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jjkamochoso · 1 month

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Hii!! I'm always hanging out in your askbox, sorry about that! I've got another Feitan request! A Feitan x Female Reader who, similar to my other requests, is normally an outgoing person with a girly personality, but behind closed doors she really appreciates a peaceful atmosphere. Maybe the two of them decided to stay together off troupe duty at a rented place or hotel, and she's less bubbly than Feitan is used to her being with the troupe around. Not that she's any less smiley, just a lot more quiet than she usually is. Bonus points if it's raining outside and they can enjoy the sounds of it together in a dimly lit room! Sorry if that was really specific, feel free to change it up if you like!! Thank you!

I LOVE that you’re always requesting omg don’t apologize!! I love writing for you guys and talking with you all about anything and everything so feel free to keep sending in whatever, whenever!!😁🫶❤️ this idea is SO good and I’m grateful you entrusted me with another wonderful request!❤️ thanks so much and I really hope you love this!!

Lightning Strike of Love

Fluff

Feitan Portor x f!reader

Warnings: slight mentions of violence

“So we’ll meet back up in a few days, right?”

“That’s right. Don’t have too much fun on your off time without me,” Phinks replied to you, shooting you a playful wink.

“We have free time?” asked Shizuku, confusion etched on her features.

Machi sighed. “Yes, Shizuku. You’ve know about this for weeks, remember?”

The girl’s big eyes blinked behind her large glasses. “No.”

Machi pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers in exasperation. You giggled as you listened to your fellow Phantom Troupe members talk about what they were doing in the upcoming down time allotted. You were sad that you weren’t going to be spending more time with them because they truly were your best friends and closest thing you had to a family. You were, however, looking forward to the peace and quiet of not being on a mission for once.

“Where you going?”

Feitan, stealthy as ever, made you jump involuntarily with the sound of his voice right near your ear. He snickered at your reaction, cocking his head as he awaited your answer.

“I rented a hotel room in the quiet part of the city. I figured it’s a good place to relax for a bit,” you said. “How about you? What’s your plan?”

“Nothing. I stay here.”

“At the base? By yourself? On our vacation?!” you asked incredulously.

“Tch. What else I supposed to do? I wait for you all to come back.”

“But won’t you be lonely?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Why don’t you stay with me?” you suggested, stunning him completely. You leaned in towards him, smiling sweetly and lowering your voice. “I enjoy your company, Feitan. I’d really miss you if you weren’t there.”

Feitan’s heart wasn’t used to beating as quickly as it was and his cowl wasn’t doing any favors to cool his neck that was burning from your saccharine words. He wanted to accept your offer but if you kept gazing at him with that honeyed expression, he’d never survive the trip.

“Tch. You sappy,” he remarked, shoving his fidgeting hands in his pockets.

You checked the time on your phone. “So, wanna join me? The taxi will be here in about 10 minutes.”

“Fine, I go with you. But I not paying for anything,” he teased.

“Neither am I. A dead guy’s credit card will get you anything you want,” you told him, grinning triumphantly. “Now, go pack! We don’t want to keep the driver waiting!”

A suitcase, a suspiciously small duffel bag, and a taxi ride later and you and Feitan had arrived to the hotel.

“Why so fancy?” Feitan wondered, staring up at the old building with curiosity. Columns and arches were in abundance and the weighty, gold handled doors to the lobby were at least double his height. As you checked in, he took note of the indoor fountain and scoffed.

She out of her mind. This place ridiculous.

“C’mon, Fei! Our room is ready!” you called, beckoning him over. He obliged, still shaking his head at your go big or go home tendencies. You were always so bubbly and were attracted to sickeningly pretty things (hence the choice of hotel). He never understood how you two got along so well; you were polar opposites.

“I’m so excited to see our room!” you squeaked, clasping your hands together in anticipation as the elevator brought you up to your floor. Feitan couldn’t lie, he was looking forward to having you all to himself for the next few days, no longer losing your attention to the other Troupe members. He smiled from under his cowl.

Our room. With my girl.

You pulled out the key and opened the door. When you saw the room, you almost started crying. It was absolutely beautiful! The fluffy beds were calling your name and right after you put your suitcase in the corner, you kicked off your shoes and laid down, closing your eyes and quietly enjoying the silence that had filled the room. After a while you heard Feitan ruffle through his bag before lying down on the other bed. You peeked an eye open and saw he was reading a book.

“Oh, that was a good idea. I should’ve brought a book, too,” you said thoughtfully.

“I have extra in bag. You can get one.”

“Thank you! That’s very kind of you.”

His bag, filled only with books, made you screw your nose up in slight disgust.

“Where are your extra clothes?” you asked, afraid to hear his answer.

“I no bring. These fine for a few days.”

You grabbed the first book you saw, deciding to deal with that situation later. “Trevor Brown? I don’t know any of his works.”

Feitan chuckled. “Just look at it. You might like.”

After a few pages, you had seen enough.

“It’s a little too dark for me,” you explained, putting it back, which caused Feitan to laugh harder. “I know there’s a bookstore around here somewhere. That might be fun to do tomorrow.” You paused. “And I’ll take you shopping.”

After you resumed your position on the bed, Feitan enthralled in his book, you felt a chill blow through you. Since the hotel was older, the windows let in cold air so you were grateful that there was a fireplace in your room. With a click of a button, a warm fire began to roar and you smiled to yourself at how perfectly domestic this whole situation was. Having Feitan all to yourself in a place like this was a dream come true to you. You snuck a glance at the man as he read, his hair slightly hanging over his face, his lips, no longer covered by the cowl, pursed in concentration; he looked handsome beyond belief. Not wanting to disrupt him with your staring, you changed gears and grabbed the comforter from your bed, wrapping it around your shoulders. You then pulled a chair in front of the window and stared at the beauty outside, getting lost in your thoughts.

Feitan, on the other hand, was looking forward to you starting your cheerful chatting like usual. He was patiently waiting to hear your voice chirp up, talking animatedly about things that happened that day or what was on your mind. If anyone else spoke as much as you did, he would’ve sewn their mouths shut, but he tolerated—no, genuinely liked—your incessant jovial jabber.

“Why you no talk?” he asked, pulling you from your daydreams.

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“You never stay quiet, you always talk.”

“Are you complimenting me or insulting me?” you joked, but Feitan was looking at you with such a serious face that you immediately stopped teasing.

“Around the others, all day long, talk, talk, talk,” he said, opening and closing his hand in a gesture to mimic you speaking, “but with me, you silent. Why?”

“That’s easy,” you replied, wearing a soft smile, “you make me feel relaxed. At ease. I love to speak with everyone, yes, and I especially love talking with you, but when it’s just me, or just us, like this… I like the calming environment.”

“Oh.”

Feitan was clearly embarrassed by his assumption, although he did think it was good to learn that you two weren’t total opposites after all, since he cherished his quiet time as well. You were completely unbothered by his question but you still tried to reassure him in your own way without making him feel silly. You picked up the big black book that was resting on the nightstand and took up the spot next to Feitan on his bed, your arm brushing up against his.

You opened the book to a menu. “How about we order some room service?”

After ordering and eating practically everything from the menu, you and Feitan were happy as could be. You two shared nice conversations over dinner, Feitan ecstatic at hearing your bad jokes and sparkling laughter, and you were feeling grateful that you were going to be able to share moments like this with him for the next couple of days. When the last of the empty plates were left outside your hotel room door to be picked up, you locked the door and got your pajamas on since nighttime had almost arrived. You exited the bathroom in your cozy attire and sat on your bed once more, feeling Feitan’s gray eyes watch you the entire time.

“Yes?” you asked, wrapping yourself in the comforter again.

“Nothing,” he blurted out, tearing his gaze from you. You giggled, browsing through a magazine provided by the hotel. You were about to turn on the lamp to continue reading when all of a sudden, you heard tapping on the window. You peeked out and saw rain had begun to fall. The last remnants of the sun’s rays were snuffed out by dark clouds hovering in the sky above you and your stomach fluttered at the change of weather. Hearing the droplets hit the building was sending you into a state of pure bliss and there was only one thing that could make it even better.

“Feitan?”

There was no answer but you knew he was listening.

“Come lay next to me.”

Again, no answer.

“Please? I don’t bite.”

“I do.”

Your eyes found his in the dark but he showed no sign of yielding to your request. “Forget I said anything. I’m sorry for pushing it.”

You weren’t going to force him to do something he didn’t want to do. You knew he had an aversion to any sort of touch that wasn’t tortuous, but you thought for sure he would at least sit on the same bed as you. You sighed wistfully as you leaned against the headboard, wondering if Feitan knew of your romantic feelings for him and this was his way of rejecting them. To your total surprise, you felt your bed dip as another body climbed on the mattress.

“You no apologize, don’t be stupid.”

This time it was Feitan who brushed his arm against yours as he climbed into the warmth of your comforter, leaving goosebumps where he touched. You two sat together, no sounds to be heard except for the falling rain and far off thunder. The hotel room was dimly lit by the fireplace and you were admiring the flicker of flames that highlighted Feitan’s profile. The tranquility you were experiencing was unmatched by anything else on this earth and you wished life could be like this all the time. You didn’t know what possessed you, or what wrath you were about to face, but your body moved on its own in its reach for Feitan’s hand.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you whispered, your rationality catching up to your actions. Right as you were about to grasp his hand, a loud clap of thunder had you pulling back in shock.

“I no say stop,” said Feitan, closing the space between you by placing his hand on top of yours. You turned to look at him fully and he met your gaze for only a second before studying the fireplace instead. In that second, though, you saw more than just flames blazing in his irises—

You saw love.

Taglist: @killuagirly

#feitan portor x reader #feitan porter x reader #feitan x you #feitan x reader #feitan fluff #hunter x hunter x reader #hxh x y/n #hxh x you #hxh x reader #phantom troupe x reader fluff #phantom troupe x reader #feitan x reader fluff #soft feitan x reader #feitan portor x female reader #feitan portor fluff

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from-the-clouds · 2 years

Text

moonlight on the river - joel miller x reader

masterlist | song inspo

summary: Joel has been many things to you. A dealer, a mentor, a friend, a lover. Lately, it’s the latter. Sometimes he’s none of those things, or a handful of them, or all of them at once. And it’s up to the both of you to decide in the moment which things are true. Takes place during episode one of the TV series. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 2.4k warnings: angst, fluff, good ol' fashioned hurt/comfort. depressive thoughts, reader sort of has a death wish, references to alcohol/drug abuse, death, loss of family members & loved ones. implied age gap, references to casual sex, heavy petting (no smut). a/n: it's been months since i posted a fic on here! some of my best work comes when it’s 2am, i’m emo and touch-deprived and i have an 8am appointment so i stay up until 5am to write. this was actually supposed to be fully a fluff piece but the angst queen had to strike.

You wish you could drown in the pile of blankets you’ve wrapped yourself in. Wish the couch would swallow you whole, like a whale, then drag you down to the deepest depths of the ocean and leave you there until you can’t hold your breath any longer, until the cold pricks the tips of your fingers and toes, until you succumb completely.

But in some ways, you’re already existing like that, in the sea-level equivalent of the Marianas Trench. One of those sea creatures that look not of this Earth, features warped – adapting, evolving, surviving, despite your environment’s best efforts to eradicate. Your mother had once shown them to you in her old textbooks and shown you the photos of anglerfish, frilled sharks, phantom jellyfish. The memory of your mother makes you wince, and you try to think of something else.

How anyone else around you managed to put on a brave face and make their way through each day was beyond your comprehension, even though you do it, too. They probably all feel the same way about it as you do, but no one talks about the collective trauma you’re all slogging through. No one has anything new to add, and it’s foolish to believe that anyone’s insight could somehow take the pain away. Even if you have a chance to tell your story, there is always someone who has it worse.

Get in line.

Exhausted as you are, you don’t sleep much. Most of your nights are spent at the precipice of unconsciousness, and you can never quite make it over the edge, the helicopters, radios, sporadic gunfire always manages to rouse you first. When you do manage to sleep, you’re plagued with nightmares. You prefer perpetual fatigue.

A knock at your door comes suddenly, and you start, sitting up quickly – but quietly – to not alert the unexpected guest that someone might be in the tiny studio you call home. It’s well after dark, which makes you doubt that whoever, or whatever is at the door, isn’t there for a friendly drop-in or a cup of tea, not that friendly drop-ins or cups of tea ever happened.

But before you grow too panicked, your name is muttered, accompanied by another impatient rap of knuckles against the hollow wood. It’s a familiar rasp, even-toned and calm, and your shoulders sag in relief before you abandon your post on the couch.

“Joel?” you ask softly, squinting in the dim light of the hallway through the crack in the door. He doesn’t look any different, though it’s been about a month since you’d last seen him. You’re not sure what to expect, but he’s the same as always, wearing a worn, tight denim shirt and fraying jeans. He looks tired, but you can’t recall a time when he doesn’t. Everyone looks tired all the time, it just only concerns you because it’s him.

Not waiting for an invite, he steps through the small opening you allot for him and into your place, wordlessly.

“What the fuck, Joel, it’s past curfew are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’ve done worse,” he says, dismissively, and yanks the door from your hand to close and lock it behind him.

You don’t argue with him. You rarely do – which you think is partly why he likes you – but especially now, you don’t have the energy. And when you do, he’s too stubborn to listen.

Joel has been many things to you. A dealer, a mentor, a friend, a lover. Lately, it’s the latter. Sometimes he’s none of those things, or a handful of them, or all of them at once. And it’s up to the both of you to decide in the moment which things are true.

So when he steps forward, crowding you backwards until your rear hits your kitchen countertop and you have nowhere to go, you don’t ask questions.

His hand cradles your chin, tilting it back to look into his sad eyes, and he kisses you. For a split second, it’s chaste, and you’re almost confused, until it’s suddenly not, and his grip on your jaw tightens, his lips parting. Joel stakes his claim, his free hand winding into your hair and pulling. You sigh, closing your eyes.

He moves both his hands to cup your ass through the flimsy athletic shorts you’re wearing, lifting your hips up and against him, making to carry you to the bed, or maybe even take you on the countertop – it could be one of those days. Everything he’s doing would normally light you on fire, and there’s a primal instinct that’s telling you you like it, but for some reason, you hesitate.

Joel senses it right away. You’re not sure how. And you don’t want him to. You’re prepared to submit, even though you feel numb everywhere, because you hope for the chance to feel something, anything other than what you’ve felt the last few days. He pauses, too, pulls back.

You expect to meet his eyes when you look up at him, but they are fixed on something else. Tugging on the collar of his shirt, you try to kiss him again, but he doesn’t budge, until you follow his eyes. An empty bottle of liquor sits on the bar behind you. Fuck.

“You’re drinking again.” It’s not a question.

“That was actually from yesterday,” you say, like it would make any difference. The remnants of a hangover have been tweaking your temples all day, biting the back of your eyes. It was half empty when I got it. It was just one night. I can have a couple drinks without getting out of control. Your brain cycles through several more excuses before you decide not to waste your breath.

“What did I tell you about this?” He reached behind you and lifted the bottle, holding it in front of your face like you hadn’t been able to see it clearly enough before.

“You should talk,” you don’t like being cruel, but you’re already desperate to end the discussion. He’s probably drunk or high right now, but it’s none of your business, and you’d given up trying to save him a long time ago.

You shift your weight to lower yourself off the counter and move away from him and the once-inviting warmth of his embrace. Joel doesn’t let you make it far, reaching out to grip your upper arm and tugging you back to face him with little-to-no effort on his part. His strength always startled you, even though it shouldn’t, considering his size. It also should’ve scared you, but the manhandling mostly just turned you on. Not enough that you were going to keep letting him lecture you.

“It’s different. You’re still so young.”

“What does that matter?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

You lift your chin, squaring up to him. “That’s what I thought.”

He puts his hand on hip and studies you carefully. Despite your attitude, you’ve never liked disappointing him. He’s the closest thing you have to a father, which you can recognize is an awfully fucked up way to feel about someone you regularly have sex with, but you lived in an awfully fucked up world.

There’s a wistfulness to Joel’s expression you’ve never seen before. He chooses to change the subject, and you’re thankful until what he says registers.

“I’m leaving town tomorrow night. You might not see me again.”

It takes a moment to process, but it hits you like a blow to the gut. So hard, you’re surprised you don’t stagger backwards with the force of it. Even when it settles, you know it hasn’t even sunk in all the way.

“Well…” you take a long, thoughtful pause, and offer the only thing that your brain can come up with, “....stay safe out there, then.”

“Yeah,” he runs his tongue over his teeth and squints at you. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Snorting, you know it’s important to remain as blase as possible so you don’t cry. Although, you don’t really cry anymore. Even when you want to, the tears never come. At some point, after watching every person you’ve ever cared for die in uniquely devastating ways, you must’ve reached your lifetime limit.

“I know you. Something’s up.”

No, you don’t! You want to scream, but that would be a lie. It’s been three years since you met, maybe one since your….arrangement, or whatever you’d call it, had begun.

How the two of you had become so close was a mystery even to you. It’s not like you were charming or charismatic, or willing to put up the innocent act. You didn’t try to inflate his ego, which most men loved. At first, you didn’t even really like him at all. That changed with time. Somewhere along the way, things just clicked.

“It’s nothing that no one has ever felt before,” you shrug. Joel has his fair….or rather unfair share of demons, and is the last person you want to complain to. Most of the time, he’s unflinchingly guarded, but he’s shared enough – secrets whispered in your ear while tangled in damp sheets, your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart – to make you wonder if you have it so bad. Focusing on a fixed point, a crack in the tiled floor, you avoid his eyes.

“Hey,” his voice pulls you back. “Don’t do that.”

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “I’m just having a d-a week.” A month, a year, a life. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze.

His face softens, his hand reaching to clasp with your own, thumb grazing across your palm. “Come here,” he murmurs. He pulls you against him tightly, tucking your head under his chin, his fingers weaving into your hair.

“You’re going to be alright. You’re a strong girl.” He’s too smart to believe that, you think. But it doesn’t stop you from pressing your lips against his sternum. His broad chest is sturdy, firm, and you close down your eyes.

Neither of you speak, and one of his hands begins to stroke your back in soothing circles. You stay wrapped in his arms for a long time. Long enough to think about how you might never get to do this again, and you suddenly want him in all the ways you never had him, and all the ways you had. Just one last time.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I can tell you’re exhausted, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

There’s no reason to protest, he’s right, so you let him lead you to the bed. You’re already in your pajamas, and he draws back the covers and tucks you underneath them carefully.

“You’re staying,” you say. It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out like command, and although you can’t stand the idea of pleading for it, would if you had to. You’re that desperate.

You hear the clunk of his boots landing on the floor, feel the dip of his weight on the opposite side of the bed.

“Of course,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper as he slides underneath the covers.

Joel’s arm snakes around your waist, and you’re being pulled back against his chest. You wriggle to be closer, even though it’s not possible, his nose resting on the crown of your head, stroking your hair softly. He’s being so tender, so sweet, it makes you feel sick.

“What if I don’t want you to leave?” you turn your head slightly, so you can see him out of the corner of your eye. You want to be able to remember his face, in case you never see him again. He was handsome, you’d always thought that, even despite the years between you.

“It’s my brother. I don’t have much of a choice, baby.”

Joel had told you all about Tommy. You wished you could be resentful at his leaving to find his brother, but you knew you’d risk pretty much anything for the chance to see anyone in your family again.

You shake your head. “This…sucks.”

He offers a rare chuckle, one that vibrates through his chest and straight to the ache in your stomach that started when he told you he’d be leaving. “It does. I’m sorry.”

Joel sighs, his breath on the nape of your neck, and you shiver. “I’ll miss you.” It’s a simple truth you can hear in his voice without even needing to look in his eyes.

“I’ll miss you.” You reach for his hand.

You roll over to face him, his head propped on his opposite hand, looking down at you.

“You remember everything I taught you?” he asks. “Be smart, keep yourself safe.”

Joel had proven to be a pretty valuable resource when it came to survival skills. He’d taught you how to shoot a gun, to load and reload it, how to take it apart, clean it, and put it back together. You recalled the feeling of him leaning over your shoulder, adjusting your grip to shoot at a target. And even if most of his lessons in hand-to-hand combat resulted in him having his way with you on the kitchen floor – you didn’t mind it at all – you knew enough to defend yourself.

“I do,” you answer. “And I will.”

You think of all the time you’ve spent with him the past few years. How it has made things bearable. It’s likely the last time you’ll ever see him, and you know what you’re supposed to say. But for the life of you, you just can’t say it.

Instead, you lean in to kiss him, lazy and lingering, both your hands on the side of his face, palms pressed against the scruff of his beard. You pull away after awhile.

“Tell me about what it was like. Before all this.” When the outbreak began, you were just a child. It felt like a dream, your memory so fuzzy it was hard to recall anything except the worst parts.

Joel does, and you listen, captivated, though it’s not the first time you’ve heard it. For such a gruff man, he paints a pretty picture.

It’s easy to imagine what your life might be like if none of this had ever happened. It would have been better, infinitely better, for yourself, for Joel, for everyone. It would be better, but if it hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t have met him. For some reason, something about that doesn’t feel right.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #tlou fanfic #tlou hbo #the last of us #fluff #angst #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #hi please read this and say nice things to me i worked really really hard on this #writing #fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst

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bro-atz · 11 months

Text

mesmerized by you

in which: seonghwa's got the biggest crush on you, the tour manager.

pair: idol!seonghwa/afab!tour manager!reader

word count: 2.5k

content: suggestive, fluff? confessions of love, intense making out, let's just call this sfw smut lmao

author's note: i considered actually finishing the whole thing, but i decided to be evil since i'm still in my villain era ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

tag list: @k-hotchoisan @eyeryis apply for the permanent taglist here!

Seonghwa had a huge crush on you. Huge. When he first laid eyes on you, he definitely thought you were attractive, but it wasn’t until he saw the way you were treating fans that he totally fell for you. He always thought tour managers were rude as hell and obnoxious— like, they all kept trying to flirt with the members no matter where on Earth they were. You, on the other hand, were extremely professional and treated the boys with respect. You were also definitely strict, as it was part of your job, but you never yelled at anyone with malice. Of course, you had to yell to get people to hear you, but that was the extent of it.

The interactions the boys had with the fans had to be brief, and everyone knew it. Whenever there was a fan that was getting a little too intense for them or stayed way after their allotted time, you were the person to guide them away. He was so used to seeing the big, brawny security guards leading the fans away that he was so surprised to see you kindly leading the fans away with subtle force.

The tour was three weeks long, but that wasn’t long enough for him. Seonghwa needed more time to get his shit together and get some one-on-one alone time with you. He lost more and more hope as the shows progressed and as time slowly dwindled down. By the last day, he had kind of given up. Kind of.

There were some fan interactions left, and you were guiding most of it. Seonghwa kept stealing secret glances in your direction as you talked to the photographer with a smile on your face, and every time you did the countdown for the picture, Seonghwa would look at you and only at you. You didn’t realize it, though, because you were right next to the photographer. You thought he was looking at the camera.

The fan interactions were done, and so were you with your work for the day. You and the entire team, including the boys, were all supposed to go for a celebration dinner, but you considered blowing it off. You were exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that you didn’t realize that you fully walked in between Seonghwa and one of the tour photographers in the middle of a session.

“Y/N! Come on!” the photographer yelled at you.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry,” you apologized profusely and bowed your head. “Did I ruin the shot?”

“Yeah, you did! See!”

You stood next to the photographer and looked at the pictures. You pointed at the most recent one and said, “Stop lying to me! The picture looks fine. I’m not even in it!”

You and the photographer continued to playfully bicker while Seonghwa was still standing against the wall. He was entranced by you standing and laughing with the photographer.

“Wait, this one,” you pointed at one of the previews. “Can I see that one?”

The picture popped up, and you were mesmerized. Seonghwa was gorgeous, and his side profile especially just in the preview of the picture. From his muscle tee wit the turtle neck to the jewelry he sported, everything about his stage outfit made him look so goddamn attractive. He took your breath away.

“Oy, Seonghwa, what were you looking at earlier, bud?” the photographer called out to the idol while gesturing for him to approach.

Seonghwa, heart racing, walked over. He was leaning over your shoulder to look at the camera. He felt his face heat up— the only reason he looked to the side was to watch you walk past, but he couldn’t say a damn thing without outing his crush on you in front of the photographer.

Thankfully, someone called the photographer over— Hongjoong also wanted to get some pictures taken. Seonghwa let out a quiet sigh of relief and took a step back. He was about to walk away when he realized that he was finally alone with you. He needed to seize the opportunity.

Meanwhile, you were massaging your neck and trying to decompress from the stress of that day. You were about to wish Seonghwa a good night and walk away, but he stopped you before you could even bow your head.

“Hey, uh, Y/N?” Seonghwa asked somewhat timidly.

“Yeah?”

“Good work today… And the weeks prior.”

“Oh,” you couldn’t help but let out a light laugh. “Thank you. You, too.”

You took a step away, and Seonghwa slightly panicked. He didn’t realize that his statement would end the conversation so quickly. He grabbed your arm and said, “Wait! Are you going to go to the celebration dinner?”

“Oh, uh… I was thinking about skipping,” you admitted. “I’m exhausted. I’m just going to head back to the hotel and sleep.”

“I’ll come with,” Seonghwa said a little too eagerly. “I was also thinking of skipping so I could decompress.”

You didn’t think Seonghwa was serious until the two of you got into a cab and went all the way back to the hotel. The entire ride to the hotel, you kept glancing at Seonghwa. He had decided to head back wearing the outfit he was in— his incredibly sexy outfit that made your heart race. He had his eyes closed and leaned his head back into the headrest, his styled, messy hair getting messier. It took everything in you to keep from brushing his hair away from his face so you could see his delicate facial features clearly. He was so goddamn beautiful. He truly was meant to be an idol.

Seonghwa had his eyes closed because he, on the other hand, was trying so hard to keep his calm. He desperately wanted to hold your hand, stare into your eyes, hold you close— but in order to do any of those things comfortably, he had to tell you how he felt, and there was no way that he was going to do that in a cab ride. Despite having his eyes closed, he could still feel your gaze on him, and his face and ears got hotter.

When you got back to the hotel, you were going to head into your room, but Seonghwa wasn’t ready to let you go just yet, which is how you found yourself sitting at the hotel bar right next to the beautiful man.

