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mylifeisactuallyamess · 2 years

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Guren Bêd Enni - “my heart tells me.”

Pairing: Thranduil x wood elf!reader.

A/N: I’m supposed to be on a hiatus….I KNOW. So, anyway this has been a long time coming. I know about LOTR but I have to say I don’t know the ins and outs of the lore so much, it always held me back from writing it because I do like accurate details in my own work. Anyway. This is just a bunch of word vomit tbh.

Warnings: not much. F!Reader has pointy ears but I think that’s the only defining description I give. Maybe age gap? I mean he’s an elf and reader is an elf but a young adult elf 😅

Word Count: 1590

The swords clashed. The singing of the blades resonated through the training grounds as you pressed your advantage against your partner. At first he let you, his feet moving swiftly but you could not predict his next move. You never could.

You hoped to pin him against the carved trunk that was coming up fast behind him but Legolas had other ideas. He used the momentum of the move to carry him, pushing off from the ground and using the trunk for leverage as he walked up it with ease. His swords slid from their entrapment, twisting clean over your head to land behind you, the coolness of the blade just a whisper away from your skin.

“Dead.” He stated calmly. The point of his sword was removed, the telltale whistle sounded as he spun them in his hands before depositing them back into their scabbards settled on his back.

“Maybe we should see if you can best me with an arrow as well as your sword,” you challenged playfully. Your own weapons were planted firmly back into their holdings at your hips. Legolas grinned and clapped you on the shoulder, his demeanour cocksure as he headed for his bow.

“You know no one has beaten me yet,” he boasted, running his fingers up the bowstring before casting his sky blue gaze over you.

“We shall see.”

“You say that every time.” You didn’t reply. Feeling the tension of your own bow and loosening your shoulders. You enjoyed the times you trained with Legolas. It had started with him teaching you only for it quickly to develop into almost equal sparring matches. You were a quick study and he never tired of showing you new things. He would take beyond the caverns and into Mirkwood itself, pointing out plants and trees. Birds would come and whisper in your pointed ear, their delicate feet weighing nothing on your wrist as you listened to each and every one intently.

You were young for an elf, the only child of your age and so you’d been raised in the warmth and comfort of the very heart of the realm. Somewhat a rarity, you had brought joy and light to many an elf and they all wanted to impart their wisdom onto you.

Your skills grew in healing, sewing, wood carving and even black smithing but nothing came close to the time you spent with the prince.

Looking over at your friend you grinned, notching your arrow in the blink of an eye and releasing it quickly. It thunked into the target, just slightly to the left of where you had intended it to hit and you heard Legolas scoff quietly.

“You weren’t concentrating.” You nearly dropped your bow in surprise at the deep voice of the king sounding behind you. Respectfully you dipped your head, not trusting yourself to look up at him and see the evident disappointment on his face. “Too busy being goaded,” he continued disdainfully.

“Apologies, My Lord.” The words tumbled from you and you hoped the king wasn’t listening to the random beatings of your heart as it fluttered painfully with every word he bestowed upon you.

“Look at me.” You had no choice. Steeling yourself and straightening your shoulders, your gaze dragged up the fine material of his long tunic. Catching the perfection of the stitch work, marvelling in the colour of the thread that came alive in the sunlight. His long platinum hair was straight, not even rumpling as he cocked his head to the side when your gaze finally magnetised to his.

The crown of autumn leaves adorned his head just accentuating his regal and commanding air. His height had you looking up and you unconsciously lifted your chin with an almost defiant motion. He regarded you coolly for a moment as though words had failed him as soon as you looked at him.

His expression changed minutely, the tiny furrow of his brow, the slight down turn at the corner of his elven eyes and his lips parted. You caught every change, every reaction he gave you even when he closed it down as quickly as it had come.

“Concentrate.” His attention drifted from you with a downcast look giving you the perfect view of his profile and you almost choked on your breath. His eyes went back to you for a last look as he began to walk away and your head turned to follow him, until he had his back to you completely and he was leaving the training area as silently as he’d arrived.

“You heard my father,” Legolas jibbed. Without a thought he snatched an arrow up and split yours in two. Tossing your bow down you suddenly didn’t feel like competing with him anymore.

“I need a break,” you stated haughtily and stalked off.

“But we are not finished for the day!” He called after you, chasing it up with your name but he didn’t follow.

You headed to the library. You always came here to clear your mind, to get away from everyone as this place wasn’t tended often. The oldest scrolls were preserved, wrapped in clothes and sealed with beeswax to keep them from decaying. You enjoyed the smell and the peace. Here the sounds of the palace were deadened, even to elf ears and you revelled in that. Your favourite book was where you had left it and the spine cracked when it opened. Settling on the floor with crossed legs you rested against the shelves and got lost in the pages.

“So this is where you go.” The book jolted in your hands, tumbling onto your legs and you gasped a little at the sudden intrusion. Thranduil stood in the doorway, filling it almost completely with his wide shoulders as he looked around the room you had taken refuge.

“M-my Lord!” You stuttered and then felt embarrassed that you hadn’t heard him for a second time today. He stepped into the room, making it seem so much smaller. His presence was intoxicating, the rich scent he exuded made your head swim when you rose, inelegantly holding onto the shelf.

“Are you unwell?” He was before you in a split second, his hand reaching to touch your shoulder but it never made the journey. Curling into a fist and falling back to his side. Concern laced his deep tone and it was matched by the worry in his starlit eyes.

“Quite well, My Lord.” He straightened, his hands clasping behind his back.

“I see my son is dedicating his time to teaching you how to stay alive.”

“That he is.,” you agreed. Thranduil half turned and began to slowly pace towards the shelves on the other wall. His hair dripped down his back like hot spun gold and you found yourself wondering what it would be like to touch. Would it be as soft as the fur on a new fawn, or as thick as the mane on your favourite steed? How you wished to run your hands through it, to have him let you close enough to allow such things.

“He is quite taken with you,” he announced briskly, his tone resonating with a note of interest.

“And I with him, My Lord. He is a great friend.” The King paused and you could see half of his face from where you were watching him. His eyes looked up to the top shelf and he carried on perusing the books.

“Do you not desire something more?” You were stunned by the question and you felt a wave of yearning crest inside you. Thranduil sighed heavily, spinning on his heel away from the scrolls until he was almost baring down on you. You took an automatic step back, noticing the intensity of his gaze as he came to a stop. He was so close you could have leant forward and rested your cheek on his heaving chest.

Your eyes traced the flow of his hair, the perfect arch of his eyebrows and you drowned in the beauty of his features. His expression softened under your attention and he tipped further into your personal space. Your eyes lowered, bowing your head when you felt him gently nudge the top of your head with his nose. A pale hand came up to stroke your cheek, ghosting over the softness of your skin with barely a touch until he rested a long finger under your chin.

His mouth was so close, your erratic breaths bleeding together in the quiet and his eyes fluttered shut. A tormented expression crossed his face and his whole body shuddered slightly but he didn’t move away.

“I do desire something more,” you breathed. He inhaled sharply, blindly running a thumb over your lower lip and creating a tingle that had you almost moan with want. For a wild moment you thought he was going to give in, to kiss you deeply. You’d imagined it enough in the dead of night. Your heart pounding as you let your thoughts wander and tell you stories as you sat bathed in moonlight.

“Guren bêd enni…” he murmured, his lips almost brushing yours when a shout sounded from beyond the chamber.

“King Thranduil!” He jerked away from you. His crystalline blue eyes wide with surprise.

“My Lord,” reaching for his hand in desperation but he was already leaving. You stared at the spot where he’d been standing, your hand still outstretched ready to finally feel his fingers entwine with yours.

Maybe he’d reach back. One day.

You could wait.

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

#thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil oropherion #king thranduil #Legolas #thranduil x f!reader #thranduil x you

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7fragment · 1 year

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Future Sight

Everyone has moments that change their whole life. Watersheds. You usually can’t see them until they’re gone and you realize there’s no way back to where you were before. Full tilt on a free-fall to the fate waiting below the fog. Being prescient can help with that a bit. Not that dreams and gut-feelings were incredibly useful most times. But when I had a dream about a purple-eyed woman wielding an honest to God sword, well, I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to see that.

In typical human fashion, I didn’t realize my curiosity might really get me killed this time until it was far too late. The McDonald’s smelled like grease and coffee. I was in line between a mountain of a man who probably weighed three-hundred pounds, none of it muscle, and a middle-aged woman toting around a sulky pre-teen girl and her little brother, who was clutching a green frog backpack like it was made of gold. The fat man rolled up to the counter to order and I realized I was next. I tried to think back to the dream I’d had the night before, but that particular piece of it was too blurry. Sometimes that meant it wasn’t important, other times it just meant my vision had crapped out.

I ordered fries and a milkshake, chocolate, and went to sit at the second table back by the window. That part I remembered. I had that certain sense of familiarity when i set my food down,confirming my hazy memories. I sat with my back to the window, even though I really wanted to watch and see the purple-eyed woman who should be coming in soon walk up. She was the reason I’d come out here, I didn’t usually eat McDonald’s, even though they had really good fries.

The longer I waited, the more complicated a knot my stomach made. I couldn’t tell if the feeling was a premonition or just me being nervous. It wasn’t every day a possible Fey wanted to talk to me, psychic or not. I did kind of wish I’d brought my knife. I carried silver, because there was a lot of other greebly shit out there that would like to take a bite out of me and almost all of it didn’t like silver, but Fae weren’t bothered by it. A normal steel knife would make them think twice though—it was too close to iron to be comfortable. I was probably— hopefully— just being paranoid. Usually if I had a dream about something truly dangerous I had an idea of it. Feelings stuck better than more concrete things in my dreams, and the taste of terror especially almost always lingered like the bite of too much spice.

An older man holding an umbrella like a cane walked in, looking way too upscale for McDonald’s with his dark suit and styled hair. He glanced at me, and we made eye contact for half a second. I felt the very familiar tug of my dream and looked back towards the door. Sure enough, the purple-eyed woman walked in. I swallowed back nerves and a few butterflies. The eyes had been the only thing I clearly remembered from the dream, but there was no discordant jang of wrong in the leather jacket that hugged her curves, or the flat dyed-black hair tumbling out from under a leather cap. With all the black her milky skin looked deathly pale, and those purple eyes stood out like living gemstones. She looked at me as if she knew I was watching her, waiting for her, walked right over and sat down. This had gone beyond the scope of my dream, but at least now I didn’t have to worry about finding a way to approach her.

“You seem more normal than I expected.” The purple-eyed woman said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied, my curiosity dented by irritation.

“Normally when I have a dream about someone they’re not so obviously human.” The woman said, reaching across the table and taking one of my remaining French fries.

I pulled the red carton away,“Only friends get to steal my food.” I said, closing my mouth before I could add that being all mysterious and sexy didn’t count. The woman shrugged, a cocksure grin on her face. She leaned back in the cheap metal chair, lounging like it was a lay-z-boy.

“So, isn’t this the part where you try to threaten me or something?” She said, raising an eyebrow.

“Does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

“That’s usually how it goes when I have a Dream.” The woman said, her eyes darkening a little as she leaned forward. “Why should you be any different?”

“Funny, I came here because of a Dream too.” I said it with the same implied capital D she did,although I didn’t usually think of them like that. I had them too often to put that level of significance on it. Usually it was stupid, little stuff, like a scrap of a normal day. So maybe last night could have been a Dream.

“What do you mean?” “I had a dream about this.” I waved my hand. “Well, up to the point where you sat down.”

“Really?” The woman reached over and took another french fry. “Now that is interesting.” She looked at me for a long few seconds. It felt like she was seeing something more than just me, but I couldn’t pin down what. “Was there anything else?”

“Uh,” I hesitated, not particularly comfortable talking about the second part of my dream in public. Especially not with the perpetrator. “Well, you had this big-ass sword and were…fighting…something. Somewhere else, I think.”

“Obviously.” The woman smirked, “I didn’t bring my sword today.”

“What else did you see?” I asked, curious.

“Nothing much.” The woman said with a shrug. She took another fry and I gave up, pushing what was left of the carton to the other side of the small table. “Oh, I did give you this.” She half stood up to reach into her jeans pocket, working to get something out. It had to be small, her jeans had been tight, showing off a dancer’s or athlete’s legs. I held out my hand, and she dropped a very old looking coin into my palm. I turned it over. It looked like dingy copper. There were odd symbols on both sides, different ones on each.

“What is it?”

“Heck if I know.” The woman said. “I found it ages ago and for some reason hung onto it until now. Apparently to give it to you.”

“Huh.” I examined the coin closer, but couldn’t make out anything significant.

“Well,” The woman stood up, “I’ll probably see you again, if you know about my sword.” She waved and walked out. Screw that. I hadn’t even gotten a name. I stood up to follow her.

“Really? That’s it?” I demanded as we left the restaurant. “Just give me this stupid thing and leave?”

“Sounds about right.” The woman said. When she glanced back at me, her eyes were cold.“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno, a name at least.” I’d had this woman in my head all day, and I didn’t think that was going to change now.

“Most people call me Eve.” She said. It fit, in a biblical sort of way. I could definitely see this woman playing as seductress.

“I’m Alex.” I said, desperately trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going. It was kind of hard to concentrate on something so practical when Eve was looking at me like she wanted to eat me. Knowing some of the things out there, that might be literal. Somehow it was still hot. Scary, but hot. She cocked her hip, a slow smile curling her lips.

“Well, Alex, if you’re so interested, you might want to brush up on your combat skills.”

“I prefer to think of them as saving my ass skills, and they’ve kept me in one piece so far.” I said,trying not to be insulted that she assumed I was helpless. Most people these days were, especially against more than mundane threats.

“Oh?”

“If you want my life story you’re going to have to buy me dinner or something first.” I said,surprised it came out without any stammering. I didn’t have a whole lot of practice asking people out. Usually I was the one being asked out.

“I can work with that.” Eve said, producing a sharpie from somewhere. I didn’t see her reach for a pocket at all. Maybe she’d had it up her sleeve. Or maybe making things appear was another of her abilities. She stepped towards me, just a breath of air between us, and grabbed my hand. She smelled like a dark forest at night with a touch of frost. She scribbled her phone number on my palm, at least I assumed it was her phone number. “Call me later and we can set something up.”

“Sure.” I said, over the pop of the sharpie cap. Eve’s hand lingered on mine, sparking my imagination in all kinds of wild directions.

“Don’t lose that.” Eve winked, her fingers sliding through mine as she stepped back. Then, just as quickly as she had come, she was gone. And me too busy looking at my hand to catch a glimpse of her retreat.

#my writing #story drabbles #sorry if the formatting is weird--tumblr and google docs are not friends #I had to dust off my years old HTML to get this into anything resembling order #anyway idk if i'll do anything else with this #i'm just trying to get more comfy with putting my stuff out there #and thought it would be easier with something small that I'm not super emotionally invested in #so here an odd take on soulmates or fated pairs--bitches who Dream

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crossxskulled · 1 year

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To be within the now admitted dusty, attic that Hifumi called home was nothing but soothing. Initially the young had thought there would have been a certain bout of oddness to transitioning back to a bed with boxes as its bed post and near non-existent springs after what felt like a eon of plush mattress and hotel linings. Yet the very first night back in her own place, within the limited scoop of freedom she had before going to juvie was uneventful.

It might have been the best night sleep Hifumi had since November.

It was bittersweet to think that it had to come at the expense of living a living hell from new years onwards. As things remained now Maruki’s reality felt like a dream or rather, a distant nightmare. Hifumi had been able to reclaim her sense of self yet there ramifications of those weeks were far from easily forgotten.

The relationship between Hifumi and her mother was likely never to be rekindled. A no contact order was undoubtedly to be filed within the near future once Hifumi was of the age to be formally independent. If not for her sake, for the safety of her mother herself. She still remembered the thoughts; the mantras fuelled by anger, the desire for freedom, the way her hands could have so easily taken back the decision she had made in the very beginning.

“Ryuji.” A faint smile creased against her lips at the sign of blonde hair and loud steps. A box of chocolates rest in her lap as Hifumi sat on her bed, the one befitting of a queen, and toyed with the ribbon. Hifumi owed Ryuji a lot. Far more than he might had known. Or rather just as much as he did know. But things went far beyond that.

“I’d like you to accept these. You can take which ever meaning as you like from them but ultimately…” Her eyes drifted from the box of chocolates to the young man. A fond warmth in her tone and all.

“I want you to know you have my sincerest thanks. You….You really save me by reaching out to understand me back then.”

"Yo." Even now, that voice of his held that infamous flare, rowdy and spirited despite the mature calmness that swept over thanks to their latest adventures

Bringing himself back up this familiar set of steps felt like a small dream in itself. Dreams, at this point were becoming a part of life that got too damn old, too damn fast after the unbelievable odds they found themselves enduring through. Instead, his hands wanted to savor and burn on the small details of reality, sensations and touch, how the dusted atmosphere made him want to sneeze as it always did while coming up these stairs.

Seeing who awaited him at the top, it felt like even the lights above were returning measures of the residual warmth with its favorite occupant keeping this place as her royal room, the bed as her throne. There was a familiar shine in his eyes, welcoming and warm despite the clear reality that hovered around the situation at hand.

Embracing a life that had all its hells and pains once again, no sugary sweet happy ending, it sure as hell meant they had a fine river of mess to wade themselves through once again.

To see her sport a cocksure smile like that however? As always, it managed to jump start that measure of faith he always kept in her.

"Had me rushin' halfway through effin' town to get here quick enough." As if he minded, swimming through his ocean of irritating ass people beat walking through their murky desires anyday. Especially if such a sweet view awaited him at the end of the road. The commitment has been woven so high to actively visit Hifumi, that the idea of what today was flew well over his head.

All that could actively sprint through his mind is all they endured together. ..And not just the danger. Between them was an unspoken sort of energy, active and vibrant, one that enjoyed the time they shared every since that spontaneous apartment trip. Damning all convention and just getting her away from her mother at the time, it.. introduced a rhythm that became second nature, much as they spent time together.

Maybe this is why his heart found itself thudding with heavier momentum the instant he caught what remained upon her lap, prompting him to slide his hands away from his jacket pockets.

" 'Fumi.. Yo, yoooo, this is.." Even a brickhead level of density could pick up on these very signs.

So imagine how Ryuji feels as the heat begins to stir wildly within his veins, prompting a flush of his cheeks to bring a pink tint to his face as he steps forward.

There's a raw lack of hesitation in his decision to sit along her bedside, to sit upon her quilt as the idea of 'join by her side' had to be performed, no matter what. Even now his honey brown irises fell over to the chocolates, gliding over to her figure as his eyes roamed up, memories and the present playing back to back shots as their eyes came to meet. Again, what feels like a damnable dream is played by her words, the things she said..

What she meant. A decision being held as its thrust entirely into his court. However he wanted to take it..

Wait.. Even if..?

And even then, he couldn't fully let that sink in when her earnest gratitude was parked right before his eyes. All he really could tell was that his heart felt paradoxical, wanting to soar while remaining adamantly grounded all the same. What manages to breach this whirlwind of thought would be the action of reaching forth, allowing his calloused fingers to sweep across the back of Hifumi's hand as it carefully settles on top of it alongside the chocolates.

Take a breath, experience, ease it out. Right now the last damn thing he wants is to park his damn foot in his mouth.

"Us sticking together goes without sayin'. Look.. like, you saw me when I was bullshittin' before, struggling hard, lost as all hell. You've built that up with me man."

....

"Would you ahhh, be cool with being more?" It took so much courage to make his eyes not shoot away. The tangible sensation of this really happening was grinding down heavily.

"I like you Hifumi, a whole damn lot."

