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gracexthoughts · 16 days

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of violent delights chap 16

too sweet

7 june 1996

Euphemia’s POV

We made it back to the hospital wing last night in the nick of time and the discovery that Sirius had escaped sent Snape into a conniption. I won’t deny it was slightly amusing; while Snape tends to be nicer to me than Harry, he’s still a prick. Pomfrey let Harry, Hermione, Ron and I leave the hospital wing at noon this afternoon, although most of the students are at Hogsmeade for the last trip before the train leaves tomorrow.

Exhausted, I’ve chosen to rest instead of going to Hogsmeade. We may have gone to bed around eleven last night, but I added about 3 extra hours to my life so I feel like I stayed up most of the night but first, Harry and I decide to pay a visit to Lupin. His office door is open and as we enter, I notice most of his things have already been packed. “Hello Mia, Harry,” Lupin says before he turns to see us, “I saw you coming,” he smiles and motions to the Maruader’s Map open on his desk. He has more scrapes across his face and he looks terribly pale. “I’ve looked worse.”

“You’ve been sacked?” Harry asks, looking around.

“No, I’ve resigned. Professor Snape let slip the nature of my condition and I feel its best to get ahead. At this point, the outcome is inevitable.” Lupin sighs, taking books from the shelf behind his desk and into a case.

“That’s not fair! You didn’t hurt anyone! Maybe Dumbledore-”

“Dumbldore has already risked enough on my behalf,” Lupin interrupts me, raising a hand to stop me. “By this time tomorrow, owls will start arriving with angry letters from parents. Like I said, it is inevitable. It’s alright, let’s just say I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t make it fair,” I sigh. “You’ll come live with us, won’t you? Now that Sirius can’t, we have the room.”

“I will visit, I promise, but I won’t stay. I have my own place in London and you don’t need a guardian anymore, Mia.” Lupin moves around the desk and leans against it to face us. “I’m quite proud of the two of you and how much you learned this year. Tell me about your Patronuses.”

Harry and I tell him what happened, both times, and what forms our charms took. “Our father, his animagus form was a stag wasn’t it?” Harry asks at the end of his story.

“Yes, that’s why we called him Prongs,” Lupin says, smiling faintly at the memory. He stands suddenly, as if just remembering something important, and moves back around his desk and hands harry back his Invisibility Cloak. “I brought this back from the Shack this morning. And, since I am no longer your teacher, I feel no guilt about giving this back to you as well,” he says motioning to the map. “I dare say that James would be very disappointed if his children never found any of the secret passages in the castle.” We all chuckle at that.

“None of it made any difference,” Harry says sadly, looking down at the cloak in his hands, “Pettigrew got away and Sirius-”

“Is alive. That makes all the difference in the world,” Lupin implores, looking very deeply into Harry’s eyes as he places a hand on his shoulder. “You did a very noble thing, stopping us from killing Peter. Your parents would have most certainly done the same, and Sirius may not be absolved but he is free. And the two of you are certain of his innocence. That, for now, is enough… Now, I must say goodbye. Send me an owl once you are settled in your apartment, okay?” Lupin asks, handing me a small piece of parchment with an address scribbled on it.

“I will,” I nod, smiling up at my godfather and he nods, picking up his suitcase and his walking stick but before he does, he turns to the map still on his desk and, with a flick of his wand, mutters “Mischief Managed,” with a nostalgic smile and leaves the office and the classroom, leaving Harry and I in his office in silence, just the two of us once again.

✦

Mattheo’s POV

I step into the already raging party, instantly hit with loud music and flashing lights, the air is thick with warmth and smoke as a majority of the student body celebrates the end of the school year. I push through the crowd until I see Theo, Enzo, Elladora and Astoria and make my way towards them.

“Hey mate, finally decided to stop moping and join the party?” Theo chuckles, lightly smacking my shoulder.

“Shut up,” I grumble and take the liquor bottle that he’s holding and take a swig.

“Why were you moping, Mattheo?” Astoria asks from the arm of the chair to my left.

“He got stood up by the princess last night,” Enzo says sitting down next to her, his comment making Theo chuckle. Enzo and Theo had been the unfortunate two that were still in the common room when I finally came back last night and I told them everything which I am now severely regretting.

“You planned a date with her?” Elladora cries, disgust on her face.

“No!” I growl, reaching around Astoria to smack the top of Enzo’s head. “We were supposed to have rounds. She bailed and I am not moping.”

Ella watches me for a moment before stepping closer and leaning up to whisper in my ear, “When she breaks your heart don’t come crying to me.” And with that, she shoves past me and further into the party.

“For the record, I think the two of you would be great together, Matt,” Astoria says, squeezing my hand for a moment.

“Yeah, The Girl Who Lived and the Heir of the Dark Lord. Common sense pairing really; what could go wrong?” Enzo mutters behind his drink, earning another smack but from Astoria this time.

“Why should that matter? The war is over and your father’s gone, isn’t he?”

“I need a drink. Feel free to stop discussing my life,” I grumble and turn away from my friends, their laughter following me. I push through the crowd towards the back wall of the room where the drink table is and at it, I see a familiar figure making a drink.

“Well, well, well, look who I found,” I say lowly in her ear, startling her and she turns to face me.

“Hey! You scared the shit outta me!” Mia says, her face lighting up with a large smile.

“Hey Princess,” I say with a small smile. She’s wearing lightly distressed jeans and a tight and cropped green shirt which makes her auburn hair look more vibrant; all this to say she looks fucking hot. “You look great,” I say, resisting the urge to tell her how good she looks in green and how lovely she’d look wrapped up in the dark green sheets of my dorm bed.

“Thanks,” she says, her cheeks flushing as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Hey listen, I’m so sorry about last night,” Mia says earnestly, “The whole thing was so much more complicated and insane than I ever could have guessed and I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry.” Her green eyes are wide and honest and all the bitterness that has sat in my chest the last 24 hours melts away.

“‘S’arlight, Mia. No big deal,” I say with a shrug, hoping I’m hiding the disappointment I felt last night.

“I’m even more sorry that my brother interrupted us yesterday,” she says, picking up the drink she had been making and taking a sip.

“We do seem to get interrupted a lot, don’t we?” I chuckle, pouring myself a cup of Firewhiskey. I tell myself that us getting interrupted is for the best but still everytime I’m left wondering what would have happened if we were left alone for another minute or twenty. “So, what happened last night that was such a mess?”

“Ugh, Godric,” she sighs with a chuckle. “It’s a very long story but it involved a secret tunnel, a werewolf, a rat, a dog and several dementors.”

“Bloody hell, what did you get yourself into this time?” I chuckle, eyes wide and Mia laughs.

“A mess for sure,” she laughs. “But it ended up being for the best, I think.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with the runaway hippogriff and Sirius Black escaping, did you princess?” I ask, stepping closer, and very intrigued at hearing her story.

“That’s preposterous!” She exclaims, sarcastically scandalized.

“Salazar, it’s a party, Potter, not school. Who actually speaks like that?” I tease.

“Huh, and here I was starting to think you liked the way I talk,” she fires back without a moment’s hesitation, her eyes flicking to my lips only for a moment.

“Hey, Mia, there you are. You said you’d be right back and I got worried. Everything okay here?” One of the Weasley twins asks, his eyes boring into me as I step back from Mia and he wraps an arm around her. Mia’s shoulders tense slightly as irritation flickers in her eyes for a split second.

“Peachy,” I deadpan, returning his gaze as I take a long sip of my drink. Interrupted, again.

“Hey, Freddie, Matt and I were just talking. Do you need a drink?” Mia says and I suppress a smile at Mia using my nickname so casually in front of Fred because it seems to cause him to bristle. Fred raises an eyebrow and looks back to me, his arm still around Mia’s shoulders casually, the sight twisting my gut into a knot.

“Oh yeah? Sure, I’ll take a drink,” he says, not taking his eyes off me as he grabs an alcoholic Butterbeer bottle but it seems like he’s had quite a few already.

“Yeah, Freddie. No need for a guard dog,” I sneer, leaning back against the table, my gaze not leaving Fred’s, jealousy raging in my stomach and chest. Fred stiffens, his jaw ticking, as Mia moves out from under her arm.

“Okay, unnecessary,” she snaps at me before looking back to Weasley. “Can the two of you cool it with whatever macho-testosterone-filled-pissing contest you’ve had going all year? Unless you’d rather go to the bathroom and measure them just to finally settle it all?” Mia snarks. “Mattheo and I are friends now, I told you that earlier, so there’s no need to be protective,” she says to Fred before turning to me, ”and there’s no need to be defensive.” She looks between the two of us, daring one of us to defy her.

“Mia, how can you be friendly with him? His father-”

“I am very aware, Fred, and if I, of all people, can move past it then certainly you can as well!” Mia fires back, interrupting Fred.

“I don’t need you to defend me, princess,” I bite out, my gut twisting more and more every time Mia looks at him. Mia turns to me, hurt hiding behind her eyes and I immediately regret saying it.

“Hey, don’t talk to her like that!” Fred snaps, reaching out to push me back but I swing on instrict, my fist connecting with his face, and force him to stumble back.

“Stop!” Mia cries, stepping between us as a crowd forms a circle around us. Mia pulls Fred’s hand away from his face, nothing bleeding but he’ll take a shiner home tomorrow. Fred pushes Mia behind him, her much smaller frame easy for him to push back as he comes to get in my face, using the inch of height he has on me to his advantage.

“You leave her alone. She has enough trouble in her life without you adding more,” he says lowly to me, trying to be threatening but, to me, the pranksters of Hogwarts are just clowns.

“Back up, Weasley, or I’ll send you home to your mummy in a box,” But I don’t get a chance to make good on my threat as Mia wrenches Fred back by his arm and starts shouting at him how she’s not a helpless damsel in distress and she doesn’t need him to protect her from anyone but I stop listening and stalk through the crowd and out of the party.

At the back of the room, there's a slightly hidden staircase that leads up to the boat house and the lake. I take the stairs two at a time, no longer in the mood for parties or people, and take a deep breath as the warm night air hits my face and enters my lungs. She’s too good for you. She’s better off without you in her life, the voice in my head reminds me, souring my mood further as I reach for a cigarette. I try to spark my lighter but it refuses to light, out of fuel, and angrily I chuck it into the water of the Black Lake, sending ripples across the otherwise still waters as I sit on the edge of the ancient dock.

I sigh, looking down at the unlit cigarette in my hand and try to snap the fingers of my free hand, desperately hoping to produce a flame long enough to spark. After a few tries, I manage it; a small but steady flame at my fingertips, the warmth dancing along my skin but not burning, and I inhale the smoke into my lungs and let the flame extinguish. The waning moon shines brightly on the surface of the lake and the hum of insects and birds and creatures fills my ears, slowly draining the angry blaze in my chest to smoldering embers.

I don’t know how long I sit here, smoking and staring at the water and thinking about Mia; the physical manifestation of all I want in the world and everything I can’t have. Of course the first girl I want more than one night with is her. She’s too good, too sweet, too gentle for the likes of me. Men like me don’t get the girl, they don’t get happy endings, they don’t get what they want and I hate myself for allowing my heart to convince my brain that I could have all that. I take a final drag of my cigarette and flick the roach into the water, sending more ripples across the surface as it floats away with my hope.

“That’s littering, you know?” A voice pulls me from the dark depths of my own mind and I turn my head to see Mia standing by the stairs.

“Gonna give me detention? Get a head start on next year?” I ask dryly, turning back to look out at the water. I hear Mia’s footsteps across the wooden dock until she appears in my peripheral and sits next to me at the edge of the dock.

“I’m really sorry about Fred. He’s drunk and he’s being stupid and protective and a jerk. He shouldn’t have brought up your dad, you don’t deserve that, I’m sorry,’’ she says, her voice soft and gentle.

“‘S fine,” I grumble, resisting the urge to look at her.

“No it’s not. He was totally out of line, that’s not okay,” she implores. When I don’t respond, she reaches out, placing her hand on my knee and setting me on fire, but I can’t give in to it, I can’t, so I pull away and stand up.

“I’m used to it. It’s whatever. Have a good summer, Potter,” I force myself to say, sparing one glance at her beautiful face clouded in hurt, before I tear my eyes away and start back towards the party.

“So that’s it?” Her voice rings out, stopping me in my tracks against my will. “The year is over and you’re just going to go back to hating me? Pretend that nothing happened this year? That something didn’t change between us? That there’s nothing here? You’re just gonna run away because you’re scared?” Hurt clouds her voice, changing it from the clear, sweet, tempting sound I’m so used to and I turn around to face her. She’s standing now, her back to the water and her hair blowing out behind her in the gentle breeze, her eyes dark in the low light but confusion shines in them. Even with her face in shadows and her features contorted by pain, she’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

“I’m not scared,” I manage to say, my fists clenched at my side.

“Then why are you acting like this? C’mon Mattheo, we’ve been towing this line for months and you’re going to just walk away? Try and make me think it's all been in my head?” She asks, moving to close some of the distance between us.

“Mia,” I breathe out, her magnetic field threatening to pull me in the closer she gets to me.

“No. Say it. Tell me it's all in my head,” she implores, looking up at me pleadingly, like I am her last life line.

“Stop.”

“I'll stop if you can look me in the eyes and tell me its all in my head...You can’t say it, can you?” She asks, now a mere breath away from me, her perfume invading my senses and it takes all of my crumpling willpower to not reach out and touch her. “You’re many things, Mattheo Riddle, but you are not a liar. Not to me. You can’t say it because you know it's not true. You’ve felt it too.”

“I’m not a good man, Mia,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m not a good person and I’m not going to pretend I am because running around pretending you are a good person is worse than just accepting you aren't one. I’m not good for you; everything I touch I break and I don’t want to break you.”

“I think you are a good person. I’ve seen it, I know it. You’re just afraid to show anyone because you think it makes you weak but it doesn’t!”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I snap.

“Fine, then prove it!” She says so loudly it echoes over the water for a moment. We stand there for a moment completely still, our eyes locked and our breath uneven. I want nothing more than to close the distance between us but I don’t because she’s right. I am scared. I’m scared because there is no way this works out well. I’m not a good man and I’m not a good partner and she deserves the world and I could never give it to her. “Why are you so bloody stubborn?” She breathes out, shaking her head slightly before she takes a step forward and, cupping my face in her hands, presses her lips to mine and my world explodes.

All my willpower crumples under her touch and I give in; my hands find the bare skin of her waist, pulling her body closer to mine, as our lips move in tandem. All I’m aware of is her; her lips, the way she smells and tastes, and the feel of her body pressed against mine. The world could implode around us and I wouldn’t notice, all my senses are consumed with her. Her hands are in my hair, tangling with my curls and I pull her impossibly closer as my hands clutch her to me desperately; one still on the bare skin of her waist and the other on her cheek, wrapped up in strands of her hair that is as soft as I’ve always thought it looked. I kiss her like the world is ending, like a starved man who hasn’t eaten in years, like kissing her could absolve me of all the darkness in my soul and make me anew.

