, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.’”

“So stop chasing it. Just let it happen. C'est la vie. Carpe diem. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”

You don’t even bother letting him know none of those things mean what he thinks they do.

“Eddie.”

He loops his arm around your neck. Presses a kiss against your temple. You lean into his embrace, comfortable warmth that seeps into your bones and floods you with familiarity.

He’s hard lines against your softer edges. Inky tapestries of collected memories that tell a tale of his adventurous life on the forearm tangled in your hair. His ring-clad fingers delight in toying with the tips, hair shifting between digits like water.

Calming and soothing Eddie. A constant in your life since you were teenagers, now going on ten years of friendship later. Someone you’ve always been able to turn to at the end of the day; someone who never once questions your motives, even if he might suggest you try different methods to your lifestyle habits.

And now, your dating habits.

“I’m just saying it’s worth a try.”

Maybe you don’t stop right away. Maybe it takes a date with Joe, Jim and Jessica to realize the truth of Eddie’s words. Maybe there’s some weight to pushing it all aside, stepping out of the way of your own preconceived timeline, and allowing someone to walk in at the right place and time.

And on a night such as this, where Corroded Coffin are getting set up on stage and citizens are packing out the bar to see the increasingly popular band play, it’s easy to remember why swiping on your phone has brought you here. To asshole Andy Lerman standing before you while you work. Basketball coach at Hawkins High and douchebag royalty from what you remember of him back in your years of teenage angst and adolescence.

He’s had a few drinks now. You know because you’ve served him. But all they’ve done is instill courage in him to step over to the girl who people teased in school for being a “freak fucker” by merely being associated with Eddie, claiming time ‘really did wonders for you.’

He’s staring at your tits when he says it, and it takes everything in you to not toss his next drink in his face. But in a town where money is hard to come by, and there’s not much to do by way of work, bartending pays the bills, and you’re not about to mess up one of the few good gigs left.

“Andy, it’s really not going to work,” you tell him, “but here. Your last one of the night…on me.”

With a quick pat to his shoulder, you send him on his merry way with a fuller pocket and a story to warp when regaling his friends with the time he pity-invited the “freak fucker” on a date.

“Don’t look now, my lady, but Eddie Munson is staring at you,” Argyle says, working on mixing a margarita beside you for a patron.

“He’s not staring at me,” you retort, sliding a vodka soda across the bar, thanking your customer for the hefty tip they toss your way. At Argyle’s raised brow, you reiterate, “he’s not.”

“He’s always staring. That’s the look Eden gives me. You know, the look of someone in l—”

Argyle’s words are cut short as Eddie appears on the other side of the bar, bare elbows pressing against the counter, hair falling out of his ponytail, bangs long overdue for a cut shifting every time he blinks.

“Are you okay?” He asks, thanking Argyle as he passes him the beer he knows he prefers. At your arching brow, he continues, “I saw Andy Lerman flirting with you. You looked uncomfortable.”

You snort, getting to work on a moscow mule. “That’s because I was uncomfortable. But I took care of it. I appreciate you always looking out, though.”

He reaches over and grabs your chin. Gives your head a little wiggle until you’re grinning against his palm. Then reaches his fingers over toward you, rests them so gently against your curled palm resting on the bar and pauses. He waits a moment and closes his ringed fingers into a fist, knocking his knuckles against yours.

Then he’s off toward the stage to get ready, leaving you with a knot in your throat and warmth prickling against your skin.

Argyle passes you a knowing smile and before you can yell at him to get back to work, embarrassment roiling in your chest, he announces he’s going to take a quick break and call his wife.

His words spin in your head once more. Comparing Eddie’s gazes to Eden’s. To the nature of the depth in which he cares for you. But you shake your head free of it.

You’ve been unlucky in love.

It couldn’t be so simple.

Argyle’s words don’t change much in regards to your Eddie conundrum.

They’re a phantom in the back of your mind. Wispy tendrils of a memory that feels distant now.

Weeks pass, and the warm heat of summer in Hawkins turns to a sweltering hell on earth.

The Hideout becomes quieter most evenings. Those with air conditioning prefer to stay home, remain by their pools, to host gatherings where alcohol and coolers are plentiful.

And you don’t blame them, letting out a long huff as you wipe down the counter, while Argyle counts your tips.

“Oh, how was that date with…Paul, was it?” He muses thoughtfully, beginning to split the money.

“Not great.”

“You said that about the last three. What was wrong with this one?”

And that’s the thing. You sit across from these people, trying to force a square into a circle, trying to sparse out the qualities that they’re lacking.

Not funny enough. Not the right hair color. They lack that unruly smile. That glimmer of brightness in their amber eyes. There’s no dimple in Paul’s cheek. No banter on your date with Jeremiah. Caleb doesn’t like metal, and Kayla thinks D&D is a breeding ground for satanism (you’d thought that one was left in the 80s, but it appears not).

“He said Dio was overrated.”

“Interesting,” Argyle laughs, shaking his head.

You whirl around, damp bar towel flicking water his way. “What’s so interesting?”

“Just funny when two people are so obviously similar and don’t even see it,” he says, humming to himself, conversation over.

And that was that.

It’s funny, you think, that it only hits you then.

Like the flutter of butterfly wings on your flowerbeds you’d managed to stumble upon earlier that morning, the flicker of wings on a bird in the sky. The soft beating of both, like the constant thump of a heart in a chest.

A constant.

It’s the word everything hitches on as you sit on that work table in your garage, watching the man who stopped everything he was doing when you’d called earlier at the drop of a hat. All just to make sure you were okay.

That same person who is now up to his elbows in grease, fingers stained an oily black. With his hair pulled away from his face, you catch the determined line of his mouth, the jut of his tongue pushing lightly against pink lips. The corded lines of his arms move as he works, barest hint of stomach on display when he reaches up to slam the hood of your car down once it’s finished.

You toss him a towel, grinning at the shadowy form of him blocking the sun from your eyes. “Sorry you’re doing this instead of the movies.”

“Stop that. You know I’m happy to spend any time with you, sweetheart,” he laughs, wiping the planes of his face that are streaked like the fingers pressing against terry cloth to keep it in place. “Fixed the alternator and did an oil change. Seeing as you always forget anyway.”

He walks over slowly, grunting when your sandaled foot kicks him playfully in the kneecap. “That was why my car made that awful sound and shut off?”

“Exactly.” He curls the towel around his neck. “Day is still young. How about we—”

“Why’d you delete all your dating apps?”

The words fall from you in a rush. A swift exhale that has Eddie’s back drawn ramrod straight. Rigid, but not with anger. Instead, you watch that full mouth part just slightly. Like the words he had been about to say were lost to the wind, left to titter away into nothingness.

He swallows audibly, palm sliding over the towel across his neck. “I…just didn’t see the point in them.”

Determination hardens your resolve. Brings to attention Argyle’s teasing these weeks. The wondering, questioning, burgeoning curiosities brimming. So you utter a simple, “Why?” and try your damndest to ignore the nerves welling up in your chest at the fear of what comes next.

“Just kind of felt like I was using them to get over someone else,” he admits, taking a step closer.

Your bare knees brush the tops of his thighs. Warmth seeps into your skin, bristles at his touch.

Dark eyes drag along your form. Along the dress you wore that evening, covered in flowers, a thin thing that would have fluttered in the wind if you and Eddie had been able to do what you’d planned for the day. Simple drive to the lake to eat some lunch, share a joint and fish (a new hobby he'd picked up from his uncle), then movies at the theater when the sun had set.

You meet his stare. Remind yourself of those eyes that had been on you the whole time Andy had leaned over the bar just weeks ago. Ready at any moment to come to your aid, should you have needed it. He’s never pushed you, never crossed the boundaries of your friendship, trusted you knew best.

But he’d always been there if you ever needed a hand.

You only ever needed to reach out.

Always.

You swallow thickly. “Who?”

“Don’t make me tell you what you already know.”

It’s quiet. A plea for pity that has your heart clenching within your chest.

But it’s not scary.

It’s not frightening at all.

Dozens of memories flash behind your eyes.

Of teenage years, laughing in the cafeteria, trading snacks, sneaking off to the woods between classes to smoke. Of you in community college, and his van screeching through the parking lot to take you to lunch between classes. Of nights at his place, your place, the movies, around town. Of ice cream at Lover’s Lake with his van doors swung wide, trying to make out the shapes of the clouds in the sky.

Birthday parties, milestones, weddings, grieved losses.

To highs and lows and everything in between. To all those shitty dates, to his own failed dating escapades. To that time you had to ice his lip in the back of the Hideout when Jeff had accidentally elbowed him in the face, or when you’d fallen off Max’s skateboard and ripped open your shin and he’d had to hold your hand while he disinfected it.

To this very moment, where he’s just finished fixing your car. To him with his dirty palm tapping lightly against your kneecap, feet shifting awkwardly beneath him.

Your head tips up and you catch the downturn of his lips, frozen in time by your prolonged silence.

Argyle was right.

“What?”

You hadn’t realized you spoke out loud, but confusion swirls behind Eddie’s gaze all the same, mollified only when your hand snakes up around the back of his neck and drags him downward to your level. Only when you pour your affection into him where you’re finally, lovingly, connected at last.

The fullness of his mouth against the softness of yours is hesitant at first, like his brain needs a moment to catch up to his current reality, before he’s tipping your head up with his hand. Until his fingers slide across your cheek, cupping you gently, easing you closer to him.

Before long he’s gripping you closer. Deft fingers in the dough of your thighs, tugging you flush against him, skirt indecently high up on your hips. But you don’t care. Not as your ankles lock around his waist, nor as he hums into your throat while he leaves a sloven path along your skin, learning the sounds you make when he’s tender, sweet—when he scores his teeth against your pulse point and you melt like putty beneath his devotion filled fingertips.

Ten years. Ten years of watching that silly butterfly float away into the sky, only for it to have been there all along.

Only for it to have been the man with his forehead against yours, noses flush together, your fingers beneath his shirt and his around the bend of your kneecaps.

You’re not sure where you start and he ends, but even that incites a new thrill, a new world to explore further. A desire to know the depths of him beyond the limit of friendship.

“Argyle got to you too, huh?” At your nod, Eddie barks out a laugh. Kisses you softly. “Fuckin’ guy thinks he’s Cupid or something.”

“I don’t want to talk about Argyle right now.”

Eddie’s lips curl into a grin. The whites of his teeth flash in your gaze, your fingers trailing along his stubble-lined jaw.

