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twoidiotwriters1 · 2 years ago

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Daughter of Olympus (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Homeboy is STRUGGLING -Danny Words: 3,021 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter / Next Chapter Listen to: 'Cooler Than Me' -by Mike Posner

XIII. I Need Emotional Support

It takes a while to ungoldify Piper, Leo wakes up as soon as he's taken out of the mansion, but Piper has to be dipped into the river. Jason offers to carry her, and Ara knows Piper will hate her for it, but she doesn't let him, Jason's exhausted.

He's in a hurry anyway, he keeps muttering something about a trail only he's able to see. So he gets to work and harnesses the storm spirits with Leo's help while Ara and Hedge try to warm Piper as quickly as possible, but the weather's not helping, so they wrap her in the pelt and a blanket and leave.

Jason finds a cave and decides to stay there. There's no way they'll go through the snowstorm with Piper like this, and it's imperative they bring her back to make sure she's okay. Ara and Jason gather wood and Leo makes a fire.

"Man, why does it feel like you're downplaying what you did?" Leo quibbles after Jason and Ara retell their fight with Lit.

"What do you want us to say? That fireworks went off when we defeated him?" Ara taunts him.

"It's the first time you two fight together and it took what, half a minute? No wonder you were chosen for this quest..."

"You were chosen too," Ara reminds him.

He inches closer to the fire still sulking, Jason and Hedge focus on bringing Piper back. The girl's lips are purple but they're giving her nectar and ambrosia, so she's bound to get better. Ara's hair and feet are damp from the rain, she takes off her shoes with stiff hands, shivering as she gets closer to the campfire.

"Here—" Leo tries to put his blanket around her but she pushes it back.

"No." She says, too quickly and definitely too harshly.

Leo loses his temper. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" She blinks.

"When I try to do something nice, you act like it's gross."

"I don't do that," she blushes.

"You're a liar."

"I don't think you're gross!" Ara insists, flustered.

Piper sits up gasping. "Oh, god—He turned me to gold!"

"You're okay now," Jason covers her body with a blanket. Ara tightens Nico's jacket around her trying to ignore Leo's resentment.

"L-L-Leo?" Piper coughs. "Ara?"

"Present and un-gold-ified," the boy replies. "I got the precious metal treatment too, but I came out of it faster. Dunno why. We had to dunk you in the river to get you back completely. Tried to dry you off, but... it's really, really cold."

"You've got hypothermia," Jason explains. "We risked as much nectar as we could. Coach Hedge did a little nature magic—"

"Sports medicine. Kind of a hobby of mine. Your breath might smell like wild mushrooms and Gatorade for a few days, but it'll pass. You probably won't die. Probably."

"Just don't kiss any of us," Ara teases her.

Piper's eyes dart briefly to Jason. "How did you beat Midas?"

Jason and Ara tell their story one more time, but Coach interrupts them halfway. "They're being modest. You should've seen them. Hi-yah! Slice! Boom with the lightning!"

"Coach, you didn't even see it," Jason frowns. "You were outside eating the lawn—"

"Then I came in with my club, and we dominated that room. Afterward, I told them, 'Kids, I'm proud of you! If you could just work on your upper body strength—'"

"Coach."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up, please."

"Sure," The satyr goes back to nibbling on his club. Ara snorts, shaking her head.

Jason checks Piper's temperature. "Leo, can you stoke the fire?"

"Can you stoke the fire please," Ara corrects him playfully. "I know you're worried, loverboy, but mind your manners."

Jason throws a pebble at her and she giggles, Leo finds her interaction with Jason disheartening. "On it..." he mumbles, summoning a ball of flames and sinking his hand into the fire.

"Do I look that bad?" Piper trembles.

"Nah," Jason tightens the blanket around her.

"You're a terrible liar," she says. "Where are we?"

"Pikes Peak, Colorado."

"But that's, what—five hundred miles from Omaha?"

"Something like that. I harnessed the storm spirits to bring us this far. They didn't like it—went a little faster than I wanted, almost crashed us into the mountainside before I could get them back in the bag. I'm not going to be trying that again."

"Why are we here?"

"That's what I asked," Leo glances at Jason grumpily. "But they're keeping secrets now, giggling at each other and using nicknames..."

"That glittery wind trail we saw yesterday?" Jason continues, ignoring his friend's bad mood. "It was still in the sky, though it had faded a lot. I followed it until I couldn't see it anymore. Then—honestly I'm not sure. I just felt like this was the right place to stop."

"'Course it is." Hedge points up. "Aeolus's floating palace should be anchored above us, right at the peak. This is one of his favorite spots to dock."

"Maybe that was it. I don't know. Something else, too..."

"The Hunters were heading west," Piper notes. "Do you think they're around here?"

Jason and Ara share a look. The boy rubs the arm that's got the Roman tattoo. "I don't see how anyone could survive on the mountain right now. The storm's pretty bad. It's already the evening before the solstice, but we didn't have much choice except to wait out the storm here. We had to give you some time to rest before we tried moving."

"The hunters can survive this and more. Besides, hope is not lost until the last second of the solstice. Quests usually unfold swiftly by the time we're three hours away from the deadline," Ara shrugs, a little shiver escaping her. "Fates are like that—and that's a compliment!" She yells at the ceiling.

"We have to get you warm," Jason settles next to Piper and opens his arms awkwardly. "Uh, you mind if I..."

"I suppose..." The girl tries to sound casual, but Ara sees a faint teal color illuminate her sister's skin.

Ara catches Jason's eye, and she bites her lip to stop herself from making any kind of comment. When she looks away, Leo's eyes are on her too. He's frowning, and there's a cute pout on his lips. As soon as they lock eyes, he looks away and pulls out cooking supplies from his tool belt.

"So, guys, long as you're cuddled up for story time... something I've been meaning to tell you. On the way to Omaha, I had this dream. Kinda hard to understand with the static and the Wheel of Fortune breaking in—"

"Wheel of Fortune ?"

"The thing is," he glances at Ara, "my dad Hephaestus talked to me."

Leo did not have a happy first encounter with his father, but being fair, most demigods don't. Ara remembers the first time she talked to her mother.

Percy has a fountain in his cabin to stay in touch with Tyson and Mom. I try to contact him, to tell him how dangerous it is for Bianca to be out there. I toss a coin and hope I'm not catching him in a bad moment.

"My bundle of joy!" Aphrodite's face shows up first. "What a wonderful surprise!"

"Mom?!" I choke.

It should be mentioned that she treats all of her children equally, which means I'm ignored, like the rest. It annoys me that Percy gets to talk to my mother. At the same time though, everyone wants to meet him, and most times that's not in a friendly way.

Mother smiles at me, but I don't like how it feels. "You're here to ask about training? You sweat too much—"

"What?" Percy looks at me. "What training?"

"Sweat is completely normal!" I reply, ignoring Percy's questions.

Aphrodite squints. "You could try to look better while doing it, don't you think?"

"One problem at a time," I glare at her. "I need a minute with my brother."

"Well, Percy, you're popular amongst the Aphrodites tonight!" I have to admit, I like it when someone refers to me as an Aphrodite, especially the goddess herself. "Don't you trust me, Ara?"

"Yeah, Ara," Percy looks at me urgently. "She said she's gonna give me a love full of anguish and indecision, isn't that cool? I'm sure you have nothing to say against that, huh?"

"Mom, he's got a prophecy to fulfill, don't you think that's bad enough?" I say in disapproval.

"Oh, but it's not me," even frowning she looks pretty, "this comes in the package. Love makes prophecies go 'round..." Her eyes are less playful. "You have your own to worry about."

"What?"

My mom sighs. "Forget it, I want you to experience it how it's supposed to."

I look at Percy, then back at my mom. "Fine," I try to focus. "There's a problem with..." My eyes dart to my mother briefly. I go back to Percy. "You need to pay attention to—What?"

My mother's looking at me with teary eyes. "They could've chosen another boy, he is so much like his father!" She whines.

I turn to Percy sick of my mother's rambling. "Just don't break the promise you made to Nico, okay?"

Percy frowns, probably wanting to reply with "Why don't you stick my promise up your...", but he must've noticed how frustrated I am, 'cause he says none of that.

"Look after him," he answers. "Tell Nico his sister says hi."

"The gods hate needing humans. They like to be needed by humans, but not the other way around. Things will have to get a whole lot worse before Zeus admits he made a mistake closing Olympus."

"Coach," Piper stares at him, "that was almost an intelligent comment."

"What? I'm intelligent! I'm not surprised you cupcakes haven't heard of the Giant War. The gods don't like to talk about it. Bad PR to admit you needed mortals to help beat an enemy. That's just embarrassing."

"There's more, though," Jason adds. "When I dreamed about Hera in her cage, she said Zeus was acting unusually paranoid. And Hera—she said she went to those ruins because a voice had been speaking in her head. What if someone's influencing the gods, like Medea influenced us?"

"Yeah, Hephaestus said something similar, like Zeus was acting weirder than usual. But what bothered me was the stuff my dad didn't say. Like a couple of times he was talking about the demigods, and how he had so many kids and all.

I don't know. He acted like getting the greatest demigods together was going to be almost impossible—like Hera was trying, but it was a really stupid thing to do, and there was some secret Hephaestus wasn't supposed to tell me."

"Chiron was the same way back at camp. He mentioned a sacred oath not to discuss—something. Coach, you know anything about that?"

"Nah. I'm just a satyr. They don't tell us the juicy stuff. Especially an old..." He pauses and blushes.

"An old guy like you?" Piper guesses. "But you're not that old, are you?"

"Hundred and six," he mumbles.

Leo chokes. "Say what?"

"Don't catch your panties on fire, Valdez. That's just fifty-three in human years. Still, yeah, I made some enemies on the Council of Cloven Elders. I've been a protector a long time. But they started saying I was getting unpredictable. Too violent. Can you imagine?"

"Wow. That's hard to believe."

Ara clears her throat. "Hedge, you tried to fight them..."

"Yeah, because they sent me to the Canadian frontier during the war! I should've been with you! Blowing up monsters around the city—"

"Don't say it like that!" Ara says, scowling at the satyr. "It was a last resource, not my number one plan!"

"Then after the war, they put me out to pasture," he continues heatedly. "The Wilderness School. Bah! Like I'm too old to be helpful just because I like playing offense. All those flower-pickers on the Council—talking about nature."

"I thought satyrs liked nature," Piper replies.

"Shoot, I love nature! Nature means big things killing and eating little things! And when you're a —you know—vertically challenged satyr like me, you get in good shape, you carry a big stick, and you don't take nothing from no one! That's nature."

"As Grover explained to you last summer, nature is also taking a step back to let new pastures grow," Ara reminds him. She likes Hedge, and it frustrates her that he refuses to retire.

He spits splinters into the fire and makes a face. "Flower-pickers. Anyway, I hope you got something vegetarian cooking, Valdez. I don't do flesh."

"Yeah, Coach. Don't eat your cudgel," Leo replies in a better mood now, after Coach's disdain towards Ara's scolding. "I got some tofu patties here. Piper's a vegetarian too. I'll throw them on in a second."

No one asked her because Hedge distracted them, thank Pan, but she has no clue what she's supposed to be doing as the leader of not one, but two armies. There are a few moments she would like to skip, the deaths, the arguments with friends, and the doubt.

Ara hates that at some point she'll start doubting her loved ones, even if she's capable of seeing through facades. The girl sighs, rubbing her forehead. She could use a nap, but she's also hungry and cold, so maybe she'll eat first, and sleep second.

"We need to talk," Piper speaks as they start eating. "I don't want to hide anything from you guys anymore. Three nights before the Grand Canyon trip, I had a dream vision—a giant, telling me my father had been taken hostage. He told me I had to cooperate, or my dad would be killed."

The group remains silent as they take the news, Jason's the first to speak. "Enceladus? You mentioned that name before."

Hedge whistles quietly. "Big giant. Breathes fire. Not somebody I'd want barbecuing my daddy goat."

"Hedge, if it isn't positive affirmation, keep it to yourself," Ara grumbles. "You sound like Mr. D... and don't take that as a compliment."

"Piper, go on," Jason encourages her. "What happened next?"

"I—I tried to reach my dad, but all I got was his personal assistant, and she told me not to worry."

"Jane?" Leo asks. "Didn't Medea say something about controlling her?"

Piper nods. "To get my dad back, I had to sabotage this quest. I didn't realize it would be the three of us and Ara. Then after we started the quest, Enceladus sent me another warning: He told me he wanted you three dead.

He wants me to lead you to a mountain. I don't know exactly which one, but it's in the Bay Area—I could see the Golden Gate Bridge from the summit. I have to be there by noon on the solstice, tomorrow. An exchange."

"God, Piper. I'm so sorry," Jason holds her.

"No kidding," Leo raises a brow. "You've been carrying this around for a week? Piper, we could help you."

"Why don't you yell at me or something?" Piper tears up. "I was ordered to kill you!"

"Aw, come on," Jason replies. "You've saved us on this quest. I'd put my life in your hands any day."

"Same. Can I have a hug too?"

Ara knows Leo's not talking to her, but she holds onto his arm, pressing her cheek on his shoulder. Leo doesn't have time to speak or process her actions before Piper starts crying for real.

"You don't get it! I've probably just killed my dad, telling you this—"

"I doubt it." Hedge replies calmly. "Giant hasn't gotten what he wants yet, so he still needs your dad for leverage. He'll wait until the deadline passes, see if you show up. He wants you to divert the quest to this mountain, right?"

Piper nods, hastily drying her tears.

"So that means Hera is being kept somewhere else. And she has to be saved by the same day. So you have to choose—rescue your dad, or rescue Hera. If you go after Hera, then Enceladus takes care of your dad. Besides, Enceladus would never let you go even if you cooperated. You're obviously one of the seven in the Great Prophecy."

Ara shivers again, Leo slips his arm out of her grip and moves his blanket so it covers both of them. She doesn't put up a fight this time, Ara's supposed to look after them, so she has to gain their trust in order to do so... Which is a weak excuse to get closer to Leo without feeling guilty.

Gods, she hopes to be the one who dies this time around, at least.

"So we have no choice," Piper continues with dismay. "We have to save Hera, or the giant king gets unleashed. That's our quest. The world depends on it. And Enceladus seems to have ways of watching me. He isn't stupid. He'll know if we change course and go the wrong way. He'll kill my dad."

"He's not going to kill your dad," Leo assures her. "We'll save him."

"We don't have time! Besides, it's a trap..."

"It's only a trap if you don't know what's happening," Ara's hand sneaks inside the pocket of Leo's army jacket, which is wonderfully warm. "Now it's turned into a double quest, and not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty good at those."

"We're your friends, beauty queen," Leo agrees. "We're not going to let your dad die. We just gotta figure out a plan."

"Would help if we knew where this mountain was," Hedge huffs. "Maybe Aeolus can tell you that. The Bay Area has a bad reputation for demigods. Old home of the Titans, Mount Othrys, sits over Mount Tam, where Atlas holds up the sky. I hope that's not the mountain you saw."

Ara didn't go on that quest cause she was with Nico, but she remembers Percy's stories and she would love to stay away.

"I don't think so," Piper replies. "This was inland."

"Bad reputation..." Jason mutters, "that doesn't seem right. The Bay Area..."

"You think you've been there?" Piper questions.

"I... I don't know. Hedge, what happened to Mount Othrys?"

"Well, Kronos built a new palace there last summer. Big nasty place, was going to be the headquarters for his new kingdom and all. Weren't any battles there, though. Kronos marched on Manhattan, tried to take Olympus. If I remember right, he left some other Titans in charge of his palace, but after Kronos got defeated in Manhattan, the whole palace just crumbled on its own."

"No," Jason says right away.

"What do you mean, 'No'?" Leo frowns.

"That's not what happened. I... Did you hear that?"

Everyone stares at the cave's entrance. The wind carries loud, feisty howling.

Next Chapter ->

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#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #percy jackson and the olympians #leo valdez x oc #leo valdez fanfic #heroes of olympus #doo

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dhwty-writes · 5 years ago

Note

Prompt: toads. Just toads.

...are you the socks anon...? If so, you leave fantastic prompts! If not, I’ve got two anons who do :D All the better

Anyways, here is TOADS! I had a field trip with this. There's two horrible poems, friendly dunking and wrestling, and two grown men running after a single toad while trying not to laugh too hard. Have fun!

Read on AO3

"Gracious gods, Geralt, did you really have to take this contract?" Jaskier complained loudly and wiped his grimy hand on his breeches.

"Hm," the witcher grunted very unhelpfully and ducked down into the reed again.

"I mean, reall- eww," he tried to wipe his hair from his forehead and managed to smear mucky pond water all over it. "'Collect some toad toes', what kind of contract is that? And why in Melitele's cursed name do you need a witcher for it?"

"Told you, Jaskier," Geralt muttered and he could hear the tell-tale sign of two empty hands clapping together. "It's for a friend."

"Some kind of friend that is..."

He groaned and stood upright again. "Have you caught anything yet?"

"Of course not," Jaskier huffed and waded over to him. At least the way the mud squelched between his toes felt nice.

"A toady monster shall be slain,

But how can I praise prettily

That venerable victory,

If the white wolf cannot stake his claim?"

He slung an arm around his shoulders and revelled in the sight of Geralt staring at him intently.

"For I am but a humble bard,

Who, when he woke with a start

This morning, didn't think he would depart

With this stunning piece of art-"

"What?!" Geralt snapped and Jaskier had a hard time not to double over laughing.

"-who lives up to ev'ry ounce of his fame,

That I have equipped him with,

The man, the witcher, the myth,

Geralt of Rivia is his name!

But if you bet on him, go to your broker,

He can't catch a measly croaker.”

Geralt growled menacingly.

"You don't like it?" Jaskier frowned. "Alright, let me start over.

Though he's surely not a savage beast,

He pried me from a lover's side,

To go for a different kind of ride.

And I swear there was a growl at least.

He led me into the forest deep,

To a pond that stank to the skies,

Where we were attacked by vicious flies,

Far away from any town or keep.

There he said to me:

"Get right into the fray,

On this superb sunny summer day,

Forget the bed where you could still be,

Forget the adventure on the roads,

And collect some fucking toads."

Geralt glowered darkly and Jaskier smiled brightly. "What," he growled quietly, "the fuck?!"

Now he couldn't hold back the laughter anymore. "Oh, my dear witcher, the look on your face! If you could just see yourself, you-"

"Bard," he rumbled, "you're treading on very thin ice."

"-I mean, what was it that brought your mind to a screeching halt? The alliterations? The rhymes? I think I crafted those two sonnets just marvelousl- fuck!"

He had scarcely any chance to react before Geralt wrapped both of his arms tightly around his waist and tackled him into the water.

He thrashed around wildly, kicked and scratched and bit, and even tried to scream, although he wasn't very successful, just to pull Geralt down into the water with him.

They were still scrambling at each other when they resurfaced, Geralt attempting a chokehold and Jaskier pulling at his hair. "Fuck!" he howled, soaking wet and fuming. "Geralt, you brute, you ruined my new shirt!"

"You wrote two fucking sonnets because I can't catch a bloody toad!" he barked and dunked him again. This time he landed a vicious kick into the hollow of his knee that made the witcher grunt as his legs buckled beneath him.

"Bastard bard...," he grunted and hauled him up.

Jaskier grinned widely. "Witless witcher," he countered and dealt a blow that Geralt had taught him. Roach let out a judgemental snort and moments later Jaskier discovered why: The punch had been a severe miscalculation, for Geralt saw it coming. He deflected his punch and before he even knew what was happening, he fell face first into the mud. "Elgh, Geralt, that's disgusting!" he complained and struggled to get to his feet.

He rose up to shaky knees, but Geralt was on him again, smearing the muck into his hair. "Do you yield?" he asked and rubbed it in deeper. "Do you yield already, Jaskier?"

"I don't, I don't!" he screeched and Roached moved as far away from them as the lead rope let her. "Big bloody bastard man, get off me so, I can repay you, you- Geralt!"

The witcher laughed and attempted to push him into the mud again. "What? D'you want more?"

"No, look! Toad!"

And there it was, mere inches from their faces, staring at them with large eyes. It croaked quietly.

"Get it!" Jaskier screamed. "Fucking get it!"

He didn't need to, for Geralt was lunging already, hands outstretched. With a deafening SPLASH he landed in the mud, the wet squelching sound soon drowned out by Geralt's laughter.

"It's getting away!" He scrambled to his feet, slipping and sputtering, dashing after the small animal. "Fuck, Geralt, keep up, it's getting away!"

"I'm coming," he assured him, still fighting the giggles, but sprinting after the toad all the same. "There it goes!"

"Where, where?" Jaskier skidded to a halt and landed on his butt again. "Bollocks, I've missed it!"

Geralt ran further ahead, trying to reach down a few times, but evidently missing.

Jaskier tried to stand up again, hindered by the peals of laughter that bubbled out of his mouth when he watched the six-foot-two-hundred-pound witcher try to scoop up a single toad, completely unaware of his surroundings. "Watch out!" he wanted to shout, but before he even completed the sentence, Geralt had already noisily collided with a tree.

He groaned quietly, rubbing at his shoulders. "Fuck," he muttered and Jaskier had to sit down again, holding his aching belly.

"Geralt, please," he wheezed, "I can't take it-"

"Jaskier!" he bellowed. "It's coming your way!"

"Fuck!" He was right, there it was hopping towards him. He bit down hard on his lip, to keep from laughing and gathered the last bit of his strength to throw himself at the beast, effectively squashing it beneath him. "I've got it!" he cried triumphantly. "Geralt, I've got i- yuck, it's slimy, Geralt, come, quick, it's icky!"

"I'm here, I'm here," the witcher assured him and crouched down beneath him. "Where is it?"

"Nooo, eww, it's trying to squeeze into my shirt! I don't want it on my skin, I don't want it, Geralt, help!"

"Where is it, where?" he asked again, squeezing his hands beneath Jaskier's upper body in search of the nasty little fiend.

"On the left, higher, no, higher; are you groping me, you bastard? Stop that, get this thing off me first!"

"I've got it!"

"Good," Jaskier sighed with relief, "now get off me."

"Can't. I've got it in both my hands and you're spread-eagled on them."

"I'm very much not," he huffed, but wriggled out of his arms nevertheless. Not without using Geralt's forehead as leverage for his foot while pushing away, of course. "Spread-eagled," he muttered. "As if I ever did such a thing..." He got to his feet, dusting off his pants in habit. The only thing it managed was smearing the mud further. "Gross," he muttered. "What now, Geralt?"

"I'm supposed to only bring the toes," Geralt said with a grimace.

"Pfft. Your 'friend' can cut them off themself, if they insist on it. I'm not touching that thing ever again. It's far too well acquainted with my body already."

"Hmm. We still have to transport it there somehow." He looked around the small clearing. They had rid themselves of armour, doublets and boots before wading into the water and left them with Roach, who was staring at them disapprovingly. Jaskier's lute was with her, too, and-

"Ohh, no!" he declared loudly and backed up. "No, no, no, no, no! I won't, Geralt."

"Come on," he taunted, "do it for a friend."

"A friend?! Oh, now we're friends! Yeah, that sounds convenient!"

"Jaskier..."

"No, Geralt, you can't ask that of me. That's beyond cruel, even for you, and-"

"We have to put it somewhere, Jaskier. We don't have anything else where it might fit."

