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cuffmeinblack · 2 months

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2 for andrew or 8 for leander ehehehehehe

Last Chance

Andrew Larson x f!reader

“Let's ruin ourselves for anyone else.”

Tags: explicit | drug use | sex | admission of feelings

2k words

A/n: Unexpectedly confident Andrew? Sure, why not. I need to stop writing smut when I'm sick. Thank you for the request m'love <3

⤍ Andrew Larson masterlist ⤎

Quite how you found yourself in the boathouse on the last night of term wasn't clear. It had likely been the only unoccupied place in the entire castle grounds. The astronomy tower had been claimed, as had most of the classrooms and even the greenhouses—a flash of ginger and rustling amongst the dittany had you rushing out of there before you saw anything that would require scrubbing from memory. It was cool despite the hot weather, the spray from the lake soaking every inch of the worn planks underfoot that flexed and creaked with every tentative step. None of this mattered, though, once you met Andrew's warm chestnut eyes that seemed to draw you in, quite literally. He was so close, so warm and solid and tempting. Expectation hung thick in the muggy air despite the very innocent request that you'd prefer to find somewhere quiet to talk, away from the raucous parties within the castle.

When Andrew finally broke the silence it was with small talk. “I can't believe it's really over.”

“I know. It's bittersweet, isn't it?”

You pulled a small tin out of your robe pocket, the Honeydukes logo scratched and worn from years of use. Andrew watched, likely expecting an offer of a sherbet, but inside lay a healthy stash of mallowsweet, already rolled and neatly packed. “Do you want one?” you asked, expecting an emphatic ‘no’ from the straight-laced Ravenclaw, but to your great surprise he nodded. You smiled and offered the tin, his delicate fingers pinching a cigarette and holding it awkwardly as far away from his body as humanly possible. “Would you do the honours?”

Andrew blinked and then withdrew his wand, producing a tiny flickering flame from the tip. The first drag warmed your throat and filled your chest, the potent mallowsweet working wonders to calm your nerves that you knew had everything to do with being here with Andrew. The man himself spluttered a little but got the hang of it after a while. The quietly stifled coughs and the way he tucked his hand under his opposite arm and shuffled about as if he had no idea how to stand was so endearing you might have kissed him then. You'd been saying as such for over a year, and now…now it was too late.

“I didn't think you'd take me up on the offer,” you admitted.

“Well, it is our last night, and I don't know how many opportunities I'll have to do so working for the Ministry.”

“You’re right, my money's on opium.”

Andrew's eyes widened and you chuckled and nudged him playfully.

“Is there anything you'll regret not doing before you leave this place?” he asked, suddenly serious.

You blew a stream of smoke into the air and tossed your stub to the ground where it fizzled, flame dying beneath your boot. The question was innocuous enough, but it was as if he'd read your mind, or perhaps correctly discerned why you both stood in the dank boathouse on a warm Summer's night. The truth had seemed far too risky to speak until now. The friendship you'd cultivated with Andrew was special; a fragile and beautiful thing that you couldn't bear to lose due to one unrequited admission. Besides, he was to relocate to London and you…well, you would be sent wherever Gringotts deemed necessary, tracing old rumours of forgotten treasures. You'd made peace with the fact; the nomadic lifestyle you'd expect from your chosen career path. Until now.

“There is one thing,” you replied vaguely, watching him closely. He leaned back against a wooden pillar and gazed down at the lapping waters that swayed the row boats with a faint and rhythmic clatter. To hell with it. “I regret not asking for more between us.”

He swallowed hard, and exhaled heavily. You weren't sure if he'd expected the answer or not, but either way it had unsettled him. When he looked up through the strands of dislodged ashen hair, your heart momentarily stopped. His pupils were blown, cheeks flushed the softest pink you'd ever seen. Everything around him grew hazy and dreamlike.

“Me too. I've been a bit of a coward, haven't I?”

He stepped closer now, salt spray unable to mask the scent of mallowsweet and patchouli. Maybe a hint of citrus.

“Maybe we both have been.” The mood suddenly shifted from awkward anticipation into something solemn and regretful. It really was too late. “We could have been good together, I think.”

Andrew sighed and slipped a hand around your waist, the movement sending a pleasant tingle up your spine. His nose brushed the tip of yours, lips parted and warm, shuddering breaths mingled for far too long. The tension was unbearable and your fingers were clasped so tightly into the cloth of his shirt it must have strained at the seams. He might have been considering his actions—how wise this was, the pros and cons of giving in, like a truly analytical Ravenclaw—or perhaps he was just too shy to close the distance.

“If you kiss me I don’t think I’ll want to stop,” you muttered. It might have been a warning, or maybe an enticement, but it was the truth. Another sharp inhale and a tighter grip, now Andrew’s lips hovered so close to your own there was barely space between to draw your own breath. There was something distinctly intimate about sharing each other’s air.

“Is that a promise?” His reply sent more than a shiver up your spine—it set your very nerves on fire, insides squirming and tension pooling. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you nodded, practically falling into the kiss that followed. Your back hit a wall soon after in the frantic and desperate entwining of bodies, as if a dam had exploded the moment your lips touched. One more chance to make a memory, one final hurrah. This was setting you up for heartbreak come morning, but none of that mattered now, not in this blissful moment when you finally got the answers to the questions of how Andrew tasted, what his body felt like pressed against you, how he kissed and touched and moaned (delicious, firm, enticingly, possessively, breathily). His mouth was at your throat and suddenly it was impossible to breathe. The way he encircled your waist to hold you in place, the gentle suction at your nape and the leg that slid between your thighs spoke of a confidence and experience you hadn’t expected.

“I can’t stand the thought of anyone else…,” you said before he slid you forward onto his thigh. The friction made you gasp his name, right into his waiting mouth.

“Don’t,” he breathed back.

His body had stilled except for the circles his thumbs pressed into your waist, and then he pulled back just enough to look at you. There was more than friendship, more than lust in that look.

“I wish we had done this last year,” you admitted.

“Would you still have taken the job as a cursebreaker?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiled sadly and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “If tonight is all we have, let's ruin ourselves for anyone else.”

The words elicited such a visceral reaction you almost whimpered and you pulled him firmly by his shirt to close the distance between you. Your hand found his hair and gripped him tightly, letting the last of your inhibitions melt away with his kiss. Tears of longing fell behind closed lids, the pain of time wasted and what could have been driving you closer. Your fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons, the last two ripped away in a desperate need to feel his skin warm against yours. Andrew had already shrugged off your top layer with deft hands and was exploring the slope between neck and shoulder with his tongue. Words weren’t enough, so instead you concentrated on the frenzied merging of body and soul.

A large hand kneaded your breast as he groaned against your skin, and then you felt the unmistakeable hard length grinding against your hip. His name fell unbidden from your lips in a heady haze of arousal and sweet pleasure. His other hand had found its way between your thighs and was gently caressing the fabric of your undergarments. It wasn’t enough to relieve the throbbing ache, not at all, no matter how much you ground your hips against his fingers.

“Andrew, please...” You pleaded without shame, dipping your hand below the hem of your skirt to pull at your underwear and wriggle free with his help. His hand came back up to meet bare skin, then pressed further to find you wet and quivering.

“Fuck.” The expletive caught you off guard and was as shocking as Andrew having his fingers circling your clit. You let out a shuddering moan of relief as his slick digits began a rhythmic caress. You were vaguely aware of his cock nudging your hip again and his tongue sliding across yours between gasping moans. It was rather sloppy and entirely wonderful. Your fingers managed to unbutton his trousers whilst partially dazed and writhing with the sweet escalation of your climax. You felt the weight of him, his girth filling your hand. Then he let out an absolutely filthy moan once you started to stroke him.

“I need you inside me right now,” you commanded.

His fingers carried on their tight circles as he thrusted into your hand—as if he hadn’t heard you at all—until suddenly the pressure was gone and he retreated. As if he’d slapped you, your mouth fell open in shock and indignation until he spun you around, hands planted firmly against the wall. His cock slid between your cheeks whilst he spread your legs and pressed his chest against your heaving back, kissing every available inch of skin around your neck, jaw, forehead.

You braced yourself as you felt him nudge at your entrance, dripping wet against his twitching cock. Nails scraped the wall and gathered dirt beneath your nails and your head fell back against his shoulder as he pushed inside you. The stretch was gloriously satisfying, and once he’d filled as much as you could take, he turned your head to press his lips to yours. There was no time for second guessing, no question of turning back now.