You noticed that he seemed super nervous and antsy as he fidgeted with his cocktail glass— he was really nursing his whiskey, which made you wonder if he didn’t like the whiskey. You nearly laughed out loud thinking about Seonghwa ordering something that he didn’t like, but you kept your mouth clamped seeing as Seonghwa was just shifting super uncomfortably on the bar stool.

“Is everything okay?” you asked him quietly.

“Yes— Actually, uh, no. E-everything is, uh…” Seonghwa stuttered out, his knee bouncing wildly as his anxiety drove him.

“What’s wrong?”

Turning so that you were completely facing him, you placed a gentle hand on top of his hand, nearly sending the man spiraling. He knew you were trying to be helpful, but dear God, you were making it so much harder for him to be honest with his feelings. He felt like his heart was racing so fast that it would just burst right out of his chest. His face burned as you held his hand lightly. He could barely maintain eye contact with you, but the second he locked eyes with you and saw the worried look on your face, his completely lost it.

“I like you, Y/N. I really like you,” Seonghwa blurted out.

Seonghwa wanted to punch himself in the face. He was usually so smooth, so suave, but you made him so clumsy and graceless. He wanted to show you his cool side, for crying out loud.

Meanwhile, you were completely taken aback. You were sitting across from a freaking Korean idol listening to him tell you he liked you, and your delusional mind immediately thought that he liked you liked you. But, you refused to let the delusions win, so you responded with, “Thanks... I like you, too. You’re a really nice person, Seonghwa.”

“Huh?” Seonghwa was mildly confused; did he not just confess his feelings for you? “I— Wait. No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then, what did you mean?” you asked, your heart beginning to race.

Seonghwa laced his fingers with yours and held your hand to his chest. His eyes burned into yours as he gazed fondly at you and said, “I like you. I really like you.”

“You… Like me?”

“Yes. I have a huge crush on you,” now that Seonghwa practically confessed, he found it easier to be honest about his feelings with you. “I’ve liked you since the moment I met you, and I wanted to say something to you earlier, but I could never muster up the courage to say anything.”

You were flabbergasted, and your braincells were screaming at you. You could not believe that Seonghwa of ATEEZ, a goddamn K-pop boy group idol, was sitting next to you and telling you that he liked you.

“I…” you whispered. “I don’t know what to say…”

“Well, I guess for starters, I want to know how you feel about me. Do you like me, too?”

You went silent. You were so consumed with work for the past three weeks that you only really saw Seonghwa as someone you worked with and for. You always thought he was beautiful, but did you have romantic feelings for him?

Before you could even answer, Seonghwa placed his hand on your thigh, and your heart rate shoot through the roof. This man had you all sorts of flustered, so maybe you were attracted to him in that sense.

“I like you, too,” you managed squeak out.

Seonghwa could help but smile brightly, which only made you fall for him more.

There was a brief moment of silence between the two of you. You couldn’t help but avert your eyes— staring at the ethereal being for too long was making your heart pound heavily.

But, Seonghwa didn’t want you to look away. He wanted to stare at your lovely, blushing face as long as humanly possible. He usually loved seeing the huge, friendly smile on your face, but this shy look and knowing that it was him who made you look all flustered made him fall even harder for you, and he didn’t think it was possible for him to like you any more than he already did.

With the hand that was once on your thigh, Seonghwa brought his hand up to cup your face. He desperately wanted to kiss you, but he didn’t want his first kiss with you to be at the bar in the hotel. So, the two of you went back to your room. (Originally, Seonghwa was going to take you to his room, but the sudden realization that he was sharing a room with one of the other members hit you in the elevator, and you steered him to your solo hotel room.

You entered the room first, Seonghwa following closely behind. He shut the door behind him before fully walking into your room while you went to the bathroom to get your shit together. You were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that ATEEZ’s Seonghwa had a crush on you. He had a crush on you, and that the delusions that you desperately tried to shoo away were suddenly becoming a reality. What an insanely peculiar situation.

Seonghwa’s mind was also racing. He didn’t intend to get you into an insanely intimate scenario— like, he just confessed his feelings for you, and now the two of you were alone in your hotel room? Crazy. Absolutely crazy. He sincerely hoped that you wouldn’t think he was doing this just to get into your pants. For him, sex wasn’t necessarily off the table, but it just wasn��t his intention.

When you emerged from the bathroom, both you and Seonghwa were sporting light blushes. The two of you stood before each other unable to utter a word, and the words continued to evade you as Seonghwa took small, timid steps towards you.

You looked right into Seonghwa’s eyes as his arm snaked around your waist and pulled you to him gently. You reached out and brushed his hair out of his face so you could get a better look at the man. On one hand, having him gaze at you so intensely made you want to shy away, but you couldn’t stop staring at him and his beautiful features. You loved how his nose fit his face so well, and his plush lips were still stained with lip tint— you wanted to see if you could get the tint to budge, but you stopped your intrusive thought before it could get any dirtier. You didn’t want to pounce on him so fast considering that the man just confessed his feelings.

Yet, you lusted for him. The way his arm was wrapped around you sent electricity running through your body, and when he brought you even closer so that your bodies were pressed together, you were losing your mind. When he wordlessly cupped your cheek then moved his hand so that his fingertips were resting on the side of your neck to allow him to rub your ear gently with his thumb, you wanted to let out a sigh or a moan or something to tell him that he was turning you way the fuck on (since you still couldn’t find a single damn thing to say).

“Can I…” Seonghwa trailed off, the blush on his face getting stronger.

The way his lips were parted slightly made you think that he wanted to pick up where you left off but was too shy to say it explicitly. So, with your hand on the back of his neck, you brought your lips to his and pecked them lightly, unable to bring yourself to add more passion. Seonghwa, instead, brought it, kissing you with such force that you definitely would’ve fallen to the ground had he not been holding you. You clung to him and felt your sanity slip away from you when he sucked hard on your lower lip, only to hungrily shove his tongue down your throat.

“Dammit,” you heard the man say in between kisses before moving away from you. “I didn’t want to… But, Y/N, I don’t think I can hold back.”

You were going to ask him what he was going on about, but you didn’t need to the second he pressed his waist against yours, his bulge throbbing as it pushed between your thighs. You brought your hand down and cupped his crotch, feeling it firm up even more against your palm. Seonghwa inhaled sharply and dropped his head down, his forehead resting on your shoulder, bringing your lips to his ear.

“Don’t hold back.”

#park seonghwa #seonghwa #ateez #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa ateez #seonghwa ateez #ateez seonghwa #broatz #cromernet

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souperbloom · 5 months

Note

5sos!reader is genuinely one of my fav tropes omg?? i would love it if you could do smth along the same lines for luke <3

omg i’m so sorry this took me so long to get out. i was pondering on ways to make it perfect since this was such a general request, (i wrote 3 separate stories and hated all of them) but i hope y’all love what i came up with !!! <3

————

crowd pleaser. [l.h.]

omg i love this gif

bandmate!reader x Luke

in which the final show of tour calls for some ~celebration~

ended this one hella abruptly i’m sorry— i ran out of steam & wanted to get this out LMAO

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, pet names, unprotected sex, mentions of drinking, exhibitionism (kinda)

WORDCOUNT: 3.8k

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“How long until soundcheck?”

The disembodied voice gives you a fright, but when you snap around to see your boyfriend standing at the door frame of your dressing room, your startled face morphs into a smile.

“Scared the shit outta’ me,” you mumble, turning the pegs of your guitar until each string was in tune.

“I asked a question,” Luke chuckles, skipping past your chair to lean against the wall across from you.

“Dunno’. Maybe you should’ve looked at the clock before you came in here and bothered me.”

You bite back a smile, finding it hard now to concentrate on getting your guitar in tune. Luke steps behind your chair, anchoring his hands on your shoulders. He starts slowly massaging your neck, pressing his thumbs into the pesky knot that you can never seem to reach.

“Someone’s grumpy today, eh?” You could hear his pout, just by his voice alone.

“Not grumpy, no. Just— tryin’ to get shit done so I have some time to get my shit together before the show.”

Today was the final day of tour. Fifty shows, more countries and states than you could count; it felt surreal to say that you’d been traveling across the world to do what you loved most, let alone doing it beside four of your best friends.

The adrenaline level was high in everyone but yourself. You had decided that today would be the one day where you actually planned out your schedule, to allot some time for the emotions that are bound to flood when you realize that this would be your last time performing with your band for a while.

To put it simply, you wanted to lend yourself some time to cry. In a good way.

“You’re so tense baby,” Luke grumbles softly, digging his thumbs into your shoulder blades, “Want a drink or somethin’?”

“No, I’m good.” You give your guitar one final tweak before setting it down on its stand beside you.

“You sure? I’ll take a shot with you right now. C’mon. Let’s do it. One and done.”

“Luke, please,” you laugh, fully turning around in your seat to give him a good look, “It’s like, 3pm.”

“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Plus, the boys and I may have already ripped back a shot for some confidence.”

You roll your eyes, and Luke bends down to rest his elbows against the back of your chair. His lips are now level with yours and are just dying for a kiss.

“Confidence? Please. You boneheads would use anything as an excuse to get plastered. I swear, you and Cal would pregame a doctor’s appointment.”

Luke seems to read your mind, as he does quite often, and steals a quick kiss after your rambling is done with. His sandy blonde curls flop in front of his eyes, but you’re quick to tuck them behind his ear.

“Baby, come on. This is the finale. We’re supposed to be celebrating!”

“I think we both know that you and I have way different ideas of what it means to celebrate.”

You couldn’t help being so stubborn, it was instilled in you since birth. But Luke made it his mission, as your partner, to do anything in his power to get you to change your mind. And most, if not all of the time, he was quite convincing.

It takes you a few minutes to stand up, after Luke had kindly stepped in front of your dressing room door to basically block you from leaving. There was virtually no escaping his request for a pre-show shot.

But who says you can’t negotiate?

“Y’know babe,” you begin nonchalantly, twisting a lock of your hair between your fingers as you approach Luke’s large, lanky stature, “I have a proposition for you.”

His eyebrows quirk in challenge, “Alright, sure. Since you won’t do a shot with me— Let’s hear it.”

You take a moment to admire him in his silky black button down. The way his braided silver choker sat just above his collarbone and glistened beneath the overhead lamps was making you swoon. You were the one that got him into wearing jewelry, painting his nails, dousing glitter onto his cheeks and eyelids; a bit of self expression. You’d told him that it would help with his stage presence, which was some advice he definitely needed at the start of this tour.

And of course, he took a liking to it. The same way he did with you.

“What if we did something else to celebrate?”

You step closer to him and press your index finger against his chest, trailing it down and catching it onto the top button of his shirt. His eyes bounce between your wandering digit and your face, as he urges you silently to continue.

“Something else, hm? Like what?”

“We could— pass some time.”

His body tenses up the moment you make a sly effort to undo that top button. Short, staggered breaths begin to leave his throat as you continue to taunt him with your stare.

“I’ve always been intrigued by pre-show quickies.”

Luke’s eyes widened at your brutal honesty, ocean blue pricked with sparkling icy streaks that had undoubtedly shifted into something a bit darker. You bite your lip, he returns, and it takes everything inside of him not to pull you in closer.

“Really?” he stammers slightly, the back of his knuckles grazing your midriff, “Since when?”

“Since I saw how fuckin’ sexy you looked in that shirt this morning.”

Luke smacks his teeth, tilting his head to the side and reinstating that dominant air he holds over you so well, “Well, I’m not— opposed to the idea, baby…”

You hum in reply, the only thing you’re capable of thinking about is how his hands felt crawling down to your hips.

“…But just so you know, we only have about twenty minutes ‘till call time.”

“So you did know how much time we had, you fuckin’ liar.”

He chuckles quietly, before pulling you into him and pressing his body against yours, “I just wanted an excuse to come bother you. You should know me a bit better by now.”

It was getting harder to just stand there and stare at your boyfriend’s pretty face— his big cerulean eyes and deep set dimples that made you want to just grab him by his cheeks and tackle him down to the floor. But you’re stronger than that. You started this dance, so you might as well keep up.

“I think twenty minutes is plenty of time,” you try your best at sounding confident and sensual, knowing that if he were to move his hand an inch closer to your thigh, you’d fold like a wet paper towel.

“Really?” He muses, subtly stepping you back further into the room.

“Yup.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

It was now a battle of who could keep the eye contact the longest without getting distracted. Now that there was a set time constraint, the stakes had raised ten fold.

“I think we could do better than twenty minutes. How’s fifteen? Maybe even ten?”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, gorgeous…”

In a daze, Luke spins you around and suddenly has your back pressed against the wall. You could practically feel the wind being knocked out of your lungs as his hand travels up your chest and loosely grips the base of your neck.

“…You know I like to take my time.”

A quiet moan slips past your lips as Luke begins a trail of sultry kisses down your jaw, to the base of your collarbone. He kept his grasp on you firm, yet still loose enough for you to slip out if need be.

“Mmmh, baby—” you chirp, your head angling back to give him better access to the sweet spot of your neck, “the door.”

He pops his head up for a moment, only to take your chin between his pointer finger and thumb, and stare you down with those cool baby blues.

“The door? Who gives a fuck about the door? Let ‘em hear it.”

You can’t really argue with that, so you just go limp in his arms as he continues to taunt you with his lips and tongue. He takes his free hand and grabs ahold of your thigh to prop it up against his hip.

What was once a journey of hickies and love bites had now transformed into a steamy make-out session. Luke groans into your mouth each time your hips swivel forward to meet his groin— you could barely contain the sounds that were echoing past your lips and bouncing off the walls of your dressing room.

You take a moment to catch your breath as Luke tugs at the hemline of your top.

“This. Off. Now.”

“Mmkay,” you sigh dreamily, following orders as it was now clear that Luke had taken the reins.

You manage to wrangle his lips off of your neck for a moment to allow you to peel your shirt over your head. But that split second felt like an eternity for Luke; for he had been dying to get his hands on you all morning and the last thing he wanted was to bother you.

But once you’d given him the signs that ‘bothered’ is the only thing you wanted to be, he didn’t think twice.

“Fuck, baby— been thinkin’ about you all morning,” Luke mumbles through his teeth, taking in the sight of your bare chest and simple black bra.

“Have you?”

“Mhmm. ‘Been thinkin’ about why my girl’s been so grumpy today. Guess she just needed a bit of attention, hm?”

Luke’s condescending words send a chill down your spine, along with that wandering hand of his. It had traveled towards your navel and hooked to the waistband of your skirt to pull you in even closer.

The only word you could muster was a simple curse word, a ‘fuck’, for good measure. But Luke didn’t seem satisfied with that reply.

“Is my girl gonna talk to me? Or am I just gonna stand here n’ talk to myself until she finds it in her to answer me?”

“Luke,” you whine his name yet still, his thirst isn’t quenched.

“C’mon baby— I know you can do it. You gonna’ beg for me? Like you always do?”

Your eyelids flutter closed in bliss, your hands on their own beating path towards the waistband of his skinny jeans. You could hear him tsk in disapproval before his hand is softly tapping against your cheek.

“Keep those eyes on me, pretty girl. Don’t think you can finish what you started?”

The moment you open your mouth to reply, you’re whipped out of this dreamlike state by a knock at your door frame.

“Ten minutes ‘till stage. We need everyone in the wings for a company meeting.”

The panic in your eyes immediately transfers over to Luke, who had flinched only slightly upon hearing your manager’s voice. You roll your lips inward, fighting a giggle yet still feeling vulnerable from the position Luke was holding you in.

“You got lucky, baby,” Luke leans down to whisper into your ear, “Saved by the bell.”

You eventually find enough confidence to tease, “Who says we can’t finish this later?”

“Uuuughhhhhh.”

He whines into your neck, his head hanging low and knocking against the wall with a disgruntled huff. You could tell by the way his body language changed that he was rather disappointed.

“Don’t whine, you sound like a child,” you giggle, playfully shoving his slouched body and sending him stumbling backwards.

With a bit of a fight, Luke groans, before picking up your shirt and handing it to you like it was the last thing he ever wanted to do. “Promise we’ll pick this back up later?”

You bite back a smile, and pull your shirt over your head. He physically winces once you fully put it back on.

“I promise. It’ll be like we never even left.”

After a moment of pouting and rolling his eyes, Luke fixes himself in your mirror beside you, gathering his thoughts and shaking his head clear as the two of you bicker about the impending final show.

“Maybe I’ll give you a little special something after the show tonight. My treat,” Luke announces proudly, fixing the collar of his shirt.

“Your treat? I’m intrigued.”

You let your mind run rampant as you sling your guitar over your shoulder, admiring your pretty boyfriend through the mirror as he fluffs his hair and double checks his eyeshadow.

“Mhm. But— only if you’re good. Gotta’ see you giving it your all out there.” Luke takes a wide step to tower over you, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Oh please Luke, I’m always good. Good to you, good to the band— I basically have sex with the crowd every night.”

“Don’t go making me jealous now, baby,” he muses, “I’ll see you out there.”

Luke’s flirty goodbye is topped off with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s saluting you and waltzing out of the door like nothing even happened. You can’t help but stand in his place in awe, fiddling with the neck of your guitar impetuously as the thought of him floods your mind even more so than before.

This was about to be the longest fucking show of your life.

It was just about eleven and the show finally had come to a close with an encore.

To say that the energy was through the roof was an understatement; the crowd was consistently feeding off of the band and the last thing you wanted to do was to leave it behind. But, of course, you were dragged away by the fall of the curtains and the eruption of colorful confetti.

You blew kisses, gave hugs, and even managed to find some time to toss a few guitar picks down by the barricade. But what you weren’t expecting was followed after curtain fall, when your boyfriend had decided to scoop you and your handful of picks up bridal style, and run you offstage like a bullet.

“Baby, you were amazing out there,” Luke whispers hurriedly into your ear, still holding you tightly in his arms as he barreled down the hall away from the wings.

“Luke, where are we—?”

Your question is cut off abruptly by him tipping you over and planting you back onto your feet. It took you a second to regain your balance but in the moment that you did, Luke had you pinned against the cinder block wall of the backstage area.

The gaze in his eyes was ravening, restless— his pupils were shaking and his once crystal irises had flitted to a deep indigo hue. Your breath catches in your throat as he tries to collect his own, still carrying the fatigue of running with you in his arms.

“I owe you— something special,” his words are chopped up by staggered breathing, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. You reach up between your temperate bodies to wipe it away.

“You could’ve at least given yourself a minute to relax after the show, Lu,” you console softly, but Luke shakes his head frantically.

“No, no— no. Had— had to get you here. Now. Want you— right here.”

“Right here?” You whisper back, glancing over his shoulder at the empty hallway.

“Yes. Right here. Please, baby. Been dying’ to get my hands on you. Got me so fuckin’ worked up out there… Felt like I was suffocating.”

You watch your boyfriend's face flash a plethora of different emotions; tired, hungry, desperate, lovesick. All of the things you were feeling throughout your little pre-show rendezvous.

“O-okay… If that’s what you wa—”

“Do you want to? We don’t have to, I’m just— I couldn’t wait to touch you, baby.”

His voice trembles as he whines desperately, leaning closer into your ear with each syllable. It’s hard to ignore his vehement pleading, especially since you’d promised to pick up right where you had left off.

As you’re about to give him the okay to proceed, he flushes his body against yours. You could feel the rock solid erection that was held captive by his restricting uniform skinny jeans, and the feeling of it almost brought you to moan.

“Feel what you do to me, gorgeous? Can you feel how fuckin’ hard I am for you? Want you— want you everywhere, baby.”

In a daze you’re nodding and in no time, his lips are on yours like a magnet. It had become a frenzied jumble of clumsy touching and groping in a matter of moments, a few excited giggles slipping past your lips and knocking into his.

“Fuck, baby— So good to me, y’ always are.”

“Luke, please—”

You give him the signal and soon enough, you’re being shimmied out of your panties beneath your skirt.

Luke makes a sly face, taking your lacy intimates and shoving them in his back pocket. “For safekeeping,” he whispers playfully, before pulling you back into that hungry kiss.

His weathered palms traversed beneath your shirt and slid up and down your sides; poor Luke couldn’t decide where to place his hands. But regardless of his indecision, his touch felt transcendent.

“Gonna fuck you so good, pretty girl,” Luke mumbles into your ear, making sure to nip at the nape of your neck and a bit of your earlobe to get your blood pumping.

You could already tell that you were wet. Soaked, even, just by the hurriedness of this all. The rush you were experiencing was feeding into that leftover adrenaline from the show. You truly had zero complaints.

“Oh my God,” you whine, as Luke takes his time to mark up your neck, “Please, baby? C-can’t wait much longer.”

“That’s my girl,” he retorts, taking his hands and cupping your cheeks delicately as your body language begged for the feeling of him, “So polite, like always.”

Your hands had made their way to unzip his jeans and caress his bulge above the briefs that held it, whining softly as your fingertips graze a wet mark left on the fabric.

“Mhhh, messy,” you bumble, slowly tracing your thumb across the spot of precum.

Luke hisses in pleasure, a smile forming at the end of his cry, “See what you do to me? I’m a fuckin’ mess for you, pretty.”

You couldn’t find it in you to respond coherently as he guided your hand to slip his cock from out of his underwear. On instinct, you wrap your fingers around his length and slowly begin to pump him between your bodies.

A moan rumbled through Luke’s chest and suddenly the wetness pooling between your legs was becoming an issue. Each touch of his dick and caress of his hipbone was becoming more and more despairing. Like your essence was simply falling apart beneath his fingertips.

“Gotta get my girl up here,” Luke grunts, moving his hands towards the backs of your thighs and gripping them tightly, “Jump.”

You do as you’re told, jumping up and locking your ankles around Luke’s back as he feeds into your desires with more love bites and bruises. Your back was flush against the wall, with just the right amount of space for Luke to line his cock up with your entrance.

“Look at you. My little rockstar. Put on one show and now you’re lookin’ for an encore?” He jokes with you tenderly, yet the bigger half of you was more desperate for him than anything else.

“What can I say, baby? I’m a crowd-pleaser.”

You steal his reply with a rough kiss, hoping to distract him enough not to let him notice the rips and tears that your nails were dragging along his silk shirt.

He pulls away from you, staring deeply into your eyes like the two of you were the last two living humans on Earth. Your boyfriend definitely had an affinity for eye contact, no matter the scenario.

The notch in his brow deepens as he adjusts your body, prodding your entrance with his tip and drawing a soft whine from your throat.

“So wet for me baby— just couldn’t wait to soak my cock, hm?”

Luke also had a thing for asking you questions, the call and response deeply feeding into his bedroom-dominant persona.

“Yes, Lu— fuckin’ soaked for you. Played the whole show thinking about you fucking me...”

“Is that right?” he quizzes, leaning in quickly to nip at your bottom lip and pull it away from your teeth.

You hiss at the sharp pain, tasting a bit of metallic on your tongue, “Mhm. Honest. Had to give you my all out there. Just like I promised I would.”

“God, you are too good to me, gorgeous,” he tosses his head back in bliss, still blindly teasing your slit, “Bet my girl’s looking for a reward for all this good behavior…”

Right as your lips part to reply, Luke is ramming his cock up into you. You gasp in shock, yet slowly mold around the feeling of him as he roughly bucks his hips against you.

“Holy fuck, Lu— oh my God!”

His teeth sink down into his bottom lip as he begins his jagged rhythm of snapping his hips, his eyes staying planted firmly into yours. It takes everything inside of you to keep your eyes on him; for you know that the last thing he wanted was for you to look away.

“Feels s’fuckin’ good, baby,” Luke groans, holding your hips tight enough to leave bruises in place of his fingertips.

The feeling of his cock pushing in deeper with each stroke had your body doubling over, the air in your lungs being knocked out in time with the tempo that he claimed.

Your body was pushing it’s limits, each direct hit to your g-spot forced low mewls from your chest and serenaded Luke’s desires. He was loving the adrenaline mixed with the overwhelming craving that he had been fighting all night long.

Your breathing in sync was like a symphony, music to Luke’s ears— he couldn’t fathom the thought of saving you for later until he was quite literally forced to. But with each buck of his hips and every single moan spilling from your lips, he soon realized that maybe the wait was worth it.

“Gonna’ cum soon, baby— keep those eyes on me, okay?”

You bite back frantic tears that pricked your eyes, nodding sheepishly as you let him fuck up into you. The only sound you were capable of making was a weak whimper, but Luke didn’t mind.

“Cum on my cock, baby… Fuckin’ soak me—”

“You look so beautiful. My fuckin’ girl.”

All of these silky-sweet nothings were hitting you like a freight train. You were nodding in time with the movement of his hips, your tits bouncing between your bodies and your eyes threatening to flutter closed at just how good he felt filling you up.

You moan again, as does he, and you’re able to read his expression before he’s even uttering the words:

“Gonna’ fill you up, gorgeous. Cum for me, baby?”

#5sos fanfic #luke hemmings #Luke hemmings oneshot #5 seconds of summer #luke hemmings fanfic #luke 5sos #5sos #luke hemmings x reader #angst #fanfic

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st-dorothy-minority · 18 days

Text

There was a small area on one of the wings that appeared undamaged, and Alastor sensually ran his fingertip over it. The involuntary, soft moan he received in response was all the confirmation he needed.

This was Lucifer truly stripped bare. His angelic wings were the most sacred part of his body, the part of him that he deliberately chose to conceal even when he was fully nude to keep others from laying their hands on them – except for when he was in the presence of someone he trusted his vulnerability with. The seraphim may have repeatedly raped his body, but that was nothing compared to the depraved sin they committed when they ravaged his wings.

Alastor all at once grasped the power being bestowed upon him by the fallen angel.

“No improvement, I’m afraid,” he at length confirmed apologetically. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the other man when he saw the silent tears wet his clownish cheeks. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

Lucifer shook his head. “No….I don’t think I can handle that right now,” he replied tremulously.

“I commend your decision.”

Kneeling in front of the devil, Alastor laid out his tools between them and observed as Lucifer knelt as well and languidly took each one of them at a time in his hands and infused them with temporary angelic power.

“This will make it possible for them to cut through,” Lucifer reiterated quietly. “Part of me wonders if I’ve gone crazy by entrusting you with these. They’ll easily destroy any demon, overlord or not.”

“I think we’ve been through enough together at this point to have you trust me, don’t you?”

