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blaydie · 22 days

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ᥫ᭡ HOW THEY WOULD REACT TO YOU FALLING ASLEEP FIRST DURING A MOVIE — Aventurine, Blade, Boothill, Dan Heng, Dr. Ratio, Jing Yuan + GN reader.

Word count: 1.6K

Aventurine:

Booking out a cinema for a date was something you had gotten used to. Whenever there’s a new movie out that piques your interest, he makes a reservation in the snap of two fingers. Now in the secluded cinema room, you sit in the recliner seats and beam at the big screen while the ads play.

“My drink is here if you want it.” Aventurine pats the cup holder and you nod, shoving your tub of candy his way.

“Take some.”

“I’m okay. Slow down though, you’ll end up with a stomach ache.”

“Won’t.” You murmur, snatching your tub back and cradling it to your chest.

“Will.” He responds quietly, grinning from ear to ear. Both of you know he’s right. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done it.

The lights illuminating the walkways dim, the room silent. A flash of colour pops back onto the screen, followed by the opening of the soundtrack. You slide your hand over the armrest and link your fingers with his, giving his hand a firm squeeze before devoting your attention span to the beginning scene.

Nearing an hour into the movie, the sound of your breath picks up in volume, casting Aventurine’s attention to your sleeping body. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and pinches your skin, waking you from your slumber.

“Come. Sit here.” He speaks in a soft tone, patting the space between his legs when your eyes eventually peel open.

Blade:

“Well?” Blade glances at you, pointing the TV remote towards you as if it was a sword.

“You want me to pick something?”

“I don’t typically indulge in things like this.” Blade passes ownership of the remote and rests back on the sofa, his feet resting on the coffee table.

Since Blade had been going through a tough time, you insisted that you’d be the one to take care of him. As long as he had some company, that’s all that was necessary. Selecting a random movie from the top 100, you slump beside him, your eyes keenly flicking from the screen to his figure.

Twiddling with his bandages, his attention was directed elsewhere. He had no idea what the demand was with these videos of people pretending to be someone they’re not. It’s more likely to entertain a toddler with a low attention span than it is an unamused adult.

Rolling his head to face you, he recognises the way your body is slumped—you always wind up sleeping in strange positions like this. He doesn’t care to wake you, he’d much rather sit in silence with you by his side. Switching the TV off, he places the remote on the arm of the sofa and lies you down, your head resting on his lap.

It was refreshing to be vulnerable for a change when he knew no prying eyes were lurking on him. Everything hurts, from his physical body to the thoughts he yearns to rid of—he just learned how to live with it, yet numbing the pain doesn’t remove it. You try your best, and that effort doesn’t go unappreciated.

“How can you be so peaceful?” Blade mumbles, the sensation of his body beginning to relax kicking in. “I almost envy you.”

Boothill:

Throwing on one of his old favourites, Boothill cosies up with you on the sofa. He rests his head against yours, completely entranced by the scenes playing before him despite already watching the movie countless times. He finds that sharing his favourites of the past with you would give them new meaning, allowing him to continue enjoying what he used to without feeling the guilt he’s used to.

Even though you want to entertain him by speaking about it after the credits roll, you couldn’t make it to the end, your eyelids are too heavy to remain open. You had fallen asleep during the last half an hour, not even the obnoxious noise of the guns could startle you.

“That’s right! Get that motherfudger!” Boothill exclaims, pointing to the TV screen. “He’s the real bad guy. ‘Shame how he had so much potential.”

Eventually, the cowboy manages to de-arm his rival, pressing him against the floor with a gun pressed to his temple. They remained in that position, continuing their squabble until the sheriff arrived. Boothill was sure to inform you of all the small details you may not have picked up on, completely unaware you were no longer conscious.

As the end credits finally hit, he rotates his head side to side and lets out a yawn, brushing up your arm with his icy, metallic hand.

“You’ve been quiet. What do you think, hey?” He taps your cheek, receiving a whine in response.

Squinting his eyes, he turns to face you and sees your peaceful state. Your eyes are closed tightly and your hand is still wrapped around his index finger, entirely knocked out. Now realising he had been talking to himself for the entire time, he snickers and takes you in his arms, redirecting himself from the sofa to the staircase.

“Let’s get you to bed now. We can talk about it tomorrow instead.”

Dan Heng:

The archive room was always a serene environment. Dimly lit, warm, and strangely comforting. Resting on the makeshift bed, you hug your knees to your chest and observe as the projector plays. Dan Heng often shied away from taking breaks, but after some extensive begging, you managed to reach middle ground.

“This won’t be as exciting as you’d hoped it would be,” Dan warns, cracking his knuckles before resting back against the pillows. He had been extremely busy all day, the exhaustion now catching up on him.

“I don’t mind. As long as we get to spend some time together, I’m happy.”

While it’s not the type of movie you would personally choose to watch, he claims that it would greatly assist him with his research if you’re going to persist in pestering him about spending time with you.

Seeing him in loungewear was almost an eerie sight; you’re so used to seeing him in his daily attire. Growing uncomfortable from your original position, you lie down on your side, accidentally slipping away into a dream before you knew it.

Not long after you, Dan’s body grew weak, his head sliding down your shoulder with an arm loosely wrapped around you. Both of you were fast asleep, the rest of the movie playing on mute.

Dr. Ratio:

The documentary intro music sounds out from the speakers, the therapeutic sound of rain thudding against the windows in the background. Veritas was fond of educational pieces of media, though he has a strict selection that he engages in. Before he watches anything with you, he skims through it first himself to fact-check if the information it contains is valid. Those who post outdated research get under his skin; it’s often a reason for common misconceptions in society because of how many people watch things like this without a second doubt.

In the armchair, you curled up between his legs, your head snuggled against his chest. The two of you were in nothing but your nightwear, the crackle of the fireplace burning to keep the living room warm. Veritas himself was like a heater, providing a perfect temperature for you to close your eyes and…

Fall asleep—which is exactly what you wound up doing. Less than ten minutes in and you were out like a light. His strong arms held you tightly, his lips curving up as your breathing pattern became slower.

“Goodnight. Sleep well.” He muttered, rubbing your shoulders gently before placing his lips on your forehead. “It’s nonsense anyway. You’re not missing out.”

“What type of fool makes a documentary on something so useless?” He grunts, turning off the TV and rising to his feet, your body clung to him. “Perhaps we should’ve watched your choice.”

Jing Yuan:

“You? Want to watch a movie with me?” Jing Yuan muses, placing his hand over his heart. “I’m flattered. It must be something extremely special considering how desperate you are to get me—”

“Shush! It’s going to start now! Hurry up and get in.” You pat his side of the mattress and he dramatically sighs, slinging his shirt to the other side of the room.

It’s safe to say that you and Jing Yuan have an extremely different taste in movies. While you adore movies which contain thrill, he prefers to sleep through them and then claim he was awake when the ending scene finally arrives. He’s notorious for it. Judging by the way he wrapped the blanket around himself and the way he’s rubbing his face against your hair, you can practically predict the outcome.

That’s until you realise how awful the movie you picked out was. The plot was absurd, and the CGI itself was a tragedy—never mind the script. After watching the family cat transform into an alien, you briefly closed your eyes and drifted off into a nap.

Jing Yuan, on the other hand, was horrified at the acting on the screen. Having to ensure himself this was not the result of some twisted dream, he clears his throat and pinches your cheek. When he receives no response, he lets out a scoff. A smirk dances onto his face as he kisses your exposed neck, just enough attention to stir you from your slumber.

“Congratulations. Were you truly that eager to beat me at something that you put on this piece of rubbish?” Jing Yuan points towards the TV, the mutant alien cat currently doubling in size and seizing the city. “I suppose this makes us even. You slept first.”

“… It had 5% on rotten tomatoes. It was meant to be good.”

“My love, having a percentage that low is not a “good” thing. The higher the percentage, the better the reviews.” Jing Yuan’s low rumble of laughter emerges due to your misunderstanding, now draping a section of the blanket over you to keep you close.

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katakaluptastrophy · 11 months

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Can we talk about Magnus in Harrow the Ninth? Because there's a tendency to paint him as this constantly cheerful figure and he's not - he's just very Fifth.

He's the only person who seems even slightly upset about the whole gun-toting horror thing:

“Did the Sleeper get them?”

“Only by assumption,” said Harrowhark, while Abigail’s dolt of a husband said, “I bloody hope so.”

“Magnus,” Abigail said, a touch disapprovingly.

“Well, if the Sleeper didn’t, that’s two maniacs with an ancient weapon and a love of blowing off faces, dear,” said Magnus.

And he's got a very low opinion of Silas:

"She won’t tell me what he said to her, just that he ‘was horrid.’”

“Cheeky little so-and-so,” said Magnus. “If he were my son, I’d give him something to think about. I’m not surprised he’s gone to ground.”

“I would hope your son might be of different character,” said his wife, half-smiling.

“Protesilaus should have biffed him.”

“It’s strange,” said Abigail, ignoring her husband’s exhortations to biffing.

Behind the jolly Jeeves and Wooster-esque talk of biffing people, let's remember that this is Magnus - who from Gideon's POV never saw a teenager he didn't want to adopt - earnestly wishing that a grown man had hit a 16 year old kid.

And when Harrow explains that she thinks she saw him jump to his death, Magnus isn't particularly sympathetic:

“We should have made him a greater priority,” said Lady Pent.

Magnus said, “I’m not certain.”

and

“We didn’t need him,” he said bracingly.

Abigail said, “We need everyone.”

“I never thought he was quite the thing.”

This "never quite the thing" line is the same one Abigail uses when she says Ianthe shouldn't have become a Lyctor and you get the sense it has a quite specific meaning on the Fifth. You get the distinct feeling Magnus is saying "good riddance" in response to a teenager's apparent suicide.

And then of course there's Magnus' conversation with Harrow as the River bubble collapses, as Harrow debates whether she should leave her body to Gideon:

She said: “If I go back, it will finally destroy her soul.”

It was Magnus who stepped forward and looked at Harrow face-to-face. And perhaps she felt that more keenly: that he was the man who had, in Gideon’s own words a lifetime ago, been nice to her cavalier. His mouth was hard now, but his eyes were as kind as they had ever been. And kindness was a knife.

He doesn't pull any punches in laying out his understanding of the situation to Harrow:

“This whole thing happened because you wouldn’t face up to Gideon dying,” he said, which was a stab as precise as any Nonius had managed. “I don’t blame you. But where would you be, right now, if you’d said: She is dead? You’re keeping her things like a lover keeping old notes, but with her death, the stuff that made her Gideon was destroyed. That’s how Lyctorhood works, isn’t it? She died. She can’t come back, even if you keep her stuffed away in a drawer you can’t look at. You’re not waiting for her resurrection; you’ve made yourself her mausoleum.”

His wife looked at Harrow’s face and murmured, “Magnus, you’ve made your point,” but he uncharacteristically ignored her.

He's trying to get through to her in a very fraught situation, but he's certainly not pulling his punches:

“You’re a smart girl, Harrowhark. You might turn some of that brain to the toughest lesson: that of grief.”

Abigail is also trying to talk her out of things, but she's much more discursive and apologetic. Magnus is kind, but it's kindness as a knife, not a cushion.

Magnus is so often written off as just a silly, goofy character, when he's more complicated than that. He's allowed to have a very real frustration with the River bubble and with Harrow, however much he does also care for her and want to help her.

And you know what, he's a CFO stuck in a horrorscape with his delighted ghost nerd wife and a bunch of soldiers. He runs with it - he cracks one of his House ordinal jokes while physically tackling a gun-toting ghost and makes a decent go at it before getting shot. But he's very much out of his comfort zone, angry, and no longer entirely held back by propriety.

#the locked tomb #tlt #magnus quinn #harrow the ninth #To digress into TUG spoiler territory...#A Lyctoral Abigail slowly blurring her calm and polite filter into Magnus' directness...

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johnwickb1tsch · 7 months

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 25 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

“Surrender to me. I will eat this sweet pussy every morning for breakfast. I will be your slave.”

You don’t believe him, of course, but there is a growing desperation in his pleas that fills you with warning. He’s been patient with you, but you wonder if someday this man will not snap.

He has you tied up again.

You’d watched him produce the red ropes earlier with resignation, but surprisingly, no fear. You realize that you have arrived at a place of relative numb, where you have accepted he will not satisfy you without your submission, but you trust him not to really hurt you.

Drive you absolutely batshit insane, maybe. But not hurt you.

You’ve had time to think about it, and you know there are so many things he could have done by now to really win your compliance. He could have beat you. Starved you. Drugged you. All the usual dirty tricks men have used to keep independent women in line over the millennia.

He has not so much as spanked you, really, except for that once the other day, and even you know that had been child’s play.

More and more, you have come to understand that this man has been through it. He’s told you more about his brutal past, curled up with his head in your lap, spilling his soul to you while you stroked his dark hair. You have discovered that once he feels safe, the taciturn Mr. Wick actually has a lot to say.

If you hadn’t been sleeping beside him, the signs of PTSD might have escaped your notice. But after over a week in his non-stop company, you have woken beside him when he’s riddled with night terrors, his strong hands gripping your body hard enough to leave bruises. Sometimes he zones out, and you know he's not really seeing the room you're in.

After hearing about his training (as a fucking child soldier!) and the things he had to do to survive over the years working for the Bratva, trapped in a cycle of violence he had little power to escape or control, you honestly think it’s a miracle that he’s come out of it as intact as he has—and goddamn if there isn’t a part of you that wonders if you cannot bring him back.

You should know better by now, than to think you can fix a man with your love. It’s a mistake you’ve made before, in your younger years, and you should know that nothing lies down that path but disappointment and heartbreak. But…what else do you have to do with your time?

Take up knitting?

You had watched him with a distant fascination, as he looped your wrists in the cord, securing them with beautiful knots before affixing your spread arms to the metal headboard. You had thought the curled iron design of the bed to be very pretty, but now you understand the form of it is perfect for knotting ropes in various positions.

You’re not sure how long he’s been torturing you with his tongue, bringing you right to the edge licking your clit with his fingers buried inside you, before withdrawing right at the last moment. He always fucking knows, even when you do your best to remain still as a stone. You have been going through your days in a constant state of low-burning arousal, perpetually wet with slick and uncomfortably swollen. You feel where his body has been every time you sit down, keenly aware of what he’s done, and what he hasn’t allowed you.

“My poor darling,” he continues to taunt you, taking a break to nip at the inside of your thigh, your soft flesh already riddled with little bruises. “Why do this to yourself, when with three little words I could set you free?”

You cannot hold in your ragged sigh. “It’s kind of nostalgic really, just like my first boyfriend in high-school. Getting fucked constantly with no real hope of satisfaction…”

Wick responds to this with a snarl, the way you knew he would. Jesus Christ but his teeth are sharp. Suddenly he sucks at your clit with a vengeance, making you squirm and cry out in surprise. Of course he stops before you even have the chance to make use of the friction.

“I do not want to hear about the other men you’ve had in your life,” he cautions you. “I’m the only one who counts now.”

“Could have fooled me.”

When he gets on his knees with a dark look, you do feel some satisfaction. You’ve learned if you piss him off enough, he’ll try to punish you by taking his pleasure and leaving you hanging. At this point, you’re just relieved that it’s over.

“That smart mouth needs filling,” he growls, guiding his tip to your lips, and you let him fuck your face, sucking his glans messily with a swirl of your tongue the way you’ve learned drives him mad. The only time he catches a hint of teeth is not your fault, but his, in his enthusiasm for trying to shove his cock down your throat. It’s not long before he cums, spilling hot seed across your tongue. Some of it dribbles down your chin, and he wipes it across your lips with narrowed eyes, daring you to spit it out.

