#un beta'd
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(Un)dead beat dad (Chapter 2)
This is a long one, so be prepared :) part 1 chap 3
TW: ref to violence, surgical operations, gore, panic attacks, please tell me anything I missed :)
Alfred feels his personal phone vibrate in his pocket, he stopped dusting the already-clean dresser, lifting the phone to his face knowing that only a select few had his contact information. He stared at the number he had long since memorized for a second before opening the message.
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Alfie, I need help
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Is anyone else home right now
No, Master Jason, I’m afraid everyone is on patrol at the moment. :You
May I ask why? :You
XXX-XXX-XXXX: perfect
XXX-XXX-XXXX: could you grab some med supplies and meet me in the Batcave?
Alfred stared at the phone and sighed. Setting down the feather duster he was holding, he walks towards the grandfather clock and enters the Batcave. He feels another vibration in his pocket and reaches for his phone.
XXX-XXX-XXXX: could you not tell B? Or anyone else?
XXX-XXX-XXXX: please?
Of course, Master Jason. I Will have everything ready for you when you get here. :You
XXX-XXX-XXXX: your a lifesaver, Alfie
Unfortunately, I am well aware. :You
Alfred chuckled as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, continuing to gather more medical supplies for Jason. Alfred had finally finished setting up quite literally everything he could, when he heard Jason's bike come into the cave. It turned off and he could hear quick running footsteps toward himself. Alfred turned and walked until he could spot Jason, seeing him in his full red hood regalia (omitting) the mask. What really caught his attention, though, was the child in his arms, looking to be seven at the oldest.
“Oh? You failed to mention we were having a guest.” Alfred said, quickly leading Jason toward the medical supplies. Once he turned the corner into the faux medical room though, he heard the sounds of struggle behind him. Alfred turned around, seeing the small boy thrashing in Jason's arms, trying to get away from the room. Jason immediately turned his back to the door and placed the child on the floor, softly talking to the child, words Alfred could not hear. The room clearly upset the child, so Alfred nearly closed the door, keeping it just barely open, but closed enough that the boy couldn’t see inside.
Jason turned around and motioned to Alfred, “This, Danny, Is my grandfather I mentioned. His name is Alfred, he patches me up whenever I get hurt a little too bad.” The small boy had tear tracks on his eyes and darted them towards Alfred, scanning him, threat assessing. The boy was scared. Alfred put on his nicest smile and lowered himself to his knees like his grandson.
“Indeed. I have had to patch up the young master quite a few times. I have patched up others as well. I assume The young master brought you to me for medical attention?” Alfred said in a soft voice, he didn’t wish to scare the child after all. The boy simply nodded his head and scanned the rest of the cave. The boy looked at Jason and pursed his lips. “You clearly need attention but are unwilling to go into the medical bay. Would you prefer I tend to your wounds out here in the main cave instead?”
The boy looked to Jason, searching Jason's eyes. After seemingly finding what he was searching for, he turned his head back towards Alfred. Still gripping tightly onto Jason's shirt, the boy nodded his head. Jason turned his head slightly towards Alfred and smiled. Jason looked back down at the boy and smiled, talking to him softly again.
“Alfred's going to have to assess your injuries if that's okay with you? So he knows what to grab and what to leave?” Jason said in a soft voice. The boy stared at Alfred again for a moment, Alfred felt like something was staring at him. Judging him. Deciding whether he should live or die. Deciding whether he would spend eternity suffering or in paradise. Then suddenly, as if it was never there in the first place, the feeling was gone. Alfred simply smiled and got to his feet once again, slowly walking towards the two in front of him under the young boy's gaze. Alfred stopped just beside Jason and lowered himself to the floor again.
“Now, could I get a name, young sir?” Alfred said with a smile, internally frowning at the ever-growing stain of blood on the boy's shirt that was several sizes too big. The boy looked at the ground for a moment, glancing back at Jason for a moment once more before muttering under his breath, his voice so scratchy and quiet you can't hear him. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you,” Alfred said to the young boy.
The boy thought for a second, then lifted one of his hands and shakily signed out some letters. ‘D. A. N. N. Y.’ It was clear the boy hadn’t used sign much but knew enough to communicate. The other hand still tightly wound inside Jason's jacket.
Alfred smiled at him, “Alright then Master Danny, would it be alright if I removed your shirt and assessed your wounds?” The boy took a careful step back and looked at Jason again, tightening his hold on the masked man. Jason placed a careful hand on the kid's back and smiled.
“I’ll be right here Danny, okay? And if you want to take a minute then we can stop and wait. We just want to make sure that you’re okay.” Jason said in a soft voice again. The boy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He nodded and laid down on the ground on his back, tugging on Jason’s jacket and clenching his other hand tightly. Danny let out a small pained breath and stuck his empty arm up above his head. Alfred carefully lifted the boy's shirt from him, letting out a gasp as he saw what was causing all the blood, Jason's eyes flashing a violent green. The boy underneath him flinched at the gasp and opened his eyes, scanning the two adults above him in panic, letting go of Jason and using his legs to scoot himself back, one of his arms pushing him faster backward, the other holding his organs in. Danny’s breathing picked up as his pupils dilated, the temperature in the cave decreasing rapidly as frost formed underneath him.
Alfred was the one to recover first, lowering himself further and turning his hands up, showing he wasn’t a threat. He let a small smile on his face, speaking softly to the child in front of him, “It’s perfectly alright Master Danny. I apologize for reacting as I did, I was a little shocked. I mean no harm and simply want to help you,” Alfred said with a smile.
Jason recovered next, seeing the scared child in front of him. Jason had closed his eyes while Alfred was talking to calm himself down. Jason looked at the kid in front of him, “It’s okay Danny, I promise you we won't hurt you,” Jason said with a smile. The boy in front of him was still rapidly breathing, and Jason thought about what he had learned in (elephant??) and looked at the boy again. “Okay, Danny, You’re having a panic attack and we’re gonna need you to calm down, right? Can you tell me five things you can see?”
Danny looked like he was barely registering the words, Jason thought the boy wasn’t able to hear him until the boy’s eyes flipped around the cave, focusing on each thing for a second before flipping to the next. Jason. Alfred. Shirt. Bat. Floor. Jason smiled at the boy.
“Alright Danny, next, four things you can feel.” Jason said with a smile, scooting closer to Danny.
Danny had moved one of his arms, feeling around him. Floor. Pants. Hair. Blood.
“You’re doing amazing Danny, next, three things you can hear.” Jason scooted closer again.
Danny closed his eyes, focusing. Bats. Jason's Heartbeat. Computer beeping.
“Fantastic Danny, Two things you can smell.” Jason closed the distance but sat just to the side of Danny.
Danny kept his eyes closed but took a shaky breath, still recovering from the heavy breathing. Wet cave. Sweat.
“Good job Danny, now finally, one thing you can taste.” Jason carefully placed a hand on Danny’s shoulder. Danny flinched but it wasn’t as hard as it had been.
Danny took a second and bit down. Blood.
He slowly opened his eyes and looked at Jason, nodding his shaking head. Jason smiled down at him.
“It’s okay Danny. We don’t judge you and we won’t hurt you, I promise.” Jason told Danny. The small boy, however, still looked nervous, ready to bolt at the nearest sign of a threat. Jason glanced at Alfred and sighed. Jason reached down and pulled up his shirt, staring at Danny, “you know how I said Alfred helps me? He really does patch me up.” Jason lied, motioning to the large Y-shaped scar on his chest. Danny visibly relaxed, he was still definitely on edge, but hey, progress. Jason looked at the boy in front of him. “Would it be alright if we patched you up now?”
Danny looked at Alfred and nervously nodded his head.
“Master Danny, It seems I’ll have to sew you up. Do you know your tolerance for anesthesia?” Alfred calmly asked the boy.
Danny nodded his head ‘yes’, but stopped for a moment. He shook his head ‘no’ and slowly signed with his free hand, ‘doesn’t work.’
“They don’t work on you?” Alfred asked Danny, who only shook his head again, “Do you know why, Master Danny?” Danny seemed to open his mouth for a moment, then nodded his head, glancing at the floor.
Jason took a moment to feel the temperature of the room around him. He straightened with a realization. The temperature drops. The green-red mixed blood. The stranger in his apartment. The boy agreeing to being a king. The vivisection dissection scar “Go on and get the stuff Alfie, I’ll hang back,” Jason smiled.
Alfred seemed to think for a split second, then stood up with a grunt and nodded his head. “As you wish, Master Jason.” Alfred said, walking towards the medical room.
Jason turned towards the small boy next to him, gently pushing the boy back onto the floor, taking off his jacket and folding it, placing it behind the kid's head. “You're a meta, aren’t you kid,” Jason said with a smile. Danny immediately stiffened and looked at Jason, his eyes flashing into slits for a moment, lip curling to show off the boy's sharp fangs.
Jason smiled sadly and flipped his hands up, showing he had no weapon, “I don’t have anything against meta’s okay? My brother’s a meta himself, and I’ve been on some great teams with them. I promise you Alfie doesn’t care either, and it won’t make us treat you any differently. You need help, that’s the focus here.” the boy visibly relaxed, still tense but not as much. At that moment Alfred walked out and towards them again.
“Alright Master Danny, First I must clean the wound and around it so I may see what I am doing.” Alfred said, clearly saying what he is doing before doing it so Danny would be less freaked out.
Above him, Jason grabbed Danny's hand, squeezing it lightly once. Danny squeezed back.
Alfred crouched down again, taking a wet rag from the bowl of water previously in his hands. He wrung out the towel and looked at Danny’s eyes for confirmation before carefully wiping Danny's chest. Alfred and Jason’s anger grew with every injury hidden by the blood, though Alfred was better at hiding it. Whenever Alfred got especially close to the bleeding dripping skin flaps, Danny squeezed his eyes tight and gripped Jason’s hand tighter. Alfred had to change the water in the bowl a few times, a horrible brown from the mixing of the green and red covering Danny.
Eventually, it was time for the stitches, but before he could get to that, he needed to staple the wound shut.
“Young master Danny, You are a meta, yes?” Alfred asked in a soft voice. Danny nervously nodded his head ‘yes’. “Alright then. Some meta’s cant use anesthetics, are you one of them?” Danny nodded again, “So I’m afraid I’ll have to stitch you up as-is, though first I will have to staple the wound shut.” another (albeit shaky) nod.
Alfred stood and grabbed a weird white tool from the medical room. He sat down on his knees and pinched Danny's skin together, glancing at Danny, “This will hurt, but I will takeit out once I get to stitches.” Alfred lowered the machine and squeezed the handle, a medical staple sliding through Danny’s skin and pulling it closed. Danny whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and gabbing Jason's hand tighter. Jason placed his free hand on Danny’s shoulder in a comforting motion. Alfred lifted the machine once more and placed it at another section of the large messy cut on Danny’s chest, squeezing again. And again. And again, going up and pulling the skin together. Finally, when he was finished, Salty tears had formed On Danny’s face, rolling down into little puddles on the floor of the Batcave. Alfred sighed and placed the machine on a tray he grabbed earlier from the medical room. Alfred lifted a small white package and ripped it open, pulling the sutures from the small bag. Alfred pulled open another package containing a needle and started to thread the needle then stopped when Danny tugged on Alfred's sleeve, gaining the man's attention.
“Yes, young master Danny?” Alfred asked, stalling in his movements.
Danny lifted his hand and pointed to the thread, signing ‘Won’t work’. Alfred looked at him questioningly, Danny slowly pulled his hand away from Jason and reached into the pocket too far down his leg, and pulled out a spool of… Fishing line.
“Fishing line?” Jason asked, confused.
Danny flushed, his hand's stilling as he thought up an excuse ‘will work’ Danny gestured to the line and pushed it towards Alfred, who took it happily.
“Ah, I see. Well then, I’ll get started right away, please alert me if anything is wrong.” Alfred smiled and sat himself down more comfortably on the floor of the Batcave. He laced the thread through the needle and placed it above the cuts, starting at Danny’s left collarbone. He looked up at Danny and caught his eyes.
Jason seemed to catch on, and nudged Danny slightly with his hand, silently holding it palm-up, Danny quickly grabbed it and lightly squeezed. Jason squeezed back. Alfred placed another machine in Jason’s free hand. “Use this to remove the staples as I stitch Danny’s chest closed.” Jason gulped, nodding. Jason carefully removed the first staple and the boy on the ground squeezed Jason's hand again, whimpering once more. Jason's heart lurches and the grip on his hand tightened. Jason looked away from the boy's face again and saw the needle in Danny’s chest. Jason dropped the used staple onto a small metal platter and brought the machine back up to Danny's chest, preparing to take out the next staple. Danny squeezed Jason's hand tight again with every staple removed, and with every stitch added. Really tight. Fuck. Jason might need to wrap his hand. This kid is definitely a meta. Alfred got down to the intersection of the three large cuts, he glanced up at Danny to check if he was okay, and Alfred's heart squeezed at the sight. The boy had his eyes screwed tightly shut and tears leaking out of them, whimpering at the pain. Alfred had to go faster. He started stitching from the start of the cut at the bottom of Danny's sternum, barely above his belly button, Jason taking out staples as they went up. This part seemed to be especially sensitive, Danny squeezing Jason's hand a bit tighter, and Jason swears he can feel his bones grinding but he won’t say anything. No, he can’t, not when the kid needs someone to be strong.
Alfred gets back to the top and lets out a sigh, tying off the suture. “Young Danny, I need to move to your other side in order to finish your stitches. If I may, Master Hood?” Alfred asked, looking at Jason. Jason needed a moment to think, before he stumbled, standing up and walking to Danny's other side. Danny was still holding Jason's hand tightly, and only let go when Jason grabbed Danny’s free one. Jason and Alfred sat down once more.
“Only one more set of stitches, okay kid?” Jason said in a soft voice, smiling down at the kid next to him. The kid nodded his head shakily. Alfred inserted the needle again and Danny let out a shaky breath, more salty glowing tears silently flowing down his face. The silence was thick as ever, only the occasional breath sucked in from Danny when the stitches hit an overly sensitive spot. Alfred finally finished, tying off the last of the stitches, when Jason got an idea.
“You said that everyone else was on patrol, right?” Jason asked, looking up towards Alfred again.
“Yes, master Hood. Everyone else is gone at the moment. Why do you ask?” Alfred questioned.
“I have an idea. Tell Dam- uh, Robin I’ll pay him back. Hey kid, will you be okay with Alfie if I run upstairs for a minute and grab something?” Jason looked to the child.
Danny glanced at Alfred and nodded. Jason moved to get up but Danny tugged him back down gently.
“I’ll be back right away, Danny, okay?” Jason asked. Danny looked nervous. Jason squeezed Danny’s hand slightly. Danny squeezed back. Jason flashed Danny a small smile and stood again, walking towards the entrance to the mansion, glancing back at Danny every few seconds.
“Well, master Danny, I have two more things to do to help speed up the healing process. I need to add a drain for the excess fluid your body produces and a vacuum pump to help your wound heal faster, the pump will also prevent you from picking at your wound.” Alfred smiled, “First, I will add the drain sponge,” Alfred spoke as he worked, clearly saying what he was doing as to not alarm the boy while Jason was gone. “Then, I will add surgical tape on top and connect the tube. This will run to a small vacuum to suction up any of the excess fluids your body doesn't need.”
Danny clutched tightly onto his pants, counting in his head, happy that Alfred was saying everything aloud. Danny could feel the devices being added to him as Alfred spoke, so Danny didn’t need to worry much. Alfred finished with that and sat back.
“Okay master Danny, one last thing, a drain. This will remove some blood and other fluids from the inside. All I need to do is make a small incision-” Alfred was cut off by Danny’s eyes snapping open, wide and glowing Lazarus green. Danny started to sit up in a panic, groaning at the pain but nonetheless pushing himself backward again. “Master Danny, it is nothing to worry about, I assure you everything will be okay-” Alfred was cut off once again, this time by the sound of something hitting the floor. Jason was standing there, small-sized clothes at his feet as he stared at the Lazarus green eyes of the kid in front of him. A small “fuck” Made it’s way out of Jason as he stood there. Danny saw the look at started scrambling to get further back, knocking over various tools and materials as he did so, nearing the edge.
“Kid- Danny, hey, it’s okay. Everything going to be fine.” Jason soothed, crouching down.
The boy sat his weight on his elbows as he looked furiously between the two adults in front of him. He tried to speak but only a wheezed cough of air came out, making him curl in on himself. Jason thought for a moment, then had an idea. A stupid, idiotic, dumbassed Idea, but an idea nonetheless. Jason furrowed his eyebrows together and thought about Batman. About the joker. About the rogues. About his mother. About who hurt the boy. About who hurt Danny and left him to rot. Jason’s eyes flashed a violent green while the boy was looking his way. Danny visibly relaxed at the sight of the familiar green.
“What’s got you so worked up, kid?” Jason asked with an eerie calm in his voice, the green fading slowly. Danny looked nervous, scared even, directing his attention back at Alfred.
