#its just. anything outside of his immediate bubble barely exists | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sseanettles · 9 months ago

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nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 2: take me back to eden, pt. 1 | 7.5 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Morpheus is dragged from The Final Rest.)

It was warm here…dark, like the embrace of one’s bed amid a winter’s biting night, the kind of peaceful drift found only in the pre-dawning of existence. Like the safety of a womb.

Morpheus could have found comfort here.

But for the burn.

His gums, his palate, his tongue, down his throat, into his lungs: it was a path of fire, of shattered safety glass suspended in foul-tasting water that shredded his most sensitive tissues as he inhaled the sea in that startling microsecond of nightmare waking. His traitorous chest spasmed in a vain effort to expel the water drowning him. The last of his meager air burst from his lips in a bubbling trickle—

And only more brackish dark sucked down in its place.

The hysterical agony of suffocation consumed him as fast as a flame, submerged in the tepid darkness that was not where he had been moments before.

GET OUT.

OUT, OUT, OUT-OUT-OUTOUTSTOPMAKEITSTOP—

His limbs scrabbled in the shallow waters as the tide pushed and pulled at him, his hands and feet digging into the drowned sands that he found only inches below, and he burst from the sea at the same speed with which he woke. He flailed into an upright, sprawling seat and reached frantically for something, anything ahead of him to find only damp empty air as he coughed.

It was a harrowing, retching thing: a cough in the way that a student’s mid-class daydream was the same as a refugee’s PTSD nightmare. It stooped his back, brought up bile alongside meager spit-ups of seawater that barely freed enough space in his flooded lungs for him to try again. He managed the barest sip of air, and his mouth gaped open and shut like a landed fish, his gut sucking in as he fought for more and failed. The vomiting cough came again, freeing just as little as the first time and only starving him further with the exertion it demanded. His head throbbed like a drum skin as he heaved—a heartbeat? Was that a heartbeat? —and his brain short-circuited between the struggle to inhale and the desperate need to expel until finally his body uselessly overrode both with the adrenaline-driven need to save itself by any means necessary.

He staggered to his feet in the dark, struggling against the rising waters that rushed in and out around him in mockery of the breaths he couldn’t take. His wildly searching hands seized upon the cave wall. He clawed at it, searching for what, he did not know, but he needed it. Needed something, anything, anyone—

His chokes echoed around him like grotesque laughter, muffled as if beyond the glass of a bell jar. His head swam. His vision bloomed with white and dark, and a larger wave crashed into his thighs as the tide outside continued to rise. He collapsed with it as it passed, barely catching himself on the wall to keep from falling back beneath the surface. The coughing and retching continued with just as little effectiveness. Ahead, at the end of his tunneling vision, he could see sunlight.

He needed to scream. The panic had him in its hands, sinking its talons into him, paralyzing him, filling his senses with nothing but salt and damp—

It taunted him, that glimmer.

Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe—

Don’t know how to breathe. Sister—

And as his world tilted into darkness once more, damning him to the sea, to a perpetual suffocating horror just as Loki was to his acid and Prometheus to disembowelment, something struck him harshly from behind.

His chest crushed between the cave wall and the force of whatever drove him into the unyielding stone like a battering ram. And in a single, violent spasm, a lungful of water spewed from his lips. A harrowing inhale followed, and then a great, rattling sob echoed off the walls where once his choking gags had rung. The painful sound fractured into an endless fit of viciously wet coughs, but gradually, the gasps that punctuated each hacking burst grew deeper, if only slightly slower.

As the final retching cough tore through him, Morpheus sagged against the cave wall, utterly spent. His fingers clawed into the uneven surface, and their tremors carried down his arms to his chest, barely holding him upright. His head pressed to the damp stone as he groaned and quaked, and he looked back in the dark to see who his rough-handed benefactor had been.

There was no one that human eyes could see. He stood alone.

Another rush of water, higher than the last, nearly pried him from the wall altogether as it crashed into his hips and drew back out. He could not stay where he was; to stay meant to drown, and he swore now that he would never do it again. He struggled through the tide, staggering on unsteady feet that fumbled even as simple a thing as walking and forced his hands and nails to abuse themselves upon the stone to keep him upright and moving.

In the dark of the cave, a figure unmoved by the might of the sea watched her once-brother go, the knit of her sweater soaking up the waves like a sponge and her fishhook sunk deep into her cheek. Her eyes glittered behind the oily veil of her hair, and her mouth pressed into the most displeased line. Her pale-knuckled hand dragged, and the blood poured.

When Morpheus finally cleared the cave mouth, his very bones quivered with exhaustion, and he only just managed to clear the inlet current before he crumbled entirely. His failed knees struck the beach in a splash of water and muddy sand, and he caught his forward pitch with one arm locked straight into the beach. The other clutched at his aching gut. It felt as if something writhed within him, something living and viscous and oily; it burned like the salt, coiled up in him and tested his throat with small, heaving retches that never quite delivered. He keened, low and deep within his throat, and pressed his head to his arm.

Something was wrong.

Despite the roar of high tide around him, he found he could barely hear the sea. There was only the rasp of his own rattling breaths that he couldn’t not take, the gritty blink of his eyelids as he squinted against the sun’s glare off the pale sands, the shift of his weight atop the drowned grains, the sickening cling of wet fabric to his skin—particularly the black jeans that now dug painfully into the bend of his knees. The world was painfully bright, and he suspected with baseless certainty that it would have been so even without waking first in the cave. His periphery burned like over-exposed film, and his eyes watered to the point of blindness if he tried to look anywhere but at his hand and the silt beneath it peppered with shells and stones.

Something was wrong.

The sea: the sea was warm, the weather on the cool side of temperate but far from frigid. But Morpheus was somehow chilled to his very bones, cold in the way he’d been in…somewhere. He could not recall now. His gut ached in hunger, too, beyond the roiling something already in there, and his throat burned from salt and thirst alike. He needed to move, needed to get help…but he also knew that if he so much as lifted a finger, he would pitch forward into both the surf and darkness in the same boneless collapse. His elbow shook, nearly dropping him anyway, and he only barely managed to lock the joint once more.

Nothing about him was obeying the way it should have. Nothing felt the way it should have.

Something was very, very wrong.

“BROTHER!” Destruction thundered, and birds took flight overhead, startled from their roosts at his volume and approach.

To Morpheus, he heard only an echo, a muffled rendition of his younger brother’s normally obliterating voice. He breathed, and the wheezing sound raged in his ears like storms in the hearths of an old house. He squeezed his eyes shut. The horrible feeling in his stomach eased; the drumbeat in his skull began to lessen.

Yes. He sank lower, trying to curl into himself as best as he could without lowering back into the water. Yes, this was better.

“There you are,” Destruction huffed as he trudged his way through the sands to the boney tangle presently collapsed into itself by the cliffs. He glanced around as he came, taking in the coast of Naxos again after so short a time away. “Our sister has a sense of symmetry, hasn’t she?”

His brother made no move to acknowledge him. He just remained curled there, swaying on his knees even though he was sat back on his heels and holding himself up with one hand sunk deep into the flooded sands as the tide came and went and came again. His head hung low, and the drenched hair plastered across his face kept his eyes concealed. His breath rattled with the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the sea still audibly present in his lungs.

Destruction sighed, hefting his messenger bag to the other side of his body, and reached down for his big brother.

“Come on,” he said, not unkind in his bluntness. “Up you get.”

Everything in Morpheus’ world was so quiet…so fuzzy, distorted—there was so much, and it required so much effort to pick it out from each other, to track each strain back along its individual thread to assemble it into the bigger tapestry from whence it came. Wet. Cold. Gritty: in his hair, his eyes, beneath his nails, between his toes and fingers bare in the sand and water. Sore. Hurt. Sick. Sick, sick, can’t breathe right; his tongue was lead in his mouth, his head was filled with wool, and his body kept shaking and he couldn’t stop any of it—

A massive hand took hold of Morpheus’ crooked arm at the elbow, so large it turned his own whipcord limb to a toothpick. As another of the same size took hold of Morpheus’ opposing hip and he felt himself gently but bodily lifted upward, his icy eyes snapped open.

He reacted as a feral animal, with a wild, dissociated glassiness to his gaze. He thrashed against the grip that held him fast, and his protesting cry faltered in his throat to naught more than a harsh gasp as he was pulled against their chest, his hands pinned to uselessness between the sandwich of his own sternum and their arms. He tossed his head with vicious abandon, snapped his teeth on empty air as he tried for flesh and bone. He kicked and tried to bruise the figure behind him with his bared heels but only came up against a body seemingly built of stone, rendering more pain to himself than anything he inflicted on his attacker.

Scream. Scream, damn you, make a sound—

“Morphe—”

His shouted name was lost within a horrible, grating cry, and while it had started in Morpheus’ chest as the defiant, bestial howl he had wanted, it jumbled immediately in his throat. It caught and ground like gravel until only a strangled gurgle akin to his drowning chokes remained. Destruction hefted him up, lifting his feet from the ground and pinning him tighter against himself as they struggled down the beach.

“—settle, come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe, where you can come down—”

Basked in the full view of Naxos, Morpheus’ world went silent and still.

And his ears filled with only a shrill, piercing ring.

The sun, the sand, the grapple: his skin was on fire. His nerves sparked, it was too much, too much—

No.

…Too little.

Because now, Morpheus could see the beach, could fathom the rest of the world that existed beyond his immediate perception, could smell it even, and it struck a fatal chord within his shattered mind. On the trigger of a single moment, that singular view down that one stretch of beach, the kaleidoscope of infinite memory clicked into place. The trap released, and the expanse of an Endless memory began to cram down into his poor finite brain.

Newborn flowers. Blood. A hand through brain matter, his hand, Nada’s body shattered upon a rocky mountainside, a little alien girl with a blue face and universe-sparking smile, perishing at the Morningstar’s feet, felled by a mortal man, naked skin on frigid glass and iron, standing on the edge of a precipice and the coo of pigeons, a hand, begging, begging, begging to please let it End, bits of him chipping away, burning, starving, suffocating, dying, dying, dying for so long, a bit at a time, the shred of a black hole, release—Calliope’s screams as she fell amid the dismembered viscera of her child and tried in vain to piece him back together, all the while shrieking Morpheus’ name in anguish, a curse, a plea—poppies. A head heavy in his hand, as heavy as the babe it had once been, an occiput along the curve of his palm where a much smaller skull had once nestled, as had shoulders and the start of a small, fragile spine, brain matter, blood spatter—

An impossible song.

Destruction barely dodged the toss of Morpheus’ head this time as his brother writhed and fought with renewed strength, like a man possessed, wailing low in his throat as if in agony, as if in horror, as if in terror.

“Would you quit squirming—oh, alright!”

And Destruction walked.

He walked with great, striding steps that moved a human as it shouldn’t be moved, stepping through the fabric of space until Morpheus’ ears rang with a wild whiplash of construction and warfare and suffering, of territorial animals that battled over turf, of bonfires and rust and rot until finally, they landed in a world of manicured green. Beside them in the dirt, one ant colony cannibalized the other, locked in the throes of a savagery mankind knew well.

This time, when Morpheus shoved away from him, Destruction let him go.

He landed halfway into the bushes in a four-legged sprawl that knocked the air out of him and promptly vomited. His vision flashed with pulses of light and color, his whole being woozy, both hypersensitive and numb to the world at the same time. His nose ran with snot. His eyes streamed with tears, and his whole body sang with pain.

“Ah,” Destruction said somewhere above him. “I probably shouldn’t have done that now that you’re all—” A hand waved over his general person, and Morpheus took a sharp, hiccupping breath.

Do not. Do not say it, do not say—

“—human and everything.”

And this time, Morpheus did scream.

It was a sound as grating and horrible as his laughter, and his behemoth of a brother was on him in nearly the same instant. One war-weathered hand clamped over his nose and mouth to silence him while the other arm pinned him once more to his chest, locking Morpheus’ arms to his sides as the two men thrashed behind the cover of Richmond Green’s bushes. Not twenty meters away, a group of children played keep away, and Destruction glanced at their gossiping parents through the leaves before focusing again on his brother.

“Morpheus!” he grunted, easily keeping the human contained. “Morph—brother, you gotta stop. You want to start off your very long life in a madhouse or a hospital, be my guest! They’ll dissect you—”

Morpheus spasmed in his arms, refusing to calm and spiraling into his own panic as he once again felt the burn of suffocation begin. Destruction met those pale eyes that bulged in both defiance and plea above the iron line of his hand and knew the truth. If he let go now, Morpheus would scream, just for the pettiness of the thing.

He closed his eyes, pressed his head to his brother’s, and held tighter.

“You’re okay,” he muttered and flinched as the vibrations of Morpheus’ short-lived wail and subsequent, imploring gurgle carried through every inch that their bodies pressed together. “Shh…” Morpheus’ final, spasming burst of energy jerked through him, and Destruction hooked his leg over his brother’s, pinning it to the earth as his sand-dirtied, bare foot lashed out and nearly collided with the bush closest to the chatting parents. “Just let go,” he murmured.

He hoped that he sounded comforting. He probably did not.

Morpheus watched the robin’s egg sky brighten and dim, watched the canopies turn to shadows, and dug his fingernails helplessly into any bit of Destruction he could reach. The arms did not relent.

“We’ll try this again…” his brother’s voice rumbled against him, his head heavy against his, the leather in his hair laden with the smell of blade oil. “I promise….”

If he had not currently been suffocating into oblivion for the second time in the last five minutes, Morpheus would have noticed the pain in the Prodigal’s voice, the tortured care with which he crushed him close, the desperate protectiveness that laced the embrace in which he was smothered. But he was, and so he did not, and Destruction let out a long, slow breath of relief as Morpheus finally slumped in his arms.

Moving quickly, but not too quickly as to draw more attention than he was about to, he hoisted his brother from the grass. He dragged one wiry, pale arm across his shoulders by the wrist, locking his own arm around Morpheus’ willow-thin waist, and then, as if there were nothing odd about what he was doing at all, he stood tall and trudged his way toward the nearest tree.

“Just a bit hammered!” he grinned to the seven parents who now stared at him with open alarm and judgement as he crossed their corner of the green with a limp man dragging at his side. “He’ll sober up quick though, don’t you worry. Got fired from his job.” He lowered Morpheus to the grass beneath the tree, guiding his fall in a slow kneel and with practiced hands that were gentle despite their size and former function. “Brutal takeover. He’s not taking it well. Actually,” he rocked back on his heels and pointed to the few adults who were still standing there, transfixed by this strange performance while the others called for their children and corralled them away as quickly as they could manage. “Did any of you see the end of Succession?”

One lingering mother’s eyes widened. His finger landed on her, and his grin sharpened.

“Yeah. That.” He winked and let himself fall back into a seat against the tree’s sprawling roots and massive trunk, setting his bindle beside them. “You get how it is!”

He made no effort to explain the sand or the seawater that so very clearly coated his unconscious sibling. He merely continued to smile as he went about his business of pulling out a sketchbook and set of chalk pastels from his bag. Morpheus slumbered beside him, laid slightly onto his side with his head tipping downward to allow the water to continue to work its way from his nose and mouth. Destruction had taken care to keep Morpheus turned toward him, to keep his sharp face hidden from the world as they both waited for that return to consciousness, and as he worked, he looked frequently to his brother. He tracked the unsteady rise and fall of his ribs and the shudder in his spine as he exhaled, the intermittent wheezes that ridged his breaths. He looked to those ever-so-tired eyes and the shadows beneath them and how both they and the sharpness of his face seemed less gaunt and exhausted in sleep than they had in waking.

It was not to last.

A shadow passed over Morpheus’ face: a spasming darkness, a plaintive furrow, and once more, he seemed as old as he had once been. Destruction continued to draw. His hand moved in careful, measured passes that left nothing near as beautiful in their wake. Beside him, Morpheus shuddered with a stronger wheeze, a cough, and turned a little further into himself. He tipped into the grass, and as one hand dragged through the salt-kissed blades to embed in the earth by his head, the rich smell of healthy soil infused the air.

It was that scent, it seemed, that raised him once more from oblivion.

Morpheus’ eyes opened as if to a shock. The press of the both sun-warmed and shade-cooled earth was firm beneath him, the summer air heavy against his tongue with the taste of grass and dirt—filling his nose with the scent of both. His clothes, while still damp, were nowhere near as soaked as they had been.

—breATHE—

He shot upright in a messy scrambling of limbs, spasming into a half-standing kneel only to lay eyes on Destruction and then falter altogether. His knees knocked into each other, feet tangling, and he tried to both stand and retreat with his beating heart lodged like a knife in his throat. And Destruction watched with sympathetic eyes as his deer-like panic only landed Morpheus in a heap barely a meter from where he had started—still curved into himself a bit, still facing his brother who had smothered him—and his breath once again punched from his ribs in the force of his awkward fall.

Destruction carefully set his pastels aside and let his hands rest, empty, upon his sketchbook where Morpheus could see them.

“Better this time?” he asked softly.

Morpheus’ hands curled into slow, trembling fists, and those ocean eyes turned to hurricanes, glowering from beneath his dampened hair. He yearned to rage, to cut his brother to ribbons with his scything tongue that had felled even the Devil, and his jaw shook with the heat of it.

His mouth opened to let the words pour….

…and nothing came.

His eyes widened, the tempest within them shifting. He tried again. And again. And again, his hands fisting in the ground, and he tore up earth with the grass until the blades turned to paste between the rip of his nails and the dirt compressed into clay-like mud between his fingers and palm. But his tongue, like his limbs, would not obey.

All the while, Destruction’s pity deepened. And he set aside his sketchbook as, finally, with his face flushed by effort and his shoulders quaking to keep him upright, a sound forced itself from his brother’s throat.

It was a groaning whimper of a thing, and Morpheus’ eyes burned with mortified tears as his constricting throat strangled him, mercifully, back into silence. The storms surrounding his pupils subdued to nothing more than anguished rainfall. He hung his head like a neck baring for the axe and gritted his teeth as the tears nearly overcame his threadbare will; he could see his brother’s sketch in the edge of his vision, and he latched onto it like a lifeline.

It was a truly, truly shitty drawing of Barnabas. At least, he thought it was Barnabas. He did not know what else that combination of colors and approximate shape could be.

“Can you hear me, brother?” Destruction asked after a time, still that quiet, grounded thing. Like a monument alone upon a hill, as steady as a forgotten sentinel of an ended war. A blade forgotten in the woods, driven near to the hilt in stone. His bindle lay beside him, tied firmly shut. “Just a nod will do.”

Morpheus managed a nod as throttled as the sounds he made but kept his head stubbornly bowed. There came a shifting of a great weight as Destruction moved with the same care he had so far and leaned against the tree to sit facing his brother with one leg tucked under the other, his posture and expression as open as he could manage.

“Do you know who I am?”

Another similar nod wrenched from the fallen Endless.

“Do you know who you were?” While Destruction had taken great pains to keep his words just as gentle as they could be, Morpheus’ breath still caught in his chest, impaled upon the fragments of his ribs. His breath turned hot…wet…like his eyes. “And more importantly who you are now?”

No one…

Morpheus’ shoulders narrowed as he caved further, flinching inward, retracting like a kicked dog or a child at a scolding. He forced his skull to move upon his spine in another nod, piteous and small this time where once it had been a wretched, hateful gesture.

Destruction watched him closely and posed his final question.

“And do you have an idea of what you are now?”

The answer filled Morpheus’ mind instantly. Incontrovertible, undeniable, irrefutable.

Nothing.

Anguish won out over his fraying resolve. Bitter tears forced their way through his fractures, bits of him coming away, chipping under the pressure, and cracks turned to fissures until he shattered from everything within him. His hands lifted to his face, hiding it away as the tears poured and his mouth twisted into a horrible expression of pain. His shoulders quaked; his chest shuddered; and his sobs wracked out of him in a sordid combination of hate, anger, sorrow, and….

He knew this. He knew this feeling.

Despair.

He struggled to clamp his jaw shut on the ineffectual, useless sounds that tore from him, fought to wrangle them into the words that screamed for release within the confines of his aching skull.

“T…tay…” He screwed his eyes shut so tightly that the darkness sparked—anything to not see the way that his brother watched him—and struck his hand against the ground in agonized frustration. “Tay…”

Take me back. Three words, so simple, so straightforward, and he couldn’t wrench even them from this useless form. He struck his sternum this time, harder than he had the earth. Take me back. Take me back. Take me back—

A strike fell for each unspoken word as still he struggled to summon the simple syllables forward, to beat them from the prison of himself until it was too much.

SISTER, TAKE ME BACK. TAKE ME BACK!

He was going to explode with it, a volcano with nowhere to go, Mount St. Helens about to erupt from its sloping, glacier-filled mountainsides and not its open mouth, and finally he managed to eke out a plaintive, sorrowfully desperate “take.”

His hand caught mid-strike to his bruised ribs—the pale, soiled flesh encircled by dark skin.

Morpheus turned to a statue beneath Death’s unreadable eyes as she held him by the wrist and finished sinking into her kneel before him. She was as beautiful as she had always been, as present yet ethereal as ever, as grounding and warm and elusive all the same. She moved with her same grace, and the sound of wings still surrounded her like a distant exhale.

His eyes were swollen, his pale skin blotchy with tears and pain, his breaths heavy and messy and loud. His fragile frame trembled with each inhale, and she sighed, shook her head, and reached for his hair.

“Tch…” She tucked the damp, curling locks from his face as if they were made of glass and cradled his cheek, sweeping his tears there away with her thumb. “Oh, Morpheus.”

And now, with her mercy so close within his reach, he found words began their slow return.

“…W-why?”

Instantly, he wished they had not. His voice. His voice. It was so human, so empty, so less, and it drove his fragmented ribs inward, skewering his lungs and heart alike. He tried to flinch away, to duck his head and pull back, but Death’s hand held firm. Her fingers crooked into the angle of his mandible, holding him still. Had he really tried, he could have fled, he knew, and she would have let him go. But he had not the strength to go, and he cried anew as he stared into her dark eyes.

As he stared into that grave earth that he so yearned to bury himself within, that she would not let him reach.

“Because I’m responsible for you,” she answered kindly, her smile small and toothless and crooked. “And with the Kindly Ones satisfied, it’s high time I stopped letting you run away from your messes.” Her thumb brushed again along his cheek, steadying, calming, gentle. “You have to learn how to do the hard work, little brother.”

Her kindness was a raindrop in an inferno, and Morpheus’ face contorted beneath her touch, his tears hardening into the rage of a wounded soul.

AS IF I DO NOT KNOW, he wanted to thunder, but the depth of his anger clamped his jaws shut, the heat of it welding his teeth together even as his mind failed to connect to his tongue for expression of such eloquence. THE CHILD I SHOWED MERCY WHEN I SHOULD HAVE NOT, MY OWN CHILD TO WHOM I GRANTED MERCY TOO LATE— He struck out at her with his free hand, tried to push her off him, as her touch that had once been comforting turned now to a branding iron. She caught him easily, holding him now by both wrists, and he found her strength that had once given beneath his own was now as unyielding as titanium. THE WOMAN I FORGAVE TOO LATE, EVER TOO LATE TO STOP MY HARM— He fought against her, caught between fight and flee; he gained not an inch either way. I HAVE ALWAYS DONE THE HARD WORK, WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE—

As if she could hear the diatribe within his mind, Death pulled him forward, and she hugged her brother as tightly as she safely could. His breath was hot and broken against her, his tears scalding. He struggled to find the leverage between them to shove her away, only to realize, when he finally found it, that she still would not move.

“I know,” she breathed, soothing, patient, sorrowfully empathetic. “I know you’re tired. I know you want to be done….”

She was a god now, compared to him. An Endless to a human. He sagged against her in defeat, and her hand ran along the nobs of his spine, his rising and falling ribs.

Brother was now naught more than a courtesy name.

“And I know you think you know how to do the hard work, Morpheus…” She pulled back, holding him steady by his shoulders, and gently touched his chin. “But you have just as much to learn as you have to answer for. I will not take you until you have.”

He stared at her, eyes sunken and hollow. The fire there that had once blazed with righteous indignation burned out to an abandoned hearth. He had once had speeches to pour down on her, tirades that would have left scorched earth in their wakes, would have rattled the Dreaming and the Sunless Lands alike. He would have drawn himself up to his full height, borne the impressive posture of an offended monarch about to rain down the full might of his outrage from the height of his throne.

Now, he sagged on his knees like the lowest of servants, heavy in her hands and oh so light at the same time.

Now, all he could manage to drag from his teeth, to barely assemble with his clumsy tongue, was an exhausted, malice-drenched, “I…hate…you….”

Death closed her shining eyes as if he had cut her all the same. She caressed his face one last time, and he had not the energy to even attempt to bite at her.

“I know,” she said and stood. “I’ll leave you with the Prodigal.”

He wanted to call after her. To grab for her, to hold her fast, to take her hand before she could walk away from him and force her duty upon her.

He ground his teeth and glared with shining eyes at the imprints left in the grass by her boots. He refused to watch her depart. He was Dream of the Endless. He did not behave like a desperate urchin, did not beg, did not….

…He was Dream of the Endless.

There came the sound of wings and then nothing at all.

The children continued their keep away, and the adults muttered amongst themselves while casting strained looks over their shoulders to the brothers beneath the tree. The leaves rustled along the swaying branches overhead. The winds gently sighed. Pigeons cooed in the echoes of memory, underpinned by a little girl’s delighted, long-gone giggles. Insects droned. The sun moved a few degrees in the sky, and still they sat in waxing silence.

“Leaving is always hard at first,” Destruction said after a long, long while, when the children had retired to the blankets their parents had spread along the ground across the green and to the lunches and snacks waiting there. “You don’t realize how much you let yourself get away with under the guise of your function until it’s not there anymore. Or how much you depended on it…”

Morpheus swallowed the shards still embedded within him, and his eyes seared alongside his abused throat as the glass cut all the way down.

“…like a crutch. A mask.” Destruction watched the children laugh and screw with each other, one attempting to start a food fight and coming up short under his mother’s sharp tongue. Morpheus refused to look with him. “A convenient switch for your conscience.”

He wished he could taste the blood he swore he felt welling within him. Instead, there was just the sea: the foulness of sand and algae and noxious silt.

“You off-load so much of yourself onto your function, use the purpose and direction it gives you as an excuse,” Destruction continued from the roots. His voice was the most even and controlled Morpheus had ever heard it, his entire demeanor dialed back to something he could only call…human. It made him think of a long-gone pub in a long-gone century, the rain pouring down outside. “And now,” he sighed, packing away his sketchbook and pastels with steady hands, “it’s gone…and there’s just you. And you need to figure out how to live with yourself.”

Morpheus continued to stare into the distance between them, trying to see through to the fabric of the world, to the richness of its very being that he knew was there. He found only blurred swatches of banal color and pixelated texture. Destruction braced his hands on his knees and rocked to his feet with all the slow, tortured grace of an old man.

“Not Dream of the Endless,” he grunted as he got himself upright. “Not Oneiros. Not the Shaper of Forms. Not the King of Cats, King of Nightmares, King of Dreams,” he waved a hand toward his brother’s still paralyzed form as he arched and stretched his back, “or whatever else you named yourself.”

To any outsider, the lithe man on the ground seemed to have not heard him. But Destruction was no outsider. He saw the tightening of his hands atop his knees, saw the shine in his eyes grow until it only faintly resembled the stars that had once glittered there. He saw the bob of his throat and the way his chin shook and firmed through the action.

“Not even Morpheus,” he finished, not unkind, and trudged to stand at his brother’s side with an apologetic step to his gait and his thumbs hooked into his pockets. “Just…you. And the parts of you that led you to make the decisions you did.”

Morpheus’ head ducked a little further, near imperceptible in its shift, and Destruction let out a heavy, bone-weary sigh. He reached to rest his hand atop the obsidian hair and thought better of it at the last second, redirecting to his shoulder instead. The shirt was dry now, soft beneath the crust of sand and salt.

Morpheus tensed the second he touched him.

“You wanted to be done, Murphy.” Murphy. The name grated in his ears, tore at him like the road tore at a man dragged behind a horse at full gallop. Like the seawater in his throat. “Now you are. How’s it feel?”

Morpheus moved like a marionette to glare up at his brother—like a besieged soul that dragged the will to move from deep within itself and gained each millimeter of movement only after hauling itself through an inferno of spite, rage, and anguish. His teeth bared on the gritted words he pulled from his chest much the same as he’d conjured his motion. His eyes were pinpricks of sunlight caught on tears.

“…like…hell…”

“Yeah,” Destruction sighed and tightened his grip in a pulse of comfort before releasing his shoulder. “Yeah, s’pose it does. But!” Morpheus watched him head back to the tree, checking the battered strap and partially oxidized buckle of his bag as he went. “Hell’s a prison of your own making, isn’t it?” He bent down to fetch his bindle and locked eyes with his startled sibling over his shoulder as he did. The light of old burned in the middle child’s eyes, the resolution of the doomed general, the final blaze of the pyre, the defiant witch laughing her way to fiery oblivion. “I’ll leave you to figure out how to open the door.”

And Morpheus watched in horror as his brother slung his stick back over his shoulder and walked away. He surged after him, struggling to his feet and managing only a couple steps before he tripped back to the earth.

“W-wait!”

Destruction paused only long enough to regard him on the ground with open bemusement.

“What?” he asked, ribbing in the way only siblings were. “Thought you wanted us to leave you alone.”

YES, leave me ALONE, this is TORMENT—

Don’t leave.

“I…” Morpheus swallowed and looked around the Green, still wincing as patches of unfiltered sun broke upon his face through the swaying canopy, still struggling to reconcile the deadened world around him with the cacophonous reality he had once perceived. “What…am I supposed….”

Destruction turned fully to him, his arms raising at his sides to encompass the whole wide world.

“You’re human!” he chided as if it should have been obvious and gestured about himself as he continued. “Take a piss, have a nap, feed the birds,” he paused to look at him with such scolding pointedness that Morpheus almost looked away on petty principle. “Go get a drink.”

Dark eyes flashed in his memory, warm even as they admitted the most horrific crimes and recounted such heartbreak, and a mouth parted in a smile with brilliance to rival the sun.

It made Morpheus’ stomach turn with disgust. A paralyzing, horrible concoction of emotion was creeping over him the longer he allowed those eyes to fill his mind, and he banished them back to the recesses of memory.

“Write your own story,” Destruction needled and gestured now to him with more than a touch of exasperation. “That’s all you ever wanted, right?”

This time, he did look away, and Destruction gave him a few beats to sit with his question.

“Humanity is whatever you do with it,” he finished. “And I’ve got my own freedom to get back to. Good luck, Murphy.”

This dream is over. Morpheus could practically hear his voice of old giving that decree he had once found so neutral and now found so very heartless. A wave of helplessness and righteous anger swept over him, leaving him paralyzed beneath its surface.

At least this time he was breathing, even if each breath only served to weaken the vault of his ribs once more to that magma of anger he kept bottled within.

DESTRUCTION, Morpheus yearned to yell. But all he could do was sit and try to breathe—his hands aching with the strength of their clench, nails carving into his own palms, crushing the few remaining blades of grass to a smear between his fingers—as Destruction turned his back on him.

The Prodigal walked once more, fading as he went and disappearing altogether just as he would have hit the copse of bushes beyond the tree against which he had sat. And Morpheus, formerly Oneiros, formerly the King of Dreams and Nightmares, formerly The Shaper of Forms, formerly Dream of the Endless, sat alone.

Free of obligation. Free of expectation. Free of function.

Free of all but this form within which he was now compressed. His skin itched; his head ached. His mind had buzzed until it went numb, and then droned on still, scratching along his nerves and against the walls of his skull as it tried to parse and feel and process—like an engine at full tilt with the wheels lifted off the ground, spinning uselessly, going nowhere.

He leaned forward, his hands pressing to the grass, and dug his fingers into the earth.

So. Death would not take him back. Destruction had left him, unable to stomach his presence just as it had been in his past life. Desire was likely laughing until they cried in their domain, gloating at his suffering, and Despair had certainly taken to him with glee in the short span of his new life, feasting upon him like a banquet. Delirium likely had not yet noticed his return, though he had no doubt she would find him soon enough. Destiny knew what had happened by dint of his function and, as was his way, had made no move to intervene on his behalf or prevent his resurrection from occurring at all.

…The other had given his permission for this to occur, had had a hand in it himself.

Gadling…

Gadling could not see him like this. The very thought of it filled him with such a revulsion, such a crawling beneath his newborn skin that his stomach first flipped and then heaved, and he only just managed to wrangle the bile back down his raw throat to his stomach where it belonged.

Perhaps Constantine….

