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fatesundress · 1 year

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⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task."

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it.

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky.

And you do it.

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours.

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not.

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him.

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?”

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions.

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation.

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt.

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you.

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him.

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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hornyfor-redacted-onmain · 4 months

Text

Tough Times

Pieces of My Heart - Chapter 9 Stray Kids OT8 x reader, Soulmate AU

Masterlist | Next Part

Chapter Warnings: Medical Emergency, Family Emergency, References to a loved one in hospital

You weren’t sure at what point in the night you turned around, but when you woke up, you found yourself nose to nose with Changbin. The sun was shining through the curtains, and it wasn’t so early anymore, but the shining sun must have only been up for a short while since the air was still cold. Changbin’s arms were once again curled up against his chest with the blankets tangled in your legs, leaving you both exposed. You pulled the blankets back up, snuggling into them with a content sigh as you observed the rapper in front of you.

Said man was peacefully asleep, face smoothed out in his sleep. You admired his soft skin, the curves of his nose and jaw, unable to keep yourself from reaching out and tracing your finger down from his cheeks to his lips. Changbin let out a huff at your touch, one eye squinting open. He spotted you, comfortable and warm under the blankets, and he scowled. You couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Good morning,” You whispered, watching as he made grabby hands for the blanket.

He paused in his motion. “Morning?”

“Yes Binnie, it’s morning. Time to get up!”

As if prompted by your words, your phone let out a chime, Changbins own phone echoing yours. You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Hmmm. Morning …” Changbin’s eyes were both open now, looking at you softly. “Morning means kisses?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Maybe after I’ve brushed my teeth.”

He just blinked at you, and you emerged from your cocoon of warmth to stretch. Changbin immediately stole the blankets away from you and wrapped himself up like a burrito, rolling all the way over to the other side of the bed. You gave him an amused look as you grabbed your phone, reading over the messages as you made your way to the bathroom.

Soulmates

Chan Wakey Wakey Children. Seungmin No Felix I don’t think I’m getting up anytime soon Img.png Are we sure Hyunjin isn’t secretly part octopus? Y/N Didn’t you fall asleep with Jeongin last night? Felix More like he fell asleep on me. But yeah, I was sleeping with Jeongin But then he woke up and I wanted cuddles so I joined Hyunjin on his bed And then he latched onto me and now he refuses to let go And I really have to pee Someone help Please Chan Okay, I’m coming. Felix Thank you!!!!

You brushed your teeth as you read out the texts, leaning down to spit out and nearly jumping as you felt arms wrap around you, Changbin’s sleepy face appearing in the mirror. He rested his chin against your shoulder.

“Finish?”

He looked down pointedly at your toothbrush, and you raised a brow. “You were serious about those morning kisses, huh?”

He made a kissy face at you, and you pushed him away with a laugh. You finished brushing your teeth, Changbin pointedly watching you and waiting as you rinsed, slowly putting your toothbrush down. You gave yourself a quick once over in the mirror, and slowly ran your fingers through your hair, even going as far as to pretend you were about to brush your hair in a joking manner to see if he would wait. But when you glanced back at Changbin, he was pouting adorably at you.

You pouted back sympathetically.

“Okay, fine. Come here.”

With your permission, Changbin eagerly leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, just a quick peck, before he placed another kiss to your cheek. And then your forehead, nose, other cheek, lips again, and continued to place sporadic kisses with exaggerated kissing noises all around your face. You giggled, trying to push him away again, but this time he just pulled you in closer, your chest pressed up against his.

“Changbin!”

“Good morning,” He said, finally letting you go with one last kiss to your mouth.

He was grinning when he let you go, moving you away from the counter and taking your place as he went to brush his own teeth. You let out another laugh, mussing up his hair and darting out of the bathroom before he could retaliate.

You flopped down onto the bed and grabbed your phone to read the last few unread messages.

Soulmates

Seungmin I hate you Chan Don’t be so rude. We’re leaving soon, I had to wake you up. Seungmin It’s too early to be alive Minho Hyunjin awake? Felix Yup! He wasn’t happy about it though Img.png Hyunjin >:( Minho Changbin? Y/N He’s brushing his teeth. Should be ready soon Where are you guys going? Chris We have an interview at noon. Then we have to head to soundcheck for the concert. I had my manager email you your concert tickets. He’ll have someone come get you after the concert. I can also get one of our drivers to take you to the venue. I mean, if you want. Y/N I’ll never say no to a free ride Thank you

“Jagi, I have to go,” Changbin told you, emerging from the bathroom wearing a hoodie and black mask over his lower face.

You smiled at him. “Yeah, the others are asking for you. I hope you’re not late.”

“Hmm. See you later?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

And for all intents and purposes, you truly meant your words. But little did you or Changbin know, you wouldn’t be seeing each other for a while.

0o0o0

The call came just after lunch. You had decided to do a little sightseeing after the boys had left, having a few hours to spare before you had to start getting ready for the concert. You had just finished a meal at a nice little hole in the wall restaurant that you nearly passed by because you thought it was just a convenience store, but turns out they also made some of the best sandwiches you had ever eaten.

And then your mother called you.

“Hey mom-“

“You need to come back home. Now.”

“What?”

“It’s your father. He was in an accident.”

You rushed back to the hotel, quickly packing your things as you sent a rushed text message to the group chat, then hurrying to buy the earliest ticket out of the city and back home. There was a flight leaving in two hours, and the next available flight wouldn’t be until that night. And so you started to feel even more rushed, grabbing all your things and calling an Uber as you checked out.

The entire ride to the airport felt like a hazy dream.

You continued to get messages about your dad’s condition. A car that came out of nowhere, an emergency surgery, your mother who was already dealing with heart problems and needed support, needing reassurance. You felt numb as you read each new incoming message from both chats.

You arrived to the airport, and getting past security took nearly an hour. Your father was still in surgery.

You made it to your gate, but boarding wouldn’t start for another 40 minutes. Messages from the group chat with the boys, all of them sending well wishes and support.

20 minutes before boarding, your mother called you again. Your father had just finished surgery, and the doctors said everything went smoothly. They weren’t letting her see him yet.

Right before you took off, you sent a message to your soulmates. A quick ‘taking off’, just because Chan asked you to let them know when you left and when you arrived. Right before you were about to turn off your phone, one last message popped up, followed by a picture.

‘he’s okay, just resting.’

You slumped back into your seat with a sigh of relief.

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kill-the-hand-of-shakespeare · 5 months

Text

“Unknown”

———————

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and cleared his throat. He pulled at the hem of his waistcoat, and then cleared his throat again. He searched the bookshop with flittering eyes- trying to find solace in ‘home’. He did not.

He knew every little detail of this bookshop. It was his, and he had seen every millimetre of it. He knew it better than his own corporation. But now, after months being gone, it felt... odd. Like he was a guest in his own home- like he knew it all too well, but didn’t have the right to it. He guessed that’s what humans must have felt when they sold a home or left a job and came back- like it is no longer theirs, but was so wholly before.

He smoothed the off-white fabric on his thighs, partly because he hadn’t before he sat down, and in part to wipe the sweat that gathered on his palms. Nervous - a rock sat heavy in the bottom of his stomach and his searching eyes found Crowley’s profile.

The demon was doing that ‘thing’ - Aziraphale hadn’t come up with a name for it, but Crowley used to do it before he wore (invented?) glasses.

He found a far off object to look at, squinted his eyes a little and made them unfocused- a far away look that hid all the emotion he could without hiding behind shades of black. The Angel had once thought that the glasses were simply to hide his snake-like eyes from humans. He’d been so oblivious. Those gold eyes held so much of Crowley’s thoughts- the glasses were there to keep him stone cold, unreadable to the world.

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek, and turned to face Crowley a bit more- knocking their knees together. Both him and Crowley quickly yelped apologies out of anxious habit, and Aziraphale had half a mind to pull his knee away. But that was quickly overcome by the need to be close. To touch. It had been so long since he had been in someones bubble after eons of constant closeness.

Heaven was stoic. Cold. Everyone kept to themselves, hands clasped tightly behind their backs, crossed fingers hidden as they spoke. Their smiles never reached their eyes. The lower ranked angels were sweet, but never had time to chat- busy bees doing their work. It left Aziraphale’s palms itchy- he had learned to touch Crowley so easily...

Aziraphale stared at their knees for a moment, Crowley’s hands in his lap, nails digging crescent indents into the skin. He wanted to slide his palm against the demons, smooth away the hurt, relax him and comfort him, but didn’t know how. He didn’t know if he was allowed.

Aziraphale was a bad Angel. Or maybe a good one- he couldn’t tell; he was just really damn good at playing stupid. Being around Crowley had become easy, the more comfortable he had pretended he was, the more comfortable he actually ended up being. What was that human saying again? Oh yes- “fake it until you make it.” The Angel was good at that.

He would be able to read just about anyone, Angel, demon, human or... otherwise, and quickly give them what they wanted. Crowley included.

If this was ‘before’, when things were simple and they tip-toed around each other and their only intimacy was loving glances. Aziraphale would have said something random, and then gently took Crowley’s hand into his own and patted it, forcing his hand to relax. The demon always lounged, but now he sat too tense, even as he slouched with bad posture. The Angel wished he could think up a way to relax him- but everything was a subtle touch, and they were both too aware of each other to play dumb. Even the legs that lingered close were tense with precaution.

Aziraphale cleared his throat again and watched Crowley’s jaw tense in a flinch, it broke his heart.

“Oh, Crowley...” he whispered softly, the demon closing his eyes tight, swallowing hard. Aziraphale could tell hearing his name from the Angels lips hurt. “I had so much time to think about all the things I would say... But now they all feel... As if they’re not enough.” Aziraphale said, hearing the strain in his own voice. He couldn’t hide it. And didn’t know if he wanted to.

“Well, if you have nothing to say, I have things I could be doing.” The demon snapped, trying to be aggressive, but his heart wasn’t in it- it was to deflect; to try and rid of his own feelings and thoughts. The fact that the demon did not move away, said so much. He had learnt to read Crowley’s body language like any of his books, carefully and meticulously, paying attention to what was unsaid; in between the lines. Aziraphale took a deep breath. He would say what he needed to.

“Crowley,” he started, “I don’t forgive you.”

———————

Anni oop-!

Sorry for the long wait for an update, the holidays and some personal things got in the way. Enjoy this cliffhanger, and feel free to leave predictions 😈 I’d love to see what ya’ll think!

Lots of love, tho. I won’t hurt you... too bad.

< Previous Next >

#aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens #good omens2 #aziracrow #good omens fanfiction #azicrow #good omens 3 #good omens theory #GOUnknown

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baek-at-it-again95 · 1 year

Text

Walk The Plank (K.HJ x fem reader)

Chapter 4: Seonghwa’s Memory

You had grown up hearing tales about the infamous pirate crew ATEEZ—the fearless, power-hungry men that roamed the seas in search of the most valuable treasure they could lay their hands on. You almost didn’t believe the stories your mother had told you as a child...not until you wound up on their ship

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of weapons, slightest bit suggestive

A/N: There is a scene where the reader is mentioned to have longer hair. I typically try to keep reader details very unspecific but...if you do not have long hair just pretend HJ is tying your dress <3 :)

Previous: Chapter 3, Masterlist

Chapter 4: Seonghwa’s Memory

When you wake up, you groggily rub your eyes and take in your surroundings. You're not in the sick beds in the crew cabin. Where are you? Last night—ah, that's right. You had been out on the main deck with Hongjoong and fell asleep as he was finishing his story. He must have moved you.

Sitting up from the hammock you sway in, you see the remnants of the colorful sunrise through the small interior windows. The captain's cabin is empty aside from you, and you can now hear the busy crew outside. You smooth down your clothes and straighten your posture, cautiously opening the door to the main deck.

You squint as your eyes adjust to the early morning sun, seeing Seonghwa standing to your right. He takes notice of your presence and seems to assess your situation.

"Good morning, Seonghwa," you greet him kindly, starting to head towards the crew's quarters. The crew had given you a chest of (likely stolen) clothing, as well as hung up a sheet of fabric in the corner for you to change behind.

"Good m-morning," he sputters, his cheeks flushed with red.

"Is everything alright?" you ask, worried. "You look as if you have fallen ill with a fever." You press the back of your hand to his cheek.

"Oh! I am well. No worries! I was just...running around a lot. It has been spoken that we will dock somewhere to gather supplies," he tells you, gently brushing away from your concerned touch.

"Stopping? Where?" you ask excitedly.

"Along the south side of Sector One. We will dock soon, so you might want to change into a dress and ask Hongjoong..." The color returns to his cheeks at the mention of the captain. "For further instructions."

"Aye, Seonghwa!" You bow, continuing your path down to the quarters to get dressed for the new occasion. Seonghwa said to wear a dress...so you assume you are disguising the fact that you are pirates. You? A pirate? Never thought you'd live to see the day you would consider yourself one. Not that anyone would suspect you of being a pirate...but your presence would definitely lessen suspicion for them.

You dig around in your chest of clothing before pulling out a large amount of blue fabric. You suppose it will suffice. After stepping behind the make-shift curtain and ridding yourself of your old clothing, you carefully slide into the smooth blue dress. It's a bit long, grazing the floor with each step, but nothing you cannot bear for the time being.

As you look into a small hand-held mirror that was in the chest, you can't help but to think that the dress is missing something. Another minute of digging through the chest and you discover a velvety, cream-colored ribbon. It will do nicely in your hair. You're about to tie it up when a knock sounds near the entrance to the stairs.

"You may come in." You watch as a pair of shiny boots adorned with buckles make their way down the steps. "Captain," you say in surprise, fiddling with the hem of your sleeves. His fur coat is now replaced with a black velvet coat embroidered with intricate designs.

Hongjoong's face comes into view and he stops at the bottom of the steps. His mullet seems lighter with the contrast of his dark coat. "You look lovely," he says.

"Thank you, Captain...you look dashing as well." You smile, walking closer. "Do you mind?" you ask, holding out your hair bow.

"No, allow me." Hongjoong takes the ribbon from you and you turn around, patiently waiting for him to tie your hair. He gently takes two strands from the sides of your head and ties the ribbon where they meet at the center. "There you are."

You take the hand mirror that you used before to examine his work. "I love it! It is just what this needed." The captain looks at you in awe.

"Shall we prepare to go ashore?" he asks, offering you a hand.

"Yes." You take it and he leads you up the steps to the deck above.

***

"Listen here! No one is splitting up as we arrive at Sector One. We will be gathering supplies in groups of three for safety and efficiency." Hongjoong commands everyone as they gather around and prepare for arrival. You tune him out, excited by the sight of the land ahead.

"Seonghwa, I request that you and Y/N keep watch of the crew. Make sure everyone stays safe and keeps out of trouble," Hongjoong orders, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Aye, sir."

***

The men of the ship take down the ATEEZ flags, wanting to blend in for the small amount of time being.

Sector One is a large district that you've only seen maps of. The history of the island had never interested you much, as it started out as a battle ground. Well, like most territories had. You were also warned by Seonghwa that because of the large and growing population, it could be potentially dangerous—especially for a woman.

At first, you keep your chin high and your back straightened, walking right beside Seonghwa. However, as you enter the more crowded streets of the sector, you find yourself tucked slightly behind the tall man.

"You know, you can walk beside me," Seonghwa tells you, stopping so suddenly that you almost bump into the back of his shoulder.

"Ah, yes. I apologize...I am just a bit nervous." Not just because the streets are crowded, or because you are a woman...but also because you have started to overthink about the fact that you are associated with a group of menacing pirates.

"No need. I will be here. Also, San gave you a gift, correct?"

If he is referring to the knife you have tucked under your dress in a band of fabric around your lower leg, then yes. You nod. "Good. Now come along." You remain right beside him this time as he stops near a stand selling goods. Your eyes drag over the shiny array of beads and shells before looking up and landing on Wooyoung.

"Hey, doll," he says, winking at you.

"Hello, Wooyoung." He looks around as if to make sure no one is watching and then swiftly grabs a string of pearls from one of the tables. He ever-so-gracefully slips it around your neck. The pearls feel cold as they rest on your exposed collarbone, and you can only imagine how beautiful they look.

"Hey, did you pay for those?" A woman behind the table asks, pointing to your neck. Wooyoung steps in front of you with his charming eye smile on display.

"Why, of course, madam! My lovely sister and her husband bought this necklace from you not long ago. Do you not recall?"

"Oh, I see. My apologies." The woman smiles sheepishly.

"I'll take another one for meself though, eh?" In a flash, Wooyoung snatches yet another string of beads from the table and flees, running into the crowded street.

"Hey!" The woman behind the table shouts. You watch with wide eyes as she runs into the stone building behind her. You can only imagine what threat she would possibly come back with. A kitchen utensil to beat someone with...maybe a strong husband.

"Quick!" Seonghwa grabs your hand and leads you as you run down the street. You use your free hand to ball up the fabric of your dress skirt so that you don't trip, and only when you turn the corner onto another street do you let go. "Are you alright?" he asks, eyebrows creased with worry as he scans over you.

"I am alright," you reply breathlessly.

"He is always such trouble," Seonghwa mutters, shaking his head.

"Wooyoung, you mean?"

"Yes." The man in front of you brushes off his coat and straightens his posture. You find him very handsome. You think your father might have approved a marriage, had he not been a pirate. "Come along. We must watch out for the rest of the crew. Wooyoung may be trouble, but he can handle himself." You nod and stop fiddling with the pearls around your neck to take his extended hand.

Just like this morning, Seonghwa's cheeks take on a light pink. "My, are you sure you are feeling well, Hwa?" you ask, the shortened name slipping off your tongue as natural as ever.

"Y-yes, Miss. I am well. Just recovering from running again," he sputters. "Let us continue." He moves down the cobblestone street you have turned onto, and you match his pace.

"Seonghwa, how did you become a pirate?" you ask. His eyes flick over to you and then all around. He must be paranoid that your talk of pirates may fall upon someone's ears.