“The young master panicked when I mentioned adding a drainage tube to his wound. Specifically the,” Alfred lowered his voice and faced Jason, “Specifically the cutting part of the insertion.”
Jason made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth and grabbed the clothes at his feet.
“Well, Danny, I’ll be right here with you while you get the tube. And, you’ll get to see the clothes I brought once we’re finished with the tube.” Jason sat down next to Alfred.
‘Hurt? Again?’ Danny signed with wide eyes
Jason let out a soft sigh, “Yeah, it's gonna hurt, but if we don’t do this you could get hurt more in the long term. I promise you, Danny, I’ll be here with you the entire time.” Jason smiled at the boy.
Danny looked between Jason and Alfred for a moment before slowly nodding and starting to scoot closer to the two. Jason stands up and carefully picks up Danny, walking him back to Alfred. Alfred let out a small exasperated sigh and smiled at the small boy.
“This will be fast, master Danny, no need to worry. The incision is barely 5 mm wide, very small,” Alfred said with a smile. He grabbed an anti-septic wipe and started wiping down a small portion of Danny’s abdomen, as Danny lifted an open palm towards Jason again. Jason happily took Danny’s hand.
Alfred placed a piece of the tube into Jason's free hand and picked up a scalpel and held it above Danny’s stomach, clanging up to see Danny staring hard at Jason, squeezing his hand tightly. Alfred placed his hand on Danny's stomach to prepare him and lowered the scalpel into Danny's skin. Danny let out a deep drawn-out wine from his core and clenched his eyes tightly, squeezing Jason's hand again. Alfred let out a sad sigh and dragged the scalpel, just barely, and then lifted it away from the small cut. He set the scalpel back down on the tray, grabbing the tubing from Jason’s hand. Alfred inserted the tubing and slid it through until it was at the right spot, then grabbed a new needle and added more of the fishing line to it. He sewed the tubing into Danny's skin and attached a small bulb-looking plastic piece to the end. He sighed and looked up toward Danny to find more glowing tears running down Danny’s face, his lip tainted with red, Danny must have bit his lip when Alfred was inserting the tube.
“That is all, master Danny. I just need to wrap your chest in gauze, and then you will be finished.” Alfred said with a small smile. Danny sharply nodded his head, eyes still screwed shut. Alfred sighed, turning to Jason, “Could you lift up master Danny while I wrap his chest? I don’t wish to strain him.”
Jason nodded his head, scooting around behind Danny and placing his hands below Danny's back, slowly lifting him up and placing the young boy’s torso on his lap. Jason looked down at the small boy, really looking at him. Jason motioned for Alfred to hand him one of the cleansing wipes from the tray Alfred had brought out earlier. Alfred handed it to him, and Jason started wiping away the dirt and blood on Danny’s face. The boy beneath him visibly relaxed when he realized it was Jason who was wiping his face. Jason carefully wiped down Danny’s face, noticing when Danny had flinched and to be careful around the boy's eyes and mouth. It took Jason three wipes when he finally got Danny’s face fully cleaned off. Jason had stilled once he finished. The boy looked just like a younger version of himself. The boy had slightly sunken-in cheeks, cuts and scrapes all over his face, and that look of pure desperation that etched itself into Jason’s bones years ago. It was right then, no definitely not earlier when the boy searched Jason's soul with his eyes and deemed Jason safe Jason realized this boy couldn’t, wouldn’t, go back to where he was before.
“Master Jason,” Alfred gained Jason's attention and that's when Jason realized that Alfred had somehow finished the gauze wrap around Danny’s chest. Danny opened his eyes, showing Jason the icy blue Jason saw in his own eyes. Jason sucked in a breath and looked up at Alfred, “A word, if I may?” Jason looked down at Danny for approval, and then slowly stood up, making sure Danny was comfortable on the ground. Jason walked around the corner out of sight of Danny and looked at Alfred.
“What's up, Alfie?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know where you found the boy, master Jason, but he cannot go back.” Alfred said in a stern voice Jason only heard when one of the family came home with an especially bad wound. Jason was angered at that comment, though.
“I know that Alfred. Obviously, no matter where he came from he isn’t going back.” Jason said in a huff of anger. He ran his hand through his hair and looked to the floor, each of them standing there in silence, until Alfred brought forth an idea.
“Maybe, master Bruce can take care of master Danny until further notice?” Alfred asked.
Jason's head snapped up, “Absolutely not,” Jason snapped, “I will be taking care of Danny.”
“Master Jason,” Alfred started
“No, Alfred. I found the boy, I brought him here,” Jason said quickly, Alfred stood there looking as if Jason had cut him off. He had. Yet Jason continued, “I’m the one that sat by him while you stitched him up, I’m the one that held his hand while he cried, and I will be the one to take care of him.” Jason finished.
Alfred waited for a moment while Jason calmed down, “I was hoping you would say that master Jason. I fully support this decision, as it seems he has decided to trust you and you have already formed an attachment to him.”
“Oh…” Jason stood there for a moment, face flushed red with embarrassment, “I’m sorry for snapping at you like that Alfie,”
“No need to apologize master Jason. Protecting yourself and your child is what makes a good parent.” Jason bluescreened at the word parent, “Now, master Jason, I suggest you get your son into his new clothes and get him home. Shall we?” Alfred smiled as he turned Jason around and pushed him back to where the child was.
Key word: was.
Alfred and Jason immediately rushed forward, frantically looking around for where to find the boy, where could he have gone in such a short amount of time? They both rushed around, desperately trying to find the boy that was in the middle of the floor just moments ago. They each took off in different directions, searching for him. Jason was the one to find him, though. He was sitting against the display case of Jason's former robin costume. Jason walked closer to get a better look and saw the boy was falling asleep, fading in and out of consciousness. Jason walked closer to the boy and sat down in front of Danny, and in front of his old Robin costume. Jason cleared his throat, and said the boy's name, waking Danny.
“Hey Danny, what are you doing here? At this case?” Jason asked, nervous.
Danny looked at Jason sleepily, and opened his mouth to speak, but croaked out empty words instead. He furrowed his brows and lifted up his hands to sign, ‘familiar’.
Jason chuckled, “Yeah, pretty familiar to me too.” Danny smiled “Do you mind if I pick you up and bring you back to where we were before? I have some clothes more your size,” Jason said, Danny sleepily nodded his head and held his arms out. Jason chuckled and kneeled down, picking up Danny beneath his knees and shoulders in a bridal carry.
Jason make his way back to where they were, seeing Alfred on his way, blushing when Alfred smiled sweetly at him. He wasn’t a dad! He just found a kid in need, and is taking care of him! There's nothing else going on, the kid is just under Jason's supervision until Jason can find a better place for him! No adoption going on here, no sir.
“Hey Danny, I grabbed these, they’ll still be a bit big on you but they’ll be better than the clothes you're wearing right now,” Jason said, bending down to grab the clothes with one of his hands, walking towards the bathroom Bruce built in the Batcave for when he went on one of his ‘staying down in the cave for three days straight’ escapades. Jason walked in and closed the door behind them, placing Danny down on the clean floors.
“Hey kid I'm gonna change your clothes real fast, okay?” Jason asked, the kid sleepily nodded at Jason, still seconds away from falling asleep. Jason huffed out a laugh and unfolded the clothes the grabbed from Damian's room, the smallest he could find. Jason quickly switched out Danny’s clothes, careful to not disturb the bandages and other tubes sticking out of Danny’s chest and stomach. Jason grabbed Danny's old bloody clothes and tossed them into the trash, walking out of the bathroom with Danny carefully placed on his hip. Alfred approached Jason and Danny.
“Ready to go so soon, master Jason?” Alfred said with a smile.
“Yeah, I think we are. By the way Alfred,” Jason stared at Alfred with an intense shine in his eye, “Not a word, of this to B.”
Alfred chuckled, “Yes, of course, master Jason. Young master Danny is a secret safe with me. However, If master Bruce figures it out on his own, I will not lie to him.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of you Alfred,” Jason said with a smile, then he thought for a second, “Well I would, but I would never expect you to uphold it.”
Alfred chuckled, “Of course. And, remember to change master Danny’s bandages daily, clean the tubes for his drainers, and massage his legs about every hour or so to make sure he doesn't lose circulation. Master Danny should make a full recovery in about 8 weeks. I am positive you will be able to care for him in that time.” Alfred said with a smile.
Jason smiled back at Alfred, walking over to his motorcycle. He stepped over the back and sat Danny in front of him, tucked tightly into his chest as he started his bike. Jason turned around and smiled at Alfred once more, and started the slow, careful ride back to his apartment.
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How we feelin my roaches? Sorry for the late chapter but i passed all my classes! also happy holidays, the next chapter might be delayed too cause my grandma died two hours ago, but know the next chapter is being written! Anyways I hope you all cried <3
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Ao3 link
Edit: there is a link to the next chapter at the top of this post so you can keep reading :)
#so fucking excited for you guys to read the next chap#this was actually supposed to be a lot longer#i still had ten more bulletpoints to touch on but that will be for next time#danny phantom#dc x dp#jason todd#dp x dc#dp au#danny fenton#dpxdc#ghost king danny phantom#red hood#dp x dc crossover#i sincerely hope you all cried today#sorry for the spelling mistakes nobody beta'd#no beta we die like danny#no beta we die like jason#(un)dead beat dad au
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Op turned off reblogs but I 1000% agree
#not my post#booktok#anti booktok#like im not mad at “bad literature” im mad they want us to pay $20 for stuff written just as schlocky as unedited un-beta'd#written at 3 in the morning fan fic but without half the soul put into it and without establishing an actual character#and not just a bunch of tag lines#and that everyone else is expected to write the same way in order to sell anything!!!!#it makes me so smad. melancholy. fuckin morose and devastated that books are being pushed towards being formulaic#the point of a book is to tell a story Your way - in Your Own Words and hopefully you get weird about it!!!!!!
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Hoiy shit, y'all, it's me actually answering a prompt! (Well, two prompts.) With a fic! (Well, a mini fic.) @victoriablackrose and @sniction-fiction , two of my greatest comrades in being hørny for W/itcher snz, were both so lovely as to send me prompts from this list, and I decided to combine them!
500ish words of pre-g/eraskier with sick!jask under the cut, for the prompts "sleepy sneezes", "shivery" and "concern". This is meant to be set in the same timeline as Not With That Cold (which I mean to add chapters to someday I swear I have drafts), but much earlier on. Gonna give slight mess and language warnings just in case but they're really barely there. LOTS of stuffy talk, so heads up if that is or isn't your thing. Hope y'all like it! 💕
If Jaskier’s wits had been any less dulled, he would have woken with a shout at the hulking presence looming over him like a ravenous wolf. As it was, however, he had spent the past several days doing battle with an all-consumingly horrid head cold, and every last one of his senses might have been stopped up with glue for all the good they were doing him. And so he merely stirred into vague half-consciousness and turned over in his bedroll, rubbing his interminably stuffy nose against a warm object that, if he really thought about it, hadn’t been there when he went to sleep.
“heh… ehhh… tssh’hew,” he sneezed as the tickle in his feverish nose spiked, irritated by something decidedly hirsute in its immediate presence. The presence moved, then, the warm rampart drawing away from the wet spray of his sneeze, and it was only then that Jaskier’s eyes cracked open enough to see the lumbering form above him.
“Mbelitele’s sacred tits, Geralt, what cad you possibly be doi’g.” His voice was a thin and reedy spectre of its usual melodious affront, his mind still too foggy and congested to properly startle. “‘s the biddle of the ‘dight. Why’re you leadi’g over be like I’b your dext ‘beal.”
Geralt grunted. “You were shivering.”
“I was s—” Jaskier stopped short in the middle of his usual sardonic repetition, stumbling into wakefulness as the realization dawned on him. “...I was shiveri’g. Oh.” He broke out into a positively delighted grin, one that Geralt recognized all too well even on a red nose, cracked lips and bleary eyes and dreaded all the same. “Why, Geralt, you great cake-hearted fool! You–hehh–you were—hehh’TCHEW!! You were cod’cerdned for be!” He gave a tremendous, self-satisfied sniff.
Geralt turned away with a grudging ‘hm’, and Jaskier swore he could almost see the Witcher’s face reddening in the dim glow of the firelight. “You were!” he crowed. “You care for be, Geralt, I kdew it all alo’gg,” he needled him, languidly poking a finger between his ribs.
“Don’t push it,” the Witcher scowled sullenly.
Jaskier held his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right, I yield,” he capitulated. “Sdf. You kdow, you’re dot wro’g. It r-really is cold out hehh-heh-EHHTSSCHIIEEWH!” He sneezed wetly, and began shivering again as if to illustrate the point. “Oh d-dear… I d-dod’t suppose you had adythi’g id bi’d to put ad e’d to this, did you.” He drew his bedroll tighter in around him, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.
Geralt didn’t speak by way of reply. He merely grunted and eased himself down next to Jaskier, wrapping his muscle-bound arms around the shivering bard and pulling him back-first into his big, broad, blessedly warm barrel chest. “Not a word,” the Witcher muttered, stopping Jaskier’s bewildered gasp in its tracks, and while the sniffly bard did technically comply, he couldn’t help the groan of relief that slipped from the depths of his being as the heat—that unfaltering fire he’d always ached for but never had leave to touch—enveloped him.
As he began to drift off, awash in bliss as much as in congestion, Jaskier felt Geralt stir with an unspoken question behind him. “Yes, mby dear Witcher?” he prompted.
Geralt was silent for a moment. Then, “...cake-hearted?”
Jaskier scoffed reproachfully, turning it into a dramatic snuffle which served him all the same. “You mbustd’t laugh at mbe, Geralt. I have—ahhh–hah-hih’TISSH-IEW!—a terrible cold.”
#snz#snz kink#sneeze kink#snz writing#coldfuckery#g/eraskier#snzfic#snz fic#sneeze fic#sickfic#my fic#I started writing this the day I got the prompts and I swear I had it fully outlined in my head#but then I stopped like 3 paragraphs in#and didn't pick it up until tonight#so we'll never know#anyway I hope it's satisfactory at least#it's also fully un-beta'd#because my usual w/itcher beta sent me one of the prompts 😂#and I'm not gonna put it down and look at it later bc it's been too long and I just wanna post the dang thing lmao#so idk#anyhow#hope it's at least decent
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I've been so inactive omg (at least by my standards)!!! I think I've subconsciously put a ban on activity until I've finished some fics and it just translates into radio silence 😭
ALSO I will still get to everyone's asks on this and my main account soon!
#im actually in an appointment rn and shouldn't be on tumblr at all#but this suddenly popped in my head#i actually have 3 un-beta'd ficlets (for a new verse!) and im working on a seperate one-shot thats maybe almost done#i want to finish 2 more fics this month and i think it's doable but i am a slow writer#my muse is a woman of mystery#she comes and goes as she pleases#i shot out some posts on my main but that's it#STEVE DISCORD ILL RETURN TO YOU SOON
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Did this on my phone while waiting on a meeting lmao thanks keisha!!
Blank under cut if anyone else wants to participate
#my old account was... deviantart lol#ALL my fics are un-beta'd#ALL my fics are self-indulgent#used to write for other fandoms but I don't anymore so that's why i didn't select multifandom writer#I've commissioned art multiple times for my fics but I've never had anyone make art for my fics on their own#that's the dream#haven't written while drink bc I don't drink but I HAVE written while high#fic that deserves more attention is heavily triggering and for a smaller Fandom so i get it#anyway#tag games#also I have an outline for lio but it's the first time I've had one so
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Hi hi hello! If you so wish, and if it inspires anything, can I please have prompts no. 5 and or 9? And or any of them you'd like? And or anything, literal? All the love and admiration and puppy dog eyes! 💖
your girl has been in a mood so i wrote this angsty little *cough, why is it now 5.7k, cough* response to prompt no. 9: "Yes, but it'll cost you." this is also indebted to @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm’s really beautiful fic(s?) featuring the theme of “firecrackers are bullshit that cause nothing but stress and strife”.
get socked in the feels over on AO3 or read the whole thing below in Tumblr formatting like a real sadist below:
1
It started when Harry caught Malfoy puking behind the greenhouse in eighth year.
It was Gryffindor’s turn to host the Halloween party, and so as the unspoken rule of all festivities went, Slytherins weren’t permitted to attend.
Harry stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, meaning he slipped away as soon as Dean placed the empty bottle they'd been passing around on the pavers. The eyes of those near flew to it, mesmerised by the possibility of a game to force them out of their skin and into someone else's. Spin the Bottle was as likely as Seven Minutes In Heaven, only they called it Seven Minutes now because the reference to Heaven was an invitation for Death to join the party, and Death was a maudlin guest. It was best to leave Death to linger in her usual shadowy corner at their gatherings. She sucked enough Life from them every day already.
Harry didn't slip so much as stumble through the back half of the Desert greenhouse, overturning a potted cactus as he went. The plant turned to black ooze before his eyes, which prickled with undue feeling. He didn't trust his voice to utter Reparo, so he stood and blinked fast and fled to where the air was clear and cold and the cheering of a spin, a meeting of someone's slick lips with another's, was distant. The scene he fled to was unfortunately even more wretched.
