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contemplativepancakes · 4 years ago

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not if it’s you

4k post mountain hurt/comfort fix it with gratuitous eskel for @witcher-and-his-bard . read on ao3 here!

Jaskier strums his lute idly, drumming his fingers on the base. He clears his throat before he starts tapping his foot on the wooden floor. Geralt is sure they can hear it four days down. He knows that if he prods Jaskier, he’ll just clam up and spend another three days working towards whatever he wants to say, though, so Geralt just lets him fidget.

To Geralt’s frustration, Jaskier doesn’t broach whatever topic has him worked up that day, or the next, or the one after that, and eventually, Geralt doesn’t think about it anymore. It must not have been important, never mind the fact that anything Jaskier says is inherently important to him.

Geralt lets himself get swept up in the wave that is Yennefer, in that someone like her could ever desire someone like him. Geralt doesn’t know what she sees, still doesn’t even know why Jaskier sticks around, and he at least has a little more to offer him than he does to Yen.

And so, when Yennefer pushes him away, he pushes right back, on the one person that’s still convinced he isn’t completely full of shit. It won’t take long for Geralt to right that wrong; it’s not like he deserves that anyway. The words tumble from Geralt’s lips, each one making Jaskier’s face twist more and more.

Geralt thinks it might be the most he’s ever said to Jaskier all in one go, and that—that thought hurts.

Geralt turns his back so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier.

“Right. Right, then.” Jaskier clears his throat, says something about the others. “I’ll... see you around, Geralt.”

There’s hesitation on the tip of his tongue, and it sounds like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t, he just turns and goes.

It must not have been important, Geralt thinks.

Geralt barely makes it to the winter. He’s about felled on three contracts that normally would have been nothing to sneeze at, but he just…can’t think. He can’t focus on what he’s doing, now that this is all he’s good for again. Just someone to slay monsters for people who don’t appreciate it, with no one to even limp back to at the end of the day.

Geralt combs a hand through Roach’s mane, determined not to bring her down with his melancholy mood. Besides, he’ll be at Kaer Morhen in a few days, and he’s sure everything will look brighter around his family and with his belly full. There’s something about a pitiful looking witcher that doesn’t inspire very much generosity by those setting the contracts, and Geralt can’t muster the will to argue with them about it.

He takes what he’s given. It’s when he got greedy and wanted too much that things started to fall apart, after all.

When he makes it to the keep, Vesemir comes out to greet him, concern twisting his face as he walks with Geralt to the stables. Geralt is sure he reeks; he hasn’t taken a bath in weeks and the emotions wafting off of him can’t be of the pleasant variety, but Vesemir doesn’t comment, just begins to brush Roach down as Geralt takes off her tack.

They stay silent all throughout finishing Roach’s care, until Geralt is triple checking that there’s nothing stuck in her hooves because he’s trying to delay any uncomfortable conversations.

Vesemir clears his throat. “Supper should be ready. You need to eat more.”

Geralt breathes a sigh of relief and follows him into the keep.

The warm air hits him in the face, oppressively stuffy, as he trails behind Vesemir to the kitchen. When he was still young, they used to sit in the dining room, laughter and chatter drifting through the crowded hall and drowning out the clink of cutlery, but now there’s only silence that does nothing to ease Geralt’s nerves.

He hadn’t realized he was so nervous to see his brothers until now. He’s not sure if he wants them to say something or nothing at all; each is its own special brand of depressing. Maybe Geralt is typically so morose anyway they won’t notice anything is amiss.

Geralt forces himself to eat, each bite turning into sawdust in his mouth, but he swallows it down despite that. Eskel gives him a scrutinizing look over the rim of his glass, but he doesn’t say anything. Lambert is too distracted in kicking Aiden under the table, and he’s barely said ten words to Geralt since he got here.

Geralt sighs.

Later, Eskel finds him.

Eskel comes into his room without knocking, and Geralt turns around to give him a half hearted snarl. Eskel rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Who says anything is wrong?”

Eskel wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”

“Well, no one asked you to be in my room. You’re welcome to leave at any time.”

“Was it some villagers? Because I can go back and show them what an actual scary witcher looks like, gods know you’re too soft to get anywhere approaching intimidating.”

Geralt attempts a half hearted grin and hums. Eskel flops back on the bed, his hand coming up to itch at his face. “Not villagers, then. Your humans?”

Geralt grunts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So it is, then. Yennefer?”

Geralt walks over to the bed and shoves Eskel over to something resembling just one half before dropping down beside him. He kicks at Eskel’s legs to get them out of his space.

“Triss? Jaskier?”

Geralt rolls over and buries his head into a pillow.

He tenses when Eskel’s broad hands land on his shoulders. Eskel pauses, waiting for his permission, so Geralt relaxes his muscles, softening under Eskel’s touch. He rubs the knots out of Geralt’s back, digging in with his thumbs, until Geralt is a motionless pile of goo. He’s not sure he could move even if a monster came crashing in through the window.

“Ready to talk yet?” Eskel murmurs.

“It’s—nothing is going right.”

Eskel hums. “Welcome to the life of a witcher. I hadn’t realized this was new for you.”

Geralt rolls over onto his back, looking over at Eskel to where he’s splayed out beside him. He considers the way Eskel’s mouth is turned down and reaches out to trace Eskel’s scars with his fingertips. Eskel turns his head away, but Geralt presses closer to him and plants a kiss on his jaw.

“Geralt,” Eskel says in warning, but Geralt would really like to just not think right now.

“Please?”

Eskel softens. Geralt so rarely lets himself ask for anything, and he knows Eskel understands the significance. Eskel turns towards him and wraps his arms around Geralt, tucking Geralt’s head under his chin. He pokes at Geralt’s chest. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Geralt presses kisses along Eskel’s collarbone, not saying anything beyond a grunt.

Eskel sighs and lets Geralt kiss him, their mouths meeting in something soft and sad.

Eskel opens to him, and Geralt lets the desire lick its way up his belly to settle somewhere in his chest. Eskel tugs Geralt's shirt off, and Geralt does the same for him, rubbing a hand across Eskel's torso and admiring how solid he is, his thumb tracing a jagged scar across Eskel’s pectoral.

Eskel just looks at his ribs protruding through his skin and frowns, so Geralt does his best to distract him. "Come here," he mutters, pulling Eskel into another kiss.

Eskel's hands slide their way up his torso, brushing across his nipples and landing on his biceps and squeezing. Geralt knows that's one part of him that hasn't wasted away, at least. The soft layers are always the first to go when times are lean. Geralt's largely used to it, but it hasn't been this bad in a while. Certainly not since Jaskier had started traveling with him.

Geralt attempts to force his brain to stop thinking about Jaskier out of sheer willpower, but it evades his best efforts.

He drags his fingertips over Eskel's skin, trying to ground himself. He slides them from the smooth expanse of Eskel's forearms to his calloused palms, remembering how Eskel's rough hands feel around his cock.

He does not make any comparisons to Jaskier's clever fingers.

Geralt rolls them over, positioning himself on top as he deepens the kiss, making it as sloppy as he can and trying to lose himself in the sensation.

Unfortunately for him, witchers aren't meant to lose themselves in anything, their senses too sharp to ever truly be able to focus on just one thing. Geralt can hear Lambert and Aiden arguing three doors down, and he can smell the contentedness dripping off Vesemir at having them all there, mixed with just the slightest bit of sour worry. Geralt tries to ignore that last part.

"Hey," Eskel whispers. "You okay?"

"Mm," Geralt says, burying his face in Eskel's neck. "Peachy."

"Liar," Eskel replies, but it's without heat, and he coaxes Geralt back out of his neck and into another kiss.

Geralt slides his hands down Eskel's torso, unknotting his trouser ties and tugging them off. Eskel does the same for him, stripping them both out of their small clothes until his half hard cock is pressed against Geralt's bare skin.

Geralt reaches down between them and takes Eskel in hand, stroking him to full hardness and enjoying the sound of the rumbling coming from Eskel's chest.

Eskel raises a gentle hand to frame Geralt's face, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone before moving on to tucking a strand of hair being Geralt's ear.

Geralt swallows hard at the tenderness of it all. There's a burning in his chest, climbing up his ribcage and threatening to consume him, that he doesn't want to examine too closely.

Geralt jacks Eskel faster, but Eskel puts his hand on Geralt's and slows the movement. "We have time," he says.

Geralt lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. They have time. Frankly, too damn much of it, if you ask Geralt.

He's distracted by Eskel moving away from him, sitting up to rummage through the stand next to the bed. He comes back with oil and settles back on the bed, slicking his fingers and reaching behind himself.

Geralt shuts his eyes for a moment, trying not to let himself be dragged down by the overwhelming scent and sight of Eskel this close to him and opening himself up for Geralt.

"Fuck, Eskel," he moans.

"Like what you see?" Eskel asks, turning his head away.