You’re foolhardy, but you’re not stupid. You lap it from his finger like a good girl, watching the post-orgasm glaze take over his midnight dark eyes.

The monster will be sated, for a little while.

You’ve bought yourself time, but no real relief.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

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talenlee · 5 months

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Privilege Is Without

You might have heard, or read really, at some point, me saying the phrase whiteness is a fog. The idea is that ‘white’ is not, in and of itself, a cultural form, an identity, but rather it is a system of acceptance outside yourself that permeates culture. The fog gets into all the cracks and presses against all the surfaces, but it isn’t, in and of itself, defined by something internal.

I am, after all, white. The system looks at me and goes ‘oh, this guy qualifies for the standard currently.’ Of course, it’s entirely possible for that to be withdrawn. Find the right weirdo and they might (say) falsely claim I’m Jewish and suddenly that whiteness can be withdrawn from me. It’s a complex system that rolls around in its day to day. Go back two hundred years and I wouldn’t get counted. The system is not tracking some inherent, actual, real like chemical detail or compositional detail about me. It is something people socially observe and attribute to me. Some of those attributions are pretty easy but sometimes they’re not.

I bring this up because I find some people talk about Privileges as if they’re things people have imbued in them. A few years ago I lost my mind about it on twitter, where I saw someone complaining about ‘bilingual privilege.’ It struck me as having the energy of a very white person trying to find some way to complain about something, some anything that a person of colour they knew had that they didn’t have and therefore as a way to diminish the feeling of persecution that they felt at realising that privilege exists. That’s a pretty reasonable emotional reaction – it can feel like being told you have something that you don’t consciously feel you have and that feels bad. Not to be cruel about it but ‘how can I have privilege when I’m keenly aware of the things in my life that suck?’ isn’t an unreasonable emotional response when you first discover things.

But, just like with realising that you aren’t actually 6′ when you say you’re ‘about that’, there is an objective measure and factual information you can absorb that can help you dismantle that emotional reaction and get a better handle on reality as it exists. And that’s why I say whiteness is a fog. It’s not a thing in you, your privilege isn’t you, it’s a thing that presses against your surfaces. If you have a name that’s gender ambiguous, you will find situations where privileges are removed from you by people who assume your gender, for example. Deep-voiced femmes know that just being misgendered on the phone can get you better service, because the system, in its headless foolishness, has decided that that voice has access to a tier of privilege, even if it has to get there by misgendering you.

And this is where we get to the way I recommend people think about privilege as an external thing. People don’t ‘have’ privilege, people interface with privilege. Privilege is a system external to you, and if the system decides to respond to you, then you get what the system provides, and if it decides not to, then you don’t. It’s not that you have this wellspring of privilege bubbling up inside you, it’s that there’s an incredibly shitty card reader everywhere, and it constantly scans you and it just so happens, oh, here, you are getting the benefits of this. But you may not want those benefits, but the system doesn’t know that. It happens even when you’re interacting with a person, because the person is ceding their choices and behaviour, typically, to the system. There’s no masc privilege in the middle of a cornfield. It needs to have the system, with its removal from humans making choices, with its ability to offer rewards and incentives.

There are days I have been misgendered. The system did not correctly recognise me, based entirely on a ponytail. The system’s failure to identify a cis boy is, to the system, a hiccup, but if you believe that you believe the system is reliable and consistent and builds its respones out of good data. It’s not. It made what was to me a mistake, but how many people do you think responded to the incident with a mollifying ‘well you do have long hair.’ And when I’ve been attacked based on things – it doesn’t matter if I’m not actually a dyke, being seen as one is enough of a reason to get attacked… and when the mistake is discovered, one of the priviliges is the system kicking in and going: Hey, this is inappropriate. If the privilige was inside me, and not part of a series of social interactions, then how does that happen?

Whiteness is something that recognises me, and I say yeah I’m white because you know what it means. I even use that term to refer to my ignorance and inexperience with the nonpriviliged position! But I’m not ‘white.’ White doesn’t mean anything about my DNA or my history. I’m the Australian son of a British immigrant who came to Australia from a refugee program with her Welsh mother and British father, and my other side of the family came from Free Settlers who came to Australia to colonise it based on being told by a system above them that they were allowed and capable of doing so. And these are material things, these are points of real history but they also interact with that system. If my grandmother hadn’t been married to a British man, when she came to Australia, there was a chance they would have given her a literacy test because the Welsh weren’t considered white at that point. And that’s my grandmother. That’s a woman that was in my life for thirty five years, not some distant memory!

I didn’t get Whiteness at birth. I was born into a space where there was Whiteness, and the Whiteness accepts me because by doing so it can use my opinions and interest against the people Whiteness excludes. The aim of Whiteness is Whiteness, the aim of Privilege is Privilege. There is no inherent power in these things, but that is social, and that means anything they do and anything they impose is being imposed by people and we can do things to oppose that social system.

Admittedly, sometimes opposing that social system means things like ‘ignoring the cops.’

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Politics #Queerness

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cthonic-bunny · 8 months

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hay what do you think of 8h stellium in a composite chart??

If this relationship ends, you will probably never be the same. You two are transformed into two unrecognizable people as a result of the lessons you learn from one another. Your shadow sides can deeply resonate with one another. You two get a lot out of your private time with one another. You can just sense what the other person needs and wants on a primal level. You never want anything to happen to them. They are your most prized possession, one that no amount of money can buy. I feel like there is a higher chance of codependency with this set-up. You two might feel like a shell of a person when you’re without the other. You two have an immediate agreement that this relationship is not to be taken lightly. “We either merge completely or you leave me alone.” You two might have your finances become completely entangled if you don’t monitor this enough. You can become addicted to one another’s energy. You want to possess them mind, body, and soul. If there were more than just mind, body, and soul, you’ll want to possess that too. You guys will never hesitate to share with one another. “What is mine is always yours.” You two construct your own void to escape in to, a cave that can only be roamed by one another. The sex here can be transformative and bring about changes in your perception of pleasure. You guys might dabble in kinks you once were hesitant to explore with others. Once you two can fully give yourselves to one another sexually and let loose, the sex can be extremely vulnerable and beautiful. You will find it difficult to leave one another even when issues pop their head in. If toxicity begins to control the reigns of your relationship, get ready for the uncontrollable tears, screaming, destruction, and exposure of all your ugly sides. You will shoot to k*ll. Saying the most horrendous things to one another, getting into their psyche, and then still feeling like you are unable to leave despite your resentment and disgust can be a possibility with too much 8H influence playing out in a dynamic. Breaking up feels like you can be preparing to mourn a real death. Just know that you can take the lessons you’ve learned and take on a fresh, healthier approach to life once you’ve moved on. Do not encourage toxicity in anyway because it can get out of hand and it won’t be “cute” or “sexy.” Your safety and wellbeing matters, and you do not need to compromise it to keep anyone around. On a more positive note, I feel like you two can share a lot of interests or have parts of yourselves you only feel comfortable revealing to the other. I feel like you can confide in one another and share secrets you don’t feel like you can tell others. This is another match that wouldn’t be phased by period sex. I feel like 8H relationships can be apt to get each others names tattooed. When you two are not together, I think you can easily find things to remind you of your partner. “I look for you in everything.” You two can really get each other the most wonderful sentimental gifts. I feel like people underestimate how great Scorpionic energy can be when it comes to giving gifts. They know what screams “you,” because they’ve made the time and effort to psychoanalyze you. You want to know what makes the other “tick.” You are keenly aware of any shift in the other persons mood, and want to right it immediately. You can dive deep into each others brains and work passed any trauma you may have. You two can experience infinite deaths and rebirths by being together. This couple could feel like their partner is the only one who truly “sees” them and understands them on a deep level. “You are the light at the end of this dark tunnel.” If the other one hurts you or acts out of malice, this will feel like they legitimately tore your heart out of your chest. Any sort of betrayal is extra hurtful, and can lead to irreconcilable differences. “I’ll never forget what you did to me, even if I’ve forgiven you.” I feel like these two can become more antisocial once they are together.

“I’d live off the grid with you.” (Funny enough, I wrote this sentence in January of 2024; in March of 2024, i reconnected with someone I have an 8H composite stellium with, and within the first day of reconnecting he made this joke to me lol)

#astrology #astroblr #astrology observations #relationship astrology #composite observations #composite astrology #sexstrology #astro notes #astrology blog #witch community #witchblr #witches of tumblr #8H stellium #composite stellium #composite charts #scorpio #Pluto

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distortionbobble · 1 year

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Royal Flowers Chapter 9

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series masterlist

summary: y’all know the drill now

series warnings: eventual smut, mentions of death, palpy

a/n: oops

Anakin forgot how beautiful Coruscant is. He can’t recall the exact number of months he’s been away; he stopped keeping track of time around you, but it’s enough to make his skin buzz at the feeling of Coruscant’s humidity. He’s not staying in the Jedi Temple, which is unusual enough to him, but is instead staying with you in the diplomatic lodgings provided by the Senate. It’s strange; he spent every night since he left Coruscant by your side, sleeping next to you, but now that he’s here, it feels so much more intimate. It could be the size of the bed, it could be the reminder of his responsibility and role of a Jedi here on Coruscant, but whatever it is, his heart skips a beat at the thought of sleeping by your side.

The two of you had reached quietly and checked into your lodgings, with him playing the role of the affectionate husband. You seem to be okay, at least as far as he can tell, but you’re certainly quieter. He’s glad for it, but there’s still some part of him that wants to sweep you into his embrace, pull you tight and shield you from the awful parts of the universe. He doesn’t want to dwell on it for too long, but the desire is inescapable. He still doesn’t know what it is that you, Padme, and Obi-Wan had discussed. All you’d said was that Padme had heard something that meant there wasn’t much time left. He’s watching you now from the corner of the room, scanning the room constantly for any threats.

“It feels like it has been too long since I was in Coruscant,” Anakin says finally. It doesn’t feel like his home anymore, and that scares him. No, home in his mind is now back in the Royal Chambers of Naboo, spending every waking moment with you.

“I’m sure. I apologize for the nature of my mission, it must be hard to be away from home for so long,” You say, turning to smile at him. “But hopefully it’ll be over soon, yes?” You say with a hopeful smile. The thought of leaving you twists a knife in Anakin’s gut, but it’s one that he’s learned to accept. It’s always there, always looming, and the only thing left for Anakin to do now is get used to the dagger in his stomach. He’ll have to leave you, sooner or later. But that doesn’t make the thought of it any less painful.

“Anakin… about your friendship with Chancellor Palpatine,” you speak to him from the seat of the vanity as you get your hair ready for bed. “We—“

“He’s a good man,” Anakin snaps at you before you can say anything negative about his friend. Chancellor Palpatine has guided him through so much, and he can’t imagine where he’d be without him.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” you respond coolly. “What makes you think I’d say otherwise?”

Anakin hesitates before he sits down on the bed, mesmerized by your elegant movements. “In the past, both Padme and Obi-Wan have cast their doubts about him. But I can’t imagine the idea of their suspicions panning out to be anything. He’s an honorable man, even if they don’t like it.” You nod quietly, and he can’t gauge a thought in your head before you rise and flip the covers to get into the bed.

“I believe you, Anakin. If that’s the case, I think your friend deserves to know you’re still alive, right?” You ask him quietly, laying down sideways. Your statement makes him pause. He should tell Sheev, shouldn’t he? But that would make it all so real, the ending of this. And you look like an angel born of the earth, like the muse of all things beautiful, and he almost wants to say he doesn’t want to tell him, just so he can keep the farce of being yours up for just a little longer. But the feelings spark such shame within him that he just nods, his throat dry, and lays down next to you.

As he sits there in the darkness, listening keenly to the slowing of your breathing, steady and quiet, he realizes something. Nothing in this universe is guaranteed. He is promised nothing by the universe, and he’s seen it countless times; his mother, ripped away from him, the other younglings at the Order rejecting him. But the universe has guaranteed one certainty; when he’s next to you, he can sleep peacefully.

~~~

“Chancellor,” your voice floats above the din of the Senators as you address the man. “If I might borrow your attention?”

“For the Queen of Naboo, my attention is yours to own,” Chancellor Palpatine jests, coming to stand by your side. “Milady, I must ask… what brings you to Coruscant, and to the Senate, no less?”

You allow your painted lips to form just a hint of a smile. You have a thin line to walk now—if he’s a Separatist, of which there is only a slim chance, he can’t think that you truly want to help your people. But if he’s not, you still hold a responsibility to your people. “My people feel as though the urgency of the Separatist threat is not being handled with urgency. I come as a representative for Naboo in order to request the Republic have a stronger role in protecting Naboo… however, I know that our forces get so busy. It’s a shame, isn’t it?” You say, echoing the words that Darth Sidioius had spoken to you before.

Chancellor Palpatine’s face remains a smooth, unmoving mask in response to your words. A little too smooth. Either he’s a horrible chancellor, or you were right to have your suspicions. But you can’t act on inaction. You cough, deciding to move on. “I suppose I shouldn’t delay it much longer. But… Chancellor, keep it a secret, will you?”

“Keep what a secret, Milady?” He asks, tailing you as you stride into one of the nearby conference rooms.

“My husband wished to see you,” You smile, stepping to the side as the door eases shut. Anakin is standing before the glass, soft light catching his hair. At the sound of the door, Anakin turns around with a smile.

“My old friend,” He says, striding over to embrace Chancellor Palpatine.

“I thought— Oh, Anakin, I thought you were dead!” He sputters, embracing Anakin back. “Why the farce? Please, you must tell me everything.” He lets go of Anakin and takes a seat at the long table. Whatever suspicions you may have of him, his excitement and relief of seeing Anakin, alive, does feel authentic. Perhaps he is innocent, and your suspicions are entirely misdirected. But that’s not something you can take a chance on. Nonetheless, you’ll give the two their space.

“I’ll leave the two of you to reconnect,” You say with a smile, tenderly stroking the side of Anakin’s face before you leave the room.

“I know,” Anakin says before the Chancellor can speak. “It must seem so confusing to you. But it’s better this way. I couldn’t bear the thought of going through the process of leaving, announcing my intent to leave and bringing such shame upon my former Masters. And because of my importance, I don’t imagine they’d let me go so easily. My skill in the Force is unmatched by any other Jedi I’ve seen. But…”

“You’re in love with her,” Chancellor Palpatine finishes. Anakin smiles wistfully, swallowing the guilt of lying to his friend. But he needs to sell this. Palpatine also cannot know that you were stationed there to protect you, but he deserves to know you’re alive. Plus, you have some sort of idea that he can help you in uncovering the truth. And Anakin trusts you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” Anakin responds, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the image of you fills his head. The faint smell of jasmine in your hair, the shape of your nose, your lips, the softness of your cheek in his hand and the way you look at him. You look at him like you see him for him, and still trust him. It puts all the rage in his body to rest. He may need to sell this to Sheev, but Anakin’s not sure it’s entirely an act. You do make him feel safe. At the same time, you make his heart race with each little quip you make. You challenge him, frustrate him, and he needs you with him, always. You’ve taught him to love without attachment, the true Jedi way, because he knows he can never truly have you. You’re not his to love.

Sheev smiles. “Young love. It is such a beautiful thing, to be free of the restraints that others have placed upon you and to be able to accept that without guilt.” A bitterness sits in Anakin’s throat as he smiles. If only his friend knew how much he longs for that.

“Well, it would be a shame for your powers to go to waste,” the Chancellor says. “I do hope you find something worthy of it being used. The Force has blessed you, and I believe that you’ll be able to achieve even greater things without the Jedi Order shackling you with all their rules.” His lined face lights up in a smile before he places a hand gently on Anakin’s shoulder, catching Anakin’s eyes as he heads back to the Senate. “But perhaps that’s a conversation for another day. Until then, Anakin.”

“Until then,” Anakin echoes.

