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scrumptious-delusion · 2 years

Text

•°∘∗ the expedition ∗∘°•

summary: you’re about to make the discovery of a lifetime, so why is it you find yourself more focused on the man you’ve hired to keep you alive?

pairing: mercenary!steve rogers x archeologist!female reader

warnings: SMUT (18+, minors DNI), swearing, mention of: torture, blood, death, alcohol, violence, and knives.

length: 6.8k

a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. inspired by national treasure, the mummy (1999), and similar adventure films. the premise of this fic is based on fact/real legends, then the rest is the result of my imagination.

“Steve Rogers?”

The man hums in answer, his gaze fixated on the small television mounted above the bar.

Offering your hand, you introduce yourself. “We spoke on the phone.”

His head leisurely turns, and though they’re hidden behind dark sunglasses, you feel his eyes as they sweep over you before he accepts your outstretched hand.

“You want me to take you into the jungle.”

Glancing down at his hand as it engulfs yours, you can’t tell if he’s asking a question or stating a fact.

Either way, you respond with “Jake said you were the best man for the job.”

Sort of.

[2 DAYS PRIOR]

“Are you crazy?” Jake gawks, “I mean, yes, you’re crazy, but this is like a whole new level for you.”

“I’m not here for your opinion.” You assert, resting your palms on his desk and leaning forward. “I just need someone to take us, someone who knows the area.”

Running a hand through his spiked hair, Jake replies “Look, I know a few guys there but none are gonna buy what you’re selling. Treasure hunters are a dime a dozen in South America.”

“Explorers.” You correct, heaving a sigh. “C’mon, there has to be one guy willing.”

“I’m telling you there’s not.”

Slapping your hands on his desk, you straighten up. “Fine then, we’ll go alone.”

“What?” Jake splutters, “You wouldn’t, you - fuck, you would.” He groans.

Glaring at you for a moment, Jake shakes his head before rummaging through the papers strewn across his desk.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous Ecuador is? Do you know how many explorers die there each year?” He lectures.

“Why do you think I’m here?” You retort.

Muttering under his breath, Jake finds what he’s looking for and meets your unyielding gaze. “I’m not saying he’ll do it, but if you have a chance with anyone, it’s Rogers.”

You grab the small piece of paper Jake holds out to you, but his tight grip stops you from taking it.

“He won’t be cheap.” Jake warns.

“Of course.”

A few seconds pass before he relinquishes the paper to you.

Smiling sweetly, you pocket it. “Thank you Jake.”

Huffing, he gestures to the door. “Go.”

Your smile grows at his exasperated demand - which you quickly obey.

Jake’s voice calls out behind you just as you open his office door.

“Don’t tell Rogers what you’re looking for!”

[PRESENT]

Releasing your hand, Steve pushes up from the bar stool.

You have to tilt your head up and up as you watch him reach his full height.

“That was awfully nice of him.” Steve states dryly, his attention returning to the football game occuring on the television. “You didn’t say why you wanted to go into the jungle.”

Right.

“Well, I’m an -”

A low whistle interrupts you, drawing both your and Steve’s attention.

“Maxwell.” You greet the approaching man, smiling through gritted teeth.

Ignoring you, Max looks Steve up and down before announcing “Perfect, you’re just the kind of brute we need.”

He’s not wrong. Steve Rogers is built like a brick shithouse and most definitely suited for the task at hand.

Stopping beside you, Max extends his hand. “You must be Steve Rogers, I’m Max.”

Giving a small nod, Steve shakes his hand before aptly reminding you both “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

You keep your lie brief.

“As I was saying, we’re here to study specific sections of the Amazon rainforest for a thesis I’m working on.”

Throwing an arm around your shoulders, Max helpfully - and truthfully, adds “She’s an archaeologist.”

Steve studies you both, his face expressionless.

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t believe us.

“You’re treasure hunters.” Steve declares, confirming your fear.

“Actually, we’re explorers.”

Continuing on like you hadn’t spoken, Steve says “And I’m guessing you’re after the treasure of Llanganates.”

“Good guess.”

Sighing at Max's admission, you try again “We’re -”

“Listen,” Steve cuts off. “The jungle and mountain ranges here are no joke, and I’m not risking my life just so you two can come to the same conclusion as every other schmuck that’s gone looking for that treasure, which is that it doesn’t exist.”

Your jaw drops at his words. “I’m no schmuck Mr. Rogers and just because you don't -”

“We’ll pay you well.” Max intervenes, shooting you a wary glance as you glare up at the large man.

Steve places his hands on his hips, his attention still on you while you bite your tongue.

You swear his lips twitch with a smirk.

Asshole.

“How much?” Steve eventually asks, turning his head to Max.

“How much do you want?” Max grins.

Silence falls as Steve mulls over the question.

“Five thousand a day.”

Your jaw drops again. “No way!”

“Done.”

Baffled, you gape at Max. “That’s an insane amount.”

Lifting his arm from your shoulders, he shrugs “This is an insane trip.”

All you can do is stare as Max holds his hand out to Steve once more, stipulating “Five thousand a day for you to take us exactly where we want to go and to keep us from dying horrible deaths.”

Nodding, Steve shakes his hand. “Deal.”

You should feel ecstatic.

“Well then, when do we leave?” Max asks, “We’re currently staying at the Tesoro Inn.”

“First I need to know where we’re going.”

Both men turn to look at you.

Reaching into your jean pocket reluctantly, you pull out the map you outlined the beginning of your expedition on and hand it over to Steve.

Unfolding it, he studies the red line. “It’s incomplete.”

Of course, genius.

“You can see the rest when you get us that far.” Arms crossed, you raise your eyebrows, all but daring him to argue back.

Steve regards you from behind his sunglasses before stating “We’ll meet in front of the inn tomorrow morning at five thirty.” As an afterthought he adds “Make sure you pack light.”

You can’t prove it of course, but you just know he’s directing that last comment at you.

Narrowing your eyes, you’re dragged away by Max before you can utter a scathing response.

Steve’s mouth twitches again.

[THE NEXT DAY]

You stand outside the inn, watching as the sun begins to peek above the horizon.

“So he’s an ass and terrible at keeping time.” You announce in a cheery tone.

Max groans, taking a sip of his coffee.

I suppose after last night he’s probably had enough of me ranting about Steve Rogers.

“Darling, please, just ignore his personality and focus on his good looks.”

You scoff loudly.

“Oh, don’t even try.” Max laughs, “I know how much of a sucker you are for big arms and hands.”

Whatever.

A voice you unfortunately recognise calls out, “Good morning.”

Looking over your shoulder at Steve’s approaching figure, you use the barrier of your sunglasses to properly appraise him for the first time.

Steve’s tall and built, that much you had observed yesterday afternoon.

His hair is dark blond and long, the ends of it curling against the collar of his shirt while some strands fall around his face and over his still present sunglasses. The beard he has is thick and you’ll forcibly admit it’s the best you’ve ever seen.

You weren’t typically one for beards, but he made it work.

Similar to yesterday, Steve wears a long sleeved shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and khaki military pants held up by a brown belt. Over one shoulder he carries a backpack while a duffel bag hangs from his left hand.

“Mr. Rogers,” You greet with a faux smile. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Steve grins, coming to a stop in front of you. “Retract those claws kitten, I had to secure our ride.”

As if on cue, the loud rumble of an engine cuts through the peaceful morning air as an old pickup truck comes coasting around the corner, pulling up before you all.

“This must be the new Bentley model,” Max quips good-naturedly.

The older man hanging out of the driver’s window gives a rough laugh. “Ah, un comediante.”

“Solo medio tiempo.” Max retorts, earning another laugh.

Chucking his bags into the bed of the pickup, Steve grabs yours and Max’s off the ground and adds them to the pile. Twisting back to you, Steve extends a hand for the satchel slung across your body.

You shake your head, grasping tightly at the brown leather strap.

He raises an eyebrow but makes no further comment, instead gesturing to the bed of the pickup. “Alright you two, hop in.”

While you and Max climb into the back, Steve rounds the pickup and gets in the passenger side.

Max knocks twice on the back of the cab once you’re both seated and the pickup rolls forward with a loud bang, rocking the two of you sideways.

Resting a heavy arm around your shoulders for stability as you each sway with the motion of the pickup on the dirt road, Max states “I love riding in the bed of trucks, reminds me of -”

“Arizona.” You finish with a soft smile.

“Yep,” Max pops the p. “Where we found nothing but rock.”

“And got burnt to a crisp for our efforts.” You recall, looking up at him as he laughs.

“Let’s pray this expedition proves more fruitful.”

“It will.” You answer without a second thought, clutching your satchel again. “This time is different.”

Arizona had been a spur of the moment idea, something to do for fun and experience - nothing more. There’d been no prior research, no maps, no coordinates.

Humming, Max leans forward and grabs the rolled up sleeping bag from his backpack, placing it between the cab and his head before closing his eyes. “Tell me about it again.”

Settling against his chest, you recite the story you know by heart.

“In 1532, Spanish conquistadores captured an Inca Emperor named Atahualpa who promised them a room full of gold and twice as much silver in exchange for his life. The conquistadores agreed and soon treasures from across the region were being brought to them. However, the conquistadores’ fear of a re-energised Inca military led them to kill the Emperor before the ransom was fulfilled.”

“An Inca General named Rumiñahui had been en route with an enormous amount of treasure for the Emperor’s ransom when he learnt that Atahualpa had been killed. In response, Rumiñahui ordered his men to take the ransom into the uninhabited land of Llanganates and hide it.”

"Rumiñahui continued to haul even more gold, silver, jewels, and Inca artefacts to hide in Llanganates until he was captured by the Spanish. They tortured him for the treasure’s location, but he refused to tell them.”

“He’s a better man than me,” Max mumbles.

“In 1603, a Spaniard named Valverde married an Inca woman and claimed that her family showed him the treasure. Before his death, he wrote out the treasure’s location and even drew a map to guide others to it.”

“People have used and improved Valverde’s map for centuries trying to find the treasure, and the last person to have claimed finding it was Barth Blake in 1886. In a letter he detailed his discovery of gold, silver, emeralds, and other treasures, and stated that he, nor a thousand men could remove all that he had found.”

“So in over a century no-one has claimed to have found even a piece of the treasure?” Max questions, opening his eyes and looking down at you.

Lifting your head from his chest, you shake it. “Plenty have tried. A man named Mark Honigsbaum wrote a book in 2004 about his attempt. He concluded that either the Incans retrieved the treasure centuries ago or it’s been lost forever in the mountains.”

“You believe it’s still in the mountains, right?”

“Yes, in its original hiding spot, just not where it’s marked on Valverde’s map.”

Max huffs, “Why can’t they just say ‘go to this place, here’s the treasure, spend it wisely’?”

You chuckle, but both you and Max know you don’t - can’t agree with his sentiment.

Finding the location of this treasure has been your sole purpose for years. You’ve lived and breathed this lost piece of history for so long that you almost felt a part of it.

To be able to find something that you couldn’t simply be given a map to was everything to you. You’ve earned the coordinates sitting in your satchel through your own hard work and time - so much time.

Succeeding at this would be your life’s greatest achievement.

As well as your greatest honour. The artefacts, like tiles from the Temple of the Sun, stowed away with that gold and silver were invaluable pieces of lost Inca culture that deserved to be returned to the people and shared with the world.

“How much is it all worth?” Max asks with a whimsical smile.

Sighing, you give him the answer he already knows, but just likes hearing. “Thirty-seven billion dollars, at least. However its historical significance is priceless."

Max squeezes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you even further into his side. "Well seeing how you’re in it for the history, I guess you’ll have no qualms with me taking ninety percent.”

“Ninety?” You repeat, shocked. “That’s generous of you, I expected you to take at least ninety-nine.”

Pressing his mouth to the top of your head with a loud smack, Max states “You underestimate my love for you.”

[SOME HOURS LATER]

“Looks like we’ve reached the end of the road.” Max announces once the pickup has slowed to a stop.

You wouldn’t exactly call what you’ve been driving on for the past few hours ‘road’.

A door creaks open before being slammed shut.

“Alright kids,” Steve appears to your right, reaching for the bags. “This is our stop.”

Your legs wobble when you stand and your ass is completely numb from sitting so long.

Gingerly, you lower yourself out of the back of the pickup and walk over to Steve, Max ambling behind you.

Collecting your backpack off the ground, you straighten up as the pickup rolls forward with its signature loud bang and makes a u-turn.

“Buena suerte!” The driver calls out as he passes, raising a hand.

“Gracias!” You and Max return, waving back.

Sliding your sunglasses up onto your head, you turn around to face the famed Amazon rainforest and take a deep breath.

This is it.

“Please, after you.” Max smiles at Steve, sweeping his arm out towards the mass of green.

Dutifully, Steve pulls out a machete from the holder around his thigh and steps forward into the awaiting wilderness.

[SOME HOURS LATER]

The first few hours of the trek are completed in silence.

You listen to the soundtrack of the Amazon, admiring the nature around you while getting tripped up by it more often than not.

It’s thick - and humbling.

There are trees that stretch up so high they must almost touch the sky, and their trunks are so wide that you can see nothing else when standing in front of them.

Unfortunately, none of it can distract you from the heat.

The humidity is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and the sun isn’t even at its highest point yet - not that you can see it.

You removed your long sleeved shirt a while ago, stuffing it into your backpack with your sunglasses. This left you in a dark green tank top and brown hiking pants.

“We’ll take a break here.” Steve declares, breaking the long silence.

Pushing your backpack off your shoulders, you take a seat on it and pull out your water bottle, taking a greedy gulp.

“I miss the truck.” Max sighs forlornly, collapsing beside you.

His skin is shiny with sweat, just like yours.

You pat his back sympathetically.

“I thought you were looking for the treasure of Llanganates.” Steve says suddenly, sitting on a fallen tree across from the two of you.

You think it’s a question, but his tone makes it sound like a statement.

He likes doing that.

“We are.” You retort.

“Your map doesn’t follow Valverde’s.”

Surprised, your eyebrows rise. “You’re familiar with Valverde’s map?”

“Do you really think you two are the first I’ve taken on this wild goose chase?”

Raising your chin defiantly, you assert “We’ll be the first to find it.”

Steve smiles at your confidence. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see kitten, but I’ll keep my bet on you going home empty-handed.”

“Oh, I like a good bet, what are we waging?” Max pipes in.

You roll your eyes while Steve’s sunglasses continue to hide his.

After a moment your guide decides “If we find the treasure, my services will be rendered free.”

Max scoffs a laugh “How kind, and what percentage of the treasure will you be asking for?”

Steve smirks, “Nothing absurd, just one percent.”

Which would only work out to about three hundred and seventy million dollars.

Yeah, nothing absurd.

To Max, it’s a bargain.

“I knew I liked you for a reason." He grins, picking himself up and walking over to Steve to shake on their bet.

“When we find the treasure we will be donating it.” You deadpan.

“Ignore her.” Resting his hands on his hips, Max says “She doesn’t understand greed like the rest of us simpletons.”

Steve hums in agreement, “You’ve got finder’s fee written all over you kitten.”

“Would you not call me that?” You glare.

His mouth twitches.

“I thought it was fitting.” Max mumbles from where he stands.

“And yes Mr. Rogers, we will be donating the treasure and accepting whatever finder’s fee we’re offered.”

Standing up, you place your backpack on, deciding for the group that the rest period is over.

As you stride away, you hear Max mutter to Steve “Don’t worry, we can fill our bags with goodies before the museum stiffs show up.”

[THAT NIGHT]

You sit in front of the small campfire Steve built earlier as a light source.

Heat isn’t something you’re in short supply of.

Max is lying in his sleeping bag on the ground beside you while Steve sits across from you both, on the other side of the fire.

He’s finally removed his sunglasses, but the night hides Steve’s eyes just as well as his shades. Instead of colour, all you see in his eyes is the reflection of the flickering flames between you.

“I was thinking -”

“Uh-oh.”

“Shut up.” Max sighs, lifting his hand to slap your closest arm. “I was thinking about what you said about that Blake guy, the one who wrote the letter saying he found the treasure.”

“Hmm?” You prompt.

“Well, it sounded like he really found it, so why didn’t he take it?”

“Blake took what he could carry, planning on -”

“Returning with more men and supplies to retrieve the rest, but on his way to New York from Ecuador he disappeared overboard. Most believe he was deliberately pushed to keep the treasure safe.”

Your head snaps towards Steve and he smirks at your reaction.

“Once again, not my first goose chase kitten.”

You’re about to tell him once again not to call you that, but Max speaks first, clearly trying to avoid another back and forth.

“What’s your deal anyway? How’d you end up in this hot ass country?”

Steve’s smirk fades as he shrugs, his expression hardening.

You side-eye Max.

Good one idiot.

“There’s not much to it.” Steve states. “I used to be in the military, now I’m not. Now I choose what jobs I do, which is usually anything that pays well.”

The fire crackles.

“What about you two?” Steve retorts. “Rich kids with nothing better to do? I can’t tell if you’re related or dating -”

“Ew.” You groan, pulling a face.

“We are not related, nor are we dating.” Max informs.

“And he’s the rich kid.” You add, gesturing down at Max.

“Yep, she just mooches off of me and I mooch off my dad.”

That earns a chuckle from Steve.

“His dad is the director of one of the most respected museums in the world.” You elaborate. “I interned there while completing my degree, which is how we met.”

It’s hard to believe that was almost three years ago. When you first met Max you certainly had no idea how important he’d become in your life.

You’ll never forget the first thing he ever said to you.

“So, do you consciously dress yourself like Rachel Weisz in ‘The Mummy’ or is that just an odd coincidence?”

[THE NEXT DAY]

“I take back my complaints about the jungle.” Max mutters, observing the swamp.

Midday has just passed and so has the first and shortest section of your expedition - the rainforest.

Now the wetland awaits you all. You estimate that it’ll take roughly three days to get through.

Three days of mud, stench, and the feeling of being constantly wet.

“Staring at it isn’t gonna get us through it any faster.” Steve asserts, taking the first step into the green water.

Everyone has tucked the ends of their pants into their thick socks to try and limit as much contact with the water as possible.

You follow after Steve, Max trailing behind you with a reluctant sigh.

It’s slow-going, trying to avoid branches and rocks hidden beneath the water’s surface that Steve finds with the long stick in his hand. The same stick he uses to avoid deceivingly deep puddles.

However, you soon miss the relative easiness of trekking through the water once you’ve reached the mud.

Loud suction sounds are all that can be heard as the three of you trudge through the mud that swallows your feet and then some with every step, a dark line on your pants indicating the highest it’s reached - halfway up your calves.

It takes all of your strength to free yourself, just so you can do it all over again.

“My legs are going to be ripped after this.” Max pants.

You can only huff a breath in response, too focused on pulling your feet from the mud. The suction is so strong you’re worried you might lose a boot - or two.

It also doesn’t help that your backpack feels like it’s full of bricks.

“Oh thank god, solid ground.” Max announces gratefully.

You look up - not to see if he’s telling the truth, but to see why he sounds so far away.

Wasn’t he just beside me?

“Shit.” You mutter to yourself.

Both men have made better progress than you. Max has spotted the solid ground because Steve now stands on it.

Staring back down at your engulfed feet, you grit your teeth and use every bit of strength you have left to try and quicken your pace. Every hour of daylight was precious and there wasn’t much left of today’s.

Maybe it’s their longer legs or strength - Max isn’t that much stronger than me, or maybe their backpacks simply don’t weigh a million tonnes -

God my legs are burning.

Then suddenly, it’s like a weight is lifted.

Because it is.

Your backpack is pulled from your shoulders before Steve places it over his own, his bags deserted on the hard ground ahead.

“Oh.” You squeak, startled by his presence. “Uh, thank you - wait, what - put me down!” You demand as you’re lifted from the mud with an echoing pop.

Steve’s hands grasp your hips as he pulls you out with what seems to be little effort, his arms bulging with the action. Then you’re upside down, thrown over one of his broad shoulders.

“Are you a caveman? You can’t just manhandle me!” You protest, affronted.

You brace your hands on his lower back, trying to hold yourself up so your face doesn’t bump into his back.

Is he just all muscle?

He’s rock solid underneath your hands.

Steve chuckles, “I just did kitten.”

“Would you -”

“Time is valuable out here, we can’t wait around for you to finish playing in the mud.”

Glaring at the mud beneath you, you insist “Put me down or I’ll fire you.”

It’s a very weak threat since you and Max kind of need him, but it’s all you’ve got.

Also… maybe you kind of don’t want him to put you down.