@gyokushou

#gyokushou #| The Confidentials #one ryuji post up and easy!#and a lot of content as always

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americanbrffan · 2 years

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I've been thinking about why the polo trophy situation looks so awkward. No doubt, I think that it was likely for Netflix (her clothes, her cocksure over-enthusiastic attitude etc.). But also, it has since come out that this happened on 22nd may, and they made it seem like his team won and this was the winning shot. But... The finals hadn't happened yet (it's either on 4th June or was in 29th may, not sure). So this was arranged/orchestrated and they deliberately misled the general public/royal watchers. And that's quite interesting, isn't it?

That the whole thing was a Harkle setup is obvious. Los padres did win the semis that day,their prize was the tiny wooden boxes given to all 4 players. The fact that one of the boys refused to hand-over or put down the box for the photo, even though Meghan forcibly tried to take it from him shows that he was (at best) confused or (at worst) pissed that he was being made pose with a trophy they hadn't won and was reluctant to out down the memento he HAD won that day.

It's also obvious that this all happened last minute while on the stage. Nobody else but the boys and Meghan were on the stage. Meghan suggested they lift the trophy for the group pic, Harry agrees (you can see this on the video). Their is an awkward exchange when the other players seem.confused, then nacho gestures to go ahead. The 2 other players seem a bit put off but go do it anyway.

They could have done this the next weekend (if it's just a pic they wanted) but did not. Because Harry is clearly unavailable due to jubilee. So they want the shot that makes it look like his team won ie., He is thriving in US.

The pic was immediately followed by a tidal wave of polo PR. All to get as much publicity as they could leading up to the jubilee. Making it seem like they are up to their eyeballs with the "thriving and living and their best life" nonsense and that attending the jubilee is just some teeny tiny mundane royal stuff they are doing as a favor to granny and the public,both of whom are soooo hungry for a Harkle glimpse. Ie., Again, in their mind this is the kind of thriving in the US they want to do.

I won't even eleborate on Meghan's fashion shenanigans, that bs is way too transparent by now. I really do believe that the BBq story ouc shared by nachos wife was also planned. It showed Harry and Meghan with their backs to the camera. Which is their favorite pose to appear carefree (lol). It showed a maybe/maybe not Archie's back, again their idea of privacy (lol). And it ultimately became about meghans fashion sense. Now, my take is that Meghan's real fashion sense is much different in real life, it's not that bad. She wears pretty laid back,. comfortable clothes. So this EW dress was a merch. All a drumroll to the jubilee appearance where, I predict, she will wear EW again.

I think this all clearly exposes the farce that is Harry and Meghan farcicle celebrity-hood. It's all for PR, to show a certain image. Mind you, they don't live this life, they don't care if we know they don't live this life. But they do want it in print that they live the best, rich, free from all worries kind of life ever! Because that is what history is made of, carefully curated PR constructs. At least that's why Meghan's idea of being successful is. This woman still hasn't got it through into her head that maybe, just maybe, how she behaves and what she does is what people judge her for. Harry in the other hand is hopeless, clueless and beyond redemption in my book. His jealously and hatred for his family will bring the Harkles down eventually.

It's too bad for them the trophy 'presentation' appeared as impromptu as it probably was. Imagine if there hadn't been a video of that cringeworthy raising of the trophy? What if people hadn't figured out the actual finals were Jubilee weekend? They would've been able to pass it off with still photos that they're 'thriving.' But the universe, once again, has a way of exposing their transparency.

I think history will see two side-by-side versions of the couple's life - the mythical one they pass off to the public and the real, BTS life. They don't have an endless amount of funds to put into PR, so their house of cards will eventually fold. We're seeing it happen, layer by layer, and their actions during the Jubilee are also exposing them.

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havenoffandoms · 3 years

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Pipsqueak (Aiden/Lambert)

Based on Kashimalin’s 50 Types of Kisses prompt list.

Prompt: "Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference."

Pairing: Aiden/Lambert

Content Warning: referenced sexual content at the end of the chapter (nothing graphic)

Read on AO3.

Aiden is not short, thank you very much, nevermind how insistent Lambert is on the matter.

In fact, Aiden is a lot taller than most human men he’s encountered in his long life. He used to be one of the tallest (no Lambert, not lanky, but tall) witchers in his year at Stygga. Even now, over a century later, Aiden can safely say that he hasn’t met many people who can brag about being taller than him. He can count the exceptions on one hand actually, and they include Lambert and his brothers at Kaer Morhen. While we’re at it, Aiden would like to add that the wolves are unnecessarily tall in his humble opinion.

Seriously, there is no need for how tall Lambert and his brothers are. Aiden doesn’t know what kind of mutagens the mages at Kaer Morhen pumped into those kids, but the result is beyond ludicrous. While Lambert is pretty much perfectly proportioned, Geralt fancies himself an inverted triangle while Eskel is as wide as he is tall… and Eskel is very tall. Of course Aiden will look tiny compared to the wolves. He has to question whether the mages at Kaer Morhen inadvertently mixed up the batches, administering bear mutagens instead of wolf mutagens to the boys in Geralt and Eskel’s year. That is not the point, though. The point is that Lambert is being a grade A asshole, which has Aiden wondering if it’s worth going into a bloodrage right here and now just to teach his lover a lesson.

“Aww hell, pipsqueak, don’t be like that,” Lambert calls after him, but Aiden refuses to turn around as he proceeds to storm out of the kitchen. His blood courses hotly through his veins at the nickname. Why does he put up with the guy again? “Aiden, come back! I said I was sorry.”

“Fuck off, Lambert.”

“Will you at least tell me what I did wrong?”

Aiden suddenly stops dead in his tracks and whirls around all in one quick movement, his eyes almost flashing red with how enraged he is. It is only thanks to Lambert’s lightning-quick reflexes that his lover doesn’t end up walking straight into Aiden with how quickly he came to a halt. Lambert looks genuinely confused as amber eyes stare back at Aiden sheepishly like a puppy being scolded. Yeah right, like the prick doesn’t know what he did to put Aiden in such a state. Lambert is as bad an actor as he is a cook.

And Lambert is a very, very bad cook.

“You know exactly what you did, you little prick,” Aiden snaps, digging his index into Lambert’s chest for emphasis, “don’t pretend like you don’t know, it’s only making me mad!”

“Kitten, I honestly have no idea what-”

Aiden snarls, his sharp canines flashing dangerously in the dim light of the torches hanging from the walls, and the sight is enough to shut Lambert up. Admittedly, it doesn’t shut Lambert up for long, mostly because the younger witcher has no sense of self-preservation and doesn’t realise that poking an enraged Aiden can only end in disaster. Instead of backing off at the sight of Aiden hissing and snarling, like any sane person would’ve long done by now, Lambert stands his ground and smirks.

“You know, you’re really cute when you’re angry, shortcakes.”

That is it.

Aiden lunges at Lambert, and with the element of surprise on his side, manages to tackle the wolf to the ground. Try this one for size, dickhead. Aiden’s pupils constrict into a narrow line cutting vertically through the eerie yellow-green irises. He straddles Lambert’s lap, effectively pinning him into place, but said dickhead is still staring at him with that shit-eating grin… “First of all,” Aiden hisses through clenched teeth, “don’t fucking call me that, asshole. Shortcakes, pipsqueak, none of it! Got it? Second of all, the next time you offer me a step ladder to reach the pots on the high shelves, I will use my trophy knife to geld you, I will stew your balls and then feed them to your equally annoying brothers, got that?”

“Is that what your fit is about? The fucking step ladder?” Lambert lets out an incredulous laugh. “Aiden, you’re being ridiculous. Everyone needs a step ladder to get to the top cupboard, even Eskel!”

“And third of all,” Aiden carries on, ignoring Lambert’s very reasonable explanation, because fuck you, he’s not getting away with this, “you’re so damn lucky that I love you, because no one calls me pipsqueak and gets to see another day, understood?”

“I withdraw my earlier statement,” Lambert breathes huskily between them, his voice barely above a whisper, “you’re not cute when you’re angry. You’re smoking hot, my pipsqueak.”

Aiden can’t help the surge of pride coursing through him at Lambert’s words, and against his will, his cock twitches in interest. Lambert’s smirk widens as he lazily thrusts his hips up, pressing his steadily growing erection against Aiden’s ass. The latter flashes his teeth again, the action giving him a downright feral look, the kind that drives Lambert crazy with desire. The wild look in Lambert’s warm amber eyes testifies of just how much the sight of Aiden straddling him turns Lambert on.

Aiden leans down until their faces are mere inches apart.

“I may be shorter than you, puppy, but I distinctly remember you choking on my big cock last night, begging for more. So if you want to get that privilege again, I’d watch that cheeky mouth of yours if I was you.”

Aiden pulls away from Lambert as he rises to his feet, then saunters away from his spluttering lover with a cocksure grin on his face. Aiden turns his back on Lambert and heads for the winding stairs, confident in the fact that the youngest wolf will follow him to their shared bedroom. Aiden has to work hard to hide the tent in his trousers, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay. He hears Lambert scramble to his feet and rush after him.

“What if I don’t check my mouth, little one?”

Aiden stops on the stairs and glances over his shoulder at Lambert, who’s now standing a couple of steps down from him, giving Aiden an artificial height. Aiden raises one eyebrow at the question, pivoting on his heels so he can look into Lambert’s eyes. His eyes are lust-blown as he holds Aiden’s gaze, but there’s also something else reflected in them, a spark of challenge that Aiden is so familiar with by now.

Lambert wants to be cheeky? Two could play at that game.

Aiden closes the gap between them as he leans down to steal a kiss from Lambert. Their lips meet in a brief and chaste kiss, an exchange that Aiden breaks off too early to Lambert’s taste judging by the wounded noise he makes as Aiden pulls away. In a sultry tone, his voice barely above a whisper, Aiden purrs his response.

“Since you insist on being a cheeky little bastard, you’re sleeping on the couch in the library tonight,” Aiden tells Lambert with an air of finality, before resuming his stroll up the stairs while pointedly ignoring Lambert’s indignant spluttering.

“Really? You’re making me sleep on the couch because I offered you a step ladder to stand on? Aiden, you’re being ridiculous. Get your ass back down here. Aiden!”

Aiden continues heading up the stairs, ignoring Lambert's calls. He makes sure he gives Lambert a fine view of his ass as he walks away.

Kiss that, Lamb.

#the witcher #aiden the witcher #the witcher aiden #aiden #lambert the witcher #the witcher lambert #lambert #lambert x aiden #aiden x lambert #lambden #laiden #havenwrites #kiss prompts

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aenaxes · 3 years

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one to ten

[jesse x gn!reader] there are ten things you remember about jesse.

warnings: tcw s7 spoilers, suggestive themes, mentions of death

w/c: 2.5k

a/n: sorry for the constant parentheticals lol. ishei is a spin on a biblical name/the hebrew name basis for jesse (yishai) as a kind of namesake (surprise, you've now adopted a togrutan).

01. Your first glimpse of beauty in war comes in the form of a clone trooper.

It doesn’t make sense. They all look the same, you groan to Uche, the one other civ enlistee who didn’t waste their breath (or your time) waxing poetic about galactic justice or pining after the out-of-touch idealogues holding rank in the jedi temple and Senate floor.

What’s so different about him? Uche asks, and you don’t have an answer.

You remember sneaking furtive looks from inventory protocol drills to the landing platform, seeing the unnamed soldier step off the dust-beaten hull of a gunship transport with a straight-backed swagger. Even from afar, he demands attention, presence, in ways the men with him cannot.

I don’t know, you mumble. Maybe it’s the tattoo on half his face.

02. You learn the name of this beautiful man when Uche ditches the buddy system to wander off with a trooper in red armor at 79’s.

Shitty friend, comes a voice you’ve heard a hundred times over. You turn your head, ready to shoo away a shiny eager to prove his mettle, but instead you are met with the beautiful soldier and his ridiculous face tattoo in Uche’s seat. He flashes you a grin, raising his brows at you in a way that oozes the same confidence you remember in the landing bay. Can I make it up to you with a drink?

Will it be worth my while? you shoot back. (It’s amazing how well you mask the excited tremor in your voice. The wonders of working in a military hierarchy.)

No promises, he shrugs as he flags down the barkeep. But I think you already know your answer.

Then fine, I guess, you fight the smile playing over your lips. And when he closes his eyes and laughs, you think it’s only fitting that your nameless soldier has a laugh as gorgeous as himself.

I’m y/n, you say.

Jesse.

03. You meet this beautiful man again (Jesse, you curl your tongue over his name), and it just so happens that you end up assigned to the same ship as him. You board the Resolute, your civ certification in hand and a drab uniform as your completion gift, and as you claim your quarters aboard the destroyer, a firm tap at your shoulder stops you at your door.

Fancy seeing you here, y/n.

You’re kidding me, you smile. When you turn around, Jesse’s grinning back at you, bucket tucked under one arm, the other propping him up against the hallway wall in the worst attempt to look even remotely flirtatious that you’ve ever seen.

I’m hard to resist, I know, Jesse laughs, and you do your best to muster the most irritated expression possible despite the elation in your chest. I guess 79’s wasn’t enough for you, huh?

Sure, I can’t get enough of me absolutely drinking you under the table, Jesse, you snort.

Okay, okay, I was off my game. But you can’t tell me I’m not a better kisser when I’m tipsy, he shrugs.

I haven’t kissed you sober, you deadpan.

You think I could change that by the end of this tour?

04. You’re in bed with this beautiful man for the nth time this month, and you’ve never been too good with pillowtalk, so you tell him what you have always thought since the day you first saw him. Your fingertips light over his cheeks, you tell him that he is beautiful.

Jesse laughs and leans in to kiss your wrist. Between kisses trailing up your arm, he tells you that he is one face of many; that he is all rough skin and scars; (that there is no beauty in war embodied, cemented in the flesh over and over and over); that you just might have poor taste.

You jab his arm (because fuck you, Jesse, this was supposed to be a romantic moment), and he yelps, cackling. But you’ve successfully stroked his ego, and he thanks you by pulling you down onto his bunk again.

05. You’re in love with this beautiful man.

The revelation is a long time coming and yet somehow the greatest surprise that shocks you awake one morning when Jesse is still asleep in his bunk with one heavy arm draped over your bare hips.

It’s more than simple beauty as you watch him sleep, his lips parted and brow slack. Done away with the bravado and big talk, with the tension lifted from his proud features, Jesse is terrifyingly vulnerable in the way that makes your heart ache (even if he might be drooling just a little bit).

And then the ship alarm blares, and Jesse’s scrambling awake, sleepy apologies and bleary eyes as he shuffles around you to fumble for his armour.

See you in a few, sweetheart, Jesse laughs, locking his vambrace in place before he leans close and presses a quick peck to your cheek. And then he’s gone, breaking into a jog down the hallway as you shrug on his GAR bomber and pull it close over your chin.

You tell yourself that you don’t breathe deep on purpose, that you don’t shiver when you catch Jesse’s scent, standard-issue aftershave and spritzes of the Corellian cologne you’d bought him planetside, saved for the nights you spent over in his quarters.

You’re in love. (Fuck.)

06. You’re in love with this beautiful man.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, he says softly, perched beside you on the stout nose of a laatie. You lift your head from his shoulder, meeting his unreadable gaze (all you know is that it is soft) with a furrowed brow.

When you ask him what it means, Jesse—smooth-talker, sly bastard, a snappy retort always a word away—sputters unintelligibly, forgoing any excuses or mistranslations for sliding down the gunship’s hull and breaking into a run across the dewy grass. And you forget that you haven’t run this fast in months when you take off close at his heels.

Tell me, asshole! you shout, sprinting after him.

Not on your life! he shouts with a grin thrown over his shoulder. But he is slowing, his run pacing down to a jog, then a funny little walk on the heels of his feet as you close his lead and tackle him to the cool grass underfoot.

You feel a bruise blooming over your knees, and you’re fairly certain he’ll have a worse bruise over his tailbone. But all you can do is laugh as Jesse traps you in his arms and wrestles you onto your back under the silver light of the Nemoidian moons. (When was the last time you had laughed so freely?)

And when you catch your breath, vision blurry with the best kind of tears, you look to the wonder in Jesse’s eyes as he kneels above you.

You think he might be in love, too.

07. You’re in love with your beautiful man, and when you call him yours (when he calls you his) between hushed breaths and soft moans, you savor the thrill that rushes up your spine every time.

General Skywalker’s married, Jesse says one night, his voice rumbling under your ear as you lie over his chest.

It’s kind of obvious, you respond, and he laughs.

No—I mean, I knew—we’ve all known. But what if we got married?

You lift your head, and something heavy and warm lurches alive in the spaces between your ribs when you meet Jesse’s eyes. There is no witty playfulness, no heckling rise—only yearning, deep and vast and held with bated breath when he reaches up to touch your cheek.

Just you, me, some peace and quiet. I’d make a hell of a mechanic. And kids, maybe, well, if you want, he says, and with each word, his voice grows softer and softer still until you can just barely make out the last sound that passes his lips.

You could be a realist, cruel and cold, listing some regulation manual clause and the twofold speed at which Jesse would live and love (and die). You could tell him that the chances of you both making it out of this seemingly endless war were slim to none. You could tell him that the grief of losing a husband would fester where the loss of a friend would heal. You could leave.

But normality is so, so sweet—the vague yet enchanting idea of life beyond a war for which your beautiful man was born, a war which has swallowed you whole.

Rules and probabilities be damned, it’s worth the risk.

I’d like that, you whisper, and Jesse’s incredulous, enthralled laugh sweeps you off your feet before he’s kissing you like it’s the first time all over again.

A week later, Fives officiates, Echo bears witness, and they shower you with handfuls of tiny blue flowers scrounged from the flaxen Lothal plains as Jesse kisses you breathless.

(Both of them are dead within the year.)

08. You’re in love with your beautiful man, and you don’t think yourself a fool when all you can wonder is whether he still loves you from behind the mirrored visor of his helmet, one pound of pressure away from two blaster bolts and twin wounds (one for Ahsoka, one for you).

It is not his voice you hear over the labored blare of the ship alarms. It shares the same breath and passes through the same lips, but it is not the cocksure charm in rank or the languorous warmth of leave you have come to call your own.

You’ll be demoted in rank from commander and subject to execution along with the traitors Ahsoka Tano and y/n l/n.

It is not Jesse’s voice. (The last time your full name found home over his tongue, Fives and Echo had been alive.)

And then you watch him fall.

The hangar is a flurry of blaster fire and gunsmoke, and it’s a wonder that through it all, only one shot manages to graze over your leg before Ahsoka hurls you onto the docked y-wing and into the gunner’s seat.

The thrusters rumble to life as you slam your viewport shut, and you hear Rex’s voice crackling over the intraship comm for you to strap in. But all you can do is search frantically for any flash of twin ARC pauldrons and a shock of royal blue in the violent sea of helmets paying forgotten homage. You press your palms to the glass because he was there, he was there, right where Ahsoka spears her lightsabers into the metal, he was there.

The floor drops from beneath your feet, and you tell yourself the smoke and ache in your lungs is from your head connecting hard with the domed viewport glass as you scramble for your controls.

(What goes through a man’s head when he knows he will not wake when he lands?)

09. And then your beautiful man is dead.

You will think later that you were lucky, blessed, even, that you were not the one to pull his mangled body from under the charred belly of a destroyer, but that fact makes uncovering his face no less difficult. The broad ink stretched over his skin does little to hide the blood dried over his brow, bled into glassy eyes unseeing.

Did he feel it when the ship tore apart? You slide his eyes shut. (You do not hear your own wailing.) Was he in pain?

His brother tells you to leave his helmet over his grave because you buried bodies, vessels, ghosts of who they had once been. Jesse was not himself when you ran. Why would you carry a marker of someone you no longer knew, someone who no longer knew you?

There won’t be space for it on the ship (leave the dead with the dead), and you pretend not to hear how young Rex sounds when his voice bows under the loss of everything he’s ever known.

You hang the bloody plastoid back onto its perch.

It feels like the death of a saint, not because Jesse was some paragon of virtue, but because it is cruel, uncaring and unjust and pulled out of your hands into a single divine lie. It’s a wordless eulogy come too soon, and you cannot seem to pull away from the scuff marks and chipped paint at your fingertips.