"No, and that's my last word."

"Fine," he growled and folded his legs beneath him, "I'll take you to Oxenfurt for the Bardic Festival this year."

He narrowed his eyes at him. "Keep talking."

"If you win all your celebratory indulgences are on me."

He raised his eyebrows.

Geralt sighed heavily. "And if you lose to Valdo Marx, I'll help you pelt him with rotten fruit when he goes to accept his prize."

Jaskier beamed at him. "I love to do business with you, Geralt!" He sauntered over to Roach and untied his lute case from her saddle. Gently he took out his priced instrument and wrapped it in his doublet — that was clean, at least — and approached Geralt with his newly empty lute case. "I swear to every god out there, if it shits into my lute case, I'll rip you a new one."

"Hmm," he answered and lowered his hands into it. "Quick, close it!" he hissed. He pulled his hands out, the lid snapped shut and they both threw themselves onto it to keep it that way.

Together they closed the buckles and only when Geralt had inspected them they dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Fuck," Jaskier muttered emphatically, sinking to the muddy ground next to Geralt.

"Hmm," he agreed.

He cautiously eyed the brackish water: "I need a bath."

"Not here," Geralt grunted and struggled to his feet. "We'll get a warm one once we deliver that fucking beast." Jaskier took the offered hand and reluctantly put on his boots again.

With his toad-infested lute case slung over his shoulder and the lute cradled in his arms he fell into step next to Geralt. He delighted in the smiles and japes he could pry out of his usually taciturn friend.

Entertained like that the way to the remote tower in the middle of fucking nowhere didn't seem quite as bad as before. Once they got there, he almost wasn't angry anymore.

They knocked and were quickly ushered in once Geralt gave his name and the name of the witch that lived there — one Triss Merigold. The servant took one look at them before leading them to a room with a sizable bath in the middle.

"Oh, fun!" Jaskier said. "Someone's got manners."

Geralt snorted and crossed his arms. "He's saying you stink."

"Pffft, pish posh. As if you smell any better, you-"

Unfortunately, their banter was cut short when the door opened and a beautiful woman with dark curls entered. "Geralt," she said with a smile, "you've brought a friend- what on earth happened to you?"

"Jaskier the Bard," he answered and bowed with a flourish, "at your service, Madam." He produced the lute case and held it out with a wide grin. "We've retrieved your toad. Slipped in a bit of mud in the process."

The sincere smile on her face faltered, reduced to a confused, albeit polite one. "My... toad?"

"Toad toes," Geralt ground out, "what you wanted."

And then, the miracle that made sure Jaskier would never forget that day occurred: a sorceress was stunned speechless before his very eyes. "Toad toes," she repeated slowly. "That's what you got me?"

"Yes."

"Well, not quite," Jaskier cut in. "It seemed a bit cruel to rid the poor thing of his toes, truth be told. So, we procured the whole animal. If you'd be so kind to relieve us of it? I'd like my lute case back, thank you very much."

"Geralt..." A grin tugged at the edge of her mouth. "You're no stupid man. What exactly did I tell you to retrieve?"

He frowned deeply. "Toe of frog."

"Is that a problem?" Jaskier asked without lowering the case. "Come on, that can't be a problem! Toad, frog, that's practically the same thi- wait a minute. What did you just say?"

"Toe of frog," he repeated, obviously very confused.

"Toe of frog? No, Geralt, please tell me this isn't happening."

"What?"

"Toe of frog," Triss supplied helpfully, "is a flower. Not an animal. Buttercups, to be precise." She giggled quietly and took the lute case. "Don't worry. I'll clean it. You two go on and clean yourselves. Dinner's in three hours, you can try again tomorrow." With that she left the room, a sly smile on her lips.

"Oh, I can't believe it," Jaskier groaned. "All of that for nothing? Couldn't you have asked her what she wanted toe of frog for? Couldn't you have told me? I would've known! But no, instead you say 'fucking toad feet'. Those are not the same, Geralt!"

He still stared after her. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Unbelievable!" he threw his hands up. "I want a bath, now. So, out with you." He walked over to the large tub and tugged the shirt over his head.

"Hm."

He turned and quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"What you said earlier... Technically, I got the toad off you."

Jaskier prided himself on being a man who had travelled wide and far, and seen enough of the world that nothing short of the impossible could shock him. So, he wasn't ashamed to say his jaw dropped when he heard that. "Are you serious?" he spluttered.

"You're the one who said I could grope him if I got that thing off him."

"Geralt of Rivia," a wide grin spread on his face, "you impossible man."

He grinned, too, and pulled him closer by the hips. "Is that a yes?"

"'Is that a yes?'" he mocked him affectionately. "'Is that a yes?' asks the man who insulted my poetry, dunked me under water, slammed me into mud and smeared it all over my hair, made me chase after a toad, and, if that wasn't enough, made me carry said slimy, despicable animal in my beloved lute case. All in the span of one afternoon!"

"Mhm. Sounds like a horrible person."

"The worst." He sighed and slung his arms around his neck. "He also happens to be my best friend, who I love very much and who I am very angry at, at the moment."

"And what do you propose we do about that?"

"Kiss me," he ordered, "clean me, and take me to bed."

Geralt grinned. "That I can do." He bowed down and kissed him very gently on the lips. He wanted to pull away again, so Jaskier whined and tightened his grip. Geralt chuckled and deepened the kiss, drawing delicious little moans and gasps from Jaskier's lips and even a quiet squeal when he simply picked him up and began crossing the room. It was everything his fantasies had promised to be, sweet, heated, and pas-

All of the sudden the world dropped out beneath him. Jaskier had barely time to shout before he hit the water once again and the bottom of the tub shortly after. It took him significantly less time to resurface, though. "Geralt of Rivia!" he bellowed indignantly, wiping water and softened mud from his face.

The witcher only laughed and stripped to join him in the bath.

Send me prompts

#Anonymous #look i've got an ask #my writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #triss merigold #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #fluff #seriously guys this is just fun #two idiots being idiots #i had a lot of fun writing it :D

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ofmythsandmadness · 4 years ago

Text

stop moving | d.h

you do diego’s eyeliner. 2k words.

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NOTES: gender neutral. long haired diego. i don’t know why i’m writing this and i kinda hate it lol, i rarely write this sort of thing but y’know. i’m going to check all messages, notifs & messed gems in the morning, i’m really only posting this and ghosting again, bc i know otherwise i’ll never do it. and y’know, i want to feel productive about something. take care folks <3

BUY ME A COFFEE HERE. | CHECK OUT MY OTHER WRITINGS HERE.

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"CAN YOU PLEASE STOP MOVING?!”

Hot breath stings your trembling fingers as Diego huffs a laugh; it’s barely a sound, a mumble of a chuckle, but you feel it vibrate through your body and hit your hand and it almost does you in. You almost just give up and confess your undying attraction, right then and there. And as though you need more contact, even more of him pressing against you, egging you closer to the precipice that will surely be your infatuated doom.

“You’re the one who asked to do this, you don’t get to complain.”

“Well, you wanted it. You agreed to this!”

“I--” another exhale against your hand, another peal of laughter following shortly. You've half a mind to clamp his mouth shut with it, if it wouldn’t ignite yet another ill-thought fantasy of yours. “This was still your idea.”

Your smile buds and blooms despite your brain begging your lips to be still. You can’t help it; he’s too good at weaseling into the cracks of your composure. One look, one soft chuckle and you’re set for life. It doesn’t help that you’re basically on his lap, cradling his face in your hands like he’s a baby, and his own fingers tap-tap-tap away on your hips, creating a rhythm no one else but you can make out. Honestly, you’re surprised you haven’t totally cracked yet, this close and this personal.

“Shut your eyes.”

“They are shut.”

“No they’re not!” you poke lightly at the fluttering lids. Your lip snags on your bottom lip; a poor attempt to hide a giggle. “I can’t do this with your eyes open.”

“D'aww…” his lids shut as he groans. “So I’m just supposed to sit here? Let you draw on my face in total darkness?”

You click your tongue, half in disapproval in his exaggeration, and half because you’ve won yet again against his stubbornness. “I won’t be long. Suck it up.”

“Sure. Y’know, I have siblings; I know how long it takes them to do makeup, and-”

“-stop moving, asshole!” Your free hand tugs ever lightly on a strand of hair, one of the many that’s slipped out of his ponytail. Repressed thoughts flash in sultry red across your thoughts and you swallow, quickly letting the hair go. “I-I need you to stay still, or this will take forever.”

Diego sighs and his grip tightens around your hips. Before you know it, he’s moving you. “Then stop wriggling,” he grumbles, flattening you against his legs. You’re basically straddling him, at that point, and your mind goes absolutely blank at how much more intimate this feels. Does he notice? Or is this just another friendly motion you’re yet again reading into?

Your mouth tastes of cotton balls and it’s dry as an Arizona summer. Still, you manage an ‘okay’ before readying your pen again. All you can hope for is a steady hand, though by the way he still holds your waist, and how your mouth lingers mere inches from his lips -- well, you’re coming undone.

It’s just eyeliner, you tell yourself. Your hand rises and swipes; black begins to pool its deep colour against his lashes, low and thin. The line builds taller, thicker as you work, extending out to the corner of his eye. As he breathes, and you try to remind yourself how to, the eyeliner pen works its shaky magic and draws the slightest tinge of a wing against his skin.

“How’s it going?”

At least he’s kind enough to mumble it, though his face still shifts under your hold. Once more your tongue clicks.

“It goes better when you don’t speak.”

He swallows his laugh; you know, because you feel his throat work as you hold his head steady. It’s strange and exhilarating, to be so close and still so far away. You want to cradle his cheeks gentler, to hold his face with the heart of a lover, but you’re terrified he’ll recognise your touch and realise your feelings. So you barely touch him and remind yourself to be professional about this.

It’s eyeliner, not a rom-com.

“I’m bored,” he whisper whines.

“Shh.”

“It’s too quiet.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, patting his cheek gently. “M’working.”

“Y/N...”

You pull away and sit back on his thighs. His left eye doesn’t look half bad, but if he keeps talking… “You can’t talk, ‘else it’s gonna look bad!”

“Then you talk!”

You baulk. “What?”

“I’ll be quiet,” he swears, pouting up to you with eyes still shut, “but please, say something before I lose my mind.”

“Well, I-I-what about?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” He smiles softly. “I like hearing you talk. Don’t care what about.”

You could die right then and there. It’s a simple compliment, it’s really the bare minimum, but you’re already head over heels. And just a couple of soft spoken works are all you need to do you in and nearly keel you over, still straddling his muscular thighs.

“Uh…” you cough, forcing out the giddy tremble that threatens to take your voice. No lovesick teen voice today, thank you very much. “Okay. I don’t have much to...well, the other day, I saw my coworker totally wipe out leaving work.” You pause, expecting some reply, but he stays silent. “And he... he ate so much shit, he might as well dunked his head in a gas station toilet. And - and you know, normally I’d try to sympathise, but when you always make a point to park in my parking spot, I don’t care. Brett’s such an ass. And I don’t blame him, cause he’s got an asshole name -- Brett can’t be anything else but an asshole. So it's his parents fault probably but still, I…”

You continue on, slipping from the topic of your coworker to the free muffin you got with your coffee last week, to the prospects of buying a pet to keep your apartment less lonely, and to what probably felt like a thousand and one things ranted at him. All the while your hands continue, making neat work of a task that had just felt impossible.

And miraculously, aside from a chuckle thrown now and then, Diego stays silent. Maybe he actually means it. Maybe he does like your voice -- or he’s so bored he’s falling asleep, you don’t know. But it’s okay, you don’t let yourself linger on that, too content with taking in his relaxed features and the gentleness of the afternoon sun on the two of you.

“Aaaand….there!” With a triumphant shout, you throw the eyeliner to the side and your hands plunge towards the sky, fist-pumping like you’d just won the lottery. Your body bounces up and down on his lap like a child meeting Santa; in your excitement, you barely notice. “You’re done!”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.” You grabble for a mirror, looking away from him for a moment as you reach for the handle. Wiping it off, you’re focused solely on making sure the glass is clean enough for him to see himself in, and your brain is distracted enough to totally forget what you’ve even done, enough so when you look up, all you have is,

“Oh.”

Look, you know Diego is an attractive man. You’ve known since the day you met; he’s a beautiful guy, a handsome asshole who wormed his way into your befuddled heart before you could even learn his name. He’s pretty enough that if he wasn’t so set on his weird vigilante career, he could probably shoot for being a damn supermodel. He’s a catch! But all those years of knowing that and feeling like that could not prepare you for the sight in front of you.

Diego squints at you, cocking his head. “Is it okay?”

“I…” Delicate black lines his upper lash line, making his deep brown eyes stand out even more. He’s smiling still, full lips curving up to only make your heart pound faster. A strand of his hand falls across his face, painting the gentlest of shadows but it doesn’t bother his pretty face. “I...no, no, yea-ah…”

“Wow,” he laughs, jabbing a finger into your side. “Eloquent.”

“I-I-shut up,” you stammer. You force the mirror into his hands and look away. You’re still on his lap, still straddling his lap and the logical part of your brain begs you to get it together and fall off, already. But the stupid, foolish, absolutely idiotic part leaves you paralysed. “Just look for yourself.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for him in the silence. There’s nothing, though, for achingly painful seconds, until the mirror shifts down. “Huh.”

“Huh, good? Or bad?”

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Really? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not bad,” he assures you, his smile evident in his tone. “Just different. Don’t know how to feel about it.”

“O-oh...well, if it makes you feel better, I think it looks great.”

“You do?”

Oh, dammit. That came out with way too much enthusiasm, didn’t it? Your legs are concrete as you shift, face angled towards the floor. Hopefully he’s strong enough to push you off him when your body literally catches flame from humiliation.

“You look good man,” he mocked back to you. But he’s grinning, egging you on like a child who knows he’s got you twisted around his pinky finger. “Come on, say it like you don’t have a gun to your head!”

And maybe you do, maybe you’re holding the revolver to your temple, just asking to get screwed if you dare speak beyond the most stilted compliment you’ve ever extended to someone. He’s a friend, you remind yourself; friends are allowed to compliment the other. They’re allowed to say they look good and not make it a thing, even if they wish it was a thing, and--

“--hey? You in there?”

“Sorry,” you say to the floor. You swear a thousand curses before looking back to Diego. And, yeah -- he still looks impossibly good. The ageing afternoon sun falls just perfectly against his skin, flushing him into the being of a god, standing in your apartment while you, a mere mortal, remains stuck to his thick thighs.

You gulp in air desperately, trying to catch your gaze on something, anything else -- but nothing sticks. He’s still there, inches from you, desperately aching for you to stare at.

“No, uh, yeah. You look - you look hot.”

Wait.

That wasn’t--

“-I look hot?”

That isn’t what you were supposed to say.

“I,” you have literally nothing to save yourself. This is the end! You’re young Leo and Rose is shoving you off the door and into the icy waters, and you’ve just got one last look at pretty Diego to satiate the freezing burn before you succumb to it. “I...wasn’t...that wasn’t what I meant.”

He has no right to look so smug. But he does it anyway. He leans away from your hands as they flutter through the air on their own accord, looking at you through half-lidded pools of caramel. “You don’t think I look hot?”

“Don’t,” you warn, with little strength behind it. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m just asking.”

He leans back in. You’re almost touching again.

Is this weird? This is definitely weird.

You swallow back the lump in your throat and stare back at him. This all feels like fifth grade all over again -- awkward, sticky and like every move is the wrong move. But you can’t stop yourself from playing into his hands, because that sly, shameful part of you wants this more than will ever be admitted. You want him to look at you like this, like you could hang the stars if he asked you to...and you want him to pull you closer, as he does, and mean it.

Could he?

“Would you hate me? If I thought you looked hot?”

Diego head cocks to the side as he seemingly contemplates your words. A nudge meets your side; you look down to see his hands once again reaching for you. Though it's on their own accord this time, gently landing on your left hip, then the right. You shiver.

“That depends,” he says slowly. His eyes narrow, black wings just barely crinkling in. “D’you mean it like, ‘oH, that’s so-oo hot, woW-’”

Your laugh is hardly a whisper. It cracks even before your lips. “Come on.”

“Or, do you…” his fingers dig in a little more. They nudge at the fabric of your top, daring it to move enough so they could cradle the flesh hidden underneath. “You mean it the other way?”

Heart in throat, all the courage you can possibly muster with it, you mutter, “the...other way, probably.” Then a second later, “is that okay?”

“Mm…” His fingers finally reach your skin. You shiver under his touch, warm and unflinching as they brush against the soft curves. Diego’s face comes towards your own and you force yourself not to move. But he doesn’t stop, instead he goes past you, brushing his plush lips against your earlobe. “I would say...that if all this took was making you do my eyeliner, I shoulda asked years ago.”

“I, okay...don’t play with me, here--”

“--I’m serious,” he protests lowly. His lips leave your ear but they don’t run far. Instead, you find them a brush away from your own, just as you were minutes before. Only this time, you don’t try to clamp your mouth shut and skirt away from the touch. You nudge your nose against his own, exhaling softly as more skin meets the heat of his own. “You think I just let anyone sit on my lap like this, without thinkin’ it could be more?”

You shrug like this is normal. Like you’re perfectly at peace with the universe and the way you’re wondering how his tongue would taste, pushing back against your own. “I mean...do you?”

“No,” he chuckles low. “No, I’m...not into friendly lap dances, actually.”

“O-oh. Mm.”

He pulls you closer. He wants you closer.

“Diego…” You’re unravelling. You’re fucking unravelling, unnerved by his voice and his hands and you’re putty in them, all inhibitions sliding away like you’re three drinks in. His hands by your sides leave their marks against your skin; you can feel the pads of his fingers, burning into your skin like they were molten iron and not just mere brushes. “I...”

“Tell me.” He sounds cocky. He has a right to be, even if you’re damned to admit it. “Tell me what you think.”

Your hands shiver up his forearms, clinging to his bare shoulders as he pulls you impossibly closer. Your mind’s going a mile a minute and you refuse to listen to a single thought. You’re only feeling him.

“Y/N…”

“Fine,” you huff, with a smile. Your noses brush again; your eyes flutter shut with his image imprinted against their lids. “I think you look...hot as hell, Diego.”

“Yeah.” He’s grinning; you can hear it in his voice, that smirk that makes your gut flip like a damn rollercoaster ride. “S’what I thought, baby.”

And then he kisses you.

A/N: i normally hate writing oblivious characters but this wasn’t even intentional really. every time i try to write something remotely sexual i just lead the reader into ‘oH tHiS iS jUsT wHaT fRiEnDs Do’ and ‘iT’S wEiRd rIgHt’. to my defense...i doubt you’re on this page reading this expecting good sexual tension. i’m not the tua writer for that; let me know if you want recommendations for that because trust me, there are better authors for that. for now, you get this. <3

#diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves #hargreeves x reader #tua x reader #my writing #this is so random #I just saw a fanart of completely different ppl doing eyeliner and i thought #why not put diego in eyeliner he deserves it

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thehaemanthus · 4 years ago

Text

Our Savaged Souls

Trying out a new thing of posting the full chapter on tumblr. You can read from chapter one one AO3 (unless it’s not your thing, and in that case you can send me an ask and I’ll be like! sure! I love to be accomodating! I’ll post full chapters on tumblr :) )

Feyre Archeron is born under the new Wall separating human lands from the Spring Court- her home. She hunts in her forest, forms a friendship with the High Lord's third son, and is introduced to his friend. Then it all goes wrong.

Chapter 6

Tamlin soon forgets his ire about the Suriel. Or at least, he pushes it down far enough and eventually bounces back, dragging her out on more adventures. He manages to swing by for a few hours of her birthday party, and then is required at home for much of the spring. By the time the summer rolls around, Feyre can tell he’s eager to be away from family and make up for lost time.

The latest outing is a jaunt to a pool of liquid starlight, one that Feyre has visited only a handful of times. It’s one of Tamlin’s favorite places, she knows, and she felt the honor in the first invitation.

Her linen dress brushes just past her knees, only half of her hair pulled back in anticipation of a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in the shade and wading in the water. No boots or tight braid needed today. Her contribution to the picnic is a batch of scones, some ruby-red cherries, raspberry preserves, and roasted almonds. With her bounty and dress, Feyre decides to winnow rather than pick through the forest.

Feyre expects it to be a small party, but she does not know how small it actually is until she arrives.

There are two people there. Tamlin and Rhysand.

Of course. Rhysand. Of course he is here.

“You managed to make it on time!” Tamlin greets her with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and takes her basket from her hands, retreating to add it to their pile of food and blankets. The space already looks inviting, dappled in shade. Sweating bottles of lemonade and ice water peak out from a wicker basket full of white porcelain plates with painted primrose borders and crystal glasses. A partially wrapped loaf of bread and hard cheese rests on top, along with a sharp knife and a bounty of fresh fruits.

Feyre scowls. “I was late one time, Tam, it’s not funny anymore.” She glances at Rhysand. It would be impossible to pretend he’s not there. It’s just the three of them. It would be rude to not say anything. It should not be difficult at all to just greet him. She wrangles her expression into something pleasant. “Hello, Rhysand.”

“Feyre darling,” he smirks. “I thought you were calling me Rhys now?”

She actually turns a bit red and fumbles. Thankfully, Tamlin’s big mouth saves her. “When did that happen?”

“A while ago.” Rhysand reclines on one of the picnic blankets, lounging like a cat. He waves a hand. “Won’t you join us, Feyre?”

There’s really no way to refuse. She takes a seat, folding her legs under her. “It’s hard to break a habit. I’ve been calling you Rhysand for a long time now.”

“I’ll have to keep reminding you, then,” he says as he roots through a picnic basket, plucking out a tin of cookies. “Want one?”

“Thank you, Rhys,” she stresses his name, plucking one of the cookies from his hand.

He smiles at her, and the tension seems to melt away.

Has she always looked at him like this, or did the Suriel trigger something in her soul that flipped the world upside down? Feyre wonders how long this feeling, this awareness of him has been growing in her heart, encroaching so slowly and naturally that she has not noticed until someone drew her attention to the blossoming.

For a child of the Night Court, Rhys looks good in the sun. She has always known he is beautiful, but something has changed. As they chat and nibble on the picnic, Feyre observes him. There is something fuller in his laughs, more playful in his smirks today. It would be impossible to forget that he is an Heir— powerful radiates from his body and he approaches every conversation and confrontation with arrogance. He is still guarded. But if his true soul is an impenetrable fortress, Feyre thinks they’ve passed through the gates of one or two battlements.

The sun beats down on them, stronger now that the world has moved and positioned itself in summer. The Day Court is absolutely sweltering, Rhys informs them, and there’s been some problems with heat sickness in Summer. In Spring, Feyre keeps an extra canteen of water and takes frequent breaks when romping about.

Sweat gathers at her brow and pools on her upper lip. Eventually, sipping cool drinks and relaxing in the shade is paltry comfort.

“I’m going for a dip,” she stands. “Anyone want to join?”

The males scramble up after her. It’s some work to unlace her stays, so they end up shucking their clothes and splashing into the pond before her. Feyre finds herself sighing in relief when they don’t look twice or offer to help. It would be well meaning from them, her friends, if not a little playful and flirty. But if Rhys offered…

Mother above. Surely it should take her longer to fall?