Maybe.

Another chuckle. “You didn’t hire me, nor are you the one paying me.”

“You know what -”

“Quit whining!” Max calls out, sounding close. “I told him to go get you, I want out of here.”

“See? I’m just doing what the boss asked.”

“How noble of you Mr. Rogers.” You mumble.

“Well it’s a nice change of scenery kitten.”

It takes a moment for you to understand his meaning, but it’s obvious when you do, your sharp inhale of air audible as you open your mouth to tell him to go -

You squeak again as you’re abruptly dropped onto your feet.

“And stop with the Mr. Rogers talk.” Steve says, shrugging off your backpack and hooking it over your left shoulder before you can snatch it from him.

Dropping his head so that he’s looking into your eyes - his are still hidden behind those damn sunglasses, Steve purrs “But if you insist on being so formal, sir will do just fine.”

Your mouth falls open and Steve moves out of the way with a chuckle when you attempt to swing your backpack at him.

The absolute -

Max appears beside you and grabs your arm lightly, urging you forward as Steve continues trekking ahead.

“Please remember we need him alive.” Max implores.

[THAT NIGHT]

“Now will you admit to me that he’s hot?”

“Shut up.” You snap at Max, shooting him a glare.

“Just look at his -”

Covering his mouth with your hand, you raise your eyebrows in warning.

You’re sitting on a log in front of the campfire not admiring Steve in the distance, illuminated by the torch on the ground beside him as he changes shirts for the night and -

Max snorts against your hand, making you drop it as your gaze quickly shifts to the fire while Steve changes into a different pair of pants.

Can’t he do that somewhere more private?

“Oh darling, you’d love his thighs, have a look -”

“Would you shut up?” You hiss.

“Too bad it’s dark,” Max carries on. “I can’t really see what his underwear is hiding - ow!”

Whack. “Shut.” Whack. “Up.” Whack.

“Alright, alright.” He surrenders, rubbing his arm. “Jesus, you’re in one of your violent moods today.”

Then, as if he can’t resist - because he can’t, Max smirks “Unlike Harry, I bet he’d actually know how to -”

“Oh my god -”

“Who’s Harry?”

You jump at the sound of Steve’s voice and your hand freezes midair, interrupted on its way to hit Max again.

“No one.”

“Her ex.”

I will murder you before sunrise - that’s what the look you direct at Max promises.

Steve hums, taking a seat on the other side of the fire. “And what didn’t he know how to do?”

His smirk tells you he’s already assumed.

I want to die.

No.

I want them to die.

“Cook.” You declare, glaring at him. “He didn’t know how to cook.”

“Was terrible at it,” Max reinforces with a sad tone.

You have to refrain from rolling your eyes.

“That’s a shame.” Steve states in his deep voice, a hint of laughter detectable in it. “Every man should know how to cook.”

“I wouldn’t call him much of a man.” Max inputs.

Fucking hell.

The comment is probably a little harsh, but Max is your best friend.

Harry had been your first and last attempt at a relationship. He’d been nice enough but… well, that was it really. Just nice, tolerable… passionless. You’d stick to the fictional men in your romance novels.

“Can you cook Steve?” Max asks, as casual as ever.

You turn to him with wide eyes.

“I’m a great cook.” You can clearly hear the laughter in Steve’s voice now.

“Of course you’d think that.” You jab, looking from Max to him.

Steve meets your irritated gaze over the fire with a smirk. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Well,” You shrug, biting back “Doesn’t mean they walked away satisfied.”

“I wouldn’t say they walked.”

Max chortles next to you, choking on his own spit while heat floods your face and neck.

“Okay.” Standing abruptly, you state “I’m going to bed.”

Their laughter follows you all the way to your sleeping bag.

[TWO DAYS LATER]

“I smell so bad.”

“I’m glad you said it.”

“Oh, because you smell so much better.” You mock, eyeing Max.

The wetland has been punishing. You’re covered in mud, bug bites, and drenched in your own sweat - not to mention every part of your body aches. It’s unpleasant, to say the least.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you decide to tell Max some more historical fun facts.

Well, they’re fun to you.

“You know, Valverde drew the map to the treasure before his death because he wanted to give it as a gift to the King of Spain.” You begin, “The King sent out an expedition to find the treasure but -”

“They were unsuccessful - obviously, and the friar that was accompanying them died in a swamp.” Steve gazes around, “Possibly this one.”

You purse your lips at his interruption, but can’t find it within yourself to be annoyed.

“Also,” You try again, addressing Max. “The Spanish conquistadors would constantly dig up large quantities of platinum while searching for gold and while we know platinum to be more valuable than gold -”

“They dismissed it as junk because being so rare, they didn’t know what it was. All they knew was that it wasn’t gold, so they would dump it as scrap.” Steve concludes, his shade covered eyes looking over at you.

“They threw away one of the rarest and most precious metals on Earth because their lust for gold, something that only had value because they gave it value, blinded them to the true, unique treasure right in front of them.”

It feels like the air has been knocked out of your lungs.

Forcing a huff, you feebly respond “Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?” Steve smirks.

That damn, all-knowing smirk.

“Knowing… things.”

Wow, good one. You really got him.

Steve’s smirk widens into a grin. “Why kitten? You like it when I talk smart?”

Yes, it makes me want to climb you like a tree.

“No, I just prefer not being interrupted.”

“Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.” Max pipes up, “But is this hellhole about to end?”

You gaze ahead and see that Max hasn’t gone mad. The wetland is indeed about to end.

“We’ll set up camp on the outskirts of the swamp.” Steve directs, glancing at his watch. “Tomorrow we’ll head into the grasslands, there’s a lake on our path that we should reach by the afternoon.”

[THE NEXT AFTERNOON]

“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Max sighs lovingly, admiring the lake. “I dibs using it first.”

You shrug, “Whatever.”

After three days covered in filth, what harm could waiting an hour or so longer do?

Besides, you wanted to take your sweet, sweet time.

Leaving Max at the lake, you and Steve trek up over a small hill beside it. There’s a few trees here, but they’re slim and spaced out, unlike in the rainforest.

Steve selects a spot at the bottom of the hill to set up camp, giving anyone using the lake some privacy.

Max wanders down a little while later, after everything has been set up and a small fire is burning steadily.

You tell Steve he can go next and he’s quick to rise.

It feels like you wait an eternity, but you know it’s just your eagerness to be clean that drags the time out.

The moment you spot Steve coming over the hill you’re on your feet, heading for the lake.

At the lakeside you remove your clothes, leaving your bra and underwear on. You soak your clothes first, scrubbing them clean before laying them out over the rocks around the lake to soak up the afternoon sun.

Finally, you delve into the lake’s cool waters.

You don’t rush, taking the time to rub every part of yourself spotless. Afterwards you lie on your back and float around the lake.

When your face starts to feel too hot from the sun, you submerge yourself underneath the water and hold your breath for as long as you can before coming back up.

Breaking the surface of the water, you keep your eyes shut while you run a hand over your face, removing the excess water.

When you open them again, you flinch.

“Do you mind?” You all but shriek at Steve who’s sitting on a large boulder at the lakeside, watching you.

He smirks, “Not at all.”

Glaring at him, you hiss “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

One of these days I’m going to kill him.

Swimming up to the edge of the lake, you keep everything below your neck underwater.

“Well, pass me my towel.” You snap.

Steve raises an eyebrow and it’s only then that you realise he’s not wearing his sunglasses.

Blue.

His eyes are blue.

You’re too far away to see any great detail though.

Steve raises his other eyebrow, bringing you back to reality and making your teeth grind.

“Please.”

Leisurely, Steve reaches for your towel behind him on the boulder and holds it out to you, as far as his arm will extend.

“Are you serious?” You ask, exasperated.

He shrugs, “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do kitten.”

Groaning, you bite out “Fine, close your eyes.”

A moment passes before he eventually does as you demanded, his eyes shutting.

“No peeking.” You enforce, squinting at him.

When you’re certain he can’t see anything, you rise out of the water and quickly approach him.

The second your hand grips the towel Steve tugs on it, sending you toppling onto him.

You fall face first into his solid chest while your hands scramble for purchase to push yourself back.

“What are you -”

The words die in your throat when you feel his warm, rough hands grasp your waist and spin you around, bringing you down to sit on his lap.

“Let me help you.” Steve husks into your ear, his beard pleasantly scratching at your skin.

His right hand presses against your bare stomach, holding you in place while his other hand picks up your towel again, swiping it over your left arm.

You open your mouth to object, but then his right hand is gliding up your wet skin to lightly wrap around your neck, tilting your head backwards so he can move the towel over your chest.

Any fight you might have had leaves your body in a giant whoosh, his touch turning you to jelly.

“There you go,” Steve coo’s. “It’s not healthy to always be so tense kitten.”

Fuck you.

That’s what you want to tell him, but instead you whimper as he suddenly drags the towel down and over your underwear.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Since you pleasured yourself? Yes. Since you had a man touch you? Even more of a yes.

But he hadn’t made you feel anything close to this.

“That’s okay.” Steve whispers, as if you had answered. “I’ll take care of you, it’s what I’m getting paid for.”

Abandoning the towel, his fingers dip behind the band of your underwear and you’re almost panting in excitement.

He’s so… big around you, caging you in and overriding your senses.

“Poor kitten,” Steve teases, dragging two of his fingers along your slick folds. “Just dripping for me, huh?”

You want to punch him so badly you -

“Oh.” You can’t help but moan as his thumb presses on your clit, lightly circling it.

Instinctively, your thighs squeeze together and both of your hands wrap around his wrist to stop the action.

You’re embarrassed by how sensitive you are.

It has been a while.

Steve hushes you, “I know, I know.” Using his left hand to pry your thighs apart, he begins circling your clit again. “Just relax, I got you.”

His words seem to have a pull over you, as your body instantly relaxes in his hold.

With your body pliant, Steve’s fingers dip down further and slowly push into you - first one, then two.

Your hips eagerly lift to meet his hand.

“Good girl, fuck yourself on my fingers.” The vulgar sentence sets your face on fire while also making you clench around his digits with a gasp.

How the hell does he know just what to say?

It’s like he’s read one of your books.

Steve’s fingers start to push into you faster and a bit rougher as his thumb continues circling your clit.

Your stomach tenses, the coil within you already about to snap and god you want it, you want it so bad, so, so bad -

“Please.” You mumble, not recognising your own voice. It’s so airy and desperate. “Please let me come.”

Steve releases a guttural groan beside your ear, the sound rumbling against your back while his arousal pokes at your ass.

His thumb quickens on your clit as his fingers keep pumping into you, nudging just a bit more before -

You moan loudly when he hits the sweet spot inside you.

Steve’s warm breath tickles your cheek. “Come for me baby, make a mess on my fingers.”

Crying out, you whine Steve’s name as your orgasm collides with you.

It’s like the blood in your veins is replaced with fire, your body intoxicatingly hot as you jerk in Steve’s hold, riding out your high on his still moving fingers.

Steve’s murmuring in your ear, but it’s all white noise as you come back to yourself.

“Fuck.” You whisper when you feel a little less lightheaded.

Removing his hand from beneath your underwear, Steve raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. You watch him, mouth slightly ajar.

“How was that kitten? Was it good?” Steve asks once he’s finished, his blue eyes shining down at you.

They’re a light blue - baby blue. At first you think they’re pure blue, but then you see just a flicker of green within them. Somehow it makes them even prettier.

It’s a shame he’s always hiding them away.

“Very.” You breathe out honestly, your mind still muddled.

Steve grins and lowers to brush his mouth over your cheek, the feeling of his beard making you shiver. “The chef appreciates your compliment.” He teases.

Drawing the connection back to that night days before brings you out of your orgasm-induced stupor and kicks your brain into gear.

What the hell did I just do?

Pulling yourself from Steve, you stand - your thighs still shaking a little, and snatch your towel off the ground. Wrapping it around yourself, you collect your clothes from the nearby rocks.

When you turn back you find Steve still sitting in the exact same spot, contently watching you with a lazy smirk, like nothing’s out of the ordinary - like there isn’t a large tent in his pants.

Your core throbs at the sight and you quickly look away.

Marching past him, you don’t respond when Steve calls out “I’ll be up soon kitten, I just gotta wash some of my clothes.”

The smile in his tone is obvious.

Heading for camp, you try to process what just happened.

Did I really just let Steve finger me?

“Oh god, Max.” You groan, dreading his reaction.

Just act natural, he won’t know if -

“Hello there, you took your - wait.” His eyes narrow.

To avoid looking at him you begin drying yourself and re-dressing.

“What?” You ask, trying to sound casual.

Max strides over to you and grabs your chin, forcing you to face him.

“No. Way.”

How the hell -

“Did you fuck Steve?” Max whisper-shouts, his brown eyes wide with excitement.

“No!” You respond in the same tone.

“Then what -”

Gesturing for him to be quiet, you check your surroundings before answering “Look, he just… gave me a helping hand, alright?”

It was less painful to just tell him, otherwise he’d never drop the subject.

“Did he ask for a helping hand back?”

So damn nosy.

“No.” You sigh, exasperated.

Max grins, “I knew he’d be good to you.”

Squinting at him, you retort “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Waving you off, he sits back down by the fire. “Was he good at it?”

Looking over your shoulder again to make sure Steve hadn’t snuck up, you quickly answer “He was great at it, now can we please forget this ever happened?”

Max lets out a chuckle while you finish zipping up your pants. “Good luck with that darling, you can’t exactly avoid him out here.”

Fuck.

What were you thinking?

You were supposed to be searching for lost treasure - the find of the century, not getting some from your guide who you literally cannot escape from until this is all over.

A guide who is going to be unbearable after this, as if he isn’t already.

Dropping your head into your hands, you let out a pained whine.

It’s fine. Everything is going to be just fine.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader smut #steve rogers smut #mercenary!steve rogers #archeologist!reader #scrumptious3k #the expedition

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palmofafreezinghand · 5 months

Text

twilight advent calendar day twelve: What changes did the rest of the family see in Edward as he began to fall in love with Bella? (prompts here)

Early March 2005.

Gesso. Ochre. Cadmium red. The routine had stayed the same for over forty years.

A professor had once written about the warmth of her — well a male pseudonym’s — art, about the expert knowledge of color theory and keen observation skills, and how she — the male pseudonym — was arguably one of the most technically skilled artists of the century. Her husband had been thrilled by the recognition of what he had claimed to know for decades. She always suspected he was thrilled by the fact his vast collection of unreleased sketches and warmup paintings skyrocketed in value overnight. It was an amusing memory, a silly little compliment that had cemented her routine in fear of never reaching such recognition again.

“Dr. Callaghan may have been wrong about the technique, but he was not wrong about your skill. You are one of the greats,” Edward’s voice came from the doorway.

“How long have you been spying?” Esme asked.

“Have you ever accepted a compliment?”

“How can I help you, Edward?”

“I do not need anything,” Edward responded, taking a seat in the armchair tucked in the corner of the studio, placed specifically for the two members of her family who insisted on keeping her company as she worked. “I only wished to watch you paint.”

‘This will be good,’ Esme thought to herself, failing to bite back her sigh. At one point in their lives, Edward would have sincerely spent an afternoon sitting comfortably watching her paint. It had been at least ten years since he had last done this.

“It has not been that long,” Edward said quietly.

She flipped through her memory like a rolodex. Dozens of times she would drift into the living room while he played the piano only for him to excuse himself a few minutes later. Hundreds of invitations to accompany her on a hunt, or errand, or in a game of chess, all politely declined. The past month or so he had scarcely been home at all.

“I have been a lousy son.”

“I did not say that, dear.” It had been seventeen years since he referred to himself as her son in front of her, it had only been a year since he referred to himself as such in front of others. Edward winced at this thought and she mentally apologized.

“You did not have to say it, it is true.”

“I was simply surprised you are here, sweetheart, that is all.”

“I wanted to watch you paint.”

Esme smiled, getting up to fetch a new bottle of linseed oil.

“And,” Edward continued after a moment.

“Here we go,” Esme laughed.

Edward rolled his eyes with a fond smile. It was a playfulness that was once hallmark to their relationship. She had not realized how much she had mourned it.

“You were the one painting me, I presumed you would like a live reference.”

“I have your face memorized, you know that.”

“It appears I have been the subject of the week,” Edward said, standing and walking over to her desk that was littered with dozens of sketches and paintings of him. His unspoken question of why hung in the air.

She did not say the answer aloud but instead thought of the element she had been trying to capture. She walked back to her desk and saw his finger lingering on one of the drawings’ dimples.

‘It had been a while since I had seen that smile,’ she mentally explained. If she was truthful she had not seen him smile so brightly before, before he met… her.

“I apologize I have been so morose lately.”

“Lately as in the past twenty years?” Esme laughed, poking his arm. He shockingly laughed along. ‘I’m happy to see you so happy.”

“Even if it means I am never home?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “I was probably a rotten friend when Carlisle and I first started courting.”

“You were an awful friend,” Edward chuckled. “You kept thinking of my father without his clothes on, it was traumatizing.”

Esme smiled, attempting to keep her mind from wandering.

“Esme,” Edward chided, crinkling his nose in disgust.

“You brought it up,” she smiled, taking a seat at her desk once more. He walked back over to the arm chair, slinging his legs over one arm.

They sat in peaceful quiet as she worked on the portrait, occassionally glancing over at him as she painted the face she knew too well.

“Will you just ask already?” Edward eventually sighed.

“I do not wish to pry,” Esme lied. She wished to pry very much and to know every detail about the girl who brought her son’s happiness back but she knew better.

“Her name is Bella.”

“I know that,” Esme grinned, spinning on her stool to face him. “Tell me everything else.”

“She’s perfect. She loves Jane Austen,” Edward said, looking at the ceiling as if he did not know where to begin. “Her middle name is Marie…”

Esme reached for her sketchbook and pencil as he spoke, not taking her eyes off his face. She barely glanced down at the paper as began to sketch her son absolutely beaming.

He stopped after a minute, recgonizing the faces begining to form on her page.

“Is that what I look like?”

‘Only when you talk about her… and Liberace.’

“I should not be this happy. She is a human, this is not going to end well,” Edward started, the familiar frown returning between his brows.

“Edward,” Esme sighed. “Can you allow yourself to be happy for once?”

“How are you not worried?”

“I know you will worry enough for the both of us,” Esme laughed, begining to refine her linework.

“Your eternal optimism can be cloying at times.”

“Do you wish to tell me you do not feel hopeful when you think of her?”

“Not solely hopeful.”

“But there is hope?”

“Yes,” Edward admitted reluctantly yet immediately, a soft smile on his face.

Esme grinned. “Will you please tell me more?”

“She was born on September 13, 1987. Her favorite color is brown…”

He was grinning as he spoke, allowing himself a rare moment to gush without worrying about the future and all the possibilities. Esme had to flip to another page of her sketchbook, it was difficult to capture his unadulterated joy accurately but she was quite grateful she finally had the opportunity to try.

#so sorry i keep bending the prompts #twilightadvent23 #edward cullen #esme cullen #my stories

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avatarrecom · 7 months

Text

Day 5: Daddy/Mommy kink

Pairing: Poly!recoms x Recom!reader (can be read as character x reader)

Word count: 800

A/N: First time writing smut, so it probably sucks lol. I'm using the tag #Kinktober Avatar_Recom for my kinktober stories.

And I'm starting to use the tag #Avatar_Recom writing for all my other writing, so be sure to follow those tags!

I know this is a short one, but since I only decided to participate in kinktober a couple days ago, I didn't have time to prepare. So I'm not sure if I can get out a prompt every day, I'll try of course, but with school and my shitty mental health, I'm not sure I can. I'm sorry and I hope you guys understand.

Also, you might have seen that I put a note in my masterlist that I'm changing the prompts of day 10, knife kink and day 27, anal. I did this because I'm not comfortable with those prompts. I've already chosen 2 other prompts, which will be a surprise. Hope you guys don't mind! I'm sure that if you're waiting for those prompts, there are dozens of other fantastic writers out there!

Now enough rambling from me lol, enjoy this prompt!

Kinktober masterlist

🌍 Recom Miles Quaritch Definitely has a daddy kink. I mean even tho he’s in a 20 year old Recom body, he was still like 52 when he died… and of course an actual daddy lol. He honestly wants you to call him daddy all the time. But especially during sex. He’d refer to himself as daddy while he’s fucking you into oblivion. He totally went feral the first time you called him daddy and has told you to call him that ever since. He’d tilt your chin up so you’re looking at him when he wants to give you a kiss, “can daddy have a kiss, darlin?”