"Well, there is not much to it. Hongjoong and I had been friends growing up. I was always present when he would talk of his passions of exploring and finding treasure."

"He must be very fond of you," you reply, filled with admiration.

"One could say that. The day he was old enough to set sail on his own, he offered for me to be by his side. He was trouble, that Hongjoong...but I did not mind it. I enjoyed his youthful company, and I was more than happy to see the rest of the world."

"That is amazing! Tell me, how was it?"

"It was difficult at first, as most things are. But after a few days, it was as if we had been at sea our whole lives." Seonghwa's face livens as he recalls the times of his past with such fondness. It warms your heart to know that, well...pirates have hearts. Seonghwa looks to you for a response with a pleased smile.

"I find you very admirable, Hwa." He seems surprised by your words, as he had said the same of you not too long ago.

"Thank you, Y/N."

"You are most welcome."

"Ah, there! The captain." The man next to you pulls you in the direction of Hongjoong, whose high and proud stance you can both recognize from a distance.

>>chapter 5

#hongjoong x reader #ateez au #ateez pirate au #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa #jung yunho #jung wooyoung #choi san #song mingi #choi jongho #kang yeosang #pirate ateez #ateez x female reader #ateez reader insert #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

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thatwriterchick222 · 2 months

Text

we loved once and true (arthur morgan x mary gillis)

summary: It begins on the ranch owned by Mr. Gillis, where the eighteen-year-old Arthur Morgan is hired as a ranch hand. He is caught off guard when he meets the sixteen-year-old Mary Gillis and they hit it off despite their differences. Travel through the years as Arthur and Mary's relationship begins to grow, going through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, learning time and time again that the world they live in isn't as romantic as it may seem.

a/n: hey y'all!! so this one is a lot more in depth and ambitious than my usual stuff, because i randomly became hyperfixated on arthur and mary's relationship throughout the years. i liked that the game provided us with some good insight into their relationship but i wanted to go through and create a timeline of events and add details like when and how they met, and also elaborating on arthur's relationship with eliza. while a lot of this most likely isn't cannon, and i did take some creative liberties, i tried to stay as close to the game's timeline and kept everything within the bounds of what the game does tell us. ***disclaimer: towards the end where it actually starts tying in with with the game (1899 and 1907), i used the letters and some of the dialogue provided in the game and built off of it, so all credits go to Rockstar of course.***

**the links to each chapter are available on my masterlist**

see below for an excerpt from chapter 1 (1881):

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

July 12th, 1881

One day, while Arthur was repairing a fence that had been blown over in a storm the night before, he looked up to wipe the sweat from his brow and noticed someone sitting on the back steps of the large ranch house.

It was a girl. Arthur squinted in the bright sun, adjusting his leather hat on his head. She was wearing a fancy-looking dress and had a book in her hand.

She was awfully pretty, too.

When Arthur was done with his work, he put his tools away and made his way over to the girl on the steps. She looked up and noticed him approaching, but quickly averted her eyes and looked down at her book.

When he reached her, he cleared his throat. “Miss… Have we met?” He asked casually, taking off his hat with one hand to nod to her. She was young… perhaps Mr. Gillis’s daughter?

She looked up from her book as if pretending that she hadn’t noticed him from afar, but he knew she had. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, her skin smooth and clean-looking. She had a beauty mark on her cheek that moved when she smiled politely at him.

“I’m Mary.” She closed her book. “Mr. Gillis’s daughter.”

Arthur placed his hat back on his head and smiled before she continued.

“You’re the new ranch hand?”

Arthur wanted to laugh at her question because it seemed obvious that he was. Had she not seen him fixing the fence just before? “Arthur. And, yes.”

“God, I hope my father hasn’t been driving you crazy.” She looked down, shaking her head.

Arthur shifted awkwardly, placing his hands on his belt. “No… not yet.” He chuckled, lying.

“Good.” The girl looked up at him again, her expression calm.

Arthur could feel the sun beading down on his back, and his head pound with exhaustion. “Say, could I bother you for a glass of water?”

Mary’s eyes widened, and she practically jumped up, putting her book down on the step. “Of course! You must be parched.”

Arthur smiled, amused by her enthusiasm. “Yeah. If it’s not too much trouble–”

“It’s not.” She began to climb the steps, “I’ll be right back.”

Before he could even thank her, she darted inside, the door closing behind her. Arthur chuckled to himself, pacing slightly on the stone path. She liked how she didn't look at him like some degenerate like everyone else did. She talked to him with honesty, no secret meanings behind kind words.

He looked down at her book that was sitting on the step. He was thankful Bessie and Hosea had taught him how to read because he was able to make out the title: Pride and Prejudice.

He had never heard of it. Arthur picked up the book, flipping it over in his hand. The cover was rather ornate, dark navy with gold writing and complex designs along the spine. As he opened the cover, he realized that there was some writing inside. Notes, it looked like. Before he could read any of the neat cursive handwriting, the door swung open, and the young woman walked out with a large glass of water.

Arthur quickly closed the book, placing it back down on the step as she noticed him reading it.

“Sorry,” Arthur said. “I was just curious about what you were readin’.”

Mary smiled, approaching the edge of the step and passing the water down to him. “It’s just a silly romance.”

Arthur took a few large gulps of water as Mary sat back down, placing the book on her lap. “Do you read?” She asked.

Arthur shook his head, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “No, not really. I’d like to… but I don’t really…”

“I can lend you some.” She stared up at him.

Arthur paused, wanting to accept her kindness, but also embarrassed that he couldn’t read books like that... yet, at least. He could read basic things, but books? That was a whole other story. He was a ranch hand, not a scholar.

When Mary saw his hesitance, she continued. “It’s no trouble.”

“I… Um–”

“Mary Gillis!” A loud, booming voice interrupted him, and Arthur turned to see Mr. Gillis coming around the side of the house. “There you are.” He looked at her, then at Arthur, and then back at her.

“Yes?” Mary answered, standing up. She clutched her book tightly to her body, and Arthur backed away.

“What are you doing?” The fat man approached them, looking Arthur up and down.

Mary stepped down the stairs, inserting herself between her father and Arthur. She was much shorter than both of them, Arthur felt his cheeks flush at the sight of her so close to him.

“I was reading. And then Arthur needed a glass of water, so I got him one.” Her voice was stern, yet quiet.

The man looked up at Arthur, his eyes angry. “Get back to work.”

Someday, he was going to either kill this man or rob him blind. “Alright.”

“Daddy, don’t be rude–”

The man suddenly grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her with him as he began to leave. Mary made eye contact with Arthur as she was dragged away, and Arthur's heart leapt in his chest.

check out the completed story here on ao3!

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x mary gillis #arthur morgan x eliza #rdr2 fanfic #retcon??#canon compliant #canon rewrite #angst #angst and smut #eventual smut #high honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan needs a hug #dilf arthur morgan

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johaerys-writes · 11 months

Text

A World With You | E | Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

Ch. 59: A Cruel Mistress

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Tristan dashed through the dark and empty passageways. The air was stale and smelled dank and musty, and the stone walls were slightly damp with humidity. He was half-blind, searching for his way in the darkness. Though his memory of the layout of the palace's secret network of underground passages was fairly good, it was impossible to fully orient himself when he could not see. The only source of light was the Anchor in his palm, and that was too faint to be of much help.

He stopped short at an intersection, trying to make out any sign of Maliphant.

“Where did you go, damn you,” he murmured, squinting in the dark. He lifted his left hand and focused all of his will on the Anchor, hoping it would make a difference.

And it did. The Anchor sputtered and pulsed, until a small halo of green light formed around his palm. It pulsed rhythmically, in sync with his heartbeat. Tristan stared at it in amazement for a moment. It was the first time that he remembered the Mark doing what he’d wanted it to.

A faint shuffling, which could well have been his imagination, dragged his attention to the present. Right. Maliphant. He needed to find Maliphant.

He stepped forward, his hand up lighting the way. In the hazy light that the Anchor spread before him, he could make out some dark stains on the floor and the wall before him. He touched it with his fingers; it was slick and warm, and bore the faint, coppery smell of fresh blood.

Tristan lunged forth, following the left side of the fork, without wasting even a moment. He followed the blood stains to a small staircase—steep and easily missed—and climbed up. As he forged on, he could see more and more stains, and well as the shape of boot steps. Whatever wounds Maliphant had earned himself during his fight with Florianne, they must have been serious.

The relatively fresher air of the corridor beyond the secret door was a welcome change. Tristan stepped out from behind a painting and glanced around him, trying to make out where he was. He couldn’t be very far from the ballroom; if his senses were correct, then he must be on the eastern side of the second floor, where the bureaucratic and domestic offices lay. The moonlight slanted, silvery and soft, through the tall windows overlooking the hills beyond Hallamshiral. A few statues and busts graced the length of the hallway, but other than that it was completely empty. A bloody handprint on Emperor Florian’s impressive bust stood out, right in the center of his smooth marble face.

Tristan took off, following the signs like a bloodhound.

He didn’t have to run very far. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw a dark figure, huddled in a corner. Maliphant was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled out before him as he leaned against the wall. He breathed heavily, his hand pressed to his side.

“Inquisitor,” Maliphant said. “Finally, we meet again.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. His hold on his dagger tightened as he stepped cautiously towards him, watching for the barest movement. Maliphant was fast and cunning; Tristan wouldn’t put it beneath him to simply pretend he was injured, so that Tristan would let his guard down. But that was not going to happen. Tristan knew how bloody dangerous the man was, especially when pressed.

“I’d hoped this moment would never come, Maliphant,” Tristan said. “In fact, I’d warned you against it.”

Maliphant chuckled softly. “That you did.” His breathing was laboured, and his hand that was pressed against his side was crimson, the fabric around it dark. The man looked up at Tristan, and through the slits of his golden mask, his dark brown eyes were darker still and more haggard than Tristan remembered them.

Slowly, Maliphant took off his mask with his free hand and set it down beside him. His jaw was hard and cheeks sunken, and deep lines carved his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He looked… so much older than the last time they had seen each other. Old and tired, as if it had been years.

“Wasn’t expecting you to be here, to be frank,” Maliphant said, with his customary teasing smile. “Enjoying the ball, I take it?”

“Very. Wouldn’t say the same about you, though.”

“What could possibly make you say that?” Maliphant gave him a fiendish grin, which wobbled only slightly from a sudden stab of pain. “And here I thought we were both having a blast. Celene and Florianne outdid themselves.”

Tristan gripped his dagger tighter, giving the man a hard look. “I don’t have time for pleasantries, Maliphant,” Tristan told him harshly. “Why are you here?”

Read the rest on AO3!

#dragon age #dorian pavus #pavelyan #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian pavus/inquisitor #dorian pavus/trevelyan #inquisitor trevelyan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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parkerlyn · 2 years

Text

there's so many things I want to do to you | shh there's people in the other room | I'll be good, I promise

Oisein

You can now read the three birthday specials from last year as well as this spicier series of prompts (including Oisein's) on the Bonus Portal with your custom ROs 👀

It wasn't often the two of you got to dress in some of the finest fabrics the world had to offer. And it was even less common for you to wear said outfits to a ball full of mortalis.

Extremely important ones too, by the way the Sage had stressed over how you both looked. Indignation was written across Oisein's face and in their dramatic scoff when the Sage had squinted with apprehension at some of the more...revealing portions of their outfit. But they must have decided to focus their energy elsewhere.

You had to admit, you were grateful they hadn’t changed anything. Aside from the usual flowing golds and purples that Oisein was fond of, this particular ensemble had a scandalous cut-out that trailed in a diamond from the hollow of their neck down to just above their navel. Freckles splashed across the bare skin, clinging to their lean muscles. Daring - no - inviting any onlookers to stare, only to be caught in the act by a triumphant grin and the snare of deep lavender eyes.

When Oisein had seen you, though, any sour look was wiped clean away for one of awe.

And - you assumed by the sharp glint of their smirk- a look that betrayed a greedy appetite.

Still, they played their part well. They’d always been better with crowds of strangers in the years you had known them - a perfectly timed laugh, an annoyingly immaculate smile, a sly wink and hypnotic movements that flowed from their wrist into a subtle shift at their waist.

What was different now, though, was the fact that their eyes still periodically drifted across the ballroom to land on you.

You played at nonchalance at first, pretending you didn’t see as they flitted their gaze to you while some gaggle of overdressed Circlers droned on in front of them. Then you held their eyes with defiance, your own dare and challenge clear as you weaved between the bodies, Oisein’s eyes darting to keep up. It probably wasn’t smart, given that you were here with a separate purpose than to socialize.

But it was extremely fun to watch the normally collected sheevra entranced by your every step.

Hours passed until Oisein finally approached - you suppose you had to applaud their stubbornness, if anything. Their surrender came in the form of sidling up to you on smooth, gliding steps, and an open smile on their face - a mix of allure and genuine joy - that you knew was meant only for you.

"Hear anything?" you ask, ignoring the spark of static that arcs between you as they draw in, shoulder bumping into the back of yours.

"Mundane things, mostly. Some scandal, money moving around-" a step closer until the hum of their voice practically sinks into your collar. "Nothing about our friend yet. Might be a no-show."

You keep your focus on the glittering chandelier as Oisein's fingers play with the fabric on your back, sliding along the groove of your spine and threatening to dip below your waistline.

"This far in the night? I’d have to agree. We should probably tell the Sage it was a waste. Any suggestions on what to do now?" The words come out even, despite how you measure each syllable and control each word's cadence.

"Well, there's a whole lot of things I want to do to you, in that outfit, specifically."

“The scandal,” you chide quietly, though you can feel your pulse begin to quicken when Oisein’s fingers dance along the bare skin at your nape.

Their melodic voice quiets, words like hushed, secret notes and breath hot against your ear.

“What do you say? Care to misbehave?”

You try to swallow your heart back from where it leaps into your throat, but barely have to smile before Oisein deftly loops their arm around you and leads you from the glittering, gilded room.

They continue to play the part as you pass by the other party goers in the outer halls - making up some vapid, stuffy conversation about metal refineries and mountain passes but sneaking in small pearls of salacious questions when the mortalis are just out of earshot.

“If what I’ve heard about the silver supply is true - how do you want me? - they must be having a dreadful time at finding new deposits -would my hands be enough?- which is a shame considering Han’s demand for it. - or would you prefer something a bit more satisfying? I do love when you pull my hair-“

The last suggestion earns them a subtle elbow to the ribs as a pair of women draw near, but even the quiet oof they let out comes across as a dainty, polished cough, and they nod politely to the mortalis without skipping a beat.

“Are you all talk tonight?” you mutter with more impatience than you mean to let slip.

Oisein grins at your wordless admission. “Just riling you up so I can enjoy undoing you even more,” they purr back. “But I suppose that’s enough chattter.”

Without you realizing, they seem to have led you farther down the hallway than you’d been before, and to any other observer, would look like a dead end yawning into a large floor to ceiling window. Though there doesn’t seem to be any mortalis too close by, the space is still open, and incredibly visible to anyone who happened to meander down to look at the Governor’s collection of art.

Cool, silvery beams of moonlight splash across Oisein’s shoulders and across the bare skin exposed at their chest as they release the arm around you and step towards the wall. The crystals - carved much more intricately and purposefully for houses within the Circle than without - flicker soft yellows across their face as they approach and begin tapping at specific sections along the adorned patterns.

Tap.

Tap tap.

“Oisein.”

Tap.

“Oisein, what are you doing?”

“There’s a staff passage here,” they respond quickly, an eye darting to the side to check if any mortalis are coming too close. “I had a chance to watch it for a while earlier. Catering’s been told not to use it because the other side is blocked by some sort of renovation in the Library-”

Sure enough, after applying a bit of pressure at the center of a particular floral design, the wall shifts - part mechanical and part magical lock opening - and the edge of a door pops from the wall.

You’re still staring when Oisein spares one more look toward the ballroom’s entrance, slides the door open, and pulls you in quickly by your wrist.

Darkness plunges around you as the door closes, but your focus is drawn to Oisein’s hands on you torso as they throw you back and pin you up against the wall of the narrow passage. Heat from their chest presses through your clothes as their breath mingles with yours, the sweet aromas of some dessert still on their tongue.

Magic fizzles somewhere near your head, other lantern crystals popping with elemental fire, a muted, purple glow reacting to your arrival. The dim lighting gives you a chance to catch a glimpse of the sharp smirk and their eyes above it, dark pools of violet that you know have and will consume you again and again and again.

But the sharpness in their expression dulls as they search your face, eyes roaming over every feature and down across where the shadows curve along your body. Blond bangs fall across their face as they lean down, taunting you with an almost-kiss before dipping just below your jaw, pressing their body closer, the earthy smell of juniper and apple hovering from the perfume at their neck. Lips linger against your speeding pulse, hands squeezing at your hips while their tongue works up to your ear and teeth pull at the lobe - pricks of pain mixing with pleasure as your hands wrap around and splay between their shoulder blades.

“Sanctin, you’re gorgeous” they murmur, the hands at your sides curving to dig their nails into cloth and skin. “I’ve been watching you all night, it’s been driving me insane.”

“I noticed,” you breathe out as they suck gently along your neck, teasing just enough without leaving any lasting bruises. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Their lips inch closer to your mouth but keep a hair’s breadth away, smiling as you lean forward to try and capture them. “Enticing, aren’t I?”

“I thought you said that was enough chatter,” you snap in frustration, only receiving a dark chuckle in return.

“Did I say that? Because I was just thinking about torturing you some more.” A hand works its way slowly up, fingers walking a path up the center of your chest, swirling in the hollow of your neck and lifting your chin to where your heated breath mixes again.