Geralt puts his fingers on Eskel's chin and tilts his head back. "Yes."

Eskel’s eyes dart down, but Geralt's gaze stays fixed on him, tracking the microexpressions of pleasure on Eskel's face until he leans forward to kiss him again, Eskel's lips warm and soft on his own.

Eventually, Eskel puts a hand on Geralt's chest, and Geralt pulls away in question.

Eskel pushes Geralt back, guiding him to lay down before wiping his hand on the bed spread. Geralt makes an indignant noise. "You doing my washing?"

"It's going to get a lot dirtier than that, don't worry," Eskel says with a wink.

Geralt gives him an exasperated eye roll, but it's lost when Eskel grips the base of his cock and sinks down on it.

Geralt inhales a sharp breath, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him as Eskel starts to ride him.

"Just let me take care of you," he whispers, so Geralt does.

After, Eskel rolls off of him, laying on the lumpy mattress beside Geralt. They stay in silence for quite a while, until Eskel finally says. “So it’s Jaskier, then?”

Geralt grunts and shoves at Eskel’s shoulder, but Eskel just gives him a self satisfied smirk before sobering again. “Neither one of us deserves second best, Geralt.”

“So you’ve...you’ve found someone, then?”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe. For now.”

There’s a knife digging under his rib cage. Eskel’s never had someone serious before, at least not that he’s told Geralt about. It hurts more than Geralt can explain, and he wonders if Eskel feels this way about him. Neither one of them have any claim to the other, but—they do, a little. It’d been just them for so long.

When Geralt couldn’t even find a whore who would touch him because no coin purse could ever begin to outweigh their fear and disgust at witchers, Eskel had been there, waiting for Geralt at Kaer Morhen. And now, who knows if Eskel will even return next winter. Maybe he’ll bring his lover. Geralt feels sick.

Eskel must be able to sense Geralt’s thoughts spiraling because he tugs him closer, combing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt lets the motion soothe him to sleep.

Geralt spends the rest of the winter keeping everyone at arm’s length. No one moreso than Eskel. He pretends not to see the hurt looks Eskel gives him, but Geralt just—he can’t. At least he had pushed Yennefer and Jaskier away all by himself. Eskel left him of his own volition.

Logically, Geralt knows that isn’t fair, that he’s holding Eskel to a higher standard than he holds himself, but he can’t help the way it feels like someone ripped an arrow right out of him, the head catching on ragged flesh as it comes out and makes everything worse.

By the time the snow in the pass has melted, Geralt is practically climbing the walls. He makes himself seek Eskel out before he leaves. Eskel looks surprised to see him, and Geralt’s sure he thought Geralt was going to leave without so much as a goodbye. Geralt gives Eskel a rough hug. “I’m happy for you,” he says.

When they pull away, Eskel looks at him closely. “Take care of yourself. I’m gonna kick your ass at gwent next winter.”

This startles a laugh out of Geralt. “Keep dreaming.”

As he mounts Roach to leave the keep, he looks to the horizon. He pats Roach’s neck and resolves to make it to next winter, for Eskel, if no one else.

And so, irony decides to slap him in the face. He agrees to take a contract for a graveir that has been terrorizing the woods just outside of a village. Geralt makes his preparations, but he’s not too concerned about a singular graveir. Sure, they can be dangerous if they get the jump on him, but he’s not going to let that happen.

Famous last words.

The first problem is that it’s not a graveir; it’s a leshen. Geralt curses as he scrambles back from it, rotting flesh peeling away from the deer skull that it calls a head. Geralt’s not sure how the villagers managed to skip this little detail, and his mind is coming up blank for ideas on how to get out of this. Leshens are ancient and not easy to kill at the best of times. Unprepared and on the defensive is hardly an ideal circumstance.

Geralt knows he’s not going to be able to kill it, but he might be able to reason with it. Leshen are intelligent, so Geralt steels his nerves and sheathes his sword, holding out his hands.

“I’m sorry—” is all he gets out before the leshen lashes out with one of it’s branched arms and catches him hard in the side.

Geralt hisses in pain and drops to his knees, clutching at his side. He looks up at the leshen, trying to think of something, anything, that’s going to get him out of this predicament alive, but he draws a blank.

The leshen bludgeons him again, and he doesn’t think about anything else for quite a while.

“Geralt? Gods, Geralt!”

When Geralt wakes up, he thinks he must be dead. It’s the only reasonable explanation. If he had survived his encounter with the leshen, he would be lying on the hard ground with no less than four tiny rocks or twigs digging into his back, but he’s on a soft mattress. And it smells like...Jaskier?

Yes, this definitely isn’t real.

Geralt keeps his eyes shut as he registers the details and slowly fills in the world around him.

Jaskier is picking at his nails in a chair next to the bed, and there’s a clock slowly ticking on the wall. Jaskier sighs and tugs at the blanket covering Geralt, pulling it from his shoulders to rest just beneath Geralt’s chin.

Geralt finally surmises that he must not be dead, because if he were, all of these sounds and smells wouldn’t be grating so much on his senses.

He lets Jaskier’s fidgeting go on for three more minutes before he finally darts out a hand from underneath the blankets to take hold of Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier’s pulse ratchets up, and Geralt draws his hand back like he’s been burned. Jaskier has been drenched in the scent of fear ever since Geralt had gained enough consciousness to register the smell, and Geralt hates it.

He never wants Jaskier to smell like that, and the thought that he’s causing it? Well, it’s not a pleasant one. Jaskier had never been frightened of him before, but Geralt supposes he can’t expect everything to simply go back to the way it was before, even if desperately wants it to.

“Stay still, please,” Geralt scrapes out finally, and Jaskier stops his fiddling immediately.

“Oh, I’m,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “sorry. Your ears must be very sensitive right now.”

Geralt grunts in vague agreement, and some of the fear scent mellows out into something more resembling worry. Honestly, in this state, Jaskier could probably fight him off without too much of an issue, so he’s not sure what exactly he has to be worried about.

Jaskier stares at Geralt’s peaceful profile. The lines on his face have smoothed out in sleep, and his chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Jaskier lets out a deep sigh and scrubs his hands over his face. He was never enough for Geralt the first time around, so he doesn’t know why he thinks this time will be any different.

Just because, what? Because he saved Geralt this time instead of the other way around? Well, only about eleven more times to go and then they’ll be even.

Jaskier pulls out his notebook and flips to a page near the beginning. He runs his fingers over the words that have been smudged by age and tears, tapping his nails on the curves of the letters. He bites his lip as he looks back up at Geralt before closing the book again. Geralt wouldn’t have wanted this then, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want it right now.

The best thing Jaskier could do for him would be to leave, but Jaskier is selfish, and he needs to see that Geralt is going to wake up again for himself.

He’d been scared out of his wits earlier; sure that this time he’d finally lost it and he’d started to hallucinate while he had stumbled around in the woods. There had been a resounding crash, so Jaskier had gone to check it out, and he could almost hear Geralt berating him for his nonexistent survival instincts.

Jaskier had found Geralt, his white hair haloed around his head and still convinced he was seeing things. When he had sunk to his knees beside Geralt’s still form and reached out a hand, Geralt was solid and real and bloody, so Jaskier had panicked.

He didn’t know what to do, so he flitted his hands over Geralt until he found where the blood was sluggishly seeping from and pressed down hard. He tried to ignore his shaky hands, but it was hard to do when the bottles he fumbled from Geralt’s pack clinked together incessantly.

He almost dropped one, and upon closer examination, it looked like the one Geralt always took when he would come back wounded. Jaskier knew he shouldn’t try to make an unconscious person drink anything, but Geralt was looking dangerously paler by the second, and he didn’t see any other options. He lifted Geralt’s head up and pulled him into his lap, supporting his head as he tipped the bottle’s contents between Geralt’s lips.

Somehow, Jaskier had flagged down a cart that was passing not too far from where they were on a trail and had convinced the driver to help them. He’s sure he looked quite the sight, Geralt’s blood all over his doublet, but there must have been enough genuine panic in his voice to get the point across.

And now they’re here, Geralt taking rattling breaths as he sleeps. Geralt had wanted destiny to take him off his hands, but Jaskier…

He must be a glutton for punishment, because he can’t bring himself to leave Geralt’s side.

Geralt wakes again to a soft humming, and he cracks his eyes open to be surprised that Jaskier is still here. He allows himself to hope for a moment that maybe all isn’t lost before he quashes it. It’s more likely Jaskier was just waiting for him to wake up so he could tell him off to his face.

Geralt heaves himself to a sitting position, and Jaskier rushes over to him. “Easy!”

Geralt leans back against the headboard and prods his side. It feels slightly tender, but not anywhere near as bad as it was before.

“How long have I been asleep?” Geralt croaks.

Jaskier shrugs. “A day? Not long.”

“Healed up well.”

Jaskier eyes him. “Well, you have a stunningly handsome nurse to thank for that.”