It’s time to go, Rex says.

We got married, you say.

I know, Rex replies.

I’m not ready, your voice cracks. I didn’t say goodbye.

You feel strong arms pull you close, and if you focus on the sound of the slowly groaning hull before you, you can pretend like you aren’t being pulled apart at the seams, crashed into some cold moon, dirt under your nails, blood on your knees, alone.

I know.

10. Sometimes, you see your beautiful man in fleeting glimpses over his brother’s face. They are only split-second visions blurred by sleep (denial, denial, denial). You see copper skin and a soldier’s eyes, but that is where the familiarity ends and reality begins.

Even if you took away the tattoo arcing over Jesse’s skin and placed them side by side, Rex does not have the slight curve in his nose from a sparring session kicked too high; he does not have the dark freckle just below his chin; he does not have the playful twinkle, the knowing gleam that lit up his eyes whenever he saw you. (Rex only looks to you with shared grief, pity, these days.)

Clone or not, he is not him.

So you sleep.

If only for a glimpse of Jesse, his face blurry and voice warped under the weight of memory (played, rewound, and played again), you treat your precious shifts of sleep when Rex takes the helm as nothing short of speaking to the divine itself. Even if your dreams are more often than not nightmares of staring down a blaster barrel, part of you thinks that it’s worth the shaky hands and uneven breaths as Rex shakes you awake, that you might try to say goodbye.

Tonight, you see him again. But this time, the hangar deck is silent, blasters raised but frozen in place, a snapshot frame of the day a part of you died with him. The script changes. He lowers his blasters, you step forward, and when you reach up to lift his helmet from his shoulders, it is the clearest you have ever seen his face since you laid him to rest.

I’m sorry, his voice floats, settling in the space between your ears, soft and strong. I love you.

Goodbye, Jesse.

And when you wake, for the first time in weeks, your eyes are dry.

You will heal.

—

00. Buir, a soft voice filters down from the top bunk as your ship hums around you.

Ishei, you call, lifting one hand to rub at your eyes. You catch your son’s little horned head peeking over the edge of his bunk, and he scampers down the ladder when you beckon him close.

I can’t sleep, he whispers as he crawls beside you and tucks his arms around your waist. Will you tell me about father?

(Jesse will never know the orphaned Togrutan boy who calls him buir. You wish he did.)

Every night, you laugh softly, gently rubbing between his budding white montrals. Every night, I tell you about Jesse’buir. You don’t tire of the same stories?

You feel Ishei shake his head against your chest. Jesse’buir is my hero! Did he really look just like Rex ba’vodu?

Not at all, you smile. Not at all.

#fic is how i cope with mcat content review :-)#i'm not sure how u adopt ishei but congrats u r a parent now #but it's very mandalorian of you which is fantastic #and jesse would also call u a milf/dilf/parent he'd like to fuck #anyways #arc trooper jesse x reader #jesse x reader #clone wars x reader #yaej.writes

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Dreams, Chapter 5

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

GET. READY. This is a bigger chunk but I really think it’s worth it.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 5

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 5343

Summary: Dean’s birthday proves easier than expected in some ways and harder in others.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, alcohol, s l o w b u r n

Sam pulled back from you, opening one eye drowsily. “Are you okay?” he says, voice gritty with sleep.

“Yeah, I…he didn’t die,” you breathed, confused.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“He always dies. He fell off of Bobby’s roof, but he just broke his ankle, he, he didn’t die.”

Sam rubbed his face with his free arm, trying to wake up more in earnest. It was still dark, so it couldn’t have been later than 7:30. You hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours but suddenly felt beyond alert. “That’s good, right?”

“I—yeah, it’s good. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The reflex was to say no, usher Sam back to sleep. But your reflexes had already been wrong once today. “Can we?”

The way Sam kept the surprise off his face was admirable. It was the first time you’d agreed to talk about the nightmares that plagued you since losing Dean. He propped himself up on his elbows and flicked on the small lamp beside the bed. “What happened?”

You told Sam all about the dream, sparing only the details you couldn’t really remember or only made dream-sense, like the way you knew it was 4th of July weekend without having been told. He listened thoughtfully, the focus obvious in his expression. He waited a long beat when you were done, sure not to step on your moment of vulnerability.

“What do you think it means?” he asked gently.

You thunked back onto your pillow to gaze up at the popcorn ceiling. “I don’t care, to be honest.” The almost-dark made fuzzy static pulse in your vision. “I think I’m going to write about it, actually,” you said, and startled yourself.

“Oh, uh, okay,” Sam said encouragingly. “Do you want me to—” he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“No, no. I’ll be back in a little bit, see if you can go back to sleep.”

Sam nodded with more than a little concern and you climbed over him, yanking an old sweatshirt out to throw over your wilted tee and scampering off to the kitchen table.

The house was ice cold and dark aside from the ever-present Christmas lights and you could feel the needles that had begun to drop from the tree under your bare feet, rapidly cooling on the cheap flooring. You picked up the notebook and pens Sam had gotten you and sat down at the kitchen counter to write.

In the days that followed, the constant and varied nightmares of Dean’s deaths returned. When you woke up, more and more often making it to the morning, you kept writing to Dean about them and sometimes your day as a way of processing. You never ‘told him’ about exactly what happened and tried to focus on the sweet things you remembered that made the worst dreams a tease, moving them to your daytime memory and trying to wash away the despair the nightmares left you clawing through.

By the middle of January, you and Sam had fallen mostly back into old patterns. The Christmas lights were still up, a sort of night light against the long Midwestern nights, and you couldn’t help feeling a small sense of despair sweeping up loose pine needles when Sam was in the shower every day. You didn’t want the winter to end, as weird as that sounded with the ice and chill and fingertips that never warmed all the way. It felt like if you moved into spring that you were leaving the time-out that you’d created and would have to figure out a longer-term solution than this rented cabin, all thin drywall and poorly insulated ceilings. Even your jobs didn’t feel permanent, the summer vacationers sure to come back and reclaim their spots in the town as it came back to life with the plants.

The ‘mostly’ was that the boundary you broke with Sam never truly came uncrossed. When you were washing dishes he would come stand behind you, the heat of his lips seeping into the shoulder of your old sweatshirts. You’d intertwine your fingers with his while he drove, realizing only when you went to open the car door and found yourself tangled, or running your hands through his hair while he read next to you on the sofa. You never met Sam’s eyes in these moments—somehow it felt like a secret, private thing that would collapse into dust if gazed upon, some sweet, small creature you were protecting. Neither one of you talked about it in the time since that tequila-soaked night.

As much as you’d needed to be close to him before, you began craving Sam in a way that scared you. You’d always found him beautiful in the way you admire someone you love, but you caught yourself taking notice of the pillars of muscles along his back when he broke down stock boxes and the dark swoop of his eyelashes. The comments about how lucky you were to have him that used to make you nervous your cover was about to be blown started to make you ache a little with fear and something you couldn’t place. You felt a bizarre flick of jealousy when some twenty somethings drinking White Claw dragged their eyes over him at the bar before leaving on their snowmobiles, like he really was yours to claim. It seemed like a manifestation of your fierce attachment and unresolved grief not only for Dean but your old life with the Winchesters, when they sort of were: your teammates and no one else’s. You resolved it had to be and explained it away without inspection, even when these ‘isolated’ moments became less and less isolated.

Before you knew it, you were hurtling toward Dean’s birthday.

“What should we do on Sunday?” you asked early on a Thursday afternoon, trying to keep your voice light and easy while you and Sam got ready for your last day of work for the week.

“I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”

“Did you guys ever do anything when you were little?”

“I mean, not really. Sometimes like a cake or whatever I guess, but Dean was always better at that stuff. By the time we were in our 20s, he only wanted to go meet girls and play up the ‘kiss for the birthday boy’ schtick.” Sam grinned sheepishly as though you didn’t know who Dean had been.

You couldn’t help but smile, remembering the cocksure half-boy you’d met all those years ago. “Okay, well, if you didn’t have anything in mind, I have a couple ideas.”

“Oh, yeah, I had only really come up with a cherry pie and a bottle of whiskey.”

You stood up from the kitchen table and grabbed Sam’s empty plate, leaning into his drying hair for long enough to inhale the minty earthiness of his shampoo. “I mean, that’s a given.”

In Sunday’s late morning you slipped out of the house while Sam was in the shower, leaving a note behind that said you’d be back in a few minutes. You careened down the road to the quaint main street, running through the list in your head. The grocery store was first for the only bottle of scotch they kept in a tiny plastic container and the fixings for bacon cheeseburgers, then the coffee shop had a cherry pie that looked better to you than whatever pseudo-Entemann’s they had in the limited grocery bakery section. The hardware store had everything else you needed and some extras; you praised the cold climate necessity of having multiple places in town to get gloves and thick woolen socks as you threw a couple on the checkout with the rest of the haul. It was awkward to get everything in the trunk, and you were thankful in this moment that you weren’t trying to drive the little sedan you’d had years ago when it was just you, even as annoying as it was to park the Impala sometimes.

Back at the cabin Sam was solemnly cleaning up, his eyes red as he wrung out a mop. You took the pie and whiskey out of the bag and put the other groceries away without removing your coat. In truth you only took off the boots you were wearing as a concession to Sam’s mopping, feeling itchy to get back outside and let the complexity of your emotions explode into fresh air unencumbered.

You tossed a pair of new woolen socks to Sam, who caught them against his chest. “You’re going to want these.”

“What? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I think Dean would’ve liked. Put on some layers, too.”

Sam obeyed with a crooked eyebrow, coming out of the bedroom a few minutes later looking like a lumberjack catalogue model. You didn’t say anything when you realized the hoodie he was wearing used to be his brother’s.

“Ready?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t know where we’re going,” Sam answered honestly.

You gestured toward the door and he followed you out to the car. Thankfully it had snowed that morning, and tiny billows of powdery snowflakes blew up around each car that you passed on the way.

The hill was massive. It was a little surprising considering the flatness of the majority of the Midwest, and you’d had to remind yourself that there were some small skiing outfits in the upper half of the state when you’d found it, sure that it was a garbage dump that had been covered lazily in grass seed and left to its own devices. Less impressive surrounding slopes reassured you when you’d scoped it out a few days earlier, and the fresh glittering snow made it look even more spectacular now than you’d remembered. You decided not to push it taking the Impala onto the snow, instead parking at the dead-end you thought was closest.

“We’re here?” Sam asked, obviously still confused.

“Yep. Come on,” you said, enjoying the surprise more than you’d thought you would.

Popping the trunk made it obvious when the bright plastic sleds were wedged in alongside the miscellaneous weapons whose permanent home it was. You watched Sam’s face as recognition dawned, closely followed by a smirk you knew was in large part to humor you. Yanking them out in one big pull, you handed Sam the green one and one of the pair of gloves you’d gotten that morning.

“These are huge, where did you even find them?” he chuckled, popping the plastic tie between the gloves and sliding his hands into them.

“You’re huge, it’s not like I can put you on a kid’s one. Besides they must be pretty serious about their sledding up here, these were just from the hardware store.”

Sam shook his head and waited for you to put your gloves on. They were comically big on you, but you knew you’d regret not wearing any and tried your best to grip the sides of the plastic sled through them as you took off toward the hill. After a few steps, Sam took the sled from you without a word, able to hold it easily with both his well-fitting gloves and the many extra inches between his arms and the ground.

The walk up the hill was somewhat of a trudge but the way the crisp air sliced through your lungs was a welcome distraction. Snow dampened the ambient noise so all you could hear was Sam’s rhythmic breathing like a mantra, and with one foot in front of the other, by the time you got to the top you felt like you’d been meditating. The view was amazing from the top, a painting or old illustration with its tiny homes and cottages over meandering fields, the snow washing everything out as if you were watching someone else’s dream.

“Should we race?” Sam asked, the swirled pigment of his irises lit up by the reflection off the snow.

The next thing you heard was Sam’s laugh behind you as you took a few big strides and jumped onto the sled. Careening down the hill, your hair snapped around, tiny whips cracking into your wind-tenderized cheeks as you tried in vain to steer the sled in slices across the straight pass. Sam’s cackle was distant but comforting over your shoulder. You closed your eyes to feel the speed underneath you and the wind across your face; listen to that laugh that you’d heard so little recently, an old favorite song to be put on repeat. On January 24th of all days it felt like you were being baptized in the clear crystal sound of it.

When you came to a stop, Sam was only a half second behind you. You fell over in a fit of giggles listening to him play-whine about cheating and “Totally not fair, after I carry your sled all the way up for you!”

“I’ll beat you again with no head start! Unless you’re chicken,” you taunted, brushing snow off your legs to start back up the hill again. Sam scrambled to his feet, passing you up quickly with his huge strides as you started to run after him. Gasping with laughter and exertion, you and Sam half-wrestled and chased each other to the top, collapsing to your backs like snow angels. After catching your breath, you propped yourself up on your elbows to look over at him.

“Rematch?”

Sam’s smile, all straight pearl teeth and cold-flushed cheeks, was as breathtaking as the icy wind as you tore down the run, this time on your stomach with your head low like a bullet, trying in earnest to win again. The front lip of the sled in your fingertips rumbled against little imperfections in the snow. You glanced to check how much of a lead you had on Sam and had barely turned your head before you realized you were also dipping your shoulder, tilting the sled on its greased-lightning path and therefore you with it. Sam was right on your tail and narrowly missed crushing you when you fell off the sled by bailing out of his, your legs tangling together with misplaced velocity. You tried to hold still so you wouldn’t catch his face with a flailing limb, only moving after a beat when it seemed like the collision was over. Sam’s fall seemed to have been more graceful than yours, as he still had a hand on his sled and only a left arm and hair full of snow that he shook loose like a puppy.

“Are you okay?” he said, getting to his knees to reach out to you.

You could feel the scrape on your cheek before you got up, but Sam’s wince was only minor when he saw it which was reassuring. He snatched off his glove and brushed snow off your face gently, barely grazing the broken skin. The warmth felt so nice and you would’ve curled up in his palm like Thumbelina if you could. “What’s the damage?” you asked, trying to think about the way your breath puffed up in clouds around you rather than the snowflakes caught in Sam’s eyelashes.

He was analytical as he took it in, tilting your head carefully in the light. “Doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?”

“Nah. Did you think I’d get soft that fast? I used to get stabbed like once a month.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Do you want to go home?”

It didn’t feel as odd as it should’ve, knowing exactly what home meant in this context. “And let you think I only won by cheating? Fat chance!”

“You don’t even have a sled anymore!”

You glanced around you and saw your sled sitting smugly an easy 30 yards past the base of the hill. “Gimme a ride?”

It was a little awkward until Sam sat down on the sled with each heel straddled and digging into the snow, allowing you to crawl between his legs without unintentionally sliding down the rest of the slope. He seemed unsure of himself as he wrapped his arms around your torso, and you hooked your hands around each of his legs to do your part to hang onto him. “Ready?” he asked, his breath warm on your neck.

When you nodded, he unstuck his heels and you shot like a racehorse down the hill. Sam’s chest was solid as a rock behind you, cushioned with his layers and fastened with his seatbelt arms. You could feel the muscles in his legs moving against your hands, trying to balance the weight of the two of you on the flimsy material. Despite your fall only moments ago, it was safe in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. The ride came to a stop only a few steps away from your cast off sled.

You turned into Sam to get to your knees before standing up and slipped on a wet patch on the plastic, the melted snow turning the surface impossibly slick. It made you fall forward into Sam, his seated position not giving him enough stability to stay on balance—the sled shifted back underneath the both of you and brushed your lips across his as you ended up with your scraped cheek against the rough canvas of his jacket.

“I—oh my god I’m sorry,” you stammered, springing back gracelessly.

Sam looked somewhat like a little kid or a doll, sitting wide eyed with his legs still spread out around you. You stayed back on your knees feeling like you should move slowly, that maybe you could back away unscathed yet. Sam reached his hands out and you thought it was okay, he understood you wouldn’t cross yet another line with him, that it was a simple mistake and he was going to move past it or ask for your help up, and then his heavily gloved hand slid into your hair and he was leaning toward you, the breath that had felt so comforting on the back of your neck as you flew down the hill now on your bottom lip. Your needle-sharp inhale drew that air from him, and you started to feel dizzy. He waited for a moment, searching between your eyes for you to pull back, to turn it into a joke, but you couldn’t. Something in the light pressure of his hand was an anchor and you found yourself glancing at Sam’s lips and slowly, agonizingly, Sam closed the distance between you.

His lips were so soft and gentle that it made you feel like you were going to cry and then you were crying, just one hot salty tear that stung the fresh abrasion on your cheek as you moved against him, this foreign and scary part of the person you knew the best on this earth. Somehow kissing Sam was exactly how you would’ve guessed it would be—tender and sweet and reverent. The sound dampening of the snow amplified your other senses: the feeling of the cheap Gore-Tex catching one or two hairs as Sam supported your weight, the small brush of Sam’s breath through his nose, the tight flick of the wind against your coats. It was over as quickly as it started, leaving you and Sam staring at each other bewildered while your hair tangled around you.

You could feel that your eyes were as wide as Sam’s. Completely unable to formulate a thought or feeling, much less something to say, you silently extricated yourself from the sled. Sam did too, staring at it like it was some complicated spell, even turning away from you as you crossed over to your own store-bought chariot. You could read his tension even in his back, the tight stretch of his shoulders as he clutched at the scruff of his neck, and just wanted to make it better.

“Okay, rematch for real this time? I would say I won’t fall again but, no promises.”

Sam looked scared when he turned back to you, his voice gruff when he choked out a halfhearted, “yeah, sure” and followed you up the hill. He was far enough behind you that you couldn’t hear his breathing anymore and it took him a little bit to reach you at the peak. His body seemed like it was cracking around him, aging in moments as he shakily got into his sled beside yours. You wanted so badly to tell him it’s okay, it’s just some dumb mistake, we were just goofing off but you knew it wasn’t true and you didn’t want to lie.

The only thing you could fix your mouth to say was, “Count us down so you can’t say I’m cheating again,” and hope he heard the apology and forgiveness in it.

Sam obeyed dutifully and you kicked off down the hill, trying to use the speed you gathered and the clarity in the way it split open your lungs to try to understand what had just happened. The same trip that had felt like glorious ages before was over in a second and you were up out of your sled before you remembered you were supposed to be measuring whether you or Sam had gotten down faster.

“Tie, we’re going again!” you yelled over your shoulder as you did your best to bound through the deep snow up the side of the hill, not waiting to see if he was following you.

Once again at the top, ragged and out of breath and only a few steps ahead of him, you took a second to collect yourself before putting your sled back in the snow and holding it in place with one foot.

“I’m sor—” Sam started before you cut him off.

“Okay, third time’s the charm!” you said with panicked cheerfulness that you knew instantly was too much, but Sam stopped talking and dejectedly sat on his sled next to you.

You and Sam spent probably an hour more sledding, your legs turning to jello underneath you as you ran up the hill over and over again and your cheeks getting more and more wind chapped, before Sam finally smiled, exasperated at some joke about still beating him up the hill with legs that were half as long. It was all the fuel you needed to keep chipping away at him until the sun started dropping and the chill broke through all your layers.

The two of you plodded through the snow back to the car together. Gloves and sleds in the trunk, you flopped into the passenger seat with that sudden too-hot feeling of getting out of the wind and tore at your coat to desperately strip some layers. Sam threw his own jacket in the back. Without giving him a chance to protest or hook up his phone, you turned on the tape deck and Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here pounded out like rocky silk.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you murmured. You looked over at Sam, who burst into a kind of frantic laughter that you completely understood. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing either, because of course this was playing during the tense peace on Dean’s birthday in Dean’s car, and then you and Sam were cry-laughing in the rapidly humidifying air of the Impala while Syd Barrett waxed poetic. By the time the second chunks of Shine On You Crazy Diamond started, you were gasping for air and clutching at your sides.