Strawberries and chocolate, you think. Strawberries and chocolate are what you would taste if the idiot would let you kiss them-

Oisein’s eyes widen right before you hear the voices, the leanhaun’s pathos magic flooding outwards in a scan and a slightly panicked look on their face when they turn towards the door you came through. Their hand clamps over your mouth on instinct as they go rigid, their other hand covering their own mouth while broken bits of sentences float through the walls into the passage.

“This collection….rare pieces…throughout the cities…”

They want torture?

You’ll give them torture.

They don’t fight it when you grip their wrist and remove their hand from your face, their brow furrowing with worry at the thought of potentially hurting you. But they freeze when instead of dropping their arm, you twist their hand and slide your tongue along their palm, dipping two of their fingers into your mouth.

Leaving Oisein speechless has to be one of your favorite pastimes.

Some nasally man continues to drone on as you pull meticulously, your other hand reaching forward to the expanse of their bare skin. They watch each movement and drop their hand from their face as your cold fingers meet them, chest heaving with each inhale. You swear you can see the freckles flare with light from their sheevra form when you ease your hand just past the edge of the cloth, pinching along sensitive skin before diving down over their stomach.

Oisein shudders when you find your mark, their hips grinding down into where your hand molds and shapes to their body with a barely silenced gasp. It heightens to a hiss while your tongue still swirls around their fingers, their free hand raising to the wall at the side of your head to support their weight. A needy, throaty hum escapes as you work your hand against them through the fine cloth, their eyes shutting tight and lips rolling together to try to quiet themself while you find a steady rhythm, knowing how to cloud their mind with madness and make their body ache.

Somewhere outside, the conversation continues, ignorant of the sighs fluttering over the walls as Oisein writhes under your touch. When another shiver races over their body, their forehead falls to their hand against the wall, pulling their fingers away from your mouth and gripping your jaw tight.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” they try to say calmly, but you can feel their magic threaten to overflow and burst to the rhythm of their pounding heartbeat.

“Careful now,” you murmur back. “They might hear you.”

“Oh, it won’t be me they hear.”

They rock against your hand one last time, pinning it between your bodies before they back away. A faint pop echoes after their hand lowers from your face, the delicate adornments of your ensemble easily opened by their nimble fingers.

You catch one more terrible, sinful grin in the darkness, color spreading over their face and into the tips of their ears, before they lower to their knees.

Fingers still slick from your spit graze over the now-exposed skin below your stomach as Oisein kisses at the inside of your thigh, hands working to spread your stance apart to make room for themself. The layers easily come undone, fabric starting to bunch a few inches above your knees while their nails dig into your skin, a chuckle vibrating through your bones from where they kiss closer.

But they leave that last, thin layer of your underclothes, fingers dancing at the edge of the fabric at each leg.

“Oisein…” you whisper hastily, conscious of the voice that still seems right past the hidden door.

Their face cranes up to look at you, a picture of infuriating innocence.

“Hm? Do you need something?” Their hands slide underneath the cloth, edging along the tops of your thighs and following the dip of your body, the pressure drawing heat into your stomach and sending goosebumps over your spine.

“Oise-“

But before you can finish another frustrated warning, their mouth moves forward to meet you.

Even through the barrier, you can feel the heat of their breath against you, the way their lips form around you, the vibrations of a satisfied hum coursing through you. One of your hands presses against the wall as your back arches, the other seeks out the crown of their head, fingers running through honeyed hair before clenching and pulling at their scalp. Another chuckle runs through your legs as they push against you harder, fingers teasing ever closer. Their tempo is steady - leisurely - their mouth gliding over you and on you, but just a step away from satisfying.

You’re barely aware of the voices as Oisein continues, hands unraveling their hair and grip twisting against their head. You’re even less aware of the slightly louder bang that your head makes as you throw it back against the wall, eyes shut tight against your cheeks. And you don’t even register the audible silence that follows a few moments later, focusing on the desperation bubbling up in your throat to feel Oisein’s tongue flush against you, willing them to continue.

Which is why when they pull back abruptly - easing your hand from their head and placing a kiss in your palm - an obviously wanting groan breaks through your lips.

“Sounds like our little gallery might be clear,” they say casually, ignoring the noise even when strands of blond come undone from the jeweled clasps woven in their hair. They stand and dust their knees, noticing a stray bit that falls over their eyes and reaching up to refix it. “Should we make a move to escape while we can?”

All you can do is gape as they pin the culprits back into place.

“Are you serious?”

Another wide-eyed, questioning look, an almost offended gasp as the other sheevra places a hand to their chest. “When have I ever not been? We really should get going before we run into another group of unwanted guests, though. Here, you look like you could use some help.”

They’re purposeful in the way their fingers lead over your skin as they begin to dress you, an order you are very much not used to. But their face cracks when their hands reach your hips, a smile splitting over their mouth. It breaks into a muted, low laughter as you shove them away with a grumble, their back thudding into the opposite wall while you try to gather up the remaining parts of your outfit and the little dignity you have left.

You’ve half a mind to push them away when they try to approach you again, but surrender as their hand comes up to hold your chin.

“Promise I’m only behaving for now,'' they whisper, finally placing a furtive kiss against your lips. “Once I have you all to myself…well…”

You huff. “That sounds like more talk.”

Mischief laced into their expression, they keep their eyes on you as they back away, taking slow, languid steps to the door. As it opens and you squeeze through into the mostly empty hallway, their breath teases along your neck again.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

#nsft.#the spiciness #smut prompts #interactive fiction #the nameless #tnif #oisein #annnddd that's a wrap on this round of prompts asjdkflajka thanks for all the submissions #❤️❤️❤️#sorry i went insane on this one again #drabble #drabbles #romance

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

Stu(died)-Chapter 3

Summary: Cassian takes care of a sick Nesta

Nessian Modern AU-university setting.

Masterlist, Stu(died) Chapter List

(Rolls eyes hardcore) I am continuing this fic for literally five people. Smh.

Nesta comes to their tutoring session late and that’s the first thing that tips him off. Already his phone is in his hand ready to call 911. He has Nesta’s number in his phone saved. The first person listed in his text log under Nerd. He can always text or call her. He belongs to The Rat Pack in Nesta’s Snap Chat group, and he knows he can always contact Emerie or Gwyn if something is truly wrong. Yet he dials in 911 and his thumb hovers over the call button.

If she doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, Cassian swears he’ll call.

Nesta’s never late. In fact, she’s annoyingly early. She practically has a stop watch in her hand at all times, counting every minute she waits. When Cassian comes running in five minutes later, as he so often does, panting with some excuse, Nesta doesn’t even bother looking up from her textbook. She merely gestures to the seat, a heavy sigh on her lips, like she’s running out of time to bore him death even as she fascinates him to pieces.

Her books should already be splayed onto the table, her pencils straight and neatly lined up. Today, the table is empty.

He’ll give it fifteen minutes and then he’s calling.

But Nesta shows up before another minute ticks by. She steps out of the elevator wearing that grey polo he’s seen on her a million times. She lugs her way to him, dragging her feet with the weight of those textbooks he’s sure are in her bag.

She’s wearing a mask, today, and that’s another thing that sends his brain screeching somethings not right here! It covers half of her face, and her eyes look tired from where they peak above the fabric. Cassian doesn’t even bother waiting for her to settle. Already he’s crossing his arms, his brows crinkling with concern and something like irritation.

How dare she think studying is more important than her health.

“Go home,” he says as she nears. Nesta only blinks as if as not understanding his words. The fact that she doesn’t immediately argue is enough for him to start gathering his things.

“What are you doing?” She says as he stuffs his notebook in his bag, “You have an exam in two weeks.” Nesta sets down her own, it slaps at the table with a heavy thump. Cassian can hear the zipper unzipping but not as well as the cough that roars out of her mouth.

It’s loud and wet, and Nesta pauses as if to get her bearings, covering her mouth with her arm. She coughs and coughs and Cassian lays a hand to his own chest. He can almost feel how much it hurts, how she gasps.

Cassian shakes his head, “No, I’m taking you home.”

Nesta’s brows furrow and she gets that look in her eyes. He just knows she’s going to fight him on this. “I--”

Cassian cuts her off, “please, save your breath. You’re going to make everyone sick.”

“I’m wearing a mask!” Nesta argues.

“It’s almost midterms.” Cassian gestures to the other occupants in the library. He sees one person with their hoodie pulled up over their head, clearly sleeping... and moves on to someone else. A group in the corner who’s standing by a whiteboard. “You want to take your chances with sleep deprived students?”

Nesta seems to think about that. While she does, Cassian zips up her bag and throws it over his shoulder. It’s as heavy as he thought it might be. Briefly, he thinks of making a joke about how she must have stuffed a body in here, but he doesn’t think she’d appreciate it, given how quiet she is.

Mentally, he starts making a list of everything she needs. Medicine? He’ll get the pills and the syrup, never mind if she scrunches her nose at the taste. He’ll get her soup. Not the canned. Cassian will buy the ingredients. He’s sure he can make something appeasing. Vaguely, he can remember his mom’s recipe. Beef broth and cabbage and squash. Hopefully she can stomach it. Never mind, the salt will be good for her.

“Hey,” she whines, blinking up at him slowly, “give me my bag.”

“Have you not heard me? You need to be home lying down. Not here, helping me study. Why on earth did you think this was a good idea? I’m taking you home.”

Nesta crosses her arms and the intimidation tactic seems ridiculous with her face half covered and her endless sniffling. “You can try, but I’ll just refuse to tell you my apartment number.”

Cassian scoffs, “I know where you live. I can see your room from the house when you study at night.”

“Who says that out loud?” Nesta shouts.

She must be terribly ill if she’s yelling in a library. That’s all he can think as he gestures to the elevator, bags in hand.

“Never mind that. Let’s go,” Cassian says, walking ahead without her.

He can’t hear her shuffling though, so he turns back to find Nesta leaning on a chair, holding her stomach. He can already feel himself sighing.

Cassian rushes back just in time for Nesta to rip off her mask, and move to the closest trashcan. It’s situated under one of the bulletin boards and as Cassian sidles up to her, rubbing at her back and pulling her hair away, he looks to the papers tacked to the board.

Join the rowing team. Looking for tutors. Research participants wanted.

He can hear the retching and Cassian reads on.

Babysitter wanted for professor, transportation needed.

“I haven’t thrown up since middle school,” Nesta says pathetically. She frowns as he hands her his bottle of water. Her nose and cheeks are red and for some reason he thinks of Rudolph, lighting the way for Santa through the storm.

He feels bad for little Rudolph...

“Now will you let me take you home,” Cassian sighs. He hopes it doesn’t sound like an ‘I told you so’ but she should really be lying down. He lays a hand to her forehead, but she brushes him off, moving towards the bathrooms.

“I’ll wait right here,” he says, but Nesta moves ahead as if she doesn’t hear him at all. Cassian can’t find it in himself to mind. A sick Nesta is guaranteed to be a stubborn Nesta, he just knows.

When she gets out, she looks surprised to see him and that’s another look that just proves how sick she must be. It’s a fairly obvious prediction that he’s going to wait next to the girl's bathroom, counting ceiling tiles. It’s a perfectly ‘Cassian with Nesta’ thing to do.

“You’re skipping class?”

Nesta coughs again, and she looks perfectly pitiful as she blinks her tired eyes. Cassian can feel his lips frown, and he shifts her bag more securely on his shoulder if only to keep himself from reaching out for her. Already he can feel his hands bunch into fists because he wants to grab her own and squeeze it until she's reassured. He wants to hug her until she feels better.

But he can’t.

Cassian lists every action he wants to do. Kiss her forehead where Nesta rubs her hand, because she must have a headache from how sick she is. Put on her favorite movie, so she can fall asleep to its sound. Run to every store, raiding every Walgreens and CVS until he comes back with a pharmacy.

What might she allow now that she’s sick? Will she let him fuss like he wants to?

But Nesta rolls her eyes in that haughty way of hers. “You can’t do that.”

“I can’t do what?” Cassian asks and he wonders if she can read his thoughts. If she studies him so well, reads him like one of her textbooks, memorizing facts and facial features.

“You can’t skip class,” she argues. “Why am I tutoring you if you’re going to skip class?”

At the words, all Cassian wants to do is sigh. She’s thinking about attendance at a time like this...

“Nesta, there is no class more important than you.”

Her brows crinkle at the center like she’s going to start arguing, but Cassian allows himself one touch. He places his thumb there, between her brows, smoothing out the lines. Nesta rips away, blinking up dazed and all too confused. Cassian would laugh at the look, if he didn’t need the distraction.

He juts his head to the elevator quickly. “Let’s go. We can walk slow, so don’t overexert yourself.”

Nesta scrunches up her nose, so cute and red, but she follows him anyway albeit a little petulantly. She holds her hand out for her bag, but Cassian turns toward the doors, pretending not to see.

“How does me being sick make you bossy?”

Cassian doesn’t dare to respond. He doesn’t know whether he’ll admit that he wants to take care of her, that’s he’s so worried a knot twists in his stomach, or if he’ll make some joke, he knows will make her mad. Maybe that’s the better option, he thinks. He can handle a mad Nesta. He likes a mad Nesta, but a Nesta who so easily rejects him?

Cassian doesn’t know about that.

“You don’t have any classes left this week, right?”

Nesta coughs into her sleeve before answering. Though she means to sound queenly, she only sounds sick, “you know where I live, and you also know my class schedule... seems suspicious if you ask me.”

“I’ve known you for two years.”

“And murder victims are three times more likely to be killed by someone they know."

Cassian huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “Do you still go to sleep watching SVU? Or have you switched to Lifetime movies where the babysitters always try to kill the wife?”

“People should be wary about the people they know,” Nesta shrugs as if that’s answer enough.

Cassian snorts, “well you don’t have to be wary of me.”

As the elevator doors open, Cassian gestures for her to go first and Nesta does, but not before crossing her arms.

“That’s just what a murderer would want me to think.” She squints as if dissecting him, limb by limb. “You kill me, and I’ll haunt you. You won’t be able to sleep at night without thinking of me.”

Too late, Cassian thinks.

It’s much too late for that.

Rudolph has the patience of a five-year-old when she’s sick. Cassian learns this fairly quickly when he runs inside a Walgreens on their way to Nesta’s apartment.

There’s a bench that she can sit on, where she can wait if she feels tired, but no. Nesta decides she needs to run errands. She has an entire basket filled by the time he finds her again. She’s by the greeting cards, holding three open at a time. Cassian huffs with a receipt and medicine in hand.

“Here,” he says, giving her the cough medicine. “Take some of this.”

Nesta doesn’t even bother with pouring. He watches as she rips the cap away, taking a swig right out of the bottle, gulping it down.

“That’s way more than the suggested amount,” he cries, “you can get drunk on this stuff!”

“Good, maybe I’ll forget this day ever happened.”

Cassian sighs... it seems all he does is sigh when she’s like this. A sick Nesta is a petulant, irritated Nesta with a permanent furrow between her brows.

“I know you feel sick,” he tries to placate, “but I bet you’d feel a whole lot better if we get you home as soon as we can... so you can lie down and sleep.”

Nesta only picks up another Halloween card. She ignores his suggestion, laughing under her breath as she reads whatever inane joke is written there. Soon, she’s coughing though, and Cassian reaches for the basket just to stop himself from rubbing a hand down her back, combing his fingers through her hair.

Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn, his thoughts scream.

Cassian looks to the contents to distract himself from her watery eyes, and that’s when he notices what she’s grabbed. It seems that while he was in the cold and flu aisle, Nesta was raiding the snacks.

“What is this?” He gestures to the basket. Two boxes of cereal. Caramel corn. Baked Lay’s and cans of Arizona tea. Cassian takes one and holds it up. “Really Nesta?”

“What it’s green tea!” she argues, shoving another card back in its slot.

“This is all... junk,” he tries to explain, but Nesta’s already glowering.

“Look I don’t question your decisions. You don’t question mine.”

Cassian gives her a bland look. “You question my decisions all the time. Before we came in here, you literally said ‘why are we going in here, Cassian? Weren’t you supposed to take me home.’ You said that.”

Nesta simply raises her chin, pulling out another card. “I recall no such thing.”

“Fine,” Cassian grumbles, “if you want to eat yourself to an early grave and ignore everything that could potentially make you feel better than that’s just fine with me.”

“Good,” she says, putting back the other cards. Nesta settles for a pop-up that sings Monster Mash when she opens it. She sets it in the basket he holds, walking ahead without even looking back. “I’m ready to check out.”

“Really?” Cassian jokes, mockingly. “Are you sure you raided the candy aisle?”

Nesta stops in her tracks, peering through the section with printer ink and paper as if she can see the other side. He swears he’d facepalm if he wasn’t carrying all this stuff.

“You’re right,” she says, nodding.

“Wait!” Cassian calls. “Where are you going? Nesta!”

Too late. He can already hear crunching bags.

The variety packs.

Cassian sighs, lugging their things to the aisle next door.

“Can I use these vegetables?” Cassian asks, as Nesta shoves open the door to her room. He’s surprised she’s not still by the freezer. When they first get back to her place, she sticks her head in there and he wonders if he should suggest taking her temperature, or if she’s doing it just to show him she’s annoyed.

Perhaps her ears bleed from the sound of his voice.

That seems like something Nesta would say.

“They’re Emerie’s. Why?”

“To make soup,” Cassian explains, rifling through the contents. There’s zucchini and summer squash. Onion, fresh parsley and carrots. Cabbage and lettuce. Fresh fruit. He can make a nice stew out of this.

Nesta scoffs, “I don’t need soup.”

She enters her room, shoving the door back behind her until it leaves only a crack.

“You can leave now,” she yells. “I’m home like you wanted.”

“Are you lying down?” He asks, crossing his arms sternly though she can’t see him.

Nesta sighs loudly, “you’re annoying!”

“Maybe if you got some rest, I’d be less annoying,” Cassian sings brightly.

He can hear the soft sound of her voice. “Doubt.”

Cassian shakes his head with a smirk. He opens his snapchat where The Rat Pack is the first on the list, but the group name has changed... to People I Tolerate.

