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jangofctts · 3 years

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Thing for Trouble (boba fett x fem!reader x din djarin) (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)

Rated: explicit 18+

word count: 7.6k

warnings: threesome, smut, thigh riding, oral female receiving, handjobs, unprotected sex (dont be a deadbeat, wrap that shCMEAT), light choking, throne fucking, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, pet names, sub? din? more likely than you think (also lmk if I missed any tags!)

a/n: yall im sorry this is such garbage but kjkwejh here we be. I hOPE YOU ENJOY THE CIRCUS. thank you to everyone who’s encouraged this so COME GET YALLS MANDO MEAT

There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, more podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace.

Now, don’t get it wrong—if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to smother. Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being paid to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy.

Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the second trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. Star cherries.

The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. Tempting as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the vast array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a purpose. A once a year chance you refuse to let go to waste.

The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “Ah! I was wondering when you’d show, dear.”

“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”

Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.

Finally you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.

Granted, it is your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—

Your temple crashes into something agonizingly hard. You swear you hear a quiet bonk when your skull collides with the mystery material and fucking hell—you probably have a concussion from the force of it.

Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re far more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and so, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament but—kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.

Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t also get trampled by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“

The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—you’re familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.

You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”

The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into me—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”

The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe this is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…

You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”

As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--great, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”

Maker—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be compassionate. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.”

He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and fuck--now you feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s dumb--but hey, if it works, it works.

“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“

He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. Deal.”

You smile. “Lovely.”

On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but still. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.

-=-=-=-

Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality.

Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.

That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.”

You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”

The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—sickeningly familiar with your own quirks and tells, but—

There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. Friend could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—you weren’t the one offering to walk random people home.

You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to both sit on the throne but no—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.

His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re allowed to listen.

You huff. “I know—but lurking is fun.”

Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “Foolish, girl.” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the only thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is all too quick to notice. “What is this?”

He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway that would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare.

“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a complete lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”

Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft hm. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“

Din tips his head in acknowledgement.

“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors.

“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—a long story. “Sorry—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.”

The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. Great. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve also managed to sound like an impudent child. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—bastard. He thinks this is funny.

“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”

Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.

Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—

With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.

Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his own mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and fuck—that shouldn’t have been so…so…hot.

Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a slow trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away.

Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle.

You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder.

Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, Mand’alor?”

Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously, neither thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.

“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.”

A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”

Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He is and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.

Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses you. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”

He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop now. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so interested—why not give him a show? After all, he did bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”

Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “Fine, as you wish, little one—go play.”

Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but stars, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat.

You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.

Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”

With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—

“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the show, Mand’alor, ’nd keep your hands to yourself."

Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. Bastard. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into challenging him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder.

“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”

Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind.

You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. Ok—you can work with that. It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile.

Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. No touching. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself some sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.

You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking freezing. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill much colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing entirely to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll.

It’s different. You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit.

“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”

The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface slippery. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds perfectly against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak.

“Shit—feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement.

You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses.

Fucking hell—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but kriff—who the fuck would ever be unhappy with that sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short.

Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and down—disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need more.

Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains.

“You’re allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “Go on.”

Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.

Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his calloused hand, is truly a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking beskar underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself.

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist. Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”

He nods and utters a breathy yes.

Fuck yeah.

Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock.

Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so close. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh.

Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s over—

Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge.

It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.

Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet fuck, and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.

He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “Please—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I need my mouth on you.”

Stars—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of want. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.

Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.

“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and squeezing. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation.

Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.”

Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.

“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark.

Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now.

Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy facial, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his eyes—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such ache within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.

You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.

Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—fuck, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?

Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs.

“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question.

Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command.

Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—especially right now.

As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost curious with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.

You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—kriff.

Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.

He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t enough for him. Like he needs to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight.

That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going nowhere. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you.

You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Stars—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must sting—at least a little bit. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps going.

“Another one—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour more of you. You can feel the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards another high.

You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.

Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a filthy princess…”

You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “Boba—“

His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Depraved creature—cum for your rightful king.”

Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is blistering as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs.

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you do spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. Fuck—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.

Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days.

Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.

Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs.

“Don’t forget, princess—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to me.”

Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards too much.

“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone. “Say it.”

You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “Please, Boba! Please fuck me—I need it.”

Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably his despite the fact you’re already wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.

You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “Fuck—so wet for me.”

The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for him. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.

“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “Maker, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”

Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and respond. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice again.

The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “Tell me—“

“You! It’s you—“ You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m yours—“

Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.”

There we go.

You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive sore. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes.

You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness.

“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile.

You should invite Din over more often…you think, as you slip into content sleep.

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#well yall im #bucket fucker supreme right here I guess #enJOY #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #boba fett x reader x din djarin #din djarin x reader x boba fett #star wars fanfiction #my writing

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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ladyxxdaydream · 5 years

Note

37. The two of you wear costumes from the same fandom at a costume party. (Yuri on Ice?)

Sorry it took me so long to get to this prompt, anon! Sadly, I’ve never seen Yuri on Ice (its on my list!!) so I had to go with a different fandom. Hope you like it!

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

#37 (from this prompt list here. Feel free to submit your own! I’ve already filled 20, 32, 47 & will be filling 2.)

Iruka walked into the party alone. Kotestu and Izumo opted to “watch scary movies” instead, which Iruka knew was code for fucking all night. They were still high off their new relationship. They’d invited him over, but he really wasn’t in the mood to be the third wheel while they made out and fondled each other under a blanket, waiting for a polite time to kick him out. Besides, he liked dressing up, and he thought he did a hell of a job on his costume this year.

Iruka prided himself on his craftiness, which was part frugality, part creativity. He already had the boots, and the navy pants. The blue tunic was fashioned from an old bed sheet. He brought the design to a friend in the theater department and asked her to stitch it up with white trim. All that was left was to bandage up his arms to his elbows, pull on a pair of fingerless blue gloves (the middle and index cut at the knuckle instead of the palm), and fasten the white choker around his neck—he’d ordered the flat, square wooden beads online, which were less than $5.

He made a damn fine Sokka.

Several people had already told him so on his walk over from the dorms. Some had even asked to snap a picture with him, which Iruka shyly obliged.

Upon entering the house, Iruka went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a beer from the keg. When he turned back to face the rest of the room, his eyes landed on a folding table lined with snacks. Iruka knew it was Kurenai’s idea, because Asuma didn’t have that kind of courtesy. What really caught his attention though, was the rather tall person in a fuzzy Appa suit. It looked like a onesie for a 10-year old, given that it cuffed at the guy’s knee, revealing pale calves, instead of reaching his ankles. The flat, wide tail swayed as he moved. It was oddly adorable. Iruka wondered what kind of face went with that swath of silver hair.

His curiosity got the better of him.

“Nice costume,” Iruka said as he approached, biting into the rim of his red plastic cup to try and smother his smile.

The guy looked up from the table, and swept his eyes over Iruka in obvious assessment. It made a heavy kind of heat settle into his skin. Iruka wasn’t prepared to be met with someone so attractive.

“You too,” the guy said. “I see you’ve got excellent taste in television.”

“Did you get that in the kid’s section?” Iruka smirked. He couldn’t help himself. It was so incredibly dorky.

“How’d you guess?” the guy grinned. “The best part is the hood.”

He pulled it up over his head, the arrow bisecting it through the middle, while two brown horns stood out on either side.

It was the cutest thing Iruka had ever seen in his life. His heart beat hard against his chest.

“Hm,’ Iruka hummed. “You’re missing a few legs.”

“Well, we can’t all look like professional cosplayers. Didn’t anyone tell you this was a halloween party? Your costume should either be slutty, cheap, or tacky, judging by the look of this crowd, and yours is none of the above. I went for cheap,” he said, placing a hand on his chest.

“Mine barely cost a thing. I made it. Minus the boomerang,” Iruka said, placing a hand on the object slung at his hip. “I bought that.”

“Huh. Look at you,” the silver-haired stranger said, clicking his tongue. “And you shaved the sides of your head for it, too? What dedication.”

“Ha,” Iruka laughed. “I had this hairstyle before today, believe it or not.”

“Hm. I don’t know if I do,” the guy said, narrowing his eyes at him a bit.

Iruka’s breath caught in his throat.

He’s flirting.

—

Kakashi was flirting. He couldn’t help himself. Not when this sexy fucking water tribe fantasy was standing right in front of him, dark skin and all. Admittedly, he’d searched for fan art of an older Sokka before and it definitely tickled his fancy. And uh, he may have bookmarks of Zukka in his browser, but this was… this was a million times better.

“Kakashi! I see you’ve met my brother!” Asuma all but shouted, slinging an arm around his interest’s shoulder.

It took everything in Kakashi not to scoff.

“He looks nothing like you,” Kakashi said bluntly, in pure disbelief that he’d be attracted to anyone related to Asuma. Asuma was about as far from his type as you could get. A loudmouth, grizzly jock, who ironically didn’t give a shit about his health, if his diet and terrible smoking habit were any indication.

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t,” Asuma said, yanking his supposed brother’s neck to his chest, whose face flushed with embarrassment as Asuma rubbed his knuckles against his scalp. “He’s my adopted brother.”

The Sokka look-a-like gave Kakashi a weak smile beneath Asuma’s headlock.

“He’s a newbie. A freshman. Ain’t that right, ‘Ru?” Asuma said, letting him go.

“It’s my first year here, yes.” Asuma’s brother said, meeting Kakashi’s gaze for a second, before flicking his eyes down, smoothing out his costume. He readjusted his ponytail, giving Kakashi an opportunity to check out his biceps. Oof.

“I’ve been trying to get him to hang out with us forever, but he’s too busy with chess club and being…”—Kurenai walked by, derailing Asuma completely— “…gay…”

“Being gay? I’m too busy being gay?” Asuma’s brother deadpanned.

“Yeah, you know…” Asuma said, still staring at Kurenai. “You’re part of that organization or alliance or whatever… hey..” he said, bringing his attention back to them for a second. “I’ll be back.”

Yeah right, Kakashi thought, before Asuma left the both of them standing there. He wasn’t about to complain though; he could get back to flirting now, especially since he knew his interest was attracted to men.

“It must take up all your time. Being gay,” Kakashi teased.

“Yeah, my whole life really,” the younger man rolled his eyes with a laugh.

It was such a fascinating, genuine sound. It was full of warmth. Kakashi wanted to wrap himself up in it.

“Uh, Ru was it?” Kakashi asked, needing to know the name of the man he was quickly coming to adore.

The man blushed profusely, scratching at the scar that cut across his nose.

Shit. That was not helping.

“Ah. T-that’s a nickname. It’s Iruka.”

Iruka. Hm.

“Kakashi, if you didn’t catch it earlier.”

“It was hard not to with my brother’s dulcet tone,” Iruka said, sarcastically.

It was Kakashi’s turn to dissolve into laughter.