Stars perforated your vision as soon as he started to move in earnest, withdrawing almost all the way before plunging back inside you, over and over again. He found your breasts again, massaging in time to each roll of his hips. Groans and gasping moans filled the cavernous structure, loud and completely unimpeded. His name, your name, begging for more and harder, faster, until you couldn’t stop the explosion that rattled your brains and turned your body to a limp mess. The orgasm tore through you, only barely aware of Andrew holding your neck as he pounded into you before shuddering and spilling his release, warm and wet and so copious it ran down your thigh. Your hand that looped around the back of his neck kept him close as the last pulses faded away. Not that he seemed interested in going anywhere; he held you tightly and murmured against your skin for quite some time.

It was so perfect you almost wept.

“Ask me to stay,” you said, quite unexpectedly.

A moment passed, silent.

“Stay. Stay with me.”

Perhaps it was the beautiful afterglow but when you looked back at your so-called friend you couldn’t say deny him. The thought of leaving felt unthinkable, the mere suggestion that you go your separate ways and love another was unacceptable. A great lump formed in your throat when you kissed him again, the terrifying truth that he meant more than the career you’d planned for yourself.

“Ask me again in the morning.”

“Will you change your mind before then?” he asked.

“No, but I like the illusion that it’s a hard decision.”

Andrew smiled, his shy demeanour returning despite still being buried inside you. It had started to rain, the gentle patter a soothing backdrop as you both cleaned up and dressed, slowly and with plenty of lingering gazes over one another. You saw warmth and affection reflected in his eyes. As he took your hand without question, you realised it was time to return to the festivities and revel in the fact that the entire trajectory of your life had just changed. Maybe it was reckless, but you supposed some things, some people were worth taking a chance on.

#andrew larson #andrew larson x reader #andrew larson fanfiction

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fernvictor · 1 year

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skyblock/the potato war

part two of two of my gift for @echidna-cosmos as part of the @technoblade-gift-exchange !!

skyblock: the great potato war - technoblade // june jordan // the little mill - rembrandt // the voice i owe to you - pedro salinas (tr. ruth katz crispin // above the clouds i - georgia o’keeffe // technoblade // spring clouds study - john constable // lake of little birds - katherine larson // landscape with cornfields - salomon van ruysdael // technoblade // tumblr user catcrumb

#technoblade #dream smp #c!techno #c!technoblade #dsmpblr #bladeblr #web weaving

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

North To The Future [Chapter 10: Scar Tissue]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, discussions of sex, and you don’t get any plot hints this time you just have to read and suffer and yes there will be ANGSTTTTT!!!!

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @bornbetter @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @bearwithegg @tempt-ress @padfooteyes @teenagecriminalmastermind @chelsey01 @anditsmywholeheart @heliosscribbles @elsolario

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You’ve counted the scars on his chest until you know them by heart. There are twelve exactly, which feels significant; it’s the last week of the twelfth month of 1999, it’s the end, it’s the beginning. You read them with your eyes and your fingertips and your lips, these knots of corporal memory that form a constellation, not the shape of a hero—Hercules, Orion, Perseus, Achilles—but the footprints of ghosts.

The Juneau magnet has joined the rest of his collection, places he blew into like a storm and then abandoned, wreckage in his wake, downed trees and snapped powerlines and shingles ripped from roofs, finally at peace in his absence and yet somehow less. There is a jar on top of the refrigerator that already has your half of the money for the San Diego trip squirreled away in it. Aegon puts in a little at a time—a quarter here, a five-dollar bill there—and yet there’s never any doubt that he’s committed to it. It’s the same way he is with you. There are no grand gestures, no expensive gifts or intoxicating declarations. There are only small, feather-light moments as faint as the lines in your palm. You could stack up a million of them and they would never feel heavy. They would never feel like a cage.

Aegon is an open door, and together you are a dream: whispers and guitar strings, tangled sheets and refracted light, snow falling soundlessly beyond frosted windows, fog so thick it erases the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How dare you,” Heather says when you enter Caribou Crossings. It’s Wednesday, December 29th. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by boxes, an island in a sea of Juneau-themed souvenirs. “You float in here on a cloud while I’m sad, single, all alone in the world except for these hideous snow globes.” She holds one aloft for emphasis. “Why would anyone want a snow globe with a salmon in it? A salmon?”

You smile. You smile a lot these days. “Tragic.”

“No pets in need of your medical expertise?”

“Not really. Ms. Larson’s box turtle had a shell fracture, but now I’m free until 2:30.”

“How’s the making Cobainbies going?”

“No babies,” you insist. “Not of any variety.” Aegon as a father, as a husband? The prospect is horrifying. When you’re reminded of this—of the impossibility of a future beyond the next three months—you try to bury it like…well, like a body in a lake; each time it surfaces, you tie another stone around its ankle and sink it back down into the darkness.

“Is that what cracked Trent’s already less-than-impressive brain? You and Aegon?”

“Trent doesn’t know about Aegon. He just thinks we’re taking things slow. Honestly, I tried to break up with him about a week ago and…he got scary.”

Heather puts down the salmon snow globe and looks at you. “What did he do?”

“The same thing he did at the bar the other night. He was like…aggressive. Intimidating. But also apologetic and oblivious. It’s really disorienting. It’s hard for me to figure out if he’s…” What’s the right word? Dangerous. But you’re not sure if you can say that to Heather. “Seriously angry. I don’t want him to go all Stone Cold Steve Austin on Aegon.” Or me.

“That moron,” Heather sighs. “I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to him.”

“Uh, don’t do that.”

“No, it’s fine, I know how to put it in a way he’ll understand.” She stands, hands on her hips. “It’s just…you know…when Trent played football, if he was bored or pissed off he could run around and tackle people and knock them unconscious, and that’s how he learned to deal with things. And now he doesn’t have that anymore. He’s got friends and hobbies and a job, but I don’t think he knows what comes next. That happens to everyone, right? We all wake up one day and realize we’re adults and we’re supposed to have life figured out but we just…don’t. Trent’s a dumbass, and he needs to leave you alone if that’s what you want, and I’ll make it happen. But I don’t think he would ever intentionally hurt somebody.”

“I hope not,” you say softly.

Heather smirks. “So, are you enjoying all the super kinky sex with that Greek boy? Has he bent you into a pretzel fifty different ways? Has he dislocated your hips yet?”

“It’s not really like that,” you tell her. “It’s intense, but it’s…I don’t know. Different.”

The truth dawns on her, sunlight sparkling on waves. “When he leaves, you want to go with him.”

“Yes, but I can’t.”

“Why not? They need vets everywhere.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Look, obviously I don’t want you to leave. I’d be freaking heartbroken. Those four years of vet school were bad enough, and I always knew you were coming back. But if you feel like there’s something else out there that you need to experience…” She gestures vaguely, meaning the world beyond Juneau. “I would want you to have that chance. And then maybe you could end up back here one day knowing that this is really what you need after all.”

You shake your head, watching flurries wheel through the frigid wind outside. “My parents would be devastated. I don’t have any siblings, there’s nobody else, there’s just me. And Aegon…” He’s been running for six years and he’ll never stop. “He’s not the type to settle down.”

“Maybe he’ll get the whole alcoholic homeless rockstar thing out of his system and be totally normal by the time he hits thirty,” Heather says hopefully.

You can see it in a flash too sudden to hide from yourself: a house by the beach, white-blond children chasing Sunfyre around the backyard, golden-sun days and hot chocolate at night, cooking in the kitchen together like your parents always do. Aegon wouldn’t even have to work. I could still be a vet and he could take care of the kids and perform in some local rock band once or twice a week...and we could all be happy. You can’t believe that—not for more than a few reckless seconds, anyway—but you need to kill this conversation before it kills you. “Sure, maybe.”

“We should do something fun,” Heather pivots cheerfully. “While Aegon’s still here. While you both are. It’s the start of a new millennium, bitch! If we were characters on Friends or Buffy or whatever, we would be doing something fun and glamorous. We wouldn’t be sitting here in grandma sweaters surrounded by boxes of salmon snow globes.”

You laugh, although you are admittedly partial to grandma sweaters. “What do you want, a New Year’s Eve party? Flutes of champagne, glitter and fireworks? People making out at midnight?”

She grins. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“I could probably make that happen, actually,” you realize. “My parents keep bringing up the idea of having people over. They love any excuse to ply guests with food and rock music. I said I just wanted to watch ABC 2000 Today with them and Aegon.”

“Great! You can still watch ABC 2000 Today, just with thirty of your closest friends.”

“You are well aware that I possess, at the absolute maximum, like four friends.”

“Everyone is friends with everyone on New Year’s Eve. And guess what?”

“What?”

Heather’s face is determined, insolent, fierce. “We’re not going to invite Trent.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“New Year’s Eve?” Aegon echoes doubtfully. You’re curled up on the couch together watching the X-Files, Sunfyre sprawled across your lap, your head on Aegon’s bare chest; he has one hand in your hair, the other holding a rum and Coke. He doses himself with it like morphine, but he is far from drunk. He’s seemed better since he almost drowned. You wonder if it reminded him that alive is something he enjoys being.