“Well, where’s he at?” Geralt asks, before he can’t help himself and a chuckle escapes his lips.

Jaskier shoves at him, and for a second, everything is right again, exactly back to the way things were before. But Geralt can’t stop the tightening of his features after the jostling, and Jaskier takes immediate note. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

“Fine,” Geralt grits out. Jaskier’s already spent too long taking care of him as is.

“Oh.” Jaskier sits back down in the chair next to him.

Geralt waits for the beratement, the anger about why Jaskier wasted years of his life on him, but it doesn’t come.

And so Geralt is forced to make the first move. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was cruel, and you didn’t—you never deserved that.”

Jaskier looks over at him in surprise, and it twists Geralt’s insides to see Jaskier looking at him like that over a simple apology.

“It turns out bards aren’t very successful when they’ve lost their muse,” Jaskier finally says, and Geralt stops to look at him.

Jaskier’s clothes hang off of him, and their once vibrant color seems muted. In fact, Geralt thinks he recognizes that shirt, and it’s certainly not like Jaskier to wear the same clothes season after season.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again. He’s not sure how to say anything else.

Jaskier puts one of his hands over Geralt’s, and Geralt shakes his head. “Jask, you deserve someone who’ll treat you like you deserve.”

Jaskier straightens up and arches an eyebrow. “You’re not up for the challenge?”

“Witchers, we can’t—”

“Bullshit,” Jaskier interrupts.

“What?”

“Bullshit. Whatever you were about to say, that you can’t feel, or whatever. Bull. Shit.”

Geralt’s taken aback. He clears his throat. “You’re right.”

Jaskier was clearly expecting more resistance, so he deflates a little at Geralt’s words.

“I missed you,” Geralt says.

“Like a sore thumb, I’m sure.”

Geralt huffs. “No, I really missed you.”

Jaskier looks at his hands, picking at a hangnail. “I missed you, too.”

Geralt’s not quite sure why, or what exactly there was to miss, but he won’t ask any questions and risk Jaskier changing his mind.

“I wrote you a song,” Jaskier blurts. “Before. All of this. But. I still mean it.”

Geralt’s heart breaks. “Will I have heard it anywhere?”

Jaskier clears his throat. “No, no. It was just for you. I haven’t played it for an audience.”

Geralt hums. “Well, I can’t imagine I won’t like it.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet, Geralt. Whatever happened to a fillingless pie?”

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry,” he says again.

He’ll say it however many times Jaskier needs to hear it. A flush rises to Jaskier’s cheeks. He takes a page from Geralt’s book. “Hmm.”

“If it comes from you, I’m going to like it. Even if it’s terrible.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “That makes no sense.”

“It’s a gift,” Geralt says. “What’s not to like?”

Jaskier huffs and shakes his head in exasperation. Geralt is no clearer now than he was before.

He pulls out his lute and tunes it, even though it was perfectly tuned just two nights ago before he performed. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, and he resolutely ignores them. Finally, he begins to play and sing along. He hasn’t let himself play this particular song in months. Everytime he tried, it was like ripping off a scab and pouring white gull on the wound.

Which, yes, he got to experience once when Geralt was convinced a nasty gash on his leg was infected. Jaskier maintains Geralt was just being an over concerned brooding hen, but he can’t say the attention wasn’t nice.

His voice is a little rusty from the disuse, but it quickly flakes off with the way Geralt is looking at him. It’s a measured look, one Jaskier’s not used to. Attention is fleeting when he performs, with people flitting back to talk to their companions, or eat their meal, but Geralt hasn’t taken his eyes off of him.

Jaskier stumbles over the next line, cursing himself, but he quickly recovers and goes on to finish the song.

When he’s done, he chances a glance back at Geralt. He licks his lips, finding them suddenly terribly dry. “Three words or less?”

Geralt gives him an impossibly soft look. “I loved it.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #fanfiction #contemplative writing

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flutteringphalanges · 5 years ago

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Summary: “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M

Read on AO3 and FFN

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay, guy, life has been busy. School has started back up so between work, my grandfather's death on October 1st, and just writer's block in general, I haven't been myself. Due to this absence, I'm not sure if things have been forgotten so a quick recap if you will:

Dracula finds a gravely sick Agatha, kidnaps her and takes her to his castle, he cares for her but there is a lot of fighting, eventually sex ensues and with that comes feelings. Eventually, Agatha admits her feelings to the Count but when he doesn't immediately reciprocate, she decides to kill him. Things don't go as planned and Agatha makes the "wise" decision to leave the castle. This decision causes her to become mortally wounded in an accident. Dracula realizes the error in his ways and goes out searching and finds her near death. Admits his love for her and she, now satisfied, gives him permission to turn her. That's where we left off! Enjoy! Feedback/reblogs/comments what not greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

Chapter Eleven

The dead don't dream. At least, that was what she decided to call this current state she was in. A dream. An unconscious state of sorts where reality was all but a hallucination. Agatha found herself standing, not even remembering getting up from where she lay dying on the rocks below. She might as well have materialized into that position. Gone was her blood and with it the snow and ice. All that remained was a foggy wall that surrounded her. Seemed to hold her caged as she tried to find her bearings.

For the briefest of moments, the former nun thought she was alone. Left only to her thoughts and silence. Her mouth opened to call out to someone, anyone, but not a word escaped. Instead, something began to form in her peripheral vision. Dark masses growing into familiar silhouettes. And soon Agatha found herself staring back at the literal ghosts of her past.

Mother Superior and her fellow sisters faced her from afar, their looks still and unreadable. Like her, no longer did they represent their final moments. The signs of their massacre gone. They merely stared, habits dancing by an unseen wind. Though it was not vocalized, she knew their judgement. What they surely thought of her. But as Agatha attempted to address them, the women faded away and a new form began.

He stood there a few meters away from her in the cover of the mist. His ancient face twisted into a look of pure hatred. Disgust. A knowing expression of disappointment that held the very meaning of the betrayal. This phantom image of Abraham her mind had created. A final vision as she cut the ties to her Van Helsing name. To mortality. As the apparition of her late grandfather began to disappear, so too the last thrums of her beating heart.

Agatha remained there in the darkness, in the threat of the void that seemed to want to swallow her whole. But just as the shadows reached out towards her, readying to drag her down, a familiar figure appeared. Their eyes met and shared a knowing glance. No longer was there distrust or ill-intent. No. There was kindness. Tenderness. And as Dracula moved closer, the blackness seemed to fade.

Agatha.

It was his voice calling to her, but his lips weren't moving. Agatha watched him perplexed, almost amused. The words echoed around her as if they were in a cave. She couldn't quite explain it, but it was him. Not some mere trick of her imagination.

Agatha. Wake up.

He was so close now. So close that if he wanted to, he could touch her. But the noise was growing louder and the former nun felt oddly light. When she tried to open her mouth to reply, no words escaped. The vampire smiled as the world around them began to slowly crumble away, disintegrating the plane between life and death.

Agatha, it's time to wake up.

Earth. Some sort of wood, perhaps cherry or magnolia. The more exclusive of materials. It was odd how she could identify that. It was certainly not pine. Her eyes flickered open and though it was dark, she could still clearly see the figure looming over her. The distinct features of his face. He was smiling down at her, but it was far from malicious. Warm, Relief. And she found herself returning the expression, feeling as if she had just woken up from a really long nap.

"Welcome back, Agatha Van Helsing." Dracula greeted, a hand reaching down to touch one of hers. "To the world of the undead."

"So it worked then?" His lover replied. "I'm not dead?"

"The formalities of what one would consider as deceased are rather...skewed, but yes, you are as much as a vampire as I am." The former nun's eyes narrowed, but the somewhat tired smile still etched itself across her pale features. "What?"

"I'm in a coffin aren't I?" She stated, turning her head to either side to inspect her surroundings. "Yours, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ours," he corrected. "With a few modifications, it will suit us better that way."

"I think I prefer my bed upstairs." The former nun smirked as she slowly sat up, gripping onto the Count's hands as she did. Dirty fell from the locks of her hair, and the few clumps of something that clung still she assumed were due to dried blood. But no longer was she in any sort of pain. "I'm rather dirty."

"Physically or mentally?" His joke got him a disapproving look. "Yes, I realize you didn't exactly wake up to being perfectly clean. After we were out there and I...well, you needed your rest. And I didn't want to risk altering things by dolling you up during the transformation."

She nodded as she gave herself a look over. Tattered clothes from torn branches. Though, all of her wounds had healed. Just the mess of old blood and dirt remained, a reminder of sorts of what occurred. Slowly, she brought her fingers to her neck and touched the telling indents. Dracula's eyes followed her as Agatha gently massaged the spot.

"Does it bother you?" There was genuine concern in his tone. "

"No." She shook her head. "It's just...funny."

He cocked a brow in confusion. "Funny? How so?"