😈 Recom Lyle Wainfleet Every time you call him daddy, he has an instant hardon. The whole time he’s pounding into your pussy, he asks you if daddy is making you feel good. He won’t respond to any other name when you’re having sex. I’m pretty sure that he was about the same age as Quaritch when he died (even if he’s not, just imagine he is), so the fact that he could basically be your father, plays a role too.

🍬 Recom Z-dog After the first time you call her mommy, she refuses to respond to any other name. Both during sex and in public (except when you’re working or in the same room as a CO). Loves the name and loves how obedient you look while you call her that. She goes almost feral hearing you whine mommy while her fingers are buried deep in your pussy or while he’s eating you out like her life depends on it.

🥽 Recom Walker The first time you called her mommy, she paused in shock. After she comes back to her senses, she has the most shit eating grin on her face. She’d say something along the lines of “Yeah? do you need your mommy to fuck you?” She will start referring to you as her good girl. Every time you walk sheepishly into her room asking for mommy to fuck you, she’s dripping within seconds.

😎 Recom Mansk Though he’s very dominant, he doesn't like being called ‘daddy’. He much prefers ‘sir’ when he’s pounding your pretty pussy. It gives him a sense of control over you, especially if you’re a soldier like him.

🧯 Recom Prager Initially he's a bit unsure about how to deal with or how to respond. However, he can't deny that it really turned him on for some reason. You both have a deep conversation about it, where he genuinely wants to understand your needs, expectations, and why it's important to you. You answer each of his questions in great detail. It takes some time for him to find his footing, as he wants to make sure he doesn't say or do anything that might make you uncomfortable. But he eventually gets the hang of it. You unintentionally turned him into a daddy god in bed.

⚕️ Recom Ja He's totally cool with being called daddy. However, he's not the type to call you daddy's girl in response to you calling him daddy, he thinks that’s weird and frankly disgusting. He thinks it sounds like you’re actually his child. But he does enjoy the idea of control or domination he has over you. While he can definitely live without being called daddy, if it's something you're into, he's willing to give it a shot at least once.

🧢 Recom Brown The first time you called him daddy, it flipped some switch in him. Now it’s all he wants to hear. He loves it when you get needy and you beg for your daddy. He adores it when he can discretely slip his hand in your pants in public and he whispers to stay still for daddy and he CERTAINLY LOVES when it slips off your tongue in babbles as he fucks you into the next life.

📿 Recom Lopez This guy definitely has a thing for being called daddy/papi, I would honestly be shocked if he didn't. I mean, the moment you whispered "daddy/papi please fuck me," during a passionate make-out session, he practically tore your clothes off and pulled you on top of him. He was thrusting into you with such intensity that you had to hold onto his shoulders tightly to avoid being thrown off.

⛓️ Recom Fike The first time it happened, he was the one who unintentionally said it. You had just knelt down and gently placed your lips on the tip of his cock. "Show me what you've got, mama." As soon as the words slipped out, you glanced up at him with curiosity, noticing a slight blush on his cheeks. You smirked, but didn't mention it. Instead, you waited until he let out a particularly loud groan, and then playfully smiled up at him. "Do you enjoy that, daddy?" You asked innocently. You could feel his cock twitch in your hands, confirming what you suspected.

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inourselveswetrust · 1 year

Note

that moving prompt made me cry blood (positively).... can i get something fluffy? maybe from their younger years when August was a wee pining baby?

Three years ago

Two creams, one sugar.

Or was it one cream and two sugar?

August’s steps falter as they begin questioning their memory – no, you’ve always ordered your coffee with two creams and one sugar. A smile spreads across their face as they enter the café, the wonderful smell of coffee and sweets welcomes them.

“Good morning, August,” one of the employees, August recognizes them as Kalea, greets them brightly. “Your usual?”

“Hi Kalea, can I get a medium coffee with two creams and one sugar too?” August asks politely, and Kalea nods before turning her attention to the order. August’s eyes scan the glassed display of freshly baked sweets. The variety is almost overwhelming, especially for someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy sugary food.

But you do.

“Can I get some cookies too?”

“Sure, what kind?” Kalea replies over her shoulder.

August’s mind races, what kind of cookie do you like? Chocolate chip is a classic, but maybe it’s too basic for you. Would you like peanut butter? Are you allergic?

No, you know they’re not allergic to peanut butter, you fool August thinks to themselves.

“Can I get two of each?” August asks, deciding to stick to the safer option. An option where you get anything and everything you could ever possibly want.

“Of course! Anything else?” Kalea asks as she hands August the two freshly brewed coffees. What if you don’t like cookies?

“Maybe some doughnuts too,” August replies as their eyes drift further down the display. “Can I get an assortment of a dozen?”

…

“I think you bought at least one of everything,” Kalea jokes as she bags the order. What started as a simple order of two coffees has now grown to include cookies, doughnuts, brownies and some tarts. “Is it your turn to buy for the department?” Kalea asks as she hands the overfilled bag to August.

“Of course, cops and their sweets,” August lies easily as they gesture to the bag.

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” Kalea smiles before waving goodbye. I hope so, August thinks to themselves.

The walk to the station is brisk, the chilly air biting at August’s cheeks but the sight of you waiting near their desk instantly warms their cool body. A flush creeps up their neck, and they already know they’ll blame it on the cold wind.

“Good morning!” you greet happily, and waves of joy wash through August. “Ooh, anything good?” you ask as your eyes drop to the familiar café bag.

“What makes you think I’m sharing?” August replies teasingly, raising a brow at you. I’ll share anything with you.

“Pretty please?” you answer with a pout, and August struggles for breath for a moment. Those puppy eyes will be the death of me.

“How could I say no to my best friend?” August grins, handing the bag to you. Take what you need, take what you want, take it all.

You scavenge through the bag eagerly, reaching for a bit of everything despite it barely being dawn. Did you eat? Maybe I should’ve brought something healthier.

“This is delicious! I love their cookies,” you moan as you chomp at a cookie. “What’s the occasion?” God, I’m in love with you and I can’t tell you, but I need to show you.

“I figured we deserved a treat,” August shrugs as they settle at their desk and sip at their coffee. “This is yours.”

“Two cream and one sugar?” you ask as you stare at the second cup.

“Of course,” August nods and watches as you practically chug the steaming drink.

“Thanks, August,” you smile the smile reserved just for them, and their heart flutters. “I’ll set these in the break room.”

Right, because it wasn’t all just for you. It would be insane to buy a dozen cookies, doughnuts, brownies, and tarts for just you.

“Sounds good, it’s your turn to buy next week,” August responds jokingly with a smile.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to spoil you!” you laugh. “It’s the least I could do after you’ve spoiled us this morning.”

I would spoil you for the rest of my life if I could. If I deserved the honour.

#ro: august #prompt #anon ask

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delicatenightfury · 2 years

Text

Five Years

2022 Month of Writing: Day 8

Pairing: Wally West x Artemis Crock

Prompt:

Word Count: 1,202

Author's Note: please don't steal my work! you can choose to respond to the prompt as well, but don't steal my work

I've watched Young Justice for many years and originally, Wally and Artemis were not my favorite couple. However, the more I watch the show, the more I absolutely love them together. They are so cute and their relationship is amazing. I'm still incredibly upset that they haven't brought Wally back yet and I'm hoping that in the future, Young Justice will choose to do so, because gosh darn it Artemis deserves some happiness again.

Artemis sighed as she opened her eyes. Another restless night. She resisted the urge to look at the picture sitting next to her bed, the one of her and Wally. It has been almost five years now. Five years since they saved the world… and five years since she lost Wally.

The love of her life. Her best friend.

Artemis sighed and forced herself out of bed. She rubbed Brucely’s head in greeting and went to the kitchen to start on breakfast. She was thankful that it was the summer so she didn’t have to worry about school. And as far as she knew, there were no missions that needed to be dealt with.

She did, however, get to spend her day to herself. Will had the day off and was taking Lian to the zoo. They had managed to slip out of the house without waking her, so she had been able to sleep in.

Artemis made herself a cup of coffee and made herself a small stack of pancakes. She hummed lightly as she worked. Faint memories came to mind of her making breakfast for herself and Wally on the mornings they didn’t have morning classes or other responsibilities. Wally loved a huge stack of pancakes, drowned in syrup with half a dozen sides. Having to adjust her cooking portions had been strange after he-

She sighed again and finished making breakfast. She plated her pancakes, topping them with various berries. She took her plate and coffee to the table, and sat down. She ate slowly, trying to take time to enjoy the peace of the late morning.

Suddenly, her phone rang.

She sighed, recognizing the ringtone. She picked up her phone and lifted it to her ear.

“Hello?” she said, taking another bite of food.

“Hey, Artemis,” she heard Dick reply. “What are you doing right now?”

“Eating breakfast. I just got up. Why?”

“Oh no reason.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t lie, Dick,” she said, stabbing her pancakes. “You may be a detective, but I can tell a lie.”

He chuckled a little. She could imagine him rubbing the back of his neck.

“You got me. Listen, how soon can you get to the Watchtower?”

“Do I have time to finish breakfast and shower?”

“Oh yeah! Yeah, of course! Take your time. We’ll see you soon.”

“Bye.”

Artemis put her phone down and sighed. She finished her food, most likely faster than she had been before. She put her dishes away and went to shower, Brucely padding after her.

“Artemis, B-0-7.”

Artemis stepped through the Zeta Tube and looked around the large meeting room. Dick and Kaldur stood several yards away, talking quietly to one another. At the sound of the Zeta Tube, they looked her way and smiled.

“Artemis,” Kaldur greeted. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Kaldur,” she said. She gave him a small hug then hugged Dick. “Good to see you too, Dick.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah.” She sighed, trying not to sound disappointed. “So, what’s up?”

“We wanted to show you something.”

She raised an eyebrow at them.

“Okay?”

Dick motioned for her to follow them down the hall. The Watchtower was relatively quiet, thankfully. That meant nothing world-threatening was happening.

Artemis glanced at Dick. The man was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet and he couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Kaldur was more calm, but he still looked happy.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she asked. “You two are acting weird.”

The men exchanged looks, making her a little more annoyed.

“Just wait a little longer,” Dick said.

Artemis stopped walking, putting her hands on her hips. Kaldur and Dick stopped a few feet after her, confused as to why she wasn’t moving.

“I’m not going another step until you tell me what’s going on, Dick,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “You called me on my day off and there’s obviously nothing immediately important happening right now because neither of you are in ‘mission mode.’ So you better spill what is happening, otherwise I swear I will turn around and walk-”

“Artemis?”

Artemis froze. Her eyes singled on a form further down the hall, past Dick and Kaldur. No words would come out of her throat, she couldn’t find any words.

Standing down the hall, having just appeared from what she faintly thought was the infirmary, was…

“Wally?”

The red head grinned and walked down the hall. He stepped between Dick and Kaldur, ignoring them as he came up in front of Artemis. His green eyes were vibrant as they looked down at her.

“Hey, babe.”

“Oh my gosh.” Her voice was soft… and so close to breaking. “Please tell me this… isn’t another dream, or- or- or an illusion, or-”

“Hey, Artemis, calm down.” She gasped when he gently took her hands in his. He lifted them to his face and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I’m real, babe. One hundred percent.”

Artemis gently freed her hand enough to touch his face. His skin was so smooth and solid. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from him. Her mouth opened and closed several times, almost unable to believe what she was truly seeing.

She suddenly launched herself at him, colliding with his chest. She effectively caught him off guard, causing them to fall to the ground. Artemis wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face into his chest.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. Her voice sounded wet as tears began to stream down her face, but she couldn’t care less. “You’re here.”

Wally wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. His hand gently stroked her hair.

“It’s okay, babe,” he whispered close to her ear. “I’m back and I’m not going anywhere.”

Artemis didn’t know how long they sat there on the floor, simply holding one another, but it didn’t feel long enough. Not after having him be gone for so long.

“I don’t understand,” she mumbled. “How are you here? You- you died. Barry said-”

“I know. I know, and I am so sorry for what happened, but it’s okay now.”

“But how-”

“We found a way to bring him back,” they heard Dick say. The two looked up enough to look at their friends, who were both smiling widely at them. “After what happened, and after we got Conner back, we dug further into research. We found a way to reverse what happened. Barry and Bart went into something called the Speedforce and were able to pull Wally back out.”

“Are they-”

“They’re fine,” Kaldur reassured. “Everyone is fine now.”

Artemis sighed in relief and turned back into Wally’s chest. She squeezed him a little harder.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Wally huffed a laugh.

“I know you would, babe. But I don’t plan on leaving any time soon. I hear I have a lot of catching up to do.”

He pushed her away the smallest bit, but leaned down to kiss her before she could offer some kind of complaint. Artemis melted into him. She had missed this, missed him.

For the first time in five years, everything felt right again.

GIF by rantdragon

#month of writing #writing prompt #Artemis crock #artemis #Wally west #wally #wally x artemis #Artemis x wally #spitfire #young justice #yj #yj spitfire #bring Wally back #let Artemis be happy

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celestialsister0918 · 1 year

Text

Re-reading one of my kinkuary prompts over on AO3 today and felt like posting this sexy, sweet little scene for your Saturday morning steamy read.

The Dark Knight, Jim Gordon x OC

Takes place between movies 2 & 3 (two years after Barbara has left)

18+, Warnings: PIV sex, cockwarming

Jim removed his coat and hung it on the rack just inside the door. The garment was heavy, damp, and cold. Just touching the wool made his frost-bitten hands hurt even worse. Claire's apartment (well, their apartment) was incredibly warm, even if currently dark and empty. They had a small electric fireplace in the bedroom; Jim hoped Claire had been running it before she went to sleep. Tonight's stakeout and eventual takedown had been accompanied by sub-zero wind chills. He'd given the small team that had joined him in the field the next day off to warm up and recover. Maybe he'd extend the same graciousness to himself.

The bedroom was indeed toasty when Jim arrived, but he switched the fireplace on again, just to thaw his frozen skin a bit before hopping in the shower. He knew the water would sting if he jumped in without some dry heat first. In the dim glow of the fire, Jim saw his goddess of a wife asleep in a lacy ivory negligée, covered with silk sheets and a blanket of silver faux fur. She slept so peacefully that he felt guilty for even considering disturbing her. He couldn't think of a better way to generate heat than creating some friction against her body. His cock was essentially inside out, however, and had been for hours.

The stream of steamy water felt like a gift from the gods after the kind of night the commissioner had suffered. Claire had told him a dozen times that the commissioner was supposed to commission; he'd earned the right over his decades on the force to sit some out here and there. But Gordon was addicted to the chase, the thrill, the victory. And his body suffered for it.

Ivory soap. Gentleman cologne— the 70s classic, which he'd worn since his eighteenth birthday. A quick comb of his hair, then the donning of flannel pajamas. He left his glasses folded neatly under the mirror. His skin felt tight and freshly washed... the dirt and grime of Gotham's underbelly once again whisked away.

Jim gently lifted the covers and slid behind his wife, his splayed hand bringing her pelvis back toward his. One of her legs instinctually moved atop his, and her bare foot ran along the flannel leg of his pajamas lovingly. Her skin was flushed with the warmth from the fireplace and covers, and Jim buried his nose in her blanket of soft curls, smelling the herbal cocktail she'd washed it with earlier. A gentle hand reached back to caress his stubble, her thumb running over his bristles.

"Welcome home, commissioner," Claire murmured. "I missed you."

Jim's lips found the creamy skin of her shoulder, his tongue flicking along her collarbone. The sinful curve of her behind arched back against his pajama bottoms, and his body-- taxed though it was-- responded in turn.

"Can I put it in?" he asked in her ear.

"Mmm-hmm," she replied warmly, and Jim slid the smooth silk up to reveal her bare cunt beneath. Reaching into his fly, Jim gave a few quick jerks to his length before lifting her leg a bit more, his tip making contact with her wet heat. Just a few quick strokes to her clit made her ready for him, and he buried himself in her with one blissful surge forward.

"Ohhhhh," she moaned, and Jim slid a hand under the ivory silk to treasure her soft breast in a tight grip. Her hips began bucking almost imperceptibly, but Jim stopped them abruptly.

"Nope. Hold still, little girl."

"Oh, you're in charge, Daddy?" she teased.

"In a way," Jim replied. "More like neither one of us is. I want to hold you, just like this."

"Mmm... warming your cock?" Her fingers came back to softly stroke his hair.

"Of course. Gotta get warm somehow. It's negative three degrees outside."

"And you were out there being a hero," she praised him, giving a small little wiggle just to make sure he was buried to the hilt.

Jim let out a moan. She was so tight at this angle, his cock curved upward, snug between her thighs. Every few seconds he felt the slightest micro tremor, and his cock would twitch in turn. It was nice... relaxing, really... just holding still and seeing what their bodies would do on their own. Jim ran a hand tenderly over her bare arm. Her skin was silkier than the silvery sheets that covered their connected bodies. He caught the slightest smell of perfume on the fibers of her negligée— citrus, jasmine, ginger, and sandalwood. Not that Jim would have known fragrance notes, but he'd been so obsessed with her after that first night at her place two years ago that he'd Googled the bottle sitting on her counter.

"I love you," he intoned deeply in her ear.

Claire sighed contentedly, and her walls gave his stationary cock a squeeze. She arched even further back into his chest, and Jim had never felt so warm, in spite of the cold.

"I love you too, Jim."

____________

Read the full one-shot collection at the link below! I greatly appreciate your kudos and comments if you enjoy or have feedback.

#jim gordon gary oldman #commissionergordon #dark knight rises #the dark knight #jim gordon #garyoldman #gary oldman imagine #smut #fluff #marriage #romance #love story #original female character #fanfiction #smut blurbs #smutty fanfiction #oneshot #gotham

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piceuscelus · 6 months

Note

t4t ciri/cerys, cerys is so determined to seduce ciri she doesn't realize how easy it's going to be (idk if you wanted, like, trans SPECIFIC prompts vs just prompts with trans characters? i do very much envision this as trans girls having slutty crushes on each other and being endearingly awkward about it bc maybe people haven't responded well to them in the past, or maybe ciri doesn't realize cerys is also trans? but also just a simple cute blushy t4t fuckfest would be great lol)

(i will send another, trashier prompt next)

hi i know this prompt was Forever Ago but i did NOT forget it

it just fuckin Refused To Go

but it went! finally! and now it's here! and it's even below my tumblr post limit! (it admittedly might not be exactly to the prompt. but)

it'll be going up on ao3 like, immediately after this ask posts in case anyone is terribly concerned about content tags but this one is Extremely Tame and soft

trans woman Ciri / nonbinary Cerys

It’s a pity, Ciri thinks, that she doesn’t make it back to the Isles very often. Of course, she knows perfectly well why she doesn’t – she rules both Nilfgaard and Cintra, and thus most of the southern half of the Continent. She’s entirely too busy to be galavanting off to Skellige without a purpose – her court will barely allow her the occasional Witchering break, and they only do that begrudgingly because if they don’t, she tends to start threatening to skewer diplomats. The likelihood of that stuffy lot agreeing to let her vacation to Skellige for no good reason is slim to none.

There is the upside, though, that she never has to bother with a week-long boat trip unless she has a hankering for being sea sick.

When she lands on solid ground, it’s bright and sunny and frigidly cold. She takes a deep breath and just revels in it for a moment, even as she starts to shiver, taking in the familiar smells and sounds.

Of course, as soon as someone notices her standing there in the courtyard, a commotion starts up.

She sighs, but tolerates the sudden influx of guards and their squires rushing over to investigate, and then, once they’ve assured themselves that she’s a known guest, if an unexpected one, the addition of half a dozen maids that arrive to fuss. All of them are bowing so low they may as well be kneeling – it would be faster and require less stumbling, at least – and stammering as they try to address her with an amount and type of formality that’s always been a bit foreign on the Isles.

When she can finally get a word in edgewise, she cuts straight to the chase. “Yes, thank you, where is Queen Cerys?”

One of the guards answers. “Her Majesty is with the jarls, out on the cliffs.”

Ciri raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

“It’s a tradition, Your Imperial Majesty,” another guard says, the capital letters and his unfamiliarity with her title obvious in the stilted, slow way he speaks. “A…rebirth, of sorts, for the new year. All of the jarls, the druids, and the Queen jump into the sea to be cleansed.”

“And several others, for the fun of it,” one of the squires adds, sounding almost bemused, as if he doesn’t quite understand how the dive could be fun.