—

“I should… go home,” Iruka said, standing up from the couch, only to sway a bit. Kakashi placed a steadying hand on Iruka’s hip, before standing up himself.

“Uh, Iruka. You’re a little drunk.”

They had played a partnered game of beer pong (which Kakashi was excellent at, and Iruka well… Iruka tried), before settling into the couch to chat. That was over an hour ago.

Iruka swiveled towards him, bringing their faces a little too close for comfort. Kakashi tried to keep his eyes off Iruka’s lips.

“Am not,” Iruka protested.

“Iruka, your eyes are so glassy, I could drink from them.”

They stared at each other for an awkward moment, as Kakashi wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole, before Iruka burst out laughing.

“That was weird as hell. How—what. Was that a pun on the word glass or were you saying you could literally suck liquid from my eyes beca—”

“Okay, I get it.” Kakashi cringed, feeling his cheeks heat up. “It was weird. I-I don’t know why I said that. It just happened. Will you,”—Kakashi took a deep breath—“let me walk you home? Please?”

Kakashi rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious. This damn fleece costume was making him sweat beneath Iruka’s stare.

Iruka huffed out another laugh, stifled by the way he was biting into his bottom lip.

“Okay.”

—

When they made it out to the sidewalk, Iruka appeared a little lost.

“What dorm are you living in?” Kakashi asked, as Iruka scrutinized a particularly large tree.

“Uzushio”

“It’s that way,” Kakashi pointed.

“I… knew that,” Iruka said, changing direction. “I was just… admiring nature…”

“Mhm. Sure.” Kakashi quipped, not believing him for a second.

Kakashi watched as Iruka not-so-gracefully began to walk, sparking an idea to pop into his head.

“Wanna ride me?” Kakashi asked, looking Iruka dead in the eyes with an impossibly straight face.

Iruka tripped over nothing, blushing all the way to his ears.

“E-excuse me?”

Kakashi knew what he said, and how he said it. It was completely worth it. He got the reaction he wanted. It was payback for Iruka embarrassing the hell out of him earlier—stupid glassy eyes comment.

“Do you want a ride? On my back?” Kakashi asked, innocently. “You look like you’re gonna fall over.”

Iruka studied him for a moment, his face scrunched up in contemplation. It looked like he was struggling to connect with the last of his brain cells.

“Stop overthinking it,” Kakashi laughed. “You look like you’re going to combust. Come on,” Kakashi said, bending his knees, offering his back.

There was a few seconds of hesitation before he heard Iruka move behind him.

“I’m heavy,” Iruka protested.

“I can handle you.”

He heard Iruka sputter.

Really, it was too easy.

“Do you need help getting yourself up Iruka?” Kakashi taunted him, which resulted in a sharp tug on his costume’s tail.

“Shut up,” Iruka said, hopping on top of him. He yanked the hood over Kakashi’s head in retribution.

“Hey,” Kakashi laughed, as he pushed himself to stand. “That’s covering my eyes. The whole point of me accompanying you home, is so that you get there safely.”

Iruka felt a wave of heat wash over him, as his crush increased tenfold.

“I-I wanted the full effect,” Iruka said, tugging on one of the plush horns, before he smoothed the hood back to Kakashi’s forehead, away from his eyes.

The real reason he pulled that damn hood up was because he needed a barrier between his face and Kakashi’s bare neck, lest he sunk his teeth into it.

Iruka smashed a smile into Kakashi’s shoulder, encircling his arms around Kakashi’s neck, before he picked up his head and said—

“Yip yip.”

—

Iruka woke up the next morning to find his facebook page blowing up.

Someone, a random girl apparently, had taken a picture of Iruka being carried on Kakashi’s back last night with a caption that read:

Cutest couples costume ever!!!

Asuma had tagged him.

#kakairu #prompt #hatake kakashi/umino iruka #kakairu fanfic #my work #i wish i had talent bc i need kakashi in this appa suit #my fic

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bills-pokedex · 4 years

Note

Can you, ah, be more specific?

About what, anonymous? The flygon traits or the runerigus facts?

If the former, I assure you, it’s nothing exciting, and I doubt it’s permanent. It’s simply my body readjusting itself to humanity.

If you mean the runerigus facts ... well, all right. Touching your own runerigus’s shadowy limbs flings you into a vivid nightmare in which you attend an important meeting or give an important report for class while standing before your peers naked.

Not that I know this from experience, of course.

[Another coping mechanism: feigning ignorance.

It’s hours later, and Bill had retreated to his room. “A headache,” he claimed, a few hours ago. And Lanette bought that, partly because she knows that constant exposure to a kadabra is not all fun and wonder and mostly because, well. If Bill has to be honest, she’s the best example of human decency he’s ever come across most days.

Anyway, so he retreated darkness of the currently locked and (until Lanette arrived) criminally underused master bedroom of the Sea Cottage, and as far as Lanette knows, he’s resting and occasionally returning to work on a tablet. What he’s actually doing is frantically using the aforementioned tablet to hash out solutions to his current predicament.

That is to say, Bill is currently locked in his room because he was right. The teeth? The skin? The nails? All true, and it’s getting worse. Or, well, it’s not really that it’s getting worse, exactly. It’s more like it fluctuates between worse and better. One moment, he looks perfectly human, and the next? A rash of green scales blossoms over his arms. Or his teeth sharpen. Or his back aches, like a pair of wings and a tail are trying to grow out but can’t quite make it. And then, again, it all disappears, and he’s perfectly human again.

This. This is new. When he had merged with Primrose or that one rattata or the nidorino, the process to separate him from them was, well. It wasn’t perfect, but it never left remnants. He never found himself slowly turning back into a pokémon or translating pokémon speech in his head or anything of the sort. At most, he’d become a little more resilient and gotten a little more energy during full moons. The point is, that the longterm effects of those experiments were so negligible that Bill hadn’t even noticed he had one of those abilities until he realized his coffee supplies were lasting a little bit longer every month.

Which is to say that the system shouldn’t have done this to him, and he has zero idea why it’s done it to him now. Running his hands through his hair, he stared at the tablet with a mixture of exhaustion and worry. The cell separation system’s logs are spread across the screen, absolutely covering it with charts and data. And all of them say that the separation was a success. It successfully pulled a human out of the sample and deposited him into chamber A, just like he had asked. So what happened?

Unless...

He flicks through charts, taps out a few commands, summons a new window.

It doesn’t make sense. It won’t make sense until he’s gotten back into his lab, which he can’t do because Lanette is there, but the idea has wormed its way into his skull and taken root as a theory, and—

And what if the system did as he said but not exactly? What if it had deposited a human into chamber A, but the sample wasn’t fully pulled out of that human? The results said he was over 98% human—perfectly acceptable for someone who had previously merged with pokémon more than once—but what if he was wrong about what that remaining 2% was? Or what if it was an error altogether? And the other “samples” that have gotten into his system—those were all stable because there was a source pokémon to go back to; what if this last one wasn’t stable because there was no pokémon to separate from? What if it’s like a virus, and it’s spreading, and—

A thousand thoughts shift through Bill’s head all at once, and he feels his heart beat faster and faster until what feels like electricity rushes through his hands. He recoils and looks down, and his hands are glowing, as if part of him is evolving. Right in front of his eyes, his hands shift and change—fingers merging, tips sharpening, palms shrinking—until he finds himself staring at a pair of flygon claws.

For a long while, Bill sits on his bed, staring at his hands and then at the tablet under them.

“Stress,” he breathes. “Right. It-it’s probably responding to stress. Just stay calm, all right?”

He relaxes and closes his eyes for a moment, willing himself to clear his mind. When he opens them, he still has those flygon claws, but ... they’ve taken on a slightly paler green. Or was that a trick of the light? Curling his claws into fists, he lowers his head. Then, he flops onto his back and sighs heavily.

“Lanette. What am I going to tell her?”

Yes. That was his only concern. He could deal with the shapeshifting with grace, had she not been there. But ... well, she didn’t take the immunity to electricity so well. On the other hand, he could see her point. To him, this was an exciting opportunity. To the outside world ... well. If word got out that he’s suddenly been given uncontrollable powers that could hurt himself and—if pokémon moves were indeed available to him—possibly everyone around him, then ... well. He can’t even imagine how quickly his and Lanette’s life work would be ruined permanently.

Which means the less Lanette has to worry, the better.

Which means...

Bill raises his claws in front of his face and sighs again.

“I’ll need to come up with a better excuse than just a headache,” he mutters.]

#powerverse #asks #about the author #Anonymous

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Note

SIC prompt: I was re-reading the story for like the 20th time (seriously cannot get enough!!) and I had forgotten how much Emma loves Halloween. I would love to see some fluff and hilarity as the family gets ready for Halloween sometime in the future.

Nonnie, do you want to know the best way to get me to write a Second in Command prompt? Tell me that you’re rereading it for the 20th time. lol. That fills my stomach with all kinds of happy butterflies and gets the inspiration immediately flowing. I obviously love SIC. So here’s some family Halloween fluff for you. I tell you, it’s as sweet as candy 😘

Found on AO3: | Here |

-/-

“Emma, love, what’s happened to our bedroom?”

The bed is full of clothes, ones Killian recognizes as his own and others that he knows are Emma’s, the lace from some of her bras sticking out above the blue of his dress shirts, and if he had to guess, at least half of their closet is sitting on their bed. The two of them own more clothes than any two people have a right to – besides possibly Liam and Abigail – so it’s going to take a while to get all of this cleaned up. That’s assuming the closet isn’t also covered in clothes, but he’s sure that it is.

He may have very well just walked home to some kind of minefield, and he’s not too sure when something is going to go off.

He’s only been gone for two hours. He was eating lunch with his parents, and when he left, their bed was made, the white comforter smoothed over the mattress and all of the pillows stacked neatly in their places. He’s not entirely sure that the pillows are underneath this mess.

When he doesn’t hear anything from Emma, he walks toward the bed and starts shuffling through the clothes, picking up all of Emma’s jeans and trousers that he finds, quickly folding them as Indy walks into the room, her tail wagging ferociously before she jumps up on the bed and settles herself down on what he knows is an expensive gown. How does that dog always find the most expensive thing to sit on every single time? Between she and Andy, they can’t keep anything nice within touching distance of a two-year-old and a dog.

“Indy, get down,” he commands only for her to roll over on her back and stick her tongue out, pretty much begging for him to scratch her stomach. “Indy, darling, get off the bed.”

This time she listens, rolling back over and walking across the mattress until she hops down onto the ground, her nails clicking against the hardwood before she moves to sit on her bed on the floor. What a rare sight that she actually uses it. Honestly, he thinks Andy uses it more than the dog, and, well, that cannot at all be sanitary no matter how many times it goes into the wash.