His cheeks flushed, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, fighting the urge to press his hands over his ears. He could hear her laughter now, punctuated with a sailor’s vocabulary and hiccoughing snorts. A few errant tears slipped free, and he rested his forehead upon his knees, breathing with a slow, forced calm.

He would have better luck with Mad Hettie, he reflected bitterly.

And his eyes snapped open.

…Of course.

Of course.

His sister thought she had forced his hand? Thought she had finally achieved the final word, had backed him into a corner?

He had once been Dream of the Endless. He had outsmarted the Morningstar, had restored an entire universe he had failed, had killed Old Gods and fashioned helms and gates from their bones with his own two hands. He had survived the ravages of a black hole and Night’s abuse and Desire’s great many schemes over the eons. He had bid his time against power-drunk mortals for a century and rained ruin upon all they held dear amid a hurricane of glass and light. He had pried fragments of his own being back from the hands of a madman, withstood assaults at a fraction of his own strength with nothing but the drive to reassemble himself to sustain him throughout.

He had returned to the Dreaming in ruins and rebuilt it stone by stone, leaf by leaf, bone by bone.

And at the end of it all, he had made his choice. He had crafted his own demise out of a thousand turning pieces, a grand chess game in which he could foresee every step. And when the time came, he had thrown himself upon the blade from that towering height under no one’s hand but his own. The Furies might have cackled and preened and bragged, of course, but they, too, had been naught but tools in his grander machinations. No one had deceived him. No one had tricked him. He had seen each and every ploy they had tried against him, had spied every dagger before they had thrust at him in the dark.

They had only succeeded because he wished it so. No one took choice from Dream of the Endless. No one confined him in any manner in which he did not wish to be confined without facing the consequences, and his wrath cut as deeply and burned as brightly as his pride.

Now, though, he was no longer Dream of the Endless. He was merely a ghost, the imprint of what had been, an echo of mythos where once there had towered a god. There was no tactic he could employ that would grant him any ground against his former siblings. There was no action he could take that would wound them as they had wounded him.

And therein lied his answer. Therein lied his control. For while Morpheus no longer carried the power or stature to wield his wrath or his pride with the devastating skill he had once done, he still possessed one trait that was his and his alone to use no matter what form he took.

Stubbornness.

He struggled to his feet and steadied himself against Destruction’s tree until the world balanced, until it ceased brightening and darkening in a dizzying whirl. And with a deep, bracing breath, he left the Green for Richmond-upon-Thames.

#dreamling fanfic #dreamling #fanfic #nothing grows in corpses #the sandman netflix #sandman comic spoilers #dreamling fic

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lys1 · 4 years ago

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Congratulations! You waited so patiently <3 This is another Asra x fem!reader for you. NSFW. 5218 words.

Playing With Potions

—————

The late spring morning air was warming up to be a balmy 75 degrees. You had your skirt pulled down and up, tucked in the back of the waistband, forming makeshift shorts. The shop was somewhat quiet, yet the din from the streets made its nimble way through the open windows.

You descend the ladder to the box of ingredients you were unpacking. They had come in the previous evening and Asra had promptly asked you to “organize them later”. Of course you said yes, the two of you shared this shop after all, and the work that came with it.

Asra himself was bustling behind the counter, sweeping the wooden floors free of the dust and fallen ingredients. He stops momentarily to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip. The jasmine tea's steam billows into his face as he sighs with content pleasure.

The floorboards creak as you step down and Asra looks over at you, gaze soft. "How's the supplies look, dear?" He asks curiously, returning the cup to it’s coaster.

"Ah," you muse, counting the small containers in your hands. "Looks like we will be all set on lizard toes for a while, I think our supply captain read 1000 instead of 100." You can't help but chuckle, it couldn't be helped, at least you wouldn’t have to order more for a while.

Asra's eyes open a little wider, "oh my." He laughs, "I suppose we won’t". He sets his broom to rest against the counter and bare feet pad over to you, his deep-purple eyes examining the products.

You feel his hand settle on your waist subconsciously; a side effect of being close to one another. You breathe in lightly, smelling the sweet scent of coconut and honied biscuits wash over you. Asra's breakfast choice was apparent.

"Mm," you say, turning so the two of you were face to face. "You smell delicious."

Asra smiles, box in his hand now a little less important. "Care for a taste?" He teases, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sets his lizard toes aside and joins his other hand at your waist. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod.

He is a mere millimeter from sealing the gap between you when the bell of the shop jingles merrily.

"Ah jeez," you huff good in good nature. "I forgot we have jobs and responsibilities."

Asra laughs at your obvious disappointment and steals a small peck. "Unfortunately, we have to eat somehow." He then turns away and walks back to the counter to greet the customer.

The man is short and has a little round face. He looks extraordinarily nervous, and this catches your attention. Yours and Asra's shop is well known in the city and the townsfolk trust their magicians. You hadn't seen anyone come in here looking so nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asra asks charmingly, resuming his position behind the counter. Briefly you let yourself admire how nice he looks, comfortable in his shop and expertise, before turning back to the box you were supposed to be dealing with. Not, however, letting your ears miss the conversation.

"I," the man starts, already fumbling with his words. "I, well look. I need help." He finishes plainly, nervously clutching his shirt between his pudgy hands.

Asra smiles kindly, "many do." He says, tilting his head and examining his new client. "Are you here for a card reading? Need to get some answers?"

The man groans as though he is already exhausted with the conversation. "No, I already know what I need. I have the answers. I've heard about this place. The ways you can help people. I live an hour out of the market and I made this trip just to see you."

"We're flattered, for sure." Asra says calmly, you can hear slight annoyance in his tone from all the ambiguity. The visitor is none the wiser though. "To help you though," Asra continues. "I'll need to know what you need."

"Alright I need a potion," the man finally reveals. "One that will help me... with performance." His cheeks are redder than a bell pepper in the sun.

Asra raises a white eyebrow, "performance? Are you an actor?"

"No!" The man's voice came out in a strangled whisper, obviously trying to keep it down. You roll your eyes, chancing a glance over your shoulder. The shop floor wasn't that big, of course you were going to hear everything.

"No," he said again, this time a little more composed. "What I mean is... my sex life performance." The truth comes out. Your visitor wipes his forehead with a dirty rag from his pocket. "My wife and I well.. we've hit a slump," he explains. "And I've heard of potions that can help with that kind of thing. Stuff that will completely change the game." His eyes are shining now, imaging life post-performance potion.

Asra looks uncertain at best. "I see," he starts, shooting you a glance. "That.. does exists. But it takes awhile to make. And the price isn't cheap either."

You shove the last of the crow feathers into their designated drawer while listening. You have never heard of such a potion, but you were also still learning. Asra sounds a little unsure though.

"Price isn't an issue," the man sounds desperate. "I'll pay anything."

Asra sighs, he feels bad for the man wringing his hands before him, practically crying for a cure. "Alright," he finally concedes. "I'll make it, but you'll have to come back in the morning. This kind of thing takes all evening to brew."

Your customer nods vigorously, "I can wait." He says. "Tomorrow morning, yes! I'll be here!" His excitement apparent, he bows a few times while backing out of the door, tripping over his own feet.

The door closes with a sharp bang and the bell rings furiously. Asra blows air out of his mouth so that itf ruffles the curls between his eyes.

"Well," he says after a moment. "A sex performance enhancing potion was not what I was expecting to make today." He rubs his temples, eyes closed and looking thoughtful.

You grin at him from the shelf as you pick up the empty shipping box and rest it on your hip. "That's quite the name, I've never heard of a potion like that."

Asra laughs and opens his beautiful eyes to look at you. "Yes, you'll have to forgive me for not teaching you that kind of magic, it's not the.. safest." He ends uncertainly. "I don't even know how this guy found out about it. It's not talked about much amongst us magicians.. and it's certainly not a common one."

Immediately more questions than your mouth can keep up with flood your brain. "So how did you find out about it? And why isn't it safe?" You ask the two more important ones, eyes following Asra as he finds a piece of paper and quill to use.

He dips his quill in the register's ink well and starts scratching down what you presumed to be ingredients. "I've been studying magic for years, my love." He says simply, "and before you ask, no I haven't used it on myself." He looks up at you, mischief dancing in his pretty eyes. "I'd like to think my sex game is up to par." He adds innocently, licking his lips seductively when your ears tinge pink.

You brush imaginary dirt off your shirt sleeves and huff. "I suppose it's pretty good." You mumble. It almost feels like a lie to just describe it as "pretty good" but Asra doesn't need you to stroke his ego right now. You do that enough falling to pieces beneath him every night.

Asra is well aware of your attempt to keep him humble and laughs lightly. "And to answer your other question," he says, turning back to his ingredient list, "messing with ones body like this can be dangerous. You have to be very precise."

You nod as he explains, it makes sense.

Potions are always brewed in pots over a magic fire so you put yourself to work, removing a medium sized iron pot from a hook on the wall and carrying it to a fire stand. Asra is busy himself, opening various drawers and adding seemingly random ingredients to a basket he has looped over his arm. Iris petals, newt eyeball, and some shimmering gold flakes. You smile watching him, your gorgeous magician; smart and able.

In no time at all Asra has a bubbling pot of sweet smelling liquid stirring before him. You stand beside him, observing curiously.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" You ask, taking note of the large leather gloves that clad all the way up your lover's forearm.

Asra continues to stir and looks over at you, happy to hear your eagerness to learn. "I can't risk even a drop of this touching my skin. It's so strong, and will immediately absorb into anyone's skin, leaving them..." He shakes his head and trails off, amused. "That's why it has to brew so long, to burn off some of the potency."

Your mouth opens in amazement, taken aback by the idea. This is the real deal you decide, stepping back a couple inches in precaution. After watching the potion bubble for a couple more minutes you stretch and grab the watering can sitting by the floor of the door.

"I'm going to water the plants," you inform Asra, waving your hand briefly until the can is full of cool, crisp water. Gods knows there are at least three dozen inside and outside of the shop.

Asra is humming in confirmation that he heard you as you open the shop door to the plants hanging outside. You don't get very far before you're blindsided by a streak of purple darting through your legs.

Escape!

"Faust?!" You yelp, dancing around the squirming snake as she winds her way under and into the open shop. A loud, booming bark makes you jump again. This time a large hound dog is rounding the tight corner from the side street and barreling full speed towards you.

All hell breaks loose. The water can is up in the air, crashing wildly into the side of the building. You are thrown back onto the dusty floor and a mass of fur and teeth race past you, paying no mind to your yelling.

Help!

Faust is racing around the floor, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the angry dog she seemed to have aggravated. There's a large crash from inside and you cringe, hearing bottles break and wood crunch. You look back, scared at what you might find.

The shop is a disaster, papers strewn, vials broken, and potion pot toppled. Asra is groaning on the floor, obviously doing no better than the rest. You glance at him worriedly, taking quick notice of the potion he had been making spilled everywhere, even on him.

You snap your fingers and the dog's growl, who was cornering Faust by the bookshelf, turns into a whimper as you lift him up with your magic. "I'm sorry pooch," you sigh, "but we can't have you eating our friend." With a wave of your wrist the hound is out the door and down the street in an instant. The hinges creak and bell rings as the door is once again closed to outside.

Thank you!

Faust wriggles happily, red eyes glowing in relief. You guess she got up to some trouble with the local fauna. She slithers up the stairs quickly, leaving you to look around at the ruined shop.

"Ah, fuck," Asra's words cut through your thoughts like a knife. He's laying flat on the floor, chest heaving as though he just ran a marathon. Sweat glistens on his tan skin, covering him from head to toe.

You step over the broken bottles and kneel at his side. "My love?" You ask, unsure of what to do. It was obvious what had happened, it didn't take an expert. The potion that was supposed to be for your customer was now soaked into Asra's glowing skin.

Asra opens his eyes and you swallow hard. You know that look, and it nearly makes you start trembling where you sit. Lust is prevalent, clouding Asra's eyes until they're a dark amethyst color.

"You-" you start to speak but are cut off by Asra sitting up abruptly. His face is close to yours and his breath washes over your lips, hot and wanton. He looks positively desperate, just the sight of you sitting before him doing wonders.

"Please," Asra's voice comes out low and husky, he watches your chest rise and fall quickly as a result. "Can I please have you, right now."

You could almost call him asking like that soft and innocent, if it wasn't for the raw, hungry look he was giving you. His eyes were traveling everywhere across your body, leaving an invisible line that you could almost feel burning into your skin. Your lips parted and you let out a soft gasp, the power that kind of look had over you was astonishing. You shifted your legs under you subtly, feeling the result of the hot atmosphere low in your stomach.

"Tsk, tsk," you had to tease for a moment. "Closing the shop at midday for some fucking?" You reach up and cup Asra's cheek, feigning uncertainty. His skin on your fingertips burns white hot and you have to hide your amazement.

Asra's eyes narrow, he knew you too well. With a quick flick of his wrist you hear the deadbolt on the door slide into place. It's only a second later and both of his hands have found a place on either side of your hips.

"Why do you torment me?" he asks, pulling you close so your legs straddle him. "Can't you see I'm getting enough of that from this damn mistake of a potion?" His words are almost shaky, as though he can barely speak anymore. He presses his hips up to meet yours, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally gets a little friction.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and gasp, the feeling of Asra so obviously in need is enough to make anyone go wild.

You can't resist grinding down lightly and Asra's eyes practically roll back at the sensation. "How can I say no to such a pretty face," you whisper, completely in love with his reaction.

That was enough for Asra and without added words he gathers you up in his strong arms and lifts you both. Your head falls back pleasurably when his lips find your neck. It only takes a few quick steps on his part to bring the two of you into the plush back room.

The purple cushions lining the cozy futon sink in gently as your back hits the mattress. The room has a slight pleasing haze as sandalwood incense burns at the table. The smell washes over your senses and a new wave of sensuality comes over the room.

Asra's hands hold you firmly as his lips continue to press lovingly into your skin. He hovers over you, one leg pressed between your legs, causing your hips to involuntarily move along his thigh.

"I need you out of these clothes," Asra groans, lips being stopped at your chest where your shirt has suddenly become a hindrance. He's already tugging at the hem, untucking the loose fabric from your waistband. You raise yourself to your elbows and help him pull the shirt over your head. At once it is thrown over Asra's shoulder and his eyes are set on your bare skin, drinking in the sight of his lover.

You smile at his admiration and lay back again, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back. You feel his hands on your stomach, traveling up to rest on your breasts. Your skin prickles with desire, flesh lighting on fire from his ministrations.

"How did I get so lucky," he breathes out, looking down at you with a look filled with love and passion. He rests the tips of his fingers on your nipples and swirls them lightly, leaving you to twist in torturous pleasure beneath his touch. "Everything about you is beautiful." Asra continues to flatter, lowering his head so his curls tickle your stomach. He licks a long line from the dip of your hip up to the valley between your breasts.

After a few moments of tasting your supple skin he moves his hands to the top of your skirt and tugs. You lift your hips in compliance and the fabric slides down your legs easily. Asra licks his lips as your body is finally fully presented to him.

"I could feast on you," he announces, voice lowered with need. "And I wouldn't go hungry in a lifetime." These words he whispers into your inner thigh, they tickle your skin softly.

You watch with bated breath as the man before you adores his lover. It's hard to keep your moans controlled as you feel his sinfully good tongue lick you in a way that can only be described as ecstasy.

Asra shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his stomach and he brings your legs to lay comfortably over his shoulders. You shudder as you feel his hot breath flutter over your dripping slit. He doesn't waste anymore time and lowers his face to enjoy you.

Your thighs squeeze his head lightly as your body arches in response. Asra is devouring you as though you were a feast and it was the only meal he is to have in a lifetime. He grips your legs tightly to keep you from moving and covers your slit with his mouth, sucking for a moment on the tight nub at the top. He groans happily into your skin before moving down to lick your hole.

"Oh please, yes," you run your trembling hand through his hair and raise your hips up to meet his greedy mouth. He laps short, quick strokes first, stimulating you into madness.

After a moment he slows his tongue down to swirl languidly, looking up at you. You make eye contact and groan at the erotic scene of him eating you out. "That mouth of yours is too skilled for its own good," you whisper, fingers digging into his scalp, trying desperately to savor every swipe of his tongue.

Asra smiles against your folds. "I live to make you feel good, my dear." He says, pausing a moment. "You intoxicate me. Your smell, your taste. I couldn't get enough even if I had all the time in the world." He presses his lips on each one of your thighs with hot, open mouth kisses.

You blush at his words, feeling amazing under his praise. "Come here," you command softly, pulling on Asra's hair lightly to guide him back up your body. He kisses every inch of skin he passes before finally reaching your lips.

"Mm," he hums, taking your face in his hands. "But these lips, are like the finest honey in Vesuvia." He lifts your head so your mouths meet. It's a hot and feverish kiss, full of staggering amounts of love.

You press your body into his and relish in the feeling of kissing Asra. Your mouths are opened to one another and your tongues meet in fiery unison. While you enjoy the kiss you allow your hands to roam. Your fingers find his shirt buttons and you start to undo them as best you can, only a little distracted. It takes just a minute and you sigh happily into his mouth when you finally remove the annoying clothing.

You part a moment to admire the divinity of his body; prostrated before you. He was calling himself the lucky one, but you could probably make a pretty good argument for it being the other way around. He looked absolutely glorious in the hazy glow of the room.

As you reach for the waistband of his pants and rest your fingers playfully on the skin above it Asra breaks out in goosebumps at the fluttering feel of your touch.

"Ah," he breaths out, raising himself to his knees and closing his eyes. Clearly, he's enjoying the attention finally being on him.

"You are the one with the potion affecting them." You say, drawing a line from one hip to another. "It'd almost be criminal to ignore you for any longer." Your eyes fall to the bulge straining under Asra's pants, just begging to be free. A smile plays across your lips as his breaths quickens significantly.

"I.. wouldn't complain." He finally manages to say in a strained tone.

You smile, maybe a little too satisfied, and hook your fingers under the band. "I know." You chuckle, pulling. The trousers catch a moment on Asra's hardened length before slipping down to his knees. You take time to admire the sight before you, licking your lips. Asra is panting slightly, looking down at you lustfully as your eyes graze over him.

He grabs your head on either side and looks into your eyes. "Please," is all he can croak out.

You swallow thickly and you feel yourself dampen even more at his begging words. “I’d like nothing more" you say; need dripping heavily from your words. You lean forward and kiss the tip of his leaking slit lightly. Asra's body shivers with pleasure when your soft lips meet his aching shaft.

You take a breath before closing your mouth around his tip. Your cheeks hollow and you suck in deeply, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure emitting from Asra's lips. He groans even deeper as you finally swallow down his whole length, tip sliding down the back of your throat.

"Ah fuck, baby," he stutters through gritted teeth, fingers threading through your hair. He thrusts into your mouth without hesitation, reveling in the way you feel around him. The pace is fast and vicious, leaving no time for extra room for breathing.

You choke back your gasps and feel the involuntary tears prick at the corners or your eyes. Your hands fall to your sides as you let Asra use your mouth how he pleased. Licentious noises ring around the room as he sinks his member into your mouth relentlessly, moaning at each stroke and the salacious feelings that come over him.

His grip tightens in your hair as he pounds into your face. You open your mouth as widely as you can and take him in, ignoring the slight pain of labored breathing. The feeling of being used so mercilessly is intoxicating, and you close your eyes, enjoying the pleasure that overtakes you.

With a loud pop he pulls out of your drooling mouth, leaving you to be the one groaning in disappointment.

"I'm sorry love," he huffs dazedly, need heavy on his features. "But if I don't stop this now I'm cumming in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound so bad," you complain, sticking your tongue out so Asra can view how much you want it. His eyes darken considerably and he looks ready to break.

He takes a breath in sharply, steadying himself before holding your face gently in his hand. "As much as I want you fuck your face, that pussy of yours I know is dripping for me and I have to comply." He chuckles, running his thumb along your lip.

You whimper at his words, practically climaxing at the suggestion. You meet his eyes in a needy manner and nod. "Oh, Asra," you start, already seeing excitement flit across his face at the mention of his name. "I want you more than I can even describe to you."

To this Asra inhales sharply, thumb still hooked in your mouth. "Tell me how you want me," he says, barely able to contain his own desire.

"I want you to fuck me from behind," you begin, knowing exactly how to please his ears. "I'm going to cry and moan, and beg you for relief but you will know better." His eyes widen in ecstasy but you continue anyway. "I want you to give everything you can to me, without holding back."

Asra seems to snap right in front of you. His features immediately seem to plead for consolation. "You'll get what you ask for." He growls, fingers tightening in your mouth. You lick his thumb seductively and the action throws him over the edge.

Asra's hands fly to your waist and hold you firmly, you're flipped over; ass to the heavens greeting him. He swallows at the sight and digs both palms into the flesh, enjoying the feeling immensely. "So needy and ready for me," he groans, finger finding your entrance and slipping in easily. You gulp at the warmth of having fingers enter you. Asra is unrelenting and curls them cruelly against your walls.

"Just fuck me already!" You cry, unable to hide your desires anymore. You hear Asra laugh behind you, yet despite this you know he is dying to sink himself into you.

"Alright, alright." He concedes, taking your hips in his hands. "If you insist."

You feel his tip slide against your slit and shudder, craving the feeling of him inside you. It doesn't take more than a moment before you feel him start to enter you. You lay your head down, turning your face so you can watch Asra take you from behind.

His lips are parted in a silent moan as he relishes in the feeling of your walls around him. You sigh softly as he fully sheaths himself in you, a small tremor passing over your body from the pleasure. One moment, two moments pass as you both bask in the feeling of being connected.

"Give me your hands," he commands, slowly sliding in and out of you, giving no care to his agonizingly slow pace. Soft gasps are falling from your lips as you try to register his request.

Carefully, you cross your arms behind your back. It's no use to keep the blush at bay as you take in the dirty scene. Your face is pressed to the pillows, unable to move much as Asra takes your wrists and pins them to your back. Your ass is raised in the air to meet his rhythmic thrusting.

Asra grips one of your thighs with a free hand and quickens the pace a little. Your eyes shut tightly as your body responds. You can feel his tip hit deep inside of you with each snap of his hips. It's unrelenting and you have to catch yourself from begging for more.

You feel the fingers around your wrist tighten a bit as Asra's breathing speeds up behind you. You know that he's set on giving you as much painfully slow torture as he can manage himself, but you also know that potion is working against him. There's nothing he wants more than to let go and pound you into the mattress.

"Baby," you choke out, words bouncing along with your bodies. "I know you want to fuck me so good right now." Your voice is deep with seduction. "Please just fill me up like I know you want to." You finish your plea, watching his face with satisfaction. His eyes are darkened with desire. He takes just a few more strokes before slowly to a stop inside you.

"You asked for it," he warns. He only takes a moment to let go of your wrists and flips your body so you're facing him. He cages you in on either side and licks his lips as he stares into your eyes. His hungry mouth meets yours in a kiss full of fire. You can melt into it for only a second before you feel him grab your hips and pull you flush against him; Your cries drowned by his lips as he sets an erratic pace, skin meeting with loud slaps.

"Fucking hell," he groans, still kissing you between words. "You feel like heaven on earth. You're so hot, and I can feel your insides squeezing me." He explains, hot breath falling over your face. Your cheeks burn at his descriptions.

You loop your arms around his neck and press your chest into his. Your skin meets, shining with sweat and burning from love. Asra presses back, savoring the feeling of your nipples brushing against his.

You start to feel that familiar blossom of unreleased pleasure pool in your lower stomach. Asra's shaft is hitting you just right, sending jolts of satisfaction right to your core.

"Oh-" you stop and whine pleasantly when he shifts angles. "Fuck. Please yes, don't stop!" Your arms drop and nails dip into his biceps and you grit your teeth from the hot delight searing through your body.

"I couldn't even If i wanted to," Asra answers, words strained as his grasp on himself starts to crumble. His breath is leaving his lips in short pants now and you can almost see the resolve to hold on slip away before your eyes.

He falls into you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and thrusts into you with all of the strength he can muster. You bury your face in his neck and take hold of his hair. You can feel Asra's body shuddering to not let go.

You bring your lips to his ear and bite his lobe. "Won't you come for me sweetheart? Please empty yourself in me." You whisper.

Asra takes in a sharp breath and you hear him choke at your words. They were enough to push him over the edge and he rams into you with a low, strangled cry.

Your head falls back and your mouth opens in a silent scream as Asra lets himself go in you. Your legs shake violently of their own accord as you feel your orgasm wash over you, leaving your body in euphoric fire.

Asra's lips immediately find yours as you ride out your orgasms together. You kiss him passionately, all of your senses in overdrive. His kisses are soft, and sweet, a clear declaration of his love. Happiness rushes in like a flood as you enjoy the afterglow. After a minute Asra removes himself from you and joins you in laying down, sides still heaving from the activities.

"My dear, how I love you." He says with a smile, running his fingers in slow, soft circles on your stomach.

You turn on your side and look into his eyes. He looked content, and his cheeks were dimpled from his growing grin.

"I love you too," you return, hand falling into his. His skin was still warm. The two of you lay there for a while, out of breath and simply enjoying the presence of one another.

Eventually, Asra sits up and looks down at you with humor in his eyes. "Well, I think I can tell our buyer that we did an extensive review of his product and it does, in fact, work."

Your face breaks into a smile and you laugh at Asra's words. "Oh goodie, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear all about it."

#the arcana game #asra alnazar #the arcana #asra lemon #asra smut #asra x reader #asra x female reader #writing #fanfic #arcana smut #arcana #arcana fanfic #asra fanfic

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thefanficmonster · 4 years ago

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Innocent Life

Ethan Winters (Resident Evil Biohazard) & Child!Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Death, Grief, Spoilers for RE8:Village, Swearing

Genre: Angst

Summary: As Ethan stands outside the ruins of Luiza’s house, looking the aftermath of the death he barely escaped in the eye, he cannot get the wails and cries of a child out of his head. Takes him a bit to realize they’re not a product of his trauma.

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for the wonderful request, I had a blast writing it - what can I say, angst is my specialty hehe. Hope you enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

How the hell is this happening? Why is this happening? Why to me? Why my family? Why were we the ones chosen for this suffering to be thrown upon? What did my daughter do to deserve this, for fuck’s sake?!

Why does everyone around me die? Why do I always loose everyone?

I’m the problem....

His knees are weak, his head’s spinning. His lungs have filled with smoke and ash so much he can barely breathe. His eyes sting, reddened around the edges, his vision blurry. However, what bothers him most is the mess that is currently his mind - swimming with the feeling of betrayal, sorrow and dread.

He lost so much so suddenly and in such a short amount of time. He lost Chris - someone he thought of as a friend but has now been replaced by a coldblooded killer and backstabber. He refuses to believe that’s still the Chris who saved him and Mia from Louisiana, he has to be dead.

Mia....

He lost Mia. He’s lost her before countless times - he lost her when he though she was dead, he kept losing her and getting her back at the Bakers’ residence as she switched between her monstrous form and being herself. He lost her again when they made it back, when her mind was clouded and darkened, when all she needed was solitude and when he wasn’t allowed anywhere near her as doctors upon doctors used her as a research object. And now he’s lost her again, this time for good. It’s just him and Rose now.

Or it would be if she too wasn’t taken from him, leaving him in the pit of grief and loss, both emotions at an intensity he’s never experienced before. Like a drill going through his heart, or a sledgehammer breaking it down to shards. Or as though his heart’s completely vanished, unable to take the anguish Ethan’s existence has become. The anguish that will live on for as long as he will.

Those three years of Mia being gone.

That nightmarish night back in Louisiana.

The horrific sight of dozens of bullets entering his wife’s body in front of his very eyes as he remained helpless.

The sound of Rose’s wailing cries.

God, he can still hear them. And oh so vividly. Like a cursed, haunting loop in his brain. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine her being a few feet from him, near him, giving him the opportunity to soothe her, calm her down, tell her it’s all gonna be ok even if it seems like hell at the moment. Promising he’d make it all alright and make the right people pay for what’s happened.

But then finally, he picks up on it - the oddity in the cries he’s hearing.

They’re too realistic for a mind to be able to produce. They’re too loud and too close and are external. And, most importantly, they sound like the cries of an older child.

Ethan quickly snaps himself back to reality, coming to terms with the knowledge that the sounds he’s hearing are a part of it and not some dark corner of his mind. Despite the horror he feels and creep up, taking over his whole body in the form of cold sweat, he still takes a step towards the source of the ear-splitting and heart-sinking noise. It’s instinctively human to feel a sickening feeling of sympathy combined with the need to shield something so powerless from any harm.

To save an innocent life.

Heading towards the side of what used to be Luiza’s house he spots it - a crib on top of which there’s a pile of rubble and wooden planks. The thing seems to barely be standing and yet it’s harboring the child whose cries have now grown louder. Ethan’s frozen for a few moments, frozen with fear. Frozen with the overwhelming thought that there’s no way he can save that child. Frozen and powerless, just like he was on the floor of his own home as life left Mia’s body.

You didn’t do anything for her....

The sound of a crack in the already weak wood, seemingly coming from the child’s crib, sends all his senses on edge, his adrenaline once again starting to rush through his veins.

But you can do something for that child, Ethan! Do something before it’s too late!

Within the blink of an eye, Ethan finds himself standing above the unsteady wooden structure, putting all his strength into removing the rubble that has thankfully piled atop the wooden planks, preventing anything from landing on the baby and harming it. Hell, it’s a miracle it didn’t suffocate from the smoke in the first place. Its cries are put to a halt when its wide eyes land on Ethan, who’s looking back at the toddler with the same amount of distress.

“Hi there. It’s ok, you’re safe now.“ He finds himself breathing out shakily as his trembling hands reach down, picking up the now silent toddler. “It’s ok, little one. You’re a literal miracle, you know that?“ His gaze travels over the ruin the house has become, the house that was this child’s home. Its family’s home. This toddler knows loss much like Ethan does, or it will when it grows up. But as of now, it’s secured in the bubble of blissful ignorance due to infancy.

And Ethan has come across yet another bump in the road: making his way in the castle was already gonna be a difficult and possibly lethal venture, but doing it with a child in his arms, that’s a death sentence for both him and the kid.

“You and I have a thing for surviving hell, but not even I am willing to take the risk of taking you with me, kid.“ He gently caresses the toddlers head as its big awed eyes blink up at him with curiosity.

One one hand, a castle with horrors he’s yet to be familiar with; on the other, a village which’s horrors he’s already seen and experienced and would rather die right in this very spot than subject this innocent kid to them.

Ethan’s once again stranded.

“What do I do with you, kid? Being with me won’t bring you any good. I’m like a death sentence to everyone around me.“ His heart breaks as he says that because - in his mind and by his logic - it’s the truth. It’s the only thing that makes sense in such a nonsensical situation.

Then suddenly, an idea sparks, fueling what little hope and courage he has left and getting his legs to move from the spot they’ve been stuck in for the past God knows how long. That’s not important right now. What matters is that, for the first time since this nightmare started, Ethan Winters has a clue of what he’s doing. He’s got a plan.

* * *

“I see you have returned!“ The Duke greets him with his signature lazy smile before his gaze lands on the child in Ethan’s arms, his eyes widening in surprise, “Oh, and you’ve got company!“

“Actually...“ Ethan stops in front of the shop, adjusting his grip on the kid, “They’ll be keeping you company from now until....well, until I come back.“

“And where is it you’re planning on going?“ The Duke asks, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern, “Perhaps you don’t suppose I know how to take care of a child.“

Ethan grows irritated, “Perhaps you don’t suppose I’m gonna take a kid into that castle you called me insane for wanting to go in myself. Trust me, I wouldn’t be leaving them with you if it wasn’t my only choice.” When he doesn’t receive a verbal response from the Duke, more of an expression change that suggested he’s accepting of this, Ethan grow relieved, turning to the toddler that hasn’t taken its eyes off him even for a second. “Hey, you’re gonna be just alright with the big guy, ok? He’s gonna keep you safe until I come back.” His initial intention was to say ‘even if I don’t come back’ but he just couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to the kid at least, “Until then...” He pauses when a name automatically pops up in his head, “Until then, Y/N, you’ll stay here with the Duke.”

After that heavy-hearted goodbye, Ethan reluctantly hands the kid - Y/N - over to the Duke, a shift they are not very happy about seeing as how they start wailing immediately.

“You owe me plenty, Mr. Winters.“ The Duke says with a frown on his face, displeased and already developing a headache from the child’s cries.