You drove home after that in relative silence, the fatigue of fresh air and running all afternoon catching up with you. Sam took a shower while you put together burgers, switching spots with you to cook them while you washed up. They were pretty good due in large part to how seriously Wisconsinites take their cheese, bacon, and beef, and you wolfed yours long before your hair had stopped dripping onto the collar of the threadbare sweatshirt you’d changed into.

The first shot of scotch burned like it always did, offsetting the sweet tang of the cherry pie and reminding you of the way Dean used to taste when you kissed him at the end of a long night. You looked out the window at the last purple glow of the sunset as it turned the evening into deep, endless inky blue.

“I’ve gotta—I’m so sorry,” Sam spat out like the words were beating their way out of his mouth.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmured, unable to immediately meet his gaze and looking down at your pie.

“I just—I can’t—I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” he stammered.

You couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the whole thing. “Join the club.”

Sam smirked but it was mirthless. “No, I know, but it’s just…I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He stabbed a deflated cherry with pursed lips, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. The fork clattered to his plate. “It’s not getting any easier. Every day I wake up and I’m so mad. It’s so fucking unfair that I have to stay here without him because I know that’s what he fucking wanted, and I feel like there’s no point in trying to have anything like good or normal because I’m just running out the clock. And then today’s Dean’s fucking birthday and I kiss his girlfriend—what is wrong with me?”

The outburst hung in the air, a toxic smoke that excluded everything else. You slammed the rest of your glass of scotch, relishing the way it scalded. “So I’m just Dean’s girlfriend?”

“No, that’s not what I—I mean I guess—it’s not like you aren’t—I don’t know, it just seems like you’ll always be his girlfriend.”

“Are you still Jess’s boyfriend?”

It was the absolute most cruel and wrong thing to say and you regretted the words as soon as they left your tongue and crashed into Sam, not even really knowing why you’d thought them. They distorted his face in incredulity and betrayal but you didn’t back down, maintaining eye contact until he snatched the bottle and refilled both glasses. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly and broken.

“I guess I deserved that.”

“Sam, this is fucking weird. It always has been, us being alive without Dean, and if you’re just now getting that then you’re not as smart as I thought you were. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s going on either, but I know that you’re the only thing that’s keeping me from ending up with a bullet in my skull or in a locked ward, so if you’re waiting for me to forgive you for something, for anything you’ve ever said or done, it’s already forgiven. But we’re too tied up together for every tiny redrawing of the boundaries to send us over the edge. Please.”

“Tiny redrawing of boundaries? I kissed you!”

“And I kissed you back, Sam! What do you want to do about it? What’s the absolution here? If you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you. Take the Impala and I’ll find some other car, I’ll borrow the Kaisers’ other one or something. Or maybe you want me to go and I’ll go; I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll leave right now, you never have to see me again if that’s what you want but I know Dean loved you and loved me and I don’t think he would’ve wanted you to torture yourself all the time so what is it that you want?”

“I want us to be fucking normal and I don’t want to feel like I’m cheating with my brother’s girlfriend! I don’t want to have a cover story and I don’t want to keep running away!”

“Then fucking stop! Stop feeling guilty and talk to me about this stuff!”

Sam laughed, hard and bitter and choked off.

“I’m serious. We can’t keep doing this shit, at least I can’t. We need to start talking—about Dean, about everything. It’s like this lump of decay and we’re just spraying Febreze and not dealing with it.”

Sam’s mouth popped open as he tongued his molars. He bit his lip in frustration before crumpling up his napkin and threw it on top of his half-eaten pie. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

You weren’t expecting that. For all the ways it had seemed like Dean had been the more emotionally closed off, he was always much easier for you to read than Sam, who managed somehow to talk about things without actually communicating how he felt. It was good if you needed to be supported but made it extremely hard to be there for him. Refilling your glasses a bit more conservatively, you offered up an open palm to let Sam go first. His jaw tensed and he swallowed hard.

“No bullshit?” he asked.

“No bullshit. What’s the point of bullshitting anymore? After everything?”

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 6

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mymelodyheart · 3 years

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Miles Between Us Chapter 7 ~All In A Day's Work~

WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

Previously in A Wrinkle of Time

"You have my blessings. Conditions are, there should be once a week phone-calls. Video or facetime ones or whatever you call it. And when I'm on British soil ..."

Jamie suddenly straightened up on his seat. "We'll visit, or ye can come and stay with us."

Quentin shot up on his feet. "Very well then, welcome to the family, Fraser. Go and get your dinner ...you wouldn't want your wife ..." he coughed, his face turning red. "...I mean your girlfriend reheating what she's just lovingly made."

Jamie got up as well, ready to shut the laptop, relief and confusion at the sudden turn around washing over him in waves. What the fuck just happened? Too bewildered for words, "Of course," was all he could muster.

Quentin hesitated, as if in search of the right words, his throat working overtime. When he finally spoke, Jamie couldn't help but hear the emotion in the older man's voice. "If Claire's father was alive today, he would think his daughter has made a fine choice."

His jaw dropped involuntarily. "He would?"

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

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Claire sat at her desk in her newly built writing studio, contemplating what to do about Thomas Christie next. For the past couple of days, she'd attempted to reach the elusive blogger by all means of communication: phone calls, email, comments on his posts and private messages in his Instagram and blog account. But her efforts, to her frustration, were to no avail. She'd even asked around the village for information on his whereabouts, but each answer led to nowhere. Though he had a resident address, it's quite apparent he wasn’t in. She'd thought of asking Jamie for help but decided not to. It was her project, and she's determined she would accomplish it with her own research skills.

Sighing, she leaned back against her seat and stared at the ceiling. Her boss, John, was counting on her to convince Christie to publish with Dreamweaver Publishing, and so far, she had nothing to show. Looking out the window facing the open fields, her gaze settled on the tractor bumpily navigating a small ragged lane, the rumbling of the engine soundless. She smiled. True to his words, Jamie had more than adequately soundproofed her workspace, shutting out any distracting noise. But with no sign of life from Christie, her work had been brought to a standstill.

Ah, hell! Claire glanced at the time. It was already mid-morning, and she'd been sat there staring blankly at Christie's blog all morning. What to do, what to do? She switched tabs on her browser and looked at his Instagram account, and realised he'd just posted a photo circa a minute ago. She decided to strike while he was online and send a message. Go for it, Beauchamp! With huge calming breaths, she rolled her shoulders and began to type, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

Hello Mr Thomas Christie. My name is Claire Beauchamp from Dreamweaver Publishing Company, London. I have been trying to reach you for the last couple of days to offer you a proposal that may be of interest to you. Some time ago, we came across your blog, and after having read through the content, we've come to realise it has an enormous potential to become the ultimate guidebook to the Scottish Highlands in print. Your knowledge, passion, and enthusiasm for Scotland and your keen eye for photography have captured the public interest, our company and myself included. We'd love to assist you in reaching your highest potential and expanding an even broader following should you be interested in authoring a book. I will be in Broch Mordha for the next few days if you wish to speak to me in person, and I will be more than delighted to explain the details. Any feedback you can give me at this point would be highly appreciated. Best regards, Claire.

Thinking Christie would appreciate the option, she included her phone number and her professional email address and then clicked send. After going over her message, she randomly liked his posts and commented on a recent photo for good measure, hoping it would be enough to get his attention. Oh, please answer this time!

Satisfied for now she'd done everything she could, she decided to make a coffee. She was just about to get up when her phone rang, making her jump in the process. Oh, sweet Mother of God! She must be more on edge than she thought. Clearing her throat, she gingerly tapped the answer button on her screen.

"Hello?" she squeaked. Damn it! I sound weird.

"Miss Beauchamp?" a deep, heavily accented voice answered. "Thomas Christie here."

"Mr Christie! You called!"

"Please, call me Tom. I'm no' much for convention and formalities. May I call ye Claire? If that's alright."

"Of course," she smiled, regaining back some semblance of composure. She'd already prepared a presentation in her head, but looking back now, it sounded like a pitch from a realtor selling a million-pound property. She reminded herself, Thomas Christie was a nature buff and liked to live an uncomplicated life, if not minimally, when travelling around Scotland in his restored Westfalia Volkswagen Camper. If she'd learned anything from his posts, it was that he wouldn't be easily persuaded with a promise of fame and monetary gain. There's no option but to start improvising.

"I heard a pretty lass was looking for me," he drawled with a hint of amusement in his voice. "I was informed ye were asking around. At first, I thought ye might have been from the council trying to get hold of me because of my unpaid council taxes. If that had been the case, I would have made an exception and come and paid my dues after seeing the photo my mate has taken of ye. Shame it wasn't a better close-up."

"Photo?"

"Aye, photo. My mate took it when ye werenae looking and sent it to me. Ye are bonnie, I must admit."

"Oh!" Holy, is he flirting? Claire wouldn't be surprised. This man's charms had drawn quite a lot of female fans to his site, and it was apparent that he's attempting to weave it on her. He probably thrived in his devotees' admiration, making him aware of his own appeal. This kind of cocksure behaviour wasn't a novelty, so she ignored the teasing but attempted to maintain a fairly laidback attitude. "Well, as you can see, I'm not from the council. And if I were, I wouldn't be making a noise about it now, would I?"

He laughed out loud. "You're right. So, what can I do for ye, Claire?"

"Have you read my message?"

"I have," he said quietly. "But I want to hear from ye why ye think my blog would be good enough to be published."

"Well, as I said, your passion and enthusiasm for Scotland are very apparent in your writing. Your words are ... how shall I say it, so visceral. But I'm not going to lie, though. We would need to make a lot of adjustments before we could present it to the mass. A bit of tweaking here and there and ..."

"Tweaking? I thought ye liked my work as it is?"

"Oh, I do," she said hurriedly. "You misunderstood. We wouldn't want to take the essence out of your writing. It's just a process every book has to go through before it's published. Like polishing your sentences, making them smooth and clear, ensuring that they don't have unnecessary phrases and repetition. And of course, there's the design and typesetting ...oh, well, that's for much later on. It's all standard drill in the publishing process."

"I see ..."

When a long silence lapsed, she checked her phone screen to make sure they were still connected.

"Tom?"

"Aye, I'm still here." He took a huge deep breath. "And what's yer role in this, Claire?"

"I'm the editorial assistant for Dreamweaver, and I'm here to make this proposal and answer all your questions."

"Right ...Weel, ye see, this is my concern. I'm an avid book reader, and while I'm pleased with all the attention my online journal is getting, I highly doubt that my writing would make it among the best selling list, let alone would anyone, for that matter, be too giddy with excitement to buy it. So what's all the fuss?"

The ambiguity in his voice wasn't lost on her. He may be this self-assured, nature-loving, nonconformist bloke as he'd portrayed on his online travel journal. But clearly, some of that attitude needed to rub off on his self-belief for his art.

"Oh, but that's where you're mistaken," she reassured. "My boss, John Grey, is totally sold with the idea of your adventure stories around Scotland, and he thinks with the proper structural development, design and marketing, it would be a hit. Especially with your fans. The concept is refreshing, and it would be different from any travel guides out there. And besides, it would be an excellent boost for Scottish tourism."

He made some muffled noise and then cleared his throat. "What about ye?"

"What about me?"

"Are ye sold on the idea of my blog?"

Part of John's faith in this book's promising prospect clung to Tom's admirable physical qualities. But for her, that wasn't the main selling point.

She straightened up from her seat and leaned over her laptop. With a flick of her wrist, she brought her computer to life and right there on the screen was his Instagram account. She remembered John's words, Sell him the dream! But she didn't need reminding. Tom may not be the most proficient writer, but his contents were great, especially the picturesque panorama photos. She read a few snippets of his post and smiled.

"Tom ...this opportunity Dreamweaver is offering you would be great exposure for your travel journal. By publishing it in print, you'll be able to reach a broader audience. Your knowledge of this wonderful place is beyond incredible from flora to fauna, the lands' history, the weather phenomenon that can only be termed as typically Scottish ...the whole package is simply amazing. Your passion and enthusiasm for this place make me want to go on that adventure you so love …" She inhaled deeply, searching for the right words. "And I know deep in my guts your future readers would feel the same way. And that's what a great travel book should do, great adventure stories that inspire readers and challenge them to step outside the comfort zone ...even for a little while. This is the kind of book that could encourage people to explore, make them realise that escape from the daily drudgery doesn't mean expensive trips halfway around the world, and that adventure can be found in one's own backyard or a few miles trip down the road. I say you should share this with the world. And to answer your question ...yes, I'm totally sold."

She was out of breath by the time she finished, so she leaned back on her seat and crossed her fingers, hoping for a positive outcome. It was all now down to Tom. She didn't want to push, but the longer the silence between them went on, the more she felt like she was forcing him into a snap decision.

Ah, hell! "Look, Tom, there's no need to decide right now. You have my number. Why don't you think about it for now and call me up when you've made a decision. How about that?"

"I have a better idea. How about we discuss this further in person before I decide? Let's say ...over a dinner date?" he suggested in a low voice.

The word date resounded loudly in her ear. Oh, dear, God!

She needed to play this right without making it look like she was turning him down. Hoping for the best, she laughed nervously. "Of course, it only seems fair to meet first in person before you decide." She swallowed hard and squeezed her eye shut. "But I would hardly call it a date. We can meet at the Inn's pub in the village square and professionally discuss everything over lunch if that's alright. And just to be clear, I already have a boyfriend."

"Ah, damn!"

She flinched. "Oh, dear!"

He laughed. "Relaxed, Claire. I get it. Ye're taken, and I'm no' surprised. But ye cannae blame a lad for trying, could ye?"

"N-no, of course not ..."

"So business lunch it is then. I'm away for a few more days, so ye have to wait a bit more. I'll give ye a ring when I get back. How's that?"

Yess! She made an effort not to sound too relieved. "That's perfect, Tom! I'll see ye in a few days!"

"Great!" Then the line went dead.

She let out a massive sigh of relief. So damn close! Feeling elated at the outcome of their conversation, she shot to her feet and did a happy dance. She couldn't wait to call John and tell him everything. If she did her work well and laid out all the finer details of the publishing process and projected outcome, she knew Tom wouldn't be able to turn down the proposal. Invigorated, she immediately went back to work and began typing her outline. Ah, life is good!

..........

Jamie killed the chainsaw engine and pulled down his safety goggles when he caught sight of Jenny's car approaching. He had a bird's eye view of the driveway from the tree and could see everyone's coming and going. What the bloody hell is she doing here? She didn't usually come to job sites; nevertheless, he decided to come down since it was nearly lunch break. Wondering why her visit couldn't wait until work was done for the day, he gripped on to his harness and made a slow descent.

His sister got out of the car, stopping to greet some of the workers and subtly launching glares at him. Alertness immediately snapped in Jamie's shoulders as he realised something was up.

He dropped to the ground, his work boots landing on a combination of mulch and wood chips debris. As he laid down his chainsaw, he watched his sister approach and noticed the forced smile she had for the workers a few seconds ago, waning from her face. He braced himself as he waited for her to say something, unease slithering like a snake up his spine. This was definitely not a friendly visit.

"What's this I hear, ye havenae been attending therapy?" she hissed. "Have ye gone, daft?"

He glanced above Jenny's head to see if anyone was watching them before glowering down at her. "For fuck sake, Jen, ye're no' my ma," he said in a low voice. "Whatever's about to spew out of yer mouth, this is no' the time nor the place for this."

"Ach aye? Wait till ma hears about ye missing yer therapy!"

"Oh, what's this? We're back in primary school or what? Rushing off to ma to tell her everything. Why cannae ye give ma and me a break, eh?"

"The therapy is for yer own good!"

"I'm fine, Jen! I told ye that many times! What part of 'I'm fine' cannae ye understand?"

"Ye've been telling everyone that all yer life. Everything's fine ... I'm fine ... dinnae fash," she mimicked his voice, her face scrunching up. "Ye say that all the time even when, in actual fact, most of the time ye werenae. So why do ye suppose I dinnae believe ye?"

Jamie looked up at the sky and let out a massive breath. "Aye, there's truth to what ye say. But this time ...I swear, I've never felt better."

"Bloody hell! All this time, I thought ye've been attending therapy. I wouldnae have known if Geneva hadnae asked after ye."

"Weel, if ye'd asked, I would've told ye!"

"No, you wouldnae. And that's always been yer problem."

Christ, why can't she just shut up? He glanced up and noticed his men were looking towards them now. He tugged at the neck of his shirt and winded his head. "Jenny, stop! I cannae do this right now."

His sister stepped forward and was right at his face. "Ye think I'm telling ye off for fun? Weel, here's the news. Everyone wants the best for ye, but ye dinnae care, do ye? Ye're acting like one selfish prick!"

"Jenny ..." he warned, feeling hot and cold all at once.

"No, dinnae Jenny me ..."

"Jenny, shut up! I cannae ..."

"Ye could've at least had Geneva assessed ye. Is that too much to ask?"

Jamie shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he realised Jenny's voice had become distorted, and the grating sound of the stump grinder and helicopter whirring above his head grew more punctuated. Without a hint of warning, a bomb suddenly detonated inside Jamie, and his world began to move in slow motion. Seeing nothing but red, he was only vaguely aware that his angry bellow brought everyone in the vicinity to a standstill.

"What the fuck, Jamie!"

Jamie came to his senses when an arm landed across his chest. He realised Willie was standing between him and Jenny. He glanced at his sister, and her expression caused something inside of him to still. He looked down and saw his fists were two rocks, shaking as if prepared to do some severe damage. Oh, God!

"Jenny ...Willie ..." Jamie whispered. "I ...ah ..."

Hands curled up under her chin, Jenny's eyes were as big as saucers, and she looked terrified. Of me? His heart nosedived to his boots so swiftly, he wondered how he remained upright. The fury evaporated in an instant, and all that remained was shame. He'd felt that kind of guilt before but never with enough punch to knock the air out of his lungs. For crying out loud, this is my sister. What was I thinking?

"Jen ..." He attempted to reach out to his sister, but Willie's arm restrained him. Realising the cause of his older brother's concern, he forced his fists to unfold, aware of Willie watching closely. "I'm so sorry. Oh, Christ, I wasnae gonnae hurt ye," he rasped. "I could never lift a hand to ye. Ye must know that."

He swallowed a lump when Willie appeared reluctant to let him go. But Jenny patted their brother's arm, nodding to let them know she was alright. When Willie took a cautious step back, Jamie immediately gathered his sister into his arms and cradled her against his chest.

"Jen ...forgive me. I didnae mean to shout," he said thickly. "Ye ken I wouldnae physically hurt ye, aye? For Christ sake, ye're my sister, and I love ye. Ye looked so frightened. I couldnae bear the way ye looked at me ..."

"Jamie ...I wasnae scared of ye ..." Jenny whispered. "I was scared for ye."

He pulled slightly away and searched her face. "What do ye mean?"

"Even though ye've been to war, I ken ye dinnae like fighting and violence. Ye abhorred it. I was scared ye might do something ye might regret and make yer condition worse. I dinnae want that for ye."

Jamie stared down at her. "Jenny ..."

"Look, Jamie. It was my fault. I shouldnae have pushed knowing yer condition, and ye ken what my temper is like when it gets out of control. It's like ..."

"Like mine ..." Jamie finished off for her. Drawing her once more into his embrace, they stood like that for a while. Soothing, apologising and hushing each other.

Willie stared at them and shook his head in disbelief, mumbling a sequence of profanities. It wasn't the first time he'd seen their outburst with such intensity. But it was probably the first time Jamie had seemed out of control. Reassured that peace had been restored, for the time being, Willie spun around and left them alone. Exercising his authority at their workers, the older Fraser barked warnings that gossip coming from their workplace would not be tolerated and anyone found guilty would be subjected to an immediate suspension. And with that, he stomped off, leaving them all to stare at his disappearing form in shock.

..........

"There ye are," a deep voice mused.