After folding a few more of Emma’s clothes, he picks up the stack and walks through the bathroom to move into the closet, his eyes seeing the myriad of clothes on the bench and the floor before he sees Emma sitting on the closet floor with one leg crossed over the other and her lap full of what he thinks is a photo album. This makes less and less sense with every moment that passes.

“Love?”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting on the floor.”

He rolls his eyes before taking the few steps he needs to be next to her, sliding down against the cabinets until his ass is on the ground and he’s placing the pile of clothes on the ground next to her.

“Hi,” Emma greets him, flashing him a smile as she leans over to press a kiss into his cheek, her gaze barely looking away from the book she’s flipping through.

“You are distracted today,” he hums has he reaches over to fiddle with her hand, intertwining their fingers before he brings them to his lips so he can press his lips against her knuckles over her wedding ring. “How are my girls?”

“I’m fine. Sutton has decided that she needs several bars of chocolate.”

“Oh, did she now?”

“She did. She practically demanded it.”

“Seems pretty pushy for someone still in the womb. So we’re going with Sutton now? What happened to Annabelle?”

“Too many names that start with A in this family. I wanted to mix it up a bit. Do you like it?”

He weighs it on his tongue a bit. “I love it.”

“Good,” Emma sighs, twisting her head to the side and flashing him that bright smile of hers that makes everything in him pleasantly twist and burn and feel like he’s twenty-three years old again. “So I’ve been looking in this photo album – ”

Killian raises a brow. “I thought you were destroying the room by ransacking our closet.”

“That has to do with the album.”

“Of course it does,” he laughs, squeezing their hands and leaning over to get a better view of the photos she’s looking at. Speaking of him being twenty-three, there’s a photo of the two of them sitting in the pub, and judging by the lack of wrinkles on his face and the skin tight t-shirt that Emma has on, he’d guess he’s about that age there. They look so young, not that he thinks they look particularly old now that he’s approaching his mid-thirties, but there’s definitely an innocence of youth there. Emma practically looks like a baby, and now they’re about to have their second child together. “When did we take that picture?”

“I’m not sure. We look like babies in it though. Look at how tiny I am.”

“Look at how tiny I am.”

“My scrawny little boyfriend.”

“Oi,” he protests, squeezing her hand and leaning in to press his lips against her shoulder, touching the soft skin there as he inhales her scent. She smells like the flowers of her perfume and that scent that seems to follow Andy around after bath time. She must have bathed him before she put him down for his nap. “I was not scrawny. I was simply not as well built as I am now.”

“That’s certainly conceited to say you’re well-built now.”

“It’s amazing that you love me. I could never tell from the way you treat me.”

She scoffs, running her finger over the page and another picture that he knows is from their first date, the one where he took her up on the rooftop of the pub and she told him about her grandfather and life growing up and he fell in love with her a little bit more than he already was.

“I treat you wonderfully. I mean, you love cleaning, and look at the mess that I’ve left you to clean up.”

“The most considerate woman in the world. That’s who you are.”

“I know.”

“Can you explain the clothes thing now?”

“Oh,” she gasps, readjusting herself on the floor and scooting back again while she adjusts the book in her hands, placing it on her lap just in front of the curve of her stomach. “So I was actually cleaning up, believe it or not.”

“I don’t.”

“And I was cleaning,” she continues, paying no attention to him, “and I came across my box of old Halloween costumes. Like, all of the ones I’ve had as an adult. Mom and Dad still have my old ones. And I saw my Wednesday Addams outfit and got all nostalgic and was trying to find the picture we took that night when you had black lipstick all over you.”

“Because I was irresistible and you couldn’t help but make out with me.”

“Not gonna lie. That is the exact truth.” She leans over to him and quickly kisses him, not giving him enough time to move his lips against hers like he wants to. “I love this picture so much, babe. I need to get it on my phone. That was such a fun night. You got to be around me with no one paying attention and it was just so fun. Like, I love Halloween, and I miss it.”

“Sweetheart, that still doesn’t – ah,” he clicks his tongue, leaning his head back against the cabinet so that a handle digs into his neck. “You were looking for a last-minute Halloween costume, weren’t you? And that’s why our bedroom is destroyed.”

Emma releases his hand and puts the book down, the pages flipping open to several photos of them from that night, ones from down in the pub and another where Emma’s black lipstick is smeared all of his face. He smiles as he looks down at it, happiness settling in his stomach, before he looks up to Emma as she adjusts her leggings over her stomach and pulls her tank top down. Happiness settles in his stomach at that sight too.

“You’re a genius, obviously, because that’s exactly what I was doing. I’ve come up with an idea.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Jurassic Park, baby. It’s perfect. I found some of our clothes from when we went to Africa that I think will look really good for us. It took me forever to find a shirt that would fit my stomach and not give the biggest view of my boobs.”

“That’s a good view.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, holding her hand out so he can take it to get up even though he’s mostly pulling himself up by the muscles in his thighs. “I tried on so much stuff trying to think of all of this. I’m sorry about the mess. I really am. But I just got so excited because we can celebrate this year. And Andy is really into dinosaurs and is just going to look so cute in his little dinosaur costume.”

“Emma, where the bloody hell did you get a dinosaur costume on such short notice?”

“My mom.” When he raises a brow, she nods her head and opens her mouth as if to say something before her lips close again. He can barely imagine the gears turning in her mind right now. She’s already done so much in the two hours that he was gone, and he knows Emma. When her mind is set on something, she doesn’t stop until she gets it or is totally shut down. “I sent her to go buy one for Andy when I decided on everything. I would go get us stuff too, but we’ve only got until tomorrow. And it would just be too much to have to get both of us into a store to shop. Thomas would have a heart attack, and I’ve already given him a heart attack.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” he laughs, placing his hands on her shoulders and dipping his head down to look her in those beautiful green eyes that are full of excitement. “Why are you giving Thomas a heart attack. What have you done, my love?”

A smile starts on the left side of her lips before curving up so much that he can see nearly every tooth in her mouth, her eyes crinkling with her joy.

“We’re going trick or treating.”

-/-

His wife is walking around their now clean bedroom, every item exactly where it should be, working on braiding her hair back into something so intricate that he would never be able to do it. She’s not even looking into a mirror, only occasionally glancing into one of their windows that looks out onto the pool and the garden. She’s got on a pair of short khaki shorts, ones he knows are held together by one of her ponytail holders, and a blue camisole with one of his red button down’s tied over it. She looks every bit the character, if Ellie had been seven months pregnant, and he can’t help but smile at her and her little dinosaur shadow that’s following her around.

“Darling,” Andy says, his little kick of alternating between calling Emma Mummy and Darling still happening, “Darling.”

“What, baby?”

“I want water.”

“Ask Daddy.”

“I want you, Darling.”

Killian huffs to himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches Emma roll her eyes at their son. He’s a ridiculous little thing, always wanting Emma for things that Killian can very easily do, and as much as it annoys Emma, he knows that she wouldn’t have it any other way. Andy has her wrapped around every single finger that he has. Probably all of his toes too.

“Give Mommy one minute, and I’ll get you some water.”

Andy sighs, like every dramatic two-year-old does, before sitting down on the ground, having to pull the tail of his costume out from underneath his bottom. Honestly, Killian is shocked that Andy hasn’t ripped the thing off by this point. He seems pretty content in it, actually, his dark hair hidden under a green hood and his bright blue eyes shining under the dark of his lashes. Obviously, he’s biased considering this is his own son and that he could basically be his carbon copy, but damn did he help make a handsome little lad.

“I’ll get it, love.”

“He won’t take it from you.”

“I’ll try.”

Killian uncrosses his arms and walks over to Andy, bending his knees and scooping his son up under his armpits, holding him high in the air before placing him over his shoulders so that his legs dangle against Killian’s chest.

“Andrew, what does the dinosaur say?”

Andy screams, or shrieks really, what Killian assumes is supposed to be a roar. Whatever the sound was, it was not human. Or dinosaur.

“You’re getting good at that.”

“Papa taught me.”

“Of course he did,” Killian chuckles, removing Andy from his shoulder and placing him on the bathroom cabinet before he grabs one of the cups they keep in here for this exact thing, only filling it a little before handing it to his son, making sure that he doesn’t spill it and ruin his costume. This is the only one they have, and he is not going to be the one to dampen Emma’s spirit. If she wasn’t pregnant, he’d be sure that she’s had about seven cups of coffee right now with her energy level.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is the baby going to come out of Mummy’s mouth?”

It’s more broken up than that, as all of Andy’s speech is, but Killian still gets the gist. He and Emma may be the only two people who can understand him, and damn are people missing out on some gems.

He could tell the truth and say that the baby is coming out of Emma’s vagina, but all that will do is have their kid walking around telling everyone about his mum’s vagina. There’s already enough talk about that.

“The baby comes out of Mummy’s tummy, lad.”

“How?”

They’ve already had this conversation once and yet here he is having to have it again. Why does Andy never ask Emma questions like this? The kid needs to figure out how to balance things out between the two of them.

“When the baby is ready to be born, it comes out of Mummy. Just like you did.”

“Look like me?”

“Maybe,” he sighs, taking the cup from Andy’s hand and placing it on the counter before he adjusts Andy’s hood. “Maybe it’ll look like Mummy.”

“Darling is too big.”

“Hey,” Emma scoffs, walking into the bedroom with her hair fully braided, “I am not too big. What kind of conversation are you guys having?”

“We’re talking about how the baby is going to come out of you.”

“Ah,” she sighs, coming to stand next to Killian. He can smell her perfume, and he lifts his arm out of instinct to wrap it around her shoulder, pulling her into his side and kissing her temple. “That seems like a conversation I’m glad I’m not a part of.”

He chuckles, unable to stop himself, before leaning into her ear and rubbing his chin into her neck since he knows that she loves the pinpricks of how his scruff feels. “Would you like to explain the miracle of childbirth to him, love?” he whispers.

“Absolutely not.”

“Mummy,” Andy whines, falling back onto the counter and slapping his costume tail against it. Damn does he love that tail. “You said I get candy.”

“That’s right, baby.” Emma claps her hands together and walks forward to pick Andy up, resting him on her hip. “Mimi and Papa are waiting downstairs, and we’re going to go get candy. Are you excited?”

“Yeah,” he nods, his lips parting into a bright smile that Killian swears is Emma’s. It has to be. His son is his clone, but that smile is all Emma. “I want candy.”

“That’s, like, the second-best part of Halloween.”

“What’s the first, love?” Killian questions.

“Your butt in those pants.”

She is one hundred percent lying about that, but he’s not going to complain as he follows Emma and Andy out of the bedroom and down the hallway to walk down the stairs where he sees David and Mary Margaret standing in their foyer. They have not been delegated to wear costumes, the two of them in jeans and sweaters, and he’s only a little jealous of them. But anything to make Emma and Andy happy. Besides, it’s not as if this is the first time he’s ever dressed up in a costume for Emma on Halloween. Granted, he used to do it because it would nearly always end in them sleeping together. Now that could happen, but he’s pretty sure Emma just wants the joy of having Andy celebrate and kind of know what’s going on.