“Yeah. My parents are so excited about it. They’re trying to plan a menu, but my dad has literally fifteen different appetizers he wants to make.”

“Sounds like he’s handling retirement well.”

“He likes to stay busy.” You sit up to look at Aegon. The light of the television flickers on his face, but his eyes are glassy and far away. As far as Miami? As far as six years ago? “So? What do you think?”

“About what?”

“The New Year’s Eve party, obviously.”

He shrugs, sips his rum and Coke, licks his lips slowly. Then he comes back to you, a moon growing full again after starving away. “Totally, Appletini. Let’s do it.”

“Yay!” You are shocked by your own enthusiasm; it’s very unlike you. Sunfyre’s tail thumps against the couch in approval. You turn Aegon’s face and kiss him, feeling the strange barely-there smile of his lips on yours. “And Trent won’t even be there, so we don’t have to be subtle about anything. We can hang out together, dance, cuddle, feed each other Swedish meatballs on cute little toothpicks…”

“Sneak up to your bedroom while everyone else is busy watching the countdown in Times Square…”

You giggle, settling against Aegon’s chest again, nestling into him. He’s warm and pliable and fits with you like the interwoven opalescent threads of the Northern Lights. His free hand pulls you closer; the ice cubes in his glass clink. The jar on top of the refrigerator gets fuller each day. “Everything is falling into place. Everything is going to be perfect.”

“Perfect,” Aegon agrees; but you can hear that he’s far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bitch,” Heather gasps when she sees you, awed and incredulous. She’s carrying a massive tray of miniature quiches: smoked salmon, ham and cheddar, crab and tomato. “Bitchhhhh!”

You’re wearing a red dress you bought for a winter formal during vet school and haven’t touched since. You went with a sweet soulful boy from Iowa who you felt absolutely nothing for. He would have made a good husband, you realize now; he would have come home every night and helped the kids with their math homework and spent his weekends fixing fences and grilling steaks. You wonder if people like that are born without any darkness in them, or if they just learn to drain it from their veins like poisoned blood. You wonder if there is some reservoir of malignant self-destruction in everyone just waiting to breach the levees. “I look okay?”

“You look delicious. You look sinfully slutty. I wish I was into women, that’s how good you look.”

“Thanks, Heather.” You have lingerie on to match. You’re red all the way down: satin, lace, blood. You’re even wearing strappy crimson heels. It’s something you can’t stop thinking about: Aegon slipping every layer off of you later. You take the tray of quiches and beckon Heather inside.

The house is decorated—to a truly excessive degree—with balloons, banners, and confetti. Welcome, 2000! one banner reads. We hope the Y2K bug doesn’t destroy civilization! Your mom and dad are frenetically readying appetizers in the kitchen. When they finish each dish, you bring it out to the dining room table: deviled eggs, crab dip and toast points, ham salad sandwiches, stuffed jalapeno peppers, chicken liver mousse crostini, reindeer sausages, bacon-wrapped scallops, Swedish meatballs, homemade Rice Krispies Treats, Tongass Forest Cookies, a towering Baked Alaska. There are chilled bottles of wine, beer, and champagne, beads of condensation snaking down the glass. The ABC 2000 Today special is on tv, but guests are only half-watching. Your dad’s newest Red Hot Chili Peppers album is spinning on the record player; to you, their songs sound like California, or at least what you imagine California to be. The plucky guitar notes of Scar Tissue tiptoe through the house like footsteps in sand.

There are people in the dining room, people in the living room, people huddled in their parkas and smoking cigarettes around the crackling firepit in the backyard. They’re talking about 2000, of course, and the presidential election next year, and the Olympics, and the internet, and their own mundane tribulations: knee replacements, gallbladder removals, hyperactive grandchildren, marriages and divorces. But they’re talking about the Ice Fisher too.

“Who do you think it could be?” you hear Dale asking some of his bowling league buddies on the other side of the living room. They’re all broad, bearded men in flannel and jeans, guzzling beers and weather-beaten by their work as fishermen, loggers, oil riggers. “Ex-military? Some drifter? Someone just not right in the head? You know, I saw this 60 Minutes episode about a brain disease—what was it called, Earl? CTZ? CTE?—and athletes can get it from having concussions all the time. Boxers and football players and such. You think something like that could make someone violent…?”

Heather is working her way through a gargantuan portion of crab dip. Kimmie and Brad are practically mounting each other on your parents’ couch. Beside them, Joyce is grimacing as she tries to lose herself in a fantast novel with a mostly-naked cowboy on the front cover. She only smiles when Rob brings her a plate of appetizers. You’re on your third glass of bubbly, festive champagne. You keep glancing at the front door.

“They have to catch him soon, right?” Kimmie says in between sloppy kisses: loud smacking noises, lots of tongue. “I mean, he’s killed five people. Five! That’s so many!”

Joyce flips a page. “The police called in the FBI. That’s got to lead to a breakthrough soon.”

“I hope so.” Kimmie shudders. “It’s constant now…I worry when I go out to check the mail, when I put gas in my Land Cruiser, when I’m carrying groceries into the house…I feel like he could be anywhere. Like he’s lurking in every shadowy corner just waiting to grab me.”

“I think you’re safe,” Rob says with a smirk, amused but grim. “No one who goes to Ursa Minor gets killed. Have you guys noticed that? None of the victims had ever been to the bar as far as I know. The Ice Fisher must do his stalking in a different part of town.”

“Weird coincidence,” Joyce mutters.

“Guess I need to start going to Ursa Minor,” Brad says, grinning. “I could use some good luck.” Kimmie squeals with laughter as he paws at her, greedy and frivolous. You think: Please don’t leave body fluids on the couch, please don’t leave body fluids on the couch, please don’t leave body fluids on the couch…

“Why are the Bee Gees on tv?” Heather complains. “Who wanted that?”

Kimmie asks you: “Can Brad and I borrow your bedroom?”

“No, Kimmie.”

“Not the bed. Just the room. We’ll put a towel down on the floor.”

“Boundaries, Kimmie,” you plead.

“Fine,” she relents, sulking. Kimmie is wearing a glittery white dress and looks very, very young; her eyes are large and blameless, and her hair is secured in two voluminous pigtails. There’s a rhinestone crown on her head that reads Happy New Year! “Is Aegon on his way?”

“Oh yeah, he’ll be here any minute.” You steal another glimpse of the front door, but there are no consequent knocks. You check the clock on the wall. 10:30 p.m.

“He’s driving?” Heather says around a mouthful of crab dip, thin eyebrows raised. “He never drives.” Because he’s always drinking, she kindly leaves out.

“He told me he wanted to this morning. He’s been picking up extra shifts at work on whatever boats need another man. Holiday pay is double and we’re saving up for a trip to San Diego, you know.” There are polite—skeptical? pitying?—murmurs of agreement. “He didn’t know when he would get off, so he said I should focus on preparing for the party here and he would head over as soon as he had time to shower and walk Sunfyre. Anyway, he was on a boat all day and I was here helping to make deviled eggs until my hands felt like they were going to fall off.”

“Huh. I hope he’s not passed out in a ditch somewhere.”

“He’s not,” you say, a little more harshly than you mean to. He’s been getting better.

There is a knock at the door, and the closest person—Mark Morehouse from the pawn shop—opens it. It’s not Aegon. It’s Trent. He’s carrying a cheesecake the size of a Pekingese.

“Oh no,” Heather breathes. Kimmie, Joyce, and Rob frown down at their drinks.

“Hey, Trent!” Brad says, blithely unaware of the shift in mood.

Trent, wearing a very stately black button-up shirt, matching blazer, and khaki pants, looks around the room. He sees you, mouths wow, and then gives a tentative wave. He doesn’t come anywhere close to you. He puts his cheesecake on the dining room table and then goes to join Gary and Matt by the record player. Your mom and dad soon appear to greet him, resting their hands on his massive shoulders, asking about how his parents are doing and whether he’s had any luck with the Forest Service. Trent tells them that he finally got an interview that’s scheduled for next week. They reply with congratulations, casting you furtive, appraising glances. Did you invite him? Their eyes say. Do you want him here?

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” Heather asks you. “I didn’t tell him about the party, I swear. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Of course she wouldn’t; but Juneau is too small for secrets, that feels more true every day. Heather didn’t need to tell Trent, and neither did your parents. Maybe he heard about it through Matt or Gary, or he eavesdropped on a conversation in the Foodland, or someone mentioned it to his parents and they suggested he go without knowing he wasn’t supposed to be in attendance. However it happened doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Heather’s question reverberates in your skull. Do you want me to get rid of him? “No,” you say. “Not yet, anyway. I don’t want to cause a scene in front of everyone.” Everyone but Aegon, you think, and you wouldn’t call yourself concerned yet but you are growing annoyed, little by little like how a clock ticks towards a new hour.