Claire jumped, making her slam the fridge door and Adso bolt out of the kitchen. She took a deep breath before turning around.

"Jamie! You're home early. I was just about to prepare dinner."

"Willie didn't need me for the rest of the afternoon, so he sent me home early." His chest was bare and heaving and glistening with sweat. He must have taken off his top as he came in. "I ran all the way from work. I think I may have far too much energy," he explained, slowly approaching her. His hand reached out and placed it behind her neck, and drew her in for a slow wet kiss, knocking the air out of her lungs. His other hand slid under her sweatshirt and squeezed her breast. "Tell me, what am I suppose to do about it, Sassenach."

She pulled away from him and scrunched up her nose. "Jamie! You're dirty."

"And here I thought ye like me dirty." There was no amusement in his tone, and his bunched jaw told her he was on edge or maybe stressed?

"Why don't you take a shower while I make us something to eat, or better still, how about a bath to help you relax? I'll even bring you a beer," she suggested, feeling a tad concern as she eyed him questioningly.

"How about ye come and have a shower with me," he wheedled, tugging her closer.

She drew away and took a step back. "Jamie, I've just had one, and I'm all clean."

"No' a problem. I can get ye dirty in no time." Jamie hauled her into his arms as she tried to dodge. Squealing, she slapped his chest. Once more, his hands wandered, causing a tingling sensation to coast all over her body. "There we go, ye're as dirty as me now." Pressing himself against her, he inhaled her hair as his breath came faster, fingers twisting in the hem of her top. "Ye definitely need a shower now." he gritted.

Laughing, she peered up at his face, and what she saw made her do a double-take and swiped the smile off her lips in an instant. Oh, sweet Mother of God, he looks worse for wear. Something must have happened at work. Didn't he say Willie sent him home? Looking closely, she noticed he looked weighed down with need, and it wasn't just the sexual kind. It was something more and urgent. He'd had almost the same look the other night when he woke up from a fitful sleep, but she hadn't pushed to find out. His hands were all over her now, frantic and desperate like he was trying to grasp onto something to anchor himself, his breathing becoming more shallow and harsh, and his eyes beginning to glaze.

"Jamie stop! Stop right this second."

He immediately stilled and loosened his grip, shame marring his face. "Ach Christ, Sassenach, did I hurt ye? I did, didn't I? Tell me! Oh, dear God ..."

He was about to turn away, but with her hands, she forced his pained face to look at her, a moan barely subdued in his throat. She could already read what was going on through his head. No way would she stand by and let him take any blame, feel shame or guilt. Not this time. And not anymore. He'd made mistakes like everyone else and would continue to make them, but he needed to believe he was a good soul. This had to stop now. "Look at me, James Fraser," she demanded in a firm voice. "Look at me! Whatever is going through that damn mind of yours, don't you even bloody dare entertain it. Are you listening to me?"

"Sassenach ..."

"No, Jamie! I don't know what happened to you today, but let me tell you this ...shit happens all the time, alright? And sometimes we don't get to have any control over it. That's just the way it is. Tonight we're going to talk, even if it takes the whole bloomin' night. But first ..." Before she could change her mind, she stepped away from him and yanked off her top and pulled her leggings down. When she was fully naked, she took his hand and laid it on her bare breast. "Take whatever you need, Jamie."

He baulked. "Sassenach ...ye shouldnae want this in my state. It's wrong. I-I was too rough. I could have hurt ye." His voice sounded hollow and agonised.

"But you didn't."

He palmed her breast. "Christ, do I have a shred of decency left?"

"Do you love me?" she asked, undoing his jeans button. She saw he was already highly aroused and his skin covered in goosebump.

"With all of me," he groaned when she pulled down his zipper. "And ye ken that."

Determination licking through her veins, she stood on her tiptoes and spoke into his ear, her hand sliding inside his jeans to caress the ridge of his hardness. "If that's the case, what we're about to do is not wrong."

A voice raced through her consciousness, telling her this was the way forward. She knew he needed his control back before he would be able to speak to her. So she got down on her knees and pulled his pants down.

When he wrapped her hair in his fist and tilted her head back, she smiled. "Now, let's get dirty and exorcise those pesky brain chatter, shall we?" Before he could reply, she took him full in her mouth and worshipped him with her love, absorbing every frustrated growl that ripped from his throat and every emotion that poured out of him with every roll of his hips.

She pushed him to the edge and over until he found his release, and his loud cries echoed in the air. When he shattered around her, his body slumped onto the floor and into her arms.

Claire knew they had a long night ahead of them, so she cradled him, waiting patiently for his breathing to calm. Later after she bathed him, they would talk, but for now, she was contented just to hold him a little while longer, as she wondered how many of Jamie's demons she would have to slay tonight and if love would be enough to conquer his hell.

Dear Readers,

Thank you all for your feedback from the previous chapter. I know it was a bit deep and dark, but I really did want to do Jamie's condition justice, and I must admit, I probably got carried away putting so much emphasis into it. But that's just me, I guess.

And as for the latest instalment, I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think. I must admit it is moving a bit slow, but it's a necessary move to pull this story together as I cover loopholes and grounds. One day, you'll understand the logic behind it.😀 So have patience, my friends - all in good time. Stay safe for now and take care until next time. X

#melodyheart #wonderwall #milesbetweenus #ClaireBeauchamp/JamieFraser #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #outlanderfanfic

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ironmandeficiency · 3 years

Text

laying low

pairing: fennec shand / reader

word count: 3019

summary: she didn’t want you to retire because you were the only one she trusts to have her six. you retired because you couldn’t let yourself fail and get her killed.

a/n: i want her to step on me but also i wanna be the one (1) person the stoic badass is soft for. also i’m posting from mobile again so ✨hooray✨

warnings: angry fennec, parting on maybe-bad terms, canon typical violence, being kidnapped, toro calican himself is a warning (undid his death for the sake of plot)

“is this really what you want? to sit here and let yourself rot?” fennec was bitter. you hated seeing her like this and nearly every muscle in your body ached as she spoke. the two of you worked together like a finely-tuned machine and she clearly thought that you retiring was a waste of potential. but when you slipped up and nearly cost fennec her life, you refused to endanger her with your presence. she was far too valuable to you and you would do anything, even retire in this skughole, if it meant keeping her safe.

after a speeder crash you endured during a fight against stormtroopers, it severely impacted your ability to fight. fennec knew that you wouldn’t be the same, but that didn’t bother her. there were only one or two more bounties picked up afterwards because you realized you had become a liability. fennec was having to cover your ass more often than not and even though she insisted that it wasn’t a problem, you had to do something different.

picking up a little slack would be miniscule if you were with her but you didn’t see it like she did. you had been her longest companion and the only one that she’d ever let see her weak. life came with trauma, and with trauma came nightmares — she remembers the first one she had early into your partnership, the way you held her close and anchored her to reality. from then on it was decided: you were it for her. not that she’d ever tell you, but it was true nonetheless.

you sighed at her words; the very same thoughts went through your head at the beginning of this plan but it was the only viable option for you. “it’s all i have left. maybe i can find some peace before hunters come looking for me.” you pour two mugs of caf, setting one on the table in font of an empty chair as an invitation for her to sit. she doesn’t.

the anger in the air around her nearly chokes you with its intensity, rising in the air like heavy plumes of smoke from a raging fire. you’re unsure what you can say to tame the blaze, if you even can at all. normally you would know the exact words to say to bring her down when she’s this upset, but now you were the root of the problem and there was nothing short of foregoing retirement that would make her happy.

fennec continues talking about the brave fighter she fought alongside turning into someone she didn’t know, how you’re showing your belly to the world like the damn tooka sunbathing in the windowsill. the venom she’s spitting doesn’t bother you. she’s angry and hurt, probably feeling abandoned by you and your decision to stay and make a home.

“if you ever need somewhere to lay low, i’ll always welcome you. we’re partners fennec, whether fighting side by side or not.” you wanted to give her that much. even if she wasn’t ready now, you would always welcome her into your new home, into your arms the way you’ve yearned to for years.

nothing is said to acknowledge your words. you didn’t think she would say anything anyway but it hurts regardless, another reminder that she doesn’t like this the same way you don’t. all she does before leaving you is grabbing the mug from the table and pouring its contents down the drain, letting the mug clatter in the sink once it’s empty.

maybe one day she could see that you were doing this for her. maybe one day, probably long away from now, she would walk into these doors with the weight of the galaxy being dropped on your doorstep. with a soft smile and open arms you would greet her and show her what it was like to live the quiet life.

for now, you would just have to settle for the warm embrace of the memories you shared, hoping that more could be made in your new little hut.

it’s been close to six months since you retired. you hadn’t seen or heard fennec since she walked out of your front door wearing her signature scowl. it still stung, after all this time, that after everything she wouldn’t even comm. you’d tried that the first couple weeks after she left but there was never a reply, only a dwindling hope and the worry of not knowing if she was okay.

that was one of the biggest benefits of traveling with fennec; you would never have to worry where she was because she was always right beside you. there was never a nagging worry that ate at you, no nightmares allowed to linger since her touch would ward them away. life without her was a new normal

there would be days where you would see something and want to tell her about it, throwing her name over your shoulder only to remember that she was never there to hear what you had to say. the comms you sent grew further apart as time went on, eventually stopping altogether. she would never reply anyway, there was no reason to waste both your time and yours on something seemingly broken beyond repair.

she may not have been dead, but you still lost her.

several more weeks went by and you had grown accustomed to the solitude. sure you would socialize when going to the market for food and supplies, but it was never anything of substance, only mere pleasantries and remarks on the quality of the items you bought. somehow you were far more weary during retirement than you had been before it.

your mind would drift to her still, wondering whether she had found someone else to watch her back or if she was vagabonding all by her lonesome. how you yearned to see her again, hear her voice or feel her hands gently help you when you fall like you have lately. it’s like your body doesn’t see the reason to keep up. you exercise to the best of your ability and try to stay fit as possible, but you’re still losing your footing more and more often, even at home.

it comes to a head when you’re making breakfast. everything had been okay prior, but one little nudge of your bad leg against a table corner and you’re sprawling. laying on the floor covered in your breakfast, it takes you thirty minutes to muster the strength needed to stand on your own.

the next day, you get a cane. you loathe having to buy it at all, hearing her voice calling you old and jokingly asking where your grandchildren are. it’s either a cane or losing what little mobility you have left, so you go with the former. you despised the visible display of your weakness, grated on what pride you had left. if fennec could see you now, what would she say?

the man had beat his way into your home with every intention to rob you and take what little supplies you had. he had been traveling for days in the desert and was tired. but then he saw exactly whose house he was robbing and he had an even better idea: take you to what used to be jabba’s palace, now ruled by bib fortuna.

see, the paths you used to tread alongside fennec provided ample opportunities to make an enemy here and there. jabba was one of them simply because you refused to work for him, and with his death, you had a little bit of peace. fortuna never attempted to seek you out but anyone who knew of jabba’s grudge against you would be wise to the reward your capture would produce.

this young hotshot was foolhardy and far too cocksure compared to his abilities. if you were in the body you used to have, this buffoon (who made his name very known to you in some sort of dominance attempt?) would be dead thrice over. but time wasnt kind to you and you still have a near-lame leg, so at his mercy you were.

you just wished he would shut his damn mouth for longer than it took him to suck in another breath. he must not realize that silence is far louder than jabbering when it comes to someone holding your life in their hands. maker forbid you have peace in your final moments, apparently. figures.

jabba’s former palace was soon in your line of sight and if you weren’t positive that you were being led to your death, you’d have been grateful to be freed of the nuisance that was toro calican. all the assurance you could find as he hauled you out of his speeder was that his arrogance would soon get him killed if he continued the way he was going.

toro dragged you to the throne room with a hand roughly dripping your bicep, trying to hurry you along as if you still had two normally functioning legs. you knew he knew about your predicament, your lack of fully independent mobility a frequent topic of his. “ease up, wank stain! you know i have a lame leg!” his answer was an aggravated huff and his blaster pressed harder into your lower back.

the lower you descended, the deeper the dread sank into your gut. this was actually real, you were about to die. peace had been made long ago with the knowledge of someone possibly wanting to find you, but now that it was happening… completely different.

you wondered if fennec would ever find out about your death. or if she did find out, your brain would questioned if she would even care. of course she would, your heart consoled, think of how long you traveled together! the trust! the bond you two share transcends time!

but you cut your journeys with her short, there was no telling. there were so many things you wish you could have told her, not just about the feelings that only grew in their intensity during her absence from your side. you wanted to tell her about the stray tooka that you took in when you first settled down; she had a litter of kittens and one of them had a glare that rivaled your dear assassin’s. there was an action holonovel you read once that had you cackling, imagining your fennec cutting off all the frivolous villain monologues with a blaster to the face.

she was never told these things and now that you were becoming rancor chow, she’d never even know them. the idea of dying before telling fennec everything that you’ve been stewing over for so long, not telling her you loved her, fuck was it heartbreaking.

a mumbled curse fell from your lips when you felt saltwater make a descent down your cheeks. you didn’t want your harbinger to see you this weak, this vulnerable, but you had no choice in the matter. your hands are bound by a pair of shockingly sturdy binders and there was no way for you to wipe the tears away. all you could do was blink them away, then meet death with your chin up and your love in your heart.

“now what do we have here?” that was most certainly not the voice of bib fortuna. you opened your eyes to find a broad man clad in green beskar occupying the throne. your common sense identified him as boba fett, which you should have thought was impossible. then again, you didn’t think it was possible for someone to be as annoying as toro calican. it was a day of being proved wrong, it seemed.

anyone could see that toro wasn’t prepared to see someone that wasn’t bib on the throne. his eyes had grown to the size of the twin suns and even through your wet eyes, you could see his facial expression morph from his fake swagger to a dog of uncertainty. nevertheless, he persisted, throwing you down at the foot of the throne. “there’s a bounty on their head and i’ve come to collect the reward.”

boba fett, even through the beskar, doesn’t seem pleased. he doesn’t move his helmet’s line of sight from toro as he speaks, something you’re grateful for. “there’s been a, how do you say, recent transfer of power. and with that change came a new way of doing things, you understand.” he scoffed at the man, your proximity to the throne enlightening you to just how annoyed he was becoming in such a short period. it seemed that toro had that effect on everybody.

“how do i know this is actually someone with a price on their head? what evidence do you have that proves their identity?”

it was clear that your captor didn’t expect to have to prove a damned thing. what a fool, not even bothering to prepare for a single unexpected event. you were almost ashamed of having been overpowered by him at this point. “anyone who’s anyone knows, this is the former partner of the late fennec shand! i’m sure you heard abour her demise — that was me by the way — and now i’ve brought her partner to you, to be taken out of commission…”

all the hair on your body stood on end. fennec was dead? killed by the very man that brought you in? no, not your fennec. she wouldn’t be overpowered by this arrogant bastard in her sleep with a hand tied behind her back, there was no way. but boba said nothing to negate the rumors and that told you everything you need to know. “if you have even a morsel of mercy, by the stars make this quick. if she’s really gone, then i’ve kept her waiting for far too long.”

those were the first words you’ve spoken since toro bound you and dragged you like a ragdoll from your home. there was no reason to entertain the man, but there was the tiniest sliver of a chance that you could implore the mandalorian in front of you to end your life with the efficiency he was known for.

he asked the man his name and merely hummed in acknowledgment when it was boastfully given, like his name meant something to a battle hardened mandalorian such as boba fett.

if you had paid attention to boba’s demeanor since your arrival, you would have noticed that something in his air changed when toro spoke about being the one to kill fennec. some would have mistook it for disbelief but it was much more than that. boba knew that toro was indeed the man who shot fennec shand, but he was not the man who killed fennec shand because she simply wasn’t dead.

she was, in fact, just in the next room scavenging for another bottle of fluorescent blue spotchka when her curiosity was piqued by the conversation occurring in the throne room. at the way the voices seemed to be familiar, she abandoned the search and decided to see for herself what the commotion was.

what she found sent liquid fire through her veins. you, on your knees and head bowed just enough to show resignation and grief, binders shackling your arms and fennec knew that you wouldn’t be able to get up on your own because of it. toro calican, the man who nearly killed her all those sunsets ago in the middle of tusken territory standing above you with a wicked sneer on his lips. this would simply not do.

“word of advice, calican,” she made her presence known with her voice, walking around to boba’s right hand side and leaning a hip against the throne. “always make sure your kills are dead before you leave them. leaving them for dead? that’s how you make enemies.” her blaster was out of her holster and firing before toro could reply, and boba was impressed with the speed she fired with. he had a feeling that it had to do with the figure at the foot of his throne.

your eyes had to be deceiving you. there was no way, toro killed fennec… right? so how in the stars was she here now? the feeling of her hands on your cheeks, warm brown eyes giving you much needed comfort after what you’ve been through. you didn’t even register boba leaving his throne until he’s on the ground in front of you, unclasping your binders with the gentleness one would treat an injured animal. maybe that’s what you were to him, a pitiful tooka missing a leg that was dropped on his doorstep.

before you can venture deeper into this rabbit hole, your body is pulled off the questionable floor and into fennec’s embrace. the way she felt against you, the calluses of her hands as she held you, it was home. you didn’t know when the tears had come back but she was quick to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs.

“seems you found trouble. what happened to laying low, huh?” her comment brought a ready chuckle from your throat and a small smile to her lips. sweet maker how you’ve missed that smile. “maybe you’ll be safer here, what do you think?”

any and all words elude you. nothing on this planet or any other in the galaxy could drag you away from her now, not when she’s as beautiful now as the day you met her, when she gives you the smile you knew was only saved for you. “i’m always safer with you, fennec.”

she hums, her lips pressing to your forehead to ground you both in the reality of being together again. “i’ll have to say the same about you, desert rose. nearly died only a week after i left your hut.”

“only a week? i thought you’d last longer than that.”

“it was because i didn’t have you. but we don’t have to worry about that anymore, do we?”

she was right, you wouldn’t have to worry about losing her for the rest of your life.

fennec shand taglist: @cryptidcody @sacred-things @clownocoruscant @steel-phoenix @aerolanya @felucians @bookbandobssessed @senator-nahberries @obirain @themarcusmoreno @jedi-mando @flightlessangelwings @whovianwar @hornystarwarsbisexual @kaermorons (i love this handle bye ohmygod)

#fennec shand imagine #fennec shand x reader #fennec shand #the mandalorian #star wars imagines #star wars reader insert #the mandalorian season two

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luckychild · 3 years

Note

how would Hiei spend valentine's day with his s/o ?

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

This Ask didn’t specify reader-insert, but… I couldn’t resist.

This is my second-ever reader insert piece, so I’m still getting the hang of this writing style! But I hope you liked it anyway. Thanks for reading and for the request, anon!

Warnings/Tags: LONG post, SFW, gender neutral reader

“Your Unexpected Valentine” - A Hiei x Reader Story

You and Hiei have been together for a while...but you don’t have high hopes for Valentine’s Day with Hiei, TBH.

Is Valentine’s Day even a THING in Demon World? You aren’t sure, but you suspect it isn’t.

Plus, Hiei isn’t really lovey-dovey or emotional...

Because you aren’t sure, you decide to pry a little.

You drop a few hints, asking about his schedule and availability in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. He just looks at you blankly, though.

“Yes, I’m free on Saturday. Why wouldn’t I be?” he says without a trace of irony or teasing.

He clearly has no idea Valentine’s Day is coming.

Eventually, while the two of you are out together one evening, you show him a Valentine’s chocolate display in a shop window, asking him point blank if he knows what the day is about.

You’re a little disappointed when he scoffs and says it must be some “petty human nonsense,” and that such things are beneath powerful demons like him.

You’d thought about making some plans for the both of you, but now…

Looks like your Valentine’s Day isn’t going to be too special.

(You still get him some chocolates, though. Just in case.)

Read More Below the Cut!