Lucifer met Alastor’s charismatic gaze with his own bewildered one before giving a shy smile. “Yeah, I guess so….Considering why you’re here in Hell, I suppose I should be grateful to have access to your expertise. I don’t know who else I’d feel comfortable doing this….”

“You’re in my very capable hands, your majesty. Nothing to fear.”

As Lucifer set the last knife down, he drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Nothing to fear,” he echoed in a whisper.

Alastor got to his feet and extended a hand to pull Lucifer up to stand. Rather than proceeding right away to the cushioned table, Lucifer remained rooted to the spot with his head bowed. It was understandable; this was a momentous decision he was making, and the significance of this moment was not lost on Alastor. He was bearing witness to an angel willingly choosing to sever his wings and everything they represented, the magic and flight they allotted him, the symbol of a being who had served God himself. Their beauty may have been lost the day the seraphim desecrated them, but their meaning had remained.

“Sorry,” Lucifer mumbled after a minute, embarrassed.

“Take your time. I’ve no other engagements tonight other than to be of service to you, my king.”

Lucifer smiled and lifted his head. “I don’t know why you keep insisting on addressing me so fancily.”

“What can I say? I’ve come to respect you and think you deserve more acknowledgement with your title.”

“Makes me feel bad for not knowing anything about you when we first met,” he said with a laugh.

Alastor chuckled and his grin widened. “Would you say you know me better now?”

They locked eyes with one another, and Lucifer could feel butterflies stirring in his stomach that were becoming a more familiar occurrence whenever he was around the radio demon.

#hazbin hotel fanfic #you didn't know fic #crappy excerpt i probably shouldn't feel proud of but do #radioapple #appleradio #duckiedeer #alastor/lucifer #alastor x lucifer #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #hazbin alastor #alastor #writing #Hazbin hotel fic #hazbin hotel

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cbk1000 · 1 year

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Still bored and not feeling great, so here is a follow-up preview to this post. It's been sitting in my Google Docs for quite some time, so might as well throw some of it up online.

It was raining furiously going out of Edinburgh, so that the Viaduct had to rise from the heath as if from the mists of time. In fair weather, or even in typical weather, those nebulous masses which one could presume to be hills nursed their heather by the light of the sun or the soon-to-be-sun; and when the weather had determined to be better than itself, the hillsides showed where the day set fire to the bluebell and ling, and exposed the shy moss in its bole. But now they were going as if through the Atlantic. It was wet, it was grey; and sporadically the mist broke its back on a peak, and showed, as if through some spume, where there was a world still anchored in earth. Then the fogs closed again, and they were alone in that dread, dead place between worlds, in the wastes of time or no-time.

Arthur was still related to Morgana, and still, consequently, drinking. He had had a little champagne first, and remembered that he didn’t fancy champagne; and it certainly didn’t fancy him. He was sat now on one of the sofas with some whiskey, feeling a little better in his stomach, though not his soul. He was still thinking about the bed. He was thinking that for seven unremitting nights, he would have to be elbowed, and kicked at, and drooled on: all of which Merlin had done before, somewhere in the jumbled mists of their uni years, when their backs did not care where, how, or when they slept, and fighting over a blanket on a floor was no worse than doing it at the Four Seasons. But at least he had had the privilege of going to the other end of the sofa, and sticking his feet in Merlin’s face, or to the far edge of the blanket, where he could put some space and decency between the inevitable phenomenon of being a man alive in the morning, and happy to see it. Now because Merlin was not thoughtful enough to take the armchair, or make himself some cosy nest on the floor, now because he had been working on his physique, Arthur would have to compress himself into an inadequate double with some shoulders almost as broad as his own. Now he would have to share, on his own personal holiday, his own personal bed, with a man not civilised enough to give up most of his allotment.

He was frowning out the window, and waiting for Scotland to do something lovely, when Merlin threw himself down onto the sofa with his own whiskey, and dropped his head back on the cushion. He had crowded in predictably, so that his knee was touching Arthur’s knee, in a rather ominous harbinger of what his nights were to be like from this day forward, unto eternity (Monday). He had got off his blazer already, and rolled up his sleeves, so that Arthur could see the muscles in his forearms, so that he could see the weedy uni mate who had had to make his way fighting larger men with his wit and rabies could now do it with his rather distastefully large hands.

“You’re not supposed to take off your jacket,” Arthur said. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Well, if they throw me off the Viaduct for violating the dress code, you’ll get the bed to yourself, yeah?” He nudged Arthur’s knee with his, and took a drink. “By the way, I’m going to bed at old man time tonight, and if you try and fight me over the bed, I will bite you. I’m so knackered.”

“Well, just remember, I sleep on the left, and if you take my side, you’re sleeping on the floor, one way or another.”

Merlin knocked their knees together again and drank. He looked away from Arthur, out the window; and there fell over them that silent existence which did something to the depths of Arthur. He left his knee where it was, where there was the small, warm point of human contact, in the desolate train hurtling in a desolate world to end or absolution. The whiskey had come up a little in his throat, and stopped where there was a lump to stop it. He had had the same human touch the rainy weekend in Cornwall, when he was alone on a planet of billions moving in time without him. He had to look from the window for a moment, to the stubbled face in profile, and hurt, for a moment, exquisitely. It is sometimes like that to love; though of course he would not have called it that, when there were a number of other terms less fraught or complimentary.

“You ok?” Merlin asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Ok. You pillock.”

“What do you want me to say, in front of a lounge full of passengers?”

“You could say ‘yes’ in a tone that actually sounds like you mean it, or you could say ‘no’, and we could go back to the cabin, and get pissed, or watch Netflix, or call your dad and tell him what an absolute cock he is. I can do it; you should keep not talking to him.” Then there was the little knock on his knee again, and Merlin said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately.”

“I really didn’t notice,” Arthur said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ve been busy myself.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, every day when I called you whilst I was on lunch, you were like, ‘Merlin; Merlin…sorry, it’s not ringing a bell, mate.’”

“Well, you called me, so if you’re trying to accuse me of something lunatic, like missing you, it’s probably projection.”

“No, I didn’t miss you. Just wanted to make sure you had a voice to go with the hair doll.” He took another drink.

“It’s a voodoo doll, actually.”

“So you just sit in your room all day, sticking pins in me? Kinky.” Merlin snorted. “You are bright red.”

“I am not. And you can’t say ‘kinky’ on a luxury train.”

“If you can’t say ‘kinky’ where it will make rich people uncomfortable, what’s the point of saying it at all?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

And now the teasing had gone from him, and he said, “Arthur,” quietly, and looked at him in the grey light of the window, and touched him, just long and gently enough, where there were no witnesses to ruin it.

“Yeah. Fine,” Arthur said, and Merlin clapped his knee with the hand he had laid briefly and feelingly on it, and said, “Ok, well, then we should get something settled. You are going to teach me how to eat dinner, right?”

Arthur rolled his eyes again. “You’ve never needed my help eating anything in your life. In fact, usually you stab me with your fork when I try.”

“Yeah, but there are going to be little spoons or something, and I’m going to have to use them in a specific order, and I’m going to have to eat the food in a specific order, and all whilst wearing a suit that I don’t want to muck up, because I paid fifty quid for it.”

“You only paid fifty quid for your suit?” Arthur cried. “For the whole suit? Did you get most of it from a skip?”

“I’m not going to just drop several hundred pounds on a suit I’m only going to wear a few times,” Merlin protested.

“You didn’t answer me about the skip,” Arthur said, setting aside the whiskey, which he did not have room to process, alongside his horror.

Dinner was got through with no mishaps but the mishaps Merlin had orchestrated; though he did have to ask Arthur whether he could eat the little flower on top of his salmon without dying.

“It’s a garnish, you plonker.”

Merlin pinched it between his fingers and held it up to the light to squint at it. “So can I eat it, or not?”

“You’re not meant to, though that’s never stopped you before.”

Merlin ate the flower, just to be gauche.

“Are you going to eat yours?” Gwaine asked Arthur, and helped himself to it before he could reply.

“You have my genetics, and hence could have pretty much any man you wanted, and this is your choice?” Arthur asked sourly, giving Morgana a nasty little look, and batting Gwaine’s hands away from his plate.

“Don’t malign me like that; I’ve only got half your genetics. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got yourself the Prince of Wales. No offence, Merlin,” she said, patting his hand, as if he would need to be consoled.

“None taken; he’s a twat,” Merlin said.

“Yes, but the difference is, Merlin and I are not a couple. So it doesn’t matter if he eats the garnish on his confit of salmon; it doesn’t reflect poorly on me, because I’m not shagging him where innocents can walk in on it.”

“If you had wanted to remain innocent, you should have knocked before walking into a flat that didn’t belong to you.”

“Who does that with the door unlocked?” Arthur demanded, whilst Gwen and Lance politely pretended they were not being involuntarily involved in someone else’s sex life, when they could have been off enjoying their own.

There was entertainment in the Observation Car, which Arthur, naturally, complained about.

“You sound like you have gout,” Merlin said.

“What on earth does gout have to do with anything?” Arthur asked.

“Nothing; you just sound like one of those old men who sits round complaining about all his old man ailments and never letting anyone else have any fun. ‘Oh, music, people laughing; just horrid. Horrid,’” Merlin mocked in a bratty voice.

“There might be bagpipes.”

“They’re not going to bring bagpipes on a train where people can’t escape them.”

“There were bagpipes when we were getting on the train,” Arthur said, frowning.

“There are bagpipes everywhere in Edinburgh,” Merlin replied, in a voice that stated, firmly, he thought Arthur was a great nattering twat baby. They adjourned (it did not seem appropriate to say they merely ‘went’ to a train car full of furniture worth more than his annual salary) to the Observation Car, which was now full of diners, and music. There were not any of the dread bagpipes, but only a lovely fiddle, going on impressively, whilst an elderly passenger clapped in time with it; or what the champagne told him was in time with it. He was wobbling about, in exactly the opposite spirit of Arthur, introducing himself to everyone, and twice to Morgana, who had got all the charm there was to be got from the Pendragon line, leaving none for Arthur.

Outside the window, Scotland was still rather miserable. Merlin had hoped to see those dreaming glimpses of the highlands, which were, or were felt to be, pure of humanity. The itinerary had promised him Ben Arthur and Loch Lomond, and he had fantasised making them into one of the walking tours, though he knew, intellectually, he would only glimpse them in passing. He had already made them in his heart a place for him and Arthur to be alone where aloneness has meaning; where it is a grand reckoning with that simultaneous infiniteness and finity of time. All that long month he had been caged in his office, seeing Arthur for brief intervals at the pub, or over FaceTime, whilst what was left of the wild country called to him; and now when he had expected to see it, at least, through the train window, streaming away into eternity, and taking with it his imagination into the secret dells and copses where there were fungi or larks to discover, what he saw was a desolate grey. He was looking at a smudge. Now and again there resolved out of it a larger smudge, more darkly or lightly coloured; and then even that feeble hope of scenery dissolved into that dreary badland which the British rain makes of the grasses which feed from it. If it were a nice little tropical rain, he could have marvelled at it, and counted the stalks of the gorse in the clean clear light of summer eternal; but here it was arse. Here he felt the train was having to invent the world as it drove along, into that great grey nothing out of which the trestle tracks sprang when they were needed, and vanished thereafter.

Arthur had got them some whiskeys, and sat them at the far end of the car, away from the musicians, and socialisation; so it was they two in the warm yellow light of the train, sitting too closely, because Arthur did not understand personal space; and especially he did not understand it when he had a mate, a very bisexual mate, who was trying to be romantically ignorant of him. Arthur was a great clueless lout, who blundered about in heterosexual infamy; and Merlin was tired. So they were sitting as close as boyfriends sat, and complaining about politics, whilst Merlin resisted sleep. He had that strange sensation of being unmade. He was as cosy on the sofa with Arthur as if he had been in bed; and so he was fraying, bit by bit, at the seams of his corporal body; he was in that state of confusion which the conscious mind feels when it is on the cusp of leaving itself. He was on the sofa, with his knee pressed to Arthur’s knee; but he was also beyond it, where dreams or half-dreams have carried their fuddled makers. He felt that he had been speaking one moment; and the next moment he was waking up on Arthur’s shoulder, in a puddle of drool.

Arthur had taken the whiskey out of his limp hand before he had spilled it, and was quietly going through his phone; though he pointed out, loudly, and quickly, before there was any confusion about his considerateness, about the drool, and pushed Merlin’s head.

They left the others to what was a very fine night of drinking, and dancing, and returned to the cabin for bed, at the humble hour of 8.00, because Merlin had been up since 4.00, and because Arthur, in the Observation Car, would have been in tremendous danger of having fun. They had to decide the order of their ablutions by playing rock, paper, scissors; or a revised version of it, which went something like rock, paper, fuck you, because they were both wanton cheaters, so that whatever was to be settled by it generally was settled by taking the ostensible winner, and shoving him into a wall, or kneeling on his back, till he agreed the other was a wanker; but a triumphant one.

Merlin was too tired for the usual order of business; he had to go for the truncated version. He smacked his fist three times into his palm: and turned whilst Arthur was mocking his loss, and sprinted for the loo.

“I’ll remember that,” Arthur said with cold promise when he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

He put on his joggers after Arthur had disappeared into the bathroom, and got straightaway into the bed, with a little hope in his exhaustion, that he would be asleep before Arthur was even out of the loo, never mind in the bed. He was not as casual about the bed as he would have liked to be. He would have to wake up, practically in the arms of a man who was an egregious spooner, with his penis reporting for duty. He had shared an alarming number of sofas with Arthur in uni, and knew what was to be the next week of his life; it was to be horrid. Arthur would lie down very stiffly beside him, with a few pillows between them, which he had stacked like a wall between his heterosexuality, and Merlin; and then all those troubled instincts which he had for human touch would drive him to seek it. By morning the pillows would be gone; and Merlin would have both an erection, and the warm body in which it felt it could be sated. It was not polite to wank to one’s friends; and so he would have to lie, thinking of his grandmother, whilst Arthur twitched on or against him: and woke, with a snort, to say, “Why the hell are you cuddling me?”

For safety they had had to sleep head to foot; and he considered now rearranging the pillow at the other end of the bed, so that Arthur’s feet could work their incredible magic on Merlin’s morning wood. They were better than thinking of his grandmother; who after all was not despicable, but only his grandmother. But those were the old insecurities of men, almost boys, trying to make it understood that they were, in the one case, straight, and in the other, possessed of actual taste. It was no longer necessary, at thirty, to flaunt their obvious sexual disregard for one another. So he kept the pillow where it was, and determined to be an adult about it; and then Arthur came out of the bathroom in only a towel, as if he were not rather fit, and Merlin were not rather bisexual. And with the usual inconsiderateness of the hetero, he went round the whole cabin in it, with the water running out of his chest hair, and into his stomach hair.

#train fic #that's the only title i've got for this right now #lmao #merthur #fic #writing #preview

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lanitalay · 7 months

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Among Flames and Starlight Chapter 7

a/n: i really wanted some fluff in this one but oh well

warnings: violence ( i keep the descriptions brief ), trauma

word count: 2k

Other Chapters

The stables had become Irene’s favorite place in the Autumn Court. She rode nearly everyday, only staying inside when torrential rain made riding unbearable. But if the skies were clear, Irene would be riding. At first it was just around the stables, getting to know the horses. Quickly, she started wandering off farther. She got lost one day, deep in the woods, the paths overgrown. Unable to find her way back. By chance, Lucien stumbled upon her. “What are you doing here?”

“I got lost.” He sighed deeply. “Follow me.”

That’s how Irene met Jesminda. The female was waiting for him at a small cottage. Lucien dismounted and Irene did the same. When he walked inside he was almost tackled to the floor by her. She kissed him deeply only stopped when Lucien pulled away to say “love, this is Irene. Irene this is Jesminda.” Her eyes widened and she stepped closer to Irene.

“Lulu has told me many things about the new bride of Autumn, I’m sorry that you were… well what happened to you is unfortunate.” Irene nodded, “I don’t think Lucien has mentioned you before.”

“He wouldn’t dare. If the High Lord finds out about us I’d be toast, isn’t that right, dear?” Lucien clarified for Irene “no one knows, but I trust that you’ll not say anything about this to anyone. Not even Eris.”

“I won’t say a word.”

They were sitting by the hearth and drinking a spiced tea as Lucien explained to Jesminda why he had brought Irene along “she was out in the Cliff’s Edge Pass when I found her, too far to take her back and then come back out again.”

“I’m glad you’re here Irene, us females need to have eachothers’ backs in this court.”

Once the sun began to set Lucien announced they should head back, not wanting to ride in the pitch black forest.

“It was lovely meeting you Jesminda, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Come by whenever you like, Irene, I need a break from Lucien every so often.” She teased and the male picked her up so fast she didn’t have time to let out a squeal of surprise before his lips were on hers. “I’ll be back soon, love.”

After that they would ride together to keep each other company even if Lucien insisted he was “only teaching her how to navigate the Court’s lands.”

On the rare occasion it rained, Irene would read in her rooms or spend time with Mora. The Lady of Autumn had a calming presence and when the days were gloomy and storms raged outside and in Irene’s mind she would be soothed by her demeanor. Often discussing the books they were reading over tea or just sitting in silence by a crackling fire.

Most days, she did not see Eris. To avoid Beron, she would have all her meals in her rooms or take a picnic on her rides. She only visited the library on the far end of the house, nowhere near his room or his study. Eris would spot her riding and sometimes they’d see each other in the library. “That’s my spot.” He had said when he found her in an alcove behind the section that housed all of the fiction books. Eris looked annoyed, he was carrying a book and had allotted himself an hour to read in peace when he found Irene in the very spot he wanted to be.

“I was here first.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be galavanting with Lucien?”

Irene pointed to the window that was being pelted by harsh rain. “Not in this weather. We both fit here, let’s just share.”

Eris thought about it and reached the same conclusion she had. His rooms were getting stuffy and this was one of the few places his father or his brothers wouldn’t bother him. So he sat next to her, on the far end, creating as much space between them as he could. They stayed like that until the sun set and Irene got up “I’ll see you around, Eris.”

She was doing fine, she really was. Nightmares about being paralyzed or being burned by Beron would wake her up nearly every night, but she always managed to get back to sleep. The nights when sleep was impossible, a weight on her chest so large she could swear her ribs would crack, Irene would plot. She’d indulge herself with fantasies of the High Lord of Night’s head on a stake. Ideas of pulverizing him and spreading his ashes on piles of manure. Then she’d think of Beron’s punishment, driving an ice stake through his heart seemed an interesting approach. If fire runs through his veins he must enjoy the heat and Irene wanted his last moments in this world to be filled with pain and discomfort. Lastly she would think of how to get her mother out of the prison, but that always came with a wave of grief.

Irene was perfectly fine.

Until she realized Starfall was two weeks away and the nightmares were not of her recent horrors, but of more ancient ones.

That night, after leaving the library and eating alone, Irene fell asleep and dreamt of the first Startfall without her family. She remembers fragments, gaps looming over her memory. After crying most of the day, Victoria went into her room and forced her to get out of bed. “You don’t have to go to the party, we can just look at it from the window or something.”

Decades later Irene wasn’t sure what Victoria’s intentions were that night. Maybe it was prepubescent contempt and the desire to not be surrounded by only her brother and his friends. Or maybe it was that she had gotten lonely after months of Irene isolating herself and it was an attempt at reviving her only friend in the world. But Victoria pulled Irene out of her room that night and Irene was forced to reckon with the fact that her world had been destroyed but life was still happening.

The two girls sat huddled together by a large window and watched the sky come alive. For those moments, Irene felt a break from the crushing weight on her heart. They did not talk for a while, Irene was still bristled from being torn from her bed.

“No one likes him.” Victoria broke the silence. “I know Rhysand doesn’t like him, neither does my mother and I hate him.”

“I hate him too.” In her too small heart she harbored undiluted hate for the male and hate was easy. She could hate him without trying, hate him in her sleep. After Starfall was over and the girls went back into their rooms, Irene slipped into the kitchen to find something to eat.

She heard footsteps for a split second. Then, the light vanished. Darkness enveloped her but she was not asleep. Hadn’t fainted either. It pressed against her and restricted her airflow. She was suffocating under the weight of the universe. At that moment, she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Considering that maybe she had died and this was the painful passage to the next life. It could have been minutes or hours later, but Celene walked into the kitchen to find that her mate was strangling Irene with an onyx mass.

The Lady must have sent something down the mating bond, or yelled hard enough that the High Lord snapped out of whatever compelled him to attack a child. Irene was frenzied, gasping for air and frantically clawing at her chest, like she wanted to rip out her heart and soothe it with her hands.

That was the night her hate turned to fear. That was the nightmare that woke her up, all these decades after.

The next few days were spent in a blur of sleeplessness. Irene could not bring herself to close her eyes. She kept a candle burning in every corner of the room and the curtains all the way open. Eating was difficult again. Mora asked what was the matter, “what can I do to help?” Irene could not explain to her that the nightmares that kept her up and were slowly making her insane. She couldn’t find the words.

Then Lucien visited her room and insisted that she sleep. “You look terrible and this room is a mess” he pointed to the piles of melted wax on the floor, the stale bread on the little table she ate and the bedding strewn on the mattress. “I can’t sleep.” He sighed “yes you can Irene, and you have to.” She refused. Lucien left and an hour later Eris walked through the door.

“Hello.” Irene looked back at him from her chair by the window. “Hi.”

“I’m told you are not well.” She did not respond. “Something about not sleeping or eating?”

“I can’t.”

He was still by the door, not stepping further into her room. “Why not?” Silence. “Irene, no matter how much of a fuss you make no one is going to come rescue you.”

“I know.”

“Then sleep, eat.” He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the short red locks. “Or rot away. It's your call.”

“Nothing has ever been my call, Eris. I’m stuck in this prison of a Court with a husband as a chain.”

“No one is forcing you to stay in this roo-” he stopped speaking as she stood up from her chair. He saw her for the first time since the library and was taken aback at how dark the circles under her eyes were. How gaunt her face. She roared at him, and her eyes, bloodshot and wild, piercing his own.

“Damn it Eris! I can’t go back home anymore! I can’t be with my family because I’m married to you! I’m nothing more than a stupid political hostage and you know it.”

He did not need a reminder that his wife was a mere punishment. That she resented him just as much as he resented her.

“Are you really that stupid? You were a hostage there too. If your precious Rhysand loved you or cared for you in any meaningful way he wouldn’t have let you marry me. You are a fool for wishing to be back there.”

“I’m more of a prisoner here.”

“Here you have a title. Here you are the sole Princess of Autumn.”

“This house is a prison”

“The entire Night Court is a prison!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You can rot in this room for all I care. But that’s your choice.”

“No it 's not. None of this is my choice! You, this mariage, this bloody title!”

“Look around! No one chose to be here! I was born into it, so was my father and so were my brothers. My mother was married into it, you’re not special. But you are choosing to waste away and, whatever your reasoning is, it's stupid.”

“Fuck you.”

“Pathetic.”

She couldn’t disagree. So she remained silent.

He had nothing else to say. So he left.

Eventually exhaustion won. She passed out on the chair and more nightmares came, each one worse than the last. How the High Lord would take her out of her room at night and experiment. First with suffocation, but then he tried to drown her, to lash her, he tried carving out her organs but could not get through a protective layer beneath her skin. He grew frustrated with all his blades ricocheting off her. When he was tired of trying he would return her to the room, drop her on the floor and think of new ways to try and end her. He tampered with her mind. Creating a permanent spot in her memory for the nights they spent together and forbidding her from speaking them aloud.

taglist: @sidthedollface2 @acourtofbatboydreams

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recoveringdreamer · 2 months

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TIMING: current LOCATION: felix's boiler room PARTIES: @zombiebabysitter, @gossipsnake, @ariadnewhitlock, @notstinky, & @recoveringdreamer SUMMARY: a group of rhyming allies come together to break a curse. CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions and discussion of snakes eating

The rhyming had become… almost fun, if Felix was being entirely honest with themself. There was something kind of entertaining about it, even if it was technically a curse. It didn’t seem to be hurting anything and, as a bonus, it seemed to annoy Leo enough that he’d been avoiding conversation with them. If it were only Felix cursed, they might have just… let it continue for a while. But they were pretty sure some of their friends were getting tired of it, and it didn’t seem fair to subject all of them to a life of rhyming just because Felix didn’t mind it.

So, they’d called together a strategy session. A few of the people who were cursed — and no one who wasn’t. The last thing they wanted was to spread this thing even further, so it seemed way safer to only include people already involved. It wasn’t like someone could be cursed twice, right?

The boiler room was a little cramped, not really meant to house this many people at once, but that was okay. They wouldn’t be in here long, hopefully. Felix had set the glass orange in the center of the room, like they all might need a reminder about why they were gathered here today. He squinted at it suspiciously from where he sat on the single office chair, elbows on his knees and hands folded and propping up their chin.

“We need a plan of action,” Felix announced. “So far, nothing we’ve tried has had any real reaction. It can’t be broken. And once you’ve touched it, rhymes must be spoken. But every curse has to have an out. I think we all know that without a doubt. So, what should we do? I want to hear from all of you.”

—

As far as Charlie was concerned, rhyming kinda fucking rocked. He had been a lyric-writing machine as of late, speaking the words aloud and then writing them on paper if they sounded good. Yeah, Finn was annoyed any time Charlie opened his mouth to speak to him, seeing as how everything that came out of his mouth was a fucking rhyme, but that wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know that ugly as sin Faberge egg was cursed with a rhyme scheme curse?

So that’s how he’d ended up in Felix’s boiler room apartment after a shift at the pit, tired and a little out of sorts. Charlie looked around at the others in the room, then let out a sigh. “Well as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing that we’ve learned. We’re stuck in a rhyme which is, as far as I’m concerned? A total fucking crime. But also, I’ve been writing a lot and I feel kinda like a robot. So I can go either way, I write music by day.” He shrugged his shoulders.

As far as Charlie was concerned, this was a gift. He was able to write his music and not have to wrack his brain for rhyme schemes when he was cursed to do it automatically. It was great! He’d written so many songs in such a short amount of time that he was allotting himself a break after all this was cleared up.