He’d left the promise of lovely kissing for Malfoy, retching, one spindly hand clutching the nearest tree. Harry watched him vomit, saw his cheeks hollow as he gathered saliva and spat and spat again. He wiped his mouth with his cuff and cursed quietly.
Three body-lengths away, it was as close as they'd been all year.
Malfoy turned to stagger up the slight incline, slipped and fell to hands and knees. He groaned and dipped his head until the lankest, longest bit of his hair caught on the grass. It was dew tipped and in the bright of moonlight, Malfoy was rendered in black and white. He was alone. He smelled, even at a distance, strongly of weed. He leaned his forehead into the ground and just as Harry wondered what he would do next, and wanted to escape in case it was cry, because everyone was crying all over the place lately, or maybe pass out, and Harry didn't want to be the one to nudge him over so he didn't choke on his puke in the night—Malfoy looked up.
He huffed a breath of surprise.
"Hullo, Potter."
He pressed one hand to a knee and used the other to lever himself off the ground. He stood, poorly, as though on a wave-battered ship.
"Malfoy. You weren't invited."
"Ah, yes. That's why I'm—" he gestured over his shoulder and then fumbled for something in his pocket. Harry had his wand out at the ready when Malfoy's hand returned with the source of the strong sagey scent of burnt cannabis.
"Would you like this? It seems I don't know my limits."
Harry frowned.
"No. Bugger off before you ruin everything."
Malfoy pocketed the roach. He looked at his feet, stumbling, and fell back so his shoulders rested on the oak he'd recently used as a lavatory.
"I like parties," Malfoy said wistfully, to the moon.
Harry lowered his wand.
"The people at this one don't like you. You should go."
"I want to be invited to parties. I'm good fun when I'm not—" Malfoy gestured again, apparently unable to debase himself by describing his debauched physical state.
Harry snorted. He scrubbed his face, palm dry against hot cheeks. The air wasn't enough. He needed water and a lie-down. He needed away from this conversation. He needed his bed, to be alone in it, for a long time. Harry was sick of being awake and tired of sleeping through sunlight and too exhausted to rest and—
"You're not good, though. You're—you shouldn't even be here," he said. It hurt Malfoy to hear it. It showed on his face, the way he winced. His face kept the screwed-up look long after Harry said it, and Harry took that to mean Malfoy got his deeper meaning.
"None of us should be here," Harry continued. His mouth was running away with him. He meant himself, not the rest of them. He shouldn't be here, he meant. He wasn't supposed to feel anymore. He didn't want to be around, but here he was, around, mucking shit up and putting that twist in Malfoy's face, Malfoy who Harry should be allowed to hate, to want dead. Harry should be allowed at least that hate, shouldn't he?
"I want to be here," Malfoy said. From the careful way he said it, he meant it the big way too. "I want to want it. You know?"
"Go away, Malfoy," Harry said. His throat hurt and he'd been staring at Malfoy's too pale eyes and his dishevelled, too greasy hair for too long. He knew all about how Malfoy looked these days. He needed to go.
There was a long pause, into which Malfoy schooled his features. He stared at the sky, which freed Harry from feeling stared at, a feeling he rarely escaped with other people. It was refreshing, even if his simmering anger didn't dissipate, only sunk lower into his guts, where it was less noticeable.
"I need to learn," Malfoy spoke with a serious slowness, "how to be the sort of person who gets invited to parties.” Harry realised the reason he sounded a little dreamy, a little Luna, was because he was high. Malfoy snorted, the wide line of his lips curling up close to his pointy nose. Malfoy snorted at a joke he hadn't said aloud, and it was the first time Harry had seen him smile all year.
"Honestly," Harry said, tiredly, because he was, after all, tired, and talking to Hogwarts eighth year's equivalent to the town drunk, "fuck off, Malfoy."
Malfoy’s smile shrunk to a tiny little one. "I'm serious. I'll throw one. I'll pay for all the Weasl—hey, no! I wasn’t—"
Harry stormed off towards the lake and found it easy to knock Malfoy's grasping hands from his robes. The lake was a glittering black jewel in the night, Malfoy a yippy dog at his heels.
"But I didn't mean it—oh, come on, you know I—"
When Harry stopped Malfoy didn't and they fell to the earth in one uncoordinated tangle of limbs. Harry growled and rolled away and balled his fists up to his mouth and yelled an incoherent sound and Malfoy scooted away very quickly. Harry didn't punch Malfoy in the mouth because he was busy doing his own desperate breathing. Harry very much wanted to be alone and to not kill Malfoy and the other boy was making that very difficult for him.
"Why won't you leave me alone?"
"Because I need you to teach me, Potter," Malfoy said. He crawled closer and stopped just out of kicking distance. His shirt was missing a button and where he'd been wearing one earring there was an unhealed gash of a cut like someone had ripped it out, and he was pitiful. Malfoy, with little left in the world, was a pitiful creature come to Harry Potter for help, and Harry rolled onto his back and closed his eyes against the glittering of the stars. They were rotating too fast anyhow.
"I meant it as a joke,” Malfoy’s small voice cut the cold air. “I'll pay for things. I'll be polite, I'll let Hufflepuffs attend, and, and—I'll supply anything anyone wants. I meant it, that the Weasley's can come. I mean to—"
"Yes," Harry said. Malfoy’s stammering stopped.
"Really?"
Harry dragged an arm over his eyes.
"I said yes, didn't I?"
Harry peeked. Malfoy was beaming at him. His face a beacon, too white, reflecting back the happiness he gained from Harry's yes. Like Harry was his savour. Like Harry was the sun.
"But it'll cost you," Harry added because he couldn’t have one more person look at him like that. He thumped his head to the frozen ground and did it again for good measure.
2
Malfoy's education in being a person other people wanted to be around was not a particularly difficult one.
"Keep your mouth shut," Harry snapped when Malfoy opened his mouth to deliver an easy jibe. He did, and lowered his head, and stopped speaking out of turn in class.
"That's your cue," Harry said, brows raised expectantly when Malfoy's benchmate in Potions was missing their quill and had tapped Harry, rather than Malfoy, on the shoulder to ask to borrow one.
"Oh," Malfoy said, and squirrelled around in his bag to hand one over. The student, a seventh-year girl Harry hadn't met before, looked at the eagle feather like it was covered in boils.
"Uh. Thanks," she managed. Malfoy nodded, land went back to stirring their cauldron. Harry turned around and exhaled and wondered when the wad of feeling in his chest would reduce in size so he could breathe around it.
Ron noticed the new interactions and asked Harry whether he needed to make a pet project out of Malfoy.
"It's not like that. He's…trying," Harry said. Ron went back to his thoughts and Hermione to helping him through them. They didn’t fight anymore, the three of them. Not even over the tiny things. They asked questions or offered advice once and then left it alone. Or, at least that was how they dealt with Harry, now that there was them separate from Harry. He missed their closeness but didn’t miss the scrutiny.
Hermione didn’t approve of the smoking, or the drugs, or the Malfoy of it all. She approved of attempts at reform though, so after a while she stopped checking in on Harry altogether.
“We’re here if you ever need us,” she said when Harry and Ginny broke up. Harry nodded away the lump in his throat. He didn’t have words for what he might need to talk to them about. They were feelings without form. Not yet.
3
Winter turned to spring, and Malfoy offered quills and bit his cheek to keep from laughing when someone stuttered over their reading in class, and soon Harry had little to say to him.
But the words were backed up in Harry's chest, so he went out of his way looking for Malfoy. He thought to catch him at something secret and spiteful and instead found he stayed late after Potions ended, Wednesdays and Fridays, working on his Advanced N.E.W.T. work. Harry under his cloak and Malfoy mostly alone, except for when his partner stayed too, to ask if she could copy from his notes.
"Your notes aren’t the issue.” His eyes darted side to side. “The way you stare at the back of Potter’s head like it might hold the keys to brewing a perfect Draught of Clarity might be. Why don’t we brew it again, together?" His face was as pointy as ever, and shiny from the steam off his brew, but he no longer held his lips in a tight, unpleasant line. They quirked up on one side. "Don't look so surprised. I need all the practice I can get, and you're only slightly better than Potter at Potions."
"Bold to talk about your only friend like that," she said. She slouched, letting her bag fall from lowered shoulder to the worktop. “Who died and made you the Supreme Mugwump of having a pash on pretty Potter? Jealous, much?”
Harry held his breath waiting for disgust.
"It’s not like that," Malfoy smiled at the floor. “He’s got a bleeding heart and terrible handwriting. You should aim higher, frankly.”
Malfoy remained, in that way, a stubborn stone in Harry's shoe. Harry liked that he'd said what he’d said—to put the girl at ease. He didn't mind that Malfoy remained, forever, a little contrary. He was tutoring Hufflepuffs, for Merlin's sake.
Harry hated that he didn't mind.
4
Spring melted into summer. Malfoy's remedial Potions classes were well-attended by several eighth years, and he pitched in coaching the Slytherin quidditch team. He was no longer actively derided in classes, but still didn't feature at any parties.
Harry found him asleep on the Slytherin common room couch. He nudged the bony hill of his ankle and watched Malfoy's nose wrinkle with displeasure. His hair was long, spilling over a fussy tube-shaped pillow of black velvet that wasn't meant to be slept on.
"Malfoy," Harry said. He cleared his throat. "Malfoy. Get up."
One eye blinked open. He scrubbed the stubble of his cheek and squinted at Harry.
"What on earth brought you down here to bless our cavern with your presence?"
Harry folded his arms. Malfoy made alarms go off in the back of his head, and there wasn't a reason for it. It was maddening to look at him.
"Where are you wearing robes? It’s Saturday."
Malfoy looked the long length of his body and curled onto his side. He blinked owlishly at Harry.
"What would you prefer me in?"
Harry mentally swatted the insinuation of his tone away.
"Why aren't you in your own bed?" He wondered if the other Slytherins were still troubling him. He’d heard of the dousings of his sheets with Bubotuber pus.
"I'm fond of the—" Malfoy started to lie and Harry strode to the door he knew was his and pushed in and saw a room that looked like grief. A mess, reeking of apple cores gone sour and the sheets were twisted on the floor and shirts piled on the bed and there was a path to the closet but only one set of clean clothes hung on a solitary hanger and it fucking hurt to look at. There was a black shroud over the window. The wad in his chest lodged more firmly.
"I never learnt how to…do anything." Malfoy edged sideways past Harry in the door to sit on a corner of bed without an object blocking his way.
Harry pried his own jaw open to grind out words. He was furious already.
"What did you do to the house elves? Why aren't they coming in here anymore?"
"Granger gave me a pamphlet. Terrible acronym, mind you, the girl's got no brain for marketing…" Malfoy twiddled his thumbs. "I asked them not to service my suite anymore, and they wouldn't hear of it, so I sent them away."
That was worse. It was worse, him being useless and alone by choice than him being useless and alone because he’d earned it.
Harry taught Malfoy the incantations he'd learned at the Weasley's. He recited the things he'd learned at four, maybe five.
"Start at the top and work your way down,” he said, and Malfoy nodded, wide-eyed. “Dust first, then a wipe. We’ll do the floors last.”
Harry held an armful of comforter that reeked of wet quidditch leathers and musky sweat and a scent that was too masculine and sharp for him. Harry learned it was a cologne he'd taken from his father's collection.
"I snuck it out," he admitted when Harry picked it up. "I wasn't supposed to take anything from the…the house."
"Don't worry," Harry said, turning over the bottle of amber glass. He flicked a look at Malfoy, attempting to radiate reassurance. He looked so fucking uptight, wringing his hands. Like Harry would smash it out of spite.
"I won't tell the Aurors."
It was the one thing kept upright on the armoire, not left where it was dropped like every other thing Malfoy touched and was too lazy too pick up. Harry pretended it was laziness and Malfoy let him because neither was prepared to admit that Malfoy was anything but lazy and that this mess was sadness, was the darkness that made it difficult to get up or do or be anything.
Harry uncapped the bottle while Malfoy cleared away apple cores. He inhaled and was whisked back to the Potions dungeon on the wave of the specific scent that lingered when Malfoy worked there a while. It was the smell Harry hadn't realised he associated with remedial potions and now, intimately, with Malfoy's linens.
"You should make your bed every day," Harry said, putting the bottle away and tugging the shroud down from the window. "Stop sleeping on the sofa."
"That's the trick, hmm?" Malfoy knelt, dusting his side table with a scrap of cloth. It wasn’t sarcasm.
"To what?"
"To claw my way back into society," Malfoy said, breezily. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You can't stand seeing anyone fail as hard as this."
He treated it all as a joke, a lark, his infinite loneliness. Harry closed his eyes and could only see Malfoy, concentrating deeply on how to wipe away dust stuck to a sticky spot.
A group of words, nice ones, coalesced in Harry's mind. It seemed the only thing that made his eyes prickle anymore was seeing Malfoy like this. The way he was. Given up and yet, not quite. Scrabbling, however quietly, to hold onto the world that Harry desperately wanted out from.
"Look," Harry said, and then his breath caught because Malfoy did. Look at him, expectant. He trusted Harry, which was never good for anybody. Trust got people hurt, maimed, killed. Harry swallowed the nice words like shards of glass.
"You'll never make friends if you keep dressing like a fussy Pureblood all the time. Don't you own, like, jeans?"
Malfoy shook his head.
Harry took Malfoy shopping. He was little help other than to tell him that he didn't have to wear a singlet under his button-down shirts but he should, because otherwise the look was very "nipply", and Malfoy puffed a breath of laughter and bought the vests and t-shirts and trousers in stately blacks and whites until Harry chucked a soft blue jumper at him, so Malfoy bought that too.
"Stop eating alone in your room," Harry told him, as Malfoy clutched the jumper to his chest and nodded.
He followed the instruction and ate alone, a solitary figure hunched at the far end of the Slytherin table. Harry let it go on for a long week before he broke away from Ginny and Ron and Hermione on a late Sunday morning and loomed behind Malfoy until he turned around.
"Come on," Harry said. He didn't look anywhere but at Malfoy, knowing full well where most sets of eyes in the Great Hall were focussed.
Malfoy reeked of weed most meals. He played with his food, twirling his spoon through pudding before thoughtfully taking a single bite into his mouth. He sat to Harry's left, the last seat at the Gryffindor table, and everyone else to Harry's right. He often tucked a textbook under the lip of his plate, not in mockery of Hermione's habit but mirroring it. He drank his coffee black and ate croissants so fastidiously that not a single crumb made it to his lap.
The first time Ginny addressed him directly a month later, he looked up and around, unsure where his name had been uttered.
"Pardon me?" he said.
She rolled her eyes, chin resting on her palm.
"I said, do you fancy coming round for drinks later? Far side of the lake tonight. Last chance before exams and all." She looked at the Slytherin table and then back to Malfoy. "Zabini's friend's with Dean and said we should bring you. If you're not going to be a tosser about it."
Silence, into which Malfoy nodded.
"I'll be there," he said to his soup, "with bells on."
5
Harry wasn't a go-getter. He floated through exams and into what was meant to be young adulthood and hid, tucked away in Grimmauld Place. He didn't have to choose any path in particular so he chose none at all.
Ginny left for more school, and Ron for the Aurors, and Hermione to an internship, and Harry hosted the occasional party and went flying and that was fine, so far as he was concerned. He baked bread and wondered about a career as a baker, and collected offers for quidditch training camps and as the spokesman for various charities and the envelopes collected dust, torn open and unanswered.
A year came and went. He kissed his first boy on new year's eve and immediately Floo'd to Ron and Hermione's flat to drunkenly tell them about it. He slept on their couch and woke up without memory of any of it, so it was Hermione who had to convince him it had happened at all.
"How do I know it wasn't a mistake?"
Hermione patted his head and handed him a coffee, a black pool to see his haggard self reflected in.
"You need to learn to trust your feelings," she said. Harry's mind went to one place when she said that, and the only thing that feeling made him was frightened.
It was chance that brought Harry to the second floor of Grimmauld Place on his birthday. He needed a breather from the roaring party happening outside and so hid in the dustiest corner of the house in an attempt to find away from it all.
The rotary phone on the wall vibrated with a shrill ring. It startled him into spilling the glass of water in his hand and set his heart to race. He'd given the number to a handful of people. He'd posted them letters shortly after moving in, letters he'd meant to reveal feelings in like I'm scared of living and dying in this big house alone and everything reminds me of Sirius and I don't know how to ask for what I want. He'd scrapped those attempts and instead scrawled the phone number and asked his tiny circle of found family to call if they ever needed him, night or day, it was like a Patronus only they could speak in real time, it wasn't an imposition, really, he'd love to—
"Hello?"
A surprised breath. Outside in the garden, a firecracker went off. Pop. Harry flinched.
"Hello?" he asked again. His palm on the receiver was damp with sweat. The breathing alone was enough to make his chest tight and he knew, then.