“I don’t either.” His thumb comes to swipe at your cheek, dimple in his cheek twitching slightly. “Got you a little greasy. Just…ten years, you know? Got a little carried away.”

You nod, reaching out to lace your fingers with his. He watches as you hop down from the work table, brow arching curiously as you tug him toward the door leading into your home. “Well, like you said, we’ve got ten years to catch up on. So before I kiss you more, Edward Munson, we’re going to shower.”

“We?” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Like a two people conserving water shower?”

You enter the small laundry room, humming as his chest brushes your own, his weight just enough against yours to press you into the lip of your drying machine. Cool metal chills your skin at the open back of your dress, balanced by the heat of the knee that slides between your thighs to pin you in place. Your body both buzzes with life and oozes honey into your system as you melt into him, pliant under that smoldering dark gaze of your best friend in front of you.

“We,” you nod, grinning into his kiss. “After that we’re cuddling on the couch and ordering a pizza.”

“And tomorrow…I’m taking you on a date.”

🦋

#lunaloveseddie #eddie munson #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic

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meo-on-prairie · 9 months

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Pulmonaria

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Prompt: “You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love // The slowest way is never loving them enough”

Words count: 2844

Tags: ANGST, SO MUCH ANGST, fluff if you take out the James Webbs Space telescope, pain train all the way, not a happy ending, mention of blood and death, idiot to lovers a little too late, it’s not happy, highschool au, hanahaki au

Rambling: if you see this fic as “Pulmo flower” this is the revamp of that lmao, I posted it years ago and deactivated my entire account cuz i was insecure about my creativity, but i’m working on that. By re-releasing what I think is my proudest work. Please listen to “High Infidelity - Taylor Swift” and “Heather - Conan Gray” for this fic.

/////

XX03 Daisy: innocence

He gave me a Daisy when we first met— a wildflower he picked at the entrance of the playground, shoving it in my face as I sat on the swing. Grinning from ear to ear when he asks, “will you be my friend?”. And every birthday from then on, without fail, Daisies would be shoved to my face. Those damn Daisies occupied my lungs, took my breath away.

XX09 Sunflower: unconditional love

We’re inseparable, attached by the hip. It’s easier to count the times where we’re not together. I don’t know when it started, but he became my air, although sometimes it was hard to breathe, it’s hardest to breathe when he isn't near. The pressure in my chest became so great that it often forced out violent coughing fits. They are often violent and painful, sometimes unbearable, they feel like my lungs are trying to force something out that is incapable beyond reach. Until one day, those violent coughs forced me into unconsciousness.

White. The first color that I saw when I opened my eyes. Cold and harsh white of the hospital room. the color white, it’s in everything I hate. White is the color of the hospital room glaring at me mockingly, laughing at the fact that I have a weak body. White is the color of snow signaling the arrival of winter and the freezing uncomfortable cold. White is also the color of his stupid hair, a painful reminder of someone I can never have. I hate the painful white color.

But maybe the color white isn’t so bad if it allows yellow to shine so brightly. The Sunflowers on the table caught my attention from the corner of my eyes, the flowers warmed up the whole room instantly, funny how a speck of yellow can warm up the cold white room. The small note of the familiar handwriting attached to one of the flowers makes the flowers shine even brighter. "Get well soon! :( love and miss you a lot ~ Satoru". Slowly, painfully, I can feel the sunflowers blooming, occupying another space in my lungs, making it harder to breathe, especially without him.

XX11 Cornflower: young love

Legend has it that Cornflowers were worn by young men in love; if his love was returned they would remain bright and fresh, if not they would wither away quickly. He gave me Cornflowers during freshmen orientation. Everything about cornflowers was annoying, the color was too bright and it hurt my eyes. It's a weak flower and dies easily, withering in two days. It reminded me of how similar I am to it, weak and annoying; both wither away when our love is not returned. But at the same time, it gave me hope…

“Why Cornflowers?”

“They just look bright and pretty, something vibrant for a new chapter in our life right?”

“Right… of course.”

Of course, there wouldn’t be any deep meaning to them. Hope is for fools.

XX14 Heather: admiration

November brings around the freezing cold of winter, I have always disliked the cold, it made breathing harder than it already was. When the bell for lunch rang, I quickly packed my bag to go meet up with Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko at the cafeteria.

To my surprise, Satoru wasn’t with them. The three of us went to get food anyway since all the good foods will be all gone if we’re late to the line. Satoru arrived at the cafeteria a few minutes later, with an unfamiliar girl trailing behind him.

“Sorry I was late, I was trying to convince someone to join us” he explained quickly before turning his body sideways, “We got paired together for a project for Physics, she just moved here so be nice to her.”

“Hi, I’m Areum” she spoke softly, her shyness written all over her face. She was absolutely gorgeous, the soft curls of her long hair framed her face perfectly. She has a small figure, the clearly oversized sweater she’s wearing made her look adorable, a sight for sore eyes. Compared to her I’m not even half as pretty.

“Hello Areum, I’m Suguru, I see you’re wearing Satoru’s sweater,” he said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the blush that quickly appeared on both Satoru’s and Areum’s faces.

“S-She looked like she was about to freeze over in that room alright?!” Satoru defended hotly.

“Sure thing buddy” Shoko joined Suguru on the teasing-Satoru-bandwagon before smiling at Areum, “My name is Shoko, by the way!”

I reached my arms out to flick Suguru and Shoko on their forehead, “stop teasing the poor girl!”

“Hi Areum, I’m Y/n, Satoru’s childhood friend, sorry you got stuck with that doofus for a Physics project of all thing” I joked, offering her a gentle smile while ignoring Satoru’s pouty complaints of something along the line of he’s not that bad at Physics.

Areum let out a shy giggle at my comment before sitting down to join our table. The four of us quickly settled into a comfortable atmosphere as we got to know Areum better, asking her the reason for her transfer so late into the school year, among other things.

The entire time, Satoru’s eyes never strayed away from Areum’s face. His smile got wider every time she laughed. His gaze toward her made my stomach somersault and me feeling nauseous. They’re the same gazes I had toward him. It slowly gets harder to breathe as pressure builds up in my throat. I forced the cough that threatened to escape down, I was probably overthinking it anyway.

But that feeling of nausea never went away. It only gets worse as the week comes and goes, especially when almost all of the conversations between me and Satoru had always led to her. I started to see him less and less since he always declined invitations to hang out with: “Sorry, I promised Areum that I would study Physics with her.”

Ever since Areum joined our little group, she got Satoru mesmerized. They’re practically attached by the hip, never one without the other. It was suffocating to see them together all the time. But how could I hate her? She was an absolute angel. Always speaking softly and gently, always kind to everyone around her. Hell, she noticed whenever I started to struggle for air when no one else did. I wish I could hate her even just a little bit, maybe then it wouldn’t be as painful.

XX15 Rose: romance

February 14th, probably the most annoying day of the year. The school ground is littered with pink and red, people carrying flowers, balloons, chocolate, and stuffed animals in different sizes around, blocking up the already crowded hallway.

Some couples walk around, others busy sucking each other face off in a corner, and god knows what some of those freaks are doing in the bathroom stalls. I wish this day would be over already, everything is suffocating. I make my way through the hoard of people professing their undying love to each other in the schoolyard. Finally, I reached my first-period class, reaching my hand out to tug open the door when I heard my name being called. I turned around to see Satoru with one hand waving in the air like a madman and the other carrying a single pink rose.

“Y/n! Hi!” He greeted me after coming to a stop in front of me.

“Good morning to you too, Satoru,” I said with a smile.

He shoved the pink rose he’s holding to my face with the bunny smile gracing his lips, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

I guess some old habits die hard after all, “Thanks, Satoru” I chuckled lightly as I accepted the flower.

We stood there for what felt like forever until he started, “Y/n, so I----” the bell ring cutting Satoru off.

“Shit, gotta go, my first class is on the opposite side of campus, I’ll see you after school okay? Bye Y/n” He said quickly before running off.

What was he about to say? Curse that damn bell, I swear that thing has the worst timing. I look down at the pink flower. The pink petals look soft and fluffy, a small pink rose starts to bloom in my lungs along with budding of hope. “No Y/n, you idiot, didn't you say that hope is for fools? Stop it before you get hurt!”. But I know it's already too late, I can't seem to control the smile that's growing on my lips and the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach.

Maybe... Just maybe... he feels the same way. Maybe I was wrong about his feelings toward Areum. After all, he gave me a rose, the one flower that shouted “love” louder than any other flowers. This could be my chance to tell him how much he means to me. Suddenly, Valentine’s day became the most exciting day of the year. Bringing the rose closer to my nose, I can't wait to see him after school...

When the last bell signaling the end of the day rang, I practically bolted out of the room to meet Satoru at our usual spot. Excitement filled my body, I felt lighter than ever, but also nervous at the same time.

I arrived at the schoolyard to see a huge group of people crowding around in a circle blocking the way to our usual spot. I rolled my eyes as I prepared mentally to push through the crowd.

With great difficulty, I started to join the crowd and maneuvered myself through the hoard of people while repeating "excuse me" over and over again. Eventually, I reached the other side of the human barrier, I breathed deeply and prepared to do it once again before looking up. The sight that greeted me when I looked up filled me with dread. My stomach dropped and I felt nauseous. The flowers in my lungs are multiplying, making it harder to breathe. I can feel my heart tighten up in my chest.

Standing in the middle of the circle of people is Satoru, holding a bouquet of red roses, looking as handsome as when I last saw him. Light pink coating his cheeks, there is nervousness in his eyes as he stands in front of Areum, who is having both hands covering up half of her face. Surprises grace her beautiful form. Standing behind them are Shoko and Suguru, they're both holding up a giant sign that reads "will you be my Valentine?" with a glittery cursive font. Both of their faces show excitement as they look at Satoru and Areum.

I held my breath as I prayed for whatever deity above for her to say no. Unfortunately, they seem to hate me with a burning passion. I watch as she nods slowly before exclaiming "yes!". I watch as Satoru lets out a sigh and then smiles brightly. The same smile that can light up the whole room. The same smile that makes me fall hopelessly in love with him. I watch them walk toward each other as people around them cheer loudly. I watch as Satoru shyly gives Areum the rose and she accepting them just as shyly. I watch as they embrace each other with wide smiles gracing their lips and people hollering and wolf-whistling around them.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The flowers are multiplying too quickly, filling up my lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. I need to get out of here. I turned around abruptly, forcing my way through the crowd of people. Once I'm out of the circle, I break into a sprint. I ran and ran and ran and ran. I don't know where, I just want to be as far away from that crowd as possible. My lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen, but I kept running until I could no longer hear the cheering of people and dropped down to the ground.