She pulls away slightly after a moment, both of us breathless, and I’m in awe of her like this: her lips swollen, hair tousled and pupils dilated. “Matt,” she says breathlessly and I lean back in, capturing her lips once more. I step her backwards until her back is pressed against the wall of the boathouse, eliciting a small gasp from Mia’s mouth as her bare skin collides with the cool glass. I smirk against her lips, pressing further into her body as I deepen the kiss, taking advantage of her gasp. My body takes over, no longer thinking through my actions or their consequences, and I just feel. All that exists to me in this moment is us and for once I’m not the son of the Dark Lord and she’s not The Girl Who Lived. We are just Mattheo and Euphemia, Matt and Mia, and right now that is more than enough.

a/n; ahhhh!!!

yes this is named after too sweet by hozier bc its sooooo mattheo riddle coded and fit really well and I was listening to it while i wrote this. also this gif makes me literally feral so enjoy ;)

one more chapter to go in PoA year and then we get to move on to GoF so yay!

taglist; @purplegardenwhispers @somethingswiftandstyles @weasleyreidstyles @mayamonroem @girlbooklover555 @stxrszurzolo @abaker74

#harry potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction #matteo riddle #hogwarts #hogwarts oc #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hp fanfic #wizarding world #hogwarts houses #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #matty riddle #of violent delight

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collecting-stories · 1 year

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Jealous - Brian 'Otis' Zvonecek

Request: I thought about Brian’s ex coming to town maybe Katie and reader gets jealous seeing how he reacted to her when she stopped by the firehouse. Fluffy ending of him putting her mind at ease that she’s his future and he loves her. Tysm for doing this❤️❤️

A/N: I found this in my drafts and realized I never finished it.

One Chicago Masterlist

✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎

“Look, I get it,” you stressed, trying to make your voice sound a nonchalant as you weren’t feeling, “Kelly’s dad died and that’s awful and of course Katie is gonna come to the funeral...I just don’t know why she had to come here. To 51. To see Otis.”

From the look on Stella’s face you knew that your nonchalance wasn’t anywhere near believable. And how could it be? You remembered Katie from last time, something that you knew Sylvie knew just from the sympathetic look on her face when Katie came walking onto the app floor that morning. You and Otis were just friends back then but you’d had a crush on him, one that you were fairly certain he had picked up on until he’d announced to you and Cruz that he was dating Severide’s sister.

“She told him she’s got a boyfriend back in...wherever. I’m sure this is just a nostalgic trip down memory lane.” Stella tried, really she tried, but the words weren’t going through. Sylvie had tried this morning when ambo got called out on a run before you’d even sat down for briefing. And Cruz had tried when you came back and found Otis in the common room laughing at whatever hilarious thing you were sure that Katie had said to him.

Probably something along the lines of ‘breakup with your partner and date me instead. Remember how much fun we had together? And you didn’t have to explain the inner-workings of Catan to me.’

“It better be.” You grumbled, slamming your locker door a little louder than you meant to. There hadn’t been a call since the one that pulled you away from Otis and Katie’s initial reunion and in all honesty you were hoping there would be a call soon just to get you out of 51 and focused on work. Couldn’t some uncoordinated Chicagoan have a slip and fall or something? Anything to get you away from them and all the thoughts swirling in your head. You didn’t want to seem like you were lurking or eavesdropping on their conversation and you wanted to seem like the cool partner, the person who could let their boyfriend and his ex hang out without feeling any jealousy. But it was the exact opposite and if Stella knew, everyone else probably did too.

You left the locker room still somewhat aggravated, talking to Stella had helped you vent but it hadn’t given you any peace of mind. You still didn’t want Katie there and you were still annoyed that Otis had been so happy to see her. It wasn’t really his fault and you knew that. If there was anyone in the world that was guaranteed to have positive, healthy relationships with their exes, it was definitely Otis. What wasn’t to love about him? But knowing that just made the feeling in the pit of your stomach ten times worse. Why did he have to be so nice? Couldn’t he just be an asshole? Or maybe just an asshole to Katie? No...you didn’t want that either.

“Hey, there you are!” Otis’ voice startled you as you turned to see him standing there in the in the hallway outside of the lockeroom. No Katie in sight, thankfully. You’d heard him mention something about a tour of the firehouse (as if anything had changed since the last time she was here) before you’d snuck off to the lockers.

“Where’s Katie?” You asked, glancing over his shoulder as if she would materialize.

“Just in,” he pointed back to the common area, “wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine.”

Otis looked immediately skeptical and you crossed your arms defensively, trying to play off you tension as calm, still hoping that the alarm would go off. Even if it was a fire, you’d rather everyone go than have to be stuck here one more moment with Katie and Otis. You definitely didn’t want to go back into the common room and have to sit there at the table and listen to the two of them share stories and reminise about the past.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. It wasn’t even like you were being rational in your annoyance. Otis had introduced you as his partner immediately. The practical second after he said hello to Katie he was dragging her over to you and introducing you as if you were the best piece of his life in Chicago that he could share with someone. But still, you hadn’t been able to quell the voice in your head. “Fine.”

Otis’ skeptical look turned contemplative, as if he was working something out. “Wait a minute...are you jealous?” He looked like he almost didn’t believe the words when he said them. As if it was such a crazy notion that saying it out loud made him feel like he was being ridiculous.

You huffed, shoulders slumping. Otis’ mustache twitched as he smiled, correct in his analysis. “I really like Katie,” you defended, lowering your voice so no one would overhear. “She seems super nice and I can totally get why you went out with her.”

“Can you totally get why I’m not interested in her now?” He asked, “Cause I love you and that’s not gonna change just cause my ex is in town?”

“Yeah, yeah...I know.” You replied, defeat evident in your voice. “I don’t know I just saw her and you were so excited to catch up. It’s totally irrational, I know that! I just...ugh god. I can’t explain it.” You huffed. “Stop smiling me like that.”

Otis’ smile didn’t diminish. He couldn’t deny that you getting jealous felt like a bit of an ego boost. That someone could love him so much that they were bothered by the idea of him hanging out with an ex. “Sorry, sorry, just kinda cute how annoyed you are.”

“Oh yeah, how cute would it be if I had an ex come to town and spent the whole afternoon with them?” You asked, hands on your hips.

Narrowed eyes, Otis’ smile turned to a slight grin. He knew what you were getting at and frankly, he knew you were right. Maybe it was silly that you were bothered by Katie but he knew if any ex of yours showed up at the firehouse he would be acting a lot worse. Less hiding in the locker room and more showboating. “Lets just not have exes, problem solved.”

“Well I doubt I’ll have any more.” You replied, the alarm finally blaring in the background.

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one-way-dream · 1 year

Text

A Lack of Essence (One-Shot)

Rating: General

Words: 3100+

Media: Danganronpa, Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc

Pairing: Aoi Asahina/Sakura Ogami, Minor Hajime Hinata/Nagito Komaeda (Mentioned)

Tags: Post-canon, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Pining, Feelings Realization

Warnings: Descriptions of an anxiety attack.

Chapter: 1/1

Link to the original work

AO3 Summary/Excerpt:

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

Aoi tries to make donuts like the ones she made in the past, but she feels like there's something missing.

Author's Notes:

i love sakuraoi and i've never written them before so here's a little brain dump before i forget that i ever wrote it and it rots in my computer forever fdjshfksdfsdf asahina aoi my oomfie ❤ as always, this is not beta-read

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy!

Aoi doesn’t like the taste of the doughnuts being made nowadays.

Sure, the ingredients were much fresher, – at least compared to whatever Junko had arranged for them during their days trapped in the school – but something about the taste was… inadequate.

Whatever it was, it frustrated Aoi to no end.

With every passing year it felt like something was slipping away. That ‘something’ twisted deep in her chest, gnawing away and taking parts and pieces of her until she gave in to tears. Until she felt hollowed out from breaking down time and time again, however far and in between it may happen.

Despite the kind words Makoto shed time and time again, she never really considered herself a strong person. Sometimes Aoi wondered what she would think of her moments of weakness, years after their escape, years after her sacrifice.

A heaviness weighed on her shoulders, bringing her back to the present, where she absentmindedly leaned over a shallow pot of oil gone lukewarm – which subsequently meant that the test batch of doughnuts she’d set to the side had definitely gone cold while she was lost in thought. She blinks, clicking her tongue in irritation as she stares down the pastries, wondering how she was careless enough to even forget setting a timer on her phone.

Well… better off a little cold than burned to a lump of coal.

Aoi takes the plate off the edge of her kitchenette counter and sets it on the breakfast bar. She pulls the curtains apart to let the evening light fill the shadows of her small but tidy studio apartment. A sleepy marmalade sun has yet to rest behind the silhouette of the rebuilt city. Somehow the light begins to fill the shadows in her mind too; not completely, but just enough to pinch her cheeks and huff out a determined breath.

“This is it,” she whispers to herself, furrowing her eyebrows in concentration. “This has to be the one.”

Nimble band-aid covered fingers dart across her phone screen before she even considers taking a bite, sending a text message to Makoto, hoping that he wouldn’t mind Aoi sending her seventh consecutive message of the day.

>[7:08 PM] Heyhey, Naegi! I’m about to try out the new recipe you got from Hanamura-san! Wish me luck. :)

A quick tap on the paperclip icon and then a few more before the image is delivered to him. She smiles down at her phone a little at the picturesque scene of her evening snack neatly plated on her favourite porcelain, the paper towel beneath it splotched with oil and stray bits of cinnamon sugar shimmering in the sunlight. Everything looked perfect.

The arrangement feels awfully nostalgic; memories overtake her of large but gentle hands working side by side with her, the other insisting that ‘food tasted better when presented with care’. It’s nostalgic to the point where familiar feelings begin to rouse in her heart at the memory – but she pushes it down. The grip on her phone gets tighter until her hand starts to tremble.

Not yet.

Not now.

Aoi quickly sets the phone down and swallows thickly, though she finds her mouth drier than usual despite what was supposedly a perfect rendition of her favourite food lying before her. Even during the killing game, her appetite had never dwindled at the sight of doughnuts. She smiled brightly for herself as encouragement, as if practising in front of a mirror like the many times she’d done on her worst days before stepping out for work.

Why… did she feel this nervous? And why did she feel so afraid of disappointment?

Finally, she reaches out and picks up a doughnut by the edges, where the caramel-esque sugar just barely grazed her fingertips. Surprisingly it’s still a little warm, and truthfully, it's unbelievable that it’s this soft even after cooling down.

The numb buzzing still clings to Aoi’s mind, and while it usually wouldn’t be an appetite killer, today nothing really feels right. But as soon as the sweet and spicy aroma reaches her nose, her mouth waters instinctively, eager to partake in old indulgences. With a bit of optimism, she leans forward and takes a small and hesitant bite, careful not to let her thoughts sour the experience.

Even though her mind wasn’t quite swayed by the thought of doughnuts, her tastebuds immediately gave into the familiarity. The first thing that she notices is that it’s just as soft and light as it feels, almost unbelievably so, as it melts in her mouth in an array of flavour ranging from a delicate mellow sweetness to a hint of mild spice. The taste coats her tongue without being overwhelming somehow – without a doubt, the recipe is a decadent masterpiece. Simply pure art.

Aoi reigns herself in and manages to wolf down the last quarter of it without inhaling any topping sugar by accident. Eventually, as she chews, she comes down from the high and her mind wanders again. If she were her younger self, the one before the killing game, she could have died peacefully knowing that this was the best that she’d ever get.

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

Aoi’s own voice echoes the words she didn’t want to admit in the back of her head, so strongly that it makes her flinch.

It pulls her out of the delight by drowning it in the frustration she’d feared time and time again. It’s disappointment that finally settles in her mind despite everything; as sticky, heavy, and gross as the bitter kuromitsu her mother was so fond of. As she swallows down the last bit of the pastry clean from the side of her cheek, she finds that there is a flaw to it after all: there’s a stale aftertaste.

For something so seemingly perfect, even this had its flaws. It lacked something. Or maybe there was too much of something?

But… just what was it? Aoi’s brows scrunched together as she mulled it over, wiping the grease and crumbs off her fingertips onto the clean parts of the paper towel. No distinct taste from a lack of ingredients? No, probably not, given that it called for cinnamon and the barest hint of clove and spices she’d never even heard of. Maybe there wasn’t enough sugar? Oh, but the cinnamon sugar dusting should’ve covered that base as well.

It just… wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough.

She just had to accept the facts – nothing she will ever make from here on out could ever be the same as the ones she and Sakura made together.

But the question was: could she live with that?

Aoi sighs deep and forlorn, leaning back against the barstool as her gaze veers out the window overlooking the growing shadow of the cityscape, eventually trailing back to the remaining three doughnuts.

Old feelings come back with a vengeance at the sight, thrashing in her chest like a small bird trapped in a cage. She clenches her knuckles white and then relents, at long last – she doesn’t want to fight the feeling anymore today. At least for today, even if she knows the cost is that it won’t end well.

She takes a deep breath and smiles, genuinely this time, wondering how Sakura would look like bathed in the light of sundown like she is now, sharing a meal together like they used to every day. She never saw her in the sunlight before - and even if she did during their school years, she wouldn't know anymore. She would never get to know.

And that’s all it takes for the seams of her composure to be suddenly torn to shreds; for that weird mixture between swelling affection that made her heart soar only to be shot down by unbearable, crushing grief. It held her at a deadlock, stasis, as sobs wracked her body. It was so unlike her, ‘sooo unlike’ the world-renowned star athlete and Ultimate Swimmer Aoi Asahina, as she’d chastise herself after a thorough cry.

Aoi had always considered herself lucky that her good days and neutral days far outweighed the bad compared to the others, but it was never like she was ever immune to despair in the first place, not even after all that her friends had done for her. Especially not after all that her friends had done for her. The guilt is a snaking hairline fracture in her favourite and otherwise perfect ceramic mug - the one that reminds her of home and of family and loved ones.

The guilt is something she finds hard to douse; it’s a constant reminder against calloused palms and one might even say that, despite her go-getter personality, the fissure is reminiscent of her own being. It’s seemingly harmless, and it won’t shatter to pieces, but it’s there.

Thinking hard on things was never her forte, and neither was sweating the small stuff. Even so, bitterness claws at her throat, constricts her breathing to nothing more than a desperate rhythm.

It was really unlike her.

The muted sound of a ticking wall clock is all that resounds in the living room, in between shaky breaths, in between the unsteady pulses of her heartbeat. Vaguely, she's aware of the pace of it, of how the ticking tries to punctuate all the other sounds, except–

Everything is off. Her heartrate speeds up and it's thrown off even more. it's all lost to a moment's hesitation, and suddenly she's wrenched back into the depths of a swimming pool. Her coach spits out demands; that she needs to pick up the pace. It's off rhythm. It's grating. That she's off rhythm. She's grating. It's all wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

Until she catches the single beat where all three align at once. They blend together into a single startling click, folding into one like flour and sugar and yeast. Her head feels heavy, but clear for a moment; just enough to stop thinking.

A pillow stays close to her chest as she calms down, as she buries her face just enough to muffle the sound. Just enough so that she couldn’t hear her own voice – her own weakness that she so despised. How could she not when the person she cared for was the very definition of the strength she always strove for?

The thing is, Sakura Ogami was never just physically strong.

Sure enough, the others had seen both her physical strength and her strength of character back in those days but… Aoi had seen it all. Sakura is Eden; she’s all the nurturing resilience of sanctum and all the grace of it too, right down to dew-soaked grass blades and tree roots buried in rich soil.

Aoi had seen it with her own eyes; what it means to be in paradise. It was when she lay side by side with her, peeking a single eye open every now and then to see if the other was awake – if she was okay. She’d be met with a small smile, but her gaze always wavered, as if it was the smallest tell that she, too, might’ve been a little afraid. But instead of a confession, what she’d get in return was a promise that the first person she would turn to if she was ever in trouble would be Aoi – no one else but her. It made her heart soar, so much that she was afraid she’d never be able to sleep again from the way her pulse hammered against her chest.

But still, she’d force her eyes shut, hoping, praying for it to be one of the nights where her run-of-the-mill luck favoured her. But eventually she realized that she never had to wish so hard to begin with, because each passing night it got easier; Sakura would stroke a gentle, warm hand down the side of her head whenever she figured Aoi was asleep anyway. She’d hum a gentle melody to her anyway, and each time, she fell a little more. Each time, she woke up a little braver and stronger, just like Sakura – like she was lending Aoi her strength.

She wonders if Sakura ever figured her out.