“I owe you nothing. What you’re doing is basic human decency.“ Ethan glares at him before turning his attention to Y/N, “Hey, it’s alright. I know you two aren’t big fans of one another, but I promise I won’t take long. I’ll be back before you know it.“ Planting a quick reassuring kiss on top of the child’s head, he steps away, relieved to find they don’t break out in a crying fit again.

With that peace of mind, he takes off on the path that’ll lead him to the castle. A part of him has found some peace, knowing that one innocent life has been saved. However, there’s still one awaiting rescue. And he’ll be damned if he’s not the rescuer.

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tellerluna-stories · 4 years ago

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ii. rex lapis

The sands of time shifted once more, and now Rex Lapis ruled over Liyue. His land overflowed with wealth, and all who passed through Liyue saw their businesses prosper. The people who now walked the paved streets of Liyue had happily never known the tragedies of war, and they lived out their lives in blissful ignorance.

Within the Golden House, Rex Lapis paced around restlessly. His horns and claws were nowhere to be seen, as Liyue had no need for such instruments of war. The simple white robes he had donned for battle had been replaced with layers of multicoloured ceremonial robes and intricate headdresses that only the finest artisans could craft.

With these robes came great honour and responsibility, a reminder that the fate of Liyue rested solely upon the shoulders of Rex Lapis. Though they were made of mere fabric, at times Rex Lapis felt that they weighed heavier than chains of pure gold.

He sighed and fiddled with his sleeves— though he was, in fact, the reason mora existed in the very first place, he had to admit he was tired of seeing the same golden shimmer that surrounded him everywhere he looked.

“My lord.”

Without even turning around, he replied, “I told you not to be so formal with me.”

“Alright, alright.” You smiled and spread your hands disarmingly. “Thousands of years, but you’re still as legalistic as ever.”

Unlike Rex Lapis, you had not chosen to change too much about yourself in the years following the Archon War, whether in appearance or personality. It somewhat brought him comfort knowing that in a world that was constantly changing too fast for him to keep up, there was still one person who could keep him anchored; no matter what era you were in, you could always quickly adjust to the practices and customs around you without forcing yourself to mold to them.

“Thousands of years, and I still need to remind you that titles are unnecessary, my friend.”

“Ah, but the question is: am I genuinely forgetting to drop them, or do I keep using them just to irk you?”

He turned around, face carefully devoid of any emotion. “My friend, do you happen to fear the wrath of the Rock?”

He watched in satisfaction as the smug look on your face quickly morphed into one of fearful respect. “As a matter of fact I do, so let’s change the topic. Your robes are simply majestic, my— I mean, Rex Lapis!”

“Do you not have one just like this?” Rex Lapis looked down at his embellished sleeves— the people of Liyue had gifted both of you with ceremonial robes, but he had yet to see you wear them. “If I recall, yours had the phoenix embroidered on the front.”

“Oh yes, I still have it with me.” You bent over and inspected the nearest pile of mora, brushing the golden coins with your fingertips. “I don’t wear it much since it restricts my movements, but maybe I will if there’s a special occasion.”

“I would like to see you wear it someday, if you choose to. You’d look absolutely stunning.”

He waited for some witty comeback, the usual jokes you’d make in response to his compliments— but you remained oddly silent, hunched over the little pile of mora like a bird guarding its nest.

“My friend...?”

Gently, he placed a hand on your shoulder, unknowingly sending an electric current running through your veins.

“Ah, yes, yes! I was just, uh—“ Hurriedly, you jumped to your feet and dusted your hands off on your clothes. “I was just trying to remember where my robe was, that’s all. I stored it away but I don’t exactly remember where— you know how it is, right?”

Yes, you had just forgotten where you had last put that phoenix robe, as though you still didn’t clean it and carefully air it out at least once a month. That robe was one of the few things you treasured dearly, as it was a gift from the people you watched over... and perhaps also because it was a gift that matched with his.

The heat rushing to your face and the quickening of your heartbeat upon hearing him say you’d look stunning— that was out of pure embarrassment, nothing more. He only meant it out of kindness, now, don’t misinterpret his words.

Clearing your throat hastily, you tried to change the subject. “Did you know that there’s a full moon tonight?”

“Is there, now?” He tilted his head to the side; a somewhat endearing habit of his, left over from when he had horns. “I have not left this place in quite some time; the people of Liyue are a little too concerned for my safety to let me venture outside often.”

“They haven’t....?”

But Rex Lapis merely smiled in reply, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “It’s only natural for young people to be overprotective of the ones who take care of them. I’m sure they would do the same for you if you just let them, my friend.”

“You sounded very old when you said that, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

“I said your words shone like gold when you said that, my lord.”

He narrowed his eyes skeptically, but you only returned his gaze with a look of pure, angelic innocence. There was no way he could say anything against you, especially not with that look on your face.

“My lord,” You said, with that innocent look still plastered on your face. “Given that you haven’t gone outside in a while, what say you to accompanying one such as myself on an outing this fine evening?”

“An outing, you say?” He put a hand to his chin and pretended to contemplate the idea, silently observing as your eyes lit up with poorly-hidden anticipation. “Where would one go at this hour? It would cause quite a stir if Rex Lapis were to suddenly disappear from his position, with no reasonable explanation.”

To that you raised a finger upwards in reply, pointing to the cavernous roof of the Golden House.

“Technically, you wouldn’t be leaving.” Holding out your hand to him, you smiled and said, “Shall we watch the stars together, then?”

———

“This is incredibly reckless.”

“It’s also incredibly exciting, don’t you think?”

Barely-suppressed laughter bubbled up into your throat as you looked at the great Rex Lapis, who had awkwardly bunched up his robes around his knees. There was no way he could climb to the top of the roof without either damaging his (very costly, one-of-a-kind) robe, or getting him tangled into a mummy wrapping of fine silk.

“Your laughter does not go unnoticed, by the way.” He said, glowing amber eyes trained on the vast ascent of roof tiles before him. “Since this was your idea, how about you think of a solution to this problem?”

The cool night breeze whistled in your ears like a distant flute, and he shivered slightly; it was best to think of a solution quickly, lest Liyue be in uproar over the dignified Rex Lapis catching a mere cold.

You squinted at the rooftop, trying to analyse the best way to scale it with as little collateral damage to your superior as possible. It was certainly possible, especially with your talents as an adeptus (and also because your position did not require such cumbersome clothing), but there would have to be some rather... unusual measures taken.

“Do you trust me?”

He blinked in confusion. “What strange sort of question is—“

Before he could finish, you lifted him off the ground as though you were carrying a princess.

“Hold on tight, my lord.” You whispered, your lips only a few breaths away from his ear. “It may be a little bit unstable.”

He barely had time to wrap his arms around your neck as you leapt into the air, nimbly bounding off the golden tiles like a deer.

What exactly was this situation he was in? Moreover, what was this odd sensation swelling in his heart?

“Mind your sleeves, Rex- I mean, my lord!” You huffed. “I can’t see where I’m stepping if you decide to obscure my sight, which isn’t exactly the best choice for you right now.”

With one final jump, you landed safely on the topmost roof of the Golden House. He could only stare at you blankly as he tried to process what had just happened in the past few minutes— however, you caught onto his stare too easily.

“What, are you surprised that I was able to pull that off?” Shaking your head vigorously to remove the flyaway hair from your eyes, you frowned at him in a jesting manner. “Don’t tell me you’ve been underestimating my abilities this whole time, my lord.”

“No.” He replied immediately. “I would never.”

“That’s what I thought.” With a nod of satisfaction, you gently set him down onto the roof. “Here is the moon and stars for you, as promised.”

Rex Lapis raised his eyes to the sky that he had not seen in some time, and the heavens did not disappoint.

Overhead, the galaxy stretched out in a rich tapestry of hues, stars interwoven in between the threads like beads of precious stones. A full moon hung in the sky, a pearl of great price that took all the beauty that surrounded it and unified it into a beautiful symphony of colours.

For the first time in a while, he felt free— up here with you by his side, there were no such things as duty and responsibility. There were only the two of you in this quiet, peaceful place, with the heavens above as your only witness.

“A lovely night, don’t you think?” You grinned and put your hands on your hips, the wind toying with your hair ever so slightly. “The minute I saw this, I knew you simply couldn’t miss it; not in a thousand years.”

His gaze lingered on the picture of you bathed in a soft halo of moonlight, smiling dreamily at the stars above. “...Very lovely, indeed.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Jolting suddenly, you fumbled as you brought out a brass bottle and a pair of teacups from seemingly thin air. “I figured it would be cold out, so I prepared something, just in case.” You gestured for him to sit. “Have a seat while you’re waiting— can’t have the ruler of Liyue standing around waiting for me to serve him, can I?”

“Your judgement is as impeccable as ever, my friend. Whatever would I do without you?”

You rolled your eyes as you began to unscrew the cap of the bottle. “Such flattery is unnecessary. We both know that you could manage Liyue just as well if you were on your own.”

“That doesn’t mean I would want to.” He hesitated, unsure if what he would say next would make you uneasy. “You have done more for me and for Liyue than you could possibly imagine, and I... I sincerely wish for you to know that. You have just as an important role in Liyue as I do, and this place would not be what it is today without you.”

Pausing in what you were doing, you slowly raised your eyes to meet his— there was nothing but pure sincerity in his eyes and words. He truly meant what he was saying, and the way he worded it made your heart- no, no, this wasn’t the time for that.

“...Thank you, Rex Lapis. Those words mean a lot to me, especially coming from you.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” He put a hand to his mouth in mock disbelief. “Say that once more, my friend, I do not think I heard you well the first time.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” You glared at him. “It seems that your age is showing, my lord. Perhaps I should carry you back inside, if your age has really advanced so rapidly.“

“You called me Rex Lapis, for once. This is a day that this aged man shall remember for the rest of his life, and shall be inscribed into the history of Liyue as a momentous occasion—“

“The tea will grow cold long before your long-winded speech finishes, my lord. How about you drink first and talk later?”

Rex Lapis gave you an unimpressed stare. “Perhaps if you cease calling me ‘my lord’, I will think the matter over. When did you learn to brew tea, by the way?”

You returned his stare with one equally matched in unimpressed energy. “Over the years, I’ve found that the art of tea-brewing helped greatly in calming myself, and so I’ve been practicing ever since. Your cup, please— my lord.”

He rolled his eyes at your smug face and held out his cup.

A faint wisp of steam curled from the bottle as the dark liquid trickled into his teacup, along with some unknown plant matter. His thoughts must’ve shown clearly upon his face, for you burst out laughing upon seeing it. “It’s not poison, for Celestia’s sake! If I were planning to assassinate you, I would’ve done it eons ago.”

“And how is that meant to bring me any reassurance?”

“Oh, it wasn’t intended to.” You poured a cup for yourself and downed a sip of your concoction. “But no assassin would be fool enough to drink the poison intended for their target... except for me, possibly. Drink up!”

Rex Lapis still eyed the teacup in his hands suspiciously— but then again, you had never given any reason for him to doubt you, so why should he start now?

“So, is it good?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the unique flavours on his tongue. “If I could, I would drink the tea you make everyday for the rest of eternity.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words; you choked, nearly sending the bottle of tea tumbling off of the roof. “Ah- er, well—“

“What, is that too humble of praise for it? I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”

“No, it’s just- well, it sounds like a phrase I’ve heard among the merchants of Inazuma— oh, never mind. I’m glad you like it.”

“What did you put in it to make it taste so exquisite?”

Leaning closer to him, you whispered, “Petals of peach blossom and glaze lily flowers. Along with some other choice ingredients, but what truly gives it that taste and aroma is the flowers.”

Your face was close, closer than he ever even dreamed to approach in a million years; in the pale moonlight, your eyes glittered brighter than any jewel the earth could give. Any dragon would covet such a treasure and guard it with their very life.

How had he not noticed how mesmerizing your eyes were till tonight?

“Absolutely fascinating,” He murmured, before belatedly realizing he said it aloud.

“Isn’t it?” You hummed in agreement. “It’s my special brew. I experimented on it until I could perfectly balance the flavours to my liking.” Your gaze swiveled to the elaborate water gardens sprawled in front of the Golden House. “Do you want me to plant a peach tree and some glaze lilies by the front of the gate? I could do that, if you really do enjoy my tea that much.”

A mix of relief and disappointment washed over him; you hadn’t realised he wasn’t talking about the flowers.

He mused over the idea— it didn’t seem so bad, after all, but...

“I’d like to plant them somewhere more.... permanent. Somewhere we can watch them grow together.”

“Say the word, and your wish is my command.” You beamed at him. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll have them in full bloom for you in no time, no matter the season.”

A warm, fluttering feeling filled his chest, and Rex Lapis suddenly found it harder to breathe than before. His face felt oddly warm, while his hands were cold— was it a result of the night air? He wasn’t that old yet.

Anxious to change the topic before you cracked another joke about his age, he quickly asked, “How are the affairs of Liyue doing, my friend?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “The trade routes are thriving splendidly. Many merchants from the other regions come to seek permission to transport goods to and from their lands, so I’ve been handling most of their affairs. Even picked up some of their languages while at it.” A mischievous smile spread across your face as you said, “Tu ne me comprends pas, non? Je t��aimerai pour toujours et à jamais, mon amour.”

“Impressive.” He hadn’t understood a word of what you had said, but he was almost dead certain that you were poking fun at him. “It is good to see that Liyue is in such capable hands. What about the—“

“—the adepti? Oh, they’re all doing quite well, I believe. They don’t really leave their abodes anymore, save for Madame Ping and young Ganyu.”

“How about—“

“Xiao? I visit him every now and then, to make sure he eats well and is doing alright. And yes, I bring him the painkillers you have specially made for him.” You paused. “He sends his greetings, and it is very obvious that that boy misses you, even if he won’t admit it himself.”

Rex Lapis breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “You really do know what I’m going to say, even before I say it.”

“What can I say? Even before you need to ask, you can consider it already done.” A chuckle escaped your lips as you scuffed the sole of your shoe against the roof tiles. “That’s why I’m here, after all. Who better than I to carry out the word of Rex Lapis?”

“You had best watch yourself there, my friend, lest your head grows too big for your shoulders.”

“Oh, but my lord, who was the one who gave me this position?” Propping your chin on your steepled fingers, you give him a smug look. “I seem to recall a certain someone appointing me as his right-hand, after all.”

“What has been given can just as swiftly be taken away.”

“You’re no fun.” You stuck your tongue out at him and turned away, pointedly staring at the moon.

“So, what is the real reason you brought me up here?”

In an instant your head whipped back to meet his gaze, eyes wide and mouth agape. “How did you—“

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin, and now it was his turn to look smug. “You’re not the only one who can practically read minds, my friend. The facade you put up is better crafted than mine, but I can still see right through you.”

“Well...” You fell silent for a moment, fingers tracing along the sides of the brass bottle and etching invisible patterns into the metal with your fingernails. “I wanted to ask how you were doing.”

Rex Lapis tilted his head slightly, confusion and curiosity melding into one feeling. “How I was doing?”

“I struggle sometimes... with the memories of those who have passed on. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment I forget; I get distracted or actually feel happy, but then I suddenly think of them, and I wonder if I actually have the right to enjoy myself.”

Shifting slightly, your expression was unreadable in the pale moonlight. “But lately, their faces have become blurry, and I get scared when I can’t remember what they look like. It’s the least I can do for my comrades, since I’m the only one left.” You pursed your lips. “Do you have the same problem?”

The somber look on your face stirred up the remorse that still gnawed at his heart, even after all these centuries. You had been suffering alone because of his mistakes, and it pained Rex Lapis even more knowing that no contract he wrote could remedy the empty gap in your heart. All he could do was sit with you and be something you could anchor yourself to, just the way you had been a steadfast rock to him.

He shifted to sit closer to you, no longer caring whether his robes would be dirtied or not. “Not quite the same problem.”

“...Oh.”

“Like you, even after so many years I still cannot help but think of them. Every detail of their lives, their voices and faces— I remember it all.” Rex Lapis looked up to the stars, where perhaps the constellations of your friends lay, and laughed dryly. “Mortal men have been blessed with forgetfulness, but it seems that I have been cursed to remember.”

Tentatively, he raised a hand to gently pat you on the head, just the way his caregiver used to when he was feeling out of sorts or upset. “But worry not, my friend. If what you worry about is forgetting, then I will be the one to remember everything for you.”

“You needn’t worry about me forgetting you, by the way.” You said quietly. “Even if I forget everything else in this world, I know that I’ll always remember you, no matter what form you take.”

The strange, fluttering feeling in his chest returned, coursing through his veins and flowing through his fingertips— subconsciously he pulled his hand away, fearing that those feelings would somehow reach you.

It’s merely the chill of the night air, he told himself.

You said nothing as he pulled away, but Rex Lapis found himself wishing you would say something, anything; complain, or make a joke out of it, or perhaps even ask him to do it again— no, he couldn’t dare dream of that.

Not for your sake.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” You said suddenly, breaking the silence and the maze of thoughts his mind was trapped in.

Rex Lapis looked to the moon over Liyue Harbor, admiring the way it bathed the city in silver light. Though Liyue in the daytime was loud, filled with many colours and sounds that overwhelmed the senses, this version of Liyue was also beautiful to behold.

Perhaps... perhaps this is what she meant by living treasure, he thought to himself.

Caring for this city of people, nurturing them and building a better future for them and the future generations— that was certainly something close to his heart. It didn’t feel exactly like the living treasure he had expected, but as long as you were there to watch over Liyue with him, then perhaps... perhaps it would grow on him as time passed.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It truly is.”

But that evening, he failed to notice that you weren’t looking at the moon.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact zhongli #genshin impact x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli fluff #zhongli angst #slow burn #friends to lovers #best friends to lovers #this chapter was basically ‘how many times can i make them confess without actually confessing’#these idiots #tellerluna.tales #tellerluna.tales: living treasure #pining #mutual pining

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depressed-sock · 2 years ago

Text

Shadow Broker

(3209 words)

Characters: Male Shepard (Mass Effect), Nonbinary Shepard (Mass Effect) - Character, Liara T'Soni, Garrus Vakarian, Shadow Broker

Additional Tags: Shepard Siblings (Mass Effect), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Light Angst, Manipulation, Drabble, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death

(Karson and Silas Shepard)

...

“Liara it’s too quiet,” Karson says as they all wait for the door to unlock. He shifts his stance, gun held ready. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for anything to happen. This whole mission has itched at him, gotten under his skin in a way he can’t explain. He should feel battle ready, it should feel like all of this has been a fight to get to the Shadow Broker. Instead, this entire thing feels stagnant.

They’re here and yet it feels like they didn’t have to do anything to get here. And in his experience, that’s never a good sign.

He shoots a glance at Liara who glares at the door like she’s somehow offended by its entire existence. Her arms cross and she shakes her head. “It’s too easy,” she murmurs as she turns around to face him. Gone is the mask of confidence she’d had since they first reunited. The anger, the nervousness, it’s all starting to bubble to the surface, and honestly, he can’t blame her.

This mission feels like a ghost story. Bits and pieces falling together to lead them with a trail of bread crumbs into whatever horrors await them behind this door. The Shadow Broker knows they’re coming and has barely even attempted to stop them.

Karson can only guess that this whole thing is a trap and by the look Garrus keeps shooting him he agrees with that assessment. Shit.

Liara frowns, suddenly pacing back and forth as the program continues to hack through the lock. “Vasir gave us the information saying it wasn’t worth her life but maybe she was always meant to give it to us.” She wipes a hand over her mouth, stopping in front of Karson. “This is undoubtedly a trap, I just don’t understand why the Shadow Broker would spring it in their own home.”

Garrus shoots a glance back out towards the rest of the ship, taking in the view and looking out for any enemies that might be trying to sneak up on them. There’s no one. There hasn’t been a single life sign other than some repair drones that mistook them for debris. “Are we even sure this is their base of operations? She could have just as easily given us the wrong location.” He asks as he adjusts his grip on his rifle.

Liara nods, “I’m absolutely certain this is the place.” She pauses, “Maybe they never expected anyone to get this far?”

Karson snorts in response, “We’ve never been that lucky. Besides this won’t be the first trap we’ve willingly walked into.” Karson shrugs, doing a quick weapons check as the door dings and slides open. “We’ll deal with this like we would any other trap.”

“With a bang?” Garrus replies dryly.

Karson lets out a short laugh, with a shake of his head. “Of course.”

They move into the interior of the ship, weapons drawn and ready. And just like the outside of it, they meet no resistance, no gunfire, not even any drones. It also means that there’s no Feron either. Not yet at least, they still have further to go.

And the further they go, the more they start to realize that there are no defenses. No guards. Nothing. Just empty corridors and empty rooms that remind him immediately of Freedoms Progress. Like people had lived here but had gotten up and left everything behind.

When they finally stumble into what looks like a security room Karson has had enough. “There’s no way the Broker doesn’t actually have any guards. Liara check that terminal maybe you can figure out what’s going on.”

She nods, stowing her pistol and quickly getting to work as he and Garrus watch her back. She stops, a frown settling on her lips as she turns toward him. “There was an evacuation order about a week ago. Everyone’s gone.”

Karon curses under his breath, “Did the Broker abandon ship?”

“No,” she hesitates before typing something else in. “The Broker is still here, along with a personal guard and…” a sharp intake of breath, “Feron!”

“Do you know where he is?” Karson looks back over his shoulder at her, watching as she shakes her head.

“He’s here but I can’t,” she types something else before she lets out a curse, “It won’t give me access to the information, it’s heavily encrypted. Maybe if we get access to the main systems…”

“Right.” He nods and motions to Garus, “We deal with the Shadow Broker first then figure out where Feron’s being kept.”

They move out, moving a little faster as they walk deeper and deeper into the ship with still no opposition. The tension between the three of them is on a hair trigger by the time they finally reach the last door between them and the Broker.

“Get ready.” Karon doesn’t have to look back to know they’re ready. It’s a familiar feeling having these two at his back. Ready to take on the impossible.

The door opens and they step through to a room that vibrates with the energy of the ship. Monitors line the walls, almost every inch of the room is covered in them, and in the very center is a chair. The back of it turned as the person in it sits facing away from them. Their silhouette smaller then the chair.

“Well, it certainly took you long enough to get here.” The voice makes him stop in his tracks. His eyes widen as he stares in horror as the Shadow Broker’s chair swivels. He’d said this mission felt like a ghost story and now here sits the ghost of his sibling. His sibling who had died two years before his own death. Burned and gone and nothing left for even a casket, their death had gutted him. Yet here they are in front of him. “I was beginning to think you would never show up.” The smile on their face is filled with such familiar mischief it makes his heart ache despite the confusion and anger and hope that floods through him.

“Silas?” Their name catches in his throat and he feels the look of horror Liara shoots him and the sudden tenseness from Garrus. “What? I don’t…” He swallows unable to finish his sentence.

“You don’t understand?” Silas leans forward with a raised eyebrow. “Really Karson? It’s not that hard to guess.” They sigh and lean back, their right hand fidgeting with sparks of their biotics.

A familiar nervous tick that brings with it memories of a kid who could never sit still. Karson takes in a deep breath, trying to stop himself from drowning in emotions.

“You faked your death,” Liara states, gaze going hard when Silas smiles and motions her to continue. “I looked into it after…” She shoots Karson a look before focusing back on Silas, “No body was recovered. No body could be recovered from an explosion like that.”

“But things didn’t add up. You should never have been there anyway. You…” She stops eyes going wide. “You were working for the Broker even before that, weren't you? You were there gathering information on Cerebus there.”

Garrus shifts beside him, and a glance tells Karon there’s some of that familiar anger burning in his gaze. All of it directed at Silas who has barely even given Garrus a glance of attention.

“I’ve been told I always knew too much.” They shrug. “That whole ordeal was actually a hit they placed on me and I figured I’d use it to my advantage.” They smile, leaning forward, “And I’ve never worked for the Broker.”

Liaria’s eyes widen. “You’ve been the Shadow Broker all this time.”

“Since around my eighteenth birthday if I’m remembering correctly.”

“What?!” Karson chokes. When had this happened? How had he missed this?

“You had more important things to worry about Karson.” Silas rolls their eyes and waves off his questions before they can even leave his mouth. “Besides I didn’t want you to know. That would just have just made things more complicated.”

Liara grows tenser beside him, anger suddenly flaring bright, “You sold your brother to the collectors.”

“What?!” Karson helplessly repeats, unable to remove his gaze from his sibling whose fingers snap closed into a fist, shutting their biotic energy off in an instant. They take on a shroud of nonchalance that Karson so easily sees through. It hurts to watch. Hurts to see them smile like they didn’t give a shit about anyone else's opinions.

What happened to the kid he raised?

“It had to happen.” They shrug, “Besides I knew you would go after him and I knew Feron would turn on me to help you.”

Liara stares them down as they stand from their chair. “Where is he?”

“He’s here, as you already know.” They wave a hand and the motion brings up a video image. Feron sitting in a furnished room, arms crossed, glaring at the locked door in front of him. “Safe and sound as part of my agreement with him.”

“Agreement?” Liara snarls. Karson grabs her arm, still feeling like the galaxy has shifted in some unfathomable way.

Silas waves his hand with a roll of his eyes, “The deal was made after his betrayal and subsequent capture. Essentially he agreed to sit pretty in a nice little cell while I waited for my replacement to get here.” He tilts his head as he studies Liara, “I’m sure he’ll be grateful you finally made it here Liara.”

Liara’s anger finally deflates and is replaced by an equally confused state that Karson still can’t claw himself out of. “I…What?”

“I can’t do what I need to do here,” Silas waves their hand at the screens behind them. “I need to be out in the field getting things done but I can’t be when so many other things need coordinating.” They shake their head with a sigh. “So I need someone here I can trust to get things done against the Reapers. Since I already knew the perfect replacement I just needed to leave a trail for her to follow. Though I do wish you’d gotten here a bit earlier Liara.”

They tilt their head as they study her, quietly muttering under their breath about it being faster last time. Liara doesn’t catch it but Karson does. He does and it makes his blood go cold as he remembers all of Silas’s little remarks when they were younger. How sometimes they’d just know things. He’s afraid to ask. Afraid to know what they know.

They have always known too much.

“You did all this… to.. to what? Train me? Test me? Why?” Liara shakes out of Karson’s grasp, striding forward into Silas's space with the anger surging back through her once more.

They tilt their head to the other side, “I mean Yes but also No.” They pause for a second, contemplating their words before starting slowly, “I already knew you’d make a good Shadow Broker. I just needed to push you in the right direction to get there.”

“And how could you know that?”

“The same way I knew my brother was going to die and be revived by Cerberus,” they reply blandly before stepping into her own space, chest to chest. Their voice a quiet threat now, “The same way I know the Reapers are coming and it won’t be so much a war as a culling. Everything you care about burnt to cinders or transformed into monsters.”

Another step forward, and they’re pushing her back, “Do you want to know what the Reapers will do to the Asari? Do you want to know the exact amount of your people that they’ll find useful enough to warp into their image? And how many they’ll decide to just kill instead?”

Liara holds her breath as Silas steps back from her. Their eyes never leaving hers. “If you really want to know then you need to become the Shadow Broker. I’ll answer every single one of your questions and maybe even tell you most of my plans.”

“And if I don’t take your offer?” Her voice shakes.

“Then you leave here with my brother and you live whatever short life you want with no answers from me,” They turn their back to her and add with a look over their shoulder, “and Feron stays here in his cell.”

Liara falters for a moment before the outrage hits. “You’re not going to let him go?!”

“The agreement is for my replacement to get here. If you’re not going to replace me then he has to keep waiting.”

“Silas.” Karson frowns as he studies his sibling, taking in this person he recognizes and the one who has become this person before him. Harsh, unrepentant. Making the hard choices no one else would make. Making the choices Karson would never make. “This isn’t right.”

“Maybe. But it’s what’s needed if we want to have any hope to stop the reapers.”

“This...” Liara breathes hard and her hands cover her face. “I need to think.”

“Take all the time you want.” He motions towards the door. “Outside of my office, I need to talk to my brother alone.”

She doesn’t look back as she exits, Garrus though shoots a glance at him and a glare at Silas before following silently behind her. The door slides shut and it’s like it takes all the oxygen with it. A silence hangs between them like a guillotine waiting to gut the first person to speak.

Karson’s the first to break it. Voice a harsh whisper that sounds too loud to his own ears. “You knew I was going to die.” He stares at his sibling. They knew. He’s known that for a while now. Known it in the way they left behind everything they could to warn him without ever directly warning him. He wishes he’d seen it then.

“Yeah.” They say quietly as they return to their seat, not meeting his eyes. “I weighed the outcomes. I knew what would happen if you died but I didn’t know what would happen if you lived. I gave you hints but… I left whether you actually noticed them up to you.”

The quiet settles once again into the room. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants them to speak, to tell him everything. But it’s always been like this. Silas never sharing until asked and even then never telling the full truth. Or redirecting the entire conversation.

He can’t afford not to have any answers anymore. He needs the truth. No matter how much it will hurt. “You’ve died before. Haven’t you Silas?”

They still won’t meet his eyes.

“You know sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe? Like no matter what I do I can’t catch my breath? And sometimes I get so cold it goes right down to my bones.”

They lean forward and put their head in their hands.

“Does that sound familiar Silas?” The question hangs in the air before finally Silas looks up. Eyes rimmed red.

“You have no idea how fucking hard it was for me to sit by and let you die again Karson.” They shudder out a barely held-back sob. “I knew they’d bring you back. I knew that the Galaxy needs a Commander Shepard so they’d have to bring you back. But I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like not knowing if I’d fucked up my calculations. I doubted every single second you were dead. I doubted it even when Cerberus got their hands on you.”

“And you don’t think I felt the same when you died?” Karson demands, “You don’t think I didn’t mourn you? Didn’t wonder how I could have done something to save you?”

“I didn’t die I faked my death.”

“But you have died. You’ve died in the vacuum of space, exactly the same way I did. I’m not going fucking nuts Silas. I know you and I know your nightmares are exactly the same ones I have now.” He breathes heavily, barely able to swallow down the hurt, “I know you’ve always been hiding shit from me. I need straight answers from you right now Silas.” And he asks the question he’s been dreading. ”When did we die the first time?”

The first time because he knows the Vaccum of space wasn’t the first time he’d died. Not from Silas’s point of view.

Their voice is a whisper when they answer, “When we were kids. After I got the L2 except I didn’t get it the first time around.” They swallow. “Richie shot you and then… we’ll let’s just say I didn’t join the Reds willingly.”

He lets out a choked sound, “Fuck, Silas.” God, they had lived years without him.

“I lived the life of Commander Shepard and I fucked it all up Karson.” They stare at him, stare through him. “I got so many people killed. People I cared about. I just…” They stop and shudder. “I’m trying to fix what I can. Trying to make sure we’re better prepared. I can’t tell you more than that. Not while you have to work with Cerberus.”

“But you can tell Liara?” his voice cracks and he doesn’t know whether it’s hope or jealousy. Silas needs someone by their side and it can’t be him. And it hurts that he’s going to lose them again.

“If she accepts my offer I can tell her a good chunk of it.” They look away again, “Not everything, you’ve already changed so much.” They let out a laugh, “Almost all good things I promise.”

Karson takes a breath and releases it. Ridding himself of emotions that he doesn’t need right now. The mask of Commander Shepard falling into place as he shakes his head with a soft smile, “Only almost?”

“Yeah had to kill that Doctor from Illos before she became a problem.”

Karson stares at him for a second, “What?”

“Oh yeah, she was Indoctrinated as fuck man. Not showing the major signs but once the Reapers get here she would’ve been a problem for the poor fucks closest to her.” They shake their head, “But that’s not important anymore, right now I need you to go speak with Liara, use your good old charm, and convince her to take my deal. And while you do that I've got an angry Turian who probably wants to yell at me."

"Garrus?” Karson asks with a raise of an eyebrow. “When did you two even meet?" Karson pauses before adding, "You know what no. I don't want to know. You both probably did something illegal and I definitely don’t need to know what."

Silas grins which is answer enough for him. As he turns heading towards the door, Silas adds softly, “I’m glad your back Karson.”

“I’m glad your back too, Silas. A little confused and very fucking angry but I’m glad.” He shoots them a shaky smile as he exits the door, passing by Garrus who walks in with a heavy dry sarcastic tone, "Shiv, thought we promised to meet up again in a bar."

Silas lets out a peel of laughter, "Hey it's not my fault you found -" their words cut off by the door sliding shut.