I tried inhaling to no avail. It hurt so much. Every time I try to inhale or exhale it would feel like needles are being scraped against the walls of my lungs. It's painful, no, fuck that, it's torturous, everything hurt like hell, the pain is agonizing. It makes me want to rip out my heart and lung and throw them far away to ease the pain in my chest.

Pressure slowly builds up in my throat and it gets itchier and itchier forcing me to let out a cough. That cough is followed by another one, and another one, and another one until I'm coughing uncontrollably. My body doubled over and shook violently as I wheezed for air. I covered my mouth with my hands as I coughed into them. I choked violently before I felt wetness on my hands.

I pulled my hands away from my face and looked down on them, holding back another cough. In my hand, a pool of blood and flower petals. The warm yellow of sunflowers, the cold white of daisies, and the gentle pink of roses are being dyed by the red of blood. Tears blurring my vision as I throw myself into another coughing fit. More blood was forced out of my body along with more flower petals.

Suddenly my lungs started to burn even more. I cough harshly as something bigger than the petals force its way out of my throat and onto the floor, joining the existing puddle of blood. A pink rose. Soon enough the more flowers and blood forced their way out of my body to join the puddle of blood under me where the rose and flower petals lie. It hurts like hell with each cough, but... It became easier and easier to breathe after each time.

When the last daisy fell into the pool of blood, the coughing fit stopped. The burning stopped along with the pain in my chest. The numbness I felt was almost exhilarating. My body felt lighter than ever, it felt like I was floating on clouds. I take in a deep breath and slowly exhale as darkness takes over me.

XX16 Tiger Lily: “Please love me”

A figure of a man holding a bouquet walks silently toward the cemetery. His lean frame is adorned with a thick jacket to protect him from the harsh cold of winter, his form feels lonely as if a part of him is missing, gone from this world completely. The sun is setting over the horizon, coloring the sky in bright orange and pink. But Satoru couldn't care less, his world has lost all of its colors a while ago. The beauty of this world only appears dull to him, nothing can be pretty in a world without her.

He walks solemnly through the cemetery, passing by the countless headstones. Until he reached one in particular. The headstone looks relatively new compared to the ones surrounding it. The writing on it read: "Y/n, XX97 - XX15, 'Loving you silently'".

Satoru kneels in front of Y/n's grave as tears slowly spill from his eyes, blurring his vision. He placed the bouquet of Tiger Lilies in front of her grave, joining the other flowers that were already there from visitors earlier that day. He sat there regretfully silent as tears spilled from his eyes.

"Hey Y/n, How have you been?" he greets.

"I hope you’re doing well.” He lets out a forced chuckle, "Everyone has been missing you. Especially your mom, she cried everyday for months after you’re gone. She has been doing better now though, so you don't have to worry too much, I’ll take care of her in your stead."

Satoru let out a shaky breath as more tears spilled out from his eyes, “I miss you every damn day, I miss you so much that it’s hard to breathe. Fuck, I can’t look at daisy flowers without crying anymore!"

“I miss your smile that brightened up the whole room. I miss your eyes that held the universe. I miss your comforting voice” he said while choking up as tears fell harder from his glistening blue eyes, "But more than anything, I miss you who felt like home...”

“I’m sorry for being an idiot and realizing when it was already too late, you deserve so much better than my pathetic self” He sobs pitifully.

Satoru sat there with his back hunched over as tears fell endlessly from his eyes. At that moment, he looks small and fragile, as if we would break from a single touch. With each passing minute, it got harder and harder for him to breathe. His lungs begin to burn as the pressure slowly builds up in his throat, forcing him to violently cough up flower petals and blood. When the coughing fit died down, he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off of his lips. Slowly, he stood back up before glazing at the headstone longingly.

“I’ll see you soon, Y/n,” he whispered with a bitter smile as he began to walk away.

#gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo fanfic #satoru #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo angst #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo

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the-thursday · 2 months

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Hello everyone, this post was long overdue, and finally, prompted by our beloved Howls also leaving, it's time for me to rip off the bandaid as well.

I would also like to announce a sort of departure from Ranger's apprentice fandom.

I do not know how many from RA fandom era from few years back are still here but I assume mostly newer blogs keep up with this account.

Take a lil history walk with me, if you will. I joined this fandom around 2017-18. I was very active around here, posting all kinds of stuff, fics, takes, incorrect quotes, art and whatnot. I made many friends with whom I had a great time and I am happy and honoured that I am friends with some of them till this day. Fandom became the second home to me as things hadn't been exactly easy irl and maybe I fixated on it too much, but gods know I loved this place so much. And I wish for everyone to experience this happiness and just as I made friends who became a significant part of my life, I wish that for you as well. Being surrounded by amazing and wonderful people and sharing similar interests is one of the most pure joyous feelings in this world.

As 2020-2021 rolled around, some of you know that things in my life picked up a harsh pace and I started to drift away. In 2021 I left the fandom because of that and unpleasant things with one of the people here. It was one of the most gut wrenching decisions I had made.

In 2022, I started gradually getting worse, but also had the courage to come back at the end of the year. I felt happy and welcomed and I am so grateful to everyone who made it happen, who supported me and gave me another breath. My mental health kept getting worse but I wasn't alone and that has been everything to me.

Now it's about a little more than a year since I've been back and again, I've met wonderful amazing people who I am happy and honoured to call friends. I don't regret coming back and I am happy I did, however I think it's time for me to go again. And below, I hope to explain why.

Like I said, I've been getting worse. Last autumn and this winter have been very difficult for me and I had to rethink some priorities, as life is going on the time left for me to invest in fandoms is getting thinner and thinner. Unfortunately, among them, isn't keeping up with this fandom. With my next words I hope not to insult anyone. The truth is, I don't find enjoyment in the fandom and content itself anymore, or more like, as much as I used to. I don't exactly vibe with posts for roughly the past half a year and I don't mean this in negative way, I just think it's for me to move on. All of the new people that I've seen have wonderful content and while I don't exactly vibe like I used to, I can see that you're having fun and that's important! People come and go and I do wish all the newcomers and seniors who are still here to have a great time, but I don't think I have energy, capacity and vibes to be part of it anymore. As you know, my blog has been very much inactive for a long time, aside from dumping my dumb sketches or reblogging something here and there. And rather than letting it rot, I'd like to cleanly move on. Anyhow, on self deprecating note, since really it's not like I've been someone prominent I don't think this is a loss to the fandom and this makes it easier for me.

So to summarise, my leaving is about personal things, my life moving and the fact I don't have the mental capacity or motivation to actively keep up.

So what does this mean? I won't be posting RA related stuff on this blog anymore. This blog will turn into a neutral main blog and I'll create one side blog for art that I hope to continue to make and maybe one blog dedicated to the work of Brandon Sanderson.

However, it doesn't mean that I am not up to goof around about RA anymore, however this will be done in DMs. If I sometimes get to draw and post RA related art, it shall be posted on my new art blog with RA tag. However, I don't think there's a high probability of public RA art from me anymore, because 1) need to move on and 2) I have a very strong and maybe confrontational opinion about art in this fandom that has given me a bad taste and discouraged me from enjoying making it and posting it. I won't go into details because I don't want to sour this post for myself and for y'all with it.

I want to thank this fandom for everything it has been for me and for everyone and I wish y'all some happy fandoming!

Yours only,

The Ranger Thursday 11

#rangers apprentice #final goodbye

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wisteriagoesvroom · 5 months

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playing pinterest roulette and seeing what AUs i can make up based on the pics (part 1 of ???)

so this is a charlos AU, where carlos is not a racecar driver but went to a top university and eventually became a speculative fiction writer instead. his first book was an ambitious story about the theory of relativity as told through a series of art heists.

except: strange things start happening as carlos works on his highly anticipated follow-up, which is set to the backdrop of the monaco grand prix. in his restless nights, he keeps dreaming of a down-on-his-luck f1 turned getaway driver named charles.

it's a snowy winter's day, and he's stuck on the fifteenth chapter of the draft, wordsmithing a line that's going nowhere, staring at his laptop. nursing a café con leche that's quickly going cold. the doorbell keeps buzzing, and in his annoyance he opens it, about to give the delivery guy or some unfortunate christmas carollers a piece of his mind –

only to stare right into a pair of forest green eyes.

"it's mass. with time and space." charles says. carlos is too confused to even process how the figment of his imagination has appeared in the flesh. charles barges past him, fully takes up space in his apartment.

"the speed of light defines the relationship between energy and matter." charles continues, brushing ice off his gloves, face red and hair a mess under his beanie. "that's what you were thinking of. and don't stop on my account. i am so curious to see how this ends."

carlos stares, and stares, and stares. his hand has not moved from its death grip on the doorknob.

several thoughts flit through carlos's mind. uh, my macbook can do magic realism now? is this what they meant by writers being too close to the text? dios mío...¿tengo que ir al hospital??

carlos settles on: "how are you here?"

charles smiles, clutching his gloves betwen his hands. boyish and rueful as carlos ever dreamed him to be. "well. you are the one who created me, no?"

----

originally from a pinterest prompt -

letting the first pinterest posts choose my vibe - first real person, character, quote, outfit

tagging whoever wants to play it too!

#charlos #1655 #f1 rpf fic #wiz.HCs

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mrs-monaghan · 1 year

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He wanted to stay at Jimin's house like he used to before all this.

I've been hearing it from lot of Jkkrs. But are you sure 😭 he was living with JM. Yes we have few similar car moments but other than that ? There is no info

Why would there be in4? Do you know what being in the closet means? You sound stupid

Okay, it has been a very eventful day. But I'll tackle one Jikook ask for the road coz I got 1AM on my end.

Anon, Jikookers have something called common sense. Thats how we came to the conclusion that Jikook were living together and even though it might just be occasionally rn for their safety, I will be using present tense.

When members first moved out, Jimin was the only one who purchased a dilapidated house and anyone could tell he sure as hell wasn't living there. So all 6 others were accounted for except him. So where was he living? Then him and JK were sharing cars all the time. For years. Not "a few moments". And when Hopekook became neighbours, we saw Jhope, Jimin and JK share cars a few times. Again, super sus. Why was it always Jikook at the crime scene?

Anyway, let's look at a few moments in no particular order.

Exhibit a) Spotted outside JK's apartment multiple times.