That’s got to be Nesta.

Cassian laughs under his breath and types. Can I use your vegetables? Making Nesta soup.

Emerie’s bitmoji pops up at the bottom, but the person who texts back first is not Emerie, but Gwyn.

You’re at our house?

Cassian can almost hear her voice. Stern and cautious. He’s almost certain she doesn’t like him. Gwyn looks at him with even more disdain than Nesta when he's around. That stay away from my friend look.

He sighs. Yes, Nesta’s sick.

Gwyn’s quick to respond. I can come home early. I need to drop off a paper, but I can be there in 30.

Cassian rolls his eyes and types, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of her.

Nesta’s face pops up. I can take care of myself.

“No, you can’t!” Cassian yells.

“Yes, I can!” Nesta yells back, but then she starts coughing again and he can hear her groan in the other room. Cassian raises a brow at her door.

I’m going to make soup. I’ll make enough for all of you, but can I use stuff from the fridge? I’ll replace it all.

Emerie’s face pops up and then disappears quickly. He’s about ready to go to the store himself or at least next door to the House, but Emerie’s text appears.

I have no objections to this.

Cassian smiles in relief, and he’s about to set down his phone when another notification appears. It’s Emerie again.

And if you make good soup, you can stay indefinitely.

Cassian sends a winking emoji. Nesta sends back the emoji with the straight mouth and eyes. Before he can frown at what that means, Cassian sees that the group name has changed... to Three’s Company.

That’s got to be Gwyn.

Stone cold, Emerie texts back.

Cassian decides he’s going to ignore that for the moment and focus on the objective at hand.

Soup.

Cassian pulls out the vegetables and looks through the cupboards. Emerie, it seems, has all the good spices. He finds the broth packets stored in the back, and he pulls out some beef from the freezer. It’ll need to defrost but he can start the broth now, get the vegetables soft, and brown the beef later. It’ll take a couple of hours anyway.

Occasionally, he hears a cough as he works. Then a sweet laugh... followed by a cough and a groan. Cassian feels bad for her he does, but he can’t help but find the whole situation amusing. She should be resting and yet she seems to be wide awake.

Nesta doesn’t come out of her room though. It’s as if he’s not even there, and he takes that time to look over her shared apartment. There are three doors, each with a letter at the front. The N is blue, the E, green, and the G, pink. He doesn’t know how it’s possible to have a living room that looks like all three, but somehow it works. It’s studious and bright. Colorful, but subdued. There are way too many throw pillows and books scattered everywhere, but there’s also a TV with a fireplace under it. He can just imagine Nesta laughing at scary movies. Some slasher fic she’ll watch like she’s taking notes.

He can imagine Nesta everywhere, in fact.

This is where she eats. Where she sits. Where she studies. This is where she trips over shoes if they’re not neatly lined up and where she complains about dirty dishes. This is where she cooks... if she does cook. Cassian doesn’t know.

Maybe he’ll get to find out one day.

Once the water starts boiling and the meat is in the microwave to defrost, Cassian goes to check how Rudolph is doing.

He knocks on her door lightly, pushing it open. “Nesta?”

Cassian’s never seen her room before, say for when she sits by the window with her curtains wide open, and just like then, it seems like an invasion of privacy to do so now. But Nesta’s plopped on top of her bed, tucked beneath her blue comforter, and she sets down her phone when he appears at the door.

Her whole room is filled with blues and creams, and it looks exactly what he imagines Nesta’s room to look like. The large calendar, an agenda on the desk, bookshelf after bookshelf lining her walls. There are also things he doesn’t know of her yet. Pictures and posters and a.... stuffed lobster? Cassian holds it up.

“Would you stop looking around?” Nesta groans. She has her arm resting over her eyes, and he wonders if it’s because she doesn’t want to see him looking or if she feels that bad that the light is bothering her.

She should be getting some rest, he thinks.

“Where did you get a stuffed lobster?”

Nesta coughs out her response.

The sound makes Cassian grimace, his chest ache with need, but he doesn’t rush over like he wants to. This is her house, her room... and this is Nesta who doesn’t like to be coddled by anyone.

“It’s a heat pack,” she says at last, after she catches her breath.

“A heat pack?” Cassian looks to the soft red claws that dangle. He’s never seen anything so soft be a heat pack.

“For cramps,” she says as if it’s obvious. Nesta must take his silence to mean ignorance for she lifts onto her elbows, raising a judgmental brow. “Please tell me you know what periods are or am I am going to have to go back to teaching you biology?”

“No,” Cassian draws out, “I know what periods are.”

Nesta mumbles a thank god and Cassian watches as she shifts under the covers, pulling them up until they hover just beneath her mouth.

“Are you cold?” Cassian asks, looking around her room. He spots his burgundy hoodie neatly folded and nearly yanks it from her desk. “Here. Wear my sweatshirt.”

“I just washed it,” Nesta whines, “I was going to give it back to you.”

Cassian’s confused by the words, but he merely gestures for her to budge up. He’s thankful when she doesn’t argue. He rolls the sweatshirt over her head and Nesta fits her arms through the sleeves.

“You didn’t have to wash it,” he says, watching as she pats down her hair. If only he could pull it up for her, comb his fingers through it. She could use his scrunchie too, if she wanted.

Nesta rolls her eyes, and he can only imagine what she thinks. He can practically hear the words. Of course, you wouldn’t care about clean clothes.

Her expressions practically give her away--everything she feels and thinks. Cassian wonders if he knows how open she is to the rest of the world. He wonders if she’d hate him if he told her this.

“It was going to smell like me,” she frowns.

Cassian wants to huff out a laugh. That is perfectly fine by him.

“Stop laughing,” she whines, “I’m being serious.”

“Yes, you’re being very serious.” He can’t help his smirk as he gazes up at her. He doesn’t even realize he’s on her bed, sitting to the side of her all bunched up in red. Her nose to the fabric. He almost wants to say she looks cute in his hoodie, all sick like that, but he knows she’ll only bite at him, remarking about how he has some weird fetish for sick girls.

Cassian holds back a laugh as he hears the microwave ding. He needs to turn the meat around, so it doesn’t cook through, but Nesta grips his arm. His head whips towards her and... Nesta’s gazing up at him. Her eyes are a soft blue. Just like her room.

“You’re warm,” she says. To explain herself, he thinks, and why she holds him as if she doesn't want him to move.

Cassian’s lips raise lightly, and he places the back of his hand on her forehead. “You must be worse than you’re letting on if you're okay with me being in your bed.”

Nesta scoffs, “you’re on it. Not in it. I’ll make that distinction very clear.”

“You can’t be that sick then,” Cassian shrugs, smiling. “If you’re making everything sound like a tutoring session.”

Her cheeks flush a bright pink and Cassian thinks she must have a fever. He wonders if he should search for an ice pack or make one, so she doesn’t get too hot.

“Are you tired?” He asks, noting how slowly she blinks. “You did drink a lot of cough syrup.”

“I also took a NyQuil,” she says, closing her eyes.

Cassian huffs, “remind me to teach you how read warning labels when your fully coherent.”

He can hear the microwave ding again, and it reminds him of an alarm. Wake up! It seems to say. Being in Nesta’s room does feels like falling asleep. Rather dream-like and hazy. The microwave dings incessantly, but Cassian doesn’t want to wake up just yet.

Her hand is still on his arm. It’s so much smaller than his and he wants to trace the skin there and see if it’s as soft as it looks. Cassian doesn’t dare look at her, in case she doesn’t just bang together two loud cymbals and tell him to get up and out and away.

Cassian looks ahead instead, fixing his gaze on the stuffed lobster on her desk.

“Nesta,” he starts and then swallows. He feels nervous, his hands clammy. “Nesta, I really think you and I... we’d be good together.”

Cassian takes a breath, and he stares at the lobster as if it’s her face. “We’ve known each other for a long time now and I... I haven’t hid how I feel about you.” His heart is beating way too fast, and he doesn’t feel any freer from speaking the words, but Cassian decides it’s time to rip the Band-Aid off. “I thought maybe... we could try it out. See if you might be comfortable with it. If you might like me... too?”

He doesn’t know why he words that like a question, but Nesta doesn’t say a word. Cassian looks back, hoping there’s no disgust in baby blue. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she just outright says he’s trash and she’ll never like him.

But Nesta’s fast asleep.

Cassian doesn’t bother sighing as he grips her limp hand, setting it on the blanket. He doesn’t bother being disappointed when he tucks the comforter around her. Her cheeks are a lobster-red and he rubs a thumb lightly there, wondering what it would be like to hold her face in his palm and kiss at her nose. Would she complain as he pecked her lips? You’ll get sick Cassian.

Then we can stay in bed together, Nesta.

No. Cassian’s not disappointed at all.

He’ll tuck away his dreams where tomorrow lives.

Today, he’ll stick to what he’s good at, so Cassian heads to the kitchen to make soup.

~ ~

Mwahahahaahah

In case you missed, here’s the stuffed lobster in the flesh.

Tagged:

@arinbelle @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @nestaarcher0n @duskandstarlight @soitsgorgeous @swankii-art-teacher @lordof-bloodshed @thewhelk @daisy-in-danger @highqueenevankhell @lovelynesta @sirendeepity @champanheandluxxury @ladynestaarcheron @moodymelanist @teagoddess99 @spoilersteph @angelic-voice-1997 @bo0kmaster69 @drielecarla @generalnesta @cozycomfyliving08 @confusedfandomslut @dread3r @sv0430

"Why am I still writing this fic?" I say angrily, as I angrily type it in my angry word document.

#nesta archeron #cassian #nessian #nessian fanfiction #vidalinav writes #Stu(died)

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contemplativepancakes · 3 years

Text

Geralt is possibly the least interesting vampire in the world. Jaskier is strangely okay with that. 4k, G. read on AO3 here!

for @theamazingbard (:

Geralt holds up two ties in front of the mirror, comparing the fabrics against his suit. By now, he’s used to the headless suit that reflects back at him in the mirror. Geralt’s never been one to overly question things, so he couldn’t tell you why vampires don’t show up in mirrors, but really, that’s fine. A relief, even.

He’s not sure he wants to know what he looks like. He knew once, before he was turned. He wasn’t exactly a looker then, and he highly doubts he is now.

Geralt chooses the black tie with the tiny dots instead of the black tie with the stripes, and clips it on to his suit. What? He can’t be expected to tie a tie every single day. He smooths it down over his chest. Satisfied, he sits down on the bed to tie his dress shoes. Reliable double knots.

He walks down the hall to crouch in front of the refrigerator, pulling out one of the bags of blood he keeps there. He pauses to look at the label. It’s his favorite, AB. He tucks it into his lunchbox, then pauses to rip one open and dump it into his travel mug. He pours some protein powder in it to make the blood coagulate. He can definitely see the appeal of this boba tea the humans have been drinking recently.

As he heads out the door, he darkens a little as he looks at his neighbors’ decorations. He hates Halloween. A time for people to get everything wrong about monsters. They live with them, the least they could do is be a little considerate and do their research.

No, they can’t repel Geralt with garlic. He scowls at the thought.

Geralt’s distracted from his thoughts as a young man runs by him out of seemingly nowhere and falls on the sidewalk just in front of him, his knee splitting open.

Geralt rubs a hand on his neck as the man looks up at him beseechingly.

“Uh. Do you need any help?”

“My, you’re ever so kind,” the man says, extending a hand that Geralt uses to pull him to his feet.

“Probably want to get that cleaned off,” Geralt says. “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“Oh, dear! You’re right. Would it be possible for me to use your sink?” he asks, batting his eyelashes.

Geralt squints. “I...guess?”

“Oh, thank you!”

Geralt unlocks his door and leads the man into his bathroom, graciously pretending not to notice the man looking around the apartment in wide eyed fascination. He must not know that Geralt is a vampire, then, or he wouldn’t be so quick to ask Geralt for help. People around here avoid Geralt for the most part.

“I’m Jaskier,” the man says, as he bends his leg so his knee is right under the faucet. Geralt politely looks away when he notices how the motion makes the material of his pants stretch right across the seat of his ass.

“Geralt,” he replies, watching Jaskier closely for a reaction.

There’s none, so Geralt kneels down and looks under the sink for his hydrogen peroxide. When he finds it, he hands it to Jaskier wordlessly.

Jaskier flashes him a winning smile. “I guess it was my lucky day to run into you, hmm?”

Geralt doesn’t think anyone has ever said that about him before. “Anyone would do what they could to help you avoid infection,” he says dutifully.

Jaskier deflates a bit. “Well, there must be some way I can repay you. How about coffee?”

“Oh. I don’t really...drink coffee.” Geralt waits for Jaskier to get it. It’s not like monsters like him are uncommon, per se.

“How about dinner, then? A steakhouse.”

“Sure,” Geralt says, surprising himself. He blinks. His brothers are always telling him he needs to make more friends. And a steak does sound particularly good. He rarely lets himself indulge in things like that.

Jaskier brightens. “Hey, would you mind putting a band aid on this for me? I can never get it to stay.”

“I’m not sure that applying band aids is exactly rocket science,” Geralt says, but he does it anyway, his nose twitching at the scent of the fresh blood.

Geralt is centuries old, though, so it’s not like a little blood is the end of the world. Maybe when he was a fledgling, but those days are long past him.

He gives Jaskier’s knee a tiny pat. “Looks like those pants are done in for,” he says inanely.

Jaskier shrugs. “A worthy sacrifice.”

Geralt doesn’t respond to that, and Jaskier lets the silence linger. Geralt clears his throat. “I’m going to be late for work.”

Before he leaves, Jaskier insists Geralt give him his number so that he can arrange their dinner. “I’m very much looking forward to it,” Jaskier says with a grin.

Geralt gives him a hesitant smile, looking at the clock. He really does need to get a move on.

Jaskier seems to get the hint and lets Geralt usher him out the door.

In the end, Geralt’s not late, but he is grumpy that he only arrived five minutes early instead of his customary fifteen. It throws his entire day off, and the numbers seem to swim before him on his computer screen like never before.

Geralt scowls. He should have picked the tie with the stripes.

Jaskier contains his pout as he walks along the sidewalk, away from Geralt’s house. He practically offered himself up on a platter to be ravished, and Geralt was completely unaffected. There was blood right in front of his nose!

Jaskier doubts his information for a second, but Priscilla was the one who told him in hushed whispers that the word was that Geralt was a vampire. If Valdo had been the one to tell him, then he would have had a few more qualms, but Priscilla wouldn’t lie to him like that.

She knows how the idea of being partners with a monster makes him feel hot under the collar.

Jaskier resolves to be better. If a cut knee wasn’t enough, he’ll just have to step up his game for this dinner. And surely, if Geralt didn’t want to be seduced, he would have sent Jaskier on his merry way after bandaging his knee instead of bandaging it for him, for gods’ sake.

Maybe Geralt wants to be the one being chased after for once. Well, Jaskier is happy to oblige.

When Geralt gets home from work, there’s a text waiting for him. How about Friday night for our little get together?

It’s not like Geralt ever has any plans that might get in the way besides his weekly meeting, so it’s not like he has to check his calendar before he replies. Sure.

Great! I’ll pick you up at 8! :D

Geralt frowns. This doesn’t seem right. He hasn’t made a new friend in possibly fifty years, and now one literally falls into his path?

He hums to himself as he does his nightly routine, pushing on the gum above each fang to make it pop out so he can properly brush it. Cleanliness is next to godliness, and all that. Actual dentists that weren’t just going to try to pull out his teeth have only been around for less than the majority of his life, so it’s habit to take good care of them.

Geralt strips off his clothes until he’s left in just his t-shirt and boxers and climbs into bed. No, he doesn’t have a coffin or hang upside down like some sort of bat. Geralt’s not sure where all that nonsense got its roots in the first place.

There’s so many things that humans seem to have no qualms believing about monsters, though, and Geralt frowns as he punches his pillow into a better shape. He’s almost 250. His lumbar health is no joke.

His anxiety bleeds into his work, making Excel blink more error messages back at him than he’s ever seen before. Geralt’s boss pulls him aside to ask if he’s okay. Geralt sulks.

He is the consummate professional, and he’s not going to let this dinner get the better of him. Geralt contends anyone would be nervous if they hadn’t made a new friend in decades, too.

Now, he stands in front of his closet. He’s certainly not going to wear a suit, but he rarely wears anything else. It’s not like he goes much of any place besides work and his weekly meetings. Geralt sighs as he pulls a pair of jeans out of his wardrobe.

They’re a lot tighter than he remembers, but this is all he has, so it’ll have to do. He finds a long sleeved shirt that is luckily on the baggier side. He hopes that will make up for his too-close fitting jeans.

Geralt brushes his hair, but he can’t see it in the mirror, so there’s no point in doing anything else with it. He’s more likely to make himself look ridiculous than presentable with whatever he might attempt.

Geralt plants himself on the couch, reaching for his book to read until the clock rolls around to the time Jaskier promised to pick him up. His fingers play with the corners of the pages, bending them in a way that he’s sure would make a librarian displeased.

Geralt huffs when he realizes he’s not going to get any reading done and sets the book down on his side table. He takes a deep breath through his nose. He is ancient; he shouldn’t be getting social anxiety right now.

His phone pings with a text. Outside!

Geralt looks out the window, and indeed, there’s a car there. It’s a lime green slug bug, with rust eating its way up from the undercarriage. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. That looks like Jaskier’s car, all right.

Jaskier tries not to drool as Geralt walks down his steps. He’s wearing pants that are skin tight, which should frankly be illegal, and his shirt hangs off of him so that it shows his collar bones. Jaskier thought that vampires should be the ones who wanted to bite, but he would really love to get his mouth on one of those.

Geralt gets into the passenger seat with a half smile playing around his lips. “Like my ride?” Jaskier asks.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Jaskier claps his hand to his heart in mock offense. “I’m wounded.”