Thea had found a nice patch of damp for herself, tucked against the wall of Felix’s possibly still rat-infested boiler room. For hundreds of years, humans had been rhyming (probably, Thea had done no real research regarding the topic). But the couplet itself dates back to like, the medieval era, right? (She really should’ve googled) Regardless, Thea felt connected to her poetry slinging ancestors in that she was certain she had poetry slinging ancestors. Really, could anyone confirm that she wasn’t related to William Shakespeare? The rhymes said otherwise. There was a history of art she was connected to; a history of verse and meter and kids teasing each other on the playground rhyming ‘fart’ with ‘smart’. It was all really normal, when she thought about it.

Still, her ability to hold conversations was severely impaired and that ability was struggling before the rhyming. “What if the answer is a visual enhancer? Perhaps the answer is…more advancer than basic thinking?” Thea had been testing the bounds of the rhymes; as long as they existed—slant, couplet, alternate, ballade, enclosed, triplet, limerick, villanelle—the form didn’t matter. ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ was as valid to her tongue as ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again (I think I made you up inside my head)’. She wasn’t surprised that this had led to creativity for Charlie. “I’m pinking.” Thea brought her cold hands to her hot face; it was hard to say what she was about to but the truth was clear to her.

“I-It might be that state of head clear, so-called.” Thea gestured to her hair (which was growing in nicely!). “That state of bald to which I was once appalled; in case any here recalled. That is to say, to our problem enthralled, perhaps we all must go bald?”

—

The English language was complex and often confusing as a non-native speaker; and that was without being cursed to rhyme anytime one opened their mouth. Of course, as Anita had learned, the rhyming wasn’t limited to speaking in English. Spanish was a much more beautiful language and lent itself better to forced rhyming in her opinion. But in this strange grouping of Felix’s friends, Spanish was not a realistic option. Despite her usual propensity to yap she had resigned to being slightly more silent to try and avoid having to rhyme. Being forced to do anything, even something as simple as rhyming, was not something she had interest in. It had grown old and at least in silence Anita felt like she was in control.

Both people who had spoken so far seemed strange and Anita didn’t know them much at all. When the one sitting against the wall suggested they all go bald, Anita’s face scrunched into a disgusted frown as her eyes rolled to the side in the direction of the woman. “No, we are not entertaining that for one moment; and I surely hope I am not that suggestion’s only opponent.”

Moving somewhat suddenly from where she was standing near Felix, Anita picked up the orange egg from the table and threw it against a wall on the other side of the small boiler room with all her strength. It, of course, didn’t break. They’d tried that many times before. She sighed, walked over to pick it up in defeat and then placed it back in the center of the room where it had been. “It doesn’t break. And nothing happens when you feed it to a very large snake. I don’t know much about curses and I’m sure there are some exceptions, but the ones I do know of can last for generations.”

—

Rhyming wasn’t the worst, but Ariadne had never been a big fan of Dr. Seuss. That was too much, and she preferred an occasional rhyme rather than constant ones. Which was probably rude to say and think, but she couldn’t help it. At least rhyming didn’t seen to cause her or anybody around her any actual harm. That would’ve been too much, and wouldn’t have been something that she could so easily deal with. Some of the nightmares she’d had to cause even wound up rhyming, which was a bit of a headache and had made for some less effective nightmares – something she’d have normally been thrilled about, because less effective meant less harm, but it also meant she wasn’t as quickly satiated, which meant she had to do more, which ended up meaning more harm.

But right now she was here to help Felix. Not to make things about herself and have some sort of a pity party about all of it.

“You’ve all got good thoughts.” Ariadne began. “I guess we’ve just gotta figure out how to connect the dots.” She winched. “I’d rather not go bald, if it’s all the same to you. I bet there’s something else that we can do!”

—

Okay, so some of the suggestions so far weren’t the best. Felix wasn’t really sure how going bald would help anything, and they rubbed a hand absently over their hair at the thought. Their mother used to shave their hair in the summers, but it had never looked quite right. Their brother always insisted it was because they had a lumpy head. Felix wasn’t sure if that was true. They hoped it wasn’t. “I’m not sure going bald is the best solution,” they said hesitantly, flashing Thea an apologetic smile. “I’m sure, between all of us, we can find another resolution!”

But, of course, throwing the orange wasn’t helping much, either. Felix winced as it hit the wall uselessly, falling back onto the ground without breaking the same way it always did. They weren’t even sure if breaking it would actually lift the curse. For all any of them knew, that would make things permanent. “We can’t afford to be pessimistic! How many of those generational curses are linguistic? I know we can find a good way out. There are some really smart people here, so I have no doubt. We know trying to break it won’t work. If we keep trying the same thing, we’ll all end up going beserk. Let’s try to think of things we haven’t done yet! I’ll start up a list so we don’t forget.” They pulled out their phone, typing in the notes app. Breaking the orange was at the top of the does not work list. They added a last resort list and typed bald beneath the heading. “Has anyone tried anything on their own? Let me know so I can put it into my phone!”

—

There was a brief moment that Charlie considered the bald thing, a hand shooting up to his hair, and then thought better of it. “I’d rather rhyme forever than be bald.” He decided, pulling a face. He fell silent for a long moment, wracking his brain for ideas of how to be free of the curse. Sure, it was useful to get songwriting done, but it was a nightmare when trying to have a serious conversation with someone and you’re acting like fucking Dr. Seuss.

He frowned at the mention of generational curses and large snakes, looking at Anita a little funny before shaking his head and going back to the task at hand. Breaking the curse. “What happens if we dull its shine?” He asked, staring at the tacky object. “Surely if we find a way to tarnish it, we’ll all be fine.” Charlie scratched at his head, unsure if that was a solution to anything or just a way to take his frustrations out on the orange.

Had he tried something on his own to break the curse? He thought about it for a minute, looking over to Felix’s phone. “I tried rhyming all the words I could think of that would rhyme with red. Took a while, but… it didn’t work and I was filled with dread.”

Having an idea rejected was not a good feeling; having it rejected in rhyme was somehow worse. Thea slumped against her moldy pitch of wall. Yes, she’d also rather rhyme forever than be bald and yet, she couldn’t stop thinking that ever since her hair started coming back, her life was weird. Mostly that was because of the strange hair serum she insisted on but what if it was because she angered some baldness god by not respecting the bald? What if this curse was yet another warning from the bald man above? Thea sighed; probably not. Wait… Thea shot up, waving her arm in the air as though this were a classroom, but spoke despite anyone calling on her. She pointed to the older, very attractive woman. “Snickity snackity make, what’s this about a snake?” Thea leaned back again. “We’ve gone through it, if a snake can’t do it, maybe we quit?” But Felix was trying so hard, and no one wanted to rhyme, or be bald.

“Yes.” Thea shrugged at Charlie’s red rhyming plight. “What a mess. Technically everything rhymes. I don’t have lactose digesting enzymes.” Thea shook her head. “No, what I mean to say—not to play—is that rhymes slant, are still rhymes you can grant. Words imaginary are not a rhyming scary. It is true, though it makes me blue, that the English language has…” She paused. “Words known as…” She paused again. “Unrhymable.” She sighed. “I thought I was able…to break rhyme with these words fabled…instead I became unstable.” Thea lifted a finger up. “Listen: purple. What rhymes with purple? Purple rhymes with purple. Circle is not a perfect rhyme for purple. Jimminy jemminy nurple, I still rhyme with purple.” Thea hugged herself, trying to soothe the pain of purple rhyming. “My point is that rhymes imperfect, are still rhymes you can perfect. And so what does it matter? What’s the point of all this chatter? For a curse that will never shatter?”

—

Anita didn’t care for being pointed at, but she did grin softly at the suggestion that if a snake couldn’t solve this that it was perhaps unsolvable. A sentiment she, as the snake in question, wanted to agree with but also one she knew had to be untrue - because she knew that there had to be a way to stop this awful rhyming even if she wasn’t the one who was able to figure it out. “Why are you both trying to rhyme colors? Red, purple … and all the others. You seem to be making this harder on yourselves than this all needs to be. Don’t you see? You don’t need to be Shakeperian with the words that you say. They just need to rhyme at the end of the day. It is harder in English that is no doubt, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a solution we can’t scout out.”

It wasn’t something that she would admit aloud, but there was part of Anita that wondered if this was a permanent curse. Her ability to transform into a snake, the gift of the lamia, was technically a curse. An unbreakable one that traveled through a family for generations. She didn’t really want to have a second curse upon her forcing her to rhyme until the end of time. “Maybe if we source this orange back to its origin we’ll find a solution before we become permanent jesters. Preferably before the start of the new semester. It’s one thing to have to rhyme, but I don’t wish to feel like the lorax trying to find words that rhyme with antenna, glands, and thorax.”

Ariadne did her best to stay mostly silent. All the rhyming was giving her more than a bit of a headache, and she wasn’t always great with words to start, so suddenly rhyming perfectly was a bit unsettling. Which, again, was maybe a rude way of looking at things, but she couldn’t quite help herself. It was important to try and think of ideas though, and she scrunched her face up, trying to think of more ideas – Thea and Felix and Anita and the dude called Charlie were all having really interesting ideas, and she wanted to do her best to at least try and contribute something.

“Maybe if we ask it to stop? I don’t know if that idea’s a flop.” But it couldn’t hurt to suggest. Ariadne was always down to ask people, animals, or – objects, in this case, to do their very best. Give them the choice, even though she wasn’t sure if this orange had a thought process – conscious – but if she could come back from the dead then maybe decorative oranges could think for themselves.

“Thankfully if I have to rhyme when I do ballet – I shouldn’t have to think all day.” Ariadne nodded, “Plié rhymes at least mostly with chassé, and so on.” So that much was a relief, that she wouldn’t sound too weird during class. Though she was sure that some way would come about to make things sound weirder than they should’ve. “Uh, we could also leave it be? Go away and come back and maybe offer another plea?”

—

This really was a mess, wasn’t it? Everyone was going back and forth about their experiences, and Felix’s feelings towards the curse were souring the more they realized that their friends were probably having less fun than they were. Charlie was full of dread, Thea was rambling about unrhymable words and baldness, Anita had classes to teach, Ariadne had ballet… but that was why they were all here, weren’t they? If they banded together, they’d surely find a way to break the curse.

Glancing up at Ariadne, they offered a small smile. “Talking to it was one of the first things I tried,” they admitted. “I asked it to let us stop rhyming, but it never replied.” They’d tried that tactic for longer than they’d like to admit, in various different ways. Begging, pleading, making empty promises to the reflective glass… nothing had really done what they were hoping for. “I’m not sure making it dirty would do much, either. It’d probably work as well as breaking it, and we tried that for so long that I had to stop to take a breather!” Breaking it seemed mean, anyway, and Felix didn’t want to be mean. They squinted at the egg, inspecting it carefully.

“Maybe it wants us to make a specific kind of rhyme,” they suggested. “Something to do with the thing itself this time? There could be some kind of secret password. Or maybe something we need to try to say backwards? Or it could just have to do with the egg. Or maybe we have to take it to the leg!” Could the leg be related? Leg did rhyme with egg, didn’t it? Except… “I guess it doesn’t look much like an egg, when you really look at it. The shape isn’t quite right, so the word doesn’t really fit.” They turned it over in their hands with a sigh. “I guess… it’s really more of an orange. I didn’t even know they sold glass oranges, but apparently they do. Isn’t that weird to think about?” They were rambling now… and unaware that those rambles no longer rhymed. Still turning the egg over, still perplexed, and just as clueless as always.

—

There were a lot of ideas being thrown around, and Charlie wasn’t sure which one would make sense. Well, the orange egg thing wasn’t lonely, so appeasing it seemed to be out. Rhyming words with difficult words to rhyme made sense. He was so lost in thought that he tuned out most of what was going on, only coming to when Felix began speaking again, going on and on about different rhymes.

Charlie stared at Felix as he rambled on, noticing that his words slipped from rhyme to just regular speech. “Wait.” Charlie pointed at Felix, shaking his head. “Nothing rhymes with Orange! Which means…” He paused a moment. “Felix, you fucking genius!” Charlie surged forward and shook his friend by the shoulders, grinning brightly. “That’s it, nothing rhymes with orange! We’re fucking free!” He placed his hands on either side of Felix’s face and nodding his head excitedly before letting go and doing a little dance now that he wasn’t stuck rhyming everything. Now Finn wouldn’t be reduced to murdering him for his rhymes! Amazing!

“No, technically things do rhyme with orange.” Thea said quickly, ignoring the more celebratory aspect of Charlie’s words. “There just aren’t perfect rhymes. But what’s a perfect rhyme even mean? What does it—I mean—what I was saying was…” Thea paused, staring at the group. She wasn’t rhyming. Felix wasn’t rhyming. Charlie wasn’t rhyming. Their problem was solved! And yet, watching Charlie celebrate made her feel decidedly empty. “I guess we’re free?” Her words were back to being bland; her cadence was clumsy again. She was Thea. She frowned. What rhymed with free? “Uh, I guess we have knees? Uh, tree?” It wasn’t the same—she had to think about her words, she had to bear the ugly sound of her voice echoing in her ears. She was Thea, as she had been before all this. Rhyming wasn’t so bad, when the alternative was this. Thea forced herself to perk up. “Hey! Good job, Felix!”

Pushing herself off the ground, she swiped dirt off her legs. “Now, what do we do about the orange?” Thea pointed at it. “It is really nice, and I think it matches with the Garfield posters, but maybe we should, like, break it or something? Or put it in a case that says ‘don’t touch unless you want to rhyme’? Or, uh, something?” Thea winced at herself; she’d gotten used to the more eloquent rhyming.

—

For as much as Anita cared for Felix, she did not much care for this group of their friends and she cared even less for their ramblings and ideas regarding fixing this curse. Clearly there were no solutions down in this boiler room. Mentally planning a swift exit before things devolved into listening to the girl suggesting they go bald, Anita had not even noticed that people stopped rhyming until the excitable one burst across the room (not that it took much to burst across a room that size) and was exclaiming that they were free. She frowned, a bit annoyed that everyone was still talking about rhyming with colors. Hadn’t they gotten past this.

“Tons of words rhyme with orange in Spanish,” Anita muttered, mostly to herself and whomever else in the room spoke Spanish. “Naranja. Toronja. Corrija. Esponja. Puta.” As she listed of Spanish orange rhymes the realization of what the others were talking about settled in. Had the ridiculousness of the English language just saved them from this rhyming hell? Gross. She’d cogradulate Felix on the success later, maybe, it was their fault everyone was rhyming to begin with anyone. She certainly wasn’t going to do it in front of these strangers, though. “Did you not see what happened earlier? How do you expect to break this thing? No, no. This thing must be locked away in a box of some kind, taken to a remote location, and buried a minimum of 12 feet underground. And then the key must be destroyed.”

“Aw, well…” but it did make Ariadne smile that Felix had already tried her idea. They were really great, and the fact that they didn’t just immediately brush her idea off. Because there were plenty of people who might’ve done that. She wouldn’t judge any of them for brushing it off, because that was just how things worked, sometimes, and there wasn’t a reason to be judgmental about it right back to them. That wasn’t kind, and she wanted to be kind whenever she could.

“That’s – we’ll think of something, I know it. We’ll figure stuff out.” Except she did a double-take, listening to everyone else. They weren’t rhyming anymore. “I sort of like blue. It’s a nice color.” Ariadne shook her head. “Sorry, was – I just wanted to try it out, to see if I’d –” she smiled. “If there was still rhyming going on. “That’s true, orange is a tricky thing – word – to rhyme with.” She signed, but nodded to Thea’s idea, and Anita’s. “We could lock it up. Just to be safe?”

—

The rhyming curse was broken, it seemed, as easily as it had been cast in the first place. Touch an orange and rhyme. Speak the word ‘orange’ at the end of your sentence and free yourself. It didn’t make a lot of sense but, then, curses rarely did, did they? Felix felt a rush of… pride, maybe, as Charlie called them a genius, even though they’d had no idea what they were doing when they broke the curse. They hadn’t meant to free anyone any more than they’d meant to curse them in the first place, but maybe intentions didn’t mean much here. Maybe it was enough that they’d broken the curse at all.

There were other matters to attend to, anyway. Felix looked to the orange skeptically, shifting their weight uncertainly between their feet. If Anita wanted to bury it, maybe they could bury it. But… “I’m not sure I can dig a hole that’s 12 feet deep. Maybe we should just, um, chuck it into the ocean or something?” Did it still have its power? If they touched it again now, would the curse start anew? It was hard to say. “I can take care of it. Um, one way or another. I can make sure no one else gets cursed.”

—

Staring at the orange with a look of hesitation, Charlie frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe you should handle it with a pair of tongs, yeah?” He suggested, looking over to Felix with a raised brow. “I mean, can’t risk touching it again, you know?” He looked to Anita, nodding his head. “I definitely think the deeper the hole the better off we are, bury that shit away and hope no one digs it back up. The ocean is an idea too, throw it off the side of a boat Titanic style.” Charlie wiggled his brows, remembering the scene where she threw the necklace into the ocean.

“Just don’t get yourself cursed in the process of getting rid of it. Because if you curse yourself and then throw it into the ocean, you’re fucking screwed, you know?” Charlie decided it was important enough to point that out, god forbid that poor Felix be stuck rhyming for the rest of his life.

“What if the fish start rhyming?” Thea asked with complete and honest seriousness. “When you throw it into the ocean? I mean, and, you gotta think about—like…” She hated not rhyming. Everything sounded harsh and wrong. “…like, pollution. There’s a lot of garbage in the ocean already, it’s not nice to dump things in it.” She frowned; maybe none of them really cared about the environment. And yes the ocean was vast, but that thing totally looked like it would just float and then what? “It’s like, you know in Oops, I did it again? They have that whole part in the music video. Which, um, yeah—“ Thea gestured to Charlie. “Yeah, like Titanic. I know that’s not your point but people find things in the ocean eventually. Someone could find it.” The attractive woman was sure that it couldn’t be broken—even if Thea thought they just needed to try harder—and Thea couldn’t argue with an attractive person. It wasn’t much better to bury it either; there would be rhyming worms.

Thea shrugged; rhyming wasn’t the worst thing to her. “I trust you, Felix. Whatever you want to do with it, that’d be good.” She agreed more with Ariadne, and the idea of locking it up. “Even if it slightly contributes to the declining environmental state of our planet.” Felix was allowed a little climate crime, she thought. They were owed that.

—

“Oh my god!” Anita finally exclaimed, astonished and exhausted by all of the talking and discussion about what to do and how it might make the fish start rhyming. It was like the curse was lingering, trapping them into a cycle of hypotheticals and hesitations on how to destroy the stupid orange thing. She had given a perfect solution but its feasibility was questioned. Fine. But she was not going to sit around in this room any longer and have a philosophical discussion about how throwing the orange in the ocean may impact the environmental state of the planet.

Walking up to the egg again, Anita allowed her neck, jaw, and inner digestive tract to shift into the mojave rattlesnake. She did not know these people, and typically would not have exposed herself so obviously, but none of the questioned an orange figurine making the rhyme and they were all friends of Felix’s, in the boiler room of the Grit Pit - if there were ever a space safe from hunters this was it. Opening her mouth wide, she inhaled the orange and allowed it to travel through her body where it would hopefully, finally, meet its end.

Anita whipped her mouth after shifting back to her human appearance, scanned the room, making eye contact with each of the individuals present. “Now that that is settled, let us never speak of this again.” She paused, waiting to see if the orange in her stomach was going to make her rhyme again, “And look at that, no compulsion for poetry.” She grabbed her bag and made her way to the exit, seeing no need for her to stick around for even a second longer.

Ariadne found herself distracted by her relief, up until a lady partially turned into a snake? Or snake-like? Which caused her to do a fairly significant double take. “Or… that. That works too.” It did work, so long as it didn’t hurt the woman who’d eaten the orange and didn’t hurt the orange, either. Even if it had caused all of them to just keep rhyming non-stop. Wynne had found it cute, maybe even charming, but it had been a bit dizzying.

“I won’t say anything about that, I promise.” Ariadne held up her hand, Girl Scout salute and all.

“I know I could use a rootbeer float, if anybody wants to come along?” She turned to leave. “Felix, if you want, we can go shopping for decor together sometime.” Ariadne nervously shifted from the ball of one foot to the other, wishing she had on shoes that were more flexible, desperately wishing to go by her dance studio. “But we did it. That – good job, everyone!” She winced at herself.

—

Thea made a very good point. What about the environmental impact of a cursed glass orange sitting on the bottom of the ocean floor? Felix grappled with the lack of a perfect solution, heart stuttering uncertainly as they tried to come up with some magical answer that might resolve the issue with no kind of negative impact. Burying it in the dirt might find someone else digging it up, keeping it locked away always ran the risk of it being found. What options were available to them? How could they get rid of a thing that didn’t seem to be able to be destroyed without risking someone, somewhere finding it and using it for some kind of poetic evil?

Their heart was pounding with the pressure, panic threatening to suffocate them, when Anita stepped forward. She made a quick beeline for the orange, and — she ate it. Felix blinked, watching it disappear down her throat. She spoke, not in rhyme, and Felix blinked again. The orange was gone. No one was cursed. This was the closest thing to a best-case scenario they’d gotten in a while, wasn’t it?

Their eyes scanned the group, wide and maybe a little confused, but no longer quite as stressed. Ariadne spoke up with offers of root beer floats and shopping, and Felix nodded. “Yeah,” they agreed. “Yeah! Okay! Root beer floats. I’ll pay for everyone. Um, as an apology. For the curse.” Wow, it still felt weird to not speak in rhymes. A slow smile spread over Felix’s face, in spite of everything. They sighed, content, and walked towards the door. “Next time,” they mused, leading everyone out into the hall and closing the door behind them, “I think I’ll buy a glass apple.”

#zombiebabysitter #gossipsnake #notstinky #ariadnewhitlock #charlie: nothing rhymes with orange #anita: nothing rhymes with orange #thea: nothing rhymes with orange #ariadne: nothing rhymes with orange #wickedswriting

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staycalmandhugaclone · 2 years

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If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 7

Made to Watch – OC Medic & TBB

Warnings: Get yuh whump here! Fresh, violent whump! Explicit details of torture and physical injuries, blood and minor gore, broken bones, near death, language.

WC: 2795

“I’m beginning to think… going on missions a-alone with you… is a bad i… idea… think-think we’re c… cursed.” The strangled words broke on stuttered gasps, wincing as my diaphragm jerked in a desperate attempt for breath, sending daggers burring through my ribs. Hunter kneeled a mere handful of meters beside me, chained to the floor in clear view of where I hung, metal shackles bound so high above my head, I had to stretch onto my toes to offer some relief to already bleeding wrists.

“I’ll get you out of here, Doc.” He promised, and my heart ached at the guilt and sorrow in his voice.

“Hmm…” I grumbled, eyes sliding shut beneath a listless frown, “…nose itches.” When he didn’t respond, I cracked an eye to just peak down at him, brow raising expectantly. The shock on his face was worth the fresh hurt that shot through my side from the huffed chuckle, and he offered an exasperated sigh, lips just twitching into a weary smile.

The base was supposed to be abandoned. We’d only been sent in to preform a final sweep for abandoned tech or data, maybe take out the occasional forgotten droid. The unexpected subterranean weapons cache and full garrison of mechanical and biological soldiers guarding it had taken us all by surprise. By the time we realized what we’d stumbled into, however, we’d already split into three groups, and the number of guns aimed at the two of us forced us to submit, relieved only in the knowledge that the other four were still free.

The chagrian in charge of our interrogation assumed I’d be the weak link and spent the following hour trying to manipulate Hunter into revealing our squadmate’s location by sicking a B2 battle droid on me. The sound of ribs cracking beneath that metal fist kept echoing in my mind, but I held my tongue, and so did he, needing only a shared look to ensure I hadn’t reached my breaking point until they finally left.

“Think they’ll… opt f-for strealth?” I mumbled absently, eyes sliding shut once more, “Or… just sho-shoot their way i-in?”

“I think you need to stop trying to talk.” He replied bluntly, but the concern in his words was clear. I mockingly mouthed his words in silence, lips twisted in a slight scowl, earning a quiet growl from the man beside me. “Might be a bit of both.” He finally sighed, entertaining my wonderings, “Try for stealth until that doesn’t work, then we’ll be lucky if there’s enough leftover of the base to still get any intel from.” Without bothering to look at him again, I merely gave a small grin. Even without their leader, those four were a terrifying force to be faced with. If not for the knowledge that they were already working towards our rescue, I may have broken long ago, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they reached us.

The violent clang of metal slamming against metal ripped me back to full, agonizing awareness, eyes opening as wide as the swollen flesh would allow as my mind struggled to make sense of the hurt and darkness and cold, body trembling as abused muscles quivered and failed, sending the shackles digging deeper into the ruined skin around my wrists. The hatred burning through Hunter’s eyes was the first thing I saw before following his gaze to the smug, sooty-blue face of the chagrian. Flaking smears of blood still stained the fists of the droid following obediently at his heels. Scowling against the pulsing torture bursting up my side with each shallow breath, I forced myself to stand upright before him.

“I do hope you’ve found your stay enjoyable thus far, for I fear what comforts we’ve allotted you have, unfortunately, expired.” He nearly cooed, overly pleased with himself. “You see: my immediate supervisor has decided that giving up whatever comprises the remainder of your… squad… will no longer be sufficient given your lack of cooperation. Now, I must insist you share with us the access code to Republican military communication frequencies.” A scoff barked from what mockery of a smile I managed to pull split, swollen lips into.

“Very well.” The Separatist sneered and turned his attention to Hunter as the towering machine stalked toward me. “And you? Just a couple words, and you could save your friend here from any additional… unpleasantries.” The Sergeant didn’t move beyond the ebb and flow of heavy breaths, knuckles gleaming from where his hands pulled uselessly at his restraints.

There was no preceding warning before the droid rammed its fist directly into the epicenter of agony bursting through my side with each shallow breath. The air fled me in a barked cry, stomach churning at the crunch of bone. My feet scraped vainly atop the stone floor, body panicked between the sharp hurt tearing through my wrists, the terrible wrongness of ribs grinding at each trembled shutter of muscle, and the fire of lungs screaming for air.

Twice more the droid struck me, the first wrapping around to hit my kidney before it swung its leg up to crack against the side of my thigh. I couldn’t even try to relieve the weight from my hands, torso seizing amidst panicking nerves, abs convulsing in some desperate fight to guard the too exposed flesh, head hanging limp to my chest as my mind raced to make sense of the wrongwrongwrong.