Exhibit b) Namkook on that one live and RM talked about the cafe infront of their house.

Why is he using our and why is JK nodding in agreement? Last I checked Minimoni are the ones who live in 9/1 not JK.

Moving on

Exhibit c) JK says he will make pizza while looking straight at Jimin which is what prompted Jimin to think he was talking about their home.

But then JK clarified that no, he meant at work.

Exhibit d)

When they go home, JK will let Jimin rest. Right. Not sus at all.

Exhibit e) I feel like this sentence went over people's heads.

Jimin doesn't wake up and go look for Jungkook. He wakes up and the first thing he sees, is JK. Thats literally everything right there. Honestly. But sure, I got more.

Exhibit f) My memory is hazy on the context. But RM asked JK why he had watched something. I don't remember what. But JK replied that he watched it because he was at home with him. Him in this case being Jimin.

Exhibit g) Jimin was project manager for BE. So as they were winding up RM told everyone to send their shit to Jimin once they were done.

This part conveniently doesn't get translated but Karmy were kind enough to let us know, when JK taps Jimin's thigh he says; I'll just show it to you.

To recap, anon. Jimin will be at home so everyone else needs to send him their work but JK doesn't need to because he can just show it to him. Because he will already be there with him.

Exhibit h) A favourite of mine. So basically their favorite chef comes over for this episode and brings with him 7 knives including for Suga in absentia. So just so we understand, 7 members, 7 knives.

Basically, members are trying to one up each other and JK is like "we got 2 knives so we win" 👀 Are y'all getting that? Every member left with 1 knife each, but the Park Jeons are way ahead of them because they have 2 knives. Why is JK counting Jimin's knife??

(Side bar: Jimin's face is everything. He knows bae is slipping but he can't do anything without calling attention to it 😂😂)

Exhibit i) Last one since I'm out of image space. This one came from our president. Jimin tells us he hangs about at home naked and Jhope added that JK is usually in charge of music. Jimin's face was e👏🏾very👏🏾thing!👏🏾

There you have it. Jikook live together. Jikook boyfriends. Jikook real.

#ask shaz #bts ask #if jikook isn't real then neither am i #jikook is real #jimin and jungkook #park jimin #jimin #jungkook #bts #jikook #kookmin #minkook #jikook analysis

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kaurwreck · 1 month

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If you want can you post your skk hcs? I was rereading you fanfic snippets of them and just wanted to know what you try to add in when writing them?

ty for asking about my skk headcanons! i'll share the ones that you can nearly always presume to be "canon" in the fics I write.

Chuuya has a vulva + internal reproductive organs, but with so few memories prior to the Sheep, he doesn't recall having an assigned gender divergent from his own and has always known himself to be a boychild. He's rarely been prompted to think anything of it: the Sheep didn't make a fuss when he started menstruating, although Shirase did defer to Yuan to teach him how to manage it once they realized; Mori educated him on his options once Mori became aware but was otherwise unfazed and had forged Chuuya's koseki anyway; etc., etc. Which isn't to say Chuuya doesn't pursue and receive gender affirming care, only that he's both self-assured in his own and rather naive regarding matters of gender and sexuality. (i.e., insofar as trans is a useful framework here, he's trans.)

Dazai is ashamed of his sexual attraction. Not in his sexuality (as in preferences), but he thinks his sexual attraction is, generally, an imposition and a vulgar burden he thrusts onto others. This doesn't stop him from feeling it and pursuing others. It's just one of the many contours of his self-loathing.

Dazai and Chuuya weren't completely no-contact for those four years, but they talk about it as if they were.

Chuuya has a Port Mafia-subsidized penthouse with an aboveground wine cellar. He still frequents the Agency dorms; he doesn't like Dazai snooping around and making messes in his penthouse. Or stealing his wine and wine paraphernalia for wine fraud, which happens sometimes and has, previously, fucked with the integrity of Chuuya's cache of Romanée Conti vintages.

Chuuya is a workaholic and very driven in his commitment to his organization. Dazai cherishes and serves at the leisure of the hand that feeds him but isn't. Quite as career oriented as Chuuya.

Both are polyamorous more or less. But exceedingly possessive of the other in hyperspecific, sometimes toxic ways.

Chuuya has extensive irezumi beneath his clothes, much of which memorializes his loved ones. (Including Dazai, but most everyone knows better than to acknowledge those pieces.) Dazai, meanwhile, doesn't have any tattoos; he can't tolerate the needles (whether hand or electric). Dazai will join Chuuya during his sessions, though, if only to bother him in ways Chuuya can't do anything about while being tattooed.

They don't negotiate anything, which is usually fine. They work it out one way or another when it's not.

They have several intricate rituals to navigate around each other's severe intimacy issues.

While they were both in the Port Mafia, there was a strict mandate against Dazai riding passenger on Chuuya's motorcycle. Enforceable by any member of the organization regardless of rank.

They're technically legally married under Dazai's birth identity (Shuuji Tsushima); that's also the identity with which Chuuya has a joint bank account and multiple tax fraud schemes (in which Akutagawa and Gin are also implicated as dependents), among other things. (Note: I've unilaterally decided Japan recognizes same sex marriage in bsd-verse, especially given the plethora of anachronistic, fictitious, and quirky policies, ministries, levers of governance, etc. canonical to bsd-verse that preclude the canonical existence of several of Japan's current irl legal institutions, including its constitution as amended.)

#soukoku #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #fic wip

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insomniamamma · 8 months

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Gravity: Ezra x f!reader

A/n: Written for my year of kisses. @yearofcreation2023 The prompt is a kiss on the eyelids, and I originally intended to write it for Boba Fett (which I may still do) but then I rewatched Prospect and gave myself the yearns. Title inspired by this song. This jumps around in time.

Warnings: Much flirting and fluff. Reader has unspecified medical condition that keeps her from going to space. Ezra needs his own warning. Medical treatment. References to sickness and medical procedures. References to sex but nothing explicit.

Ezra hums contentedly beneath your hands. Shirtless and tilted backwards over the deep sink, towel draped around his sun-freckled shoulders. He positively purrs as you smooth the conditioner through his curls, scratching lightly over his scalp, tugging, but just a little. Real shampoo and conditioner are an imported nicety, expensive and not often used. Seems a shame to so thoroughly clean his hair only to shear so much of it off.

Long hair is a pain in the ass when you’re doing suit work, a pain in the ass in microgravity. You can tie it back but if it comes lose, you have random threads sweat-plastered to your face or tickling your nose or nape or eyebrow without being able to fix it. You don’t know this from your own experience. Born sickly, you could not follow your brothers off world, never as strong as them, failed the g-tests and the orientation tests and the flight instructor took you aside, look, you get the right combo of meds and cautery and you might be able to work a tug or a yard-switcher up to the Bench, but you’re not gonna get out of this well.

So you stayed. Da long gone, died way out towards the end of the Great Arm. And your brothers faded out of your life one by one by one. Once in a while you’d get packet drops, grainy vids squirted between can-haulers and freighters, a game of telephone that stretched the length of the Great Arm, but those became less and less. Even after contact waned, the points would still accrue in the family account, remittance from Kevva knows where. Until they didn’t. Faded out of your lives like comets flaring bright before slinging out into the black. You stayed behind and made due.

Learned the herbalist’s trade from your Ma who learned it from her Ma as far back as your first kin who colonized here, who built the house you live in now, who planted the gardens that provide food and medicines. Leaves and flowers and roots all diagrammed out, with their varied dangers and uses recipes for salves and tinctures and dyes, soaps, meticulously drawn and copied out from Ma’s book into one that you stitched and bound yourself. A right of passage of sorts, preserve what’s come before and add your own knowledge. The last few entries of your Ma’s book near illegible, from when the Wandering Sickness took her ability to write, a hash of Central glyph-speak and her own short-hand.

Ma had been gone for about a year when you met Ezra, or rather, when someone in town took pity on Ezra and sent him to your door. He was naked from the waist up skin blotched in swollen, crimson wheals. You shake your head. Off-worlders never learn. “I must apologize for my state of disarray,” he says, “The rubbing of my shirt seams became unbearable on my walk from town. I seem to have an allergy to the local flora.” He speaks a lilting off-world accent. One eye is red and puffed into a narrow slit, looks like he’s winking at you. “Humbleweed,” you say, “Looks like you rolled in the stuff. Come on in, spacer, lets get you fixed up.” “It’s called humbleweed because it puts people fool enough to touch it in their place?” “That’s right,” you say, leading him inside, “Wanna tell me how you got coated in it?” “Me and my crewmates are camped out along yonder lake. We were passing around a bottle of firewater and got to tussling. Not unfriendly like, but I took a bad step into some bushes. Didn’t think much of it at the time—“ “Please tell me none of you were stupid enough to throw any of that mess in a campfire.” “No, Ma’am, there was bone dry drift wood a-plenty.” “Good because the smoke would make your lungs do the same thing that’s happening with your skin, and we’d be calling for a dropper.” “That sounds most unpleasant,” he says, and you gesture towards the large, hammered metal tub. “Strip,” you say, “And hop in.” You say, fetching a rusty metal canister and a scrub brush from the shelf. You pull on some disposable gloves. An imported nicety, but you don’t want humbleweed resin getting under your own nails. “Ezra.” “What?” “My name is Ezra, and I’d like to know yours before you see my nether regions.” You laugh. This big, swaggering spacer with his odd, archaic way of speaking is shy. Damned if you don’t see his ears and cheeks going red. You tell him your name and rest a gloved hand on his upper arm. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen, okay? Unless they build men different further down the Arm. Give me your clothes. We’ll need to treat and wash them too.” Ezra reluctantly peels down. The worst of the rash is on his upper half, but there’s a particularly nasty line of welts around his waist, snaking down along the soft swell of his belly, telltale lines where he scratched at it in his sleep, got the sap under his nails and dragged it around, unthinking. He stands stone still while you run your gloved hands over him, checking places he wouldn’t think to check himself, armpits and the soles of his feet and juncture of hip and thigh, squirms under your touch. “I’m sorry—“ he says, red faced— “No need,” you say, “I once treated a man who was fool enough to wipe his ass with the leaves. He waited until it all blistered up to get help—“ You push the metal canister and scrub brush into his hands. “You sluice this over the red patches and scrub, clear? It’ll sting some—“ “This smells like engine degreaser.” “It is engine degreaser,” you say, “But it’ll do the job. Let me get your face though. Don’t want you getting this in your eyes. Get what you can reach and I’ll take care of your clothes, yeah?” His clothing goes in the deep sink, warm water and a generous pour of degreaser. You can’t help but look at him, his back to you, all broad freckled shoulders and red, puckered scars, tells of a spacer’s life, trying to reach over the curve of his own spine with the scrub brush. “Miss? Ma’am? I can’t quite—“ You find yourself smiling, take the scrub brush and canister from him, pour a cold rill down his spine and scrub, and he shudders. “Stings.” “I know.”