#Mass Effect #mass effect 2 #fanfiction #my writing #sock-writes #Commander Shepard #Karson Shepard #Silas Shepard

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shoutogepi · 5 years ago

Text

Scream for Me

Kaminari Denki

word count : 5.7k

[ ✘ (nsfw 18+) ]

themes : villain!denki, yandere!denki, implied stalking/obsession, DUBCON, coercion, quirk use… denki has a tongue piercing

bio : It’s been two years since your hero best friend fell off the face of the earth, and since then, he’s resurfaced as a prominent villain. You don’t want anything to do with him. So naturally, he comes to you.

author’s note : this is for bnha bookclub’s bingo event, for which i can now cross off the “hero turned villain” slot ;) once again this fic contains DUBCON so please beware before you continue… also so sorry if denks is OOC in this— i am aware that in canon he does not have a mean bone in his body

side note: this fic is dedicated to @fanfic-me-up , the beautiful bday queen! she deserves the best, so please wish her a happy birthday! also, a great big thanks to @hawks-senseis and @boom-bakugou for beta’ing <3

also available on AO3 here

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🄳eep bass rattles your bones as you step around the glowing dance floor, drunken bodies bumping into your sides carelessly. It’s some electronic song pumping through the speakers and causing your ears to buzz, your tongue sliding over your lip as you make your way back to your tabe. The group you’re with barely even notices your return, your adventure proving victorious as you harbor a sweating glass in each hand. The fruity concoction initially tastes sweet on your tongue, the burn of the alcohol bleeding in afterwards and making your face twist in a bitter scowl. So much for the bartender’s lame attempt at flirting— his promise of “you won’t be able to taste the vodka at all!” falling flat.

Your flavor of the night throws back a shot from the table, the sticky glass clinking loudly as he slams it down. He’s cute enough— your classic type: tall and slender, a sleeve decorating his tan arm with swirls of ink, dark hair hanging over his bright eyes, and pink lip adorned with a silver ring. In your opinion, he’s the hottest of his group, which had joined your pack of girls nearly as soon as you’d entered the threshold.

Yet for some reason, you find yourself restless as he grinds against you, his hands firm atop your hips. Maybe he isn’t as hot as you think… or maybe you’re not trying to score tonight. Ha, as if that could ever be the case. Maybe you’re not drunk enough, or maybe you need to top off with something better than alcohol. Rolling your neck, you place your head on his shoulder, his hands immediately gliding up your torso to pull you closer against him. You can feel his semi through his jeans, and the recognition of it makes you smirk, closing your mascara-framed eyes and allowing him to sway you to the beat.

And you try to enjoy it— you really do.

But still, there’s something off.

There’s this itchy feeling of dread crawling across your skin, spreading over your body and seizing your heart with an icy fist. The poor muscle starts to beat furiously against its sudden confines, your eyes opening and moving to survey your surroundings— feeling like prey about to meet its certain fate.

That’s when you see him.

He’s right by the exit of the club, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent glow of the neon signs on the wall. Physically speaking, you can’t see much of him— he’s all the way across the room in a crowded, dinghy club— barely enough light for you to see his face. And yet, those haunting, golden eyes pierce straight into you. You freeze, bottom lip allowing gravity to take it prisoner, your breath caught midway in your shriveling lungs. The guy you’re dancing with doesn’t seem to notice, only pressing his hips harder into your ass.

It feels like you’re ripping roots from the earth as your feet move on their own accord, first one trembling step— then two. Now that you’re level with him on the main dance floor, he’s swallowed up into the tangling sea of shadowy limbs. You try to push your way over to the exit, but by the time you stumble out of the crowd, he’s nowhere to be found.

Whatever kind of buzz you had previously felt is instantly cut short. Trepidation oozes into your veins, chilling your bones and sending shivers all the way to your toes. On one hand, you want to believe in yourself— you’re sure that you’d seen him— but on the other hand, dismissing the sighting of the man would be much easier to do. And you hadn’t seen him in front of you in two years… the thought makes your chest feel tight, torn and bleeding with discomfort.

You miss him so much.

But even if you could see him again, he’s not the same boy you adored anymore… no, that would be impossible. And he could never be here, in this club, either. It might not be the best part of town, but it’s still a bustling spot in the city night life. There’s no way someone with his level of fame could just show up to a popular club like this on a Friday night, undetected.

So you write it off— take the easy way out. You’re drunk, there’s a lot of people here, and you were probably just looking for a reason to get off that guy at the table. That’s all it can be; your mind playing tricks on you. Of course, you hadn’t seen him.

That would be ridiculous.

Impossible.

It’s no surprise you feel sick to your stomach at the very idea of seeing him. Whether it’s because your stomach is filled to the brim with butterflies, or because your body feels shocked— as if his electricity crawls across your skin and makes your hairs stand on end— you’re not sure. Making your way to the back of the club, you somehow find the hallway void of a bathroom line. Never had you been graced with such a blessing, and you quickly make your way toward the door, giddy to be able to have a moment to yourself.

Once you’re inside the room, you take a moment to examine yourself in the mirror. Your hands planted on the countertop, you lean in close, eyes searching your reflection for anything that could be off. You still just don’t feel right, and you’re not sure why. The walls are colored in a dark turquoise hue, the black marble counter opaque and matching the dark stalls behind you. Fingers fidgeting for something to do, you pluck the lipstick out of your comically small purse, lining your lips before blotting the color with a paper towel.

A low wolf whistle splices the still air of the lavatory, echoing lowly on the tiled walls.

Every cell in your body is frozen, your gaze trained on a pair of yellow, slitted eyes over your shoulder. He’s slipping out of one of the stalls, taking his time as he crosses the room only to turn the lock on the door. Your heart starts to beat again at the realization that he’s really here, and that he’s just sealed the two of you in together.

Escape is the only thing on your mind right now, your eyes darting between the door, the vents on the ceiling, and the window that looks just a bit too small for you to wiggle through. Fear begins to bubble into your bloodstream, burning you with its sheer cold, like dry ice on naked skin.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His voice is just like it was before he disappeared, but all signs of his playful, positive attitude are absent. Instead, he sounds almost bored… and there’s this tone to his inflection that feels like cough syrup— thick and sticky, leaving a rancid taste at the back of your tongue.

Poison.

He keeps his distance from you, content to just watch your gaze in the reflection before you. You can’t help but look at him; too terrified that if you look away, he’ll be gone and then there’s no denying you’re crazy. You’ll have to get checked into an asylum or something, because you’re certified insane— nevermind if you’re imagining him— you can’t help but think he looks good. Really good.

Dressed in black from head to toe, he looks like he’s one with the shadows of the night. Even his hair is black now, raven strands perfectly framing his handsome face. The yellow streak in his hair is in the shape of a lightning bolt, colors inverse of what they used to be, when he was a peppy blonde. But those days are long over now, and the snakebite piercings adorning his full lower lip draw you in, much to your dismay. He looks damn good in his distressed jeans, the leather jacket sitting just right on his shoulders. And just like the last time you’d seen him, a tight, black choker sits perfectly on his throat.

“What, hmm? Nothin’ to say, sunshine?” Oh, that name. The term he had so affectionately coined you when you were still just classmates. When you were his best friend.

It takes a moment for you to think, and another for you to actually force the words out of your mouth. “What are you doing here, Denki?” You sound totally breathless, and it’s partly because you are— you’re completely shocked that he’s here, with you, in some nightclub bathroom. The balls he has to be out in public right now…

“And I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he says, lips curled into a displeased frown, and those big, golden eyes trailing up and down your body, assessing you in the same manner you had him. But he doesn’t stare; he’s already looked at you for plenty long. He’s over just simply looking at you. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Y/N.”

You don’t know what to say to him. After two years of Kaminari Denki dropping off the face of the earth, and more recently appearing on Japan’s ‘Most Wanted’ list instead, he’s come to you out of the blue. How did he know where to find you tonight? Does he have someone watching you? Is he… Does he still have those feelings that he used to pretend didn’t exist?

“Why are you here?” You try again, whispering, like anyone will be able to hear you over the thumping bass outside. But Denki hears you, leisurely stalking over to you.

Whipping around, your trembling fingers grab onto the edge of the countertop. You’ve read the articles, heard the news. You know the things he’s done. The terrible, unspeakable things.

Denki stops a step away from you, tongue glazing over his lip as his eyes rake over your front. A flash of metal between his lips catches your eye, glimmering in the harsh overhead lights before it’s gone.

“To see you, of course.”

He’s close now, and you can see that he’s taller, broader— more muscular than before, even underneath his jacket. His physique distracts you from his words for a moment, softening the devastating blow of fear. Your widening eyes jump up to lock with his, his gaze casting a sinister gleam over your rapidly-heating cheeks.

Denki closes the distance between you, gripping onto the side of the counter and leaning down to hang his face in front of yours. He smells slightly like smoke, stale cologne wafting onto you as his hips gently meet yours, trapping you against the sink behind you. His belt buckle presses onto your stomach, digging into you as he takes a deep breath beside your neck. You’re paralyzed beneath him, sucking in a small gasp as his fingers trace over the bottom of your spine, tingles shooting through you.

“Did you miss me? Because I missed you,” he murmurs against your throat, the cool gold of his earring dragging on your jaw. “So fucking much.”

His fingers trail to the back of your hips, palms landing on your dress as he squeezes your waist and pulls you closer to him. Your chests bump together, your cleavage pressing onto his front. Your hands fly up to push his shoulders, hating how your feelings clash against each other, turmoil brewing in your stomach. “Let me go,” you plead, spine stiffening as his fingers knead at you.

Denki chuckles, nipping at your skin and trailing the tip of his tongue along the column on your throat. “That’s not how this works, sunshine.” He pulls back to drop his gaze to your lips before his honeyed eyes swallow yours again. Wicked intent swirls in those caramel irises, tendrils of terror snagging tight around your throat. And yet, some small, sick part of you feels safe, feels comfortable in front of him— as if he’s the same guy who would stay up all night long with you just to play the latest video game, or do something crazy like make cupcakes or drive to the beach at four in the morning. As if you don’t know what he’s done since the last time you’ve seen him.

At the recollection of those unspeakable deeds, you whimper, heavy tears pooling along your lower lashes. “I’ll scream,” you threaten, though it doesn’t come out sounding like much of a threat.

A wide smirk curls the corners of his lips, that tongue jewelry making another brief appearance as he opens his mouth and leans into you. “You think anyone’s gonna hear us?” A dark brow rises on his forehead, amusement washed over his sharp features. “You’ll scream when I tell you to.”

Heat surges through your stomach at his crude suggestion, your body betraying you as his hands slide underneath your dress, his bare palms cupping your ass and distributing a confident squeeze. His fingers inch in between your legs, reaching out to ghost over your pussy through your thin, sheer thong.

The tough girl act proving fruitless, you decide to switch tactics. “Please, Denki, I don’t want to—”

“Why are you so fuckin’ wet, then?” He growls, fingertips pressing against your slit harder. He brings one hand before you, forcing you to look at the strands of slick that stretch between his fingers. Your face heats up, cheeks aflame with embarrassment. How could your body be so turned on right now, and your feelings so conflicted? The tension inside of you only worsens when he dips the fingers into his mouth, making a show of his pierced tongue stroking against them.

Finally his lips crash against yours, desire bursting inside of you and leaking into every corner of your body. You can’t move, can’t think, with his lips on you, moulding and pushing onto yours like waves in the restless sea. There’s passion behind his caress, a motive squandered and swept underneath the rug for far too long. He’s wanted you since high school, and now, he can finally have you.

“Please,” you beg quietly as you pull away, digits curling into the collar of his jacket, your lip trembling and a tear shooting down your face, “Denki, you’re scaring me.”

“Aw, cutie— no need to be scared,” Denki replies, rubbing the soaked front of your underwear as he smothers your neck with the gentlest kisses. “I’m the same old, lovable goof as before. Your Denki, your sparky. Well, one thing has changed… I waited for so long trying to think of something, anything that could make you realize how good I would treat you. I wasted so much time just playing my part as your best friend, a shoulder for you to cry on while your worthless boyfriends would betray you. It took me a while before I figured it out though—” he pauses for dramatic effect, leaning in so your lips brush “—that you love being treated bad.”

You’re speechless as his mouth conquers yours again, his tongue surprisingly sweet as it slides into your mouth with practiced ease. Your body is frozen solid for one whole second before your dignity withers and dies right before your very eyes, your thighs clenching together on either side of his intruding hand. His lips pull into a smirk, rough hands gathering the backs of your thighs before he sets your ass on the edge of the counter. It should be embarrassing how easily he peels your legs apart to stand between them, the heat leaking from his hard, jean-clad cock onto the inside of your thigh.

Noticing your stubborn hesitance, he sighs lowly as he takes his lips from yours, issuing a shockingly pleasant kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry, sunshine,” he says, hand landing on your jaw to steer your gaze directly into his. For the first time tonight, you feel like you see the faintest glimpse of him. The real him, the one you loved and laughed and cried with. He’s sincere. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. Unless… you’re into that?”

Your hand sails through the air automatically, an ingrained, pre-programmed response to his naughty suggestion. Only it doesn’t quite reach its target, for Denki’s strong grip keeps your wrist from moving any further. With a click of the tongue and a curt, unamused glance, he shoves your wrist back, pinning it against the cold mirror behind you. His other arm wraps tight around your waist, your bodies flush against each other.

“Bad girl. You gonna make me hold you down the whole time? That’s no fun,” he admonishes in your ear, hand scooping your ass through your dress and pressing you up against him. His erection digs into your thigh, hot and hard against your shivering skin, even through his jeans. “C’mon baby, m’gonna make you feel so good.”

You had sobered up at the sight of him, but now a new kind of intoxication sweeps through you, knocking you off your metaphorical feet and throwing you into the deep end of a sticky, ambrosial pool of desire. There’s no way you can say that you’d never thought of Denki ravaging you— you’d thought plenty about it, actually— but you’d never pictured it going quite like this. Even so, you can’t deny that his new look looks especially good in him, and as he’d previously pointed out, your body was more than happy to entertain him.

So you give in.

You only tilt your head back the slightest bit, and Denki’s already descending down onto you, starving tongue greedily slithering down your front. A hand tugs down the front of your dress, his lips wandering over the tops of your tits in your bra. Teeth dragging the silky material down, he groans as your bare chest is exposed, nuzzling a cheek against you as he begins to suck and nip at your flesh. The cool metal of his piercing beside the wet heat of his tongue washing over your nipples makes you moan, your free hand slapping over your mouth in mortification. But Denki only moans back, the lustful noise making your cunt twitch, longing for his attention.

Eager to please, he lets go of your wrist, maneuvering you in his hands so he can easily slide your thong to the side. His thumb dips into your entrance, gathering your abundant slick before it floats north, circling your pulsing clit. He swears against your tits, tongue still tracing your areola diligently as a fingertip begins to prod at your drooling hole. You can’t help but whine aloud, your head knocking back and your spine bending to press yourself into his caress. It’s wrong to be into this, you know this, and yet his tongue, his touch, his kiss— it overpowers all logic, your brain turning a blind eye as your body eats up every ounce of attention he offers.

You’re rewarded for your behavior when a slender finger slides into you, then another. The two digits begin to pump into you, curling as they disappear into your pussy, brushing deep inside of you. Denki trails his mouth back to yours, tongues tangling in a furious mess. Your fingers card through his inky locks, nails scraping his scalp as you grapple onto him. Your legs fold around his waist, hips rolling as he fucks his fingers into you tirelessly.

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he groans, marigold eyes fixed on his digits slipping in and out of your dripping cunt. He sucks in a quick breath when your fingers find his belt, unfastening it and ripping down his fly. “Impatient?” he teases as you undo his pants, the dark denim falling along with his boxers.

Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, standing tall and proud as it pops out of its confines. There’s a thatch of blonde hair at the base of him, the very tip glistening with a swollen bead of pre. Hesitation long gone, you bring a hand to your mouth, allowing the thick saliva from the back of your throat to pool in your palm before you guide it back to him. Denki moans as your wet hand wraps around his throbbing length, squeezing just tight enough to feel how hard he really is. Slowly, you jerk him off, both your mouths parted as you pant, eyes boring into each other. His fingers thrust in turn with your fist, the squelching sound bouncing off the tiled walls.

It feels like your body is on fire, every movement of his hand stoking the flames, and you can only watch, helpless, as the inferno grows larger and livelier. There’s a small pressure forming in your stomach, your slick pouring out around him. You can’t contain your moans any longer, your arm curling around his neck to draw him close before your teeth take the skin of his neck hostage. Your noises of pleasure are hushed as they fall onto his throat, your lipstick smearing on the pale expanse of it.

Denki’s hips begin to move in accord with your hand, movements free and effortless as they greet your slippery fist. His cock is hot and swollen on your palm, veins bulging and rubbing against you. It’s only a matter of time before he’s had enough teasing, taking his fingers from you and swatting away your hand. He pants as he lines up the head of his cock with your glistening cunt, breath uneven. And then he’s pushing into you, stretching your silky walls wonderfully, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You cry out when his hips bump yours, struggling to keep your half-lidded eyes open. Cheeks feeling hotter than ever, you wrap your other arm around his neck, pussy fluttering around his big cock as you adjust to his size. Surprisingly, Denki starts off slow, gently rocking his hips into yours. He sighs as his lips find yours again, the cold jewelry from his piercings foreign but welcome against your heated skin. He distracts you with his tongue as it slides between your lips, reaching out to greet yours. His fingers knead at your tits, your nipple trapped between his thumb and forefinger. The tingling sensations fluster you as his thrusts start to become deeper, harder— each one gracing your sensitive walls with a rub of his thick veins. His tempo begins to hasten, cock pushing into your scorching, dripping heat just as quick as it retreats. The pair of you are moaning, gasping for breath, too lost in each others’ bodies to bother with worrying about being caught.

“Does that feel good? You like it when I stuff you with my cock, sunshine?” Denki purrs, tugging at your nipple between his fingers. His teeth ghost over your bottom lip, hips slapping loudly against yours as he continues his attack on your cunt. He groans loudly when your walls tremble around him, clenching down as he finds a new angle that allows him better access to your most intimate spots. “Fuck, your pussy fits me so perfectly, so wet and tight… Made just for me.”

Even though his sentiment should be concerning, you find yourself more turned on than ever, your submission leaking out and mixing with the lust surging through your body to create a cocktail of desire stronger than anything you’ve ever felt. Unadulterated moans float out of your parted lips, raw pleasure shooting into you as the head of his cock pounds into your g-spot. Your shaking legs spread on their own volition, welcoming him inside as deep as possible. Gasping his name, your hands slip underneath the hem of his shirt, exploring his warm skin and the taut muscles hidden below. “D-Denki! Oh, fuck!”

Denki growls beside your ear, the sound primal and heated. His pace continues, relentless, as he lets his hands fall from your tits, opting to clutch onto a thigh and hold you open for him instead. “You dunno how long— oh, fuck yes— nngh, you dunno how long I’ve been dreaming about this, Y/N. Y-You, moaning my name like the filthy little slut you are. My slut, my girl… My sunshine— shit!”

You whimper as he pulls out of you abruptly, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thigh. His wet cock jerks against your pussy, which twitches in response, as if calling out for him and begging for his return. You pull at his hips, desperate for him to be inside of you again, wanting— no, needing for him to stretch you full.

He catches his breath pretty quick, letting out a low chuckle at your impatience. “Got a little too close there… this pussy is even better than I thought it’d be,” he explains, gathering you in his arms and placing you on your feet. He turns you around, pushing your back so you lay nearly flat, bent over the counter. Cock gliding against your slick folds, he evens his breathing as his thumbs pull your cunt apart, golden eyes settling on your twitching hole. Playful as always, he rubs the tip of his length over your entrance, not quite pushing hard enough to actually penetrate you. You watch him in the mirror before you, seemingly entranced in his own show.

“D-Denki,” you swallow your pride, restless to be stimulated again. At the sound of his name leaving your wanton lips, his eyes flicker up to meet yours in the reflection, filled with curiosity and mischief. “Please, put it back in… I… I need you, Denki.” You whisper the words, and it’s honestly a miracle that he hears your plea, for the club music still pounds through the thin door. The embarrassment is overwhelming, forcing you to close your eyes. You can’t bear to meet his gaze, shame coursing through you. Here you are, being ravaged by your ex-best friend, now turned villain, in a nightclub bathroom… begging for his cock, like a whore.

The feeling of his length pressing into your dripping heat shakes you from your shameful thoughts, eyes flying open to meet his caramel gaze again. “Don’t worry, sunshine,” Denki coos, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek, “I need you, too.”

You can’t fathom any response, his thick length filling you to the brim as his hips jostle yours, completely inside. The stretch is superb with this new angle, the veins on his cock so deliciously stimulating your snug, velvet walls. He draws back, only to snap forward quickly, your legs quivering at the bliss that emanates from the wonderful stretch he provides. His words have a sinfully pleasurable effect on you, a shiver spreading over your form, and your spine bending, ass pressing into him even more.

Denki hums as he begins to hasten the tempo, soft smacks filling the stuffy air inside the room. His cock glides into you easily, lubricated by your copious arousal as you pulse around him. Your ass jiggles as he begins to swing his hips harder, drilling into your slobbering cunt with renewed passion. Rough hands clutch onto either of your arms, holding his own arms straight as he uses the new grip on you to further his momentum.

Stars dance before your eyes, his cock hammering into your most sensitive area. The position he has you in provides just the right angle for him to assault your g-spot, your jaw unhinging as a string of high-pitched moans tumbles from your throat. Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, rolling down your face and spattering against the dirty mirror as he continues to pound into you mercilessly. You try to form the words to warn him you’re about to cum, but you can’t think, let alone speak.

But it seems he doesn’t need your warning, for Denki analyzes your lewd expression in the reflection, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Go on, do it. C’mon sunshine, you can do it. Cum for me, fuck, cum with my cock stretching out your sloppy little hole,” he orders, still slamming into you ruthlessly. “I wanna hear you when you cum, lemme hear that pretty voice of yours— scream for me.”

You hate that his filthy words have such power, but that doesn’t deter your cunt from wringing snug around him, the coil in your stomach compressing tighter and tighter until your vision turns white and your body goes rigid. Waves of euphoria crash over you, sucking you into the sea of pleasure. Your lungs burn as you scream out, pure ecstasy zipping through your every limb. Denki has to stop thrusting, his grip digging into your skin as he struggles to keep his own orgasm at bay. Your pussy constricting around him has him losing his breath, teeth descending onto his bottom lip as he tries not to cum.

Finally your cunt stops seizing, your body relaxing onto the countertop. Your mind is totally hazed, filled with an electrifying fog of post-orgasm bliss. But Denki’s quick to snap you out of it, picking up right where he left off and sending his cock surging into your tender heat. Once again you’re thrown into the vicious throes of pleasure, his cock the only thing you’re able to focus on as it drives into your slippery, gummy walls with ease.

His hands flying to latch onto your waist, he holds onto you tightly as his eyes find yours in the mirror, his orbs meeting your barely-open ones. That same spring is gaining pressure in his own stomach, the moans slipping out of him as good an indicator as any that he’s getting close. Fisting your hair, he pulls you upright, his slender fingers slipping from your tresses to lace around your throat. “Mmmm, m’close baby,” he pants, his hot breath fanning against your ear.

He begins to kiss at your jaw, littering it in affectionate nips and licks. Moving one of your legs so your knee rests on the counter, he pistons into you, hand wandering down to press against your stomach, the tips of his fingers just reaching your clit. Your body stiffens at the sudden stimulation, the bundle of nerves having been forgotten since his cock speared into you. Yet he rubs at it attentively now, fingers dipping down to where his cock draws in and out of you to gather excess slick before he continues.

“Ohhhh, fuck,” Denki grunts, his fingers tightening slightly around your neck. You can still breathe, but the feeling of his hand flush against your throat sends heat to your core, your pussy clutching onto his cock in desperation. “Gonna paint the inside of this sweet little cunt white… fill you up with my cum, nice and full.”

Icy fear trickles into your veins at the premise of him unloading into you, nothing to stop his seed from fertilizing you. “N-Not inside, Denki,” you beg hoarsely, your voice meek and mild, still recovering from your screams. But he doesn’t seem to hear you, or at least, he doesn’t acknowledge you— only continuing his ministrations on your clit and the vicious onslaught of his cock sheathing inside of you. “Please,” you whimper, your arms reaching behind your head to touch him, one hand landing in his silky hair and the other on his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s right. Beg for my cum… Mmm, love it when you say my name like that, sunshine,” he moans, too wrapped up in his own pleasure to heed your words. Or perhaps he chooses to ignore them, his pace morphing into ragged, unmeasured thrusts, and his hips jerking as he loses himself in your tight, wet heat. “Take it, Y/N— every last fucking drop’s for you,” he whispers in your ear, eyes closed and lashes fluttering on your jaw. He groans as his orgasm tears into him, electricity from his quirk bursting through his body. The energy flows into you, shockwaves seizing over your body as the lightning rolls off of him. Somehow, even though he’s howling out in his own ecstasy, he manages to direct the electric current to the fingers that toy with your clit, sending another orgasm hurtling toward you like a bus with no brakes on the freeway. The static zips through you, quivering your bones and making your body melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. Your cunt milks his cock well, your climax making your walls contract and clamp around him. Searing ropes of his sticky seed land deep inside of you, his cock gushing and emptying his load into your tender heat.

Once the overwhelming pleasure has subsided, your body falls slack in his arms, slightly twitching in recoil from the surge of electricity. Denki coos at you as he catches his own breath, nuzzling into your neck and littering your skin with kisses. He whispers sweet nothings to you as you come back to reality, still subdued from the all-consuming ecstasy that had taken hold of you entirely just moments ago. Slowly he slips out of you, careful to slide your panties back in place to catch his load as it starts to leak out of your aching hole. Moving your leg off the countertop, he turns you around, smiling happily as he fixes your smudged makeup and frazzled hair. Your body is too weak to try to fight him, so you let him hold you against his lithe form as he fixes your dress, covering your ravaged body as best as he can. He takes a moment to rub off the lipstick stains from his skin, buckling his belt before those marigold eyes find yours once again.

“Finally, you’re mine,” he muses, yellow eyes glinting at you under the harsh, fluorescent lighting of the dirty bathroom. He tilts his head as he cups your chin, angling you to look into his intoxicating gaze. “Oh sunshine… what fun we’ll have together.”

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

yayyy my first denki fic :D also my first time writing villain/yandere stuff too... so please be sure to lemme know if you enjoyed!

➥ masterlist

➥ BINGO masterlist

#kaminari denki smut #kaminari smut #bnha smut #mha smut #kaminari denki x reader #kaminari x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #kaminari denki fic #kaminari fic #bnha fic #mha fic #tw: dubcon #tw: yandere

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gureishi · 4 years ago

Note

Your writing is amazing, and all those prompts are great! :) Could I request number 17 for Saeyoung with a female MC? Hurt/Comfort, and NSFW, please. Thank you so much, have a great day!

THANK YOU! <3

So here, let me tell you what happened...

I looked at this prompt and I thought about Saeyoung (let’s be real, I’m always thinking about Saeyoung) and my brain screamed CABIN, CABIN, and I realized...oh my god, in all the thousands of words of Saeyoung X Reader fanfiction I’ve written, I’ve somehow never written my version of their (probably) canon first time.

So I DID IT! And it’s long af cause...well, of course it is.

seventeen: i came here for sanctuary

Saeyoung X Reader, E (M/F sex), words: 6930 (!!)

Smut warning, proceed with caution ♡

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The sun sinks behind the trees, the last streaks of yellow melting from the sky. Gravel crunches beneath the sleek little car’s wheels as it slows to a stop. The only light is from the phone in your hand—you can’t see anything outside the windows but dark, dark, dark.

“Wait,” Saeyoung whispers. “Just a minute.”

He turns off the car and without its rumbling the silence feels louder. You sit absolutely still and your heart pounds.

Saeyoung holds out his hand and, wordlessly, you pass him his phone. He pulls up a new GPS, one you don’t know how to read; zooms in; breathes a sigh of relief.

“Okay,” he says, louder. “We’re safe here.”

With that, he flings open the door, and you realize you must have absolute trust in him after all as you follow suit, stepping out into the unknown.

Outside, you can see a little more. There’s no moon tonight, but the stars are huge here, and by their light you make your way around the car, stand beside Saeyoung as he opens the trunk. He passes your backpack to you and slings the other, larger bag over his shoulder. He does this quickly, quietly, as if it’s a routine. Finding a safe house in the dark, unpacking the car in silence—for him, you suppose, it is a routine.

“Um, maybe we should—” He hesitates, awkwardly holds out a hand to you. You grin.

“Do you still need an excuse to hold my hand?” You slip your hand into his larger, warmer one, and he interlaces his fingers with yours.

“I’ll take any excuse I can get,” he says, winking, and you feel calmer. You’d follow this man to the ends of the earth, you think.

Hand-in-hand, you walk up the gravel path. You can see now that he’s parked beside a smallish cabin—it looks built by hand, the kind you’ve seen in reality shows (“fashionable young couple leaves it all behind for a rustic cabin in the woods!”) You weren’t sure things like this existed. Of course they do, you tell yourself. Stupid.

Saeyoung pulls a ring of keys you’ve never seen before out of the side pocket of his bag and spins it around, inserting a little, unlabelled key into the door. You raise your eyebrows.

“Come here often?”

He laughs and the sound warms you up from the inside: you loved his laugh the very first time you heard it, what feels like a lifetime ago. You love the way he giggles when you tease him and the way he cackles when he’s proud of himself and the way he laughs like this—bubbly, like he finds everything you do and say impossibly delightful.

“It’s actually an old agency hideout,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at first, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here for years.”

He pushes the door open and you follow him inside; you’re immediately hit by a wave of cold and a damp, musky scent. You don’t mind it—it reminds you of the basement of the home you lived in as a child.

“I think there’s…somewhere around here…” He pushes ahead, muttering to himself, and you wait in the doorway, keeping it cracked so he can see by the lights of the stars. “Ah-ha!” A dim light flickers on.

Saeyoung sighs, turning around to survey the room.

“This isn’t a place for someone like you,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the furnishings—it’s a single room, with an out-of-use fireplace and some boxes full of you-don’t-want-to-know-what stacked in one corner. There’s also a little work station and (you feel a little thrill dance up your spine) a single, slightly lumpy bed pushed against the back wall.

Nice bed. Plenty of room for…activities, whispers a voice in the back of your mind—it’s a gremlin, you think, a silly, horny gremlin, hiding in the recesses of your imagination. Shut up, you tell the gremlin.

“I like it,” you say aloud. “I could live here.” You shut the door and the click echoes in the little room.

You feel Saeyoung’s eyes on you and turn; he’s still standing in the middle of the room, watching you with a sort of reverence on his face.

“You’re amazing,” he says.

Leap into his arms and kiss him breathless, the gremlin says, and you bite your lip, hushing your inner voice. Your neck feels hot.

“You’re the amazing one,” you tell him. For some reason the air in the cabin is reverberating like a plucked string and you’re afraid if you get any closer to him the string will snap. You edge around the outer wall, drop your backpack on the bare mattress, perch on the edge of the bed. “You got us this far.”

He turns to follow you with his eyes, watching as you nervously fiddle with the straps of your bag. There’s a strange expression on his face and you don’t know what to do with your body.

He shakes his head as if to clear it and then abruptly turns from you, crosses to the little desk on the opposite wall, starts pulling things out of his bag with a little too much fervor.

“Will you be okay for a while?” he asks quietly, his back turned. “I just have to…” He waves a hand at the two laptops he’s set on the desk.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He turns to look at you now, and he’s still got that strange, conflicted look on his face. He starts to say something, stops himself. Swallows.

“You can try and keep yourself warm,” he says. “The fireplace would be too big a risk, if it even still works, but check the closet by the bathroom. I think there’s a space heater in there, and there should definitely be blankets.”

And before you can respond he’s all business again, plugging things into other things; there’s already a low hum emitting from one of the computers.

So you do as you’re told: slip out of your shoes, pad across the unfinished wood floor in your thick socks. Open the closet, start peering into the mysterious boxes there. Find, by some miracle, the old, dusty space heater. Get it going.

You wrap yourself up as tightly as you possibly can in one of the thick, stiff blankets you found neatly folded in the closet and curl up on the bare mattress. And you wait.

Time passes.

The sound of his keyboard is like a lullaby to you, nowadays, and you drift between sleep and wakefulness, your head swimming with thoughts of him: the beautiful curve of his cheekbones as he drives into the sunset, the buzzy delight of his fingers on your thigh, the cautious way he brushes his lips over yours on those brief, stolen moments of rest between driving, driving, driving…

The typing stops and your eyes fly open, blinking at him through the flickering light from the single lamp. His back is straight; his fingers aren’t moving.