Geralt hums, shifting in his seat as he fastens his seatbelt. Jaskier drums his fingers on the steering wheel, flexing his right arm to draw attention to the bandage he has there. He went and donated blood this afternoon, and if Geralt doesn’t get his hint this time, he is going to pound his head against the nearest wall.

Geralt shifts his head to look out the window as Jaskier keeps his arms on shameless display. He knows times have changed, but it’s also always a little dizzying to see so much of everyone’s skin on display all the time, their pulse thrumming invitingly underneath it.

Geralt shakes his head to clear it of its reverie as Jaskier pulls his car into drive. It gives a concerning lurch. Before Geralt can open his mouth to comment, Jaskier is holding up a hand. “I can assure you, we are perfectly safe.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey!” Jaskier protests. “It is. I take care of it.”

“All I said was hmm,” Geralt says with a tiny grin. “That’s why it has so much rust, right?”

Jaskier sighs. “I was going to get around to repaint it, and then I just...other things came up.”

Geralt makes a face at him, laughing at Jaskier’s increased defenses. Some of his anxiety fades away as he realizes this isn’t so bad, after all. Maybe Jaskier needs a new friend just as badly as him.

When they arrive at the restaurant, Jaskier pulls Geralt’s chair out for him. Geralt gives him a polite nod. He can’t say he has a firm grasp on all the recent customs. Lambert’s always telling him he’s stuck in the past.

Geralt crosses his fingers and rests his chin on his hands as he watches Jaskier eat his salad, taking endearingly large bites. Jaskier hasn’t even mentioned anything about vampires yet. Geralt is starting to feel a tiny bit guilty. Would he still want to spend all this time with him if he knew Geralt wasn’t human?

As he’s thinking that, Jaskier takes a big gulp of his water and starts to sputter. Geralt’s across the table in an instant, his hand around Jaskier’s bicep and another hand on his back. “Are you okay?” Geralt murmurs, tense and ready to help if the need arises.

Jaskier coughs and waves him off. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

Geralt relaxes a bit, but as his hand lingers on Jaskier’s arm, he can’t help but feel how warm it is, such a contrast to his own constantly cool skin. When Jaskier turns his face to look up at him, Geralt quickly drops his arm and beats a hasty retreat back to his seat.

He could swear Jaskier looks disappointed. He must be delusional.

When the main course comes, Geralt cuts neatly into his pink steak, mouth watering as the juices come leaking out of it. He sucks the tip of his finger into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut at the salty taste of it.

He makes himself cut the steak into tiny pieces. He’ll have to tell Jaskier he’s a vampire eventually; he might as well make sure he doesn’t think he’s a barbaric onel. Geralt tries his best to keep his eyes on Jaskier’s face instead of his arms. He can’t help but notice that he has some very nice veins. They’re a striking blue, and a perfect compliment to his eyes.

Geralt bites his lip, flinching when one of his fangs pops out on its own, pressing into his lip.

“One of my uncles is a werewolf,” Jaskier says, apropos of nothing, looking at Geralt meaningfully.

A trickle of sweat runs down Geralt’s back. Does Jaskier think he’s a werewolf? Werewolves are generally regarded better than vampires; at least they’re only monsters one night a month.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, not hearing the rest of Jaskier’s sentence.

Jaskier laughs at his own joke, and Geralt blinks rapidly until he can focus again on what Jaskier’s saying.

When the waiter comes with the check, Jaskier insists on paying for it. Is this what friendship has evolved to since Geralt last had one? He doesn’t know enough about it to argue with Jaskier, so he lets him do what he wants.

Outside of Geralt’s house, Jaskier puts a hand on the console between them, making eye contact with Geralt before dropping his gaze down to his lips. Geralt gives him a gentle smile, his eyes crinkling. His white hair looks ethereal in the moonlight, and Jaskier is only a little infatuated.

Geralt’s exterior is stony, but he also had no problems giving Jaskier all sorts of secret smiles throughout the night. Jaskier’s not sure he’s met a better listener than Geralt, and he tends to drone on and on, so that’s somewhat important to him.

Jaskier closes his eyes and starts to lean in when Geralt opens the car door. Jaskier opens his eyes.

“I had a great time, thank you,” Geralt says, one hand on the top of the car.

Jaskier bites his lip, stopping himself from saying what he wants. “Me, too. Let’s do it again some time?”

Geralt nods eagerly, and Jaskier watches him walk away, his gaze fixed on Geralt’s devastating pants and not at all on the way his ass looks in them.

Jaskier rests his head on the steering wheel in despair. He doesn’t know how to be any more heavy handed than this. He went and donated blood! And Geralt let him pay for their meal! He’s not sure how he can get across the point any better that he’s a talking blood bag, and he’s open for business.

Jaskier heaves a gigantic sigh and resolves to go home and plot his next move.

Maybe Geralt’s just shy.

Well. Jaskier can work with that

Geralt’s weekend passes in its normal fashion. He goes for a run, drinks some blood out of his supply in the fridge, then crashes on the couch for a whole day while he thinks of anything other than work. Sometimes Eskel lets himself in using his key, but he doesn’t that weekend, and Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he tortures himself thinking of what Eskel might be doing.

Eskel’s never had problems making friends, unlike Geralt, so he’s sure he’s out having a good time with them.

Geralt used to be good at making friends, gods damn it, before all of them died of old age and he just didn’t see the point anymore. He’s come to suppose that there’s not all that much of a point in immortality if all he does is work, though.

The weekend’s over just as quickly as it began, and on Monday night, he can’t help the smile that creeps across his face when Jaskier texts him about some inane thing he noticed. Was he thinking of Geralt? That’s...nice.

Cautiously, Geralt lets himself hope that something is going to come out of this.

But first, he needs to tell Jaskier he’s a vampire. He wouldn’t be the first person to run away screaming, even though they are much more accepted now than they used to be.

Geralt shudders as he thinks of the industrial revolution. No regard for any monsters then. Humans invent light bulbs, and all of a sudden they think they’re too good for a healthy dash of respect.

Geralt looks back down at his phone, at a music video Jaskier sent him of someone playing a singing saw.

He lets himself focus on that a while.

Wednesday creeps around, and with it, Geralt’s weekly meeting.

He takes his spot in his customary chair, and looks around for Lambert, ignoring the look Eskel is trying to burn through the side of his face with.

“Why do I have to be here, again?” Geralt asks, when he gives up on Lambert to come save him.

Eskel rolls his eyes. It’s an argument they’ve had more than once. “If you won’t become a sponsor, you have to at least show them that things get better.”

Geralt huffs a breath out through his nose as he watches the regulars file in. There’s one new person, and Geralt eyes her curiously. She looks a little terrified, and Geralt softens in sympathy.

The meeting starts, and they go around in the circle, the seat beside Geralt still empty in Lambert’s tardiness.

“Hi, I’m Geralt, and I’m a blood addict,” he drones when it’s his turn.

When they’ve moved on to their personal struggles for the week, Lambert finally appears, dropping into his chair.

He elbows Geralt, seemingly unaware of everyone staring at them.

“Hey, what’s got you in such a good mood?”

Geralt firmly fixes a scowl in place and ignores him. He’s not sure why he even wanted Lambert to show up in the first place.

Geralt leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he listens to everyone else, Eskel being disgustingly reassuring to them all, as per usual. Geralt stamps the jealousy down. It’s not Eskel’s fault he’s so good with people.

The meeting drags by, and when it’s finally over, Lambert doesn’t let Geralt just sneak away. He digs his elbow into his side again, holding Geralt by the shoulder. “You didn’t answer me earlier. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I’m not,” Geralt says.

Lambert hums. “You don’t have your usual storm cloud above your head, so I’m going to count it.”

Geralt scowls at him and looks at Eskel for back up, but Eskel just raises his eyebrows at him.

“I hate you both,” Geralt grumbles.

“You love us,” Lambert says.

“Fine. I made a new friend,” he grates out.

Lambert and Eskel exchange an insufferable look.

“What?” Geralt demands.

“You, make a friend? Well, we’re just going to have to hear all about this to believe it.”

Geralt huffs, but he tells them about Jaskier.

“He took you to dinner? And paid? And you think he wants to be just friends?” Lambert asks.

Geralt flaps his hands around and hisses, “Look, I’ve barely been anywhere that isn’t here or work in the last three decades, how am I supposed to keep up with all this human nonsense? And besides, I haven’t even told him I’m a vampire yet. I’ll be lucky if he even wants to be my friend after that.”

Eskel bites his lip. “You know that’s a turn on for some humans, right?”

“What?”

“And you said he scraped his knee the first time he saw you? Geralt, I think he already knows, and he’s just trying to get in your pants.”

Geralt deflates. That makes a twisted sort of sense. “Oh.”

Lambert punches him in the arm. “Hey, lighten up. If anyone can charm him with their stunning personality, it’s you.”

“Fuck off.”

It’s difficult to fall asleep that night.

A week goes by without him answering any of Jaskier’s texts. He still painstakingly reads and savors each one, but he can’t bring himself to reply. If he was looking for some sort of...fling, he would have gone on one of those apps Eskel keeps telling him about.

As pathetic as it sounds, he could really use a friend. And if sex came later, well, Geralt wouldn’t complain, but he just desperately needs someone who’s going to stick around. He needs someone just for himself, someone outside of Lambert and Eskel who isn’t going to tease him about every little thing.

Geralt sighs. This was at least good practice. Maybe he can try again with someone else.

His heart sinks at the thought. He doesn’t really want someone else. Jaskier wormed his way into his chest in just a week, and Geralt knows he could yank him out with only a little pain if he tried, he doesn’t want to.

Geralt wants to have something nice, for once.

Jaskier bites his lip as he peers out the car window at Geralt’s house. He’s half scared there’s not going to be an answer when he knocks, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do then. He thought their date went swimmingly, so he’s not sure why Geralt suddenly stopped answering him unless something happened.

Jaskier has a vision of getting into the house only to find Geralt on the floor, the only way to revive him being letting Geralt drink straight from his neck, obviously leading to Geralt ravishing him against the nearest wall.

Jaskier shakes himself like a dog. Geralt’s given him no interest in anything like that at all. Maybe he needs to lower his expectations. The dude seems lonely, anyway, so maybe he just wants someone to talk to that’s not one of his coworkers.

Geralt told him he’s an actuary, and from the questions he asked of Geralt and Geralt didn’t answer, he’s not convinced that Geralt talks to his coworkers at all.

Jaskier blows out a puff of breath as he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. He’s not sure what he hopes is going to happen when he opens the door.

He walks up the door and knocks.

He waits an agonizing moment before the door swings open, revealing Geralt. He looks even paler than Jaskier remembered him, wearing a pair of sweatpants with a hole in the crotch that he can see Geralt’s plaid boxers through and a t-shirt with a collar that’s outrageously stretched. Jaskier swallows hard.

“Have you considered not oiling the hinges? I think it would do you a world of good to develop a creaky door aesthetic.”

Geralt’s forehead wrinkles adorably. “What?”

“Just, you know. Being a vampire and all.”

Geralt slumps against the door frame. “How long have you known?”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to be confused. “Known what?”

“That I’m a vampire!”

“Oh.” Jaskier pauses. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Geralt’s hand pauses in its path of trailing the wood grain of the door. “Do you have a...kink?” he spits.

Jaskier raises his hands. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

Geralt fixes him with an unconvinced look.

“Look, that might have been part of the initial intrigue, but—”

Geralt raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“But, you’re really fucking hot and also possibly the most boring person I know, but...I’m into it. You know all these weird facts and—gods know I could use a little stability in my life.”

Geralt gives him a bashful smile, and Jaskier wonders if anyone has said anything nice to him at some point this century. “Yeah?”

Jaskier leans across the threshold and cups Geralt’s face with his hands, their mouths a breath apart. “Yeah.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #contemplative writing #vampire! geralt

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Rainstorm

Y/N and Newt have been best friends ever since she arrived in the Glade. However, she might find that her feelings over the blond boy have changed, especially after the events of a rainy day.

masterlist

There’s a great clamoring around you, the tearing and shrieking of metal. You feel like your head is being pounded by an anvil, and you clap your hands to your skull, desperate to stop the pain. You realize you’re moving, the floor beneath you swaying as it is dragged up by some unseen chain. There are boxes around you, crates of something that you can’t see in the dark. The worst part isn’t the echoing din, or the insufferable darkness lit by sporadic bursts of fluorescents. The worst part is that you have no idea how you got here.

After a couple of seconds, you force yourself to stand up straight and look around. There are boxes littering the ground, yes, but you’re in a larger box yourself. Is that what this lurching, moving metal room is? There are four walls and a ceiling that seems to press in on you with every waking second. Just as you come to this conclusion, the room stops moving with a sudden jolt that sends you to the ground. Panic crests over you and you throw yourself to the edge of the room, hiding behind the stacks of boxes just as the ceiling is lifted away.

Bright, overwhelming sunlight flows into the room like a wave. You squint, careful not to make a sound even as your eyes water from the sudden light. You can see the dim silhouettes of a group of people standing over the room, looking in on you. They must not see you, because you can hear dim snatches of conversation being tossed back and forth in the space above you. “Shouldn’t there be a greenie? Where’s the new kid?” You have no idea what a greenie is, but you do have a sickening feeling that they’re expecting someone, someone who will turn out to be you.

After another moment of indecision, a boy jumps down into the room, causing the floor to shake slightly from the impact. He peers between the crates. Your breath comes harsh in your chest as you realize he must be looking for you. Your hand closes around something in an open box, and as you pull it out slowly, you realize your fingers are clenched around the grip of a knife. It’s not much, but at least you have a weapon.

The boy calls out to you now. “Hey, we know you’re there. There’s always someone in the Box. You can come out now, we’re not going to hurt you.” He takes a couple of steps closer, and you realize there’s no getting out of this. Might as well use the advantage of surprise while it’s still in your court. You stand up suddenly, stepping away from the shelter of the boxes. You point your knife towards the boy’s throat. For a second, the two of you stand there- you with your blade, him with a look of surprise coating his eyes.

Now that you’re both standing in the sunlight, you can see more of him. This boy has light dirty blond hair and warm brown eyes. His hands rise by his sides the second he sees your knife. “Hey, there’s no need for that. We’re not trying to hurt you.” Then his brow furrows and he takes a step forward, surprise overwhelming his previous hesitation. “Wait. You’re a girl.” You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be a girl?” The boy glances up at the silhouettes of the others still standing over the box. “Back off, guys. She’ll be fine.”

He looks back at you. “Let’s start this over. My name is Newt. You’re in the Glade now, with a few other shanks. I’m just surprised because they’ve never sent a girl up before, that’s it. Now, can you please put down the knife? What would you do with it, anyway?” You keep the blade up, feeling slightly defensive. “I could use it.” Newt lowers his hands, humor outweighing any sense of self-preservation. “For what?” You gesture with the blade. “To, I don’t know, stab someone. It’s a knife, what else would I do?”

Newt grins. “Maybe not stab me? We’re going to be here for a while, I’d appreciate it if you didn't kill me immediately.” You lower the blade at last, reaching over to put it back in a nearby box. “I’ll consider it.” Newt offers you a hand to help you out of the Box. “Can I help you up? You can trust me, you know.” You consider him for a second, taking in everything you know about the boy. He looks at you encouragingly, smiling with all the peaceful freedom of a dove, and you relent. After a second, you stand blinking in the sunlight, turning in a slow circle to stare at the massive walls surrounding you. “What is that?” Newt comes to stand beside you. “That’s the Maze. Keeps us all stuck in here. Once a month, the Box sends up some new sap. This time it’s you.”

You glance around you at the other boys pretending to do their work. “There’s not that many people here. How long has this been going on?” Newt shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe six months or so? Alby’s been here longest, he’ll have a better answer. Alby’s in charge here, by the way. I’m second in command.” You nod. “And you really don’t have any other girls here? That’s awful.” Newt laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine around here.”

Newt, as it turns out, is right. You talk and laugh with the other Gladers like you’ve known them your entire life. Conversation flows freely that first day, and after a few hours, you already remember your name, taking joy in turning it over in your head like a smooth stone from the river. You make fast friends with Minho, the runner, after he hears the story of how you nearly stabbed Newt back in the Box. Alby talks Glade politics with you, Gally seems to tolerate you far more than the others. However, your closest friendship will always be with Newt.

Maybe it’s because he was the first friendly face you saw, the reason you ever agreed to enter into the Glade at all. Maybe it’s because Newt hands away his trust like a gift, free of charge. You couldn’t stray from him if you tried. You exchange quick chats and stupid jokes in between shifts, and you find that you look forward to every minute shared with the blond second-in-command.

One day, Newt and his track-hoes are forced to give up their gardening to retreat underneath haphazard awnings from an encroaching rainstorm. Even the builders have hurried away, trading in their bricks and wooden slats for the dry cover of the few buildings in the Glade. You lean against a tree conveniently growing underneath a cloth shelter, eyes alight as you watch the rain pour down over the Glade. A faint smile plays on your lips. Newt walks up beside you, an eyebrow raised as he takes in your peaceful expression.

“You know, I’ve never seen someone look this happy over a bloody thunderstorm. We’re all forced indoors and we can’t do anything, and you look like someone’s just won you a million pounds.” You turn to face him, grinning. “I just think it’s nice. You’re the track-hoe, I thought you’d be happier about it. If it doesn’t rain, all your plants die. Honestly, we should both be celebrating.” Newt shakes his head in horror. “You’re ridiculous. I mean, look at Gally. He seems like he’s going to kill somebody just because of a few clouds.”

You reach out a hand, feeling the burst of the fat raindrops against your palm. “You want me to be like Gally and hate everything in the world? Not a chance.” Newt watches you, an amused expression entertaining itself on his lips. “I’m not asking for that, I’m asking you to stop looking so excited about a rainstorm. You’re making the rest of us look like miserable downers.” You grin at him. “Maybe you are. Have you considered that?”