Thomas had to talk to all of their neighbors yesterday after Emma got this idea, going over security protocols and waivers, and honestly, as much as Killian appreciates that for his family’s safety, he hates that they have to do that. They have good neighbors, ones that always keep to themselves when it comes to the press and who will come up and pet Indy when they happen to leave the property to walk with her. So he hates that they have to go through so much just so that Andy can walk around for thirty minutes to collect some candy. Honestly, Emma has little gifts bags full of sweets to give to everyone, and Andy could have gotten those while they stay in the house.

It’s obviously all about the experience.

“Are your parents coming, Killian?” Mary Margaret asks when he pulls back from a hug with her.

“Thomas nearly had a heart attack doing this for just us. I don’t think he could handle Mum and Dad coming by. We’re all going to Liam’s tomorrow so the kids can spend some time together. Emma has apparently caused everyone to be in the Halloween spirit.”

“Killian secretly loves this. Don’t let him fool you.”

“I won’t, sweetie,” Mary Margaret sighs to Emma before turning to wink at him. “Are you guys ready to go? David has a cute little surprise for Andy outside.”

The surprise is that his stroller now has little cardboard cutouts to look like a jeep from Jurassic Park, and Killian has absolutely no idea where this family came from. Seriously. If it’s Halloween related, the Nolans can get it done in a day despite having jobs and social lives and a million other responsibilities. It’s almost as if they’re magic. Or possibly fueled by sugar highs from candy.

Andy loves his new ride, insisting that he be pushed in it while they walk down the road to their neighbors. Thomas is behind them, trying to stay out of the way, but as always, Emma pulls him into conversation, asking if his kids are going to do this once he gets home this afternoon. They are, though only once it gets dark outside at their insistence, and the tiredness is evident in Thomas’s voice. Being the father of pre-teens is obviously taking its toll on him, and they’re making him go walking from house to house with their toddler.

Emma swings their hands between the two of them, and he taps his thumb against her knuckles while he moves the stroller down the road, Andy completely and totally focused on the little dinosaur shaped candy basket he has. Another Nolan find. Next thing he knows David and Mary Margaret are going to have somehow found a way to make dinosaurs roam the earth again simply so Andy may see one. By that point, he’ll have inevitably have moved onto the next obsession.

“Andy, we’re about to go see Mrs. Taylor. Are you excited?”

“Does she have candy?”

“Maybe if you ask like I taught you to.”

Emma twists her head to look at him, that beatific smile on her face once more, and he swears he gets actual butterflies in his stomach and his throat and all the way down to his toes. She’s so damn excited. He’d give everything for her to be this excited every day.

“Trick or treat,” Andy says, though it really comes out more like ‘twick or tweat’. How long exactly has Emma been training him to do that? It seems like more than a day. She was probably training him in the womb.

When they finally get to Mrs. Taylor’s house, he grabs Andy out of the stroller and releases Emma’s hand so that he can hold onto Andy’s, the three of them walking up to the cobblestone pathway until they’re knocking on her door. It takes less than fifteen seconds for Mrs. Taylor to come to the door with a bowlful of small candies, none of them hard which he suspects is Thomas’s doing, and a bright smile on her face.

“Hi,” Andy waves as he smiles. “Darling says trick or treat.”

“And who is Darling? Your girlfriend?”

“My mummy,” Andy shrugs, not at all caring for Mrs. Taylor’s suggestion that he has a girlfriend. Killian doesn’t necessarily love that either. He is not old enough to even be dealing with the thought of that. He’s supposed to have years. “Candy?”

“Say please, Andy,” Emma tells him, squatting down next to him so that they’re at eye level.

“Please.”

“You are the cutest little thing,” she sighs, reaching into her bowl and depositing a large handful of chocolates into his basket. The kid’s going to be eating well for days, weeks even. “I love your costume.”

“I’m a dinosaur.” He then makes that shriek sound again, and Emma nearly topples over at the force of it. Then again, that may just be her belly. “Are you a dinosaur?”

Heat immediately rushes to Killian’s cheeks, his ears becoming tipped in red, as he watches Mrs. Taylor blush as well, most likely more out of embarrassment than anything. Andy just called their eighty-year-old neighbor a dinosaur, and intentional or not, it’s not the best thing in the world. At least it’s not like how he told his mum that her arms were squishy. He and Emma still haven’t recovered from that one.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Taylor,” Emma sighs, standing from the ground and handing over the little bag of goodies she brought. “For being so kind and doing this for us. It truly means a lot to me to get to give Andy days like this.”

“It’s no problem at all. I can’t wait to see what you all wear next year when it’s four of you.”

“Whatever Andy’s flavor of the month is, I’m guessing. We’ll see you soon.”

They all turn to walk away, Emma tugging Andy along as he looks into his basket, and Killian leans into Emma’s ear. “Darling, flavor of the month was probably not the best thing to say about our son.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Too late.”

It goes like this at the next five houses they go to. Andy needs to be coaxed into greeting everyone, his eyes not lighting up until he sees candy wrappers, and then he and Emma thanking everyone for agreeing to do this. They cause their neighbors pain by living here instead of on one of his family’s estates, and they like to make it as easy as possible. Last minute Halloween celebrations when he’s pretty sure few people in this neighborhood celebrate does not exactly fall under that umbrella. But after they hit house number six, Andy asks to be put back into the stroller, and he’s out within a minute, snoozing away with the hood of his costume hanging over his eyes. He and Emma both agree that it’s time to go back home, and after the twenty-minute walk back, he takes Andy out of the stroller and moves up the stairs while Emma talks with her parents on the living room couch. Andy doesn’t wake as Killian changes him out of the costume, and he’s officially down for the count within minutes, a full hour before his bedtime.

After quietly closing the nursery – though it’s really not a nursery anymore – door, Killian walks the few steps down to their bedroom, opening up the door as he yanks the ascot away from his neck and starts unbuttoning the chambray shirt he has tucked into his khaki pants. Emma is sitting on the bed, her shorts visibly unbuttoned so that the skin of her stomach pokes out.

“Hey, how’d you get away from your parents? Are they staying for dinner?”

“They’re staying,” she yawns, turning to him with her hands covering her mouth. When she moves her hands down, he can see that her lips are covered in…black lipstick.

His wife is the most incredible woman on the planet.

And maybe the most absurd.

“Emma, what the hell is going on with your mouth?”

She shrugs, falling back onto the mattress and tucking herself into the pillow, very obviously exhausted. “I’m wearing some super expired lipstick because I found it while ransacking our house yesterday, and I figured today called for wearing it again.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I try.”

He walks over to her with laughter bubbling up in his throat as his heart beats a quick yet steady rhythm in his chest. Emma’s currently on the bed wearing unbuttoned shorts with her braid all a mess and black lipstick on her lips, and he doesn’t think she could possibly look more ridiculous. But he likes how ridiculous she is and that underneath the no-nonsense side of her is this playful side that comes out when she’s around him or Andy or anyone who she loves.

Carefully, Killian places his knees on the bed and crawls over Emma, making sure that he doesn’t crush her with his weight, as he dips his head down over hers and brushes their noses together before gliding his lips over hers and feeling the softness that always comes with that. He can taste the lipstick, the odd staleness of it, but when he tugs on her upper lip, she moans in that little way that she does and he gets the faintest whiff of chocolate.

“Have you been eating chocolate, love?”

“No,” she very obviously lies, digging her hands in his hair as she captures his mouth with hers again, hungrily swiping her tongue over the seam of his lips, and all of his blood rushes to his groin.

He can taste the chocolate without question now, the sweetness of it mixing in with Emma’s kiss. “Liar,” he grunts.

“I would never.”

“You would,” he confirms, trailing his mouth away from hers and sucking on the skin of her jaw before soothing it with his tongue. “You sent me to put Andy to bed so that you could eat all of his candy.”

“I was just, ah – ” He swipes his tongue underneath the shell of her ear as her hips cant up to his and his vision goes black for a moment. “I was testing to make sure it was all safe.”

“My little liar,” Killian sighs, pulling back from her to look down at her and the exposed freckles on her cheeks and her nose and the smeared lipstick around her mouth. He imagines the same is happening to him. “Are you going to share with me?”

“There’s some of those nasty malts in there that you can have.”

“I don’t want the candy neither of us like.”

“Too bad.”

He bends down to nip at her mouth again. “Let’s go eat dinner with your parents, and afterwards, we can steal candy from a baby like the good parents we are.”

“I like the way you think,” she giggles, smiling at him and making his stomach swoop. She’s damn good at that.

-/-

“Killian,” David sighs when they walk down the stairs five minutes later, his eyes squinting at Killian as he stares, “what’s that black residue around your mouth?”

“Trust me, Dave, you don’t want to know.”

-/-

@nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @kmomof4 @wellhellotragic @ekr032-blog-blog @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @kristi555 @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @dreadpirateemma @alys07 @andiirivera @emmas-storybook @superchocovian @in-spirational @cs-forlife @qualitycoffeethings @shireness-says @jonirobinson64 @bmbbcs4evr @karenfrommisthaven @singersdd

#second in command #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

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love-and-monsters · 5 years

Text

Thalia the Naga and Damian the Drider

The third and final story of pride month, including two trans monsters! Hope you enjoy!

Thalia was nervous. She nibbled on her nails as she approached the medicine house with her mother.

“It will be all right,” her mother soothed. She took one of Thalia’s hands in her own and squeezed. “Moran knows what he is doing.”

“I’m not nervous about that,” Thalia said. Her mother looked down at her for a moment, then rested a hand on Thalia’s back.

“I’m sure he will be very nice,” she said gently. “And if he isn’t, you don’t have to spend much time with him.”

“I know,” Thalia said. “But I want to like him. I want him to be nice.”

“Well, the sooner you get there, the sooner you can meet him and the sooner you’ll know.” Thalia’s mother sped up, slithering faster across the ground. “Come along!”

Thalia slithered after her. Her long, green tail worked smoothly over the ground as she caught up.

“Is he a naga too?” she asked as she drew level with her mother.

There was a pause while her mother thought. “No, I don’t think so. He’s from a few towns over, nearer to the mountains.”

Thalia frowned. Her stomach rolled and knotted with a combination of nervousness and excitement. There was only one way to know what he was for sure. She sped up, lowering her torso to the ground to speed up her slithering.

The medicine house was large, built out of heavy, dark wood. There was a small wing off to the side where Moran lived, but the rest of the house was made for examining and treating patients. Strong smelling plants covered most of the front yard and crept up the sides of the house.