Ciri isn’t entirely sure fun is the right word, really – she’d probably use thrill instead. She remembers, now, years and years ago, watching Eist do something similar – but it was in the summer, when the cold waters were a fairly refreshing shock, and not the tail end of fall, when falling into the sea could easily become a death sentence if you were stupid or sickly. She’d been allowed to jump then, too, though only into the shallows and not off the cliffside with the rest (for the sake of her grandmother’s blood pressure).

Then again, the line between the concept of fun and thrill is a thin one, and, well – she’d come to the Isles for fun, hadn’t she?

“Which shore are they on?”

– – – – –

When Ciri finally makes it up the cliff where the local nobility are making like ritual-minded lemmings, Cerys is just beginning to strip down to her underthings in preparation for her own jump. It appears she’s the last of the leaders to go, most of the jarls already soaked and shivering on the beach below.

She keeps her more lurid thoughts to herself, watching Cerys shuck her dress, and makes a split second decision to distract her mind from the gutter. “Aye! Time for a late arrival?”

The spears immediately pointed in her direction aren’t a shock, so she mostly ignores them, just stopping where she’s at and waiting.

“Don’t you lot recognize the damn Empress?” Cerys asks, laughing as everyone sort of sheepishly shuffles their weapons back to where they belong. She looks at Ciri to continue, “And don’t you know better than to barge into a group of Islanders unannounced?”

Ciri laughs, too, but doesn’t bother answering – it’s a rhetorical question, and they all know that really, she’s allowed to barge in wherever she’d like. She gestures to the edge of the cliff. “Well, may I join?”

Cerys also gestures to the cliff, but with an over-exaggerated, fake curtsy. “You may!”

Immediately, there are a handful of damp squires appearing at her side, hands held out, so she strips off and hands her clothes over. She only strips down to the same as Cerys, the single layer of underthings – she doesn’t particularly understand the point of wearing anything for this, but she’s also aware that her penchant for nudity is unusual, and is willing to follow the Queen’s lead.

“Together, then?” Cerys asks, when Ciri steps up to her side. They’re both shivering lightly in the icy breeze wafting in from the waves. “Or would you like the honor alone?”

“You’re the Queen of the Skellige Isles, Cerys, it ought to be your honor,” Ciri says, half-teasing, and Cerys’ eyes sparkle.

“And you’re the Witcher Cirilla of Vengerberg, Lioness of Cintra and Empress of Nilfgaard, The Swallow Bearing the Sun in Her Wings,” Cerys retorts, “and you outrank me by a league. So?”

Ciri rolls her eyes as theatrically as possible at the full title, though she’s privately pleased that Cerys used both of Vengerberg and the informal order of it. “Together, then.”

She offers her hand as she takes a step closer to the cliff’s edge, toes already freezing in the sparse, damp grass.

Cerys steps up alongside her and threads their fingers together. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says, with a little half-curtsy, still a fake one since she’s not wearing a damn dress, and a smirk that belies the formal tone.

Ciri immediately drops Cerys’ hand just to shove her off the cliff and jump right after her.

– – – – –

By the time they’ve swum back to shore, anyone else who wanted to jump has already done it, and it turns into a race back to the castle before fingers and toes go from numb to dead. All the same, they’re laughing as they finally stumble into the marginally-warmer stone halls, the mood easy and light, chatter and laughter echoing off of the high ceilings.

It’s only when they’ve made their way to Cerys’ rooms, already prepped and ready with a large, steaming bath, that Ciri realizes she has absolutely no idea where she’s meant to be staying. Or if she’s even welcome.

Her rank and power do a lot to smooth the way wherever she’d like to go – and her sword and medallion often do what the crown cannot – but she prefers not to use any of them like a cudgel.

Cerys, though, seems to have the same realization a beat after her.

“I can send someone to make up a room,” she says, “but in the meantime, we could share a bath.” There’s a hint of lechery in the quirk of her lips. “Only if you don’t think that would be too…improper, of course.”

Ciri nearly asks where in the world Cerys picked up the idea that she’s ever given a single fuck about proper, but decides that playing coy is much more fun. “It might be,” she says, slowly. “But….”

She rubs her arms and shivers. It’s a little exaggerated, but certainly not entirely an act – she is cold, clothes still wet and skin a little slimy where the seawater lingers.

“It’s cold, and it’ll take too long to make up another bath for you,” Cerys says, and this time her tone is at least half-serious. “You’ll catch your death, Your Imperial Highness – and I cannot, nor do I want to, imagine the horrors your court would bring down upon me if I allowed it to happen. I’m just a lowly Islander queen, after all.”

The snark is back, with the last part, and Ciri can’t help how she snorts.

“Alright, alright.” She prods Cerys into the room and follows along, closing the door behind them. She catches sight of a door across the room shutting with utmost gentleness, likely a servant who had realized that they were not needed and decided to at least be discreet about their eavesdropping. “I’m sure my honor will survive the blow.”

“Mine certainly won’t, but it’s not as if I had much to begin with,” Cerys retorts, and Ciri chokes on another laugh.

“You know what they say about Skelligers,” she says, trailing off with a wink, and Cerys just raises an eyebrow.

“What, that we’re one good blow away from a fight?”

Ciri giggles. “No, that you’re one good blow to anyone’s honor.”

It clearly takes a second to click, Cerys squinting at her for slightly longer than a typical beat, but Ciri sees the moment it finally dawns, the queen’s eyes going wide before she starts cackling.

“That was awful, Cirilla,” she scolds, but she’s grinning wide and there’s no heat to her voice, just poorly-concealed laughter.

Before Ciri can come up with another witty reply – either about her wonderful wordplay, or the use of her full first name – Cerys is huffing and shaking her head, starting to tug at her own layers.

She tosses them directly onto the floor with no care as she wriggles free of them, and Ciri starts to do the same, struggling out of the top dress and progressively wetter layers beneath, until she’s reached the last of them, her underthings still soaked and getting slimier by the second.

She hesitates. As unpleasant as the soggy cotton is, and as thrilled as she usually is to be free of clothes, it’s…. Well. If this were just a bath with a friend, or even just fellow nobility, it wouldn’t be anything to drop her clothes. She’s done it before in springs and bathhouses.

But this isn’t just another sovereign, or even just a friend. This is…well, it’s Cerys, someone that Ciri can admit (at least in her own head, privately, to herself) she’s been carrying a torch about for…as long as they’ve known one another, probably.

(Definitely.)

Cerys is speaking again, though, as she’s peeling out of the layer just above her underthings, struggling with the fabric as its soaked so much water up from the layer below, and Ciri is distracted from her not-quite spiral about her infatuation.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” Cerys says, and Ciri’s stomach drops to the floor in the split second it takes for her to notice the wry quirk to Cerys’ mouth. Before she can relocate her own words, Cerys continues, though this time it’s quieter, more of a mutter. “...then again, s’pose I have no room to speak on that.”

Ciri doesn’t think she was meant to hear that last bit. She’s aware that she should probably pretend she didn’t.

But she’s burningly curious as to what, exactly, that means, so she quirks a brow when Cerys’ eyes next catch hers. “Oh?”

Harmless, directionless flirting is one thing – something they’ve been doing for the same amount of time Ciri’s carried the torch – but that? That sounded like an admission.

Cerys makes a small, short sound, something of a cross between a squeak and a snort, coloring a little. “If I may be crass, Your Imperial Majesty,” she winks, and Ciri feels herself flushing, because this time the title sounds more genuine, even if it’s in a crude way. “You have a truly spectacular pair of tits.”

Ciri snickers, and before she even thinks it all the way through, she’s quipping, “Thank you, Yennefer helped me pick them out when I got tired of being shaped wrong.”

What she’s said sinks in just a second too late, and she sucks in a breath, biting her cheek against trying to over explain. It’s possible Cerys will misunderstand that – think it has to do with self-esteem, and not anything to do with the confused whispers about wasn’t the heir to Cintra a boy? – but if she opens her mouth again, she could give the truth away.

But Cerys’ mouth drops open to mirror how tightly Ciri’s gritting her teeth, and she stutters, “You were – ” before she’s squeaking and putting a hand over her mouth.

They stand frozen, just staring at one another, for a long moment.

Ciri tries to find her voice, tries to come up with something to say – to brush it off, or to admit the truth, or maybe a secret third option she hasn’t come up with yet. She doesn’t know, but the silence is stretching out longer and longer, and she feels like there are ants crawling along the back of her neck.

Despite all her frantic thoughts, Cerys beats her to breaking it. “Something we almost have in common, then,” she says, and finishes peeling out of her underclothes, revealing her own chest – perfectly flat, nothing but solid muscle and pink-white scars cupping the shape of her pectorals. “Mousesack helped me pick mine when I got tired of the same.”

And the scars are – obvious, really, Cerys is hardly the first person Ciri has met with them, but it takes until she speaks for it to really click, and then – and then she’s laughing, caught somewhere between fierce relief and flustered sheepishness.

“Good to know we have that in common?” she asks, voice shifting down a little, like it hasn’t since she was thirteen and Yennefer started teaching her how to pitch it higher, and she hopes that Cerys understands her meaning – that she means a bit more than just picking out surgi-magical modifications to their chests.

She expects that Cerys will laugh, probably – that she’ll poke fun at Ciri, almost certainly. What she doesn’t expect, in any way, is for Cerys to step into her space, reaching out and cupping one roughened palm around the nape of her neck to yank her even closer.

“I’m pretty sure it’s more than that,” she murmurs, and then her mouth is ghosting over Ciri’s, the distant suggestion of a kiss.

Like hell is she going to turn that down.

They’re still shivering finely from the cold and wet, Ciri’s underthings uncomfortably slimy between them – really, it’s atrocious how seawater just never actually seems to dry, just turns to slime and then…crusts – but none of that really matters, not in the face of the kiss.

The kiss, which is going quickly from chaste and almost innocent to something decidedly more hungry, Cerys’ fingers finding their way into Ciri’s hair, her other hand creeping around her waist and then up to cup her ribs. Ciri, for her part, gets her hands on Cerys’ waist first, and then shifts them to the lower curve of her spine and the place between her shoulderblades as they press closer.

When they finally break apart they’re both panting, and the way Cerys’ fingers are curling around the curve of Ciri’s skull, a rough, callused thumb rasping back and forth just under her ear, has Ciri shivering for reasons entirely unrelated to the damp.

She doesn’t know if Cerys misreads the trembling, or if maybe she understands and simply makes an unrelated decision, but without a word she’s taking a step back, pulling Ciri gently toward the bath. The way she tugs at Ciri’s remaining clothes, though, is significantly less gentle.

It’s a little hard to get naked, considering that they both refuse to step away from another with equal fervor, but between four hands they manage. They also succeed – somehow – in clambering their way into the bath without injury.

Through another kiss, they end up settled on a very convenient seat along the edge of the ridiculously large tub, Ciri on the ledge and Cerys perched in her lap. The position leaves their bottom halves in quite close contact for the first time, and before Ciri can even start to – explain? apologize? she’s not entirely sure – Cerys is humming, a distinctly pleased little sound, and settling her weight more firmly in Ciri’s lap.

“Hello there,” she says, and rolls her hips, pinning Ciri’s half-hard cock properly between them. “I’d ask about pockets, but all things considered, I think I can just assume you’re happy to see me.”

Ciri wants to say something in response to that – even if it’s just to cry hypocrisy about Cerys’ early rebuke of Ciri’s earlier pun – but all that comes out is a thin, reedy little moan.

It makes Cerys laugh, but it’s a breathy sound, cut off when she presses their mouths together again, so Ciri isn’t too terribly offended.

She’s usually more put together, she swears she is, but, well. This torch has been burning for a little less than most of her life, for fucks’ sake.

While they kiss, Cerys starts to move, rocking her hips to grind them together, and both of them end up making broken, breathless little noises into each others’ mouths. The water intensifies the friction, washing away the slick either of them could produce well before it’s of any use, but it also makes the movements easier, smoothing out the jerkiness where both of them are startling to tremble.

Gods above, Ciri should not be this close because of a handful of kisses and a pretty queen in her lap. She’s not sure if it’s because she’s been pining for a ridiculous length of time, or that she’s not had much time for anyone except her own hand lately, or maybe that Cerys really is just that incredible. Whatever it is, she absolutely refuses to embarrass herself so thoroughly, at least this first time.

It takes entirely too much willpower, but she gets her hands on Cerys’ hips, stopping the rocking movement and splashing water over the edges of the tub with the sudden interruption to the water’s motion. Cerys makes a little sound, whiny and petulant, and Ciri is halfway through a choked sort of coo at how cute that was when Cerys’ eyes snap open.

“Sorry, was that – ”

Ciri feels a little bad when pressing her fingers over Cerys’ lips apparently gets some bathwater in her mouth, but she doesn’t need an apology and doesn’t want to entertain it. “I’m fine,” she assures. “I just – have a better idea.”

At that, the scrunched combination of shock and concern on Cerys’ face smooths out, replaced instead by obvious curiosity. Her eyes are bright and her lips are a little swollen from their kisses, and Ciri has to resist the urge to lean forward and nip at them, at least for now. Instead, she starts prodding Cerys off of her lap, and giggles when Cerys’ expression once again shifts in a heartbeat, turning to a small pout even as she follows the silent direction and finds her own feet.

Ciri can’t resist that, not entirely, so she leans forward to kiss the corner of the pout as she also stands from the bench. Cerys turns her head and turns it into a real kiss, because of course she does, and Ciri is weak, so she allows it for a long moment.

“C’mon,” she finally says, when they have to pull apart for air, and before Cerys can complain – or catch her in another kiss – she slips behind her and gently nudges her forward again.

She tries to turn at first, clearly trying to sit, but Ciri gets her arms around her waist and keeps her facing forward. She nuzzles against Cerys’ ear and whispers, “Like this,” before guiding her forward again, until her knees are pressed to the bench.

From there, she drags her hands back down to Cerys’ hips, then her thighs, coaxing her to keep going forward, until she’s kneeling on the ledge. That’s when she seems to get the idea, suddenly tugging out of Ciri’s grip to scoot forward and bend at the waist, bracing her palms against the thick edge of the tub.

“Yeah, perfect,” Ciri murmurs, and leans forward to press a kiss between Cerys’ shoulderblades, fingers finding the stretched smoothness of the scars on her chest. She kisses down Cerys’ spine, hands following the same path but down her front, and when she’s reached where her back starts to curve into ass, Ciri shifts her weight and drops into a low crouch.

She uses her hands, curled around the very tops of Cerys’ thighs, to shift her hips up a little more, just enough to lift her cunt properly above the water.

Cerys shivers and whines, soft and breathless, and Ciri presses a kiss to where the waterline is lapping at the back of her thigh.

“This okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cerys is almost panting. When Ciri looks up – she has to lean a little to the side, to see more than the curve of Cerys’ ass and spine – Cerys is turned to look over her shoulder, eyes gone wide and dark.

She keeps their gazes locked as she slowly trails her fingers up and to the side, along the cut of Cerys’ hipbone, and then in and down, until she’s petting over the soft curls just above her slit. Cerys’ lashes flutter, mouth dropping open for the space of a panting breath before she’s sucking her bottom lip into her mouth to bite at it.

She whines when Ciri doesn’t keep going, squirming a little, hips rolling forward into Ciri’s hand. Ciri chuckles and turns her head to kiss along the curve of her ass and back down to the back of her thigh.

“Can I?” she asks, dragging her fingers further down, almost to Cerys’ clit but not quite there yet. Already, she can feel the heat – the difference between the water and Cerys’ body, the apex of her thighs, much warmer where she’s all swollen.

Cerys whines and bucks her hips, stammering out a, “P-please.”

Ciri lets the movement do what it intended to do, since she asked so nicely, fingers slipping over Cerys’ clit. The friction of it is a little rough with nothing but water between them yet, but Cerys just whines and bucks again, so Ciri keeps going, until Cerys has made a proper mess of herself and the touch is slick and wet.

“Good,” Ciri murmurs, mostly thoughtless, and traces an intentional, firm circle around Cerys’ clit at the same time she mouths along the edge of her outer labia, tongue flickering barely over where she’s wet and fluttering. Those touches earn her another whine, more desperate this time, as Cerys leans harder against her braced arms just so she can raise her hips and press back into the tease of Ciri’s mouth. “Yeah, fuck, so good.”

“C-Ciri, please,” Cerys breathes.

Ciri curses and leans further forward, flattening her tongue over the slick mess built between Cerys’ thighs. The sound Cerys makes in response could be reasonably called a shout, if it weren’t so pitchy and breathless, and Ciri grins but doesn’t bother pulling back. When she teases her tongue at Cerys’ entrance, she gets another almost-shout, and when she presses in, the sound turns into a low, warbling little mewl.

Her cock throbs where it’s bobbing in the water, and she imagines the two of them are probably going to sully it enough that a brand new bath is needed, but that’s the only real thought she spares for it.

“Fuck, fuck, please,” Cerys finally gasps, after Ciri has spent a few minutes pressing her tongue just inside the clutch of her entrance and then pulling back out to trace her folds before doing it again.

She hasn’t even really been meaning to tease – she’s just…taken with the taste of Cerys, with feeling her twitch and flutter. Entirely too taken to be paying much attention to the passage of seconds – or to keep moving her fingers, she realizes. The pleas, though, bring her right back, and she hums into Cerys’ heat before she’s pressing closer, rubbing at Cerys’ clit again as she presses her tongue as deep as she can get it.

Cerys squeals, hips jerking, and Ciri reconsiders her original intention to pull back and say something filthy. Instead, she stays right where she is, shifting in her crouch just to relieve some pressure on her ankles, and tongue-fucks Cerys until the she’s starting to shake and babble.

“Fuck, fuck, you – ah, ah – oh gods, Ciri – ”

Whenever Cerys makes a new noise or starts shaking harder, Ciri follows that as if it were explicit directions, until Cerys is no longer babbling, she’s just making scattered noise, entirely breathless. She’s so hard she could use her cock as a hammer, but all she can really focus on is how sweet Cerys’ cunt is, all of the pretty noises and trembling that she’s working out of her with just her hand and tongue. It’s – heady, and hotter than it has any right to be, and so much more than she’d ever even dared dream about, at least consciously.

Cerys can make jokes-that-aren’t about how far Ciri outranks her all she wants, but in Ciri’s opinion, Cerys is so far out of her league that it balances them right back out. She’s fairly certain Cerys would take offense to that, though, and not at all for her own sake, so Ciri fully plans to keep that as a thought to herself.

She’s almost worried, for a split second, when Cerys’ suddenly goes tripwire-taut, but then her mouth is suddenly flooded with slick and she understands. She groans, but doesn’t let up on her ministrations, working Cerys through the peak of the pleasure and out to quivering on the other side.

“Ciri, Ciri, fuck, oh my gods – ”

She doesn’t stop until Cerys fumbles a hand back and catches at her hair. The feeble tapping at her head is, by itself, ineffectual in making her stop, but she doesn’t want this to tip into the bad kind of overstimulation, so she follows the silent direction and pulls back.

She intends to ask something cheeky about if that was good, but before she can manage more than just the breath in, Cerys is leaning up and turning, the hand still sort of limp against Ciri’s head finding its way into her hair just to tug slightly.

“Please get up here and fuck me,” Cerys pants, tugging at her hair again, and Ciri certainly isn’t going to say no.

It’s not the first time she’s experienced the sensation of her dick overtaking her brain, but she thinks it might be the most intense instance of it.

“Yeah, okay,” she murmurs, and lets go of Cerys just long enough to brace on the side of the tub and the ledge so she can lever herself back to standing. She ignores the tingling in her legs – it’s not bad enough she’ll topple, so it doesn’t matter – and instead bends to press along Cerys’ back, one arm slipping around her waist while the other hand goes to her throat. She nudges at Cerys’ jaw with her fingers until she turns properly and Ciri can kiss her again.

She has to take her hand away to reach down and guide her cock, but Cerys barely seems to notice, at least until Ciri is nudging up against her entrance.

“Yes, yes, fuck,” she gasps, head dropping back down as her knuckles go white around the edge of the tub. “Please.”

“I’ve got you,” Ciri murmurs, lips trailing along the curve of Cerys’ throat in absence of her mouth.

It only takes some more minute shifting, using her other hand to steady Cerys’ hips as she guides herself with the one around her cock, and she’s slipping in. They both make high, shocky little sounds, and Ciri bites at Cerys’ shoulder as her hips jerk.