You call his name. Repeat it.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds rough and you untangle your legs from the blanket. You want to ask if he’s okay but already know the answer.

“How’s it going?” you ask instead—vaguely, lamely. You twist the thick fabric of the blanket in your fingers. What a silly, meaningless question.

“We’ll definitely catch up to him tomorrow,” Saeyoung says hollowly. You consider going to him, wrapping your arms around his tense shoulders, but you don’t know if he’ll let you—the physical affection between you is so new, so tenuous.

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s the truth.

He twists around in his chair to peer at you. There are familiar dark circles under his eyes, worry written on his soft features.

“You’re not scared?” he asks.

“A little,” you tell him. “But I trust you.”

He sighs, pushes his glasses up, runs one shaky hand over his face. “You have too much faith in me.”

“You’ve given me no reason not to have faith in you.” You unwind yourself more from the big blanket. The space heater has worked, filling the room with smoky warmth. “Are you scared?” you ask.

He cocks his head to the side as if he’s considering it and, with some surprise, says, “Yeah, I think…I am.”

“What are you scared of?” you ask, not sure if he’ll tell you.

He drums his fingers on his knee, looks around the little room as if stalling for time. “Disappearing,” he says at last.

Oh, how you want to run to him. Kiss the lines of worry off his face and hold him till he melts into you.

“I’m not going to let you go anywhere,” you tell him firmly. You’re not sure why, but you feel very confident about this.

“Thank you,” he says. “But…” He’s looking down at his lap now. “I set up my life so I could disappear without a trace whenever I needed to. So if I do…go away…there’d be nothing left of me. It’d be like I was never here.”

That’s it—you can’t take it anymore. You’ve got no more patience—not when he’s got that frightened, empty look on his face.

“Come here,” you say, and you open your arms. His cheeks immediately flush pink, and you’re relieved to see embarrassment take the place of hopelessness on his face.

“O-onto the bed?” he stammers, and you grin—because the capable, strong man who you trust with your life is also this hopelessly innocent, charmingly awkward boy, turning bright red at the mere thought of letting you hold him.

“Only if you want to,” you say in your sweetest voice, and he quietly groans.

“Who could say no to that?” he mutters to himself, and you try to stifle a giggle as he swings his leg over the chair and stumbles the few feet to the bed. You wait for him patiently, arms open—cautiously, avoiding your gaze, he crawls toward you, and as he nuzzles his head hesitantly against your chest you fold him into your arms.

“Better?” you ask him.

“Yes, and…no,” he says. You can feel his heart pounding through both his t-shirt and hoodie, and it seems like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. One rests just above your hip, just barely touching you, like he’s not sure whether or not he’s supposed to.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him. With one hand, you play with a stray curl that’s fallen over his face; his skin feels hot on your fingertips.

“I don’t wanna say,” he murmurs.

You brush the hair off his forehead and then, because you just want to, you press a single, soft kiss to his hairline. He shudders.

“Tell me,” you say. Saeyoung has been still as a statue this whole time; now, his hand shifts, putting just the tiniest bit of pressure on your hip. He’s still barely touching you but suddenly you know what he’s thinking, and it’s like an electric current runs through your body and sets your blood on fire. The gremlin chants its encouragement from deep within your mind.

“If…” he says cautiously, and you feel his lips through your shirt as he speaks softly into your chest. Your heart misses a beat. “If tonight is our last night, I just…want to do one thing.”

“It’s not our last night,” you tell him, and your voice sounds too loud, and somehow your focus is narrowing, narrowing so all you can feel is his hand against your hip. You continue working your fingers through his hair, a little more roughly now; he squirms against you and grips your hip harder, harder.

“I hope not,” he whispers. “But if—just in case—can I…be a bit selfish to you?”

You’ve got goosebumps.

“You can do anything you want to me,” you say, and as soon as the words are out of your mouth you feel you’ve gone too far. The gremlin is roaring.

His head shoots up and suddenly you’re overwhelmed by the intensity of his eyes, his face mere inches from yours.

“Wh-what?” he stammers. His face is flushed and his pupils are huge; he’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like you before. And maybe his shyness emboldens you, or maybe you’re drunk on the burning feeling of his fingers on your skin, but you take a deep breath and plunge ahead.

“You can do anything you want,” you repeat slowly, looking down into his beautiful, molten eyes. “To me.”

He audibly gulps. There’s a hard, desperate look on his face. You’ve caught glimpses of this expression before, when he’s kissed you, hands at your back, breathing hard against your lips—but he’s always pulled away, cut things off before they went too far.

Now, he’s not pulling away.

“I want to kiss you,” he breathes.

“So kiss me.”

And he does, slowly closing the distance between you, brushing his lips against yours with so much tenderness and care. He’s holding back, you can tell—wound so tight he’s barely moving, as if he’s terrified of whatever lives underneath his carefully curated exterior.

You part your lips and he trembles and—keep going, hisses the gremlin—you deepen the kiss, sweep the tip of your tongue over his bottom lip.

“Mmmm,” you hum, relishing the sweet-salty taste of him, and you weave one hand into the base of his messy curls.

This breaks him. He swivels abruptly, crashing his hips into yours, kissing you harder now—clumsy, rough, electric, wonderful. Delighted by his sudden ferocity, you mold into him, raking your hands down the back of his neck.

He pulls back a fraction of an inch, panting, a wild look on his face.

“I…s-sorry…” he pants. “I c-can’t…”

“Tell me what else you want,” you say. You run a hand up his chest and feel his muscles tensing, his body vibrating.

“I—I want to…” His eyes roam your body and he’s never looked at you quite like this before and—oh god, you think, you didn’t know you could want somebody this much.“I want to…touch you,” he says, his voice low.

The gremlin cheers.

“Touch me where?” you whisper. You roll your hips under his and he moans, grasping desperately at your shoulders with bruising fingers.

“N-not fair,” he hisses. Then he’s kissing you again, more confidently this time, lips parted and hands skimming down your arms, across your torso. Your shirt has ridden up and his calloused fingertips graze your bare skin, making you dizzy, so you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him against you—he groans, kissing you ferociously, breathlessly. Every point of contact between you burns icy-hot.

You break the kiss and gasp for air. Saeyoung looks totally undone, his eyes unfocused, pupils blown huge as he hovers over you. More, screams your mind gremlin, and you silently agree. Your fingers rove over his chest, under his unzipped hoodie.

“Can I take this off?” you murmur. He nods, looking dazed and a little helpless, and you slip it easily off his shoulders, run your hands down his arms. He’s got goosebumps, too. “Is this okay?” you ask him, fingers dancing over his torso now, under his t-shirt.

“Yeah,” he pants, following your questing hands with his eyes. “Um, can I…?”

“Please,” you say. You lean back a little and he cautiously slips a hand under your shirt. His fingers tickle—you giggle—his face breaks into a smile.

“You’re so soft,” he whispers, exploring the sensitive skin of your belly with one tentative hand. You moan softly, encouraging him, and his hand slides over your ribcage—pausing when he hits the lacy bottom edge of your bra. He looks down, his cheeks reddening again. “I don’t…know what to do with this,” he mutters. It’s your turn to grin. The genius secret agent slash hacker, taken down by a bra.

“Here,” you say. You pull yourself into a sitting position and he rocks back on his heels; you grab your shirt with both hands and easily lift it off, toss it aside.

Saeyoung looks positively enraptured.

“Y-you are…” he stammers. His awe is adorable and charming but the gremlin yells touch me more, dammit, so you take his hand and guide it to your skin, stroking down from your throat all the way to your belly button.

“Now what are you thinking?” you ask him. You lean back and let him explore you with both hands—he is meticulous, running his fingertips over every inch of exposed skin.

“I’m thinking…” He’s red again. “To be honest, I kind of never thought I’d be in this position.”

You giggle. “S-sorry!” you say. “I just…looking at a girl in a bra?”

He chuckles awkwardly, his hands at your waist, his eyes lowered. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

“Oh, then boy do I have a surprise for you.” Before he can respond, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him again. He kisses you back hard, grasping at your sides as if holding on for dear life. You trust his grip and slip your hands behind you, unhooking your bra.

Saeyoung realizes what’s happening just a beat after it happens, and he breaks the kiss, pulling away as if he can’t help himself—eyes unabashedly roaming over your body. You slip the straps down your arms and toss the bra aside. For a moment, it seems as though you’ve rendered him speechless.

Then: “Wow,” he says softly.

You grin, propping yourself up with both hands and arching your back, taunting him a little. “That’s all you have to say?”

He chokes on air, lifts his hands to his hot, flushed cheeks. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

His worshipful attention emboldens you. “Your turn,” you tell him, sliding your fingers up and under his t-shirt again. He lifts his arms—obediently, as if in a trance—and you pull the shirt over his head. It gets caught for a moment on his glasses and he absently tosses them aside.

“Careful—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says gruffly.

The shirt is off—at last—and you explore his torso with eager fingers. His skin is warm and malleable under your touch; you can feel where there were once defined abs, trademark of years of rigorous training. Now, there’s a layer of softer flesh over those muscles, evidence of his more recent lifestyle.

He winces a little as your fingers graze his belly.

“Not much to look at,” he mutters. “Especially compared to you.”

You shake your head vehemently, tracing the contours of his chest with your hands. “You are so beautiful,” you tell him in a reverent voice. And he is—the muscles in his arms ripple delightfully under his skin as he adjusts his position, sits cross-legged in front of you. His body is perfect, you think—firm and yet soft, sculpted and yet supple.

He looks sideways and down, made embarrassed by your scrutiny. You run your fingertips over a long scar you’ve never seen before, cutting diagonally across his chest and onto his shoulder.

“What do you want now?” you ask him, leaning forward to brush his neck with your lips. He’s breathing heavily and he’s got that look on his face again—like he’s just barely keeping it together.

“I want…you,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, and you’re not sure if there’s more to the sentence than that—but you can’t stand it anymore, so you climb into his lap, wrapping both legs around his waist. “Oh my god,” he hisses as you adjust in his lap; you press your lips to his neck again and graze the gentle skin with your teeth. His hips shudder underneath you and the friction makes your head swim.

“C-can I…” he whispers throatily, “do that too?”

You giggle, because even with you half-naked and straddling him he’s still got that adorable naïveté and you just want to smother him with affection.

“Do what?” you murmur in his ear, and then you catch his earlobe between your teeth. He groans, low and longing.

“I-I want—” he begins, but then you grind your hips against him and his words crumble into another desperate moan. He grips your hips with both hands, tries again. “I want to…leave evidence,” he rasps, and he’s holding you so tight you’re sure there will be fingerprints on your hips and thighs in the morning. Good, whispers the gremlin. “I want to leave evidence on you that I existed,” he says.

Your breath hitches and you don’t miss the unspoken “in case I disappear tomorrow” and you lean back in his lap, baring your throat for him.

“Do it,” you say.

He kisses your lips and then, so slowly, flutters kisses across your cheek, your jaw. He parts his lips and you can feel his teeth on your skin.

“Tell me how,” he whispers.

“Lower,” you say, and you feel his lips drift down your neck. “Open,” you tell him, and his lips part. You stay very still, legs wrapped tight around his waist. “Suck,” you say, and he does, tugging your skin into his mouth. You feel the sharp pressure on your skin and you feel a swooping in your stomach, a neediness at your core. “One…” you count, and he sucks harder, his teeth against your flushed skin. “Two…three. Now.” He pulls back, panting a little, surveying his work with curious eyes.

“It’s red,” he says.

“Good,” you tell him. “Again.”

Without hesitation, he brings his mouth to your neck again, following the muscle that wraps around the front of your throat. He takes your skin between his teeth with more confidence this time and sparks fly behind your closed eyelids.

He meticulously progresses down one side of your neck and up the other, leaving a trail of tender, bruised skin in his wake. It doesn’t hurt much, but the gentle pain is enough to stir up something strong and mysterious inside of you. The gremlin in your mind swims in a sea of pleasure.

Saeyoung bites you just under your left ear and you can’t keep still anymore, your hips rocking against his, seeking new sensations.

“Saeyoung,” you hiss, and he licks your neck—you know he can feel the way your nails scrabble at his back—your longing has made him bolder. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Am I?” He nibbles your jaw and grins against your skin as you moan. “Should I drive you crazier?”

You are going to lose it, you think. You are going to topple off the cliff of sensations that are barraging your mind and you are going to fall apart entirely.

"You don’t wanna see what will happen if you do,” you mutter.

“I do, though,” he teases, and then he bites your earlobe—hard—and for a moment you can’t see straight.

You asked for it, you think, and then—before he can react—you slither out of his grip and dart off the bed. Too late, he reaches for you, but you’ve already found your footing, sliding easily to your knees. You grip his waist with both hands and pull him toward you and he follows, automatically, unthinking. It’s only then that he looks down and sees the position you’re in.

His eyes widen and his face flushes a shade darker than his hair. “You’re…that’s…uhhhh,” he manages. You loop two fingers through the waistband of his jeans and tug him closer to the edge of the bed and he goes with you, letting his legs dangle off the side. He opens his mouth as if to say something else. Swallows. Closes it again.

You run one hand over and around his thigh and then, achingly slow, over the obvious bulge in his pants. He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a squeak.

“Will you let me do this?” you ask, fingers drifting up to the button of his jeans. He tries to speak but fails again. Instead, he nods frantically, and you undo the button, pull down the zipper. His erection springs free, now constrained only by the more forgiving fabric of his boxers. “Help me with these, babe,” you say, tugging at his pants, and he complies eagerly, pulling his jeans off his hips with shaky hands. You guide them down his legs and then you palm him again, through his underwear, thrilled by the way his cock jumps in anticipation at your touch.

“I wanna taste you,” you whisper, and he mutters a string of incoherent syllables, his hips shaking uncontrollably under your ministrations. You slip his boxers up and over his erection, down his thighs, and bend slowly forward, exhaling onto him. His cock jumps again as if seeking out your lips of its own accord. So you bend over further, bring your lips to his tip, dart out your tongue and lick all the way around.

He groans low in his throat and then his hands are tangled in your hair and he’s pulling your head back.

“No?” you ask, and he whimpers as if stopping you is taking all his strength.

“I…want you to, god I want you to…b-but…” His voice sounds weak and his eyes are shut, his head still tilted back. “If you do that, I won’t…uhhhhh, I won’t be able to…l-last. Very long. At all.” He finally opens his eyes and gazes down at you with such neediness it makes you tremble.

“You don’t have to, baby,” you purr, and he shuts his eyes again with a moan. “Trust me, you’ll…come back around, if that’s what you want.”

He mumbles something and your lips quirk upward as you feel him gathering your hair behind your neck with his hands.

“Then…please,” he hisses, and the gremlin jumps for joy. You round your lips, carefully taking his tip between them; you wrap one hand around his base and slowly, slowly pull him into your mouth.

He utters a totally indistinguishable string of sounds and you suction your lips around him and arch your back, taking him deeper and then slipping away, licking all the way up his length. You grip his base with your other hand and slide your lips over him, in and out, mouth and hand working in tandem. He meant it when he said he wouldn’t last long, you think—his hips have started to shake in a telltale way and so, back arching, you suction your lips around him tighter, rocking forward on your knees. You cup his balls with one hand and breathe in, pulling him further into your mouth—and he comes, hard and fast, wiggling beneath you as he relinquishes control. You open your throat, swallowing everything.

He gasps for air and, gradually, the erratic movements of his hips slow. You pull away from him then, licking the last of the saltiness from his tip, and he lets out a low, hollow moan.

The heat between your legs is almost unbearable now—there was something about making him dissolve in pleasure that completely overwhelmed you and now you feel dizzy.

You pull yourself back onto the bed, crawling to his side and stroking his cheek. His eyes flutter open and he looks ravished, you think, his gaze totally unfocused and his hair beautifully disheveled.

“I…that…” he pants. You kiss his collarbone. “Th-that was…”

“Better than when you do it yourself, huh?” You giggle against his skin and internally beg your gremlin for patience, trying to ignore the steadily growing need at your core.

“I…literally cannot put into words how much better,” he says. “You…”

“Give great head? Are impossibly sexy and cool? Deserve a blessing from God Seven?” You can’t help but scoot closer as you tease him, grinding your hips—still in your pants, dammit—against his side.

“God Seven isn’t worthy,” he says. His eyes rove over your body, and—yes—land on your still-clothed lower half. “God Seven has found a new purpose in life.”

“And that is?” you purr. You shamelessly rub your hips against his side again. You keep your voice level; internally, you’re at the eye of a storm.

He props himself up on his elbows. Maybe he can tell that now you’re the one who’s falling apart; maybe he’s just finally starting to relax (he certainly should feel relaxed, after that, you think)—but you sense that he’s taking control.

“Well.” His tone is commanding, almost intellectual. “The first step is to get you out of these pants.”

“Yes!” you cry, and he chuckles as you enthusiastically undo the button, already pulling them down your thighs. “Finally!”

He waits for you, sprawled sideways across the bed, looking for all the world as if he does this everyday. You wriggle out of your pants and throw yourself onto your back beside him.

There’s a hungry look on his face as he leans forward and runs one large, calloused hand up your thigh, parting your legs. Desperate for him, you lean back into the mattress, breath already coming hard and fast. “You’re so wet…” he says in awe as he reaches your panties and hesitates, his hand tantalizingly close.

“Of course I am,” you tell him. “It’s because I need you to touch me, Saeyoung.”

His eyes go wide.

“Teach me,” he whispers.

You rip your underwear off with one hand and he helps you, pulling it down your legs and over your feet with gentle hands. You catch his hand in your own and guide him up, between your thighs—separating out his long, flexible fingers, bringing the pad of his index finger to your swollen, needy clit.

“Like this,�� you murmur, and you flick your own finger over yourself, hot and trembling, unable to repress a moan at finally getting some satisfaction. He watches you with thoughtful eyes and you can practically see the gears turning in that genius brain of his as he memorizes your movements.

Then he copies you, moving his finger softly against your clit—and it’s different when he does it, of course, his fingers nimbler, his skin rougher. He mimics your motions with absolute precision and you let your hand fall away, the mixture of pleasure and desperation and relief threatening to drown you.

He takes note of every response from you: the way you moan as he moves faster, the way your thighs clench around his hand as he experimentally makes a little circle with his fingertip.

“You are…amazing,” he says, and he’s gazing down at you in wonder, and—oh, he’s got a new toy to play with, you think groggily, your head swimming—he’s found another thing he can manipulate with his fingers, and that’s his speciality.

“Thank god for computers,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re saying, the room swimming around you as you forget to breathe.

“Thank god for…computers?” he asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion—but even as he speaks, his movements don’t slow, his finger flitting against you with the same precision and gentleness you’ve seen him apply to his keyboards, or the little cat robot.

You somehow manage to laugh through the blinding heat behind your eyes. “Because…” you gasp. “B-because you’re good at…computers…so you know how to…”

At that moment, he curls a finger inside of you, his eyes growing huge as he realizes he has another weapon at his disposal. You lose track of your words entirely, taken by surprise, stammering out his name as his index fingers continues its endless stimulation of your clit and his middle finger slides deeper inside you.

Your toes curl. He bends over you and his teeth graze your neck where it’s already tender from his earlier attentions and the heat is blinding, blinding you, and you swear your body actually levitates, the cold, scratchy mattress disappearing entirely as the pleasure swells within you. You come violently, shaking, anchored to reality only by his fingers at your core.

You hear yourself gasping his name as if from outside yourself, and he rides it out with you, pushing you deeper and farther into the bright, hot recesses of your mind.

And slowly, the feeling fades: the mattress is firm and steady beneath you and you grasp clumsily for him, stilling his fingers with your own.

“Fuck,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “Fuck, Saeyoung.”

You try to focus on his face. He’s hovering over you and he looks adoring and thrilled and—proud.

“Am I amazing at that, or what?!” he sings, and you burst out laughing.

“You’re a genius, babe,” you tell him. You still feel a little woozy.

“I know I’m a genius,” he crows. “But who knew I was a sex genius?” He’s all energy now, bouncing on his heels, rocking the bed a little. You push yourself into a sitting position, giggling.

“God Seven, God Seven!” he’s chanting—so you do the only reasonable thing and tackle him, knocking him flat on his back, snaking your arms around his neck.

“There’s still something I wanna try with you, genius God Seven,” you purr into his ear, and his demeanor shifts almost immediately, a little shiver running through his body.

“Yeah?” he murmurs—and all his bravado is gone, and he gazes at you hungrily. You maneuver yourself so your hips are hovering just over his, and you can feel that he’s hardening again, his tip grazing your belly.

“Choi Saeyoung, for the love of god, please fuck me,” you say. He exhales sharply, grasping at your sides with both hands. “I’ve only been imagining it since the day I met you.”

“You have?” His voice is low and throaty and you grind your hips against him, pinning his cock between you. He’s totally hard now, and shivering, that dizzy look returning to his face—like he doesn’t quite know where is or how he got here.

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “But…hang on…I have—” He pushes you off him reluctantly, and you sit back on the bed.

He has…?

It dawns on you, and you watch in wonder as he slides from the bed, practically runs to his bag which he’s left beside the desk. You’re a little ashamed to admit that you hadn’t even thought of it.

He rummages around in the bag and you watch—he has, you think, an excellent butt. Triumphantly, he pulls a little roll of condoms from his bag; you smirk.

“Why do you have those?” you ask, trying to keep the laugher from your voice.

“Don’t…read anything into it, alright?” His face is flushed again as he returns to you, crawls back onto the bed. “I just…you know, need to be prepared. For things. As an…agent.”

“As an agent?” You lean back against the wall, legs long in front of you. You can see little finger-shaped marks already forming on your thighs and the sight alone makes your head spin.

“Yeah, it’s…y’know…safety?” he mumbles, coming to sit beside you. He rips off one of the little packets, tosses the rest aside. His face is still flushed and the dim light from the lamp casts shadows over his prominent collar bones and you just want to bite them.

“Saeyoung, how long have you had the condoms?” you ask.

“Not…long."

“So not like, years, right? Cause they expire, you know.”

He growls playfully and nips at your shoulder; you squeal. “Not years, silly. Like…days.”

Ah-ha. You’re a little relieved to know you’re not the only one who’s been obsessing over getting him naked for the last few days.

“So,” you say, voice low.

“So,” he says.

You turn and kiss the base of his neck and he hisses in pleasure. You trail kisses down his chest, over his belly, his hip. Up the length of his cock, holding it gently with one hand.

“G-go easy on me,” he groans, and you laugh. You reach for the packet and he hands it to you; you tear it open and ease the sticky plastic over his tip. You roll the condom onto him slowly, caressing him with both hands, bending to pepper little kisses around his base.

“Ready, baby?” you whisper, looking up at him. He meets your eyes with his own, dark and dizzy and dazed.

“I-I just wanna…” he mumbles. “Just wanna remind you that I have no idea what I’m doing…so…”

You put both hands on his chest and straddle him.

“What happened to God Seven, sex genius?”

“He’s…still here, but I…ahh.” He moans as you position yourself over him, using a hand to guide him toward you entrance.

“I love you,” you tell him. And before he can answer, you slide onto him, slowly, gasping at the relief of finally feeling him inside you.

His hips stutter frantically against yours and you still him with a hand on his chest. His eyes are shut and his jaw is fixed, like he’s fighting desperately for control.

You wait for him to take a breath—and when he does, slowly, shakily, you start to move. You lift your hips and he moves with you, lower them and he follows you. You feel a sharp clenching inside you, a delightful explosion of sensations, as you fall into a rhythm together.

You moan and he reaches for you, grasping at your sides, your arms. He’s growing more confident now, rocking into you, and you clench around him, pulling him deeper.

His eyes fly open and you see something snap in him—do it, you think—and he does, using both hands to flip you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. His eyes scorch you as he slips back inside you, thrusting into you a little harder; you meet him halfway, lifting your hips, deepening the angle. He’s panting and you can tell he’s still trying to hold himself back and you want to tell him to let go, it’s okay, but there’s fog swimming in your brain and then a huge wave of feelings crashes over you, breaking around you before you know what’s happening. You come quickly and unexpectedly this time, rays of pleasure piercing your body as you lose control of the rhythm and fall to pieces beneath him.

And through the daze of pleasure you see his face shift as he gives in, lets go, thrusts into you faster and harder and with unbidden need—and so you throw your legs up around his waist and pull him into you. His eyes widen and then he comes, too, chasing you, rocking into you frantically, breathing hard through parted lips.

You come down together, trembling and panting, his beautiful faces inches from yours—and then he kisses you hard. You clench around him again and he whimpers.

“You just did that…on purpose,” he gasps.

“I did.”

He laughs a brand new laugh and this one, you think, is your favorite. He slides out of you and sits back, pulling off the condom with a hiss as his fingers brush the sensitive flesh.

“I don’t wanna be dramatic,” he says as he catches his breath. “But I think I just died and then was born again. So.” He giggles and you collapse against him, pressing a hot cheek to his chest. He wraps his arms around you.

“Do you think,” you murmur, “other agents have also done it in this bed?”

He squeezes you tight, still laughing. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“How could you not?”

He hums thoughtfully, combing his fingers through your knotted hair. “I kind of doubt it,” he says. “Secret agents have way less sex than people think we do.”

“You don’t,” you say.

“One time,” he mutters, nuzzling his face into your hair. “I’ve now had sex one time.”

You twist to look up at him: there are curls falling messily over his forehead and his face is flushed and pink and so kissable. You crane your neck and kiss the underside of his jaw.

“I have this strong feeling that you’re gonna end up having a lot more sex,” you tell him. “Probably kind of soon.”

He cackles and dips his head and covers your face with kisses; you squeal as he flips you over onto your stomach, tossing your hair to the side and nibbling the back of your neck.

“…didn’t leave…enough evidence?” you pant, giggling, squirming.

“Oh, I’m not worried about that anymore,” he says, pinning you beneath him and licking the back of your ear.

“You’re not?”

“Nope!” he sings. “I am one hundred percent confident that I won’t be going anywhere any time soon.” His energy shifts as he kisses across your shoulder, down your back. His fingers drift to your sides, caressing you slowly, making you tremble. “I am never,” he whispers into your skin, “going anywhere without you.”

“Promise?” you pant, squirming as his kisses drift lower, lower.

“I promise,” he whispers, his lips burning your lower back, “that I won’t ever leave your side.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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boonki · 4 years ago

Note

“It’s freezing. Come here.” from the prompt list please~!

okay same thing as the other one, i know you asked this like five billion years ago, but life has been A Lot recently so i’m sorry this is late!! but here you are.

this one features anakin being a little shit, while also Hopelessly Pining~

enjoy, my dear!! ❤️

(also, all the science in this? fictional. would a space heater be picked up by scanners? would they be able to exist without life systems on? idk bro, just avert your eyes for the sake of the plot)

______

Ilum, despite its significance for the Jedi Order, is a horrible planet. Anakin shivers in the small space of the command room, his bedroll and blankets doing very little to keep him safe from the cold seeping in through every crack in the ship. Beside him, Obi-wan sits cross legged on his own bedroll, rubbing his hands together, buried under layers and layers of material. A large thermos of tea sits in front of him, shut tightly to keep the heat in; it has to last through Ilum’s long, thirty six hour night.

Rumors of Separatist forces stealing bits of kyber from the crystal cave had snaked their way back to the council, which had been received with profound distress; the cave is sacred to the Jedi, not to mention a large component in making weapons. Anakin, nor the council, doesn’t think Separatists are making lightsabers, but the fact is, he doesn’t know. No one knows why they would be here.

Thus, Obi-wan and Anakin, The Team, had been sent to investigate.

Investigating looks a lot more like parking outside the entrance of the cave and sitting inside of a cold, nondescript shuttle with the engine and life support systems turned off, to ensure no scanners or droids would pick them up. The only light in the shuttle streams in through the transperisteel viewport from Ilum’s two moons, casting most of the command room into shadows. At least they had brought plenty of blankets, warm clothing, and a small radiant heater that had been charged prior to landing.

Anakin notices Obi-wan shaking, his many layers and fur-lined jacket doing nothing to hide the tremors. His fingertips are pale around the thermos when he pushes the lid off, bringing it to his hooded face to let the steam waft up into his chin. He takes a small sip and closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth flooding his chest. He looks miserable, and Anakin feels helpless in making it better, cheering his old master up. He knows it isn’t his responsibility, and that Obi-wan is more than capable of taking care of himself.

Still, he wants to do something.

They’ve been sitting in silence for the better part of the night, having run out of conversation hours ago. When Anakin speaks, his voice is scratchy, like he had just woken up.

“Hey, it’s freezing, c’mere,” he motions for Obi-wan to scoot closer to him.

Obi-wan’s eyes blink open slowly, full of caution and distrust. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but absolutely not.”

Anakin scoffs. “I’m not planning anything, just get over here.”

“Anakin I practically raised you, I know when you’re up to something.” Obi-wan is still holding the thermos to his chin, huddled into himself. He closes his eyes again, and if Anakin didn’t know any better, it would look like he’s meditating. He does, however, know better.

“Just, get over here, will you?” Anakin makes an exasperated noise and pat pats the space next to him. “Let me warm your hands up.”

Obi-wan sighs, as if the universe had cursed him with such a nuisance of a padawan, and peels his eyes open again. He pushes the lid of the thermos closed, disgruntled, and scooches closer to Anakin, pulling his nest of blankets with him. He begins to hold his hands out, but pauses, eyeing Anakin intently for any hint of mischievousness, and finding none, offers them to him fully.

Too easy, Anakin thinks.

He grins like an imp and darts his hands out to grab Obi-wan’s wrists, pulling Obi-wan’s hands up his shirt and into his armpits, where he squishes them into place and fortifies his grasp, prepared for Obi-wan’s initial recoil.

Obi-wan flinches, and screws his face up in disgust, trying to tug backwards. “Anakin, don’t be vile, let me go.” But Anakin is giggling like a schoolboy, clenching his arms down on Obi-wan’s hands, his grip on Obi-wan’s wrists impossible to break out of.

“No, I’m warming your hands up.” Anakin teases, and takes in Obi-wan’s outraged expression, his murderous glower a stark contrast to the fluffy pile of blankets that hang off him, and can’t help the bubble of affection that expands in his chest. He used to love pranking his master, used to love setting up harmless traps to gain a reaction out of Obi-wan Kenobi, the perfect Jedi. It’s been years since he’s had the chance to laugh like this.

Then a corner of Obi-wan’s mouth tugs back in a devious grin, and the bubble of affection pops, leaving only pure dread. Anakin immediately regrets his little stunt.

Obi-wan manages to squirm a little in his hold, rotating his hands enough so that his fingers can poke into Anakin’s armpits, tickling him. Anakin vaults backwards, but Obi-wan stays with him, tongue poking out in between his teeth, a full smile on his face.

“No, stop-” Anakin is suffocating with laughter, trying, and failing, to shove Obi-wan off.

Obi-wan shoves him back and hooks a leg over his stomach, straddling him. “But, dear padawan, my hands aren’t warm yet.” He’s snickering, all of his blankets pushed to the side in the tousle. Anakin’s shirt is pushed up to his chest as he lays on his back, exposing his skin to the cold.

Anakin knows he’s making obscene noises as Obi-wan tickles him, aborted laughs and high pitched yelps, and a string of incoherent no, stop, please, get off is bubbling out of his mouth before he can even think about it. Obi-wan’s eyes are alight above him, twinkling, full of glee.

After what feels like years, Obi-wan relents, coming to rest his hands on the broad plain of Anakin’s chest. They’re both heaving air, breathless from all the play fighting and laughing. “And here I thought you were actually going to be nice to me, for once.” Obi-wan leans down towards his face, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Anakin lets his head thump onto the ground, exposing his neck, and rests his hands on Obi-wan’s. “I’m always nice to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Shoving my hands into your armpits is you being nice, then?” Obi-wan snorts, and his eyebrow somehow hitches further up on his forehead. “If only that were true, darling.”

Despite the cold, Anakin feels himself reddening at the pet name, and his rather compromised position underneath Obi-wan. Their faces are only about a foot away, which feels like inches to Anakin. If he propped an elbow up, he would be close enough to close the gap and kiss him.

Sensing the sudden shift in energy, Obi-wan stiffens, as if suddenly aware that he’s straddling Anakin’s bare stomach, alone, in a dim and freezing ship. He clears his throat and awkwardly climbs off Anakin, gathering the mess of blankets left in the wake of their skirmish. In a better light, Anakin would’ve been able to see the blush burning away at Obi-wan’s ears, practically melting them.

Anakin sits up, yanking his shirt back down. “Do you want to-”

“We should-” They speak at the same time, and Obi-wan stops, gesturing at Anakin. “You first.”