Agatha thought for a moment, a thoughtful smile still playing on her face. "Never mind." She assured him. "If you don't mind, I'd rather like to clean up now." The woman paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully. "You are welcome to join me. I might require some assistance."

The concern left the vampire's face as his clawed fingers interlocked with her own. "It would be a pleasure." He assured her. "Shall we?"

XXX

The cool water ran a rusty brown as it trailed down her bare skin in rivulets. Despite the barely tepid temperature, she was not bothered by it. A perk of being a vampire she supposed. Though she had no need to, she still closed her eyes and inhaled as Dracula fingers ran through her hair, unknotting her messy locks until they were free once more. She smelled something sweet. Floral. Lavender perhaps? He must've infused the water with something-a gesture she did appreciate.

"You're quiet." She commented as his hands traveled to the small of her back. "That's rather unusual for you."

"It's been a rather unusual day." He replied, working the cloth against her skin. "You almost died. Permanently."

"And you said you loved me." The former nun countered. "Just as permanently, I hope."

His strong arms wrapped around her waist and Agatha's unneeded breath hitched in her throat. "Forgive me." The vampire murmured, words tickling her ear. "I suppose I wasn't as blunt in the beginning as I should've been."

"...I suppose I too should somewhat be apologetic." She smiled softly, turning so that they were face to face. "Maybe my actions were a bit...overdramatic." Agatha's fingers traced against his chest. "No matter. We have all the time in the world to figure things out, don't we?"

"Yes." Her lover agreed. "That we very much do." Reaching over, the vampire retrieved a clean towel from a bronze hook. "Come, let's get you dressed. As much as I love you like this, there is much to discuss." Dracula pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "We'll return to this later."

XXX

Her tongue ran against the bottom of her teeth, feeling the smooth, porcelain enamel that had yet to present itself as fangs. Even though she was a newborn, Agatha hadn't felt that overpowering urge to feed. She couldn't help but wonder if that was normal. This delay in blood thirst. And to think she had so many questions about vampiric nature while was still human. It was almost laughable.

"You look positively radiant by the fire light."

Dracula eyed her from the entrance way, a small plastered across his face. In just a few strides, the man stood before her. Tenderly, he tilted her chin up as if to study her features like a jeweler examining a rare gem.

"Seeing as my heart is no longer pumping blood and causing natural circulation, I suppose I need some source to brighten my features." The former nun smirked, eyes locking on his. "Thank you for the compliment."

"I have far, far more where that came from..." Her mate promised, touching his forehead to hers. "How are you feeling?" The warmth in his expression seemed to change to one of concern as he spoke. "Are you...adjusting fine?"

"I suppose as much as one can." She replied with a small smile. "Though, I really don't have much to go on seeing as I've never experienced a transformation first hand myself…Rather, being the one who is changed." Agatha clarified quickly.

"You'll need to eat soon." Dracula commented, gazing into the fire's light. "First hunt's the most important."

"I do not plan to kill the innocent." Her words caused the other vampire to turn and face her. "There must be other ways to exist or extract blood without harming the lives of humans."

"It doesn't work like that, Agatha." Her lover replied with a small frown. "Our species is different. We don't have the choice of eating just meat or vegetables or substitutions of any sort. We require blood. Human blood at that. And as distasteful as it may sound to you now, you haven't really the choice."

"There is always a choice." The woman countered, arms folded across her chest. "And if I must muster up the will-power and strength to find it, I shall. But I simply won't conform to your standards and murder because I need to. A cow is different from a human. They aren't as complex. They don't think. Don't have complicated lives, loved ones like people do."

"I almost lost you, must we seriously get into a disagreement now?" The vampire sighed, massaging his temples. "Blood is lives, Agatha. And now, it will become your life just as much as it has become part of mine." He went to rest his hands on her shoulders, but she stepped back. "Give it a chance, Agatha. I promise, you'll adjust far easier than you think."

"If you truly love me, you'll help me come up with a better solution." Agatha replied firmly, still hellbent on her good ways. "There must be another way." She ignored the expression of irritation that sat fixed across his features. "You've proven yourself to me before, Count Dracula. I have faith, though it may be perhaps little now, you can do so again."

"Your stubbornness has followed you into this new life, I see." Dracula grumbled, clearly perturbed that the former nun was still set on her ways. After everything they'd gone through together. "Why must you make things so difficult?"

"There will be no killing on my end." Agatha repeated, standing her ground. Once more she ran her tongue across her smooth teeth, her fangs yet to show despite the small growl that emanated from the pit of her stomach. "Those are my terms."

Dracula was silent for a moment. "You are making things quite difficult. None of my brides were ever this...picky…"

"Do you consider me to be one of your brides then?" Agatha inquired with a cocked brow.

"...No." Came his response after a long pause. "...I consider you to be quite, quite more."

Neither spoke after he uttered those words, a pregnant pause left between them. Then Agatha stepped forward and touched his cool cheek with her equally cool hand. His gazed back into the blues of her eyes with his dark ones. Love was merely a construct, he had convinced himself long ago. And yet, now where he stood, it seemed quite the opposite.

"I can make no promises nor can I say I can do much more than try." He replied quietly. "But for you, I will look into more humane ways. But if I cannot find such things, you must swear to me that you will feed from whomever no matter the costs."

Agatha pursed her lips but said nothing. Dracula nodded his head knowing full well this was going to be a mere impossible task. After centuries of feeding on only humans, how was he to know of any sort of substitutes? But he just got Agatha back. Just confessed his feelings. And for her, if he could, he'd offer her the world and whatever with it.

"I believe in you." Agatha stated, pulling the man from his thoughts. "Find it in yourself to do the same."

A statement, he would not admit allowed, that was easier said than done.

#Dracula #Dragatha #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #Bad Moon Rising

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nightseeye · 5 years ago

Text

Breathe (If You Still Can Hope To)

ao3 link

Their vision was wavering, darkness creeping in around the edges. What little they could see was blurred, everything gleaming red as - they could've sworn those were closer - distant alarms blared. Faintly, they could hear something struggling for air. Someone walked towards them. Red? Orange? Maybe Yellow? It was hard to tell exactly, but it certainly was a warmly colored suit, considering how it blended in with the lights. They tried to get up, only their fingers twitching for their effort, but still they tried.

The person came closer, closer, and closer 'till all they could make out were the boots in front of their face. They still couldn't make out a color. The person apparently decided to roll them over, because now they could see the ceiling - blurry, of course - and the little plant sticking out the other's helmet.

Orange, then. Red would never take off her beloved tophat, and Yellow wasn’t ever fun enough to put on a hat, no matter how hard the crew all tried to convince him. Something wheezed quietly. Their fingers once again twitched feebly as they tried to move, to get up, to do anything except lay on the floor. No dice.

"-alive?"

It seemed Orange was saying something. But it was hard to listen when they were so tired.

"-didn't know it'd be like this---lert on my tablet”

Orange was rambling about something, like vey always did when vey were excited. Or nervous. They had no idea what vey could be excited about, and it was hard to wonder why when the darkness in their vision started creeping in again.

"-to decide how to do it! I've never done th-"

Orange started picking them up, slinging their limp arm over veir shoulders. Their stomach churned ominously as vey stood, the sudden change in perspective nauseating. The quiet little gasps of something fighting to breathe continued, making them wonder if there was anything they could do to help. Or at least to make it stop.

"-anyone, I really, really couldn't. So Oxygen seemed-"

Their head lolled off of Orange's shoulders as the two of them - well, just Orange, really. They couldn't manage more than the twitch of their fingers - moved. Where? They had no clue. They could barely see anything anymore, Orange's voice the only thing keeping them awake. Even then, it was a close battle they were starting to lose. Even the desperate breathing noises started to quiet down.

It was getting harder to think. They blinked slowly and-

"-an ok level by myself. I don't think---hoping you'll be ok."

Gentle hands tugged off their helmet and pulled a mask over their face. The darkness receded, if only by a little bit, but enough to give them back some semblance of awareness. They felt themself being buckled into a seat.

" 'nge-?" They slurred, looking their crewmate in the face. Visor. Orange still had veir helmet on.

Vey looked startled to hear them, pausing veir careful patdown to look at them.

"-ake? I'm glad. Thank goodness the dropship---gen supply."

Thoughts growing clearer with each passing breath, they jolt, remembering what happened. The trip had been going fine despite the announcement of an imposter on board, had seemed to be going fine. Then, things had started going strangely, doors slamming shut and lights going off, but no one died so they didn't worry too much about it. They had thought at was just someone playing a prank, - Blue, probably. He was a hell of a prankster when he got up to it, - a little something to liven up the monotony of space travel. Honestly, they had welcomed it! Even a game of cards had gotten boring after awhile.

Then, systems started failing.

Oxygen was first. They remembered rushing to admin, inputting in the code to fix it. They had made it in time. They remember voting off Green for standing idly in navigation, or so Purple had yelled, slamming her hand on the table. He wasn't the Imposter. They remember voting out Purple, afterwards. She wasn't, either.