She wants to go slow, to check in, but Cerys is letting go of the edge of the tub to throw her arm back, fingernails digging into Ciri’s hip when her hand finally finds it, and she doesn’t have much choice with the way she’s yanked, unless she wants to send the both of them tumbling over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

“Fuck me,” Cerys repeats, and Ciri makes a wordless sound of agreement before she’s doing just that.

#Anonymous #celus writes #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #celus trans characters cw

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textales · 11 months

Text

"The Unabomber."

“It was a town, a town without milk.” I made this statement while presenting my milky-white lower leg as if it were a prize-winning cheese curd from some county fair. The saying makes no sense to most people now, but in the mid-1990s it was part of the hugely successful “Got Milk?” campaign by the California Milk Processor’s Board.

“My legs are the color of chicken before it’s cooked.”

“Eeew, take your milk and your chicken somewhere else,” shrieked Joe. We were just waking up and nobody had coffee yet. It was day two of our great adventure - I had convinced several friends to come to my family’s cabin in the teeny town of Lincoln, Montana for a snowmobiling junket over President’s Day weekend in 1996. This was our unofficial fraternity, all five of us working in the radio business in San Francisco. Even though we were in our 20s and 30s, we were behaving a bit like rowdy, drunken college kids on winter break.

The town of Lincoln had maybe five bars and we hit every one at least twice. A favorite was the Seven-Up Ranch, a bar-restaurant that had a few motel rooms and also rented-out cross-country skis and snowmobiles. We took a liking to the bartender who’d recently moved from Chicago. He and his wife were urban ex-pats who, like us I suppose, didn’t quite fit-in here in the middle of nowhere. The husband was okay with living hundreds of miles from the nearest Starbucks, but the wife made no bones about wanting to move back to the civilization of Chicago.

As Joe and I poked around the pool table, a couple families came through the saloon doors. They were wearing brand-new snow suits. Curious, I glanced outside to see two shiny, brand-spanking new black Chevy Suburbans, each pulling trailers with shiny, brand-spanking new snowmobiles. As a kid I was always envious of those rich folk who could afford new Polaris and Arctic Cats and Ski Dos. We were regular folk, and our sleds – although well maintained – were always at least a dozen years old.

Impressed with the shiny new sleds and suits, I was of course curious who these people were and how they ended up here. Perhaps they, too, were fellow urban dwellers from real cities, here to explore the winter splendor of Big Sky Country. Maybe they were just like us, but with deeper pockets? My curiosity was killing me.

I asked where they were from – and I got odd answers. One guy I assumed to be the leader told me he and his family were from Bozeman.

“Oh really? My brother graduated from Bozeman High in 1974 – he would have about your age. Did you know Mike McKiernan?” He didn’t answer, turning quickly to the bartender to order.

Unsatisfied with the non-answer, I redirected my interrogation to a woman from their posse while Joe and Val finished the pool game.

“We’re from Helena,” said the mid-30s woman who probably assumed her prompt and curt answer would shut me up.

“Who was your gym teacher?” I ask this question because my cousin was a gym teacher at one of the two high schools in Helena, so there is a 50/50 chance the answer will be Shirley Chesterfield.

Without responding, the woman led her entire tribe to the dining room in an effort, I suppose, to escape me and my line of questioning.

“Well hell.” I felt slighted since most Montanans are friendly and I had failed in my attempts to connect. Oh well, their loss. These people were more like those “pesky Californians” my father complains about. The type of people who sell their starter homes in LA and move to Montana and pay cash for everything, pushing up property taxes and pissing-off the locals.

“Sure, I’ll have another Miller Lite. Thank you.”

It all made sense six weeks later when we were back in California. Val called me from LA to tell me the Unabomber had been captured at his cabin just a few miles from where we had been terrorizing the countryside with our snowmobiles.

The not-so-friendly crowd in brand-new snowsuits, Suburbans and sleds turned out to be FBI agents. NO WONDER they were so dodgy and didn’t know my brother or my cousin! I felt vindicated.

Lincoln, Montana was at the epicenter of what at the time was the most expensive investigation in FBI history. Agents arrested Ted Kaczynski at his cabin, about ten miles down the road from my parents’ place, on April 3, 1996. Found was bomb-making stuff, lots of hand-written journal pages with damning evidence describing his crimes, and one live bomb.

The town of Lincoln, with a population of 1,000 on a good day, was suddenly a media sensation. Reporters and producers from every network and dozens of media outlets booked every flight and rented every hotel room. Rental cars were sold out, as were RVs.

Hindsight is “20/20” and I realize now how I could have arranged to rent my parents cabin for a pretty penny. A friend living in Denver was a freelance cameraman for ABC News and the network would have easily paid thousands to put-up him and a producer and Barbara Walters for a couple weeks. They could have admired Red’s art carvings while enjoying a “Uniburger” from the bar down the road.

I’m pretty sure the bartender at the Seven Up Ranch ended up in a couple radio interviews, since Val, Kira and Carolyn were producers for morning shows in LA and San Francisco. That bartender got to return to civilization, even if only virtually, for his fifteen minutes of fame.

And decades later, I was at KGO radio in San Francisco when the Program Director was introducing some of the talk show hosts to the sales staff. A small world was made smaller when I got to meet Candace DeLong, an FBI criminal profiler who helped find Kaczynski and at the time hosted a show on our station. She remembered the town, but did not remember the “Uniburger” from the bar down the road.

My mother remembers seeing the Unabomber. “Oh yeah, I remember that guy. I think I saw him at the post office.” I wish she were still around so I could verify, but a nerdy weirdo mountain man really wasn't all that odd in that little town. A town without milk.

#unabomber #ted kaczynski #lincoln

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tchallasbabymama · 3 years

Text

Don't Forget About Us

Hello, my lovelies. Here’s my contribution to @nahimjustfeelingit-writes smut challenge (the prompt is in bold!) Let’s see what Erik’s up to now, shall we?

Don’t forget to check out my masterlist to read my other stories and oneshots. Your comments and reblogs mean the world to me, so make sure to let me know what you think! And let me know if you want to be tagged in any of my writing. Enjoy😘

Word count: 5,595

CW: smut...duh.

youtube

“So, what do you do for a living?”

Kayla sighed internally at the question and took a sip of her Pinot Grigio. She hated first dates with a burning passion, but unfortunately, that was the only way to find a man around here. She went through the motions of politely answering his questions, barely asking any of her own. She didn’t care. Even just fifteen minutes in, Kayla could tell he didn’t excite her, and she lamented the waste of a good outfit as she listened to him drone on about his life. Every now and then, he’d stop and ask a question about her, but she could tell he was only asking so he could talk more about himself.

How many siblings do you have?

What’s your sign?

Why did your last relationship end?

Her mind traveled to her ex-boyfriend, Erik Stevens. They had spent six blissful years together, and Kayla thought he was the one. She wanted them to get married and start a family, and she thought he did, too, but every time she brought it up, he’d find some excuse to change the subject. At thirty years old, Kayla wasn’t getting any younger, so she grew tired of his avoidance and eventually cut him loose. She needed more out of life, but the guy currently sitting across from her certainly wasn’t it.

“We wanted different things,” she answered vaguely and took another sip. It would be a long night with what’s-his-name. David? Devon? Whatever. At least he had money and took her to a nice restaurant.

Darryl took the opportunity to bore her with the details of his job, which Kayla already knew. He was a colleague of her best friend, Carina’s husband. They worked at the same law firm, and Carina decided to hook them up after tiring of hearing Kayla complain about dating apps. As much as Kayla hated Tinder, she would’ve much rather been at home on her couch swiping left on the cesspool of single men Oakland had to offer. Every few dozen swipes or so, she’d find a cutie, but his bio would be abysmal, or his conversation skills would fall flat.

Despite the fact that their relationship just couldn’t make it, Kayla still thought of Erik as the gold standard. Just thinking about his dimples and his struggle beard made her smile dreamily. His big, strong arms would wrap around her and hold her tight at night, and she’d trace her fingers over the intentionally placed keloid scars that held his darkest secrets. She missed retwisting his locs and the way he always smelled like sandalwood and warm vanilla. Kayla didn’t want to admit it, but she still loved him. No man could compare to her Erik.

“Hello? Kayla?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Can you repeat that last part?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. What’s got you so distracted, babygirl?”

Kayla fought the bile rising in her throat. She wasn’t his babygirl. It didn’t even sound right coming from his mouth. Maybe it was the thinness of his lips. They weren’t “white man” thin, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the juicy pussy pleasers she had grown accustomed to.

“Nothing, just thought I saw somebody I know. You were saying?”

“Just that you look beautiful tonight,” Damon attempted to flirt with her.

Kayla wanted to roll her eyes but thanked him instead and smiled politely again. Of course she looked beautiful; she had pulled out all the stops for what she had hoped would be a good night out. Kayla had squeezed her thickness into a lavender satin dress. The way the dress’s skirt cinched on the side kept it snug around her plush waist, but the high slit that traveled up her thigh was the main attraction. The strappy silver heels on her feet showed off her matching pedicure that contrasted beautifully with her glistening brown skin, and her makeup was flawless. Her outerwear for the night, a cropped fur jacket that had found its way to the coat check when they arrived, was the icing on the cake. Her outfit deserved the appreciation, just not from Deshawn.

The waiter saved her from having to focus on her date when she brought out the food they had ordered. Since Kayla knew Derek had money, she had ordered the whole lobster, and she fought her mouth from drooling too much as the waiter set it down in front of her. It laid on a bed of forbidden rice, and the side of roasted brussels sprouts and cremini mushrooms looked heavenly. The ramekin of drawn butter off to the side tempted her as it sat next to the minuscule seafood fork. She may not enjoy her company for the evening, but Kayla damn sure was going to enjoy her meal.

“Looks good,” Dominic called from the other side of the table, breaking Kayla from her trance as he cut into his wagyu beef.

“Sure does.” Kayla wasted no time before digging into her meal. Not only was it the perfect excuse to avoid conversation, but it was perfect, period.

A slight chill permeated the air as the door swung open and the crisp January air entered the small restaurant. Kayla shivered as she complained internally about being forced to sit near the door, but that shiver intensified as she heard a voice. His voice.

“Reservation for Stevens, please.”

Kayla stilled.

“Of course. Right this way, sir,” the maitre d’ responded, and Kayla heard three sets of footsteps coming her way.

--------

“Babe, let’s go!”

“Yell at me one more time, woman,” Erik warned as he came around the corner into the living room, fastening his watch.

“I swear, you take more time getting ready than I do.”

“Whatever, Mo. You ready?”

“Nigga, I been ready!”

Erik rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys. It would be a rough night, and things were already starting off on a bad foot. He and Monique had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and he’d finally reached his limit. She was overbearing, rude, and just after him for his money, but he hated being alone, so he put up with her bullshit. His cousin, T’Challa, had tried to hook him up with a few ladies back in Wakanda when he went to visit after his breakup, but nothing stuck. Almost immediately after coming back to the states, Erik met Monique at a charity event for the Outreach Center. She had the singing voice of an angel and had been booked as the entertainment for the evening. Erik was drawn to her like a sailor to a siren, and she immediately sank her teeth into him. Past her vocal talents, Monique wasn’t really anything special. Her personality left a lot to be desired, she wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, and she just wasn’t her.

The moment Kayla ended their relationship a year ago, Erik’s whole world shattered. He had lived a life full of pain and loss, but Kayla had been his lifeline. She pulled him out of the dark and made him revel in the sunshine. Hell, she was the sunshine, but now he had settled for a UV lamp at best. Kayla had wanted a life that Erik was too scared to give her, but that fear became his downfall. He still missed her most nights. He was lonely, and Monique was there to keep him company, but that wasn’t enough for him anymore. Erik craved a connection that Monique just couldn’t provide. So he decided he had to break it off and figured that doing so in a public place would probably be best. She had a tendency to throw things when she got angry.

The car ride to Chez Martine was tense. Monique had been angry all day because Erik had taken back his credit card even though she wanted to buy a new dress for their date. Her lousy mood almost made him dump her back at his condo, but Erik kept a cool head and stayed focused on the plan. He ignored the way Monique complained the entire time she got ready, reluctantly putting on a dress he had seen her wear before. It didn’t matter to him; he knew what the night held.

When they walked into the restaurant, Erik’s heart dropped into his stomach. He’d recognize that shoulder blade tattoo anywhere. She had cut off all her hair and lost a few pounds, but he knew for sure that he was looking at Kayla. His Kayla. He forced himself to look straight ahead as they passed her table and prayed that the maitre d’ didn’t sit them where she could see him. Unfortunately, he had no such luck because the only open table for two was directly within her line of sight. He prayed again that Monique would sit on the far side of the table, but Bast ignored his pleas once more. He had to sit facing her, and as soon as he got comfortable in his chair, her gaze slyly trailed over to him. They locked eyes across the room, and Erik’s heart stopped. She was just as beautiful as the last time he saw her all those months ago, but who the fuck was that sitting across from her?

“What are you looking at?” Monique’s abrasive voice cut through his eardrums.

“Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I know, that’s all.”

She cut her eyes at him and turned around to look as he buried his face in the menu.

“Quit being nosy,” he complained.

“I just wanna see who’s got your attention, that’s all.” Monique turned back around with a sour look on her face. “It’s probably that fat girl with her cleavage all out.”

“Mo, just look at the fucking menu and act like you got some sense.”

“Fine.”

Monique pouted until the waiter showed up, but she plastered a fake smile on her face as he took their order. As usual, she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, and it bothered him to no end that she was hellbent on spending all of his money. Of course, he had plenty, but she felt entitled to it. Kayla never cared about him being rich. Hell, when they got together, she didn’t even know he was a prince, but he loved to spoil her nonetheless. He loved the look on her face when he’d buy her things or take her on the expensive trips that she more than deserved. Kayla appreciated everything he did for her with all her heart, but she’d say the same thing every time.

“Thank you, baby, but you’re all I need.”

Erik smiled fondly at the memory of when he bought her a diamond tennis bracelet from Wakanda for their second anniversary. She was so excited to have diamonds that weren’t marred by exploited labor that she damn near dropped the box when she saw what was inside. It had been a rough year for them, what with him disappearing for a couple of months to seize the Wakandan throne and all. She certainly had plenty of colorful words for him when he came back. He’ll never forget the look on her face when he showed up at her door. He had brought T’Challa for backup just in case, but she looked right past the king as tears welled up in her eyes at seeing her Erik, alive and well.

Erik’s eyes started to get misty as he thought about the way she kissed him with so much emotion...then slapped him across the face for leaving. His gaze wandered back over to Kayla and he noticed the light bounce off of something on her arm. She was wearing the bracelet.

As if she felt his glare, Kayla shifted uncomfortably in her seat, so he averted his eyes back to Monique, who had caught him staring again.

“Why don’t you go say hi?” she asked sarcastically, making him roll his eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

--------

Erik Stevens. Here, of all places. He just had to be here.

Kayla noticed that he didn’t seem to be enjoying his modelesque date’s company any more than she was enjoying Darwin’s, and the pang of jealousy she felt at seeing him with another woman went away. She knew she had no right to feel any kind of way about it, especially since she was the one that broke things off. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

Dylan was too wrapped up in his steak to notice her wandering eye, but it seemed that Erik’s food was as uninteresting as the woman across from him. Kayla watched as he half-heartedly pushed it around his plate, but he certainly kept his favorite whiskey coming. She wanted to chuckle but didn’t want Daniel to think he had anything to do with her levity. They were both drowning their dissatisfactions in their alcohols of choice, and Kayla got a phantom taste of Uncle Nearest 1856 on her lips as she watched him take a sip. When he set the glass down and licked his lips, Kayla felt flush. She missed those lips…

“So, how about dessert?” Damien asked as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “I hear their creme brulee is amazing.”

“Uh, sure, why not?”

“You know,” he began as he leaned in and reached for her hands. She allowed him to take them, but the softness of his hands disgusted her. No callouses, no roughness, not even a firm grip. “I’ve had a great night. I’d love to see you again.”

Kayla chuckled nervously, unsure of how to proceed.

“What are you doing next-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

A shrill voice pierced the air as Erik’s date bolted up from her seat. Desmond, and the whole restaurant, turned around to see what was going on, and Kayla took the opportunity to remove her hands from his.

“Keep your voice down,” Erik sneered through his teeth. “We’re in public.”

“So?! You bring me out here just to dump me? To dump this?!” she gestured at her slim figure, and he rolled his eyes.

“You ain’t even all that,” he waved her off. He was tired of playing nice, and Kayla could see the exasperation written all over his face.

“Excuse me, miss-” the waiter attempted to calm her down, but the crazed woman cut him off.

“Stay out of this!”

“I’m so sorry,” Erik mouthed to the poor man who would absolutely be getting a monstrous tip later.

“Oh, you’re sorry for him, but not for me?”

“Mo, just sit down. We can finish our meal like adults-”

“Fuck you, Erik.” She threw her dirty martini at him, soaking the front of his all-black ensemble.

Kayla could damn near see the steam coming out of his ears as his apparent ex stormed out of the restaurant. Erik locked eyes with her across the room, and when he saw the concern written all over her face, his softened.

“Whew, poor fella,” Dexter commented as he turned back around. “Where was I? Oh-”

“Excuse me, where’s your restroom?” Kayla interrupted him as their waiter walked by.

“Right down there.” She pointed at a set of stairs off to the side, and Kayla thanked her as she slid out of her seat.

“I’ll be back, Darius.”

“It’s Denzel.” He deflated.

“Fuck,” she froze. She had been sure it was Darius. “Still, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” he responded, obviously upset by her slip-up.

Kayla hurried off down the stairs and leaned against the wall as she waited for either of the single-use restrooms to open up. She took a deep breath and opened her clutch, reaching in to pull out her phone with a shaky hand and typing in his number. It was one of the few she had memorized, just in case.

“You ok?”

Her thumb hovered over the send button, but she couldn’t press it. Her heart nearly thumped out of her chest at the thought of starting a conversation with him, but something within her said that she should. It would be weird not to say anything after all that, right?

“Hey-”

“Shit!” Kayla dropped her phone when his silky baritone graced her ears.

“My fault, ma.” Erik leaned over and picked the phone off the floor, checking it for cracks. He saw she had typed a message out to him and smirked before handing it back to her.

“T-thanks.”

“No problem. And, yeah, I’m ok.”

“Huh?”

Erik pointed at her phone screen.

“Oh! Right. Um, well, that’s good to hear.” Kayla attempted to push her hair behind her ear out of habit, forgetting she had just cut it all off a week ago.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ok? You don’t seem to into ole dude out there.”

Kayla sighed and rolled her eyes, “Oh, him.”

“Damn, it’s like that?” Erik laughed, and she slapped his arm. That slight contact was enough to spark a flame in them both, and Erik’s face turned serious. “For real, though, not going well?”

“Better than you, it seems,” she quipped as she eyed his wet shirt. That was a bad idea because his first three buttons were undone, and she caught a peek of the raised scars that she missed so much. And that broad chest, and the chain with his father’s ring that he always wore. He’d let her wear it from time to time, and she always felt like it was such an honor. He trusted her enough to let her wear it. He loved her enough to-

Kayla pried her eyes away and made yet another mistake: she looked up at him. Those eyes still looked like sweet, sweet molasses, and even though his locs were braided back, she could tell he was letting them grow out. She momentarily wondered who was retwisting them nowadays, but her train of thought was cut short by the scent of sandalwood and vanilla. Kayla’s mind went blank as she inhaled slowly.

“Heh, yeah. That was...that was pretty embarrassing. Not even gonna lie.” Erik looked away shyly, unable to hold her gaze.

“I guess you’ll need to find a new date spot, huh?”

“Nah, I think I’m good on dating for a while.”

“Same,” Kayla sighed. “Dating sucks.”

“Yeah…”

One of the bathroom doors unlocked, and a middle-aged white man stepped out and passed them on the way up the stairs.

“Well, I should-”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Kayla walked towards the bathroom, but before she could reach the door, she felt a light tug on her wrist. His touch still gave her goosebumps, and he noticed her raised skin as she turned to face him.

“I just, uh...it was nice seeing you, Kay-kay.” Erik smiled at her, and she nearly melted. She missed when he called her that, too. “You look good.”

“Thanks, E.” She smiled back. “So do you.”

He let her go, and Kayla disappeared into the bathroom. When she closed the door behind her, she took a deep breath to center herself. After all these months, Erik still took her breath away. He clouded her senses and scrambled her mind. Even as she took care of business, her brain replayed their short interaction on a loop.