~~~

Anakin can hear you screaming. He doesn’t realize it’s you at first; he’s too busy looking at Padme. She’s sobbing, tears rolling down her face as she tries to say something to him. He can’t make out the words, can’t hear them coming out of her mouth. All he feels, all he sees is pain. He’s surrounded by it. Always has been, always will be. And the sound of your screaming, shrieking, drowns out any sound that Padme makes. He tries to turn to you, tries to see where you are but Padme grabs his jaw and turns him back to her. Her nails are digging into his skin and it hurts, it hurts but he just wants you to stop screaming. You’re in pain, he’s in pain, and none of it will stop. Padme’s touch grows hotter and hotter on his skin until he’s sobbing, the heat of it scorching as fire begins to light upon her skin. It engulfs her dress, spreading to her hair, until she lets go. He doesn’t hesitate to run to your voice, the sound of your screaming where you lay there, your body limp as you struggle against something he can’t see.

“Help me,” You beg him, reaching towards him. “Please, Anakin, help me,” You plead. Your fingertips begin to unravel into little tendrils of smoke, reaching towards him as more and more of your body is taken by the smoke.

“No,” He whispers, trying to grab the smoke, holding your body as it disintegrates in his very hands. “No!”

“Anakin,” Your voice cuts through his visions. He wakes up with a start, sweat making strands of hair stick to his forehead. He looks at you with bleary eyes, sitting straight in the bed as you look at him in concern. “Hey. Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep,” You say, sitting up as well. He doesn’t answer, just grabs your wrist and shuts his eyes at the feel of your pulse.

“Hey, it’s okay,” You say. “It was just a bad dream,” You say gently. Anakin feels sick. He’s supposed to feel safe next to you. It’s been months since he had a vision like this, months of blissfully quiet sleep. He was so sure it was because of you. Maybe you’re not close enough. Or maybe it’s this damned place. Anakin leans into you, circling his arms around you and pulling you tightly to his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” You ask him, allowing him to hold you as he breathes slowly, working his way out of the darkness of his dream.

“I dreamt I lost you,” He murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tightly as he remembers the feel of your lifeless body. “The worst part of it is I know I’m gonna lose you anyways. You’re going to be gone, soon enough, and I’ll have to go through all of this alone, all again.”

“I’m always gonna be your friend,” You reassure him. Your breath meets his bare chest and he’s reassured by the fact that you’re alive.You feel warm, warm and full of life a

“I dreamt that you died,” He says simply. “And I can’t have that happen.” Not again. Not like what happened to his mother.

“Anakin,” You say, pulling yourself off of his chest. “I’m okay. You’re protecting me.”

“But what if there’s something I can’t keep you safe from?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His fear is plain as day, and he knows you could piece together what that means in an instant. Why he’s so fearful of losing you. You matter to him, even if he hasn’t said it.

“If there’s something you can’t keep me safe from, then it’s not your fault. Know that. People die sometimes, even if we do our best to keep them safe from it,” You respond. Your voice is surprisingly even despite the gravity of Anakin’s emotions. He doesn’t understand how he hasn’t dragged you down into the depths of his misery but he’s grateful for the anchor that you provide him. “Anakin, the most important thing is the safety and security of the galaxy. To do the most good for the most people, that is what we are born into this universe to ensure. And if—” your voice breaks, and you lean your head back into his chest. “If I do die under your protection, I will know that you’ll have done your best to keep me safe. But more importantly, I’ll know that you will carry out my work and see to it that those who come after us will see a better place. With me, without me, the universe will move on.”

“I don’t accept that answer,” Anakin frowns, but you just laugh.

“It’s the truth. My life will never be more important than the fate of the universe. But you’re stressing about nothing. I’m here, I’m okay, you’re okay. Just… try and go back to sleep, will you?” You ask, shivering before he draws the blanket above the both of you. He’s never really held you like this before. He isn’t holding you to make your pain stop, he’s holding you to make his pain stop. And he doesn’t want to let you go. But that’s what makes him let go, allowing you to go lay down while he sits up, watching as you fall asleep.

You’re not his to keep, anyways.

#smut #fic reblog #my writing #anakin skywalker x reader #fic #distortionbobble's fics #anakin skywalker #reader insert #anakin x reader #star wars

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allthatmay · 16 days

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If sabolaw was ever in your wheelhouse/interest to write my life would be yours /hj

I saw this ask and then immediately went and wrote something off the top of my head. It's not edited or anything but I thought you might enjoy seeing what it's like so far, rather than waiting for whenever I finish it?

The moment Law meets with Sabo, he knows there’s a wound within him, festering. Oh, Sabo might cover it up and pretend it’s not there, but Law’s a doctor; he knows all about wounds. Knows, keenly, the very nature of Sabo’s.

“What are you staring at?” Sabo asks. He wears a smile with an edge like a letter opener—versatile in purpose if only one’s imaginative enough. “Got a thing for burns?”

Law has witnessed many burns on both the dead and the alive. He only has to think of fire to smell its rot in the world around him, to feel the thickness of its fumes in his lungs—no thicker than the grief it agitates. But the burn scars on Sabo’s face—and presumably down his arm and ribs—are wounds that have long since healed.

No, Sabo has a deeper injury than that.

“I was just wondering how quickly I could take you down,” is what Law replies. “You’re left handed, aren’t you?”

Sabo laughs. He’s leaning back against the door, his legs crossed at the ankle, his coat falling elegantly around him. “Go ahead and try it, Trafalgar.”

The ship sways beneath them, but neither of them budge an inch. It’s a small ship they’re on, perfect for sneaking about under the cover of fog. Law had a ship of his own—even smaller than this, nothing but a skiff full of patched holes—but he was forced to leave it behind when matters got complicated. After all, what could be more complicated than a mysterious man in a blue suit escaping with the very information Law sought to steal?

After a long while of silently daring each other to try something, Law says, “Look, you don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here.” Kikoku is held close to his chest. “I only want the information I’m owed.”

“And you’ll get it, Trafalgar. Just show a little restraint, hm?”

Law’s jaw clenches; irritation bangs against his skull. He runs a finger down the length of Kikoku’s glossy sheath, catching Sabo’s eye as he reaches the hilt.

“I think I’ve been showing a lot of restraint.”

“Hardly, though I admit you’re more bloodthirsty than I would’ve thought. Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?”

The question rings hollow. Law doesn’t remember the last time he healed someone. It was probably back with Bepo on the Polar Tang, but it’s been months since he’s seen any of his crew. He doesn't feel deserving of the title.

“I’m a surgeon, not a doctor. I don’t know any doctors with death on their hands.”

He’s of course referring to his tattoos, but Sabo’s head tips to one side as he replies, “What doctor doesn’t have death on their hands?”

Law’s eyes narrow. He hates being deliberately misunderstood, especially by a man as smug as Sabo—a man he knows so very little about.

“Tell me,” he starts again, rising from his chair. “Is Sabo even your real name?”

At this, Sabo chokes on laughter. His gloved hands press against his face like he’s holding himself together. “Fuck, and I thought I was paranoid.”

“It’s a revolutionary’s job to be paranoid, isn’t it?”

Now Sabo’s laughter cuts short. His hands lower, revealing eyes like glaciers, cold and pinpoint in their consideration. “Oh? Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you’re certainly not a pirate.”

“I could be a pirate. I wanted to be.”

“I don’t give a shit what you wanted to be.”

Only, that’s not quite true, is it? Sabo’s wound bleeds when he talks about his past, and Law can’t help but fall into introspection, all too aware of that kind of pain. He feels it constantly, a dull ache in his own chest, healed for now but not for long; something always manages to tear the scab away.

#this was so soothing for my writing brain #it's like the filter was too full and this cleared out all the crap #my writing #my asks #sabolaw #sabo #trafalgar law #one piece fanfiction

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pennyserenade · 1 year

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ONLY BACKWARDS

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), pinv, references to unprotected sex, hate sex, light dirty talk (not degrading) tags: angst, age gap (reader is 34 and bravo is 48), hurt/comfort word count: 2.8k+ summary: it has been 6 months since you last heard from dieter bravo. this time he comes back to you with a black eye and he asks for too much. it is just like always. a/n: i wrote this in about a day so if its a little funky, that’s probably why. unbeta’d. songs i recommend you listen to while you read (if that’s something you enjoy): american dream by lcd soundsystem, sculptures of anything goes by arctic monkeys, californication by red hot chili peppers, and conversation 16 by the national

Fourteen years and two days. Depending on the way you look at it, that’s either a long time or too little of it.

As you take a good look at the man who you share this age gap with, you aren’t sure where you fall on the spectrum.

Dieter looks like shit. Beneath his right eye is purplish yellow, no doubt the reward he got for committing one of his heavily repeated mistakes. His eyes are reddish, bloodshot and he looks like he made some attempt at looking nice a day or two ago, but what he’s left with is stubble on his cheeks and hair gone greasy from too much product. You used to want to nurse him in these states, to hold his head between your hands and speak to him tenderly.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own age for once?” you say to him, pushing your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose. Your voice doesn’t possess the vitriol a sentence like that needs to really land. He squints against the sun, waiting. Your fingers press into the steering wheel. Be good, do good, you tell yourself. You can’t pick up a grown man’s baggage for the rest of your life. You don’t want to.

He doesn’t attempt to charm you. “I just want to take a shower and a nap and then I’ll never bother you again.”

“Why can’t you do that at your own house?”

Dieter pouts out his lips, looking above the hood of the car. In the other corner of the studio lot, there are people making a ruckus, laughing, talking too loudly. He looks back at you, brown eyes devoid of any real emotion. “I don’t like my own home.”

You think of all you’ve got to do. A script to write, a meeting in the morning, a date at 9. You really think you could like the guy too—a salaried television writer who lives in a sizable house and graduated from somewhere like Princeton. Your friend who set you up says he’s the perfect match for you: handsome, sweet, smart. Reliable.

“One shower and a hour nap, Bravo, and then you’re out.” He nods his head gratefully. “I mean it,” you say, voice serious. “No silly business this time. I’m doing this because I’m feeling charitable today.”

He makes his way to the passenger side and you take the time to glance down at the car clock. It’s two o’clock.A familiar pang of regret hits you. Seven hours seems like an eternity to you now.

You decide it then: fourteen years is too much, even if you are thirty-four and he is forty-eight. It matters to you today, because you know if you don’t let it, you will be picking up his baggage forever. It is an entire ocean separating the both of you today, because it has to be.

———

Dieter’s hair is still soaking wet, the towel you set out for him abandoned at the head of your bed. It hasn’t even touched him, didn’t get the chance before he settled between your legs. As he presses his warm tongue to your cunt, cold droplets fall from his head onto your thighs. You are keenly aware of the way they make their slow descent down, onto your freshly washed bed spread.

You don't know why you let these things happen. It’s as if something takes hold of you when he’s around, makes you foolish.

The worst part is that you know it’s your fault. For once in his goddamn life, Dieter was being good. He didn’t make any passes, didn’t even say much aside from a few pleasant “Thank you”s. You couldn’t stand it, which makes you on par with him, foolish and reckless and self absorbed—and oh God, his tongue feels good.

Your legs are draped over his shoulders and his fingers grip into your hips, pinning them down before they even get the chance to lift. Because he knows they will, knows because he’s made them do that before, many times. As he parts you with his tongue, lapping up your juices and making more of them, you watch him. His long nose barely grazes your sensitive clit and you moan openly siri want—too giving for so little effort.

Dieter works with patience. You will give him this: he is a good pussy eater. He licks you open and leaves you wanting, pressing into every part of you except the parts you desperately need him to. He works you for so long, his warm tongue pressing hard against your lips, the place above your entrance, the place just below your clit. You are so sensitive beneath him that you feel like you might explode from the anticipation. You feel everything: the coldness of his wet hair as it presses against your thighs, your lower stomach, where he’s moved one of his hands, the fabric of the bra on top of your pebbled nipples.

Dieter knows how to overwhelm you so well that it’s the center of most of your fantasies when you’re alone. You’d never tell him that, God forbid the ego it’d give him, but you relish the fact now. You’ve touched yourself so many times thinking about his tongue, the way it drinks you up and splits you apart, and here is he, doing it better than you remember. It’s like hearing a favorite song live after only listening to it on a scratched, over-loved vinyl for too long: exactly how intended, and better than it should be. Your toes curl and he doesn’t even come close to what aches the most.

You’re not going to make your date. It’s the fate he writes out with his precise tongue. He watches you as he spears the tip of it inside of you and he draws out the show he wants: that open mouthed, silent moaning that comes from feeling too much pleasure all at once. It’s the type that makes you tip your head back, flooded with a pulsing desire that causes your knees to try to draw together. He does it again and again, swirling around inside of one. You clench around nothing when he abandons it to run his tongue through your lips again, with no real destination.

“Don’t make me beg,” you whine, voice low, tugging at his hair. Water drips out into your hands but you don’t care. He listens, attaching his mouth to your sensitive clit and he presses his tongue down, making you struggle, trying to lift the hips he’s got pinned. He takes it into his mouth, sucking at the tender flesh. You feel split open all the sudden, not vulnerable - not really - but laid out just for him, your body craving only what he can give. It is an embarrassing amount of desire that covers the entirety of you, and yet you aren’t embarrassed by it at all.

For a moment, it is better than all the love in the world, which is exactly why you end up like this. You know that. You shouldn’t lie to yourself about it. That one second where he is enough - more than enough - can sustain you until the next time he will inevitably fail you.

He draws the orgasm out of you quickly this way. The heels of your feet dig into his back, unable to stop the way you grow stiff with ecstasy of it coursing through you. He doesn’t stop when it hits, his tongue lapping up all your juices until you’re tugging at his hair, almost raw with oversensitivity.

His lips glisten with your slick. You urge him forward, tugging at his forearm, letting him kiss you on the mouth before he has the chance to wipe you off of himself. He likes that, you know. You’re so blissed out for a moment, you forget the seas that part the two of you. Suddenly he is not Dieter Bravo, the man you have to rescue every six months, but Dieter, the one who knows you better than you do yourself sometimes.

As his eager tongue meets yours, you allow him to position his hips between your legs, opening them up wide to fit his body.

His weeping cock presses against you as he kisses you, hard and desperate to be touched. As his fingers gently skim over your jaw, down your neck, you think about how easy it would be for him to slip inside of you. How in one fluid motion, he and you could be so close, the thickness of him satisfying a greedy desire you have to take all of him. Fucking him all of the sudden seems like the very simplest solution to all your problems. It’s a primal thing that he inspires in you. His soft tongue drew out desires hidden in you and now that they’re out, you can’t put them back.

You wrap your legs around him, pressing him closer. You want him to flirt with the idea in the same way you do, to crave it so badly he stutters asking for it. He freezes against your lips, overcome with the way you press against one another. Everything, everywhere, is warm. Tense. Taut.

He kisses down your neck but is careful not to move his body, perceptive of the fact he is pressed to your cunt and with one accidental motion, will rub against it. He is wanting, sensitive. You want him to beg.

“You’re so good, Dieter,” you tell him, hands intertwining in his drying overgrown locks. “I’ve missed this. Missed you,” you add, your breath against his ear.