Joyce sniffs. “Hopefully he stays over there.”

And Trent does keep his distance. Now Dale is congratulating him about his interview. “That’s a great sign, Trent, a really great sign! Getting your foot in the door is the hardest part. I’ll call over and put in a good word for you. I still have a bunch of stuff from when I worked as a park ranger…boots, compasses, trekking poles, snowshoes…I’ll bring a box over for you.”

“Aw, Dale!” Trent appears to be genuinely touched. “Thanks, bro! You’re the best!”

“Sorry, what’s wrong with Trent?” Brad asks, brow crinkled, one arm slung around Kimmie. “Did I miss something?”

“He’s just a little obsessed with our gorgeous crimson hostess,” Heather explains, gesturing to you. “Obsessed in a pushy, idiotic, not-flattering way.”

Rob adds: “And he occasionally turns into the Hulk.”

“Maybe Trent’s the Ice Fisher,” Brad whispers conspiratorially, and then bursts out laughing. Everyone joins him except you. You can’t really blame them. Trent is a local hero: a football star, a reliable employee, the son of a normal and respected family, the wearer of his mane of lustrous hair, the object of countless women’s affection, the man who dragged Aegon out of the channel when he nearly drowned. A few mutilated Taco Bell tables aren’t going to change that. An occasional verbal outburst—and from a former athlete no less, fiery and forceful by necessity and thus swiftly forgiven, like a champion thoroughbred prone to biting—isn’t going to change that.

But they haven’t seen everything I have. They haven’t felt it.

You stand. “I’m going to go call Aegon.”

Upstairs in your bedroom, you assess your reflection in the mirror lined with photographs: the past and the future, friends and family and that magazine cutout of the Ford Mustang convertible barreling down the Pacific Coast Highway. You touch up your hair and makeup, then admire your dress. It occurs to you that almost everyone downstairs is wearing black or white or silver, cold wintery colors, New Year’s colors. You are the only one in red. When you got ready hours ago, you had felt powerful and sensual and elegant. You had imagined disappearing with Aegon into this room just after midnight, his hands skating up your thighs as cheers and toasts rumble through the floor. Now, when you imagine your exclamation-point red dress in a sea of cool, sleek shades of darkness and light, it strikes you as perhaps trying too hard. Desperate, even.

You pick up the phone on your nightstand and dial Aegon’s number. The line is busy.

Who would he be talking to? you wonder, perplexed. Everyone he knows is here.

You can’t drive over to pick him up; not until some of the champagne leaves your system, anyway. And you could never ask someone else to take you. You have no idea what you’ll find when you get there. You hang up the phone and stare down at it for a while.

So this is what it felt like. All those nights when Mom was waiting for Jesse to come home and he never did, all those times they had plans that he forgot. She’d be sitting on the couch or at the dining room table trying not to lose her mind as the hours crept by, and the whole time he’d be off getting wasted somewhere.

You physically shake your head to chase the vision away.

Aegon is going to be here. He has to be here. He’s been getting better.

“No luck?” Heather asks when you reappear downstairs, trying to sound neutral. You know she’s not actually neutral. You know exactly what she’s thinking.

“I’m sure he’ll be on his way soon.” You plop down on the couch next to Joyce and gaze at the television without really seeing it. You are vaguely aware of the entertainers flitting in and out of the little black box: Neil Diamond, Faith Hill, Enrique Iglesias, Billy Joel, Barry Manilow, NSYNC, Christina Aguilera, Aerosmith. Around you, the party rolls on. You chat less and less and consume only water. You’re losing your appetite, and you want to be able to drive by the time midnight strikes. It’s 11:00, and then 11:15, and then 11:30, and eventually 11:45. More Juneau residents filter in, but none of them are Aegon.

“You okay, ladybug?” your dad asks as he moseys by the couch, and you send him away with a peppy affirmation and a too-wide smile. Your mom tries next, with similar results. They know you aren’t okay, but they can’t say anything about it. Neither can Heather or Kimmie or Joyce. You become a blip on a hectic radar, an island in the South Pacific so small the rest of the world flies over it without even looking down. The house is hot and teeming with bodies: friends and lovers laughing together, touching each other, chatting, kissing lips and throats and cheeks. The living room suddenly feels like it’s on fire, like there’s searing smoke pouring into your lungs. You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom so they’ll leave you alone, and then you squeeze through the crowd and flee out into the backyard, which is blessedly empty. Everyone else has crammed inside to watch the tv as the clock nears midnight. No one wants to miss the ball drop. You couldn’t care less.

You plod through the snow in your ridiculous red heels until you reach the firepit, and you stand there glaring into the blaze with your bare arms wrapped around you. There is light snow falling, but you don’t even feel cold. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out, like you’ve swallowed the same flames that are dancing across your face.

He’s not going to show up, you are certain now. He’s really not going to. And he knew that all along, which is why he didn’t want me to drive him.

You feel furious, you feel ruined, but most of all you just feel stupid. You’ve heard this story before. You were a part of it, you were built by it. And yet somehow you thought you could change the ending.

Wind howls through the evergreen trees, and now you are cold. You clutch yourself tighter, shivering viciously and covered in goosebumps. You’re stuck out here; there are tears spilling down your cheeks, black trails of mascara that will scream to anyone who sees you that you’ve been crying. Crying over Aegon. Crying over some fucking alcoholic loser who stood me up.

Of course, you don’t actually think he’s a loser. That’s the problem. Everyone seems to understand exactly who he is but you.

You hear the back door of the house swing open, and there are heavy footsteps crunching through the snow. You sniffle, trying to wipe the tears from your face with your fingers. You imagine that you’re only making it worse: stained foundation, smudged eyeliner, lip gloss worn away. You expect to see your dad when you turn around, but you don’t. You see Trent.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, and holds out your parka to you from several feet away. “I’m not trying to annoy you. I just saw you run outside and figured you might need this.”

“Did anyone else see me?”

“I don’t think so.”

You grab the parka from him, yank it on, and zip it shut. You sniffle some more, mopping tears from your face. The stars and moon are almost fully obscured by clouds; the only light in the world is fire. After a while, you ask Trent: “What did Heather tell you?”

“She said that you are a mature, responsible, logical person, and that if I want to have any shot with you at all then I have to be the same way. And she was totally right. Losing my temper is immature, being jealous is immature. So now I’m giving you the space that you asked for. I get it now. I’m not going to try to tell you what you want. You’re too smart for that. You have to decide what you want for yourself.”

I’ve already decided, and I chose wrong. I chose so, so, disastrously wrong. “I appreciate that, Trent,” you say in a hoarse whisper.

He turns around to go back inside, then hesitates. “Look, I’m glad that you and Aegon are friends now. He’s not a bad guy. But he’s…I mean, he’s a mess, you know? And he’s always going to be a mess. And you can’t expect him to not be a mess. I’m sorry if he ruined something for you tonight. I know your family has sort of temporarily adopted him, and I know you like to fix things. But sometimes there are no bolts to tighten or nails to hammer in. Sometimes people just are who they are.”

You consider Trent, a mirage of bitter cold and firelight. He shrugs, offers a sheepish half-smile, flips his hair, and then retreats inside the house. Minutes later, as you try to choke back sobs under blind stars, you hear cheers and applause when the new millennium arrives.

As car doors slam and guests rummage through piles of coats, you slip mostly unnoticed into the kitchen. You pour yourself a full glass of water, drink all of it, and then make for your purse where your Jeep keys are stashed. You are intercepted in the dining room by your parents and Heather. You try to hide your face, but there’s no point. You are as clear as glass under the yellowish artificial light.

“Oh, ladybug, are you okay?” Your mom engulfs you in a warm, comforting hug that is also constraining. I have to try to find Aegon. I have to confront him. Not who I want him to be, but who he really is.

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll be back in like a half hour, and then I’ll help you clean up the house.”

“The house!” your dad bellows, barking out a laugh of disbelief. “We aren’t worried about the house! What can we do, ladybug? Is there anything we can do?”

“No, really, I can handle it.”

“You can’t go anywhere alone,” Heather says. “It’s dark, it’s super late.” The other fact hangs in the air like snowflakes. The Ice Fisher might be out there somewhere, just waiting to snatch you off the sidewalk and sink you into a lake.

“It’s just across town, it’s a ten-minute drive, it’s not a big deal.”

“You can’t go out alone,” your dad insists, looking gratefully at Heather. Your mom nods along. “I’m sorry, but if something happened to you, we’d never be able to forgive ourselves.”