Even before Thalia’s mother lifted a hand to knock on the door, it opened. A tall, slender man stepped out. His skin was tinted green, thought it turned dark brown near his fingers. His hair was long, but tied up into a bun, and a deep green color. “Ah, there you are. Miss Anthea, Miss Thalia. I was just about to call for you. Mr. Damian arrived only a few moments ago.” He stepped back from the door, gesturing for them to enter. “Come on in.”

They stepped into the house and Moran led them to a large sitting room. It had several large seats and cushions on the floor. A table with snacks and tea sat int eh middle of the room. It was quite cozy and pleasant smelling.

“Damian,” Moran said, addressing the other person in the room, “meet Thalia, your partner for this procedure.”

Thalia looked across the room. The other person there seemed to be trying to shrink in on himself. He was pale and rather willowy from the waist up, with long, straight hair tied up in a loose ponytail. He hugged himself with his arms, only glancing at Thalia rather than looking her straight on. From the waist down, he was an enormous black spider, with eight thin, twitching legs.

“Hi,” Thalia said, holding out a hand toward him. “I’m Thalia.”

“I know,” he said quietly, voice rasping. “I’m Damian.” He shook her hand briefly, then returned to swaying slightly and hugging himself.

Moran clapped his hands together. “I need to get a few things set up before we begin. Miss Anthea, would you come with me?”

He left the room. Anthea gave Thalia a kiss on her head before slithering out after him. Thalia looked back at Damian. He was staring into the crackling fire in the fireplace, a distant look in his eyes.

“Did your parents come with you?” Thalia asked after a moment. Damian lifted his head and stared at her for a moment. His eyes were enormous and black and they reflected the firelight in an eerie way. Thalia felt a shiver crawl down her spine.

He didn’t answer for several seconds, long enough that Thalia started to feel nervous. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me. My parents are here. They just aren’t with me right now. We are more nocturnal.” He had a slightly stilted away of talking. Thalia wondered if he’d learned the language recently or if he didn’t have a lot of experience with it. He continued looking at her even after he was done speaking, like he was waiting for her to continue.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway. I’ve never met a trans guy before. There aren’t a lot of trans people around here and the others are all girls. Which is nice, but we can’t do the transfer with another girl, so…” She trailed off. Damian turned fully toward her, moving his torso and body so that they were pointed to her. He was still hugging himself, but he’d stopped swaying.

“I’ve never met another trans person before,” he said. Thalia lifted herself up, rearing slightly with surprise.

“Really? I mean, we’re not that uncommon. Did you live in a really small town or something?”

Damian shook his head. “Not exactly. I didn’t grow up in a town. Driders live as family units. I have several brothers and sisters, but I don’t talk to many people outside my family much.” He looked around the house for a moment. “This is the first time I’ve ever been in another town. Well, outside of my family’s land. It’s a large plot of land, but still. It is strange to be here, with so many other people.”

Thalia stared at him. “You’ve never been to a town before?” He shook his head. “Then I have to show you around! You can stay for a little while after the treatment, right? It’s right in the middle of market season, so there’s a lot of fresh food around.”

Damian blinked at her, skittering his legs like he was startled. “Market season?”

“It’s harvest time for a lot of the farmers, so there’s a big market that goes on where people buy and sell stuff that they grow or make. It’s the best time of year! If you’ve never been to a market before, you’re going to love it!” Thalia couldn’t help her voice rising in excitement.

Damian’s mouth twitched into a small smile. His legs settled, only the front pair ticking gently against the floor. “I haven’t ever been to a market before,” he said. “I suppose I could come with you after, if you’re willing to have me.”

Thalia grinned, tail tip waving. “Sure! I’d love to show you around.”

Moran bustled back into the room, holding a large book and a pair of necklaces. “Here,” he said, handing one to Thalia. “And one for you as well.” He passed the second one to Damian. Thalia pulled the necklace on over her head. It was a long chain that hung down her torso, almost to her waist. The symbol at the end of the chain was made of some sort of swirling pattern that was actually rather hard to look at. It seemed to shift when she tried to focus on it directly and her eyes kept automatically drifting away from it. She could feel the magic buzzing against her skin.

“If the two of you could just step forward and grasp each other’s hands,” Moran said, guiding them together. Thalia took Damian’s hands in her own. His fingers were long and felt rather spindly and delicate. She felt like if she squeezed them too hard, they would break. “Very good. Now just hold still and relax. It’ll only take a moment.”

His flipped through the book in his hands for a moment, eventually settling on what was apparently his preferred page. He licked his lips, then started reading in a low, firm voice. The words were difficult to make out and they seemed to echo in Thalia’s head. Damien seemed to be thinking the same thing, as he frowned and twitched his head from side to side.

The necklace around Thalia’s neck pulsed and she felt energy buzz through her body. It centered around the necklace, then stretched up toward her hands. The energy buzzed at her fingertips and she could feel it stretching out of her body and into Damian’s. At the same time, she could feel a surge of different energy prickling at her fingertips, a surge of Damian’s energy entering her own body.

It only lasted about a minute. Then Moran stopped chanting and Thalia felt one final buzz wash over her as the spell ended.

Damian, who had closed his eyes, blinked them open. His legs twitched and shifted. “I don’t feel very different,” he said. He looked at Thalia, but she just shrugged.

“It will take a few sessions for the new energy to take root in your body,” Moran said, looking thoroughly unconcerned. “Once it does, you will need less transfers to maintain a masculine form. But the sex swapping spell does work. The two of you will now be able to have bodies that conform to your true genders.” He smiled at them encouragingly. “We’ll continue this every three days for the next two weeks and that should me enough for the energy to take root. After that, one treatment every two months should be sufficient.”

Thalia dropped one of Damian’s hands, but remained holding to the other one. She turned to Anthea, who had entered the room in the middle of the transfer. “Can we go to the market, Mom? Damian’s never been to one before.”

Anthea smiled. She looked at Moran, who made a sort of waving gesture with his hand. “All right, we can go. Don’t forget to give Moran those necklaces back. I’m sure he worked hard to make them.”

Thalia handed hers over, Damian following suit only a moment later. “I’ll see you in a few days,” Moran said as he collected the necklaces. “Have fun.” Still holding Damian’s hand, Thalia slithered from the house, her mother trailing languidly behind them.

True to his word, after the next few treatments, both of them started noticing the changes in their bodies. Damian stopped growing, assuming the smaller size of male driders. Thalia developed breasts and her voice assumed a more feminine tone. It was a particularly bright moment when the pair of them were able to bond over their colors fading. Damian had a bright scarlet patch on the pack of his spider body and patches of red marked Thalia’s scaly lower body. As their bodies readjusted, both of them were able to see their colors fading away, Damian’s to black and Thalia’s to a dusty, yellow-brown. As they grew together, into their early twenties, Damian moved closer to town, both to be closer tot eh treatments, to avoid having to travel constantly, and also to be closer to Thalia.

It was approximately seven years since they’d initially met, both of them twenty-one and officially adults in their culture. The summer night was pleasantly warm, with a slight cool breeze. Thalia stretched out on her back in the grass, arms behind her head. Her thick, curly hair tickled her skin and she could feel the poking of grass against her back. Damian was next to her, sitting with his legs tucked under him, skimming through a book under the dim light of the moon. Thalia was always impressed by how well he could see in low-light. Her eyes were much more limited in the dark.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, staring at him out of the corner of her eyes. She saw him shift and his eyes dart over to her before refocusing on his book.

“Have you?” he said in a tone that suggested some playful curiosity. Thalia nodded. She licked her lips, trying to stifle the flutter of nerves that churned in her stomach.

“About what I’m going to do now that I’m an adult,” she said. Damian looked at her with some interest that time and she hurried on. “I think I want to be an adventurer.”

Damian didn’t look surprised, but his brows furrowed a little, like he was concerned. “An adventurer?” he repeated. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Thalia replied. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life. I want something exciting to do.” She rolled over, off her back, and reared up. “I want to go out and look at the world and help people! I want to do something important and make a name for myself!”

Damian furrowed his brows a little more and fiddled with a page in his book. “What about the transition spell?”

“Moran taught me how to do it a few days ago. I’ll be able to perform it on my own whenever I need.” Thalia coiled her tail up. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. This is something I want to do.”

“And what about me?” Damian asked.

“I talked to Moran already. He can set up another partner for you if you need.”

“No.” Damian stood up. He was slightly shorter than Thalia, especially when she was fully reared up, but he could still look her solidly in her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. We’ve been partners for so long and it’s not just… it’s not just the spell. You’re just leaving me now?”

Thalia looked away from him. “Well, I wasn’t just going to leave. I’ve got a few months before I was planning on going. And I didn’t just bring this up to say goodbye.” Damain clicked his legs on the ground, but gestured for her to keep going. “I’m bringing this up to you because I want you to come with me.”

Damian’s legs stopped twitching against the ground. He stared at her. “You want me to go on a wild adventure with you?” he asked. He sounded like he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not she was messing with him.

“Well, yeah. You were saying it yourself, we’ve been partners for a long time. We’ve been friends for so many years now. I don’t want to go off by myself, and I don’t know anyone else I’d rather be with.”

Damian’s cheeks gradually took on a faint shade of pink and his legs started twitching more. “You want me to go with you? But I’m not as tough as you are. I don’t know much about how to handle weaponry or surviving.”

“Yeah, but you’re good at other things! You’ve been getting better at magic and you’re a lot better at dealing with people than I am.” Thalia reached out and took his hands. They were just as delicate and thin as they’d been when they first met, but now when she took them, he automatically squeezed them back. “We’re partners. I don’t want to be with anyone else but you.”

Damian’s eyes closed for a moment, then he leaned forward and rested his head on her shoulder. Thalia felt him shiver slightly, and she wasn’t sure whether it was laughter, a sob, or some strange combination of the two. “I have to think about it,” he said, “and talk to my family. But I think… I think I would like to be with you.”

Thalia ran her fingers through his silky hair. “I wouldn’t leave you,” she said. Damian breathed out gently onto her shoulder. Thalia took a deep breath as he nestled in against her side. “We’ll be together, always.”

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster girlfriend #naga #drider #lgbt

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clairekatswritingcorner · 6 years

Text

Not in Arcania Anymore

Word Count: 2,163

Summary: Alexys is startled awake one night when an unfamiliar figure appears in her room. She soon finds out that this mysterious visitor is a stranger in more ways than one.

*Author’s Note*: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising! This time she had me do a couple for a ship she has with one of her friend’s (@xeensbin’s) OCs, and it was really fun! She has some really great OCs (and art) so if you get a chance, definitely check her out. I hope you enjoy!

Being awakened by a startling crash was the last thing Alexys expected this morning. Or really any morning. But here she was, sitting up in bed, clutching her blanket so tightly her fingers ached. She had it pulled up around her shoulders, considering for a second that it might be best for her to just hide under it completely. That usually worked; hiding and closing her eyes until the nightmare went away. The longer she thought about it, the more she realized this wasn’t a simple nightmare. Or at least, if it was, it was happening in the real world.