But Hiei isn’t oblivious. He saw the look on your face when he rejected Valentine’s Day, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Hiei might be a prickly, agitated, fight-loving demon, but he loves YOU and wants you to be happy though he’d never say as much aloud.

So he went to his usual source for human-custom-translation (AKA Kurama) and asked him what the heck is up with all the hearts and flowers and chocolate he’s been seeing around the city lately.

Hiei also casually mentions your questions and the disappointment on your face. Y’know. Just in case it matters, or something. Not that he cares, mind you...

Kurama just sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and explains in a tired voice why you might’ve been upset to be told by your boyfriend that Valentine’s Day is “petty human nonsense.”

(Kurama is tired because he’s planning his own Valentine’s outing for his special someone, but he’s your friend, and he knows that unless he intervenes, Hiei will botch this. But anyway…)

After Kurama finishes talking, Hiei is still not too thrilled about the concept of Valentine’s Day, but at least he understands why you might’ve been disappointed.

He’s a bit embarrassed he didn’t know about what seems like a very important day for humans, though.

And Hiei is not the type to stand idly by and leave a problem unaddressed, either!

So with Kurama’s help, Hiei starts planning.

Because he’s the worst, Hiei doesn’t tell you that he’s planning ANYTHING in the days leading up to Valentine’s Day.

This little shit? This smirking asshole? This teasing, cocksure little so-and-so?

HE LETS YOU THINK HE FORGOT.

HE KEEPS HIS PLANS A SECRET.

HE LETS YOU THINK HE HAS NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT VALENTINE’S DAY IS.

(He’s going to prove you wrong for thinking he’s clueless. He has his pride to save.)

(Yes, Kurama told him this was a terrible idea.)

(No, Hiei did not listen.)

So during the week before Valentine’s Day, he just… pretends not to notice Valentine’s Day things.

He pretends not to understand when you wistfully look at a display of Valentine’s roses and sigh.

He pretends not to like chocolate when you give him a taste of some.

And during the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, you become convinced (even more than you already were) that Hiei wants nothing to do with Valentine’s Day at all.

You can’t help but feel a little sad when you wake up on Valentine’s Day knowing you won’t be doing anything special.

You look at the box of chocolates you bought and wonder if you should even bother giving them to Hiei.

You stick it in your bag and carry it around with you so you can look at it on occasion and wonder what you should do with it. Eat it, reader, you deserve it.

He isn’t around much that day (not that that’s unexpected) and you spend a good deal of your time gazing into space, wondering where he is and what he’s up to.

Probably practicing with his sword somewhere, you think. He probably hasn’t thought about you once today.

By the time you go home for the day, you suspect Hiei might not be as in love with you as you assumed…

…which is why it comes as a shock when you find Hiei waiting at your front door for you to come home.

He’s pretty tight-lipped when you ask why he’s there.

He just sort of looks you over before turning on his heel and walking off into the night.

This is weird AF, of course, so for a minute you just stare at the spot between his shoulder blades in silent confusion.

Eventually he stops. Looks at you over his shoulder with a flash of brilliant red.

“Are you coming or not?” he asks with curt asperity.

And you find yourself trotting to catch up.

He takes you a good distance from where you live, to a building on the edge of a well-to-do shopping district.

This building is abandoned. Broken windows, weeds growing from cracks, the works.

You are not terribly inspired by this.

You are not terribly eager to follow Hiei inside it, but he shoots you That Look that means you should proooobably not let him leave you behind.

You grab onto the back of his cloak as he leads you through the building’s crumbling interior and to a flight of stairs.

They look rickety, but he doesn't let you worry: Hiei scoops you up and jumps up the flights from landing to landing, air rushing past as the bottom drops out of your stomach.

When he finally lands and stays still, he puts you down.

You stumble away, about to snap at him not to do things like that, it’s scary—but then you see it.

You’re on the rooftop of the building, city spread below your vantage point in a spill of beautiful, shimming lights beneath a blanket of winking stars.

But that’s not what caught your eye.

No… what caught your eye is the small table and chairs near the ledge at the edge of the roof, and the candle sitting in the center of the table. It lights up a second later (Hiei’s doing, no doubt) in a rush of warmth.

And roses! A vase of them sits beside the candle, their perfume lingering in the air.

Yes, Kurama had something to do with these. Shush.

There are also takeout boxes on the table, and a few gifts with clumsy wrapping paper sitting beside them.

Apart from the roses and the candles, it’s not a terribly elaborate or fancy setup… but you love it. You absolutely love it.

In fact, for a minute you’re rendered speechless.

You stare at it for a while in shock before stammering, “Hiei. Wh-what is...” You pause, considering. “But I thought you said Valentine’s Day was—?”

Hiei, smirking, stalks toward the table and shoots a look over his shoulder.

““Are you coming or not?” he asks for the second time that evening.

And again, for the second time, you follow.

To be honest, it’s everything you could ask for.

The takeout boxes conceal your favorite foods, the gifts are wrapped in your favorite color, and they contain things you want to buy for yourself but refrain from purchasing (they’re expensive, after all).

But Hiei clearly thinks you need to treat yourself, because he somehow figured out exactly what to get you.

You suspect the Jagan had something to do with it, but when you ask, he just looks pointedly away.

Still, you’re happy. It’s a simple rooftop dinner, but it's yours, and you are happy beyond words.

Hiei clearly put a lot of thought into this.

… perhaps too much thought. A suspicious amount of thought.

So you wait until after you’ve eaten to ask him again why he did all of this, especially considering his feelings regarding Valentine’s Day.

“I thought this didn’t matter to you at all,” you say to him. “All week, you acted like you had no interest in Valentine’s Day. So what changed?”

He says something cocky, of course. But you hold firm, staring at him until he looks away.

He’s quiet for a long time.

But, eventually… he reaches out and places a hand over yours atop the table.

Hiei isn’t the most touchy-feely person. He doesn’t cuddle or caress without intention. So this small act of affection is a bit surprising, even if you enjoy it.

You curl your fingers around his in return. They’re warmer than the candle burning between you—but they’re not as warm as his eyes just then, which are fixed on you with a tenderness as rare as Hiei’s touch.

Eventually, he speaks, voice soft beneath the starlight.

“If Valentine’s Day matters to you,” he simply says, “then it also matters to me.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else.

The two of you have never needed words to know how you feel about each other, and just then, that look in his eyes says it all.

You and Hiei spend the rest of the evening in gentle silence, sharing the box of chocolates you bought for him, and you are happy to be together with your unexpected Valentine.

This is my second-ever reader insert piece, so I’m still getting the hang of this writing style! But I hope you liked it anyway. Thanks for reading!

Note: I started to write some very Japanese V-Day traditions into this (like Hiei not planning anything and then having to plan a White Day thing in return for his partner’s V-Day plans) but that had the potential to be super gendered and I wanted this to be more gender neutral. So this is what you’ve got!

Happy Valentine’s Day, 2021!

Headcanon & Imagine Masterlist | Tip Jar

#luckychildfanfic #hiei x reader #yyh #yu yu hakusho #x reader #hiei #hiei yyh #yu yu hakusho fanfiction #yyh fanfiction #yyh fanfic #yyh fandom

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ss9slb · 3 years

Photo

Princes of the Undead

Part 3 Chapter 17 part b

----/---

The flagstones were cold under her knees, but Agatha didn’t flinch; being dead had to have some advantages. Regardless of her undead state, Agatha’s muscle memory was still there even after all these years, in fact there were moments when the last 125 years almost seemed like a fever dream. Her life as a vampire, Dracula, the modern world she had become a part of did not encroach on the tranquillity of the nunnery. The liturgy of the Latin, the itch of the habit against her flesh, skin which had grown spoilt from the fine fabrics her lover, no her fiancé, had seen her clothed in.

All around her heads were bowed in her earnest prayer, her small company of sisters, and yet Agatha’s own pleas were addressed to a far different source. It made her feel like a fraud, Agatha hadn’t really prayed during the services in months, she no longer really believed in an almighty lord. Yet she didn’t feel guilt about not praying to their god, maybe a little about misleading the kind sisters, instead Agatha used this time to clear her mind and concentrate on that link in her mind that tied her to Dracula. Reaching their connection was like sinking into a warm embrace, not strong enough for words or images, but feelings flowed easily, Dracula’s felt especially strong, but Agatha wasn’t certain he was strong enough to pick up on her feelings over such a distance.

Over the last few months, Agatha had felt a wide range of feelings from her intended…Anger, lots of anger and impatience, but also a sense of excitement, almost anticipation, he was enjoying himself; if it were not for the all-pervading feeling of loneliness Agatha might have thought Dracula was barely missed her at all. Not that her own time hadn’t been full of their own challenges. On the first days following washing up on that Corsican beach Agatha had toyed with the idea of heading back to London. Yet Mycroft’s warning and her own circumstances had encouraged her play it safe, to stick with the hiding and waiting approach. So instead she had headed in the opposite direction, to a home of a different sort; and although hiding out in Dracula’s castle had a certain appeal, Agatha knew it was also foolhardy, so she settled for the little town convent and hid herself in plain sight.

Yet Agatha couldn’t pretend part of her wasn’t getting a little impatient.

It had been four months to the day since that fateful night, surely whatever was keeping Dracula away and so tense must be over by now? Perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part, but it almost felt like their bond was strengthening, almost like Dracula was drawing ever closer, and Agatha had to keep her hope under strict regulation. But despite her best attempts Agatha couldn’t ignore the growing certainty that Dracula was coming to find her, finally, that he would find her soon…and not just her.

Agatha had to resist the urge to touch her stomach as she felt the delicate little fluttering within her, a fluttering that grew stronger by the day. The first time she had felt it Agatha hadn’t believed it; it wasn’t a sensation she had ever expected to feel, not after she had taken her vows and certainly not after she had died. In fact, it had taken at least three times before she had come to accept the truth, that wasn’t simply imagining it, that she was carrying Dracula’s child. Their child. If it wasn’t the height of blasphemy to say so in a consecrated place, Agatha would have considered it a miracle.

“Sister Agatha…”

Blinking in surprise Agatha looked up realising the in her own musings she had missed the end of services and that her sisters had left her behind…well most of them had, Mother Superior had remained behind. Standing as mark of respect Agatha was surprised when the other nun merely waved her to take a seat in the pew, before herself sinking to sit down beside her.

“This is not the first time I have found you lost in prayer my child; your devotion is a credit to you.”

Agatha was relieved vampires couldn’t blush, for the proof of such undeserved praise would historically have been written across her cheeks. Instead she bowed her head, doing her best to avoid the scrutinising gaze of the nun that had been kind enough to take pity on her; taking her in when Agatha had turned up on her doorstep pleading for a place to hide. That she had done so without asking any awkward questions really had been a miracle, but it was not one that Agatha had expected to need for so long.

“However, devotion alone…” Mother Superior added and now it was her turn to blush, a blush that sent a pang of hunger rushing through Agatha. She needed to feed soon, and each time it took more and more to sate her hunger, the occasional thefts of blood from the local hospital were no longer enough…another development to blame on her little hitch hiker.

“…My child when you arrived here asking for sanctuary I didn’t ask questions about why, I just assumed you had regretted your choice to leave the sanctuary of the church, and I was happy to accept you into our little sisterhood.” The elderly nun trailed off, suddenly bashful for such a normally forthright woman.

“Are you asking me to leave Mother?” Agatha prompted her gently, reaching out to lightly cover the nun’s hand, regretting the impulse slightly when she could now feel the rush of a thready pulse beneath the wrinkled exterior.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am… not immediately of course, I wouldn’t simply cast you aside, I just feel that for a woman in your condition…” she paused, knowing eyes glancing down to Agatha’s stomach, and lingering there until her point was made… “well there are more appropriate places than a convent.”

“My condition.” Agatha began, before adding honestly. “I didn’t think it was so noticeable.”

“Perhaps not to my sisters, many have poor enough eyesight, but I used to be a midwife before I joined the sisterhood. Besides you are so tall, and this is your first is it now? So, it is not as obvious as it might be, but to a trained eye the signs were obvious.” Mother Superior added with a hint of a smile. “Your lover is the…”

“Father, yes he is.” Agatha finished for her. “And we are to be married, just as soon as he can come and find me, this child is very much wanted by both of us.”

“And yet you have hidden yourself away here?”

“It’s…it’s complicated.” That was the understatement of the century, and yet somehow Agatha managed to say it with a straight face.

“My dear, I hate to introduce an element of doubt but how can you be so certain? He would hardly be the first man to run away from his responsibilities, and that you have been left to fend for yourself and at such a time…”

“Mother forgive me you don’t know him. You don’t understand just what we have gone through together, I know Vlad would never ever just give up on me. He is coming, I guarantee within the month I will no longer be imposing on you…”

“Personally, I would say by the end of the day.” A familiar cocksure voice called out from down the aisle, interrupting Agatha’s impassioned defence and causing both nuns to whirl around in the pew.

Leaning against a stone pillar Dracula took in his first sight of Agatha in months. It was like being flung back in time, complete with habit and that piercing stare of hers. Only knowing her as intimately as he did, allowed Dracula to discern the different flickers of emotion, surprise, relief, even joy, before she settled back into her default expression of looking irritated with him…oh how he had missed that glare.

“Oh, now this takes me back…Sister Agatha it is such a delight to renew our acquaintance.” Dracula was amused beyond anything to see Agatha once again dressed as a nun, a suggestive grin spreading across his lips as he imagined disrobing her from such an outfit, or perhaps insisting she kept it on?

“Well if you didn’t wait four months there wouldn’t be a need to renew anything.” Agatha huffed, getting to her feet but refusing to be the one who went to him, he had kept her waiting and not the other way around. “What on earth could have been so pressing?”

“Oh, Sister many many things, but as of right now I cannot think of one that was worth the price. Come here beloved and I will show just how much I regret the delay.” Dracula retorted dragging his gaze up and down, licking his top lip as he practically salivated over his bride all dressed up and ready for him to ravish.

“Young man this is a house of god, we will have none of that behaviour here.” Mother Superior muttered, as there was no denying which gutter, even for a nun, just where their new arrival’s mind was.

“Oh, my good lady I very rarely behave myself.” Dracula added with a smile that could usually crack even the oldest and sternest facades.

“Yes, I can well believe it young man, men that look like you do very rarely have to.” Mother Superior added saucily, much to Agatha’s astonishment and Dracula’s delight. Dracula was so amused at being winked at by an elderly nun who is several centuries his junior, he was barely bothered by her interruption of their reunion and delay in his ravishment plans…his castle was relatively close and the things he wanted to do to Agatha required time and privacy.

Agatha was less than impressed by his retort, and lack of any sort of explanation or apology. Still she held her tongue until Mother Superior left them alone together, but if Dracula just thought he could walk in here and after four months….

“Ah so I’m still in the doghouse then.” Dracula took Agatha’s crossed arms and raised eyebrow as a challenge, winking back at the Mother Superior as she left, he stepped closer with the swagger of the devil.

“Would it help if I said I was very very sorry?”

“Hmmph…”

“Would it help if I got down on my knees?”

Dracula paused, dropping all too dramatically to his knees, his hands raised to the vaulted roof in supplication, yet he watched Agatha’s reaction closely, taking her barely contained roll of the eyes to mean that no it wouldn’t. Shuffling forward rather awkwardly on his knees, Dracula tried not to think about how these flagstones would be ruining his expensive Italian silk suit trousers.

“If I confessed all my sins and asked for absolution?”

Snorting Agatha shook her head, unable to contain a wry smirk as she retorted. “No one has that sort of time to waste.”

Returning Agatha’s smirk with a growing smile of his own, Dracula caught and held her gaze. “If I shouted that I love you and that I was a fool not to come sooner? For will, I will from this very belfry if…”

“Oh, get up you silly fool, no one in this town deserves to have their sleep disturbed by you and your silly shouting.” Agatha’s patience for his silliness and her own resolve to keep him at arm’s length finally at an end.

Staggering to his feet as ordered, Dracula’s shit eating grin turned soft as he closed the remaining paces between them. “Hello beloved, I have missed you.”, he said staring down to Agatha’s face, taking in the minute changes in her features, ones that only he would notice.

“You look pale, you haven’t been eating enough.” Dracula concluded, catching Agatha’s chin between his fingers. “Were you that worried I wouldn’t be coming for you?”

“Honestly your ego.” Agatha swiped his hand away from her chin but retained her grip on his fingers, part of her almost afraid he would vanish like some terrible dream. “Of course, I knew you would come; I’m just a little cross it seemed to take you so long.”

“I had good reason; I couldn’t risk bringing you back before I was certain it was safe.” Here Dracula paused, his gaze lingering on their surroundings. “And besides you seem to have found somewhere safe to hide away.”

“Yes…I…did.” Agatha emphasised every word with a jab to his chest, the unspoken no thanks to you, hitting home far deeper than any stake.

“I wanted to come every day, Agatha you have to believe that. Every day apart was agony for me.”

Part of her wanted to keep him dangling longer, to torment him the way not knowing had tormented her over the last few months. Yet the majority of Agatha now wanted to forget the past, to step into the love that was so openly on display. Slipping her hands up around his neck, Agatha allowed her relief to show on her face, blinking back the tears that threatened to break free.

“We forgive you.”

Smiling back Dracula leant forward, pressing first a chaste kiss to her upturned mouth, savouring the way Agatha smiled into it, then another light teasing kiss…before the niggle of a question irritated him enough to stop.

“We as in the royal we, or do you now speak on behalf of your almighty god my Darling?”

This time Agatha didn’t even try to contain her knowing grin from splitting her face, her eyes alight with the mirth of having a secret.

“I might advise you that hubris rarely ends well.” Dracula teased as Agatha’s mischievous reaction continued to pique his interest.

“Oh well I think I am empowered to speak on this entity’s behalf.” Agatha bantered back, savouring Vlad’s look of complete confusion. “We both love you very much you see…” She paused, sliding her hand down the firm plains of his chest, capturing his hand and bringing it to rest over the slight curve of her abdomen.

---/---

#dragatha #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #sister agatha #dracula fanfic

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floralseokjin · 4 years

Text

Seokjin gets horny in the middle of the night

⇢ and beyond timeline (after crystallised)

[saga index] [drabble index]

kim seokjin // smut // 2,324 words

“You awake?” Seokjin whispered into the darkness. You’d stirred once and now he was hovering over you like a gnat. There was silence your end so he tried again, murmuring your name.

“No.” Whatever he wanted could wait. Even if he could smell smoke, the fire could wait.

He was silent this time, probably trying to weigh your reaction. Thinking about the tone of your voice and what it meant for him. He decided to take a chance.

“I have a problem.”

The darkness swallowed his words. Your eyes were heavy, your mind was heavy, and you really didn’t want to reply to him, but of course you did it anyway. You were a sucker. “What is it?”

“I’m hard.”

He sounded pitiful and you groaned. You should’ve guessed. “You’re always hard.” You were surprised he was still alive with the amount of blood that sought permanent residence in his dick.

“Yeah but, only for you.”

You let out a laugh, sounded more like a scoff. How many times had you heard that these past few weeks? Romantic, in its own right, but tonight it wasn’t going to cut it. “That isn’t going to work right now.”

He moved, curling himself behind you, and as he wrapped his arms around your waist; one over, one under, he pressed his dick between your ass. Oh boy, was it hard. Thick and big in his underwear. It wasn’t long before his mouth was on your neck, kissing you almost hesitantly. He was trying to coax you. Coax you with his big dick and soft lips.

“I was trying to get to sleep but it just popped up out of nowhere,” he mumbled. He was definitely the victim in all of this. Victim to that thing pressing into your butt. Sarcasm intended.

You sighed softly. Your eyes were still closed but you felt an ounce more awake. “What time is it?” You remembered getting into bed at just gone 11pm. You’d left Seokjin scrolling on his phone next to you and had fallen asleep pretty quickly because you had work the next day.

“Late…” He trailed off. “Or early. Depends on which way you look at it.”

“What time is it?” You repeated.