“Shall we try this again?” I barely heard the haughty words, belatedly managing to lift my gaze just enough to find Hunter. The entirely of his attention was locked on me, and I could see fear in those eyes. I wasn’t a clone. I wasn’t trained for this. He couldn’t anticipate my limits, and I saw the dread of that unknown, but I also knew he wouldn’t cave. I knew how it would kill him to put me through the coming torture, but still, he wouldn’t cave. So, I took that choice away from him.

“…don’t… d-don’t you dare….” The shattered words only just escaped on fluttering gasps, almost too quiet even for my own ears to catch, but he heard me. I was certain he heard me. “I can… I…” My diaphragm seized, body wilting beneath each desperate attempt to force air into my lungs. Unfazed, the droid drove its fist into my stomach once more, slamming my back against the durasteel bricks behind me. Chest convulsing in a futile plea for breath, I struggled to exist beyond the burning suffocation, the relentless sensation of warmth slipping down my arms and chin, the sharp taste of iron… Even as darkness threatened the edges of my vision, loathing the way the room spun and stretched out before me, I sought those umber eyes, intent on willing the words I hadn’t managed to say into the look shared between us.

When that metal fist stuck my jaw, I couldn’t bring myself to do more than just keep my eyes open, blindly staring into the swirling shadows. I think Hunter was shouting - vaguely recognized curses that would have made Crosshair smirk. Wait… Hunter shouldn’t be saying anything at all… I vaguely remembered that little tidbit – it’s easier to keep from giving in during an interrogation if you keep perfectly silent. Even shouting insults opens the potential to accidentally yield. Hunter wouldn’t be that sloppy… He was shouting for a reason. My lips twisted into a grin, the faintest wheeze just managing to grind down my throat. His brothers were close.

My vision went white, mind replaying the deafening, wet thud over and over before finally registering the pain swelling into a dense ball near my left eye. Ringing. Spinning.

“Tell me the codes.” Pressure… my thigh… locking around where that damn droid kicked me. I vaguely felt my body jerk, but that hold only tightened. A choked whimper caught in my throat. Tighter. “The codes.” My other leg dragged against the floor. Tighter.

“You kriffing coward! I’m the one with the karking codes! Let them go!” Panic drew me back from the fringes of unconsciousness. Run. Run. Run. Couldn’t see, wide eyes blinded by the hurt and fear as my body strained against that relentless grip. Tighter. Already broken gasps grew frantic, escaping in fleeting grunts of pain. Every cell screamed at me to do something, limbs lashing out for anything that might grant me some hope of escape, writhing violently.

I didn’t hear the raw cry tear from my throat. I barely even felt the molten heat shooting up the limb in rhythmic bursts. It was the sound that consumed me. That deafening crunch. It reverberated through my body on repeat. Again. And again. And again. Marking a lapse in time, some terrible disconnect between my mind and reality.

Muted. From across some great distance, I felt the concussion of an explosive, saw the door blow inward several feet as the pale blue chagrian spun around with terror in his eyes; heard the whir of gears as the B2 crumbled beneath a volley of blasterfire just as it began to turn.

“I’m fine, dammit! Help Doc!” The fury in Hunter’s shouted words drew my gaze lazily toward him, body falling, sinking, fading…

“…-ake. Come on, Doc; need you to stay with us.” Something cool… my cheek… I think someone was touching me. I tried to find them; vaguely certain I was able to make out the deep concern in Echo’s pale face seconds before a pressure send sharp pain pouring through my side. I was barely able to flinch, some choked huff of a whimper fleeing me in staggered gasps.

“-ribs, and I presume that femur as well.” That meticulous, calculating tone was a strange comfort despite my inability to gather enough strength to search for the brilliant pilot amidst the distorted shadows. “I’ll need to split the leg before we can retreat.”

“Where’s Wrecker?” Hunter… I felt myself fading, existing only in the echo of their rushed voices.

“Clearing a path to the surface for us.” The arc answered. I think he moved away from me, vaguely aware that I couldn’t feel the ever-present chill of his hand against my cheek anymore. A moan caught in my throat as something shifted ever so gently against my thigh, but, when that touch suddenly constricted, locking the limb straight with a merciless swiftness, I could make no sound beyond the faintest wheeze, muscles seizing throughout my body before finally collapsing into weak, shallow sobs.

“Okay, we can open these restraints, now.” Tech stated, voice stiff. I didn’t see who retrieved the key from the chagrian’s corpse, couldn’t remember even seeing how the man had died, but, when that sharp metal pulled away from the broken flesh, it rekindled a hurt nearly forgotten amidst the overwhelming agony of my leg, my ribs, the throbbing heat of my face…

Sporadic fits left my arms twitching as someone carefully guided them down to my sides, and my back arched against the hurt grinding through my shoulders. I couldn’t keep track of each touch, barely aware of several hands supporting me until I lay trembling on the stone floor.

“There is little we can do for their ribs without the proper equipment.” Tech warned, words floating meaninglessly overhead.

“If we move them like this…” Hunter started to argue.

“Better than staying here.” Cross… I hadn’t realized he was with them until hearing the reluctance in his voice.

“Alright… Echo, keep that leg stable.” Something shuffled beside me.

“Doc? Hey-hey; come on back.” Something brushed gently through my hair, dragging my attention reluctantly into some tattered facsimile of focus. “Gotta get you out of here.” Hunter… I was certain the blurred figure looming over me was Hunter. “I know it hurts, but I need you to try to stay awake, okay?” Words… what was he saying? The tender movement against my scalp was a blissful comfort when everything else hurt so much. That touch slipped down the back of my head, my neck until his arm eased itself beneath my shoulders, wrenching a small gasp of pain from me as the movement shifted my side.

“I know… I know, but we have to move.” He murmured, easing me further up against his chest. My hand darted out, fingers clawing weakly at the sleek fabric of his blacks, unable to gather enough strength to do more than tremble against him, broken whimpers catching on faltering breaths. His other hand slipped beneath my knees, and I turned into him, face hiding against his neck at the realization of what was happening.

My throat closed around the beginnings of a scream as he stood, Echo’s hand carefully steadying my leg with a firm grip just above my knee. In the same motion, Hunter leaned back, letting my weight rest atop his chest more so that in his arms. What sliver of relief it granted from easing the pressure away from that ruined thigh barely registered, body revolting against still panicking nerves and the agony that position sowed through my ribs.

He didn’t wait for me to settle, gait smooth despite the speed of his movements. Through some distorted mockery of consciousness, I saw Crosshair running beside us, rifle strangely mute even as bloom of fire shot from the long barrel. Couldn’t breathe. Tech fell in behind us, while Echo moved to take point. Some whisper of logic told me I should be afraid. The massive silhouette of Wrecker loomed ahead of us, arms swinging to direct us through the maze of hallways. I felt my chest try to move but couldn’t draw even a whisper of air into lungs crushed beneath uncooperative ribs, and I knew I should be afraid. Hunter’s gait faltered, and I thought for a moment I heard my name.

Something warm whispered over my face. Sunlight. He was screaming. I could feel the vibrations in his chest. My side didn’t hurt as badly anymore; my leg barely a distant annoyance as I eased into the comfort of his strength, the subtle earthiness of his scent. If I focused, I could just feel the thudding of his heart. It was quick, but it was familiar. I just had to focus on that… Not the chorus of panicked shouting, nor that lingering sense that something was terribly wrong… just listen to that gentle th-thud…th-thud…

“Doc?” I didn’t want to answer him, didn’t want to fight the terrible heaviness of my eyelids, but I couldn’t stand the depth of worry in that voice. I couldn’t convince my left eye to move, but I just managed to crack the right, frowning weakly at the blurred colors and gleaming lights. Almost instantly, that light dimmed, and a tiny sigh of relief fluttered over swollen lips. Slowly, I noted the short-kept mess of silver curls… couldn’t make out anything more, but I didn’t need to.

“C… Cr”

“Shh.” Hearing that gentle hush in his raspy voice was nearly enough to ease me back into a blessed sleep. I didn’t want to sleep yet. I wanted to rid him of that worry, but it took every fleeting whisper of strength I had to keep that eye from slipping closed once more. “You took a pretty bad beating. Do you remember what happened?” I thought over his words for a long while, chasing flitting thoughts in some futile hunt to answer him. My head just shifted in a nod. I remembered the hidden base, being captured with Hunter… the droid. Brows pulling together in a weak cringe at the very memory of it, I had to fight not to let my attention wander to those injuries, vainly straining against the urge to tense even a single muscle to test the validity of that fear.

“Yeah.” He sighed. Something moved between us, paused in a moment of hesitation before finally reaching forward. The tenderness of his touch, fingertips only just whispering atop my hair nearly ruined me, shuttered breath escaping me as my eye closed in contentment. Encouraged, he carefully let his palm rest against me, thumb sweeping slowly against the balmy skin of my forehead.

“We’ll be back at Kamino soon.” He murmured before letting some of that familiar venom return to his voice. “You’re supposed to be our medic. Not much good to us if you keep trying to get yourself killed.” I could feel myself beginning to fade, but managed to look for him once more, just finding that brilliant flush of amber, and he stilled beneath my gaze. I wanted to tell him that I’d suffer through this and so much more if it meant keeping them safe, but the thought barely whispered through my mind before falling back into the emptiness of sleep.

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senka-mesecine · 20 days

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Girl gimme a ficlet about Bobby (Barnes 🩷) not being able to sleep after receiving a letter from a girl he left at home ages ago, finding him and checking up on him 💌 😩

love ya,✌🏻 thanks if you do this 😘

Bobby.

Robert Barnes x (Indirect) Reader.

@woman-with-no-name

Suck up O'Neill brought him a letter that morning with the words 'Heya, Bob. Thinkin’ this is for you.’ and twelve hours later, the envelope was still precisely where Barnes left it. That was the way of things.

Next to the poker stack.

In the company of Budweiser cans and emptied ashtrays.

People just didn’t have the habit of touching his things. Didn’t have the balls, more like. So, he could put stuff exactly where he wanted to put them and expect to find them there, not even an inch moved, however many hours or even days later. Was a little test he tended to conduct and the result was always the same. Things intended for him remained where he wanted them to remain and he supposed why he put off reading this particular bit of correspondence was precisely due to who and where it was coming from. Letters made Barnes comfortable, that was the truth of it. He could admit that to himself, couldn’t he? Nobody would hear him in his own head, now would they? Not that he’d ever say it or even talk about the subject but in these four years, the only mail he’d receive was the allotted provisional parcel every limpdick in this platoon got by default. Waterproof matches and cigarettes. Reminders that the outside world existed as such — it tended to give him a whiplash he’d rather cut down by the root so it would cease growing especially when the letters were from you. He recognized the address in an instant, just by throwing a careless glance at it. After all, a no-name hill hamlet former mining settlement not appearing on a map had only two houses. One he grew up in and another, the neighbor’s family down the dirt road. He thought how you’d have to find a way to travel out to Cottage Grove thirty two miles down the nearest highway just to send this fucker.

And now, ten thousand miles away on the other side of the world, he was putin’ off readin’ it. You sack of shit, he thinks, to himself, about himself, biting the bullet, tearing up the envelope, using a knife to cut the glued in paper open.

Read it and get it over with.

‘Bobby.’

The first introductory word hits him like a speeding train and something coils up inside of him.

When was the last time he was called that? Childhood?

Seemingly, in a time that bypassed memory or reason by now.

‘I know you don’t like letters much but I’m of the firm opinion everyone should receive nice words from home every once in a while and I know that approximately a few weeks from now, if everything goes well, you’ll be holding this in your hands and the thought makes me happy because it’ll be like a hug or a long overdue ‘hello’; touching across distances through a piece of paper I had in my hand and that you have in your hand right now seeing as how the biggest event this tiny neighborhood has had in years, maybe even decades, was the day you were deployed and the biggest event is the hope you’ll be tired of fighting and come back. Nothing’s happened since. Not much happens here ever. Life moves slowly. Except thoughts of you. We grew up together, fence against fence, roof against roof, so I’m allowed to say that. You’re missed out here, Robert. Do you know that?’

Barnes looks away, just about ready to crumple up the damn thing and stop reading, paused in his intent perhaps only by the passage about touch and the thought of your fingers holding the pen, the imaginary phantom of your presence lingering like a shadow and he envisions you there, squeezing your hand. Sap. You were always a sap. What were you doing, waitin’ around for him, not living your own damn life? He was tempted to take to the paper himself, feeling like some sort of snot nosed brat wasting time on civilian correspondence, just so he could write you a scathing reply that orders you to move on with yourself and quit deluding yourself. Find a man, he thinks only for the notion to immediately perish once he feels his jaw tighten and he concludes that no — no, the thought of that didn’t feel good at all. Not as effective of a retort as he felt it would've been. You were never a walkin’ back home like a couple, you were just the neighbor’s kid and not much else, but something about you being given away to someone felt like giving away his gun and the last bullet in it. Naked. Stripped. Disarmed.

Jealousy.

Felt like jealousy. Cold and murderous.

He places his arm as a rest under his head instead of a pillow so it would tempt him away from grabbing a nearby bottle and chugging it dry. He keeps reading, fingers squeezing the paper so hard he leaves dents behind. Angry at you, both for waiting around and at the very idea you'd be with someone else. Why he didn't like letters. Precisely for this reason. Did something to his insides.

‘We heard you were wounded a couple of times in combat but as you never write us, we worry. We worry constantly. More so when you kept re-enlisting and extending your contract. I don’t begrudge the lack of letters. I can’t imagine it’s easy writing out there. Can’t imagine a person has the tremendous desire to. It’s a different world; different habits emerge. So I wrote you instead to let you know that I know. I know why pictures don’t ever arrive either. I want you to understand I don’t mind and it changes nothing for me. What kind of friend would I be if it bothered me? I care about you. I love you. I think I always have. Ever since we were kids. That’s so much easier to confess in written words than it is in person although I think I’ll be swallowed up by the floor while just holding the pen. Funny how that works. Getting second hand embarrassment like this. Everything feels so formal and grand in a letter, yet so far away and distant, like writing an imaginary someone. That’s how long I haven’t seen you. Seems a lifetime and a half.’

In a sudden flash of unease, Barnes touches his own face, the scarred part, feeling himself, somehow self conscious even though he was down in the foxhole all by himself, laying down on mattress away from sight, in the shade. In his mind's eye, though, your eyes are right there, so kind he could blind himself purely not to look at them looking at him. Yeah, so? You heard about how many times he was shot? Heard about this face? Heard about how many stitches they needed to pull him back together? What now? Want a medal for it too? He sits up from his bunk, angry, angry at everything and not even sure at what exactly out of the whole goddamn bunch, and then it hits him; he was angry at your acceptance because it was like a limp, soft thing that he could crush in his hand and not even blink. He remembers you as a child. You were sweet then too. The same now as well. The world hasn't changed you. Ruined you in any way. Which is precisely why you should never write here again if you knew what was good for you.

The final lines of the letter traced by his thumb get lost under his touch.

He loathes admitting he wishes there was more.

About anything. Any topic at all.

The weather, how it affected you and whether the crops were good this year.

How many inches you've grown since he's last seen you, if at all.

‘But, Robert — You don’t have to respond, even now. Toss this into a fire once you’re done. Tear it up. Step and spit on it. Just understand that there’s always a home to come back to. And someone who’d receive you with open arms once you do. That’s the point of all of this, ultimately. That you’re so very dear to me.’ With all the love in the world — your cherished friend.

Your words come to an end and all he's faced is a momentary blank, thinking about that concept, there always being a home to come back to, that he was, what'd you say, dear to you? Dear to you. Dear. Dear. He measures to word carefully, testing it, scrutinizing it, head falling back until he's looking up at the earthy ceiling held up by wooden pillars. He wasn't clueless. He knew there was a place to go back to in the technical sense. Walls. A roof. Windows. A patch of soil. But, the thought you were actually waiting? That you loved him? He wanted so badly to label you as stupid, a time-waster, idle and someone throwing away actual years and for what, finding he couldn't do it. Yeah, he loved you too. Just thought you'd wisen up and move on so he could be relieved for once. Relieved that you'd cease holding out and suffering. Unwittingly, perhaps for the first time in years, he imagines himself being there. He sits down at the same dining table as you and the world's suddenly worth a damn again. He folds up the letter, neatly, slowly, and tucks it into the first pocket he can feel up once he hears footsteps, turning eyes towards the root of the sound.

Red.

-"Hey there, Sargerooney? Letter, huh?"-

O'Neill bumbles, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth, seeming fidgety and nervous, like he was expecting praise for a job well done but Barnes almost finds he can't be profoundly pissed off at the guy. Not today. Maybe some other time, just not exactly now. Feeling, perhaps, internally grateful. For bringing him this. Bringing him you. Having the good sense not to touch you. Open you up. He says nothing in response, humming, at best, as a retort, deciding to give Red a good, hard stare instead. He felt that was more than sufficient, still pondering you and reaching out across that table where you'd write your letter to hold your hand. The hills of East Tennessee are frozen and as cold as a dog's bone in his mind, cooling off the searing humidity of the jungle; the war's over and he stays there with you in a snowfall that never ends, cutting off all roads to everywhere and anywhere. It's you and him. Nobody else in the mist. Barnes doesn't sleep that night by choice, hand pressed over the pocket containing your torn envelope. You're right there, sleepin' with him.

Tomorrow, he decides he'll go back to reality.

#platoon #platoon 1986 #robert barnes #bob barnes #bob barnes x reader #robert barnes x reader #platoon imagine #platoon imagines #robert barnes imagine #robert barnes imagines #bob barnes imagines #robert barnes headcanon #robert barnes headcanons #bob barnes headcanons #bob barnes headcanon

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noodyl-blasstal · 10 months

Text

Maff Guy

It's @taznovembercelebration day 22 and we're still on the train, baby! Today's prompt was "fix it" and this happened. I think it's prime for the expanding at some point though?

Read below or on Ao3, catch yesterday's here if you missed it!

Maff Tutor Wanted

That definitely wasn’t on the notice board last night when Kravitz was closing. The request was polite though, kindly worded, enough to make Kravitz believe that “Taako” really did want some help. Kravitz snags the poster, he’s not going to reduce his chances by letting anyone else apply. What was another job to add to his collection? Orchestra did not pay as well as people seemed to think - especially in the season break that Gerald insisted they have because when else was he going to visit the second house his family bought him as a treat for graduating. Not that Kravitz was bitter. No no, it’s fine. It’s even more fine that Gerald got all the solos because his parents were very generous with their donations. Totally and completely fine.

Kravitz carefully adds the number to his phone and forgets about it until break time when the poster falls out of his bag as he attempts to wrestle his reading out. His manager had banned him from reading at the register, even when the place was empty.

Kravitz [10:32] Dear Taako, Are you still looking for a maths tutor? My name is Kravitz and I would be willing to work with you on your math ability. Kind regards, Kravitz.

Kravitz is face first in a paragraph about orchestral arrangements which seems to be trying its best to be as incomprehensible as possible when his phone buzzes.

Taako - Maths Tutoring [10:48] That’s what it’s called here? When can you start?

Kravitz reads it again, just in case he’s missing something, but nope. What the fuck do they call it anywhere else? Oh… Unless it’s the math/maths thing?

Kravitz [10:49] Dear Taako, Thank you for getting in touch. I’m free Thursday evenings between 7am and 9pm, Fridays 10am to 3pm, and Sundays any time. Would any of these slots be suitable for you? Kind regards, Kravitz

He’s rereading the paragraph for the four(…teenth?) time when Taako replies again.

Taako - Maths Tutoring [10:58] Taako’ll take all of the above.

All of them? Kravitz does some quick mental maths (to warm up for the tutoring) the wage on the poster times all of those hours is many many of money. So many of money he might be able to jack in the survey job. He loathes having to con people into filling out their personal details on the stupid little tablet computer for a ‘chance to win’. He especially hates that they’ve started using GPS to make sure he’s ‘on the move’ i.e. not holed up in the toilets making up answers for a variety of fake people he’s busy inventing… in his defence, it was very rainy. Taako might be a murderer, but there’s not really a way to ask that that won’t lose him the job. Taako’s also probably not going to reply with yes I super duper am, swing by at 7 and give him a heads up on said murdering. He’ll give it a go, then decide whether to quit the Pulse of Neverwinter role or not.

Kravitz [10:59] Dear Taako, Okay, shall we meet at the library? We can start tomorrow. Kind regards, Kravitz.

He rehouses everything in his bag and makes it back to the counter before Jenkins can yell at him for going over his allotted break time. When he’s allowed his 15 minutes for lunch (Jenkins’ break schedule is bordering on sadistic) there’s one final text waiting for him.

Taako - Maths Tutoring [11:02] CU there.

Kravitz stands nervously in front of the library. He’s swiftly realising that describing himself or setting a meeting point other than ‘the massive fuck off library’ may have been helpful.

“KravitzSaysWhat” Says a voice from behind him.

“Wuah!” Kravitz jumps and spins to look at the speaker.

“Well that’s no fun, you’re supposed to say what.” The man, the very handsome man, stood behind Kravitz pouts adorably.

“What?”

“Better late than never.” The man smiles wide and wild. He has a gap between his front teeth and what looks like days old eyeliner under his eyes. Kravitz thinks he might be the most most handsome man he’s ever seen. “The handle’s Taako, I believe you’re maff guy?”

“I… uh.” Kravitz says intelligently, tutor-ily, super responsible trust me with your education-ily. In his defence, he didn’t expect to have to use his being-normal-around-hot-guys brain alongside his thinking-brain today. “Oi oi, pleased to meet you.”

Oh good.

Fucking perfect.

He’s cockney now apparently. He truly thought he was past the anxious accent. Shit.

“Ooooh, a man with an accent, Taako loves it. So, shall we get down to it?” Taako gives him a slow once over and Kravitz wonders if they’re still talking about the tutoring. Honestly, Taako could teach him anything any time, he’d listen. Maybe they could take turns?

“Sounds good to me.” He remembers the accent, thank the lady. “I booked a study room.”

Taako tilts his head and frowns at Kravitz. “You’re not a murderer right? If you are and you don’t tell me it’s entrapment.”

“No.” Says Kravitz. “But that’s probably what a murderer would say… Are you one? I wanted to ask, but just picked a public place as I thought you’d probably lie if you were.”

“Cool.” Taako shrugs and doesn’t say anything about his murderous intent or lack thereof. “My sister made me ask.”

“Do you need to tell her you checked?”

Taako scoffs. “Already did, handsome.”

He’s walking away before Kravitz can decide whether he’s more interested in the fact Taako definitely didn’t text his sister during their conversation or being called handsome by him. Apart from he can, and it’s the latter, even though it probably shouldn’t be. Kravitz sets his shoulders back, stands tall, and follows behind. Handsome! Taako thinks he’s handsome.

–

“Okay, so I’m gonna level with you. Cha’boy gave up learning maff like mmmm, 50 years ago, it kept being different and I was just passing through, but now cha’boy’s staying put there’s no escaping it. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Kravitz is baffled. Those are definitely all words he knows, but they sure aren’t in an order he can comprehend.

“So now that you’ve decided to stay here…” Kravitz pauses, hoping Taako may decide to fill in a blank for him here.

“You forgot about your accent.”

“I mean…” Kravitz tries in his very Cockney twang.

“Nope!” Taako cuts him off. “Too late. You can tell me all about why you decided to do that later, but right now, Taako needs to know how to add shit because he keeps fucking up in shops and apparently my sister and brother in law decided to fall in love with a place that has taxes.” Taako glares at the concept of taxes which is apparently currently inhabiting the corner of the room.

“Okay. Where would you like to start?”

“Just gimme everything. You don’t need to know baby speed, I know gangals.”

“I’m sorry, you know what now?”

“Nevermind, let’s build it from the ground up. I bet you’d construct some lovely foundations.” Taako’s eyes linger on Kravitz’s mouth.

Kravitz has no idea what the double entendre is entendre-ing at, but he’s a big fan of whatever is happening right now.

“Are you familiar with the Arabic numerals, like 1-10?” Kravitz asks. There’s something he’d like to be familiar with, but it’s not number based.

“I can think of something I’d like to be familiar with.” Taako has no shame, he doesn’t even look vaguely embarrassed.

Kravitz ploughs on valiantly… he can think of something else he’d like to plough. Oh shit. No. This was bad teaching. Could you get fired for impure thoughts? “Maybe if you write here the numbering system you’re used to we can work from there?”

“Whatever you say, kemosabe.” Taako takes the pen from his hand and begins scribbling. A few minutes later the page is full of incomprehensible squiggles and a number 5.

Kravitz points to it happily. “I know that one.”

“Everywhere does, it’s the one thing that never changes. Taako doesn’t count on much, but he can always count on five.” Taako laughs then, like he’s just told a great joke, like he’s the funniest man alive.

Kravitz laughs too. Taako can be whatever he wants to be.

An hour and a half later and Taako’s got the hang of the numbers. He knew most of them, it was just the order that was tripping him up. Kravitz is almost disappointed when he realises they’re at a natural stopping point.

“So, you said all of Sunday was free… Wanna come see my ship? Taako’ll cook you dinner as a thank you for the numbers.”

Kravitz should say that it’s fine, he should say he doesn’t go to clients’ houses, he should say that Taako doesn’t need to pay him back for anything because he’s literally paying him.

“You live on a house boat?”

Taako cocks his head and looks at Kravitz for a moment, then smiles. “That sure is a thing you can call it.”

Hope you enjoyed! Wanna read more? You can find the next prompt here.

#Just a normal guy who needs to learn all of maths quickly please and thank you #(Guess who's relistening to the finale at the moment?)#taz nc #taz november celebration #Noodyl Writes #Taakitz

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ebaylee422 · 1 year

Text

Chapter Two: The Trick of Trade

The Emerald Prince and his Sapphire Princess

Aemond X Targ!Reader

Authors Note: sorry this took forever I'm in school rn for the first time since graduating in 2020 and I needed some time. Also I will be spiffing up my blog a bit in the next couple of days to my liking and for it to be more organized.

Summary: Only so much can prepare Lyssa for the weight of her lineage cascading onto her shoulders. The least she can do is protect her cousins from Aegon's bullying, ingrained by his shrew mother Queen Alicent. Not the woman Lyssa once knew, instead she'll look to Rhaenyra and others for those more human connections.

Word Count: 4.5k

Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3

I woke up to the noise of shifting fabrics beyond the cocoon of blankets I had created after yesterday's excitement. The sun glowing through the open balcony my lady-in-waiting Maygen would always open. waking me for the day. It would allow the air to run through my room slowly coaxing my body out of sleep.