"H-hello. This is Draco Malfoy speaking." Harry rested his forehead to the wall and closed his eyes. His entire body sighed with relief.
"Is that you, Potter?"
"This is Harry Potter speaking."
Malfoy huffed a series of broken laughs and the wad in Harry's chest crumbled into a cloud of butterflies. They fluttered up Harry's oesophagus.
"Well done,” Harry twirled the cord around a finger. “You've figured out the most dastardly of Muggle inventions, the telephone."
"I've called to wish you a happy birthday," Malfoy spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "It's quiet, for a birthday. Are you doing something later?"
"Everyone's outside. Malfoy, are you alri—"
"Yes, no, yes. I'm fine, thanks. Just wanted to say happy birthday."
"Yeah, thanks. I wrote you—"
"I got it."
More explosions, and Harry clenched his teeth and wrapped the coiled cord another time around his fist. It had been silly for him to tell Seamus it was fine to bring them, when the sound and the sparks, the smell of the smoke, it was all too much and—
"Potter, are you still there?"
"Yes. You should come. If you'd like to, I mean." He remembered to breathe and adjusted the receiver between ear and shoulder to wipe his hands on his shirt. He envisioned Malfoy cradling the receiver on his end with caution, the way Arthur did. Like at any moment it might bite.
"Oh. I couldn't," Malfoy whispered. He inhaled shakily. Harry had thought perhaps he was hiding his conversation from being overheard, but now he could only envision Malfoy making this call alone.
"You could, actually, very easily. You're the sort of person who gets invited to parties, now."
Malfoy huffed. It was like he’d forgotten how to laugh properly.
"It's rude not to respond when spoken to on a phone call, you know."
"I'm gay," Malfoy said. More muffled rustling, and then his audible breathing again.
"Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry. You’re busy. I've been meaning to write you back but I couldn't and, I just—"
"Malfoy, please come over.” More rustling. The vision of Malfoy changed. Harry envisioned him in robes again, the way he'd dressed until Harry told him not to. Malfoy was on a single bed someplace, covering the mouthpiece with his sleeve to hide sounds from Harry. Harry could see the room—it would be small, and meticulously neat. White walls and a comforter that smelled of sandalwood and a sad little Malfoy that didn't know what to do in the centre of them.
It hurt the way it had always hurt to talk to him. Harry didn’t have to see him to feel it again, that chasm. That yearning to close the space.
“You have my address."
"But—"
"It's my party and I'm hiding from it,” Harry spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. “I’m on the second floor, and they’re lighting firecrackers, and it would be a favour to me." He took a deep breath in through his nose, annoyance spiking. "I hate firecrackers.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Malfoy asked.
“Yeah." Harry’s heart was going to beat free from his chest. "I don’t know how to talk on the phone. I don't like not being able to see you—the person I'm talking to. Just come over, please?"
The line crackled. Harry loosened his grip on the phone cord and it left deep, looping welts across the back of his hand.
"Could you bring me some weed? I can pay you for it, I could just really use a—"
"Alright," Malfoy said, before Harry managed friend. He hung up without saying goodbye and three minutes later the top stair creaked and there he was. In worn-in jeans with a torn knee and a band of red across his nose and cheekbones from sunburn and pink in the cheeks from something else. Malfoy was there.
"Hey," he greeted Harry. He cupped one elbow in a grip so hard his knuckles were white, arm crossed protectively over his body. He stood, tentative on some invisible threshold, and waited.
"Thanks for not being weird," he said. Harry felt weird. He felt seen, and seen through, but he raised his chin at a table and chairs and Malfoy sat and Harry joined him. Malfoy pulled out his battered tin and papers and set to roll them a spliff like he had back at school. Harry reflected on how long his finger bones were, how practised at this thing. How many times had he watched them do this trick, this precise act he'd never mastered? His own fingers felt heavy and blunt in comparison.
Malfoy did not look particularly well, but Harry had to be honest with himself for once. He thought, in the late honeyed light trickling in through the dusty window, that he found Malfoy’s points and hollows beautiful.
The butterflies inside Harry turned to bees, buzzing so furiously he was sure to open his mouth, he'd throw up from nerves.
"There you are," Malfoy said, twisting the tip closed. "Please accept this as the most meagre present I could possibly muster."
"It's a fantastic present. I love it."
Their fingers touched when Malfoy passed the joint to Harry. Malfoy touched him again, briefly, fingertips to the back of Harry's hand when he cupped it and lit the joint with the tip of his wand.
"I always thought it was strange—" Harry leaned back into his chair and held the initial pull into his lungs "—no one came out during our year."
His fingertips tingled when he passed the joint to Malfoy. He exhaled and his head went light as a feather. Malfoy noticed his flinch at the pop pop pop��of firecrackers. He frowned and cast a charm at the wall, dampening the sounds of outside to nothing.
Lights washed over his pale face, like he stood before a wall of painted glass. Red, blue, green. Malfoy's teeth shone when he smiled, and blushed. Nervous. Malfoy passed the joint back to Harry after a few puffs. He gripped the back of his own neck and dipped his head, hiding his face from Harry's scrutiny.
Harry had been staring. His stomach was in knots, and he flushed, hot. He'd been staring at Malfoy's burn, and the tips of his ears revealed by the absence of his once-long hair. Harry puffed the joint again and tamped down the urge to cough.
"Did you fancy someone, back then? In school, I mean."
Malfoy broke his grasp and looked at Harry, pink-eyed from under a lashline like frost. His jaw hung open, and Harry didn't think he blush any harder until he did.
"Not—no, no no, I didn't mean myself!" He choked on his spit and spluttered, coughing, waving his hands.
"I'm not one of those people who assume you'd be into just anybody. I didn’t—not—I wasn’t saying it was me, obviously."
"Not you?" Malfoy asked. He took the spliff from Harry and put it out in a mug holding the dregs of last week's tea. His voice was quiet again like he’d been on the phone.
"Yeah, no. Why would you? I was a dick to you all year." Harry washed his hands over his face and when he let his glasses fall back onto the bridge of his nose Malfoy was staring at him. His mouth was open, and his lips looked soft, and he still smelled like leather and musk and his quickened breathing was visible in the rise and fall of his collarbones.
"Potter…you were kind to me when you had no reason to be," Malfoy said. "You asked for nothing in return. I mean," Malfoy scoffed, incredulous, "you can be thick, but I didn’t think even you were this thick. Do you know that you’re being kind to me now?”
Harry frowned. “I told you to come over because I wanted to see you. This isn't charity. I didn’t ask you over out of the pure goodness of my heart.”
Draco’s smile was disbelieving. “You think that makes you selfish, don’t you? To ask for the company you want?”
Harry shrugged, his chair creaking beneath him.
"Merlin, you really are something," Malfoy sighed. He wiped his palms on his trousers and tapped them a few times, his sign of preparation to stand. To go.
“Well. I've got my—uh, news, off my chest— and provided my meagre gift. So, yes, I've kept you plenty long enough. I'm sure you should go back to your party before they wonder where you've wandered off to.”
"Don’t go,” Harry said. His blood rushed, nerves on high alert. The weed wasn’t doing anything to calm them. “Stay. Please. There’s, um, cake.”
“I don’t think it would be—"
“But I’ve missed you," Harry breathed the words. It sounded like a whine to his own ears. What should it matter to Draco, that Harry had missed him? That Harry wanted him to come downstairs and try the cake, and to sit next to him, to his left, because Draco was left-handed and that way their elbows didn’t bump while they shared meals, and he wanted to hide up here and sit and chat while the room grew to smell of him, wanted this, only this, wanted it for just one minute longer—
"And you didn't answer my question," Harry said.
"That's because I don't have an answer you'll like," Draco whispered.
They watched each other, neither moving. Both stuck like magnets to their seats. Harry tried to suck spit into his mouth, suddenly dry. He hadn't meant to admit to his longing. It lingered in the air between them, and Draco wasn’t responding, so Harry figured he might as well continue.
"I thought it was strange that no one came out our year. I wish someone had, then.” Harry had to look away. He picked at his thumbnail and frowned at his fingers. “I wish—"
His greatest fantasy was to have his hands held. His palms itched with the want of it. He wanted to have someone hold on to him, a quiet way of saying they wanted to keep him. Maybe then, he’d stop floating away the way he felt he did.
Draco reached out and touched Harry's knee. “You wish?”
"Sorry. I’m making this about me,” Harry's reassuring smile faltered. The wad was back, a clog stuck in the chest.
“I'm happy for you. I hope you're happy, too."
Draco's touch burned. His gaze did too. He looked at Harry like he was a puzzle to solve. Like he was seeing Harry completely anew.
“Is it about you, though? Isn't it?" He swallowed and withdrew his touch, hands cupping his own knees. "Even a little?”
Harry pretended not to understand the question because Draco was very close, as close as he’d been in a year, and it was a tenuous closeness. He could go again and leave Harry alone, again, in the darkness.
"Potter…”
Harry shook his head. “It's Harry. Please.”
“Harry,” Draco licked his lips after he said it, like it was a new flavour of word.
“Harry," he repeated. He liked that flavour.
"It's presumptuous that if I did have a pash, it would be on you, but…so what if it was?"
"Was what?"
"You," Malfoy said. He laid his arm down and outstretched his hand on the table, long fingers curled just so. An invitation.
Harry didn't normally do things tentatively, but he was careful with this. He brushed the soft skin at his wrist and delighted in Draco's shiver. After a moment, unsure, he pressed their palms together. He sighed an exhale he hadn’t known he was holding as Draco raised his hand and slipped pale fingers through Harry’s sun-darkened ones. Harry held his hand with intention, and the light in the room faded dark and pulsed yellow, yellow, yellow. It was warm in the room, and Harry should have known better a long time before, should have recognized what the cost had been to break his own heart over and over again. Each time he’d had the chance to reach out, to give shape and form and breath to his words, and had denied himself the simple pleasure of this.
#mintamintawrites#prompts!#coming out#drarry#it's all angst all the time over here#yes#but it'll cost you#un-beta'd
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Been playing around with an idea, and I want opinions. The beginning of my TKB 2nd chance has been done for a while now, and I would love to publish it...but there are few things holding me back.
First is that I am completely at a loss for a title, otherwise I would've already thrown it on AO3 with a little 'I have no idea when other chapters will be added' note.
Second is that I literally have no idea when chapters will be added.
So here's an alternative idea: Throw each chapter as I finish them on here until either A: I figure out a title, or B: I've finished the whole thing.
I know people like to click things, and I haven't completed my 'Make a Poll' self-achievement, so here goes. Setting duration for 1 day because alternative is 1 week and I don't think it needs to run that long.
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The Last Stop Before the End of the World, Chapter 1
It hadn't stormed in Aravice in weeks. When the first few droplets of rain finally hit the white cobblestones, everyone in the city breathed a sigh of relief. Maeve was among them, though she'd only been in Aravice for a few hours.
She'd led her horse through the white gate, sweating and cursing the weather. The first few drops had fallen then, and her mood had improved.
It was as though the rain was greeting her - and it was probably the friendliest thing about Aravice. Despite the late hour and the downpour, there were still crowds of people clustered everywhere. Aravice was a city of white, with most of the color coming from awnings that covered the streets, allowing alcohol soaked patrons to stumble through relatively dry. Some of them had tried to grab at Maeve's coin purse but she'd weaved out of their reach. It was strange that despite her father's work as a problem solver for the queen, Maeve had always been taught that anyone could be of use; there was no sense in alienating a potential ally just because he cut a few purse strings. For this reason she didn't report any of them, though she did give them her best glare.
Maeve was used to the small town hospitality of the Draewood. People in Aravice had a place to be and no patience for anyone in their way. She was pretty sure she actually had a bruise on both shoulders from people pushing past her. It was a little easier once she boarded her horse.
Maeve got tired of the chaos and slipped down an alley. It wasn't covered like the rest of the streets, but the poor of Aravice didn't have the benefit of wide open spaces. The buildings loomed overhead like a dark canopy of trees. The slums were painted white just like the rest of the city but heavy shadows hung over everything, casting the buildings in grays and blacks. A few of the new "electric" lamps had found their way into the dark alleys, though they did very little to chase away the shadows. The lamplighters were relieved they no longer had to risk their lives to light alleys very few entered. Or rather, very few left.
Still, the oppressive buildings managed to keep Maeve mostly dry as she walked through. She was meant to be meeting her mentor in a different part of the city, but the blasted place was a maze. Destane was an interesting old man. He was still handsome, too, in that old man kind of way; salt and pepper hair and a world-weary kind of experience.
It helped that he was the complete opposite of Maeve's father, Jasper. Destane had promised to never lie to Maeve and as far as she knew, he never had. Jasper found new ways to lie almost daily despite the fact that he loved nothing more than to send his children into terrible danger.
Not that, truth be told, Maeve didn't like the danger. But the lies were annoying.
The sounds of fighting hit Maeve's ears before the smell of blood. She wrinkled her nose as she crept through one of the dark alleys. Who would be fighting at this time of night? In the rain? The city was so strange.
Creeping low, she pushed past laundry lines that hung nearly into the dirt and boxes of unknown contents. She peaked over a half-wall into an open area. "Open" was relative, but it was the most space she'd seen in the slums. Men, some stripped to the waist, stood in a circle. A few looked injured but they all seemed large and scarred. Maeve was used to seeing bare flesh but there was a lot of it...
"Like what you see?" said a voice and Maeve nearly jumped out of her skin. It took a strangely long amount of time for her to see the source. He melted out of the shadows like ink. Tall, thin, and pretty. The prettiest man that Maeve had ever seen; his eyelashes were thicker than hers. Black hair and pale skin (almost blue) and a sharp grin.
His hands were on her before Maeve could even think, but the grip was gentle. Strong as a vice, but gentle. She could still reach her sword if needed, though.
"I don't know what I'm seeing," she said finally. He rested his chin on her head and pressed her against his chest.
"My brother," he answered, "is going to win."
There were two people in the middle of the circle. One was a bull of a man, a soldier or gladiator, body like steel and thick with fat. The other was as thin as Maeve. He had long dark hair and thick purple circles under his eyes, as though he never slept. His dark skin was smooth and unmarked. The only possible evidence that he'd ever been in a fight before was a slight crook to his handsome nose.
"Is your brother the big one?" Maeve asked.
"No." Maeve felt a cheeky grin pressed into her skull and his fingers on the hem of her blouse, above her belt.
The fight was intense. There didn't seem to be any rules beyond no weaponry.
The skinny one moved like lightning and never quite seemed to be where a blow would land. He seemed more interested in wearing down the other man rather than using any energy to hit back. His clothes, all silk, bled out of the bigger man's hands when he tried to get a grip.
"What's your name?" asked the man above Maeve.
"Maeve. What's yours?" she answered. The big man had roared. He was getting angry. He had managed to clip his opponent in the shoulder. A single landed hit in a thousand misses. This did nothing but make the smaller man start to fight back harder. Despite his thin wrists, he hit like a viper.
"Salem. That's Halden. What brings such a nice girl to such a terrible place?"
"Work."
The hand on her belt tried to go lower but she stopped it.
"Not that kind of work. I'm a mercenary. I have a sword." She rolled her eyes though she knew he couldn't see it.
His hands found her hips instead. "Dangerous times. I'm not gonna judge."
Dangerous times indeed. Halden had started to fight back. The bigger man was out of energy. He took breaths in great gasps. Halden feinted and got him in the gut, then brought his elbow up to the man's nose. With a crack, he broke it. Blood poured into the man's mouth but any retaliation was stopped as one of the other men in the circle came up and grabbed Halden's hand, holding it aloft as victor.
"Undefeated again, you little stick insect," said the man who'd intervened. He threw a coin purse at Halden. Halden's opponent was left to lie in the rain, bloodied and embarrassed, as Halden strutted up to Maeve and Salem.
He finally seemed to notice her, eyes on her hips and breasts. "Salem, what did I tell you about..."
"I have a sword!"
Annoyed, Maeve grabbed Salem's wrist and twisted. He was very strong, but surprise was on her side and she managed to wriggle from his grip.
Halden shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "Dangerous times," he pointed out, divvying up the gold and throwing Salem half.
From somewhere, Salem produced a white hat. The brim was large, small beads decorating the edge. The top was pointed, like a witch's hat, though it was too clean for that. Salem slapped it onto Halden's head as he pulled his shirt and top robe back on.
"So, where you headed, pretty one?" Salem asked. He grunted when Halden punched him.
"Sorry, he's a raging stereotype. But same question?" Halden asked.
"Oh, I'm looking for the fountain disrict," she said, ignoring that being called pretty had turned her face red. "Destane Sidorov. He has a shop there."
"Oh, you're way off. That's north almost to the castle," Salem said.
"Well, fountains. I thought it'd be in the middle," she answered, hoping her blunder explained the redness. It was also embarrassing, though not as much as the compliment. "Can you point me in the right direction?"
There was a moment where the brothers stared into each other's eyes, a silent conversation. The significance was missed by Maeve, and she didn't feel right asking.