He pants against your neck, unwillingly pressing himself into you, rubbing slightly. He stops kissing you, focuses fully on not doing what he shouldn’t. He is being good, telling you to take the parts of him you want, saying sorry in the only way he really knows how: by clumsily handing himself over to you.

You lift your hips into his, forgoing your need to hear him beg. His eagerness is akin to soft pleas. It is enough just to be wanted, and you know he does: he can hardly contain himself, pressing down when you finally press up. You wet his cock this way, letting him rub up and down, up and down, gathering you up and relishing what warmth of you you’ll give him as the mattress groans beneath you.

“I could cum like this,” he pants, bringing his lips back to yours. He kisses you hard, enough to make your lips swollen, red.

You shake your head. “Don’t cum,” you tell him, panicked. You stop moving and he stops too, eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck me, Dieter. I need you to fuck me.”

There is a vulnerability in his gaze as he takes those words in. You are pinned between his arms, beneath his solid body, surrounded entirely by him, and yet it is this look that makes you feel the closest to him. You share a feeling, not an agreement but an understanding: this is it. It is everything you are to each other, and perhaps all you ever will be.

You hate him for that. You need him to tear you up, split you in half, make you feel the residuals of his affection through the quick snap of his hips and guttural moans you will feel in your bones. You don’t want understanding.

Because you are angry or perhaps because you’ve gotten a little wiser since you last saw him, you tell him, “Condom,” evenly. It’s a barrier, some precaution you don’t usually make him take. He had told you once that he had never fucked anyone without one, that in all of his recklessness, he had never failed to do that. So of course you gave it to him, let yourself be his first. Now you’re taking it away.

The purplish yellow of his under eye reassures you that this is right. He didn’t get that being good, being kind. Probably, he fucked someone’s wife, someone’s husband. He hadn’t called you for two months before today. He isn’t kind. Not always. The bruise is the violence he tears through life with. A marking of his wreckage.

Dieter doesn’t protest about the condom, but you can tell he is wounded. He moves almost dutifully as he opens your bedside table and takes one out.

You don’t watch him put it on. You look up at the dark of your ceiling, your heart in your stomach.

“Okay,” he says with finality, wrapping a hand around your ankle. Your eyes soften as you look at him; he is blotted with desire, patchy with remorse. When his dark eyes gaze upon you with open tenderness, you feel your anger dissipate.

When you open your legs wider for him, he crawls back on the bed, nestles between your thighs. His hands slide beneath you, groping your ass, lifting you to himself. When your bodies connect, his cock sliding into you, you feel all of it. The thickness of his head, the shake of his body as he eases in slowly, the way he settles in you as he bottoms out, trying not to lose control. It is tender, soft. It curls up in your chest and softens a resolve you need to survive on scraps. You don’t want it.

You dig crescent-shaped moons in his ass, urge his hips forward as they begin to find a rhythm that is quick, angry. Your lips find each other clumsily, teeth clacking against teeth like inexperienced teenagers. When you move your head away, he kisses the side of your mouth by accident, and then stops trying altogether, burying himself in your neck. He’s never faulted you for not wanting his affection and won’t now. Calloused fingers continue to grip at your ass, pushing you up to meet his hips; it is hip to hip, his cock pushing into the deepest part of yourself, filling you to the hilt with a shared frustration.

You moan his name, a quick succession of Dieter, Dieter, Dieter, and he grunts helplessly, his body no longer his own, overtaken by desire and anger and disappointment. You are angry with yourself, angry you told him to put on the condom. You want him to fill you with it now—want the sticky substance of his desire to run down your legs and outlast the bitterness.

He eases you into the mattress, fucks into you with the slow, lazy roll of his hips again. His hands slip away from your ass, travel up to your hands. He interwines your fingers together, pins them above your head.

You whine, ache. “Harder,” you urge, your hips rising to make up for the lack of speed. You expected him to speed back up once he repositioned and the idea that he won’t fills you with dread. Fuck me, you echo again, hoping he understands.

He pushes into you, more focused, like that is what you mean when you say harder: more focused. It isn’t. You mean harder. You paw at his hips, shake your head. “Dieter,” you plead.

He draws back, snaps his hips into you. You gasp. Yes. You whisper it against his hot skin, and he does it again and again and again. Does it even when you sputter, voice straining, hips rising, rubbing against the patch of his body that meets your clit. He fucks you as you cum around his cock, lets your sensitive body feel the fury with which he takes you. With which you asked him to.

He continues this pace even after he fills the condom, lingers over this spot in time and allows your cunt to suck him dry, to take pieces of him until he is gripping tightly to your hands and overdone with pleasure. He exits you quick, draws back like he’s going to snap forth but doesn’t. You miss the feel of him immediately and you understand the craving you’ve got has to do with far more than sex.

Your eyes roll back, look at the clock on your nightstand. 3:30. You have time, but you won’t take it.

Dieter discards the condom in the bathroom and comes back out wearing his underwear and a t-shirt. He offers you a towel and you take it, wiping your connection away.

He helps you put your underwear back on and you let him climb back into your bed, lay yourself on top of him. He rubs your back as you listen to his heart thud in his chest.

“Dieter?” you say, voice quiet.

“Hm?”

“What happened to your eye?”

When he doesn’t respond, you tilt your head up. His eyes are closed but he’s not pretending to sleep.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs, not opening them.

“It’ll make me mad to know?”

He nods, wrapping his arms around you.

“Why can’t you just be good?” Your voice is so quiet - timid - nearly inaudible. But he hears it, winces.

“I don’t know,” he tells you honestly. You’ve touched upon an open wound; he shifts beneath you, moving you to his side. But he still wraps himself around you, holds you close. “Let’s sleep.”

“Are you going to be here when I wake up?”

He holds your head to his chest. “If you want me to be.”

“Please,” you manage, before closing your eyes.

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #the bubble #the bubble fanfic

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gothmiqote · 3 months

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dt spoilers kinda, varha/estinien stuff ofc ofc but it's msq plot related naturally :p

estinien being only Sort Of around for this expansion kills me lmao like he on the periphery and whatever it is he’s doing intersects with varha when it counts (fighting the cyberpunk army in the desert etc etc) he’s also just like. ostensibly doing who knows what the fuck between appearances?

after the events of ew those two were definitely around each other a Lot (seeing her friends disappear one by one like that will apparently lead to some nasty separation anxiety, who would have guessed) & getting on the separate boats to go west is probably the first meaningful amount of time they’ve been apart since. to a degree she’s like it’s fine I’ve got this handled, although I don’t uh. Think he told anyone Where he was going? so she probably knew he was going to be away for a bit but not how long exactly or even really where (which she actually is cool with for real, they’re both kinda Like That TM so it’s normal). So yes, she’s very much starting to feel the yearning & the pining & what have you by the time they randomly cross paths in the throne room again.

But thEN he just. Walks out? Just says some complimentary words and fucking Leaves? I like to think he’d end up stopping by her inn room or whatever later on but based on how he was for the entire expansion I don’t even know if he would actually stay the whole night 💀 which is frustrating for her but at this point nothing super weird. Or so she thinks anyway because some point after Krile pulls her aside and is like Hey is everyone cool? Like are you good? Because Varha considers her one of her closest friends & she likes to torment Estinien psychologically for sport she knows them pretty well. To which Varha is just ?? Of course we’re good why wouldn’t we be good? But it makes her think anyway. It does Not help that Wuk Lamat flat out asks if she knows who he is personally, because the greeting she got was apparently the kind you’d reserve for acquaintances.

By the time she’s on the mini road trip with Erenville she’s trying Very hard to not think about her relationship because she’s keenly aware of how good she is at making herself quietly spiral & twelve help her, they see him and he does it again. Says some weird shit to her and fucks off into the sunset. Shout out to Erenville for not commenting on the weird vibes that were absolutely happening here. & it’s at this point she’s also starting to get kind of upset for real? Tries to back track mentally between the moments of dealing with an active crisis and no, she doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong, he didn’t seem to like her any less when he left—but that doesn’t mean things don’t change, & for all she knows maybe he’s just decided that she’s become more trouble than it’s worth to know her intimately like that (she wouldn’t blame him, she’s aware of her baggage). What kind of send off is ‘go do what it is you do’? No ‘good luck, stay safe’ or anything even remotely close? She needs to be focused on current events so she makes herself tunnel visioned but it’s still on her mind.

Meanwhile this man decided after getting paid for keeping Wuk Lamat’s dad entertained he wanted to plan a little romantic wilderness excursion in Tural. It’s literally the exact opposite scenario she’s been dreading and picking up on, they both like ‘camping’ (for lack of a better term) & this is a new area to explore, he thinks it’s a great idea. And it is! A similar trip was the catalyst for the getting together in the Steppe, albeit that one was unplanned & nothing was official until after she got back from the first, but still. Unfortunately he’s just so singularly focused on this plan (he’s looking for some decent locations when they run into each other outside of the city) he’s legitimately unaware of how he’s coming off in the present. In his mind he’s just in a good mood, & will at some point let her know what he’s been quietly putting together for them. He just wants some sort of concrete plan in place before he stops being cagey. Like he’s just in a good headspace in a relationship he’s actually very happy in & that’s manifesting in ways that make sense for Him once you know what to look for. It’s like being around your crush, except you’ve been serious about each other for the better part of the last few years now & also you never really learned how to flirt ‘normally’ (I feel like Aymeric probably tried to help with this at some point in the distant past & eventually just gave up to let his weird friend be weird. Sometimes that’s as good as it gets) because you’ve never been much of an extrovert or particularly socially gifted, so it usually comes across either insanely awkward and/or painfully earnest when you do give it a shot. All that to say, he’s doing his best, it’s just filtered through his methods every single time.

And to be fair to him also, she’s competent as hell. He had zero reasons to think she’d need any more help with the contest stuff, his presence would 100% just be overkill. He’s not saying this because he feels like it’s objectively obvious. Unfortunately it is Not, she is fully not getting this impression from any of his actions & ultimately just ends up stewing quietly over it. Initially she’s annoyed but over time gets progressively more sad lmao. If you click on him before one of the few trials you can run with npcs he’s like “I saw a big lizard, I’m going to hunt it later” which is so very baffling to her. AGAIN no real commentary on her actual situation or that she might not come back through that portal. Run the lizard through a translator and he actually meant something to the effect of I know you’ll take care of this, so I’m not worried, & as soon as you do come back we’re going to grill that lizard meat for dinner. In HIS mind this is what’s coming out of his mouth in fewer words. She’s just tired lmfao.

Once everything is taken care of & there’s some downtime she’s finally able to pull him to the side and ask what his deal has been lately, has she done something without knowing, has she been pulling away unconsciously etc etc etc. His turn to be confused now. This legitimately only becomes a miscommunication issue because every single conversation got cut short until this one, which of course gives him ample time to explain what’s actually been happening & also no, he’s definitely not bored or unhappy or anything like that, he’s been enjoying the opportunity to try and orchestrate something nice for her (even if the execution wasn’t. The greatest) and honestly didn’t realize how it looked from the outside. He was very much talking her up at any given opportunity each time someone asked about her, to the point where it was inevitably deduced that his descriptions of the Warrior of Light were apparently a good deal more personal than other accounts. She’s effectively been on his mind in some capacity since he got here.

& She feels extra dumb for getting upset at all, because that’s actually incredibly sweet and it makes perfect sense when you lay it all out that way, in hindsight she didn’t need to get worked up and just feels weirdly guilty now. Varha has been in a small handful of situationships, she’s never actually been important enough to anyone for them to go out of their way for her like that (she’s never even really had friends up until recently, it’s all uncharted territory), she does not know how to properly interpret it when people just decide to do things for her because they like her. She reacts like an asshole (in her own opinion, literally no one else thought that she was anything aside from maybe a bit Off since she internalized everything so much). This does not make her feel particularly good either, she has unfortunately looped back around to kicking herself for missing the obvious.

& Estinien, being himself, is still not the best with words when it comes to this sort of thing. Because he knows he didn’t actually do anything wrong here, so he’s not experiencing misplaced guilt, but she’s clearly still upset on some level for misreading things and he doesn’t like that for her, especially when this conversation is almost definitely taking place on the sidelines of a post-battle celebration back in the city. He’s not coming up with anything directly helpful to the situation. He’s task-oriented, hardwired to look for solutions. The one he comes up with on the spot here is:

“Do you want to hunt the lizard together?”

Long pause. Yes, she does. She wants to hunt the big lizard together very much. It sounds like a good way to kick off a small wilderness excursion together. The big lizard does not fix her pre-existing self worth problems, but it’s definitely effective for the immediate situation (which is about the best he can hope for right now). Problem solved-ish, she seems happier & now they can bond over the big lizard hunt together. He’d honestly just be pleased to spend time together doing whatever but this is probably the best outcome of that whole situation. (Also he Does end up kissing her right there, partly to get people to stop pestering her with questions but mostly because he wants to.)

#varha naiarro #wolstinien #estinien x wol #estinien varlineau #oc tag #my writing #kinda dhjfkf it’s more like a long summary than actual fic #he was funny as hell for no fucking reason the entire time #what an absolute specimen of a man. why is he like that.#anyway once again they’re both weird and it ends up being a complimentary sort of weird.#she straight up could not date someone more normal lmao #oh right #dawntrail spoilers #kind of like I said dhdjjf

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star-going-supernova · 1 year

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Gregory introduces Spring-ness to Freddy

The first prompt up there is number three of our tumblr generated prompts and comes from TheGrimRead3r on ao3! The second one came in during this event, but there was no reason not to put them together. This one is a sequel to Amongst the Dead, and the tldr of that ficlet is that Vanessa got spring-locked and possesses a white bunny animatronic now.

A Difference Keenly Felt

Vanessa didn’t know what she was doing. In the grand scheme of things, that is, because right now, she was letting a kid stand on her shoulders in order to climb into a vent. A kid she desperately wanted to save. Which meant now was not the time to have an existential crisis. Gregory’s slight weight left her, and she listened to the clunking of him scooting around up there.

“I’ll go unlock the door,” he called back to her, and then he was off. It was a good thing they weren’t trying to be quiet, she mused with a soft huff.

She wandered back over to the door in question. Her movements still felt stiff, but it was already a far cry from the absolute struggle it was to stand up. She hadn’t moved since she’d been tossed into that room like junk—as if she wasn’t a… as if she wasn’t an actual person.

A dead one, yes, but clearly death wasn’t as final as she’d once believed.

Vanessa looked down at herself, at what she thought of as her body now. It didn’t feel the same as her human body, of course, but it was still hers. There was a much duller sense of feeling, like she was touching things through a thick blanket, and she’d completely lost her ability to taste and smell. But the limbs moved as she wanted, and her eyesight and hearing was certainly improved.

It wasn’t the body she would have chosen for herself. If she could get her human one back, she would in a heartbeat. But instead, she was a fuzzy white rabbit animatronic, which was just salt in the wound.

She hadn’t known how to feel when she realized her human body had been removed. The insides of her animatronic suit were far from clean—judging by the way Gregory’s nose wrinkled when he got too close, she still smelled of rot—but it hurt a little to have lost that last piece of who she used to be. She was grateful, though, to not have to be so aware of the flesh and blood that had clogged her insides.

The door unlocked, and as Gregory pulled it open, he said, “You’ll never guess who I found! I don’t think I mentioned it, actually, but Freddy was helping me before we got separated, and that was when I met you!”

What passed for fear when one’s body lacked flesh and hormones and a brain to translate those chemicals flashed through Vanessa, and she looked up in a panic to see Glamrock Freddy standing behind Gregory. His smile faded a bit when he saw her, but Gregory didn’t notice either of their reactions.