“Are you coming?” Tamlin calls from the water, flicking some water in her direction. It glitters like diamonds where it lands on the grass and dirt. It might not actually be water, but Feyre has never known what else to call it.

She scowls. “It takes a little longer for me.” She toes off her slippers, wiggling her feet in the cool grass. In the past, Feyre hasn’t had trouble with stripping down to almost nothing and jumping into lakes and rivers. Now, she keeps her chemise on and tries not to think too hard about it. After tossing her hair pins on the blanket, she wades in.

The pond is cool and refreshing. Sunlight almost blinds her as it bounces off the surface. Feyre glides through the water, slowly acclimating herself. When she dunks her head under and emerges, the liquid starlight clings to her lashes and makes the world look brighter and chaotic. She swipes a hand at her eyes and blinks to clear her vision.

Tamlin floats on his back, golden hair floating around his head like a halo. Rhys lazily swims a circuit around the pond, much like she was. Feyre treads in place for a moment before floating a bit closer to Rhys.

Sensing her presence, he surfaces. Feyre’s breath catches. She’s sure he reads something incriminating on her face, but before he can speak she opens her mouth. “This pond suits you.”

“Oh?” he questions. His feet must reach the bottom, because while Feyre is working to stay afloat at the edge, he is merely holding out his arms to keep himself steady.

“The starlight.” Her eyes roam over his face and dip down to his neck before shooting back up. If she looks too far down she won’t be able to return her gaze to his face. “Son of the Night Court. It all works.” She waves a hand in his face, and he laughs. The starlight clinging to his hair and shoulders and dripping from his chin bring out the constellations in his eyes.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, darling,” Rhys nods at her.

She wishes she had a mirror, if only to try and memorize her own look for a painting later. “Do I?” she asks, leaning back a bit in the water and pretending like his words do not send her heart racing.

Her eyes are on the sky, but when Rhys is silent for too long she propels herself upright. He’s frowning a bit, looking more unsure of himself than she’s ever known him to be. “Rhys?”

“I can show you,” he says, expression much too serious for an afternoon swim.

Feyre laughs softly. “You have a mirror? Where are you hiding that?”

Rhys’s smirk lacks some of its swagger. He brings up a hand and, from nowhere, conjures a hand mirror. “I do have some tricks up my sleeve. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.” As quick as it appeared, it's gone.

Feyre cocks her head. Rhys wants to show her what she looks like, but without a mirror or any reflective surface...and it’s not like he’s an artist…

She gapes a little, swimming closer. Tamlin is still floating on his back, hearing muffled from the water, but she lowers her voice anyway. “You’re daemati?”

It’s the only thing that makes sense. And she would expect no less from Rhys. In addition to being obscenely powerful, to have this as well...he won’t just be a powerful High Lord, he’ll be unquestionably dominant.

His brows lift a little in surprise before his expression settles. “Clever girl. I shouldn’t be surprised that you guessed.”

Feyre bites her lip, torn between being pleased and being concerned. She does not think that Rhys has ever used his power against her. But how would she know? She has heard plenty of stories, has been given plenty of reasons to be wary of the Night Court. Feyre is not so arrogant as to think that she is a worthy target, but just the thought of her thoughts being combed through or someone getting information from her mind is disconcerting.

Rhys— whether by looking at her mind or her face— knows where her thoughts lead her. He moves a little closer as well. “I have never looked in your mind, or Tamlin’s for that matter. I’m not that kind of male.”

“I know.” The words are said without thinking, but they ring true.

He does not look convinced. “If I wanted to use you, I would have hovered in your mind as you hunted the Suriel and asked them a question myself. I would have probed your mind to see what you asked.”

She nods. Part of her knows it to be true, but another part, an animal, instinctual part, shies away from him.

But the Suriel told her to trust Rhysand.

It’s not effortless, but she stays. “You keep it a secret?”

“We keep it quiet,” Rhys admits. “We” probably means his family, his Court.

What does it mean that there is a secret daemati ready to inherit one of the mightier Courts of Prythian?

If she was a good person, she thinks, she would tell someone. But being a good citizen and a good friend are directly opposed at the moment. It does not take Feyre very long to decide which title is more important to her.

“I won’t tell anyone.” She values her friendship with Rhys, trusts him more than she maybe should. Even considering what the Suriel said, she would be a fool to throw herself into his arms blindly.

“Thank you.” Under the water, he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I know you still aren’t comfortable with this.”

It’s difficult to meet his eyes, so she looks down. Right at the curves of his shoulder, where brown skin and black ink peek from beneath the surface. Her mouth goes dry, but she manages to force words out. “It is...strange. To realize how vulnerable I’ve been.”

There are dangers in Feyre’s life, but she has always known them. She has rules, has trained and armed herself against threats. Don’t stay out too late after night falls in the forest, don’t stray too close to creatures who have young ones to protect. Keep your eyes averted when speaking with the High Lord and try to not attract too much attention, bite your tongue in front of certain people and laugh and gossip in secret circles only.

There is no such defense against Rhys. At least, she assumes so until he speaks. “I can train you to shield your mind.”

Feyre blinks, shocked. “You can?” It’s possible? And he would offer that to her?

A deluge of cool water drenches her. Feyre cries out in shock, whirling to scowl at a laughing Tamlin.

“You two are much too serious,” he says, slapping the surface of the water again to send another splash their way. “What were you talking about anyway?”

“We had a run-in with a daemati in the Night Court a while back,” Rhys says smoothly. In an instant, his cool confidence is back. He swims away from Feyre, closer to Tamlin. She is sure there is a good reason he turns his back and tells herself it does not sting. “I was telling Feyre that I wouldn’t mind offering some lessons on how to shield her mind.”

“Why would you need to shield your mind?” Tamlin asks her.

She scowls. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you want to keep your thoughts private?”

“Sure,” Tamlin shrugs. “But it’s not like any daemati would target you.” He is lackadaisical and inattentive, paddling around the pond like a slippery otter. The mere word “daemati” was enough to alter Feyre’s mood, but Tamlin is barely affected.

“She’s been spending time with two sons of High Lords,” Rhys points out, flicking some water into Tamlin’s face. “I’d say that makes her plenty vulnerable. You should learn to shield, too.”

Tamlin nods, finally starting to take it seriously. “You were taught?” He propels himself upright, staring intently at Rhys. It is not hard to see how Tamlin esteems their older friend. Anyone who spends five minutes with the two of them can see how Tamlin might look at Rhys for approval, how he weighs Rhys’s words and commits them to memory. Sometimes, Feyre worries about how reliant Tamlin is, how he has replaced his own older brothers with the Heir to the Night Court. But she hardly has room to talk.

“Almost as soon as I could grasp the concept,” Rhys says. “I’ll give both of you lessons. It’ll be hard to test without an actual daemati, but it’s worth trying.”

You’ll have a bit of an advantage over Tamlin. Feyre gasps as Rhys’s voice echoes in her head. Her limbs freeze. She sinks a little in the water before propelling herself back up, sputtering.

Tamlin glides closer. “Feyre?”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, pointedly not looking at Rhys. “I thought something brushed my leg. What lives in this water anyway?”

“Nothing natural,” Tamlin scowls at the opaque surface as if his ire can be translated to whatever dwells below. “Come on, let’s leave before we find out.”

Feyre wades out of the pond, chemise sticking to her skin and hair dripping down her back. She squeezes her hair to dry it as best she can, then moves to gather a fistful of her chemise and wring out the water.

It’s silent for a moment. When Feyre looks up, she sees two males looking at her instead of getting out of the pond.

Emboldened by their attention, Feyre raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Tamlin coughs, looking away and stepping out of the water. He passes her without a comment, even as Rhys continues to look. Her challenge is answered as his eyes rove over her body, from long bare legs to the wet material clinging to her hips and chest. She half expects something flirty to spill from his mouth, but he just keeps the smirk on, looks his fill, and emerges from the water.

It takes a lot of effort not to pay him back in kind, though Feyre does sneak a look at those tattoos and well-muscled chest.

The light breeze chills their damp skin, and the once sweltering heat becomes a comforting embrace. The trio sprawl out. Between bouts of dozing off, they have a contest to see which pair is best at tossing grapes into someone’s mouth. When Feyre’s hair is mostly dry and her fingers get caught in tangles, Rhys slips behind her and braids it back.

She is half awake as his fingers comb through her hair, catching every other word of his explanation that his little sister has now grown old enough to demand all sorts of hairstyles and pampering from her devoted older brother. Feyre hums with a smile, picturing the scene.

There’s a knock on the edge of her mind. One she is better prepared for this time. Rhys slips a memory into her mind, one that is not hers, but his. Through his eyes he sees a head of black hair, a young girl’s bedroom, a reflection of him and a little girl, the former wrestling with a hair brush and the latter rifling through a basket of ribbons. There is a love infused in that memory, a feeling so pure that it nearly brings a tear to Feyre’s eye.

I almost neglected my promise earlier. Rhys’s voice is low and smoky in her mind. A moment later, a different memory. Her grinning face, covered in droplets of starlight.

There is emotion in this memory too, though not the all-consuming devotion Rhys feels for his sister. But it is something, and it makes Feyre smile anyway.

It is the perfect day. Feyre is not naive enough to think that this dynamic, with her two dear friends, can last forever. Rhysand will one day become High Lord, and Tamlin’s own role will likely change when his father passes. But fae are immortal, and she is untouched by death, and the thought of painful change is so far away in that perfect summer afternoon.

She cannot be blamed for thinking peace will last for a good, long while.

Being the Lady of the Spring Court is good for little else besides ordering the servants around the house.

Alis can grumble and protest and toss every veiled hint that she can think of, but in the end she cannot prevent Feyre from leaving her bed. Sleep came and went in the night. When the discomfort impeded her peace, Feyre tossed back healing tonics and pain remedies and whatever cocktail of drugs that the healer left on her nightstand.

Her smaller cuts are healed, but her ribs are still tender. The worst bruises are black and blue and impossible to look at. Feyre chooses a boring corner of the room to stare at as Alis dresses her in light fabrics and a dress that laces loosely. Alis picks a gown in an opaque green with a yellow underskirt, as if that will lend color to her pale skin or brighten her gaunt face.

Feyre tells the staff that she and the High Lord will not be entertaining any guests and to send away anyone that might drop by. Not that anyone comes for Feyre unless she specifically invites them.

The only other person in her home besides the servants is Lucien. He clearly did not expect her to leave bed and nearly leaps from his seat when she slips into the dining room. “You should be resting.”

She probably should. There is an exhaustion that has settled in her, infused in her bones and powdered on her skin. Her tongue is weighed down. Feyre has no words for her friend, only enough energy to squeeze his shoulder as she walks past to take her seat. She sees the way his eyes scan her, the way his jaw clenches when he notes how she sits gingerly.

Tamlin’s chair at the head of the table is empty. The space feels like a chasm.

When Tamlin is home, the table usually is weighed down with food. Today, Lucien just has one plate sent up from the kitchen. Feyre gets the same toast, fried eggs, and sausage. No platters of sliced fruit or tureens of gravy or plates of sugary pastries. Lucien pours her a cup of tea wordlessly.

Feyre eats in peace, but Lucien has a stack of papers by him that he leafs through in between bites. With Tamlin gone, his work will be all the more difficult. Lucien cannot make certain decisions, cannot sign off on projects, cannot approve a budget. But there are some things that must get done and emergencies to deal with.

“Anything I can help with?” Feyre speaks her first words of the day.

Lucien’s eyes flick up briefly. “I’ll let you know.” He’s gone a few minutes later, only a squeeze of her shoulder as a goodbye.

There are things Feyre can do, even some things that Tamlin might expect her to accomplish. Ferye thinks of the piles of letters she can respond to and the parties she might plan. The next holiday is never more than a few months away, and Tamlin likes to take any opportunity to celebrate and fill their home with his friends.

She does not do any of that.

The servants push back on some of Feyre’s whims, but they can never outright refuse her. A few months ago, it was a battle to get them to relinquish their gardening tools. Another battle to ask one of the gardeners to teach her, show her, and not do anything beyond that.

But a few months ago she was also a bit more fragile, and so they followed her directions with less protesting than she usually was in for.

Now, Feyre knows where to find the tools she needs. She slips on the gardening gloves that Alis procured and forced on her. While it might be seemly for the Lady of Spring to prune a few roses, cuts and calluses were utterly unacceptable. Feyre can stroll in the gardens, can even kneel in the grass, as long as she has a wide-brimmed hat to shield the delicate skin on her face.

How she longs to rip off the hat, unpin her hair, and sprint through the fields once more.

No one disturbs her as Feyre weaves through the perfectly manicured gardens. She passes tall hedges, venturing deeper until she crosses into a little hidden nook. It is cordoned off by nothing more than a charming wooden gate, but symbolism is strong. No one has ever entered without the express permission of the Lady of Spring.

Feyre let the little space go unattended for years, not caring much for gardening or pretty flowers. Now, the hidden nook is ringed with blooming jasmine. She might add a stone bench in the middle, but for now she is happy to sit on the grass.

A proper gardener might prune and use sophisticated techniques to care for the jasmine, but Feyre likes to see it grow wild. She removes weeds and brushes away dead leaves. In Spring the bushes are almost always flowering, clogging the space with their intoxicating scent. She would have kept blooms in her room, if not for what they symbolized.

Jasmine is a Night Court flower.

Tamlin does not come to her jasmine garden. He either does not know or was informed and has not confronted her directly. Now that she is in the garden, Feyre wonders if this is, in part, what set him off.

The flowers are not for Rhys. Not really. True, they remind her of him, in a way. But she mostly likes the scent, likes that when she smells it she immediately feels at peace. Jasmine is not the most beautiful flower in the world, but it is still pretty. A flower alone cannot make her happy, but it settles something in her soul anyway.

White jasmine is crisp and clean. Pure.

For a while, Feyre had no closure after the loss of her child. These things happened, so the healer ensured she was physically healthy and then sent away. There was no goodbye, no body, no ceremony to send the child off. They were there one moment and gone the next, not having made any mark on the world besides a scar on Feyre’s heart. She does not know if they were male or female, if they had Tamlin’s blond hair or her own darker shade, if they would have had freckles or their father’s straight nose. After they were gone, the child seemed to exist for Feyre and no one else.

So she planted the jasmine.

Now, as she lays on her back in the grass, she can imagine it. A giggling toddler, running circles around her. But not here, not in Spring. The flowers perfume the air and make it all too easy to pretend she’s in another place.

Maybe the jasmine is selfish. Maybe Feyre did have another motive in creating this secret space.

While she is here, she can mourn her child. While she is here, she can pretend that she is someplace else.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction

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lookingforblessedsilence · 5 years ago

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A spicy sequel to my little Buffskier ficlet, where Geralt cannot get the thought of Jaskier picking him up out of his head. Read here on ao3.

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Geralt hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. How easily Jaskier had been able to lift him, the hidden strength in those arms wrapped so securely around his torso. He was used to tussling with his brothers over the winters in Kaer Morhen, but he was unaccustomed to being, for a lack of a better word, manhandled. Thinking about it made something hot twist in Geralt’s chest and the distraction was becoming unbearable.

“-but of course, I declined because what kind of maniac would accept something like that? Am I right Geralt?” Oh right. Fuck. Jaskier had been talking. Geralt hummed noncommittally in the hope that Jaskier wouldn't notice he hadn’t been paying attention. Jaskier sighs dramatically, flattening his hand against his chest. “Darling, you always know exactly what to say!” He grins up at Geralt. The teasing glint in his eyes says he absolutely knew Geralt hadn’t listenined to a single word that came out of his mouth. Nothing new there at least, Geralt often found himself tuning out Jaskier’s rambling in favour of doing most anything else.

“We’re nearly there.” Geralt says, swiftly changing the subject as his ears pick up the sounds of a village in the distance. Jaskier perks up at that, fingers tapping excitedly against his lute.

“Thank Melitele! A real bed, maybe an audience to sing for, and if the gods be willing a bath. How does that sound old girl?” He addresses the last part to Roach, patting her flank fondly. She turns her head towards him slightly, snorting agreeably. Geralt’s mouth twitches, and he absently pats her neck.

“Sounds good.” Jaskier returns to his lute, experimenting with the lines of his latest composition for the remainder of their walk.

****

The inn had a single room left available, and by some miracle it had a tub they could use later to bathe in. Geralt stabled Roach while Jaskier negotiated their dinners in exchange for Jaskier to perform. He was thrilled to be able to play for a full tavern, and Geralt was silently relieved that none of the village folk seemed outwardly hostile towards him, though he could sense the discomfort of a few.

“I’ll ask for them to bring the water up now.” Jaskier says after they reach their room, unloading most of their belongings for the evening. “You can just heat it up when we’re ready, after dinner and my performance.” He winks at Geralt, grinning unrepentantly. Geralt thinks that perhaps he should be concerned about inappropriate uses for Igni, but instead he just gestures to the door.

“Dinner now then?” he asks. Jaskier grabs his lute and nods.

“And a show!” he quips, spinning with a flourish as he exits the room and prances down the stairs towards the full tavern. Geralt tries not to let his gaze linger for too long on the span of his shoulders.

****

Jaskier begins his set with a few simple crowd-pleasing songs, popular enough that most of the folks in the tavern will know them and sing along. The crowd tonight is easy; singing or tapping along as Jaskier flits about the room, twirling and flirting with any patron that makes eye contact. Three songs in he rolls up his sleeves.

Geralt swallows hard, the room suddenly feeling a lot warmer. Perhaps he should’ve removed his armor when he had the chance. The more Jaskier dances around, the harder it is for Geralt to keep himself from staring. His gaze lingers on the firm line of the bard’s shoulders as he dips and spins, on the way his sleeves tighten around his arms when he waves and gestures, the shape of his forearms as he plucks at the lute strings. Geralt shifts in his seat, skin prickling with uncomfortable heat. It was going to be a long evening.

Halfway through Jaskier takes a break to eat, plopping down next to Geralt to devour his dinner. His eyes are shining, cheeks pink with exertion, sweat curling his hair against the nape of his neck. Geralt’s mouth goes dry at the sight, hit with a sudden urge to lick the bead of sweat he sees rolling down the bard’s neck. He forces his gaze back to Jaskier’s face.

“So, how am I doing?” Jaskier chirps, taking a few gulps of his water. Geralt takes a small sip of his own ale, previously sitting untouched, just to give himself more time to get his mouth in working order again.

“Good.” He finally manages to grunt and Jaskier glows, flushing with pride at the rare praise from the Witcher.

“And I’m only warming up, just you wait!” he grins and hops back up, bowing grandly to the cheers he is greeted with.

As the evening progresses the songs become bawdier and the patrons rowdier. At one point, Geralt fears the inn may collapse around them, the building nearly shaking from the crowd’s enthusiastic stomping along to Jaskier’s particularly salacious performance of Fishmonger’s Daughter.

Jaskier is in his element, grinning recklessly as he performs, sending increasingly flirtatious winks in Geralt’s direction as often as he can. Geralt is mentally reciting potion recipes in an effort to resist the way his eyes are drawn to the obscene way Jaskier is biting his lip. It doesn’t work.

****

Finally, finally, the night winds down as the villagers stumble drunkenly back to their homes and the guests back to their rooms.

Jaskier finishes his final song with a bow. His gaze seeks out Geralt’s, jerking his head towards the stairs when their eyes meet. Geralt nods once and stands. As he trails after Jaskier he notices how the bard’s doublet is clinging to his shoulders, damp with sweat. He wonders if he can get away with dunking himself in the cold bathwater before heating it without Jaskier noticing. Geralt steps into their room, barely closing the door behind him when Jaskier starts cursing.

“Melitele’s fucking tits Geralt,” he swears, “You’re trying to kill me.” He whirls to face Geralt, eyes wild and chewing distractedly on his lip. Geralt stands frozen at the door, blinking at him. Jaskier sets his lute aside and crowds Geralt against the door, hands tightly gripping the leather straps on the front of Geralt’s armor. “Sitting in that damn corner,” he hisses, inches from Geralt’s face, “Giving me fucking bedroom eyes all night.” Geralt inhales sharply at that, suddenly overwhelmed by the dizzying scent of Jaskier’s arousal.

“What?” He finally manages to rasp. Jaskier curses again.

“Melitele save me from idiot Witchers.” And then he’s yanking Geralt down, desperately slanting their mouths together. Geralt freezes up for all of two seconds before he’s melting into the kiss, eyes sliding closed, hands fitting around Jaskier’s hips to pull him closer. His lips part easily to Jaskier’s insistent tongue, swallowing a moan as the bard licks into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and perfect, and Geralt is drowning in it. Liquid heat pools in his belly, the slick noises of their mouths meeting only intensifies the feeling. Jaskier breaks the kiss to nip at Geralt’s lips, and on his next breath Geralt’s head is swimming with the heady scent of their arousal thick in the air. He growls lowly and Jaskier bites harder, sinking his teeth into Geralt’s lower lip. Geralt sucks in another breath, his hands sliding up to grip Jaskier’s upper arms. He can’t stop the groan that escapes when his fingers dig into the solid muscle he finds there. But Jaskier is clever, so, so clever.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes widening in realization as he looks up at Geralt. “That’s what this is about.” Something hot in Geralt’s chest tightens at the look on Jaskier’s face, dark and hungry, his dilated pupils surrounded only by a thin ring of blue. Jaskier dips forward, dragging his hands down the back of Geralt’s thighs and lifts him easily, pushing him none too gently against the door.

Geralt whines, unable to stop the noise from clawing its way out of his throat.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier groans, slotting their hips together. Geralt bucks involuntarily, chasing the delicious friction. Jaskier gasps at that, grinding his hardness against Geralt’s in a rhythm that sends bolts of pleasure racing up his spine. Geralt tangles his hands in Jaskier’s hair and drags him back into a messy kiss. Jaskier moans into the kiss with every thrust, gasping ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘Geralt’ into his mouth.

The sweet, blinding pressure builds, and Geralt’s toes curl in pleasure. He tears away from the kiss when it peaks, groaning out a hoarse “Jaskier” as he spills, sensation cresting in a rush of hot, shivery bliss. Geralt shudders and groans while Jaskier continues to rock against him, babbling nonsense as he nears his own tipping point.

“Gods yes, so gorgeous Geralt-” he gasps, “Fuck, yes darling, yes o-oh… oh-” Jaskier gasps his name a final time before stilling, pressing hard against Geralt as he shakes through his release.

After a few moments Jaskier gingerly sets Geralt back on his feet and winds faintly trembling arms around his middle, panting into Geralt’s neck. Geralt untangles one hand from the bard’s hair, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close. They stay like that for a short while, breaths slowing.

After a brief stretch of peace, Jaskier giggles. Geralt hums questioningly.

“We’re still wearing all of our clothes,” he buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder, “You’re still wearing your armor.” He giggles again.

“I suppose we really need that bath now.” Geralt rumbles with amusement. Jaskier only giggles harder.

“Oh, we definitely do.” He grins up at Geralt and pulls him down for a soft kiss. Geralt sinks into it, one hand cupping the bard’s jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone. He pulls back, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“Bath.” he admonishes mildly.

“Okay, okay.” The bard relents, taking a step back to remove his clothes.