You crane your head out from the awning, gazing up as the drops rain down upon you. “I’m going out there. Come with me.” Newt scoffs. “And be soaking for the rest of the day? Not a chance.” You look at him, a mock pout tainting your eyes with incredible sorrow. “It’ll be fun. Not everyone has to be a miserable downer, you know.” You reach out to grab his hand and pull him into the rain, but Newt dodges your grasp. Instead, your hand darts down to his pocket, and you steal his prized pocketknife, holding it up teasingly before him. Newt lunges for it, but you run out into the rain-drenched clearing, forcing you to run after him.

Newt’s carried this one knife around with him for what feels like forever. He uses it for everything- gardening, threatening greenies, lending it to Chuck for the boy’s latest carving project. It won’t rust in the rain, but it will be important enough to him so that he’ll follow you out into the storm, away from his shelter. You sprint through the clearing, Newt chasing after you. You can hear him shouting. “You’re a terrible friend, Y/N, you know that?” You risk a glance backwards, feeling a laugh bursting on your tongue when you realize he’s only a few feet away from you. “That’s just mean!”

Eventually, he catches up to you, reaching out an arm to stop you in your tracks. You come to an abrupt stop, still doing your best to hold the knife away from him. Newt laughs to see your last-ditch efforts. “You’re insane, you know that? Absolutely insane.” You beam at him, feeling the rain pour down over you. “Maybe so.” Newt lunges for the knife and the sudden shift in balance makes you slip on the soaking wet grass. Newt leans over, catching you, and for a second you feel like you’re frozen in that moment, his arms around your waist and the rain pounding around you.

Then he’s straightening up, knife held triumphantly in his palm. “Told you I’d get it back.” You grin at him. “That wasn’t the point. We’re both out here now.” Newt looks up, as if finally realizing that you’ve goaded him into leaving the tent. He tosses a playful glare your way. “I thought we were friends.” You laugh. “We are. That’s why we’re having such a good time.” You tilt your head up towards the sky, taking in the crisp, clear freshness of the rain. Newt groans, but you can see the smile he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide. “Maybe it isn’t that bad. Not all of it.”

When you look back, you see his smile, the rain pressing his hair against his face. You can feel your own breath coming sharply in your chest after the running, the cool of the rain against the heat in your cheeks. You’ve never felt this way around him, and you can’t figure out what it means until that night, when you lie awake for hours, mind still turning around the storm from earlier. The truth comes to you after a while, letting itself in without so much as a knock. You love Newt, no matter how much you’d like to hide it.

The only problem is that Newt would never feel the same way about you. He constantly refers to you as his friend, even his best friend, and that’s all you’ll ever be. The fault lies solely with you, for falling in love with such a sunbeam of a boy and expecting that he’d look back at a matchstick of a girl, someone who’d light up only to die out seconds later. The only thing you can do is try to get over your little crush, hoping you can snuff it out like a candle.

This proves to be more difficult than you’d thought. Your first attempt is to just forget the whole thing ever happened. This plan runs into the ground as soon as you look at him the next morning, and feel all of your heart’s pounding rush over you. Your only idea after that is to edge slightly away from him. Maybe the distance will keep your mind from turning to him, from falling in love so easily. You still sit with him at mealtimes with all your other friends, but you don’t run to him at every break. Honestly, this is for the best. He probably thought you were too clingy anyway, this is just making things even better.

Yet it still hurts when you feel his absence, like a phantom limb that should have always stayed by your side. Maybe you’re just kidding yourself, but you could swear that Newt looks for you when you’re not there, like there’s a one in a million chance that he just might feel the same way. After about a week of this, you’re sitting in a quiet, empty part of the Glade on a rest break when Newt approaches you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits down right next to you. From the second you saw him, you noticed the crease in his brow, the look of unhappiness that seemed to permeate his every movement. Whatever he’s about to say, it won’t be good.

Newt fixes you with a quiet stare. “Why are you avoiding me?” The question, so blunt and straight-forward, demands an answer. You’re not sure that you want to provide one, so you try to steer away from his interrogation. “What are you talking about? We sit at the same tables at meals. We talk all the time, actually. We’re talking right now.” It’s a nothing answer, and Newt knows it. “We’re talking now because I came up to you. We used to spend a lot more time together, and then you decided that I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s not what I thought at all! I-” You break off, wishing you could hold your tongue for once in your life. You almost gave it all away. Newt sees this sudden silence and presses it. “You what? I was closer to you than I was to anyone else in the Glade, and now I barely see you a couple of times per day. There’s always a reason, Y/N, and I would like to know why.” You sigh, but keep your mouth shut. Maybe he’ll hate you right now, but it will be better than the disappointment and even disgust when he finds out that someone he sees as a sister has fallen in love with him.

Newt’s voice is quiet. “I guess this was a mistake. You what, regretted all of this? You’re trying to pretend that we were never friends?” Your eyes flash. “I never regretted a thing. I loved you, and it was a stupid mistake that I’m trying to fix. Is that what you wanted to hear?” There’s silence for one heartbeat, two. You look away, furious with yourself. Then there’s a hand on your cheek, guiding your face back to his. Newt’s lips are on yours now, and you stifle a gasp of surprise.

At last, he breaks away, a smile dancing across his face. “You could have said that a lot earlier, you know.” You stare at him. “You liked me? You actually-” Newt chuckles softly. “Have for a while. I was trying to tell you, but you made it so bloody difficult sometimes.” You feel like you can’t think straight. “I can’t believe I never figured that out.” Newt’s smile is intoxicating. “I’m glad you know now. Makes it a lot easier to do this.” When he kisses you again, it’s even more breathtaking than the first.

#newt #newt imagines #newt x reader #tmr #tmr imagines #tmr x reader #maze runner #maze runner imagines #maze runner x reader #tmr newt #tmr newt imagines #tmr newt x reader #maze runner newt #maze runner newt imagines #maze runner newt x reader #scorch trials #death cure #thomas brodie sangster

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takedownshoe · 2 years

Text

The man of the museum

This is the first fic I've posted anywhere, it's for @beautifulbows924 's moonknight fanfiction challenge, enjoy ^^

Steven grant x reader if you squint

Reader is gender neutral and "They" is used, reader can be literally whatever you want, they are british though as I am lol.

word count: 1.6k

Prompt: "Are you bleeding?"

Warnings: Blood, Minor Episode 1 and 2 spoilers, tiny bit of angst

AU where the armour doesn't fully heal steven/marc for plot reasons lol also an AU where after fighting the Jackal Marc let Steven take over before they went to Cairo yet again, plot reasons :)

It had been a long day, you had been writing an article about the Deities of Egypt for your blog that you post on every month or so, it's a small hobby you'd picked up when doing your History degree in university, ever since you graduated you still wanted to post on it as it reminded you of the good times you had at uni every time you finished writing about various different beliefs and myths of ancient history. Yet you had run out of knowledge, sure, you could use the internet but you tried to use more reliable information when writing.

The best way to get more information about the Deities of Ancient Egypt would be to go to the local museum, so you did, you took the bus and spent the day at the museum. Whilst looking at the chipped statue of Anubis, a voice spoke up from behind you, "Anubis, Egyptian god of death" The guy had a velvet smooth voice, you turned around, "Yeah, in the Early Dynastic period and the Old Kingdom, he enjoyed a preeminent position as lord of the dead, but he was later overshadowed by Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld." The guy smiled, he was clearly impressed yet shocked, but not in the 'I didn't expect you to know that' sort of way, it seemed more of a 'I didn't expect that reply' sort of shocked. He spoke yet again "Someone knows their Egyptian Deities" he paused before adding "You, I mean" The guy seemed nervous, in a lack of self confidence sort of way, he wore a name tag which said 'Steven' It was neatly pinned to his Denim jacket. "Steven is it? I'm Y/N, I'm writing an article on the Deities of Ancient Egypt, I came here for information, of course I could use the internet but you know how that is right." You chuckled, he smiled again stating "Yeah, one minute you're reading about Horus rising the sun as he flies across the sky, the next it's some rubbish about him and zeus meeting?" You nodded in agreement "precisely!" You were about to ask him if he knew anything about Taweret, but there was a shout "Steven! You're not a tour guide, no matter how many times you pretend to be, get back in the gift shop or I'll have you on inventory for the week!" His face dropped "Sorry, I have to go or my boss'll have my head." You nodded in agreement "Yeah I'll see you around" you waved goodbye.

_______________________________

A week passed, the first few days you went back to the museum was for the information and throughout those days, steven had talked with you, mostly about Ancient Egypt but also about his life, so far you had learnt about his pet fish, his interests, the fact that he's vegan and that he has a sleeping disorder. The next few days you didn't go for the information but for him, you had become good friends and went just to talk, and that you did, until the friday.

You walked through the doors and headed towards the gift shop to see your friend but he wasn't there. 'Must be somewhere else' you thought, yet after a while of searching the Egyptian exhibit he was nowhere to be found, you flagged down one of Steven's colleagues "Hey, sorry, is Steven here today?" They thought for a second before replying "No, I don't think so" you looked down, confused "Oh, okay, sorry to bother you" you replied.

The next few days you went in again, but yet again, Steven Grant was nowhere to be found. After that you gave up, you continued to write up what you had learnt during your time at the museum, you were upset he didn't say anything about not being at the museum for a few days but you shrugged it off.

_______________________________

Another few days passed when you saw Steven, walking past you when you were heading to the shops. Head down, he was tense, his body language like you've never seen it, he always seemed so relaxed. "Steven!" You practically shouted, expecting him to turn around but..... he didn't, nothing, maybe he didn't hear you, "Steven?" You shouted again, trying to catch up to him, you tapped him on the shoulder, he finally turned but.... "do I know you?" He said, voice different, like he was a completely different person. Your heart sank, those words alone seemed to open a void deep inside you that sucked all happiness away deep into the depths, never to be heard of again, "I have somewhere to be, do I know you?" He stated, strange, you didn't remember him being American.... you opened your mouth to speak trying to find the words but, nothing. "I'll be on my way then" he said, turning and leaving. Leaving the area and leaving you, confused, upset, horrified. Why would he do this, was it intentional? Did you say something before that made him want to forget your entire being? Hell that encounter messed you up so bad you didn't even remember where you were going, so instead, you went home. Salty tears falling rolling down your face that stained your eyes red.

_______________________________

Yet again another day passed and you still hadn't thought about what happened with Steven so to clear your head, you went on a walk.

You were walking past the bus when you heard a massive crash and the bus jolt, you walked faster, and further around to see a man in a white suit and.... glowing eyes? The mask looked like it vaporised and there you saw, "Steven?" You muttered. It looked like he was... talking to himself?? He seemed pretty beaten up yet, you saw nothing around that would have caused such an injury, all of a sudden he got back up and a new mask appeared, wrapped in bandages, like... "like a mummy" you muttered, not realising you spoke out loud, you looked up, only to find Steven or... at least you thought it was Steven, bolting over a roof like something was following him, he reached the end of the roof and jumped backwards, grabbing on to the invisible persuer and seemingly impaling it on the pyramid shaped, mirror monument in the area, the suit or, the 'mummy outfit' as you called it, retracted to reveal, you guessed it, Steven. All beat up and scratched.

It seemed he was talking to himself again clutching his side and wincing every so often as he had what seemed to be a one-sided conversation with himself at one of the mirrored sectors, until you appeared, he noticed and spoke "You again?" You stood there, blank expression, trying to find something to say before he spoke again, to his reflection this time, "You know Them?.... fine, go ahead, take the body." You were so confused, the American accent, the grumpy expression, the talking to his reflection, all of it. Confusing.

You watched as his expression changed, along with his body language, he relaxed, and, you watched his expression change again as he realised that you were standing there, He spoke as you stood there still as a statue, not saying a thing, "Y/N? Listen, I can-" He cut off what he was saying as he tried to walk towards you, grunting in pain. You spoke before he could finish his sentence. "No, don't even try, you pretend you don't know me, you put on a fake accent, to avoid me? I don't know, but you pretend to not know me and now all of a sudden you do, and you drop the accent too. what is this all about!" You were furious, how dare he, "Listen Y/N-" you stopped him, "No! I won't have it, you- You-" He collapsed, still just barely conscious. "Are you- bleeding?" All of your anger seeped away whilst his blood seeped through your clothes, the crimson liquid staining your clothes when you sat next to him as you panicked, hatred replaced with worry, his breathing slowed, "Y/N..." his eyes closed, "No! Stay with me, Steven, please..." It was no use.

"Shit."

_______________________________

After that night, you had brought Steven home, and for the last couple days, he had been out cold on your bed, you were so worried about him, not being able to sleep, you could barely eat either. You had patched him up and you re-bandaged his wounds every 12 hours, being careful not to hurt him or stain your sheets with any more of his crimson blood than it already was. The moment he fell, you forgot all about what happened and in the heat of the moment, you had no choice but to forgive him. You would give him a chance to explain everything, if only he woke up.

For what it was worth, you tried to to write your article to try and keep your mind off of him... but every time you tried to write about a story that he told you, you couldn't take it, after he tried to forget about you, you had buried all you feelings, now they all overflowed. Tears ran down your face, warm, salty, you wondered if he would ever wake up, and that made things worse, more tears fell, temporarily staining your wooden desk, and they would continue to do so. Until... "You alright?" You snapped your head around, "Steven??" You asked, hoping you hadn't imagined it, and there he was, the same tall, handsome, no longer sleep deprived Steven grant. "You're awake! I was so worried!" You practically ran into him, wrapping your arms tight around him and squeezing. Steven however, didn't reply, you stopped hugging him and asked "everything okay?" His dark eyes darted around the room, the silence was loud, until he answered.

"I can explain everything."

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|END|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed my fanfic, I will admit I was tempted to turn this into a full blown story but I didn't want to bore anyone lol.

I apologise for any spelling/punctuation mistakes, I'm not good at proofreading but as long as you can tell what's going on it shouldn't mater too much I hope ^^.

yet again thank you to @beautifulbows924 for setting up this competition as it gave me the inspiration I needed to write a moon knight fanfiction and actually post a fanfic I've written anywhere (usually they stay in my notes never to be seen by anyone except me)

feedback would be appreciated, I'm looking to improve my writing as this was fun and I'd quite like to start posting the things I've written, constructive criticism is welcome here!

#moon knight #steven grant #roses2kwc #marc spector #moon knight series #fanfic

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aceghosts · 2 years

Note

“ we probably shouldn't do this... “ “ we definitely shouldn't do this. “ for Hunter and Albert? <3

Mika, thank you for being my Resident Evil enabler! I'm having fun writing for these two.

[Prompt List]

Summary: During a sparring session, Hunter finds out what they've been feeling for Wesker isn't so one-sided.

Words: 1,039 words.

Warning: Does Wesker being a tease count? I'm kidding! No real warnings. There is one mention of Hunter's death, and maybe if you squint, things start to get spicy at the end. But nothing too spicy as I can't write smut to save my life, lol.

AO3

Hunter readies themself for another strike against Wesker, raising their fists in a defensive posture. He stands relaxed, dressed all in black sans his usual long black jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Hunter remembers trying not to stare when he rolled them up. Much to their misfortune, Wesker noticed, seemingly have a sixth sense for when Hunter was thinking things they shouldn’t. He only teased in response, “Tell me, Hunter, do you like what you see?” They only scoffed at him, focusing on kicking Wesker’s ass.

Wesker smirks arrogantly as Hunter’s attention returns to the present. “Are you trying, Hunter? I would have expected this level of sloppiness from a human, not someone with our abilities,” He drawls with that infuriatingly snooty tone. Hunter knows that Wesker is trying to provoke them, to throw them off-kilter. Wesker likes to do that during their little sparring sessions; Hunter thinks he must get off on annoying them.

“I’m trying,” They respond nonchalantly, pretending that Wesker isn’t getting under their skin. This little sparring exercise was Wesker’s idea, not that Hunter exactly minded. It beat just sitting around the safe house while the pair waited for the heat to die down.

Wesker raises an eyebrow, his eyes glowing red for a brief second. “Stop trying and do it, Hunter. You know how I feel about people wasting my time.”

Hunter launches themself at Wesker, finally snapping under Wesker’s taunts. Wesker steps out of the way, a dark blur as Hunter races towards him. Expecting that, Hunter pivots sharply, launching a left hook at his face. His stupid, expensive sunglasses fly off his face, Wesker stumbling backward a step as Hunter catches him on the edge of his jaw. The black sunglasses land on the floor, a crack spider webbing through the left lens. Seeing their opportunity, Hunter strikes at him with their right fist, overly optimistic about getting a second hit in. Wesker catches their fist, his grip painful and vice-like. Another shitty part of sparring practice with Wesker; he rarely was a forgiving man. He pulls Hunter towards him, almost so close that their noses are touching. Wesker follows that up with a strike to their chest, sending Hunter flying backward.

They land on the black mats, with an ‘oof’ as the wind is knocked out of them. Their hood is knocked off; wavy, black hair fanning around their head like a dark halo. Trying to catch their breath, Hunter barely moves before Wesker is on top of them. He pins their wrists, his arms on either side of their head. His right leg is wedged between their legs as Hunter swallows nervously. A few strands fall free from Wesker’s normally neat, slicked-back blonde hair. He stares at them, a victorious look on his face.“Truly disappointing, Hunter.” Wesker drawls teasingly, his reddish-gold eyes burning brighter.

A warm, pleasant feeling rises in Hunter, their cheeks starting to burn. Shit, this is not good. Wesker smugly smirks, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Fuck, Wesker’s ego doesn’t need to be fed by the fact that Hunter finds him attractive, it’s already galaxy-sized. “Get off me, Wesker.” Hunter tries to muster their usual level of venom, yet their words lack the bite they normally do.