She wonders if she ever had herself figured out back then.

But she doubts it, she’s never been the perceptive type. If she was then she would’ve known to help Sakura sooner. If she’d known then she could’ve saved her from her fate. Aoi knew well enough that ‘what-ifs’ and dwelling on the past never helped matters, but sometimes it felt easier to let it catch up, let it trip you by the ankles – even if only for a reality check. It’s her only companion within the lonely confines of her house, no matter how well she decorated, no matter how homely she made it; nothing would fill the space quite the same.

The sound of a notification jolts her out of her thoughts, quickly picking up her phone to catch Makoto’s name in the preview. She unlocks the phone, holding her breath as she looks over the three messages.

>[7:39 PM] It looks great, Asahina-san! :) I’ll let Hanamura-kun know the next time I see him. I know you're busy but, if you get the time, maybe we could make some together for everyone?

>[7:40 PM] Sorry, I can’t talk a lot because I’m still working, but Hinata-kun came by and wanted me to pass along that he’d like all of us over for dinner this Saturday.

>[7:40 PM] Is that alright with you?

Her breath escapes through her teeth as she starts to chew on the skin of her bottom lip, clicking the phone off once more. She’d turned off ‘read’ notifications a few months ago when the pressure to respond immediately got too much; stewing in her own thoughts might not have been healthy, but neither were donuts – she could afford to cut loose a little sometimes.

Now the trouble was those last two messages.

Aoi loved her friends, she really did. She was always the first to celebrate them, and always the first to push them forward in the right direction if Makoto didn’t beat her to it first. But unfortunately, she was still every bit as human as she was an airheaded cheerleader.

She still distinctly remembers how she would always smile, shove down the sharp and ugly jealousy she felt when Hajime’s gold engagement band glistened under fluorescent lights before the guilt smothered her in its place.

Aoi once nodded along enthusiastically when Hajime fondly spoke of how he loved the fact that Nagito’s ring matched the silver of his eyes – and she wondered faintly, with her chin resting on her hand, whether he knew that she could relate wholeheartedly.

Nothing in the world could compare to the thought of Sakura wearing a wedding ring as silver and bright as her eyes, except maybe seeing her in a kimono that would undoubtedly look elegant on her. The feeling rocked unsteadily inside her chest, making her fond and unbearably lonely all at once.

The plate of doughnuts lay in front of her on the coffee table by the vase of fresh flowers Komaru and Touko had dropped off in the morning. And with the sun dipping into the horizon, she knew that her food would only get colder, and the room would only grow darker.

Frowning, Aoi reached into the drawer of the table, pulling out a box of matches and striking one against the strip as it flared to life. Her cherry blossom scented candles would do; they would keep her company, keep her surroundings bright, keep her warm despite how little wax was left. Something about that last part made her feel sour.

She leaned forward, tearing off a piece of a doughnut and ignoring the stickiness and grease that clings to her skin in favour of living in the moment. Maybe a little indulgence would be just fine, even if it wasn’t the same.

So maybe Aoi wasn’t the only one to see Sakura in her moments of vulnerability.

And it's a selfish feeling, the hope she felt when Aoi caught a flash of guilt in Sakura’s eyes when she spoke of her boyfriend on the outside, when she caught her staring at her more and more with each passing morning. She wanted it to mean something.

She wanted the gradual transition from ‘my dear Asahina’ to ‘my dearest’ to mean something.

The silence in the room was heavy, but strangely enough, not in an oppressive way.

What was stopping her from remembering her words? What was stopping her from letting Sakura’s life, her sacrifice, mean more than a push forward towards hope?

After all, from the casual touches while they made donuts for the first time to her final heartfelt words, wasn’t it all an act of love from start to finish?

Aoi blinks the mistiness in her eyes away, swallows thickly and leans back on the old couch, tracing the threadbare edges of it with her left hand; a well-loved part of her home that cradles her aching heart after a tiresome day. The remote rests easily in her hand, TV flickering to life with a single button, as the face of her high school swimming idol grins brightly at the camera. It's like she can feel the droplets running down her face, remembering how free she felt doing what she loved. She finally picks up her phone with a small smile, bordering on bittersweet, wondering if there was ever a missing ingredient to begin with.

> [8:34 PM] Tell him that we're on for that group dinner date.

Her fingers pause, hovering over the next few keys. With a sharp exhale, she settles on her words.

> [8:35 PM] And yeah, let's finally make those doughnuts together for everyone. It'll be fun! <3

Aoi lets out another determined huff, trying not to let her wobbly yet courageous smile fade. She’d just have to find a way to make her own secret ingredient.

-x-

That night, Aoi dreamed.

She dreamed of doughnuts and picnics under a cherry blossom tree in full bloom and a world made for two people.

She dreamed of her beloved wearing the summer dresses Aoi always thought she’d look like a goddess in, even though she was always more than enough in her ripped sailor outfit.

She dreamed of a fond smile and husky voice humming, their bodies close enough that she could feel the rumble of her voice in her chest; large, protective, and warm hands enveloping her own, and the steady rhythm of silver bands clicking against each other as they walked hand in hand.

For once, Aoi dreams and ignores the dull ache in her chest in place of something far stronger, far more wonderful.

Love, and love alone, until the end of her days.

#dr #drthh #danganronpa #sakura ogami #aoi asahina #sakuraoi #makoto naegi #komahina #<- mentioned #other minor characters are mentioned #fanfiction #my work #my fanfic #sorry i ran out of steam at some parts orz #danganronpa trigger happy havoc

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keepgoingbutterfly · 2 years

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It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of you completely out of my life. I’ve had to detox from you. I shed tears until my eyes were swollen. Didn’t really eat for a couple of days. Slept way too much because I didn’t really want to believe I was in reality. I still don’t want to. I’ve distracted myself with way too much weed and boring company. I have sat down in silence. In my sleep. In my room. When I drive. And all my mind seems to want to do is remember every last memory of you. Flashbacks of you in the car with a big ass smile on your face dancing to the sound of your techno beats. Us standing in the middle of the road kissing. Laughs. Our playfulness. Our sex. Your eyes. It’s so sad honestly. Because no matter how broken you were. I fell in love with your tragic ness. Because I knew I had the power to make you feel everything but that. You remember the night we were sitting on the side of your bed? And you cried in my arms. And I held you. Last night before I smoked myself to sleep I was in bed and my mind went to the night when we were on our way back home from the trip and it was dark. We were getting on the highway and I don’t wanna miss a thing came on. The smile on my face. The moment we shared. Remember love on the brain? The first moment I told you to put that song on because you wanted to know which song spoke to my heart to the point where I’d sing as loud as I could? All I could think of was that one. Because of you. And I sung so loud, and I held your face in my hand. And you laughed and smiled and howled for me. A couple of days after you put that song as my ringtone. And some days you’d let it ring longer when I called you just so you could listen to it and think of that moment. The night I told you I loved you. After we had sex. And I probably shouldn’t have. But it was bound to slip out of my mouth soon or later because I had urges for weeks every time you would hang up the phone, or say goodbye to me. The times you would randomly walk into my job, as I’m standing at the register writing this I remember you in front of me so vividly. Your red patterned collar shirt with a couple of the buttons undone so your chest can show. You with that bright ass smile. I literally see it. All the poems I wrote for you. And now I haven’t been able to write anything but this. Because quite honestly my room is a mess. And every time I wake up I feel like I’m in a dream. Like I’m literally not in reality. Because I don’t want it to be. I have this nostalgic but really heavy feeling in the morning. Because what once was looking forward to the sound of your voice saying blessings glorious rising my queen I now get silence and too much loneliness. I write this because it’s going to take me a long time to get over you, and back to myself. I’m sad because even though deep down you weren’t the one for me. I really wanted to force the fact that you could be. When everything around us was saying no. You made the planet stop revolving when I was in front of you. And now the world is going too fast and I do nothing with the time but suffer in my suffering. I’m a mess. I’ve accepted it. I’m a mess because I fell in love with you, and now it is the end of us. It’s been two weeks and at this point I’ve gotten high every chance I can, watched so many episode of friends I have literally eaten so much because I don’t give a fuck, and every time I wake up I feel like my reality is an endless loop of just wanting to forget this is my life. A life without you.

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scuttling · 3 years

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Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner @hotforhotchner11 @itsmytimetoodream

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #anon #prompt

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majestyeverlasting · 3 years

Note

Hi!! Could you write for Bucky prompts 4 and 26??

♡ Hi, Anon!! I love this prompt pairing so much! Thank you for requesting this, and for waiting on me to get around to it! In this one, Bucky and the reader visit a park in Brooklyn that stirs up some nostalgic memories. But what he doesn't know is that, later that night, he'll learn that he's going to be a father. There's some pretty fall imagery and lots of sweet moments. I hope you like it! (Note: this isn’t canon regarding Bucky’s true age)

♡ Prompt 4: "Remember we used to come here when we were kids?"

♡ Prompt 26: “I’m not reading this thing wrong, am I? You’re really pregnant?”

All I Ever Wanted

There was a crispness to the evening air as the beginnings of fall settled within Brooklyn. The trees of Prospect Park, once green, were slowly transitioning into rich shades of orange and red. As you and Bucky walked along one of the pathways, leaves crunching beneath your shoes, there was an absence of car engines and horns—it was peaceful. All there was to be heard was chirping birds, the soft chatter of other park-goers, and the occasional whir of a cyclist’s wheels whenever one passed by.

Upon reaching a wooden bridge, the gentle sound of flowing water emerged as well. Beneath it, was a slender waterfall that fed into a small pond with dead leaves floating on the surface. Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist as the two of you admired it from over the railing. Somehow the whole day, including that moment itself, had managed to feel like a dream.

The two of you hadn’t been to Prospect Park in what felt like forever. Life had a way of sweeping you up in winds of responsibility that kept you from enjoying moments of stillness. But those winds had since drifted elsewhere, leaving the two of you with the freedom to simply be. Venturing out into nature and away from the noise had been Bucky’s suggestion earlier that morning. There was no place like the outdoors that was capable of soothing the soul.

“Look, doll,” he said eventually. Your eyes followed where his free hand pointed.

On one of the big rocks peeking out of the water below, a yellow butterfly had perched itself on a rock. “Yeah, I see it. It’s so pretty.” You smiled when he gave you a gentle squeeze.

“You know what butterflies symbolize?” You met his gaze, willing for him to continue. “Life and new beginnings,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple.

For a fraction of a second, you froze. You’d managed to keep yourself collected for the entirety of the day, but hearing those words quickened your heartbeat. Enough so that you became all the more reminded of what he didn’t know—not yet.

That morning, as he spoke to you through the bathroom door about going to Prospect Park, you’d been staring at a positive pregnancy test. You barely had enough breath to agree to the outing. And when he’d asked if you were okay, you told him you were fine, but left out the fact that your lives would be changing forever in the months to come.

The two lines on the stick explained weeks worth of your body trying to communicate to you. It explained that deep sense of knowing that refused to go away. To say that you wanted to merely tell Bucky would’ve been the largest understatement of your lifetime. With all the emotions that stirred within you, you wanted to scream, cry, and jump at the same time.

A voice within you encouraged you to make the moment you told Bucky really special and intimate. Especially considering every turn that his life had taken over the years. So you vowed to wait until the two of you arrived home from your evening at the park.

“Life and new beginnings,” you repeated. You were already aware that such was associated with butterflies, but hearing him say it in that moment carried a certain magnitude. “I love the sound of that.”

Later, after walking further, you found yourselves nestled on one of the benches overlooking the lake. The water sparkled in the warm light of the sun as it prepared to set. A couple men stood peppered along the bank fishing. Children giggled as they chased after each other. Paired with the fall trees and colors all around, it was nothing short of a beautiful scene.

You let your head rest on Bucky’s shoulder, and took his real hand in yours to play with his fingers. There was a time, years ago, when the two of you would play along that same lake—throughout the whole park, actually.

You were the first to speak after a while, “Remember we used to come here when we were kids?” You straightened up from his shoulder to look at him.

“Of course I do,” he said, a smile starting on his face. “Especially during the summer. We’d always try to find open fire hydrants to play in after we left. And if we were lucky, our mom’s would let us get ice cream or shaved ice,” he recounted, chuckling. “Those were the days.”

You shook your head. “I know. Now look at us.” About to have a child of our own, you thought.

“Yup. Time flies when you’re having fun,” he said, casting out a brief look around at the serenic evening. Then he focused back on you, his tone shifting, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah...” you tried not to answer too fast. “Why?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes a bit and gave a shrug. “I don’t know, I can just tell that something’s on your mind—ever since this morning,” he noted. “But you have yet to tell me what that something is, pretty girl.”

It took everything not to tell him right then and there, as you sat under a blue and orange sky in the park you knew like the back of your hand.

You offered him half a smile. “I’m that easy to read?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Not necessarily. I’ve been reading you for a long time so it’s easy.” You allowed yourself to chuckle when he playfully quirked his brows. “So am I gonna have to work really hard to coax it out of you?”

You shook your head earnestly. “I promise I'll tell you when we get home… I have something to show you.”

On your way out of the park, there was a mama duck waddling under a tree with her ducklings trailing behind her.

It wasn’t until after you and Bucky made it back to your apartment, and had changed into something comfortable, that you told him you were ready. He sat on the edge of the bed as you went to retrieve the small gift box holding the pregnancy test. It was a miracle that you had had enough supplies left over from birthdays and holidays to be able to make it look as presentable as it did.

You extended it to him from a couple feet away. So much anticipation had built within you that you felt light, and as though you were buzzing.

Bucky accepted the box, and looked up at you. There was a sparkle in his blue eyes. “Why are you standing a mile away from me? C’mere.” You inched closer, and laughed when he pulled you to stand more so between his spread legs.

As he began to undo the white ribbon on the box, your lower lip was secured between your teeth. It seemed as though he was moving entirely too slow and fast at the same time.

As soon as he popped the lid off to reveal the pregnancy test sitting on top of little strips of crinkled, beige paper strips, your heartbeat sped up. Bucky’s attention lingered on the test. When he finally looked up, his gaze attested to the influx of thoughts that had been sparked into motion within his mind.

“I’m not reading this thing wrong, am I?” He briefly looked back down to stick again. Two lines. “You’re really pregnant?”

A smile broke across your face. With the news out, it felt as though you were uncaging a group of birds that had been longing for freedom for way too long. Before you could say anything else, Bucky set the box aside and stood to press his lips to yours. You stumbled back at the intentness in which he gripped your waist. It was a kiss that you felt every part of him through; his love, his passion, his warmth. And an intoxicating mix of joy and expectation.

He pulled away just enough to speak. “We’re gonna be parents?” His breath fanned over your lips. Then he leaned back in to kiss you once more, a soft peck. “You’re carrying our child?”

Bucky’s hands slipped under your shirt, and the feeling of palms against your skin was pleasant in the best way. One was cooler than the other, but they were both gentle and reverent.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I found out this morning.”

He scratched gently at your stomach, sending a shiver through you. “You managed to keep it to yourself the whole day. That’s what was on your mind?” He kissed you again.

“You have no idea how bad I wanted to tell you. No idea.” You brought your hands up to his cheeks, the budding stubble scratchy against your palms. “But I wanted to wait until we came back from Prospect.”

Bucky released a breath after a few beats of silence. “I don’t even know what to say,” he said, voice low. “This is so crazy—a good crazy.”

“I know. I’m happy and terrified at the same time,” you admitted. “I’ve never felt this way in my entire life, but it feels….”

“Good,” he finished.

A laugh escaped you. “Yeah.”

Seconds later, he was getting down onto his knees to be level with your stomach. It wasn’t until he lifted your shirt to press a kiss to your stomach that the reality of the moment set in. For the first time since learning about your pregnancy, tears slipped down your cheeks.