“No, you go.” Anakin can’t quite look him in the eye, and he focuses instead of wrapping himself in his blanket again.

Obi-wan makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “Anakin.”

“Maybe, we should, I mean only if you want to,” Anakin fiddles with the corner of the fabric, “huddle for warmth?” It feels as ridiculous as it sounds, and Anakin regrets it as soon as he’s said it.

“Oh, so you can maneuver my face into your smelly armpit?” Obi-wan jests, his tone laced with mirth, and he reaches for his thermos, always finding calm within his tea.

“Hey!” Anakin’s mouth drops open. “I don’t smell.”

Obi-wan’s eyebrows jump once as he pops the lid off and takes a sip, shrugging. “Maybe not to you, my dear.”

Anakin, offended, pulls his knees to chest, resting his head on his kneecaps. “I was being serious,” he mumbles into the material of his pants. He’s freezing from being subjected to the cold air for so long, all of his body heated lingering in the air around them. “What were you going to say?” he asks.

Obi-wan makes a hm? noise as he lays down on his bedroll, and then says, “Oh, right. I was going to say we should try and get some sleep.”

Anakin half heartedly nods his head best he can against his legs. A shiver tears through him, and he hunches into himself, wishing they could turn the ship’s heaters on. As fun as their shenanigans had been, it left them both significantly colder than before. He reaches out to see if the radiant heater will go any higher. It won’t.

“Anakin,” Obi-wan says, softly. “Come here.”

Anakin is dubious. “Why?”

“You’re right. Body heat is probably our best option right now, given the circumstances.” Obi-wan unwraps his blankets and begins unzipping his thick jacket, holding the space open for Anakin. “Here, before I get cold.”

Anakin’s heart stutters in his chest.

He crawls over to Obi-wan’s bedroll and sheds his jacket, tucking himself into Obi-wan so that his back is flush with Obi-wan’s chest, Obi-wan’s breath hot on his ear. As Obi-wan snakes a cold hand to rest on his chest, Anakin pulls his jacket on backwards so that his arms stay warm, and spreads the blankets out on top of them evenly, best he can.

He feels...at home in Obi-wan’s arms, he thinks, and mentally kicks himself. Obi-wan is only doing this because of the impending frostbite if they don’t.

Silence settles over the pair, only the sounds of their slow breathing to keep them company.

“Do I really smell, master?” Anakin whispers into the dark.

Obi-wan snorts into his neck. “Always, dear one.” He pats Anakin’s chest to console him.

Anakin turns in place, lifting his arms above Obi-wan’s head, shoving his face into his armpit. “How about now?”

Needless to say, they sleep on separate bedrolls.

Anakin shivers with regret the rest of the night.

#boonki writes #sonda walkin #obikin #anakin/obi-wan #obi-wan/Anakin #prompts #fluff #star wars #fanfic #ask #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #anakin: here i need to make obiwan feel better #also anakin: >:)#just boys being boys yknow #idiots in love

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alwaysbeliev · 4 years ago

Text

Same as the Last

pairing: Arthur x Reader

summary: Mary Linton has summoned Arthur once again, and he has dropped everything to see her. You're left at Shady Belle to wonder what is going on and what it means for your relationship.

word count: 1,782

notes: you can find this on AO3 under the same username, if you wish to give it love there, too! it’s been a long time since i really got into writing, so i’m taking baby steps. it might be small, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

Curse that Mary Linton.

Pacing, pacing, all you could do was pace. The others were getting tired of it. Mrs. Grimshaw had already given you several chores, all of which you completed at haphazard speed. The laundry was still dripping on the line, puddles forming underneath in the already soaked ground. It was gonna take a thousand years to dry. But you had other things on your mind.

“Is that from your secret lover?” you had teased Arthur earlier. A letter had arrived for him, brought from the post office by Pearson, and he had scarcely looked at it when you asked. He chuckled at your joke. But as he studied the writing and unfolded the paper, his smile fell, replaced with a strange mixing of emotions you couldn’t quite place.

“No, it’s…” His voice trailed off as his eyes scanned the words before him.

“Arthur?” You tried peeking over his shoulder, but in a defensive move, he turned so you couldn’t see it. “Is everything okay?”

Your mind started racing as you wondered what it might be. As far as you were aware, the outlaw had no outside obligations. None of the gang did. Quickly, you started cycling through any recent or semi-recent events, wracking your brain for an answer, anything that might help solve this weird and uncomfortable puzzle. Maybe it was some kind of summons? You’d heard of the law issuing letters. But if that were the case, then the gang’s pseudonym at the post office was compromised. Was it related to unfinished business in Valentine?

It suddenly clicked. Right as Arthur finished reading, you said, “Mary.”

“I, uh... “ At least he had the decency to look sheepish. He nodded.

Immediately, your mood had soured. And it had only gone downhill from there. The letter arrived this morning, Arthur had read it after breakfast, and offered it to you to read after he had finished. It was from Mary, alright. She was in Saint Denis, and, yet again, she was begging for Arthur’s help. You tried not to be angry, but you were. Mary was long before you and you knew that, and yet, you were still strangely jealous of her. Despite existing long before you in Arthur’s life, she was still receiving so much attention, so much of his time, so much of his… You couldn’t think of what it was exactly, but it was infuriating.

And now, here you were. Mid-afternoon. Roaming aimlessly around Shady Belle, getting on everyone’s nerves. Pearson, who was usually one to nag those who were bored into helping prep the food, was avoiding you like the plague. You had taken to practicing your aim, your volcanic pistol in your hand, squinting at the glass bottles you had lined up on the end of the dock. It was cruel, but you imagined each one was Mary and Arthur. Bang! There goes the engagement ring. Bang! Their stupid faces kissing. Bang!

You jumped about a mile in the air as the last gunshot came from behind you. Whirling around, you found yourself face to face with Arthur, lowering his revolver. He was smiling, just a slight lift to the left side of his mouth, and he pretended to blow smoke from the barrel of his weapon, spinning it poorly around his finger before replacing it in his holster. He approached you with his thumbs hooked in his belt to admire his work.

“Always were a strong shot,” he commented, nodding his head towards the bottles.

“You’ve been doing this a long time,” you grumbled. Arthur chuckled.

“Not me, I was talkin’ about you.”

You could only half shrug. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, though you knew he was searching for yours. He sighed deeply and shuffled his feet.

“Look, can we- Can we talk? I don’t want this to be turned into a, a big thing.”

Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes and met his. The look on his face was begging you to have pity on him, exposing a strange vulnerability you had been seeing more from him lately. It tugged at your heartstrings and you finally caved. You tossed your head back, staring at the sky for a second as you exhaled sharply, drawing strength from the clouds above you.

“Fine.”

With a flourish, you extended your arm in a sweeping, “Right this way” motion, indicating he lead the way to a quiet spot. He stared at you a moment before stepping past you, walking towards the house. You trailed behind him, your mind returning to its tumultuous state it had been in most of the day. He had been gone so long, the sun was starting to go down, painting the campsite in orange hues. What could he have been doing all day? Mary hadn’t said what was going on in her letter, just hinted at it. You had spent an hour looking over it and scouring it for information. Man, your stomach hurt from the anxiety.

The two of you ended up in your shared room on the upper floor of the former plantation home. Arthur had held the door open for you, and you found yourself unable to sit down. Behind you, Arthur tried to encourage you to sit, but you could only shake your head. He edged past you to take a seat instead.

For a long while, you just stared at each other. Arthur removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. You couldn’t bring your mind to form any words for him. All the anger you had had that morning started to drain out of you at the sight of him. There was a sad air around him, something had happened, but you weren’t sure you wanted to hear what. He finally broke the gaze you had each other trapped in and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“How’s Mary?” Your voice finally broke the silence. You cut him off preemptively, scared of what he may have been about to say.

“She’s just fine,” he answered, apparently relieved to hear you speak. “So’s her father, the bastard.”

“It was about her father?”

“Yeah, no good asshole spending money he don’t even have.” The venom in Arthur’s voice made your skin crawl. It was easy to forget, in more tender moments, that he was an outlaw. The fire in his eyes lasted less than a second, however, rapidly replaced by the strange sadness from before. “He, uh… He tried to sell her mother’s brooch. For his.. Hell, I don’ even know, whatever he keeps spending money on. Same shit it’s always been.”

You were frozen, watching him carefully. He didn’t look up. Thinking there was more, you allowed the silence to continue, but the air was still heavy and you needed the weight off your chest.

“Was that all?” you finally asked. Your voice came out soft and fragile. You had your answer when Arthur turned his head upwards, the slightest guilty smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, and the churning feeling returned to your stomach. “Well, did you-- Did you kiss her?”

Arthur let out a bark of laughter. Suddenly, you felt very silly for even asking.

“Darlin’, no,” he said. With a whoosh of air, your shoulders relaxed, and you even felt a smile approaching your own face. “I didn’t kiss her. But I’d be lyin’ if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind.” The tightness returned as quickly as it had left. Anger bubbled upwards, rushing hot to your head, and you opened your mouth to accuse him, but the look in his eyes registered: it was pain. Pain?

“Arthur,” you whispered, “what happened? Please tell me.”

Making eye contact once again, the cowboy shifted on the bed and gestured for you to sit beside him, this time closer to a command than suggestion. Hesitantly, you joined him. Your hands were placed gingerly in your lap. He returned to his previous position, elbows on his knees, and he barely looked to you as he recounted everything that happened. He started with Mary shouting to him from the balcony, to their almost argument about the what-ifs of their past, through pursuing her father and chasing down the brooch. They had gone to the theater together. A date? And, finally…

“Mary… Mary asked me to run away with her.”

The range of emotions running through your head was making you dizzy. Too much to process, too much to consider, so much anger at her, anxiety towards Arthur’s thoughts. You stared hard at your fingers, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread on your clothes. You wondered at what the conversation was like, what Arthur had said, what his expression had betrayed. Did Mary mean it? Was she truly still thinking about him all these years later? Would she ever stop trying to take him away?

“Say somethin’.” His gaze turned to you, the worry clear in his voice. His piercing blue eyes were burning into the side of your head. Without enough time to compose a kinder phrasing, you spluttered out the first thought you had.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why--?” Arthur chuckled, a low rumble deep in his chest. Relief, you realized, was the cause for his sudden change of tone. “Mary has played me for a fool more times than I can count. We was just kids, then. We’re… Well, we’re grown now, things have changed. Besides, I love you too much to disappear like that.”

Every other thought left your mind. I love you. I love you. I love you… He had never said those words to you. They were spoken every day through action, sure, but out loud… They were almost taboo. Tears filled your eyes as you looked up into his face. His eyes widened in alarm.

“You love me?” you managed to say, your voice strained by the tightening of your throat.

“I have, for a while,” he said. “I-I’m sorry, I jus’ didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but it’s the truth. I do love you, darlin’. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Relief in the purest form of ecstasy washed over you. You threw your arms around Arthur’s neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. He stiffened for a moment before returning the embrace. His warmth filled you up and washed out every bad feeling and thought you had that day.

“I love you, too,” you said softly, burying your face in his neck. He still carried the smells of Saint Denis with him, but you didn’t care. He didn’t smell like Mary Linton, and he never would. He was yours.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 reader insert #arthur morgan reader insert #gender neutral reader #angel writes

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palbabor-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Look Upon the Light

(Chapter 8: Terrify)

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, angst, general melancholy

Word Count: 7765

“I know who you are.”

Shigaraki lifts your console up, turning it this way and that, ignoring your declaration. “The facing got knocked off,” he states, his four fingered grasp lifting it up for you to see. His eyes catch yours, the crimson ensnaring you. “I don’t think it’s going to fit back on. Lucky you, you don’t really need it to operate the machine.”

His pinky comes down against the plastic, joining the rest of his finger pads. The plating is gone in an instant, dissolving into a fine dust and drifting to the mats beneath Shigaraki’s feet.

Moving to Japan has been an absolutely terrible life choice.

Notes: Not beta edited, so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Chapter 1: Encounter || Chapter 2: Observe || Chapter 3: Hello || Chapter 4: Intoxicate || Chapter 5: Taste || Chapter 6: Teeth || Chapter 7: Polaroid ||

Terrify ter·ri·fy /ˈterəˌfī/ verb cause to feel extreme fear.

In hindsight, you should have known. It was too quiet.

The moments that stretched between Tomura’s visits narrowed and shrank. You’d come to expect him whenever you walked into your living room, your bedroom, your kitchen. He stuck to your ribs, pulled at you, wordlessly asking you to stay close. You’d wake to his warmth, his touch, the reds and whites blurring together.

Despite these moments of tranquility, he was tense. Thrumming with an energy that made you shake.

It was dangerous.

But, you’d always known that, even if you pretended that the tiger at your door was as gentle as a kitten. Something was closing in. It felt like the calm before a storm, the air pulling back and pushing forward, misting over the pliant ground.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Like the best ghost, it only made its presence known in the chill of pre-dawn. Slipping over your sleeping bodies and seeping into your skin, slowly tarnishing, rusting out.

You wake one morning to see Tomura leaning over you. He isn’t touching and is barely breathing, his exhales coming out in little puffs of air. His eyes rake over you like coals, smoldering as they set you aflame.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice heavy with sleep. He doesn’t answer, just continues his silent introspection. There it is again, that creeping sensation that’s been nagging at you. You don’t question him further. Instead, you roll toward him, pressing your cold hands into his warmth.

Something unspoken has been drifting above the two of you for weeks. You knew that you could give it a voice. But, you were unsure if he could. You wanted to tell him about it, to make it solid by speaking it into existence, but you didn’t know how he would react to your declaration. And provoking an unknown reaction out of Tomura was never a wise move.

Did you even need it to be said when you’d already accepted it as fact? You loved him.

And, he loved you. You knew that, you’d never doubted that. His walls had come crumbling down with yours and Tomura was nothing if not passionate and possessive. He couldn’t help himself. He might disguise it as something else, tell himself that it was another thing he was entitled to, but you knew the truth. You clutched at it, keeping it safe, holding it to you so he could never tear it away. Even if he left, even if you never saw him again, you would keep that small piece of him.

You could feel that love when he came to you like this. He would soften, his voice and touches lingering, tender. He wouldn’t let you go. Insisting that you hold onto him, that you come to him. He was at his most desperate in these moments.

Running your hands along his bare legs you look back up at his face. He is leaning closer, practically bent in half as his hair trails against you.

“Come here,” you whisper, arms lifting to pull against his neck. He doesn’t resist and you tug him back to you, trying to leech some of his warmth. He lays his head against your breasts, his low breathing making you shiver. Your hands tangle in his white hair, cascading the tendrils against your palms.

His eyes finally drift closed as the sun peeks playfully against your curtains. You should get up, but you can’t bring yourself to leave him alone in the bed. Burrowing against his slackened form, you fall blissfully into sleep, content to let your whirling anxieties still.

******

It was the little things that tripped the two of you up.

He’d been careful, and you’d been protective of his presence, keeping your movements to a minimum. But, it had always been a matter of time. He wasn’t infallible and you, well, you couldn’t stop time.

At first, the extra patrols made you feel at ease, especially when you were returning to your apartment late. There was a new hero in the area and she seemed determined to make a name for herself. Although you had never run into her, the shops and local papers were chock full of her name. She had brought along two sidekicks, kids really, but between the three of them, the crime rates had steadily decreased.

Then, you remembered what Tomura had told you once, “Guess this prefecture isn’t important enough for any hero to deem it worth their while…I doubt anyone will notice a villain respawning in the vicinity.” Now, the patrols just made you jumpy and you couldn’t help but worry for him each time he stepped out your door.

Tomura became even more inscrutable as the days wore on. He was practically seething, a deep rage bubbling over him and tipping, spreading. It tainted his voice, his movements. However, he was careful to not take his brittle aggression out on you.

No, he was never rough with you, at least, unless you wanted him to be. But, that was a different sort of dynamism he would retreat into. And it was one that you welcomed. Often, it could pull him from the brink of his restlessness.

Even with the distractions, Tomura was still on edge. He’d always worn his emotions in his eyes and body language. You could map every inch of him now and that power never brought reassurance. You didn’t question his anger.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, you just knew that it was a part of him. It sat against his heart, beating in tandem with the muscle. But, it wasn’t his budding aggression that set things in motion.

Instead, something more insidious crept in.

******

A knock at your door startles you, your pen dragging against the drafting paper, an unseemly line etched across the design. Shit. You look at your phone. Although Tomura didn’t text every time he came by, he usually kept his travels to and from your apartment to odd hours, like pre-dawn, or the dead of night. According to your device, it’s just after noon. No, something isn’t right…

The knocking comes again, louder, insistent.

You stand, gulping down your shaking nerves. It could be nothing, you tell yourself as you walk to the door, your feet padding against the wood, just calm down, (Y/N).

Two men stand outside your doorway. They are wearing professional, dark suits and they look like bad fucking news.

“Miss (L/N)?” the shorter one asks, removing his hat and bowing to you.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, your heart beating tightly against your chest.

“I’m Detective Ito and this is Detective Yamashita,” he gestures briefly to the taller man, who gives you a cursory bow. “Sorry to bother you during the work day, but we have a few questions for you. Do you mind if we come in?” his voice is liquid and you distrust it immediately.

“Right now? I’m in the middle of a project, is there any way I can get a card and possibly meet with you later?” You try to make yourself stand up straight, projecting a calming lull over your tone. Come on, (Y/N), you’re not bothered by this, if anything you’ve been preparing for this. Handle them and don’t let anything slip, you have nothing to hide. Except for the villain who haunts your bed. No, don’t think that. You’ve got this...

“I’m sorry Miss (L/N),” the taller gentlemen, Detective Yamashita, presses, stepping toward you. “It can’t. This concerns some delicate information and we need to make sure we can clear you. While you’re not being accused of anything,” he amends, catching sight of your narrowed eyes, “we do need to make sure we’re covering our bases.”

“And my rights as an American citizen?” you press, holding your ground. You have a feeling it will be a null point, but it’s worth a shot.

“I’m afraid your visa doesn’t grant you any special privileges. Now, I’ll ask you again, may we come in? Or, do we need to come back with something a little more…stringent?” He lets the final word hang, a warning. Detective Yamashita is clearly playing the role of bad cop in this little interrogation, that’s not an interrogation. Yeah, right.

You pause, biting your lip, thinking. If you push back, then you might find yourself in more hot water, besides, as far as you can tell, you aren’t under arrest. That means they don’t have anything concrete, for the time being.

You bow, “I apologize gentlemen, I don’t mean to be rude, I just don’t understand what two detectives could possibly want to question me about. Please, come in.”

They seem placated by this response and follow you into your living room. You offer them a seat on your couch and bring your work stool around to sit in front of them, hands folded in your lap. Here’s hoping the demure act will work in your favor…

“It’s no problem Miss (Y/N), I know you haven’t been in Japan long. I’m sure it’s unsettling to see us. Now, before we proceed, would you please show us your U.S. passport, work visa and residence card?”

You nod, keeping your face neutral as you gather your paperwork, holding them out to Detective Ito, who takes a small flashlight to them, scanning for any forgeries. Satisfied, he hands them back, a small smile on his lips. Still doing that good cop routine, you think irritatedly, tossing the papers on your media stand.

“We’ve heard that you’ve found a boyfriend while you’ve been here,” detective Yamashita pries, crossing his legs and leaning toward you. “Where is he?”

“Not sure I’d call him that, he’s more of an acquaintance. He lives in another city,” you lie. Keep things simple and to the point, don’t supply anything you don’t mean to.

“Which one?”

“Esuha City,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the detectives.

“Your landlady said he has very distinctive features,” Detective Yamashita pauses, writing something down. Then, his eyes lift, waiting. He’s not going to let you slip past this query.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your head tilting questioningly.

“She said he had white hair.”

You tap at your chin, pretending to think. “Oh, I believe he did. He dyes it a lot.”

“What color is it now?”

“Not sure, I haven’t seen him in a while.” Well, you think snidely, that one is partially true, it had been about a few days since you’d last seen Tomura.

“A co-worker of yours, Mr. Suzuki, also mentioned something interesting about your, er, friend,” Detective Ito pipes up, and you arch an eyebrow at him, not answering, holding back.

“He said that he acted strangely when he came by. Apparently, he was very aggressive. Mr. Suzuki said he felt threatened.”

It’s really shitty luck that interaction has come back to bite you. “Oh,” you feign remembrance, “well, my co-worker, Mr. Suzuki, had decided to walk into my apartment unannounced and without knocking. Naturally, I thought he might have been a burglar. I’m sure my landlady has told you that my unit has been burglarized before?”

“She did,” Detective Yamashita replies, his eyes finally drifting away from yours. “While this might be a long shot, we would like for you to look at some pictures.” He snaps open his briefcase and pulls a collection of images out, pressing them into your hands.

You can feel them both eyeing you carefully as you shift through the images. Some of them are Tomura, some are others, and most are blurry. You lift one curiously. It’s the image of a man standing on a train platform in a dark trench coat. Squinting, you try to see the station name. You can just make out the lettering, Musutafu Station. It’s the one that is close to UA. Taking another look over the others you see the same station tiles, your heart feels like it’s floating away.

Maybe they really are just checking leads, they do seem a bit bumbling, but that could also be an act. Something that makes you drop your guard, something that could put both you and Tomura in danger.

“No, I’m sorry. Although,” you tug out one of the pictures that is not Tomura, “this one looks a little familiar. I just can’t think where I’ve seen them before…”

“That’s the League of Villain’s leader,” Detective Ito provides, and Detective Yamashita glares at him, his eyes darkening.

“Oh! God, is that who you’re looking for?” you ask, eyes wide.

“We’ve been canvassing the area, asking questions of some of the locals. A girl in downtown Tokyo thought she saw him the other day, like I said, just covering our bases.” Detective Yamashita admits, taking the pictures from you.

“But, that doesn’t explain how I ended up in your investigation. Is it because my friend had white hair? I mean, not to be rude, but that feels, vague…”

“Since Shigaraki was seen near the train, we traced other CCTV cameras in the station. We noticed that someone similar to his description was seen exiting at this station, as well as several stops in Tokyo a few months ago. Your, uh, friend, as of now, fits a similar description. We’re just checking the area for anyone who has been in contact with persons similar to Shigaraki.”

“So, no recent sightings?” You opt to ignore that last bit of information, it would make more sense for you to be worried about the bigger picture.

“It’s terrifying to think that a villain might be lurking around. After the burglary, I really considered moving to another complex. I was hoping that that new hero would turn things around.” You duck your head, trying your best to look flustered and scared. They aren’t hard emotions to reach for, given the circumstances.

“He hasn’t been seen in a while, ma’m, please, don’t worry,” Detective Ito says encouragingly, earning him another glare from Detective Yamashita.

“I just, I don’t understand something, why talk with my co-worker?” you ask, your voice low.

They're hiding something. Suzuki could have reported his minor encounter with Tomura to the police, or maybe these men approached him. It was frustrating and frightening. It’s something so small, such a tiny slip in time. You’d honestly forgotten about Suzuki’s visit, so much had happened since then. But now, thanks to Suzuki’s report, there are detectives sitting in your living room. There’s no way you can plausibly deny Tomura’s presence in your apartment. Both Suzuki and the apartment manager had seen him.

“We have reason to believe that he might have-” Detective Ito is cut off by Detective Yamashita’s throat clearing, a rasping sound that reverberates in your small apartment. You gulp, pulling yourself from your musing, your hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Ito, please. I’m sorry ma’am, we aren’t able to give that information out at this time. At present, we have no further questions for you Miss (L/N), but, before we go, do you mind if we take a quick look around?”

“Um, of course,” you smile weakly. What else could you do? The more you resisted, the more suspicious you looked. Your stomach drops as they stand and you feel like you are going to be sick.

These detectives knew about Tomura, there’s no way they didn’t. They might be checking now, but they’ll be back. And the next time they might not…

No, you can’t think about that right now. Just go along with what they want and get them out of here. You can figure out a plan of action when they’re gone.

The detectives are already pacing around the rest of the living room when you finally stand from your seat. Thankfully, this part of their investigation should be easy.

The most Tomura ever kept at your place was the two pairs of sweatpants that you’d bought him and those you can easily explain away. You’d also kept your food purchases to a minimum. Lately, he hadn’t been eating much of anything, so you’d saved on the grocery bill. Thank God for that.

Overall, your apartment looks like it just housed you.

The two detectives putter around for a few minutes, opening drawers, examining shelves and closets. They even peek in your bedroom, but Detective Ito had practically closed the door on Detective Yamashita’s nose when he poked into the dark room. The smaller detective shook his head, aghast at the very thought of entering something so feminine and private. And odd reluctance, for a man who called himself a detective.

Concluding their search, they head back to your front door and you trudge after them, feeling numb.

“Well, Miss (L/N), thank you for your time,” Detective Yamashita bows, followed closely by his compatriot. “If you hear or see anything out of the ordinary, please, don’t hesitate to give us a call. We’d also like to hear from your…friend if he drops by again.”

“Of course,” you demure, bowing back, praying that this is about to end.

“Have a pleasant day, we’ll be in touch.” Detective Ito grins and the two men make their way to the next apartment floor, their feet heavy against the carpet. Once your door is shut you fall down into the floor of your genkan, your heart pounding and hands shaking. Oh God, you have to…Wait, should you text him? You’re not using his name on your phone, but what if they’re already tracing it? Can they do that?

You pull yourself to your feet, your legs wobbly, and drag yourself back to your drafting desk, snatching up your phone. Your fingers tremble as you type in your message. You don’t know if you should put it in some kinda vague, coded wording, or if you should just toss the damn phone out the window and resort to smoke signals. Damn it.

[You: 1:13 pm]

Hey, some men came over. They were asking questions.

Well, it certainly doesn’t seem like a vague text, you think, looking over the message and hitting send. No, it looks like it’s screaming that you’re harboring Tomura Shigaraki. You move to your floor, back braced against the wall, waiting. It might be hours before he texts back. But, you didn’t want him coming over and then finding himself immediately captured by the police.

You bury your face in your hands, a low groan wracking out of your lips. Worst case, he won’t answer at all and all you’d have left of him are memories, not even realizing that they were the last interactions that the two of you would share.

The sudden vibration of your phone snaps you out of your head, and your hands shake so badly they send the device skittering across your mats. You tumble after it, lifting the screen and breathing a sigh of relief. He answered.

[Tenko: 1:23 pm]

5-2 Kusunokicho 7-chome

It’s an address. You highlight the text, hit copy, and paste it into the mapping app on your phone. It looks like it’s a tea shop. You stand, legs still trembling, and grab your purse and jacket, heading for your door. You poke your head out, into the hallway, and gather your strength. If you are going to do this, you need to look natural. Besides, if they are following you, hopefully Tomura would know what to do.

You gulp as you lock your door behind you, a morbid thought jumping into your mind. Well, here’s hoping that knowing what to do didn’t mean killing anyone.

******

The tea shop is busy. It’s raining, so that might have contributed to the bustle inside the shop. You pull the hood of your jacket higher, trying to shield your face from the freezing droplets. Tomura hadn’t texted again and you didn’t feel like it would be a good idea to ping your location on your phone.

In fact, you think belatedly, you might as well switch it off. As you power the device down, you hear a low whistle from the alleyway across the narrow street.

You turn your head slowly, the rain pattering against your face. There is a figure loitering toward the back. It isn’t distinguishable as anything other than dark. Well, fingers crossed you aren’t about to be murdered.

Splashing across the street you duck down the alleyway, thankful you’d thrown on some heavy boots for this excursion. The figure is stationary and you pause a few feet back, waiting. He lowers his hood, red eyes still focused on the street behind you. You almost run to him. You have to tense your legs to resist the temptation, your nails digging into your palms.

“Were you followed?” he rasps, watchful, his eyes flashing at you, the street, and finally, back to you. You shake your head.

You’d taken a route similar to the one you’d transversed when you came to the clinic to drop off the diagram for that prosthetic. Each time you’d switched trains or busses you had discretely studied the faces around you, looking for any repeats, anyone who might be tracking you. You’d even drifted into a few other shops before reaching this street, often ducking out a back door and taking the alleys to the next street over.

You’d been careful, you just hoped it was enough.

“This way, stay alert,” Tomura murmurs, his hands still firmly in his pockets. He leads you down another street and into a smaller back alley. He’s doing his own weaving now, taking you over some of the pathways twice, his eyes always peering over his shoulder, observant and sharp. Finally, he pauses in front of a dilapidated door and shoves his way inside.

“Come on,” he calls back to you, holding the door open, allowing some space for you to slink past him. He follows, yanking the metal closed, sealing you both inside.

You shrink back against the darkness, your eyes struggling to adjust. You can hear Tomura moving toward you, his breathing a low scratch against the silence. He stops at your side, the warmth of his body close.

Neither of you move for a time. You’re both listening. The only sounds you can make out is the rain and your own heartbeat. You close your eyes, your head thumping against the door. “God,” you whisper, your voice thick with disuse.

The sound makes Tomura shift closer, his arms pulling you to him, away from the cold metal. He presses a quick kiss against your temple and tugs you further into the room.

It looks abjectly barren.

There’s an old mattress in one corner and a smattering of trash, mostly cans and takeout containers, strewn over the greasy floorboards. It looks like it’s operating as his bedroom and the thought makes your heart squeeze. It’s fucking disgusting. No wonder he used you as a place to crash in the beginning. No human should live like this.

He flops down to sit on the mattress and pulls you after him. The two of you perch on the uneven surface and you let out a long sigh, overwhelmed. Tomura senses this and doesn’t press you. He lets you catch your breath, welcoming your leaning touch. Once you’ve shaken off your jitters, you begin.

“They were detectives. They said they saw you at a Tokyo station, so they checked CCTV and traced you to the stop by my apartment.” Tomura is silent and you gather your breath to continue.

“They talked with the landlady and they talked with that idiot coworker of mine, you know, the one who tried to come in the apartment that one night. It was vague shit, I tried my best to ask more than I talked.

One detective kept trying to get the other to stop telling me details. He finally shut down the whole thing, saying they’d be in touch and for me to give them a call if I saw anything. I…I just hope this doesn’t fuck things up for you, for-for us…I don’t...goddamn it…” You bury your face in your arms, a sob stuttering from you.

Tomura is quiet, but he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around your quaking shoulders.

******

He isn’t sure what he wants.

It’s not a sensation he experiences often and he’s finding it hard to grapple with. If he’s thinking selfishly, he would keep you with him. He’d drag you to hell and back if he could. He doesn’t want to give you up and he isn’t even sure if he can. A deep welling of possessiveness had overtaken him. You were his, just as he was yours.

It was strange to admit that.

He wanted to break everything to pieces, to decay it into nothingness, but, over the last few months, he’d come to adjust those goals. Not just with you, no, the same leniency applied to this league of his. They should have what they wanted, too.

So, he let you cry against him.

He wants to know what giving is like. To tell you that he could give you something of his. After all, he’d stripped you down to nothingness, taking and taking until you had finally lain bare and open in front of him. You’d started the process naturally, giving coming as easily to you as breathing.

He knew he didn’t want you around the league.

You were too different, too removed from that sense of desperation and fanatical idealism. And you didn’t deserve it. He doesn’t like seeing you in a place like this, dilapidated and crushed, sobbing against his chest, your warm tears soaking into his skin.

No, you deserved to be comfortable. You weren’t a fighter. You would try if he asked, he knew you would. But it wasn’t you. Besides, what did you want?

He would have to let you go. He’d known it from the first moment he’d felt your lips running across his. Still, it had come too soon. Perhaps that could be his gift to you? Letting you settle back into normality.

******

“What should I do?” You ask him, lifting your head from his chest, eyes puffy and tired. His gaze is clouded, the red murky, unfocused.

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice hollow.

“Tomura,” you admonish, “I...I just don’t want you falling into some trap. Not because of this stupid…I don’t even know what to call it. I thought we were careful...I-I don’t know. I’m just so fucking mad.”

He smiles at your outburst, his scar lilting up. “What do you want to do?” He presses his forehead against yours, exhaling heavily, waiting for your answer.

“Move,” you reply, tipping your fingers up to trace along his jaw.

“Then move, it should be easy for you to get back to the U.S.”

You sigh, pulling your head back. “No, I don’t want to do that. I just mean, move somewhere that’s safe for-”

“The league is regrouping soon. We’ve caught wind of some…information. It’s going to take us farther out of the city. I was going to tell you tonight. I don’t know how long it will be. Could be months…” He speaks slowly, his voice lulling, soothing you, even as you take in what he’s actually saying. I’m leaving, get out while you can.