He flinches when you bring the degreaser soaked cloth to his face, draws back, his eye a puffed red slit leaking tears, his hands circle your wrists, stilling you. “Ezra. You need to let me do this.” “Perhaps this can wait for the Bench, this may be beyond what you can do here, not saying that I mistrust your skills or judgement but—“ “Look up. You see that bundle of Kind Sister? The star shaped flowers?” “Yes, but I don’t- “Look up and hold still. You keep your eyes right there.” You wipe the degreaser over the puffed skin below his eye, and you can feel the tension in him, thrumming beneath his skin. “Breathe, handsome, I’ve done this many times.” “It’s not that I don’t trust—“ “Just keep looking up.” “Burns a little.” “It will.” You dab the cloth over his skin, right up to the fringe of his lashes. “Close.” “I don’t think—“ “Don’t need you to think. Close your eyes.” He feels the chill on his eyelids and flinches away. “Sssshhhhh. Hold still. Not gonna hurt you.” He stills and lets you wipe his eyes with the degreaser, and you can’t help but admire the way his dark lashes fall against his cheeks.

“You’re unsettled.” “Maybe I don’t want to shear off these pretty curls.” You thread your fingers through his hair and raise the scissors to start cutting, but his hand curves around your wrist. “You’ve not been this unsettled before,” says Ezra, “Talk to me Gentle, tell me what’s bothering you.” And you can’t help but smile, his nickname for you always manages to make your chest tighten, someplace between swelling love and crippling fear, presses his lips to the soft skin of your wrist where the veins rest so close. “You’re going so far this time, and you know I can’t go after you if things go wrong—“ “The risk is greater, but the reward is….” he trails off, fingers tracing the landscape of your knuckles. Ezra has words for everything, three words when one will do, and to hear him go silent, to see him search for words feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t. He draws inward for a beat and then those dark eyes find yours. “The reward is such that I could stop my rambling ways. If we find what we suspect is there.” “You’re saying you’ll stay.” “I am.” The shiny scissors in your hand tremble, sending little arcs of light across the rough hewn walls. “You’ll come down the well. For keeps.” “For keeps, Gentle Hands. My heart already resides here. I finish this job? You’ll have all of me. For as long as you can put up with my nonsense.” Your hands still. Dread replaced by spreading warmth. You smile. “You’d be surprised at how much of your nonsense I can tolerate.”

“Oh, Kevva,” Ezra sighs and sags against you, “You are surely one of Her kind sisters. She has given you the touch, the blessing—“ You lightly slap his cheek with a gloved hand. “Don’t you go boneless on me, handsome.” You’ve been liberally coating the red wheals and rising blisters with a salve of kind sister, sersath and bird-eye berry. This salve counters the miserable itch of humbleweed, and triggers a kind of euphoric sedation in maybe one in five people you’ve treated. “You’re having a strong reaction. It’s not dangerous. Kevva’s just smiling on you. That’s all. You’ll feel right as rain in about a sixteenth. Hey! You go limp and I will not heave your ass off this floor.” “I will gladly spend the rest of my days gazing up in admiration.” “Hmmmm. Might hold you to that, pretty spacer.” “Would give my life into your gentle hands,” “Okay. Okay, let’s get you settled,” You steer Ezra naked and greasy towards a fresh-sheeted cot you keep against one wall, just in case. He’s not the first stray to rest there a spell and surely won’t be the last. He stretches himself out like a cat lounging in a sunbeam, yawning hugely, even covered in angry red wheals and pinkish goo he’s quite the sight. Pretty man, you think, too bad I’ll probably never see him again. “y’can look all you want, Gentle Hands,” he mumbles, and you feel your face go hot, “I don’t- I don’t mind.” “Here,” you say, pulling the top sheet up to his chest, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--“ His hand finds yours, warm and enfolding. “Gentle Hands,” he says, but his eyes are already closed, his holding hand already letting go, dropping away from yours, arm dangling stiffly off the edge of the cot, “Kind heart.” And you know it’s the salve, maybe you’ve got the proportions wrong, the strength of the bird-eye berry varies depending on where it’s picked. Have to pay more attention next time, or maybe this pretty spacer just reacts stronger than most for a whole slew of reasons that have nothing to do with you. Ezra snores. You smile and lay his hand over his chest so his arm doesn’t fall asleep. And then go to fetch his clothes from the deep sink so you can rinse them out.

You thread your fingers through his hair and cut like you’ve done many times before. Always makes you a little sad, seeing the curls he’s grown in his time with you piled on the floor in front of the deep sink. Ezra luxuriates under your touch, relishes the feel of your hands carding through his curls, tugging, measuring with the width of your fingers, ruffling his hair this way and that, making sure things are even. You’ve done this for your brothers and now you do it for your lover. Brush the stray bits of hair from his shoulders, letting your hands wander the breadth of him, tuck yourself into the join of his shoulder and neck and his arms come up around you, cradling you against him, the two of you swaying together. I’ll be back before you know it.

Ezra finds you in the front garden says your name and snaps you out of your reverie, the muscle-memory motions of removing errant weeds and dead leaves. You stand and wipe the dirt on your pants and turn to look at him, feel yourself grin. He’s wrapped the top sheet around himself like a toga, shuffles along the walk like a newborn calf, a bit unsteady and blinking in the bright sunlight. The swelling around his eye has already gone down significantly. “Ezra. How you feeling?” “A little tingly,” he says, “A little foggy headed, truth be told, I don’t recall dozing off. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you-“ “You haven’t,” you walk the narrow path through the herb beds to where his clothes hang on the line. You frown. “Still damp. Come on. I think I’ve got something that might fit you. Don’t want to send you back into town with a wet ass.” You move to herd him back into the house, but he stops you, his hand curled gently around your wrist. “I, uh, I worry that I may have said something untoward,” says Ezra, “My mouth has a tendency to run along on it’s own and Kevva knows I have not experienced such gentle care in a whole heap of stand-months--“ “You flirted with me a little,” you say and feel yourself smile, he drops your wrist but you catch his hand in yours before he can pull away, “But I flirted right back.” “Did you now?” “Mmm-hmm.”

Ezra kisses you in that slow way of his, soft press of his lips to yours, his way of lingering, lips hovering over yours sharing breath between kisses, soft pecks and nuzzles, coaxing your lips apart so he can dip his tongue between them, his hands sliding warm beneath the hem of your shirt and when he breaks away so he can dip his face into the curve of your neck to nip at that tender place below your ear, you push him back, a firm hand on his chest. “No.” His brow knits, but his eyes are smiling. “No?” “Go shower off, Ezra. I don’t want all those little stray hairs in my nice clean sheets.” “Those sheets won’t be clean for long, Gentle Hands,” “Doesn’t mean I want to be all scratchy while we’re making a mess of them. Go on now.”

“This isn’t right,” you say, poking at the screen of your much repaired data-pad, “This is far more than what we agreed on.” “You’ve taken very good care of me,” says Ezra. He’s dressed in clothes your middle brother left behind, his own folded into a bundle and tucked under his arm. You reject the transaction. “I take very good care of everyone, Ezra, it’s my job.” “Still I spent a quarter cycle snoring away in your great room,” he says, “I expect most others would have roused me and sent me down the road. I wish to repay you for your kindness.” “I don’t need payment for that. Not with points anyway.” Ezra smirks, and cocks an eyebrow. “You got some other currency in mind?” “Maybe. You’re not boosting tonight are you?” “No,” he says, “We’re hopping the Magra-Tripoint line. Don’t need to hit the bench for three cycles and a little. You got something in mind, Gentle Hands?” You feel blood rise in your cheeks, something about his newly minted name for the you and the way he says it, lilt and rumble of his voice holding something that could be want, something that pulls on you, maybe a cycle or so of fun with a pretty man, but maybe something more. “There’s live music in the square tonight,” you say, “They usually start up around dusk--“ and you feel suddenly shy. Ezra’s a spacer, he’s been places you probably can’t imagine. “It’s not that weird twitchy shit coming out of Central these days is it?” You laugh. “No, nothing like that. What do you say? Take a girl dancing?” “I would be honored,” says Ezra, “But I’ll have you know that I am a terrible dancer.” “The steps are easy. I’ll show you.” “I look forward to it,” he says, “I’ll meet you in the square at sun-down.”

You have to go into town anyway. You sell your wares at the general store. Balms and salves and tinctures and teas, bird-eye berry gel for teething babies, kind sister and chamomile for sleepless nights. Callie takes her cut, but that’s the price of not having to man your own shop. Everyone in town knows to send the severe cases your way, and otherwise leave you be. There are always a few special orders, things not entirely above board, a powder made of bloodspot spores that will end a pregnancy, opium and bird eye berry dried and made into a tea that can ease someone’s passing with few questions. Giggle-weed infused syrup to help a man get hard, everything passed out in folded envelopes, dark glass jars,blank and innocuous. You do your rounds and make your way to the square, watch the first band set up. A cello imported from Kevva knows where, goatskin drums, a flute carved from a reaper-bird’s hind strut. Rough made guitars. You scan around the square and see the usual faces. There’s a couple of nightclubs closer to the docks, places where the spacers go and you imagine him there. Little prickling like a thorn inside your chest. Never going to see him again anyway so what does it matter?

“Well, there you are!” You turn from the pint of cider you’ve been nursing and smile. “Ezra! Wasn’t sure I’d see you!!” You stand and he pulls you into a strong embrace, and then holds you at arms length. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you either,” he says, “Pretty lady who soothed my hurts and listened to my yap and saw my pale and unimpressive ass? I’m surprised you didn’t run for the hills.” “I knew you’d be pretty once the swelling went down.” “You clean up nice, too.” You wonder for a second if he’s making fun, traded your usual workday clothes for your favorite dress, not fancy by off-world standards, river-linen dyed summer sky blue, but there’s no judgement in his eyes and widening smile, just warmth, slides his palms down your arms and squeezes your hands in his. The band plays and the caller names the steps, and people swing their partners and turn and Ezra’s face tightens. “This looks unduly complicated,” “Let’s get some cider in you. It won’t seem so complicated then.” “If you say so, Gentle Hands.” “I do say so. Just watch for a bit and then let me lead.”