Bucky heard you sniffle, and stood back up to take your hands in his. “This is all I ever wanted, you know that, doll?” A few tears had come to the waterline of his eyes. “A beautiful wife, a family. This is all something I thought I’d never have.”

You sniffled again, nodding. “You deserve everything,” you murmured.

“I have my everything right in front of me.”

Without waiting another moment, you wrapped your arms around his waist and squeezed him tighter than you had in a while. Parents. The two of you were going to be parents.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment, if you'd like. For more fluffy Bucky Barnes fics, click here.

#Bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #avengers fluff #the avengers #marvel #marvel fluff #winter soldier #sebastian stan #fatws

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milliedazzledust · 3 years

Text

Somewhere Only We Know (Bucky Barnes imagine)

Request: @the-craziestone story about Bucky x Reader, where Bucky is really obsessed with Reader - But not in a creepy way, more like he's really really in love with her and he can only see her, like she's his world Anon: can you do something with reader gifting Bucky Barnes the 3 Lord of the Rings books? They were published after WWII, and reader knows he liked The Hobbit so she thinks it's something he'd like

Words: 2943

A/N: this is pure fluff with no warning, also I changed a tiny bit the second request to fit the story - enjoy ;)

He couldn’t explain the sadness he constantly felt every time he was walking through the streets of the city he used to know by heart. A stranger in a strange land was the best way to describe him. More than seventy years had passed, and he hadn’t witnessed any changes. While he had been a puppet deprived of freewill and controlled with the sole purpose of killing, he had missed the birth of a whole new world. Now, as he strode around the streets, he could easily remember each of their names, but none of them were familiar. His mind remained in the 1940’s and in the middle of the noises, surrounded by the sound of first responders vehicles, the children running around and cars piling up on the road, he was a stranger in his own home. It was an unsettling feeling, a pining melancholy that reminded him in every step he made that his Brooklyn didn’t exist anymore.

He was furious in a way, but mostly confused. Haunted by memories he had gotten back a second ago, and they didn’t fit this new reality. He wasn’t even nostalgic, but the loneliness was getting heavier every day. He could still picture the park he used to take his sister, the alley where Steve had gotten beaten up one day, the bakery his mother used to go to every morning. Treasure of souvenirs he would keep forever. And although the park, the alley and the streets names were still here, he was left alone walking down Brooklyn.

“Hey, Y/N!” He heard a voice shouting. “Where do I put those ?”

His head mechanically turned to a young boy carrying a heavy box of what looked like antics. Without thinking he crossed the road and when his eyes laid on the small shop, he gasped. There it was, one small piece of his past still here. It was an old bookstore he used to go to with his sister. The man, a friend, an immigrant from France with a thick accent, would let them stay for hours. Bucky loved reading to Rebecca. They would sit inside and she’d insist to hear The Hobbit. François, the man owning the store, would make coffee and stay with them, relating the stories he had heard around the world, telling them all about the France he had known. It was all still here. ‘Au Nom de la Rose’ was still here.

He didn’t hesitate a second and rushed inside the place, an honest smile on his face. His eyes roamed over the room and he took a deep breath. It was just like he remembered, a place filled with murmurs and whispers floating above his head and through the roof, indistinct conversations between friends, huge windows bringing in a powerful light at this hour of the day, plants in almost every corner. Even the atmosphere was the same, this powerful smell of imagination coming from the laying books on the shelves, begging to be read, mixing with a distinct smell coming from the dust. The small couch and the old table he used to sit by with his sister were also there. The wooden pieces had many rough and sharp edges but looked just as smooth and clean as he remembered. Finally, his eyes landed on a woman there. He watched her rearranging a bouquet of daffodils, breathing in the perfume of the vibrant flowers as she tended to them meticulously.

For some reason, he couldn’t look away. She felt familiar, like he had known her all his life, yet he had never seen her before. When she turned around he took an instinctive step toward her. She noticed, raised her head and that was the moment their eyes met. His breath caught in his throat when she smiled at him. He stood, frozen on the spot, staring at her. He couldn’t comprehend that instant connection. There was an inexplicable sense of excitement yet weird feeling that they had known each other forever, that they were meeting each other again after a long journey. He was transfixed, almost stuck by the confusing mixture of emotions but oddly comforted by them - all at the same time.

“Can I help you ?” She asked him.

He surprised himself thinking there was something eerily calming about her voice, that he could listen to her for hours.

“Do I know you ?” He quickly wondered out loud, mentally facepalming himself for his lack of tact.

“Shouldn’t I be asking that question ?”

“Why ?”

“You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes” She grinned.

“I’m … I’m sorry” He apologized profusely. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Look weird ?”

He could swear his heart skipped a beat when he heard her laugh.

“This place is beautiful”

“Thank you”

“How long have you been working here ?”

“Forever” She smirked. “The store belongs to my family. Passed on from generation to generation”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“You’re related to François Y/L/N ?” He questioned.

She tilted her head, crossing her arms.

“Now I’m intrigued” She told him. “How do you know about my grandfather ?”

“We’ve met,” He answered without thinking. He rapidly realized his mistake when she narrowed her eyes in utter curiosity. “I … I didn’t mean … I mean … It was … It was a long time ago”

He gulped, hoping she wouldn’t push it. She looked him up and down, assessing him.

“What’s your name, weirdo ?” She inquired, giving him a skeptical glance.

“Bucky. M’am”

She smirked.

“Let me guess, a soldier ?”

“How … ?”

“You all have the same manners, and the same eyes”

“What do you mean ?”

She was now standing in front of him, staring at his face with the most adorable smile he had ever seen.

“You carry the same sadness and the horror you’ve seen” She replied honestly. “My father was a lot like that too”

Her answer had the effect of a punch in the gut he hadn’t been expecting. He felt naked under her gaze, a stranger with the power to see through his soul.

“I’m Y/N” She introduced herself, raising her hand to shake his.

It was rare for him to smile truthfully but the unexpected bliss slowly growing made his lips twitch before he could even acknowledge it.

“Hi, Y/N” He greeted her.

She chuckled, amused.

“Hi, Bucky” She murmured.

After that encounter, he made a point of coming back as much as he could. He stayed for hours sitting on the couch, reading the same book over and over again. They shared quick words but he didn’t dare to start up a conversation, too afraid he would say something he shouldn’t, something that would scare her away. He was content like this. There was no Winter Soldier, no war, no fight, no one else than Bucky. Being next to this girl was in itself a medication for him. It made no sense but she was so bright and radiant. Like a magnet, he was sucked into an invisible gravitational pull toward her.

By the second week of him coming into the store, she started to notice the small marks of attention. He would come so silently she wouldn’t hear a thing, bringing a fresh cup of coffee he would lay on her counter when she wasn’t looking, replacing the daffodils before they could fade, carrying the heavy boxes filled with new books. When she wasn’t working, she would grab something to read and sit next to him. They would exchange a smile but wouldn’t talk. The proximity was enough. Their presence was louder than any word. A quiet routine they were slowly creating.

By the fourth month, nothing had changed and that day was no different. Rain was pouring outside and the store was empty, except for Y/N and Bucky. Just as usual, he was reading in a corner while she was working. New stacks of books had arrived and she was methodically putting them on the shelves. Standing on a ladder, on the tip of her toes, she was so focused on the task she had failed to notice the soldier walking up to her.

“Do you need any help ?” He offered.

Surprised to hear his voice so close to her, she lost her balance and slipped. She yelped as her ankle hit one side of the ladder and automatically closed her eyes, anticipating the fall. She tried to brace herself but before her body could touch the ground she felt something cold holding her waist. Suddenly, instead of laying on the floor, she was against his hard chest, in a protective embrace. She recognized his arms around her and shivered at the odd coldness. He felt it immediately and was quick to put some distance between them, making sure his metal arm was no more on her body and only his human hand was steadying her.

“Are you alright ?” He questioned. She pursed her lips, trying not to show that she was hurt when she heard how worried he sounded.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine”

He looked skeptic but didn’t say anything about it.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” He apologetically told her.

He took the books scattered on the ground, putting them away, and helped her walk to the couch.

“You know, if the goal was to literally make me fall for you, I’d say you did a pretty good job there” She flirted, making him chuckle.

He sat on the table in front of her and grabbed her calve, gently laying her leg on his thigh to assess the damage. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her blushing. It made him insanely happy to know he wasn’t the only one affected by their closeness. They tried not to look at one another, too embarrassed by the situation. This was the closest they had ever been and the touch on his skin on hers was more than enough to make her heart ready to jump out of her chest. When he clasped her injured ankle, she cried and instinctively pushed him back.

“Fine, huh ?” He repeated her own words with a smirk.

She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“It’s not a big deal, Bucky” She reassured him. “I’ve got to get back to work”

“You’re not moving from this couch” He ordered.

“Is that an order, soldier ?” She ironically threw at him, crossing her arms in annoyance.

“You bet it is”

She watched him, intrigued, as he stood up and piled up some books on the table to put her ankle to rest on it.

“No moving around, got it ?” He made sure she would follow his advice.

“Aye, aye, Captain”

He chuckled

“Technically speaking, I’m not a Captain” He confessed as he continued what she had been doing earlier and started putting the books carefully on the right shelves.

“Would you have preferred Sergeant ?” She replied, bitting her lips, unsure this was the wrong moment to admit she knew who he was.

He instantly stopped what he was doing and slowly turned around to stare at her.

“What did you say ?” He asked, more scared than ever.

Up until that moment, he had avoided telling her who he was. Becoming part of the Avengers meant his identity wasn’t a secret anymore, and although he had done a terrific job staying hidden among the mass of people, it wouldn’t have taken more than a little push to find who he really was. He stood in front of her, frozen, not having a clue how to react.

“Sergeant Barnes, isn’t it ?” She sounded nervous, almost frightened to say his name out loud.

“I… “ He tried to say anything, but as the rain kept pouring outside, slowly turning into a thunderstorm, he blankly stared back.

“Would you have told me ?” She whispered.

“Eventually”

She humorlessly snorted.

“We’ve known each other for more than three months, Bucky. I see you practically every day. Be honest, eventually would’ve never come”

“It’s not like that” He tried to explain.

“I’m not mad, don’t worry” She sadly smiled. “I just wish… I guess I wish you could’ve trust me”

He rubbed his jaw in frustration and made a step toward her. Without breaking his gaze, he slowly took the glove off, revealing his metal hand. Still, he didn’t look at her, too afraid of her reaction. The cold metal had never felt so hot against his skin, a burning reminder of the stranger he had become.

“I didn’t want you to be scared,” He admitted in a broken voice.

“Of you ?” She was surprised. “Why would I be ?”

“I’m not a good man, Y/N”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that ?”

“You don’t understand…”

“The red box under the counter” She interrupted him. “Can you take it for me ? And turn the sign of the shop, we’re closed.”

He gave her a puzzled look, but did as she said anyway. He locked the front door and took the box she asked for before walking to her and putting it directly in her hands.

“Sit” She instructed him.

He didn’t dare to stay near her and chose to stay on an opposite chair.

“I found this a little after you and I met” She told him, motioning to the box. “It was in the basement, hidden under old junks my parents had kept over the years”

He let her speak, not understanding where this was going or why she was telling him about that. She slowly opened the mystery box and took a small envelope out of it. It looked old, so old the paper had turned into a deep shade of yellow.

“My grandfather wrote this” She confessed. “In 1957. It’s addressed to Bucky and Rebecca Barnes. I believe it belongs to you”

She handed him the letter that he took with shaky hands.

“How did you… ?” He started to ask.

“It was a long shot,” She explained. “The first time you were here, you said my grandfather's name like it meant something to you. Like you really knew him. When I found the box, and the envelope, I didn’t make the connection with you right away. But your name was all I needed to start my research. My parents kept pretty much everything so it didn’t took me too long to find an old photo with you and him, back in the 1930′s”

He wasn’t moving at all when she showed him a picture François had taken of them right before he was enlisted.

“I wanted to wait for the right time to tell you, I guess. I mean, you have enough ghosts as it is”

“Still not scared ?” He inquired in a humorless chuckle.

“Not one bit” She didn’t hesitate to reply.

She softly smiled and motioned for him to come closer. When he sat next to her, she moved the box from her lap to his.

“We were friends, François and I” He recalled, his eyes glued on the letter. “He was married to Eloise. This bookstore was their treasure. He kept repeating that I shouldn’t go to war when I could stay hidden under the pages of books that would take me around the world without risking my life”

She took his metal palm between her fingers when she heard his voice breaking. He almost tried to remove it but she tightly entwined their hands together.

“Maybe he was right” He muttered under his breath.

“Or maybe you and I were meant to meet almost a century later” She shrugged.

He snorted before turning around the envelope to open it. Y/N gently laid her head against his shoulder and let him read in silence. She didn’t move when she felt his body shaking with tears but only held his hand harder.

“They’re originals, from 1954 I think. He kept them for you” She told him as he slowly took what was in the red box. A set of three old books. “Why Lord of the Rings, though ?”

He laughed,sniffing, before brushing the tears off his face and staring down at the woman. At that very moment, he felt like the journey was done. His soul had stopped the search it had been on for a time that felt like forever. Like a century.

“My sister and I, we used to come here often,” He said in a melancholic grin. Sorrow was finally starting to be replace by something much better, happiness. “We would sit on this very couch and she would make me read the Hobbit. She used to love that story so much.”

“How many times has she make you read it ?” The woman smirked.

“Enough to remember every single word” He exaggerated, making her giggle. “When I told François I was leaving, he said he would send me books to help me travel away from the war, even just for a moment. I guess he kept them, hoping I would come back. Even after I was declared dead”

“Maybe deep down he knew you weren’t”

“And he planned this whole meeting with his granddaughter ?” He ironically added.

“Oh no, that was beyond him. That was fate, Barnes”

“I was meant to find you” He agreed, a deep feeling of love and utter contentment forming in his heart. He bent his head down and let all he needed to say be spoken through the kiss they shared.

“Will you read it to me ?” She playfully requested.

Overflowed with joy, he smirked and kissed her forehead before opening the old book on his lap. There it was, the only choice he needed to make. The only home he had yearn to create. Her.

#Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes imagine #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier imagines #the winter soldier imagine #falcon and the winter soldier #Winter Soldier #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagines #fatws #tfatws

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bump1nthen1ght · 3 years

Text

I’m Still Hurting (Orc x Reader) Part 2

Pairings: Fem!Reader/Male!Orc

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Angst

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2107 words

Summary: You and your boyfriend establish a new normal

A/N: At long last, the highly requested part two! I had a bit of struggle coming up with a proper followup to the first part (which was part of why I left it with an open-ended ending in the first place lol). Little less angst this time, I felt these two deserved a little sweetness after the last chapter. Hope y'all enjoy!

Part 1

The first thing that caught your eye when you walked by the music store was the Grand Piano. It was gorgeous: Polished mahogany, a nice velvet seat, and keys that looked like they had never seen the sticky fingers of a curious 8 year old.

“Wow, is that new?”

You nod, admiring the old-fashioned air of the instrument. You knew jack shit about music, but even you could tell that this piano was an antique, one probably worth a good chunk of change.

“Must be. I’ve never seen it before and this place is on my way to work.”

Waruck hmms, pressing his hands up against the glass. His eyes sparkle when he sees the “Free to Play” sign right next to the piano. It probably reminds him of his Grandpa’s, the one he played when you guys visited his family for Christmas.

That was a long time ago.

“Want to go in?”

Waruck pulls away from the glass, eyebrows raised. He rubs the back of his neck and steps a couple feet back, trying to curb his enthusiasm.

“Uh, we don’t have to-”

“I don’t mind. It's been a while-” You pause, the slight-anxiety in the air making every casual word difficult, “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play.”