Kayla locked eyes with her reflection as she dried her hands. How could she go back up there to- what’s his name? Oh, yeah, Da- Denzel. That’s it, Denzel. How could she go back up there to his mediocre company when the man she still loved had made her feel so alive with just one touch. That was the magic of Erik, his magnetism. When they were together, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him, even when she wanted to slap him across his beautiful face. Those were some of the best times, though. If she was angry at him, he knew exactly what to do to calm her down. To put her in her place. To remind her-

Kayla’s daydreaming was cut short by a knock at the door.

“Occupied!”

It came again.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

She reached for another paper towel to dab off the sweat that had started to pool on her skin at the thought of Erik’s dominance when the door opened.

“What the f- Erik?!”

He pushed inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

“You need to start locking doors, Kay.”

“I- what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” he spoke as he moved closer to her.

“Here?!”

“Yeah, here,” he chuckled.

Kayla rolled her eyes and tried to push past him.

“Now is not the time or place-”

“When is?” he blocked her exit, and she crossed her arms in defeat, looking up at him through her lashes as she leaned against the sink. “Look, I just need to say something real quick.”

“Fine,” Kayla sighed and gestured for him to continue. She knew there was no use fighting him. She wasn’t leaving that bathroom until he was good and ready.

“Kay,” his voice softened, and she looked away only to have her face pulled back in his direction. “Kay-kay, look at me.”

She made the mistake of doing just that, getting lost in his eyes again.

“I miss you,” Erik murmured.

“Erik-”

“Look, I know, ok? I know. And I’m sorry, Kay. I really am- no, look at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you...but I miss you, girl.”

Kayla’s eyes welled up with tears that she tried her hardest to blink away, but one had the nerve to fall. Erik wiped it away, and the next one, and the next one. A sob wracked Kayla’s body, and he wrapped his arms around her body.

“Don’t cry, babygirl. I know you worked hard on your makeup.”

Kayla laughed through her tears, but the emotions washed back over her, and she buried her face into his chest. It was already soaked with gin, so what harm would a few tears do?

He held her and rocked her softly from side to side as she cried, and after a couple of minutes, she found the will to look up at him again. His cheeks were wet, so she reached up and swiped her thumbs over them as she held his face in her small hands. He nuzzled into them and kissed her wrists.

“I miss you, too, E,” she croaked.

“I know, babygirl.”

He leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes as his soft lips caressed her skin. They stayed intertwined for who knows how long until Erik felt Kayla begin to pull back. He looked down at her, and the two of them locked eyes. Before they knew it, their lips had met in the middle in a passionate embrace. They got lost in each other for a moment until common sense returned to Kayla, and she pushed him off.

“We can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because what, Kay?” Erik’s voice rumbled as he closed what little gap was between their bodies. He left soft kisses on her temples before working down to her cheeks, then her jawline, and eventually the column of her neck. She let out a soft whimper when his teeth grazed the crook of her neck but pushed him back again before he could continue any further.

“Erik, I...I still love you, and-”

He attacked her lips with his, hands feverishly gripping her waist as he pushed her further into the sink. She had nowhere to go, and she was ok with that.

“I...love you...too...babygirl,” he whispered between kisses.

Kayla’s mind went blank as he lifted her up on the counter and pressed himself between her legs. She could feel him, all of him, and damn did she miss that monster between his legs.

“Erik,” she moaned as he nipped at her earlobe. He still knew how to play her body like a violin.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“Erik!” she squeaked as she felt his strong hands grip her thighs.

“Just like that,” he groaned, and she flooded her already wet panties.

“Baby-”

He connected his forehead to hers and stared deep into her eyes. “You miss me?”

“Mhm,” Kayla nodded with her lip between her teeth.

“I miss you, too, baby. I think about you all the time. Every day,” he pecked her lips, “every night. I miss everything about you, Kay-kay. Your off-key singing, your horrible cooking-”

“Shut up,” Kayla giggled as his hands traveled up her dress.

“Your body…fuck I miss this body. I miss how you smell, how you taste...how that tight little pussy feels wrapped around my dick.”

Kayla widened her legs for him as his fingers found their way to the seat of her panties, stroking up and down her slit. Erik kissed his way back down her face and over to her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself? Because I do. You’re all I see when I stroke my dick...wishing it was your hand...your lips...this fucking pussy.”

Erik pushed her panties to the side, and his nimble fingers circled her clit. Kayla let out a small moan that was music to his ears, making fingers move faster and her breath grow shallower with each rotation.

“Answer me.”

“Mhm.”

“Come on, babygirl, you can do better than that. You think about me when you play in your pussy? This pussy right here?” he asked as he slapped her vulva, her wetness sticking to his hand.

“Y-yes, baby-”

“Uh-uh, you know who I am. Say it,” Erik commanded as he snuck three fingers inside her wetness, making her moan loudly in his ear. “Shhh, you gotta be quiet, babygirl. You don’t want people out there knowing how much of a slut you are, right?”

Kayla shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I asked you a question, Kayla,” he reminded her. His gruff voice made her weak, and the fingers that were steadily speeding up inside her certainly didn’t help. “Answer me. Who am I, babygirl?”

Kayla tried to hold out as much as she could. She didn’t want to say it, too proud to give in, but the way he was currently stretching out her pussy and curling his fingers inside her made her cling to his shoulders. The bastard knew what he was doing, and she didn’t want to let him win. But then, he played dirty and bit down on her neck. She cried out, and when he pulled back to look at her, the ferocity in his eyes drove her up the wall.

“I said, who the fuck am I, Kayla?” Erik growled. His hand sped up, making her weak with every thrust. She couldn’t hold it anymore and came undone around him, her mouth betraying her as his name fell from her lips.

“Daddy!” she gasped as her pussy spasmed, and he chuckled darkly.

“Damn right I am,” he kissed her lips, “now gimme that pussy. Daddy missed his pussy.”

Kayla heard a rip and felt the cool air between her legs as he tore through her panties to get to her treasure trove. She reached down between them and grabbed his clothed erection in her hand, making him groan as he bit down on his luscious bottom lip. She undid his belt buckle and slowly unzipped his pants before reaching in and pulling out his throbbing dick.

The longing in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, so he pushed her legs back and tapped his head on her clit.

“You want daddy’s dick in you?”

“Mhm,” she whimpered.

“Good.”

He pushed in and groaned at the feeling of her pussy walls gripping him as he sheathed himself inside her.

“Fuck, you feel like home.”

Kayla moaned into his neck in response and wound her hips against him, meeting him thrust for thrust as he stroked into her slow and deep. She couldn’t form words. He felt so damn good inside her that Kayla’s brain had short-circuited. Erik’s dick hit spots that she could never find herself no matter how hard she tried. Even in her dreams, he drove her body wild. She had spent the last year trying to find somebody, anybody who could make her feel that way, but nobody could compare to Erik Stevens.

Erik and Kayla panted heavily into each others’ mouths as he made love to her body, and as soon as Kayla started to tense up, his thrusts grew harder.

“I-I-”

“I know, babygirl. Daddy feels it,” he groaned as he nipped at her bottom lip. “Cum on my dick like a good girl.”

His words sent Kayla into overdrive, and her body shook as she spilled over him. Her spasming walls hugged him tight, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, begging him with her eyes.

“You feel amazing,” she moaned.

“Mhm. I know them other niggas wasn’t hitting it like this. I just know it. Look at you, cumming all over daddy’s dick. Look at it!” He grabbed her chin and made her look down at her throbbing pussy as his dick slid in and out of her.

“We look so good, daddy!”

Erik slammed into her, and she bit into his shoulder to keep from screaming. He gave her his all over and over, rocking the countertop in the process.

“We’ll look even better if you let me cum in this pussy. Mix my cum with yours-”

“Yes!”

“Yes?” He chuckled. “You want it that bad, huh? Nasty ass, in here getting fucked while that bum ass nigga’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“Mmm, I want it.”

“Want what, babygirl?” Erik teased as he brought his thumb to her clit, strumming it slowly as he thrust into her.

“You. I want you to cum deep in me.”

“Shit,” Erik groaned. “You want it deep in there?”

“Mhm. Put it where it belongs, daddy.” Kayla licked up the side of his neck, making his knees buckle. “Cum in your pussy.”

Erik lost all sense of control and pounded into her tight pussy, somehow getting even deeper in preparation for his release. Kayla held on tight as she felt him begin to spasm inside her, and she released around him again as his deep moans tickled her ear. Erik thrust extra deep and held his dick in place as he emptied his balls into her warmth, whimpering lightly as she rubbed his back to soothe him and bring him back down.

“I missed you, babygirl.”

“I missed you, too, daddy.”

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other until their breathing slowed. Erik was the first to move, slowly pulling himself out of Kayla as she whined at the loss of contact. He kissed all over her face before planting a slow, sweet kiss on her lips.

“I can’t let you go again, Kay-kay,” his voice cracked as tears threatened to fall from his eyes again.

Kayla pulled him back in and kissed him so deeply that she nearly lost herself in him again, but he pulled away and looked her in her eyes.

“I’m serious, girl. I’ll do anything. I’ll marry you, give you as many big-headed babies as you want. Just, please, Kay-” she cut him off with another kiss to shut him up.

“We should go back to my place and talk,” she whispered, and Erik’s face lit up. Something about the way she said it, the way she kissed him, the way her body still responded to his...it gave him hope. Kayla smiled at him and pecked his lips once more before hopping off of the sink. He had to catch her because her legs were wobbly, and she stumbled a little in her heels.

“You aight?” he laughed.

“No, nigga,” she slapped his chest, and the two of them got caught in a laughing fit. They had really just fucked in the bathroom at Chez Martine. Kayla was on cloud nine until a thought occurred to her, and her face fell flat. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Erik’s face turned serious, and his eyes scanned over her body, looking for whatever the problem was.

Kayla started giggling again, and he looked confused.

“What is it?” he asked, barely able to keep a straight face. Her laugh was always so infectious…

“Demetrius.”

“Who?!”

“My date.”

“Girl, don’t worry about him. He probably thinks you dipped out anyway.”

Kayla shrugged and fixed her dress as Erik stuffed his shirt back in his pants. They checked their reflections in the mirror, and Kayla was pleasantly surprised that her makeup was still intact thanks to that setting spray she had splurged on the other day.

“Ready?” Erik asked as he admired her beauty. Kayla nodded, and he unlocked the door, opening it to find Duncan leaning against the wall with a sour look on his face. Kayla’s eyes blew wide as she tried to figure out what to say to her date for the evening.

“Heyyy, um…”

“Denzel,” he seethed.

“Yeah, sorry. So, um, we’re-”

“Sorry, bruh,” Erik clapped him on the shoulder, “but we heading out. Bathroom’s all yours, though.”

Erik pulled Kayla along, and she sent Deion an apologetic glance before following Erik up the stairs. It seemed the whole restaurant knew what had occurred, but neither one of them cared. They were just happy to be around each other again. It had been entirely too long.

Taglist: @ladymac82, @kitesatforestp, @harleycativy, @raysunshine78, @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife, @motheroffae, @love-mesome-me,@toni9, @bribrisback, @impremenior, @blacklytical, @uzumaki-rebellion, @honeyandpeaches, @cecereads209, @wakandama2,

#smutchallenge #cecewritessometimes #oneshot #erik killmonger x oc #black!oc #smut #Youtube

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freddie-weaselbee · 3 years

Text

Someone Blue//F.W.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Slight language, angst, a lot of confusion, fluffy ending

Summary: Fred spots a familiar face at his brother’s wedding, and has a sinking suspicion about why she’s acting so upset during this time of celebration.

Prompts: Enemies to Lovers (kind of) and Weddings with the dialogue prompts “you look like you need a hug” and “did you need something?”

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Day 1 of @theweasleyslut‘s 2k writing challenge

Angelina looked absolutely ethereal, skin glowing in the shimmering lights as she glided across the grass as if it was a ballroom floor. Her white dress was slightly stained, mostly from when her now husband tackled her to the ground after their first kiss as a married couple, and yet it only made her seem all the more angelic.

George’s feet seemed to never touch the ground. He was moving at record speeds, prancing and hopping and skipping around the dance floor, dragging his wife along with him. It was the most joyful Fred had ever seen him.

Not when they left Hogwarts, not when they opened their shop, not even when Angelina said yes to the proposal could have compared to the happiness on George’s face. Nor Angelina’s. They were in a pure state of bliss.

The rest of the wedding-goers seemed to match their energy. Fred couldn’t go anywhere without being bombarded with drunken laughs and horrid dancing, and the occasional congratulations or two from some tipsy guests who didn’t know that the man they were talking to wasn’t the groom.

All in all, it was an amazing night. The field behind the burrow had become a traditional wedding venue for the growing Weasley children, so far hosting Bill, Percy, Ron, and now George’s days to remember. The tents and lights were all set up as they were with Bill and Fleur’s wedding, except this time there was no risk of Death Eaters ruining the event. Hopefully.

However, while making his way around to talk to (and flirt with) the guests, Fred happened to notice one person who did not fit the overzealous tone. Well, he didn’t really happen to notice. Rather he’d been staring at her throughout the entire night, watching her somber mood break through her happy façade. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone.

You were standing by yourself, but you weren’t secluded from the action. Rather, you were right in the middle of things, on the very edge of the dance floor, staring out at the masses of bodies swinging their partners around. Your arms were crossed over your chest, a defensive position that Fred had seen so many times in you before.

He turned away and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t any of his business if you were upset. The two of you were barely even friends anymore. You had cut him out of your life so many years ago and never looked back. To this day, Fred still didn’t know why, and it killed him.

He wanted to walk away. To go the other direction toward a beautiful guest wearing a flowing red dress, hair done up perfectly. The stranger would be the smart choice. A fun way to spend the evening, dancing around and snogging under moonlit trees. But, against his better judgement, Fred’s heart wouldn't let him leave.

Sighing, Fred lifted his feet and made his way in the other direction, to the girl who couldn’t care less about him.

You stood unmoving, except for a subtle sway to the music. People brushed by you, but you paid them no mind. You were too focused on something else. As Fred drew nearer, he was able to follow your line of sight to the people in question. The newlyweds.

Fred bristled before softening slightly. Of course. This must be about George. Back at Hogwarts, Fred was positive you had the biggest crush on his brother. You were always tagging along with their jokes, even when they got you into huge trouble. You definitely spent more time alone with George than Fred, sharing whispers and stares at the expense of the older twin. He could never get George to break and tell him what you two talked about. George even took you to the Yule Ball in your 6th year. You had never looked as radiant as you did that night, except for maybe this moment. Fred wished he had asked you to dance at the ball, but he never worked up the courage to. He didn’t want you to internally grimace at the thought of dancing with the “lesser” Weasley twin when George was right there.

In his recollection of memories, Fred hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten to you, and how you were no longer gazing at the couple dancing. You were now staring at him.

“Did you need something?”

Fred was shaken out of his imagination, met with an annoyed glare but soft smile coming from you. His surprise was immediately replaced with his signature cocky grin, leaning his hand onto one of the wedding tables while keeping his gaze on you. Unfortunately, his hand accidentally dipped into a wine glass, but he quickly pulled it out and hoped you didn’t notice. You did.

“Well, that’s not a very nice way to greet one of your oldest friends, now is it?” Fred wiped his wine-covered hand on his suit pants and slipped it into his pocket, pretending to be unbothered by his previous mistake.

You turned your eyes away from him, once again gluing them to the dance floor. “I think it’s fitting, seeing as how you were creepily staring at me for about 5 minutes before I said something.”

Fred’s ears grew pink at the accusation. “I, umm, I didn’t realize it was that long. Or that you noticed. Sorry.” He bashfully rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to glance around at other guests who might interest him more.

“You still haven’t answered me.”

Fred cocked his head to the side in question.

“Why’d you come over here? Was there something you needed?”

“Ah, yes well,” Fred began smoothly, “I saw this darling beauty from across the tent and I just could not take my eyes off of her--”

“Fred,” you interrupted. You were looking at him again, your gaze piercing through him, forcing him to tell you the truth, to tell you everything about him. His fears, his hopes and dreams, what he had for breakfast this morning. He wanted to tell you it all.

“The truth, please.”

Clearing his throat, and his mind of whatever thoughts just plagued him, Fred decided to be honest. You deserved that much.

“You look like you need a hug,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly.

Evidently, those were not the words you were expecting to hear. You were prepared with about a dozen quips to say in response to whatever cocky joke Fred was about to make. But he didn’t, and nothing could have prepared you for what he did say.

“I--I need a what?”

“Sorry, have you lost your hearing or was I not loud enough? It’s definitely not the second; you’ve told me on numerous occasions that I have the biggest mouth of anyone you know.”

There it was. But it still made you giggle, relaxing and gravitating closer to your companion.

“I heard you,” you said, “just wasn’t expecting that from you, I guess.”

Fred took a half step closer, visibly glad when you didn’t move away. “Wasn’t expecting me to have noticed your behavior, or wasn’t expecting me to care if I did?”

It took you a few seconds to respond. “Both.”

He let out a sound of understanding before you both averted your eyes, looking straight ahead. Occasionally, Fred would try to look at you using his peripheral vision, and you would do the same. It became a kind of game--just an awkward back and forth between two people who used to be so close, and were now so far apart.

You game ended when one of the wedding guests decided to clink their glass, beginning a chorus of high pitched chimes to echo throughout the room. You watched as George turned to find Angelina, running to her to give her a kiss so full of love and passion that it took everything Fred had not to shout out a joke and ruin the moment. He could do that next time.

He noticed you stiffen at the kiss, presumably because it was just another reminder of what you couldn’t have. George.

“You know, I always wanted to be a Weasley.”

Fred was surprised that you had spoken to him, and even more surprised about the turn the conversation had taken.

“I grew up with you guys,” you continued, not waiting for Fred to respond. “Molly was like my second mother, even though she always liked Hermione and Harry a bit more than me.”

“Join the club,” said Fred, causing you to laugh loudly, a sound he hadn’t heard from you in ages. Godric, how he had missed it.

“It’s just…” you trailed off, not knowing if you wanted to be open with Fred, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. Chances were, you wouldn’t keep in touch much after the wedding, so you might as well. What was there to lose? “It’s just...seeing Angelina, one of my best friends, dance around, wearing that ring, getting to be an actual Weasley. It’s...it’s making me a wee bit jealous.”

Fred watched you fidget with a bracelet on your wrist and decided to push his luck just a bit more. “And you’re wishing that it could be you wearing the ring, married to a certain Weasley gentleman?”

The shock was evident in your expression. “No, no, it’s not--I mean I never…” Sighing, you decided to come clean. “Yeah, I’ve maybe been harboring feelings for a certain twin for, oh I don’t know, my entire life. No biggie though, it’s totally fine that he never asked me out.”

The ginger beside you threw an arm around your shoulder, handing you a glass of wine in the process. “Drink. It makes everything better.”

You glared at him, but took the glass anyways, chugging it down in a few large gulps. “Another, please,” you demanded, and Fred obliged.

You started to ease into Fred’s side, as soft and comforting as you remembered it to be, before realizing exactly what it was you were doing. “Fred, can I ask you something?”

“‘Course. You can ask me anything.” The absolute last thing Fred wanted to be doing at the moment was talking about your undying love for his twin brother, at his wedding no less, but he didn’t want to leave you alone. Not seeing you for so long had had a harsher effect on him than he thought, and he didn’t want to leave your side.

Taking a deep breath and gathering your courage, you asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind for years. The one that ate you from the inside out and kept you tossing and turning at night. The reason you had to separate yourself from your love in the first place. “Why am I not good enough?”

Your voice broke a tiny bit, but a lot less than you had been expecting. A tear did happen to slip out, and Fred quickly wiped it away, his fingertip resting on your cheek for a moment too long.

“Y/N, love, come here.” Fred pulled you into that hug he had talked about earlier, holding you closely to his chest. If he thought you were going to appreciate the gesture, he was wrong. You pushed him away softly, refusing to let any more tears fall.

“I’m serious, Fred. W-Why am I not good enough? I’ve made it clear for years and yet...nothing. And not even a simple rejection. I could’ve handled that, y’know. If I got a simple no, I could’ve handled it and moved on. But I never did, and it’s killing me. Why am I not good enough?”

It killed Fred to see you this upset, and it hurt him even more to see that the anger was directed at him and not at George. It was his brother that broke your heart after all, not him. “You are good enough!” Fred said, with enough truth and force that a little part of you believed it. “You’re, you’re too good! You’ve been by our side from the beginning and haven’t left it since. Well, we haven’t seen you in years, but that’s probably because of--”

You nodded, confirming what he thought. Your heartbreak had driven you away.