The creature that’d just been unceremoniously stranded in her apartment was equally confused. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he could smell that things were different. He wasn’t in Georejia anymore, in his pleasant little pottery shop, his pride and joy. He wasn’t surrounded by any of the warmth that pervaded the shop’s atmosphere, nor could he find any traces of the earthy smells of baking clay that saturated his home where he carried out his work.

No, now things smelled…well, he couldn’t quite put his claw on it. Maybe it would be alright, since being teleported somewhere by brash bandits wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever experienced. But being teleported to another dimension, to a world that was vastly different from his own, that was something that hadn’t happened to him yet. Until now, that is.

He stood up and rubbed his head, checking his horns to make sure they weren’t cracked or damaged. He hadn’t hit anything that hard, and he didn’t feel any pain that would indicate that kind of injury, so for now he figured things were okay. Next, he rubbed his arms and legs, trying to determine if anything was broken. The good news was all his bones also seemed to be intact; if anything, he’d only incurred a few scrapes and bruises. He whipped his tail around as carelessly as usual, completely at ease, and that was the last observation he needed to know that by physical standards, everything was fine.

Following this personal assessment, he examined his surroundings. He appeared to be standing in a dwelling of some sort; that was the vibe he got from the furnishings and general atmosphere of the place, plus it didn’t look unreasonably different from the kind of structures found in Arcania. But he was definitely not in Arcania anymore, there was no denying that. This place lacked an aura of enchantment, integral surges of magical energy that constantly ebbed and flowed in the air. Said sensations were as natural to him as breathing or painting pots, which only made their absence more pronounced.

How was he going to get home if he didn’t even know where he’d ended up? His mind strayed to this train of thought when suddenly his thoughts jumped the tracks entirely. His eyes fell upon the form of a small, timid looking girl, and the expression she was giving him was one of sheer terror and panic. His eyes grew wide and his claws started to tingle, his body reflexively preparing to respond to any threat of danger that may befall him. He was still a little on edge following the fight that’d gotten him dumped here in the first place, leaving his offensive senses sharp and ready to redeploy at any moment.

But the rational part of his mind wasn’t preoccupied with fighting or self-defense. When he glimpsed the girl trembling in the bed before him, the fire in his heart flickered. It was swayed by an unknown breeze, a rush of emotion that churned his stomach and heated his cheeks; the fact that he could even notice the latter part was significant, considering how high his body temperature was. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt butterflies flutter inside him, or a perceptible heat sear his already crimson cheeks. But something was unquestionably happening to him, and it was something that toppled his emotions and scrambled his thoughts. What was it going to take to dissolve the fog of admiration that had suddenly enveloped his mind?

Similar thoughts were also rushing through Alexys’s head, albeit just a hint overshadowed by the innate fight or flight response flowing through her bones. Hormones of self-preservation battled with budding feelings of fondness, but those were the last kind of feelings she needed to be having right now. Some sort of mysterious, otherworldly creature had just appeared in her bedroom without warning, and she could sense an undeniably dangerous aura emanating from him.

The being had ruddy skin and red hair and black hands and horns…he was even equipped with a scarlet tail that swished idly behind him. Clothed in what looked to be red robes of some sort, he almost looked like some kind of character out of a cartoon or anime. Even if he was, nothing about his appearance negated the fact that he existed tangibly in her room, his eyes focused on her with what seemed to be a hint of confusion. He was simply trying to determine how he felt about her, too.

“Where am I?”

“Who are you?”

The demanding questions broke from both of their lips at the same time, and Alexys pulled the blanket up even further under her chin. The creature brushed his clothes off a bit, seeming much less disturbed about this whole incident than she was. Then again, she kind of thought she was looking at some sort of monster or demon. Unusual clothes and appearance, which happened to include horns and claws and a tail, and she swore she could see some form of red fins protruding from his forearms.

She considered calling the cops, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. The being took a step towards her and she flinched, tears starting to well up in her eyes. She was…scared of him? He was a little surprised by that, but then again, he didn’t know what kind of world he’d happened to wind up in. Perhaps there were beings like him here that were antagonistic or dangerous, so he decided the best thing to do was attempt some communication. He carefully held his hands up, hoping she understood he was trying to demonstrate he meant no harm.

“Who are you?” Alexys demanded again, more forceful this time. The formation of her tears tainted her tone with a noticeable thickness, the weight of her worry. Now it was his turn to flinch.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you,” he replied, trying to pull himself together after the fright she’d just given him. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Gwyoko. What’s yours?”

That certainly didn’t sound like any name she’d heard before, but he also didn’t look anything like anyone she’d seen around here before, either. “A—Alexys…” she answered nervously, her muscles still mostly paralyzed by fear.

“Alexys…” He couldn’t deny he liked the way her name sounded sliding off his tongue. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted by things like that right now. “Um, would you mind telling me where I am?”

She observed him cautiously. “Only if you tell me where you came from.”

Well, that seemed like a fair enough request. “I come from the city Georejia, in the land of Arcania.” But I kind of get the feeling I’m nowhere near Arcania at the moment, he silently repeated to himself.

Alexys shook her head. “I’ve never heard of either of those places before. Are you from some undiscovered continent or something?”

“Something like that,” he joked weakly, feeling the heaviness of his fatigue settle on his shoulders as his adrenaline started receding. “So, where am I now?”

“In my apartment, on a place called Earth,” she explained, and he gave a long-suffering sigh.

“That’s not a place I’ve ever heard of, either.” He rested his hands on his hips, racking his brain for any kind of advice that could help him determine what his next move should be. “Um…well, this may sound a little strange, but I think I fell here from another dimension.”

Alexys’s eyes widened in disbelief and curiosity. “What happened?”

“I was just fighting with some bandits.” That last word was loaded with venomous spite. “Some no-good rotten criminals that wanted to ruin my pottery. Or take it for themselves. But I don’t negotiate with anyone who tries to slight me.”

He was getting off course, talking to himself, and after taking another look at Alexys he readjusted his focus appropriately. “Ah, anyway. I think one of them had some sort of spell or potion or something on them, and they ended up using it to transport me here. I’m not sure why it was here, specifically, or what I can do to get back…”

“But you really need to get back, right?” Alexys filled the last part in for him, and he nodded in reply. “Getting back to another dimension…it sounds complicated, but if you were able to make it here from there, I’m sure it’s not impossible!”

Such positivity and optimism; Gwyoko found his heart twisting again, but not in a bad way. “Would you even know where to start?”

“Well, you clearly come from a place that has much more supernatural power than this place does.” She gestured to her room, finally relaxed enough to release the blanket from her hands. “Maybe hearing more about your world would help? I’m kind of interested to know more about you, too. I mean, I thought you were a demon or something for a moment there.”

He couldn’t help chuckling, and Alexys felt a flutter of fondness dance in her heart. “I’m certainly not a demon, although if you know about those, maybe your world is already much more magical than you think.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Like I said, my name is Gwyoko. I’m half dragon, which explains the horns and such. But I’m also half human, just like you. Or at least, I’m assuming you’re human; you look and smell that way.”

She hoped her scent was at least moderately appealing, too. “I am human, and that’s incredible! I mean, that you’re half dragon and all. As far as I know, there isn’t a lot of magic in this dimension. If there is, I don’t know the best place to find it…but that doesn’t mean I can’t try. And I think finding some sort of magic or sorcery would be your best bet at making it back to Arcadia, was it?”

“Arcania. You were close,” he corrected with a smile, and she knew she was blushing before she could even attempt to stop it. “And I would really appreciate that. Your help, that is. As things are, I don’t know anything about this place. I guess that’s kind of obvious, but I just mean, you’re the only person I know. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick around with you. Just for now.”

“I think that would be best,” Alexys responded almost too quickly. “I mean, if other people saw you, I’m not sure how they’d react. Actually, I’m sure they’d react a lot like I did. And I don’t think you want to send a crowd of people into a frenzied panic, because it would only end up drawing more attention to you. Probably not the good kind.”

Gwyoko winced a bit and shook his head. “I’d like to avoid something like that happening at all costs, if possible. I’m not very good with crowds, or lots of attention in general. I prefer spending my time inside, taking care of my pots, preparing or painting them.” His head fell a bit. “I hope nothing bad happens to them while I’m gone. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do to pass the time.”

“If you like pottery and painting, we have that kind of stuff here!” Alexys explained, moving closer to him and patting the bed as an invitation for him to join her. “You don’t have to go without that kind of stuff. Enjoying your time here is just as important as getting you back home, so I’ll do my best to make sure you do. This might actually turn out to be fun.”

She gave him a gentle smile, and he returned the expression as he hesitantly sat down beside her. Her hand was resting on top of the bedsheets, and for a split second Gwyoko considered touching it with his own. But he’d just met this girl, and he knew that now wasn’t the right time to be thinking about things like holding her hand. With the way things had turned out, they would have plenty of time to get to know each other, and maybe after a while he’d finally gain the courage to do so. At the moment, he was just grateful he could sit beside her like this. And she was just as happy to see him smiling at her.

#self insert #selfinsert #self ship #selfship #oc x canon #self insert fic #self insert fanfiction #selfship fic #selfship fanfiction #my writing #claire writes #one shot #bad-blue-moon-rising #xeensbin #commission

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zne-theartist · 7 years

Text

Sexy Little Red Riot Hood Ch13

Link on AO3: here Boku no Hero Academia | Wolf Bakugou x Little Red Riot Hood (AU) Chapters: 13/? Summary: Kirishima heals up (relearns how to walk properly) and they arrive. Content Warnings: sweet aftercare | Aizawa x Toshinori added into the mix

Author’s Note: it’s still monday! just a really late monday! thank you guys for your sweet words - I’ve been feeling better and working on getting back up on my feet. as you can sort of tell my writing has been affected by it all. not that I don’t have ideas - just getting it all out from my head. but I’m picking back up! So I apologize about the three/four week delay ;;;;

Chapter Thirteen: Mysterious Figures

The aftermath of the week long rut was astounding. Kirishima looked like a work of art with hickeys littering his entire body, clear bite marks, handprints all over his hips, even his ass from the spankings that occurred. Understandably Kirishima was aching and he was exhausted. Bakugou’s rut was completely sated and so was his alpha side. The first thing they did when it ended was Bakugou moved the rocks and took Kirishima to the creek to wash up.

Bakugou was completely doting, cleaning Kirishima out and being certain to be gentle. He wouldn’t let Kirishima even try to walk – though Kirishima was a hundred percent certain he’d wobble and fall like a baby learning to walk. Then, he was drying him off with clean furs and they were back in the cave. Bakugou used whatever Shinsou and Tokoyami made to help with the injuries inflicted. He retrieved water and cooked food, only waking Kirishima to feed him. Kirishima was sleepily in and out of conscious for the entire process. He got Kirishima dressed in some loose pants and a shirt he had put aside for the after math. He wrapped Kirishima up in his fur skin as he got dressed. Then, he picked him up in his arms and he brought him back to the camp of their pack.