“Freddy, this is Vanessa. She watched over me while I took a nap. Vanessa, this is Freddy. He was helping me before I met you.” He barely gave them a chance to take each other in before he was off like a shot. “I’m gonna go get a Fazerblaster like you suggested, Freddy! Be right back, play nice!”

Vanessa tensed as she was left alone with a real animatronic. He eyed her distrustfully.

“You are not like me,” Freddy said eventually.

“Uh,” she replied. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You are… different. Wrong,” Freddy said. She flinched minutely; trust me, she wanted to say, I know. “There is no ‘Vanessa’ in my files of past or present animatronic personalities. You do not exist, yet you stand before me.” His countenance hardened, and even though Vanessa wasn’t hooked up to the communication system the way a proper animatronic would be, she could nearly feel the protective rage settling over him. “If you are trying to hurt Gregory, I will stop you.”

She raised her hands and shuffled away. “I’m just trying to help, okay? The kid needs as much as he can get.”

“Who—what are you?” Freddy demanded.

“I’m Vanessa,” she said. “I… I’m…”

He moved fast for a robot, much faster than she did, as unused to her mechanical body as she was. He slammed her into a wall, looking quite ready to rip her apart if need be.

“Okay, okay!” she cried. “But you can’t tell Gregory, yeah? It’ll—it won’t help.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

She wished she could swallow or run a hand through her hair or even just breathe. But all of those little human things had been taken from her. Their absence, the difference in all the little things that made her up… she felt it deep and sharply.

But it wasn’t like she could cry about it.

“I’m Vanessa,” she repeated. “And I was a human. I got… I was tricked into this suit—it’s got springlocks, which are really really dangerous—and I. I died. In here. And now my body’s gone and this is my body now.”

The light of Freddy’s eyes flickered. She could hear the subtle clicking and whirring of his body as he processed that.

“Vanessa Anderson,” he said slowly.

Her voice box emitted static, as close to a choked breath as she could manage.

He continued, “She is in my files as a night guard who went missing a year ago.”

A year. Had she really been asleep, shut down, whatever, for that long?

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That, that was me. And now I’m…” She gestured helplessly at herself.

Freddy backed off, releasing her. “I am very sorry, Vanessa Anderson. I… will not tell Gregory.”

“Thanks. And I mean it. I just want to help him. I, I can’t let him end up like me.”

He looked at her, then, really looked at her, and he nodded. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or a remnant of her humanity that demanded she seek emotion even in emotionless things, or maybe it was because she understood him in a way she wouldn’t have been able to as a human. But whatever it was, it seemed to Vanessa that Freddy was looking at her with more compassion than anyone had shown her in years.

#anonymous #fnaf fic #fnaf security breach #star's stories #life and times of star

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mayakern · 1 year

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hello ! i know this blog is mainly for the store, but i Also am a big spitfire fan whos decided to try to learn to draw in my 30s lmao, so I'm curious — did you struggle with Being Bad At Art at first?? i know it's definitely a Learned Skill, but I'm....understandably terrible, since I JUST started, and I know I get discouraged easily when things don't come to me easily (part of why I'm challenging myself!) so I was just curious if you also struggled with it and if so, how you maybe fought against it. I've seen a couple artists I love talk about it, but you're a personal favorite so lmao

apologies as well if this comes across as intrusive or if you just don't wanna talk about it, which are both fair! i just thought I'd ask 🥰

first off, i’m so happy to hear how much you love spitfire! i’m always happy to get spitfire messages, i just haven’t been posting as much content for it because i’m busy editing and, well, that’s not so easy to show off haha

also this blog isn’t dedicated to any one of my pursuits, it’s just kind of where i put all my stuff (to some people’s dismay and others’ enjoyment)

ANYWAY onto the real question: yes. i think almost everyone struggles with issues of skill and inferiority regardless of their field of study and their skill level.

i first started drawing when i was around 5 and while i don’t have any art i can share from that age, i do have a time capsule of my work that goes all the way back to like 2004 or 2005. i was like 13-14 at this point so i’d already been drawing for like 9 years so this isn’t my starting point, but even still you’ll be able to see a big evolution in my work.

and ironically, the time when i felt worst about my work isn’t when i first started, or even as a teen. it was right around 2013, after i graduated from college and simultaneously had had my first really huge increase in online audience and when i was trying to find an art job. there are other contributing factors, like over all mental health, but how you feel about your work does not directly correlate with skill level.

learning anything new is a humbling and vulnerable pursuit and it’s easy to get discouraged. drawing is an exercise in training both your eye and your hand: training your eye to see more keenly so you can make good judgements in your work, and training your hand’s muscle memory.

#ask

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immoralimmortals · 4 months

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A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 17: Lemon Boy

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: Sometimes you become friends with someone, even if you don't mean to, even if you very much try not to. Lemons are the sugariest fruit, and yet you can't taste a lick of it past the overwhelming sour. The Akatsuki and the host of the haunted house consider where they stand with one another, if anyone is really friends.

Author's Note: This chapter...is actually so long I stopped 3/4 of the way through and decided it needs to be split in half. I'm most likely going to be posting Lemon Boy (2) as the immediate chapter after this one.

The song for this chapter is Lemon Boy by Cavetown.

“Tell me...have I made a mistake?”

The question echoes both in the vast cavern and in the souls of two figures the Akatsuki leader has gathered here, their rainbow static outlines conveying a sense of agitation even with only eyes visible. It’s even more empty here on the fingertips of The Demonic Statue of the Outer Path when there’s only four upon the statues instead of a full ten. Hidan feels something akin to getting in a fight in elementary school. You and the kid who insulted your friend both have to sit side by side in the principal’s office. It doesn’t matter who was right, no matter how much you argue back; you are both in trouble. Hidan tries to justify himself anyways:

“Don’t ask questions like that! I had NOTHING to do with hurting her!” An accusing index finger points to the other shamed shadow without looking at the culprit. “It’s Kakuzu you need to kick out!”

The named man is obedient, as he knows better than to argue. At this point, his own words would condemn himself. He can only hope that Hidan’s won’t, either. Unwavering rings of orbit in Pain’s eye sockets stay perfectly still, somehow looking at them both while not looking at either in particular, lest one think they’re ahead of the other.

“You both have reason to be here,” he rebukes again, voice cold.

“I just was doing some friendly sparring!” Hidan’s shadow shrugs casually. “What, I can’t practice anymore?”

“I will not tolerate aggression that may put your objective in danger.”

“Come on, asshole, it’s HER fault she ran in like a crazy person—!”

“She is not aware of the extent of your abilities,” Pain butts in. The man-made god is one of the only people alive that can speak so commandingly that even the Jashinist can remain cut off and silent. “She is clearly not of a world of shinobi, nor chakra, nor jutsu— not even taijutsu. This ignorance must be accounted for.” He repeats himself from when she met his Deva Path, eyes widening:

“Vulnerability should be no sin.”

Hidan raises his hands palms up next to his shoulders in defeat. If everyone is sticking to this nonsense logic, he’ll play along. “We can teach her then, easy as that.”

“In time. Imagine,” he beckons. Orange eyes watch intently from his side, though it is not directed to her. “You’ve been raised into an existence in which the dangers you know are distinctly apart from these here; they are things you are keenly aware of. Take the dangers away that you know, and in turn present power beyond your comprehension.” A glitched hand raises in front of Pain, its fingers curling slowly one by one, as if counting the ward’s chances. “What, now, is possible?”

Magenta scoffs. “I was raised in grand ol’ Yugakure, the most pathetic shithole on the map! I think I know better than anyone what it’s like to not know what real shinobi are. Don’t fuckin’ lecture me on it.”

“And yet you became one.”

…

“Yeah? So what?”

“You had an idea of ninja. The opportunity to become one, no matter how lacking in resources the Hot Water offered. You thrived regardless. Shall I stroke your ego? Admit it means something you’ve managed to join the likes of us, despite your chances from birth?” Hidan narrows his eyes, but his leader continues. “Imagine,” he requests again. Perhaps it needs to put, somehow, even more simply for him to get. “A world with no shinobi at all. And see yourself in her shoes now that there are many.”

And somehow, despite his misgivings of his disciple’s origins, that’s enough for Hidan to chew on to keep him quiet while Pain directs his words more so to the eldest in the room:

“Kakuzu. You’re too seasoned to need to be disciplined, yet here we are.” Ah, how shame and anger alike boil in a horrible brew in Kakuzu’s throat, that he can’t make them into words. “Don’t think you needn’t listen to this. Consider again: Clearly—” Pain acknowledges, “—You are aware of her ignorance, her fragility. Effort needs to be made not just to shelter her. Give opportunity for her to absorb. And therefore she may learn.”

A very polite way of asking him to stop scaring her. It’s shameful, but he can read it as such.

“I sent you back because you’re in prime standing with this traveler to unlock her secrets, get us closer to the purpose of her arrival, of if anything with her own world may be done for ours. Tell me, was I wrong? Is your original care not enough to keep your standing in her household?”

Hidan’s answer is quick. “Motherfucker, of COURSE it is!”

“...Good,” is the level reply. But he is not satisfied. “Kakuzu.” Emeralds and galaxies lock unblinking. It is up to the masked man to choose his own fate. “Can it be done?”

The person in question closes his eyes, not to run away but to do something such a calculated fellow never takes time for these days: introspection. Living this long, seeing so much...you think you know yourself. You believe you can predict your own mind and actions and reactions as well as chess pieces on a board, sometimes as simply as the order in which someone counts to ten. The painful truth is that this is not the case; that is why she makes him so uncomfortable.

His unpredictability is now, itself, unpredictable. It only took a girl that walked into his life from another dimension to put new possibilities on the table.

So what is his choice? He opens his eyes. Three colors bore into him: Orange in curiosity, purple in wait, magenta in tension. But, as ever, it can only be green who can speak for himself.

And he won’t back down from the challenge of a lifetime.

“Yes.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There once was a bittersweet man and they called him, "Lemon Boy"

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The stranger wakes up on her right side, curled fingers raised near her head feeling just a little bit colder than the rest of her since they peeked past the sheets. It’s nice. The birds twitter distantly, somewhere outside the window that shines the sun to warm her bed. The serenity of being half asleep is hypnotic, and so she easily closes her eyes again to perhaps continue to dream.

…

Wait a minute.

She sits up. Pillows and blankets that she twisted and turned in her unconscious state fall from her torso. Through messy hair, she blinks. Then she hums. And then she frowns. Ah, dammit. She didn’t mean to fall asleep!

...What’s more...she didn’t mean for someone else to put her to bed while in this state like she’s a little kid. Her cheeks sting with a flush at the image of the dark-haired man picking her up from the floor and tucking her in, she none the wiser.

Caw.

Her eyes slide over to the open window. In the passing moment, a black bird has perched at the wooden overlap between an inside world and an outside one. Is that a crow or a raven? She remembers the factoid that ravens are always bigger, but frankly crows have always seemed so big to her, too. Calmly, it speaks again:

Caw.

And it distracts her from an internal monologue long enough to recall the past day. Her heart reattaches the heft it had unchained in her sleep, having to pick up where she left off.

“Oh, Itachi…” she mumbles, watching the corvid gently prune its feathers as it sits on her sill.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He was growing in my garden and I pulled him out by his hair like a weed

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She steps one foot in front of the other, walking back to the attic she lives in to change clothes. Distantly, an open entryway frames her, almost like a movie as she walks from right to left to the person who views from afar. She’s barefoot, in a nightgown. As Kakuzu lowers his hands folded in jutsu, he decides that if fate really did exist then it has a funny sense of humor, showing the woman to him like this as soon as his scolding ends. Blessedly, she does not notice, especially as the way she’s garbed. He’s an old fashioned man; seeing someone in their underwear or pajamas is a bit flustering or childish, respectfully. As she glides by, it’s best he looks away. So she’s awake…

...How do we go about this, then?

He decides that in this precise moment, he must be approached instead of approach himself. Certainly the woman was terrified of him, a mere night since he wrapped his tendrils around to keep her in place as she was told, in no uncertain terms, she is deathly stupid. Let’s give her space. And so she slips away, past the frame and out of sight.

It isn’t too much later that she trudges by again in the opposite direction, exactly the same except in her typical dress and sweater. She stops right in the middle of the opening Kakuzu has down the house’s corridors.

“Aaaa…” she yawns, putting a hand over her mouth underneath sleepy eyes. Unsurprising if she had hardly slept at all. The bounty hunter absorbs this fact while lowering his gaze, hopefully just in time for her to not notice his staring.

“...Mm?”

Well, shit.

On her end of the corridor, this is a dilemma for her now, too. Though only just privy to the fact her reprimander is in sight, she still could have sworn he was looking at her...and if that’s the case, it’s now obvious as he sits in the library that he is pretending he did not. That means that he doesn’t want to interact...right? Her heart’s weight sinks deeper, making her frown and avert her own stare away. She has a lot to apologize for...but it can only be done when he seems prepared for it.

She leaves sight once more after the long pause, and Kakuzu realizes this is going to be a very, very long day.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And like weeds do he only came and grew back again

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Thank you, Itachi.”

The performer speaks not a word in front of the others about the way last night ended up, lest it end up embarrassing or troubling out of context. Perhaps later she’ll ask about it, why he treated her in such a delicate way. For now, the plate of food he’s filled up for her breakfast has an aroma as intoxicating as liquor, so she needs to find a place to sit and eat ASAP, lest she do the thing where she begins thoughtlessly picking at it with her fingers instead of utensils when she gets anxious.

Itachi nods to her and returns to the countertop, leaving the woman to look out the next room or two like one does a cafeteria. Where should she sit? Kisame is the closest option, the one that’s actually sitting at the dining room table. Usually he eats on his own in his bedroom, so that means that the shark’s been waiting for her on purpose, even if he’s so pointedly staring outside instead of acknowledging the traveler’s arrival. On the other hand, Hidan is looking straight at her, nearly done with his meal as chopsticks shove bite after bite into an impatient face. It’s unnerving, to be honest, and she’s not sure what it means. And then Zetsu is in the corner— Wait, what the fuck? Okay. He wasn’t there before she got her food, but he’s not asking for anything with his expression so she’s going to leave him be.

Lots of choices make her lost in choices, and unwitting hands begin poking at her meal while the woman stands in the middle of the kitchen, mind wandering off and away.

“Gross, Takara-chan!”

Being caught red-handed makes her jump so hard she nearly drops her plate. As if he only arrives to do mischief, Tobi giggles behind her ear and leaves as fast as he came, disappearing around the corner. Before she can even sigh, someone else calls her name:

“Takara-hime.”

The choice has been made for her.

Hidan’s eyes follow her walk until she disappears just out of his sight, into the nook where Kisame sits. She approaches the blue Akatsuki and he smiles, as he often does, but the corners don’t reach his gills; he looks so guilty, like it makes him feel sick.

“...Is it too soon for me to apologize, princess?”

“...For what?”

Oh, bless her heart. This is going to make it so much harder for him.

His gaze alone begs her to not make him actually say it. She thinks in this gap, letting her mind wake up a little better. “...Oh,” she realizes, voice soft and low in memory. The way he didn’t listen to her, the way he wanted to fight, the way he raised his sword and was ready to swing...—

The way she was ready to stop him with her own body before it could hit Hidan’s.

“I…” It’s a difficult subject, yes, so she takes an easy route by answering the question literally. “..No, it’s okay. It’s better if we talk instead of let it stew.” Though she isn’t sure if the other fighter’s ears are still perked around the wall, if she’s so rudely speaking about him around him. Regardless, Kisame nods in agreement.