“Do you really want that, Hunter,’ He leans in closer, deliberately teasing them with that smooth purr of their name, ‘It seems to me that would be the last thing you want.” His eyes roam their body, taking in the sight of Hunter. They shiver, resisting the urge to snarl for Wesker to stop fucking with Hunter and kiss them. This is a bad fucking idea. Wesker is a megalomaniac, who has a reputation for stabbing people in the back. Plus, if this were to become something more and end badly, Hunter would be shit out of luck for intel on Dr. Griffin and his team. Yet, a part of Hunter doesn’t care. A part of Hunter wants him to touch them, to devour them. It’s a thought that has haunted Hunter late at night, one they’ve tried to keep buried down deep. Wesker’s eyes linger at their lips longer than anywhere else, gazing at them with pure, unrestrained desire. His gaze returns to their faded green eyes, Hunter swallowing nervously again. “We probably shouldn’t do this….,” Wesker muses, yet his tone says the opposite. He very much wants Hunter, something they’re not used to, especially after their death.

As he leans toward them to close the gap, Hunter makes a sudden move, flipping the pair over so that they’re on top of Wesker. He releases their wrists, eyes widening in pleasant surprise. They slam their hands sharply on the mats on either side of his head, trying to frighten him off. Wesker shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want Hunter. “We definitely shouldn’t do this,” Hunter states, an edge of need in their voice. They sit up, back on their knees as they watch Wesker.

“Do you really mean that?” Wesker asks as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. His right-hand reaches out for the collar of their hoodie, gently grabbing at the fabric. He pulls Hunter slowly toward him, drawing out the teasing. “Tell me you want me to stop,’ Wesker teases, his voice thick with want, ‘but, we both know you won’t tell me to stop. After all, you want this just as much as I do, don’t you, Hunter?”

Fuck it. Hunter gives in, eagerly kissing him. They wrap their arms around his neck, tangling their fingers into his stupid, fucking perfect hair. Hunter pulls roughly as Wesker lets out a low moan of pleasure into the kiss. He releases the collar of their hoodie, grabbing Hunter harshly by the hips as he pulls them closer. They’ll be lucky if they come out of this encounter with just bruises. “Hunter, you should know,’ Wesker nips their bottom lip, ‘I won’t be gentle.”

“Didn’t ask for you to be,’ A sharp eager whine escapes from their lips as Wesker nips at their neck, ‘I’m not made of fucking glass, Wesker. I can fucking take it.” Hunter knows Wesker is not a gentle man, but Hunter has never been gentle either.

#kate writes #the hunter fic tag #OTP: Love Me Mercilessly #OTP: Hunter x Wesker #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil fanfic #re fanfic #re fanfiction #Albert Wesker #Albert Wesker x OC #sorry if hes out of character #but I had fun with this one and kept it pretty short #these enemies with benefit prompts are fun #well in Hunter's case it's more like 'that one annoying guy who i'm definitely not attracted to at all' with benefits type deal haha #Hunter Delaney

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bonky-n-steeb · 3 years

Text

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐵𝐸𝑆𝑇 𝐷𝐴𝑌

𝘽𝙐𝘾𝙆𝙔 𝘽𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙎 𝙭 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗦𝗧: doctor!reader has no clue that Bucky is a secret agent and she soon finds out.

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦: Fluff, minor angst.

ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴀ ʀᴇᴀᴅ, sᴏ ᴀʟʟ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ

MASTERLIST

Bucky was finally back from his business trip. He had been gone for two whole weeks and you both had missed each other terribly.

Today he had decided to make it up to you, and had taken a day off from his work, and so had you. Instead of a simple date, you both had decided to spend the entire day idly roaming around the city. It was a nice reprieve from all the stress that came with being a surgeon.

While walking, you stopped in front of your favorite boutique. The dresses there were expensive but chic and you were friends with the owner and designer, Maria. Whenever you wore one, you used to turn all the heads in the room. Currently there was no special occasion coming up, and you already had enough of the dresses so you decided to window shop.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Bucky asked. “Buck, I already have so many of the dresses and I don’t need another one as there is no special event coming up anytime soon.”

“My doll doesn’t need a special occasion to look good.” He said kissing your temple. “Buck...” you tried to protest but he nevertheless dragged you in.

“Welcome! And congratulations you are our lucky customers.” You looked at her dumbstruck, Maria wasn’t a person to give any discounts. “Lucky customers?” You asked.

“Yes, today is the 7-year anniversary. And we had agreed that the first person to walk in the boutique would get 75% off on any dress of their choice.” She said with an infectious smile.

“75% off? On any dress?” You squealed. You looked up at Bucky and he gave you his signature smirk. You were a sucker for sales. As you looked around, your eyes were captivated by a dress. It was maroon, with long bell-shaped sleeves. It had a V-shaped neckline and was a flowing gown.

“You like that one doll?” Bucky asked as he saw you staring at the gown. He knew you would like that one. “Yes. I love it.” You said excitedly. “Alright then, pack it.” In your excitement you failed to notice the understanding nod shared between Bucky and Maria.

You were super excited and were talking nonstop. That was one of your traits when you got excited. You couldn’t believe you walked in at the right time, and the credit was Buck’s, he was the one who dragged you in. You couldn’t believe your luck.

The next you decided to visit the bookstore you usually frequented. The moment you entered, the book store clerk, Simone happily waved at you as if she was waiting just for you.

“I have something for you.” She said as she bent down and produced a book. It was your favorite one. “Open it. It’s a signed copy.” You couldn’t believe your eyes. Your favorite author had signed that book along with a sweet message scribbled just for you. “Oh my goddddd!!”

You couldn’t believe that this day was even real. “Bucky, I don’t know what is happening today, but it’s already the best day of my life.” You squealed and he pulled you closer to him, “It’s definitely the best day of our lives.” He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

After around an hour later, your beauty salon lady called up and informed you about her latest offer. And so, you decided to give her a visit while Bucky went home. Once you were done, you were looking exquisite.

You were too euphoric to notice all the coincidences. Everything was perfect until you went home. Bucky face was worried. “What happened? You look worried.”

“It’s Nat’s birthday today. We both forgot. Don’t worry, Steve has arranged a party. So now let’s get dressed and go.” Nat and Steve were Bucky’s colleagues and best friends.

You knew this universe was giving you signs. After all the shopping you did, it was worth it. You decided to wear the new elegant dress.

When Bucky saw you and his jaw dropped. He himself was wearing an expensive navy-blue suit. “I swear to god, if it weren’t so important, we would’ve never left this house.”

Once you reached the location, you were surprised to find no one was there and it was completely dark. But then a sudden focus of light was out on where you stood with Bucky.

Just then Bucky got down on his knees and produced a velvet box. “Will you make me the luckiest man alive by marrying me?” He looked flustered and scared. Without thinking twice, you squealed “YES!”

Apparently, Bucky had already bought that dress for you, there was no offer at Maria’s. Also, he had arranged for the signed copy and the salon well. He just wanted it to be the best day of your life in all sense.

———

Maybe you had been wrong. It had been a week since your engagement, but today was the best day of your life.

After learning the news, you had been euphoric. You wanted to tell Bucky as soon as possible, but he was too busy today and you knew better than to disturb him.

Before going home, you decided to celebrate a little and went to the nearby cafe. You ordered your favorite pastry and sat at one of the tables.

Suddenly there was a small pat on your shoulder. You turned around and saw the last person you expected in this cafe. “Tony?”

Tony Stark was a billionaire. Despite having all the money in the world, his heart wasn’t as healthy. And that’s when you came in. When he had first come in due to an emergency, you had treated him and ever since then he had become your patient.

“What are you even doing here?” You asked as he took the seat in front of you. “Having some coffee, I guess.” He said shrugging. And then his eyes fell on your ring.

“Woah! I see someone is engaged. Didn’t think you’d break my heart so ruthlessly.” He said pretending to be hurt. You excitedly nodded, “Just a week before.”

“Well, so who is the lucky man?” He asked. “Bucky Barnes.” You said smiling giddily. “I’m sure he must not be more handsome than me.” Tony quipped.

“You’ll be disappointed!” You took your phone out and showed him a picture of Bucky. Tony squinted his eyes and took your phone into his hands. “This is Bucky?” He asked skeptically.

“Yeah. Why?” Tony seemed confused and then pulled out his own phone. “As long as I remember, his name is Andrew and he is already married.” Your eyes widened at that.

“What? You just be mistaken. Are you sure it’s him?” Tony nodded. “Yeah, see this. I met him around a week ago, that’s why I remember. Not gonna lie his wife, Sonya was impressionable.”