They remember Orange skipping both votes.

They didn't think much of it. Orange was always friendly, always kind to everyone in the crew. They knew it must've hurt vem to see friends thrown out into the merciless grasp of space.

Next was the Reactor, and they remembered the pulsing thing that powered the ship glow threateningly as they stood in the room, a hand pressed on the scanner as they prayed for someone to reach the other one in time. They remember seeing crewmates scramble into the room, they even remember Orange tripping over one of the lights in veir hurry. It wasn’t funny at the time, but they laughed about it later. They remember screaming at Yellow during that meeting for… something. They don't remember for what, but no one got shoved out the airlock.

After that it became a pattern. Oxygen went off, then Reactor, then Oxygen again. It became normal, a routine event, even. The crew relaxed. They became complacent. There was always someone to fix it, afterall.

One day, they heard the alarms for Oxygen sound out. It should've been Reactor, they remember idly thinking. They remember ignoring the alarms; they knew someone else would get it, and security's wires were so, annoyingly tangled.

They remember wondering why the alarms hadn't quieted yet, as they worked on unknotting a particularly stubborn ball of wires. They remember wondering why the world had started to sway, why their fingers started fumbling over a task they've done a thousand times before.

They remember wondering… why couldn’t they breathe.

"There."

All this time, as they remembered, Orange had been moving, pressing buttons and entering something into the dropship's software. Now vey stood, brushing nonexistent dust off their pants, and stepping back out into the Wester. They still couldn't move much, but they manged to follow veir movements. Orange caught their eye, and gave them a half hearted shrug, fidgeting with veir gloves.

"I…" Vey laughed, with a voice full of tears, "I'll be fine. I don't really need oxygen like you all do."

With that, the liar shut the door and walked away. Minutes later, they felt the dropship rumble as it detached from the Wester, and sped away. Though the darkness mostly receded from their vision, they were exhausted, and the quiet dark between the stars soon lulled them to sleep.

---

Orange watched the dropship disappear into deep space, and sighed as vey turned back to the ship. [OXYGEN levels: 1%] blared in the corner of veir visor, an alert long since turned beyond useless. Vey wandered the halls a ghost, the bright red of the alarm lights washing away veir suit's color. Orange became nothing more than blank canvas that the bodies vey found, and collected, popped out against. It took several trips before vey found them all.

Orange named, and counted: Black and Brown, Yellow and Red, White and Blue. Six different people out of ten the crew. Six different people of the nine vey once knew.

Six similar corpses, bodies starved by the very air they needed to live.

Even if Orange hadn't strangled each one vemself, it had certainly felt like it when vey had watched White and Red drop dead on the cameras. Had heard Black wheezing for air when vey passed by Electric. Had seen Yellow frantically attempt to punch in numbers until he too, collapsed, while vey watched from the entrance to Admin. It certainly felt like it.

Now the crew all sat, propped against the table, as Orange stared at their bodies. A 'ping' from veir tablet, discarded on the floor, startled vem.

'VICTORY'

laid in bright blue, cheerful letters across the screen.

Orange couldn't help but remember the look that Lime had given vem as vey shattered veir tablet across the floor. Vey couldn’t help but remember the question in their eyes Vey hadn't quite lied. The fact that vey could still stand despite the [OXYGEN levels: .01%] stamped across their visor was quite proof enough of that.

But Orange shuddered, voice thick with grief as vey quietly told the truth that no one was left to hear: "No�� You wouldn't want to ride with a murderer."

#among us #writing #fanfic #among us fanfic #nighty writes

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liron-ao3 · 4 years ago

Text

TW: Cis writer writes about trans character and dysphoria.

Chapter 1

(Read it on AO3)

Total darkness surrounds him as if the earth had swallowed him whole. He coughs, his throat feeling dry as hell, burning with every breath he tries to take.

He feels hard, yet damp wood underneath him. The air smells rotten and stale and Dean can't breathe properly as if the amount of oxygen is running out.

Don't panic! he tells himself, refraining from taking a deep breath even though it might steady his heartbeat.

He pats down at the pocket of his jeans. Thank, God! No matter what happend to him, the lighter that his brother Sammy gave him for his 16th birthday is still there.

He fumbles at his jeans, willing his stiff hands into cooperation until he can finally fish out the silver lighter and with fingers that feel as if they weren't his, he runs his thumb several times over the little metal wheel unsuccessfully until - finally - a little flame lightens up the space around him.

It casts more shadows than light, distorting what he knows to be his body into long forgotten wraiths. But there's no use in processing this cruel game his brain is playing with him.

The space around him is confined, planks of wood on top of him and to every side. He tries to call for help, but his voice betrays him, coming out squeaky and parched. It doesn't seem to belong to him. He coughs once more and his next attempt works better, at least it is louder, but his voice still sounds so much higher than usual.

Anger flares up in his chest or maybe it's just the air pinching his lungs. He bangs at the planks above him and feels soil raining down on him, sprinkling his face.

He's buried alive! What sick son of a bitch would do that to him? Sure, he has enemies from all over the country, human and supernatural beings alike, but even for most of them this sick game would be a notch too much.

With all strength that he can muster, he pulls at the brittle wood and tears it apart until the hole above him is big enough to shovel his way out of what he realises is supposed to be his grave.

He doesn't know how long it takes, he doesn't know if he's still alive or already breathing soil. He keeps on digging upwards, driven by instinct and the sheer will to survive, to kill the bastard that thought killing him like this was what he deserved.

Finally! He feels the soil getting more loose, more dry, and then - sweet mother of Jesus and all the angels who witnessed his birth - he feels grass under his fingertips and his right hand reaches into fresh air for the first time again.

He presses his other hand out, widening the hole in the ground above him and with more will than bodily strength he pushes his chest out in the open, taking in a big breath of air. He coughs due to the new sensation of filled alveoles, burning inside him like the fires from hell.

His head is a little dizzy but he still keeps on crawling, shoving, pulling, until his whole body finds solid ground and the sun slowly caresses his cold cheek.

He turns on his back and closes his eyes. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm safe. The last one feels like a lie, but Dean doesn't know why. He's too exhausted to think about it.

He gulps and groans and looks into the blinding sun standing high on a cloudless blue sky.

He lies there, maybe for minutes, maybe hours. His throat still feels like lined with parchment paper. He needs water. It's way too hot. He will die of thirst if he doesn't move and for a short moment he entertains the thought of just staying like this until his heart stops beating.

But then he thinks of Sammy who is surely looking for him. He imagines his grief laced face finding him after he fought so hard to get out of this hole, imagines him erecting the funeral pyre, cloaking him in a white sheet, and burning him all alone, here, God knows where.

No, he can't let that happen!

So he pushes himself off the ground and gets up on slightly wobbly legs, taking in his surroundings. There is an improvised wooden cross on what should have been his eternal resting place and fallen trees encircling the little grassy patch that may have been a small clearance once.

The trees lie disrooted on the ground, but it's clear that they weren't the victims of a normal storm. It looks as if a nuke took off, as if something inside the clearance exploded and took the trees down.

Dean tries to make sense of it and for a long moment he just stares and breathes, before willing his eyes to look for signs of civilisation. He thinks he finds them in the far distance, something red catching his attention.

With his eyes still fixed on the red object, too afraid to lose sight of it and hoping that it isn't just a thirst induced Fata Morgana, he shrugs out of his long-sleeved shirt and binds it over his teeshirt, around his waist. He takes a first step, still a little wobbly on his feet, then the next, and the next, until his legs remember how to work. His whole body feels foreign, but he keeps on moving until he reaches the red objects he hung his life on.

They turn out to be old fashioned pumps at a dated petrol station. The sign says 'closed', still he knocks and calls, "Hello!", his voice still not recovered from whatever the arsehole who buried him alive did to him.

There is no answer and he unknots his shirt around his waist and uses it to protect his hand while breaking the glass door to get inside the little shop.

He thanks whoever might listen that the shop seems to still be in use as he finds a fridge with bottles of water.

He downs half of one, the burning in his throat now nearly worse than before. He takes another hurtful breath then looks around.

He knows he's in the back of beyond, but where exactly? He sees a stack of newspaper and grabs one. He's not surprised to find himself in Michigan, but he blinks twice when he sees the date on the Pontiac Daily Gazette. It's September 2008.

This can't be right! He lost four months on earth. Maybe he should just be thankful that his decades in hell didn't pass here, too. Coming back to a world where people like his uncle Bobby might not live anymore - not due to a hunting accident, but because of old age - would be so much worse.

His skin burns like fire, but not from the burn of the sun. He needs to get his shit together. There's no use in focussing on details like this. He needs to find Sam and get the hell out of here.

He walks to the old washbasin to cool his boiling cheeks. Together with the cold water a bit of the built up tension goes down the drain.