“I should know better.” The traveler forgot so easily that Itachi is right there, too, and it’s him that Kisame is more concerned with the opinion of; this apology is just as much for his partner, as well, to demonstrate he understands wrongdoing. He doesn’t want to get too far into his reasoning, talk too much about how deeply he stirs for violence and war, so he opts to just get the point across: “I should have listened to you.”

It’s such a rare position for her to be the taller of the pair, and it must be taken advantage of; through his fin of hair, Kisame feels an electric tingle down his neck that stops in the middle of his spine as she so gently pats the top of his head. It makes his heart skip a beat.

“It’s okay.”

Just as she said it before, after the festival where he misjudged her. She’s much too forgiving.

“Excuse me.”

A polite nod and she wraps around the corner of the room herself. Just as she’s gone, the smile drops off Kisame’s face. He knows who is right there, skulking in wait.

“Hidan—?”

There’s a small rattle on the table just as he drops his empty plate, the reaper’s back to hers as he leaves through the back door. No room to talk, not anymore.

The performer isn’t sure how she’s supposed to feel about this, space where he was now so poignantly empty.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So, I figured this time I might as well let him be

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You feel really small sometimes, you know? You feel like you want to curl up like a pill bug and wait for it all to be over, let the rain wash away and the dirt bury overtop your head until you’re gone from the light of day. But you can't. You're human. You're too big to hide, and as a fish once said, nor should you strive to even try. This old, dusty attic doesn’t see much use midday anymore, not since the routine of music practice stopped being necessary to upkeep a job. But today it is necessary. The space is dark, bar the single window so bright in comparison that you can't see properly outside unless you get your nose right up to the glass. The air is humid and sticky in the height of the Sun’s heat, a sensation she will tolerate in order to put her guitar on her lap and recall its familiarity, its wisdom. Shes neglected it too long, this sweet gift of the haunted house. Her first solace, a way that her fingers can help a tongue speak from the heart...even if it's just for herself to hear. Softly, remembering the chords, the homemade musician strums several strings at once.

Up....down...up...down.

There is something on the edge of her throat, the tip of her soul. But...but... What is it? What is it she even feels after such a mess? As she's about to close her eyes and find her way, a voice calls up the ladder: "Oi! Takara?" Well, that isn’t who she expected, not after the kind of breakfast that just went down. As she has before, the woman lays on her stomach to peer down the hole in the floor, finding the face that matches the voice.

Hidan.

He looks serious, eyes hooded and a frown firmly in place. "I'm not gonna apologize."

Ah, so that's why he left. He assumed she would expect that of him. But that isn’t the case, of course, so the woman shakes her head, sadness quickly shadowing her eyes as she savors the aftertaste of yesterday’s regret. "You don't have to... It was my fault."

...

The man glances downwards, muttering his appreciation. "Glad you realize that…" But it’s so clearly tinged with something; Hidan must be...unsatisfied, the way he’s gotten so quiet. Perhaps he needs a helpful nudge, if there’s something yet on the Jashinist’s brain. Surely he didn’t appear just to tell her what he doesn’t need. "Can I do anything to make it up to you?" Magenta eyes climb much like he did up the ladder he now leans on, going from the floor to the wall ahead and then finally up to her fingers gripping so close to his face— though just not yet up to her own eyes. "...Besides learning better? No. I'm...just..." It’s unlike him to stagger his words so badly. "...Glad I'm okay?" the performer tries to fill in. ... "Yeah,” he admits softly, “That." Almost as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. He gets a mere twinge, a wave of what Kisame feels as vastly and consuming as drowning in the sea: a desire to protect. It's foreign to the priest, makes him antsy. It doesn’t feel right. "Listen, angel...I'm comin’ up." "Okay." A few more creaks up the ladder and here he is on the same crowded floor as her, shoulders hunched as he barely fits under the angled ceiling. She’s opted to sit on the floor so as to not ache her back, but he won’t join her. The raised position is appropriate as he tilts his head, a pout on his lips and a gleam over his eyes. It’s only now that they’ll meet her own. "You didn't tell me about Kakuzu." The interrogations over this don’t end, do they? She bites the inside of the lip in concentration before she answers, tasting a bit of blood. "...It happened just before you left. Didn't really get time." "Yeah, but..." He shuts his mouth as he formulates words. "He told me about it. That he didn't mean to. Is that right?" She nods in the dark, hoping to hide any of the more recent feelings she may have about the masked man. "It is."

A pause. Awkward again, as is their way. Her breath holds until his own exhales, loud and sincerely. "Thank Jashin." His chin tilts up to stare at nothing in particular, not in this physical plane of existence. Ponderously, his mind wanders now that it has room to relax, to wade into thoughts that aren’t just the worst of possibilities. Oh huh...what’s that he finds…? He can only help but mumble it aloud to the disciple meant to decipher his ways:

“You know…” he trails, “Despite him being a heathen and all...I'm glad. I'm glad he's around.”

She has no choice but to back up and make space for Hidan as he chooses to sit right where he stands, finally. “He?”

“Yeah. Kakuzu,” Hidan clarifies. He blinks, slow and lazily, as his brain cards through strange rationals. “No motherfucker gets you like him n' me, right? Hell, you and him get me better than anyone. He just chooses to be a damn atheist anyways, for whatever goddamn reason. Asshole he is, it’d still be harder without him around. All of this.” And then he adds at a lower volume, almost sinfully as pinkish-purple hover back to his friend for confirmation. “...You sense that too?" Admittedly...yes. Despite his unwillingness, the masked man who glares is always there when he is needed. She nods and exchanges her own question for Hidan’s: "I've always wondered something... Why did he change his mind so fast? About me?"

“Ah?” Hooded eyes blink, lips parting ever so slightly as he uncodes her nonsense, a regular hobby at this point, really. Events pass through his mind’s eye like flash cards until one in particular comes up, the only thing she could be referring to. “It’s not obvious?" But the woman shakes her head no.

"I can't always read people well." "...That’s a fucking lie but alright,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I'll indulge. He likes you. Just like I do." That puts forth more questions than answers. "...E-excuse me? Just...out of the blue? Why? What’s the reason? I don't think I...did anything to make him want to help me like he has." Not so early on when they first met, at least. Indeed, from the beginning (excluding his threat about her not breathing around him or whatever), he did more than just tolerate her. Kakuzu helped. He went out of his way. And what did she do to earn his care? "Well, no,” Hidan agrees with a small shrug, “But...whatever happened when you guys were alone that day you wandered off… Well. I don't know. He started being different. It started then." Yet another shrug. That’s all he’s got. "Couldn't tell you why." "I...oh." The time at the stump… "Angel?" It takes a moment to register that this refers to her. As the woman returns to reality, the expression upon her confidant is grave once again; it’s always so disconcerting when a guy either so relaxed or so excited abruptly becomes stiff with sober verities. "Listen..." he repeats, giving a second of silence to ensure she follows through. "...Everyone is takin' your gimmick really seriously. I mean it. Really serious. They think you're important. And ya are! Just. Not in the weird way they're rattling on about. It’s fuckin’ disconcerting.” His brow knits, evaluating what sits ahead of him, the edges of her shadowed body haloed in light from the cracked glass behind her back: a girl, fantastic and bizarre and capable of killing but only if she has the help. Nothing otherworldly about her except for the way Jashin gave her to him, not one lick. Except…—

“Where'd you get all these crazy stories from?” he presses. “Moon walkers and telepathy—" He means instant messaging, perhaps, as alluded to in a lyric or two. "—And too much light in the sky. Is Hoshi really that fucked up? What the hell are ya projecting, here?" For everyone else...the performer just sort of lets them pick and choose to their liking what's real. It’s mortifying now that he is outright asking for her to give the plot up one way or another. Omission would now be lying. "Hidan…"

...Responsibility makes her choke too long for his comfort. Assuming she's frozen up instead of sifting through hefty decisions, he puts a ringed hand on her shoulder and gives it a shake. "Whatever it is...I got your back. Okay? Just...try not to get into deeper shit. I don't know what the head honcho has in mind."

There’s a slight quiver in her stare back as she contemplates every thing she could possibly not know, everything you think about thinking about thinking, how vast the likelihoods of things she could never account for, never control, never prevent. But this humid atmosphere is about as heavy as Hidan can tolerate without slashing something to destress. His tender yet firm grip falls, a thumb going over his shoulder in a gesture. "I'm going down. You comin?" A nod, but what she says contradicts it: "Just...give me a sec." …

Lead a horse to water and whatnot, Hidan supposes. "I'll be outside if you want me." "Okay."

There’s much that one does when in the company of friends they would never do otherwise, especially with the awareness that after being so open, you may as well continue. Thoughtlessly, as she would to others in a prior life in thanks, the woman states something he’s never heard, not genuinely, just as he turns his back to climb down and out of the attic:

"I love you."

The tone catches him off guard as much as the words. They echo in his ears.

I love you.

His eyes widen and his face pinkens, unseen by her even as he peeks over his shoulder to evaluate, to pick up the puzzle pieces and mash them together; she does not yet realize her mistake, and so she looks and sounds far too casual. And Hidan doesn't know how to say those words back , so he's left to just swallow them up and continue to go. She's going to wonder, later in this dark dank room all alone , if he heard her or not. How mortifying . But she means it, and therefore she cannot regret, even if she should have chosen her words differently as to be fully understood.

But she does love him, even too in a way she won’t admit to herself. Oh, she has no idea how abruptly she had just changed his life.

I love you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lemon Boy and me started to get along together

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So what on earth did Hidan mean by that? The woman tries to recollect what happened when she and Kakuzu were first alone together, just as the priest proposed it had gone down. She remembers being humiliated, being worried that somehow, some fuckin’ way, he had gathered in the few moments they were in civilization that she couldn’t read. She doesn’t even remember opportunity to read anything! That detail has always stupefied her, made her realize the bounty hunter is leagues ahead in terms of intelligence. She remembers that she tried to make up a name and it was, in fact, the dumbest on the planet, ever, and he made sure she knew it. Secrets one and two she had, so easily uncovered that day, so of course the performer remembers next her secret number three:

...The unanswered question of if he believes the Akatsuki leader about who “Takara” may really be.

Sitting cross legged, still in the attic, she puts a thumb to her lower lip and thinks. In her small opening of daylight she can make out a shape when she looks really close through the glass she leans onto, Hidan seeming so small as he lays with his back on the wild, tall grass of the lawn, stray blades leaning over him with his arms behind his head as he sunbathes like a cat, presumably dozing seeing how he’s closed his eyes. She has a feeling that this isn’t what he meant to be doing with his time; hopefully he wasn’t waiting on her to come down.

Unconsciously, though, the woman’s decided she can’t join until she decides out what she wants to do with his new information.

...What’s this? Another figure, donned in the black and red cloak steps out from the cover of the porch awning to approach the priest. Hidan’s mouth moves, though he doesn’t make effort to look back at the person. His wrist waves the attached hand in dismissal. She can’t hear anything, can’t make out the face of the newcomer, no matter how closely she squints through dusty glass. Hidan sits up, palms down in the green as he finally gives the person the time of day; his expression looks...earnest. A pause. His back facing her, she can only presume that the second man seems to be talking based on the silver haired man’s current silence, who in turn shrugs. A palm raises face up near the shoulders as if he’s explaining something...—

“Eep!”

She ducks just in time as Hidan points to the window, drawing Kakuzu’s attention to where she’s holed up. Oh dear. A choice is made. The performer is not one that likes to be found; she’d rather present herself first. The guitar goes down the ladder with her, strapped to her back as she heads to the inevitable.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I helped him plant his seeds

And we'd mow the lawn in bad weather

It's actually pretty easy being nice to a bitter boy like him

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What’s the closest book in this damn place to whatever the hell the girl might like? Fairy tales, sure. Not to his taste and he’s heard them all, so no. Romance novel? ...Not for the best. Oh. Hm.

Well, it isn’t his choice for her, but Kakuzu can certainly pass the time with a geopolitical nonfiction. May as well…

Patter, patter, old yellow pages flip open. “...Hn,” he grunts in displeasure.

The first Hokage. Suppose it can’t be helped; most literature is rather Fire Country biased. Still, the memory of the Konoha shinobi gives Kakuzu a headache. He paws a couple more pages—

...But then fingers stop from turning one more.

Around the corner, the woman has her back to the wall, taking a breath before getting on metaphorical stage. This guy has heard her sing over and over. Kakuzu is, sincerely, the one constant member of her audience since the first performance. Don’t be so nervous! You do this all the time.

But the difference now is...he’s going to know this song is for him.

Kakuzu pretends not to notice the girl is there until she makes herself visible on purpose, standing awkwardly in the library nook’s entrance with the guitar over her neck. In the corner of his eye, her cheeks are bright pink. As tempting as it is since she’s already made this first move, to keep his promise of letting her approach means to let her continue— no matter how painfully— and not stop whatever the heck is about to happen.

“I...um…” Her voice is so small. It isn’t really in her favor to say ‘hey, Hidan told me everything! He told me you really care! I care about you too, and I’m sorry!’ No, not the most tactful choice. She has to open the conversation by stepping right in, no one to take responsibility for it but herself:

“I—...Talk?” Find your tongue, kid. “Is now a good time? To?”

It’s disheartening if the stammering is because she’s scared half to death, but a few words from their mutual friend/”friend” outside as he laid in the grass have made the hunter wiser than that. As always, she sees his face covered, all but the gemstones fixed in his skull, but they do look tired. “As good as ever.”

That isn’t a no, at least! She steps forward, presenting herself as if a newbie ready to audition. “I…” More stuttering. The girl must have a sixth sense because just as Kakuzu opens his mouth to tell her to spit it out, she beats him to the punch:

“No, let me. I got it.” Her eyes close and a palm raises, indicating he not interrupt as she digs inside for the right thing to say. Her shoulders slump with a sigh and she visibly relaxes, a detail carried out very much on purpose. Let go. Just talk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” Abruptly much more complete, her language. Her eyes stay shut, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m sorry I put you in a bad position. I know it must not have been comfortable. You’ve done a lot for me when I didn’t ask for it. Frankly, I don’t even know what I’ve done to deserve it. But you’ve looked out for me and I should return your kindness better.” Her eyes open, soft yet determined. “I hope I can be better.” He stares up, unblinking; she cannot wait for his assurance, the truth still needs to be said. “And I forgive you for anything that may have possibly happened that you could regret.”

Ah, to not speak the obvious. She’s opened the gates, and since she’s making it so damn easy, now he’s walking in. “Are you certain of that?” Her nod is firm and immediate; he’s never seen her so serious.

“I forgave you as soon as it happened. I just missed you. That’s the only thing I felt.”

So, is she lying, he thinks? Is it pity? Or is she a fool? But something— always something— in his gut tells him she is most certainly not stupid. Perhaps that instinct makes him the idiot. Over one slow second, his eyes become hooded and his shoulders relax, too, as he exhales, weary and ready for rest from the whole emotional affair. He doesn’t like to accept kindness, nor be blamed of it, but he’ll do it just this once. Just so long as he doesn’t need to announce it.

“Sit down.”

The woman does as told, and she’s never been more relieved to be near him. The seat at far end of the couch becomes occupied. Part of him wishes she sat right next to him as before, when he pushed her away. That’s his own fault, he supposes. Yet another sigh falls from the back of his throat. So much unnecessary discomfort...it hasn’t been this difficult for him in years to simply exist. She bites her tongue, trusting they can both be adults and speak for themselves about her own feelings.

And damn, he’s going to try.

“You want to know why I care?” The musician glances at her toes for a second, down to where she’s set down her instrument ...She nods, confirming not her only her obvious desire to know but rather also the ability to withstand the answer. And withstand she must, as he raises the curtain on his mysterious ways:

“I don’t know.”