“But other than that,” he continued, “you’ve been like my third arm. Any guy would be crazy to give you up, you know that?”

A tiny smile grew on your face, but was gone as soon as it had arrived. “The timing...the timing was just all wrong, wasn’t it?” you asked.

Fred nodded, watching his brother and his wife greet guests and take pictures that were sure to be on the mantle in the burrow as soon as the wedding was over. “Yeah, I guess so. The prick should’ve asked you out sooner.”

“Oh I agree wholeheartedly, he is a prick,” you said, poking his arm, a gesture that slightly confused him. “So, I’m guessing there’s no chance of anything happening now? No sliver of hope that maybe this could work out?”

He hated that he would be the one to crush your dreams, but he couldn’t let you keep living in false hope. “Well,” he said, “the wedding bands are on and they both said ‘I do.’ Kind of hard to come back from that. I’m sorry.”

You froze, now more befuddled than you had been all night. “I...what?”

Before Fred could say anything you reached to grab his left hand, checking his ring finger for something you knew wasn’t there, but you had to be sure.

“Wedding bands? What in the world do you--” Realization hit you like a brick, and you wanted to slap yourself. Or Fred. Either one. But preferably the latter.

“Frederick, my dear love, who do you think we have been talking about this whole time?” you asked, voice genuine but also teasing.

Fred didn’t know what you all of a sudden found so amusing, but he was already doubting himself and he didn’t want you to make fun of him for whatever he had done wrong.

“Umm, well you said a Weasley, and then you said a Weasley twin. So I thought the answer was obvious.”

“Say it,” you demanded. “Who have we been talking about? Who am I in love with after years of unrequited feelings?”

He felt like he was walking into a trap, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He hesitated for a few seconds before your searing gaze forced him to answer. “George. We’re talking about my brother George.”

No sooner had his words left his mouth than your hand came up to slap his head. “You idiot! Are you serious right now?”

Fred stood flabbergasted, racking his brain for who else you could have been talking about. George was a Weasley twin. You said you were in love with a Weasley twin. Who else was there?

“It’s you, you big oaf!”

Oh. OH! There were two Weasley twins, and he was one of them. Which meant…

“You’re in love with me?!”

By this point, heads were turned to watch the scene and people were not-so-subtly whispering to their partners.

You dragged a still surprised Fred through the crowd and out of the tents, finding a secluded enough area where you could talk.

Fred’s brain had still not been caught up. “It’s me? You’re in love with me? But, but what about George?”

You furrowed your brow, wondering how Fred could have so easily mistaken your feelings for him as those for another. “What about George?”

“You’re in love with him!”

“I most definitely am not!”

“The Yule Ball!” he spat out. “You went to the Yule Ball with him when we were 16!”

“Yes,” you said calmly, “and you went with Angelina, but I don’t see you two getting married. We went as friends and I talked to him about you the entire night. In fact, most of the time when we hung out I was talking about you. Made him swear not to tell though. I was never good about expressing my feelings.”

Fred put a hand to his head, a growing throb threatening to overtake his senses. “But why were you so sad tonight? You wanted to marry George!”

“No,” you said patiently. “I was sad because Angelina and George’s relationship worked out the way I was wishing one between you and I had. They fell in love during school, dated a few years later, and now she’s a part of your family. I wasn’t wishing it was just me out there with your brother. I was wishing that it was our wedding.”

You blushed heavily and buried your face in your hands, embarrassed by your bluntness about your feelings. “Oh, Godric, I shouldn’t have said that, now it’s more awkward. I, umm, I should probably get going.”

Fred grabbed your wrist before you could leave, pulling you into his chest. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging slightly ajar as he gazed down at your muddled expression.

“It’s me. I’m the one you love.”

He said it as more of a declaration rather than a question, but you could tell that he needed confirmation.

“Of course, Freddie,” you said. “It’s always been you.”

His hand wasted no time in going to the back of your head, pulling your face into his and melding your lips together in your first kiss with Fred Weasley. After the shock wore off, you were hastily kissing him back, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t pull back and proclaim what a stupid mistake this all was. But he never did. You kissed and kissed and kissed until you were the one who had to pull back in order to catch your breath.

It took you both a few seconds to realize what had just happened, and for the first time you both were at a loss for words. “That was, umm…” you mumbled, trying to think of what to say.

“I love you too.”

Fred’s words were rushed out of his mouth, voice deep ragged. “I mean, when you said it was me, not George, that you loved. I, well, I love you too. Always have. Guess I just thought that you had a thing for George and I had no chance. Pretty silly of me, huh?”

“Downright stupid of you,” you replied, giggling as he pushed you away with a bashful smile gracing his lips.

“So,” he said quietly, inching closer to you once again, “is there a chance of anything happening now?” Fred repeated the words you had said earlier, making you smile wider than you had all night.

“Depends,” you said. “Are you gonna get the courage to ask me out?”

Fred waited for a moment before answering. “How about,” he said, offering his arm out for you to link with yours, “we have that dance we never got at the Yule Ball. And then that date we never got after, and then that relationship we never got as well. Oh! And then that wedding, and then a dog, maybe a few kids, a big house in the country--”

“Woahhh, slow down buddy, you haven’t ever properly asked me!”

You took his arm and made your way back to where the music continued to blare and festivities raged on.

“Y/N, love, may I have this dance?”

You pushed a strand of hair from his face, ruffling it up a little to give it that signature Fred Weasley style.

“Of course, Freddie. And every dance after that.”

Tag List:

@famdomhideout @amourtentiaa

#theweasleyslut's 2k writing challenge #fredweasleyimagine #fredweasley #fred #fred x reader #fred weasley x reader #fredweasleyfluff #wedding #enemies to lovers

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writtenonreceipts · 3 years

Note

a prompt?

single parent trope for feysand, pretty please?

more prompts for this would be great, otherwise you get my rambling mind and we all know how that goes...

Find my main masterlist here

An Intimate Display of Insecurities and Hopelessness

The air-conditioning was out. Again. And Feyre had already stripped down to a tank-top and shorts. The heat was miserable.

“Sweet mercy,” she muttered as she stood in front of the large fan she’d bought yesterday to try and keep things cool. It wasn’t working.

Feyre brushed her hair from her sweaty brow and bit back a curse. This day was not going at all the way she’d wanted it to. It had taken her far to long to get anything started, not to mention coordinating with Elain on how she wanted to participate in the shop.

It was only three days to her deadline to get her shop up and running. Three days to get pallets made, canvases designed, and interior design finished. All in one-hundred-degree weather and boob sweat.

She turned back to the mess of her shop. This was going to take more work than she had time for. Or sanity.

The front door opened behind her with a clatter. Feyre wasn’t that concerned about it, knowing she was getting some things delivered.

“Just leave the deliveries on the floor,” she said, not looking back. She was trying to have a vision of what she was going to accomplish, a vision that would be epic and glorious.

“Excuse me?”

Feyre spun at the smooth voice and nearly stumbled. The most attractive man she’d ever seen was standing in her shop. His black pants were crisp and cleanly lined and his black shirt was rolled up to the elbows, displaying his tanned skin. He was tall, lean, and with his black hair swept neatly back.

Feyre felt sweat roll between her breasts. Oh hell.

“Feyre Archeron?” He asked and took a step forward while holding out his hand. “Rhysand Avitas. I’m the new building manager.”

A dozen curses ran through her head as she did her best to wipe her sweaty hand on her shorts inconspicuously. Because of course she knew who Rhysand Avitas was. Everyone in their small town did. He was the son of the police chief and now the youngest elected mayor in Valeris history.

He had also been just a year ahead of Feyre in school. So she knew the kind of person her was. At least, she thought she did.

“Rhysand, of course,” she said as she took his hand. The heat didn’t seem to effecting him. Jackass. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time.”

Indeed, it was half-past two right when she’d told his assistant that he could come by the shop. And see that everything was in order for her opening deadline. Except she hadn’t really expected him to show up.

“Not a problem.” He smiled in such a charming way that Feyre found herself wanting to hate him.

But Feyre already did hate him. He had bought the building just two days after her father’s death. Just two days after the building was up for sale. She hadn’t even had the time to get funds together to convince the bank that she could buy the lease herself. Now, she was going to have to open her shop under him.

In school he had been captain of the football team, president of the ASB club. He had been the kind of person Feyre had never wanted to interact with. High and mighty, proud and cruel. He’d worn a mask of indifference to anyone beneath him, she was convinced.

Feyre cleared her throat. “Things are a little messy right now, but it’ll be ready for opening day on Monday.”

Rhysand nodded as he walked around the shop. Bits of wood crunched under his too fancy shoes and dust clung to his pants when he brushed up against one of the pallets that Feyre was still trying to decide how to convert into a display case.

“You’re a painter, correct?” he asked. He looked over his shoulder at her and Feyre was taken aback by his eyes. Bright blue—so bright that she could have sworn they were violet. And damn her if she didn’t want to at least try and draw them.

“Yes,” she replied. “My sister does some gardening and does floral arrangements and I’m planning on having her sell some of her work here as well.”

“I remember,” he said, “Mrs. Ellis always made sure all of her classes knew about her protegee.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. The high school art teacher had been someone no one really liked. Aside from her. Maybe it was just because Feyre had wanted someone to pay attention to her, but the woman had always been nice to Feyre.

“My work wasn’t that good back then,” she said. And it was true, it had taken years of study and experimentation to get to where she was now. Ten years after those miserable high school years and here she was, finally maybe a little bit confident with what she could do.

Rhysand said nothing, only observed. “And you’re sure you’ll be ready by Monday? No offense Miss Archeron, but it seems like a lot needs to be taken care of. You assured the bank, and my assistant, that your shop was worth allowing in the complex.”

Feyre’s mouth pursed as she watched his man before her. With his impeccable clothing, that silver watch on his wrist, it was hard to imagine that he’d had any hardships in his life.

“Yes, and I keep my word,” she said, her voice cold enough to rival any a/c. “What I would like to know is why the air conditioning still isn’t fixed. It’s been this way for a week now.”

“It’s being looked into,” Rhysand said.

His gaze turned sharp as he looked her over again. Something passed over his face that Feyre didn’t care to try and understand. She just wanted this man out of her shop so she could get back to work.

“Was there something in specific that you wanted to discuss?” she asked, “or were just interested in questioning my ability to run a shop?”

He smirked at her and shook his head. “You always did have that fire in you, didn’t you?”

Feyre was ready to tell him to get out when a soft cry caught her attention. She held up a finger to silence him as she listened. Maybe she’d imagined it. Hell, she hoped he’d imagined it. Unfortunately the cry came again.

“Just a minute,” she said.

She hurried to the back of the shop where a door led into what would be used for the breakroom. It was a few degrees cooler back there, which was why she’d set it up for it’s current use.

Sitting up in the pack-and-play was her daughter. Seren with her golden hair and large blue eyes looked up at her and cried again.

“Momma!”

Immediately, Feyre scooped her daughter up. Seren latched on with a snake-like grip. Her arms wound around Feyre’s neck tightly.

“Hi baby,” Feyre murmured. “Why are you awake?”

It had only been a half hour since Feyre’d put her down, she’d been hoping for at least one hour of uninterrupted work.

Seren said nothing and only whimpered into Feyre’s neck. As Feyre whispered to her daughter to sooth her, she went back out into the main part of the store to find the diaper bag she’d packed that morning. In one of the insulated pockets, she found a bottle of apple juice.

“Here, honey,” Feyre said. Seren snatched the bottle and began drinking, tears still rolling down her cheeks. “Okay, there we go. Momma need to talk to Mr. Avitas okay, can you let me do that?”

Seren nodded and the almost two-year-old tucked herself right against Feyre’s neck.

Pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, Feyre turned back to Rhysand who stood right where she’d left him. The hard look in his eyes was gone and whatever hard-ass talk he was no doubt going to deliver evaporated.

“It seems I was wrong,” Rhysand said, “you do have some help, don’t you?”

Seren wiggled in Feyre’s arms to get a better look at the man, her bottle sticking in one cheek.

“Momma,” Seren said, her voice just slightly muffled.

“Yes, you are my big helper,” Feyre agreed, “even when you get into my paints.”

Seren beamed up at her. “I help.”

Feyre snorted a bit of laughter. Help. Sure. There were some painted handprints on the wall that aid otherwise.

“Did you have any other concerns you needed to address, Mr. Avitas?” Feyre asked.

He seemed so taken aback that Feyre had had her daughter in the back room napping that it took him a moment to speak again. It would have been amusing if the man hadn’t been so annoying to begin with.

“She looks just like you,” Rhysand said.

That was the last thing Feyre’d expected. She quirked a brow at the man. She knew it was true. Seren, thank the heavens, looked like an Archeron. There was barely a trace of her father. Something Feyre would give thanks for every day.

Feyre heart gave a painful squeeze. Of course that was what he meant.

She met his gaze, holding it for a long moment. Her hold on Seren tightened automatically, something she always did when she remembered her baby’s father.

“Yes, she does,” she whispered. Feyre wondered what Rhysand could possibly know. When she’d moved back to Valeris two years ago, just after she’d found out she was pregnant, she scrubbed her life clean of that man. Rhysand couldn’t possibly know who the father was. Even if he did, he shouldn’t care.

“Right,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. Once again, an un definable look flashed over his features, and disappeared just as quickly. “I’ll see what I can do about the air-conditioning.”

“Good,” Feyre said, “I’d hate to have to delay opening.”

And much to her surprise, Rhysand laughed. “Of course not. That would be rather inconvenient, wouldn’t it?”

He turned back to the door and looked as though he would leave without saying anything else, until he paused. He seemed to be having an internal dilemma when he looked back to Feyre.

“If there is anything I can help with, let me know.”

The words were halting and careful. Feyre wasn’t sure how to read them, how to respond. So she only nodded.

i wanted to add more to this for the first part, but well here we are...

tags

@aelinchocolatelover // @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx // @bamchickawowow // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @courtofjurdan // @sassys-world // @sleeping-and-books // @superspiritfestival // @chieflemming // @julemmaes // @lysandra-ghost-leopard // @firestarsandseneschals // @emikadreams // @rapunzel1523 // @booksofthemoon // @highladysith // @fangirlprincess09 // @rowaelinismyotp // @vanzetanze // @jlinez // @cassianscool // @stardelia // @my-fan-side // @sjmships // @tillyrubes10 // @acourtofsjmtrash // @hellasblessed // @rhysandswhore // @story-scribbler // @post-it-notes33 // @live-the-fangirl-life // @strangevil321 // @whythefuckdoiexist // @pastasiren // @beanco8 // @lemonade-coolattas @foreverfallingforthestars // @surielandiareendgame // @feysand-loml

#feysand #feysand au #single parent au #acotar fics #acotar au #acotar #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #rhysand

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reinvent-and-believe · 3 years

Note

48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #the witcher #my fic #anon asks #prompt fill #thank you so much for this absolutely lovely prompt!!!!! i'm so sorry it took me months to actually filling it!!!

1K notes · View notes

nat-20s · 3 years

Text

for @jonmartinweek day 8! (which I definitely realized was happening and for sure did not forget lmao). The prompt was free day/au, so I picked my own theme of “pets”. The last few fics have been pretty loaded, so please enjoy some pure post canon (literal and figurative) fluff

~*~

“I can’t believe I married a dog person.”

They weren’t even supposed to be in the shelter. They had made no plans to visit a shelter. However, as Jon has been learning over the course of the past couple years, a Martin not under duress and given free time outside will inevitably end up trying to befriend any living nonhuman creature in the immediate vicinity.

“I’m not a dog person.”

“The lapful of beagle puppy would indicate otherwise.”

“Just because I appreciate the company of a very good boy, yes you are, doesn’t mean I’m a dog person. Dog person implies I have a preference. I like cats equally as much as I like dogs. Unlike some of us, my heart is open to all manner of furry friends.”

“I don’t...hate dogs.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why you won’t pet Rufio here?”

“He’s nippy, I don’t trust him. And it’s just that dogs are A Lot. I find most of them a bit overwhelming. And needy.”

“Pff, that’s no excuse. You’ve been best friends with overwhelming, and you married needy.”

Martin lets out a distracted giggle as Rufio finally gets in a lick on his face. Okay, maybe it is a pretty adorable sight, but that’s hardly sufficient enough evidence to actually let such an energetic ball of fluff into their home. Still, it’s enough to convince Jon to sit down next to them, and give Rufio a very tentative scritch behind the ears. “I think we both qualify as the needy one in our relationship.”

“Pretty sure that’s called codependency. What would our therapist say?”

“She’d probably say that’s a bit harsh. And that we still need to work on our separation anxiety.”

“Hey, you know what helps with separation anxiety?”

“No.”

“A dog!”

“No!”

They get a dog. Their flat is decently sized and they both have steady incomes and enough free time between them to take proper care of her. They don’t get Rufio, but instead a 7 year old mutt named Daffodil who is, admittedly, the most gentle and sweet creature Jon’s ever met. They also get a cat, a rambunctious 2 year old tabby named Jack (“We can change the name.” “Jon! How dare you! Jack responds to his name, clearly he likes it!”) who had already decided Daffodil was his mom, and they couldn’t possibly bear not adopting them together.

~*~

“You know, we could get a tarantula.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious! They’re not, like, evil in this universe, and some of them have cutest little pink toesie woesies.”

“You’re not serious, you’re being a bastard, and I hate you.”

Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and presses a kiss to the side of his face, which Jon gives a half-hearted swat at, because, again, the man’s being a bastard. Stubbornly ignoring Jon’s pout, Martin presses his cheek to the top of Jon’s head, cheerfully replying, “I’m fine with that, as long as you promise to hate me for the rest of our lives.”

“Well, I certainly can’t make that promise. I won’t even hate you ten seconds from now. I suppose you’ll have to settle for love instead.”

“Hmm. Deal.”

“We’re still not getting a fucking tarantula.”

They do not get a tarantula. Their home remains admirably spider free.

~*~

Martin’s gasp is loud enough to echo, and Jon can feel him begin to vibrate next to him. The excitement is perplexing at first, they’ve been to this bookstore dozens of times, and it’s never elicited this sort of response. Then Jon looks over to the front counter, where a medium-sized cage and a “For adoption” sign have been put on display. With a wild, jubilant glee, Martin asks, “Sonja! Are those baby. Dumbo. Rats?!”

“Sure are! I’ve got a friend who’s a breeder, I take it you’re interested?”

“Yes, absolutely, 100%, we’re getting two immediately.”

“Well…”

Martin snaps his head over to look at Jon with a look of betrayal the likes of which Jon hasn’t seen since the panopticon. “Jonathan, no!”

“Um.”

“You can not tell me you you don’t like rats! Dumbo rats especially!”

“I…”

Ticking off on his fingers, Martin lists, “They’re adorable, they’re smart, they’re cleanly, they’re extremely empathetic, they’re tickilish, which is stupidly cute, they can be trained to use a litter box and do tricks, they’re snuggly and playful and perfect! They’re all the good parts of dogs combined with the best parts of cats in one tiny portable package! Look at their little ears, that are like that because of a slight difference in skull shape that has no negative health effects! Plus, we can set them up in the project room, since Captain Jack isn’t allowed in there anyway. How can you dislike rats?”

“I don’t know! They just sort of..freak me out. Or not all of them, just their feet. I don’t like their little man hands.”

Martin throws his arms in the air, proclaiming, “Their little man hands are one of their best qualities! Look, Jon, are you genuinely afraid of them, or just slightly discomfited?”

“I would say mediumly discomfited. This isn’t like spiders.”

“Cool. ‘Cause in that case, we’re getting the light tan one and the solid white one, their names shall be Peaches and Cream, and you will love them as much as you love our dog and cat children.”

“That’s a rather bold claim.”

“It’s an accurate one. You’ll see.”

Within a week, Jon is transporting Peaches ‘n’ Cream in the pocket of his hoodie, and he can feel Martin’s smug aura from two rooms away. Damn him.

~*~

“Did you know snakes don’t have an amygdala?”

“Okay? You didn’t have to bring me to a reptile store to tell me that.”

“I didn’t bring you to a reptile store to tell you that. I brought you to a reptile store because I want to hold a cornsnake.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but the fondness in his voice somewhat undercuts it. “Of course you do.”

Martin makes a scaly acquaintance in less than two minutes, and as the snake coils around his fingers, he continues, “Anyway, if they don’t have amygladas, do they feel fear in a way similar to us, or is it only a recognition of threats and instinctual response?”

“Martin, my love, I have no idea. Is this going somewhere? It’s fine if not, I’m just checking in.”