Waruck smiles, small and polite, and opens the door of the shop for you. Before, he might have done a little bow and said “Ladies First” in a British accent.

But that was before, and this is now. Now, every comment is walking on eggshells, whispered tentatively and under your breath. Testing the waters for how comfortable you two could get around each other.

Still, it was exponential growth from two months ago.

--------

After your meeting at the coffee shop, you had asked Waruck for a month; A month of privacy, for you to collect your thoughts and feelings, to be alone for a bit. He had agreed immediately, shuffling out of the cafe with a hunched back and a melancholy air, but he had kept his promise. You took the time to focus on other things, shifting your relationship to the back of your mind and enjoying the day-to-day.

But a part of you felt a little bad, like maybe you were stringing Waruck along for an inevitable breakup. Getting his hopes up for an extra tortuous punishment that left a sour taste in your mouth. So on one brave Saturday night, you sent him a meme you saw on Instagram, one that reminded you of him.

That second month saw the two of you texting more and more frequently, sending little jokes, asking how your day was, so and so. Each week rebuilt a little bit more of that familiarity, that comfortableness. It finally got to the point where Waruck asked if you were free one weekend. He just wanted to get some lunch and stroll around the neighborhood for a bit. For the first time in a while, that idea didn’t seem too bad.

--------

The air is considerably cooler inside the store, a tiny bell ringing as a rush of air-conditioned air hits both of you. Waruck makes a beeline for the piano, his footsteps short and quick. You feel a smile crawl on your face; He always acted like an excited kid when it came to music.

Waruck plops down in the center of the stool, fingers lightly brushing over the keys in awe. You walk up the piano’s side, laying your hand on the wood and admiring the lack of smudge marks on the polished wood. Waruck tests out a G note and although the sound is short, it’s extremely pleasant. Waruck’s smile grows even larger.

“When I was a young boy…”

You mutter under your breath. Waruck chuckles, quickly continuing onto a G flat.

“My father took me into the city,” Waruck hums

“To see a marching band.” The two of you sing together, laughing a little bit too loudly and gaining a sharp look from the tired sales clerk. Waruck waves a little apology, but that playful grin stays on his face.

“Wow, that brings back some repressed Hot Topic memories.”

“Seriously. I can almost feel the book my band teacher used to thwack me with. Me and my buddies would sneak into the choir room and play that all the time.” Waruck’s fingers dance over a couple more notes, aimless.

You’ve always liked watching Waruck play. His fingers were so dextrous and controlled, not to mention long and nicely articulated. He’d probably make good money from a hand-model side-gig.

“Want to take a seat?”

You shift your focus away from Waruck’s hands. He’s made space on the bench and pats the open space next to him.

“Yeah, sure.” You say, despite the fast pace your heart is now beating.

You keep a solid two inches of distance between your bodies, keeping your thighs together as to not brush your legs with his. It felt like a middle school dance, keeping a bible length away from your partner to avoid the disapproving stare of the chaperones.

Waruck nods, absentmindedly running his fingers up the scale. “Any requests?”

Immediately, all non-love songs depart from your brain. One of your favorite pieces sits on the tip of your tongue and your brain refuses to let it go. You shake your head.

“Nope. It’s all yours, music man.”

Waruck chuckles, a little louder and a lot more comfortable, as he sits deeper in his seat.

“Prepare,” Waruck cracks his knuckles, “to be amazed.”

You bite back a laugh. He’s still such a dork.

He starts to play, his hands easily finding the right keys, moving like a well-oiled machine. Your heart nearly skips a beat before it melts into a puddle of sentiment.

It’s your favorite.

The song brings back memories of your childhood, a rainy day in, and delicious food. It’s like chicken soup for the soul and you can feel any of the left over tension leave your body.

Waruck’s eyebrows furrow with concentration, but he has a large smile on his face, his large tusks peeking out from his lips. His arm stretches across the piano as the song hits its most fast-paced part. His biceps and shoulders lean more into your space, but the feeling isn’t unwelcome. It feels natural, as if his presence and yours is part of the piece itself.

Waruck’s thigh brushes against yours, but his pace doesn’t falter and neither does yours. You stay enraptured, watching how easily he slips into the music. You barely even notice how you have begun to lean closer to his side; Your mind says it’s to give his arms plenty of space to play, but it’s still far more comfortable than you are willing to admit.

How easy it feels, in the moment, to fall back into routine.

The song begins slowing to a stop, only a couple seconds left, when the sounds of the music shop return to you. A giggle from not too far rings discordant with Waruck’s piano.

Three girls stand not too far from you, watching with fascination as Waruck plays.

“Wow, he is so good!” One whispers to her friends.

There is nothing even remotely lascivious in their eyes or in their words, but a knife still twists in your gut. Your throat constricts as flashes of your bedroom, of unanswered texts, and a picture of a bar corner booth send needles down your spine and into your heart.

Is this wrong? Is this giddy feeling you have only distracting you from reality? Is it like this song, Waruck’s playing, beautiful but temporary?

“Ugh, I want what they have.”

“I know, right? How romantic.”

They’re wrong, you’re wrong, this is wrong; It’s fake, fake, fa-

Your eyes dart to and fro, trying to desperately avoid Waruck’s quickly overwhelming body heat and your audience, before it catches on the distorted shape of your reflection in the window.

The glass is old, slightly drooping, even the golden lettering of the music shop’s name looks dusty and sun-bleached.

But what is unmistakable is you and Waruck. Waruck, playing piano, and looking at you. Looking at you with the love in his eyes you thought had died, or had never been there at all. The group of girls stands in the background, small and out of focus.

And Waruck is staring at you.

“Are you okay?” Waruck asks, his warm hand on your shoulder.

You whip your neck around, almost getting whiplash.

You’re here, in the music store, with your boyfriend. He looks at you, brow slightly puzzled from your wild eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I,” You suck in a deep breath, “Sorry, I guess I got lost in my own head. That song gets me kind of nostalgic.”

Waruck pats your shoulder and you miss it’s heat when he pulls it back to his side. He smiles, but you can tell he is still slightly worried.

“No problem, I get it.”

You notice now how much closer Waruck is to you. His chest has shifted towards yours, the fabric of his shirt sleeve pressing against the skin of your bicep. Waruck’s knee absentmindedly knocks into yours, but the contact doesn’t sting or jolt you. Not even the continuing silence makes the situation awkward.

It’s nice.

“Do you want to check out the record aisle? They might actually have that piece on vinyl.”

Waruck gestures with his thumb to the piles of CD’s and records not too far from you two. You nod

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

--------

The two of you spend about an hour in the music store, pointing out hilarious cover art and admiring some vintage finds. Waruck even gets you to chuckle a couple of times, slowly bringing out his old cheesy puns.

Waruck’s missed this.

You two walk out of the music store at the tail end of one of Waruck’s jokes, you playfully punching his shoulder.

The two of you wander, in the opposite direction of your cars, for a little while. But Waruck hasn’t lost track of time; No, he’s soaking in every moment he can, every smile and lingering look you give him. Every reminder that this is real.

He spent a week agonizing over what he did. Stuck in silence as he gave you your space. His friends (His real friends, not those assholes from the bar) had offered to come by and keep him company, but he turned it down.

When Waruck got back into routine, it was slow-rolling. It was difficult to fight the instinct to check his phone for a good-morning text, or check your Instagram for any ‘post-breakup’ partying.

No, he had already broken your trust once. The least he could do was give you some time. Spend some hour not wallowing in self-pity, but actively make a change.

Waruck began to accept those invites to a chill hang out, playing some poker and sipping on beer with the gang. He played his keyboard when the thoughts got too loud and went jogging when the music wasn’t loud enough. He called his mom a couple of times, even sent his sister a couple of texts to catch up. They hadn’t spoken outside of holidays for almost three years.

Maybe he was the one that needed time.

God, why did you have to be so smart?

“Oh shit, how long have we been walking?” You mutter, checking your watch for the time. Waruck turns around you, already knowing the answer was 27 minutes, exactly. The both of you were nearing the edge of the neighborhood, cafes and shops turning into residential suburbs. “Dang, time really flies, huh?”

Waruck smiles.

“With you? It always does.”

You give him a half smile, patting his bicep. “Oh my god, you’re such a cheeseball.”

Waruck winks and shoots you some finger guns.

“You know it babe.”

You giggle, checking your watch once more, face turning just a little bit.

“I should probably head back, I’m getting dinner with some friends tonight.”

A small part of Waruck yearns for more time, but he lets it go.

Space, this was about establishing space.

“I had a lot of fun today, Waruck.” You step a little closer, Waruck’s heart skips a beat.

“Me too.” He whispers, his breath catching as your fingers brush against his.

It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve down a million times. But when your palm slips into his, your finger’s interlocking, it’s like fireworks have gone off.

“Same time, next week?”

Waruck nods, not trusting himself to speak without a voice crack.

That’s all he needed, all you wanted; The promise of the future.

“Yes, I would love that.”

#my writing #orc x reader #reader insert #female reader insert #orc/human #monster/human #monster x reader #monster/reader #angst #orc

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ghostwise · 3 years

Text

not a homecoming, but something like it

There are two men arguing in front of her home.

This is a nuisance, but not an uncommon one. Her neighbors are colorful and loud, so she’s used to people being in her way. Gente estorbosa. Normally she would’ve simply pushed past them to get to her gate. However, these are no neighbors of hers, and that makes her hesitate.

The two men are not speaking Antivan, but she knows enough languages to follow along, even with the street’s lively background chatter.

“This is a mistake,” one of them says.

“At least it’ll be in character, then,” the other replies.

Adelmar shifts the grocery basket on her hip, waiting. They’ll move on their own soon enough, she suspects. Or perhaps they’ll notice her and confront her for eavesdropping. Oh! Then they’d get an earful.

“I am being serious. Why would she remember me, hm?”

“You remember her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything—”

“I think it means more than you expected it to. I think that’s why you’re trying to back out at the last minute.”

Adelmar is not sure what the men are arguing about. She’d assumed their relationship to be contentious but now the shorter of the two steps close to his companion, looping an arm around his waist in an unmistakably supportive and affectionate gesture.

“If you really think this is a mistake, then let’s go, vhenan.”

Neither of them moves.

Adelmar clears her throat. Fascinating as the conversation is, she doesn’t have all day. She has dinner to get started, and her basket is getting heavy.

They turn to look at her, and she drops everything.

Tinned coffee and spices, parcels of lamb, and oranges, which roll out across the cobbled street.

“¿Zevran?” Adelmar’s voice is uncertain. She never expected to speak that name again, but those eyes and that hair…

“Zevran… Chivito. No puedo creerlo.”

The man Zevran is with has begun to pick up her groceries, although somewhat haphazardly, dropping one orange for every three he grabs. “You see?” he calls out, darting after a can and swiping it before it gets rolled over by a cart. “I knew she’d recognize you!”

And Zevran, the little boy she’d read stories to in the brothel, the same brown eyes, just taller, smiles at her like she’s singing a song and he’s in her lap again.

The scene, with all its noise and shouting in the background, and fruit rolling this way and that, feels briefly absurd. Is she imagining this? She has to make sure. She needs to just look at him. Stepping across a gap of decades (but it’s really only a few feet), she reaches for Zevran. She touches his face. Notices his tattoo. Frowns.

“Ay,” she murmurs, removing her hand. It is him.

He bursts out laughing.

“Qué gusto me da verte.”

Close by and with the biggest smile, Hamal Mahariel watches, holding the basket with all the groceries Adelmar has dropped.

It had come up in conversation, casually, a few days earlier. They had been investigating a mark, and Zevran, in the midst of planning and preparing, mentioned, “You know, I grew up near here.”

Hamal blinked. Sometimes he suspected that growing up meant something different for Zevran than it did for him. Did he mean he’d become a Crow here, just thirteen when he’d first killed?

When asked to clarify Zevran gestured at the map before them. He pointed a finger just a few centimeters from their present location.

“Rialto. I lived there before the Crows… acquired me.”

“Mm,” Hamal said, mulling it over. It was always a careful balance on his part to gauge whether it was alright to press for information, or better to let Zevran share at his own pace. But he was curious. Zevran seldom spoke of his early years.

“I’d love to see it, if you’re up to visiting,” he said finally.

“Perhaps. If we have time.” Zevran smiled warmly at him. “But really, amor, the place means very little to me. I have no childhood home, unless you count the brothel my mother worked at. I had no family. No friends. None that would remember me, anyway.”

Then why bring it up? Hamal wondered.

“Consider it a sentimental request from your husband,” he said.

Zevran rolled up the map quietly. He planted a quick kiss on Hamal’s cheek.

“That, I can do.”

Adelmar’s home is small and welcoming, with a tiny patio separating the living area from the kitchen and washroom. Her husband is away for a few days. Her children, grown and gone. She has all the time in the world. She wants to hear everything.

“How did you find me?” she asks, looking at Zevran with wonder. A part of her still can’t believe he’s here.

“We happened to be in Rialto. I… asked around.”

“You went to El milagro,” Adelmar guesses.

Zevran gestures noncommittally.

“I haven’t been there for years and years. It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m surprised anyone remembered, or knew enough to send you my way,” she said. “I’m surprised you looked for me at all…”

Adelmar takes a deep breath. She’s stirring up memories—old thoughts and feelings, few of them pleasant, otherwise she would find it nostalgic.

Quickly, she catches herself and shakes off the gloom. She sets a hand on Zevran’s shoulder.

“But I’m glad you did. I really am so happy to see you. Look at how you’ve grown.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” Zevran admits. “My husband convinced me. He’s nosy. It is why I keep him around.”

He chances a glance at Hamal, who is staying well out of the way. His Antivan still being rather rusty, he’s left Zevran and Adelmar to their conversation, and is currently helping chop vegetables for a stew.

“Well I’m glad for that,” Adelmar says, looking between the two men and beaming. Little Zevran—at her kitchen table and married no less!

“I never forgot you, Zevran,” she tells him. “If I had moved a little faster, saved a little more money, I would have left and brought you with me. You were so smart. You were always moving, running around, playing. In the end, it seems we both escaped to better circumstances,” she says finally, closing her eyes and sighing.

“Thank the Maker,” Zevran adds solemnly. Adelmar smiles, pleased at his manners.

“I’m so glad you’re doing well. So tell me,” she scoots closer and looks at him eagerly, “What sort of life did you have, after you were adopted?”

“Adopted?”

By the kitchen counter, Hamal catches the subtle edge in Zevran’s tone. He pauses, holding the knife in his hand as a lull falls over the kitchen table, but he doesn’t know enough Antivan to guess what’s happened.

What’s happened is this: Zevran and Adelmar came from the same place, and know enough about that life to instantly understand that a lie has been told.

“Oh,” Adelmar breathes after a moment. “You… you weren’t adopted.”

Zevran lets out a laugh. It’s his ‘stalling’ laugh, and now Hamal is looking over, arms crossed, searching his face for clues.

“I was not adopted,” he says. “But do not trouble yourself over that.” Then, smoothly redirecting, he gets up and locks eyes with Hamal.

“Shall I boil some water?” he asks, switching out of Antivan.

The tense moment is gone. Hamal nods, glancing at Adelmar. “I’ll start the fire.”

There’s a reason why the kitchen is kept apart from the rest of the house. While the soup simmers, they bring their visit to the adjacent patio, where a cool breeze offers relief. Tree branches from the outside—from a tamarind tree growing in the street—have stretched out over the wall and blessed Adelmar’s patio with shade and fruit.

Hamal makes a face when he tastes it. Glancing at Zevran, he holds his gaze and waits just long enough to make it clear he’s less than partial to the flavor.

“So delicious, vhenan.”

Zevran laughs. “Wait until you try it in drink form.”

“If you make it, I am sure I will enjoy it.”