Despite your best efforts, Ezra is truly a terrible dancer, the reels and jigs and square dances see him dazed, unable to tell his right from his left and after one particularly disastrous dance the two of you collapse into each other, laughing, clinging to each other and then the band starts a slow one, which means that the caller picks at his guitar and sings a song of lost love while the rest of the band hit the bar and give everyone else a chance to catch their breath. A handful of couples make their way to the floor, and Ezra holds his hand out to you. “This is a dance I know, if you’d do me the honor.”

You expect you’ll never see him again. You’ve come to regard the spacers you meet as spring-sprites, all sun glittered wings, pulling themselves out of the mud only to live a hand of cycles and then vanish. He’ll persist in your thoughts for a bit, this pretty man with his odd way of speaking and his lovely dark eyes, but once he leaves the well he’ll fade like they all do, become a tender memory and nothing more, but for now you ache pleasantly from his attentions. The dock is swarmed with clotted crews of spacers, stacks of luggage, piles of gear waiting to be loaded, low hiss of regulator-valves triggering along the snake-work of cable leading from the tanks to the transfer ship, a squat soot-stained wedge, plated in dingy heat-tiles like a fish’s scales. You suspect this craft is older than you. “This isn’t goodbye, you know,” says Ezra, and your heart squeezes. You’ve heard this before. A delirious hand of cycles, but they always go and they never come back and most times you are able to guard your heart, but not this time, not with him, and your usual glib response doesn’t come. “Ezra, I—we—it’s not?“ He reaches for you and cradles your face in his warm, rough hands, and you expect to feel his lips on yours, his mouth hungry and fever hot, but instead he stretches up and kisses your forehead, and something inside you tugs, pulls, cries out at this unexpected tenderness, tears sting your eyes so you close them, as his breath fans warm over your skin. Ezra kisses your closed eyes, right then left and then rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll see you again, Gentle Hands,” he says and pulls you into a crushing hug, and then the deck hand calls out a string of numbers over an intercom, balky speakers strung up on wooden poles all around the port and he’s gone into the surging crowd.

Ezra sings in the shower. He always does and Kevva have mercy that man can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Sweep his damp, shorn curls into a little pile to be scooped up and sprinkled into the garden beds, human scent revolting to the local fauna, but then it screams up at you, a little curl of starlight among the tangled dark, little twist of white hair cut from his temple that you so like to twine your fingers through, now discarded. You bend and pick the damp curl of hair from the floor and roll it between your fingers. You move almost without thinking, tuck that little curl into an envelope you usually use for dry herb blends, fold it closed and hold it in your hands a beat, press it to your chest, and then laugh at yourself. Ezra will come back.

He always comes back.

#prospect #ezra x f!reader #ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x f!reader #year of kisses #year of themes 2023

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 months

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Queen of Thieves - Chapter 6

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or; A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

All of my love to @climbthemountain2020 for reading through this chapter and convincing me not to delete everything 😂💕

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

The terms of a bargain must always be clear.

In Prythian, ambiguity was a weapon, and by the docks of Velaris, the lesser fae knew how to wield it expertly. There, where saltwater seeped through the cracks in the wood, rotting everything from the inside out, gamblers only kept on their feet through careful, precise wording.

At a minimum, each deal should state plainly when it begins and ends. If the terms of a bargain weren’t finite… it could be damning. It could mean a lifetime in service of its terms.

Raised as a merchant’s daughter, Feyre learned at an early age how to word a deal in her favor. But it was the years that came later, when evenings in taverns became routine, where she witnessed the true consequences of ill-worded bargains. Swaggering males who walked through the doors with everything and found themselves indebted beyond coin.

The lacework of ink decorating Feyre’s hand, fingertip to elbow, laid testimony to each wager she’d ever made, the countless times she’d risked her life on a gamble. And won. But perhaps, caught in the arrogance of her triumphs, she’d forgotten her first tavern-goer lesson.

The terms of a bargain must always be clear.

Twenty-four hours of her company, during which the High Lord could do whatever he liked to her, in exchange for ten thousand marks.

A simple enough bargain. Straightforward, finite, measurable. The twenty-four hours had passed, and the ten thousand marks had been conferred. The terms were fulfilled, and hypothetically, Feyre and the High Lord would now be able to go their separate ways.

But—that had not been part of the bargain. If Feyre could go back to amend the terms, she would have added: Twenty-four hours, after which the High Lord was never allowed to see or contact her again.

They’d made no such agreement. Which meant that after the funds had been withdrawn from the account Rhysand created in Feyre’s name, of which he’d doubtlessly been notified, there was nothing stopping the High Lord from waiting outside the modest apartment they rented above a confectioner’s shop in the Palace of Bone and Salt. She’d hoped for somewhere on the Rainbow, but ten thousand marks would only stretch so far, and the two-bedroom apartment that perpetually smelled of burnt sugar was a far improvement from the moldy attic in the tavern.

“He’s back,” Elain said, appearing at her door frame with wide eyes.

Of course he was. This had become his daily routine.

Feyre pried the hatch of her second-story window open, exposing her bedroom—one she no longer needed to share with her sisters—to the dewy morning air, crisp and sweetened by the cooked sugar within the shop below. The High Lord of the Night Court was opposite its storefront, propped against the wall with his hands leisurely tucked into his pockets.

He’d been staring at her window before she’d pushed it open, and when she leaned over the windowsill, his smile stretched wide enough to see his perfectly white teeth.

“Surely a High Lord has more important things to do than stand outside my window?”

“Someone thinks highly of herself,” he said, nodding towards the Cauldron’s Confections sign hanging over the door. “I could be here to provide valuable patronage to my people.”

“Patronage usually occurs inside the shop.”

Rhysand shrugged. “Some find my presence… distracting.”

Feyre snorted under her breath. Distracting didn’t even begin to describe how it felt to be pinned beneath his assessment. Even across the cobblestone pavement and a story below, his power radiated from him, pulsing like an invading heartbeat, threatening to spear beneath her veins and take control. His talons of darkness were nowhere to be seen, but Feyre still double-checked her mental shields just to be sure nothing crawled into her mind while her guard was down.

“I’m waiting out here until the shop quiets down,” he continued.

A moment of silence was all she needed to confirm his lie. The shop did sometimes get busy, particularly at midday, when an influx of voices swept in from the streets and drowned out the movements of the kitchen in the back. Now, the voices in the shop were a low murmur—and if she listened carefully, she could still pick out the crackling flame beneath the oven, the soft sputter of melted chocolate.

“In other words, you’re loitering,” she said.

Outside of his line of vision, she could feel moisture collecting in the hollow between her palm and her death grip on the window ledge. It was a concentrated effort not to fidget, particularly as Rhysand cocked his head like he was weighing the audacity in her tone.

Then he smirked. “And if I am, who’s going to hold me accountable for it?”

There was a challenge in the way he said it—in his eyes, as he studied her, turning over every inch of her expression for all the pieces of information she was unknowingly betraying. His smile was taunting, like that penetrating gaze saw past the veneer she painted over her uncertainty, through the defiance of her tipped chin and narrowed brows, right to the pit of apprehension yawning open in her stomach.

This was a mask she’d worn a thousand times over, night after night in that cramped tavern. She’d faced the scrutiny of males with fewer reservations towards violence, and yet none had ever made her feel so unsteady as the High Lord. But none had ever been as powerful, as capable of killing her with half a thought.

“The press,” she decided, after a moment’s consideration. “I bet I could sell this story for a pretty copper. The High Lord neglects his duties to laze around a sweet shop. Better yet—to stalk a harmless female.”

Stalk. She couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud, and to his face no less. Her boldness was going to get her killed one of these days, but this was the third day in a row that he’d shown up outside her apartment. She didn’t see how else to label it.

Rhys laughed, but with a razor-sharpness that straightened her spine. Shadow unspooled around him, rippling from his form like someone had smeared charcoal along the outline of his portrait.

His voice dragged over her skin, delicate as a lover’s blade. “That sounds a bit sensationalized to my ears.”

The velvet promise in his voice, its underlying violence, raised every hair on her arm. Despite her better judgment, she said, “The best stories usually are.”

He was drifting closer. No longer propped against the wall, but standing in the middle of the street. Citygoers passed by, moving out of their way to avoid him, but he continued staring up at Feyre’s window like he didn’t notice. A great stone parting a river’s current.

“Would you allow me to buy your silence? With dinner, tonight?”

Feyre shook her head and pushed up to her full height. “I’m afraid our bargain gave you the wrong impression, High Lord. I can’t be bought.”

His mouth opened, but she shut the window with exaggerated force before she could hear his response. She hurried into the kitchen, where Nesta and Elain were both sitting at the table with raised brows that said they’d been listening to every word.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Nesta said. “If you think you have any agency with him, you’re deluding yourself.”

Elain took a long sip of her tea, not meeting Feyre’s eyes. Her silent way of saying she agreed.

They didn’t know the full truth. She let them think the same as everyone else in that tavern—that the High Lord had seen a pretty, half-human novelty and wanted to have his fun for an evening. Feyre hadn’t told them how she met the High Lord in the alleyway, how he’d saved her life and slaughtered his captain. They didn’t know that he’d discovered her daemati ability and that he hadn’t touched her, at least not the way they assumed, during those twenty-four hours she’d been subject to his will.

I have plans for you, Feyre Archeron.

Yes, she was playing a dangerous game, but one she had stumbled into unknowingly. She was in its trenches now, fumbling blindly, and she already knew she was far too deep in shit to find a way out now.

“What was I supposed to do?” Feyre demanded, relying on her temper to disguise the helplessness clawing at her. She wished Nesta could give her an answer. “Let him buy me dinner? I’m sure that would have gone over splendidly.”

Nesta set her teacup on its saucer with enough force to send the porcelain ringing. The sound speared through the room, so sharp it made Feyre’s teeth ache. “You could have kept the window shut and ignored him. You’re only indulging his game by acknowledging him.”

“He’s our High Lord, Nesta.” Feyre flung her arms out in exasperation. “I can’t just ignore him. We’re required by law to pay him our respect.”

“Oh, because that conversation was brimming with respect.”

Feyre’s temper reared. “If you know so much better than me, what would you do?”

Nesta took a moment to respond, paying the question more consideration than Feyre expected. Once she came to her decision, Nesta tipped her chin and said with quiet steel, “I would have taken his money and bought a ship that would carry us as far away from Velaris as we could get.”