She blinks up at him. Did she hear him right? He’s always struck her as such a knowing, confident man, one that has a reason for everything. He won’t meet her eyes, his are glued to the pattern of books in the case ahead.

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “It’s something you do. I know it’s on purpose.” Guilty as charged, she glances away momentarily. It’s hard to say that’s not the case when she had a whole breakdown at Tobi’s feet over how that is very much the case.

“But.”

And but, she agrees, though she needs his lips to explain what she plays out. What does he have to say “but” about?

“But it’s...sincere. It’s damn on purpose because you mean it.” It’s a grumble he speaks; is he angry? But Kakuzu knows deep in his many hearts— each and every one— that he’s never held anger for her. An emotion that defines him, allows survival...it is lacking with her. That’s what the problem has been, the imbalance that’s thrown him so off. How do you navigate without something that has always guided your way, struck clear the path you haven't trod before?

Perhaps another emotion is needed, one she has plenty to spare.

“I think I’m allowed to make one silly decision for its own sake.”

A pause is allowed for it to hit her: this is a joke. She blinks once again, now curious instead of worried. “Silly?” she repeats. He grunts in affirmative reply. “Oh…” And then, like lighting a candle, she brightens slow but sure; perhaps they have middle ground after all. “...I’ve always thought life isn’t worth it if you can’t be a little silly,” she comforts.

What odd advice. He’s the last person to accept it. Perhaps that means he’s the first to need it. The man puts aside his sense of dignity to humor her, this relationship he has allowed to fester being his own fault:

“I think I’m too hardened for your philosophy...duckling.”

The word is arsenic on his tongue, poison that tastes sweet as it goes down the esophagus. Duckling. Duckling. Duckling. He’s never said it, not once since that second day together, but it’s echoed in his mind ever since. A nickname so ridiculous, so flagrantly dumb...that he could never forget it. That he can’t stop hearing it in the back of his head whenever she does something simply he cannot comprehend, from the way she moves her legs so far forward when she walks to how she smiles even when he's done nothing to earn it. Silly, silly, silly.

What is it that she’s thinking, the way she looks back so blank? Are her feelings hurt? Did he put to much emphasis on the sarcasm, the strangeness of it all? Oh no, no. Quite the contrary, the performer bursts into laughter, so suddenly he can feel her bounce with each shout even from his end of the couch. Never before has he heard her laugh much less like this. But the ugliness, the snorting and the wheeze stuck in the back of her throat and the way she covers her mouth...yes.

It is sincere.

Perhaps he’s not making a mistake, after all. Perhaps even briefly, it can be indulged without consequence. Her cheeks are still flushed with the color of roses, but it is in something closer to bashfulness than shame, even as he considers if it’s the latter Kakuzu experiences for himself. The woman he named, his silly little duckling…

The treasure he keeps so hesitantly, as if it’ll make him human again.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So, I got myself a citrus friend

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

#kakuzu x reader #hidan x reader #kisame x reader #there's other characters but its not as shippy for them #akatsuki x reader #aswtn fic #itachi x reader #songfic #i kept writing and this bitch was like no i dont wanna sing the song yet-- MOTHERFUCKER NOW THIS IS A TWO PART CHAPTER ARE YOU HAPPY #and she said yes C:

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theluckywizard · 10 months

Text

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 59: Tangled**

Chapter Summary: Rose contends with the aftermath and consequences of her night with Hawke while forging ahead trying to access the rift underneath the lake.

Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke. Excerpt below cut ⏬

I distract myself momentarily, flipping open the lid of my pen box and retrieve my locket. I pop it open and pinch the little coin between my thumb and forefinger. It feels like it’s been an age since I first held it in my hand. And it feels nearly as long since the meaning it once held was tarnished.

I gather up the pieces of all my ridiculous hopes. The ones I never let go of, the ones Hawke of all people had offered this morning, wishes patched up with his confident, clumsy assurances. Maybe it just wasn’t the right moment for Cullen and I. Maybe I’ll return to Skyhold and get another chance.

“I thought you would be in the tower,” says Cassandra. I nearly spit out my mouthful of tea then slowly turn to look at her. She doesn’t look up, seemingly absorbed in her reading. I put the locket away again.

“I— will be staying in our usual tent,” I tell her.

“Oh, I heard that you stayed there last night,” she remarked, her expression mildly entertained try as she might to hide it.

Maker, does she know? Varric seemed keenly aware.

“I— yes.”

“When you did not come to turn in, I thought I would check with the scouts about your whereabouts. I was told you had gone to the keep tower with the Champion,” she says in her usual flat tone. “I did not mean to pry.”

I feel the heat of a murderous blush race across my cheeks. Somehow I doubt her lack of interest.

“Didn’t mean to pry?” I ask her, forcing a skeptical smile through my mortification. “You could just ask, Cassandra.”

“I— am sure you had work to discuss,” she says, nodding with a perfectly straight face that moments later dissolves into a ridiculous pink-cheeked smirk. I bury my smile in my hands and then lose myself in a peal of tenacious laughter. The absurdity of it surges forth again.

“Yes. Work,” I laugh. “We were— planning.”

After a prolonged pause she continues. “I— hope it was a good planning session.” She peers up at me from her sixth reread of the last issue of Swords and Shields with a raised brow and then hides her amusement behind the well worn volume.

Well, I can’t leave her entirely in the dark.

“It was an exceptional planning session.”

“But you do not need to plan again tonight,” she confirms.

“I— think just the one night of planning should suffice.”

Cassandra eyes me doubtfully while I sip my tea.

“But you said it was exceptional,” she protests.

It was . I don’t have an answer for her. Even now I catch myself gazing across the upper bailey from inside our tent, searching for him, his whereabouts interesting me more than I care to admit.

If everyone knows, they certainly aren’t teasing me about it, which leads me to doubt the gossip had spread thoroughly through the ranks. Maker knows that Bull and Sera would have had a smart remark. And Dorian would have cornered me on the matter first thing.

I stand to stretch my back and walk to the tent entrance, gazing across the keep through the drizzle. An orange glow flickers in the tower windows. I squint like it’s a mirage, and then laugh because it’s real.

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DAFF Tag List

#In the Shattering of Things #Rose Trevelyan #Garrett Hawke #Rawke #Roserford #Hawke x Trevelyan #Cullen x Trevelyan #Hot Mess #theluckywizard #Crestwood #Dragon Age Fan Fiction

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morganas-pendragons · 2 years

Text

Hands That Hold You Now | Joel Miller

Prompt: Joel finds out you can sing, and he’s suddenly keen to teach you guitar.

Tag: @ironmandeficiency @kayleezra

***

He learns accidentally that you can sing. It’s late one night on the way back to Jackson from the hospital that he hears it while on watch. Your voice, soft and warm, echoing from the clearing you’ve made camp in for the night while you lure Ellie into sleep.

Because it’s you, she goes willingly. Your little sister has her arm nestled under her makeshift pillow and is asleep in seconds after you started raking your fingers through her hair.

Sister, you’re safe now…

And safe may you stay..

For I have a prayer just for you…

Joel takes careful care not to reveal himself and the fact that he’s keenly listening to you. He’d only ever briefly mentioned to you that he played guitar as well as sang so long ago, but you’d never given any indication that you did too. It feels very personal. Like one of those secrets he shouldn’t know and has now intruded upon it.

Despite that, Joel closes his eyes and listens closely. Something about your voice soothes him. Eases the coil in his chest into something bearable that makes it easier to breathe and calms the tremble in his hands that currently cradle the rifle in his lap.

Grow baby sister… come back someday…

Come and deliver us too…..

It’s a request and a desperate plea. You had been the one who encouraged Joel to rip Ellie from that table. She was furious. Upset. Understandably, because the story the two of you fabricated only thirty minutes before she woke wasn’t quite the most believable.

You said she could save the world in a different way.

Ironically enough, Joel believed you. He had to. He wasn’t sure he could deal with the reality of Ellie hating him for the decision he made from the heart of a parent who couldn’t take losing another child.

She would never understand his reasoning. You, however, did. It was just another one of the growing list of reasons why he was so drawn to you.

“Got a real pretty voice.”

Your eyes flicker upward to where Joel has just come down from the tree, rifle slung over his shoulder. He looks tired. He always looks tired. The mental and physical ramifications of all the three of you have endured is really beginning to take its toll.

Hesitantly, you pat the spot beside you.

“Come here, Joel.” You call. “Come tell me how pretty I am.”

“You know you’re pretty, Sunshine.” He sits down in the open spot beside you and stretches his aching limbs towards the warmth of the fire. “But you never told me you could sing.”

“Never had a reason to. You also said you played guitar and have yet to show me.”

Joel raises a brow. “Does it look like I have a guitar?”

“Fine then. When we get back to Jackson, you’re gonna find a guitar,” You prompt, scooting closer to slowly lay your head on his shoulder. He would’ve immediately recoiled at the motion when you started this. People were a liability. Caring what a liability. Better to guard your heart from it. “And then I’ll properly sing for you.”

He leans down to whisper low and warm in your ear, “Maybe you’ll even get an opportunity to really watch the hands you don’t stop staring at at work.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice as laughter bubbles in the back of your throat. “You’re many things. You’re not subtle.”

You ignore the burn in your cheeks in favor of watching the sun rise over the trees instead.

***

Tommy very graciously lends him one of the guitars from the wall of the house he shares with Maria. It had been a week since the three of you had arrived in Jackson, choosing to spend that time integrating into the community before really committing yourselves to the roles that Tommy had set aside for you.

Joel and Ellie on patrol. You on supply runs, or vice versa.

It’s Maria who asks you upon arrival if you want to live with Joel. He’s clearly got the room - Ellie had immediately declined and settled herself into a garage where she could have her own privacy - and the desire for you to be a constant presence there.

Joel’s presence can make it house. Your touch can make it a home.

It’s warm on the Sunday night before Joel asks you to move in when he finds you on his porch. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and a whole canvas of stars to look at above him, but none of that can compare to the way your presence just eases that ache in his chest into something bearable.

Around you, he can breathe. He doesn’t have to maintain that facade that people know him for. Terrifying, cruel, angry Joel Miller who would do whatever it takes in order to protect those he loves. In order to protect what’s his.

Not everyone has seen the blood on his hands. He doesn’t want them to. He doesn’t want their pity.

“Hi Sunshine,” Joel muses softly. His voice is soft and warm and the lure of it makes you only want to come closer and sit at his feet while he talks to you all night. “I believe that you and I have a deal to hold up each ends of.”

You raise a brow and turn your head to gaze at the guitar. Something shifts in your aspect at the sight of it. It reminds you of something you love, something good that you enjoy in a world where finding things to enjoy is so, so hard. There’s not time for singing. There’s not time for music. Being able to find even a moments worth of true quiet is a blessing. Why would you have time for music when noise draws the dead and goodness is so often snuffed out like the flame to a barely burning candle?

Despite all of that, you still sing.

Despite all of that that, Joel still plays.

You run your tongue over your teeth and nod, involuntarily shivering as the warm breeze that’s carried through the trees causes goosebumps to rise on your arms. You hadn’t been smart in wearing only a thin t-shirt and faded jeans over here. You’re not even wearing shoes.

“I think I’d like it if you taught me that song you mentioned, after the hospital.” Your voice is soft as you come to stand beside him and lean against the railing. “And maybe we can duet it together sometime. Now since it’s quiet.”

That makes something inside of him swell. Now that it’s quiet. Now that it’s quiet, you can enjoy the things of life that you’d been deprived of for god knows how long.

Joel is careful not to let his face betray the pounding of his heart as he sets both of your mugs down and motions to the steps. “Sit,” He calls over his shoulder. “I’ll come sit behind you.”

You settle yourself on the second step and wait. Moments later, Joel’s knees come to bracket either side of your body as he slowly lowers the guitar into your lap. Your breath catches as you helplessly watch his hands wrap around your own - his are so large compared to yours, able to hide your own within their grasps with relative ease - and settle them on the appropriate frets for the chords of the song to begin.

You wait.

“So this chord is… yeah, that’s it,” Joel’s instruction is thorough as you are walked through each individual chord twice before you attempt to strum on your own. “Good girl. Now keep that strum pattern while I do this.”

As you slowly work through the chord progression, your focus is so pointed on ensuring that each one is right that you nearly miss the rumble of Joel’s baritone in your ear as he begins to sing.

If I ever were to lose you

I'd surely lose myself

You’re careful to hear the things he doesn’t say in each word as you continue. Meeting his eyes would be the end of this precious moment of time where it’s just you and him, not another soul around, a moment in which the walls that have guarded your hearts fall and you’re able to just be with each other.

It’s precious. It’s sacred.

You refuse to break it.

Everything I’ve found here

I’ve not found by myself

Try and sometimes you’ll succeed

To make this man of me

Your eyes flicker downward to where his fingers are pressed against your own. He’d had a point in how frequently you paid attention to his hands. How could you not? There’s so much life there. Callouses from the years of playing guitar and worn skin at the palms from the last two decades of becoming familiar with the firearms he so flawlessly uses. Scars across the bridges of his knuckles and worn pads of his fingers that come with age and experience.

How could you not pay attention to Joel’s hands when there’s so much to be told through them?

All my stolen missing parts

I’ve no need for anymore

When he’d initially mentioned this song to Ellie, you had believed it would be for her. If Joel was ever going to sing this he would be singing it to her. The longer you listened to it, though, the more you realize that each word you hang onto is specifically directed at you.

Even if he’s so hesitant to say it - Joel’s always been a man of action, not a man of words - you still hear every word. You see him.

What Joel isn’t already aware of is that you are very familiar with this song. Once you have the cadence memorized, you tilt your head upward and wince as your fingers fall on the wrong chord and an awful sound resonates from the guitar.

It makes him laugh. A sound you so rarely hear, more a chuckle than anything, but being able to witness the way his lips curve upward and his eyes shine is enough to ease your embarrassment into quiet admiration.

You fix your fingers against the fret and continue with the second verse yourself.

Back when I was feeling broken

I focused on a prayer

You came deep as any ocean

Did something out there hear?

You both had come into each others lives at just the right time. You knew it. He knew it. But you were teetering on the edge of a precipice in which one of you would eventually say those three words, and you would fall into it together.

There’d be no coming back from that.

Joel’s fingers are warm against your own as he dips his head to kiss the junction of your shoulder where skin is visible. You shiver, swallowing the knot in your throat and shakily finding what remains of your resolve to continue singing.

All the complexities and games

No one wins but somehow they still played

All the missing crooked hearts

“They may die,” Joel whispers, so quiet you almost don’t hear it, removing your fingers from the guitar to set it to the side as you turn around in the part of his legs to kneel between them. “But in us they live on.”

They do. They do live on. Your son, his daughter, Tess, Henry and Sam, Bill and Frank, Marlene, all those people you’ve come across along the journey to get Ellie to the hospital and eventually back to your new home in Jackson.

He was the only one who was still here. Ellie had, in her own right, separated herself from Joel for a reason she felt was justified.

She didn’t understand why you’d been so quick to defend him. Not until she realized it.

“Oh. Oh, that’s rich. You love him!”

You don’t deny it. She’s your little sister, your last living blood, and you owe her the truth at least about this. You owe her that much.

“It took a while... but I will never regret it and will never go back.” You pause. “Yeah. I do love him.”

“Joel.” You run your tongue across your lips as he holds your face, worn and calloused hands so gentle as he runs his thumbs along the apples of your cheeks. “I love you.”