He pats his shirt to his face, drying it, and that's when it hits him. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

All this time ever since he woke up in this cursed makeshift coffin, the foreign feeling that never quite left him even when his body cooperated with his brain again, with one look in the mirror it suddenly all makes sense.

His lips form a silent 'no' as he sees his own reflection in the mirror. His features, though distorted in horror, are soft and void of facial hair. His hairline is lower, too. What the actual fuck!?

In disbelief his gaze wanders down his reflection, finding soft hills where a flat chest should be. He breathes in sharply before raising his shirt tentatively. Where he is used to find strong muscles he finds a soft belly framed by wide hips and a slender waist. Where he sported two thin, red scars he's met with two breasts that used to be the biggest trigger of dysphoria until the wonderful day when he had finally gotten rid of them with the credit card of an insanely rich businessman who had died after making a deal with a crossroad demon. It had been the happiest day of his life, well maybe after the day he had gotten his hand on the first tube of testosterone gel.

Dean presses a hand to his mouth, trying to keep the wail inside that breaks his way from deep down inside his stomach up to his throat, ripping him apart in the process. All his fighting, all the pain, all the things he did to make the body he was born with truly his.

He stares at himself in the mirror or more precisely the version of him that he thought to have left in the past, the one that he never really fit in, never filled out, the one that people knew by his grandmother's name.

His hand shoots to his crotch, but all he finds are loose briefs and he knows that not only his packer is gone, but also his cock. Son of a bitch!

Tears brim behind closed eyes, burning their way out until he can feel them on his smooth cheeks.

Alastair himself couldn't have been so cruel to send him back into his personal hell that is a body not fitting the soul within.

Dean braces himself on the washbasin. He takes one deep breath, then another, and another. He looks up in the mirror again, but all he sees is a slightly older 23 year old version of himself and all hope drains out of him.

If you liked this, please follow the story on AO3.

#dean winchester #trans man dean #trans dean #gender dysphoria #lazarus rising #au canon divergence #fanfiction #destiel #deancas

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dadzawa-adopt-dabi · 5 years ago

Text

Chap3 secret baby

Chapter3

Touya has cemented the fact that he’s keeping this baby. With or without Hawks he’s keeping this baby. Single parents raise kids all the time, he can do the same with his baby.

Hawks wanted to meet up the next morning and had suggested a time that just happened to be before Touya had to be in school. Did he know? Or was it a lucky guess? It was hard to tell. It was made even harder because Touya is bitterly aware that he knows next to nothing about Hawks, or how much Hawks knows about him. He doesn’t know what he may have told him during their drunk hookups. And that… that’s the important part, really.

He’s distracted on the train, almost missing the stop where Hawks had told him his agency is near. He’s not going to Hawks’ agency, but a news station. Hawks hadn’t wanted to meet him at his agency… Shame? Or just being smart?

Can his pregnancy hormones be fucking with his head? Touya swears he isn’t this paranoid before, it’s just… He’s not looking out for just himself anymore. Even his siblings, who depended on him and Fuyumi more than either of their ‘parents’ won’t need him as much as the kid in his stomach is going to. He’s gotta put the kid first, has to choose to be better than what he was given.

And what does he really know about Hawks? Not much.

He doesn’t even know Hawks’ real name. He has no idea how Hawks will treat him, will treat the life in his stomach. A few good fucks doesn’t tell him shit.

He truly doesn’t know anything about him… That's…

Fuck. That’s dangerous. That’s every bit as stupid as his mo– as REI accused him of being. That Enji sneered at him across a training room.

“Touya!” He’s greeted at the front door by Hawks. Hawks wraps him up in a hug as soon as he gets close enough. He tucks his nose into Hawks neck and inhales the scent of his alpha. Warm, and safe. Spicy and the familiar softness of his jacket. He wouldn’t do that if he was mean right? People like his father don’t go around hugging people.

He hasn’t ever seen Enji inhale Rei’s scent after a bad day like Hawks always seems to do with him. That couldn’t be an act. It couldn’t … right?

“I was worried about you,” Hawks mumbles. He’s got his own nose tucked into Touya’s neck and is breathing in Touya’s own faint scent, diluted by scent blockers. If it bothers him, he doesn’t say. He just presses closer for a moment. It’s hard to remember his fears, when everything in him says Hawks is safe. But Rei thought that too, didn’t she? There were pictures, with her eyes shy and hopeful, as she gazed upon her flaming groom. Look how that turned out.

“I’m sorry, Hawks.” Touya clings to Hawks as he pulls back, arms strangely reluctant to relinquish their grip on the warm material of the coat, letting go feels almost like a physical blow to his instincts. Demanding him to keep his alpha close while he’s distressed.

“You okay?” Hawks asks and pulls back to give Touya a kiss and looks him in the eyes. His eyes are searching again, and Touya normally doesn’t mind the scrutiny but he feels too exposed right now.

“Yeah, let’s just go inside. I don’t really want to talk about it out here ” Or anywhere. Definitely not out here.

They head inside and down a hall, until Hawks’ dressing room is to their left. Hawks lets Touya get comfortable while he gets ready for his interview, excitement and nerves making his movements sharp, birdlike. It's… cute. Touya can focus on the cute instead of his gut, a knot of tension heavy and churning. He can focus on Hawks making kissy faces at him in the mirror as he finishes his makeup. Hawks must have kicked the cosmetologist he normally has out for him. Again Touya questions if its because of the shame a young pregnant omega will add to his reputation. What if he just wants a chance to pay him to keep their relationship and baby secret and not a chance to work something out? Hawks never had mentioned taking him to meet his family and they only talked about dating once. Hawks had probably just wanted a easy lay. Touya is alright with that, afterall he had just wanted a good lay too. Also if Hawks doesn’t want anything Touya has only himself to blame, he’s the one who blocked the alpha out of nowhere and then expected him to drop everything and pick him back up again. Who’s to say Hawks hasn’t already found a better omega and was dating them?

“If you want you can watch from in here, when I get back we can talk.” Hawks gets pulled out of the room, bare seconds to turn and offer the quick sentence, feathers fluffed despite a harried attendant attempting to smooth them down with a stiff bristled brush.

Touya turns on the screen in the room and watches Hawks get interviewed, filing away the precious little information he can glean from the smiling hostess and Hawks’ own easy grin. It would be a good cover too… if they didn’t notice the hand on his pants, knuckles white from the force they’re exerting.

“I saw you worked with Endeavor on this last project. What did you think of the property damage he’s done? It seems like he lost his temper with that last villain?”

Hawks gave an easy going smile to the reporter and leaned back against the couch, hand still tightly fisted but his rustling wings neatly capturing the camera’s focus. Touya knows how to do that too, distract the cameras, the teachers, nurses. Hawks look more real though.

“I loved working alongside side Endeavor. Although, I didn’t get to talk to him much unfortunately. He did what he had to do and I’m sure the property damage isn’t as bad as you say. The villain in question was an omega mouthing off pretty hard to him. He’s an alpha,Endeavor just let his instincts as an alpha get the better of him.”

He what?

What little of Touya’s stomach left unknotted quickly turns to ice. Ice, for all it burns, that freezes him in place, one hand slowly covering his stomach, like he can shield his unborn child from that man. From… from it all.

“You’re saying that it’s completely fine to smack omegas around?” The hostess has a smile like a shark, and there’s blood in the water. She adjusts herself in the chair, leaning forward and the microphone dipping closer to Hawks, waiting for his response with bated breath. She’s not the only one, Touya couldn’t breathe if paid to do so.

Hawks’ eyes widen and he sits up a little straighter. “Absolutely not, The omega in question was a villain resisting arrest. Heroes have the right to use excessive force to bring criminals in.“

It could be a lie… He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He can't… No. He has to. Has to protect his kid. However he can. Right now it doesn’t matter that Hawks doesn’t know. He’s basically saying that talking back, something Touya excels at, means omegas and children deserve to get slapped.

“No need to get so defensive, young Hawks. I’m just saying Endeavor is not very approachable and he’s always had bad popularity ratings due to how much he seems to just hate children. He’s got an attitude problem and we hear that he wouldn’t work beside you due to your inexperience” she smirks and waits for Hawks to agree with her.

“Well, I can’t do much about my inexperience. Yes I’m young and newer to the job. But I would definitely entrust things to Endeavor. He’s the number two hero! I’ve always looked up to him. ”

Touya doesn’t remember the rest of the interview. He knows the woman repeatedly tries to go after Hawks’ young age and inexperience.

When Hawks does come back in the room he’s frustrated and starts speaking right away.

“I just don’t get what everyone’s problem with Endeavor is!” He paces back and forth across the room.

“I don’t like how angry he is. I wouldn’t trust our kid around him.” Touya is tense back on the couch but Hawks doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s a dick who shouldnt be around children,” he flinches back into the couch on reflection when Hawks whips around.