"We'll do you better." Salem linked an arm under Maeve's and gestured for Halden to do so on her other side. When he didn't, Salem rolled his eyes and just began walking. "We'll be your gentleman escorts."
Halden tipped his hat at her and followed.
#writblr#fantasy writblr#fantasy romance#my writing#long post#writing#TLSBTEOTW#TLSBTEOTW Chp 1#Maeve Salem and Halden#un-edited un-beta'd#The Last Stop Before the End of the World
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...............not even close
#BEFORE ANYONE COMES AT ME i do think ff is real writing i just don't consider it to be its own genre#for fun i will write commentary for the ones i did highlight:#yeah i have an ao3 under the same name but i literally havent put anything there in forever#i beta read for a friend's divergent self insert in junior high and it was a lot of fun!!#it was them and a bunch of our friends doing awesome stuff in that universe and it was a good ass time#every single fic i publish is un beta'd ive legitimately never asked anyone to read my stuff before i post it#oh except maybe the recovery files ? cant recall#arent all fics a little self indulgent :)?#does multifandom within kpop count?#cloudy drew changmin from my original pansy fic and omg!!! i felt so happy!!!!#edit: OH MY GOD AND I FORGOT TO MENTION CHIAS RF:R2017 ART!!!! ITS AMAZING#ummmm unfinished work...? yeah thats me#and the one fic that deserves more attention: dream of me when youre awake#thats all folks!#stickynotes.tpe
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Tagged by @sweetwhispersofchaos thanks for the tag!
I'll tag @pollyna @compacflt and anyone else who wants to
#all my fics are un-beta'd#sometimes I send them to a friend#but i'm too impatient and just edit the day after#also don't do multiple drafts#please see the: i'm too impatient#at least in terms of fanfic#i love it but i'm busy#also don't like spending all my time online#that's not healthy#live you life
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janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01
➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader
➥ word count | 3.7k
➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb
➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”
➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠
there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself
mostly un-beta'd atm
a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!
feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist
Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.
One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.
Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.
It’d be easier if they were.
Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.
Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.
Then came the separation.
Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.
And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.
See, war’s something he understands.
But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?
How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?
When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?
He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.
Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.
The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.
Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.
Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.
But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.
See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.
Hell, millions used to scream his name.
Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”
While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.
It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.
Something’s gotta give.
After all, he’s only one man.
But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.
A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.
At first, he kept his distance.
Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.
Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.
Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.
Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.
Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.
So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?
Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?
Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?
What you don’t know can’t hurt you.
After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.
“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”
Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.
“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”
A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, “Nmfhm.”
Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"
“Mnhfmmmm.”
“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”
Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”
Shit.
“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”
Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.
Together they settle with a bounce of springs.
In the open space, you slide in.
The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.
“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”
“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”
“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”
Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.
You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.
“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”
Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.
“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”
“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”
Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.
“... Then pancakes it is.”
As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”
“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”
“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”
“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”
She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears.
Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.
“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.
“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”
The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.
After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.
“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”
The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.
A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.
Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.
“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”
Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.
The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.
Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.
When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.
You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.
Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.
Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.
After all, he’s not yours to touch.
Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”
Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”
Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”
Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood.
“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”
He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.
God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.
Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.
“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”
Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.
“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.
Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.
“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.
Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.
The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.
“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”
“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”
Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”
“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.
Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.
Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.
Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.
But here — with him — you shouldn’t.
Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.
When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”
“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”
Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.
“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”
The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.
He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”
You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.
Greedy.
Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.
However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog.
Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”
Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”
“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“No, that’s not what I --”
He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”
Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”
“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.
Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”
“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”
Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.
Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?
Hell, you even cook and clean!
Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.
Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.
How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.
If he wasn’t so captivating…
“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”
“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”
Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.
When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.
Waiting to see what you'll do.
Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.
Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.
Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.
He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.
“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”
With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”
The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.
“Woah! I--”
“Tell me something.”
Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.
“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”
The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”
You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”
“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”
Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.
The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.
“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”
He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.
Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”
Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.
“C’mon, be honest.”
With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.
Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.
“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”
His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”
“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”
“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”
“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”
“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”
There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”
In what world would you refuse?
The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.
He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.
Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.
“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”
Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.
Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.
You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.
He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.
"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."
Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”
"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."
part 2 dropping soon
#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#the ghoul x you#the ghoul x reader#cooper howard smut#cooper howard#the ghoul#the ghoul smut
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Office Hours - Chapter Ten
Summary:
It's bowling time! You and the gang get a little closer over this highly unsexy game. Definitely no sexy things will happen in this chapter. No, don't look at the tags. Stop, what are you doing.
Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 4.3k
Tags/Warnings: thigh riding, dry humping, rough kisses, fantasies of bondage, cumming in pants, vampire bites/blood drinking, conversations about academic research, semi-public semi-sex
So I didn't actually mean to wait a week and a half between posting chapter 10 on AO3 and posting it here, but as a result, I can tell you that the un-beta'd chapter 11 is now up on my Kofi! You can read it for free, or you can wait until it's fully edited on AO3. Up to you, guy.
As always, @zipzoomzaria is responsible for the devastatingly handsome professor in the banner.
Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist
Admittedly, you kind of delight in the look on Astarion’s face as you cross the threshold into the bowling alley. His nose wrinkles while his eyes dart around the space, cataloging everything from the stained black and neon rainbow carpet, to the bored employee sitting in front of rows and rows of dirty rental shoes, to the group of noisy teengers eating nachos covered with a thick liquid cheese.
He lets out a low growl and you giggle, almost giddy at the evening ahead of you. There is absolutely no chance in hell you’ll be able to do anything even remotely sexual in this environment. You grab his hand and drag him over to the shoe rental.
“Hi, can I get a 7 ½?” you ask the employee, and they languidly pull their chin off their hand and turn around to grab the shoes. Astarion hovers behind you, still uncomfortably taking everything in. You take the shoes from the employee and drop them in front of you, stepping out of your flats and into the bowling shoes.
“Ugh, gods, I don't know why you insist on taking part in this,” he says with a sneer, well within earshot of the employee, whose eyes have already started to glaze back over. “It’s not enough to put your fingers into a grease-coated ball, you choose to play dress up with a hundred other people’s feet?”
“I mean I wouldn’t choose to, I just have to if I want to actually do the bowling part of it,” you tell him as you wiggle your ankle to get the shoe to settle.
“Sorry, what?”
You had been waiting for this moment and you try to hide your glee as you say, “Yeah, you have to rent special shoes so you don’t fuck up the floor.”
His face remains frozen for a moment in a look of utter disgust as he processes what you said. “So you’re telling me,” he drawls, waving his finger like a disgruntled valley girl, “that in order to play this asinine game that you’re making me play, I must pay money to let my feet bask in the foot sweat residue of several hundred strangers?”
“You also have to leave your shoes with them while they’re rented,” you add, handing your flats over to the employee, who slips them in the cubby whence they retrieved your rental shoes. Astarion splutters incoherently.
“That’s it, you’ve lost me, this was a very cute idea but I am absolut–” You grab his hand as he starts storming away and pull him back towards the rental counter.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun, I promise!” You grasp his hand in both of yours, an exaggerated gesture of a pleading child. “Just do it for me, please?”
He scowls at your beaming face for a moment before rolling his eyes and approaching the counter again.
“I’ll take a 9 ½,” he grumbles through gritted teeth. The employee continues to display an almost impressive amount of apathy as they grab the requested size. Astarion makes a show of his disgust as he takes off his patent leather oxfords and puts on the grubby shoes that were presumably red and blue at one point.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth and your grin widens.
“You absolutely will not,” you tease. He stands suddenly, closer than you had realized, and looms over you.
“Would you like to test that theory?” he hums in a low voice, and your breath catches in your throat. He turns away from your reddening face with a smug sense of satisfaction as he hands his shoes to the employee. He starts to walk away when their voice interrupts him.
“Sir, you need to pay for those,” they call out halfheartedly. He turns around to you, just staring back innocently.
“Oh, I’m paying,” he confirms blankly, and you shrug.
“You’re the one with tenure, you make more than me,” you state matter-of-factly. He scowls again but doesn’t protest, and instead just taps his phone on the pin pad.
You scan the lanes to see if you can spot any of your friends. Gale sees you and waves you over to where he and Wyll are sitting together stiffly. Shadowheart and Karlach aren’t here yet.
“Hello, there,” he calls, grateful to see faces he recognizes. A paper boat of fries sits on the table between them, along with two plastic cups of water.
“Any word from Karlach?” you ask Wyll, leaning over the hard plastic bench to grab a fry.
“She apologized, she said they’d be here soon,” he replies, glancing at the text from her.
“Took them longer to get ready than they expected,” you say with a grin, and Wyll clears his throat, cheeks darkening slightly.
“Oh Tav, have you caught up with If Books?” Gale asks you, taking off his glasses to clean them with his knit sweater vest.
“Yes, I couldn’t stop listening to it,” you reply enthusiastically, “some episodes have been very illuminating.” You cast a quick glance at Astarion and he petulantly shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. “But it’s so hard waiting for each new one,” you add, and Gale nods.
“Yes, and they’ve switched from a bimonthly schedule to a monthly schedule, so the wait is even longer,” he agrees.
“What’s up, fuckers?” Karlach’s voice booms across the lanes and Astarion mutters, “Oh thank the gods,” under his breath. Shadowheart and Karlach saunter over, Karlach double fisting pitchers of a pale amber beer. She puts them down onto the table, only one of them sloshing beer over the edge. Shadowheart narrows her eyes at Astarion, sizing him up.
“Shade, this is Astarion, Astarion, this is my best friend Shadowheart,” you awkwardly introduce them to try to cut the tension as early as possible.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Shadowheart says with disdain, looking down her nose at Astarion. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”
“Only the best, I’m sure,” he lobs back. “Funny, I don’t think she’s mentioned you.” You shoot Astarion a dirty look as Shadowheart’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. You can tell that she’s unaccustomed to sparring with someone who has as much snark as her, but the verdict is still out on whether or not it’s a good thing.
Oblivious to the heated standoff behind her, Karlach types away at the console, putting in slightly wrong initials for everyone and giggling maniacally as she does. In order, the names say ASS, TAV, CAR, SAD, GIL, and WIL.
“Soldier over here’s lucky, her name is already three letters,” she laughs and winks at you. Astarion fiddles with the roll of his sleeve and looks at the ball return with apprehension.
“I suppose my ‘ass’ is first?” He hits Karlach with the look over the glasses and she throws her head back, cackling like a hyena.
“Good on ya, Cardigan, there’s a sense of humor under that mop after all.” She kicks the toe of her red and white shoe at him from where she’s sitting, but he dodges out of the way. He walks up to the ball return and shudders before he decides on one, visibly gagging as he picks it up.
“Okay you drama queen, we get it, it’s gross,” you laugh at him, “now just knock as many pins down as you can, okay?”
“That much would seem obvious,” he smirks, and walks up to the edge of the lane. He glances back at you one last time, almost as if he’s assessing if you’re really worth the humiliation, before throwing the ball down the lane. It glides towards the pins in a smooth straight line before crashing into their pyramid, knocking over all but one. He stares at the lone pin in shock as you and Karlach whoop at him.
“Hey, you might actually be good at this game after all!” you shout as he walks back to the bench, looking just a little more pleased with himself. He’s about to sit down when you stop him, saying, “No, you get two frames.” He looks back down at the end of the lane just in time to see the mechanical arm sweep away the fallen pins and leave the remaining one standing. He makes a dramatic show of sighing heavily and picks up the ball again. He approaches the lane, calculates the pathing, and throws the ball. It knocks down the last pin.
“Okay Ancunín, comin’ in hot with the spare!” Karlach laughs and he puffs his chest slightly at the compliment. “I think you might need a better nickname than Cardigan.”
“Gods please, I’ll take anything,” he begs, and you stand up to grab a ball.
“Perhaps Dr. Bowling?” Wyll pipes up, and Gale adds, “A doctorate in Bowling Studies with a concentration in spares and strikes?” Astarion’s scowl is icy, but even you can tell he’s having fun.
“I’ve spoken too quickly,” he says, gritting his teeth.
You find that the six of you get along quite well. The conversation is easy and light as you cycle through your turns, laughs flowing between you as freely as the terrible watery beer.
You take a gulp from your plastic cup, your legs draped over Astarion’s lap as Gale takes his turn. Astarion scoffs at the smell.
“Nine hells, how can you possibly drink that piss?” He turns his face away from the yellowish liquid.
“I don’t know, I have low standards for myself?” you answer with a shrug.
Shadowheart lets out a high pitch giggle. “Clearly, considering you’re dating him,” she snickers, and Astarion fixes her with a playfully snide look.
“Big talk coming from someone who needs aloe vera after a romantic evening,” he retorts with pursed lips. Shadowheart tries to suppress a smile – talking shit is her love language.
“At least she and I agree to it prior,” she says coolly, and Astarion goes even paler than usual. He shoots you a nervous glance, a sort of are we allowed to joke about that? But you laugh and take another sip of your beer, surreptitiously rubbing the back of his hand resting on your knee in assurance.
You’re enjoying watching Shadowheart and Karlach navigate the awkward early stages of the relationship. Shadowheart has her hands clasped around her knee, bent in front of her as her foot rests on the plastic bench. Karlach’s arm is draped across the back of the bench, leaving enough plausible deniability as to whether or not her arm is actually around Shadowheart. You suspect by the end of the evening, it’ll be less ambiguous.
“So tell me, Gale,” Wyll asks as Gale waits by the ball return. “I’ve never met a wizard with a PhD, what was your research in?”
“I’m so glad you asked, because I think you in particular would find use of it,” he responds enthusiastically. “It was in ethical uses of high powered spells. There’s a stigma around mortals chasing too much power, but I feel very strongly that some spells simply have no downside.”
Astarion quirks an eyebrow, his hand absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who’s power hungry, Dekarios,” he says with a smirk, and Gale emphatically shakes his head.
“No, the power isn’t for me, it’s for– well, hold on.” He quickly grabs his ball from the return and throws it down the lane. It hits the gutter within seconds.
“Too bad!” Karlach calls, her arm slipping ever so slightly around Shadowheart’s shoulders a bit more.
“It’s fine. Anyway.” Gale is quick to return to the benches, excited to talk about his research. “I strongly feel that Globe of Invulnerability, Heal, and Heroes’ Feast simply have no downside. We should implement systems in which they can be used for the greater good.”
“Fascinating. Do doctors not already use Heal in hospitals?” Wyll muses, then turns to Shadowheart as he stands to take his turn. “Shadowheart, you’re a cleric of Selûne, you must use Heal all the time.”
Shadowheart shakes her head. “We’re not permitted to use anything more powerful than Mass Cure Wounds, and even then it’s only in the most dire situations, like war zones. I don’t even know how to perform it.”
“See, this is precisely what I’m saying! Imagine all the good that we could do if there were more medical professionals who knew Mass Cure Wounds and Heal.” Gale gesticulates wildly with his almost empty cup of beer.
“Heroes’ Feast could end world hunger in a matter of minutes!” Wyll nearly shouts from the lane right before he bowls his second frame, almost as excited as Gale.
“Yes!” Gale returns the excitement and then downs the last sip of his beer. “In fact, I think many of these high level spells are outlawed in some countries without even considering how they might impact our society.”
“Hey Ass, you’re up,” Wyll calls, heading back to the bench.
“Darling, could you move your legs?” he asks you, his tone saccharine. You make a show of deliberating, holding your finger to your chin.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure. Wyll, who’s winning right now?” you call out to him and he speaks through the fry in his mouth.
“Ashtarion,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, I don’t think I will move,” you smirk obstinately, pushing your calves down into his lap. He raises his eyebrows at your challenge, peering at you over his glasses. He grabs your ankles and sharply turns you in your seat, his rough handling sending a subtle jolt through your core.
“Don’t pick a fight you can’t win, love,” he hums, his lips barely brushing against yours. He stands and turns towards the lane, leaving you slightly breathless. Karlach and Shadowheart titter at your dazed expression, the distance between them having all but disappeared.
Astarion gets yet another strike, and you briefly wonder how this English academic got so dexterous before remembering the feel of his long smooth fingers working inside you. You blink several times to banish the needlessly dirty thought as he turns around with an insufferably pompous look on his face, his newly discovered talent feeding his already overinflated ego. You try to play it cool as you stand and walk toward the ball return, but he blocks your body with his. You look up at him and he runs his knuckle up the front of your throat, stopping it right under your chin.
“Don’t choke,” he purrs and you press your lips together tightly to prevent an embarrassing noise from escaping. You shake your hair over your ears to cover how red they’ve become, but you’re certain your cheeks still give you away. You grab a ball and throw it down the lane, hardly aware of how many pins it knocks down. You stare into the ball return with glazed eyes as you watch your pink ball slide out of its mouth. You grab it, barely registering the shouts of encouragement from the others, and throw it down the lane as quickly as you can. You turn around before seeing the outcome of the frame, your mind occupied by one solitary thought.
“Excuse me, I’m going to run to the restroom,” you mumble, wrapping around behind the plastic benches as Karlach stands to take her turn. As discreetly as possible, you run your fingers across Astarion’s shoulders as you pass behind him. If you’re lucky, he’ll get the hint. If not… well, you need to take a breather anyway.