****

Undressing takes longer than it strictly should, wandering hands smoothing over newly exposed skin, kisses stolen between pieces of removed armor. Finally, they stand naked next to the tub, exchanging lazy, open-mouthed kisses. Jaskier’s arms are draped over the Witcher’s shoulders, and Geralt’s hands are curled around the bard’s hips. Geralt removes one hand to heat the water and dips his fingers in to test it. He nudges Jaskier towards the tub.

“Get in.” He mumbles against the bard’s mouth. Jaskier peels himself away, stepping into the tub and sighing loudly as he sinks into the decadently hot water. Geralt follows, relaxing into the heat next to him. Jaskier tilts his head and smiles indulgently at him.

“Pass me the soap darling, and I’ll wash your back.” Geralt reaches over the edge of tub for the soap, unobtrusively lavender scented, and hands it to Jaskier. He turns to allow the bard to scrub his back and tilts his head back to let Jaskier wash his hair, careful hands combing gently through damp silver hair. Geralt returns the favour afterwards, guiding Jaskier back to lay against his chest once he’s finished. Jaskier hums contentedly, tipping his chin up, eyes closed, asking for a kiss. Geralt obliges, kissing him softly, one finger tucked under his chin. Jaskier breaks the kiss and settles back down, head lolling on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt eases back against the edge of the tub, idly tracing unknown patterns across Jaskier’s belly. They remain in the bath for a little while, dozing in the slowly cooling water.

“Jaskier.” Geralt murmurs eventually. Jaskier gives a sleepy hum. “We cannot sleep in the bath.” Jaskier pouts.

“Why not.” He mumbles.

“Because I will not listen to you complaining of pruney skin.” Jaskier grumbles peevishly at that. “Jaskier, get up and come to bed with me.” He groans pitifully into Geralt’s neck.

“Gods I’ve waited ages to hear you say that.” He says, words muffled against Geralt’s skin. Geralt huffs a laugh into his hair.

“Then get up and do it.” He teases, nudging Jaskier gently. They climb out of the bath, briefly toweling off before collapsing into the bed. Jaskier lays mostly on top of Geralt, entangling their legs, throwing an arm across his chest, and tucking his head under Geralt’s chin. He heaves a sigh, all remaining tension leaving his body and he sinks into the sheets.

“G’night Geralt.” He mumbles against the Witcher’s chest, already falling asleep. Geralt wraps an arm around him, thumb stroking absently where it rests. He’s blissfully warm, and Geralt buries his nose in the bard’s hair. He smells like clean skin, satisfaction, and Geralt. He nearly purrs in satisfaction.

“Goodnight Jaskier.” He murmurs lowly and drifts off to the sound of Jaskier’s steady breathing.

#all aboard the fucking tenderness train #CHOO CHOO #geraskier #my writing #the witcher #saucy #honestly this is a lot sappier than i intended #sorry not sorry

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vanchlo · 5 years ago

Text

Birdy (Green Eyes / 2)

Read the first part, Green Eyes, here! :-)

Blurb Synopsis: After finally meeting the mysterious Mr. Styles you subbed for, you take a job at the same school, right across the hall from him. You’re unsure how much longer you can hide your feelings for him as you’ve grown to become best friends.

Genre: Teacher Harry, fluff, romance, angst, and a little sad.

Warnings: None

Word Count: Nearly 8k words

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Blackbird by The Beatles (click to listen)

Your desk was covered in Twix wrappers, multicolored gel pens, and empty cans of Coke. The new school year hadn’t even begun, and your desk already looked like a tornado had come by. Not to mention the fact that school started in almost three weeks and you hardly had any classroom books. You kept telling yourself it’s a high school English classroom, not a third-grade classroom. There’s a library down the hall for a reason, but the classroom barren of books drove you nuts. Your desk wasn’t shy to books though, as favorites of Harry had found a home on the dark wood.

Leaves of Grass.

Catcher in the Rye.

The Sun Also Rises.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Walking into your classroom on this sunny morning, the thought makes the smile on your face grow wider. Finally, you can say that you have your own classroom. The sight of the week-old books leaves the smile there on your lips. A laugh dances off of them at the sight of the Roald Dahl book, bringing you back to the memory when you found it there one morning.

You had asked Harry why he included it in the occasional stack of books he loaned to you. He said it’s required reading, because so few people know the movies are based on a book. You’re just wondering when he’s going to slip The Outsiders or Stuart Little under your door next.

The rows of ancient cream desks stare back at you, and you wonder just how you’re going to command a classroom in a few days. Well, seven of them to be exact. Then you try to remind yourself, for the twentieth time, that you’ve done this before. It won’t be so hard, then. Perhaps you’ll even have some past students, and that should help. Right?

You’ve barely gotten a few steps into your classroom, because of the thoughts muddling your mind. Sighing, you slip off your bag to leave on your chair. One that some days you don’t even sit in, because your legs are walking miles around your classroom, setting up. Thumbtacks are scattered across the expanse of your desk, reminding you of the unfinished walls. Before you can think about the posters sitting in the corner, a flash of pink catches your eye. Furrowing your brow, your eyes flit back to the flash of color.

It’s a hot pink Post-It note with messy handwriting in black ink.

Should I get us burgers or subs for the meeting we have today?

PS: You’re officially a teacher now with your own pad of Post-Its ;)

You’re sure that the insane happiness painting your face would look more at home on that of a teenager. Nonetheless, you can’t get rid of it, and you wouldn’t want to. This rings even more true when you see the note is stuck to a copy of Matilda. A warmth blossoms in your chest as you pick it up, running your thumb along the weathered edges. Ones you haven’t touched in ages, it seems. Within seconds you’re stepping into the hallway, thoughts knitting together in your mind. They’re from the love you have deep down for this story, a favorite book, and movie of yours as a child. The elation budding in your mind stops when you find his door closed, just as you had minutes ago. Unable to hide your disappointment, a pout tugs at your lips as you turn around.

“Ya gotta verdict already? Dat was quick,” a voice drawls from behind you. Your pout is a thing of the past, and a grin is making its way to replace it. Spinning around, your summery dress follows your twirling body.

A couple paces away, Harry stands at the top step of the staircase. His trademark brown leather backpack is slung over one shoulder. A black Fleetwood Mac t-shirt hugs his upper half, a black and blue flannel covering his arms. His old skool Vans echo down the hallway as he walks towards you.

“Well, I’ve already read it,” you inform him, observing his content smile turn into a confused one. “A couple of times actually. Once when I was 8, then some other times through the years.”

“Ah, so I got lucky and happened upon a lifetime favourite, have I?” he smirks, only a few steps away now.

“Mmmhmm,” you nod, your growing hair tickling your chin before you move it away. “When are you going to tell me what your favorite book is?”

“When ya finally guess it right,” he quips, stopping in front of you. A dimple falls into his left cheek as he shows off his sparkling teeth. Okay, sir, it is too early in the morning to be looking this attractive.

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop being so chipper when it’s only nine in the morning,” you tell him firmly, but it’s all for show. Poking his chest, your finger just hits pure muscle. Swoon.

“Then maybe wake up, already, birdy,” he chirps, the Raybans in his hair moving when his head goes from side to side. Chuckling, he grabs hold of your finger and tries to bite it, but you pull away in time. The mention of the recent pet name slows you down, but you haven’t gotten bitten yet. “Ya betta not fall asleep in today’s meetin’ like ya did last week.”

“I didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting my eyes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands into the air. His amused giggle greets your ears as he unclips his ring of keys from his blue jeans.

“Yes ya did, ya don’t getta lie t’ me, love,” he responds in between laughs, seemingly finding this more amusing than it really is.

“Oh, so John can fall asleep at meetings, but I can’t?” you ask, your voice raising with laughter and faux annoyance.

You watch Harry pluck his sunglasses from his head as you walk into his dark classroom. The streams of sunlight speckle desks and pictures donning his walls. As you flick on the light, the smell of oranges wafts over you again. The red bowl sat upon his desk filled with the citrus makes you feel at home, albeit his mere presence does that without fail.

“No, ya can’t. Sorry, love. I don’t make tha rules ‘round here.”

“Lame,” you sigh, paging through the book mindlessly as you fall into his new chair. He finally splurged and bought a comfy leather one that you steal every chance you can get.

“Want a Bit-O-Honey, honey?” Harry offers, pulling your eyes away from the familiar pictures. Grinning, you take the wrapped candy from his outstretched hand, trying to ignore the pet name. You find it hard to forget as you half look through the book and half watch him peel off his flannel. A sight, indeed.

“Wait, how’d you put this in my room if the door was locked? The other books you sneaked in when I stepped out,” you ask suddenly, working on the piece of hard candy in your mouth.

“I tol’ Marty tha janitor I forgot sumthin’ in yer room.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice even though his back is to you. A broad one at that. When he turns just the slightest to peek at you, you find crinkles around his glimmering eyes.

“Harry!” you scoff, your jaw falling to your chest, although not quite.

“Oh stop it, ya know ya like it.”

Groaning, you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance, but it doesn’t last very long.

“I don’t like all of these meetings,” you complain, throwing your head back onto the headrest. You flip to a page that makes you smile at the sight of cartoon Matilda.

“Get used t’ it, ‘s one o’ tha big differences between bein’ a sub an’ a salaried teacher. Shoulda just stayed a sub then,” he jokes, driving you to pick up a Bit-O-Honey and throw it at his head. Turning away from the things he’s unloading from his backpack, he whines. “Heeey! Watch dat arm o’ yers, ‘s a scary one. Maybe ya should be teachin’ gym class instead.”

“Sports are ew,” you reply, ducking when he throws it back at you. “Harry Styles, you stop it!” you manage in between giggles, finally closing the book.

“Oh ya, and what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it in t’ose heels, huh?” he teases, his hands leaving the pockets of his oversized backpack. “Ya gonna fly over t’ me, li’l birdy?”

Huffing, you set down the book on his neat desk. Placing his hands on his hips, he turns to you and sticks out his tongue.

“Oh, that’s it! You’re going to get it!” you threaten, standing from the chair as his laughter fills the room.

“‘m soooo scared, boohoo,” he teases with a fake sob, his fists mimicking wiping tears from his cheeks. Snickering, he returns to his backpack. “Go hang up yer posters in yer room and leave me be fer once.”

“You’re no fun,” you proclaim with a final whimper. Grabbing the book, you come up from behind him, softly hitting him with it on the shoulder.

“I warned you,” he retorts. Before you know it, he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you over to stand in front of him.

“Warned me about what?” you jest, a giggle wedging its way into your sentence as you drop the book onto a desk. You know that you’re getting on his nerves now. It’s the only time you’ve heard his teacher voice come out, but hey, you’re not complaining.

His thick eyebrows above those eyes raise, wrinkling his forehead tan from your days at the beach the last few months. Harry pushing you off a rope swing into the water, him bitching about doing all of the paddling during your canoe trip, not so accidentally drenching your back with water from his paddle, and head dunking competitions while swimming. The tan looks far better on him, you think, as you admire the sun-kissed freckles peppering his face.

“I told ya one time dat yer good at pushin’ me buttons, and here ya are doin’ it. I know I shoulda neva told ya dat,” he mutters, the curls atop his head dancing as his head rocks back and forth. The nervous laughter bubbling inside of you finds its escape, and you know that you’ve done it now. “But I guess ya jus’ don’t listen, do ya, bird?”

You can’t stop yourself, and there you are poking his dimple with your finger. This time, you squeal when it finds its way between his nibbling teeth. His name leaves your lips in a near shout which only grows worse as his fingers dance along your ribs.

“Stop, stop!” you cry out, but with no avail. His other arm comes around your middle to trap you with your back against a desk, despite your squirming. His other fingers dig into your sides before finding the soft flesh of your tummy.

“Stop bloody screamin’, yer gonna make e’rybody think ‘m murderin’ ya or sumthin’,” he titters. You almost give in at the sight of his crinkly eyes and the smile stretching across his face.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then I might jus’ hafta find a way t’ shut ya up, my li’l bird,” he coos from above you, a brunette brow raising.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” he hums, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your side now.

His bubblegum lips relax, falling into a knowing smirk. The laughs disappear from the both of you as his fingers still, resting on your side. The seconds tick by as your heart hammers in your chest, because his face is closer than it was a second ago. You gulp, suddenly finding the gold flecks in his eyes you didn’t know were there. Or the smattering of tiny freckles along his nose. That all becomes a thought of the past when his lips become the only thing you can think about as they near you. “Shall I?” Harry says in a breathy whisper, and you’re nodding even before his last syllable hits the air.

Your skin feels hot and prickly all over as your eyes fall closed, waiting for what happens next. The very thing you’ve dreamed of since that day you dropped the books in front of him. When he took off his shirt at the beach, revealing his toned chest covered in black tattoos. The charisma and kindness he carried at your very first meeting after you were hired, the beginning of you two being joined at the hip.

His lips are soft when he presses them against yours, and warm. He surrounds your lips with his slowly, as excitement rushes through you. A woodsy smell engulfs you when your nose brushes against his prickly cheek. His lips feel like velvet against yours with the slightest taste of Carmex chapstick. You’re sure he can feel the smile hiding on yours as his top lip fits between yours like a puzzle piece. His thin beard you’ve never seen him without tickles at your skin as your lips mold together. You can still feel the tingle on your lips after he’s pulled away. As well as the one that spreads across your body when those green eyes look into yours.

“See, I was right. It did get you t’ shuddup,” he mumbles, the blissed-out smirk on his face covering every inch of his skin. You’ve seen his nervous smiles and everything in between, but you’re certain you’ve never seen that smile before. Not that your face is any better, because right now it’s a competition between whose smile is bigger. It might just be a tie, and you wish there could be a tie-breaker.

“You should do that more often,” you smile, an uneasy laugh bringing an end to your risky words.

“I think ‘d be happy with dat.”

You try to tell yourself you’re glad his hands didn’t stray to your face, because he would’ve felt the heat of your tomato likened cheeks. There’s no use, because you want them there, but on your sides, as they are is better than nothing. It fills your stomach with multitudes of butterflies just to have your hands on each other.

His hands draw shapes into your back when you wrap him in a hug. The fresh smell of his citrus body wash fills your nose, your skin touching the fabric of his shirt.

“Ya gonna get all soft on me now, are ya?” he whispers above you, his cheek against the side of your head.

“Mmmhmm,” is all you can muster as you find yourself dragging the tips of your fingers along his side.

Raising your head to peek up at him, his eyes drop to you. “Good, I like ya dat way,” he murmurs, running his thumb along the roundness of your cheek. His tongue peeks out of his lips, held between his teeth. “Verdict?” he almost laughs, causing the butterflies inside of you to stir.

“I don’t know. I think I might need um, another sample,” you smirk, watching a corner of his mouth meet his cheek.

“Tha’s fair,” he agrees before dipping to plant another kiss to your lips. His lips are even more decadent a second time, and you quickly realize how addicting this could become. You realize it’s the only addiction you’d be okay with having as the tip of his nose caresses your cheek.

Your lips part with a soft smack, much too soon for your liking. “We should prolly get back t’ work,” Harry snickers, his breath against your face sweet from the caramel candy.

“Yeah,” you agree aloud, much to your dismay. “I’d give it an A, by the way.”

“Hmmm,” he thinks aloud, quirking his eyebrows in response.

“A long overdue one.”

“‘d say yer right there,” he echos, pinching your cheek between his fingers. Giggling, you pull away as your laughs mix with each other’s.

“Hey, Harry!” a voice calls, sounding far away.

You separate quickly, like two magnets repelling each other. It saddens you, but when a colleague steps into Harry’s classroom a moment later, you’re met with relief as you grab the book off the desk.

“Hi, Trent. Ya ready t’ see who falls asleep first in t’day’s meetin’?” he quips, stuffing his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly leaning against a desk.

“My money’s on John, for sure,” Trent jokes, pressing his red glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh hi, Y/N,” he says, greeting you. You wave with a small ‘hi’ as you stand at the edge of the classroom near the windows uneasily.

“I dunno, my money feels pretty good on her,” Harry teases, pointing a finger at you before winking.

“Whatever. I better go take my nap now that you reminded me,” you return, sauntering out of the room and into the hall.

Out of his presence, the butterflies take flight inside of you. A warmth fills your body all over when you reach the safety of your classroom. Closing the door, you fall against it with happiness jumping from the smile on your lips. Squealing with your hands held to your chest, you soon sigh at the thought of his lips. His lips soon being on yours again, and again, and again.

Exhaling, you step down from the chair and stare at your hard work. Nodding in approval, you straighten the skirt of your patterned mustard dress. The happy face of Anne Frank looks back at you from the enlarged poster of her autobiography. Dragging your feet over to your desk, you plop onto your brown spinny chair, ignoring your heels forgotten on the floor. You bask in the new ambiance of your classroom, feeling the pleasure from the new posters donning your walls.

The Diary of Anne Frank.

Ross from F.R.I.E.N.D.S saying ‘you’re means y-o-u a-r-e.’

The quote, ‘Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not’ - Tyrion Lannister.

A funny grammar poster that makes you feel like an even bigger English nerd.

Frowning, the last poster in the corner sits there begging to be shown off, but you need help with it. After the events of earlier, you’re nervous to approach Harry. A sweet kind of nervousness, but nonetheless it’s there. Huffing, you grab the edge of the desk to pull you closer. Pressing play, the Queen song crawls from your laptop’s speakers, slowly filling the room. Clicking through your open windows, you finally find the unit plan you’ve been working on.

Voices carry down the hallway outside your door, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. Squinting, as if it will help your hearing, you then tilt your head to look out your half-opened door. Jackson from the nearby history wing walks by, laughing at something somebody said.

“Dis betta not be a bloody heavy desk, Jack,” somebody responds, amusement laced in their voice.

“Hey, I know that voice,” you softly whisper to yourself, your lips curling at its sound.

“You’re the one who agreed to help me! You can’t get out of helping me bring it in now, Harry!”

You hear the melodic sound of his laugh, perhaps one of your favorite sounds. The butterflies return when you let yourself think about getting to hear it as much as you’d like in these walls. 5 days a week for 9 months out of the year- well, something like that.

A couple seconds later, Harry zooms past your door saying, “Get t’ work!” in a mocking deep voice, winking.

“You!” you shout back, giggling to yourself with hot cheeks. You attempt to return your attention to the document open on your screen. It’s difficult, you find, because the thing consuming your mind is how nice Harry’s bum looked in those jeans.

Chatter pecks at your ears as you swivel in your chair, watching your new colleagues converse around the table. Your new boss laughs with somebody standing at the room’s front by the projector screen. Reaching forward, you pluck another carrot from your plate to nibble on nervously. Once again, you pull out your phone to busy yourself, only making you feel guiltier for not mingling. You’ve already said at least a ‘hi’ to everyone in this room already, and you have the rest of your career to get to know them, you tell yourself. Bouncing your leg, your eyes drift to the clock on the wall. Impatience spreads like a hot wave throughout your limbs, bringing your eyes yet again to the back door to the conference room. When is he going to get here, you guess fervently, counting down the minutes until the meeting starts.

A thud! surprises you when a white paper bag lands on the table in front of you.

“Hmm, I didn’t know ya were a jumpa,” a voice snickers, its owner soon coming into view in front of you. Harry. “Why ya lookin’ like a lost puppy, bird?” he coos, pushing out his bottom lip as he pulls out the chair to your right.

“I’m not,” you retort, continuing to scroll through Instagram, stopping when you see a picture of a Goldendoodle puppy.

“Yes, ya do. What, were ya wonderin’ what’d ya do if I didn’t show? Can’t have ya missin’ yer security blanket now,” he teases, poking you in the ribs with a glint in his eye.

“Stop,” you giggle, placing your phone face down on the table. Sitting up and eyeing the food, you pinch his thigh for good measure.

“Hey, watch those fingas, missy. They keep gettin’ ya into trouble lately,” he warns, tsking as his head goes from side to side. Opening the bag, he pulls out a familiar wrapped burger to hand to you.

“Thank you, I’ll pay you back.”

“Shhhh, ya can pay next time. Sound good?” Harry hums, flitting his eyes to you with an eyebrow raise.

You give him his answer with a nod before taking a bite of the cheeseburger. Your boss starts to tell everybody to find a seat so they can begin the meeting. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry sets a packet of fries in front of you. Shooting him a smile, he returns it as he feeds one between his happy lips. Chairs squeak and whine as they’re moved and sat in around the long table. Somebody nudges your foot, and to no surprise, you find it’s Harry. He holds out a covered paper cup, a red straw poking from the top. A ‘thank you’ is held in your smile and he just nods, slipping off his sunglasses to set down. Your attention is stolen by his fingers raking through his curls to put them back in place.

A thought pops into your head unwarranted, and consumes your attention as the principal speaks. I wonder if this means now I get to run my fingers through those curls, you ponder as you grab a fry. At the most inconvenient time possible, your mind starts to dig around. Doubts soon fill your thoughts, along with questions about what this will be with him. You try to push them away and lock them in a box, but they’ve done their job. Any smile left on your lips is gone now, and you continue to eat your burger quietly.

“Ya eat jus’ like a bird with t’ose li’l bites,” Harry whispers, scooting closer to the table to retrieve the packets of ketchup from the bag.

Turning to look at him, he holds a glowing smile in his eyes for you. His shoe knocks into yours and he leaves it sitting on top of yours. Take that, stupid brain, you announce to your thoughts as you affectionately bump your knee against Harry’s.

Reverting your thoughts to the towering figure speaking at the front of the room, a smile buds on your lips at the feeling of Harry rubbing his knee against yours.

Rubbing your hands across your eyes, you feel the breath leave you in a whoosh. Tapping the board with your electronic marker that’s a pen, highlighter, and an eraser in one, you drag it in zig zags. The scribbles on the board disappear in a flash. Suddenly, it falls from your hands when you feel a pair of arms surround your waist.

“Hiya, bird,” a voice says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Their warm breath tickles the nape of your neck, and so does the collar of their shirt. Spinning around, you find Harry standing there, a pout forming on his face. The adorable Starry Night tie you bought for him hangs loosely over his cornflower blue button-down. “What, why won’t ya lemme hug you?”

“Harry, anybody could walk in,” you insist, prying his arms from your waist. Bending down, you pick up the pen and place it back in its holder with a click.

“All tha students are gone by now, babe. ‘s half past 3, and any dat are around are at practice. Tha last place they’d wanna be ‘s back t’ a classroom afta their first day o’ school,” he murmurs, wedging his way back into your good graces as he pulls you back into his arms. “I wanted t’ see how me birdy’s first day went. Sooooo, wha’s tha verdict?”

“It was good. A little overwhelming, though,” you hum in return, letting your head fall backward to fit against his cheek.

“It ‘s fer e’rybody, love, so don’t worry. It’ll get betta, jus’ hang in there. Tha first month ‘s nothin’, that’s tha honeymoon period befo’ e’rythin’ goes wild.” His lips brush against your cheek with every word, the feeling of his ticklish stubble something you’re not yet used to.

“Harry!” you scoff, turning your head to find his hairy cheeks creased with a devilish smile behind you.

“‘m kiddin’, well not really, but hey, ya got me t’ help ya through it all. Don’t fret, love,” he tries to assure you, brushing the back of his fingers along your side. “What was yer favourite part o’ yer day, hmm?”

“Seeing some familiar students from when I used to sub. It was nice to catch up with them and hear stories,” you reveal, looking down as you cover his hands settled on your tummy with your own.