And maybe… maybe that was precisely what Feyre should have done.

That night, Feyre dreamt of the sea, churning beneath a low sun that cast its rippling surface into a deep, honey gold. It swirled and swirled until it crashed against a wall of crystal glass and emptied down into her open mouth.

Her throat burned against its invading strength, but it warmed her chest, and she sighed, setting the crystal down on a table.

“I heard your plan for our little recruit epically crashed and burned.”

“Shut up.”

Neither of those voices belonged to her. They were deep and smooth like the golden sea refilling her glass, churning again as a broad, umber hand lifted the cup and swirled its contents.

“Cheer up. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“Leave me to drink in peace, you bastard.”

If more was said, it was lost to the bottom of the glass and the torrent of golden liquid that washed over her, its current warm as it carried her out to sea, then back to shore. The sun’s touch prickled over her skin, and she thought she heard a soft voice whisper—

Sweet dreams, Feyre.

Feyre was being followed.

The unsettling awareness of it skittered down her spine. She stood in line for a bakery on the corner of the Palace of Bone and Salt. It was a busy day at the market, and a glance over her shoulder betrayed only the passerby flitting between stalls.

Eyes of varying jewel and earthen tones swam past, many straying towards the palace’s largest attractions of smoked meats and spun confections. If any attention snagged on Feyre as she scanned the crowd, it was brief and largely accidental—apart from one ash-haired lesser fae, who met her stare and offered an inviting smile. That was a strange, new thing she’d become accustomed to. People treated her differently now that she was wearing handwoven clothes from the Palace of Thread and Jewels and not an oversized tunic she’d won off a sailor’s back.

With her fine sleeves covering the bargains inked onto her skin and her hair down to cover the smooth curve of her ears, Feyre looked just like any other citygoer. No one in the market was paying her any mind, but she couldn’t shake the unease coiling a knot in her gut. With a huff of air, Feyre stepped reluctantly out of line to see if anyone else abandoned their place to follow her. She earned her a few curious glances, but there was little movement aside from the few who shuffled forward to claim her spot.

That was fine. There was more than one place to get bread in the Palace of Bone and Salt, and she ambled in the direction of another stall as though she’d merely caught its scent and found its offer more tantalizing. The line was shorter, which promised the quality of the bread was less appealing, but maybe that meant it was cheaper, too.

“Good morning,” the baker chirped, standing beside her proud display of fresh bread, each wrapped lovingly in twine and wax paper.

There were other delicacies, too. The morning sun glinted off a row of glazed pastries generously dollaped with berries as vibrant as a freshly cut ruby—and nearly as expensive. Between the cost of their new apartment and the clothes they’d purchased last week, there wasn’t enough coin left over from Feyre’s bargain to afford her sweet tooth.

Just as Feyre opened her mouth to order, someone reached over her shoulder, pointing an elegant finger towards the pastries she’d been eying.

“Two of those, please,” said a male voice, deep and churning as a honeyed sea. Feyre stiffened. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d last heard that voice. “And what else were you after, darling? A loaf of bread, I presume.”

She whirled to find a familiar pair of violet eyes, half-lidded with delight. He was standing so close he needed to stare down his nose to meet her eyes.

Feyre bared her teeth at him. “Have you been following me?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he purred, slipping his coin to the baker without even counting how much he was overpaying her.

No wonder all the shopkeepers in Velaris thought so highly of him. Not that she’d been asking, of course. But in the weeks since their bargain, she had been listening more intently. Checking the tabloids if only to ensure her name didn’t end up among them. For all the gossip traded in this city like its own currency, she noticed there had been remarkably little chatter about the High Lord’s bargain with the witch of Velaris. Though if he was aiming for discretion, cornering her in the busy marketplace seemed counterintuitive to that goal.

Feyre crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

“You can be so grouchy in the morning,” he said, clicking his tongue.

The baker handed him a pastry, which he immediately offered to Feyre.

“Here, have something to eat.” When she only stared, he raised a brow. “Do I need to take a bite to prove that I haven’t poisoned it?”

The baker looked affronted by the question, which was the only reason Feyre took the damn thing from him.

“Thanks,” she said, ice dripping from her voice.

Rhys was satisfied enough by her response that he didn’t push further. With a charming smile towards the baker—the kind he flashed like he intended its recipient to begin fawning over him—he accepted the second pastry and handed Feyre a loaf of bread.

Once they were out of earshot, Feyre pushed her uneaten pastry back in his direction. “I don’t want it.”

“No?” Rhys swiped his finger through the jam in the center. It collected at his fingertip, gleaming like a pinprick of blood, and he held it an inch from her lips with a taunting smile. “Not even a taste?”

Taste, something whispered in the back of her mind, urging her to move forward, to dart her tongue across his skin. Perhaps it was a leftover cry from the child who could still remember how sugar melted on the tongue, from a time when her father used to return from his voyages with treats from faraway lands. Feyre leaned back, less from the threat of the High Lord’s fingers and more because she didn’t trust herself not to give into that wild and inexplicable impulse.

“And what will it cost me?” She demanded, stoking her anger to smother that strange ache. “Another day in your service?”

Rhys pulled his hand away. “Just your company,” he said, holding her gaze while he licked his finger clean with a long, exaggerated swipe of his tongue.

She tried not to think of the dream he’d given her on the night of their bargain, how she’d hovered over his mouth, close enough to feel his breath, and what that tongue might have done if she’d let him continue. Tried—and failed miserably.

His eyes sparked like he could see the direction of Feyre’s thoughts, despite how she triple-checked that her shields were still up.

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “My company for how long?”

“Only the time that it takes you to eat the pastry.”

Oh? It was roughly the size of her palm, but Feyre wagered she could still eat it in a single bite if she needed to.

“Fine.” She took a pointedly large bite and said around it, “But you might consider talking fast.”

If he was offended by her bad manners, he did a good job disguising it behind a laugh. “Have you considered that I simply enjoy your company, Feyre?”

She swallowed around the thick bite. “I think you like to check in on your loose ends.”

That prompted a raised brow. “Is that what you think you are?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve left my life of gambling and mind reading behind.”

“And what are you doing now?”

Feyre raised the loaf of bread in her hand. “Shopping.”

“I mean to make money.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said with an innocent hum. “But hey, worse comes to worse, I could always get a job at one of the pleasure halls. Do you think you could give me your personal recommendation?”

Rhysand’s pupils flared, and Feyre’s heart jumped into an uneven beat at the darkness she saw flickering there, accompanied by a sideways smile. “I could write you a glowing recommendation, Feyre, but I personally think that’d be a waste of your talents.”

“Oh?” She took another bite of her pastry, meeting his eyes as if to say, your window’s closing. “And what would you have me do instead?”

“You could come work for me.”

There it was.

Pushing him, she crooned, “In your bedroom?”

Rhysand gripped her chin, turning her face towards his. “Is that where you’d like to serve?”

A challenge. An offer. A threat, maybe.

Her nerve was crumbling beneath the full force of his gaze. Those eyes seared straight through her, and though she knew her mental shields were in place, she somehow felt like he could read every thought she’d ever had. Her soul laid bare to him.

She wanted to make him feel equally riled. To waver the control he so carefully laid in place. Maybe that was why she whispered to him, poisonous and sweet, “Maybe I want to sit on your throne instead.”

His fingers tightened. She’d just threatened to steal his crown, and yet he was grinning like a fiend. “That could be arranged.”

Claws raked against her mental shields, and with it, an image flashed: Feyre, with her legs spread over the arms of a dark throne, Rhysand crouched before her, his head buried in her thighs. She flinched, struggling against his hold to escape the vision. His grip was iron-tight, and he only yanked her closer, leaning in until his lips grazed the curve of her ear.

“I have been exceptionally generous with you, Feyre Archeron, and your behavior has been atrocious in return. Is it a bid for my attention, or has someone never bothered to teach you any manners?”

Feyre gritted her teeth. “Some might say it’s part of my charm.”

The back of his throat rumbled. Rhys pulled away just enough to examine her face. His eyes narrowed in on her lips and he swiped his thumb upwards, brushing away a bit of leftover jam, which he then held in front of her mouth. Waiting.

Their eyes met, and he said, “Even I am a man of limited patience, Feyre.”

She parted her lips and he pressed his thumb between them, his remaining fingers holding her firm so she couldn’t pull away. With her cheeks burning, and her eyes boring into his, she pressed her tongue to the pad of his finger and licked away the jam.

“Good girl,” he said, releasing her.

Feyre wiped at her lips like she could erase the humiliation of what she’d just been made to do. With a glare in his direction, she shoved the rest of the pastry in her mouth. Rhysand’s chest was heaving, eyes simmering at her defiance.

All she said was, “Thank you for the food, High Lord.”

Then she stalked off, trying to put as much distance between them as physically possible. Rhysand didn’t pursue—at least not from what she could see glancing over her shoulder. But the oily, uneasy feeling of being followed didn’t relent, no matter how many crowds she weaved through.

Feyre veered another corner before she decided that even if Rhys was following her, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where she lived. It wasn’t as if she could escape him in his own damn city. With a sigh, she cut across an alley that she knew would take her back to the Palace of Bone and Salt.

She dodged a shopkeeper loading barrels into the back of her store and kitchen staff filling up buckets of water from the outdoor spigots. Their curious stares trailed her as she passed, but it loosened some of her tension to know she wasn’t alone.

Not alone, indeed. Soon, that creeping sensation cracked over her spine with the urgency of a snapping whip. She noticed the shadows lurking in her periphery before she picked up the footsteps, and Feyre whirled, prepared to give him another piece of her mind.

Except it was not Rhysand standing behind her.

Feyre barely registered this information before her body was sent barrelling into the brick wall at her back. The air knocked out of her, and she’d only had a moment to gasp when her assailant grabbed her by the throat, trapping that precious breath beneath his palms.

Black cloth covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes were exposed. Hazel eyes, wild and burning as they narrowed on her, as his gloved fingers tightened against her throat. She clawed and thrashed at his grip, but he met each of her pathetic blows with unflinching strength.

“Please,” she choked.

She speared her magic towards him, only to slam into a mighty wall of cruel, vicious steel.

“You’re close with the High Lord,” he said.

Feyre shook her head.

The cloth over his cheeks shifted, and if she had to guess he was baring his teeth as he snarled, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she rasped.

His voice was the violent thunder rolling over a midnight sky. “You looked pretty close to me when he had his fingers in your mouth.”