“If I tell you there’s less chance of you folding.”

“If you don’t tell me, there’s an even bigger less chance of me folding.” You didn’t know if that made sense, still half asleep.

Seokjin groaned, giving in. “1am.”

“I have work at 9,” you whined.

He was kissing your shoulder now, rubbing your arm. Trying to butter you up. “I’ll wake up extra early. Make you breakfast in bed before you have to leave.” You didn’t believe that. He didn’t either. “You can call in sick,” he suggested instead.

You let out a croaky laugh. “Call in sick because my boyfriend was trying to fuck me at 1 in the morning?”

He hummed, voice low and grave. “I’ve heard that’s kinda serious.” You scoffed, attempting to shake him away but he latched onto you, whining pitifully. “Feel it. It’s crazyyyy.”

“I can already feel it,” you laughed. It had been digging into your ass for the past five minutes.

“No, no,” he complained. “With your hands.” Reaching out for them he struggled, hidden under your pillow. “Where–are–they?” You fought playfully with him until you gave up and let him have his way.

He clasped one and brought it back towards him, wrapping your palm around his underwear covered dick. “See?” You wouldn’t lie, gripping it sure made your insides jump around a little, but he didn’t need to know that. You grunted, trying to sound unbothered. “Mhm. Very hard. Poor you.”

You went to pull away but he pushed your body to his, pressing his chest into your back. “No. Please,” he half begged. “We don’t have to fuck. We can just y’know, do stuff.” Your hand still pressed around his dick felt it pulse in desperation.

That was it. You were convinced.

“I’ll jerk you off. Like this.” You raised your arm up a little, signalling this would be how it went. You’d be on your side, eyes still closed. You may have given in, but you were still calling the shots. “Then we go to sleep. That’s the deal.”

“Okay. Thank you. I love you.” He sounded more than happy to agree. Rolling onto his back immediately he pushed his boxers down just below his crotch, erection springing free. You took him in your hand and went to work.

Of course he had something to complain about a couple of minutes in. “Can you like…speed it up?” He tried to sound like he wasn’t asking. Voice barely there. “Grip it a little harder.” He couldn’t hide the restlessness though. He reached for you. “If you just get on your back–”

“Nope.” You weighted your body, Seokjin unable to flip you. “That’s wasn’t the deal.”

You heard him sigh, even if he’d tried to hide it. Soon, he turned towards you again, mouth on your jaw, his hand slipping under your t-shirt, rubbing the soft skin of your stomach. You smiled a little, enjoying the warmth and the touch of his skin and continued to lazily jerk him off, your arm twisted at an odd angle.

“Can I…” The tips of his fingers were dangerously close to the waistband of your underwear. “Can I put my hand in your underwear?”

You were relenting, a small moan of agreement slipping from your lips. As he sneaked under you twisted onto your back a little, reaching for his mouth. Eyes now open. His tongue came out immediately; wet, sloppy and needy. He gently circled your clit with the pads of two fingers, humming into your mouth. “Mm. Imma get you wet.”

You smirked and pulled back. “If you can get me wet, I’ll have sex with you.”

“Challenge accepted.” As confident as ever. You on the other hand were not. It was only a matter of time before he was pushing his dick inside you. A little teasing wouldn’t kill him though. “I can always get you wet, baby.”

“Can you?” You tried to think of anything but sex. The least sexy things and even the most scariest. Natural disasters, spontaneous combustion, feet… Anything to hold off the imminent. Anything to stop thinking about how good his hand felt down your pants.

You started pumping your fist a little faster around his dick, concentrating on that instead. it wasn’t a good hand job by any means, Seokjin would definitely agree with you, what with the shitty angle and your haphazard gestures, but he wanted to turn you on, so he played along.

“Oh yeah, keep going like that,” he moaned softly. “Feels so good.”

You scoffed. The liar.

He kissed you. Really adamant on making it as indulgent as possible. The hand in your underwear started to fidget. He was losing the game. Pressure getting to him. You weren’t that wet at all. Found out as much when he tried to push a finger inside of you.

“If you let me eat you out, I can get you wet.” His voice was low, speaking in murmurs. He was trying to tempt you.

“That’s cheating. Big style.”

“Mm.” He hummed against your lips, nibbling on the bottom one. “But like, my head between your legs. Your hands in my hair. I’ll let you tug extra hard. Won’t complain at all.”

You moaned, body betraying you, but you tied to keep a lid on it. “Mhm. Nope.”

“That was a moan.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.” He rubbed your clit a little quicker, celebrating loudly when he slipped down to your entrance and felt your sudden arousal. “You’re getting wet!”

“You cheated.”

“HOW?”

“You were talking about going down on me.” You grumbled. With that visual in mind you were bound to fail.

“See? That’s my power.” Bragging idiot. Despite that though, you moaned when he pushed two fingers inside of you. He moaned with you, pushing you onto your back fully. “Baby, you’re wet. I have two fingers inside you.”

You tried to suppress the pleasure. It worked long enough to let out another grumble. “I’m supposed to be doing stuff to you.”

“Nothing brings me more pleasure than when I’m pleasuring you.”

“Lame.”

He shrugged. “True though.”

“Okay,” you let go of his dick. “So I’ll just leave your dick all hard and sore while you make me cum. Then I sleep. Fine by me.”

“Nooo, you said we could do it if I got you wet,” he whined, rutting into your side. “I got you wet.”

You crossed your arms across your chest, Seokjin still fingering you slowly. “I changed it. If you make me cum right now, then I’ll have sex with you.”

“That’s so not fair,” he huffed, but then he realised it was hardly a horrendous deal, nor a hard job. He nestled up to you, kissing your lips once. “But it’s lucky your boyfriend is an orgasm master.”

You scoffed. “I’ve been faking them this whole time.”

“Damn, really? So have I.”

“Impossible. I’ve literally had to wash your cum out of my eye,” you laughed.

Seokjin joined you. “That’s so fucking gross.”

“Gross? You’re the one who overshot it!”

“Oh, don’t,” he whined. “Just thinking about that one time is turning me on. You were sucking the soul right out of my dick.”

You were glad your pain and panic was a turn on. Although, you got what he meant. Before the cum in eye situation it had been a fun, hot—very hot, time.

“Well, I’m not sucking your dick now,” you told him just before he got any ideas. He was already rubbing his dick all over your bear thighs.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, kissing you again. “I’m going to make you cum now.”

You pulsed. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Right now. I got moves I’ve been keeping from you.” On cue he curled his digits inside of you, finding your g-spot instantly. That wasn’t new. He had months of practice.

“Shut up,” you half yelped, the sudden spike of pleasure of course getting to you. “Why would you keep them from me? Who have you used them on? That’s not very fair.”

“Haven’t used them on anyone. Been saving them.”

“Well how do you know they work?”

“Just do,” he shrugged.

“Go on then.” You goaded.

He got you to cum in under five minutes. Underwear off, kept safe on your nightstand. He coaxed the orgasm from you like the cocksure pro he was. There were a lot of oh, my god’s, a lot of cursing and spluttering, and a lot of kissing. When you finally came up for air you were in disbelief.

“Was that a dream?” Surely it was. Surely you were still asleep and just lost in very realistic sex dream.

Seokjin shifted back, unsure of what to do with his sticky hand. He chose to wrap it around his dick and start moving, lubing himself up. Hm, practical. “Not gonna lie, I was pulling every move I had. Some I just made up on the spot. It might very well be a dream.”

“Someday your big talk is going to backfire.”

“Not a chance.”

Yeah, you were talking shit. You didn’t think so either. You took a breath. It was still shaky. “Do me, Seokjin. Now. I have work in the morning.”

He got to work instantly, stripping off his boxers. He’d already told he liked it when you were bossy and demanding. Whatever floated his boat, you guessed…

He turned to his side, pushing you to yours again. “Like this.” He rubbed the head of his dick up against your entrance impatiently. “Wanna feel your ass.” On cue he squeezed one cheek, hard and when you pushed into him he grunted, finally entering you.

He made a few indulgent thrusts, enjoying how wet and soft you felt, before he sped up, fucking into you again and again. He knew he didn’t have much time, and honestly, it was really hot to have him fuck you so urgently.

“I’m gonna cum,” he panted a few minutes later, hips stuttering. “Sh-Should I cum inside you? Back?”

“Inside.”

“But—”

“I’m showering in a few hours. It’s fine,” you told him. “Don’t be messy.” He had a habit of getting his cum everywhere sometimes. (Eg. Your eye.)

“But I can just clean up your back.”

“But then you have to put the light on and that’ll wake me up and—”

“Okay. I get it,” he interrupted. “Keep talking and I won’t be coming at all,” he muttered. Whoops. Way to ruin the mood. You shut up, albeit for the moans that flew from your mouth as he finished off.

He stayed inside you for a drawn-out moment, making sure his cum was well and truly deep inside you before he pulled out. You quickly reached for your underwear, fighting them on to prevent spillage as Seokjin rolled onto his back and laughed breathlessly.

He swept this hair back, puffing out some air. “I swear I cum a little faster each time.”

You found his boxers and threw them in his face, teasing him. “It’s because you luvvv me now.”

“Shut up.” He whined softly, unable to catch them in time.

“We needed to be quick anyway,” you grinned as he kicked them back on, kissing him once on the mouth. He didn’t even have a chance to kiss you back before you’d rolled onto your side and wrapped the blankets around your head. Your voice sounded from somewhere under them. “Good night. Love you. I’m expecting that breakfast in bed.”

There was silence as he made sense of what had just happened and then he chuckled quietly, leaning over to where he guessed was your head. He kissed the mound of blankets. “I love you too. Night.”

#seokjin smut #bts smut #jin smut #floralseokjin:writings #fic:crystallised

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lucky-bucky-boy · 4 years

Note

Do you have any headcanons for Ransom x virgin!reader with an age gap?

Nope, but I gotchu fam 👀

Warnings: sugar baby, ddlg-esque (no daddy kink, but definitely playing into the sugar baby thing), virgin reader, open relationship, dirty talk, sliiiiiight humiliation (if you squint), implied smut

Becoming a sugar baby, not such a bad idea

Becoming a sugar baby while still a virgin... questionable idea

And meeting Ransom was an.... unlucky lucky encounter

It was the absolute worst day

A fight with your roommate, an eviction notice, a late student loan bill, and being fired

The day could literally not have gone worse

Except it could, and it did

And you quickly found yourself wallowing in self pity in a little cafe in the middle of nowhere away from literally everyone

Mulling over every bill, every expense, and a laptop looking for jobs, sipping on your third coffee

Needing a break you stepped outside for fresh air, to come back in and see a brickhouse of a man standing over your stuff

"Do you mind?" you grumbled as you slid back into your booth

He gave you a shit eating grin as he helped himself to the seat across from you "I might have a proposition for you"

And that's how you ended up here, laying in the oversized bed of Hugh Ransom Drysdale's guest room, your scarce belongings set around the room

Itd been over month

And while at first he seemed too cocky and condescending, you couldn't pass up the money, gifts, and living space he was willing to give you for simply spending time with him

No, you weren't naive, you knew eventually spending time would need to be much more then reading books in each others company or listening to him complain

But he didnt force you

But you also couldn't get rid of that pang of jealousy in your chest as you saw the girl he brought home last night leaving through the crack of your door, following by him

Her giggling, his deep drawl, the sound of a smack to her ass, then the sound of a car driving off

You pulled yourself out of bed, trudging to the kitchen and completely and utterly moping

The change from your rather warm demeanor to this was quick to cause suspicion

"What's wrong with you?" His voice was already all knowing, cocksure and proud as it drifted in from his place in the living room

"Nothing," you grumbled, aimlessly searching through the pantry

"Nothing?" He chuckled, the sound getting closer and letting you know he had joined you in the kitchen

It was silent, uncomfortable and making you feel scrutinized

"You're jealous."

"Am not!" You were too quick to answer and when you looked back at him her was smirking.

"...okay, maybe a little but..."

He cocked an eyebrow at you

"I - why don't you wanna- you know," you mumbled, biting you lip as anxiety continued to bubble in you

"No, no I don't," his voice was dripping with a faux-coy, almost sly attitude

The whine that left you caused him to chuckle

"I want to hear you say it, little girl."

Now that, that right there

WHEW

"I want you to fuck me." Your voice was soft and just above a whisper

"Nuh, uh, louder. Need to make sure I'm hearing you clearly."

He was so close now you could feel the warmth radiating off of him

"I- I want you to fuck me. I want you to take my virginity."

He groaned softly, throwing his head back some before putting his face just centimeters from yours, breath fanning across your skin

"Now, now, would you look at that? Why would you think I wouldn't want the honors of defiling my sweet, innocent little girl?" His voice was beyond condescending, but somehow the tease in it only drew you to him more

"My bed, now. I'm going to make sure any man you even think of after me wont be able to make you feel good."

#ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom thrombrey #ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey smut #ransom #smut hour #ransom drabble #ransom drysdale drabble

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tsarifr · 3 years

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Alan Tracy

Astronaut

"I've got the brains, and I've got the moves"

Alan is the youngest, the baby of the family. For many years he watched his elder brothers go out without him, saving the world again and again, one rescue at a time. Time and time they left, confident and impressive figures bringing hope to those in distress, until finally they let him come, too. Thunderbird Three was ready and waiting for him, suffering the piloting of his brothers until he was finally permitted to join the ranks of International Rescue. It was a perfect match. He makes it look easy, his brothers mutter, quietly but never quite out of earshot. Alan is the youngest, but he's the genius pilot, one with his Thunderbird and powered by an instinct far beyond his years. It scares his brothers, how easily he throws himself into danger, but he also gets himself out, and there's no-one prouder than Scott at the idea that one day, once he has the experience behind him, he'll be the best pilot in the family - even if that means Scott loses his title. In the meantime, however, Alan is a teenager, and no innate skill is going to save him from all that entails. Overconfidence is a pitfall, one that a cocksure youngster who's better than good and knows it can't escape. Things go wrong, and in the cold, dark desolate cruelty of space, Alan learns the hard way that untrained genius isn't always enough. When Three goes down, little more than an empty husk in space, it takes prompting to remind him that he knows what to do. But he's learning, absorbing information like a sponge wherever it appears, and oh so slowly his jump first ask questions later is being tempered. He'll never be the cool voice of reason of John, but maybe he'll reach Gordon's level of maturity - as well as height. It's only a matter of time before he's no longer the shortest in the family, and they all know it. His brothers still don't let him out of their sight much. Solo missions happen, and as he gets older and slowly wiser they happen more and more, but it's still usual for another brother to come with him, leaving their own Thunderbird behind to watch him and Three work together from a front row seat (Gordon brought Four with him, one time, but neither of them are really designed for space). Usually it's Scott, the eldest, commander, and frantic big brother who can't quite admit the youngest is flying the nest. Alan's the youngest, the baby of the family, but he's growing out of his brothers' shadows one mission at a time.

#flight rising #flight rising lore #fr lore #fns: alan #fns: ir #dragon share #fandragon #coatl #thunderbirds are go #alan tracy

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

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Time Marches Ever On

Category: Friendship Fluff

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Characters: Osamu Miya, Rintarō Suna

Hey, everyone! I am super stoked to present my story for the @sunaosabigbang! Please also give my partner akira’s art some love! I hope you enjoy and it was a pleasure being part of the event this year~!

Osamu stared listlessly at the ceiling, watching the blades of the ceiling fan spin round and round with lidded dust-brown eyes. Slowly they rotated, spilling cool air down on him as he lay flat on his back in bed. Round and round, they turned, just like the world kept turning too; tick-tock, the clock ticked ever on, just like the alarm clock perched on Osamu’s bedside table. Time marched onward without distinction or prejudice, a different goal for everyone. For Osamu, that was the end of high school and the new chapter beyond. Except, Osamu didn’t know yet what to fill those pages with; they were blank, empty, just like his thoughts as he watched the fan blades slowly spin clockwise above his head. Round and round, ever on.

After several straight minutes of staring, his eyes began to sting from lack of lubrication, so he finally closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. Each day that passed he grew more and more unsettled and fell into these contemplative moods, just lying in bed wondering what was to become of him. He was too young to ruminate like an old man, but he simply couldn’t help it. The future was not clear to him, not like it was to his twin.

Atsumu knew in his heart that volleyball was his dream. He envied his twin for that, more than he’d ever envied him for anything. Atsumu just kept charging forward with that big, confident, cocksure grin on his face. Now Osamu felt himself lagging behind. It felt like he was slogging through wet cement, the thick muck drying on his feet and trying to lock him in place to weigh him down with all his insecurities. He opened his eyes, sadness and trepidation filling his dull, dusty-brown eyes.

He reached down to the volleyball sitting by his bed, scooping it up with one hand to put it on his chest. His hands wrapped around the ball’s surface, fingers exploring the ridges and grooves he’d come to know so well from the game. Atsumu always seemed so sure when he held a volleyball in his hand, like it belonged there. Yet to Osamu, who was so alike to Atsumu in so many ways, the ball felt foreign. He ran his hands over the smooth surface, like he had done many times before, yet he could still not banish the alien hint to the ball it had always carried for him. In his heart, Osamu knew that his destiny was not the same as his brother’s— and that scared him.

With a quiet “Tch!” Osamu chucked the volleyball at the wall. It collided with his dresser instead, filling the room with a hollow thunk. It bounced down to the floor, rolling several feet and coming to rest under Osamu’s bed— like it was hiding from him, like it was rejecting him. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he rolled onto his side and fisted his comforter. He had to make a decision soon; the clock ticked ever on, counting down the seconds to the precipice. As he mulled on his weighty internal debate, the screen on his cell phone lit up, shining bright in the late afternoon gloom. He picked it up to find that it was a simple news notification, but seeing the messaging app near the bottom of his screen gave him an idea.

He pulled up Rintarō’s contact information— which didn’t take long since he was near the top of his message log— and sent him a quick message asking what he was up to. When the other boy replied, Osamu had to smirk, oddly eased at how well his best friend knew him.

I already know what you’re going to ask, because you never ask me what I’m doing unless you want me to come over. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. What are we eating tonight?

Osamu rolled onto his back, quickly replying that he hadn’t decided yet before rolling the rest of the way out of bed. He flung his phone down onto the mattress, not even bothering to check the reply when his phone buzzed against the sheets. He dropped his pajama pants to change into a pair of sweats, not wanting to look like a complete mess in front of Rintarō, though his friend knew he was a mess anyway. Osamu was always a mess when he invited him over; it had become an odd staple in their relationship, Rintarō listening while Osamu ranted about his problems. Of course, when Osamu was stressed he tended to cook. He wasn’t really sure if it was the food that Rintarō was interested in or the notion of being a good friend, but nonetheless, Osamu appreciated the company.

Osamu smirked as his phone began to buzz insistently, indicating that Rintarō was calling him. He scooped it up and swiped to answer as he passed the bed, tucking it between his ear and shoulder while exiting his bedroom.

“Ignoring my text message? Rude,” Rintarō quipped blaisely on the other end of the line. Osamu chuckled, switching ears as he walked into the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator to see if any ingredients inspired him today.

“I didn’t know you were so needy, Rin,” Osamu joked, earning an irritated snort from Rintarō. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a kiss when you get here.”

“Ugh, you sound like your brother.”

“That was the point. I wanted to annoy you,” Osamu grinned while picking up a carton of milk to inspect it. He grinned wider when he heard Rintarō snap his teeth irritatedly through the phone.

“Can you do it another way, then? I really don’t want the image of either of you puckering up to kiss me, thanks.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. ‘Tsumu may be more popular, but I’m definitely the better kisser.”

“I’m turning around.”

“Nooooooo,” Osamu wheedled, draping himself over the refrigerator door with a pout. “Rin, I really need to talk.” There was a small moment of silence, followed by the distinct sound of Rintarō breathing out of his nose.