Adelmar, knowing she’s touched upon a shared hurt between her and Zevran, makes up for it by talking about anything else. She is particularly interested in their wedding, and is scandalized when she hears they’ve only been married a few weeks.

“I missed it!” she exclaims.

“It was quite sudden, my friend,” Zevran says, as if there’d been a chance of her attending. “Spontaneous. Just the two of us. Very romantic.”

Hamal taps the handcrafted silver band around his ring finger. He gestures at Zevran. “Él lo hizo,” he says in the most accented Antivan ever. “Muy, muy… bello.”

Dinner is delicious. Despite some language barriers, their conversation is easy and effortless. It’s also, intentionally, vague. Adelmar learns that they met in Ferelden, that they’re on an important journey, and that the journey is a dangerous one.

Most importantly, she also learns that Zevran’s heart has survived its rocky passage into adulthood, whole, if not unscathed. The core of the little boy she’d known in the brothel is there, even if he himself does not realize it. It brings her immense comfort.

The visit ends all too quickly, and though she asks them to stay the night, she isn’t surprised when they decline.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Hamal tells Zevran, who relays the message to Adelmar.

“You and Hamal are welcome, always,” Adelmar assures him. “Will you visit again?”

“If it is less dangerous,” Zevran says. “We were not followed here. But repeated visits might be difficult. Risky.”

“I understand. Not right away, then. When you can. We still have so much to talk about.”

“I would like that,” Zevran agrees.

They share one last hug, the three of them, and Adelmar watches them slip into the night.

“I need to brush up on my Antivan,” Hamal says. “But I enjoyed meeting her.”

“She liked you a lot,” Zevran says, smiling. Hamal laughs.

“You talked about me?”

“Of course. I had to show you off.” He winks at him. Then, with a soft intake of breath, Zevran looks away with his brow furrowed, the lines of his tattoo tense.

“… They told her I’d been adopted. All these years, and she had no idea. I’m almost sorry she had to find out otherwise.”

They’ve traveled for hours, leaving the city behind. Bright points of light shine overhead. The night sky of Antiva smells of jasmine and the distant sea.

“That’s awful,” Hamal says, looking at him.

“What a farce,” Zevran says bitterly. “Just like everything the Crows do. Operating in the open, but hidden from view. Buying children and lives while people look the other way.” Earnestly, his brown eyes black in the dark, he shakes his head. “It must end. It must.”

Hamal touches the lines of his tattoo, calloused fingers grounding him.

“Ma nuvenin, Zevran Arainai. It will.”

A short piece to introduce my OC, Adelmar Provencio. If you ever read my WIP For Suffering is Such a Part, you’ve met her through flashbacks already. While I love the idea of Zevran taking down the Crows alone, please consider, Zevran taking down the Crows with the support of a community, strengthened by the bonds he’s made in his life...

Adelmar plays a further role in the story, so hopefully I can write more for her!

#dragon age #zevran arainai #mahariel #zevran x warden #rinnywrites #oc: hamal mahariel #oc: adelmar provencio

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sourholland · 3 years

Text

A Royal Convenience || Tom Holland

a royal convenience blurb - i highly suggest reading the series before reading this

a/n - this is much longer than my usual arc blurbs, it’s almost three thousand words. it’s very nostalgic, though. it’s almost like a second epilogue!

Many years had passed, the nineteenth century fading into a distant memory. As quickly as your youthful teenage years had dawned on you, they were gone just as fast. It was a bittersweet thing, watching your skin become ridden with age and stress.

Even in the years that had passed so feverishly, you could still recall the smell of fresh air as you stepped off that ship at eighteen years old. The times were changing, the people were changing. It was a progressive era, one you felt sad you wouldn’t be able to see through to the end. At the same time you were content, you had enjoyed a very disorderly youth.

In the time that passed, your children had now had their own children, some of which who had begun to have their own children. It was odd, to watch them as you and Tom once were.

“Granny?” Anne called out, Alexander’s youngest who had been named after your dearest, most loyal friend.

Anne had died shortly after the birth of your fourth child. She caught the fever, already into her older years. It was a difficult loss, terribly difficult. She had very fortunately been able to see your fourth child, Prince Leopold, take his first breath, offering his nickname. From that day on, he was called Leo.

When Alexander had named his only daughter after the woman he only remembered bits and pieces of, you wept. He knew how much you adored her, especially with all of the stories Tom had told him as he got older.

“Where’d you find that old thing?” You asked her humorously, noticing the large, very overcrowded scrapbook she was holding. “I haven’t seen that in ages.”

“I found it stowed away in some of papa’s old things,” she remarked. “I thought you might like to look through it.”

Anne was a curious thing, just sixteen and very keen to know everything and anything. She looked a lot like you as a young girl, with those eyes that Tom had passed to Alexander. Funny enough, she’d even inherited that same lopsided grin that you knew so well. It was the same one you’d been on the other end of for decades.

The scrapbook was quite familiar to you, especially being that it was so shoved full of things from when you had just been married. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, many years of neglect quite prominent in the condition.

“Of course, darling!” You smiled unwaveringly at her. “Set it down, let’s have a look.”

There was an inscription on the inside, reminding you that the book itself had been a wedding gift from Charlotte. It felt so long ago that she was just a dear friend and companion to you. She was your lady in waiting for a brief time, then she went on to marry Harrison and have two daughters.

To document many years to come and their happy memories.

Lottie

The next page caught you by surprise, only the first bit of the book and you were nearly in tears. In a grainy black font, clippings of at least five newspapers were pasted to the dull yellow page. It felt like you were being knocked into the past, hand grazing the paper gently. Smiling softly, you heard Anne chuckle from beside you.

THE PRINCE OF WALES ENGAGED TO BE WED THIS SPRING

“Were you scared?” She asked. “Auntie Maggie told me some.”

“I was absolutely mortified, if I’m being perfectly honest. I took a ship from France, for days I couldn’t keep anything down. Once I reached land, I was just happy to be able to step onto solid ground.”

Recalling the events of that day, you remembered your atrocious hair after the long journey and disheveled clothing. They’d put you in the carriage and sent you off like it was nothing, the next thing you knew, you were standing before the King and Queen of England. How bizarre times were, these days there was something called the automobile. Carriages would be out of fashion soon enough.

“Is it true, then?” Anne questioned bashfully. “I never believed that you and Grandfather could ever have hated each other.”

“Oh, you should have seen us that young and stubborn. He told me he’d never willingly marry him that day, I was furious.”

“What did you say?” She leaned forward as if it was gossip.

“I told him the feeling was mutual, of course!”

She erupted into a fit of girlish giggles, saying something about how she wished she could’ve seen it. You thought back to that moment, wishing you could tell your younger self how you would get through the hard times. How worth it, it would be.

Flipping to the next page, you could have cried with tears of joy. It was not uncommon to find pressed peonies around any space you inhabited, but this was one of the first white peony that Anne had ever threaded into your hair. It was from that first ball you’d attended, a week into your stay at Buckingham Palace.

Looking down at your lap, it was like your aged hands disappeared and you were seeing yourself from that moment. The blue gown you wore sat so nicely, the bitter taste of your situation re-emerging on your lips.

“Is there some significance of this dating?” She pointed to the small ink at the corner of the page: March, 1871

“There is,” you murmured to yourself. “It was a very significant night, when I wore these flowers in my hair. Ask your grandfather and I’m sure he’ll tell you all about how he called me childish and proud.”

Flipping to the next side, you sighed at the very tainted and tear-stained draft of a letter you’d intended to send to your mother. From what you remembered, this copy was very similar, but much less put together compared to what you actually sent. It had worn heavily with age, but some excerpts were clearly legible. Anne began to read aloud.

“‘I am writing to tell you that this wedding cannot go forth, it will be an absolute catastrophe for everyone,’” she read wearily. “‘I do not wish to marry the Prince of Wales, nor do I wish to become the Queen of England. Frankly, I would rather any other man.’”

She was skipping to see what made sense on the parchment, majority of it was unreadable and the authentic letter was long gone. Your mother had succumbed to disease many years ago. Some bit before your father died and Louis became King of France.

“‘Maman, please help me. Please tell me that it is not too late,’” she made out. “‘I cannot go on like this any longer, I will not. I love my liberty far too much to subject myself to such a fate.’”

“I was quite the fan of dramatics back then,” you laughed at the long and drawn out passages you’d written in hopes of a way home.

“Granny, it sounds like you were miserable in England,” Anne sighed, clearly taken aback. “I just don’t understand.”

And hopefully she never would, you thought to yourself.

It had been a lucky draw, yours and Tom’s situation. Love had blossomed from something more like hatred. You’d grown fond of each other, eventually building a life with each other. Many marriages forced at the hands of a monarchy were unalike.

Beside the drafted letter was a single slip of parchment, carved into it was a quote you remember so clearly from A Tale of Two Cities. The words were pushed deep into the paper, ink splattered all over it.

“Think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you.”

Anne did not need to know of a certain auburn haired mistress that had inspired this little art project. Nettie Bennett was a name you had not spoken aloud in decades, a name you wished terribly to forget. You did not judge Tom based on Nettie, nor had you ever planned to throw her back in his face by telling Anne.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust your granddaughter to keep such a thing close to her chest, but the fact that you had reserved that name for the past only. Anne need not think of her grandfather any less.

This time she moved to see what bit of history was next. It was a very familiar bit of sheet music, a Chopin duet to be specific. This memory was nearly tainted by Nikolai, but you chose to look at the more positive outcomes of that night. A boy and girl at the piano, sworn to despise each other at all odds. Only they couldn’t, not in that moment.

The next few pages were little things here and there, fabric swatches and drawn up plans from when they were crafting your wedding gown. Oh how disappointed everyone was when you’d chosen white. Anne asked a million questions, she spoke so fondly of the wedding that was held long before her birth.

The next was a headline you remember gravely:

SHOTS FIRED AT PRINCE OF WALES AND BRIDE

You definitely did not miss only being referred to as his bride. It was quite a tasking thing, being engaged to the next King of England. Anne had known the story from the carriage ride through Hyde Park, Tom told it every Christmas. He usually left out the part about how you’d teased him with your engagement ring.

“What’s this?” She asked, pointing to the bit of black lace threaded into the paper.

It was from the veil you’d worn that dreadful day at the Tower of London. It was a memory you wished not to rehash, one to never be forgotten, though. It had been the first and last public execution you witnessed.

“A story for another day,” you breathed.

Next was a bit of the corset Tom had ripped apart from that ball a few days later. Even now, the memory turned your face ablaze. Shaking your head, you wished to rid yourself of the burning sensation with a chuckle.

“How about this one?” She touched the corset, looking at you curiously.

“A story for—when you’re older.”

Looking to the next page, you realized it was the first photograph in the book. A black and white moment captured between you and Tom, straight faced and clearly vexed with each other at the time. You had just had a row the day before, it was by the pond on the property if you recalled correctly.

Nicola had dragged you inside to take the photograph, your ring on display very clearly. Your dress was light, Tom was looking rather put off with you. However, this was normal for the time it was taken. Beside it though, you barely remembered this photo. White spots covered the corners, but it was slightly off guard in a way that your face was slightly blurry from moving your head and he was staring at you so intently.

“Look at you,” Anne cooed. “You looked so beautiful, you look a bit like—”

“You,” you responded coyly. “That’s where you get your good looks.”

In a small bunch, you noticed the pins all pasted to the page of the next section in the book. You had retrieved them from the library floor after Tom pulled them from your hair in a fleeting decision. They were old, little pearls at the top of the clip. It had been a long time since you’d seen them.

Anne had pointed out the photograph of you and Tom during your engagement at Windsor Castle. Sam and Harry were beside you, Paddy still very short at your left. It was taken outside, you remembered all of the equipment being put out and the man who crouched underneath the black sheet to capture it.

“Windsor was what made me really fall in love with Tom,” you smiled at the memories. “It turned out being such a nice trip.”

“It must have been so magical,” she replied with a breathy laugh.

“Well, we’d had a bit of a row about a man called Nikolai. Another story for another day.”

As if the world was mocking you, there was another small note that Tom had written up and given to you on a spare bit of parchment. That night, well Tom had made sure Nikolai left the country. It was in his once pristine and very beautiful handwriting that had now gone shaky.

I need to speak with you, meet me in my chambers just following dinner.

— Tom

There was an assortment of small things, photographs of just you, some with Sam and Harry. You found stamped lilies from your wedding bouquet, eyes watering at the sight. Anne picked up the letter you knew all too well, it was Tom’s vows to you from your wedding day.

She read silently, a smile playing on her lips and she went on. It was quite nostalgic, to see that paper after such a long time. Setting the parchment down, she had tears in her eyes.

“That’s so romantic,” she said outwardly.

It was beginning to get late, watching Anne flip through some photographs from the beginning of your marriage. She found pictures from when Alexander had been born, and then when James came along. It was much more difficult to get them to sit still after Margaret was born and they were so hyperactive.

“We opted for paintings majority of the time,” you added. “Oh look, there’s Leo’s christening. He was the first and only with any actual photo from his, all of the rest only had paintings we commissioned.”

She watched the children grow up through old photos, little things pasted to the pages. When Leo was three, you had your fifth and final child. Princess Alice sat idly on your lap in one of the photos, she looked so happy. Her face was a bit blurry from movement, but you could make out her smile. Standing at your right was Alexander, he was nearly fourteen and looked so much like Tom when you first met. Beside him was James, twelve and disdainful looking. You remembered how adamant he was to not be taking this picture.

Margaret was six, her hair at her shoulders with a bright grin playing on her lips. She had a hand on her new sisters dress, looking down at her adoringly. Leo was three, his hair was slicked down and he only wanted to run around and play. His mouth was opening to speak, you could still remember what he was saying. Margaret had stepped on his foot so he was going to shout at her.

“Maggie!” He had yelled, his kid-voice making you laugh.

Finally shutting the book, your promised Anne that you would go through it more later on. She was saddened, wanting to see more, but agreed nonetheless.

“Don’t worry,” you told her. “I’ve got plenty more stories to tell you.”

#a royal convenience #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagines #tom holland imagine #elle’s fics #tom holland #prince!tom #tom holland series #tom holland blurb #royal!tom

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dameronology · 3 years

Text

knowing me, knowing you {steve rogers}

summary: breaking up is never easy - but it's the best thing you can do (yes, it's based on the song by abba and no, i have no regrets)

warnings: mentions of drinking, swearing

i don't even know what possessed me to write this but? i've been neck deep in angst rn and sometimes, it's nice to explore a healthy break up bc shit happens. enjoy!!

- jazz xx

In the middle of Brooklyn, about twenty minutes away from the Bridge, there was an unassuming townhouse. It stood between several other identical brownstones, with a messy garden and unkempt tangles of bushes - you nor Steve never had the time to tend to do it, with your jobs and your lives pulling you in a thousand different directions. The inside, though? That was what had mattered. It was filled with years of memories - photos of you on the fridge, ticket stubs from your trips to the movies, clutter from so many Christmases and birthdays - that were all contained between the four walls. Home had been important to Steve, given how often he'd moved around. And it couldn't have been that home without you.

Now you were stood at the foot of the front garden, a pile of collapsed boxes resting in your arms. The last time you'd been here was when you and Steve had tried to talk it out -- it had ended with the door slamming behind you. The conversation had ended badly, but your relationship had ended even worse. And even though you had both tried to hard to blame one another, finding fault had been hard. You'd just...fallen out of love. It wasn't something either of you could help, nor was it something you could force. Your frustration and anger, and the shouting and fights, had never been at Steve, but rather the situation. He had always said that finding you, and simultaneously loving you, had come out of nowhere; it was something he had never sought out. You were just there one day, and it changed everything.