You duck into the hallway branching off the main lanes and settle yourself behind an ancient payphone. You have no idea if it’s meant to be kitschy and retro or simply a relic of a bygone era. You take a deep breath as you try to clear your head.
It didn't take long for Astarion to swing around the corner, grabbing your face in his hands and pushing you up against the wood-paneled wall. His lips are hard on yours and his fingers tangle in your hair – a roughness you’re all too happy to accept. You grasp at his lower waist, pulling his body further into yours. Your lips pop open as a small moan escapes when his knee slides up between your legs, pressing against your already aching mound.
“I thought this was meant to dampen our appetites,” he murmurs through breathless kisses. You clutch the back of his head as you grind down wantonly on his thigh.
“It’s not my fault you get fucking hot when you’re competitive, ah–” you swallow the moan as he slides his chilled hands up the back of your shirt, pressing into the dip just above your ass.
“I take it you like seeing me win?” You can feel his lips smiling against your earlobe, and you let out a small squeak when he gives it a gentle nip.
“I like seeing you cocky,” you groan, desperately chasing the friction that his thigh provides. He chuckles and pushes his leg up further into you, causing you to grunt through your teeth and pull on his hair as you try to keep the obscene noises that he’s tearing from you under control.
“Tell me how else you like me,” he rasps, and you can feel his erection pressing against your thigh.
“I like it when you’re domineering,” your voice cracks as you continue to roll your hips against him. “I like when you tell me what to do. I like it when you’re just a little mean but even more when you tell me I’m a good girl.”
His hips buck against you and you shift on top of his leg, trying to relieve your own throbbing cunt while rubbing your leg against the bulge in his pants. His lips are still on your ear and he lets out a hissing breath when you lightly brush against his cock.
“You are my good girl, don’t stop.” His breath is cool against your skin and he runs the tip of his tongue along the shell of your ear, pulling a deep shudder from you. You can already feel how wet he’s made you, and if he keeps this up you might just come undone.
“I want you to put your hand around my throat when you fuck me,” you whine, your slick folds sliding against each other as he grinds his thigh into you. “I want you to put me in a collar and hold the leash tight and tell me I’m yours.” The fantasy is pouring out of you at this point. You’re hardly aware of your surroundings, all that matters is you and Astarion.
You can tell your words are affecting him, too. The rutting of his hips grow frantic and you tighten your hand in his hair and you can feel that familiar spiraling heat blooming out from your core.
“Gods, Astarion, I’m–” you mewl, fully riding his leg at this point. “Please bite me, I want you to bite me, I’m begging–” The moment his fangs sink into your flesh you come, your hand pressed tight over your mouth to muffle the sound, your hips stuttering with each rippling wave of pleasure. As he takes long dragging sips of your blood he makes barely audible whimpers into your neck, his hips still thrusting into your thigh. You bring your hands to his ear, gently pinching his velvety lobe between your fingers.
“Fuck, come for me Astarion,” you whisper into his hair, and it’s enough. He inhales sharply through his nose, teeth still latched onto your neck, and the rest of him stills, save a few subtle jerks of his hips as he spills inside his pants. You let out a breathy chuckle as you card your fingers through his hair affectionately. He pulls away from your neck and you’re blessed with one of your favorite sights – his lips slightly bloody, his eyes wild and frenzied, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You kiss him, lapping up the metallic droplets from his lips, and he lets out a shuddering breath.
“I do so love it when you do that, you know,” he sighs, and you stifle a giggle.
“Make you come in your pants?” you tease.
“No– well, yes, I mean– I mean no!” he stammers, uncharacteristically flustered, and you hum with approval. “No, when you kiss me just after I’ve fed on you. It makes me feel… closer to you, I suppose.”
“Plus I bet it’s, like, really sexy,” you joke, skating over his sincerity, afraid of what you might accidentally say in response. You’re so not ready to write a check that you can’t cash.
“Yes, it is,” he murmurs and kisses you again, unphased by your deflection.
As though an impenetrable barrier had been lifted, someone rounds the corner to head to the bathroom and the two of you straighten up like you didn’t just dry hump like a couple of horny teenagers. You try to tidy your appearances, but there’s no accounting for the noticeable stain on the front of Astarion’s pants. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his glasses sliding up onto his forehead.
“I can’t believe you… ugh. I can’t be seen by the others like this.” He sighs deeply, the consequences of both of your actions finally catching up to him. You bite your lip guiltily, then suddenly gasp, recalling the machine you’ve seen in hundreds of restrooms throughout your life but never had any use for.
“Do you have a quarter?” you ask him frantically, and he stares at you, completely flummoxed.
“No, who carries cash anymore? What, why do–” You’re gone before he can finish his sentence, dashing around the corner to find Shadowheart. Karlach sees you first, and her face lights up as she waves her whole arm at you.
“Hey, we were just about to send out a search party,” she laughs as you round the corner of the benches.
“Itoldthemnotto,” Gale adds quickly, and you appreciate that he learned his lesson from last time. Shadowheart strides up to you and grabs your chin, pulling it to the side to expose your neck.
“Ugh, Tav, you shouldn’t drive when you’re like this,” she groans. “Te absolvo.” She flicks your forehead as she casts the spell and you flinch before a sheepish grin slides onto your face.
“Hey, where’s Astarion?” Karlach asks, making like she’s going to head towards the bathrooms to look for him. You grab her arm before she can get too far.
“No no, don’t worry about that,” you speak frenetically, “Does anyone have a quarter?”
“Who even carries cash anymore?” Karlach asks with a bemused face, but Shadowheart glowers at you.
“Why, what do you need it for?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble, and she rolls her eyes. She grabs her purse and pulls out a sleek black leather wallet embossed with a crescent moon. “I only have ones,” she says, and you yank the bill out of her hand.
“That’s fine thanks love you be right back.” You take off with her dollar and make a beeline for the change machine near the arcade. After several attempts to flatten the bill enough for the machine to accept it, you hear four clangs as the quarters drop into the metal tray. You quickly scoop them out and run back to the hallway outside the bathrooms where poor Astarion is pretending to talk on the payphone.
“Where in the sweet hells did you go?” he hisses, and you finally get a good look at his appearance. His hair is still slightly disheveled, and he’s untucked his shirt to let it hang over the wet spot on the front of his trousers. You don’t answer him, but rather grab his wrist and duck into the women’s restroom that is, thankfully, empty.
You turn to the metal machine hanging off the wall that dispenses three invaluable items for a bowling alley bathroom: tampons, condoms, and scrolls of prestidigitation. You drop a quarter into the slot above the third item, crank the knob, and out falls a tightly rolled scroll.
“They’re usually for mothers to clean up after they’re done changing their baby’s diaper,” you say, nodding your head towards the plastic baby changing station. “But clearly they have other uses. Infame.” You recite the spell’s incantation and the scroll vanishes along with the stain on Astarion’s pants. He lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thank the Gods.” He unbuckles his belt and begins to tuck his shirt back into his pants. “You owe me,” he adds wryly.
“Um excuse me, who just traipsed all over just to hunt down a goddamn quarter so you could clean up after yourself?” you pout and he slides his hands around your waist.
“But who’s responsible for getting me into this mess in the first place?” he hums in a low voice, brushing his lips against yours. You’re about to melt into his kiss when suddenly the door to the restroom opens and a bewildered looking halfling walks in. You and Astarion spring apart and he quickly redoes his belt buckle. You embarrassedly shuffle out the door without a word.
The two of you reemerge to see all of your friends waiting impatiently by the shoe rental. Your and Astarion’s shoes have already been removed from their cubbies and the employee is just waiting for you to return the bowling shoes. The two of you jog over, and Shadowheart rolls her eyes as you approach.
“Fucking degenerates,” she mutters under her breath, grabbing Karlach’s hand and storming out the door.
#astarion#astarion fanfic#astarion fic#baldur's gate 3#baldur's gate iii#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate fanfiction#astarion ancunin#astarion smut#baldurs gate smut#fanfiction#smut#professor astarion#astarion x reader#astarion x you#bg3 au#college au#bg3 modern au#astarion x tav#astarion romance#office hours#baldurs gate au#astarion angst#enemies to lovers
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Heatwave | Frankie Morales x Reader Drabble.
You can't sleep with your furnace of a boyfriend smothering you, but you can't sleep without him either.
Warnings: Mention of naked Frankie, implied both reader and Frankie sleep naked, just fluff based on my own sleep issues <3
Un-beta'd - wrote it mostly in bed this morning.
720~ Words
Your skin burns, hot and sticky as you feel the weight of another person draped over you. Most of the time you can just roll him off and strip the sheets off when the weather gets this extreme. But not tonight. Tonight, Frankie will not relinquish you from his catatonic embrace.
Frankie groans softly as he spoons you. His thick fingers splayed across your stomach; broad chest fused to your sweat-slick back. One leg is draped over your hip and its almost blissful. Almost.
But you’re too fucking hot.
“Frankie, baby,” you whine as you try and wriggle from his grip, “Too hot.”
All that seems to elicit is a muffled “hmm” from him as he somehow pulls you in tighter. His scruff tickles your shoulder as he nuzzles his face behind your ear.
Great, now you’re too hot and you’re turned on. There’s no way you can sleep like this.
“Frankie,” you groan as you prise his arm off you, “Need to sleep. I’ve got that meeting with my boss in the morning.”
You know it’s falling on deaf ears, but it makes you feel better, convincing yourself more than him. You slip out from under him after a minute of wrestling his thick thigh from over you.
“Love you baby,” you say softly as you press a gentle kiss to his furrowed brow.
He stirs as he reaches for your now empty spot on the bed, and you can’t help but feel a little guilty. You love him so much, but you can’t sleep like this.
You make your way down the hall and into the spare room. You slip under the fresh sheets of the modest single bed. You think you’re settled, sheet covering your lower half – because lord knows even in a heatwave your feet get cold – and head resting lightly on the pillow.
Ten minutes tick by, then twenty. When you check your phone for the third time it’s only been twenty-five minutes, but you still can’t sleep. You haul yourself back out of bed, cursing the weather as you slip back into your bedroom.
The pale moonlight illuminates Frankie’s sleeping form as he lays on his back. He’s sprawled out in the middle of the mattress, bare to the humid night air where he’s kicked the sheets off in his sleep. You ease yourself back down onto the bed, crawling into the small space left as you hope Frankie will stay where he is.
Your head hits the pillow just as Frankie shifts back onto his side, a sleepy grunt falling from his lips as he reaches for you. His fingertips ghost your burning skin as he scoots closer.
“Frankie,” you groan as you turn to face him, “I need to sleep, please just roll over.”
“But I like holding you,” he protests sleepily as you see his eyes flutter open, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m too hot Frankie, I can’t sleep with you wrapped around me, it’s too much,” you admit with downturned eyes, teeth pinged into your bottom lip and embarrassment and shame curdle in your belly.
“Amor, I’m sorry,” Frankie says with a sigh as he reaches for you, but he stops himself, “I can sleep in the spare room if that helps?”
“No,” you say as you cup his scruffy jaw with both hands, “I tried that, doesn’t feel right without you in bed with me,” you explain as you scrape your fingers through his scruff.
“What can I do?” Frankie asks as he places his hands over your own.
“Stay with me like this?” You ask as you brush your feet against his, “Just touching a little?”
“I can do that, go to sleep mi sol, I love you.”
“I love you too Frankie,” you say with a yawn.
Eventually you both fall asleep, close to touch, but Frankie is sure to keep his distance. He wakes up sometime in the night, with you curled up against his chest, dead to the world. He smirks to himself as he nuzzles the top of your head. Some things never change, and no matter how hot you get, you always crawl right back into his arms. No matter how poorly you sleep.
“Sleep well, amor.”
He whispers against your scalp as his eyes flutter closed.
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#francisco catfish morales#francisco morales#fanfic#frankie morales#francisco morales x reader#fluff#sleep issues#drabble#<800 words#800 words#fluffy drabble#x reader#reader insert#ppcu#ppcu fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction
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walking on a string✫*ﾟ･ﾟ
steve harrington x fem!cheerleader!reader
part two -- after much anticipation, PART TWO IS HERE!
summary: steve leads on cheerleader!reader, thinking that her affection is insincere. after all, he’s a loser now. what could she possibly want from him? (angst, fluff)
warnings: language, angst, fluff, no use of y/n, afab!reader, fem!reader, un-beta'd, all characters are 18+
word count: 2,787
notes: ahh my first fic!! this is inspired by the song walking on a string :)) also steve is a lil insecure n angsty because the duffer brothers apparently won't let him express his insecurities or trauma!! so i did that. he deserves a hug and i hope our cheerleader!reader can give that to him. i have a part 2 lined up so lmk if u would wanna see that!! enjoy xox
p.s. i may or may not have finished editing this while dyeing my hair
i think about you walking on a string.
it always brings me back here.
you had been to family video every day that week (so far), and for steve harrington, that was weird. mega weird.
steve had always noticed you at parties, even if you weren't directly looking at him. you would come in with a troupe of cheerleaders, the hairspray practically sliding off of them in waves. you emerged from the cloud of crunchy hair and denim jackets with a softness that only you could possess. you looked as if you were made of gossamer - silken and perfect.
but that was when he was king steve: someone more worthy of you. someone who meant something. now, he’s just steve who works at family video and parents six children in his spare time.
so yeah. all your light touches and eyes skating across his lips was definitely all in his head.
that week, you'd come into family video at least five times. and every time, you asked to see steve. even if he was in the back, you would wait for him in front of the counter, drumming your manicured nails on the smudgy surface, looking around with wide, innocent eyes. today, you'd come to actually return a tape. you left him notes whenever you returned a tape, always signed with your name and a cloud of hearts. he swore he could smell your perfume on the paper.
it all started after the mall burned down. when you walked in to that miserable family video store, steve didn’t even notice you. “welcome to family video, how can i-” he droned, flipping through a magazine. he’d been working there for barely two weeks and he was already sick of it. at least he got free ice cream at scoops. all he had here was...keith. what made it even worse was the fact that robin was sick on this particular day. something about a "totally rancid stomach bug." steve shuddered just thinking about it. so now, he had nobody to banter with to pass the time. “steve?” you said, surprise evident in your open smile. his head snapped up immediately and was met with your gentle eyes.
“hi,” he breathed out.
“hi,” you gave in a giggly reply.
it was silent for a little bit. you were holding pretty in pink in your manicured hand. before he could ask you if that’s all you wanted, your hand that wasn't holding the tape was over his, squeezing it with every ounce of comfort you could transfer to him. “i heard about the fire at the mall. i’m so, so sorry that happened to you. it must’ve been so scary!”
he couldn’t tell if you were fucking with him. after all, you were still socially relevant in this dismal little town. he was the horror story told to incoming freshmen, a story of failure.
his gaze skirted around your pretty face; he saw part of the cheer squad waiting in a car outside. they were looking inside the store not so conspicuously and giggling. his eyes narrowed. yeah, he knew he was right; why would you be talking to him?
“yeah, well, at least i still have a job,” he quipped sarcastically. the scent emanating from your soft skin and your cardigan was making him dizzy. he found himself in a rush to get you away from him as soon as possible. he wanted to avoid whatever humiliation could be coming next. “will that be all?” he gestured to the tape. you seemed startled as you removed your hand from his. he already craved the warmth you gave him. “oh, yeah! i’m sorry to bring that up, by the way. i just wanted to make sure that you’re doing alright.” he hummed and registered the rental in the system, trying to ignore your presence less than a foot away from him. “just return it next friday,” he said, already turning back to his magazine. he felt a little bad, sure, because out of the corner of his eye, he could see you deflate. you became a little more subdued because of him. his dad was right - nobody wanted to be around him.
he hadn’t even realized that he’d zoned out until your fingers brushed against his once again.
you seemed to notice the shift in him, though, and the tender smile returned to your face as you took the tape from his hands. “it was really nice seeing you, steve. i’ve missed you,” you said before giving him a kiss on the cheek and slipping out the door. he was left mid page-turn, plump lips agape.
and of course robin wasn’t there to see it.
you were the current co-head cheerleader at hawkins. you were chrissy cunningham’s best friend. you were the top of the pyramid, all tiny crop tops and skirts that showed the cusp of your ass. you smelled like jasmine and citrus and god, were you pretty. supple skin, graceful eyelashes, a lush mouth. steve knew that you most definitely tasted like sweet almond cookies, soft on his tongue. he knew that you rented pretty in pink almost every friday, when he thought you would be partying. he knew that you were too good for him. so why the hell did you keep coming in to talk to him?
for weeks after that, you returned every friday to rent pretty in pink. you always stayed to talk with steve, and he felt his hard exterior start to slip away. you laughed at all his dumb jokes, even staying past closing to keep him company as he reorganized the incoming tapes. you brought him lunch with lovey-dovey notes that he definitely didn’t store in his wallet. he invited you over for movie nights — a weekly occurrence for the two of you. he’d even introduced you to his gaggle of freshmen. but in the back of his mind, he knew that you were just pulling him along on a frail string — and it was surely about to snap.
but even through all of that, coming in five times in one week was a lot.
the bell at the door jingled, taking steve out of his reverie. it was getting colder in hawkins — the last of the nice weather before the bitter chill of winter set in.
he took a breath and slid himself behind the counter as he saw you walk in. he could’ve sworn that you perked up, chin rising and hair shifting to show off your kissable neck as you fluttered over. stop it, he commanded himself in his head.
you smiled as you approached him, a sheen to your cheeks and the slope of your nose. “hi, steve,” you said, a little breathless. the light bent around you in a way that gave you a natural glow. steve could swear that he heard a choir singing somewhere. he shook himself into the present. “hey sweetheart, what’s up?” he said, reminding himself to play it cool. be neutral. you looked down, hands flattening your white skirt. you suddenly felt your cheeks warm. “i was just wondering if you’re going to be at the pep rally next week?” you looked so hopeful, standing on your tippytoes to lean over the counter. steve could see the tops of your tits as they threatened to spill out of your pink scoop-neck top.
he was shocked that he, steve harrington, new resident nothing of hawkins, was being asked out by the prettiest girl in his deadbeat town. this had to be some sort of sick joke that nicole and amanda put you up to. he smirked at you, plan in motion. if you wanted to play it that way with all the tiny tops and touching and the way you smell like apricot scrub…well, he’s getting off topic. the point is, steve harrington needed to play you right back.