“There’s the love birds!” Ojiro exclaimed happily. All of them were by the fire burning with the last of the meat cooking, packing up everything already. Shinsou kept packing but Shouji and Tokoyami looked up.

“You didn’t destroy him did you?” Shinsou made a smart remark. Bakugou huffed.

“I left my marks.” He said rather proudly as he sat down, shifting Kirishima in his lap. Kirishima simply readjusted his head against Bakugou’s neck, nuzzling it as he sighed. Bakugou even had bite marks and hickeys along his neck left by Kirishima in the redhead’s own possession of the blonde.

“You seem nice and refreshed.” Tokoyami commented. “While Kirishima seems like he’s glowing but dead to the world.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou huffed. “I’m all satisfied – don’t really need to sleep after that. Kirishima will be out for a while.”

“Yeah… `m tired…” Kirishima responded, semi-conscious but eyes still closed. He was listening to the conversation in and out.

“You handled him well I see, Kirishima.” Shinsou commented and Kirishima made a small smile, barely able to laugh and it came out more as an airy hum.

“Did you want to let him rest or did you want to get a move on?” Shouji finally spoke up. It had been exactly a week and no doubt a lot of ground would’ve been breached.

“We can move.” Bakugou said, taking a piece of meat that Ojiro offered him before he offered it to the others. “I’ll carry him, so he can sleep. Not like he can walk anyway.” Bakugou smirked happily.

“Shut up,” came Kirishima’s sleepy reply, yawning before he fully dozed off. The entire group couldn’t help but laugh at the weak argument from Kirishima, finding it cute. Bakugou nuzzled his nose into Kirishima’s hair before he was eating his meat.

“Nothing happened right?” He spoke, serious stature back.

“Not a thing and no suspecting activity.” Tokoyami reported, finishing wrapping his bag up and pulling the strap closed. “If we leave today we can gain ground lost.” Bakugou was satisfied.

“Good…” He ate the meat, taking another huge bite out of it with his teeth. They talked and prepared their things and then set to work trying to make it seem like they hadn’t camped there at all.

Once packed up and good to go, they headed off. They weren’t terribly far from their Point B destination, the coast, as they had stopped about four days off when Bakugou’s mood had gotten the worst. It was a good thing they were not too far, because they all wondered how long Bakugou could hold his lover and how long Kirishima would sleep. Bakugou held Kirishima in his arms just like he said and still kept the lead, not slowed down at all by his lover’s weight. During those four days Kirishima slept nearly the entire time, on full recovery mode, and it wasn’t until they could smell the sea that he was actually trying to walk, legs still like jelly. Bakugou tried to help him with walking through it all-; however, he ended up picking Kirishima up and carrying him because he was taking too long.

“Wow!” Kirishima’s eyes sparkled as they could see from the hilltop they came upon, a breach in the trees with a view of the vast expanse of the sea. They all took a moment to relax and stare, the breeze salty and nice on their skin, though it was a little cold. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou quietly agreed, sniffing the air and nose wrinkling at the salt smell. Kirishima looked at Shouji.

“You lived around here right?”

“Yes, my village is in the sea,” Shouji pointed out to the water. “We live on one of the islands breaking between the sea and the ocean.” Kirishima and Ojiro tried straining their eyes to see but couldn’t see an island on the horizon at all. “It’s far out,” He chuckled. “You won’t see it.”

“Ah,” Kirishima laughed nervously and Ojiro smiled at him, both laughing now at their silliness. Bakugou rolled his eyes.

“Come on, let’s get moving. Does the area look familiar to you Shouji?” Bakugou spoke up, looking around, arm around Kirishima since his legs were still a little shaky. He wanted to find the Plus Ultra Sanctuary as soon as possible.

“Yes it does.”

“Then let’s get going. I’ll feel less anxious when we get there.” He huffed, tail swishing behind him.

“Please follow me.” Shouji took the lead, though Bakugou was right there with him – he was the alpha so he needed to be there ready in case of anything.

They walked along through the forest, down close to the beach where sand mixed with the grass. The shrubbery was brighter, though everything was beginning to turn to fall colors. After walking along the coastline they branched towards a set of mountains near the beach. It took about three hours as the terrain was a lot more difficult to get through – Shouji and Bakugou constantly needing to use their strength to move thick branches so they could get through. When the trees and terrain eased up and cleared out they came upon some ruined rubble – a stone wall that had crumpled in some places, and was enclosing a large courtyard. They could see a large building on the other side of the courtyard and garden. There was a church as well, and another house though all the buildings looked like they could use some work. They were overgrown and some parts needed repair. They could see the beautiful mountains surrounding them, low on the horizon with how far up they were, able to still smell the sea and see it when they got closer.

“This place looks abandoned and decrepit.” Ojiro commented. Shinsou nodded, agreeing with his lover.

“Looks uninhabited.”

“The flowers have been tended to.” Tokoyami spoke up as they reached closer to the garden. The flowers did look like they were flourishing, and the gates surrounding it were nice and not overgrown.

“You sure this is it?” Bakugou sneered a little. “How could this be a sanctuary protected by some great force if it’s coming apart?”

“I’m sure this is it.” Shouji agreed.

A noise suddenly made them snap their attention towards the house near the courtyard. Through the sun in their eyes there stood two figures, surprised and shadowy due to the sun blinding them, having just exited the house. Bakugou immediately put himself in front, especially sheltering Kirishima as he growled, ears twitching in aggression and his tail bristled. His hands sparked up. Everybody was tense though, Tokoyami’s hand in his pocket to reach for a bomb in front of Shouji, and Shinsou looked relaxed but he was tense and ready to fight, Ojiro behind Shinsou, unsure what to do.

The mysterious figures started walking their way.

They didn’t know what to expect, and stood ready for a fight.

Then finally they could see, figures blocking out the sun and illuminating what they actually looked like. Two older men dressed simply. Shinsou stepped forward in front of their pack, hand out to calm them and to calm Bakugou before he went blasting to kingdom come.

“Aizawa,” Shinsou suddenly bowed to the man with the long, wavy black hair (looked like bedhead). He was the taller of the two, wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and grey pants, with eyes that looked tired. Honestly he seemed exactly like Shinsou with an indifferent expression on his face, though his took on a little more of an annoyed look.

“Shinsou.” The man spoke in a deep voice. The shorter man beside him was scrawny, with long yellow hair that was held back in a messy bun, in a white shirt much too large for him and baggy pants. He looked sickly. He looked up at Aizawa.

“Shouta, you know these people?”

“Shinsou is one of the students I had.”

“Ah, I see,”

“The others I don’t know.” He spoke plainly, black eyes looking over the rest of them, causing Bakugou to spark up again. The blonde man smiled and he touched Aizawa’s arm rather intimately.

“Well then,” He looked to them and held out his arms in a mock welcome. “Welcome to Plus Ultra Sanctuary.”

#Sexy Little Red Riot Hood #fanfiction #bakushima #boku no hero academia fanfic #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia fanfiction #bakushima fic #bakushima fanfic #kiribaku #kiribaku fanfic #shinoji #shoutoko #my hero academia fanfiction #my hero academia fanfic #my hero academia

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dancingnlancing · 7 years

Text

Cavern of Burials

(RP collaboration between @vagrant-aevis and I.) A group of miners hire Therron to investigate a strange spike in scalekin activity near a cave in Abalathia’s Spine. Being that the rest of his Free Company is away on research missions, the retired Dragoon traverses the frozen mountain’s alone in search of the anomaly.

A harsh wind blew through the various dips and curves of Ishgard's fabled mountain range. Though bundled in armor and the skin of a bear, Therron's flesh still twinged. Frost nagged at pulsing and cold pained flesh. At this rate, if he didn't find cover, exposure was guaranteed. The man braced into the wind, trudging through a drift with heavy aid of his lance turned make shift walking stick. If it hadn't been for a sickening, familiar smell the blizzard would have whited out all hope of ever finding this supposed cavern. Part of him wondered if this had been a trap... Maybe so. The surrounding area reeked of Dravanian musk. The scent only intensified until he was standing at the mouth of a large cavern. Hot air blew back from within, only adding to his unrest. But, it was either step inside or freeze to death. A dragoon could handle a dragon, but not exceptionally vicious weather. Therron padded his first steps inward, lance quirked at the ready, poised to strike the very moment any aberration passed him. Heavy breaths escaped his helm in the form of fleeting vapors, but he couldn't stop the nagging sense of dread. Something big was in this cave. From disregarded bones to simple aetherical pressure, his anxiety spiked. No going back. He'd broken a sweat, and returning to the storm would kill him for sure. "Hello?" He called out, intent to bate whatever beast may be stalking him out of hiding. It could be an advantage... Or perhaps not. Either way, he was not content with waiting.

The cavern was large, and horribly, horribly dark. Jagged rock walls reached every upward, until disappearing into the inky black of shadow. Footsteps, while soft, reverberated and echoed of of far-reaching walls, making such a den a veritable labyrinth by sound alone. Deathly still silence was the dragoon's only answer, aside from a warm bath of air that steadily escaped the maw of the alcove.

The hallways stretched onwards, the deeper the knight dared to tread, the more treacherous the climb downward. Aetheric crystals curled like veins through the walls, setting the place aglow faintly, pleasantly, even - casting light on the smallest of scalekin who promptly skittered to refuge upon sight of the intruding elezen.

The twisting tunnel eventually gave way to an enormous room, aglow by those aspected crystals and illuminating a floor of gold and treasure - piles of such that sank into a spring that carved a shallow moat that carved is way along the wall and out of sight behind the piles of the treasure trove.

Standing still only served to perturb his nerves further. And so, the Ishgardian was not want to linger, thusly traversing inwards. His lance arm was no less lax, and at the sight of smaller scaled beasts he flinched. The larger of the beasts he'd threaten with bared teeth. Rapidly accumulating stress was making his head pound to the beat of his throbbing heart. At a particularly bright vein, the knight would take brief respite. One hand rose to press under his helmet and again his temple. Keep it together, Therron. He repeated internally, an increasingly common mantra. On the bright side, the sting of cold was beginning to thaw from deep in his skin. Dim lighting wasn't such a burden on his Duskwight eyes, either, not nearly as much as the blinding white had been. If not for his on edge reflexes, this place might have been pleasant. He groped along the cavern walls until they started to widen out. Here, the stink of dragon was increasingly repugnant in his nostrils. Yet, the spring drew him in. Therron's own waterskin had frozen solid in the storm. Exhausted and parched, he stepped tentatively closer, jade eyes flashing around every bit of gold and more. If safety was seemingly granted, the Elezen would take to his hands and knees to test the water, if not drink it outright.