“Morning, Princess. I have set out your training leathers, Ser Harwin has asked for your lesson to be prompt after breakfast. Since you did not eat supper yesterday I’ve sent for your breakfast to be brought here.” Maygen couldn’t be older than my cousin, she was soft from the thick curls pulled back by strong cloth. To the supple nature of her voice when she spoke from her soft tanned skin and wine color lips. I sometimes envied her escape, as well her duties were simplistic in nature as she was only to keep me company, dressed and fed. Maygen would inform me of the delights of the market beyond the keep, and I would tell her the sights and wonders I experienced on dragonback. She’d become more of a friend and comfort than just a serving girl.

“Thank you, Maygen. I suppose no one else is within the dining hall this morning either?” She stopped in her fussing, folding and organizing the papers I’d left amuck on top of my table. She sighed, giving me enough when her shoulders dropped.

“I do not believe it to be your fault Princess. Family is a sensitive structure, I can’t hardly imagine, having the future of the realm on your shoulders as well.” A knock interrupted her, she moved to the doors of my chambers to answer. Hushed whispers were allotted until the door closed once again, Maygen entering with a tray of food.

“I’m starved.” I said as my gaze fell to a rolled paper sealed in red that peaked out of the side of the plate. “What is that?” I sat up completely taking it off the tray, resting my back against the headboard.

“It is from Pentos, Princess.” I opened the letter to find Laena’s penmanship beyond, she must have sent it days ago.

Dearest Lyssa,

I write to you to ask for your presence in Pentos as we prepare for the birth of my child. If the Kings allow, since Rhaenyra cannot travel for her soon birth as well. I wish to have family by my side, as Baela and Rhaena were so sickly after their birth. We miss you greatly, Baela and Rhaena learn our ancestral tongue from my mine and your father. They are greatly excelling. I hope your study of Maegor may shape your knowledge of our past, so that we may not repeat our mistakes. Soon you will learn of King Jaeherys and your namesake Queen Alysanne. How your parents were betrothed by her wishes, and my mother was passed by for rule of The Seven Kingdoms. I would love to tell you about our family if you decide to join us in Pentos, I will even take you to the street markets here if you wish. Daemon may not say it out loud but I know he misses you and his brother deeply, it is only stubbornness that keeps us here. That and the endless library hall he spends his days and nights in. We hope to follow your reply soon, my love.

Until we see each other, gratefully yours Laena.

I rolled the paper up again when there was a brash knock at my door. Maygen going to answer this time she bows deeply, moving aside as I see someone enter around the corner. “Prince Aemond, my lady.” she called to warn, as he appeared hastily at the foot of my bed. I pulled on my sheets to cover my modesty at his brazen entrance. He held a parcel in his hand, my notebook piled underneath. It must have fallen out of my dress pocket when in the Dragon Pit yesterday.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Aemond says averting his gaze from mine to look out of my balcony open wide. “Are you not cold?”

“No, my Prince.” We did not say a word as he looked about my chamber's. It was uncomfortably silent, he brushed his hair out of his eyes when his mouth opened and closed. Like a fish gasping for breath, now resting to stare at the lumps of my feet underneath the blankets.

“My mother wished me to bring you a salve for your wrists. You also dropped your book in the caves yesterday, I wanted to return it.” He turned, setting both on my vanity, Maygen had set my robe on the edge of the bed, I climbed out of my plush covers to wrap it around myself. Unbenounced to me Aemond watched my movements within the mirror,

“Did you read it?”

“No, I did not have the time with my father berating me for my foolish nativity.” He chuckled without humor, examining the various pins, jewelry and perfumes cluttered on the surface.

“You are foolish,” I tell him with little sympathy titling my head in concern, the fear still bubbled within my nerves. “but the others are cruel. Will you be in yards today?” I ask taking a brush off my vanity, holding my hand out for him to sit. In front of me on the stool, we typically do this after breakfast in the hall. Aemond hated the unruly nature of his hair, white like his Targaryen father but as thick as Alicents auburn ringlets. He preferred to keep it out of his eyes, rolling them with a sigh, he slumped in front of me, hands upon his knees.

“My father wished me to put the whole ordeal behind us,” As he spoke I brushed his hair back, untangling knots he’d not taken care of when washing.

“You are their senior, your nephews. And Aegon is your brother.”

“Don’t remind me, if it weren’t for our Targaryen features he may only be a street rat.”

“ ‘Mon.” I scold softly, looking for a leather tie behind his head. “Why did you go into the caves?”

“You know why.” He stated deadpan, his eyes looking at the intricate beading along my robe. “You have two dragon’s Lyssa. As my egg lays dormant. It’s not fair-”

“You are a boy. As I was born the first daughter of a man who does not want me. Many things aren’t.” Aemond holds my wrist, stopping the brush within his locks.

“I am a second son, the second son out of four children. Even my little brother was sent to Old Town as a cupbearer. My purpose isn’t known.”

“Then find it yourself.” I say, tying the top half of his hair back out of his violet eyea, walking around him to lay the brush on top of the vanity.

“When you laid claim to Silverwing, what did you do?”

“I saw her on a hill above the caverns of the Dragonmount, her and Vermithor. He took off, she stayed. Unfurling her wings in protest of me standing next to her, yet as soon as my hand touched her scales she yielded and yearned for my touch. Leaving her mate Vermithor to grant me a taste of the skies.”

“While the egg your father picked hatched in the Dragon Pit.” Aemond's voice was chilling as he spoke.

“Yes. I wish everyday that Bronze Tail would have rejected me so you may have a claim of a young dragon Aemond. It is not what the Gods wished-”

“The Gods?” Aemond stands from his seat, pinning me between him and the vanity. Despite being a few inches shorter his demeanor radiates power enough to topple empires. “They continue to test my patience, just as the rest of you do. Wishes and Fantasy will not make me a man.”

“No. It won’t.” I halt his thoughts, puffing my chest to his challenge “You do not scare me Aemond, just like the rest of them you are a mere boy. Yet if you let this anger fester any longer it will consume your heart and mind. Even without a Dragon you might become a man but you will never be one. Good or Bad.” Aemond’s brow creases in doubt, his anger exiting his shaking form like a snuffed out candle.

“Ñuha mind jorrāelagon naejot sagon kostōba than ñuha prūmia.”

My mind needs to be stronger than my heart.

He whispers.

“Iā kostōba mind emā, kostā borrow ñuha prūmia. Syt sir”

A strong mind you have, you may borrow my heart. For now.

I run my hand along his arm, the contact sending a shiver through my spine. His eyes finally meeting mine again are filled with the untapped kindness he keeps buried away for Helaena, Alicent, and I.

“I will meet you in the training yards, ñuha prūmia.”

My heart.

Taking my hand in his, pressing his chapped lips to the first knuckles without breaking his eyes from mine. My head spins, floating in the space like the foam a top a freshly poured cup of mead. Turning on his heel, Aemond leaves out the door he came in, hair tucked back so he may wear his Gambeson comfortability. Aemond wears the opposite color to me, Hightower Green with a three-headed dragon as our shared crest. While his mind is clouded with similar envy, I bleed red for the hope of our shared devotion. Today, however, I will wear the bronze leather of my mother. Aemond's words ring like a melody through my head until I reach the yards. Forgoing everything left in my room but some roasted pheasant with a jug of water for my breakfast.

My heart

ñuha prūmia

My shoulders ache as I push Ser Harwin away perring his blow to my left side, “You’re holding back, this is a dance. Even as a girl you need not be timid with me-”

“I’m trying!” I huff, disengaging from the open area as he shuffles towards me.

“I am five times your size and even more in strength than all the other men in King's Landing. Be angry if you must Princess, but it is true. Give me a reasonable fight.” Harwin takes my wooden sword and unsheathes his broadsword along his hip, with open palms he hands it to me. I grip the handle with one hand, and the blade sinks to the ground immediately.

“How am I to beat you if I am at every disadvantage?” I heave the sword to waist height, rocking low in my hips staying at the ready.

“Do not let your enemy see your fears, deceive me. You are smaller and faster, I am heavier on top than bottom watch for my legs. Then make your move, fast with full force.”

“You’re telling me how to defeat you, that’s cheating.” Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the crook on my elbow raised at the ready.

“Do you know why I’m called ‘Breakbones?’, Princess.” I shake my head still keeping distance as we circle each other. “Criston Cole broke my collar within his first tourney as the Queen’s Guard. I fought the rest of the day with my shoulder wrapped tight. You can do much more damage than him.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” With that, he charged to my left side again, I perried the blow, crossing our swords his strength made me bend back at the waist. I twisted the swords, ducking under him, gaining distance.

“You will never be ready, Lyssa. The world will swallow you whole-” He left his legs carelessly separated, pushing with my shoulder. I curved my body from where our blades met side stepping behind him.

"I will take it by Fire and Blood!" I yell, charging him

"You are a girl from a renowned family only." Harwin sees my open shoulder, slicing down on my sword to knock his elbow into my shoulder. I wail in pain, raising the sword again to a generous combo against my mentor. Only there isn't fear. He is laughing. Laughing at my attempts, this spurs on my rage and exhaustion.

“I am a Targaryen! The Seven Kingdoms need us, I am one of the most educated women within them.” Out of the way of his counterattack, I slice at the chains of his knees. He winces and shuffles orward.

“Is that why Prince Daemon is out adventuring Pentos?” Turning he swings the wooden sword with full force, I wait for his shoulders to drop dodging the blow as dirt flies within the air.

“My father doesn’t matter!” I scream, “I will triumph without him!” I use the weight of the sword hilt into his shoulder.

“Get angry! Look at me, and see him!” Then stepping back, dodging the swipe to my waist I bring the sword to shoulder height holding and pressing to Harwin’s uncovered side between his ribs. Out of breath he drops his weapon, pushing mine away from his side it clatters to the ground. My knees droop as Harwin stands, he holds my head against his black leathers, my shoulders cradled by his other arm in an embrace. I breathe heavily and clutch at his sides as hot tears stream down my face.

“I’m sorry-” I hiccup,

“No, I am sorry. I needed you to feel, to fight for what is yours. You won Lyssa. Even if he is not here to see it, know that I am proud of you.” Harwin holds my face in his hands, wiping the tears from my face. “No man is worth this pain, Lyssa."

"Then why does it happen?"

"I wish I knew. Believe me when i say the gods have no control of mans' cruelty. Only the punishment within the next life. I heard what happened in my absence yesterday.”

“It was nothing-”

“You saved the Prince's life, a debt he will pay you for one day.”

“It was all Aegon’s plot, he tricked his own brother. Aegon is a vile-”

“Careful Lyssa. He is also a Prince-”

“The ladies of court say that Viserys and Alicent will wed me to him after I bleed. So I may bear him pure-blood children, in line with our Targaryen traditions.” Harwin bellows so loud it echoes through the walls, “Why are you laughing? Stop laughing at me.” I spit at him, smacking him along his bicep.

“My-my that is gossip if I ever heard any, despite you’re fathers faults and your lack of a mother like myself, he would never allow such a union.” He holds his sword and collects the other practice ones scattered around us, “You have a unique place here. They wouldn’t squander your hand on the likes of the Princes. You, Lyssa, have a great opportunity here, I see a treaty being made over your hand. While other ladies sew and play instruments while you do those amicably. As well you fight, speak High Valyrian, are a Targaryen King's ward and cupbearer. This means you have heard many royal decries and are strategic. Smarter than any other young girl I’ve met.”

“Even Princess Rhaenyra?” I snicker,

“She learned from her misfortunes in all good time, as one of her confidantes. You've seen what to avoid. Rhaenyra has taught you the likes of being a mother as well.”

“I’ve never thought of it as that.”

“What I’m getting at is you are well spoken for Princess. Do not fear the future. You are beloved, and all will ensure you are well prepared for your role. Come now, we may catch the last of the Princes training. As I need my sword polished because of your heavy hands.” Walking into the true training yard of the Keep, Aegon and Aemond stand in Hightower green their wooden swords raised slicing at straw dummies behind Jace and Lucerys. Rhaenyra’s children wear Targaryen red and black.

“Aegon,” Cole speaks from across the yard, approaching the distracted Prince.

“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston. My opponent sues for mercy.”

“Well, you’ll have a new opponent then My Lord of the Straw. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.” He tells Aegon, who is laughing smugly at the idea. Not before spotting Ser Harwin and I beyond, he blows a kiss in my direction. I grimace as the Velyron sons walk towards us to watch. Viserys and Lyonel Strong on the balcony watch the training yard from above. He waves after a heap slug of whatever the Maesters put in his flask. At attention, the three fights, Jace and Luke , are pushed to the sidelines, forced to observe only and learn something from it.

“Ah. Weapons up, boys. Give your enemies no quarter.” Harwin breaks our silence as Criston eyes closer, Harwin puffs his shoulders maintaining eye contact. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention… Ser Criston.”

“You question my method of instruction as you teach girls, ser?” Criston yells a good distance across the yard.

“Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupil, before long the Princess shall overcome all the men in her family. Your best and brightest shall crumble beneath her steel.”

“Ser Harwin…” I warn, pink of face at the praise.

“Pfft. Very well. Jacerys come here.” Criston grabs Jace at his collar pulling him into the center, “You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”

“It’s hardly a fair match.”

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect. Blades up. Engage.” Aegon charges Jace, pushing him to the ground, turning to laugh at his embarrassment. Jace follows Aegon angry, shoving him backwards enough that Aegon cowares behind a straw dummy pushing it into Jace.

“Foul play-” Harwin says grabbing Jace away from a impending strike,

“I’ll deal with him.” Criston whispers to Aegon. Each mentor speaking to their match while I stay at the side holding Harwins sword.

“You!” Aegon yells charging for Jace

“Close with him.” Criston hollers at Aegon as the young Prince pushes Jace backwards. “Press him backward!”

“Close with him.”

“Stay on the attack,”

“Use your feet.”

“Don’t let him get up.” Harwin watches silently as Aegon continues to hit Jace with full force, I drop the sword in favor of taking Lukes. Running to Jace, blocking the blow to his head with my sword and pushing Aegon back.

“Foul play!” I grit through me teeth standing at attention,

“Stay on the attack!” Criston yells from behind Aegon, Aegon raises his sword up to swing at mine.

“Enough!” Harwin grabs Aegon before he can land a blow on my sword.

“You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screams, thrashing against Ser harwins strong grip.

“Aegon!” Viserys speaks from the balcony

“You forget yourself, Strong. That is the Prince.”

“Jacaerys is the future King by birthright!” I yell at Criston, sword still charged within my grasp.

“The battlefield is no place for a woman-” Criston charges to where I stand, taking my sword brashly, gripping my arm in protest, trying to control my movements. His touch feels hollow, hands clammy to the bare son of my hurt wrist. I grind my teeth in order to not show the effect he is having on the tender area.

“Tell that to my ancestors, my mother-” I hissed through a dragon’s tongue, stepping forward to meet his eye. His eyes widen as they gaze into mine. True fear fogs them until Harwin interrupts. He is walking the grounds, picking up the toy swords.

“This is what you teach Cole? Cruelty… to the weaker opponent?” Criston drops my toy sword on the ground Harwin kicks it away. Turning to sneer at the Commanders back, plotting and following. I dust Jacaerys off checking the blisters of his hands while the two men continue their battle of wits, for the King's audience.

“Your interest in the Princelings training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion towards a cousin… or a brother. Or a son.” Harwin moves before any can react to Ser Criston being punched into the ground. It takes four Kingsguard to pull Harwin far enough away to stop any more damage.

“Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin screams as the King's Guard pulls him farther away, Criston spits a tooth with a mouthful of blood onto the dirt ground beside his head. While others gather around us in the courtyard, Ser Lyonel Strong has been dismissed for his duties as the newest Kings Guard is escorting his grace back to his chamber. Servants gather the Princes away for their studies, and I slip away to mine.

“This remains a Tully problem” Alicents tells the small counsel as take my second pass with the wine pitcher.

“I would agree.” Viserys says hand cutting over his goblet before I can fill it further, his head sags in exertion.

“If we may move on, my lords-” Tyland Lanninster the replacement to my great uncle Corlys Velaryon as Lord of the Tides while he is absent.

“And yet, the Brackens and the Blackwoods will use any excuse to spill each other’s blood. So… this dispute bears looking into. There will be countryfolk who know where the lines have been drawn for generations.” Rheanyra tells the council playing with the glazed stone in front of her.

“That is easy enough.” Lyonel Strong agrees, with the ease of resources it would take from the capital.

“Of course.” Alicent scoffs, draining her cup. I fill her cup and she rolls her eyes to me as well. I know it is only meant in frustration to fit in her position.

“Ser Tyland.” Lyonel clears his throat,

“Uh, we should address the latest developments in the Stepstones, my lords.” The lion motions for me to fill his cup.

“Will we ever be shut of that blasted place?” Alicent rings her hands, fiddling with the rings among them.

“If you ask me, I think the Blackwoods have the upper hand.” Lord Beesbury announced from a dazed position.

“No.”

“We’ve moved on to the Stepstones, Lord Beesbury.” Maester Orwyle patted the old man’s hand, the only one of the counsel who was left from King Jaehaerys reign.

“And the Triarchy’s new alliance with Dorne.”

“I was hoping our negotiations with Sunspear might persuade them to see reason. To trust a Martell is to be disappointed.”

“Perhaps your Grace but I wish to bring forward our other option we spoke of previously. The lady herself has been awaiting this moment, this may be our last shot of redemption for the Martells.”

“The Marriage?” Alicent's brows cross,

“Marriage? There’s to be a wedding in Dorne?”

“This was merely an idea spoken over supper Ser Tyland, we have Princess Alysanne’s hand in marriage to discuss.”

“Me?” I gasp, the wine reservoir slips from my grasp, the red liquid splattering like blood on a beach shore.

“Leave it sweet dove, come here.” Viserys holds out his hand to me, holding my freezing hand to his heated temple.

“She is to be of age soon. Just as her namesake made an alliance with The Vale and Targaryens after Maegor the Cruel. We have the opportunity to have a marriage alliance with The Martells and Targeryens.” Lyonel continues with a wink in my direction.

“We cannot do much without Daemon’s permission. If he knew you were shipping his eldest to Dorne he would burn this council room to the ground. Involvement of them in the trepidatious Stepstones or not.” Rheanyra adds,

“And where, I wonder, is our Prince Daemon? Or I suppose I should call him King, as he styled himself when he won a battle there, once.” Jasper scoffs, swirling the wine in his cup.

“That was a decade ago and he has since left the region undefended.”

I wonder how Alicent has not found her knack for diplomacy after over a decade as Queen. Within this chamber I have yet to see her place any of her own love and care into the family.

“We have left it undefended. There should’ve been fortifications built, watchtowers, a fleet of ships, a garrison of soldiers sent to hold our ground.” Rheanyra interrupts her as if a Prince is supposed to have rein over unruly islands like the Stepstones.

“We cannot afford it. Our coffers are great, but not infinite. We must consider the cost to our subjects”

“I must agree.” Beesbury nods his head,

“The cost of war is greater. But we have been lax and the old monster now lifts its head.” Rhaenyra argues,

“The alliance with Dorne would be one of peace and trade, something the Stepstones cannot offer.” Tyland points his unsightly finger in my direction.

“My lords, if I may?” I asked mostly to Viserys, he nods

“Yes child?”

“I am to visit Pentos to be with Lady Laena in the Princess' stead. She is said to give birth to my fathers first son, will my pursuit to Dorne allow me-”

“Of course not Lyssa, you were sent as my emissary.” Rhaenyra orders the court, her voice and eyes study against mine. Then shift as she scans any man or more liking Alicent's challenge. It does not come.

“Let us be finished.” Alicent interrupts noticing how Viserys can barely hold his head up, using my hand as a anchor.

“Yes.” Viserys sighs standing with his Queen and the rest of the council, I step aside as we wait for Rhaenyra to join us.

“Wait. I wish to speak.”

“Be seated.” Viserys commands, every man in the rooms sits so that only myself, the Princess and Queen stand firmly among men. The makers of this family standing on opposing sides, while I am met with a choice to follow only one. Only time can spare me in such a choice.

“I have felt the… strife… in our families as of late, my queen. And for any offense given by mine, I apologize. But we are one house. And long before that we were friends. My son Jacaerys will inherit the Iron Throne after me. If Princess Lyssa is to be sent to Dorne or to wed Aegon as rumored, I propose we betroth him to your daughter, Helaena. Ally ourselves. Once and for all, let them rule together.” Rhaenyra smiles brightly at her stepmother, once her closet friend now an equal. An heiress, a mother and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

“A most judicious proposition.” Viserys boasts,

“Additionally, if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, your son Aemond will have his choice of them. Uh, a symbol of our goodwill.”

“Rhaenyra.” Alicents stares towards Rhaenyra's chest, to which I immediately take my camisole to put over her shoulders.

“Oh, seven hells… Um.” Rhaenyra slumps not her chair, hands covering her modesty.

“My dear, a Dragon’s Egg is a handsome gift.”

“The King and I thank you for your offer, and we’ll consider it duly. You must rest now, husband.” Alicent helps the King stand, he stops mid walk to address the room for a final time.

“Yes. Pack for Pentos Lyssa, we shall dine as a family before you leave.” I bow to my King and nausea swirls like curled milk in my belly at the impending goodbyes.

Masterlist

Taglist: @stargaryenx , @bellameshipper @supmymainhuman , @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @nitimurinvetitumsposts , @50svibes

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x original character #original character #hotd fanfic #game of thrones #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #aemond one eye #aegon the elder #lucerys velaryon #jacerys velaryon #alicent targaryen #criston cole #harwin strong #aemond fluff

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its-a-ittle-bit-cold · 2 years

Text

This is home: prologue

masterlist

warnings: canon typical violence but not really , fem!reader but can be read as gn! or male!, hair, thomas being protective, wckd

summary: you break some hard news to Thomas (going into the maze)

a/n: my first tmr imagine! It’s kind of (very) self indulgent, but a series starter! (don’t mind my massive crush on Thomas)

originally posted by nany-suicide

prologue

At fourteen, in the books, in the past, you suppose that the two of you wouldn’t be here, like this. You suppose that, in another time, you might be out to a movie theater, or at a school dance. Instead, you’re curled up in Thomas’s bed, head on his steadily rising and falling chest while he plays with your hair.

It’s late, and technically, the two of you aren’t allowed to have your own rooms, much less be in each others, but you’ve always been one of the favorites.

Which is how you’ve found that, more nights than not, you spend them wrapped up in his arms. He’s big, hit his growth spurt early, and he’s strong from the training WCKD has a select group from group A - including you, Thomas, Ben and Minho - perform every day. No matter his strength or his size, he can’t keep you from the future, and your fate that you have already decided.

“What’s wrong?” He whispers into your hair. You bury your face into his chest, breathing him in. You shudder your breath out, shakily building up the courage to tell him what you’ve done.

“(Y/n). What is it? Tell me, so I can help.”

Why is he so perfect?

“Thomas.” You climb up all the away on top of him, so you’re sitting on him, face to face. His copper eyes search your reddened ones. “I volunteered.”

Just like that, the concern in his eyes turns to fear. He goes rigid under you and pulls you tight into him.

“Why?” He’s calm, but you know this type of calm, especially on Thomas. This is red sky in the morning, birds going quiet before a ravaging hurricane calm. Thomas can be scary, you remember. He’s the second genius behind the maze, closely followed by your best friend, Teresa.

A ways behind you, the creator of the maze and WCKD’s not-so-secret weapon, and, as such, the attempted victim of multiple assassinations by angry survivors.

WCKD is good.

After the latest, Thomas hasn’t left you on your own for much more than the half- hour you’re allotted each morning to clean up after waking. He’s not the only one, Minho and Newt, two of the group A’s, stick by you whenever you’re not in the lab on assignment, which is almost never, it seems like nowadays.

In there, It’s only you, Thomas and Teresa - who act more like siblings than anything else.

Teresa, your best friend, who you told just this afternoon.

Teresa, the only one who knows your plan, ulterior of WCKD.

“Why?” he asks again, but he already knows.

“I’m the only one who can survive in there. Alone. I built the maze, bub.”

Thomas wrinkles his face up.

“Not all of it,” he whines. “Teresa and I-”

“- programmed under my supervision and guidance. With me in there, all you’ll need to do is keep me alive, okay?”

He sighs heavily, so heavily that you rise and fall with his diaphragm.

“No, but… there’s no stopping you.”

“I’m still here for one more night, Tommy,” you whisper. “You can tell me goodbye tomorrow, too.”

“do Minho and Newt know? Teresa?”

“I told them this afternoon. Said I’m on a new assignment. But, Thomas…. “

“New assignment, huh? What do they think you’re doing in that lab every day?”

“They suspect. But I need to tell you. Listen to me, Thomas.”

His eyes lock onto yours, unwavering in a way that would be more than a little intimidating if you didn’t know him so well.

“You need to stay close to Teresa. You understand?” You lower your voice. “She knows the plan. She’ll keep you safe. The two of you need to work together in that lab until we see each other again.”

“Teresa knows- what plan? What are you talking about?”

You look around. His room is bugged. You both know that. You press your face into his neck and mutter,

“Thomas, why are we doing this? What good comes out of imprisonment? WCKD isn’t good. We’re going to stop them.”

He shirts you to his side again.

“Don’t say that. Please. Don’t say that.”

“Thomas.”

“Can we just sleep? Please?”

You oblige him, snuggling into his side like you do every night, drifting off together for the last time.

#thomas x reader #thomas tmr x reader #thomas tmr #wckd #wckd worker reader #first glader!reader #coupley things #canon divergence #implications of child labor #(it’s wckd tho)#newt #minho #mentioned #teresa mentioned #bestie!teresa #imagine #maze runner #maze runner imagine #the glade

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giftofwonder · 2 years

Text

Psychosis (Part Eight) - Dabi/Bakugou/Hawks x f!Reader

Tag List: @sylum @iiashleysykes @bebetiny @valentinesnightmares1

TW: mentions of drug use, suicide and abuse.

You had stayed with Hawks in the courtyard for much longer than you originally anticipated, not getting home until late into the evening. You had hoped that with how tired you were, you’d immediately fall asleep, but instead you tossed and turned for most of the night, only managing to get an hour or two of rest before you were heading back to work.