There is a long silence following his announcement, and you lean against him, burying your face against the rough fabric of his trench coat. So, just go home? Go back to the states? There has to be something that you’re not thinking of…

Tomura tilts your face up, craving contact. He runs his rough lips over yours, carefully letting his hands tap over your neck.

His kiss is light. The fleeting caress makes you press against him, your fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. You moan when he tilts his head, sliding wetly across your lips. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you open, tangling with him. Tomura grunts at your eagerness and his nose bumps yours, his exhaled breath shaky, wanting.

You sigh. How were you supposed to just say ok? How could you be ok without having him like this? What if you wanted to try and remain at his side...could you ask that of him? What if…wait…wait…that’s it!

You pull back from him, gasping and he gives you a disgruntled look, a frown creasing his features. “Oh...that’s it! I know what to do!”

“Keep your voice down,” he reprimands, as you lean back to reach for your purse. You dig in the scattered contents and emerge with a small business card, a beaming smile across your face.

“Nico! He said to call him if I wanted to take him up on that job offer. He said I could draft for him. He’s at that clinic, and he said they work in a grey area, but they have some serious connections. It’s perfect. It lets me slip away, I’ve just got to be careful how I do it.”

Tomura snorts at your enthusiasm. “So, you just get a new job and all your troubles go away?”

“No, I tell my job I’m transferring back to the states and I pack up my apartment. It won’t be the cheapest thing I’ve ever done, but if I can pull it off, then it’s the perfect solution. I can find some place else to live, and slip into a new life, one where you can still come and go.”

He stares, his eyes wide in that childlike manner, the pupils blown. You smile and fling your arms around him, kissing along his neck. He grunts and presses you back, pinning your arms to your sides.

“Stop squirming,” he growls and you still obediently, not wanting to agitate him.

“Come on, don’t be like that, Tomura. It could work. At least let me try.” You plead, watching his face, trying to see if you could get a read on him.

“You actually are insane,” he sighs, rolling his eyes and turning his head to look away from your stare.

“No, I love you.”

It just tumbles out, but it’s too late to unring the bell. Besides, you stand by it.

He freezes underneath you, his head whipping back to yours. His eyes are sharp and his lips are lifted in a deep scowl. It’s an intense look he’s giving you, almost raw, dangerous. It makes your stomach flip, uncertainty pooling in your gut. You find yourself looking away and biting your lip, “I mean it, I-”

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else.

He’s pulling you against him with bruising force, his hands trembling as they press into your skin. He can’t even seem to focus enough to land his lips on yours. He tries again, then stops himself, his face lifting away, but he won’t let you go.

His arms are wrapped around you, his grip tightening and relaxing. He tries to look at you, but ends up ducking his head once your eyes catch his, burying his face in your neck, panting against your skin. He can’t stay still. No, he’s groaning, so brokenly against you that you’re worried he’s going to shake himself to bits.

You lift your arms, belatedly, to wrap around his neck. You try to hold him to you, desperate to seep a little reassurance, fuck, a little sanity into his trembling body. Tomura shakes his head at the confinement and shoves you down, against the mattress.

You squeak as your back hits the musty sheets, but he’s pinning you under him before you can protest.

“What did you say to me?” he finally snarls, his lips curled over his teeth. “No. I know you didn’t just fucking tell me that. How could you even- How? I’m a monst- I-I...” He can’t string his words together. His head dips to your neck, his lips rough against your skin. He can’t catch his breath and he won’t keep still.

You’re gasping under him, trying to hold him. But, it’s impossible to control him. You just shut your eyes against the emotions that he’s pulling from you and let him seethe above you.

“Look at me,” he growls, his voice hoarse and ragged. You try to wince your eyes open, but you’re too overwhelmed, you just can’t, you can’t look.

Why, you think distantly, why can’t you look?

You tell him you love him and now you can’t look at him? Are you afraid of what you’ll see? Afraid of the rejection that you know is coming? It doesn’t change anything, you tell yourself, even if he tells you to get out, it doesn’t change what’s happened between the two of you. No. If this is what you want, then tell him that. He has to...he has to hear it.

“Fucking look at me, (Y/N).”

“T-Tomura,” you try, a tear of frustration, of fear, slipping down your face. “Tomura, I mean it. I lov-”

“Stop it,” he moans, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips following the path of your tear, pressing the salty wetness away. He’s straddling your hips and his hands are curled, pressing into the bed.

“Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t mean it. You can’t-”

“Stop it, Tomura. Just, stop. You think I don’t mean it? How can you say that? After everything we, no, God, how can you fucking say that I don’t love you? When I’m right here, telling you that I do? You don’t get to dictate how I feel. What gives you the right to say that I don’t?” you ask, your voice an angry whisper. You can feel him shaking, his body wracked with his shivers and the realization gives you the courage to open your eyes. Your anger melts away at the sight that greets you.

He’s hunched over, his hair draped across his face and his eyes are clenched shut. He looks like he’s ready to fall apart. One of his hands lifts to scratch at his neck, dragging red lines down the scarred skin.

As if they have a mind all their own, your own hands lift, tugging free of his weight to cup around his face. He tries to yank his way out of your grasp but you just tighten your hold. He’s not getting away that easily.

“Tomura,” you call, keeping his face captive in your hands, forcing him back to you. “Tomura, I love you.”

He sags.

His whole body seems to shrink and his eyes finally meet your steely gaze. The red is bright, wild, gleaming in the darkness. You gulp and furrow your brow, a trembling exhale falling from your lips. You have to say it now. There’s no going back. The world is shattering, splintering to pieces above you, but he has to know. Before you lose him, he’s gotta at least know that one thing in this world that he hates so much, cares about him. Fuck, loves him.

“Sure,” you begin, still gripping your fingertips into the side of his head, slowly slipping up to tug at his hair. “I’m insane. I’ve fallen in love with someone who wants absolutely nothing to do with what I can offer.

It’s not going to work Tomura, I know it’s not. But, goddamn it, at least let me try. I know I don’t get to keep you, I don’t even know what you’re fucking planning to do. You could want to burn down the world for all I care. I just...I just want to hold on a little longer.”

He’s slack jawed and his eyes are wide and unfocused. He’s still panting but he’s not fighting against your hold anymore. Finally, he closes his eyes and lowers his head, his forehead coming to rest against yours.

“Say it again,” he requests, his voice muted, thick with longing.

“What? The whole thing?”

He lets out a wheezing laugh and you slowly start to breathe again.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs. You lift his head from you, tilting until you catch his eyes.

“I love you, Tomura.” A low shudder echoes up his spine and his eyes drift closed again.

“Fuck,” he rumbles, tugging his head from your hands. He doesn’t go far. Instead, he flops to his side and drags you over, draping you across him, his arms latching around you, keeping you in place.

You sigh, relieved, dipping your head against him, feeling for his heartbeat. You’re both quiet and the room stills around you. Your fingers are tracing lazy circles over his crossed arms, careful to avoid his clenched fists. He presses his nose against your hair, inhaling deeply.

“Stay,” he says above you, his breath stirring across the top of your head.

You smile against his chest and duck into his warmth. His grip on you tightens, lean muscles coiling, holding you to him. You can feel his lips as they run along the top of your head, tapping soft kisses into your hair.

Ok, so it’s not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard, but you wouldn’t have wanted him any other way.

******

Your new apartment is nothing to sneeze at. Nico hadn’t been joking about that pay raise. He also was so much more than you were expecting. Not in a bad way, just in a, hey, I know some shit just went down, are you ok, kinda way. He didn’t pry, but he’d gone out of his way all the same.

The rest of the team at the clinic has also been absolutely stellar at helping you to get set up. Need something moved? On it! It’s like a big family and you can’t wipe the smile off your face most days.

As for your old job, they had been disappointed, but they understood why you wanted to get back to America. However, the American side of that job hadn't been so thrilled at your resignation, but you had received a glowing review from your old boss stateside. You liked to pull it up on your new laptop, reading over the words of encouragement and shaking your head at just how seriously you’d taken her advice.

Your Japanese work buddies were heartbroken, Hanabi most of all. But, you promised to keep in touch. You hadn’t quite figured out how you were going to do that, but that was a problem for another day.

All in all, things were going to plan. You had asked Nico for a little bit of extra help with the paperwork, explaining some of the details to him, and he had been quick to get you set up with a new passport, visa and residency card. It was like the old you was just a blip. You’d just need to keep your head down for a while, check the news, and see where all the extra precautions took you. It wouldn’t be easy, but what part of life was?

Tomura had stopped by after you finished setting up your new tv and console. Appropriately, he’d said he wanted to try it out and had then proceeded to ignore you while you set up the rest of the room. You didn’t mind.

The two of you were trying to make the most of the next couple of days. That lead he’d mentioned was somewhere on the outskirts of Tokyo and he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. He’d reminded you of that fact, over and over, until you’d finally told him to shut up and let you enjoy the time that you did have with him.

“Hey,” you call, unboxing the last of your new dishes, “got you something.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes still glued to his game. Rolling your eyes at his inattention, you wander over, leaning over your new couch to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Pause it,” you demand, dropping a kiss against his temple. He grumbles, but you persist, nibbling on the shell of his ear when he tries to prolong his session.

“What?” He lifts his head up to look at you, his hair falling back against your arms.

“I want to give you something,” you reply, pressing your lips to his forehead before unwinding your arms and stepping around the couch. He eyes you suspiciously as you perch on your coffee table. You lift a key up, wagging it beside your face.

“It’s a key,” you taunt. He smirks and snatches it from you, pocketing it and tugging you forward.

His kiss is soft, so achingly soft that you melt into his arms immediately, flopping against his lean chest.

“Stop being so dramatic,” he grumbles, shifting you to a more comfortable position across his lap. Your legs straddle his hips and he holds you against him, his fingers warm against your hips.

“Can’t say I never got you anything,” you tease, leaning back and grinning down at him.

“Same,” he huffs, reaching into his pocket again and tossing a small phone at you. You fumble to catch it. He snorts at your scrambling and you pout.

“It’s not like you’re throwing it at a normal angle or anything.”

It’s small in your hands, almost obsolete in this modern age. You flip it open and already see a contact programmed in: Tenko Shimura.

“So you don’t bring any more cops around. It also can’t be traced.” His voice is hushed, almost embarrassed. It makes your heart flutter.

“Awe, a burner phone. I’ll cherish it always,” you jab and tilt his chin up, so you can keep kissing him.

******

A low vibrating wakes you. Blearily, you check your phone, only to be greeted with a normal screen, no missed messages or emails. Huh? The vibrating continues and you suddenly realize what it is. Flinging your feet out of bed, you rush to your charger, unhooking the old phone Tomura gave you.

[Tenko: 2:23 am]

Out of the city. Found a new friend.

There’s a picture underneath the words and you click the buttons until it lets you highlight and bring up the image.

It looks like he’s in a forest and you’re shocked he has a signal. But…what the hell is that?

There’s something nestled between all the greenery and it looks ominously like a man. If it’s real, it’s practically a giant, no, actually hulking would be a better word…

It’s practically a living, hulking mountain. Unsure if your sleepy brain is playing tricks on you, you exit the image, deciding that 2 am is not the time to unpack this particular phenomenon.

[You: 2:35 am]

Looks, uh, interesting? Be safe & Love you.

- Fin

Author’s Note:

Ugh, this was such a bittersweet chapter for me. I wrote this fic in its entirety back in the last few weeks of August. I had time before my classes started again and I leapt at the opportunity. In many ways, I identified more and more with the reader insert as I tried to pour out my ideas. I wanted to hold onto this tiny story that I’d outlined, to see if I could make something like this work after such a long break from writing on this scale.

So, out came Look Upon the Light.

It was like a fever dream. I couldn’t stop now that I’d started. After I reached the 8th, and final, chapter, I spent the next two months pouring over what I’d written, editing endlessly. I wanted to make things feel just right.

I went from this bombastic climax to something more subdued. Why not let it be an anticlimactic ending? Life often works that way and sometimes things just, well, end.

Tomura, in particular, has changed so much over the course of this journey.

There were days when I felt like he sounded terrible, nothing like the complex character that I loved so much. But, with my sister's wonderful edits and suggestions, main ideas & patience and countless read-reads of the manga, I got a handle on him and I am so proud of how he’s come out.

Canonically, I feel like this gap in the main story is the only time something like this romance could happen to him. Tomura is in a fragile place. For the first time in his life there’s no one looking over his shoulder and he’s become a character who is worlds away from where he started.

His goals are finally solidifying and he acknowledges that the members of his league deserve to have what they want too. Inside, no matter what has been stripped from him, he’s always been Tenko Shimura: that little boy who wanted to play with the outliers, to make sure that he was letting them feel included too. I indulgently like to think that if someone like the reader existed, their relationship might help him to come to terms with this part of himself.

Finally, this wouldn’t have been possible without you, dear readers. I have cherished each and every kudo, comment, subscription, like, and reblog. I was so scared to put this out. There are so, so many talented writers for this fandom and I was nervous. It had been so long since I’d written anything on this scale, would it sound ok? You all have been so supportive and welcoming and I love you so much. The response I received from posting this let me feel confident enough to explore some of my other favorite characters.

So, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I mean it when I say that you all are amazing and I wish each of you so much joy.

While this won’t be the last time I write for Tomura, there are other facets of his personality that I want to explore, I will wait a bit to do any updates to this story. I want things to catch up and settle within the manga itself before I toss the reader back into Tomura’s life. I do hope that they can come together again, as I have become their biggest fan.

In the meantime, The Gap in the Door will explore some of their other interactions. Some take place around the time of the chapter Polaroid, but some will look into other parts of the story. If you have a prompt, or want to see another glimpse into anything that happened, let me know. These two are so much fun to write and I enjoy head cannoning how they could fit together.

In short, thank you again for all you’ve done for me and take care of yourselves.

Tags: @inumorph, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @possum-person, @akutaguagua

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seokmingiggles · 4 years ago

Text

peonies.

Prompt: "Going somewhere?"

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x gender neutral reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship, quarantine!au (if that’s what you’d call it?), non-idol!au (this isn’t a typical tag of mine, but I want to make it clear!).

2.36k words

No warnings.

Being cooped up inside for the protection of others can become a redundant routine. Today, your boyfriend breaks that cycle and goes on an unexpected outing—safely, of course.

Alternatively, Taehyung decides that he wants to remind you of his love with the surprise of little gifts. Not that he needs to, but he wants to.

A/N: Here’s a little something I wrote in the span of a couple of hours tonight to separate my Seventeen teacup drabbles. By ‘quarantine!au,’ I mean this one-shot takes place in our current situation with Covid-19 :/ I truly hope all of you are able to stay safe and healthy. Please wear a mask when you go out! We will fight this pandemic!! ♡

•• The distinct metal clinking of keys jingling by the front door catches your attention.

"Going somewhere?"

Taehyung looks up from his feet after slipping on a pair of brown boots. He's got his keys in one hand, along with a slightly crumpled list of something illegible to you from your spot on the couch. A black medical mask is hung haphazardly to the side off of one of his ears.

He stands up tall, "Just got a couple of errands to run. I'll be right back." Your boyfriend flashes you a smile, rounding his cheeks into rolls of puffy dough.

You hum out, "Okay," and return his small wave as he leaves your shared apartment.

There's a slight crisp to the air outside today. It nips on the tips of Taehyung's cheeks exposed from his mask. The boy considers if he should have put on a scarf, too, overtop his jacket. Overtop his mask? It's too late now, he muses. At least his hands are warm inside his fleece-lined pockets, and his round nose is sheltered from the late-winter air. He clutches the piece of paper tightly in his right hand. Writing lists may be obsolete now in the digital age, but Taehyung can't deny how he likes the feel of pen on paper, even if he can recite each written line from memory; crossing off his to-do lists makes him feel accomplished.

His shoes gently click on the sidewalk. The streets are emptier than he's used to seeing. The light snowfall from a few days ago has already melted. Instead, some dead leaves rustle across the dry ground. Someone is walking on the same sidewalk, heading in Taehyung's direction. She's wearing a similar medical-grade mask with hands stuffed deeply into her pockets too. Her hair blows violently in the head-on wind. She looks up from her footsteps, and Taehyung swears he can see what might be a polite smile beneath her mask. The boy's eyes crinkle slightly at the corners in response, continuing on his way.

His first stop is the used bookstore. The smell of old paper and the slight dryness from the dust make their way through Taehyung's mask, into his nose. He doesn't have anything specific in mind. He does, however, know the types of books you like to read. Shelf after shelf, he scans the spines one by one, in search of a title that stands out to him. Stardust, he ruminates, eyes inspecting the plain royal blue cover. It seems simple enough, and if you don't like it, he may consider reading it.

Taehyung weaves through the maze of piled books laid out on the floor; there are far too many for the small shop to accommodate. The owner of the store is sat behind the desk at the side, likewise surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books. Some are dustier than others; some look newer than others.

"Just this one today?" the bookkeeper ponders, face half-masked.

"Yes, please."

The blue-bound book finds a place in the crook of the boy's elbow, pressed to his chest as he returns on his walk. This time, someone is on a run with their dog, jogging on the opposite side of the street. Taehyung never sees his face, only the back of his head as he moves ahead. But he does notice the little elastics of his mask tucked around his ears once he passes by. Muscular, yet lean calves push him to run further; the brown spotted dog seems to skip happily along the sidewalk next to its owner.

The aroma of the bakery is mildly evident before he crosses the street. Located as the first shop on the corner of a new avenue, the little store contains your favourite treats, Taehyung's too. A family-owned business, the boy wants to support their shop during this time of limited sales. Frankly, the boy wishes he could do the same for all of the little stores lining the streets here downtown.

The bell above the door chimes when Taehyung enters the store; the sound resonates in the single room. A rush of hot air smacks his face.

With the sound of footsteps coming down from the upstairs attachment, the shop owner appears in a blue mask. "Welcome!" her voice is jolly, eyes in crescents. "Is it the usual for today, Taehyung?"

The boy in question nods with a smile, fluffy bangs bouncing with the movement, "Please."

The patissier moves to the windowed counter displaying significantly fewer treats than what would have been a year ago.

"Is it a special occasion?"

"No," Taehyung admits. "Just because."

There's a twinkle in the baker's eye. "They're a lucky one."

Taehyung doesn't say anything, and instead, he thinks how he's the lucky one out of the two of you.

He pays with cash, rounding up as an extra tip. The two exchange thanks and other pleasantries, and Taehyung sets back out in the cool air on his way. The paper gift bag holds the two cardboard containers with mouth-watering snacks inside. He slips the novel carefully into the bag, making sure it doesn't rip.

The florist is his final stop on today's little journey.

Blooming buds of each and every colour of the rainbow and then some invade Taehyung's vision. He's sure the fragrant floral scent would be more potent without wearing his mask. He tries to sniff one of the bunches of tulips near the entryway. No, it's mostly neutral with a hint of dust leftover from the bookstore.

"For any reason in particular? Birthday? Anniversary?"

Taehyung is brought from his flower-sniffing, seeing the florist behind the counter bearing what might be an amused grin. The boy hides his frustration at being unable to read people's expressions properly when concealed by the masks.

"Ah, no," his face flushes slightly, "not today. Could I still get some flowers, though?"

"Of course," she beams. "Anything specific?"

The boy ponders, examining each prearranged bouquet laying about. They all look beautiful to him, but Taehyung also doesn't know much about flowers. What's more important to him is how much you like them; that's all he needs to know.

"Surprise me," is his answer, confident in the florist's abilities.

Taehyung ends up leaving the store with a combination of delicate daffodils, carnations, roses, and two large peonies in the center. The bright yellows of the daffodils compliment the ivory carnations and ruby-red roses. The pastel pink peonies, Taehyung thinks, might be his favourite from the bunch. Maybe the two of you are peonies? You're certainly pretty like a flower, yes, so why not a peony?

Taehyung heads in the opposite direction from his travels, starting the walk back to the apartment. The paper bag containing the pastries and the book is still clutched tightly in one hand, while the colourful, decorative flowers are held with significantly more care in his other hand.

The sky is grey today, filled with an abundance of dense clouds. Taehyung swears it had been blue when he had left the house earlier, although now, it looks like there may be another snowfall. More leaves scatter with the wind, blowing in Taehyung's direction. They dance in the breeze, scraping the cemented road and landing in the crook of an alleyway between two shops, both with their lights off and variations of 'Closed' signs decorating the doors.

Sure enough, what can barely be classified as snow begins to fall from the heavens. Tiny flakes of white flutter down, instantly melting as they hit the sidewalk. The only evidence of their existence is when they land on Taehyung's black woollen jacket, but even then, they don't last for very long.

The distinct metal clinking of keys signals your boyfriend's return home. Taehyung takes in your appearance, now off the couch and facing the stove with your back to him. You've changed out of your trusty pair of sweatpants you've been housed in for the past months, opting for something slightly more form-fitting, but comfortable still, nonetheless. Your hair looks washed. Maybe you took a shower in the time Taehyung had been out. You're boiling some water in a pot, from what the boy can tell. Yes, upon moving closer, some pasta swirls around in the churning bubbles, steam escaping only to be swept up in the oven range above.

"You're done with your errands?" you call out over your shoulder, returning your gaze to the cooking pasta as you listen to your boyfriend removing his outerwear by the front door. "How was it out there?"

Taehyung moves his sock-clad feet to where you stand. After washing his hands, a pair of warm arms tenderly wraps around your torso from behind, followed by a brisk peck to your cheek.

"It was quiet out there, as you'd expect," the boy mulls over as he traces some unknown shape onto your hipbone. "Do you want to see what I got?"

You comply with his request, turning the stove's burner down before moving in his embrace as he shifts the two of you to the kitchen island. There, the array of treats are splayed out.

Your eyes immediately land on the flowers: the colours nearly take your breath away. It's been so long since you've seen something so alive. You don't fail to notice the brown paper bag with your favourite bakery's emblem stamped on the side. Something else is peeking out of the bag, something blue that you can't distinguish.

"Why?" you can't help but ask Taehyung. "What's the reason for all of this?" Still held in his arms, you slightly twist so you can glance upwards at your boyfriend.

He's already looking at you with his big brown eyes. Little droplets of melted snow rest daintily in his hair. You reach upwards to brush some aside, also smoothing down some of the astray strands displaced from the wind.

"The reason is that I love you."

"You're too good, Tae," you whisper, hugging the boy properly and burying your face into him. "I love you too."

Another kiss finds your head before you pull away, but only to move closer once again to place your lips on Taehyung's. His nose is cold, but his mouth is hot as you move together with years of practice. You're the first one to part, but staying close enough for noses to brush. Taehyung has a hand cupping the side of your face, thumbing over the roundest part of your cheek from your smile: a shape comparable to a soft bread bun.

Being stuck inside has its downfalls; you and Taehyung are no exception. You've had more arguments in the span of the past ten months than all of the years in your relationship combined. Considering them as arguments may be putting it harshly, disagreements or miscommunication are more accurate depictions of your quarrels. Perhaps the fatigue of being confined indoors is to blame. The worst dispute was a couple of months ago, where you and Taehyung grimly doubted the status of your relationship—if any of it was worth it anymore.

Clearly, you managed to work things out as here you sit on the sofa now, biting into one of the flaky, buttery croissants—one of the few treats adorning the inside of the paper bag. The raspberry preserves on the inside burst across your tongue in a pleasant tartness, complementing the sweet pastry. The pasta on the stove now forgotten, moved to the side and off the burner for another time. You offer Taehyung a bit of the croissant to which he complies, taking a large bite from it. Little flecks of gold decorate the corners of his mouth; one finds a spot on his upper lip beside the dimple of his cupid's bow.

"You're cute," you mumble, gently removing the crumbs from his mouth.

Taehyung disagrees, a voice so soft you'd nearly miss it if he weren't in such proximity, "Not as cute as you, my love." He takes your hand in his, pressing a string of little pecks onto your fingers. Your hand stays in his even after the kisses placed, digits now laced comfortably.

You take another bite of the raspberry croissant until there's one mouthful left. You wordlessly offer it to your boyfriend.

The floral bouquet occupies the center of the kitchen table. It's a fluorescent sight between the dulled walls of the apartment. Like a little piece of sunshine, the flowers provide you with a sense of warmth or energy that you no longer experience trapped in your confined space day after day.

The snow has picked up outside. The clouds have only gotten denser since Taehyung's return home. The sky is gradually growing darker with the hour; streetlamps flicker on one-by-one, lining the streets in glowing amber and putting spotlights on the colourless, falling flakes. Rooftops and tree branches gradually become covered in a dusting of white.

"I love you," Taehyung repeats out of the blue, causing you to remove your gaze from the winter landscape forming outside.

You examine his face as his eyes flutter between yours. A pretty shade of pink blossoms on his cheeks while his mouth lifts into the smallest of smiles.

"I love you too," you say with all earnest. "Thank you for everything today."

"Of course," he nuzzles into the top of your head, pulling you close against him. "I'm sorry we have to stay indoors most of the time."

"It's not your fault, Tae."

The boy hums in acknowledgement. "Sometimes I wish I could solve it all, you know? Like if I wish or pray, or maybe if I believe hard enough, everything will be fixed. Everything will be normal again."

"Things will be normal again," you return. Your thumb strokes over Taehyung's on the hand you're still holding. Your head finds his shoulder.

Taehyung is warm and familiar and possibly the only constant in your life right now. Your eyes reach the flowers in the vase on the dining table once more—vibrant and attractive yellows, reds, and pastel pinks.

You squeeze your boyfriend's hand: a silent thank you; an unsaid I love you.

Taehyung squeezes your hand back.

To do:

live for today

and cherish (Y/N)

••

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung fluff #kim taehyung imagines #kim taehyung scenario #taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung fluff #taehyung imagines #taehyung scenario #bts #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts imagine #bts scenario #bts taehyung #bts v #bts taehyung x reader #bts v x reader

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dakotacrisis · 4 years ago

Text

Cherry Blossoms (3)

Kagami straight up having a not good time

Read on AO3

---

��Kagami,” her mother called through her door, “Are you awake? You haven’t heard a peep out of you all morning?”

“I’m awake,” Kagami answered in a shaky voice. In truth she had not fallen asleep at all last night. Not after those three flower petals popped out of her mouth. She had spent almost a full minute just staring at them, willing them to disappear. But they did not move, the tickle in her throat did not cease, it was all still very real.

Kagami had heard of Hanahaki disease. A strange phenomenon where people coughed up flower petals but she had never imagined it could happen to her. She had spent the rest of the night researching at her computer while also trying to convince herself that she really hadn’t contracted the disease. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be happening.

No one knows why Hanahaki disease happens. It seemed to be such a magical and bizarre affliction that it couldn’t be real. There was no scientific backing to it. Really, why would someone’s body start growing flowers just because they were experiencing an unrequited love? It was absurd and altogether frightening. But as the years since its emergence it had become common knowledge.

Thankfully they had discovered a way to remove the flowers so they couldn’t hurt anyone anymore but even that came at a price. You could have the flowers removed with a simple surgery but when the flowers were removed the romantic feelings that the patient had for their unrequited love disappeared as well. For some it was a mercy but for others they saw it as a twisted and sick fate.

Many of the articles Kagami read on the subject ranged from WebMD’s symptoms and treatment options to articles about how to get your unrequited love to love you back, and forums for others that had contracted Hanahaki. She had scoured them all hoping one of them would tell her that she was wrong. But the signs were all there. The deep dive she went into when she accepted she must have contracted Hanahaki disease had only made her fear worse.

Detailed accounts of how the surgery to remove the flowers and the aftereffects of such a procedure. People talking about how in love with the person that held their affections was and the day after about how all those feelings didn’t exist anymore. Statistics of people who had died suffocating on flowers instead of getting the surgery that could have saved their lives. They would live but at the risk of losing the feelings for someone they held dear to their hearts.

To cheer herself up from all the gloom and death and bloody pictures of flowers removed from people’s lungs she read success stories. Couples who had fallen in love and how the flowers disappeared. It made her feel a bit better seeing that not everyone was subject to surgery or possible death on account of their feelings.

The tickle came back in her throat when she thought about being one of those lucky pairs that got the love they craved. This was all Kagami’s fault. She just had to fall in love with Marinette. She should have been stronger than that. She barely knew this girl and yet she felt it deep inside that her heart was irrevocably hers. A girl who smelled like sweet vanilla and whose soft blue eyes anyone would be lucky to drown in. A girl who made Kagami feel warm and fluttery and turned her whole world bubbly and pink.

Kagami sighed and held up the small jar she had dropped the flower petals into. She knew she would probably be better off just throwing them away but for some reason it didn’t seem right.

At least she was lucky enough to have cherry blossoms. They were fairly small. She felt bad for people who coughed up things like lilies and sunflowers. They were decidedly more painful and harder to get out of one’s throat due to how big they could get. The thought alone made Kagami shudder.

Her phone went off with a reminder that she needed to get going to school. How was she supposed to attend school now knowing that she had flowers growing in her lungs? No. It’s fine. She’s a brave and resilient girl. She’ll be fine. Besides, it was only three little flower petals. It just started so she was nowhere near the stage where she would start coughing up whole flowers or be able to see and feel the stems and roots growing up her esophagus.

She covered her mouth, certain that if she thought on it anymore she would puke. Worse comes to worse she can just schedule a surgery and have it over with. Everything will be fine.

While content in her ability to not die from the flowers growing in her lungs Kagami found herself preoccupied with the fact that she now had to face her feelings. She hadn’t even admitted to herself that she was in love with Marinette until those flower petals came out of her. Now it was all she could think about. How long had this been building? When did her feelings for Marinette go from a simple little crush to full blown love? Was it at the pool? Was it before that? Had she just been falling deeper and deeper in love with Marinette since the moment she met her?

How pathetic was this? She fell in love with Marinette within only a short time of knowing her but Marinette probably only thought of her as a good friend. Oh screw it, that’s all Marinette saw her as. The proof was literally rooted inside her. If Marinette loved her back as she wanted her to none of this would be happening.

School was arduous and long. The tickle in her throat returned every time she thought of Marinette. She didn’t cough up any more petals but that stupid tickle wouldn’t let her have a moment of peace. By the end of the day she was ready to go home and wallow in her misery. That was until she got another reminder that she had fencing practice with Adrien after school. She could have screamed.

“Hey Kagami,” Adrien waved her over when she got to their lesson, “How was your day?”

“Fine,” she nodded, “Feeling a little under the weather but that won’t stop me from beating you into the dirt.”

“Allergies still bothering you?” he asked, “We don’t have to practice outside if that makes it worse. We can head inside if that’ll help.”

“No,” Kagami cleared her throat, “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” they took their positions and began practice. All was going well and for a few brief minutes Kagami was able to forget about everything as she laid waste to Adrien.

She had just claimed victory again when she heard a familiar voice ring out through the courtyard. “Wow, and here I thought Adrien was the best fencer I knew but Kagami is kicking your butt.”

Oh goodness why? Why was Marinette here? She was dressed in warm yellows and soft whites, a single hair clip with a daisy on it holding her bangs away from her face. “Hey Marinette,” Adrien stood up, pushing his mask up to greet her, “What brings you to practice today?”

“I finished copying the notes you lent me.” she handed him a notebook, “I also wanted to see how you faired against Kagami since I haven’t had the chance to watch her fence yet. Does she always beat you so easily?”

“Pretty much,” Adrien sighed with a good natured smile, “But I still think I give her a run for her money. Right Kagami?”

Kagami was frozen. She hadn’t prepared herself to see Marinette yet. The tickle in her throat became more insistent. Why did seeing her have to be such a wonderful and horrible thing at the same time?

“Yeah,” she managed to say in between tiny coughs, “Nice to see you again.”

“Oh, poor Kagami, allergies still bugging you?” Marinette looked at her with pity, “I think I have some allergy meds in my bag. I bought a bottle just in case of emergencies like this.”

“Oh no,” Kagami coughed harder, “That’s fine. I already took some. I’m just waiting for it to kick in.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Marinette beamed. “Would you guys mind it I watch you duel for a bit?”

“Sure,” Adrien shrugged, “Maybe an audience is just the kind of encouragement I need to finally win one of these matches.”

Marinette took a seat nearby to watch. They began the duel but Kagami couldn’t focus on fencing with Marinette watching her so intently. She pressed her lips tightly together to muffle the cough that tried to escape. Her eyes watered and there was a tight pain in her chest the longer she tried to keep from coughing. Not now! Please not now!

Finally she couldn’t take it anymore, the need to breathe and clear her lungs to great. She coughed into her mask. She felt the tickle of wet petals slide past her lips and tongue and settle at the bottom of her mask near her chin. Adrien took the moment she was disoriented and knocked her back onto her butt. At least it was over and she was breathing a bit easier.