He said giving you his phone. There was a picture of Tony and a couple. You couldn’t believe your eyes. It was indeed Bucky, and the worst part was, his ‘wife’ was none other than Nat.

~~~

You were sitting on your couch and crying when Bucky came home. “What happened?” He quickly kneeled on the floor besides you.

“I’m gonna only ask once, because I can’t emotionally afford to ask twice; what is going on between you and Natasha?” You ask, your eyes were blood red and puffy from all the crying.

“What?” Bucky took your hands in his and pressed kisses. “Don’t lie, I know everything. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“I don’t get what you are saying, doll.” You took out your phone and showed him the pictures Tony had sent you. At that Bucky scoffed, “Oh this!”

“Oh yes Andrew! What the fuck is even your name you liar!” At that Bucky’s demeanor grew serious. “Listen, it’s not what you think. Wait right here.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and went upstairs.

“See this.” He said running downstairs and giving you a file. “And what is this? Your marriage certificate?” You asked incredulously. “Just read it once please.”

You took it and started reading. First it didn’t make sense but after some time it did. Bucky was an agent working for a secret government organization called ‘Avengers’.

“What is this Bucky?” He slowly started wiping your tears. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long now. But I always thought that I’ll tell you tomorrow; but turns out tomorrow never came.

I know you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so this is the proof. My own file. I’ve worked as an Avenger for years. That day at Tony’s party we were undercover. And we pretended to be married. The ‘two weeks business trip’ was actually an undercover mission.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Bucky seriously! You couldn’t tell this to me before? Do you know what I’ve felt in the past two hours? I literally found out in the worst way possible, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.” He pulled you closer to him and pecked you on your cheek. “This was some True Lies level shit.” You said laughing.

“So... now that you know this, I might as well confess something more.” You raised your eyebrows and wondered what all news today’s day was going to bring.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” You nodded, you remembered that day very clearly.

It had been an excellent day. Your surgeries had gone perfectly but you were tired. So, you decided to do what you did every time you had a good day; go and eat a pastry.

As you entered the cafe, you could see the pastry section to be completely empty. You pouted and were sad to break the tradition. You inquired but they weren’t going to make any more pastries for the day.

As you were about to turn around and leave, you came face to face with the most handsome man you had ever met, his eyes were so captivating, you feared you’d get lost in them.

“I saw you wanted a pastry, well, I guess I have one and you can have it.” His voice was smooth and you swooned. “Uh, no it’s fine.”

“Oh, I insist.” You looked up at him and gave him a pleasant smile, “Why don’t we share?” You asked shyly. You spent the entire evening chatting and decided to meet the next day for a proper date. And that is how you had met.

“It wasn’t actually my first time. I had seen you before that at the hospital but I was undercover and so I couldn’t approach you.

But then I just got too shy to ask you out so I used to follow you around. I didn’t mean to creep or stalk. I just... God! This is embarrassing. But I kind of learnt your routine and habits.

I knew when you had a good day you would go and have a pastry at the cafe. That day before you went in, I bought all of the pastries. So, when I asked you whether you wanted to have mine; I actually had at least 23 pastries with me.”

You giggled at that. “Wait you are not mad?” You shook your head. “Actually, I would’ve been, but now that I know how you are, and that I love you so much, this is actually pretty cute.”

You stopped laughing and said, “Well, now that you’ve shared your secrets. I’d like to share something too. I fear I won’t be able to love you in the future as much as I do now.”

Bucky tensed up. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked adorable. “Because when a mini version of you will be running across the house, I swear to god I won’t be getting any reprieve.” You said snuggling him.

“I... what? Are you? Wait, is it what I’m thinking it is? Are we pregnant?”

“YES! You’re gonna become a daddy, James!”

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot

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creepychan08 · 3 years

Text

Oikawa x reader - A married life

"Now I'm asking you, what is this?" You shoved the screen of your phone, towards your husband as he squinted his eyes at the sudden action.

"I told you, I was at the company party and I-" Oikawa stopped. The picture showed him kissing a woman clad in revealing dress. His hands covered her cheeks as it looked like he was gladly returning the affection.

"Yn, I know what it looks like but I promise you its not what it seems like to you."

"Then why are you kissing her!?" You threw your hands in the air, frustrated at your husband. It didn't help that your hormones were skyrocketing and out of place. You were 3 months pregnant, after all.

"Look, she grabbed me out of nowhere and just forced herself on me. I was trying to push her that's why my hands were around her head. Baby, I wouldn't do that to you. You know I only love you."

You were rendered speechless at his explanation. The ache in your chest dispersing as you calm down. He wrapped his arms around you, running his hands through your soft hair.

"I'm sorry." You mumbled, hiding your face in his chest. He smell so good beneath the smooth texture of his suit. Unknowingly to you, Oikawa's eyes were tightly shut as he bit his lips guiltily.

"It's just whenever I go to your workplace, I always see her sauntering around you. She's obviously trying to seduce you. That's why I asked you again and again to avoid her as much as possible. I don't want to lose you" Voicing out your insecurities made you feel vulnerable. But you know that being in a relationship require two parties involved to be honest with each other. Communication and trust remains the strong foundation of your marriage.

"I know, sweetheart. But tell me, who sent that picture to you?" He pulled back and just when you were about to answer, another chime from your phone took both of your attention.

You clicked it open. Oikawa right by your side as he curiously look at your text. You didn't mind it. There was nothing to hide from him anyway.

The message opened to reveal a video. Tapping the play button, it shows your husband furiously making out with the same girl in the earlier photo. They were situated in a corner, away from everyone as some of his coworkers were busily drinking.

You hands started shaking as tears unconsciously poured from your eyes. Feeling your husband tense from beside you only confirms your theory. The video soon ended and there was tense silence.

You looked up to see Oikawa with his head bowed, hair covering his eyes. Even from your position, you couldn't see his expression. But it didn't matter. The video says it all. You didn't bother asking for explanation this time.

Slowly, you begun untangling his arms around you. Letting out a hollow laugh, you shook your head in dismay.

Funny how you always laugh at those cliche movies whenever a girl experiences heartbreak. They always portray it as a physical pain, symtoms similar to a heart attack. But you deem it as bullshit. Sure, it hurts. But its impossible to feel that much pain just from losing the one you love, right?

So why does it feel like you're dying now? Your heart still beats. But it feels as if it was literally torn and stamp repeatedly. You tried to breath normally but something lodge in your throat and why can't you breath properly? Why does your lungs seem to stop working right when you need it most?

"Yn!"

"YN!!!"

Choking back a gasp, you return to reality as you see Oikawa panicking as he held you.

"Are you okay? Breath slowly, baby" He instructed, rubbing his hand soothingly on your back as you tried to regain your senses.

"Why, Tooru?" You finally gathered the courage to ask. The feeling of betrayal rang loud and clear on your hoarse voice and he winced from it.

"I'm sorry Yn. I'm sorry for lying. I got pretty drunk at the party. I lose control. We haven't done it for a while after you got pregnant and she was there and just flaunting around and kept rubbing me, saying things how she's going to make me feel good and I just- I!" He rambled, truth finally spilling from those lips you loved so much. His eyes were everywhere but you.

You didn't know what to feel. You asked for the truth, right? But you feel so much worse now.

"Are you blaming me for being pregnant, Tooru?"

"Shit, no Yn-"

"We planned this together! You said you wanted to build a family with me. And we both decided to refrain from any sexual activities while I'm in my early pregnancy to avoid any possible complications while the baby is being developed. We talked about it and we both agreed! So why are you turning it against me now?"

"I know it wasn't an excuse, Yn! And I know I'm wrong. God, I'm so wrong.Please, forgive me." Oikawa sobbed, tears cascading down the smooth expanse of his cheeks as he begged for your forgiveness.

"If you can't help yourself then maybe I shouldn't have agreed to have a baby with you!" You cried, anger radiating off you in waves.

"All those nights you came home late. Was it because you were taking your sweet time with her? Hm?" You smiled at him mockingly and his eyes widened in protest.

"No, Yn!" He tightly clutched your arms, desperately forcing you to hear him out, "Listen to me. I took all those overtime to gain extra money. That was in preparation for when our baby comes! Please believe me when I say it was for us!"

You looked at him with dull eyes. The aftermath of the fight just leaves you exhausted. You didn't know what to believe anymore. This was the man you had vowed to be with for the rest of your life. This was the man you wholeheartedly love and respect. Trust had always been your foundation, hasn't it?

Where has all the trust gone to?

You placed your hand on your belly. Wondering if he or she can feel the pain their father just bestowed to you. Hopefully not. You never want any harm nor pain come to your baby.

"I'm going to sleep. I'm tired." Coming up with a lame excuse, you turn to walk away when a hand firmly grasp your arms, not in a painful way.

"Lets talk about this, Yn. I don't want us to go to sleep tonight without resolving this issue." Oikawa pleaded with you, eyes begging for a chance. Any time, you will easily give in but after what happened, you don't know how to face him.

"I don't know what to say anymore, Tooru. I just want to rest." You smiled at him resignedly. Oikawa gritted his teeth. His heart throb painfully. How can you say that with such look on your face? Knowing that he caused your pain only increased the frustration and guilt running through his veins.

With a sigh, he unwillingly yielded to your request. Letting go of your hand, he watched your back face him as you slowly walked further away from him.

He will later learn that that was the biggest mistake of his life.

That night, both of you slept in the same bed as usual. Although a few inches only separates you, both your hearts were distanced with an invisible barrier. One trying to forget the pain it experienced, while the other trying to find ways to have you back to him.

It was dead silent. You were tilting in between reality and dreams when a sudden, sharp pain tore through your abdomen and you screamed in pain. Startling your husband who immediately checked on you.

"Yn-chan, are you okay? What happened!?" Oikawa asked, panic covering his features as he took in your pain filled expression. He felt the sheets wet and he clicked the bedside lamp open to see your side in bed covered in blood.

Your pupils dilated as you took in the sight. Another stabbing pain washed over you and you keeled in agony, stifling your screams. You barely felt Oikawa whisper comforting words to you before quickly lifting you up to bring you to the hospital.

My baby. No, I can't lose him/her. Was the only thought going through your mind.

"It hurts" you groaned in pain as Oikawa comfortingly grip your hand with one of his own as he drive with one hand. (AN: Not safe. Don't do this guys. Always drive safely)

"Take deep breaths, love"

"My baby" Sobbing in distress, you held on your stomach and Oikawa felt like vomiting. A lot has happened in the past couple of hours and the thought of something happening to your unborn child didn't help the queasy feeling in his gut.

"I'm here, Yn. Nothing will happen to you nor our baby." Pretending to be strong for the both of you, he forcefully blinked the tears forming on his eyes.

Everything happened fast after that. It was like everything was a blur for him. You were quickly taken in the emergency room before you were transferred to the operating room. The doctor and nurses explained what was happening to you and what they were about to do. He numbly agreed to what they say. Only repeated over and over again that they must save you.

Before long he found himself waiting outside the operating theatre. His ears were ringing as he looked at his surroundings. It was surreal. Like his body was there but his consciousness somewhere else. He was only brought back to reality when he felt harsh tugging on his shoulder.

"Oi, Oikawa get a grip on yourself!"

"Iwa-...chan..? How did you get here? "

"You texted me, did you forget?"

"Ah.. Right" Oikawa mumbled, blankly staring at nowhere in particular. He felt drained but the anxiety running on his body did not allow him to even get an ounce of rest as he waited for the news on his wife and baby.

Iwaizumi frowned. It was unusual to see his bestfriend so distraught. He still didn't know what happened after all, Oikawa only texted him that he was in the hospital after something happened to his wife. But he felt asking would be too insensitive on his part so he stay silent and tried to just be there for his bestfriend.

"It was my fault, y'know" Oikawa finally spoke after some time.

Iwaizumi patiently waited for him to continue, silently confused on Oikawa blaming himself.

"We had a fight. She saw me making out with the girl she hated from our company. Somebody sent her a video of it."

Iwaizumi was shocked. He knew Oikawa was a huge flirt back in their high school days but that he also outgrew it when he fall in love with Yn Ln. They were happy together and rarely had a fight as much as he knew. Or was it all a facade?

Suddenly, he felt anger rush through him at the foolishness of his bestfriend. Messing around when he knew his wife was pregnant! Iwaizumi opened his mouth to curse at his close friend when he was frozen at the sight.

Oikawa was staring at him with regret painted all over his face. Tears continuously fall on his cheeks. The usual light in his warm, soft eyes was gone and all that was left was an endless pit of misery and hopelessness.

"I screwed up, Iwa-chan" He whispered, defeated.

Flinching in response, Iwaizumi's anger quickly switch into sympathy for his friend as he assessed his poor condition.

"She's strong. Stop thinking on the worst scenario. Just focus on what you will do after this." While giving him a reassurring pat on the back. Oikawa released a shaky breath as he nodded at his friends' advice.

Suddenly, the doors to the operating room opened and a doctor wearing scrubs came out. Two nurses were by his side.

"We're looking for the husband of Yn, Ln"

"That is me"

Oikawa quickly stand up from his seat and approach the doctor. He was then escorted to an empty room where the two nurses silently left him and the doctor to discuss the aftermath of the procedure.

With his heart beating loudly, Oikawa eagerly fired questions to the doctor.

"How is she? How's my wife? My baby? Were you able to save them? When can I see them?"

The doctor resignedly took of his mask.

"I'm sorry to inform you, Oikawa-san but the baby didn't make it. Your wife had a spontaneous miscarriage. It has no specific cause. Women in their first trimester or early pregnancy are more prone to experience it that's why stress must be avoided at all times especially during this sensitive period in a womans' body."

Oikawa felt like being doused in cold water. He stayed frozen while staring at the doctor who looked grim. After seeing all that blood came out on his wife, he already knew deep inside that they lost the baby but he simply refused to believe it. He hang on to that tiny hope that maybe their unborn baby can be saved.

He shakily gulped, feeling his heart break. The pain was intense. They were looking forward to the arrival of their first child and for this to happen-

"What about my wife? Can I see her now?" He was hurting. Greatly. But he couldn't imagine how his wife was faring. She was the one carrying their child, after all. He wanted to comfort her and be there for her.

"I-" the doctor stopped and cleared his throat. Oikawa felt something amiss. Like an impending doom but he quickly tried to shoo the thought away.

"Doctor, how is she? I want to talk to her as soon as possible."

"That is another matter I must discuss with you, Oikawa-san."

The nerves were killing him and it took all his self restraint to not jump across the table and force the surgeon to speak at once.

"There was.. a complication while we were taking the fetus out of her. The amount of blood was greater than what it should been. We quickly transfused blood into her but it wasn't enough. We tried to resuscitate her but in the end she.. died due to heamorrhagic shock."

For a moment, Oikawa forgot how to breath. The world around him turn to black and white and the only words resounding in his mind was that she's dead, she's dead repeatedly.

It didn't fully sink in yet. Until he saw his wife, his beloved Yn, lying still in the operating room. Her face was pale under the glare of OR lights. And if he didn't know any better, it looks as if she is only sleeping peacefully after a long day. But as he caress her cold cheeks, no more warmth emanating from those cheeks he love to kiss so much, he was slapped with the bitter reality that she's not coming back.

No more warm smiles and sweet kisses from his wife as he return home after a long day at work. No more delicious meals waiting for him at the table as they talked about what happened during their day. No more cuddles and whisper of i love you's in the darkness of the night as they lay entangled from the after event of making love.

The perfect picture of a happy family with their son/daughter shattered in his mind as he loudly grieved for the loss of his family.

Kami-sama if you are real, please let me return back time. Let me be with my family again. Please give me a chance to make things right...

Oikawa loudly gasped as if coming back to land after drowning. He find himself gazing at the ceiling in their room. It was dark. Where was he?

A slight shuffle and then,

"Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare, Tooru?"

That sweet, melodious voice.

Oikawa slowly turn towards the source of sound to see, much to his relief, his beloved wife gazing at him with concern while rubbing the sleep out her eyes.

"Yn-chan" He choked, lunging at her to give her the tightest embrace.

"Woah there, big guy" You chuckled, patting his back. You stilled when you felt something wet trickled down your neck.

"I'm so glad! So glad to be with you, Yn!" The pure, raw emotion coming from your husband surprised you as he continued to sob on your neck, clinging to you like a lost baby.

"Please don't ever leave me again! Kami-sama, thank you for bringing her back to me!" Oikawa yelled, voice muffled as he continued to shove his face around your neck.

"What has happened to you, dear?" You worriedly asked and pull his face away to wipe some of his tears.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You suggested, talking about his nightmare.

"No need, love. I just want to say that I *kiss* love *kiss* you *kiss* so damn much!"

You giggled at his affection, loving his kisses.

"Oh and how many months are you again?"

"Silly, did you forget? I'm just two months along. 7 months to go"

Oikawa heaved a sigh of relief. Turning to your stomach, he leaned down and pulled up your shirt.

"Hey, little one. I'm so excited to meet you. But for now, be good for mommy, okay?" Placing a sweet kiss to your stomach, you smiled at your husbands' attention as you run your fingers through his hair. Oikawa gladly reciprocate your smile with his own.

This time, I'll love you with all of my heart. I won't make the same mistakes again. We will be a happy family, Yn.

Extended ending:

"Yes you heard it right. You're fired." Oikawa coldly said to his assistant. The one who destroyed his past life and made him and his wife suffer.

"But! I-" she whined pathetically, trying to win his sympathy by acting like a pitiful slut. But Oikawa was having none of it.

"I said. Get. Out." The fiery glare in his eyes send shivers down her spine and she immediately booked her way out of his office, whining like a bitch along the way.

Another extended ending:

7 months later, you tiredly smile at the little bundle of joy in your arms. After 18 hours of grueling labor, you finally had your healthy, baby boy.

"I'm so proud of you." Oikawa wiped the sweat along your forehead as he softly kissed you.

"Thank you for bringing our baby to this world. You make me the happiest person alive, Yn. I love you two so much and I swear to protect you both for the rest of my life." He whispered, tears springing in his eyes at the emotional moment.

"As do I, Tooru. As do I." You swore, sealing that promise with sweet kiss.

Fin

#haikyuu #haikyu #oikawa x reader #oikawa #tooru #readerinsert #reader #angst #xreader #timeskip #fluff #marriage #anime #haikyuu!

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likeshipsonthesea · 3 years

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I don’t know if you take requests for nurseydex fics... but if you do the song “omg did she call him baby” by Beth McCarthy screams a heartbroken Nursey when Dex has a girlfriend

i like really can’t do genuine heartbreak but i CAN do angst that ends happy, so here’s my best shot :)

Nursey’s got a red Solo cup in one hand and a plastic champagne flute in the other and it’s sometime after three but before five and he is definitely not thinking about her or him or them together when he looks up between one sip and another to see the telltale blue hair reflecting the murky spotlights of the basement.

Nursey squints. He could be making things up--his brain is nice like that-- but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things. She’s got very distinctive hair, Dex’s--girlfriend. It’d been rather disappointing, actually, the blue hair. The whole thing had been easier to deal with when he’d been picturing some light-haired brunette going for an economics degree who smiled like a mom at soccer practice. Someone who Nursey could reasonably dislike on grounds of, like, predictability.

But no, Dex had to bring home a blue-haired physics major with a nose ring and good taste in music and the ability to out-argue Shitty while polishing off Bitty’s pie, i.e. perfect. Even Lardo couldn’t pretend like she wasn’t awesome for Nursey’s sake. Even Nursey can’t pretend like Amanda isn’t awesome for his own sake. She’s just so--so--

Nursey squints.

So-- making out with some random girl in a blouse at a frat party.

What the fuck.

Nursey is about two margaritas and three years too deep to be dealing with the emotional ramifications of catching the girlfriend of his best friend (who he’s also kind of sort of possibly maybe totally in love with) macking on some consultant for Goldman Sachs or some shit in the basement of arguably one of the worst frats at Samwell. This one doesn’t even have good music, Nursey’s only here to get drunk without the possibility of Dex calling Nursey Patrol and helping Nursey up the stairs and saying nothing about the poetry Nursey spills or the way his hands linger.

(Fuck does Nursey hate Nursey Patrol, fuck does he hate how much he loves it.)

Nursey downs the rest of the champagne flute--which was probably mostly orange juice at this point anyway-- and hands the red Solo cup to a freshman gearing himself up to talk to a cute boy a few feet away and then Nursey gets the fuck out of dodge. He manages to get a better look at the corporate recruiter Amanda is cheating on Dex with (and really, if you’re going to cheat on Dex, you’re really going to pick a chick in a blouse that probably has opinions on the stock market???) and if he hadn’t been sure before, the distinctive tattoo on Amanda’s shoulder proves that it’s really her.

(“Tattoos? Tattoos? I have tattoos.” “I know you do, Nurse.” “They’re really nice tattoos.” “I know they are, Nurse.”)

Emerging from the basement and then the frat house itself is instantly sobering. The chill from winter hasn’t quite left the air at night and Nursey wraps his arms around himself and doesn’t think about how Dex chirped him about not wearing a coat before he’d left. The frat isn’t far away from the Haus, thank god, but it is slightly farther when he turns left instead of right and then has to a backtrack a bit, but he still gets back in under ten minutes and he can still feel his hands, so overall, a win.

Attempting to get into the Haus quietly is a lost cause, given its one thousand year old floor and the fact that a ladybug could fart in the kitchen and wake up the guys in the attic. Still, Nursey gives it the good college try, which is why he’s creeping ridiculously through the living room when the light turns on suddenly and he screams, much to the amusement of Dex, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Fuck, dude, what the fuck.”

Dex just smirks in that horribly attractive way of his. “How was the Psi-U basement?”

Nursey thinks of blue hair, washed out in the lights, Amanda’s hand on that girl’s cheek, the way Dex smiles when he’s around her. “Fine,” Nursey says, swaying.

The amusement falters and Nursey wishes he could figure out a way to keep the smile on Dex’s face the way Amanda does. Dex takes a step closer. “Are you alright?”

Nursey shakes his head violently and takes a step back, a step farther away. This is the part where he says yes, yes of course Dexy-darling, I’m right as rain, what about you? This is the part where Dex rolls his eyes and loops his arm around Nursey’s waist, his warm side pressed into Nursey’s. The part where they go upstairs, where Nursey writes his best poetry that he’s too embarrassed to write down when he’s sober, where Dex tells him to sleep well and lingers outside the doorway long enough for Nursey’s breathing to slow and then the floor creaks and Nursey knows he’s gone and wishes he’d held on just a little bit longer--

“Nursey, what’s wrong?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He means to say nothing, he means to say, I’m going to bed, he means to-- “Amanda, she--”

The concern turns to alarm. Why can’t Nursey ever make it better? “Is she alright? Did you see her? Is she okay?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He can’t seem to stop doing that. “She’s fine, she--she--” He swallows, and it’s sticky, cloying, citrusy and sweet on the back of his tongue. “She--there was this girl, she-- Amanda, she--”

Dex won’t stop frowning, concern knitting his eyebrows together with three short wrinkles, and Nursey has wanted to smooth them out with his fingertips every time he sees them since sophomore year, and he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be telling Dex this while he’s drunk, shouldn’t be telling Dex this at all, but he’s Nursey’s friend first and Nursey has to believe he’d tell Dex regardless of the love thing, he must--

“She was kissing some girl. In the Psi-U basement.”

The wrinkles smooth out. The amusement returns. Nursey--he can’t make sense of it over the ringing in his ears. Why is Dex smiling? Did--did Nursey do that?

“Did she look like a lawyer?” he asks, and at Nursey’s confusion clarifies, “The girl Amanda was kissing. Did she look like a lawyer?” Nursey nods dumbly. Dex’s smile only grows. Nursey is so, so confused and also more in love than he’s ever been. “Finally. I just won fifty bucks.”

What the fuck. “What the fuck.”

Dex laughs--laughs. “The girl’s name is Tammy. She graduated last year and moved to Boston. Amanda’s been in love with her forever, and I bet her that she’d get with Tammy before I--” Flush appears high on Dex’s cheeks, the soft pink one that means embarrassment and Nursey imagines would taste like cherry pie against his lips.

Nursey is--still quite a bit drunk. He needs--clarification. “You--you bet your girlfriend that she would get with her friend at a frat party?”

Dex’s nose scrunches up in Nursey’s favorite way--the same way it does when he’s trying to write humanities essays, the reason Nursey always says yes when Dex asks for help. “Girlfriend? Did you think Amanda was my girlfriend?”

Nursey remembers the start, hearing about Amanda every other day, then every day, then it was, sorry I can’t come, I’m meeting Amanda at-- and then one day at Annie’s, a girl with blue hair and a sharp grin yelled Babe! from across the room and planted a kiss on Dex’s cheek, her hand lingering on his shoulder, sipping from his coffee cup, getting him to smile like that--

“Well, yeah.” Nursey’s head is spinning and, for the first time tonight, not from the gin. “Is she--is she not?”

“Oh God, no, she’s so fucking gay, dude.” Laughter twinkles in Dex’s eyes. Nursey is drunker than he’s been since freshmen year of high school when Shitty snuck in some of his dad’s hard liquor and the janitors found them on the roof singing Disney songs at the moon. Dex’s girlfriend is gay. Dex’s girlfriend isn’t his girlfriend. Dex is--is smiling at him like he smiles at his girlfriend who isn’t his girlfriend.

“Oh,” Nursey says, dazed, “chill.”

“Oh wow,” Dex grins, leaning into the doorframe, “I can’t believe you thought--and you thought telling me my girlfriend was cheating on me at 3am while shit-drunk was a good idea?”

Nursey says, “Hey, honesty is important, and I’m not--” He stops. He remembers something. He squints. “Wait. If you bet 50 bucks on Amanda getting with Tammy, who did Amanda bet you would get with?”

The cherry pie blush is back. Nursey takes an absent-minded step forward. The room feels so much lighter now that Dex’s girlfriend isn’t cheating on him. The distance between them feels so much sillier now that Dex doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Ah, well.” Dex rubs at the back of his neck, all country bumpkin sheepish to ask his sweetheart to the dance, and--and--

“I’m the sweetheart,” Nursey realizes with the kind of crystal clarity only afforded by the most copious amounts of alcohol.

Dex’s eyebrows furrow, those sweet little wrinkles appearing between them, and Nursey takes two long strides forward and presses his thumb into them. Dex goes cross-eyed trying to watch, but moves his eyes to meet Nursey’s after a moment.

Nursey grins, likely a bit sloppy from the gin, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. “I’m the sweetheart,” he repeats, beaming.

Dex tries to repress the smile at his lips. “You’re not a sweetheart.”

“Yes I am,” Nursey sings, listing forwards. “You like me.”

“You’re an asshole.” Dex’s smile grows. Nursey watches its progress and sways.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” he says, tracking the pink lips as they spread, revealing teeth and--and tongue and--

“I hate that you can still say mutually exclusive when you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. See, I’ll prove it.”

“How do you plan on--”

If Dex’s mouth weren’t so preoccupied, he might say that the taste on Nursey’s tongue is a good indication that he is in fact fairly tipsy, but as it is--well. He’s got other things to do.

(Amanda asserts that they tied since it happened on the same night and only pays $25. Tammy throws in five more and a condom and they call it even. Nursey kisses away Dex’s protest and pockets the condom, much to Amanda’s amusement. Turns out, she’s even cooler when she isn’t dating the love of Nursey’s life.)

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