Feyre kicked her legs out, shrieking her exasperation that nothing she was doing had any impact on this cold, ruthless male. She flashed her teeth at him. “And I would have bitten his fingers off for it, if he wasn’t High Lord.”

Something flickered in the male’s eyes, a certain understanding, and his fingers loosened on her throat. Feyre drew in a sharp breath, greedily sucking air back into her lungs.

“You resent him?”

Feyre held her tongue. She didn’t know who this male was, who he might be reporting back to. But her silence said enough.

He let go of her throat entirely. “Well then, how’d you like to make some coin and even your score with the High lord?”

Her interest was piqued. But so was her suspicion.

“Doing what?”

“He has something that belongs to me. Steal it back, and I’ll pay you what it’s worth.”

Feyre cocked her head. “Tell me what I’d need to steal, and I’ll consider it.”

Two mornings later, Feyre woke to the sound of fluttering paper, and peeled her eyes open to find a letter resting atop her bedside table.

She knew where it was from, even before she lifted the parchment to her face and found the Night Court insignia stamped at its signature—the same one she found inside Rhysand’s desk drawer. The letter was penned in elegant scrawl, though its content was meaningless to her.

Feyre D-

Feyre Dar-

Feyre Darling,

Im… Ima.. g—

The letter crumpled in her fist. With the Night Court insignia, it looked like an official letter, perhaps even a direct order from the High Lord. Elain would read it for her if she asked, but Feyre didn’t trust Rhysand not to have added something incriminating or absurd.

When she knocked on his door hours later, the letter folded and shoved into her pocket, he opened it with a smile that said he knew she’d be paying him a visit today.

“Feyre,” he purred. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She crossed her arms. “What does your letter say?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

Feyre tossed him a flat look. “Rhysand.”

“My, what a pleasant sound.” He stepped back into his entryway, gesturing to the hallway beyond. “Would you like to come in? I’d love to tempt my name from your lips a second time.” He craned his head. “Unless there’s another reason why you’ve come?”

She took a deep breath.

“I want to renew our twenty-four hour bargain.”

#Feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x feyre

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writeblrfantasy · 1 year

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around six years ago, i started writing seriously for the first time. it was fanfiction. (glee fanfiction if you're curious.) i wouldn't write something original for the first time for another year.

i loved writing fanfiction--i put my whole unashamed heart into it, i didn't even think about whether it was good or not, because i was having a blast. i wrote for many different fandoms, i wrote one (short) fanfic a day during december based on one word prompts, and i would send them to my friend each night--a routine which got me through a very hard week of my life. i wrote buckets and buckets of fanfiction.

and then, i'm not sure when and why that changed--i read and still do read something on ao3 almost every night for dozens and dozens of fandoms, after all. but the more i wrote original books, i stopped writing fanfiction, and over the years, writing fanfiction seemed like an impossible task.

i tried a few times, i wrote a customized fic for my bestie's birthday, but i could never get far usually. it felt alien and intrusive to try and write someone else's characters. it would always end in shame and this feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong.

i don't have any of those early fanfictions from six years ago because i deleted them, convinced they were hot garbage (and they were, but i still would've liked to have them!)

i continued to write originally, still reading fanfiction almost every night and participating in fandom in other ways. and then in late 2021, i wrote and finished a good fic as a herculean labor of love. in spring of 22, it took me an incredible effort, but i took one of my old surviving fanfics and edited it to new standards, and then encouraged by my victory, i wrote 2 more fics and started a bunch of others.

i made an ao3 account and posted these all, and was encouraged like never before by the comments i received, the love i had never received because i'd never posted my fanfics before. slowly, the shame wore off. i could write fanfiction again. it became something i could do while sitting on my phone in a waiting room having an anxiety attack, something to do before i went to bed, something i could do when a fic i wanted didn't exist--i could finally just write it!

and now, we come to this year. in 23 so far, i've written and posted 11 fanfics adding up to 100,805 words in total, in two fandoms, with several fanfic wips in the works. two weeks ago i wrote, without meaning to, 7k of a fic in one day to finish it, a week after finishing the source material. i'm still hesitant to share snippets of fics with friends not in those fandoms, but i did in this case and was told by a friend that it was some of my best writing ever--original and fanfic combined. period.

in january when i watched my favorite movie too many times to get anything more out of it, i turned to fanfiction, where i had a fic i mentioned was inspired by my favorite fic in the tiny ass fandom, which the creator then saw and was flattered by, and continued to read all my fics in that fandom!

this would turn into a 7 part series which i would post once a week, whipping up 5k minimum fics in a matter of days. i was shameless. i was carefree. i was living for the familiar usernames in my comments, and the serotonin of pushing that "new post" button. i was having fun.

in moments where i would wonder if the fic i was writing was cringe, if anyone would like it if i posted it, i reminded myself that i read fic every night. fic is often the first place i turn after finishing a source material, and what i look forward to while consuming that material. if everyone who thought like me about their fics didn't post, i would be without fanfics to get me through my fandom experience, and i would hate that. so i kept writing and posting.

now: my relationship with writing fanfiction has never been healthier. i am better than where i was at six years ago, because my overall writing skills have improved about 1000%, and because i'm posting now. writing fanfiction now often provides me a break from the stress and complexity of writing original novels, and it's a lovely wind down bedtime activity.

so, i suppose if there's a takeaway from this post, it's that fan content creators, no matter what you create, and no matter how small the fandom you're creating for, even if you're the first work in your fandom, keep creating. what you're doing is real and worthy and just as important as original content, and keeps the heart of fandom alive. i am so happy i repaired my relationship with writing fanfic, and it's made me happier this year than i thought possible, due in large part to the incredible commenting communities in fandom. i wish the same for all of you <3

#fanfiction #fanfic #a love letter to fanfiction #writing #writeblr #writers #this got much ramblier and longer than i intended but i'm glad i made this post #been ruminating in my brain for a long time :)#other writers encouraged to rb with their experiences!

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heartmix · 1 year

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Sickness - Mat Barzal

Pairing: Mathew Barzal x gn!reader

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I am still in mourning over the haircut, but at the same time it is so funny. Also not really proofread

*Christmas Prompt - Sick*

Masterlist / Hockey Masterlist

This was not how you planned your December going. December was supposed to be filled with Christmas activities and playing in the snow. Your body however had different plans for you. That involved you stuck to your bed all day, maybe a week. The only upside was that you could watch as many Christmas movies as you wanted, it's not like you had a choice anyways.

Being sick was miserable. The runny nose, itchy throat that you had to cough every second to feel some sort of relief, the headaches being unbearable. Your current best friends were a bottle of Advil and Vicks. It got to a point where you had to wear a mask to sleep because the cold air was bothering your nose.

When Matt noticed you haven't texted him in a few days or even gone to a game during the week he knew something was up. You would text him constantly and he should have noticed on the second day when you didn't text back, but he was so wrapped up with the games he didn't bother to check.

So when he saw the Uber eats notification on his phone, from sharing accounts, of course, he knew right away you weren't feeling the best. You would never order medicine online and you'd never buy soup, your mother had a fantastic soup recipe that you perfected.

He was determined to make you feel better. He felt guilty for not noticing something sooner. He rushed out of practice faster than normal just so he can meet the Uber eats guy before he could reach your front door. His teammates gave him all weird looks, but they let it go knowing they can get something out of Anthony in a few hours.

While Matt was rushing hoping time will go slower so he can surprise you, you sat in bed hoping time would speed. You would like your medicine and soup asap to hopefully make you less miserable. After thinking it would never come you heard a knock at your door. You groaned at the thought of getting out of bed, but moaned at the thought of the best soup and medicine money could buy. Opening the door you did not expect a 6-foot hockey player to be delivering your order.

"Mat..." you gave a small smile followed by a coughing fit. You quickly shut the door to avoid coughing on him.

"It's a bit rude to shut the door on the person who has your soup." He said through the door with a playful tone making you chuckle.

"It would be rude to cough on the hockey player who is currently in season." You defended opening back up the door to a goofy smile on Mat's face.

"How kind of you. Too bad you can't get rid of me that easily." He said pushing through you to get inside your apartment.

"Mat leave. I'm sick and I will literally kill myself if you get sick and miss a game." You groaned taking a step back each time he tried to take on to you.

"You're so dramatic. You should have called me earlier. I would have brought you whatever you needed." He grumbled.

"I will lock myself in my bedroom if you don't leave." You threatened with your voice cracking. This conversation was the most you spoke all week.

"No, you won't. I got your medicine and soup." He said holding up the bag filled with your saving graces.

He was just as stubborn as you and you knew that he wouldn't leave on his own. You slowly grabbed the bag from his hands with a reassuring smile. Before he could make any move toward you, you made a beeline for your bedroom door and locked it as fast as you can.

"You're being childish!" He yelled from the door although he didn't need to. You could hear him just fine.

"You're being stupid Barzy! You have a game tomorrow. You can't afford to get sick." You tried to yell as loud as you can, which sounded like your normal talking voice.

"Two can play that game. I'm gonna sit outside your door till you open up." He said and you heard him sink down to the floor.

He somehow became more stubborn and stupid. You thought he would up and leave in half an hour tops, but you were so wrong. It's been almost two hours and he was still here. He's been here so long that you've gotten texts from mostly everyone from the islander's locker room. Anthony probably opened his big mouth. Your soup was long gone and your medicine was working, you could barely keep your eyes open. The only thing stopping you was his voice talking about yesterday's win over the Blackhawks.

"Barzy." Your voice was soft and hoarse but he could still hear it clear as day.

"What's the matter?" His voice matches your soft tone compared to the normal voice he was just using a minute ago.

"I need water."

"Well, you need to open the door for that." He pointed out making me groan.

"If I give you a hug can you get me water and leave." You asked hopefully the offer would work.

"That's a hard bargain." He sounded like he was really contemplating the offer.

"I'm going to fall asleep on you. I'll watch your game tomorrow and even change into your jersey even though my shirt is more comfortable. Please." You begged. He could tell you were tired and was surprised you were still awake after taking your medicine.

"Okay. I got you water already. Open up."

Opening up the door he was met with your tired body and also you in a sweater and mask. It was a sight to see and he couldn't help but chuckle. He handed you the water which you threw on your bed. You turned back to him to see he had his arms open waiting for you. A promise is a promise. As much as you didn't want to embrace him, this is the best you'd felt in days.

"I'll come over after tomorrow's game. We have the next day off. You'll let me stay right." He asked which you nodded at.

"You're sleeping on the couch." You mumbled into his chest making him chuckle.

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