“Mmm, that’s good. Familiar faces are always nice,” Harry mumbles, the point of his nose dragging along the expanse of your cheek. “Did I tell ya yet ya look really pretty in yer new dress?”

“Yes, you did. About three times, but thank you again.”

“Welcome, bird. I hope no teenage boys are crushin’ on ya now,” he jests, planting a loud kiss on your temple. The remnants of his minty piece of gum cover your face in a silent cloud as he laughs at his own joke.

“Yuck! Oh and like there aren’t dozens of girls fawning over you in your classes?” you chuckle, bringing a whine to his lips when you squirm in his arms. “Put that lip away.”

“Or what? Hmm, what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it? Ya can kiss it away like all tha girls in me classes wanna do, if ya want,” Harry smirks, wiggling his eyebrows at you once you turn around. Lifting a hand from his arm, it lifts to brush back the brown ringlets falling onto his forehead.

“You’re gross sometimes. It makes me wonder how I can kiss that potty mouth.”

“Well ya do, and ya sure seem t’ like it,” he winks, dramatically licking his lips with a loud slurp.

“Stop!” you exclaim, collapsing into laughter, your head returning to his chest. His hands clasp over your back, his thumb brushing your skin through the jade dress you wear. You’re grateful for your face hidden away in his chest for when you feel his lips pepper kisses from your temple to your neck. He leaves your skin tingling from his magical touch, and his growing curls leave a trail down your neck.

“I think dis year’s gonna be a good one,” he coos against your ear, letting his smooth nose brush against its lobe. “I got tha reason right here.”

“Can we do this though?” The words jump from your lips without a chance to catch them and shove them back in their safety.

“Do what, love? Kiss? ‘Course, ya jus’ take yer lips and my lips, and put ‘em togetha’ like dis,” he wisecracks, lifting your head to show you the humor painting his face. Puckering his flushed lips, he closes the space between you to press a peck to your waiting lips. Pulling away, he quirks an eyebrow at you in silent questioning.

“That’s not what I meant, Harry,” you continue, your words falling short of the thoughts buzzing around in your skull.

“Then what’d ya mean?”

“Can we, I don’t know . . ,” you begin, but you lose your footing. Leaving his arms regrettably, you almost lose your footing quite literally when he tries to hold on. A sound leaves his lips at your departure, but you try to ignore it. That’s easier said than done, you realize as you fight with yourself, wondering if you should say that word or not. “Date . . as colleagues?”

They they are, free to the wind. It feels like coming home and your heavy book bag leaving your shoulders, although this time it’s far less trivial. The similarity doesn’t ease your anxious mind as you stop in front of your desk, fingering at the note that greeted you this morning. A pink Post-It note smattered with his sometimes unreadable handwriting, resting on top of a box of novels he gifted to you for your classroom.

To my favorite teacher - I know you’ve been dreading this day for months, and looking forward to it, too. You’re going to do great. They’re going to love you. You’re not going to mess anything up. You got this, bird. Remember that. Take it easy on yourself. Remember, you have to take care of yourself, so then you can take care of them. You’ll learn from each other too. Just keep remembering pizza at the beach with me tonight to celebrate your first day.

Harry xoxooxoxoxo

“‘Course we can, as long as it doesn’t bleed into our work life. What d’ya mean?” Harry says, trying to inject lightheartedness into his words. You both can hear the failed effect they have, and they only make his words sound sadder.

“I don’t know, I don’t want to like, get in trouble, or something. I just started this job.”

“Oh,” is all he mumbles. Mumbled or not, you hear the finality in his one word. As well as all that it says with that single syllable.

Looking over your shoulder at him, you find the confirmation you needed knitting together his features. “Harry,” you say, turning the rest of your body to face him. He takes a step back, and now you know you’ve done it. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then how’d ya mean it?” he retorts, coolness playing in his voice. He knows he’s done it, too. “Hmmm, bird? Ya only care ‘bout dat part o’ it - if we get caught and what people would think? Only wanna keep me a secret?” His words bite as he spits them into the air. They hit your face with a sting, but nothing compares to how he threw your nickname into the mud. The nickname you love, that happened all because of the first meal you shared together.

“Harry, don’t. You know that’s not what I meant- Y-you’re being ridiculous,” you press, stepping forward. It’s like one step forward and two steps back, because he continues to walk away from you. Quickly, your hands grow shaky as the feeling consumes the rest of your body.

“No, I know what ya meant. Or ‘s there mo’ ya want t’ say? Want t’ say dat ‘Oh, ‘s too risky, so maybe we shouldn’t do dis anymo’, even tho’ it makes us happy,’” Harry persists, his right hand lifting in question, before it falls with a slap to his thigh.

“We never even said what this was,” you try to say, but before you get any further, you know you’re just making it worse. You know that he’ll read into your words incorrectly and assume the worst, despite your true meaning. At the realization, your heart pounds harder in your chest. The look on his face like you just slapped him tells you all you need to know. “Harry, wait.”

“No, yer right. We neva said what dis was, but apparently ‘s nuthin’ worth labelin’ or takin’ risks fer,” he grumbles. His head falls with a spiteful smile, but when it lifts again something shatters in your chest. With wet eyes, he continues in a croaky voice, “Then why’d ya take tha job knowin’ I was mad ‘bout ya?”

Your lips wobble with his name dangling from them. When you try to walk over to him, you’re only two steps in when he holds a hand up. “No, don’t. ‘m glad ya told me early on. ‘m happy I didn’t already start fallin’ fer ya or anythin’. That’d be real shitty, wouldn’t it?” he wheezes, a strange smile tugging at his lips dealing failed sarcasm. Sniffling, a tear falls down his tanned skin and he brushes it away. With a shake of his head, he turns to walk out of the door. You know that you shouldn’t, but you let him, because you know you have to.

Collapsing at your desk, your head falls into your hands. Tears splash into your palms as your chest shakes, wondering just how you turned the best first day into the worst first day.

You know that a note won’t be there, but you continue to wish as your heels clack down the halls of lockers. You know that you’ll see his face no matter how hard you try to avoid him, and that it’ll hurt more than you thought it would. Although you prepared yourself, unlocking the door to your classroom and finding no notes from him hurts more than you suspected. The hurt only stings worse when you pass each other in the halls with your students trailing behind, eyes falling away instantly. The spark in the air is lost when he huffs, passing you on the way to the vending machine in the lounge, leaving as soon as he came. Although the hurt grew as the attacks came and went, nothing could prepare you for the absence of his notes that week. That was an eventuality you had dreaded thinking of since the day you found the first one, back in his classroom.

You tried at the very least, albeit an understatement. Notes dropped into his mailbox went unanswered, as well as texts and phone calls. Even the bag of Bit O Honeys failed at their messages of apology. A few times you thought about trudging into his classroom after the bell rang, and hashing it out. Each time you mustered just enough courage to do so, a staff meeting got in the way. Or, within 5 minutes of the bell, his door was locked and he was gone. Speaking of staff meetings, you suffered even worse at those. No longer was he your security blanket at your side, because he no longer saved you a seat. Slowly, the young and pretty visual arts teacher grew to get on your nerves as you watched her be a little too nice to him. He didn’t entertain her taunts and turn to you with a smirk to rub it in your face. No, he was a good guy, and you had to go and ruin it, or what was becoming of it.

He ignored you - at staff meetings, in the copy room, in the staff lounge, in the halls, when both of your classes were in the library - basically everywhere and anywhere. It was an understatement to say you suffered because of it. You had to buddy up with Jen, the poetry teacher. She took the brunt of your questions, whether technology-related or English related. You became fast friends, but unlike the easiness with Harry, you quickly felt you were a nuisance. That was something he never made you feel like, well, until now that is.

You made the mistake of getting your hopes up when you found a bag of Bit O Honeys in your mailbox one morning. That is until the white note on it told you in his writing to stop plugging his box with them. Instead, you tossed them on the counter in the staff lounge to share, never wanting to see those yellow and red wrappers again. Quickly, what you thought had become your dream job morphed into a nightmare. His face filled your thoughts day after day, and it especially distracted you when your mind chose the tear-stricken memory. It bled into your lectures and although it stung less when you saw him, without fail every day, it was messing with your mind. It didn’t help when you were beginning a unit on Romeo and Juliet and a student joked you could play Juliet and Mr. Styles could play Romeo, quite literally.

You had been staying after school every day to finish lesson plans, grade tests, reflect on teaching, and plan for the next day. The October chill that arrived this week only made you want to stay in your cozy classroom with the Autumn decorations you hung up. Soon, it would be Halloween and costumes would fill the halls. The thought pours memories into your mind, but a particular one sours the enjoyment for you. The memory of planning a matching costume with Harry. Jay and Daisy from The Great Gatbsy, like the English teacher nerds you are. Were.

Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you reach for your water bottle. A groan finds its way past your lips when you pick it up, only to find it's empty. Standing with it in your hands, you cross the room to your door. After a few steps into the hallway, your movements freeze at the sight of his open door. Biting back any hesitations, your hand shakes when it presses against the wood.

Something thrilling washes over you when you find his head bent over his desk. His left hand covered with varying rings props his head up as he marks the page with his favorite red pen. A Micron pen, but only you would know that. Pausing, he fiddles with the tan braces strapping his shoulders clad in a handsome white and gray checkered button-down. Words stick together inside of your mouth, and when you hear the click of your shoe, regret surges inside of you.

“I made a mistake,” you say, testing the waters, although you know they’re stormy. Clearing your throat, you hope the subsequent ones will come out louder and stronger, before he can stop you. Your galloping heart jumps when he lifts his head to look at you, a question painting his face. “I fucked up, and I could never say how sorry I am. I said the wrong things, and I didn’t mean them that way- that’s not the point . . . I miss you, Harry. You’re all I think about, even when I’m thinking of other things, or when I’m teaching. That’s how I know it’s bad, because even though it’s only been a month, it still hurts like it was yesterday,” your voice screeches to a halt. You take one step at a time as he watches you.

A curl tickles his bearded cheek, making you want to tuck it back into place, but you can’t. A crumb from a chip sits on his chin, making you want to brush it away, but you know you can’t. And neither can you whisk away the worry lines forming around his eyes.

“I need you, not just to help me figure out how to use a projector or what a conjunction is again. But I need to tell you about the good parts of my day, and even the bad parts. Because even though we haven’t talked for like a month, my mind still goes to you when something good happens, or even bad. Even my students tease that we should be together, so that says something,” you try your hand at joking, but he turns his attention back to his desk. “Harry, please. I’m sorry,” you plead with him, tears catching the last of your words.

“Sorry doesn’t jus’ make it all go away, bird,” he returns cooly. His head lifts ever so slightly, only to fall. As if he changed his mind a few seconds into a decision.

“I know, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll buy you Bit-O-Honeys for the rest of your life, grade your papers, check your mailbox, or buy the next meals for a month. Anything.” The apologies run off of your lips, but he doesn’t say anything, nor do his actions. An exhale whooshes over your pursed lips as your nails dig into your clenched palms. Defeat covers your body as you turn to leave.

“None o’ dat takes away what ya said,” he announces painfully, the new fabric of his chair squeaking with his movements.

“I know,” you say automatically, a battle waging its way inside of you of whether to look at him. As if his words laced with hurt didn’t already leave you breathless. “So tell me what I have to do.”

“I can’t do dat, bird. Ya should know,” he sighs, clucking his tongue in disbelief.

Your eyes fall shut and your jaw clenches in anger, but the sweet smell of oranges brings you back to the moment. “I’m sorry that I made it seem like it wasn’t worth being with you, because it was, and I realized that even more after . . what happened. I’m sorry that it didn’t seem like I was dedicated enough, but I want to be a- I want to show you that I can be, and I want to be that to you. I’m sorry that I care too much about what other people think, because I only care what you think. It’s ripped me apart lately knowing that you hate me, and how you can’t even be around me, and . . ,” your string of words breaks off, stolen away by your onset of tears. They rumble through your chest with tremors, and the embarrassment brings your hands to your face streaked with them.

The howling of the wind hugs the windows, masking any other sounds. If there were, you can’t hear them, but you do feel something. His fingers wrapping around yours, pulling your hands away from your face.

“Ya gonna stop now befo’ ya make me cry too?” he hums, one corner of his lips turned up ever so slightly. With raised eyebrows, they pose the question to you. Nodding fast with hiccups stealing your words, he kneads your hands between his own. “Are ya gonna shuddup or am I gonna hafta make you?” Harry softly laughs.

“You’re going to have to make me,” you return, stumbling over your sobbed words.

“Good, was hopin’ ya’d say dat.”

Smirking playfully, he steps forward to cup your face in his hands. The callused tips of his fingers make quick work of the tears staining your face, as well as his lips. “Don’t cry, and don’t ever say dat I hate you,” he coos in between pecks to your wet skin singing with his kisses. “Don’t want me pretty birdy t’ cry no mo’.”

“Your bird doesn’t want to cry and be sad, and miss you anymore,” you whimper, trying to hold it all in, but it comes pouring out.

“Baby bird,” he pouts sadly, his rose lips round and extended. His brow presses into a sad line as the same emotion carries his words. “Lemme make it all betta.”

Nodding, you hiccup again as you cover his hands with yours. His subsequent smile warms your insides cold and aching from the long days without him. His lips bring a respite when they touch yours, ending the harsh drought. Kissing him back, you revel in the feeling of his unkempt scratchy beard against your face. Just one more thing you missed. Severing the kiss, you mumble an ‘I’m sorry’ against his chapped lips.

“Shhh, ‘s okay, love. I know ya are,” he tells you before bringing his lips back against yours. They move together slowly, welcoming the return of the other.

Your mouth falls to envelope his bottom lip in between yours, his facial hair feathery against your mouth. Hungrily, you kiss him and savor his familiar taste and smell. Fingers drifting to his hair, they return home to his buttery curls. His lips pull away only to plant another kiss against your mouth. Too soon, he breaks the kiss with a breathy laugh against your lips.

“My goodness, lemme breathe, love.”

“Sorry . . I missed you.”

“Ya sure did, bird. Think I missed ya a li’l more, though,” Harry chuckles as your hands fall from his locks. His thumb steals the last hint of a tear from under your eye. The amusement creasing his features disappears swiftly. “‘m sorry too, y’know. I overreacted, and I shouldn’t have put meself over yer job. It wasn’t fair o’ me t’ do dat. D’ya think I can have those Bit-O-Honeys back, or were ya serious ‘bout buyin’ me a lifetime supply?”

Groaning, you playfully shove at his chest, only to have him wrap you up in his arms. “I guess I was serious.”

“Hmm, ya don’t sound too serious ‘bout it, bird. But that’s okay, I got all tha honey I need right here,” he replies, planting a kiss atop your head nuzzled into his neck, swaying you back and forth. Nodding, you finally let yourself relax for the first time in weeks at the greeting of his sweet smell. One that feels like home to you. “Wait, yer students said we should be togetha? That’s funny, cuz so did mine.”

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author-morgan · 6 years ago

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Title: The Way

Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader

Rating: T

Summary: Even in Darkness, Deimos finds his Theia.

Deimos is a weapon of mass destruction, an untouchable demigod with a destiny capable of shifting the tides of war and bringing the Greek world to its knees. The Cult has fed him those lies since he was a child, but when he returns to the stronghold and sheds the armor there are often bruises and cuts. Sometimes it is worse than others. He may have the blood of kings, but Deimos is still only a mortal –albeit a very powerful one.

Cult guards bring Deimos through the fortress’s gates to you in a state of comatose with blood staining his golden armor. With little regard, the two men toss him onto the flagstone floor. “See that he lives,” one of the cultist guard snarls. They both leave, pulling the splintering wooden doors close.

“Deimos,” you murmur, gingerly laying your hand on his cheek. He is unresponsive –a lump rises in your throat. The blood comes from a laceration at his shoulder. There’s another on his thigh too –it does not bleed as badly. You begin working to remove his armor –untying the closures of his cuirass and removing the stained pauldrons. It leaves him in a dark chiton.

The vinegar burns the wound and wakes him with a sharp groan. His hand wraps around your wrist, squeezing hard but as his surroundings come into focus, he sees your started expression and wince of pain. Don’t break her, Champion. You will not get another reward such as this. It feels like a lifetime ago since you were offered as a sacrifice to the Cult of Kosmos –an act of goodwill toward the Cult on your father’s behalf. Deimos releases your wrist, falling back into a daze. He watches as you leave and return with a spool of silk thread and red-hot curved needle among other items.

“Hold still,” you breathe softly. With the first pass of the needle, the faint, putrid scent of burning flesh seeps into the air. Deimos is silent and still asides from the few times he winces. Your concentration does not break as you work on the line of continuous sutures spanning diagonally from his clavicle to upper arm. Sweat beads on your brow. With a final pass of the curved needle, you tie off the thin silk thread.

Now you can tend to the cut on his thigh –it is not a deep cut nor is it large, but it still weeps red and must be cleansed to prevent ill humors turning it rancid. You bind the cut with a strip of clean linen. Deimos sits up, reaches to undo the straps and ties of his greaves and sandals –the chiton hanging off of one of his broad shoulders. He stands, stumbles on the first step –ignoring your offer for assistance.

The warrior collapses on the pallet of furs and pillows tucked in the corner of the empty polemarch quarters. “Stay,” he rasps.

You pick up an empty amphora. “I need to gather fresh water.” Discontent, he motions toward the door. Athenian soldiers spare glances as you pass by. Most are too afraid to look much longer than a second. Everyone is at unease in the presence of Deimos –everyone except you. You had not known what to expect when your father turned you over to the Cult in exchange for power.

While not expressly kind, Deimos was never cruel toward you. He had never hurt you and given time he even trained you with a bow, and to the Cult’s disquiet, granted you the freedom to come-and-go. It all creates a strange fondness in your heart for the tormented soul.

After returning, you go to Deimos with a basin of water and sponge. For the first time, most of the blood covering him is his own. The blood and grime turn the water. Dark circles ring his eyes. Sleep will recover his strength. “Rest,” you tell him softly, moving around the quarters quietly to replace the medicinal kit.

"She has made him weak!" Chrysis screeches. The foul old woman never supported the other Cultists’ decision to grant Deimos such a fair reward. She knew what the outcome would entail –he would grow soft, weak, and no longer accept pain as the way of the world. Her fears had come to fruition. “That is why he failed!” She turns to her guards, face twisted in rage. “Take her!” She commands and they obey.

The guards burst into the chambers –they had waited until Deimos left for the training grounds before striking. A hand twists into your scalp, pulling you outside. You cry out, twisting and writhing –not understanding why this is happening. You had tended his wounds, ensured their prized weapon would live.

Chrysis looks down at you in disgust, rears back and strikes you across the face. Blood quickly wells up on your bottom lip. "You've destroyed everything I worked for!" Chrysis shouts, striking you again. Her puppet guards tighten their grip on your arms. The rings on her hand scratch your cheek.

“Let her go.” It is a demand. The cultist guards glance between Chrysis and Deimos but they stand resolute. His eyes are ringed with gold –rage coursing through his veins. Deimos raises the Sword of Damokles.

Chrysis goes to the child she once raised. “She has poisoned your mind, Deimos! Weakened-” he wraps a hand around the crone‘s neck, silencing her forked tongue.

He is a caged beast full of rage and pain. “I will cut you all down,” his voice his a low grating.

The guards are rank with fear but do not step down. A figure clothed in purple robes emerges. The Ghost of Kosmos. Aspasia clasps her hands together, glancing between the priestess, her hostage, and Deimos. “Release her,” the Ghost commands.

“Aspasia!” The crone hisses in objection, but the guards have already pushed you toward Deimos. You stumble, falling at his feet. Deimos sheaths his sword and lifts you from the ground, carrying you away and back to the polemarch's quarters.

“He fights harder now," Aspasia reasons. Before you, it was nearly impossible to control Deimos. He is still difficult and often tests the length of his leash, but you were able to temper the demigod. "What happened in Megara was a folly." It is the last thing you hear of the two women's heated conversation.

Deimos places you on the pallet bed, dunks a piece of linen into the washbasin and dapples away the blood from your lips. He cannot take away the red welt or scratch on your cheek, though. You lean into his touch. Eyes slipping shut. It’s during moments like this when you see the man he could be outside of the Cults influence.

“I swore I'd protect you," he breathes. Don’t break her, Champion. Deimos cherishes you, the one good thing he has –the one speck of light in the Cult's darkness.

You lift your hand, tentatively touching his cheek. “You have,” you assure him. Before you can think your actions through, you are careening toward Deimos. His lips are rough but unresponsive. Disheartened you pull back, face burning with shame. But he chases your lips with his own.

He is surprisingly gentle –one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other resting on your swelling cheek. You hold onto his shoulders –bare of armor. You lean back into the pillows and pelts, pulling him down with you. Deimos breaks the kiss, hovers above you –brown eyes softened despite the dark circles. "I'll always protect you."

It takes time to grow accustomed to calling him Alexios –the name given to him by his parents. Kassandra even offers him a place amongst her crew on the Adrestia. He declines at the time, needing to find himself within the shell of Deimos. But he is not alone.

He takes up the mantle of a misthios –the same trade as his sister. He has a mental list of places built up over the years, though –places he thought you would like to see. One of them is the poppy fields of Kos. Alexios lifts you off the horse's back.

Surrounding you is a sea of red poppies in full bloom. The sky is painted in soft hues of pink and violet, reflecting off the water below white marble cliffs. It is quiet, peaceful. Just like the seaport of Nafplio on the Argolic Gulf is where you spend much time. The sunset though is perhaps the most breathtaking one you have ever witnessed. “It’s beautiful here, Alexios."

Alexios bends at the waist, plucks a single bloom and tucks it behind your ear. “Like you," he states, pleased with his compliment. You smile, cheeks flushing. His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you nearer. His kisses have become softer, slower, but no less prepotent. You lean into him and decide the journey will be long and arduous, but it will be well worth it.

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x Reader #Deimos x Reader #Alexios imagine #Deimos imagine #Alexios fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed imagine #Assassin's Creed fanfiction #AC: Odyssey #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #my writing #yall i rewatched troy and was 100% inspired by Achilles and Briseis #this poor child needs love

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florenceandthemachine · 5 years ago

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happy chapter! yes I know I missed last week and I've updated the chapter count to reflect. my state is cold as fuck and also somehow on fire and the Big Sad hit me real hard so I had to take a weekend to be dead. love you all.

Chapters: 3/4 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)

”Alright, Eddie.”

No, it was not alright. It was not alright at all.

“I’m starting to worry about you.”

Eddie felt his bed dip as Buck sat beside him, groaning in response, rolling over in a desperate attempt to hide his shame.

“Chris is about ready to call in for a rope rescue, and you’re still not out of bed. I may not understand why you’re meeting your parents for lunch today, but you are, so get up.”And therein lied his shame. Eddie didn’t need a reminder. His parents had spent all of ten minutes in his living room the night prior—annoyingly vague about why they were there in the first place, insisting that even though they were just ‘passing through’ they still wanted to spend some time with their grandson.

Not their son. Just their grandson. Which was totally fine and didn’t bother Eddie at all.

Eddie had spent every one of those ten minutes clenching his teeth so hard he thought he would pop a crown, but ultimately agreed to their request (maybe a little quicker than he would have liked, but he had done less for more when it came to making sure Chris stayed in bed). As bad as that was, though, he wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that he was so hesitant to spend some time with his parents, or the fact that the moment they left, all he felt was guilt.