Sighing to yourself, you headed up the path and towards the front door. You'd been dreading this day for months -- moving out years worth of stuff, and trying through bleary eyes not to look at the photos on the wall or the millions of little reminders that your relationship had left behind in its wake. There was a dent in the hallway, from your first Thanksgiving in the house when Steve had gotten a little too drunk, and the massive crack in the kitchen floor from where you'd managed to drop the kettle. It was littered with memories and callbacks and evocations. The house was haunted with the ghosts of what was, and what could have been.

You could at least take comfort in the fact that you'd tried - several times, actually. There had been couples counselling and forced, romantic getaways in a last-ditch attempt to trigger something, anything, to get back your dying spark. It made it better and worst - better, because you knew that you'd done everything in your power to salvage things, but worst, because it had all been a waste. A sign that your relationship had gotten so bad that it had crossed the point of no return.

Sometimes, breaking up was the best thing to do. It hurt now, but it hurt much less in the long term compared to what could have been if you'd stayed together.

Placing the boxes by the door, you shut it behind you and quietly crept inside. There had been no communication with Steve other than a few horribly formal emails - after all, you did still work together - detailing your plans to sort the house out. It had been sitting derelict for months, your former home collecting dust. He'd sought refuge at Bucky's loft across the River, whilst you'd been hiding out in Natasha's spare room.

It felt odd being back; nostalgic and painful all at once. So much had happened in these four walls - good and bad, memorable and mundane - and you were feeling it all at once. It was seeping in through the cracks of your mind, the same way the tension had slipped through the cracks in the old walls and questionable foundations. It didn't matter that the place had been falling apart, because it had been so loved.

"I...I didn't realise you were coming today."

You froze at the sound of Steve's voice. He was stood in the kitchen, navy bomber jacket slung over one shoulder and a box of his belongings in his free hand. Hadn't you said that you coming today? Tomorrow was meant to be his moving day.

"Yeah," you swallowed. "I said in the email."

"Sorry, I must have misread it." He sheepishly admitted. "I was just gonna get my stuff and go."

"Me too," you nodded. "Figured it might take a while though."

"You do own a lot of crap," Steve gently smiled. "I just put the kettle on. Do you want a coffee?"

"Uh," your eyes fell to the floor, "I should probably just-"

"- it's just a coffee." Steve cut you off.

"Yeah, okay then."

You awkwardly took a seat at the breakfast bar beside him. God, was this really what it had come to? This time last year, you would have just been waking up and strolling into the kitchen, greeting your super soldier with a kiss as he prepared breakfast. You had a routine - you had a life. But that was exactly it, wasn't it? Life. You and Steve of all people knew how fucking unexpected things could be; how many curveballs and challenges could be thrown your way. In an odd way, your break-up had been even less expected than Ultron and Loki and HYDRA.

"It'll have to be black coffee," Steve said. "We only have coffee out the jar. No-one's been here for months."

"I know," you nodded. "I did used to live here, remember?"

"I think I'm having a hard time not remembering, to be honest," He said. "Being here is harder than I thought it would be."

"Yeah, I get that." You took the mug out his hands, giving him a small nod. "All this feels a lot scarier than aliens and robots."

"Ah, well," Steve tried to brush it off. "I never noticed how badly we beat up the place."

"Do you mean the dent in the hallway, or the crack in the floor?" You found yourself smiling.

"I meant the hair dye stains in the bathroom and the smashed window in the basement," he shot back.

"That was both of us. You wanted to play football inside, remember?"

"Only because you had got me drunk," he countered. "I don't think we'll get our deposit back."

"Y'think?" You quirked an eyebrow.

An odd silence fell over you. It was the first time in months that you were talking - and now that the pressure of being in a relationship was suddenly off your shoulders, some of the tension had faded away. When you took a step back and brushed aside the ashes of what had once been, there was still...something. Not love, and not a relationship, but the same common ground and interests that had brought you together in the first place. It was worth holding onto.

"Do you remember that time that your parents came to visit and you forgot to tell me?" Steve recalled with a soft smile, "and your dad just strolled in on me in the shower."

"It's not any worst than the time you gave Bucky a spare key and he broke in in the middle of the night to get milk for his fucking coffee," you chuckled.

"It was a good few years."

"It was," your eyes fell down to the dark bubbles of the coffee in front of you. "Pride and all that aside, I'm sorry it ended how it did."

"Hey, it's okay," Steve gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, "it's no-one's fault. These things happen."

"I know," you said, "I just...we had a good thing going, didn't we?"

"We did, but we also did everything we could to try and fix things." He replied.

"And we couldn't," you recalled. "I know that breaking up was the easy thing-"

"- it wasn't," Steve cut you off. "But it was the right thing, wasn't it? Because we made each other miserable."

"As partners, yeah," you nodded, "but what about friends?"

Your eyes met again, and he smiled. "Yeah. I think we can manage that."

Admitting defeat was hard, but if it was what you needed to do in order to stay in each other's lives? It was the best you could do.

tags: @agent-catfish-kenobi

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egcdeath · 3 years

Text

strangers again

summary: “hiiii sweetie!! can i request a steve x reader where he left yn for peggy. but he always felt guilty and missed yn. he would always stare at her pic. when he came back he bumped into yn while she was dropping a kid to daycare. and steve realized it was his son. kinda sad but fluff at the end pls!!!! and oh i super love your works!!! tysm 🌼🥺💕”

pairing: steve rogers x reader

warnings: decent angst, brief mention of a depressive episode, abandonment, somewhat unrealistic behavior

word count: 3.8k

author’s note: i really hope that this lives up to your expectations but it is a little cheesy. i’d also like to warn that i have not interacted with a child in several years, so.. sorry. (there’s also a lot of exposition so double sorry if that’s not your thing!)

You’d never forget the moment Steve left to return the stones, with the promise to be back in only a matter of moments.

Maybe your definition of a matter of moments was different from his.

You seemed to be the only one without a clue of what Steve truly planned to do, with Bucky only telling you after the matter that Steve was leaving for the past and for Peggy, and probably not coming back.

After finding out, something deep within you broke. You could barely leave your bed for days, you struggled to eat, sleep, even drink water. Every task that used to seem like muscle memory, began to feel like it carried the weight of the world behind it. Every hobby that you once enjoyed becoming empty and bleak.

You constantly felt inadequate. How could you love someone so much, and be told you were loved so much while always being second to someone else?

The simple sentiment of it had left you feeling miserable, and sick to your stomach. Literally. Nearly every morning, and occasionally if you smelled something too strong, you found the contents of your stomach emptied.

You attempted to ignore it at first. Meshed with every other unpleasant symptom you were going through, you’d figured that it was just one more bullet point on the list of things that had been plaguing you. But when your friends insisted that you go check up with your doctor, you had a hard time saying no.

Once you received the results from your blood test, you were completely taken aback by the fact that you were pregnant. You couldn't believe that you hadn’t considered the possibility of pregnancy earlier.

Yet, after a long and hard period of pondering, you managed to surprise yourself once again after you realized you wanted to keep it.

After all, that could be the only piece of Steve you had left.

----

You began to tell yourself that Steve was dead. That was somehow less painful than the idea that he left you for someone that he barely knew, yet had fallen so hard for nearly 70 years ago. You refused to let yourself fall for anyone else romantically, now that you were aware that anyone had the capacity to leave you at any time, no matter how deep you perceived your relationship to be.

You guarded your heart, and made sure to only let in those that you knew you could trust for a fact. For the remainder of your pregnancy, only your closest family members and friends stood by your side.

About 8 months later, you brought a small, but healthy infant into the world. From that moment on, you promised yourself to become the best version of yourself that you could be. No dwelling on the past, and no yearning for what could’ve been. Your only duty now was to provide the best life possible for your offspring.

So you did.

----

You stood in the kitchen, peeling an orange for your son before he bounded into the room. You turned and gave him a big grin, and he grinned back to you.

“Did you get dressed all by yourself?” You asked him excitedly, receiving a nod in return before he ran up to your leg, and hugged it.

“I did, Mommy!” He looked up at you with his soulful eyes, and you couldn’t help but to feel bombarded with emotion.

Even at the tender age of five, Grant seemed to become a bit more like his father every day. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the sound of his giggle. To the average onlooker, he came across as the same as any other child, but to you, your son was the splitting image of Steve.

“Good work, little man. Now go sit at the table so mommy can finish breakfast, okay?” He didn’t even bother confirming with you before more or less sprinting to the table. You couldn’t help but to ask yourself if your son had obtained all of that energy and speed from his father as well.

Breakfast was over almost as soon as it started, and before you knew it, you were warming up your car after you’d assisted Grant with brushing his teeth.

You were in an oddly nostalgic mood that day, playing music from a time period before you’d even imagined bringing another life into the world. You glanced up at the rearview mirror and watched your son happily bop his head to the beat. You thought in passing about how much of a gift he truly was.

After arriving at his school, you hopped out of the car and over to the furthest seat in the back, where he’d insisted on sitting that day.

“You ready, big guy?” You questioned while reaching out to grab him from the car seat.

“Born ready,” he agreed. You chuckled and shook your head fondly at that while getting him out of the car.

“Who taught you that?”

Grant shrugged, “I came up with it myself.”

“I’m sure. Can you hold my hand while we’re out please?” You reached out for him, and he gladly obliged.

You soon became distracted by a large man across the street, his built figure and light blonde hair making you recall the father of your child. You gave Grant’s hand a light squeeze and continued to approach the door, not being able to help yourself, and glancing over at the man one last time.

Except this time was different. Your eyes locked with the blonde man outside of the coffee shop across the street unexpectedly. Where you once thought casually to yourself that it looked like Steve, you now had confirmation that it was in fact the man who you’d fallen in love with, and found yourself pregnant by.

You audibly gasped, receiving a bit of a questioning look from your child. Your heart dropped as a metric ton of emotions hit you all at once, anger, sadness, confusion. Everything you told yourself you needed to repress, had suddenly come back to you all at once.

Even from a distance, you swore you could see his eyes flit from you to Grant, and the next thing you knew, he was approaching your direction. Looking for an easy out, and a distraction from your rather observant child, you quickly caused a misdirection.

“Grant, is that Stacey over on the playground? You should totally go show her that new version of tag that you were telling me about!”

Your son, ever the speedster, booked it towards the playground, and you let out a sigh of relief. Although, the relief didn’t last long, as just moments later, Steve was almost all the way up to you. As you turned to try to escape, you felt a hand on your arm.

“Y/N?” He asked, almost timidly.

You weren’t even sure what to say. In fact, you didn’t feel like you had control of your own body at this point. “Steve? I-“ You ran a hand through your hair and bit the inside of your lip. “You need to go.” The pain that was rushing through you was too much for you to bare, especially considering the man who caused the hurt had suddenly decided to reappear in your life after giving you a world of self doubt and abandonment issues.

Steve seemed hurt by your statement, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could stand to even look at his face. “Please, Y/N, let me explain,” he begged.

“No, Steve. You don’t get that luxury. You left me for someone else, and I guess you got to live a nice, long life with her. You don’t get to just show back up in my life when you get bored, okay? I can’t afford to play those types of games anymore. Now if you’d let me go-“ You attempted to get to your car, but Steve side stepped you.

“It wasn’t like that. You know it isn’t like that.”

“Just fucking leave! You have no idea what this has all been like for me. You had your opportunity to leave, and you gladly took it. Stay the fuck out of my life, and the hell away from my son.” You grabbed the handle of your car door and got in, reeling as you watched a dejected Steve walk away.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you rested your head against the steering wheel. You were feeling way too many emotions to pinpoint exactly how you felt, but you knew that this couldn’t be good.

——

You put a brave face on for your son that day, picking him up from school in a daze, and only half listening to whatever it was that he was telling you.

You felt bad for only being able to nod along to whatever he was saying, and did he just ask you if he could get a dog? Did you just say yes?

You felt like a stranger watching yourself from the outside in. The ghost of the person you’d developed into over the years watching the past version of yourself slip right back into your body, and take over your daily routine through the next few days of your life.

You had an obscene amount of anger that soon dissolved into a deep sadness, and that sadness shorty developed into a morbid curiosity.

You spent an unreasonable, and certainly unhealthy amount of time searching your old lover’s name on tabloid websites and social media, just to see if he’d given a statement on his whereabouts, or a statement about anything at all.

After about day three of your minor internet stalking, you’d had an epiphany while sitting in your office.

You still have Steve’s number saved on your phone.

That was, of course, if it hadn’t changed between now and the years that he’d been off living in the past.

Something about knowing that you were just one text away from him made your heart race with a mixture of nerves and interest. Just one impulsive decision, and you could change the whole trajectory of the rest of your life.

If you got back in contact with Steve, you might not ever be willing to leave him. You refused to make that mistake again.

Until you did.

After reading Grant his nightly bedtime story, then wrapping him tightly in his little bed, you’d decided to treat yourself to a glass of Chardonnay.

It’d been a weird past couple of days. Your time traveling ex had randomly appeared back into your life, your coworkers seemed to get on your nerves a little more every moment you were around them, and Grant had a temper tantrum in the grocery store that afternoon over a chocolate bar, which gained judging stares from customers, and may have made you feel the slightest bit inadequate.

At least that’s what you told yourself as you filled your glass again, because two glasses can’t hurt, and again, since I kinda deserve this extra one, don’t I? The next thing you knew, the bottle was empty, and you were texting Steve for the first time in years.

Y: Is this Steve?

You watched as three white dots hovered on your screen for a moment, disappeared, then came back once again.

S: Is this Y/N?

Y: Yes.

Y: We should tlak

Y: *talk

S: I agree.

Y: So lets

Y: talk

S: I don’t think this is a conversation for texts.

Y: Then call me???????????????????

S: We should talk in person.

Y: Im not gonna do that sober

S: You’re not sober?

Y: do you think id text u sober u big fuckni asshole

S: I guess you’re right

S: So are we gonna talk?

Y: no ur gonna meet me at b cup cafe tomorrow at 10

S: AM or PM?

Y: AM I’m off

S: Are you sure you want to do this?

Y: Say yes before i change my mind

S: I’ll see you there

Y: Bye babydaddy

S: ????

You promptly deleted the messages, tossed your phone somewhere on the sofa, and sunk into the seat. Even in your not-completely-sober state, you already felt the all too familiar sense regret. You dragged the blanket that hung over the top of the sofa over your exhausted body, and closed your eyes, wishing that this was somehow all a dream.

----

It was not all just a dream.

You woke up with dried drool on your chin, and a deep pit of bad feelings and regret in your chest. Of course, you ignored the bad feelings and got ready, business as usual. You successfully dropped Grant off at school with little complications, and found yourself perking up a bit more.

Yet, something still felt slightly off. You reached into the passenger seat for your phone, and as you looked down on it, saw the familiar notification of a calendar event.

10:00 AM b cup coff w Steeb

You groaned out loud at this. There was no obligation for you to go meet with him, but perhaps going and talking to Steve would bring you some sort of closure. Maybe then you could move on with your life, get with a nice guy who would mean it when he tells you he won't leave you, who loves Grant like he’s his own biological offspring, and to take care of the both of you through thick and thin.

You gladly daydreamed of this fantasy man while driving to the shop, but you couldn’t help but to see Steve’s face doing all of the aforementioned things. Before you even fell pregnant, that’s what you’d truly wanted with Steve. To be a family. To have your definition of home be with your people, rather than a place.

Entering the coffee shop, you briefly ordered your drink before looking around and find Steve sitting alone in a booth, mindlessly stirring around the liquid in his cup.

Timidly, you approached the booth, before setting your purse down and sitting across from him.

“You... you came?” He looked up to you with almost watery eyes.

“Of course I did,” you tried to hold yourself back from mentioning something about following through on your word. You wanted this to be as civil as possible. To build bridges rather than burn them.

“I just didn’t expect to see you in person again. And, you know, you were running a little late,” he added.