“I’ll go,” Heather says. “I think I’ve had too much champaign to drive, but I can ride along and walk you inside.”

“That’s completely unnecessary. I have my bear mace.”

“Then I’ll wait in the Jeep!” Heather throws up her hands, exasperated. “Look, bitch, one way or another someone is going with you. I’ll make sure you get up to his apartment—that’s where you’re going, right? I think we all know that’s where you’re going—and then I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait five minutes, I’ll wait five hours, I really don’t care how long it takes but there is no fucking way you’re driving off into the night alone.”

You aren’t leaving this house without a chaperone. That’s pretty obvious. Aegon doesn’t care where I am or who I’m with. He didn’t even care enough to call and say he wouldn’t be here. “Fine. Okay. But we’re leaving right now.”

You grab your purse and Heather follows you out to the Jeep, struggling to keep up. “I would not have guessed you could move so efficiently in heels,” she puffs, climbing into the passenger’s seat. You tear out of the driveway, tires chomping on salt and ice and snow. Heather tries to make conversation. You don’t quite ignore her; it’s more like you don’t hear her at all. You hear the wind and the snow and the blood rushing in your ears. You hear the shrieking hollowness left by what could have been.

You park under the streetlight outside Aegon’s apartment building, murky luminescence flooding the cabin of your Jeep. Heather sees the inky tears on your face…and she sees the rage too: raw, brutal, razor-sharp rage. “Well, Jesus Christ, don’t kill him or anything.”

You don’t reply. You venture out into the savage cold, your heels leaving deep punctures in the ice-coated snow like stab wounds.

Upstairs, Aegon’s apartment door is locked. You can’t hear anything on the other side. And as you rattle the key he gave you into the jagged slit of the knob, you feel a dark premonition sinking in: a pebble through waves, a body into the depths. There is an instinctual warning that hums from your skin all the way down to your bone marrow.

There is no coming back from this moment. It’s like balancing on a ledge. There is something terrible here that I will never be able to unsee, to undiscover.

What is it? What the hell is it? That Aegon’s drunk? Would that really be so out of character, so inconceivable?

Maybe he’s with another woman. Maybe he’s already left Juneau. Maybe he’s dead.

You open the door; and in the silent florescent light of the kitchen, the first thing you notice is that the jar on top of the refrigerator is gone. Then you spot it: it’s open and sideways on the countertop, and it’s empty. Sunfyre lies on the kitchen’s tile floor with his scarred muzzle resting on his paws. He whimpers, large dark eyes troubled.

“Aegon?” you say. You step inside, your red heels clicking on the scuffed wood. You close the door behind you. Your eyes scan the dimly-lit room—guitar, bed, lifeless television, phone he left off the hook, couch—until you find him. He is a pale, crumpled figure on the floor. “Aegon?!”

You rush to him, dropping to your knees so hard you bruise them. He groans when you roll him over onto his back, so he’s not dead. He’s half-dressed: red leather pants, combat boots, gold chain necklace, no shirt. When you lift your hand from him, blood stains your palm.

“What—?”

And then you see the stripe of maroon dripping down from the crook of his left elbow. There’s a bloodied needle on the floor beside him, a lighter, a spoon. There’s a small transparent baggie half-filled with white powder.

Aegon blinks at you through his tangled hair, pulling himself upright with great effort. Everything about him is heavy, hazy, like trying to run through water. He doesn’t seem aware of the blood. It’s in his hair, you realize; and there’s a smear on his neck, a splattering on his bare chest. “What are you so dressed up for?”

You can’t answer him. You’re so full of horror and rage that if you open your mouth you might start screaming and never stop.

“Oh,” Aegon remembers listlessly. “Party.”

“I watched the door all night like an idiot, like some desperate little kid”—waiting for their father to come home—“and the whole time you were here shooting up.”

He gazes at you, but from a distance, like he’s looking up from the bottom of the ocean and you’re the shadow of a ship. His voice is slow and muddled. “Yeah.”

“And I guess that’s where all the money went. The money for the San Diego trip.”

“Yeah.”

“How fucking dare you,” you hiss. You grab the baggie off the floor.

Aegon’s hand darts out and closes around your wrist. “No—!”

You rip your arm away from him. “This is heroin, right?” You catch a fistful of his hair and yank his head back so you can check his eyes. Aegon flinches and yelps, but he doesn’t struggle. His eyes are bloodshot, his pupils pinpricks in an ocean of deep blue. “How fucking dare you,” you say again. “How fucking dare you.”

You take the baggie to the kitchen sink, shove it down into the drain, turn on the garbage disposal. You run water down the drain until any trace of it is gone. When you return to Aegon, he’s watching you with those dazed, other-world eyes. He’s still slumped over on the floor; he doesn’t seem to be able to stand. He keeps trying to and flopping over.

“If you’re so mad then hit me,” he says. “Just hit me. Just fucking hit me.”

“Why did you have to come here?” you ask, wrenching the question out of you like extracting a molar or a bullet. Fresh tears brim in your eyes; embers kindle in your throat. You think of how hundreds of years ago doctors believed that you could bleed a patient to rid them of poison or disease, and you wonder how much of yourself you would have to spill into a bowl to forget Aegon. You wonder if your mom has ever forgotten a single thing about Jesse: his voice, his fingertips, the way his hair fell across his face. “If you were just going to make me want something that was never possible, if you were just going to show me what it felt like to be real and then take it away, what was the point? What was the goddamn point? Why did you have to come here and ruin my life?”

“You didn’t like your life before I showed up and you won’t like it when I’m gone.”

“I hate you,” you choke out.

Aegon’s jaw falls open. He can’t believe you said it. Neither can you.

“I want you to leave,” you tell him. “Tomorrow when you sober up I want you to pack your things and get on a plane and leave Juneau like you left everywhere else. I don’t want to know where you go next. I don’t want to know anything about you. I never want to see you again.”

“No.” You can’t tell if it’s defiance or denial or confusion. You don’t stay to argue with him.

You go to the apartment door, open it, and call to Sunfyre: “Come on, buddy.” He rockets off the tiles and trots over, tail wagging cautiously.

“Hey, hey, you can’t take my dog!” Aegon shouts, dragging himself towards you. His hands and knees thump against the wooden floor.

“Yes I can. You can’t be trusted with him. You don’t deserve him.”

“Please don’t,” Aegon whispers huskily. “Don’t take him away. Please.”

You twist his apartment key off your keyring and pitch it at him. It strikes his shoulder and ricochets off, clattering across the floor. He looks at it, not understanding. It’s a dead language, it’s an ancient rune he can’t read. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. “Goodbye, Aegon.”

You slam the door, fly down the building staircase, break into the cold all-consuming darkness with Sunfyre on your heels like a shadow made of gold.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader

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orofeaiel · 2 months

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Lichen from yesterday's hike to Larson Lake.

#artists on tumblr #original photographers #original photography #hiking #pacific northwest #nature #pnw #nikon #washington #orofeaiel #lichen #naturecore #goblincore #macro photography

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sincericida · 1 year

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Andrew Garfield for New York Times | 2018

One of his best photoshoots, no any doubt 🥵

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cricketnationrise · 2 months

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Congrats on reaching 500 followers!!! 🎉🎉🎉

Here’s my prompt: 10:03pm, Alex Claremont-Diaz in his bedroom. The vibes are ‘Just Fucking Let Me Love You’ by Lowen, any rating :-)

(Big fan btw (ao3: larsons) <3)

your prompt song is the latest in an installment of 'absolute life-ruiners i didn't know existed before this fest.' i need to make a fucking playlist or something. suffice it to say i'm now obsessed with this song. thank you for the opportunity to learn of it's existence! enjoy your ficlet, despite me handwaving at the canon time of day to suit my needs (we can just pretend the book doesn't mention it's morning, right?) 💜🦗

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

10:03pm, alex's bedroom

Dear Thisbee, I wish there weren’t a wall. Love, Pyramus

Inexplicably, the first thought Alex has after his frantic Google search is how lovely Henry’s handwriting is. It’s so smooth and flowy, each letter gracefully connected to the next, the same even spacing between each word, each line steady and straight despite the lack of lines on the scrap of paper. Alex could never, and frankly, it’s unfair—one more thing on the long list of things about Henry that are adorably infuriating—that the ghosting jackass doesn’t need lined paper to guide his hand.

Alex can’t stop tracing Henry’s note; his fingers trailing lightly over the curve of “D” and tapping the “L” reverently. Objectively, it feels like every other piece of printer paper that Alex has ever picked up, but some part of his brain is convinced that he’ll be able to dig up some faint trace of Henry in the pen’s indentations if he traces the letters just one more time.