“He’s great with kids! I would have no problem with him looking after our kid. He’s just grumpy! I don’t know what you want to do about our baby yet but if we keep them then I’m asking him to babysit and be their godfather.”

Touya’s stomach drops. He can’t breath for a moment and has both hands locked around his stomach.

Enji is never going to know this kid even exists.

He opens his mouth to say so and to explain exactly how he knows how horrible Enji can be when Hawks turns around and his large spread out wing sends everything on table flying.

Touya flinches and Hawks curses as he starts picking it up.

The scent of anger and frustration heavy in the room.

“I want an abortion.”

Hawks freezes and looks at Touya.

“You don’t want to keep the baby?” He asks shocked.

“No, I don’t.“ Touya thinks about how careful Hawks has been to keep him out of sight and adds on another lie. If he’s going to raise this baby alone then he’s going to need more money than he currently has stashed away.

“And you’re going to pay for it. And for me to keep it quiet. Otherwise I walk out of here right now and tell that woman I’ve got a story for her.” Touya stands up off the couch and stares Hawks down. He can do this for his baby. He can keep them safe.

“You came here to blackmail me?” Hawks looks absolutely furious and Touya lets his face go blank. Not a single emotion to be read off it.

“Yeah, I did. We’re not anything, Hawks. I don’t know why you thought a baby would change that.”

“Who do you think you are that you can just blackmail me?” Hawks growls. A low angry alpha growl. If Touya wasn’t so used to Endeavour pulling the same shit he would have backed down.

“Todoroki Touya. Unless you want to explain to Endeavor you knocked up his only omega son without even the decency to court him or ask for permission to court me , he’s old fashioned like that, then I suggest we get talking numbers.”

Maybe Hawks was just that embarrassed of Touya but he buys the lies Touya is selling and Touya leaves unharmed and several thousand dollars richer.

@ruelukas22

#takami keigo #Dabi #dabihawks #secretbabyfic #thedarkonewrites #dabi is a liar.#and scared #starting to feel proud as fuck about this fic

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sinsbymanka · 5 years ago

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Love Marks - 14 Days of DA Lover’s Prompts (Cadash/Varric NSFW)

I’ve seen so many good @14daysofdalovers smut entries for this prompt I couldn’t resist doing my own. It’s on AO3 too! NSFW under the cut.

If they put her in one more silk dress, she’d start screaming, and Maker help them she’d never stop. As if finally sensing the roiling danger coming off her in waves, Josephine and Leliana finally retreated and Maria ripped the latest Orlesian frippery from her skin without a second thought. The delicate material tore, the sound soothing her frayed nerves, and she let it fall in triumph.

Hah, she thought. At least they wouldn’t go with that one. She stood over it as victoriously as she stood over the dragon they felled in the plains. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears and she tried to tamp down the bloody rage in her veins before she damaged something she’d rather keep. She raised her cool gaze from the tangle of fine cloth on the floor and back up to scan her room. She still stood in front of the gaudy mirror, all gilt and gold paint, her reflection literally dwarfed by the gigantic expanse of glass. She could see the flush of her temper on her pale skin, from the tips of her ears the whole way to her breasts still trapped in the corset they laced her into.

Suddenly, Maria spotted the problem.

“Sodding ancestors.” She swore, fingers flying to the back of the thing to try and find the laces. “If it isn’t blighted demons and blood magic, it’s fucking finery and sneering nobles and corsets.”

She’d rather storm right up to Corypheus and his dragon with nothing but her good looks. Her fingers tangled in the unfamiliar strings and she bit back a sob of frustration.

Varric’s warm, dark chuckle cut through her searing anger and squirming embarrassment. “Problems, Princess?”

“Of fucking course!” She cursed, ceasing her useless struggles to pin him with her furious gaze. “You march your dwarven ass right back down those steps and tell Josie and Leliana to grow a set and come get me out of this damn thing.”

Varric’s grin only grew more satisfied in the face of her impotent fury. He raised an eyebrow and lifted his hands. “What if I promised to heroically rescue you from the throes of this dastardly undergarment?”

She dropped her hands from the laces immediately and turned to present her back to him with more relief than she cared to examine. “Get this off me Varric before I start hacking at it with my knife. I’m sure it’s bleedin’ expensive and I don’t want to listen to a lecture about why I can’t have nice things.”

“Your wish is my command.” He said smoothly, his warm voice curling over her like fine whiskey. Within a moment, he was at her back, but instead of making for the laces immediately, like she’d ordered, both his hands trailed down her sides, following the stiff boning of the garment from her bust to the dip of waist the flare of her hips.

She turned to fix him with an accusing stare over her bare, freckled shoulder. Varric instantly adopted an expression of wounded innocence, but she didn’t buy it for a second. “You like it.” She accused.

Men, they were all the same. Varric grinned, not even slightly abashed, his fingers dancing back up over the front of the contraption. “A tiny, insignificant amount.” He admitted.

“Traitor.” She bit out, even though she could feel her temper receding in the face of his sunny, carefree charm. “Why don’t you finish the job and just sell me right out to the Venatori?”

Varric’s warm chuckle caused the skin at the back of her neck to prickle with excitement, his lips ghosting near her pulse as he whispered against her heated skin. “I prefer the idea of taking it off, to be honest.”

“What are you waiting for then?” She demanded with a laugh of her own and a cheerful toss of her red hair. Varric’s deft fingers instantly retreated to tug rather more effectively at the laces. Someone, clearly, had practice undoing women’s fancy undergarments. It sent an uncomfortable pang through her, but she banished it resolutely.

It wasn’t fair to begrudge him experience and take advantage of it at the same time, after all. The laces loosened and she finally felt like she could breathe for the first time in hours. At the same time, Varric’s lips pressed a searing kiss right behind her ear, one she felt the whole way in her knees. He followed the line of her neck, stubble scraping against her skin, sending delicious prickles of sensation through her entire body. By the time the corset fell away, his tongue was tracing the freckles on her shoulders.

Finally free, she twisted to face him, pressing her bare breasts against the silk of his shirt, the rough hair decorating his chest. She captured his teasing, smirking mouth with her own demanding kiss. She didn’t break it off until she felt his fingers dig into her waist on instinct rather than artifice. She broke away with her own low, throaty laugh and caught his dancing amber eyes with her own. “You know they sent you up here to appease me, right?”

“How do you know I was sent anywhere?” Varric asked, pulling back to examine her bare form greedily.

She knew exactly what happened. Josephine went running to Varric saying the Inquisitor was having one of her moods. Varric, of course, made a great show of closing his journal, putting away his letters, and ambling up to her room to soothe her rattled temper before she started throwing things. The inner circle was always throwing Varric at her because...

Well, because he was very hard to be mad at, especially when his thumbs traveled up her soft skin, the roundness of her stomach, tracing the imprints of the boning the corset left with a teasing smirk. “These I don’t care for. I can think of much better marks we could leave.”

And just like that, the last of her temper vanished. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him wantonly, tugging at the loose strands of his hair. “Is that a promise, Varric?”

His mouth claimed hers again with a desperate, intense passion. His big hands settled on her waist, drew her flush against him so her pebbled nipples brushed against his shirt and she could feel the heat of him radiating into her. She dropped her hands immediately, keeping her eyes closed, first to that ridiculous sash, unknotting it with a smuggler’s efficiency. As soon as it was gone she made short work of the rest of the buttons on his tunic.

He let go of her just long enough to allow her to push it from his shoulders, then his mouth dropped back to her neck, teeth pinching her skin, tongue laving out to soothe the sting, drawing little whimpers from her mouth as she twisted one hand in his hair, the other digging into the hard, solid muscles of his arms.

The woman could go choke on a nug for all she cared, but if that damn crossbow had resulted in his glorious physique, Maria really owed Bianca a thank you letter. Maybe she could have Josie write it.

Her eyes opened blearily and fixed on the mirror. She could see the rippling muscles of Varric’s back, her hand gripping his golden hair, her flushed face over his shoulder, and the low dwarven bed directly behind them.

“Varric.” She keened, tugging his hair gently. He pulled away, dark eyes sweeping up to her, then following where her gaze pointed. The laugh that rumbled out of him sounded absolutely sinful while he looked at the mirror.

“Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” She pleaded in an unsteady, husky voice.

“Princess.” He crooned. “When am I not thinking what you’re thinking?”

Truer words had never been said. She could nearly always see her own thoughts reflected back in wry twists of Varric’s smile, usually some shared amusement at their companion’s antics, shared disgruntlement with humans, or sheer joy at discovering unplundered loot.

She didn’t know exactly how they made it to the edge of the bed, but the logistics didn’t matter. What mattered was that she ended up facing the mirror, seated on Varric’s lap, her thighs spread wide over his legs, the only thing protecting her modesty the thin smalls she wore. His hands cupped both her breasts and she pressed back against his bare chest, arching into his touch while he teased her nipples to attention, sending jolts of white hot pleasure to her core. Underneath her ass, she felt his swollen cock within his breeches and she shifted teasingly until he growled and pressed his lips back to her shoulder, sucking perhaps a bit harder than he normally would. She cried out, but the pain faded to pleasure immediately as one of Varric’s hands slipped beneath her smalls.