And I believe 'cause I can see You know it’s going to take a while for him to say it back. You don’t mind. The fact you’ve been able to get past the careful guard he keeps is something to be immensely proud of, and you refuse to take advantage of that precious trust he finds in you.

You know it’s going to take him a while to say it back, but you also know what he conveys in what he doesn’t say, but what he does.

So when Joel kisses you long and slow underneath a canvas of stars in the middle of a summer night on Jackson, you know it’s his way of quietly admitting that he loves you too.

As long as those hands promise to hold you forever - in which they will through the birth of Joel’s daughters, through a thirty minute wedding in Jackson’s chapel, through your first time together - you can wait.

Ellie’s arrival in the early hours of the morning finds her poised on the edge of the steps on the opposite side of the porch when she sees that Joel has fallen asleep against the outermost wall of the house with you carefully tucked into his embrace. There’s a guitar against the stairs and two cold cups of coffee on the table by the door.

Despite all her anger, she somehow manages to find happiness for you both as she tiptoes against the creaky boards of the porch and snaps a photo with the camera she’d taken from Dina. It’s a precious memory. A joyful one. It’s relieving to know that, even if she isn’t around anymore, you and Joel are both taken care of.

You’ll take care of each other. Now, then, and forever.

Our future days Days of you and me

#Joel Miller #Joel Miller x Reader #Joel x Reader #The Last of Us

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darling-i-read-it · 1 year

Text

A Good Story

Harry Gardner x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: slow burn affair, general creepy vibes ig? Lol, mentions of grief, harry being kinda shity but that’s what you’re here for <3

Author’s Note: I felt like I should've maybe written more for this but I thought the ominous ending was kinda cool!! Lemme know what you think and I hope you enjoy <3

Requested by anon, Hello again, dear. Hope I'm not being a bother. I was the Anon with the Harry request from earlier and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to reply, that means the world to me 💗 The idea I had is for Harry x fem Reader who's an aspiring but struggling director. Their platonic relationship quickly derails into a full-blown affair. Feel free to take complete liberty of the plot and write it I'm any way you'd like. Andsty, fluffy, nsfw etc, anything you feel like, I know I'll love it regardless. Thank you for your kindness and for gracing us Finn lovers with your wonderful works ❤

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

You had heard about Provincetown. You saw the guide books, the summer town that was only alive when the clouds moved aside to allow for the sun to touch the ground. Any beach town could be interesting in that sense, that it’s beautiful and secluded and inspiring. But that wasn’t what compelled you to come. It was the whispers that bled out from the town. There’s a certain charm in small town secrets that only rotate within the city lines. There’s something else entirely to be said about the small town secrets that reach through the online forums, the cities surrounding them.

You heard about it through a bar you frequented. Frequented might be a strong word. A bar you went to on occasion when writers block hit you hard and you couldn't’ look at another camera. There were secrets about the people there, those who came when it wasn’t sunny any longer, those who stayed and silently sucked up the resources around them.

You arrived in Provincetown a week after Harry Gardner and his family. You moved in right next to him, down the street in a smaller house. You were keenly aware you had gotten it for a killer deal. Something was wrong with this town and it might just be the inspiration you needed to really push past being an ‘aspiring’ director and being a ‘successful’ one.

“Lots of newbies,” Austin Sommers announced. He leaned back in his chair at the Muse, a local bar. You were trying to get your feet on the ground still by searching for a place to work while you figured things out. You figured trying the bar first would be helpful.

You heard Austin speak but didn’t know the words were directed at you. You gazed at the menu, reading off the special board. The lack of routine in your days was throwing you off. Even if there was no job here, you needed a drink.

“I said,'' Austin tried again, “lots of newbies.” He walked up to the bar stool and sat down beside where you were standing. You turned to him, realizing that he had been speaking to you.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’re new. I’ve never seen you here before. Just a week ago a new family moved in. This is gonna become a real stellar town if we keep bringing in the riff raff.” His voice was surprisingly not judgemental. You pursed your lips, deciding to ignore him. You looked to the bartender who gave you a gentle smile.

“Hi! Are you guys hiring?”

“Oh not another bartender,” Austin murmured. “You’re not here to write?” The bartender gave Austin a narrow look.

“Not right now. But I know there’s a place down the road that is. I can give you the address if you want?” He was cleaning glasses, waning past the long nights when little people came in.

“That would be great actually.”

“It’s a little bookstore. It’s not very busy but the owner's wife just passed away or something and they need someone to clean the shop when he can’t.”

“That’s awful.”

“Well his loss is your gain,” the bartender murmured. He turned around to grab a piece of paper. Austin leaned against the counter.

“Pretty brutal huh?” You finally turned to look at him. The haircut didn’t suit him but you liked his striped shirt and long necklace.

“Can I help you with something?”

“I’m just giving you a warning sweetheart. From one person to another, this is not the town you wanna stay in.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to read if he was joking or not.

“The brochures say it really lightens up in the summer.”

“It’s not the summer isn’t it?”

He unnerved you with his ominous warnings so you turned back to the bartender. He handed you a piece of paper.

“Where are you staying?” the man asked. Austin leaned in intently but you didn’t feel comfortable giving your address and street to either men.

“Around,” you promised.

“You should meet up with the family that just moved in. Maybe you could help each other.”

“Are you by yourself?” Austin pursued. You gave him a narrow look.

“Who’s the family?”

“Gardner’s. On the water, in the south part of town.” You nodded. You had no intention of seeking them out but wanted to leave this conversation.

“Thank you for the place.” The bartender nodded. Austin looked disappointed but you didn’t feel too bad. You backed away and then walked out, sad you hadn’t gotten your drink.

You ended up going to the bookshop and the man didn’t even require a resume. He mumbled something about opiate addicts taking away all of the good workers in this town and he needed new blood anyway. You guessed he was still mourning his wife but he didn’t mention her.

And that is where you met Harry Gardner for the first time.

You were busy rearranging some shelves that had been well used when he came in. The bartender wasn’t lying when he said the place wasn’t busy. You were lucky to have twenty customers your entire shift. But it paid the bills while you worked up some inspiration.

You heard the bell ring and the door swing open with a gust of wind. You stood up, putting on a smile to greet whoever it was. You peeked around a shelf and saw his curious gaze. You walked around it, carrying a stack of books in your arms.

“Good morning!” you said with a smile. “How can I help you?”

He met your eyes softly. He was unmistakably handsome with hair falling over his face in strands.

“Hi! I was just coming to browse,” he said. You nodded.

“Well I’ll be around if you need anything.”

He turned into a small section. You turned back to your shelf and started to put the books back. You had gentle music playing on the speaker by the counter. You returned to it in case he needed anything. He came out from between some stacks, already holding something.

“Do you like it here?” he questioned. “The job, I mean.” It was sudden but you shrugged.

“I just moved here last week,” you admitted. “But so far so good.” His eyes lit up. He had been looking at the books before but now you had his full attention.

“Me too. Well, two weeks ago,” he said. You raised an eyebrow.

“You wouldn't’ happen to be a Gardner would you?” He eyed you suspiciously.

“How do you know that?” “Word travels fast. Some guy at the Muse mentioned your family.” He nodded slowly.

“That tracks.” You shrugged. He approached the counter. He set down an old used copy of a book you had never heard of. “My names Harry.”

“Y/N,” you offered. “How are you liking the surprisingly dreary town of Province?” He smiled slyly.

“So far not great. Have you run into any of the addicts yet?”

“I’ve not ran into any, no.”

“I recommend not.” He looked tired. “My wife and daughter ran into one when they were on a walk the first day we were here.”

“Not good?” “No, no it wasn’t.” You nodded, shivering. Drug addiction was no joke. It was a disease but it was dangerous. It was hard not to be scared sometimes. “What are you doing out here?”

“I am a director. Aspiring. I was hoping for some inspiration. So far I’ve found a lot of cold beaches and weird people.” He chuckled knowingly.

“I’m actually a writer myself. I’m trying to get out the pilot episode of a script, that's why we came out here.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Intrigue. What kind of things do you write about Harry Gardner?”

“All kinds of things,” he promised. “Whatever I feel like.”

“A true writer.” You smiled gently. He met it with the same generosity. He wasn’t sure if it was because of certain circumstances but he liked you regardless. “What are you reading?”

“I don’t know yet. Cover looked nice and I need to read something.”

“You didn’t bring any books?”

“My wife doesn’t really like clutter,” he admitted. Your eyes went wide.

“Brave of her.” You rung up the book. “$9.55 for you today.” He handed you his card. He tried not to think of what Doris would say to him, spending money on something they didn’t really need, especially with money being tight. He’d like to think he’s worked hard enough for a small treat and a nice conversation. “Want your receipt?”

“No, that's okay.”

“Well it was nice to meet you Harry.” He grabbed his book.

“It was nice to meet you too.”

He was smiling as he left. You were left wondering how much he liked his wife.

There was not enough to do in Provincetown. You could go to the bar filled with weirdos. You could take a walk and run into someone who looked like they were from Nosferatu. Or you could daydream about the guy who you saw walking down the street sometimes and wonder how he was doing.

Harry came back only once after that and it was a normal interaction. You were fine with it being just that. Normal. You would admire him and his family from afar, wondering what it looked like inside of his house. You had no actual intentions of ‘seducing him’ or whatever the shitty mom dramas were doing. You let yourself feel feelings but also didn’t actively seek them out.

That was until he came back a third time and asked you to get lunch. He explained that he wanted to pick your brain about the ideas you had and you were all too happy to take your break. He took you to a small diner nearby on the small strip of businesses.

You sat by the window, watching as a couple of cars drove by.

“So you came from New York?” you questioned. He nodded. “What’s that like?”

“About as you expect,” he admitted.

“Broadway every Sunday? Seeing the Statue of Liberty from your window? Eating hot dogs for breakfast?”

“Okay maybe not that,” he said, laughing. You laughed with him.

“Alright then give me something Harry. I only have such a long break.”

“I’ve never been to Broadway,” he started. “There are so many people. It’s kind of shocking walking around here and being alone.”

“It’s eerie.”

“It is.” He shrugged. He was leaning forward, his hands wrapped around his cup. “This whole town is eerie.” You nodded. You glanced out the window. It was a cloudy day. You were getting used to them.

“It feels so…hidden. Like it’s gonna eat itself whole.” You shook your head. “How’s your family adjusting?” He glanced down and then back up again.

“Not great.”

“No?”

“Doris…Doris doesn’t like it here,” he admitted. “But it’s helping my writing so much.”

“What does Doris do?”

“Interior design.”

“Is she good at it?” He gave you a dumb look.

“She’s my wife.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He didn’t answer, which was an answer. You nodded slowly, thinking about all the interior design places she could do here. There weren't a lot that came to mind. “How’s the kid?”

“Alma is…she’s a lot.” He shook his head. “You should probably be getting back.” You nodded. You should probably get back.”

“I haven’t finished my fries,” you complained. “Couple more minutes. Sorry I brought them up.” He shook his head.

“It’s okay. It just kind of feels like another life.”

You hummed in agreement as you ate a fry.

“You need to get out more Harry Garnder.” He chuckled.

“Alright alright.” You leaned back in your chair. “Do you write?”

“Sometimes but mostly I just visualize,” you admitted. “But I need to start somewhere.” He nodded.

“I guess I do the opposite.”

“Don’t you visualize to write?”

“I guess so. I guess you’re right.” He smiled.

“You got anything I could read?”

“I don’t think you’d like them,” he admitted. You raised an eyebrow.

“How do you know what I’d like?” you accused. His smile remained but there was a sly tug at his lips.

“I don’t. You’re right.”

“Lesson number one. I’m always right.”

You and Harry frequented the small diner a couple of times in the following weeks. The meet ups became less courtesy and more nefarious in nature. You already had the vibe from him that he had ill intentions and you had never turned him down. It was just nice to talk to him. He never did anything. He showed no physical inclination of anything, never crossing the imaginary boundaries. But the topics got deeper and more nuanced. Conversations about life, writing, themes. Questions about things he hadn't talked about in years. Things that you promised yourself you would keep close to your chest.

Until that one winter night. You usually get lunch during your breaks but slowly the times had gotten later. It was nothing said out loud. It was all habit at that point, never questioning the ordeal until it was over. What were you to him? What was he to you?

It was cold, as it often was. He was wearing a thick black jacket, his cheeks a rosy red. You were also bundled up in your typical choice of coverings. You sat across from him, the air in the diner fluid with the weather outside.

It was dinner time. He should be with his family, you thought and then disregarded it.

“Where does Doris think you are?” you asked after ordering. You were both still wearing copious amounts of layers to combat the freezing temperatures.

“The bar,” he explained. “I’ll probably go there afterwards,” he admitted. You pursed your lips.

“Frequent the Muse?”

“I try not to, unless it makes an alibi.”

“That sounds like you’re planning my murder Harry,” you joked. He smiled slyly. He had a cup of coffee in his hands he wasn’t drinking. You wondered if it was more of a hand warmer.

“Trust me, you’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

Admissions like that confused you. His actions never seemed to follow through with his words.

“What, you haven’t made more friends here yet?”

“I don’t have time.”

“You could always cancel one of our lunches.”

“No,” he said, far too quickly.

“I won’t be offended Har.” He shook his head. His eyes were stagnant down at the steaming cup.

“I like seeing you.” He said that like it was an illicit affair. You shook your head.

“I like seeing you too. You need to branch out.”

“You’re not my mother,” he quipped but it felt more defeated. “I’m sorry.” He shivered as the door opened. The bell rang, indicating a customer, and in with them came the cold. “It’s freezing. You aren’t wearing enough layers.”

‘You’re wearing just one,” you told him.

“Alright, the usuals…” Your waitress interrupted the train of thought and put down your food. The warmth of it was nice. It was odd to you that you had a usual. You were a small town girl now, even if you didn’t believe it yourself.

“Thank you so much.”

“Thank you.”

You and Harry’s voices overlapped in gratitude as you looked down at your plate. The sun was setting.

“She doesn’t mind you don’t stay for dinner?” you asked because you didn’t know what else to do but push.

“No,” he admitted. He didn’t talk about her much. He talked about his sixth grade trauma but never the wife and child. Was it guilt? Disinterested? Or just general indifference? “Can you sit over here? Maybe we could share some warmth.” You didn’t make a face or anything. You got up and sat on his side.

You brought your plate over and took a bite, like everything was normal. The sides of your bodies were flush. You had touched him before but not so much at once. He glanced at you.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Anytime,” you promised. You swallowed your bite and looked up at him. Your eyes were so close. You could practically see his train of thought. The small diner, the married man, the same booth.

“This is quite cliche isn’t it?” he questioned. He leaned against the wall but he was still touching you.

“Yes, yes it is.” You moved your food around. “But I think cliches are used for a reason. They’re such a generalized feeling but have lost their meaning. Isn’t that sad?”

“It is.”

Kiss me, you thought. There would never be another time like this one. He wanted to do it and he couldn’t hold back much longer, you knew it. You looked at him through your lashes, begging him silently.

When he did kiss you, you wondered if he had read your mind. That’s how well he seemed to know you. The kiss was gentle and unassuming. No one would guess the emotions lying within. You grabbed his hand, holding it. This didn’t even feel like public. This felt like your own personal world, like the one you could have had before everything was so different. Before things were so wrong.

When he pulled away he had no sense of regret over his eyes. You accepted it, the guilt, to come quickly. It was like he had temporary amnesia for the whole life he led. To the reason he was here.

“This would make a good story,” he whispered, laughing gently. You rolled your eyes at the break of the moment.

“Yes. It would.”

#harry gardner x reader #harry gardner imagines #harry gardner x fem!reader #american horror story imagines #american horror story fanfiction

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