He knew that he wasn’t the crazy one here; but even then, it was hard to ignore how it sounded, feeling so unhappy—so hesitant—to spend time with his own parents. He knew exactly how it looked for him, because what kind of son was chomping at the bit to rip his own parents head off, just for wanting to spend some time with their family?

It should have been a perfectly reasonable request. It should have been something Eddie was happy to do. It should not have been something that set Eddie’s teeth on edge, that tripped up his sixth sense like no other, the soldier's sense that he had developed in Afghanistan buzzing in the base of his skull like a beehive. It felt like something was about to go incredibly wrong, and it felt fucking disgusting to have that reaction triggered by his own parents, but he couldn’t deny that he was afraid history would repeat itself.

Maybe he really was a garbage person.

The guilt only got worse, surprise surprise, after they left and Eddie discovered Buck standing in the kitchen, where Eddie had told him to stay. He had all but forgotten about Buck. How could he forget an entire person?

Garbage person, strike two.

Eddie wound himself in his blanket even tighter, guilt and shame doing little to motivate him on getting out of bed, but his silence was short lived as his blanket burst into flames just long enough for him to yelp and bolt upright before it completely disintegrated. “You—that’s not—you cheater!”

Buck just laughed, the bastard, idly examining the nails on one hand as he shoved Eddie out of bed with the other. “I’m a demon, you dolt. Of course I cheated. Now,” he started, pushing Eddie upright and all but herding him toward the closet, “why don’t you get dressed and tell me what’s really going on?”

Eddie felt a lump sink into his stomach as he stood up, a harsh breath coming out of his nose as he yanked a pair of pants off of a hanger.

“I’m scared, Buck.”

Either out of shock or respect, Buck remained silent, and Eddie could only spare a glance over his shoulder before he ducked his head, dressing haphazardly. “The last time I saw my parents they tried to... to take him. They were trying to take him from me, and my response was to literally pack Chris up and move across the country. They didn’t reach out for years—it’s been years, Buck—not when Abuela broke her hip, not when Chris changed schools, not when Shannon died. A year goes by, and nothing. And then they send a card, and then I meet you, and now they’re just... here again. And I think they’re going to try again, I think they’re going to—“

Eddie looked down at his hands as he felt the fabric of the shirt he was holding tear beneath his fingertips, staring at the hole, like he couldn’t believe he had just worried a hole through it. He looked up to Buck, guilt and misery written on his face as he tossed the garment aside, hiding his face in his hands as he rubbed at his eyes, dragging his hands down his face shortly after.

“You are going to lunch and I’ll be nearby, but Eddie, listen.” Eddie didn’t realize he was spiraling until Buck stepped forward, grabbing his hands and giving a firm squeeze as he shook his head. When Eddie looked up again, all he could see was Buck—eyes glowing, mouth set, teeth maybe just a little sharper than they were a moment before. “I will never, ever let them—or anyone else—take him from you. Ever.”

“…and Mark says that Washington has one of the biggest volcanoes, but I don’t think that’s true. Ms. Flores and Mr. Beeman says that Mars has volcanoes too, even bigger than any of the ones we have here on Earth!”

“I’m sure it does, buddy. Maybe that’s why it’s the red planet? All the magma?”

“No, Dad, the magma is underground, when the volcano erupts it turns into—hey!” Eddie had a smile on his face as he reached over to steal one of Chris’ fries, grinning as his kid squawked, pushing his dads’ hand away playfully. Their afternoon together had started easy enough; Chris had stolen the show easily, directing the conversation through himself in that effortless way kids managed to do, talking about his school, his friends, his day to day. To this day, Eddie would never understand how this kid had him wrapped around his finger so easily—all it took was the bat of an eye for Eddie to swing through the drive through on the way to the park, and suddenly he was meeting his parents at a picnic table near the playground with arms full of chicken tenders and fries.

Not a great look. Whatever.

Chris had been every bit as ecstatic to see his grandparents as Eddie knew (feared?) he would be, propelling himself forward at a speed that would have made Eddie panic had Buck not spent some significant time over the past few months working on Chris’ physical therapy.

He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse, how easily it was to use his son as a distraction from whatever nightmarish scenario his parents wanted to bring up, but even that grateful moment was cut short as his father chuckled, reaching forward to tousle Chris’ hair playfully.

“Mark, Flores, Beeman, I can’t even keep up anymore kiddo. Sounds like you’ve had a busy third grade in your new scho—“

“Fourth grade, dad.”

“What?”

“Fourth grade, Dad. Chris is in fourth grade.”

Eddie regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. As good as it felt to even attempt to put his father in his place, he could feel the exact moment that both of his parents swiveled their laser-like attention to him. They were smiling, sure, but Eddie felt like he was back to being a kid again, waiting for the inevitable slip up that would get him grounded.

“Fourth grade, right.” Eddie smiled tensely as his father nodded, gesturing between he and his son. “Of course, we would know that if you bothered to call once in a while. We don’t hear from you on Christmas, birthdays, nothing.

“You know, you can always call us too, not send some letter on the anniversary of my wife’s death like a complete—”

“If we didn’t hear from Pepa regularly, how would we know that you and Chris were even alive?”

“Dad—“

“But we’re doing good.”

Eddie felt his jaw click shut as Chris spoke, his heart swelling with pride as both of his parents turned their gaze again. His mother at least had the decency to look mildly guilty—his father, no such luck.

“Of course you are, kiddo. We’re just trying to make sure that your dad has enough help. There’s been a lot of big changes since you both left Texas—two new schools, new grades, new teachers, your father’s new job, and—“

The death of Chris’ mother, Eddie’s mind provided, angry once again that Shannon was being so disregarded by people who were supposed to be her family.

“Yeah, but we’re still doing good.” Chris said, not looking up from the fries he was dunking into ketchup, smearing only a little bit on his upper lip as he shoved the handful into his mouth. “Dad says that sometimes the hard things make us stronger, but things aren’t even that hard. And Buck says that I have a lot of, um. Initiative! And they both say I’m perfect, so that’s good.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He didn’t freeze as his parents turned back over to him, and he certainly didn’t feel his heart sink into his stomach. He just… was trying to un-swallow his tongue, was all. Buck had been the one topic that they had somehow danced around, and Eddie wasn’t sure if he should have been thankful or not that Chris ripped that bandaid off.

He was afraid, to be honest, of that particular aspect of their new lives coming to light—there were few wounds that Eddie’s parents loved rubbing salt in more than his parenting and his financial situation, and suggesting that he had private help for Chris? That was certainly something that hit both of their favorite topics.

“Buck?”

Even if, you know, he had sold his soul instead of provided a monthly stipend.

“Who is Buck?”

“Buck’s great!” Eddie felt himself finally breathe as Chris picked up the slack, his cheerful demeanor impervious to the doom and gloom swarming around both of his grandparents right now. “He’s really smart, and he’s super nice. Plus he makes Dad laugh, which is also nice. And he taught me how to make cootie-catchers! Did you know that they can see into the future?”

Eddie wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t looking between his mother and his father, trying desperately to come up with something, some excuse, some way to explain the strange name that called Chris perfect and made him laugh.

...Buck really did know how to make him laugh, though. And he did love Chris, that much was clear. And those two thoughts were the only things buzzing around in his head when he opened his fat mouth.

“Edmundo, who is—“

“Buck is my boyfriend.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the moment afterward—his father turned a lovely complexion of purple and red while his mother looked like she had literally seen a ghost, which, hey! Not that far off from the truth. Eddie wasn’t sure if he was just in shock, or if he was having a stroke, or what, but he suddenly felt heavy, grounded for the first time all day, firmly planted in the moment.

So, Eddie decided that Buck was, as of ten seconds ago, his boyfriend. It… made sense, in a way. Fuck, they were basically co-parenting his kid. Chris absolutely adored Buck. And Eddie knew they were sexually and romantically compatible, hell, he knew Buck intimately from his teeth right down to—

“Buck is your what—”

“Buck!”

Eddie was getting very, very tired of being caught by surprise, so it was actually exhausting to have yet another rug pulled out from under him. He turned his head as Chris called out and almost fell out of his seat, seeing who else but the demon in question striding toward them, smiling like the sun,

Honestly, at this point, Eddie should have expected yet another whiplash, but nothing could have prepared him to turn around and see Buck, striding toward him with a big smile on his face, wearing what Eddie could only describe as a “meet the parents” outfit.

If there was another reason as to why Buck would be wearing a sweater vest in California, Eddie would love to hear it.

At the very least, he wasn’t the only one who was shocked. His parents had similar slack jawed looks on their faces as Chris raced toward Buck, who easily wrapped Chris in a huge hug with a “Hey, Superman!” before setting Chris on his hip easily.

Eddie didn’t realize that he was up until he was already moving, trying to think of how he could explain this, but Buck was quick on the draw—keeping Chris balanced in one arm, he drew Eddie in easily with the other, kissing his cheek, murmuring against his skin easily.

“Thought you could use some backup from your boyfriend.”

...oh, right. Demon. Probably heard the whole thing. Cool, that was definitely a cool thing and not embarrassing at all. Eddie felt his own hand fall into Buck’s as they started to walk back toward his parents, a weight writhing in his stomach, only partially subdued by the warmth burning pleasantly through his bones from the small contact he shared with Buck, looking over as Buck set Chris back down, grinning at the giggling ten year old like he wanted nothing more out of this life.

“Mom, Dad, this is Buck. Buck, these are my parents.” Eddie was half tempted to let the moment stew in a silent awkwardness before starting introductions, but Buck spoke up before he could do anything, extending his now-free hand to Eddie’s father first. “Evan Buckley, Eddie’s told me a lot about you. Glad to meet you both.”

Huh. Eddie never thought to even ask if Buck had a first and last name. He always thought it was just, ‘Buck’.

It was comforting for him to see the good, Catholic guilt push both of his parents to accept the greeting with an incredibly pained smile and a handshake of their own, as much as he knew they both wanted to pretend he wasn’t there.

“So! Evan.” His mother started, always the diplomat. “What do you do?”

“I’ve known I was bisexual from, like, sophomore year. I brought boyfriends home in highschool! Why is this so hard for you to wrap your head around?”

Long since abandoning the idea of civility, Eddie’s voice was tired, watching as Buck pushed Chris on the swingset across the park from their little picnic bench. Chris had all but dragged Buck over there, subconsciously (or maybe consciously, though Eddie hated thinking of that) feeling when Eddie needed some time to yell at his parents.

Which he definitely, definitely wanted to do. Because Buck was a fucking delight, he answered every question perfectly, he complimented, he flattered, he smiled, and his parents had given him absolutely nothing back.

Now, he was actually finding himself… jealous. Because he would have sold his fucking left leg to just be over there, with his kid and his… Buck, instead of here, with the firing squad. Watching the two of them together was nice, though, definitely a memory he would treasure later—right now, it was providing just enough serotonin to keep him from jumping off a bridge.

“Because you’re not like that, not really!” His mother’s voice was pleading where his fathers had been firm, but Eddie couldn’t really tell the difference between the two when they were both parroting each other. “Eddito, you can’t expect us to believe this is just... happening now. In highschool, that was one thing. I am your mother, we are your parents. No one knows you better than we do!”

Eddie threw his hands into the air, turning it into a wave at the last moment when Chris looked over, trying to keep his face relatively neutral. “Mom, you don’t know the first thing about me, apparently, but I’m starting to think that might go both ways. Maybe I don’t know the two of you, either. For starters, I had no idea my parents were so fucking mean.”

The innocent look his father shot back at him made him want to puke. “Eddie, I can’t help it if pointing out the truth seems a little mean to you. That woman leaves you—”

“That woman was my wife, and she died, next topic.”

“—leaves you,” his father repeated, ignoring what Eddie had said yet again, “and now I’m supposed to believe that you, what. Decided that instead of finding someone who could give Chris what he needs, you just looked for the first man waving a rainbow flag and that was that?”

“Dad, I swear to God, if you insult Buck again we’re done for the day.”

If Eddie was surprised by his own assertiveness, he was alone in that—his father wasted no time in scoffing, shaking his head.

“I have every right to criticize someone spending that much time with my grandson, Edmundo. When was the last time you and Chris went to service? Because if it got around that you were hanging around with someone like that—"

Honestly, there was a certain level of irony here that Eddie had to appreciate. His conservative, religious parents didn’t like his boyfriend (and, wait, how had Eddie attached Buck to that word so easily?)—not because he was a literal demon from Hell, which would have been a perfectly reasonable thing for two good, God fearing Christians to dislike, but because he was a man.

“Hey, Chris, we gotta get going! Come say bye, buddie!”

All that aside, the stunned silence that followed as his father struggled to find his voice was sweet, so sweet, even if it was incredibly short lived.

“Really, Eddie? One little disagreement and you’re just going to walk away? We don’t see Chris for two years, and the first time we visit is when you decide to—”

“Chris is going to come over and say goodbye.” Eddie interrupted, voice dangerously low as he looked up to where Buck was helping him down from the jungle gym. “If you try and play him against me with this, you will lose. If you try to play him against Buck, you will lose and I will laugh at you. But we are going home now, and if you give him any grief about that, if you try to make him feel bad that you don’t come up to visit more often, if you do anything that puts a frown on his face, that’s it. You will never see him again. Ever. And I’ve already kept one promise to you once in the past five minutes, you wanna push for two?”

Eddie wasn’t sure if he was burning that bridge or crossing it, but he was all smiles when Buck and Chris rejoined them, easily slotting himself against Buck’s side as his mother and father each hugged and kissed Chris’ head. Eddie may have let his eagle eye slide a little bit—he could tell my Chris’ giggling protests that they weren’t saying anything uncouth, and even if they were, he knew Buck would put a stop to it before anything else.

Waiting until his mother released Chris, Eddie leaned and kissed Buck on the cheek, tilting his head back to the truck. “Chris, you wanna go with Buck and get buckled in? I’m gonna walk your grandparents to their car.”

Chris took off happily with Buck in tow, and Eddie allowed himself a moment to feel all warm inside watching Buck take Chris’ hand happily as they walked away before he had to turn and face his parents once more. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not that his mother was first to speak, pleading with him while his father unlocked and started their car. “You don’t need to be so sneaky to talk to us, Eddito. You know your father and I just worry.”

“If you want to talk sneaky, let’s talk about your spontaneous road trip to Los Angeles. Have you talked to Abuela? Or Pepa? Because Buck’s met them both, and they both love him. Have you even thought about visiting with them while you’re out here?” Eddie asked, the look on her face answer enough. Eddie sighed, shaking his head as he turned to his father, waiting to see what kind of explanation he would try and bury this in. “You dragged Mom a thousand miles just to interrogate me but you won’t even see the rest of the family?”

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as his mother shut the door to the passengers seat of the car, and Eddie found himself wishing he could just tune this entire topic out as easily as she seemed to when his father met this gaze again.

“I am just trying to get you to do what is right for Chris.”

“That’s just it! I am what’s best for Chris, and I don’t understand why you can’t accept that. He’s my kid, mine, and if you can’t trust me to do what’s best for him,” Eddie paused, “then I don’t know what I can do to get that across.”

He shook his head as he started to walk back to his car. He had really, really hoped that would be the end of it, but he was well aware that would require luck, which he did not have, his father's voice calling after him making that painfully clear.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Eddie. When your little… mistake comes crashing down, we will be the only ones here for Chris! You can’t just turn your back on family!” Eddie felt his hackles rise as he walked away, ears ringing as he dug his heel into the dirt and looked over his shoulder.

“You turned your back on us—on me—a long time ago.” Eddie’s voice was low as he opened his door, slumping into the driver seat like a string had been cut, hands shaking as he started the truck.

“What was your family like?”

Eddie’s voice was soft from his place against Buck’s side, tucked up under one of Buck’s arms, the warmth from the demon eliminating any need for a blanket.

Eddie had made it exactly three blocks (just long enough to be out of view of his parents) before Buck had demanded he pull the car over so they could switch. He was more than happy to give up any responsibility, sliding into the back seat beside his kid, letting himself be completely engrossed in whatever Chris was listening to for the rest of the ride home.

Buck had been the one who drove them home, made dinner, entertained Chris while Eddie showered. Buck was the one who helped with everything along the way just like he always did. And now Buck was literally, literally anchoring him into reality, a comforting weight along Eddie’s side.

He couldn’t tell what Marvel movie was on—honestly, he had kind of stopped caring about any of them after Black Panther—but they were still Chris’ favorite, and he was sure that Chris would have been livid at them for talking if he hadn’t fallen asleep in the first five minutes of the movie. He wanted to save the moment like a snapshot forever; Chris’ head against Buck’s thigh, sprawled out over the both of their laps, his soft snores doing little to mask Eddie’s question (or Buck’s snort in return). “Eddie, my parents were like... completely crazy. Yours are getting up there, but mine were insane. My mom...” Buck shut his mouth as Chris shifted, waiting until he was settled to resume.

“My mom is the reason I got into this position in the first place.”

Eddie felt his face fall as Buck spoke, repositioning himself to sit up a little straighter beside Buck, eyes trained to the demons’ face. Buck was smiling, a sense of bitter irony on his face as he pushed some hair from Chris’ forehead. “When my dad died, my mom... didn’t take it well. She kind of fell off the deep end. Maddie was lucky, she got out before the shit hit the fan. Anyway, my mom and I tried everything—therapy, grief counseling, the power of prayer—seriously.” Buck said, a smile on his face as Eddie laughed, shoulders shaking.

“You’re such an ass.” Buck said, but he was smiling as well, shaking his head. “Anyway, when that didn’t work, my mom tried the other route. She was, like, off the deep end at that point. Talismans, ouija boards, drugging herself up to talk to the dead. I probably should have turned around when I came home to find a pentagram painted on the floor, but.”

Buck shrugged like this was the easiest thing in the world to announce, but Eddie had long since stopped laughing, his jaw a little slack. “Oh, Buck...” He hated how weak his voice sounded, but Buck brushed it off, continuing on.

“No big deal. She sucked at Latin, turns out. I got these devilishly good looks, and she got torn apart by hellfire.” Eddie choked on a laugh as Buck beamed at him, because of course he would be making a pun at a time like this. He stifled the rest of his laugh as Buck squeezed him a little tighter, shaking his head as Chris let out another little snore.

It was easy enough to maneuver Chris into his arms, carrying him to his bedroom, though he certainly wasn’t about to object to Buck’s abject closeness, less than a half step behind Eddie as he put Chris to bed. It wasn’t until he stood to leave did he actually see the look on Buck’s face as he tousled Chris’ hair and said goodnight; it was incredibly soft, dopey even, and the only reason Eddie could make that comparison is because Hen had told him plenty of times that was the same way he looked at Chris.

He just never thought he would see that look on someone else.

Eddie kept his voice low as he closed Chris’ door, starting the walk back to his own room slowly, swaying easily in step beside Buck as he scratched at his head. “Do you remember, when we met, you told me—“

“How incredibly hot you were, how good you were with your tongue, how—“

“Jesus, Buck, no, you fucking pervert. I was going to say, you told me that I wasn’t being normal about this.” Eddie said, and Buck hummed, his hand idly reaching out toward Eddie’s. “What are most of your contracts like?”

Buck snorted as he tugged Eddie into the bedroom, turning off the television, the lights, even locking the front door with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never fucked another contract, if that’s what you’re asking.” he started, pulling the sheets down with another wave and a laugh as Eddie threw his shirt at Buck’s head. “God, Eddie, they’re fucking assholes. Everyone’s power hungry, or money hungry, or just stupid as fuck, seriously. In like, a whole decade, I’ve never had anyone make a contract for someone else before. But you…”

Eddie looked up as Buck pulled him closer again, planting a kiss on his lips. Part of Eddie wanted to shy away, wanted to say the boyfriend thing had all but been an act, but he had given up on that about thirty seconds after Buck told his father to fuck off.

“Even when you were drunk, you only cared about what was best for your son. That’s why it was so easy for me to make a contract with you. Seeing how good of a person you were, how much you loved your kid? No question.”

Buck’s voice had dropped down low as he sunk into the bed, making grabby hands at Eddie until he followed suit, finding himself fitting perfectly in the crook of Buck’s shoulder, resolutely not thinking about the flat plain of muscle beneath his hand as he wrapped an arm around Buck’s midsection. Eddie felt his eyes wander across Buck’s face, his lips, the smooth line of his neck to the little gem on his necklace. “You really think I’m a good father?”

“Eddie, come on.”

When he looked back up at Buck’s face, Eddie felt a spark burn through his spine, meeting Buck’s glowing eyes for the third time in three months and the second time that day. Eddie wasn’t sure who moved (okay, he was definitely the one who had moved) but the kiss was soft, a barely there brush of lips, a pressure that set Eddie’s lips on fire.

“You’re amazing.”

#911 #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #halloweenfic #demon!buck #flospeaks #fic

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love-of-fandoms · 5 years ago

Text

Cherry Blossoms (Hanzo Shimada + OC) Chapter 12

Chapter 12 of Cherry Blossoms (Master List)

Pairing: Alpha Hanzo + Omega OC

Word Count: 2489 words

The long awaited day had finally arrived. And Jack Morrison was surprisingly into Halloween. Not that he would ever openly admit to enjoying the holiday.

“Wow!” Danny gasped when she saw the alpha’s costume splayed out alongside the copious amounts of fake blood and costume makeup he had bought for the occasion. What looked like it had once been a t-shirt was now just a tattered cloth with sleeves and a hole to put his head through, and some cargo pants had been cut within an inch of their life.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Just do my makeup, kid,” he commanded, and Danny sighed, motioning for him to sit in front of her. He did so, and Danny got to work. She first made his whole face pale with a powdery makeup he had gotten for the occasion, and then made the hollows around his eyes much darker. She added some purple on his cheekbones to make his face look more gaunt, and then stopped to study his face for a minute.

“Do you mind if I put the fake blood and gashes over your scars? They’d make good guides,” she asked, and Jack nodded, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“Go ahead,” Danny smiled at him and went to do just that. “You’re gonna be a badass zombie,” she muttered a couple minutes later, dripping some fake blood down his neck. He chuckled.

“I’m badass no matter what I am,” he countered, and Danny hummed in agreement, withholding her giggle so she didn’t shake and mess up his makeup.

“Alright, you still want to be a tree?” Danny asked, and Bastion nodded. “Lovely!” Danny beamed, handing Bastion a paint bucket. “Can you open this? Be careful and try not to spill it!” she asked, and Bastion nodded again, grabbing the paint bucket and gently prying it open. “Thanks love!” she chirped, and Bastion responded with a series of happy beeps. Bastion handed her the bucket again, and Danny gently placed it down on a table, before dunking her hand in the bucket. She began spreading the paint over Bastion’s arms and chest piece, putting little lines to make it look a bit like tree bark.

A little less than an hour later, Bastion had been painted brown. The paint would be easy to take off, they just needed to wipe it off with a hot face cloth. Danny glued leaves around Bastion before having them heat up. Bastion could regulate their temperature, and so they could heat themselves up to dry the paint.

“You look great!” Danny beamed, and Bastion chirped, giving her a thumbs up. “I’m gonna go get ready, remember the party’s at six!” she called over her shoulder as she left down the hall. Bastion beeped an affirmative after her.