You had stopped to grab breakfast on the way, and entered Level Three with coffee in hand. You were surprised to see Bakugou at the front desk, figuring there would have been some consequence to his action. Typically, a physical altercation was grounds for termination, or suspension at the very least.

He glanced up as you approached, eyes lingering on you for only a second before he returned to his task at hand. You felt your stomach coil with dread, footsteps faltering to a slow pace. You expected him to bring up the argument you’d had the day before, but when you finally reached him, no words were exchanged as he passed a clipboard over to you with your daily agenda.

You noticed the large amount of time allotted for visitation and wondered what you were supposed to do since you were not listed under that section as a supervisor.

“Is this right?” You asked Bakugou, turning the board and pointing to the schedule.

“Yeah, Aizawa and I will be there. Someone has to watch Romeo and keep him entertained, figured you’d be better for that than me.” He said, his words lacking their usual bite.

You glanced to the swelling of Bakugou’s cheekbone where the deep purple bruising bordered his eye. His neck shared the same dark hue, accompanied by the scratches lining the column of his throat.

“No one is here to visit him?” You asked.

“No one’s ever come to visit him.” He sighed, pushing himself up and brushing past you. You turned, scurrying to keep up.

“So what, I just hang out with him for a few hours?” You asked, wanting to make sure you weren’t missing anything.

“Pretty much. Before you got here, we had to have him in the room so we could keep eyes on him since visitation lasts so long. I’m sure he won’t really care what you do, he’ll just be happy to not have to sit alone in silence for half the day.” He shrugged dismissively.

It saddened you greatly that Dabi had never had a visitor, especially since he’d had to sit idly by while everyone else got quality time with family and friends. You realized then how lonely he must truly be, you were the only point of contact he really had.

You and Bakugou parted ways, him going to gather Toga and Shigaraki, while you made your way to Dabi’s room. You tried to think of what you could possibly do together, unsure of how you were supposed to fill that much time. You debated on having a lengthy session but ultimately decided against it. You could mix in trying to make some progress, but you also wanted him to have a little fun. In a way, that was just as important as getting him to open up.

You had no idea what Dabi enjoyed, or what his hobbies were, so it felt impossible to plan ahead. Your best bet was just walking in and seeing what he felt like doing.

You unlocked his door, finding him sprawled out in bed atop the covers. His eyes were closed, and you kept your footsteps quiet as you strolled over, not wanting to wake him.

He looked peaceful aside from the bandages that covered his arms and face. You’d have to clean him up and change the dressings at some point, but you were in no rush as they were not yet soaked through. You let your gaze roam over him, inspecting his skin for any damage you may have missed.

“What do you need, doc?” Dabi called out, and you jumped at hearing his voice so suddenly.

“Today’s visitation day, so-“

“Great. Just give me a minute to get dressed, I’ll follow you down. Didn’t realize it was that wonderful time again.” He cut you off, sarcasm lacing his words.

“Since I’m here, you don’t have to sit in the common room all day.” You told him, and he looked at you skeptically.

“Alright, what are we doing then?” He asked.

“Whatever you want.” You smiled.

“Can I eat in the cafeteria?” He asked, after a moment of thought.

Normally, patients on Level Three were only served meals in their room or in the common area with supervision. However, since visitation was going on, it should preoccupy the other floors as well, meaning the cafeteria would be empty.

It was a small bend in policy, but if you kept him in his restraints until he was alone, there shouldn’t be a problem. At most, you’d get a slap on the wrist so long as you were cautious.

“Yeah, I don’t think that would be an issue.” You hummed, giving a small nod as Dabi quickly got out of bed, grabbing a change of clothes and throwing them on. You could see the small smile that had formed on his lips, and knew it was the right call.

Once his arms were secured, you led him out to the elevator and down to Level One. The halls were vacant, though you could hear the chatter and laughter that bled out from the surrounding rooms.

You entered the cafeteria, finding it empty, and led him to the back. Once you were hidden from sight and sure there was no one else lingering, you removed the cuffs and he stretched before walking over to the refrigerators.

His fingers gently traced along the doors, walking slowly he peered into each section, as if he was weighing each item of food carefully within his mind. He would pause, reaching for something, before withdrawing and moving on to the next section. It hadn’t occurred to you how something so simple could be such a luxury when it had been taken from you. Dabi hadn’t been able to pick his own meals since his arrival at the asylum.

He grabbed a tray, selecting a few things before walking over to the doorway. He waited for you, letting you check to make sure the coast was clear, before strolling out and choosing a table. You followed behind him, grabbing only a bottle of water as you walked, and took a seat in the chair across from him.

“It’s weird, sometimes I feel like I have more freedom here than before I was locked up. I think this is my first time being able to eat at a table with someone since I was a kid.” He said offhandedly between bites, and you nodded in understanding.

“You couldn’t eat at a table when you were at home?” You asked, taking a sip of your drink.

“A lot of things changed after my replacement came into the picture.” His tone was bitter.

“What do you mean?” You asked, brow furrowed.

Dabi regarded you carefully, seeming to ponder on if he wanted to share more on the subject, before giving a shrug and a sigh.

“I didn’t really live up to good ol’ mom and dad’s standards. They had everything all planned out for me before I was born, but I couldn’t meet their expectations, so they kept popping out kids until they got it right. Once they had him, I was on my own for the most part.” He told you, a sneer forming on his lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that, how old were you when all of that was happening?” You asked, hoping he would continue to open up. If you could get him to talk about his past, it would give you a better idea of exactly what he needed, and it could provide insight on how he ended up here now.

“I was nine when he was born, but I wasn’t fully out of the house until I was 21.” He said, sitting back in his chair, his long arms splaying across the table as he stared at you with his head cocked to the side.

“So, you were still there even into adulthood?” You asked.

“Unfortunately. I tried to run away more times than I can count, but they always found me and brought me back. Couldn’t risk the secret getting out that their eldest was a fuck up, and I think they knew I’d talk.” He said.

“Are you comfortable with talking about what you would have exposed if you had managed to get away?” You asked, testing the waters. Dabi stared into your eyes. At his silence, you wondered if you had pressed too deep, but he responded.

“Mainly abuse. Verbal and physical. Daddy dearest was held in high regards within his line of work. Still is to this day. They used to say he was one of the best, and so he had to put in a lot of effort to hide how much of a piece of shit he was. It worked out for him though, all he had to do was wave his wads of cash around and everyone fell in line.” He laughed.

“Did you ever try to tell anyone about what was happening?” You questioned.

“Yeah, a few times. Problem was, he’d already painted me as the villain. He’d tell them I was a bad seed, how I was angry and manipulative and was trying to take it out on the family. By the time I’d open up, they were already on his side. Happened with teachers, doctors, shrinks. Shit, even CPS refused to look into it, but I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me. He had everyone convinced that I was the problem. Even had me thrown into a juvenile psychiatric hospital so they could try and assess whatever trauma he told them I had. Then, they’d send me back home and tell me I was safest in his care, that they all loved me and I just had to learn how to bond with them to heal. Not one of them ever doubted him, or thought I might be telling the truth. Not one!” He exclaimed, palm slapping loudly against the table, and your heart ached for the man before you.

“I believe you.” You told him softly, placing your hand over his, but he did not react.

“When we met, you were older. You’d come to the behavioral unit at the hospital and I remember you were still having issues with your family then. Was that close to when you were able to leave?” Your thumb traced his knuckle as you spoke.

“Yeah, last time I went there was right before I left. Usually, I’d have a suicide attempt, or some kind of mental breakdown, and go stay in the hospital for a while to get away, and then come home and the cycle would repeat. That last time though, it was different. They’d fought tooth and nail to keep me in that house, and then suddenly wanted me to leave. I thought it was sketchy, figured I was getting set up, so I refused. Then, there was the fire. Happened in the middle of the night. They all got out of the house, but I was stuck down in the basement. Once the fire was out, they found me down there, half dead. I was in a coma for the next three months from inhaling so much smoke and the damage to my body. Had to get skin grafts everywhere, and when I woke up, I looked like this. They said they never figured out what caused it, but I think it was him.“ Dabi’s voice was unwavering, and the glint in his eye seemed dangerous.

“You mean, your father?” You couldn’t believe a parent could do something like that to their own child. You knew it happened more often than you’d like to acknowledge, but every time you heard the stories, it unsettled you.

“Yeah. It was all too clean. I think he wanted to kill me. Get rid of the evidence. He didn’t account for me surviving, and I’m sure that really pissed him off. Before I was released from the hospital, I remember everyone coming in and they were all trying to feed me the same bullshit, saying he would never do that to me. How I should thank him for covering the cost of my medical bills and for saving me. They tried to convince me that I was the problem, but I knew he had too much influence, and I was a loose-end. I threatened everything he had built up in his life. If everyone knew what went on in that house, he’d lose his job, his credentials, his reputation and his money. I figured he’d have spent some time rotting in prison, so it’s kind of ironic that I’m the one who ended up stuck in a cell.” He told you.

You sat in silence, shock weighing heavily on you as you tried to think of what to say. The pain he had endured was unimaginable. However, before you could speak, he continued.

“When I was released, I got handed the restraining order. They said I was too large of a risk to be there with their precious family. So, I was homeless and in excruciating pain from the burns. Mom and dad refused to give me anything, like my I.D. or birth certificate, so the hospitals wouldn’t prescribe any pain meds. Had to get them off the street, and then it just went out of control.” Dabi laughed, staples pulling tightly against his cheeks as a grin spread across his face.

“What about the rest of your family? Did you maintain a relationship with any of them?” You asked.

“No. None of them were much better. Mom was too scared of him to ever do anything, and she’s just as messed up as the rest of us, anyways. She was on his side at first, always scolding me. As things got worse at home, she just checked out. She was vacant, just sitting around the house blankly staring for hours. Then she started having these fits of rage where she’d lose it, telling me I was dead to her, or that she wishes I’d never been born. That I was a mistake. She’d throw things, breaking them, sometimes using them as a weapon. My siblings were still kids, they never knew what was going on and they were kept away from me mostly. I think when they got older, two of them understood more. They knew they were just failed replacements. The youngest, though, he was different. None of us were ever allowed near him. He was the perfect child, and he spent all of his time sitting in dads shadow.” Dabi told you.

You could feel the bitterness pouring from him as he spoke, and the look in his eyes made a chill run down your spine. The deep resentment and hatred he had of his family was apparent, but you couldn’t blame him. You remembered how much it had stung when your own family had written you off, you couldn’t even imagine what Dabi felt. The burdens he has carried since childhood were heavy, and you were sure you were only scratching the surface.

“I’m so sorry that you had to go through that, it isn’t fair to you that you received that kind of treatment. I don’t think having a bond with your father would be healthy for you, but would you ever consider trying to establish one with the others? I know at the time things were rough, but it sounds like they are victims of his as well. If they have cut ties with him, it could be good for you to reconnect possibly, as they would understand your situation best and could offer support.” You told him, but he recoiled at your words, a grimace overtaking his features.

“It’s a nice thought, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Mom can’t even look at me, she says I have his face, that I’m already ruined to her. My siblings are still there with him, he never did to them what he did to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they can’t stand him, but they don’t know him like I do. I don’t even know if they realize that I’m still alive.” Dabi informed you, his expression schooled to one of indifference.

He sat back, crossing his arms as his jaw tightened, muscles flexing as he stared at you. You could see the tension flooding him, the way his body became stiff and rigid, so you decided to stop pressing. You did not want to pry anything from him or force him to talk, and with his obvious discomfort, it wouldn’t do any good to continue down this path.

You gave him a soft smile, pushing yourself to stand as you decided to change the subject and hopefully recenter his focus to the present.

“Come on, let’s clear the table and we can go do something else.” You hummed, and he nodded, pushing himself to stand, silent as he followed.

_____________

You quickly cleaned up, leaving no trace of his presence in the cafeteria. After that, you restrained him and led him back up to the third floor.

You took him to your office, deciding it could be a nice change of scenery for him, and you were also excited to bring a patient in for the first time. Once the door was locked and his restraints had been removed, he walked around to inspect everything in sight.

“It’s not finished yet, but what do you think so far?” You asked, hoping for a positive response.

“It’s a hell of a lot better than the toy store your boss has going on, I’ll give you that. It is kind of empty though.” He commented, turning to face you.

You took in the space, running through your mental checklist and not coming up short on anything aside from curtains and a few odds and ends.

“What do you mean?” You frowned.

“Don’t people usually have personal stuff? Aside from the degree on the wall, you don’t really have anything in here. Shouldn’t there be family photos, a picture of your dog or something? Some junk lying around?” He asked, leaning forward on your desk to rest his chin in the palm of his hand.

You bit the inside of your lip, unsure of how to respond. You hadn’t even thought about it, but it was now glaringly obvious that it probably was a bit strange to lack a personal touch. Usually, one would have a family or a pet to showcase, but you were once again facing the realization that your life was void of pretty much everything aside from work.

“Yeah, I guess we’ll just have to consider it a work in progress.” You gave a dry chuckle, but the skeptical look that crossed his features did not go unnoticed. You were thankful he said nothing more on the subject, choosing instead to lounge and let his eyes fall shut.

You observed him, letting your eyes trail along every detail of his face. It was still strange to you how different he looked from the past, but even with the damage to his skin, you still found him captivating.

His lids fluttered open, eyes locking onto yours. You glanced away, feigning innocence, as if you had not been locked onto his features a moment before.

“By the way, I forgot to thank you for your present.” He grinned.

You stared at him in confusion until the memory of you setting the book on his table came forward, and you laughed at how you imagined his face to look when he had found it.

“Oh yeah, did you like it?” You beamed, and he shook his head with a chuckle.

“Yeah, very informative. You sure get me, doll.”

You had been at the store when you stumbled upon a guided-meditation book, and had been reminded of his off-handed comment about liking yoga during Level Three’s fitness day. Glancing inside, you had seen a few large sections covering different poses. While you knew his statement had been said in jest, only serving the purpose of making a pass at you, you’d thought it would be comical to get it for him nonetheless.

“You never know, if you give it a chance and take a look at it one day, you might find something interesting in there.” You hummed.

“I read through it after I found it.” He told you nonchalantly. Your brows raised in surprise.

“Did you?” You couldn’t stop yourself from asking. You had assumed he would have given it a laugh and tucked it away, you really hadn’t anticipated him putting any thought into it.

“Well, yeah. You got it for me.” He shrugged, and you swelled with warmth. Whether it was because he took it as a professional recommendation, or simply as a kind gesture of friendship, mattered little. You were glad that however he viewed you, it was enough for him to look into something you had given him.

“Was there anything in there that you liked?” You asked, unable to hide the joy that was surely radiating from you.

“Yeah, actually. There was a section for bonding with others. It had paired poses, and said that it could help with building trust and whatever. I figured, since you’re putting in a lot of effort to work with me, maybe we should try something like that.” He said.

“Sure, we can try.” You agreed quickly. While it was an odd request, especially coming from him, it was progress. You weren’t sure if yoga would be something that could be beneficial to Dabi, but you were willing to try. The fact that he even brought it up was shocking, but you knew he must trust you to some degree to make the request.

You were too taken by him even asking to oppose in any fashion, excited that a gift had been well received. Your mind was clouded with enthusiastic thoughts of how this could bridge the way to a deeper connection, or give him a new coping mechanism for the future.

“I can take you back to your room and grab my fitness clothes, I think they’re out in my trunk. I’ll throw them on and we can run through some poses. Just, go easy on me. I’m sure I’m probably not going to do them right, but I’ll do my best.” You scratched your head sheepishly.

______________

You had dropped Dabi back off into his room and ran out to your car to get your gym bag. You could feel the skip in your step as you made your way back toward the building.

You were happy that Dabi was coming out of his shell. Having revealed a great deal about his past to you and then asking to do trust building was huge for him, and you were hopeful that this would snowball into something larger. If he could fully open up and trust you, then you’d have the highest chance of helping him to one day leave the facility. It filled you with optimism.

You entered the locker room on Level Two and threw on your tank top and leggings under a pair of scrubs, before making your way back up to his room. You gave a small knock before entering and found he was reclined against the wall, seemingly relaxed.

He gave a nod as you entered, and you removed the scrubs covering the clothing beneath. He stepped over to you, the book you had bought for him in hand, and showed you the pose he wanted to start with. You looked over it carefully before he instructed you to sit on the floor with your legs crossed. You did as you were told, making yourself comfortable as he sat in the same fashion with his back pressed to yours.

You could feel the warmth that was emitting from him and it felt soothing in contrast to the chilly air of the asylum. His arms lifted slowly, extending straight out to the side. You mirrored him, taking a deep breath as you felt your muscles stretch.

“Now loop under and hold onto my arms.” He said softly. Your hands dipped beneath his and gently grasped his wrists, reaching as far as you could. His head leaned back and rested against yours, and you heard him inhale deeply.

“Is this right?” You asked after a moment, wanting to make sure you were doing the pose properly, hoping you had remembered from the reference photo he showed you.

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He hummed, words tumbling from his mouth lazily, almost sounding as if he was half asleep.

You sat like that for a while, no more words leaving either of you. It was calming, and you did feel close to him, so you supposed it was a good choice. It was hard for your mind to wander, your focus pulled to every shift in his body. Each time his arms flexed, or his shoulder blades pressed against you as he slightly readjusted.

Finally, his arms slowly fell, and yours followed until his palms were pressed to the floor, your fingers still lightly gripping the skin of his arm.

“You up for another one?” He asked, glancing at you from over his shoulder, his cheek grazing the top of your head as he spoke.

“Yeah, how do you want me?” You asked, shifting to look at him.

His eyes trailed down your form, taking in every part of you, before he looked back to your face and pushed himself to stand.

“Lay down on your back.” He said softly, and you complied, the floor feeling frozen beneath you.

He told you to keep your arms against the ground at your side, and put your weight against your elbows as you lifted your feet straight up. You kicked them into the air until most of your back was no longer touching the floor. Only your head, shoulders and elbows were left to support your body, and you recognized the position as a shoulder stand.

“So, like this?” You asked, head tilting back as much as you could to look up to where he stood, his feet just above your head. He inspected you quickly before giving an approving nod.

“Yeah, and now just stretch your legs forward in front of you until the top of your feet rest against my tailbone.” He said, placing his hands beside your head as he bent forward, arching into a downward dog pose overtop of you.

His face was so close, hovering just above your own. You could see his bangs move as you exhaled, and each of his warm breaths ghosted across your cheeks. Though he was upside down in your vision, you had the clearest view of his eyes, seeing yourself reflected in the ocean-like pools of his iris.

You felt the rekindling of your attraction, and suddenly felt too aware of his presence, so much so that you were overwhelmed by it. Caged beneath him with his arms boxing you in, a thought fluttered through your mind without your consent, silently wishing that you could remain in this position for as long as possible. It felt intimate, much more so than you should be with a patient, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to move away.

You were conflicted, as you often were with him, feeling like any choice you could make was a wrong one. You had agreed to do this and hadn’t checked all of the poses in advance, which you could admit was fully on you. Dabi was sly and you should have expected it from him to try and invade your space as much as possible, but he did genuinely seem to enjoy it, as well. If this was actually a moment where he was allowing himself to be open with you or try to connect, pushing him away could tarnish any future attempts.

On a deeper level, your internal battle raged on because each time he got closer, you could feel the thinning threads of your willpower pulling so tightly that they snapped, wanting to indulge in him. Allow whatever moment he was attempting to create come to fruition.

“I wanted to thank you.” He said, his tone almost a whisper. You found yourself entranced, unable to respond.

“Today was good. I liked this…doing this with you.” His head dipped lower as he spoke, shifting forward so his lips brushed against yours.

“I’m glad.” You mumbled quietly. Your heartbeat reverberated in your chest loudly and your head swelled with pressure, making your thoughts fuzzy. You imagined the situation being similar to being caught on a set of tracks and watching the approaching train prepare to impact you at full speed. So you did the only thing you felt you could.

You closed your eyes and let it hit you.

His lips engulfed yours, moving against them feverishly as your legs fell to the floor. He dropped down to a kneel and removed his hands from the ground to cup your cheeks. You sighed as his teeth dragged along your lower lip, your mind completely blank. You pushed yourself up, lifting from the floor and breaking the kiss as you turned to face him. He grabbed your hips and pulled you taut against him so that you straddled his lap.

Heated palms trailed firmly along your sides, kneading the flesh as he pulled you back into a kiss. Your hands reached up, thumbs caressing the rough skin of his jaw delicately as your tongue brushed against his.

You were too lost to the pleasure of his touch to be rational, your self control laid in shambles at your feet. The momentary euphoria scratched a deep itch, fulfilling the lonesomeness and longing that you had denied yourself in the face of your ambitions.

His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping at the base of your head as he pulled you further into himself. His other hand slipped beneath your top, fingertips tracing up to your ribs and prodding at the underwire of your bra.

His mouth moved down, lips ghosting along your neck as you released a shaky breath, grabbing onto his shoulders for support. His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it. Your head fell back, enjoying each sensation that seemed to spark within you.

You felt wanted. He made you feel alive. You were too far gone to see where you truly stood, the concept of doctor and patient was far from your perspective. You were just two people, two strangers with a bond that you were acting on.

But at the sound of a distant door slamming, the spell was broken. The time that had seemed to still around him suddenly sped back up, and you were fully aware of the boundaries that you crossed, and the risk you had imposed on yourself by falling victim to temptation.

You untangled yourself from him, quickly pushing yourself to stand as you sucked in heavy breaths. The mild irritation that rolled off of him in waves was hard to ignore, but you turned regardless.

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered, hand covering your mouth as you jogged to the door.

Suddenly, he was behind you, his hand pushing the door shut just as you began to pull it open. He grabbed your shoulder and turned you around to face him, pressing your back firmly against the structure behind you. Your eyes locked onto the floor, unsure of how you could meet his gaze.

“You’re really gonna just run off like that?” He said through gritted teeth, and you groaned as your head slumped forward against his shoulder.

“What else am I supposed to do? If I got caught with you, not only would I lose you as a patient, I’d be out of a job. Probably would get my license revoked.” You sighed, pulling back to look up at him finally.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” He shrugged.

“It isn’t about that. I can’t just risk everything I’ve worked so hard for. I should’ve stopped it once it started, it was a moment of weakness on my part and it isn’t fair to you.” You told him, guilt and shame eating at your core.

“So, it was just a mistake, huh?” He laughed, looking at you in disbelief.

“No, it wasn’t a mistake. I wanted to, but that’s the problem. I can’t act on impulses like that. I’m here to guide you and try to find what you need to heal.” You explained, hoping to convey your sincerity.

“What if you’re what I need?” He asked, raising a hand to twirl a loose strand of your hair around his finger.

“I can’t be intimate with you and be your psychiatrist. It has to be one or the other. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m fit to be your doctor.” You said, lightly gripping his hand and lowering it back to his side.

“I won’t work with anyone else.” He reminded you, and you nodded, fully aware of his resistance to treatment prior to your arrival.

“I know.” You spoke softly, falling silent in hopes that an answer to the situation would appear, but none came to mind.

“I’ll back off.” He relented, holding his hands up in defeat.

“I don’t want to hurt you, though. Now that I’ve crossed that line, things can’t just go back to what they were.” You said, exasperated.

“I’m not going to get hurt. The way I see it, I know you feel something when you see me. That’s enough. We‘ll just pretend it never got this far.” He shrugged once more, his tone indifferent.

“I don’t think-“

“Look, you’re the only good thing that’s happened since I’ve been locked up. If you’re not here with me, I’m never getting out of this place. You’re the only one who has a shot at fixing me, so I’m not going to throw it away. If it has to be one or the other, I’ll back off. We just carry on as normal, you come in and try to make me a better person, I’ll hit on you and occasionally open up until I’m cured.” He explained as if it were the most simple thing in the world.

You rolled over his words, unconvinced. It was as if he didn’t recognize the seriousness of the situation, and that notion left you feeling slightly irked. He gauged your reaction, glancing between your eyes and the small frown pulling at your lips, before speaking again.

“If I can’t have you exactly how I want you, that’ll have to be fine. Maybe I’ll be a little more crude, or bold at times, but I’ll reel it in. I won’t let it get this far again, so as long as you can live with knowing how I see you, I don’t think there’s an issue with you continuing to treat me. You can even get yourself a boyfriend or something to pass the time, but once I’m out of here, or out of your care, you’re mine.” He whispered, leaning forward so that his lips ghosted the shell of your ear.

You felt as if you were being overpowered, his confidence on the matter overshadowed your thoughts, as you were already doubtful about trusting your own judgment. Even though you were tense, irritated with yourself for what happened, the familiar flare of arousal came forth once more, but just as you were about to complain, he stepped away and walked over to his bed.

“See? It’s fine.” He grinned, flopping back as he laid down fully.

“Okay, we’ll try it your way, but if anything else happens, I’ll have to release you from my care.” You informed him apprehensively, hoping you were making the right choice.

“I know, doll.” He gave a solemn smile, and with that, you turned and left the room.

______________

You stepped out of the locker room after having gone to fix your scrubs and hair, hoping your appearance would not give away anything that had happened. You had stared at your reflection for a while before exiting, trying to piece together how you had been so careless, acting recklessly without thought was unlike you, and you felt a deep rooted disappointment in yourself.

You could no longer hear the bustle and chatter throughout the halls, so you assumed visitation had ended. You pulled out your phone and checked the time, seeing your assumption was correct. You made your way down to the cafeteria in hopes of grabbing a coffee and taking a small breather so you could collect yourself.

Once you had a coffee in hand, you slid into the seat of an empty table at the back of the room beside the windows looking out into the courtyard. You watched thick clouds roll through overcast skies, your mind elsewhere, when the chair across from you scrapped against the floor.

Todoroki perched himself into the seat wordlessly, taking a small bite of his sandwich as if he hadn’t noticed your presence. You glanced around the room at all of the empty tables, before turning your attention back to him.

“Hello.” You greeted, and he looked up at you, giving a small nod as he continued to eat.

“Did you…need something?” You asked, confused at his actions.

“Do you?” He responded, offering a blank stare.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“I work in a mental hospital. I’m familiar with seeing signs of distress on patients, and you are displaying them.” He explained, turning his attention back to his lunch.

“I’m just having a rough day, I’m not going to have a breakdown or anything.” You assured him with a small laugh.

“I didn’t come over here to judge you. I just came to listen, if you think it would help.” He told you curtly. While you admired his direct approach, you were unsure of how to unload on him without exposing yourself.