Last week at the lake had been some of the best days of Alex’s life. And up until Henry had ducked below the water to avoid Alex’s confession, he’d been so sure they were on the same page. Henry had matched him email for email, text for text, late night call for late night call. Henry had reached out just as often as Alex over the last few months. They’d both flung their secrets and fears and dreams across the Atlantic; an electronic lifeboat, built line by line and quote by quote. The rare times they were alone together Alex could feel his brain slowing down, his stress melting away— Hell, he could almost see the connection they were building together, stretched tight like a bungee cord between their chests.

With his final note, his polite fucking thank you, Henry had set their lifeboat on fire—and Alex feels like he never learned to swim. He’s practically drowning in his own fucking love for Henry. It’s overwhelming, it’s all-encompassing. It feels like lightning beneath his skin, like one of those party favors that pop open and shoot streamers everywhere. It feels bigger than the Texas sky, deeper than the fucking ocean Henry put between them. It should be like helium, keeping him afloat during all the stress of the campaign and what the future holds for him. Instead, it feels like an anchor around his neck, pulling him into the depths.

It’s infuriating.

Alex clutches at the note again, the vague whisper of a plan swirling in the back of his mind. I wish there weren’t a wall. Who gave Henry the fucking right to say something like that to Alex of all people? The only wall between them is the one Henry laid the foundation for. The only wall is the one Henry’s trying to make as tall as possible by not responding to Alex. The only wall is the one Henry made by leaving in the first place. Alex straightens up, decision made. Henry wants a wall? Fine.

Alex can be fucking dynamite.

To $$$: what are you doing for the next 24 hours?

#cricket writes #bbreaddog #ficlet fest 500 #rwrb #pre storming of kensington #for real i'm now obsessed with this song #the way the scream-singing starts in the second chorus???#chef's kiss

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ninja-muse · 4 months

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2024 Release TBR

🏳️‍🌈 - queer MC 🇨🇦 - Canadian author ⭐️ - BIPOC MC 📘 - have an ARC bold - newly added

The Secret History of Bigfoot - John O'Connor (travel/history) - February 6

Ending the Pursuit - Michael Paramo (sociology) - February 8

Remedial Magic - Melissa Marr (fantasy/romance) 🏳️‍🌈📘 - February 20

The Butcher of the Forest - Premee Mohamed (fantasy) - February 27

Tomorrow’s Children - Daniel Polansky (post-apocalypse) - February 27

The Deerfield Massacre - James L. Swanson (history) - February 27

The Baker and the Bard - Fern Haught (YA cozy fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈- March 5

The Tower - Flora Carr (historical fiction) 📘 - March 5

Parasol Against the Axe - Helen Oyeyemi (literary fiction) ⭐️📘- March 5

Those Beyond the Wall - Micaiah Johnson (science fiction) ⭐️📘 - March 12

The Mars House - Natasha Pulley (science fiction/romance) 🏳️‍🌈 - March 19

The Floating Hotel - Grace Curtis (cozy science fiction) 🏳️‍🌈 - March 19

The Angel of Indian Lake - Stephen Graham Jones (horror) ⭐️ 📘- March 26

This Skin Was Once Mine and Other Disturbances - Eric LaRocca (horror) 📘- April 2

Catchpenny - Charlie Huston (science fiction) 📘- April 9

Dear Wendy - Ann Zhao (YA contemporary) 🏳️‍🌈 - April 16

A Letter to the Luminous Deep - Sophie Cathrall (cozy fantasy) 📘 - April 23

The Tomb of the Mili Mongga - Samuel Turvey (memoir) - April 16

The Demon of Unrest - Eric Larson (history) 📘 - April 30

The Proper Thing and Other Stories - Seanan McGuire (fantasy) - May 1

The Library Thief - Kuchenga Shenjé (historical fiction) ⭐️ - May 7

The Honey Witch - Sydney Shields (cozy fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈 - May 14

Every Time We Say Goodbye - Natalie Jenner (historical fiction) 🇨🇦 - May 14

How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying - Django Wexler (fantasy) - May 21

A Gentleman From Japan - Kevin Lockley (history) ⭐️ - May 21

Dreadful - Caitlin Rozakis (fantasy) - May 28

Tidal Creatures - Seanan McGuire (contemporary fantasy) - June 4

Running Close to the Wind - Alexandra Rowland (fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈 - June 11

Echo of Worlds - M.R. Carey (science fiction) - June 25

The Briar Club - Kate Quinn (historical fiction) - July 9

Navola - Paolo Bacigalupi (fantasy) 📘- July 9

Bury Your Gays - Chuck Tingle (horror) 🏳️‍🌈 - July 9

Peking Duck and Cover - Vivien Chien (cozy mystery) ⭐️ - July 23

Chaos at the Lazy Bones Bookshop - Emmeline Duncan (cozy mystery) - July 23

Nicked - M.T. Anderson (historical fiction) 📘 - July 23

Last Seen Online - Lauren James (YA mystery) 🏳️‍🌈 - August 1

The Pairing - Casey McQuiston (romance) 🏳️‍🌈 - August 6

A Sorceress Comes to Call - T. Kingfisher (fantasy) - August 20

Radiant Sky - Alan Smale (science fiction) - August 27

The Salmon Shanties - Harold Rhenisch (poetry) - September 10🇨🇦

The Village Library Demon-Hunting Society - C.M. Waggoner (fantasy) - September 20

Villain - Natalie Zina Walschots (superhero fiction) 🇨🇦🏳️‍🌈 - October 1

The City in Glass - Nghi Vo (fantasy) - October 1

Swordcrossed - Freya Marske (fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈 - October 8

My Kind of Trouble - L.A. Schwartz (romance) - October 8

Shoestring Theory - Mariana Costa (fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈 - October 8

Sorcery and Small Magics - Maiga Doocy (cozy fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈 - October 15

The Scholar and the Last Faerie Door - H.G. Parry (fantasy) - October 22

Usurpation - Sue Burke (science fiction) - October 29

The Improvisers - Nicole Glover (historical fantasy) - November 5 ⭐️

October Daye #19 - Seanan Mcguire (urban fantasy) - date unknown

My Love, in Stitches, Vol. 1 - Emily Gossman (contemporary fantasy) 🏳️‍🌈🇨🇦 - date unknown

#2024 releases #upcoming releases #the tbr list of doom #booklr

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 11 months

Text

PS, I love you

Love letters begin appearing in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Sharp never send his own. He doesn't have to.

The night between Aesop seeing Sebastian's letter and Reader's gentle rejection in the morning, is the night his leg is acting up and she holds him to her. This observation was brought to my knowledge by @tea-withjamandbread who I am convinced now is a genius with 200+ IQ

I'm fairly certain my next fic will be pwp

PS, I love you (4.2k words)

tw: suggestive themes (mentioned), slight angst, aesop sharp needs a hug, cheesy

"Oi, knock it off, Prewett!" Andrew Larson shouted once more, trying to reach a piece of parchment that was currently held in Leander Prewett's hand, high above his head and out of Andrew's reach entirely. "Haha, what's wrong, Larson? What's so bloody secret about this? Is it a recipe for a growing potion, so that you can finally be taller than a fifth year?"

"You utter git, Prewett!" Andrew snarled and began reaching for his wand. He was promptly hit with a full body bind curse by the tall redhead. "Now let's see," said Leander with a mean glee in his voice and began reading.

The students who were currently in the Clocktower Courtyard with the two boys finally stopped pretending to mind their own business, when Andrew's bound body hit the ground, turning around to look at them fully. A few students rushed to Andrew's aid.

"Oh, oh! Listen to this everyone!" Leander began giggling and cleared his throat.

"Finite," came a cast from your wand. Andrew's body relaxed, but he didn't sit up. He didn't even open his eyes. His face was taking on a deep red hue.

"Dear Nerida," Leander read with a mocking, dramatic voice, "you are more beautiful than the moon reflecting on the dark waters of the Black lake, by which you so often sit-" "Shut up, Leander!" You shout at the Gryffindor, finally realising just what sort of letter it was, and why Andrew seemed to want the ground to swallow him whole.

"Come on, (F/N), don't be such a spoilsport, this is hilarious!" Replied Leander, before resuming reading the love letter aloud, "your smile shines brighter than the lacewing flies in the middle of the night, and your voice is like a heavenly sympho- Arghh!" A descendo hit Leander straight in the chest and his body made swift, hard contact with the ground. The impact pushed the breath out of his lungs, and left him coughing and gasping on the ground. Everyone looked around, searching for the person who fired the spell.

It was Nerida herself. She walked to Leander, still lying on the ground, angrily and snatched the letter out of his hand. "That'll teach you to snoop through someone else's correspondence!" She spit out before placing the letter into her robes. Andrew sat up in the meantime, his head hung low. You and a few students encouraged everyone else to get back to their knitting as Nerida slowly walked towards the Ravenclaw.