After Danny had finished helping Bastion with their costume, she retreated to her room to put together her own. She put some earrings on, she had made them out of the gears Hanzo had gotten her. Danny quickly did her makeup, which just consisted of some eyeliner and bright red lipstick on her face, but then she added some gold and silver shimmering lines along her chest so they looked like veins. Some of them went down her arms and stopped just at the crook of her elbow. After spraying some setting spray all over the lines, she slipped into her sleeveless black dress, which was fitted around the bust and flew out in a bunch of layers of fabric around her legs. There was a long slit going up to her upper thigh that she had initially been nervous about, but she was feeling herself. It was Halloween! Anything goes! She placed her witch’s hat on her head. She had glued tiny gears all around the brim and the base of the hat. She then hung some goggles around her neck, and slipped on her clunky brown boots she had chosen to go with the costume.

After doing a quick twirl in front of the mirror, grinning from ear to ear, Danny exitted her room, peeking around the hallway before crossing to Jesse’s door and banging on it.

“Jesse!” she shouted through the door. “Are you ready?” It opened a moment later, revealing Jesse in a wolf ear headband and a big black overcoat with rips along the arms where some fake fur had been shoved through. His face, which had brown makeup running down from his hairline to make it look like he was much more hairy than he actually was, sported a scowl as he itched at the fur peaking through the coat.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he said, his face pinching as he adjusted the coat a bit, before it relaxed. “There we go,” he muttered, and Danny smiled, reaching through the doorway and grabbing his hand.

“Great!” she beamed, dragging him out and into the hallway. “Let’s go!” Jesse chuckled, allowing himself to be pulled down the hall towards the common area, where Danny and Lena had set up the Overwatch Halloween Party. They had kicked everyone out early that morning and denied anyone access until 6 pm, when the party started.

“Danny!” Lena called from in front of the large archway leading to the common area. It had been covered by two heavy red velvet curtains, they had Winston to thank for hanging them.

“You ready?” Danny asked excitedly, making her way over to the woman, who had been on guard duty. She was dressed in some white leggings and a waistcoat. A pocket watch was chained to one end of the waistcoat and rested in the pocket on the other side, and on her head was a headband with two bunny ears sticking out from the top.

“Ready, love!” Tracer nodded, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Danny nodded, and dove through the curtain with Tracer.

“Come on!” Danny called back, and the other members of Overwatch, who had gathered in the hallway, slowly made their way into the transformed common area.

Everyone’s jaws dropped as they saw what Danny and Lena had done to the space in less than 10 hours. The tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, with spider web table clothes covering them. Snacks were scattered around the tables as well as a punch bowl with what looked like eyeballs floating around in it. The couches had been moved more towards the center, set up in a relaxed semicircle. A coffee table with a crystal ball in the center lay between a couple of the couches, with eyeballs on a tray right next to the crystal ball.

(The eyeballs on the tray were really just buckeyes, chocolate covered peanut butter balls, that Lena and Danny had painted with some edible paint)

Jesse let out a low whistle.

“Quite a set up,” he said, going to tip his hat to Lena and Danny, only to remember it wasn’t there. Danny and Lena both beamed.

“Thanks!” Danny chirped, before spreading her arms wide and addressing the crowd. “Welcome to the Overwatch Halloween Party! We got snacks, drinks, and fun drinks, so go crazy!” There were some cheers and people dispersed throughout the room. Lucio, sporting a classic buccaneer outfit and a large golden hoop dangling from one ear, went straight over to a DJ table Lena and Danny had set up for him. He had begged them to let him DJ and they had agreed, though they had a list of required songs he had to play for them:

Monster Mash

Thriller

Cha Cha Slide

He had agreed easily to their demands.

Jesse, who had stuck next to Danny, elbowed her in the ribs lightly.

“What?” she asked, looking up at him, but he said nothing and just jutted his chin towards the door. Danny followed his gaze and had to clench her jaw to keep it from dropping at the sight.

Hanzo and Genji had walked in. Genji was wearing a stereotypical ninja costume with a red sash around his head, and Hanzo…

Hanzo was wearing a nice black suit that was fitted perfectly to his body. A blood red shirt was under the suit jacket as well as a black tie, and over the knot of the tie was a skull. He was wearing a top hat with a sash around the base. The sash was covered in skulls, and two tails for the sash fell behind his head. In his hand he gripped a cane with a skull on the top.

He looked good.

Danny raced over to the Shimada brothers.

“You guys look great!” she gushed, looking between the two, however her stare lingered on Hanzo a little longer than it perhaps should have. Jesse made his way over a little slower than Danny, much calmer. She tilted her head back so she could look up and meet Hanzo’s eyes. “You’re a witch doctor?” she asked, and Hanzo nodded, a bit of pink dusting his cheeks.

“Yes,” he said, and Danny beamed.

“So we’re twinning!” she held up a peace sign, and Hanzo’s shoulders seemed to relax as he let out a chuckle.

“Yes, we are,” he agreed after a moment.

All four of them jumped when the music suddenly started up, and the Monster Mash started playing in the background. Danny grinned, turning around and giving Lucio a thumbs up. He nodded at her and smiled back. Danny then looked around, and gasped when she saw Reinhardt.

“No way!” she muttered before bounding over to him. Jesse, Genji, and Hanzo all exchanged looks as they slowly followed after her. “Reinhardt!” Danny called, and the knight turned to look at her. He was covered in a brown furry suit, and a sash was over one shoulder while a crossbow was over the other. “You’re Chewbacca?” she beamed, and Reinhardt nodded with a laugh.

“Of course!” he said, before reaching behind him and tugging. Torbjörn begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled into view by Reinhardt. Danny’s grin widened when she saw his Han Solo costume.

“Oh that’s awesome!” she cheered. “Is there a Luke and Leia?” she asked, and Reinhardt laughed, pointing to the side. Danny followed his finger to see Brigitte speaking to Lena in an all white dress, and her hair was in two gigantic buns on either side of her head. “Hell yeah,” she muttered to herself.

Before they could converse any further, Danny was gasping and racing over to Winston, who had just crouched down and through the doorway.

“No!” she shouted, running up to the scientist. “No way!” she laughed, and Winston gave her a sheepish smile. Jesse and Hanzo exchanged exasperated, but fond looks as they changed directions and headed towards Winston, giving Reinhardt and Torbjörn nods in greeting.

“Athena suggested it,” he shrugged, and Danny’s hand rose to her mouth, trying to contain her sniggers.

“Athena suggested-” she had to cut herself off with a burst of laughter. “Athena suggested you be a jar of peanut butter?” Winston nodded his head, the giant teal cap on top tilting down with it.

“So, are you… chunky or smooth?” Genji asked, giggling, and Danny reached over to thwack him on the back of his head. “Ow!” his hand rose to rub at where she hit, and he shot Danny a dirty look. Winston just levelled them both with an unimpressed stare. He didn’t even grace Genji with an answer, instead turning and walking away to join Lena and Angela across the room. The blonde medic was wearing an elegant victorian dress, and her lips were painted blood red. Occasionally one could see two fangs peeking out from between said lips. Danny pouted at Genji.

“You jerk!” she groaned jokingly, heading towards one of the snack tables and pouring herself some punch,

“It was an honest question!” Genji shot back, and Danny rolled her eyes.

“Sure it was,” she giggled, shaking her head at him. She jumped when she felt a bit of heat at her back, looking over her shoulder to see Hanzo standing right behind her. He looked at her cup.

“What is that?” he asked, and Danny snorted.

“Blood,” she answered, only to be met with an unimpressed look by Hanzo. She pouted at his lack of response. “No fun,” the corner of Hanzo’s lips quirked up into a small .smirk.

“I’m fun!” he argued lightheartedly, and Danny narrowed her eyes at him.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” she said with a grin, pouring another cup of punch and turning to hand it to him. “Bet you’re more fun with some alcohol in you!” she chirped teasingly, shoving it into his hand. Hanzo sighed, raising the cup to his nose to give the red punch a sniff. Smelling nothing off, Hanzo took a sip of the punch, and let out a pleased hum.

“It’s good,” he said, and Danny grinned.

“Good!” she cheered. Hanzo smiled down at her, and Danny had the passive thought that he was quite handsome in a top hat…

“So this is something new, Casper slide part two…” Danny broke out into a grin, her free hand reaching out to grab Hanzo’s arm.

“Come on!” she cheered, dragging him over to the open space that they had allocated for dancing. Others were also lining up for the song, and Hanzo was staring at Danny, so lost. She giggled, and plucked his drink out of his hand, plopping it down on one of the coffee tables with her own.

“Everybody clap your hands…” people began to clap to the rhythm, and Hanzo jumped, looking at Danny questioningly.

“It’s the cha cha slide! A group dance!” she cheered, and he just tilted his head.

“What?” he muttered, and Danny giggled.

“It’s self explanatory,” she said to him, and he continued to stare blankly at her. She rolled her eyes playfully, grabbing his hand in her own. “Just do what I do!” she urged him.

“To the left!” Danny stepped to the left, pulling on Hanzo’s hand so he did it with her. “Take it back now y’all!” she stepped back, again dragging Hanzo with her. She accidentally bumped into Lena, who grinned at her. “One hop this time!” they both jumped in the air, though Hanzo stayed firmly on the ground.

“What is this?” he asked Danny, who stomped with the command as it came.

“A classic party dance!” she said to him, beginning to do a silly dance as the actual cha cha part came on. Hanzo just stared quizzically at her, but she shook her head, reaching over and grabbing his other hand to try and get him to dance with her. “Come on Hanzo! Dance with me!” she pleaded, pouting and widening her eyes. Hanzo stared at her for a moment, unmoving, before he started to nod his head a little. Danny grinned, giving him a quick hug before pulling back “I’ll take it!”

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tonystarkstan · 6 years ago

Text

When Peter goes off to college, it’s an adjustment for both him and Tony.

The first time Peter goes an entire day without at least texting Tony, the man freaks out. Immediately assuming the worst, he puts on his suit and literally flies to MIT in a panic, sure that his kid is hurt.

Tony finds him eating Cook-Out in a study room in the library, except the kid isn’t studying. He and a couple other boys Tony doesn’t recognize have blankets on the floor with a laptop out in front of them. They’re watching The Incredibles 2.

Needless to say, Tony can’t help but feel embarassed for days afterwards, especially with May and Pepper constantly laughing and reminding him what a mother hen he is. The kid is growing up - he doesn’t need to talk to Tony constantly. Something in the man’s chest aches a little at that.

The second time it happens, the kid hasn’t talked to him in four days and he’s not answering Tony’s calls. When he fails to respond to May’s texts and calls, they decide together that they’re allowed to worry.

Tony wastes no time in booking it to the university, heart racing as he thinks of all the reasons why Peter would go four whole days without contacting anyone.

Maybe he’s being bullied and doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Maybe he tried to patrol and he’s lying somewhere, hurt. Oh god, maybe he’s been kidnapped and Tony should have left much sooner and maybe -

He has the flu.

Tony bursts into the kid’s room, only to wrinkle his nose at the telltale smell of Sick Teenage Boy. The kid is curled up on his bed, fast asleep with a bucket beside him on the floor. Tony winces in sympathy, immediately sending a text to May and Pepper.

Spider kid has the spider bug. Haha, get it? Anyway, once I get things cleaned up here, I’ll fly him back. I’m sure his roommate will appreciate it.

After those two initial incidents, May, Tony, and Peter sit down and have a discussion. Actually, mostly it’s just Peter trying to tell Tony that the man has “attachment issues” and needs to stop being “a total mother hen.” The kid smiles, though, and Tony knows the concern is appreciated, if not always necessary.

They do decide that Peter will text if he needs anything and will send a message every couple of days just to reassure them that he’s okay (“Can you even blame me? The kid always finds a way to get hurt!”). If not, Tony’s allowed to come running.

It’s a system that works, for the most part.

But this time, it progresses differently. After three days, Tony just assumes the kid has forgotten. Peter’s gotten a lot more involved, joining various clubs and taking on different volunteer positions. It’s not surprising that he’s not finding as much time to socialize with May and Tony.

After the fourth day, May tries calling him and leaves a voicemail. Peter doesn’t call back, and May can’t help but worry. This time, though, it’s Tony who laughs and says, “You’ve been spending too much time around me. Kid’s probably playing some sort of nerd drinking game.”

She worries at her lip, a bad feeling in her gut, but she shrugs, figuring the man’s right. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” she teases, pushing her worry aside.

Once the weekend hits, though, worry starts to settle deep into Tony’s chest. He calls Peter again, frowning when it cuts off mid-ring. His calls are being intentionally ignored.

Tony calls one last time.

“Uh, heya, Pete,” he says, trying to go for nonchalant and completely failing. “Listen, I know you’re a Big Kid now, but your old man has heart problems, and your Aunt Hottie is too pretty to have these worry lines on her face. Just, uh, at least text us to let us know you’re okay.”

Tony waits. And waits and waits and waits, getting all the more agitated by the minute. May is at work, but he can’t wait any longer, a pit of dread opening up in his stomach, and he shoots her a quick text.

Going to check on our kid.

He makes it to the school in record time, wasting no time before hacking his way into the building.

This time, he stops outside of Peter’s room before bursting in. Despite the tight knot of worry, they had agreed that Tony would learn to give Peter space to grow. Sometimes not rushing in is the only way to do that.

Tony listens for a moment, heart stopping when he hears it:

The sound of someone crying. Of Peter crying.

Tony tosses privacy out the window and opens the door, aching at the sight before him. Much like last time, Peter is curled into a tight ball on his bed, but this time, he’s flipping through pages of the scrapbook May had given him for graduation, the only light in the room coming through the cracks in the closed blinds.

Peter doesn’t even look up when Tony walks in, and somehow, that’s even worse than what Tony had pictured. He quietly walks forward and sits on the edge of the kid’s bed, watching as Peter flips the page to a picture of Tony getting dunked for charity.

Tony smiles fondly at the memory. Peter was taking part in a charity event through the school, and he’d begged Tony to sit in the dunking booth and let high school students try to hit the target to send Iron Man falling into the icy water.

Peter, the snarky brat, had done it four times, and succeeded every time. Pepper made sure to capture all of it.

Tony gently places a hand on the kid’s head, sifting through the curls as a lone tear traces its way down Peter’s cheek.

“That was a good day,” Tony says, nodding to the photo, and Peter looks at him then, not even bothering to brush the tear away.

He looks at Tony with a look the man doesn’t quite understand, something sad and nostalgic in a way Tony’s not sure he’s ever felt.

Peter’s lower lip trembles, eyes filling with tears again as he leans into Tony’s touch.

“I miss it,” he croaks, voice rough with disuse, and Tony has the alarming realization that it’s probably been days since Peter’s spoken to anyone, if his room is anything to go by.

There are empty containers of Mac n cheese cups on the desk, and his book bag is slung haphazardly off his chair. The room is tinged with the smell of Teenage Boy, and Tony ventures tonguess that it’s been a couple days since the kid’s showered.

Peter’s a mess.

“Me too,” Tony confesses softly, hating the way Peter’s hand trembles as he flips to the next page. They both look at the picture of MJ giving Peter a piggy-back ride while Ned laughs at whatever Peter’s said.

“I want to go home,” Peter says quietly, and Tony’s two seconds away from scooping the kid up and whisking him back to Queens.

“Done. We can go right now,” Tony immediately tells him, but Peter shakes his head. Tony studies him, confused. “I don’t - talk to me, bud. Why have you been ignoring our calls?”

Peter sniffles again, a pained sound, and it’s all Tony can do not to pull Peter into his lap like a little kid.

“I just - I just - I have to grow up some time, don’t I?”

He looks up at Tony with red-rimmed eyes, and he looks so sad and so tired that this time, Tony doesn’t even hold back. He gently pries the scrapbook from Peter’s grasp and shifts so that his back is against the wall, tugging Peter’s upper body into his lap.

“Pete, no,” Tony says gently, and the kid answers by hiding his face against Tony’s thigh. “I mean, yeah, but just because you’re away doesn’t mean that you can’t talk to us anymore.”

Peter slings an arm across Tony’s legs, effectively holding his mentor in place as Tony continues to tug soothingly at his hair.

“I know, but. I can’t. I can’t talk to you without missing home,” Peter whispers quietly, and Tony melts.

“Oh, kid.”

He should have known Peter would be missing them as much as they miss Peter.

“You know you can come home whenever you need to, right? Happy and I are always willing to come get you if your aunt can’t,” Tony tells him, and Peter smiles softly.

“I know.” He sighs heavily. “But. Home’s not really the same anymore, either. I want things to be how they used to be. I miss Ned and MJ and movie nights at the Compound and Thai dates with May and patrol through Queens.”

Peter’s throat closes up with a emotion, and he swallows thickly before continuing. “It’s not the same.”

Objectively, Tony gets it. But he never had a home to miss the way Peter does. Never really had a home worth missing. Not until Peter and Pepper and May.

“I know, bud,” Tony murmurs, massaging Peter’s head gently in just the right way. “It’s never going to be the way it was,” he agrees, and Peter makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat.

“But,” Tony continues, “these things?” He gestures to the scrapbook at their side. “You harassing me and vice versa? Laughs with MJ and Ned? Thai dates with May? Those are never really going to go away. We miss you too, kiddo.”

Peter nods, tears spilling over as he shifts himself so he’s laying on Tony’s chest, Tony’s arm wrapping firmly around his shoulder.

“Thank you, Tony,” Peter says, offering him a watery smile, and Tony squeezes him just a little tighter.

“Anytime, kid.”

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ofaugusts · 5 years ago

Photo

* TITUS › 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐧.

sleepless nights and hollow hues. impish, lopsided grins that settle upon split lips. the fall of honeyed locks over hazel hues. nicotine stained fingertips. anger worn like an accessory. a full body dunk into ice cold water. the hour right before dusk turns to dawn. the deafening silence after fireworks. the flash of lightning before the thunder.

𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

wowowow okay first off sooo excited to be here ( totally not writing this at five in the morning just so i can have it ready to go ) ?? my name’s moosh, i’m 21+, and have no preference for pronouns. this got pretty long i’m super sorry i always try to keep it short n it never works sdfnskdjf ANYWAYS HERE’S MY BB i’m planning on plotting w every one of u but still like this post n i’ll come plot ♡

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬

name: august reyn age: 22 / senior gender: cismale ( he/him ) major: business + econ minor orientation: heterosexual / heteroromantic mbti: estp house: gryffindor ( 60% ) / slytherin ( 40% ) alignment: chaotic neutral

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨

i haven’t uhh gotten around to a bio but i’ll also try to keep this as simple n concise as possible ??

death due to birth tw. baby boy is born as august tenold in los angeles, no dad in sight and mother passed. spent three/four days in the hospital until his grandmother finally made it across the country from new york to take him home to brooklyn where he would spend the next SEVENTEEN years.

they weren’t very well off and by that i mean that they had to sometimes worry about heat, leaks when it rained too much, warm water, so forth, but they were lucky enough to be able to afford a two bedroom.

BUT august never attended a public school once. before her death she had been promised the best education for their son, in place of a role in his life. grandma would take the train with august everyday, an hour and a half to school, and she luckily found a job near his school because the commute alone was a journey. three hour commute, five times a week, and by the time he was in fourth grade he could find his way to school himself.

it was at school that he saw such a stark difference in lifestyle. it only got worse as he got older and whatever they bought would only become more and more expensive. it was there he learned that there was power and influence in wealth when he would get detention for defending himself in a fight he didn’t start while the others got away with things because of family names.

after elementary school is when boarding school starts, where he only sees his grandmother during summer vacations because flights back home only to stay for winter break are too expensive. where he gets special permission to leave school grounds because he needs a job to earn some spending money.

grandma falls ill in the beginning of his sophomore year, but he’s so busy with school and they rarely see each other as it is ( only during the summers ), that he only finds out when he’s a junior becoming a senior. his entire summer is spent working to help pay rent for the apartment no one was living in, and then his nights at the hospital. the staff allow him a makeshift bed after he’s spent a week sleeping there, and as reluctant as he is, his grandmother tells him to go to school to continue his last year, and he obliges. she tells him she’ll be there for his graduation, and it becomes the last time he sees her.

she passes in the middle of his senior year and it’s quickly followed by news that he has a new guardian. his father, who can’t be older than thirty five years old, is geoffrey reyn, ceo of reyn enterprises ( think of wayne enterprises in that they literally have their hands in everything ). he’s come under some heavy fire recently and is not favored by the public, but what’s a better than a long lost son sob story to cover it up ??

violence tw. literally shows up to school the next day and the energy is different because he’s for once at the top of the pyramid. the same people who had tormented him for years step on his toes and he fights back knowing he has a bite to match his bark now. the first time he feels that smug feeling of power is when he leaves the principal’s office for the first time with just a tissue.

he’s dragged around places by his dad during that summer, asked about his new life, how much better it is than living in the shabby two bedroom apartment in brooklyn and not once asked about his grandmother or if he got to attend her funeral ( which he did not ). hurriedly having applied to ashcroft, he got in, and soon he was shipped off elsewhere.

child abuse and violence tw. relationship with his dad was always very violent, but august never took hits sitting down. august wasn’t the grateful puppet geoffrey had needed, and his dad was not a savior. there’s still a lot of constraint and control he tries to place on his son, however, even though years of failure have only confirmed he can’t be controlled. the last few years, however, had been running smoothly. business and econ were finally taken up as majors and minors, their interactions less turbulent, and this was all due to one thing: octavia.

so let’s backtrack a lillll so august first meets octavia when he's 17 where he’s working off the books the job his granny has ( cleaning up after classes at a prestigious ballet studio ) due to her back acting up. he becomes infatuated with her, her lifestyle, and they quickly grow closer. she builds some sort of greed within him to want to be good enough for someone like her, or maybe just her. he swears it, and then his granny passes. the next time he meets her is two years down the line at some gala his dad would insist he attend, and they spend the night stowed away in an empty ballroom, a bottle of champagne in hand and a secret kiss shared behind closed doors. she tells him she’s thinking of applying to ashcroft and he insists that she must, that he’d wait for her. the following year, he’s there to greet her on campus, and immediately they’re an item.

around all this time, his relationship with his dad is supperr rocky. every time they spoke they fought and when august hung up on him too much, he’d appear on campus ( an effective way of getting august not to hang up ). he’s met with octavia and her parents and he realizes the kind of status he has to uphold in order to date someone like her. he finally declares the major his father had chosen for him and understands it’s a choice he has to make to stay with her. he becomes much too obedient with his dad, knowing that the way to stay in favor with her parents would be to finally yield to what his dad wanted. so he becomes a proper heir, majoring in the correct field, taking his studies more seriously, acting and talking the right way. he falls in line to keep her, he gets along with everyone and it’s all because she dulls his sharp edges and he can lean on her. a lot of his life begins to warp around her, and that’s when his dad threatens to touch the thing that had been keeping the waters still.

geoffrey had been having complications in a business deal that octavia’s dad was refusing to agree to. with the knowledge of his crimes, getting rid of the other would be easy, and closing the deal even easier. not wanting to be tainted with such an image, he tells august to end things and even goes as far as to threaten her safety. there isn’t a doubt in august’s mind he’d follow through, knowing all the dirt on his new surname, and things with octavia come to an end, though they continue to keep seeing each other as she begins her new relationship.

has fallen into a bit of a depressive slump, even after the rest of the semester was given off to them. for the first few days afterwards, no one really sees him around. he spends his days locked up in his room, not touching his assignments and not answering to the house maids that knock on his door. he’s completely heartbroken because truly, he believed the rest of his life would be spent with octavia. then comes the anger almost immediately, because while alcohol and drugs allows him to ease the pain it doesn’t allow him to forget, and after coming to bail him out of jail three times, his father stops picking up the phone and cuts august off, taking his cards, cars, everything, unless there’s a promise to behave better. obviously his father is not someone he can come to lean on emotionally for this, and so he picks up other ways of easing the pain: alcohol, drugs, adrenaline, women.

her death is very heavily placed on him for an obvious reason ( she was the love of his life ) but it also comes with the struggle of finishing his degree. he’s so close to it, yet he feels like there’s really no reason for him to continue on with it. octavia had been the sole reason his relationship with his father had been steady. now that she’s out of the picture, there’s no need for a business degree, no need for a shining reputation, no need for whatever upper class bullshit. that’s the mindset that he’s in going into the last semester of college with, and whether he royally fucks up his future because of his grief or if he decides to push through because that’s what octavia would have wanted is up in the air.

so as usual i’m better at describing bg rather than personality so bear with me.

getting to know august is easy, because he makes it easy. he’s amiable, playful, witty, sarcastic to a fault, but he’s also pessimistic. without octavia’s light to balance it out he’s kind of let himself sink into that cynical mindset that has always been overbearing. unlike his father, however, his anger is always quiet, still, and strikes when least expected. there’s never a scene because there’s never yelling ( unless it’s to his dad ), always low voices that drip with threats and cold eyes that warn of something worse to come if the line keeps being tread. how his knuckles become bloody is always a mystery, because you never heard about august reyn getting into a fight until another kid showed up the next day with a black eye. now, there isn’t much that can be done to bring that out in him, but that’s the dangerous part that people always tell you to look out for. it’s because he always seem so easy going that people don’t ever see the darkness until it’s too late.

i did not do a good job at explaining his personality bc i never do sdfkjsndkf BASICALLY he’s?? p chill. always seems to have that easy look on his face. always looking for trouble and getting into it with the principal, or any authority figure tbh bc fuck them. looking for a good time and is always the one to hype up the party if it feels like it’s dying. lives off of adrenaline and nicotine. will call you out on your ignorant bullshit. hates rich people even though he’s one of them and will drag anyone at ashcroft that he sees abusing their power, even though he uses his name to get away with so many things. is the first person called in his friend group if there’s a fight going down. is soooo overly sarcastic that at times it sounds like he’s being serious. has serious eye rolling problems. doesn’t yell during fights but will yell during debates and get really heated.