“yeah, of course i’ll be there.”
he winced behind his smile. you beamed up at him.
into the garden, by the hand.
you’ve always had me,
walking on a string.
you were co-head cheerleader, that was true. but you also had a hopelessly huge crush on steve harrington, something your friends teased you over a lot. especially chelsea. the only person who ever defended you was chrissy, your best friend. chrissy always placed your hand in hers as a motion of comfort, a crinkle in between her brows as she told the cheer squad to, “back off! it’s not like bradley dunkirk is any better.” the other girls tittered in laughter as chelsea hid her flaming cheeks in her pompoms. you shook your head at chelsea and chrissy’s repartee as your eyes searched the bleachers. it was the day of the pep rally — the positively perfect time to show off your cheering prowess. your skirt was hiked up a little extra; your top was your smaller one from sophomore year that made your boobs perk up and almost overflow through the v-cut.
your pompoms wilted in your clammy hands as you scanned the gym, searching for that swoon-worthy warm grin and floppy hair. you eventually spotted him mouthing something to robin. they laughed through their own secret language and you felt a sinking pressure descend on your chest.
but then robin said something, gesturing toward you with a nod of her head. he looked up and over, eyes alert and looking for someone. his gaze rested on you, a pensive neutrality washed over his face. you rustled your pompoms playfully at him as you smiled, skirt swinging and exposing more of your thighs. steve swallowed as he saw the fabric rise, but then he just gave you a polite, closed-lip smile and looked back at robin, who was gesturing wildly at him.
your pompoms drooped and you frowned. he’d been weird the entire week, avoiding you, brushing off your coy smiles and flirty touches. you were overjoyed that he came and were looking forward to seeing his cute little dimples, but he didn’t seem to want anything to do with you. you sagged in your tennis shoes until chrissy tapped your shoulder and signaled that it was time to start.
your routine went perfectly. but as you stood on your teammates' shoulders and smiled at the roaring crowd, your mind was elsewhere. steve was clapping for you, but his eyes didn’t hold the usual mirth that they did. you thought that the two of you were building up to something. he couldn’t be that dense, you thought to yourself. surely all the love notes and smiles and jokes made him realize that you liked him. a lot. a LOT a lot. at the very least, you thought you were friends.
you’d liked steve since freshman year. you were barely a teenager, a fresh-faced fourteen year old who sucked her braces when she was nervous. you saw him in the parking lot, all boyish smiles and strong hands. you immediately liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. they crinkled, but they stayed open — so that he could still take in the face of whoever he was speaking with. you liked that he was considerate, that he held the library door open for you even as his date rolled his eyes for “helping a stupid little frosh.” you disappeared into the background for that first year, as you watched his life collapse in on itself.
but then sophomore year came and you blossomed. chrissy cunningham was in your english class. you two were partnered up to read a scene from macbeth and couldn’t do it without laughing. you knew that day, that she was going to be your best friend. then, the two of you were suddenly trying out for cheer. you got your braces taken off. your hair and a new healthy shine to it. people looked your way as you walked arm in arm with chrissy, ponytails bouncing in unison.
you’d always been afraid to speak to steve. sure, he was nicer than most popular kids (to you, at least) — but he was just so cute. and that made it all the more impossible to approach him. you remember how you felt your heart clench after you heard he and nancy broke up. he seemed to really love her, but a selfish part of you itched at the chance to have your shot.
that summer, when he was working at the mall, you barely had the courage to step inside scoops ahoy, even though amanda and bridget begged you to go with them. you knew robin from your history class. she was funny and sweet and a welcome surprise as you stepped into the ice cream shop. you walked up to the counter with a sway in your hips that ensured that people looked at your ass in those tiny denim cutoffs. you, robin, and your friends joked for a bit about your upcoming senior year. they were discussing something about a new culture club song when you looked to your right.
steve was laying on the charm while serving two girls from your school. you felt your stomach twist in jealousy. you looked at your sweet red converse and didn’t even notice robin asking for your order. you blinked at her and smiled, asking for strawberry in a cone. you and your friends moved toward where steve was. he gave you a small smile and looked you up and down, before going right back to flirting.
you liked him from afar; that was the extent of your relationship with steve. up until now, you’d only made small talk with him at parties. but you liked him because of how you saw him interact with others, especially that dustin kid.
you were heartbroken to think that the past few months of work visits and move nights (during which his arm would venture around your shoulder) didn’t mean anything to him. you saw him talking to robin off in a corner, and putting on a brave face, bounced over to the two of them.
“hi robs!” you chirped. she smiled at you and yelled your name as you approached from across the gym, miming pompoms in her hands. “nice cheering,” she said with a wink. you giggled in embarrassment and looked down at your frilly socks. “nice…playing?” you said. she laughed, but steve stood silently. robin looked between the two of you before muttering something about a girl named vickie.
you stood in front of steve now. he couldn’t help but think about how cute you looked in your uniform, glowing after a successful pep rally.
“hi stevie,” you said. he flushed at your nickname, something that you’d given him a few weeks ago after noticing a similar flush appear when you used it in passing.
“hey sweetheart,” he said, not looking you in the eye. you transferred your pompoms to one hand and reached the other out to gently grasp at his fingers. he let you.
“what’s going on? are you okay?” you asked sweetly. the dark part of steve, the part that convinced him that you were just leading him on, told him that you were faking it. that you were just here to make fun of him in front of his ex-classmates who already did the same behind his back. but here you were, face to face, looking at him with worry and your jasmine scent and pretty lips. he sighed out your name; you could detect the disappointment.
“i know what you’re doing.”
you looked at him in confusion, still holding his hand. you stepped closer to him and could smell his lemongrass shampoo. “stevie,” you said softly, “what do you mean?”
“i know your friends put you up to this,” he said harshly. something akin to hurt flickered across your face, but you replaced it immediately with your usual gentle disposition. “put me up to what?” you prompted softly. he rolled his eyes and huffed, pulling his hand away from you. this time, you let the hurt show on your face.
“i know that you and your friends wanted to fuck with me by pretending that you liked me,” he said finally, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows. you looked utterly crestfallen. your heart ached at the possibility that steve could think that your affection was anything but sincere. “no, stevie, please-“ you started, but he cut you off. “i know that i’m just this has-been cool kid who’s good for nothing, but i’m still a person. and i won’t be dragged around on your little string anymore. i’m done.”
if you looked crestfallen before, you looked absolutely crushed right now.
steve desperately wished that he could suck his words from the air around you and never let them see the light of day. but from the look on your face, he knew there was no going back now.
your eyes tickled and burned as wetness blurred your vision. it hurt you more than anything to know that steve thought so little of you. the boy you’d do anything for, go anywhere for, thought that this was all a game to you. you tried to swallow around the lump in your throat, your next words coming out cracked: “steve, i promise it’s not like that.” he scoffed.
“then tell me why your friends sit outside of the video store and watch us and fucking laugh at me?”
your heart stopped then. it broke you, knowing that steve thought so little of himself and you. “steve, they’re laughing at me! because i never stop talking about you because-“ you stopped, not knowing whether you should even bother to tell him now. with a shaky breath, you continued: “because i like you so goddamn much.”
he looked at you strangely then, watching the tears finally begin their path along your cheeks. “save it. i’m done.” the gym was empty now; everyone had left during your conversation. he looked at you, all dolled up in a green little cheerleading costume, a yellow ribbon threaded through the back of your ponytail. he tried to ignore the wetness on your face and the pitiful tremble of your bottom lip. he tried to memorize the color of your lipgloss and how it sparkled under the dimming sun and fluorescent lights. he looked at you and tried his best to keep himself from falling for you. he turned to walk out of the gym doors. as his reeboks squeaked across the lacquered hardwood, steve thought about running back to you and kissing you until he heard his favorite laugh bubble up out of your chest. he heard a sob rip its way out of your throat and in a moment of weakness, he turned around to see you drop your cute little pompoms and raise your hands to your face to hide your tears.
© ker0senebunny. all rights reserved. all original posts of writing are my own words, with the exceptions of quotations from songs, movies, and other media. my work is NOT to be crossposted to another platform, copied by anyone, or translated without my express and explicit permission.
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#steve harrington fic#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington angst#steve harrington#stranger things x reader#stranger things volume 2#stranger things#steve harrington drabble#cheerleader!reader
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Little Pinch
nurse!marcus pike x f!reader
she needs to get bloodwork done. one small problem, getting bloodwork done never goes well for her, especially not when she's distracted by the very kind, very handsome nurse doing it.
wordcount | 3.3K
content info | 18+ discussions of getting bloodwork that includes needles, fainting, nausea, mostly fluff, nurse marcus to the rescue, this is just a fun time, also an un-beta'd time so like, be nice pls
a/n | shoutout to the girls (gn) that pass out every time they get blood work done (me). I have to get new labs tomorrow morning, and writing this is how I coped with that prospect :') this one is for the fainters, the thin veiners, the "just do it in my hand"-ers - i see you, i am you, gawd bless
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Here’s the thing, this never goes well. It wasn’t always like this though. She has a vague memory of being a kid and taking it like a perfect champ, testing for mono after a rash of cases at school. But then, well, something changed.
It runs in her family. Thin veins that are hard for even the best nurses to find, lots of oh, I just lost it, and well, let’s try your other arm, and always, ultimately, hands? Should we try the hands? No, the nurses never listen when she tells them to just start with the hands, and without fail, somewhere around the third or fourth time they try to get the needle in, a cold sweat breaks, and the room starts to filter through a fuzzy pinhole of vision. It’s embarrassing, she thinks, because, really, she has no problem with needles. Can watch it go in, no issues with piercings, et cetera, et cetera, but getting blood drawn? Yeah, forget about it. She usually comes to with paperwork around her feet that she had been holding, and a well-meaning nurse pressing a damp paper towel to her forehead and breathing the remnants of her lunch over her face and alright, hon? Usually a box of apple juice and an escort out to her car to make sure she doesn’t go offline again.
The other thing is, unfortunately, she’s pretty sure her little fainting, fading thing has gotten worse over the years. A conditioned response, she thinks, that cold sweat starts the second she walks into the waiting room, already anticipating what comes next. And today, well, even worse than some of the others. Twelve hours fasted, and no, that certainly won’t help her case, no matter how much water she downed before she came here, no matter how tight she squeezes her fist in the hopes of pumping even one vein up enough to be tenable. She looks at the woman sitting across from her in the waiting room, reading a back-ordered issue of Cosmo, flipping and flippant and really, why can’t she be like that? Why can’t she be normal like that? Instead, her heel is doing a frantic tap, whole leg jerking with it, and everytime she checks her watch she feels her heart creep a little further up into her throat.
If she’s being honest, she thought about canceling her labs. No, doc, all good, doc, don’t need to know, doc. And then a friend pointed out, frustratingly, that avoidance is only going to make it worse. Right, so, right, so right, so, here she is. And here’s the nurse opening the door and right, calling her name, and it’s a man nurse, male nurse, though she’s pretty sure she’s not being PC by making that specification in her mind because really, twenty-first century, and really, anyone can be a nurse. But not anyone, right? Lots of schooling, right? Right. She realizes a bit too late that she hadn’t responded to the nurse calling her name, jerking up out of her chair and trying for a smile that she thinks probably looks more like constipation. And that’s just great because now man nurse, sorry, just nurse, probably thinks she’s constipated and she’d rather not have the, actually, very handsome, just nurse, thinking that on top of whatever she’s got going on that necessitates lab work she also can’t take a shit. Right.
“We’re going to be in this room right here.” Handsome just nurse has a nice voice too, deep but kind, and a strong jawline, and a patchy beard but she likes that it’s patchy, and he’s tan and he’s got one of those big watches that tells you how hard your heart was beating on your run and he probably runs in the afternoon after clocking out of the needle-in-arms gig and that’s probably why he’s so tan, probably has a golden retriever who runs with him too, because he looks like a golden retriever guy, dark flop of wavy hair and that smile and oh, oh, he just asked her a question and now she’s supposed to answer it.
“I’m sorry, could you say that again?” He smiles, nods, being nice, at least, about her whole scared prey animal situation. She presses her palm down hard on her knee to keep it from bouncing any more.
“It says on this order that these labs need to be taken fasted. Can you confirm to me that you haven’t had anything to eat or drink besides water in the last twelve hours?” Oh yes, yep, she can confirm that for you, Marcus, his name is Marcus, says so on his little lanyard badge. Thanks for the easy one, Marcus, pitch right down the middle, Marcus, with your nice smile and your clipboard and your, well, needles and tubes. But before he can get started with his, well, needles and tubes, she makes a strangled, sort of despondent sound because in situations like these, she comes with a warning label.
“I should let you know I have, um, bad veins? Honestly, you can just start with my hands, I don’t mind it. And also, I’m a fainter, yeah, so, it happens every time, just so you know.” And usually, usually, her spiel is given very little notice, mmmokay, hon. Sure, they’ll lay her back, how merciful, so she doesn’t crack her skull open on the way out of conscious orbit. That’s about it, though. But this time, she thinks, might just be different.
“Okay, thank you for giving me the heads up. If you’re sure you’re alright with starting with the hands then it’s fine by me to get it done that way.” So, so fine, Marcus, and maybe, just maybe, she thinks she might not pass out this time. He sets the exam table at a reclined angle and she wills her rigid spine to settle against it, trying to find the balance between breathing so deeply she starts to get light headed, and not breathing at all. In case you were wondering, yes, she is on medication for anxiety, it just doesn’t seem to presently be working.
“Just gonna feel around a bit here for a good one.” She only feels a little insane for the kick and clench in her heart when he takes her one hand in both of his, because he’s just palpating the back of her hand to find, as he said, a good one. Yes, the word for it is palpating, and there is certainly nothing romantic nor, hello, sexual about anything that’s called palpating. But, hey, taking wins where she can get them, and even through the latex gloves, his hands are warm and big and very know what they’re doing about the whole thing. And she’s no expert, obviously, but he’s got a very nice, very visible vein in his forearm, and she bets phlebotomists love him, bets that when he gets blood drawn, he’s in and out no problem, bets that even she could draw blood from him. Nope, nothing sexual about that, nothing weird about that, right? Right. Nothing sexual either, when he ties off the tight band around her arm and she watches his one bicep flex a little with the effort.
“I can count you down, or you can look away and I’ll just get it done, whichever you prefer.”
“Uh, no preference, I’ll just look away and you can do whatever you want to me.” Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. She realizes exactly what she just said a bit too late, him, Marcus, nice nurse Marcus, letting out a laugh that fizzles out into a cough. Great, now she’s made her fucking phlebotomist uncomfortable, possibly one of the last people you want to make uncomfortable. But if that, whatever that was, lingers, he doesn’t show it, already swiping an antiseptic wipe over the back of her hand and pulling his little cart of tubes closer to himself. And she knows this part, she’s good at this part, letting her eyes sweep up and to the right, because he’s on her left, and willing whatever vein he decided is a good one to stay a good one. Little pinch, little prayer, she lets out a held breath when he says a quiet alright and keeps the needle exactly where it is. Hallelujah.
“This might take a little longer, just because we’re drawing from your hand.”
“I’ll bleed as fast as I can then.” At the very least, he laughs, even though she wishes she had kept that one to herself.
“Do you live around here?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Sorry, I’m trying to distract you.”
“Didn’t they teach you how to do that in like, phlebotomy school?” She still has her eyes turned up and away, only a little wince when he switches out one tube for another. He hums at her question.
“Not really, I could ask you about the weather, is that better?”
“It’s cloudy. Not much of a conversation starter.”