"Did you really mean all that, Andy?" She asked, a little shy smile on her face. Andrew looked up at her suddenly, cheeks still burning: "I-I… Y-yes, of c-course I did! I do!" Nerida smiled once more and fidgeted with her hands, looking away as a similar flush appeared on her cheeks: "then maybe we could… I don't know, we could go to Hogsmeade during the weekend?"

And so began a little era of love letters at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

—

Love letters began appearing all throughout Hogwarts. Sometimes they were anonymous, oftentimes they were not. Sometimes they led to new couples forming. There weren't just romantic letters, though.

Many girls and a few boys also took to sending love letters to their friends. They'd be thankful for their friendship, and write out all the things they adored about them. Girls could often be seen hugging each other after reading the letters from their friends. Boys wouldn't really react the same way, but one could occasionally see them blushing when reading such a heartfelt note from their friend. Nobody was ridiculed anymore for putting their feelings on paper, not after Nerida and Andrew began going out following Andrew's letter’s reveal, looking as happy and in love as can be.

There were letters sent to the staff as well, notes of respect, admiration, fondness. They were platonic, of course (save for a few anonymous letters Professor Garlick received), and generally well-received. Mirabel got so many, she soon didn't know what to do with them, while Abraham Ronen almost immediately sent them to his wife to see, full of pride and utmost joy.

There was an unspoken rule to not send prank letters to the staff, and especially not to Black. He was blissfully unaware of the trend that began in his school, but if someone was to send him some untasteful anonymous prank, Merlin knows what he might do. Make a rule to check each and every letter and parcel? Maybe ban post altogether?

You were rather enjoying this situation. You wrote quite a few letters to your friends and received some in return. The first two were from Natty and Poppy, unsurprisingly, but more followed. There was a short but sweet letter from Ominis and a slightly longer letter from Amit. You made sure to hug both boys, rendering them flustered but very happy.

You also wrote letters to every staff member (except for the Headmaster). You added a phoenix feather to your letter to professor Howin, wrote the letter for professor Weasley along with Deek, the letter for Ronen was transfigured into a swarm of butterflies that would fly into his classroom and form into an envelope right before his eyes, and so on. You saved professor Sharp for last.

You stared at the blank piece of parchment for a long time. There were so many things you wanted to tell him, to let him know how you feel. How much you really adored him, how safe he made you feel, how much you longed to feel his hands on you, to get lost in his strong arms, to feel his lips on your own... But you just couldn't bring yourself to confess. Not yet, at least. Not when you weren't sure that he felt the same way. His rejection would tear at your heart, your soul, way more painfully than your longing did. What you wrote was:

‘Dear professor Sharp,

Thank you for everything. There were moments in my life during which I felt hopeless, and lost, and broken. And if you weren’t there for me, I most likely wouldn't be here today. I admire you greatly, and I hope you don’t mind me saying that I am very fond of you as well. It's an honour to be able to learn from you, and I cannot imagine how I'd fare without you here.

Yours truly,

(F/N) (L/N)’

Was it too obvious? Too straight forward? What if he thought it was a prank? Hopefully he wouldn't - he knew you were always honest with him. Well, almost always, seeing as you held yourself back from straight up admitting your love for him. 'Professor Sharp, I love you'. 'PS, I love you'. Instead you wrote: 'PS, looking forward to our next chat over tea.'

You walked over to the Owlery, hoping the November air would clear your head and calm your nerves a bit. You attached the letter to Diana's leg, scratching the owl under her chin. "Bring this to professor Sharp," you said softly. The dark owl took off right away.

—

Aesop was of course aware of the little trend that broke loose in Hogwarts, but didn’t really care as long as it didn’t disturb his lessons. To his surprise, he too received a few letters of appreciation. Unlike Mirabel or Abraham, there weren’t many, but all of them seemed genuine. He wouldn’t admit it, but they did flatter him quite a bit.

After one of his lessons, however, a greater sooty owl flew into his classroom. His breath caught in his throat. “Hello, you,” he’d say in barely more than a whisper as the bird sat upon his desk elegantly, holding out her leg for him. She flies off again once he takes the letter attached to it, leaving a single feather behind on his desk. The door of his classroom closes shut following a flick of his wand. He had a free period now and should not be disturbed by anyone for the following two hours.

He opened the letter and got to reading. His dark eyes softened as they glided over the words written in your elegant script, one of his hands coming up to support his chin. His heart hammered loud in his chest. Once he reached the letter’s end, his eyes went right back to the beginning. His letter was definitely different from the one Dinah received from you. It was no less respectful, but it felt more… heartfelt. Deeper, maybe? Perhaps he was reading too much into this. Maybe he was seeing things he wanted to see, things that weren’t actually there.

Aesop sighed and put his face into his hands, staring at the letter on top of his desk. You were, well, friends. Considering your long conversations in his office, in his chambers, your mutual respect and understanding, you definitely stopped being simply ‘a teacher and his student’ some time ago. But were you even more than that? He couldn’t be sure, not absolutely.

His thoughts were going a thousand miles per hour. He grabbed one of the blank rolls of parchment lying close by and opened it. Without thinking, he dipped his quill into ink and began writing.

‘Dear (F/N) Miss (L/N),

The moments I’ve spent in your company this last year and a half were some of the best of my entire life more enjoyable than I would have thought possible, and they became the highlight of my days. I am always more than glad to accept you over for tea and a talk, and I feel honoured to have your affection friendship. Whatever you do once you graduate in June, I hope you won’t be a stranger, and will visit your old potions master. That is, if you wish time allows you to do so. You have grown into an accomplished, clever, beautiful young woman, and I wholeheartedly believe that you can achieve anything you set your mind to.’

He looked at the parchment with a heavy sigh. Even if he wrote the entire thing again, without the crossed out words, he still didn’t think he’d ever be able to send it…

‘You’ve no idea what you’re doing to me,’ he wrote next, his handwriting not nearly as neat as before. He was not going to send this letter anyway, so why bother. ‘ You’ve no idea what you make me feel, do you? I’m an old, crippled, ex-Auror potions master, but everytime I’m with you, I feel like a bloody teenager again. Merlin… it’s so despicable of me to want you this way, but when you’re with me, I… I almost feel like you return these sentiments. That you look at me the same way.

I feel so horribly shameful when I see you waltzing around the school in your uniform, but when we met in The Leaky Cauldron before the term started, for just those few hours I thought… I thought I actually had a chance. A chance to hold you in my embrace, to kiss your sweet lips, to feel your young body curl into my own. When you sat opposite of me, in that beautiful gown, looking like a dream come true, I wanted to pull you against me and never let go. I wanted to drag you off to one of the rooms and, just for a while, forget that I’m your professor and that you’re my student. To, just for a while, pretend that we’re nothing but a man and a woman, surrendering to their most basic emotions and desires.

Every time you look at me with those brilliant eyes of yours, I am in heaven, and I am in hell. Your gaze, it scorches me, it makes my guilt burn in my chest… And yet, at the same time, it sets my blood aflame. It makes me want to surrender to you entirely. It makes me imagine what must it be like to have your body in my arms, under my own, to be allowed to touch you, and-’ Oh, Merlin! Aesop was breathing heavily, a deep flush on his face. To his horror, he felt himself aroused in his trousers. He truly was a deplorable, depraved creature, wasn’t he?

It was foolish of him. What could he even offer you, other than an entirely too old, gruff ex-Auror with a lame leg? Other than his love, his heart. He put his head into his hands. He willed his excitement down, making a mental list of ingredients needed for a successfully brewed Felix Felicis potion. He crumpled the parchment into his overcoat pocket. It wasn’t a love letter. It wasn’t a letter at all, more like mad rambling of a foolish beast of a man.

Maybe he could still salvage the first part, make something innocent and kind out of it. You deserved it. Your letter moved him, it was only fair he wrote something in return. He was going to, in the evening. For now, he just needed to calm down. The seventh years would be arriving for their NEWT class soon, and you’d be there with them. He had to keep a straight face, keep his treacherous mind out of the gutter, keep his heart from beating too fast or too loud.

An hour later, when you entered the classroom, professor Sharp was leaning against the edge of his desk, observing your classmates with a bored expression as they made their way to their potions stations. When your eyes connected, however, there was a little spark in them. You nodded at him with a smile, and, if you didn’t spend so much time around him, you might’ve missed the tiniest little twitch of his mouth in reply.

The class was frankly uneventful. Everyone, even the Weasley boy, were extra careful as they brewed their Essence of Insanity potions. Seems nobody was too keen on going actually mad during his class. He hobbled around the classroom, offering occasional critique and advice, a few words of praise even, once or twice. He had to admit, this years’ graduating students were quite capable. He stopped by your potion for a bit, looking over your shoulder as your hand stirred the cauldron’s contents elegantly. He hummed in quiet approval.