#spectreintro #*/ 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 — character study.#// sry i just?? had to use that gif #very fucking august #blood cw #bruise cw #forgive me for any typos i am the queen of not proof reading

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lihikainanea · 6 years ago

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More vacation BFF!Bill! Their friends are so use to them being close that they don't react when Tiger straddle Bill in the water. They can easily have sex like that without anyone notice...

I mean, how fucking cute would it be if they’re in the ocean together and even though tiger is a great swimmer, it quickly gets deep enough that she’s over her head and Bill still has basically his entire upper body above water so he just grabs hold of her and she wraps her legs around his waist and isn’t that just so goddamn sweet? He starts to float after awhile too, on his back and lazily paddling his hands, and they’re just so goddamn content to float there just talking to each other and laughing and sharing happy smiles. Tiger says it’s good to see him relaxed. He gently runs a finger or two along her arm, tells her that it feels good to be here with everyone–with her. That he’s enjoying it, that he feels relaxed, and that the sun and saltwater does her good too. Tells her that she looks really pretty in her new sundresses, and that she has this new laugh that’s extra loud that he just adores. If she didn’t hate being tickled so much, he would have dug his fingers into her ribs just to get that laugh out of her again. But tickling her would have likely ended up in him getting knocked the fuck out. He tells her this, and he’s rewarded with that loud gut laugh. He gives her that lopsided smile that these days, is reserved especially for her.

GuuuuUUUHHH I’m so fucking soft.

But she definitely pounces and dunks him at one point. He comes back up, sputtering and nearly gagging on ocean water, and she can’t control her giggles. Until he gives her that look and oh shit, she’s doggy-paddling away and flailing while he goes all Jaws-like and tears through the water like a torpedo to grab her.

There’s deep-water wrestling. I’m not sure who wins, because fuck me I HC tiger as super strong but lately I’m HC-ing Bill as EVEN STRONGER and this is new for me.

And at one point he totally dunks her, joining her underwater and planting a solid-ass kiss on her lips.

And like, since @dreamtherapy got me onto this whole concept of sunscreen application, let’s also focus on that too, shall we?

Tiger still completely oblivious to friend-boy’s intentions and he asks her to put sunscreen on him, and tiger is real lovey with all her friends, so she happily does so and throws in an extra shoulder massage because she genuinely enjoys this dude’s company in a platonic way. Except Bill is seething and he doesn’t know why and has no reason to be angry because they’re best friends and she’s free to do what she wants. And then the dude logically asks to reciprocate, and tiger says sure because tsk tsk she’s a forgetful little thing and doesn’t wear enough sunscreen. So friend-boy takes his sweet ass time applying it, almost reverently, running his hands all over her skin and Bill is clutching his beer so tightly that the bottle nearly cracks because get your fucking hands off of her.

Perhaps this is the first time Bill realizes he has feelings? OHHHHHH, drama.

#Leilani answers #BFF!Bill #BFF!Bill HC #BFF!Bill headcanon #bill skarsgard #vacation bill

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thathopelessromantic · 6 years ago

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Toshinori watches water droplets inch their way down Shouta’s pale shoulders. His hands are buried in his dark locks, massaging at his scalp, the shampoo lather dripping down his forearms. Shouta tilts his head further, easing into the touch and Toshinori knows from past experiences, if he isn’t careful, Shouta has no problem falling asleep right there.

He extracts his hands from Shouta’s wet hair, careful not to pull at any tangles. “Rinse,” he instructs quietly.

Shouta makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, but it still takes him a few more minutes before he moves, dunking his head underwater. Toshinori hardly believed it was possible, or reasonable, to find a tub that could fit him comfortably – regardless of which ‘form’ he was in, his height alone was a challenge – so when Shouta suggested special ordering the tub even larger than his original estimate, he couldn’t fathom why. Now, Toshinori is thankful for the suggestion, even if it still isn’t perfect. He dips his arms into the water to wash away the suds, but his upper arms and chest are still cold above the hot water.

He doesn’t dare sink deeper, however, especially not with Shouta still under water. The last thing they need is to flood his bathroom. Again.

Shouta rises with a quiet sigh, pushing his hair back from his face. Weighed down with water, his hair hangs straight, stopping at his upper back, just between his shoulder blades. There’s a fading bruise on his left side, the mottled edges fading just over the curve of his shoulder and down around his ribs.

Toshinori sits up, reaching around Shouta for the conditioner. He bends his head to press a chaste kiss to the purpling bruise. He feels Shouta shiver as he pulls away. Toshinori works the conditioner into the bottom of Shouta’s hair carefully, letting it soak before he begins to card his fingers through the tangled ends.

“How was the newest class?”

Shouta sighs loudly, shoulders dropping to sink further into the water before he remembers the conditioner and sits up once again. “Annoying.”

Toshinori laughs softly. “You always say that.”

“They’re always annoying.”

“How were they really?”

Shouta is quiet for a long time, considering his answer. “They were okay,” he finally admits. He shrugs, wincing a moment later. Toshinori rubs a comforting hand over his arm. “I still expelled three of them. But they have some potential.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“We met the one year I didn’t expel anyone, immediately, I’m still surprised you aren’t aghast every time I expel someone.”

“Well I trust your judgement. Now.” Toshinori can’t see him, but he’s almost positive Shouta rolls his eyes. He drops his hands back into the water. “You can rinse again.”

They leave the bath a few minutes later. They dry off. Toshinori lets his hair from the bun he put it in to keep it dry and drains the tub, while Shouta towels off his hair. If it was up to him, Shouta would simply leave the damp, wavy locks however they fall, but when Toshinori sits on the edge of the bed, placing a bottle of argan oil on the side table, he all but melts into his side.

“Hizashi and Nemuri would never let me live it down if they knew I had a hair-care routine.” Shouta complains, even as he shifts his position so Toshinori can work the oil into the ends of his hair, carefully combing out any last knots with deft fingers.

Toshinori laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I only have this secret because of you,” he huffs, shifting to lean his head against Toshinori’s shoulder. “Somehow you tricked me into letting you pamper me, and I still haven’t quite figured out how it happened.”

Toshinori puts the oil aside, sitting back to rest against the headboard. One arm goes around Shouta’s waist, pulling him tighter against his chest. The other tucks damp hair behind his ear, so that he can leave chaste kisses just under it and along his jaw.

“I believe it happened some time between the second time you broke both your arms, and our class’s graduation,” Toshinori says against his skin. They had had a number of shared classes over the years, but there was only one they truly considered their class in a way so different from all the others. The only one Shouta stayed so deeply intertwined with even after they were no longer his first-years, but second- and third-years and eventually Pros. “And if I’m remembering correctly, it had something to do with my, what was it…’incredibly talented fingers,’ hm?”

Shouta scoffs loudly, even as he tilts his head to give Toshinori better access, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re definitely delusional, old man.”

“Of course, my mistake.” Toshinori agrees, but the smile on his face matches the soft one lifting Shouta’s lips all the same.

#erasermight #fic #fluff #domestic fluff #established relationship #bnha #mha #drabble #rita writes #1.29.19

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kenjiro-s · 7 years ago

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What goes well with tea ?, a TeruYama story

Of ink and ivy

Tattooing, Yuuji thought, was one of those jobs that looked way more complicated than they actually were. While the ivy leaves wrapping around the girl’s upper arm were taking most of his attention, he spared some part of his mind to just observe his own hand. It was steady, the movements controlled and smooth. Nothing too choppy, just lovely lines and colours. Amazing what one’s body could be taught to do. Another line, down and up. One more, dip and pull. Carefully. Just a touch here and a bigger spot there. Gently. Just a little more pressure…Perfect.

Sitting up, he wiped the girl’s skin and helped her stand. A minute later she was twirling in front of the huge mirror, a huge smile on her face.

- This is amazing ! Loot at the colours ! And the swirly lines ! And the details…! – The man with her, identified as her father a few sessions ago, dropped the resigned face and smiled a little.

- It is beautiful.

- Thanks, dad, you’re the best ! – And then she proceeded to throw herself at him. What a cute picture.

- My colleague will give you the final instructions on care and we should be all settled.

The man turned to him while his client bounced towards the front to talk to Tsuchiyu, her giggles ringing through the studio.

- You really are an artist. – That was a bit unexpected but Yuuji didn’t let it show. The man had been adamant from the very beginning that he didn’t approve of his daughter getting a tattoo the moment she’d passed the legal age. But, for what he’d gathered, there had been promises made and daddy’s little princess had called all the favours owed at the same time. So, ivy leaves it was. Her father had been polite but nothing more, displeasure on his features more often than not, and the few times she’s twitched from the pain at the beginning, Yuuji had been sure he was about to get his face smashed with how tight the man’s fists had been.

But now, he seemed honest in his praise.

- Thank you, sir. – It never hurt to go to the extra mile. Yuuji might be loud and appear flighty but he knew when to behave. – Your daughter’s a fighter. She didn’t even twitch. – That was a big fat lie, of course. Teenaged girls usually freaked out from sheer nerves. True, this one hadn’t lost it as much as some others, but he’d been extra careful. One wrong movement and she might be force to wear the outcome on her skin for the rest of her life. He was a professional and knew how to handle shifting and moving clients, but it was still tough.

The man laughed softly, rubbing his face.

- That’s kind of you but I think we both know the truth. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s happy and that’s what’s important.

- She will care for it well, I can see from the previous sessions. So you have no reason to worry.

- Yeah. – The man looked around a little, obviously awkward, and then reached to shake Yuuji’s hand. – Thank you again.

A few minutes after they’d left, Yuuji was trying to keep his eyes open while laying on one of the tables. It had been a long session, lots of colours and small details, and his neck hurt. His spine felt like it was bent in the middle and any effort to sit straight sent shards of pain through his skull. He was way too young for that.

After stretching a little, popping his spine with a bit too much glee, he rose and pulled out the thick notebook with his appointments. He was sure, but it never hurt to check…Ah. Perfect. Nothing in the next three hours. Just enough time for lunch and rest.

Yuuji stepped carefully around the large column, covered in art, and listened. A sharp scream, almost high enough to be heard only by canines, pierced the air. He couldn’t help it, he jumped, knocking a large frame off the wall. What started as a startle ended up with him using all the reflexes he’d built through his high school volleyball career to catch one frame, knock two more off, lean on them to keep them from shattering and still manage to drop the pack of collectible cards they kept on a shelf. And this was just the beginning. Whoever had made the glass-shattering sound just kept wailing and wailing like a banshee, and Yuuji felt like his ears were about to start bleeding.

- Need help ? – He barely heard the voice over the screeching. Tsuchiyu slinked around and pulled the two heavy frames from behind his back, tiptoeing around the spilled cards on the floor. – And what’s tha sound ? Did Bobata agree to pierce someone’s pet ?

- You tell me, you’re the guy with the schedules. – It really did sound like an animal, Yuuji thought. Though through the wails he could hear incoherent mumbling which could pass for words, maybe, so it was probably a human being. He hoped. Though, on the other hand, a human who made that sound…And just kept going… - Should we call an ambulance or something ? This can’t be healthy.

Just as he was about only half-jokingly to reach for his phone, the sound cut off as suddenly as it had started. Yuuji could hear his own heartbeat in his ears with the deafening silence that blanketed the studio. Tsuchiyu stared with wide eyes and they both turned, slowly, to the curtain that hid Bobata’s space when said artist pulled it open. Wow, he really looked like he’d aged at least a decade since the morning. With a heavy sigh, he dragged his feet towards the back, leaving the scene for them to see.

Yuuji was almost afraid to look inside. He took a deep breath, prepared himself for blood and maybe flesh hanging out, and opened his eyes. And blinked in confusion. The woman on the chair blinked back, just as surprised. There was…nothing. No blood, no discarded needles or instruments on the floor, and the client’s cream top was pristine. What, the…

- Miss, are you okay ? – Apparently, that was her cue. He had to admit he hadn’t seen such acting skills for a long time, American film actors could learn from this woman. The tears, the sniffling, even her eyes were red and she sounded like she was choking. Even threw some hiccups in there for good measure. He’d be entertained if his confusion hadn’t just reached astronomic levels. – Miss…?

- It hurt so much ! – Okay, if he hadn’t been sure before that she’d been making the noise, now he knew. His first instinct was to close his eyes and cover his ears, but he was the boss and it was up to him to keep it all under control. – He just kept it in and pushing, and pushing, and…

- Madam, your… - Yuuji glanced at Tsuchiyu, who tapped his ear. – your ears are not pierced. There is no mark, not even the beginning of a hole. The needle never touched you, you’ll be okay…

As suddenly as she’d started, the tears cut off. She jumped to her feet, raised her chin and bared her teeth. She actually showed her teeth. He was honestly impressed. He was also used to people trying to appear taller than him all things considered and she didn’t even come close. Still.

- Is this how you treat a client, huh ? Calling me a liar ?

- Um, miss…

- Trying to tell me I don’t know how it feels someone to jab a huge needle in my skin? What now, are you going to tell me I imagined that man, that…that monster trying to rip my ear off ?

- Actually…

- You know what ? I was going to come here and get my lip pierced, maybe bring my friends but now ? Now, I will tell everyone what a lousy job you all do here ! Yes, and how terrible you treat your clients, and how nobody here knows what he’s doing ! You’ll be sorry !

And before he could get even a word in, she flew past him in flurry of flowy curls and scarves, made sure to kick the pile of cards on the floor and then to slam the door so hard the chime fell off and hit the wood floor with a sad tinkle. Yuuji, still holding one of the frames, slid his phone back in his pocket and seriously considered locking the doors and sleeping on the sofa in the employee lounge. It wouldn’t fix his pounding headache but he would feel better, he just knew it.

- No closing. – Sparing an angry glance at Tsuchiyu, or at least as angry as he could fake, he went to find Bobata. The man in question looked like he’d just dunked his entire head in a basin of cold water and was currently dripping all over one of the carpets with a towel hiding his face.

- Heeeey, my man, my friend, buddy, bro… - A snort told him he’d achieved his goal. – What, the Hell, was that ? What happened ?

- Nothing. – Bobata slid the wet towel from his eyes down to his neck where it kept dripping and ran his fingers through his wet hair. – I was just about to do it and she started screaming. I just touched it to her ear to check the place, it never went in. Because I didn’t…

- I know, trust me. Still, the sound she could make ! Did you hear that ? Incredible ! It sounded like dying record.

- You think that’s bad ? Her face was an actual nightmare, I’m telling you. – Bobata shuddered. – Terrible.

And since Yuuji was a man who cared for his friends he went for hot drinks. Tsuchiyu had confirmed they had no bookings for the next two hours so he, as the owner, had volunteered to get tea while they ordered pizza. Now, looking at the fancy purple letters on the window, he considered that maybe picking the first place that popped up when he searched for a teashop was not the best idea. From the bell on the door to the fireplace (An actual fireplace ! Why did it have that ? And in a teashop ? ) the atmosphere looked cherry picked and hand painted. Someone had taken great care into every tiny detail to create an experience. Yuuji was impressed. And hot. He’d practically ran to the place, not sure if they had a break at noon that wasn’t announced or if they’d be swarmed with customers over lunch. And the inside was just as warm as the fireplace suggested. Taking his heavy jacket off, he let the breeze from the closing door hit his bare arms. Ah, much better. Now, the reason he was there…

Before he managed to leave hand prints and probably drool over the shiny glass that separated him from rows upon rows of magnificently looking chocolate…things, the door behind the counter opened and a young man hurried inside. Well, hello there.

He had messy chestnut hair and dark eyes, and, as he got closer, Yuuji saw he had freckles. Damn. Forget the chocolate, he was a moment away from drooling over the cashier. Shifting his jacket in his other hand, he glanced back to see if he’d been caught staring. And, for half a second, he caught the cashier staring instead. Not at his face, though it would have been nice, but at his tattoos. Second best, still perfect. He smiled a little. His new friend was impressed, he just didn’t know it yet. Wow, creepy much ?

- Hi, what would you like ? – He even had a soft voice. Adorable. True, the man was a touch taller than him, but Yuuji was kind of used to it. He was a realist when it came to his height. Of course, now he’d been asked a question and had no idea what to answer. He knew he liked one of the types of black, he knew Bobata got close to indecent when in company of flavoured green tea and that Tsuchiyu, for such a short and soft-looking guy, drank an unhealthy amount of black coffee, but right now his brain went blank. The cashier was blinking at him with the most innocent and adorable face Yuuji had seen and that definitely didn’t help with his brain activity.

- I’ll take… - He touched his face, a nervous habit he thought had been dead and buried, trying to buy time. What did he like ? Well, that was easy. He liked all the directions the cashier’s messy hair was flying to but that was probably not the right answer. Okay, how about… - Say, what kind of tea would you recommend for this weather ? – Nice one, this sounded almost natural. And then he just had to go and ruin it. - It’s all cold and wet outside ?

“It’s cold and wet outside ?”. What was that ? Why had he tried to turn it into a suggestion ? It didn’t make any sense ! There was nothing sensual in cold and wet weather ! It was…awkward. Awkward and weird, and the cute man would definitely not like it. Though he hadn’t run away or backed off so maybe the situation was salvageable. The silence definitely didn’t make the picture look better and his eyes were just as shifty as the cashier’s but he still had to try, once more.

- …and your phone number…? – He grit his teeth and tried for a charming smile. He knew he could do it, he was hot enough but the long pauses in the conversation were staring to get to him. His confidence, shaken from the wails still echoing in his ears, was definitely going under. And the cashier knew it.

- We have a nice almond, apple and cinnamon tea ? Really suitable for the winter ? If you like spiced… That sounded nice. Like something with a strong scent and flavor that even Tsuchiyu with his weird tastes could like.

- Oh, I love spicy things. I looove hot and spicy…things. – Yuuji suddenly wondered how fast he could run back to the studio, pack a small bag and move to a different continent. Sure, control was tight but he had some savings and wasn’t chased by the Government. It couldn’t be that hard. Because right now, changing his name and inventing a tragic backstory involving a horse, a black field and several cats seemed like a much better option that standing there in the warm shop with the prettiest face he’d seen in a long time carefully backing off from him. It wasn’t fair that the one terrible morning that would traumatize him for, probably, weeks to go, would happen the same day he met his soulmate. Life was unfair. He gave up and picked the most interesting spot on the floor to stare at. It was better than anything he’d done today after his client had left.

- Is it going to be for here ? – Well, that was unexpected. Almost jumping out of his skin, Yuuji couldn’t help but look up at the cashier. He was holding a large jar with his head tilted like a confused bird and Yuuji was in love. Also, that man had, again, asked a question. He was on a roll, all right.

- Um, to go…? Yes, I am taking it with me. Can I have three ? – Good, good, that was good. A full sentence, nothing weird, just regular human interaction. He could do it, he was an adult. He had his own business, damn it ! After a few more tense minutes with only the machine making a single sound and then, silence, the cashier handed him a cardboard tray with three large paper cups. This was pleasant. It was nice. Which was why, of course, he had to go and mess it up again.

- And your phone number ? Maybe ? – The counter looked like real marble. Strong, sturdy, easy to clean. If he slammed his face onto it out of pure mortification, it wouldn’t take the cute guy forever to get it nice and clean and useful again. And it would solve his current problem of not being able to shut up or be charming. Yeah, it sounded like a good plan. Cute guy opened his mouth, either to tell him off or to call for help, but at that exact moment the back door opened again and a tall blond came in.

If the cashier was cute, the new man was intimidating. Yuuji could swear his life went before his eyes like a film reel. Unlike the cashier, he had more than a couple centimetres on Yuuji, and what was worse, he had a blank face that gave off boredom and slight displeasure. Though considering how calm his eyes were, he either was heavily into whips and spikes, or had a basement full of mutilated bodies. Or both. How could someone project such apathy and murderous intent at the same time, Yuuji wasn’t sure, but the man in front of him was succeeding. And it was his cue to leave. Run away. Never show up in that neighbourhood again. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

- Thank you for the recommendation. See you ! – At least he still had his good manners. And all his limbs. Which was a win, all things considered. Running almost all the way back, he almost went in with the door, leaving it to slam behind him. From the doorway, Tsuchiyu glanced at him suriously, but Yuuji couldn’t even take a breath.

- You okay, boss ?

- N… - He tried again. And again. – No. I think – He coughed. – I think I barely escaped with my life. And also, I am in love.

Bobata called something from the staff room and Tsuchiyu hushed him.

- How about you come in, sit down and tell us all about it. And, what’s that ? Look at those cups, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu fanfiction #fanfcition #terushima yuuji #yūji terushima #yamaguchi tadashi #teruyama #COFFEE SHOP AU #different first meeting #rarepair #rare pair hell

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