“Well, why don’t you ask me something, since you’re such an expert on starting conversations.”
“Do you have a golden retriever?”
“What?”
“Sorry, you just, you look like the kind of guy who’d have a golden retriever.” Another tube clicks into place, but she’s not paying any attention to that now.
“Uh, no, no golden retriever. I do however have a very old, very deaf pit mix named Lucille.” Goddamnit, somehow that’s hotter than the golden retriever.
“Great name.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. She came with it when I adopted her.” God. Fucking. Damn it. What next, is he a volunteer firefighter on the weekends?
“Alright, that’s the last one.”
“Wait, really?” She chances a skittish glance but, sure enough, the needle is out.
“Yep, just let me get a band-aid for you and you’re all set.” Is he? Is she? Really? Going to make it out of here with no blackout? She considers, very briefly, as Marcus is smoothing a band-aid over the back of her hand, whether it’s possible to put a phlebotomist on retainer.
“If you want to sit for a minute and make sure you’re feeling alright before getting up that’s totally fine. I can also get you water or juice if you’re getting lightheaded.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine actually. Which, hey, thanks for not making me faint and stuff– that’s a first for me in a very long–” Oh, oh, stops herself mid-compliment because oh, oh, maybe stood up too fast, because the room is going a little dark, a little sideways, cold prickle and nauseous and–
“Easy, easy, I’m gonna help you sit up, okay?” His voice is a little fuzzy around the edges. To be honest, he’s a little fuzzy around the edges, though she knows right away what happened. No, not her first rodeo, like she blinked and then came to in a strange sprawl on the end of the exam table. Marcus presents a dixie cup to her, holds it right in her line of sight because clearly, she’s still a little slumped, still a little vacant, and a little warm, actually, which is new, and a little pleasant, and, oh, it’s because his arm is curled around her shoulders, firm palm held there to help her sit up. Oh. He smells like clorox and something woodsy, and it shouldn’t, but it kind of works.
“You feeling okay?”
“Mmmhmm.” She’s afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she doesn’t keep her lips pressed in a thin line, mmhmms again when he asks if she can sit up on her own, only a little despondent when he takes his arm away.
“So, you really weren’t kidding about that happening every time, huh?”
“Nope, wish I was. It’s– I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“That you had to deal with that.”
“You don’t have to be sorry about that, it’s part of the job. And actually, you fainted about as perfectly as I could’ve asked you to.”
“I didn’t know you could faint like, well.”
“Right before you went down you said I’m gonna faint. That’s a lot better than getting no heads up and turning around to find my patient unresponsive on the ground.”
“Oh gee, I bet you say that to all your patients.” Lord, if there was ever a time to put her out of her misery it’d be now. She probably still looks green from her little trip to outer space but sure, flirt with Marcus, handsome nurse Marcus who just watched you absolutely eat it. Kick your feet and bat your eyelashes while you’re at it.
“I take it you’re feeling better then? Are you okay to walk out to the front desk?” And the rest is, mercifully, easy. He walks her to the front desk, squeezes her shoulder and gives her a good job today that she likes a little too much. She makes a mental note to herself to never come back to this clinic for any future bloodwork, lest she make a fool of herself all over again in front of a man who, with any luck, she will never see again.
…
“Yes, this is she speaking.” This is she speaking in the middle of the cereal aisle with a half-filled grocery basket at her feet. She sets her gaze on a hyper-realized image of a granola cluster (now with real strawberries!) while the woman on the other end of the phone tells her that her lab results came in and were sent over to her doctor.
“Oh, great, thank you for letting me know. Do you know– did things look okay?”
“We don’t interpret the results, ma’am. Your doctor will go over that with you.” She doesn’t quite catch that, doesn’t catch the woman’s ma’am? either, a little preoccupied with staring down the aisle, because is that? Is he? He looks good out of the scrubs.
“Ma’am?”
“Sorry, no, um, of course. Thanks again.” If the woman had anything else to tell her, it’s a little too late for it, already hung up, and she’s trying to decide if she wants him to see her, or if fleeing immediately is the best course of action. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her, she thinks. It’s been a couple of weeks since the whole ordeal. And actually, she’d prefer if he didn’t recognize her. Oh yeah, the one who, well, ate it. But it seems the choice has already been made for her, because he saw her, walking down the aisle toward her, with his chin tilted down and part of a smile like he isn’t sure, but he’s pretty sure. He says her name like a question. Guilty as charged.
“Marcus, right?” Like she forgot his name, ha. His smile stretches, a little brighter, palm to the nape of his neck, and while she got the golden retriever part wrong, she totally clocked the rest, watch on his wrist and nice-looking athletic shorts and just-right-tight t-shirt with the little swoosh on the chest. She thinks his hair might even be a little sweat-damp, curled ends nearly getting in his eyes. In other words, she’s a goner.
“How have you been since we– you, well–”
“Since I passed out on you?” Yeah, that, he laughs out and yeah, she likes him, sue her.
“Just for the record, I believe it was you who said I passed out perfectly, so.” Shrug, so, he takes a step closer, leans in a little like he’s going to tell her a secret. In the cereal aisle, of all places.
“Just for the record, I really don’t say that to all my patients.”
“No?”
“Nope, just the nervous, pretty ones.”
“I was not nervous.”
“You weren’t?”
“Nope.”
“Are you just gonna blow past the other thing?”
“What thing?”
“The pretty thing.”
“Yep.” Something a little giddy, like being back in high school, shared, shit-eating and smug grins. He shakes his head and she rolls her lips back in her mouth to stop her smile from getting any cheesier.
“So, you do live around here then?”
“Mm, yeah, I do. And so do you?”
“I do.”
“Nice, nice.”
“Lovely weather we’re having.”
“Wow.”
“What? I’m making conversation.”
“You’re still not very good at it.”
“I’ll keep working on it for you.”
“Sure, okay. What kind of cereal do you get?”
“What kind do you think I get?”
“You look like a Kashi guy, if I’m honest.”
“Somehow I feel insulted.”
“Well.”
“You’re not even right either.”
“No? What do you get then?” He just smiles, steps away and reaches up to the top of the shelf and she is very grateful to General Mills for being located on the top shelf because his shirt rides up just enough to see a bare hip. In cheerios we trust.
“Apple cinnamon, seriously?”
“What? It’s a classic.”
“Actually, you know what, that tracks.”
“What do you get?” She waggles her basket in front of him in response, goods already procured.
“Peanut butter chex, respectable choice.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“You know, I’d say we’re pretty good at this conversation thing.”
“Yeah, we’re not bad.”
“Do you want to do this again sometime? Not in the cereal aisle?”
“What, you mean like in the produce section?” He smiles at that, rolls his eyes, his basket lightly bonking against hers.
“I was thinking more like dinner, or drinks if that’s your thing?”
“I might be free on Saturday.”
“I might also be free on Saturday.”
“Well, sounds like we’re both free on Saturday.”
“Can I get your number?” His lockscreen is a picture of a dog. Lucille, he tells her, before she was very old and very deaf. She can’t help how big her smile gets at that.
“Text me, and we’ll do this whole conversation thing again.” I will, he says, phone tucked back into his pocket, though he seems to think twice before asking her can I see something really quick. Not entirely sure what he means when she nods, but then his hand sort of hovers over her forearm, may I? He really does have nice hands, she doesn’t think twice about nodding again.
“Oh yeah, we didn’t have to use your hand. I could have totally gotten it from here.” His hand curled around her elbow and his thumb lightly pressing into what she can only assume is a vein, and he says it so earnestly that she can’t help the incredulous laugh that rises up in her chest.
“Really? You’re still stuck on that, huh?” He smiles something sheepish, pad of his thumb rubbing an apology into her skin before pulling away. She didn’t really want him to pull away.
“Sorry, occupational hazard, I guess.”
“Kinda weird, you know.”
“Did I just ruin this whole thing?”
“Mmm, no, I kinda like it.”
“So, Saturday?”
“Looking forward to it, Marcus.”
#marcus pike#marcus pike fanfiction#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal#marcus pike fluff#marcus pike fic#marcus pike au#marcus pike angst#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike x you
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Satiated | JJK
Satiated
Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader
Rating: M 🔞NSFW
Genre: established!relationship; PWP; smut; hint of fluff
Warnings: post-sex haze; OC is unable to finish; explicit sexual conversations; allusions to unprotected sex in a monogamous, established relationship; fingering; clit play; masturbation with a vibrator; nipple/breast play; dirty talk; JK is a giver
Summary: A week without Jungkook has you anxious to get him naked...but things don't work out quite as planned. Your body betrays you and you fall short. Will you finish the job yourself or let him help?
Word count: 1.5K+
A/N: This was prompted by a video clip from a podcast that I saw on social media the other day. I feel as if this scenario might hit close to home for some people and it's either never discussed openly or it just doesn't play out this way. Foreplay is so essential but there are a handful of times when you get way too excited and want to jump right into it with your partner. Anyway, all that to say that it takes a certain level of confidence, trust, and even love to be able to vocalize what you need from your partner. In turn, a good and loving partner will most definitely come through for you 😉
A/N2: This is un-beta'd so...I'm sorry for any typos 😥 Also posting this in honor of my first year of posting my writing on this site so I wanted a quick and dirty one-shot to celebrate that! 🍸
“Damn…” Jungkook croaks after he pulls out and he rolls off you.
He was breathless, chest rapidly rising and falling.
While he tried to regulate his pulse, you lay next to him, staring up at the ceiling and huffed. You were confused and annoyed.
He came but you didn’t.
It wasn't his fault, though. A minute ago, you were right there with him as fucked in and out of you. The familiar buildup from the pit of your belly and tightening of every muscle in your body, signaling that you were at the precipice of your orgasm. You told him as much when he asked you.
And then, right as the first spurts escaped him, the wind died down for you and you don’t know how or why. It’s like your orgasm just…walked out of the room. What the hell happened?
You and Jungkook normally took your sweet time when it came to foreplay. Teasing each other to no end until you were ravenous.
Tonight, he was coming back from a week-long business trip. All the while, you traded naughty selfies and voice notes when you were apart.
The morning of his flight home, you sent him a video of you with your hands down your panties.
Fuck…I can’t wait to be all over that pussy, he texted.
Minutes later, he sent you a video of himself jacking off in bed and cumming into his hand.
Save some of that for me later, you replied.
You were looking forward to him coming home. He was excited to see you and you were very, very excited to see him.
He barely got through the door and only managed to get one shoe off when you jumped him. You distantly hear his suitcase fall haphazardly to the floor when you move to the bedroom and leave a trail of clothing on the way there.
You were sopping wet once you were laid up in bed and his cock slipped in effortlessly. It was delicious the way he filled and stretched you out. He warned you that he might not be able to last long. You didn’t care and thought that you’d have a quick trigger, too.
But something got jammed up.
He turned his head towards you with that post-sex glow, which immediately dimmed when he saw the look on your face.
“What’s wrong? You okay?”
You hesitate but you were too perplexed to keep it from him. “I didn’t cum,” you confessed.
He sits up right away, brows furrowed at you. “Huh? Wait…I thought...“
“I swear, I was right there,” you immediately assured him. “And then it just…it was gone.” You were at a loss.
He leaned over you with a look of sheer determination on his face. “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll fix it right now!”
As much as you wanted to, your high was fading quickly. Even if you tried to hang onto it, it would take forever to get you worked up again.
You glanced down at his cock—he’d already gone soft. After cumming hard like that, it would also take him a while to get it back up again and your lady boner would have been long-gone. At which point, you might as well just sleep it off.
You reluctantly decline. “Hmm, no…You’ve had a long flight and you’re tired. Just go shower and I’ll finish up.” You roll over and reach into your drawer where you kept your goodies and pull out your vibrator.
You squeeze some lube on your toy, push the little power button, and it buzzes to life. Before you touch it to your clit he stops you.
He shook his head and hardened his expression. “Listen, I am not going to sit here and do nothing while you work on your nut! It doesn’t just hurt my ego but…I want us both to feel good.”
You pause the buzzing to answer him. “You did make me feel good. I really have no idea what happened. It’s like, I went from 0 to 60 and then my brain just slammed on the breaks.” You couldn’t hide your frustration with your body.
“C’mon, tell me what you want me to do. I can go down on you or…” He awaits your answer, always eager to please.
You ponder on it for a second. “Can you suck on my tits while I use this?” You gesture at the vibrator.
He smirks. “Anything you want, baby.”
You push the button again to resume the buzzing. He pulls the sheet off you to expose your naked form then laid back on his side, moving closer to you.
When the toy brushes your clit, you let out one long, drawn out moan. He then dipped his head and wrapped his mouth around a nipple.
“Oh, fuck…” Your head sunk deep into your pillow as your senses ignited.
“Want me to talk you through it?” He asks in between licking and sucking.
“Hmmmm…yes,” you breathed out while you circled the toy around your nub.
“Feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah? You like when I suck on your tits,” he asks with a mouthful of breast. You look down at him and watch his cheeks hollow while he draws your flesh in.
“Yes,” you moaned. His teeth nip at the unfurled tip, sending a shiver down your spine.
He reached down to push your thighs further apart. You gasped when he slid two fingers deeply. “So wet…and tight,” he rasped in your ear.
All you could do was focus on his voice. Coaxing, urging your orgasm back to the surface.
You whined at the all-out assault from your vibrator and his mouth alternating between your breast and neck. With your climax bubbling, you turn up the setting on your toy and rub circles over your clit. His fingers burrowed, massaging the fleshy bundle of tissues within your core.
With each stroke of your vibrator on your clit, his fingers kept up their steady assault while your hips bucked against his hand. You felt everything within you tighten.
He continued to encourage and praise you. Each word pushes you closer to the brink.
You have the best tits… I could suck on them all day…
God, I love how wet you are… Look at the mess you’re making on my fingers…
You look so fucking sexy like this… Gonna cum hard for me, hm?
Finally, the knot within you snaps. At the first jolting contraction of your core, your spine arched off the mattress, and you let out an ear-piercing cry. His mouth was on yours in an instant, swallowing your moans of pleasure. His fingers stroked at the roof of your center, further intensifying your climax.
Your legs quaked and your back, the orgasm draining all of the strength from your muscles.
You come to when the buzzing stops. Jungkook tosses the toy off to the side and your eyes flutter open. You look over at him leaning up against the headboard sporting a huge grin…and raging hardon.
“Oh my god…“ You feel a pang of guilt. “J-just give me two seconds and I’ll suck you off.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he laughs.
You felt bad leaving him high and dry. “But…I can give you a hand?” You licked your lips and cock a teasing eyebrow at him. Even though your body feels like jelly, you reach out to touch his cock but he grasps your wrist gently to stop you.
“No, baby. I’m fine, really,” he says decisively. You watch him get up from the mattress and slide the sheets back to cover you up.
“Are you sure? You just gave me a mind-numbing orgasm. I feel like I need to repay the favor,” you insist.
A hearty laugh boomed from his chest. “I’m not keeping score! Besides, when did we start owing each other for sex?”
You look at him oddly, thinking he was punking you. Guys typically weren’t just content watching a woman orgasm. They’d want to get their own, too. Wasn’t it always a give-and-take deal?
Still sensing your skepticism, he marches back to you, grabs your face in his hands, and kisses you deeply.
When he pulls away, you’re left in another heady daze. “Hey…I got mine and I wanted to make sure that you got yours. Simple as that!”
He brushed your chin and gazed into your eyes to reassure you. “This shouldn’t be a tit-for-tat thing, okay?”
After a few seconds, you relent and nod softly. “Okay.”
“Good girl!” He plants another chaste kiss on your lips then gets up from the mattress again to start towards the bathroom. You lay on your side and watch his taut ass cheeks walk away from you.
You sighed dreamily. “Damn…How’d I get so lucky with you?”
He called out past his shoulder after grabbing a towel from the linen closet. “Trust me, I feel lucky that I get to help you cum like that. Shit…I’d replay that in my head over and over!”
You giggle softly once he disappears into the bathroom. Seconds later, you hear the water turn on. Even though he said not to feel guilty about it, you couldn’t help but still feel restless.
Not to mention that you couldn’t get his hardon out of your mind.
Soon, the ache built up between your thighs again. Biting down on your lower lip, you kick the sheets off and pad across the room. You were on a mission.
He looks up from underneath the cascading water to find you pulling the glass door open to step in with him. You’d take it real slow for this round…you had a lot of time to make up after all.
Crossposted on AO3 | Main Fic Masterlist
You’ve reached the end! Thank you so much for reading!
If you loved it, please comment, reblog, or send me feedback! 📩. I love hearing from readers! If you didn’t like it so much, I would still like to hear about it. Help me become a better writer! 💜
Tagging: @internetjunkdrawer @deepseavibez @itdoesntmatterwhy @yu-justme
#bts fan fiction#jungkook#jeongguk#jungkook x reader#jeon jungkook#bangtanbathhouse#btswritingcafe#btshoneyhive#btscarnivalnet#jungkook smut#bts smut#bts jeon jungkook#bts jungkook#jjk smut#satiated x jjk
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