For a moment longer, nothing answered the dragoon, just a surprisingly peaceable silence and the temperate climate of the cavern.

It wasn't until the elezen had his fill of the cool spring water that the archaic and baritone drawl echoed off the chamber's walls.

"Tis not often I receive-eth visitors, much less a son of man."

The piles of gold and trinkets shifted, the great wyrm's tail slipping out from its hiding and a grizzled head lifting itself from his trove. Pupils were cloudy, betraying the beast's age as he peered down to the dragoon, but doing little else to shift his position, non-threatened as he was.

"Ah, and a knight. Dost thou come in the name of conquest?" the dragon continued, unmistakably bitter in his delivery.

His blood turned temperatures matching the flurry outside, if not at the voice, than the mere shifting of gold against scale. In a flash, Therron picked himself back up to his feet and was poised. Any calm which had begun to string into lethargy was quickly dispelled.

"Get back!" The Elezen quickly back stepped, pike turned skyward while chest heaved.

Then, this colossal serpents words began to sink in. It was... calm. In light of recent revelations, his panic thick coil subsided some, though not entirely lest the ancient creature lash out. Never before had he set eyes on a wyrm of this magnitude so close, much less be addressed by it.

"N-no... I'd rather not fight if it can be avoided... I just came here to look into a m-mystery." Therron's tone fell off to nothing more than a whisper.

Eyes slid shut in a slow blink, studying what he could of the defensive dragoon. How peculiar it was, that such a fabled and fearsome warrior could be so small, so meek, but then again, he was not the first. Nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, the beast's gaze never leaving the elezen's shape as he shrank even smaller.

"Who hath ever heard of a feeble knight?" came that low, rumbling baritone, his head craning a little and the flesh of that neck swaying as he shook with a low laugh, amused by this.

"Ah, but thou art no mere dragoon - thou hast the boon of another's blood. How curious. What sort of mystery is it that thou dost seek, little knight?"

Each roll accompanying hideous laughs were as nails to Therron's sensitive ears, and likewise his pride. For such an ancient and decrepit beast to be mocking him. But the dragoon bit his tongue for the sake of not seeming petulant-- much less angering the huge monster.

"Scalekin being drawn here in droves... seems I know why. Your kind seem to attract them... If I tell them you are here, they might expect me to slay you. Perhaps it would be best to move? With all due respect, you seem like you've seen better days."

Amused chuckling died in his throat as his eyes settled back onto the dragoon, the mirth gone as he regarded the gently worded phrases, uttered, but hardly withholding their calloused meaning.

"I have always been here, little knight, twas your kind whom encroached on my home." The sound of sliding coin filled the room as the wyrm readjusted his pose.

"Thou brought thine war and ruin, claimed the lives of many mine children and brethren alike, and wouldst dare asketh me to move? I've enough of such petulant squabbles betwixt man and dragon alike. If thou art here to end me, then so be it."

His great and scarred head reclined back somewhat, staring down the length of his snout at the knight.

"Mortals are selfish. The little ones seek refuge from man, who am I to deny them sanctity?"

He shifted uneasily under what felt like a searing gaze. Clearly, the elder beast was well aware of who he was by appearance and smell alone. Therron backed away slowly towards the mouth of the cave. No small amount of guilt began compelling him to escape. "If I lie to them and say I found nothing, they'll still send more people to have a look-- likely people who are less friendly than I... And if I should say I dispatched a massive dragon atop a pit of gold, it will only end in the same." Therron paused. "I don't want to kill you. You haven't attacked yet so... what would be the point?" As a tentative sign of good will, the dragoon lowered his lance and removed his helmet so they could see eye to eye. "I'm sorry about your loss. The Dragonsong war was anything but one sided... our predicament still stands, however. What should I say to the people who hired me?"

"Thou walkest on eggshells, child."

His head lowered as the knight reclined that weapon, removed his helmet and continued to speak softly, humbly.

"Do not pity me, son of man. War breeds contempt and vengeful souls."

Shoulders shifted beneath his trove, posture more relaxed again.

"Of which do you speaketh, little knight? The dravanians seeking gifts that not belong to them, be it my boon or treasures alike?" The beast scoffed. "They may take the gold. Thine material wealth doth did little to fill the gaps in mine life that the loss of mine children left. My blood shalt never be theirs, as I have lost enough family to hate, and children are not fodder for conflict."

Therron felt his skin fester, and if he hadn't been totally clad, the goosebumps on his arms would be apparent. This dragon kept going on and on about boons and blood which in turn made him very, very uncomfortable. Regardless, he tried to remain tactful for the sake of safety and understanding.

"I... couldn't claim to understand how eternal your hurt must be." The dragoon began. "My father died chasing vengeance, so I've learned from him not to be so inclined. Then, in service, friends, more family... Perhaps not comparable but... I can empathize. We... At least I was born into the War with little understanding of it. Being that our lives are short, tragedy is erased by the rush of lives lived."

The great beast's eyes narrowed on the knight, focusing for all his worth as he spoke.

"Thou speakest of thy sire?" he started, taking another deep breath, craning his head forward slightly. "Another knight, such as thou?"

"Not exactly the same. He was a Temple Knight, and I am... well, was, a Dragoon. He spent most of his life obsessed with a dragon we call Darkscale. I wasn't born yet when it happened, but apparently he destroyed my father's village and my sister's mother in the process. As I got older, he grew more and more distant... I watched his obsession consume him until one day... he just took off saying he would 'take care' of the dragon. Needless to say, he never came back. A few days off of my tenth Namesday is when he was pronounced dead." Therron rubbed his bicep, staring hard towards the ground. How odd it was that he was here, speaking of personal woes to a Dragon. There was something oddly endearing about him. Perhaps the aged features, or perhaps his mind was merely slipping further. Either way, any consideration of actually killing the wyrm slipped away.

"I'm Therron, by the way. Might I ask your name as well if we are going to trade tragic pasts?" His right hand twitched, nearly extending out of habit towards to creature.

A low hum issued from the great wyrm's throat as he thought.

"Another knight, ill with obsession. Thou bearest resemblance, Therron. I am Adiemus, if thou wouldst follow me, I would show thee something."

Coins shifted further, before sliding off of the beast, who with great effort stood, aged joints protesting with creaks and pops as he did so. His body was archaic, the juts of hips evident against the shallowing of scaled flesh and his ribs mirrored just - left leg showed injury of some terrible, though haphazardly healed maiming, though he was still reluctant to put overly much weight on the limb. His hide was a litany of old healed scars, marks of centuries past. Adiemus turned towards a back passage, an oddly trusting gesture to turn away from a dragon-slayer, and with his lumbering, slow movements, made his through a tunnel.

The natural cavern walls started to look more uniform, more notably and painstakingly dug-out, the veins of crystals clustering often in places along the ceiling and walls, the pathway much less hazardous than the one getting down into his trove by far as they wound downward.

"I wouldst not abandon my kin to the likes of Sohm Al, for fear they wouldst be desecrated by fetid curs."

The carved out cave gave way once more into an open room, crystals littering the ceiling, obviously placed in their patterns deliberately to look like constellations. Light danced off the arches of dragon bones, old and undisturbed.

"I did once cometh across a knight, maimed in battle, who hath staggered his way into mine hunting grounds. I bade him company and listened to his words of regret, though he spat his ire for my kind unto his dying breath. I am to understand that man buries his dead - I couldst not let his remains to be picked by beasts, so he lays here with my children, under mine watchful gaze."

The dragon settled himself back down near a small burial place, unlike the towering dragon bones around it, an obvious dug grave marked by a stone, sword and shield lain over it carefully.

As the monstrously portioned wyrm turned, he couldn't help but feel reluctant to follow, yet simultaneously drawn. Adiemus' smallest claw was nearly as tall as he was, and to finally see the full length of the beast as an inspiring spectacle. Curiosity drew him in to walk beside the tail of the beast. Eyes lifted to scan the length of his hosts body. Aged, battle worn. Adiemus must have been a warrior in his youth, if sheer size wasn't an clue. Perhaps in this way they were likewise similar-- two souls made to fight who would have otherwise been at peace. For now, Therron didn't dare question, perceptions frankly enthralled with the wondrous cavern beyond. Temperate and welcoming as it was, he could see why the dragon lingered. Then, as they traversed into intentional depths he started to really understand. This was a burial ground. Jade eyes shifted somber around the shrine, lifting up to stare at Adiemus empathetically. The Ishgardian listened well, brows furrowing with increased weight for the concepts being thrown at him.

"You... met him?"

For such an imposing man his voice was small. Gaze dared search the area again until they found the grave of which he spoke. All two familiar sword and shield immediately drew his attention. A hand rose to attempt to halt a gasp, but he wasn't quick enough. Suddenly his limbs were struck with weakness. Without permission, he staggered between the ancient wyrms massive limbs towards the rocky grave, closely examining the make of the sword to be sure it was real. At last his body was overcome with emotion, and the warrior fell low to his knees. Vision was swiftly blurred by tears. He kept holding his mouth to stifle agonized sounds. Futile. Back heaved with violent sobs, cries echoing around the large room.

There was initial concern as the dragoon so quickly approached the grave, reached out to touch the makers so - it was instinctual, his desire to guard the dead making him horribly wary, though he said nothing. It was the resulting sobs that made him less on edge. Therron was no grave robber, and his assumption had been correct - but it was a bitter reunion. The great wyrm's expression fell, empathetic as the knight wept.

"Thine sire did teacheth me humility - to be wary which hubris hath wrought. The arms are thine to take, as such clearly bespeaks of sentimental value to thee."

That archaic baritone was surprisingly soft and soothing, suddenly very aware of the pain he had brought the dragoon. It tugged the beast's heartstrings, tearing asunder his own grief anew.

"If thou dost wish to mourn, Therron, thou art always welcome here."

Adiemus' voice wobbled in his ears without meaning. For a moment, he was caught up in his own grief, unable to speak or even think straight. Hands trembled out towards the shield marked with rose symbols and other ornate embellishments. How vividly he had entrapped every detailed scrape in his mind.

"Often as a boy..." he started. "He would let me play with his shield-- sliding down slopes or just... silly games children play. Pretending to be turtles and such." He laughed hysterically through the tears, wiping his face on the thick bear pelt he had draped over his shoulders.

"He was... a good man, and I regret resenting him. So many years wasted on anger..." he stared strangely at the stones, beginning to calm. Gently the arms were returned to their rocky plot. Therron took to his feet again, drying his cheeks as best he could.

"They are his... I won't take them; but maybe I will come back to visit..."

#RP #RP log #Adiemus #FF14 #FFXiV #Ishgard #Therron #Dragons #CAVES #SAD #FUCKING FEELS TRIP #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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