“I win! Woo!” Adrien cheered, “Doesn’t feel as good since you had a coughing fit in the middle of it but I will still take the win.”

“Yep, great, congratulations,” Kagami stood up, “Don’t apologize for taking advantage of your opponent’s weakness. Every great fighter does it.”

“That was a great fight,” Marinette said, “Kagami, do you need some water? You sounded pretty bad at the end there. I have a water bottle.”

Goodness this girl came prepared for anything.

“No. I’m fine,” she assured her. She desperately wanted something to drink but she couldn’t risk taking her mask off since it was the only thing keeping the flower petals from falling out. “I think I’m going to cut practice short today though. Go home and get some rest.”

“Yeah, I should probably be heading back too.” Adrien agreed.

“Alrighty then, I’ll talk to you guys later.” Marinette waved before heading off again.

Kagami immediately ran to the locker room and tore the mask off her head. Three more pink petals fell from her mask and settled on the ground. She scooped them up and sighed. Why was this happening? Why couldn’t she just have her crush in peace?

“Kagami, are you alright? You ran in here so fast I thought--” Adrien stopped when he saw her and the petals in her hand.

Crap.

Her mind scrambled for an explanation. Adrien’s expression shifted from concern to shock then a deep sadness. He sat down next to Kagami and silently held out his hand. With a sigh she dropped the petals into palm.

“How long?” Adrien asked, studying the petals with delicate interest.

“Last night, was able to choke it back all day but the second she showed up here I couldn’t hold them in anymore.” Kagami dropped her head into her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Adrien wrapped his free arm around her, “I’d be more surprised if you had been able to resist her.”

He closed his hands around the petals. “Do yourself a favor and schedule yourself for a surgery now. Don’t drag it out. It’ll only hurt more.”

Kagami looked up at him bewildered and almost offended, “What?”

“You think you’re the first person that has fallen victim to the entity of warmth and kindness that is Marinette Dupain-Cheng? There’s been a whole slew of people that have contracted Hanahaki disease because of her.” Adrien shook his head with a small scoff, “Nino, Nathaneal, Alya, Luka...me…”

“All of you?” She couldn’t believe this. They were all such good friends though. All of them had fallen in love with Marinette and contracted Hanahaki disease? How was that even possible? Besides, most of them were already in happy loving relationships when Kagami met them.

“Is that really so shocking?” Adrien asked, there was something wistful in his gaze, “She makes it so easy to fall for her. When you’re around her you don’t perceive anything else. It’s just her and everything around you is gone. You’re in a void of sweet sugar candy. You look at her and everything turns…”

“Everything goes pink.” Kagami finished. “So you fell in love with her?”

“Yep. I was latest before you. I was coughing up red rose petals for months and months. I tried everything in my power to get her to return my feelings. I straight up confessed to her that I was in love with her and wanted to know if she could love me back. When she told me she didn’t I...it kind of broke me. It hurt so much but I didn’t want to let go of the feeling of loving her. In the end she had to beg me to go and get the surgery to save my life.”

She would have never guessed that Adrien and so many of her other friends had also fallen for Marinette. Then again, if they all got the surgery and had their feelings removed then she wouldn’t have been able to tell.

“You wanna know something all those articles online don’t tell you?” Adrien said, “Once the surgery is over and the flowers and the feelings are gone you feel hollow. Not for a long time but at least the first week you can just feel that hole where your love was. It’s not even like you lost any attraction you just lose everything for a bit.”

“And you think that speech is going to convince me to want to get the surgery? It sounds pretty bad.”

“For the first week, after that everything eases. You can’t love her romantically anymore so you love her the only other way you can. That’s why we’re all such good friends. We love her as much as we can platonically. It fills that hole and while the world may no longer be pink when you look at her, it is still the happiest place you know.”

Kagami sniffed. It sounded nice. To love someone so much in a way that assured you wouldn’t lose them. She could still be happy. She could still be in Marinette’s life. She could still have happy days full of that warmth and sweetness that radiated off of her. But at the cost of losing something that felt even better.

“All my life I’ve waited to meet someone that makes me feel the way I do when I’m around Marinette. I started to think that it would never happen. Then she showed up.” she reached into her bag and took out the butterfly barrette that Marinette gave her. “I know that I am probably causing myself more pain but I don’t want to give this up so easily. I can’t give her up without a fight, Adrien. You of all people understand that, don’t you?”

Adrien sighed and dropped the petals back into her hand. He reached into his own bag and withdrew a paper bookmark. A pressed red rose petal laminated to the paper. He smiled, “Maybe you’ll be the lucky one that wins her heart this time.”

She hugged him tight. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You have to promise me though,” Adrien pulled back, “You have to promise that if this goes on too long and your disease gets really bad that you will schedule a surgery. I know that you are not going to want to but I will not see your stubbornness kill you, Kagami. You will have to yield if it goes on for too long, do you understand?”

“I do. I promise.” Kagami hated the idea but it could always be worse.

“Good.” Adrien stood up, “Get dressed and go home to get some rest. Tomorrow we start operation...what kind of petals are you coughing up again?”

“Cherry blossoms.”

“Tomorrow we begin Operation Cherry Blossoms!”

---

(First) (Previous) (Next)

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #kagami tsurugi #kagaminette #marigami #hanahaki disease au

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fanficparker · 4 years ago

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A GAME OF DIAMONDS AND HEARTS // H.O.

>> CHAPTER TWO

"The reward of sin is death? That’s hard." - Doctor Faustus, Marlowe

(Frenemies to Lovers! Mob AU! ) Harrison Osterfield x Fem!OC

Word count: 2.45k words

Warning: Swearing, jerk behaviour, keeping hostage, guns, blood and violence, sexual tension.

Synopsis: After the sudden death of his uncle and the eccentric multi-millionaire mafia king Lufian Clarke, Harrison Osterfield’s almost decent life is mostly devastated especially when half of what should be rightfully his fortune is transferred to their immediate rival for reasons he doesn’t know. What’s remaining is him trying to figure out how to deal with this collaboration of two rival corporations that don’t belong together and work on the side of the woman he never knew would ever be referred to as his partner in crime while they are dragged into a mess bigger than what they were trained to handle.

<< ONE [ MASTERLIST ] THREE >>

"Kill her."

Harry coughed. Twice.

"You know that's not possible," because if it was, wouldn't they have eliminated all their rivals already? The mafia was no easy business. It was equivalent to living on the edge without a rope tied to your waist to pull you back in case you fall off the cliff. Rather there was a rope tied to your ankle, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pull you down.

Harrison licked his dried lips as he rose from the desk, stepping closer to him. "Yeah and that's why Tom should be here, not you." He paused for a moment before mumbling: "Kid," amusement crossing his sharp features.

Harry's stomach rumbled with anger. Oh, and you are an obtuse twenty-four-year-old crazy old man who is also a big ass jerk.

He wanted to punch that grimace off his face.

The only reason he was a part of the mafia was that he believed in Clarke's philosophy, his ideology, his way of dealing with things but with Harrison on board, was it even the same anymore?

Harrison crossed the nineteen-year-old, barging into the door to exit the room. "Ask Tom to meet me in the car at seven. And until then I don't want a single soul near myself." He stated before putting a foot out of the door.

Harry expected to hear his departing footsteps but Harrison rather took a foot back, meeting the redhead's eyes with a steady gaze.

"And from next time," He warned, "knock before you enter." And with that he left, his footsteps echoing behind him.

All Harry could do was clench his fist.

***

It was a business agreement but it felt more like a marriage. An unwanted, forceful one. One where you hated your spouse to the moon and back and yet had to lose a part of your bed, life and love.

Why would you ever do this to me, Clarke? Why would you?! The anger and frustration bubbling inside his chest were too much to handle. He had left along with Tom and had captured one of Dino's closest men.

Dino was one of their new clients and had lately caused a lot of trouble from not paying the amount he owed to actually trying to fly off Europe.

If it was for any other day, Harrison wouldn't even bother handling Dino or any of his men by himself but today he needed a punching bag. A punching bag on whom he could pour all his pent up rage out. Beat his torment off another person's bones. That made sense to him.

He had dragged the man in the dark of the abandoned warehouse— the place Dino once used as a storage for his illegal weapons. The place he had tried to erase, pretend that it never existed.

Tom tied him to the chair for enquiry but Harrison was in no mood for that. He had already made up his mind. He didn't even let the man lift up his head to comprehend what was happening before Harrison's fist made a sharp contact with his jaw, knocking him to the floor along with the chair.

Tom watched from the side as Harrison grabbed the man's shirt, now dusty and violated with stains of fresh blood mixed with spit, establishing the chair back on the cemented floor with a thud. "Ask your boss to show up, will you?" He raised his voice several octaves as if to mock him for being so weak and helpless.

With blood sputtering between the guy's teeth, he tried to speak, "I--"

But Harrison instantly cuts in, circling around his chair, "Oh wait. What can you even do? You are useless for both me and Dino. That's why Dino left you here. He doesn't give a fuck if you live or die." He halted his steps and pulled the man's hair, sharply forcing his head back, jarring his neck, painfully stretching the muscles of his throat before spatting into his face, "You hear that? You. Are. Worthless."

And then he again swung his fist across his face, just this time he didn't stop. His knuckles throbbed with the sharp collision of bone against bone. His skin turned bright blue hidden by red. God, it felt good.

"We don't wanna kill him." Tom reminded, voice laced with disgust. This was brutal even for Harrison.

"I want to." He groaned, fisting his hands in the man's shirt.

"And here I wondered, Clarke's scion would be smarter."

His neck snapped at the voice. The source of the words— the silhouette emerged from the door, her heels hitting against the cemented floor as she strolled towards the blue light that filled the otherwise dark room.

Harrison recognised the voice well, he didn't need to wait for it to materialise into human form but he also didn't want to hear it, let alone see the person whom it belonged to. Somethings are inevitable, anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Tom was the first one to speak, his eyes focused on the woman who stood just a few feet apart from them, her shoulder-length dark hair sitting as a tight ponytail, high on her head, giving her the illusion of height.

She crossed her arms over her midsection, one foot slightly ahead of the other and let out a breath. "That's not a question, you ask your boss. Especially in that tone." Her words were sharp but not her voice or tone for that matter. For an outsider or an amateur, it would appear as if she was just there to ridicule the two boys. Yeah, in some way, it was true except for the 'just' part. Both Tom and Harrison were neither an outsider nor amateurs to read into that. They knew why she was here.

Harrison asked anyway, swallowing his boiling rage, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her lips twisted into a half grin. "Well, you can ask that though."

The small laughter that followed her words made a muscle tick in his jaw. He was this close to snapping. Snapping to no avail. Snapping for vain. She had won. She had won his prize and there was nothing he could do to reclaim it. He couldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got him. No, she didn't. He reminded himself. No one could.

"I just came to check on you guys. Also, considering the fact that none of you noticed me standing right outside this room..." She looked over her shoulder, pointing a finger at the door, "Anyone could have shot you dead right there."

"And oh my god!" She gasped upon turning back to the scene, her voice infused with fake concern, "What have you done to this poor soul?"

The tension that hung between them had managed to make the muffled cries of the fourth person inaudible to the three pair of ears in the room. Maybe because he was the rat rather than the conventional elephant, people were so used to address.

"He is my client," Harrison growled, low in his throat— a thinly veiled attempt at trying to keep things civil.

"Not just yours." She corrected, flashing a small smile in his direction, more of a grimace, walking towards the man tied to the chair. The two guys watched her with narrowed, questioning eyes as she removed her coat, the draping neckline of her red top doing the bare minimum to cover anything.

She slouched across his chair, wiping the blood from the corner of his lip, softly smearing it across his cheek.

"Is this bad boy bullying you?" She momentarily shot a glance at Harrison. The man nodded, too afraid and too injured to speak.

Clicking her tongue in disdain, she gripped his chin tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she pushed the chair to the back, supported only by one of her heels. He jerked in his bonded state.

She leaned near his face, her breath tickling in his ear. "Why not better start behaving then?" She whispered, her lips brushing against the side of his face. "I don't like pretty faces as yours harmed."

Her finger traced over his lower lip, her nail scratching his wound in ways more sensual than painful. "Will you comply?" Her eyes flickered down to his lips.

He nodded instantly and desperately. He was charged up; her scent was filling his senses. When her eyes were back to his face, his slid to take a peek at her cleavage, a mixture of fear and excitement dotting his sweltering forehead with beads of sweat.

"Good boy," she muttered and dragged her foot away from the chair, installing him back to where they had started.

"P-Please..." The guy managed to utter when she moved away, urgency evident in his voice. A triumphant grin got pasted over her face in response, making her laugh at his needy request.

Harrison could bet that the guy had a mild erection even in his blood ridden pathetic state. The scene almost made him puke. Where he was using force and blood, she was using her body, sex as a weapon. Definitely not his way of working. Yet, he failed to suppress the dull tightening sensation in his abdomen—and the part below it.

She walked up to him, pulling her hair down, brushing them with her fingers. Her laughter had long subsided but its residue was still echoing in his head. He hated that. He hated her.

"Doesn't it spark old memories, Osterfield?"

His face flickered with annoyance. It was in his best interest to ignore her words.

"Let's talk over at dinner." She offered, carrying her coat on her elbow. Yeah, they very much needed to talk even when he didn't prefer it. So, he walked out of the room, waiting for her to follow.

"You should seriously take him back to wherever you picked him from." She instructed Tom as if Harrison wasn't enough for him to deal with.

***

"We had a reservation," she smiled at the hostess, "by the name of Sandhya Omar." Harrison, on the other hand, was somehow managing not to kill. Her, specifically.

The hostess smiled back, taking a glance at the register in her hand, "Welcome, Ms. Omar. Let me escort you to your table." She smiled at Harrison too. He didn't appreciate the gesture.

She led them to a table perfectly designed for two, for a date perhaps, placed on a quiet, dimly lit balcony. Harrison removed his blazer, hanging it over the chair before folding the sleeves of his beige-coloured shirt over his arms and occupying the seat. The hostess dragged Sandhya's chair, letting her sit.

She mumbled a quiet thank you.

"A waiter will be here shortly." She informed and left. She didn't lie; not a minute had passed and the waiter was already there, passing them two menus and pouring clear champagne into their flutes. Before he could proceed to light the candles decorated over the table, Harrison interrupted:

"We don't need that."

"Of course we need that, darling." She cuts in, smiling so pleasantly at him, just like a cat would smile at a canary.

It was the waiter who smiled back, at both of them, actually. "I will come back for the orders when you both are ready."

"Thank you. We will take some time, though."

"No worries, Ms. Saan—dha—ya."

"Just call me Sandy, it's fine." She shrugged away his absurd pronunciation of her name. The waiter just passed her an apologetic smile, walking away, leaving them in solitude, surrounded by nothing but luxury and privacy.

"Talk?" Harrison began.

"What?" She pretended to be clueless.

It was a game for her.

Not for him.

"You wanted to talk."

"You don't?"

He wasn't having it. So, she simply rolled her eyes, choosing to initiate. "Okay... I will start," she let out a breath, "My mob wants me dead because they want what I have inherited."

Funny, they and Harrison were on the same page.

"And you walked here alone?" He quirked a brow.

She slumped in her chair, one foot crossed over her knee, "You see, I am not alone." Her hands gestured at him.

He snorted. Ridiculous.

"You seriously think that I want you any less dead than them?"

"Yeah."

"That's foolish." He leaned across the table, elbows pressing against the wood, "I'd kill you the second I'd get the chance." He stressed certain syllables, gritting his teeth in fury. His tone dripped scorn.

"No, you won't. You need me." She stated as a matter-of-fact, straightening her back.

"You wish." He replied quickly, scoffing at her misplaced confidence.

Her phone on the table vibrated, providing them with the much needed break from cocking their verbal guns at each other. The sneer on her face vanished in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by fear as soon as her eyes scanned the glowing screen. She tapped the dial on her watch before leaning across the table.

"Listen carefully..."

He didn't.

Her hands grabbed his collar, pulling his face closer to hers, tautly stretching the fabric of his shirt, "Your life is at threat too!"

Her eyes glanced at her watch again.

"Four minutes and they'll be here." The slight flicker of the candle burning across the table animated a dance of shadows on their faces, projecting the fearful vibrations in her stomach onto the surface. "For both of us," she clarified, their face centimeters apart.

He laughed pulling himself back, not considering her words any worthy of his contemplation, smoothening the creases she had created on his otherwise crisp shirt. But she was quick to pull him again, not allowing his eyes to focus on anything else but her.

"This is no drill, Harrison." She warned, her dark eyes cold and hard and locked on his blue ones.

"In four--three minutes, there will be a smoke bomb thrown below our table, and that's our only chance to escape. Take the left side, use the pipes to climb down as quickly as possible. A car will be waiting for you at the side of the street."

He squinted his eyes in disbelief, an expression of boredom covering his face. "Why would I trust you?"

She sighed, pulling a compact case, keeping it between them, the mirror facing his side. His pupils dilated noting the reflection on it. It was the reflection of a person, holding a sniper rifle, standing on the rooftop of the building across them.

A chill crept through his heart. Their eyes met again.

In a tone that lacked any hesitation and provided no explanation, she gave away the second part of the answer, "Because Clarke didn't die... He was murdered."

Yeah, people like Clarke don't just die.

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

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florencwrites · 4 years ago

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prisoner 〚dreamwastaken〛

in which [reader] will always wait for him, in which dream is no longer dream

(!) blood, torture, emotional trauma (!)

If there's one thing that Dream had taught me; it was that persistence is key. "Stubbornness gets you places." He had always told me, laying in the grass against that same scratchy birch tree several times a week. He'd lay his head in my lap and hum songs while I played with his hair. He'd often pluck the grass and drop it on my knees, or draw little smiley faces on my skin.

He'd never meant for this to happen, for it all to happen. All along, all he had wanted was to be one big happy family, to give all his friends that exact feeling he had never gotten. He'd go out of his way to make people smile. Make them live in harmony, helping with crops and mining, even going as far as spending hours trying to find traces of ancient debris; all to make his friends content. He never wavered in his goals, always trying to convince people to see the best in everyone. Hoping that if he just kept smiling, one day, everyone would be smiling right back at him.

However, lately, his smile had rarely been genuine, really, the only time I ever saw the true glint of faith in his pupils was when we laid against that tree, humming songs and basking in the sun. He was having trouble keeping up his positive outlook, everywhere he looked there were pets dying and friendships breaking up. Houses being destroyed and families torn apart because of stupid things. Items that held no worth, that could never hold any worth as important as family or friends did.

"Stubbornness gets you places." He'd always say when I scolded him for acting like a brat. Unfortunately, the only place it had gotten him so far was in prison. I was reminded of this fact daily, returning to the impenetrable walls every minute I wasn't spending eating, at all hours of the day and night. My sobs echoed through the obsidian, mimicking the wails of the many ghasts that had tried to pass through generations of the dark purple stone. The block seemed to have created itself a connection to grief, mourning even. I pounded on the wall, to no avail I'd realized quite quickly on, until both my knuckles and palms were bloody and bruised, and I did it every single fucking day. I'd do everything to have him back in my arms, anything.

On the lonely nights, the residing heat in the obsidian often brought me warmth. The bubbles in the stone leaving marks on my shoulders. Often the warmth reminded me of him, of his chest pressing against my back. I could feel the ghost of his fingertips scour my arms, the glow of the obsidian on my neck making it almost appear as if he really was right there behind me, softly breathing into my skin. The lonely nights were good.

Because the nights where I wasn't alone, were nights I spent listening to his agonizing screams from deep within the fortress. Nights where the obsidian worked his torturous wonders and elated itself on the reminders of the excruciating pain that was put onto him. The nights where I couldn't physically bring myself to leave until his squeals had subsided, where I choked on my own tears until I could finally hear him sob again. Sobbing was good, sobbing meant that they had left him to be on his own at last, because sobbing meant that he was weak enough to them, and finally; sobbing meant no more torture.

Sam's shoes had been loud against the obsidian tiling, almost loud enough to distract me from the muffled growls that came from underneath them. Bubbling snarls that indicated that no man would be left alive, not when they breach these walls and definitely not when their body touches the water that surrounds it. He had caved, at last. He'd hastily ushered me inside late at night in the hopes of no person seeing the enormous gates open for the first time in weeks. I had clung to his waist, my knees failing me when he told me I was allowed one visit. No talking about it ever, or I'd see the same fate as my 'little boyfriend'.

He turned another corner as I cursed myself for not remembering the path we took, nor the redstone mechanisms he used to get me through the many disappearing doors. "There'll be a change of guards in 30 minutes, I need you outside in 20, got it?" His face was tense, eyes set sternly onto mine. I nodded, my head felt woozy from all the emotions swirling around it during these past few months, along with the lack of sleep, dehydration, and now adding to the list; the thought of finally seeing him again.

The umpteenth contraption boomed from beneath our feet, an almost rhythmic banging from right beneath our feet, slowly making it towards the wall in front of us. Slowly but surely the barricade was lifted, an immediate cry escaping from my lips as I saw the state of him. He was surrounded by iron bars in a cage in the immediate center of the room, the walls surrounding it bearing enough obsidian to guarantee his permanent stay.

My heart ached physically at the sight of him, my body moving itself to press against the bars hard enough to leave bruises on my ribs, dropping to my knees instantly. I reached my arms through the gaps of the confinement, barely not being able to reach where he laid curled up on the floor. He was facing me, however, his arms were shielding his features from me entirely. Tears upon tears flooded from my face as I screamed for him to look at me. He shot up, his pupils wearing nothing but complete and utter terror. He let out a loud shout, telling me to 'please, don't, please'. I wrapped one hand around the iron bars, steadying myself as I softened my voice, "Dream, it's me, baby, it's me."

He was on one knee, leaning his entire body against the barrier on the other side of the room he had fled to on instinct. His head rested on the metal for a second before instantly shooting up to look at where the voice came from. "Don't do this again, please." He pleaded, his voice was desperate, hopeless. "Anyone's voice but hers."

"Dream?" My voice was as gentle and soft as I could possibly make it while also sounding urgent enough for him to realize I wasn't fake, I wasn't some recording they played to demoralize him. "Dream, please."

His body froze at the sound once again, however, this time he turned his body into the bars. His back.

Oh, god, his back. The white tee he had been wearing the day they took him away was barely existing on his back at this point. The fabric was torn all over, showing the dozens of deep gashes beneath. His skin was practically rotting away from the outside, however, some were new. I had heard him, yesterday, I had heard his agonizing cries for release, which is exactly why I was so adamant about staying by the walls all day today. I had heard them do this to him, and there hadn't been a single thing I did or could've done about it. A sudden, almost traumatizingly powerful scream entered the small room we were in, the obsidian jumping at the opportunity of echoing; anything to prolong our agony. "PLEASE, I'M BEGGING, LET IT STOP."

My body choked up at his words, entirely shaking as his misery took its place again in my heart. I sat down, leaning my head against the metal bars as I let myself sob with him. I glanced up at where he sat on the other side of the cell, his hands pressing against his ears hard enough he could pop an eardrum, his body trembling with utter horror, slowly swaying from side to side. His back was on full display as he sat hunched over, some of the gashes tearing open again at the tension of his skin. Trails of blood soaked whatever was left of his shirt, and I couldn't help but wail out again, my heart physically feeling like it was imploding. "What are they doing to you, baby."

His movements stilled, a good few seconds passed. His arms slowly rose to get a grip on the barricade. As soon as he established the anchor, he pulled himself from the floor, slowly turning to look into my dark corner again. "Dream, it's me, please, c'mere." I pleaded, hope filling my eyes that even after three entire months of mental and physical torture, he would trust me. I reached my arms through the gaps, reaching for him as he came into grasping distance. He stood an inch from my extending fingers, almost gazing down at them tauntingly. He hadn't looked me in the eye yet, keeping his focus completely trained on my hands.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes from my begging hands and looked up at me. "It's you."

"Yes! Yes! It's me, baby!" I almost cheered, my face pressing painfully hard against the bars, my entire body bruising at the constant impact.

His face was completely frozen, utter shock coursing through his features as he tried to figure out what was happening. "They did this to me."

"I know baby, I know." I nodded, confirming his words for him. Rationalizing that he was okay to not trust me, knowing his friends had betrayed him ultimately. "Please, let me touch you, I need to touch you."

He fell to his knees, ushering his arms through the barms to hug me through them. he held my body tightly as his body silently shook with sobs. "They did this to me." I hummed into his ear in response, knowing how lonely he must've felt, how worthless and discouraged. I felt my hands get coated in his blood as I clung to him tightly, crying together in utter misery. "I just wanted to keep it all safe."

I spoke carefully, my voice barely over a whisper, "What do you mean, Dream?" I rested my forehead against the same cross he did, the gaps between the bars barely not big enough to fit my entire head through. They were just there for decoration, really, the thousands of blocks of obsidian and the torture was what really kept him in place.

I watched him sniffle softly, his eyes squeezed closed almost painfully so, the raspy sounds that left his torn throat were a mere ghost of his normally smooth and silky voice. "I just wanted to keep it all safe," A shuddered breath interrupted him. I was clinging to his words, desperately wanting to hear what no one else had dared explain to me; why he was here. "I just wanted to make them happy, keep them safe." He gripped my shirt as he pulled me closer into his body, the warmth I radiated probably being the first source of heat he'd felt in months, besides from the occasional glow of obsidian. "The things they cared about, keep them safe."

A shaky sob left my lips as I let his words sink into my brain, only now realizing what he had done. His trembling voice made the hairs on my neck stand up, goosebumps appearing on my arms.

"All I wanted was to keep them safe and happy," He paused as a sob left his lips again. "One big happy family."

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agent-cupcake · 4 years ago

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Garreg Mach Café

Episode One: Dead Eye (Dimitri x Reader)

Yes this is a coffee shop AU and yes I intend to do a few of these because I am basic and this is fun to work on while violently procrastinating and yes I’m a little sorry. Just a little.

From the moment you keyed your employee code into the machine and clocked in until your shoes met the cracked pavement covering the parking lot out back, the hours you spent selling coffee and faking smiles were slotted into a strange fugue state in your mind. Existence in only the most technical sense.

Morning shifts were the worst for that sense of customer service depersonalization. After the initial rush, which you usually got through with the crutch of obscene amounts of caffeine and focus, weekdays always fell away into an exhausting kind of lull. You might as well have been living in a private world where only you, the radio with a station you weren’t allowed to change, and a minifridge of overpriced mineral waters that needed restocking existed. Which was pretty fine, all things considered. The downtime was nice.

Until you were disturbed by the swooshing sound of the opening door, a rush of cold outside air, and the distinctively familiar jingle of bells. At this point, you were pretty sure that perky tinkling sound activated some sort of twisted fight or flight mechanism deep in your gut. Despite that, you stood up straight from organizing the display and put on your best service smile, sidling up to the register. Just in time to have the air knocked right out of your lungs.

Well, not literally. You were pretty sure that cliché was a line used in books to convey the inherent frailty of the female condition. There was no such romanticism to your reaction. It would have been more accurate to say that your caffeine-hyped brain shorted out when you got a good look at the customer who had just come in because you were simple and weak and that amount of handsome on your abysmal amount of sleep made you forgot how to breathe for a moment or twenty.

The most obvious and immediately striking aspect of the man was the eyepatch. Not some basic pastel goth kind of white bandage attached with ribbons, but a properly utilitarian black piece that cut harsh lines of black across his pretty blond hair. Had you ever seen somebody in real life wearing one? Your spastic thoughts lingered on that for a second before deciding it didn’t really matter. It was barely even a factor in your undoubtedly impolite staring. You dealt with exhausted people from every demographic while selling, making, and serving coffee. Snappy, loopy, mean, giggly, you knew sleep deprivation in nearly every form and function. Never did you realize in full that it also came in its premium form: devastatingly handsome.

He was gorgeous. Like, drop-dead level gorgeous. So, yeah, maybe it wasn’t too corny for you to say that this tall blond with a sharp jaw, nice cheekbones, and broad shoulders covered in a dark blazer/blue sweater combo of expensive if understated business casual took your breath away. You were, after all, occasionally subject to the frailty of the female condition.

Be professional! Your sane mind —or at least the part that wasn’t dominated by the giddy mix of shy nerves and creepy admiration— urged.

Right. Professional.

“Good morning!” you greeted him with belated cheerfulness, managing to pull your jaw up from the floor before he stopped in front of the counter. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a moment?” He didn’t respond at first, which almost made your smile falter. His eye, ringed in the telltale shadow of a sleepless night, was blue. Really, ultra blue. You forced yourself to keep up the act, to stick to the script. “If this is your first time here, I could walk you through the menu.”

The man cleared his throat, shaking his head a little as he glanced —awkwardly, like he wasn’t actually looking but he needed a reason to avert his gaze— up to the menu. He’d gathered about half of his longish hair into a tail in the back, but the shorter strands framing his face fluttered with the movement. Did you have a thing for guys with long hair? You couldn’t remember, but you were pretty sure you did now. “No… Thank you,” he replied somewhat apologetically. His voice was low, holding this kind of rough, husky tone. In other words, it was nearly enough to send you right back out of your customer service mode and into a swooning catastrophe. “Could you make a dead eye?”

The request was made, accepted, and then it registered. And, really, you liked to think you were a good person. You really, really did.

“A dead… eye…” you repeated slowly, internally screaming at yourself to not stare at the glaring black eyepatch covering his right eye or crack a smile at the horrible joke. Good Lord. You didn’t like to think that you were a bad person, or a mean person. You were a professional, you’d dealt with a lot while keeping a straight face. So you cleared your throat. “A black coffee with a triple espresso shot, right. Is that to go?”

“Yes,” he agreed with a sharp nod, ready with cash and very obviously not realizing the dark humor of what he’d ordered or the reason you were trying very, very hard not to make this all very, horribly awkward. No, he looked exhausted. And attractive. You were a very bad person. So you told him the total and broke the twenty and quickly turned to make the drink because a good cup of coffee was just about the only way you could apologize for your wicked, terrible thoughts.

Since there were no other customers queuing up, he was fine to wait at the counter, watching you make the drink. You pretended like you couldn’t feel his intense gaze, bobbing your head to the piped-in indie music playing in the background. The song was awful, truly, you really didn’t think there was anything you wanted to hear less than some young nobody with a guitar butchering the English language in an ode to their unrequited love. At the very least, not at ten-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday. At least you didn’t mess up, so there was something to be said for your so-called professionalism.

“Here you go,” you said as you handed him the to-go cup with as wide of a smile as you could muster all the while working very, very hard not to think that it was a dead eye for a dead eye. You were going to hell.

Ignorant to your thoughts, he met your gaze intently —his iris wasn’t any sort of bright, intimidating electric blue, but something softer like cornflower or powder or the dreamy gentle pale afternoon sky— and accepted the cup with a black gloved hand. “You have my most sincere thanks.”

You heard yourself laugh a little in response, but it was a bright and overly jittery sound, not only because you were trying desperately to be polite but because you couldn’t help but feel a bubble of strangely excitable disbelief that he would be so serious about something that was so mundane. Not to mention the fact that he was so handsome or that his voice was as candid as his words implied and gruff in a way you really liked. At the very least, it drove out all intrusively poor taste jokes.

“Oh, it was nothing,” you said, the words coming from your lips without so much as a thought that it was definitely not apart of the preapproved corporate script. “Wait ‘till you see what I can do with the mixed drinks.”

He considered you for what felt like ages before finally nodding. “I will look forward to it.” Despite the lack of irony, there wasn’t even a hint of a smile playing on his lips to match your own. Just more of that discomforting, intense sincerity that you couldn’t tell if you liked or not. And that was basically the end of that because you had no idea what to say other than to wish him a good day. He left, your handsome strange customer, the bells jingling merrily behind him.

After the door closed to the temperamental winter air, you melted, bracing your arms on the counter as you felt jittery nerves work through you. It took a moment to collect yourself, but when you did, you realized that he’d left a great tip, too. Fantastic tip, actually. Which, ultimately, was what got you. There was something uniquely sexy about rich guys who were kind to the underpaid and overworked wait staff.

That comforting customer service fugue state didn’t return after that. You were too caught up wondering about his name, or why he was so tired that he’d need such a potent drink, or if you were to take his words to mean that he was coming back. You probably shouldn’t have hoped for that as much as you did, but you could blame it on the inherent frailty of the female condition.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #fe dimitri #fire emblem dimitri #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd x reader #fe dimitri x reader #fire emblem dimitri x reader #my writing #this is dumb #i don't care #yuri or felix next #probably #maybe #who's to say #i've been reading rhythm of war and it's TOUGH so i need cute

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