When you remained silent, he sighed, using a napkin to wipe his mouth before clasping his hands atop the table.

“You are well acquainted with Midoriya.” He stated, and you nodded, though you were unsure if it was a question or an observation.

“He and I have known each other for a long time. While we are very different people, and often disagree on our perspectives, we are able to gain a lot of insight from speaking openly. We have both communicated as best as we could during tense situations, and it often is uplifting.” He said, looking at you expectantly.

“So, you want me to open up to you?” You asked, not sure if you were grasping what he was trying to say.

“To someone. A friend, maybe. I’m aware that we don’t know each other well, but I would gladly listen if you wanted me to. I just thought you should know that if you are suffering, you don’t have to do it alone. People, especially in this field of work, are usually more than willing to offer guidance or assistance however they can. I learned from Midoriya that there are always people who are willing to hear your side of the story and stand with you. I think you probably have people who can do that for you, as well.” He smiled, and as small as it was, it did provide comfort.

“Thank you, Todoroki.” You said warmly. While you were primarily a loner, you felt a sense of inspiration from his words. There was only one person who came to mind though that you would feel comfortable speaking with, but it had been so long since you had talked, you figured it would be strange to reach out all these years later out of the blue.

“Just Shouto is fine.” He said, pushing himself to stand and carrying his tray back up toward the trash cans.

________________

You flopped onto your bed, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your mind was all over the place, running through the events that had transpired earlier as if it were a movie, each scene replaying vividly before you.

You rolled onto your stomach, grabbing your phone from the nightstand as you scrolled through contacts. You felt uncomfortable at the notion of calling an old friend, but Shouto was right, it probably was best to talk to someone you knew would be impartial. Someone who would listen. With your mind made up, you hit the call button and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” His tired voice groaned into the phone after the third ring.

“Hey, Shinso. Long time no talk.” You said.

“Holy shit, it’s weird to hear your voice again. I figured you died or something.” He laughed.

“Nope, still alive and kicking. How have you been?” You asked.

“Eh, alright. Started up as a hypnotherapist a couple of years ago and have mainly just been doing that. I work a lot with the police and private investigators, a few therapists here and there, too.” He told you, and your brows raised in surprise.

“Wow, that’s amazing. Sounds like you’ve been busy.” You smiled, feeling happy for him.

“Yeah, thanks. It definitely is never boring. How have you been?” He asked.

“I started at Yuuie Asylum recently for my residency, and I’m working under Dr. Aizawa right now. Also, I have zero personal life.” You laughed.

“Oh, I hear you on that. That’s great though, you get to work with one of the best. So, kind of weird for you to call me up. What’s going on?” He pressed, tone serious, and you felt your stomach churn with nervousness as you debated on what to say.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something. No judgment.” You told him.

“Alright, shoot.” He said.

“Okay. So there’s a patient in my care. He’s attracted to me, and I think he has been since before I got this job. He used to come in back when I was at the behavior unit in the hospital, and he requested for me to be his doctor when he saw me at the asylum. I’ve noticed that I may have some level of feelings for him also, but he refuses to work with anyone else, so I don’t think releasing him from my care would be in his best interest. He would shut down and withdraw, like he was before I got there. I’m just not really sure what the right call is. If I continue being his psychiatrist, I feel like I’m putting him in a weird position where I can’t treat him fairly, my perception will be skewed.” You laid it all out and waited with baited breath for him to speak.

“I think you should keep working with him. Sure, there may be tension there, but if you’re the only one he’s willing to talk to right now, it’s at least offering him some progress. Having feelings towards a patient isn’t really that uncommon, you know them better than anyone, sometimes better than they know themselves. Especially in the asylum, you’re locked in there together for most of your time, I’d imagine. You are his doctor, but you’re also your own independent person who is allowed to feel things. It’s natural. Plus, if you left, that could shatter his trust of working with anyone in the future, or make him regress. Wounds of abandonment are hard to heal. I’d say as long as you’re not acting on your impulses, you’ll be able to be objective enough to provide him decent care. When he improves further, then maybe reassess and see if he would be able to have someone else take over.” He reasoned.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You said, trying to force a relieved tone. You didn’t want him to hear the dread in your voice over your internal turmoil.

“It’ll be okay. I think you’ll make the right decision. If anything ever sparks, just do your best to shut it down.” His voice came out softer, as if he knew you needed to hear something soothing.

“What if I mess up? Or make a bad call?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

“Do you feel like you’re in danger of doing that?” He asked.

“No, I don’t think so.” You lied, closing your eyes as you silently cursed yourself. You were too worried and ashamed to admit the wrongs that you had already committed.

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it. Even if you do, it’s okay. Everyone slips up once in a while, you’re only human. I’d say if you both feel comfortable with the arrangement, just proceed with caution. Do your best to put him first. As long as that’s your intention, I think you’ll be alright. If you start feeling like it’s crossing a line, or you’re in a position to risk his health or your job, then you’ll know it’s time to relieve him from your rotation and let someone else take over. From there, he’ll just have to learn how to work with others.” He said, and you let your head fall to the bed.

“Yeah, I know. Thank you for listening.” You tried to sound sincere, though you felt no less lost than before you had called.

“No problem, I’m going to get to bed, but keep in touch. It was good to hear from you again.” He admitted.

“Alright, have a good night. And sure, I’ll call you soon. Maybe we can grab lunch and catch up or something.” You offered.

“Sure, I’d like that. Good night!”

The line went dead, and you groaned into the mattress. You were left with your abundance of worries that did not seem to dissipate. The only solution you could think of was to distance yourself from Dabi and try to regain control of yourself.

You would continue working with him, as you feared that leaving now would hinder him in the long run. You did not doubt that he would feel abandoned and refuse treatment, giving himself a life-sentence in that place. You just had to do your best and try to kill off the emotions that lingered inside of you. You didn’t want him to feel like you had turned on him or were put off by him, but you had to shift focus somewhere else so that you didn’t put your fragile balancing act further at risk.

Perhaps he was right, maybe you should find someone to pass the time. At least then it would hopefully relieve the ache of loneliness that you seemed to always carry. If you had somewhere to put that attention, it could stop it from bubbling up at work.

Feeling somewhat settled on the course of action you needed to follow, you attempted to will yourself into a deep slumber. Your mind would not quiet, worried about how you seemed to stray further from yourself each day. Since you had accepted the job, you’ve been having slip ups, making messy choices. You wondered if you were truly losing touch with yourself, if you had been in over your head in thinking you were cut out for this line of work.

Tossing and turning through the night, you could not rid yourself of the anxiousness that filled you, but eventually, you were met with the bliss of unconsciousness.

#dabi #dabi smut #dabi x female reader #dabi x reader #dabi x y/n #bakugou x fem!reader #bakugou x y/n #bnha #bnha dabi #hawks smut #bakugou katsuki #bakugou smut #hawks x female reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami #mha #bakugou x reader #dabi au #touya todoroki

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cosmicanger · 11 months

Text

SAREE MAKDISI

No Human Being Can Exist

How can a person make up for seven decades of misrepresentation and willful distortion in the time allotted to a sound bite?

RECENTLY, AN AUSTRALIAN-PALESTINIAN friend of mine was invited to appear on Australia’s national television network to discuss the situation in and around Gaza.1 His white interviewers posed all the usual questions: Can you defend what we’ve seen from Hamas militants? How has the Palestinian cause been helped by this violence? How can anyone defend the slaughter of young music lovers at a music festival? Do you defend Hamas? They probably expected a defensive reaction from him, but calmly, in his smooth Australian-accented English, my friend had already turned the interview on its head. “I want to know why I’m here today, and why I haven’t been here for the past year,” he said gently. By the eve of October 7, he pointed out, Israeli forces had already killed more than two hundred Palestinians in 2023. The siege in Gaza was more than sixteen years old, and Israel had been operating outside international law for seventy-five years. “Normal” in Palestine was a killing a day—yet a killing a day in a decades-old occupation was hardly news; it certainly wasn’t justification for a live interview on a national television network. Palestinians were being given the opportunity to speak now because the Western media suddenly cared, and they cared (“as we should care,” my friend added) because, this time, the victims included Israeli civilians. In the days after October 7, Australia made a strong show of support for Israel: Parliament and the Sydney Opera House were lit up in the colors of the Israeli flag; the Prime Minister said pro-Palestinian rallies should be called off out of respect for the Israeli dead; the foreign minister was lambasted for saying Israel should endeavor to minimize civilian deaths in Gaza. “Well, what about our lives?” my friend asked.

What about lighting up a building for us? When our government lights up every building blue and white, how are we [Australian Palestinians] supposed to feel? Are we not Australian? Should nobody care about us? A 14-year-old boy was set on fire in the West Bank by Israeli settlers. What about us?

The news anchors were caught off guard. This isn’t how these interviews are supposed to go.

Those of us, like my friend, who are summoned by Western media outlets to provide a Palestinian perspective on the disaster unfolding in Gaza are well aware of the condition on which we are allowed to speak, which is the tacit assumption that our people’s lives don’t matter as much as the lives of the people who do. Questions are framed by the initial Hamas attack on Israeli civilians (the Hamas attack on Israeli military targets and Israel’s belt of fortifications, watchtowers, and prison gates surrounding Gaza goes unnoticed), and any attempt to place it in a wider historical framework gets diverted back to the attack itself: How can you justify it? Why are you trying to explain it instead of condemning it? Why can’t you just denounce the attack? If Palestinian commentators want to be asked about Israeli violence against Palestinian civilians—about the history of ethnic cleansing and apartheid that produced the contemporary Gaza Strip and the violence we are witnessing today; about the structural violence of decades of Israeli occupation that cuts farmers off from their fields, teachers from their classrooms, doctors from their patients, and children from their parents—we have to ask to be asked. And even then, the questions don’t come.

I’ve spoken to a lot of journalists from a lot of different media organizations over the past two weeks. With rare exceptions, the pattern is consistent, as it has been for years. A recent appearance on a major US cable news channel was canceled at the last minute, immediately after I sent in the talking points the producer requested I submit; they clearly weren’t the talking points they had in mind. For years, I was on the list of regular guests for BBC radio and television interviews concerning Palestine—until, during a previous Israeli bombardment of Gaza, I told the interviewer he was asking the wrong questions and that the questions that mattered had to do with history and context, not just what was happening right now. That was my last appearance on the BBC.

How can a person make up for seven decades of misrepresentation and willful distortion in the time allotted to a sound bite? How can you explain that the Israeli occupation doesn’t have to resort to explosions—or even bullets and machine-guns—to kill? That occupation and apartheid structure and saturate the everyday life of every Palestinian? That the results are literally murderous even when no shots are fired? Cancer patients in Gaza are cut off from life-saving treatments.2 Babies whose mothers are denied passage by Israeli troops are born in the mud by the side of the road at Israeli military checkpoints. Between 2000 and 2004, at the peak of the Israeli roadblock-and-checkpoint regime in the West Bank (which has been reimposed with a vengeance), sixty-one Palestinian women gave birth this way; thirty-six of those babies died as a result.3That never constituted news in the Western world. Those weren’t losses to be mourned. They were, at most, statistics.

What we are not allowed to say, as Palestinians speaking to the Western media, is that all life is equally valuable. That no event takes place in a vacuum. That history didn’t start on October 7, 2023, and if you place what’s happening in the wider historical context of colonialism and anticolonial resistance, what’s most remarkable is that anyone in 2023 should be still surprised that conditions of absolute violence, domination, suffocation, and control produce appalling violence in turn. During the Haitian revolution in the early 19th century, former slaves massacred white settler men, women, and children. During Nat Turner’s revolt in 1831, insurgent slaves massacred white men, women, and children. During the Indian uprising of 1857, Indian rebels massacred English men, women, and children. During the Mau Mau uprising of the 1950s, Kenyan rebels massacred settler men, women, and children. At Oran in 1962, Algerian revolutionaries massacred French men, women, and children. Why should anyone expect Palestinians—or anyone else—to be different? To point these things out is not to justify them; it is to understand them. Every single one of these massacres was the result of decades or centuries of colonial violence and oppression, a structure of violence Frantz Fanon explained decades ago in The Wretched of the Earth.

What we are not allowed to say, in other words, is that if you want the violence to stop, you must stop the conditions that produced it. You must stop the hideous system of racial segregation, dispossession, occupation, and apartheid that has disfigured and tormented Palestine since 1948, consequent upon the violent project to transform a land that has always been home to many cultures, faiths, and languages into a state with a monolithic identity that requires the marginalization or outright removal of anyone who doesn’t fit. And that while what’s happening in Gaza today is a consequence of decades of settler-colonial violence and must be placed in the broader history of that violence to be understood, it has taken us to places to which the entire history of colonialism has never taken us before.

AT ANY MOMENT, without warning, at any time of the day or night, any apartment building in the densely populated Gaza Strip can be struck by an Israeli bomb or missile. Some of the stricken buildings simply collapse into layers of concrete pancakes, the dead and the living alike entombed in the shattered ruins. Often, rescuers shouting “hadan sami’ana?” (“can anyone hear us?”) hear calls for help from survivors deep in the rubble, but without heavy lifting equipment all they can do is helplessly scrabble at the concrete slabs with crowbars or their bare hands, hoping against hope to pry open gaps wide enough to get survivors or the injured out. Some buildings are struck with such heavy bombs that the ensuing fireballs shower body parts and sometimes whole charred bodies—usually, because of their small size, those of children—over surrounding neighborhoods. Phosphorus shells, primed by Israeli gunners to detonate with airburst proximity fuses so that incendiary particles rain down over as wide an area as possible, set fire to anything flammable, including furniture, clothing, and human bodies. Phosphorus is pyrophoric—it will burn as long as it has access to air and basically can’t be extinguished. If it makes contact with a human body it has to be dug out by scalpel and will keep burning into the flesh until it’s extracted.

“We live,” one of Al Jazeera’s Arabic correspondents said, talking over the ubiquitous buzz of Israel’s lethal drones, “enveloped in the smell of smoke and death.” Entire families—twenty, thirty people at a time—have been wiped out. Friends and relatives desperately checking on each other often find smoking ruins where close relations once lived, their fate unknown, vanished either under the concrete or scattered in the remnants of other increasingly unrecognizable areas. Survivors find themselves in one of the most crowded areas on earth with crumbling telecommunications, faltering electricity, failing medical systems, a looming internet outage, and an uncertain future.4

In 2018, the United Nations warned that Gaza—its basic infrastructure of electricity, water, and sewage systems smashed over years of Israeli incursions and bombings, leaving 95 percent of the population without ready access to fresh drinking water—would be “unlivable” by 2020. It’s now 2023, and the entire territory, cut off from the outside world, is without any access to food, water, medical supplies, fuel and electricity, all while under continuous bombardment from land, sea, and air.5 “Attacks against civilian infrastructure, especially electricity, are war crimes,” pointed out Ursula von der Leyen, the president of the European Commission. “Cutting off men, women, children [from] water, electricity and heating with winter coming,” she continued—“these are acts of pure terror.” Von der Leyen is right, of course, but in this instance she was referring to Russia’s attacks on Ukraine’s infrastructure. As for Israel’s attacks on Gaza’s infrastructure, Von der Leyen says that Israel has the right to defend itself.

900, 1000, 1500, 1800, 2600, 3500, 4600, 5000, 5900, 6500. The fatality figures, with which no one can keep up, are augmented every few hours with another twenty here and thirty there as this building or that is brought down in a cataclysmic burst of fire, smoke, and rubble. Three or four hundred people—or more—are being killed every day. At one point, health sources in Gaza reported 100 fatalities in a single hour. For every person killed there are two or three or more wounded, often severely. Almost half the dead and wounded are young children; some of the most painful images coming out of the current bombardment of Gaza, as in the ones past, are those of dead children, battered, ashen, covered in soot and dust, wrapped in the final embrace of parents who were killed trying to protect them. So far, with no end in sight, Israel has killed almost three thousand children. The dead and wounded or often simply recovered body parts—charred legs, trunks, heads—are taken to hospitals overflowing with casualties, running out of medical supplies and fuel for their emergency generators. Hospital beds have long since been fully occupied; new arrivals to Gaza’s hospitals crowd together in their own blood in hallways or on the pavements outside; doctors report napping on operating tables on which they now have to operate without anesthetic by the light of mobile phones, using household vinegar to clean wounds because they’ve run out of everything else.6

With morgues full to capacity and cemeteries running out of space, health authorities in Gaza have started storing bodies in ice cream trucks, with blood dripping slowly from doors emblazoned with the bright childish colors of ice cream brands.7 In alleys, courtyards, and makeshift mosques, those who are able gather in silent tears and prayers over arrays of bodies, large and often pitifully small, wrapped in blood-soaked shrouds in preparation for burial. Relatives sob over each bundle, give a bobbing forehead one last kiss as it is taken away for the last time, leaving only weeping mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins in each other’s arms, their own turn in their shrouds surely not far away. Sometimes there are no relatives; they’re all gone, too. The scale of the death and destruction is so massive, so unrelenting, there’s often no time to mourn, and every day, every hour, the Israelis shower more death on Gaza. One hospital has begun burying the anonymous dead in mass graves for lack of any other option.8

In the first week of the round-the-clock bombardment, the Israelis said they had dropped 6,000 bombs on Gaza, a number equivalent to about a month of bombing at the peak of the American wars in Iraq and Afghanistan—countries many, many times larger than the Gaza Strip.9 (Iraq is over a thousand times the size of Gaza.) They also claimed to have dropped over a thousand tons of high explosives; by the end of week one, we were, in other words, already into the kiloton measurements of nuclear weapons, and weeks two and three are upon us.10 In the first week of bombing, 1,700 entire buildings in Gaza were destroyed. Many times that number were damaged, often beyond repair. Each building includes seven, eight, nine, or more separate apartments, each one the former home of some family now either homeless once more or dead. As ever, the Israelis claim that they are targeting “the terror infrastructure.” As ever, the bodies (or body parts) actually pulled from the rubble or picked up from the neighboring streets are mostly of women and children, unlikely constituents of the phantom “terror infrastructure” from which the occupying power—with the blessing and benediction of its superpower patron—claims to be defending itself.

It is obvious from the harrowing footage coming out of Gaza that the Israelis, unable to locate any clear military targets—no guerrilla fighters in the history of anticolonial struggle have ever stood around waving their hands and making themselves obvious targets—are indiscriminately striking civilian targets instead, systematically destroying one concrete building after another, often annihilating entire neighborhoods at a time; the UN estimates that Israel’s bombing campaign has already damaged or destroyed 40 percent of all of the housing units in Gaza.11 On its websites and social media accounts, the Israeli state proudly boasts of the success of its campaign against Hamas, but the evidence it musters generally amounts to photographs of urban ruin, and the result is the carefully calculated infliction of mass homelessness on an entire population.

On October 12, the Israelis told one million people in the northern part of Gaza to flee for their lives.12 But there is nowhere for them to flee to, and those who attempt flight compound risk upon risk. The Gaza Strip is all of 140 square miles; it is already one of the most densely populated areas in the entire world. If the United States had the population density of Gaza, it would have 60,000,000,000 inhabitants. That’s sixty billion. And now the Israelis are bellowing that they want the tiny territory’s population to somehow squeeze into half the remaining area—and anyway they are bombing the south of Gaza as well as the north and the center. Nowhere in Gaza is safe.

Already refugees once or sometimes twice over (80 percent of Gaza’s population are refugees, survivors or descendants of survivors of the ethnic cleansing of the rest of southwestern Palestine in 1948), new refugees find themselves in search of refuge once more, even as the Israelis warn darkly that there is far, far more to come.13 On October 14, a column of terrified refugees making their way north to south down Salah al Din Street in Gaza City—specifically singled out by Israeli leaflets as a safe corridor—were bombed, and seventy survivors of other bombings were killed and scores more injured. Doctors in clinics and hospitals in northern Gaza refused to move altogether, saying that it would be impossible primarily because there’s nowhere to move their patients to. All the other hospitals are full, said Dr. Yousef Abu al-Rish of the Shifa Hospital in northern Gaza. “And the other thing,” he added, “most of the cases are unstable. And if we want to even transfer them, even if there [are] extra beds in the other hospitals, which is not true, they will die because they are too unstable to be transported.” Patients in the ICU, newborns in incubators, people on ventilators—they would all just die if they were moved. Of course they might die if they stay put too, especially once the last drops of diesel run out and the lights go off. Or if the Israelis continue to bomb hospitals and ambulances as they have been doing. Already, a third of the hospitals and clinics in Gaza have had to shut down due to a lack of resources.14

“The specter of death is hanging over Gaza,” warned Martin Griffiths, UN Undersecretary General for Humanitarian Affairs. “With no water, no power, no food and no medicine, thousands will die. Plain and simple.”

A few days ago the Israelis said that it would be best, on the whole, for the entire population of the territory—over two million people, half of them children—to leave, either to Egypt or to the Gulf. We aim, the Israeli analyst Giora Eiland said approvingly, “to create conditions where life in Gaza becomes unsustainable.” As a result, he added, “Gaza will become a place where no human being can exist.”15 Major-General Ghassan Alian of the Israeli army, echoing the Defense Minister’s recent reference to Palestinians as “human animals,” said, “human animals must be treated as such. There will be no electricity and no water [in Gaza], there will only be destruction. You wanted hell, you will get hell.”16

What kind of people talk like this, with a godlike sense of their power over literally millions of people? What mindset produces such genocidal proclamations on the disposition of entire populations?

WHAT WE ARE WITNESSING before our eyes is, I think, unprecedented in the history of colonial warfare. Ethnic cleansing, in itself, is unfortunately not as rare an occasion as one would like; only a few weeks ago, 130,000 Armenians were driven in terror from their homes in Artsakh by (not coincidentally Israeli-armed) Azerbaijan. In the Yugoslav wars of the 1990s, thousands of people of the “wrong” religion or ethnicity were expelled at a time from their communities in Bosnia, Serbia, and Croatia. Almost all—90 percent—of the Christian and Muslim population of Palestine itself was ethnically cleansed by Zionist forces in 1948. And we can go back to the 19th, 18th, and 17th centuries and recall the sordid history of genocide, extermination, and slavery with which Western civilization made its enlightened presence felt all around the planet.

But in no instance that I know of has ethnic cleansing been accomplished through the use of massive ordnance and heavy bombardment with ultra-modern weapons systems, including the one-ton bombs (and even heavier bunker-buster munitions) used by Israelis flying the latest American jets. Such matters are normally conducted in person, with rifles or at the point of the bayonet. The ethnic cleansing of Palestine in 1948 was carried out almost entirely with small arms, for instance; the Palestinian civilians massacred at Deir Yassin, Tantura, and other sites to inspire others into terrified flight were shot with pistols, rifles, or machine-guns at close range, not struck by thousand-pound bombs dropped from F-35s flying at 10,000 feet or higher.

What we are witnessing, in other words, is perhaps the first fusion of old-school colonial and genocidal violence with advanced state-of-the-art heavy weapons; a twisted amalgamation of the 17th century and the 21st, packaged and wrapped up in language that harks back to primitive times and thunderous biblical scenes involving the smiting of whole peoples—the Jebusites, the Amelikites, the Canaanites, and of course the Philistines.

What’s worse, if anything could be worse, is the near total indifference on display by so many in and out of government in the Western world. Given the shock and outrage over the Palestinian massacre of Israeli civilians expressed by journalists, politicians, governments, and university presidents, the nearly blanket silence concerning the fate of Palestinian civilians at the hands of Israel is deafening: an earth-shattering, bellowing silence. We who live in Western countries didn’t support or pay for any Palestinian to kill Israeli civilians, but every bomb dropped on Gaza from aircraft the US provided is added to a bill that we pay for. Our officials are falling over themselves to join in the encouragement of the bombing and to rush the delivery of new bombs.

State Department officials issued internal briefings calling on spokespeople not to use phrases such as “end to violence/bloodshed,” “restoring calm,” or “de-escalation/ceasefire.”17 The Biden Administration actually wants the bombing and killing to continue. Asked about the tiny handful of more or less progressive congressional voices calling for a ceasefire and a cessation of hostilities, White House Spokeswoman Karine Jean-Pierre said, “we believe they’re wrong. We believe they’re repugnant, and we believe they’re disgraceful.”18 There are “not two sides here,” Jean-Pierre added. “There are not two sides.”

Government spokespeople are calculating and insincere; the ultimate nihilists, they don’t actually believe in anything, least of all anything they say themselves. But the same cannot be said of the people all around us who, so desperately moved by the images and narratives of Israeli suffering, have nothing to say about Palestinian suffering on a far greater scale. How can anyone be so heartless? I’m not talking about overt racists who explicitly call for the destruction of Gaza and the expulsion of the Palestinians. I’m talking about ordinary people, many—maybe even most—of them solid liberals when it comes to politics: advocates of gender and racial equality, anxious about climate change, concerned for the unhoused, insistent on wearing face masks out of humane consideration for others, voters for the most progressive of Democrats. Their indifference is not personal, but a manifestation of a broader culture of denial.19 Such people seem not to see or to recognize Palestinian suffering because they literally do not see or recognize it. They are far too intent, far too focused, on the suffering of people with whom they can more readily identify, people they understand to be just like themselves.

Of course, the corporate media know how to encourage such forms of identification, how to construct protagonists, and how to make viewers sympathize with a subject, to imagine themselves in her shoes. In throttling information, Western media outlets cut off access to identification with Palestinians, and reaffirm the perception that there is only one side. Meanwhile on Al Jazeera Arabic—whose team of correspondents in Gaza and elsewhere in Palestine and Lebanon have been providing gripping and unflinching coverage of the catastrophe in Gaza—tragedy unfolds in real time. On October 25, the Gaza bureau chief Wael Dahdouh was on air when he received news that his wife, son, and daughter were killed in an Israeli airstrike nearby.20 Footage shows him on his knees as he weeps and places a hand on his teenage son’s chest.21 “They’re taking their revenge on us through children?” Dahdouh says. For those of us glued to Arabic Jazeera these days, to whom Dahdouh is a familiar face, the loss feels personal.

Some lives are to be grieved and given names and life stories, their narratives and photographs printed out in the New York Times or the Guardian along with photos of mourning parents. Other lives are just numbers, statistics coming out of an accounting machine that doesn’t seem to stop adding new digits, twenty or thirty at a time.

#gaza #palestine #news #article #theory

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