“Yes. Because if they don’t feel fear, I’m getting this snake and naming her Georgie.”

That makes Jon let out a sharp bark of laugh, and, for a moment, he’s able to reminisce without any pain. “You know, I think she’d actually love that? She also had a proclivity for all creatures great and small. And a terrible sense of humor.”

“Wow, you really have a type, huh. Also hey! My sense of humor is fantastic! It always makes my husband laugh, and he has very exacting standards.”

“Liar. Your husband finds joy with you at the slightest provocation, no good sense of humor needed.”

“Hmm. He is a bit of a softie, isn’t he? Which is why he’ll let me get this snake.”

“He most certainly will not.”

“But….look at her….”

“It’s not a matter of how cute she is, dear. It’s a matter of you made us get pet rats less than a month ago, there’s absolutely no way you’re going to be able to feed mice to a snake.”

Martin looks at the cornsnake, looks at Jon, looks back, and his shoulders slump. With a wince, he asks, “Maybe frozen mice won’t be too bad?”

“What if she’s picky?”

“...There are species of snake that only eat bugs.”

“Cornsnakes aren’t one of them.”

Waving over an assistant, Martin puts the cornsnake back with a defeated, “Fine. When you’re right, you’re right.”

Jon doesn’t particularly feel like he’s won an argument. In fact, he’s a bit disappointed himself, he always liked snakes. Big fan of reptiles in general, actually, which is probably what drives him to say, “Lizards don’t usually eat mice.”

That’s how they walk out of the store with three leopard geckos.

~*~

Jon’s helping Martin set up the gecko tank in what can now be affectionately called a zoo when all of the sudden it strikes him. Some of the animals in their home right now have life spans of 10-20 years, and never once had the necessary longevity of care come up as a reason to protest against them. Jon had felt so at ease with the concept of a future that he hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t been steeling himself for the other shoe to drop. He’s stopped having bated breath every time something good happens, instead taking reassurance in a sense of permanence that he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again. Martin must hear his breath hitch, because he immediately stops what he’s doing to take Jon’s hand into his own. “Something wrong, love?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, nothing. I suppose I’m realizing that we have time, don’t we?”

Martin must know exactly what he means, the weight behind the words, because he brings Jon’s hand to his lips and says, “Yes. Yes, we really, really do.”

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #tma #post canon #THIS IS JUST ME PROJECTING ON MARTIN FOR 1500 WORDS LMAO #also to anyone that spots the song lyric: :3 #also also the leopard geckos names are kirk spock and bones #or as jon calls them #captain first officer and CMO

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going-dead · 3 years

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Lightning Scars and Listening Ears

Phic phight prompt by @datawyrms : Danny Phantom's jumpsuit is hiding a secret he'd rather not reveal to anyone. (feel free to be metaphorical if you want.) l

Team Human: @currentlylurking

Most citizens of Amity Park often forgot that Phantom wasn’t human. Sure he would fly through the skies, turn invisible, and shoot ectoplasm at the ghosts who would attack the city on a daily basis, but the way he acted when not saving the city always seemed so alive. That’s where the problem lied though. The ghost kid wasn’t alive, a fact that Amity Park never actually thought much about.

Phantom was playing around with some kids in the park when it all happened. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to see the boy play with the younger citizens of the city, under their parents supervision most of the time. Seeing him give them piggyback rides and playing tag was actually a common sight when there were no ghosts to fight. Phantom had six different kids hanging off of his arms and legs, apparently trying to tackle him and get him to fall down. The group of parents laughed at the sight as the teenage hero fell to the ground admitting his defeat in a dramatic flourish. “Ahh you got me! Foul villains, you will regret this!” He laughed as he lunged at the closest kid and launched a tickle attack. Childish squeels rang out as the uncaptured children ran trying to avoid being tickled. The little girl in his arms was finally released from her attacker when she turned on Phantom and started to tickle him back. His laughter attracted the other kids who scattered and they joined the counter attack.

“I yield I yield!” He flailed his arms as a dozen little hands tickled any spot they could reach. The kids slowly let up their assault leaving the teen gasping for breath.

One of the children, the girl who started the attack on Phantom, pulled on his arm. “Mr. Phantom? What’s that did you get a owie?” She asked pointing to his neck where part of his jumpsuit wrinkled down revealing a few red raised streaks maring his skin.

Phantom froze eyes jumping over to the adults just a few feet over who had stopped their conversation to try to see what the young girl was asking about. He quickly pulled the collar of his suit back into place. He gave the girl and the other kids surrounding him a pained smile. “Yeah I did get an owie. Don’t worry though I’m fine, doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Suddenly blue frost escaped his lips, the adults sitting nearby never saw him more relieved to have a ghost show up than in that moment. He gave quick goodbyes to the kids before shooting off to find the day's threat to the city.

All the adults gathered waved over their respective kids. While they trusted Phantom to get rid of the threat it was always smart to stay inside during a ghost attack. A loud boom sounded in the direction where Phantom flew off, shaking the ground. They all gave each other uncertain looks. “My house is closest we can take shelter there.” One of the men said leading everyone away.

After a block of running the group was almost to shelter when the ghost fight moved over their heads. The adults grabbed onto the children doing their best to shield them from the flying debris. They held the kids against their chests as they watched the sky in horror. They didn’t recognize the attacking ghost, but it was certainly doing a number on Phantom. The rest of the battle lasted at most a minute when Phantom managed to suck up the ghost into his thermos before he seemed to wobble in the sky and falling to the ground creating a small crater where he landed.

The man who was leading the group passed off the kid he was holding to the man next to him. “David what are you-?”

“Brian just hold her.” He ran over to the fallen teen and picked him up in a fireman's carry and rushed the rest of the way to his house.

Once he arrived he kicked open the door and placed the teen onto the couch in his living room. He looked down trying to assess the situation. Phantom’s jumpsuit was torn in numerous places exposing spots of his arms, neck, and chest that had splatterings of green ectoplasm across the exposed flesh. He started taking the rest of the jumpsuit off of the teen wanting to make sure there were no hidden injuries underneath. Behind him he could hear his husband and the other parents come through the door. “Get me a wet rag and some warm water!” He yelled behind him.

Once he was handed the items he started working on cleaning up the cuts and wiping off the ectoplasm. He silently thanked any higher being out there that he took a first aid class a few years back. The wounds actually seemed less severe than what David initially thought, that or the kid had some seriously advanced healing. One of the parents led the kids upstairs while the rest of them crowded around David and Phantom.

Once Phantom was as patched up as he could be David finally sat back and actually took a full look at the boy. His breath caught in his throat as he examined the body infront of him. In the end all he could get out was.“Oh my god. He’s- he’s dead.”

“What the hell do you mean? Of course he’s not, I can clearly see him breathing right now.” One of the parents protested.

David shook his head. “No.” He went to run his hands down his face before spotting the blood- no the ectoplasm covering them and settled for grabbing onto his husband for support. “No, I mean he’s a ghost.”

“Well yeah he’s a ghost it’s not like that’s news now is it?” Brian said running his hand up and down his husband's back.

“You guys don’t get it.” David pulled back. “Think! Look!” He ran his hand through his hair, staining it green. “Look at him.” He pointed at the teen’s unconscious body. There were lightning shaped scars running all over the boy’s body, from the base of his neck trailing all the way down to his ankles. Those weren’t the only scars marring his body though, small scars were scattered all over his body, there was a rather large one on his abdomen in the same spot where he was hit the other week fighting off a ghost who was attacking the high school. The gathered adults looked back at Phantom’s face. As he slept he almost looked like a normal teenager, there were small bags under his eyes, his closed eyes hid the toxic green color, and the glow surrounding him was almost nonexistent.

Three things seemed to dawn on the parents all at once.

1: Phantom at some point had died

2: He died young, at most he was just out of middle school when it happened.

3: From the looks of it he didn’t die in his sleep but painfully. They all silently hoped that at least it wasn’t drawn out.

As they all looked at each other they couldn’t help but think of their own children who were just upstairs. Did Phantom have a family? Did his parents miss their little boy? Do they know that Phantom was their son? Even worse, the boy had a jumpsuit on when he died, was his parents the cause of his premature death?

Of course if Phantom was conscious, didn’t have to worry about the whole identity thing, and could read their minds the boy would quickly put their minds to rest responding; yes, no he sees them daily, god no, and sorta it really was more of a case of teenage stupidity than his parents fault though.

Two of those issues though were quickly resolved as two white rings shocked the group out of their grief for a boy they hardly knew. The rings traveled across the boy’s body replacing bare skin with street clothes and white hair with black. Everyone looked at Phantom(?) confused, the boy in front of them was very unghost-like and the scratch on his face that was previously bleeding green now had a red where the scab was forming.

“What the fu- wait isn’t that the Fenton kid, Danny I think?” David asked looking back at the other parents who were in the same amount of shock that he was. Actually he was positive it was him, his older sister Jazz used to babysit their daughter and he would sometimes come along. If someone was going to respond they were cut off as the boy in front of them started to stir and open his eyes. He sat up almost falling off the couch in his panic, thankfully David was quick enough to catch him. “Woah there Danny, be careful you took a pretty bad beating out there. Hell I’m surprised you’re already awake to be honest kid.”

Danny gave him a thankful smile as he steadied himself. He froze once he caught a glimpse of his hair, his eyes shot down to his clothes. He looked back up and noticed the group of adults in front of him. “Now before you jump to any conclusions there’s a very reasonable explanation for this, or there will be just give me a few minutes.” “Wait so does this mean you’re not dead?” Brian asked.

“Brian you can’t just ask that! What if it’s a sensitive subject?” David scolded his husband then looked over at Danny. “Sorry about him.”

Danny looked over to the men who for some reason had hope in their eyes. “What? It’s fine. I mean I guess no- well yes- no- sorta- it’s complicated.”

As Danny looked at the numerous questioning eyes he sighed. It’s not like he could convince them that it was a trick of the light or something. And he did owe them since they patched him up better than he would have been able to at home in his bedroom. But before he could start he turned to David. “I’ll tell you guys everything but first um… is that my ectoplasm in your hair and on your hands? Because if so you probably should wash that off, prolonged exposure isn’t harmful per say but you could start to glow or something if you don’t wash it off soon.”

David looked down to his hands, apparently just now remembering he was still covered in the boy’s ectoplasm and rushed to the bathroom to wash it off. He’d worry about why the sight of his own blood- ectoplasm didn’t phase Danny at all later.

Once David returned, now free of ectoplasm, Danny sat down and started from the beginning. At one point in the story he must have started to cry because he was handed a tissue box, which he accepted with a thanks. By the end he wasn’t the only one with tears in his eyes, one of the adults had to go into the kitchen to compose themselves. Danny didn’t really understand why though, sure he sort of half died, but he didn’t see why it would affect any of them. “Hey! It’s fine, I’m fine it’s not a big deal! I mean it’s not like it only happened to me. Vlad went through it too like 20 years ago.” Danny seized up after he said that. “Don’t tell him you know about him though! Me not telling anyone about him is the only reason he’s not trying to fully kill me when we fight. That and he has a weird obsession with my mom and me.”

David paused at that. “So you’re telling us that not only did you go through a highly traumatic situation at a young age, but the only adult that even knows about it has tried to kill you multiple times?”

“I mean I guess but Jazz, my sister, knows about it too and she’s older than me and my friends.”

“Danny she’s also still a kid, an older one sure, but she is not an adult. Even if you didn’t go to your parents, was there no one else you could have talked to about it with? A therapist maybe?” David asked.

Danny laughed. “Ah no, Jazz tried having me go to the school therapist but she turned out to be a ghost who wanted to try to cause as much pain as possible. She even almost killed Jazz in front of the whole school.”

“Dear god.” David sighed. “All right, we will all keep your secret on one condition.” Danny cringed and looked down at his lap, of course there was a catch. He just hoped it wasn’t anything too bad like letting them run a bunch of experiments on him whenever they wanted to. His ghost injuries were bad enough to hide from others, he didn’t need to have to explain away needle marks or something. “You’ll see Brian once a week for therapy sessions. He’s a licensed psychiatrist.”

“Wait what?” Danny looked up confused.

“Oh don’t worry I won’t charge you of course since we are forcing you to do this, and obviously you can choose the day of the week. I usually don't work fridays or the weekends but if those are the only days that work I’m sure we can rearrange some of our family time to make room for you.” Brian smiled. “Now it’s getting pretty late isn’t it? I’m sure it’s about time everyone here starts to head home now hmm? Of course if you aren’t feeling well enough Danny I can call your parent’s up and just let them know you’ll be staying here. I’ll just tell them you were injured in a ghost fight, not exactly lying now is it?”

“Um no I’m fine enough to walk home thank you though.” Danny said. Everyone started saying their goodbyes and calling the children down to get them ready to leave. Danny was the last one left, he was almost out the door when he was stopped by David handing him a piece of paper.

“Here are our numbers, I also wrote down where Brian’s office is, you can set up your appointment over text. As well as our address, you can stop by or call us for any reason Danny and I mean it okay, any.”

Danny looked down at the paper and pocketed it with a nod. As he left he felt almost lighter for some reason. Maybe having adults who knew and didn’t want to kill him but actually wanted to help him wasn’t so bad after all.

#Danny phantom #phic phight 21 #Phic Phight #dead writes #My fic

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years

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Just the Girl

Day 21, Story #2 is by @adenei

Title: Just the Girl

Author: adenei

Pairing: Scorose (implied)

Prompt: Songfic

Rating: K

TW: alludes to events in CC, but nothing outright is stated!

A/N: This fic’s idea was originally inspired by the song “Just the Girl” by Click Five. It ended up taking a turn I wasn’t anticipating, but if anyone’s read Cursed Child, you’ll know that Scorpius is absolutely smitten with Rose, who tends to give him the cold shoulder and turns his nose down on him throughout the majority of the play.

‘Cause she’s bittersweet; she knocks me off of my feet

And I can’t help myself; I don’t want anyone else

She’s a mystery; she’s too much for me

But I keep comin’ back for more; she’s just the girl I’m lookin’ for

“Scorpius, relax.”

The older blonde pats his teenage son on the shoulder as they approach the lopsided house at the end of the country lane. Twenty years ago, Draco would have never entertained the thought of mingling with any of the three individuals that made up the Golden Trio, let alone the rest of the Weasleys. Yet here they were, at the invitation extended to them by Albus, Harry’s son and Scorpius’s best friend, to the Weasley’s mid-summer birthday celebration. His late father is probably rolling in his grave as Draco takes each step forward, cognizant of the dust that tinges his favorite pair of Grensons.

“I can’t, Dad! Do you know how big of a deal this is to get invited to the Burrow?”

“So you’ve told me every day since Albus owled two weeks ago.”

It’s not that Draco resents his son’s friendship with the middle Potter boy. If anything, he’s grateful that Scorpius has found such a close friend during his time at Hogwarts. Sure, the two of them caused enough trouble in five years that rivaled Harry’s penchant for saving the world, but that was all water under the bridge now. Draco is sure the invitation was only extended to them today because of his willingness to work with the Potters and Granger-Weasleys to avoid what was sure to be an end to life as they knew it if Delphi had succeeded in her maniacal plan.

As they round the subtle bend in the path, the Burrow’s expansive garden comes into view, and Draco can see a plethora of people swarming the grounds. A dozen teenagers are flying around a makeshift pitch in what looks like a pick-up Quidditch match while the adults sit along the magically expanded picnic table, sipping on beverages and watching the game unfurl.

“Thanks for letting me come,” Scorpius interrupts Draco’s observations as he bounces along beside his father.

“Scorpius, we’ve been over this. Just because Albus’s dad and I don’t always get along, I won’t let that get in the way of your friendship.”

His son beams up at him with a wide smile. “Are you gonna stay for dinner?”

Draco chuckles. “That will depend if I’m welcome. Though I’ll probably just exchange pleasantries and be on my way after I figure out what time you’ll be home.”

“Great!”

As they approach the house, it doesn’t take long for Albus to spot the blonde-haired pair. He’s sitting on the sidelines, which is unsurprising to Draco, considering neither boy inherited any interest or skill in quidditch. Albus scrambles to his feet and begins running toward Scorpius to meet them halfway. Draco is about to make a comment about how excited Scorp’s best friend is to see him but pauses when he notices his son’s gaze peering around the pitch instead.

Well, that’s odd.

“Scorp! Scorp! Over here!” Albus calls, finally gaining Scorpius’s attention.

“Hey, Al!” Scorpius’s tone is bright and excitable as Albus slows in front of them.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” He’s out of breath from the run, but that’s not what interests Draco.

Why wouldn’t Albus know Scorpius was coming? Did he forget to send a response?

Scorpius did have a knack for forgetfulness, so it wouldn’t be surprising to Draco. He watches his son with renewed interest to see how he responds.

“Oh! Uh…” Scorpius has also never been good at lying.

Draco can read him like an open book, just like Astoria. He follows Scorpius’s gaze, which flits back to the pitch, and his face transforms into a goofy grin as an olive-skinned girl with flaming red curls flashes a wicked grin in their direction.

“Oh. Oh!” Albus responds quickly as he looks back toward his family. “Yeah, maybe Wiggy lost your letter. He’s been doing that more and more lately. Dad says he’s getting old…” Albus rambles. “C’mon, let’s go find Rose! I’m sure she’ll want to, er, show you around the grounds with me.”

“Right, uh, thanks, Dad! I promise I won’t be home late!”

“Yeah, Dad’s over there with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione if you want to figure out a time!” Albus mentions over his shoulder.

Draco has every intention of walking over to his former classmates, but he can’t seem to get his feet to move as he watches the boys run off. His suspicions are confirmed when he watches Rose dismount from her broom and run to meet them. The awkwardness that ensues between the teenage Granger-Weasley and his son matches that of young adolescent love, and terror floods Draco’s veins.

Of all the girls at Hogwarts…

Of course, Draco shouldn’t be surprised by this. He knew Scorpius was smitten with Rose early on. All he could talk about during holidays were Albus and his ‘beautiful, strong-willed’ cousin Rose. But Draco also knew that for the first few years of their Hogwarts career, Rose refused to give Scorpius the time of day, which put his mind at ease. Becoming best friends with Potter’s son was one thing, but Draco may just have a heart attack if Scorpius and Rose were now a—

Bloody hell, they’re absolutely a thing, aren’t they?

It’s all Draco can do to keep a straight face as he watches the two share a chaste hug, their hands grazing as they make their way to the orchard. He needs to stop it. No, he shouldn’t interfere.

Do Weasley and Granger know?

The thought of the girl’s parents shakes Draco from his stupor as his feet figure out how to move again, and he takes long, purposeful strides toward where they are sitting.

“Malfoy,” Potter greets him upon his arrival, his voice not as curt as it usually is.

“Potter.”

“Why d’you look like you’ve just eaten a puking pastille?” Ron asks, ignoring any form of welcome.

Draco’s response is interrupted as Ginny approaches from the house. “Draco! Hi. I didn’t realize Al invited Scorpius today,” Ginny looks at Harry for an explanation before she adds, “Not that he’s not welcome, of course!”

“I wasn’t aware, either,” Harry knits his brows in confusion.

“Well, I was under the impression it was Albus that invited him, but now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks, her face paling slightly.

Draco’s not surprised. Hermione’s always had an annoying knack to come to a conclusion faster than anyone he’s ever known. For once, he hopes she doesn’t disappoint in this regard.

“When Albus came to greet us, he said he didn’t know Scorpius was coming. At first, I believed Scorpius had forgotten to owl his response, but watching that interaction, I think Al may be covering for someone else once he caught on.”

Weasley was an Auror. Let’s see how long it takes him to string things together.

The answer is not long as the Trio’s eyes travel across the garden, just in time to catch Rose and Scorpius entering the orchard hand in hand as Albus slinks off in another direction. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ron so pale.

“Hermione, did Rose happen to give the name of the friend she was inviting today?” Ron asks.

“No,” Hermione squeaks, her voice weak from shock, and Draco’s surprised to see that something finally seems to shut the know-it-all up.

Harry bursts out into raucous laughter as Ginny bites back her own chuckle.

“I’m going to kill her.” Ron stands, nearly flipping the table in his haste, as he tears off toward the orchard. Hermione’s hot on his heels, and Draco finds his own limbs moving in the same direction.

He can barely hear Ginny’s quip as he follows his former enemies across the Burrow’s lawn,

“Looks like Rose doesn’t hate Scorpius, after all.”

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #canon fest romantic #submission #romione #scorose #hinny

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