“Why do I put up with you…?” Rintarō muttered, but Osamu could hear the tone of defeat lacing his voice. Osamu smirked triumphantly and went back to ferreting through the refrigerator. He spied a package of ham and pulled it out, raising an eyebrow as an idea hatched in his mind. Some onigirazu would be quick and easy to make, he thought while bouncing the package of ham up and down in his hand. The sound of Rintarō driving buzzed through the phone; they often did this, simply existing in companionable silence as Rintarō made his way to the Miya twins’ residence. Osamu sandwiched the phone between his head and shoulder while he fished eggs and lettuce out of the refrigerator, then moved to the pantry to grab short-grain rice and nori sheets. He dumped all the ingredients on the counter, then, while holding the phone, surveyed them thoughtfully.

“Let me guess— you’re making rice balls,” Rintarō quipped suddenly, and Osamu could feel the smile in his tone. Osamu snorted derisively, crouching down to retrieve a skillet from a low cabinet.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I believe you have a fascination with rice.”

“It’s a Japanese staple!” Osamu protested while waving the skillet around emphatically. “I’m sorry that I can’t make a meal without rice or noodles when damn near every recipe in the country contains either!”

“Sounds to me like you need to get a little more original,” Rintarō chided with a teasing laugh, and Osamu puffed out his cheeks derisively. Rather than change his plans, Osamu was going to make the rice sandwiches out of spite now; grumbling, he marched over to the rice cooker, dragging the bag of rice across the counter with him.

“For your information, it’s not rice balls,” he informed with a matter-of-fact head waggle, tearing the bag of rice open. He retrieved a measuring cup and scooped it into a bowl, then carried it over to the sink, squashing the phone into his shoulder again. “It’s rice sandwiches.”

“Oh, well excuse me,” Rintarō said, and the snark in his tone made Osamu scowl. He drowned out the boy’s next snippety reply by flipping on the tap, sending a cascade of water gushing from the silver spout.

“Oh? What was that? I can’t hear you over washing my rice!” he cried loudly, spinning the grains around the bowl with his hands to clean off all the impurities. He just barely heard Rintarō snort over the grating of the rice against the plastic bowl and the thundering cascade of water. Though he wanted to keep it on for the rest of the phone call to drown out his friend’s chiding, that wasn’t good for the environment, now was it? Huffing, Osamu flipped off the tap and slapped a handheld strainer onto the bowl to drain the frothy water. “You’re such a dick, Rin,” he sniffed petulantly into the phone. “I’m not gonna cook for you anymore if all you’re gonna do is make fun of me.”

“I thought that was the beauty of our relationship, though?” Rintarō said, and Osamu had to smile, imagining the smirk that was painting his thin lips right then. He closed his eyes as he carried the washed rice back to the cooker and dumped it into the cooker, then grabbed his trusty measuring cup.

“Oh, so you can make fun of me but I can’t make fun of you?” he asked, walking back to the sink to fill up the cup. He kept the running water more gentle this time, more to avoid overfilling the cup than to avoid being rude.

“Exactly. I’m glad you’re following along.”

“I’m going to eat all the rice sandwiches before you get here,” Osamu warned, walking back to fill up the rice cooker with water. As he slapped the lid closed and set the timer, he heard Rintarō chuckle.

“Too late, I’m already here.”

“Fine. I’ll eat them right in front of you.”

“Oof, how heartless. You invite me over to ask some of my sage advice, and you won’t even feed me?” Rintarō pouted. The sound of his car door shutting echoed through the phone’s speaker.

“Nope. Matter of fact, I won’t let you in, either. You can give me your sage advice through the door,” he teased even while he was walking to the front of the house to let Rintarō in. The boy’s dry laugh sounded through the phone, followed by the sound of him hanging up. Osamu tucked his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants as he made it to the door. Rintarō must have heard him walking, because the boy piped up as he reached for the doorknob.

“All right then, what sage advice can I give today?” he shouted through the door, voice bleeding through the wood. Osamu snorted in laughter and shook his head; he always had to appreciate Rintarō’s gift of sticking with a joke. He flipped the lock and turned the knob, his hand on his hip as he greeted his friend with a smile. “Oh? Change of heart?” the dark-haired boy said with a raised eyebrow. “I knew you had some good in you, ‘Samu.”

“Just get in here before I become serious about not feeding you,” Osamu laughed and stepped aside. Rintarō walked into the entryway, shrugging out of his jacket and slipping out of his shoes like he’d done a hundred times before. As he tossed his jacket over the hook hanging on the wall, he looked at Osamu with narrowed eyes.

“Are you all right, ‘Samu?”

The question took Osamu by surprise; after talking with Rintarō, he’d begun to feel a lot better. He couldn’t lie to Rintarō’s trained eyes, however; the boy could read the tension still lingering in his body, the bags under his dusty-brown eyes, the uncertainty hiding in his expression and voice. Osamu sagged slightly, shaking his head at Rintarō’s ability to always get right to the point. Instead of replying, he just motioned for the boy to follow him; Rintarō complied, sliding into house slippers and shuffling after Osamu into the kitchen.

Rintarō slid into a barstool, clasping his hands and waiting patiently for his friend to gather his thoughts. Osamu retrieved his skillet and placed it on the stove, flipping on the burner. For a moment, he watched the blue-white flames dance beneath the gas burner and spread heat throughout the small space; yet it didn’t reach Osamu, who had begun to grow cold with the weight of the world slowly pressing down on him like a hydraulic press. Robotically, he walked to the refrigerator to grab some butter, slapping a chunk of it on the skillet and pushing it around with the spatula to melt it.

“Rintarō… Have you begun to think about the future?” Osamu started quietly. He heard his friend shift in the barstool, and through the reflection in the microwave in front of him, could see him push his fist into his cheek as he looked thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“Well, a little bit. I mean, we’re second-years going on third-years… We kind of have to think about it since college entrance exams and all that stuff will be coming up,” he said, pursing his lips slightly. “But, I certainly don’t have it all figured out or anything.” Osamu nodded, melting the last of the butter. He grabbed an egg and cracked it open; the whites bubbled and hissed as it came into contact with the hot pan, and the yolk swam within the clearish-white liquid, bright and gold like the sun. Osamu had always fancied his twin like the sun— bright, loud, confident— and he as the moon, merely reflecting its light and possessing no brilliance of its own.

As he cracked another egg open, he asked, “Do you think you’ll keep playing volleyball?”

“You mean, next year?”

“No, after that.”

“Hmm,” Rintarō frowned, a bit stumped by the question. “I guess I haven’t thought too much about it. But I do enjoy it, so I could see myself continuing on in college and maybe even community.” Osamu watched through the microwave reflection as Rintarō perked up, lowering his hand back to the counter to stare at his back in surprise. “Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah,” Osamu sighed, closing his eyes. He opened them again after a second, cracking two more eggs on the pan. He nudged the edges around with the spatula, waiting for the protein-based part of the egg to turn fully white and a little crispy around the edges before flipping them over, one by one, and taking care not to break the yolk. Not that Rintarō would care, as he’d scarf down any of Osamu’s cooking, but the young chef did have his pride. “Atsumu’s like that. He’s been talking a lot about what college and community teams that he’d like to play for. But I…” he trailed off, watching the eggs bubble on the skillet. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that, Rin.”

Rintarō didn’t answer, just watching as Osamu grabbed another skillet and put it on another burner, flipping it to a higher temperature. He slapped some more butter on the black surface, melting it to a bubbly liquid, and then pulled the package of ham to him. As he carved off some pieces that would fit in his rice sandwiches, he continued quietly, “Atsumu and I have always been a team. We’re twins, after all; we know each other better than anyone, like we’re really just two halves of the same whole or just the same person. But lately, I have the feeling that… I’m not as much like him as I thought.”

The ham sizzled as he laid it on the skillet, the pink-red meat roasting and filling the air with a hearty-sweet scent. “Atsumu is the star, I know that now, and I’m just a shadow that makes him shine brighter. I think I’ve always known that, deep down, but I was scared to admit it.”

“‘Samu, you’re just as good a player as Astumu is,” Rintarō piped up, and Osamu sighed frustratedly, his words not getting across quite what he wanted. He waved the spatula around as he tried to gather the jumbled-up thoughts he’d been ruminating on for nearly half the year.

“No, that’s not quite what I mean,” he frowned, poking at the eggs to see if they were ready. Deciding they were a good over-medium, he grabbed a paper plate and slid them off the skillet one by one, then walked over to the sink. He dropped it in and turned on the cold water; as it hit the burning hot, greasy surface of the skillet it evaporated immediately, filling the air with white wisps of steam. “I know I’m good, but… Atsumu shines because he enjoys volleyball with his entire soul, and I don’t think I can say the same.”

He left the skillet too cool in the sink before walking back to the stove, flipping over the ham before grabbing the lettuce. He pulled out the leaves onto the cutting board, chopping off a few before putting them in a paper bowl and carrying them back to the sink to wash them off. “I enjoy it, sure, but I think it’s more because I knew I could help Atsumu shine. But now, Atsumu is doing that well enough on his own, and I just…” he trailed off, the water filling the bowl and making the lettuce float as he stared off into space. “I want… Something of my own.”

He looked to Rintarō, who gazed at him levelly. There was no hint of judgment; there never was. Osamu could tell him his deepest, darkest, most selfish wishes and Rintarō would never look at him as a nasty person, never look at him like he was flawed. He would just look at him in understanding, like he was human, like he was just Osamu— and he appreciated that more than anything.

Osamu remembered the lettuce and flipped off the tap, grabbing some paper towels. He slopped the sodden leaves onto the absorbent paper and blotted them dry, then carried them back over to the counter near the stove. The ham had finished cooking as well, so he flipped off the burner and piled them onto the plate next to the eggs, giving the hot pan the same treatment as the one before. The rice cooker chimed pleasantly, indicating that it had finished as well, and he popped it open. He waited for the steam to billow up, condensing on the wall and the underside of the counter in little dewdrops. Osamu waited for the top layer of the rice to cool enough for him to handle with his hands before scooping it up and plopping it onto a plate.

“So you want something of your own, and you don’t think that something is volleyball?” Rintarō finally said, and Osamu nodded. He could feel Rintarō’s sharp, golden-yellow eyes studying his back as he shaped the bottom layer of the rice sandwich and then gently laid a lettuce leaf on top.

“Is that selfish of me?” Osamu asked quietly, pausing in the middle of scooping a thick chunk of ham onto the half-made sandwich. The barstool squeaked as Rintarō shifted on it.

“Why would that be selfish of you?”

“Atsumu and I are a team… I’m sure a part of him imagines that we’ll keep going on together, the great Miya twins, striking down our enemies on the same court.” There was no bitterness in his voice, just an acute sadness that he knew in his heart that his brother’s dream would never come true. “Is it selfish of me to quash his hopes like that? To make him go on alone?”

“Osamu,” Rintarō sighed, and the light-haired boy knew that he was getting serious by using his full name. Though his back was still to him, draping the egg on top of the ham and scooping another layer of rice on top so he could begin molding it into a sandwich shape, he still listened keenly to his friend. “That’s not selfish of you at all. You’re not responsible for Atsumu’s happiness. I’m sure he’s enjoyed playing with you, but if he throws a tantrum because you want to have your own dream, then he’s the selfish one.”

Osamu smiled wanly, grabbing some nori paper and wrapping it around the molded sandwich. Rintarō always put things so plainly, always put things in perspective when Osamu got too in his head; he appreciated that aspect about him, which is why he’d chosen him to always give him advice, even if it wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to hear. Even now, though he knew Rintarō spoke the truth, he hurt; his heart ached at the idea of walking a different path than his twin, the brother he’d shared a special connection with since the womb. Yet he also knew it would hurt to live forever in his shadow, focused more on Atsumu’s happiness than his own.

Tears glimmered on his dark lashes, making the rice sandwich in his hands blurry like watercolors. He heard the chair scoot when Rintarō slipped off of it, walking around the bar to enter the kitchen. He flitted behind Osamu, wordlessly walking to the sink to flip on the water. “Everyone wants to become their own person eventually,” he explained. Osamu watched out of the corners of his eyes as he grabbed the bottle of dish soap and a sponge, saturating the sponge in the thick blue liquid and frothing it up under the water. “It’s just part of being human, yanno.” He began scrubbing one of the greasy pans, spreading brown-tinged soap over the cast iron surface. “And you deserve that, ‘Samu. You deserve to live for yourself, everybody does.”

“Yeah,” Osamu said hoarsely. He sucked in a breath, blinking several times to dry his tears. The few that had bubbled up slipped down his cheeks, which he wiped away with the hem of his tee-shirt. He finished wrapping the nori paper around the rice sandwich before getting started on the next. “You’re right… It’s just, even though I spent my whole life knowing how Atsumu thinks, I don’t know how he’s going to react to this.”

“He’ll react how he does, and you’ll have to deal with that then,” Rintarō shrugged. “If he throws a little fit, he’ll get over it after he takes some time to think and clear his head. More than anything, he loves you and wants you to be happy. He’s your brother, and more than that, your twin.”

“Yeah,” Osamu smiled, patting the rice down between his palms. “That’s true. But he’s also a big brat.”

“Tch, you got that right,” Rintarō snorted, rinsing off the pan and grabbing a nearby dish towel to dry it. “He’ll definitely complain because he just can’t help but pitch a fit about anything and everything.”

“You called me heartless, but you’re the heartless one, Rin,” Osamu laughed, and his friend only responded with a shrug. He handed Osamu the pan to put away, then started on the next.

“How am I heartless? I came over here to listen to you whine, and I’m even cleaning your dishes for you. I’d call that generous.”

“You’re so full of yourself!” Osamu laughed, shaking his head and setting the finished rice sandwich on a plate. “Here, a reward for your hard work, Mr. Generosity.” Rintarō wiped the sudsy water off his hands before walking over to take the plate, leaving the half-cleaned pan in the sink for Osamu to finish later, probably. He shuffled back to the bar to plop into his seat, shoving half the rice sandwich in his mouth to chomp down on it. Osamu looked over his shoulder as he worked on the third, unable to keep from silently asking Rintarō’s opinion. His teammate chewed thoughtfully, then leaned into the bar with a small smile.

“I’d give it a solid seven out of ten,” he rated, making Osamu snort and grab the dish towel to chuck it at him. Rintarō caught it with the hand not currently occupied with the rice sandwich, waiting for Osamu to turn his back before lobbing it at his head. Osamu rolled his eyes and draped the dish towel over his shoulder, setting the finished sandwich aside before beginning on the last one.

“That’s not a very nice way to treat the chef.”

“The chef started it,” was all Rintarō said before filling his mouth with more of Osamu’s delicious rice sandwich. Osamu chuckled. He never could win with Rintarō; he always got the last word, but that was okay. There was a special affection in their little banter that always calmed him down when his nerves ran away from him, and of course, cooking for him always helped, too. Finally, he finished making his own sandwiches and walked over to the bar, climbing up into the stool next to his friend and exhaling deeply.

“I really do use rice a lot, huh?” he laughed as he picked up the sandwich, turning it over in his hands to inspect it.

“Well, as you said, it’s a ‘Japanese staple,’” Rintarō replied, his mouth full of rice and egg and ham. He made air quotes as he used Osamu’s words against him, making the gray-haired man snort and shake his head. Still, the phrase got him thinking. Instead of biting the sandwich, he tore it in half, watching the yolk ooze over the lettuce and ham and rice.

“You know, Rin, maybe I should start a restaurant.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… An onigiri restaurant. Onigiri is quick and easy to make, but there’s so many ways to do it,” he thought aloud, taking a small bite of the sandwich and chewing thoughtfully. Next time I’ll season the ham, he thought absently and swallowed. “I could probably make other stuff, too, like rice sandwiches and junk... I mean, a lot of people would be willing to pay for a ‘Japanese staple,’ right?”

“Probably,” Rintarō nodded, working on his second sandwich. Osamu had to smile; when Rintarō really enjoyed his cooking, he grew quiet. The two of them ate in silence for a few minutes, just the sound of their quiet smacking filling the air of the kitchen. There really were two things that defined his friendship with Rintarō, witty banter and companionable silence. Such a dichotomous set of circumstances, but they made it work pretty well, he thought with a sidelong glance at his friend. Rintarō had finished practically inhaling the food and pushed the plate away, turning to lean his cheek in his hand and look at Osamu.

“So, onigiri?”

“Yeah,” Osamu said after swallowing a bite. He tilted his head, looking at the half-eaten sandwich in his hand— specifically, the rice. Already, visions of onigiri danced in his head— filled with various premier filings, others with more traditional and nostalgic recipes, some soaked in soy sauce or miso and grilled. The possibilities really were endless. A smile bloomed on his lips as he imagined it, a food truck cart with just a kitchen for him, and smiling faces at his counter as he delivered warm food that would fill bellies and hearts. “Yeah,” he said again, a dreamy echo to his voice.

“It sounds to me like you’ve already got a great dream for yourself, ‘Samu,” Rintarō smiled, making Osamu look at him. His yellow eyes were slightly lidded and gazing at him proudly. “You should work hard for it. This is your court, after all,” he said with a gesture to the kitchen. Osamu looked at it, at the stove and his tools and the ingredients, and realized he was right. Osamu’s heart had always truly lied with fire and spices, with knife and spoon, with fresh ingredients and kitchen experiments. Sure, landing a spike was nice… But nothing had ever come close to the little flutter in his heart when someone took the first bite of his food and a smile had instantly sprung to their lips.

“Yeah, you’re right, Rin,” Osamu said, closing his eyes. “This is my court.”

Maybe he wouldn’t share the court with Atsumu anymore, but that was okay. Here on this court, he could learn to shine just as bright as his brother could. But that didn’t mean that they had to go completely their separate ways. They were brothers, twins. Osamu would always have his door and heart open for his brother. While Atsumu wowed the world with his show-stopping talent, Osamu would be on another stage, bringing home-cooked meals to the masses. Yet he’d always have a seat for his beloved brother, ready to give a listening ear and his favorite meal. A star athlete couldn’t perform on an empty belly, after all.

Osamu found himself smiling as he imagined it, more than he’d ever smiled while thinking about roaming the various courts with his brother. Time would march ever on, bringing them closer and closer to the fork in their road— but Osamu wasn’t afraid of that anymore. Roads were winding and interconnected, and so he and Atsumu would always find their way back to one another.

“Thanks, Rin,” Osamu said, opening his eyes to look back at his friend. When he did, he discovered that Rintarō had stolen the other rice sandwich off his plate and was chewing on it unabashedly. Osamu smiled wanly, shaking his head. “You could’ve just asked me to make you another, you know. You didn’t have to steal mine.”

“Well, it was just sitting there while you were all in your feelings,” Rintarō shrugged. “I figured that I would put it out of its misery.”

“What about my misery?”

“Eh,” Rintarō shrugged and jammed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. “You’ll live.” Osamu rolled his eyes and shoved Rintarō lightly in the shoulder, making the boy grunt and give him a small pout. His eyes brightened when Osamu slid down from the stool, and he hopefully asked, “Are you making more?”

“Yes, yes,” Osamu laughed with a wave of his hand, rounding the bar to the kitchen— his court. “Be patient, you fatass. You’ll get more.”

“You’re so mean to me, ‘Samu. I don’t wanna be friends anymore.”

“Fine, but no more of my cooking for you.”

“I was joking!” Rintarō cried, a little desperate. Osamu picked up his trusty spatula with a chuckle, looking back at him.

“That’s what I thought. Now, just sit there and watch a master go to work, will ya?”

Yes, this was his court, he thought as he looked around the kitchen with a soft smile. He was home here, even without his twin. He’d make art here, art for all to share as time marched ever on, bringing him closer and closer to the realization of a dream he’d start working on this very minute. Tick-tock, the clock ticks ever on, but he had nothing to fear now. The world was his onigiri to mold and make and fill with what he wished.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#sunaosa #osamu miya #miya osamu #suna rintaro #rintaro suna #suna rintarou #rintarou suna #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#inarizaki

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