“Well, you try waking a five year old up and getting him ready for school every day,” you expelled a humorless chuckle to deflect from the slight agitation you were feeling.

“While you’re hungover?” Steve asked with a bit of a smirk, trying to lighten up the mood.

“While you’re hungover,” You confirmed, genuinely laughing now. It felt good, natural even. You’d kind of forgotten just how pleasant things used to be with Steve.

“Did you mean it last night?” he interrupted the laughter with a serious look.

“I honestly cannot remember anything I said last night. Elaborate, please?”

“That he’s mine. Your son.” He watched you silently nod, then began to speak again, “Wow, I just didn’t realize… How did that happen?” He looked down into his drink nervously.

“Well, it’s kind of hard to recall the exact details, but when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much...” You trailed off, and looked up as a barista called a butchered version of your name.

You were glad to have an excuse to get up and leave for a moment. Adrenaline was racing through your body, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep your composure before you erupted into tears, or had some sort of angry outburst.

Bringing your cup back to the booth, you sat down and took a sip of the scalding drink, “Where did we leave off?”

“I believe you were giving me the birds and the bees?”

“Right! Well, I think you know the rest. I’ll tell you more about Grant later. Right now, I want to know why you left and suddenly decided to come back.” You genuinely felt proud of your delivery. This was the moment you’d practiced in front of the mirror for years, and you didn’t even butcher it.

Steve shook his head and looked into his drink once again. It was so hard to look at you, let alone make eye contact with you, when he knew that he’d been the one to give you an ocean of grief. Yet, he was somewhat intrigued by hearing that his son’s name was his middle name.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Steve began.

“Good thing we have time,” you crossed your arms as you spoke.

“Well, waking up in a whole new time period isn’t exactly the easiest thing ever. You and me both know I missed it there, and it’s always been more than just nostalgia for me. I truly believed that I belonged back there.”

Of course, you had an idea of this, but hearing Steve confirm what you’d already thought made your insides twist.

“But I was so wrong. More than anything, I guess I was in love with a romanticized version of the past. Of Peggy.”

Hearing her name, especially from Steve, made you bristle. You wanted to interrupt him at this point, but it wouldn’t do you or him any good to become hostile while he explained himself.

“By the time I realized, it was too late. I figured you’d already moved on and found someone else to take care of you, and the world, this world, didn’t really need me anymore. But something possessed me to come back.”

“So you’re telling me that if you stopped being an idiot that just assumes things, we could’ve worked this out before? That you could’ve been an active participant in your son’s life?”

“I guess that’s a good way to interpret that story. I know I haven’t been in his life, but is there any way that I can still meet him?” Steve asked hopefully.

“Yeah, of course. He’s just like,” you sighed a bit to yourself. “He’s like a carbon copy of you. Especially his personality, but like, down to his mannerisms. I always struggled to understand how he could be so much like his dad, and never even had met him. You’ll love him.”

“Even if I didn't like him, I’d still love him.”

“How do you still manage to be such a cheeseball all the damn time? You think you’d be able to make it to dinner tonight?”

----

At exactly 6:30 on the dot, your doorbell rang, and before you even had the chance to think about opening it, Grant already was at the door, and opening it. You cringed on the inside, and made a mental note to have another conversation about stranger danger with him.

“Do I know you? Who are you?” you heard your child question from the other room as you set down the last of the plates in your dining room.

“I’m Steve, your mom’s friend... and…” Steve nearly spilled the beans to his son, but didn’t want to cause any more damage than he’d already done. “Her friend.”

“That’s so cool! I have friends too, like Nick, and Stacey, and,” you’d rushed up to the door and wiped your brow, internally hoping that you hadn’t just smudged the makeup you’d put on for the occasion.

“Hi, Steve, come on in,” You beckoned him in, and pulled Grant to the side, quietly scolding him before leading Steve into the dining room. “Grant! This is the last time I’m telling you about opening doors, okay?” He nodded obediently, then followed you and Steve.

“Can I sit next to your friend, Mommy?”

“Is that alright with you, Steve?”

“More than fine.”

Grant sat down next to him, and scooted a bit closer than necessary, while you sat across from the two of them.

“I have to in… enter a gate you now. Because Mommy never brings any over her friends over. I didn’t know she had any friends.”

You blushed a bit at this, at your son’s overdramatic behavior, and his admission that you’d become a bit of a loner.

“Go ahead, pal,” Steve chuckled heartily.

“When did you meet my mom?”

“Before you were even born.”

“Wow! That’s a long time. You’re really old. What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

“I’ve heard T-Rexes are pretty cool.”

“Have you met any?”

You nearly spat out your drink at this. If only your son had known.

“Nope, never. Have you?”

“Hmm, not yet. But they’re my favorite dino too. Now your ‘gating is over.”

You couldn’t help but to burst out into laughter at the bizarre exchange, but you were glad that your son and Steve were getting along so well.

The rest of dinner went pretty similarly, with Grant bantering with Steve, and Steve indulging him. You could tell that the relationship between the two of them was something that came both naturally and easily. You couldn’t help but to grin as Grant began to ramble about how cool Steve was, and how he swore he was better friends with Steve than you were.

“Mommy, isn’t Steve the best? You guys should totally get married so he can have dinner with us every day!” he swooned. “He even kinda looks like me, right?!”

That’s why you couldn’t help what came out of your mouth next.

“Grant, Steve is… He’s your dad,” you said quietly.

Grant nodded, then slurped up a noodle, “That’s why he’s so cool! He gets it from me, right Mom?”

“That sounds right to me,” You glanced up at Steve, and noticed his surprised expression. You mouthed something along the lines to ‘He’ll process it later,’ and waved a dismissive hand, before going in for another bite of food.

----

After putting Grant to bed, You and Steve stood at your kitchen sink, bumping elbows occasionally as the two of you silently worked together to wash and dry dishes.

The domesticity and familiarity of the action brought you an obscene amount of comfort. You remembered how you once believed that this is what your future would look like. Your thoughts were interrupted by Steve beginning to talk.

“Doesn’t this remind you of life after the first snap?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“Kind of. You’re not off the hook yet, by the way. You still have plenty of explaining and proving you’ve changed to do.” You set the last cup in the cupboard, then dried your hands off.

“I know, I know,” Steve began.

“We don’t even know if you’re ready for fatherhood. But right now, I kinda don’t care. I really just want you to kiss me.” You reached up to Steve’s cheek, and he pulled you in for a soft and chaste kiss.

You’d never felt more at home.

——

me with this fic:

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #angst #captain america x reader #captain america x you #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction #request

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daegall · 3 years

Text

Fool

pairing: Ice hockey player! Sungchan x figure skater! reader

genre: fluff

warnings: umm is falling on your ass like 3 times a warning ALSO IDK THIS MIGHT BE CHEESY.................

word count: 2k+ words (WTF WHY CANT I WRITE LIKE THIS FOR MY OTHER COLLABS HUH

a/n: whooo!! this is part of @knet-bakery's nostalgic melodies event!! though this will be posted while in supposed to be on a mini hiatus, i hope it still goes well and nothing wrong happens! enjoy bubs <33

🎶: fool - nct 127

You were very proud to announce to your closest friends and family that you've been accepted to your university's figure skating team! It was, and still is, one of your biggest accomplishments. First you got into your dream school, then your dream team, what's next, you're dream boy?

You feel your chest tighten and breathing stop as you enter your uni's ice rink, the cold sensation of the ice instantly nipping at your warm skin. It's not like you mind, you've felt it all your life, it was your favorite feeling.

The sound of skates scraping against the ice fills your ears, swarming around your body and swirling especially in your heart, the nostalgic sound of it feeling so nostalgic to you.

It was crazy how much time you spent on the ice.

"Y/n!"

They beckon you over, to which you instantly rush up to them with buzzing excitement coursing through your veins.

Just as you get right next to them, and greet them enthusiastically, a bunch of boys come out of the changing room with red and blue uniforms, laughing and chatting loudly with each other as they get onto the ice.

Woah, you think. It's the gators!

You've seen them play before, and they are really no joke. They gave the best team players, fastest skaters, and the most strategic moves. They have so many international transfers as well.

You recognize each and every one of them, every one but a certain tall, shy boy. There's a sudden rush of warmth that spreads through your face and ears, and your eyes widen as you see him skate gracefully in the ice.

"Woah, aren't they great? Y/n didn't you- oh gosh are you blushing?"

Your palms instantly fly up to cover your face, shaking your head no, "N-no! I'm just cold!"

They all know it's bullshit, you've never been so red because of the cold, and you would literally skate all night with only a t-shirt when the team was opening for players. There is no way you're just cold. He

"Whatever you say, Y/n. Come on, let's get our skates."

You give them a tight nod, picking your duffle back up into your arms. You give the hockey players one last glance, and already find the new member looking right at your direction. A squeak erupts from your throat, before you scurry off into the changing rooms quickly.

You didn't expect to be skating at the same time as the hockey players, but you guess it's how the first practice of the semester goes. Each of the coaches are at the benches, talking to each other excitedly as they talk about each of their new skaters.

You're only doing a few spins on the ice, your nerves making it somehow colder, when you catch the new guy looking at you again. You try to brush it off, but to no avail. You slip and fall.

It's alright, most of the skaters here have already done the exact same thing, some taking a fall even worse than yours. You groan and pat your lower back and butt in pain, before getting up quickly to start yet once again. It's a painful, but daily routine.

The coaches stand to call all team members, each on different sides of the rink. To your dismay, you're all the way on the other side from your teammates and coach. You quickly get up to skate to them, but the second you get up you're tumbling back down because of a weight pushing you.

"A-ah! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you..."

Your head snaps up at the unfamiliar voice, and your own voice disappears when you see the same cute new member from the hockey team.

There's an awkward moment between you two as you just stare at each other, breaths being stolen away by one another, but remaining breathless. Your heart pounds dangerously loudly in your ears, swelling in a way you've never felt before.

It feels like forever, before the boy helps you up with an apologetic pat at your lower back.

That’s all you think of for the rest of the week, in the middle of class, eating lunch, heck, when you’re late to class, his awkward smile and gleaming eyes permanent in your memories.

Your teammates tease you to no end, calling you out whenever the boy, who you’ve learned his name is Sungchan, comes within just 15 meters from you.

It’s no different for him himself, it all started when Donghyuck teased him of how red he was and how he would always glance at you that day. He was never one to believe in love at first sight, but suddenly it was his whole love life the moment he helped you up from the ice.

Fortunately for the both of you, you got to see each other without being teased out of your minds. At first, you doubted why you signed up for economy, but now you keep looking at the clock to see how far 5th period was.

Maybe coincidence, maybe fate, you don’t really care. Just the fact that you get to sit next to him in econ made your heart thump quickly.

But, even with such time, you two were still too shy to make a move. It was so obvious you wanted to, but it was like a mutual agreement that the time will come, when the time will come.

You kind of regret it though, you hate that you have to be so self conscious around him, when there are your teammates, always walking up to random dudes and asking them random shit.

You think this and curse to yourself as you open the ice rink doors, the cool wind blowing at your face for the nth time this week.

Just as you get sight of the ice, a familiar red and blue jersey flies from one side of the rink to the other, and you can’t help but wish it’s Sungchan.

It might just be fate, for your crush was there, with a hockey stick, playing around and doing all kinds of tricks with the puck.

You are once again, blow away at his skills, eyes traveling with him and observing every move he makes. It’s 8:45 pm, just 2 hours before the rink closes for the day. You thought you were the only one planning on training this evening.

You take in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for some awkward moments, before placing your duffle bag on the benches.

Just as you step on the ice with your skates, Sungchan turns around, and is shocked to see you on the ice with him. He instantly loses focus and topples over suddenly, causing both him and you to gasp.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?”

As your voice gets clearer and closer, the boy feels his heart start to shake, and the same feeling of when you fell on the ice fluttering within his body.

“Y-yeah! I’m fine, r-really,”

Your expressions still twist in worry, and despite your mind freaking out and not knowing what to do, you still offer him a hand.

It feels like strikes of electricity or sparks running through your body as Sungchan’s cold, gloved hand envelops yours. You tug him upward gently, your heart beating in your ears loudly like drums.

Sungchan sends you an awkward, shy smile, one that you reciprocate with just as much nervousness shading it. Despite being in an ice rink, with literally just a shirt and yoga pants, you’re burning up. You haven’t even warmed up yet.

You mutually, but silently, agree to split the ice, the right side for you, the left for Sungchan.

Youreally can’t help but sneak a few glances at him as he practices, sometimes even going as far as staring without realizing. It’s not like it’s too easy for him either, your movements are so graceful and full of effort, he can feel the hard work radiate off of you. Many times did you want to help each other when one fell, but decided not to since it’s so common for people on the ice.

At some point of the individual practice, Sungchan accidentally hits his puck all the way to your side. He internally panics, hesitating to go in your zone to take the puck. The second he’s taking a step into your side, the puck is flying back in front of him.

Alarmed, Sungchan’s head whips up, shocked and very much delighted to see you, with a bright smile on your face and sparkling eyes.

He’s stunned. How could someone so perfect, suddenly become even better?

“Bring it on, Jung!”

A smile finds itself instinctively on Sungchan’s lips, before he’s retrieving the puck again and dribbling it around. Your confidence starts to waver at his determined stare, instead a chill of excitement running through your body.

Before you know it, you’re chasing Sungchan around the ice, attempting to steal the puck from him. It’s of course, not that easy, for someone who hasn’t played since the 8th grade. Though, you still impress your crush a lot, with your speed and stamina, you could train to be a hockey player.

The silent playfulness is turned vocal, with laughs and groans whenever one falls or fails to steal the puck. You can barely pick up the pace because of how much you’ve laughed at this point, just tagging along behind Sungchan as he teasingly tells you to catch up.

At last, you have a chance to steal the puck. Without any hesitation, you skate faster, and swerve the puck your way. The way your stick clashed with Sungchan’s made him shocked, not to mention your speed and swiftness too.

Sungchan is racing after you, ready to take the puck back to his possession, but he’s too late, you’ve hit, and it goes straight into the goalpost.

With a breathy laugh, you throw your hands into the air, and throw Sungchan a big, proud grin. He only pants with a smile, and gives you a much appreciated thumbs up.

“How are you so good?” At the question your ego is nibbling on, you smirk smugly and shrug, “I used to play ice hockey a lot with my dad and cousins.”

You get the puck back from the goal, and start dribbling it around the rink with skill. Oblivious to the adoring loom Sungchan gives your way, you attempt to shoot the puck at him. He catches it with no problem, “You’re so damn cool,”

At that, you slip painfully onto your back.

You lay no mind though, sitting straight back up and staring at your crush with big, surprised eyes, “W-what?”

Sungchan only laughs, wiping his forehead with his gloved hand, “Nevermind that,” he skates towards the exit of the ice, smiling shyly down at his skates.

Now’s a good time, right?

“H-hey,” you hum back a response, knowing your words would catch in your throat if you spoke. Sungchan bites his lip shyly, “You wanna go out sometime?” A soft gasp leaves your lips.

“L-like a date?”

“I mean, y-yeah. A date,”

Unwanted fireworks go on in your body, exploding with joy and giddiness from the suggestion of a date.

You both grin like fools once the other is out of sight, replaying whatever happened over and over on repeat.

There, in the ice, minutes after being asked out by your crush, you are unaware of the bright and fun future you have with him, unaware of the black hole you call love, falling deeper and deeper for him.

#knet bakery #knetmelodies #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct drabbles #nct scenarios #jung sungchan #jung sungchan imagines #jung sungchan fluff #jung sungchan drabbles #jung sungchan scenarios #nct u #nct u imagines #nct u fluff #nct u drabbles #nct u scenarios #nct 2020

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