When he moved over to the middle of the room, he wanted to at first reprimand Mr Sallow for having some clutter on his work station, but when he saw just what it was, his voice died in his throat. It was a piece of parchment and a quill, lying by his potion book, and your name was written on it in the Sallow boy’s scrawl. Pretending to be looking at the lad’s ingredient cutting technique, he read the first few lines.

‘Dear (F/N),

Sorry to be probably the last one to write to you, but it took me a while to think up what it actually was I wanted to say. You’re a good friend, and one of the most important people in my life, but I was kind of hoping that we could become more than just friends…’ Aesop couldn’t read any longer. He turned away with a huff and limped morosely over to his desk.

A feeling of horrible jealousy overtook him, and it took all of his willpower not to set Sallow’s letter ablaze, making a fool of himself in his own classroom. He had absolutely no right to feel this jealousy, he had no claim on you. And even if he did, it wouldn’t make him entitled to meddle into the private lives of his students. He was such a fool. That’s what hurt the worst, in fact, how foolish he was.

You spent a lot of time with him, yes, but you also spent a lot of time with the Slytherin lad. You clearly cared about him, but did you care about him in the same way Sallow cared about you? It would make sense… It would make so much more sense for the two of you to be together, than you being with your gruff professor. His heart hurt terribly. He didn’t leave his chair until the end of class, accepting your bottled and marked potions on his desk wordlessly. When your kind eyes fell upon his own, when they asked him if he was alright, he wanted to give you an encouraging little smile. What formed on his face was a pained grimace.

When his last class ended, he made his way to his chambers, not even bothering to go to the Great Hall for supper. He fished out the parchment from within his pocket and read what he had written. Dear Merlin… He really was deplorable. He wanted to toss the blasted thing into his fireplace, only, as he pulled back his arm to throw, he found he quite… couldn’t. Though the words he wrote should never ever appear in front of your eyes, he had to admit that he meant every single one of them. He hasn’t said or written anything so… sincere for a long time. Many years, in fact. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. So instead, he simply crumpled up the parchment and tossed it somewhere to his left. Maybe he’d forget about it, and then destroy it some other time unknowingly.

—

Professor Sharp went to breakfast early the next day, hoping to avoid as many students and colleagues as he could, his mood even worse than the previous day. However, when he saw what awaited him downstairs, in front of the large door leading to the Great Hall, it took everything within him not to throw himself over the railing of the stairs.

There were you and the Sallow boy, both of you having arrived not too long ago, it seemed. He had absolutely no wish to pass the two of you on his way inside the Great Hall, so he just hid behind one of the pillars and leaned his back against it. If anyone was to see him like this, he could always say his leg was simply hurting too much and he needed to rest for a while. It wouldn’t have been exactly a lie, his leg really did hurt something horrible since yesterday.

It wasn’t his fault the two of you were talking so loud he could hear you almost perfectly.

“So… you read it then?” asked Sebastian, and Sharp could hear the anticipation in his words. There was a moment of silence. “I did,” came your voice now. Sharp hated himself for it, but he felt strangely happy, when he realised your voice was more sheepish and awkward, rather than pleased and excited. “I read it, and I spent half the night awake, trying to come up with an answer. Well, I realised that it’s probably better I tell you myself, in person.”

Aesop’s eyes were closed, and he listened intently. “I’m sorry Seb, but I just… I don’t feel about you this way. You too are my friend, and you’re very important to me, but I just… I see you more like a brother than anything else.” Sharp could have cried. He did feel slightly bad for the young Slytherin, but he also couldn’t stop himself from releasing a quiet sigh of relief. By Salazar, he was one selfish bastard, wasn’t he.

“I-...” Sebastian said, “i-it’s alright. I understand.“ “Are you mad at me, Seb?” you asked, your voice worried. “No, I’m not. Of course I’m not. How could I be mad at you, it’s not your fault you don’t see me like… that. Just tell me… there isn’t a chance you’d ever… you know. Change your mind?” There was another moment of silence. “No, there’s not. I’m sorry.”

Sebastian Sallow heaved a sigh: “Alright. Well, at least I know that… “ he sniffed audibly. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. Come here,” Aesop didn’t see you, but he could clearly imagine you pulling the taller boy into your embrace shortly. “Sorry. I’ll be alright, promise,” said Sebastian with a heavy voice, “let’s just go to breakfast, shall we? I don’t want to keep… just standing out here.” The potions master heard the ‘alone, with you.’ Sallow didn’t say. He knew best how difficult it was to be alone with you and not be able to love you.

He stood there, leaning against the pillar, for a long time, even after your and Sallow’s footsteps disappeared behind the doors to the Great Hall. “Aesop? Are you alright, dear? Leg acting up again?” He opened his eyes to see Dinah Hecat standing a few metres away from him, looking concerned. “Morning,” he said with a wry grin, “it’s alright. It just… flared up for a while, but it’s fine now. Breakfast?”

—

Your lover excused himself for a while, leaving you alone in his chambers. You went to sit in one of the armchairs, waiting for his return, when you heard something make a crumpling sound underneath you. You stood up again, looking at the seat curiously. There was something peeking out from the tiny space between the cushion and the backrest. You carefully plucked the something out. It was a crumpled piece of parchment, maybe some sort of scrapped potion recipe? You unfurled it, intent on putting it away if it turned out to be some of Aesop’s private correspondence.

It was Aesop’s private correspondence indeed - addressed to you. It was a mess of scratched out words, and it seemed he stopped caring to make the text legible at some point, but it was definitely a letter for you.

You didn’t want to snoop, he surely must have had some reason to not send this to you but… but you couldn’t help it. It took only the first few words for you to realise exactly what it was. It was his reply to the love letter you sent him months ago. He never sent one.

You read with bated breath, observing the care he took not to accidentally reveal to you the extent of his feelings. Until he didn’t. Until he probably realised he was never going to send the letter. You felt your face growing hot as you read his words, his proclamations of love and desire, of his longing. Your heart swelled and pounded in your chest.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” came Aesop’s voice from the door of his chambers, so absolutely different from the one he used in his classroom. Your head snapped towards him, the deep blush on your cheeks clearly evident. His brown eyes looked at you curiously, before moving to the parchment in your hand. “I’m so sorry, Aesop,” you stood up immediately, your cheeks still burning, but now from embarrassment and guilt, “I know I shouldn’t have. It was partly behind the armchair cushion.”

The potions master blinked slowly, before coming over to you, his eyes on the ground. “It’s alright,” he said, “it was addressed to you, after all, I just… didn’t know it was still there. I thought Deek might have perhaps thrown it out when he was cleaning my room.” You came over to stand before him. The two of you observed one another wordlessly for a while. “I’m sorry, darling, I do realise the letter is a bit-” “It’s beautiful,” you said quickly. Aesop didn’t expect to be interrupted the way he was, and it took him a second to realise what you just said. “What?” he replied eloquently.

“The letter, it’s beautiful, Aesop. I’m sorry to have… read it the way I did, without your consent, but believe me when I say that it’s the most beautiful letter I’ve ever read…” “I-… thank you, I…” he still wasn’t quite looking at you. Your hands came up to touch his face, the stubble on his jaw leaving a prickling sensation on the skin of your palms. “I meant every word, you know,” he said in a voice so quiet, you almost didn’t hear him, “but I wasn’t sure if the words would be welcome… Even now...”

You clicked your tongue upon hearing his admission. “Such a clever man, and such silly thoughts…” you spoke gently, before standing up on your tiptoes. You captured his chapped lips with your own, softly at first, but your tongue soon teased at the seam of his mouth. He granted you entrance without a second of hesitation, his strong arms almost automatically going to curl around your waist and pull you impossibly close to his body.

The kiss soon became intense, passionate, your tongues dancing sensually with each other. Your fingers were in his hair, and one of his hands was gripping your hip. Soft sounds were being muffled by your hungry mouths, and you were starting to feel seriously hot in your uniform. You were both breathing heavily once you finally parted, your faces flushed and your eyes darkened with excitement.

“Aesop,” you said breathlessly, “would you like to know what I actually wanted to write in my letter to you?” His eyelids were heavy, his eyes darker than a moonless night. They were smouldering, intense, like the mouth of a volcano, and you found yourself wanting to burn. “Tell me,” he said, his voice clouded by arousal. “Actually,” you chuckled breathily, “it’ll be better if I show you…”

Much later, when you were lying in each others’ embrace, exhausted and sated, you used your finger to write a few simple words on the bare skin of his back.

‘PS, I love you.’

Hello! I hope you enjoyed reading. You can check out this story and all of my other stories over on AO3. I'm always happy for kudos and comments!