She could see his shit-eating grin in the mirror and she wanted to hate him for it, but she couldn’t summon up the appropriate venom. He kissed her jaw, up to her ear, watching as she squirmed against his too light, teasing caresses.

“You’re awfully excited, Maria.” He whispered. She shuddered, couldn’t help the tiny frustrated moan that slipped from her lips as he said her name. She knew she was slick with want, could feel his fingers dancing over exactly where she needed him to touch.

Underneath her ass, his cock pulsed with the same desire. She didn’t stop writhing in his lap, both in an attempt to get his fingers where she wanted and to punish him for his teasing with some retribution of her own. His breath, hot and heavy, against her skin showed he was fighting a losing battle with his own need.

He slid one finger into her and she clenched down on him hard, riding his hand with single minded desperation. His other hand untied her smalls and nearly ripped them to the side, leaving her obscenely bare to his eyes. Maria couldn’t take her eyes away from her swollen, slick center spread open for his enjoyment, his first finger joined by a second as his thumb circled her clit.

“Varric, please...” She half sobbed, hips rising as much as she could to get a better angle, to fuck herself on his fingers. He laughed, low and dark, against her kiss marked skin.

“Are you close already sweetheart?” He teased, his other hand gently pinching her hard nipple. She was flushed the whole way down her torso, panting, a sheen of sweat covering her as Varric delayed what she wanted, giving her not quite enough, pushing her higher and higher without letting her shatter.

She dropped her head back on his shoulder and gave into the feelings, the sensation, and he finally took pity on her. His touch directly on her clit was almost too much, a third finger slipping inside her and curling just right as he pushed her to brink.

She shattered with a cry that carried his name, wetness coating his fingers, the breeches he still wore. She went limp against him, muscles unable to support her. Varric swore, lifting her to tangle with his own laces. She felt him growl in frustration as desire made his deft fingers clumsy. Then she felt him, velvet steel against her drenched opening, teasing her sensitive clit.

“Do you want to watch, Maria?” He asked, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as he bucked against her. “Do you want to watch me take you, sweetheart?”

Maker, yes. She lifted her head from his shoulder and focused her bleary eyes on the thick, perfect cock between her legs. When he knew he had her attention, he sweetly kissed the side of her neck, lifting her until he had her just where he wanted.

With one sure thrust, his cock stretched her open, split her pussy in two. She watched him sink into her, greedy for the way he felt inside her, the fullness of him, the heat of him. He thrust several times, shallow to loosen her tight sheath. When he sank fully inside her, he pressed his forehead to the back of her head and huffed shakily. “Princess, this may not be my finest performance.”

Let it never be said that Maria Cadash couldn’t come up with a zinger even when she was being thoroughly, properly fucked. “Can’t be worse than Swords and Shields, Varric.”

He laughed, his grip tightening until she knew he’d leave bruises, but she didn’t care. She wanted them, wanted his marks on her skin, wanted to see them alongside the scars, proof she wasn’t just some holy icon of stone, but a woman. A flesh and blood woman who was desired by someone like Varric fuckin’ Tethras.

Sod it all, she’d wear the damn dresses and let everyone see them.

That was the last coherent thought in her head. Varric was in control this time and there wasn’t much she could do except writhe and buck against his iron grip as he lifted and lowered her spread form, his cock disappearing into her warm heat over and over. She couldn’t look away, not even when another orgasm shocked her, sent her muscles clenching around his hard shaft and his name ringing across the room.

This tipped him over the edge and his rhythm suffered, jerky and imprecise, before he buried himself in her with a loud groan and a shudder, his arms leaving her thighs to wrap tightly around her waist instead as he filled her with his seed. She could see some of it spilling from where they were joined.

Perfect. Perfect. He was always so damn perfect.

She shifted, his softening cock slipping from her, and captured his lips desperately one last time with her own, hoping to convey all the things she couldn’t pour into words into that kiss.

As if he understood her perfectly, like he always did, he laid back on the bed, tugging her with him. They lapsed into comfortable, calm silence for several long minutes, their breathing fighting to return to normal, heartbeats still thudding in their chests.

“Well.” Varric drawled, exhausted and overly-pleased with himself, “I’d say you’re successfully appeased. Exalted March on your two best advisers successfully diverted.”

She giggled in spite of herself.

#dragon age #dragonage #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquistor #dwarf inquisitor #inquisitor x varric #inquisitor cadash #varric tethras #varric romance #cadash x varric #cadash #non-canon romance #going down with this ship

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dentelle-grise · 7 years ago

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Your Latest Trick - Chapter 24

Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.

(Loki x Reader NSFW) - First chapter here (can be read as a oneshot)

All chapters to date at AO3 (58K, NC-17)

Tagging my rebloggers, commenters and other folk who asked. Please let me know if you want in (or out) of the list: @joanbushur, @frenchfrostpudding, @lovely-geek, @wolfsmom1, @sigridlaufeyson, @lokislonelylady, @monitoroutside, @daniissuchadani, @devilbat, @deadlydreamersecrets @helenisabel, @stardustandangelsfanfiction, @ely-seum, @wendyrobson1978, @the-ships-i-ship, @shemart101, @dreamourbrainout, @sadghostomg, @lokilover2000, @blobfishington, @lynneth1968-blog, @deaddecade, @nardo94, @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981, @ashesandfire, @imagines-of-the-fandom, @beingrandomisfun

Chapter 24: Imagine Loki making love to you in public while invisible.

Sometime in the small hours you rise, careful not to wake Loki from where he’s untidily and contentedly sprawled in the middle of the bed, and creep out in search of the bathroom. The light of dawn is only just hinting and you pull the window closed against the cold.

You edge along the wall, back past the bed, looking for a door, it must be here, you don’t remember any other rooms downstairs. But there’s nothing up here either. How come? What kind of house has no bathroom?

A poor person’s.

The wall is rough under your fingers and the air damp. So this was where Loki was hiding out. Better than prison, but desolate in another way.

You’re going to have to go outside, find the outhouse perhaps, the idea makes you shudder. You take a step toward the stairs but at that moment, Loki rolls over and you collide with a leg that he unknowingly stretches out in your path. The bed really is too small. He growls in complaint. “What?”

“I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Over there.” He points blindly, without raising his head and you see it. A door in the angle of the corner you could have sworn wasn’t there earlier. You step through and find everything there is just like home. Why did you doubt?

It’s only when dawn and wakefulness come for real, and Loki’s urging you to ready yourself to go back, scooping you up and pulling you downstairs that you see clearly that there is no door in the corner of the room, merely a table with a washstand and ewer. You don’t ask.

He stops the skiff just outside the city waters, and you float, swaddled in morning mist. The skiff becomes an ordinary vessel, bobbing on the water. Apart from the fog-bleared lights of Asgard, you could be the only beings in the universe. It's chill, but you have the furs. He uncovers a box with bread, cheese and fruit, which you share. The bread is warm, like he just got it from the kitchens. Perhaps he did.

How much of this did he plan? How much did he magic up in an instant? It doesn’t matter. You watch each other eat, a comforting reminder he’s real.

"I wish we could see each other in the day sometime." you say. You were only thinking romantically, it wasn't even a demand. But he sighs and doesn't answer and you feel a new tenseness in the atmosphere.

“What’s going to happen?” you ask,

“I don’t know.”

The most terrifyingly honest of answers.

“What about Thor?” you ask, emboldened. It’s a question you expect him to rebuff “What about Thor?” But instead he bursts out laughing.

“Oh Thor, my valiant brother. As usual, he’s protecting the realm of Midgard against great and terrible foes… its own mightiest heroes, in fact”

With that he has to struggle to stop laughing, while you look on blankly.

“Oh, I couldn't have done better myself!” he says. Then he sees your lost look and starts to explain “Oh. two of Thor’s mortal friends had a baby.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Or rather a brain child. And now it’s trying to take over the planet and my dear brother is once more saving the day.”

“Does he know you’re alive??”

Loki's gaiety disappears abruptly.

“No.” Loki looks away, into the mist. Not starting at anything, just not looking at you. “Like I said, he’s busy.”

You don’t press. But you wouldn’t put it past Loki to jump out on Thor one day as a really bad joke and there’s not much you can do to prevent it.

You have time to make things look almost normal that morning, the time to return home so you can wash up and change at least. But fear has been growing like a knot in your stomach since Loki left you, setting you down the edge of the high esplanade, before speeding off into the mist.

What about Odin? Your disappearance would surely have been noted.

You open the door to your chambers you notice a familiar smell, sweet, like freesias.

It is freesias.

On the low table there is a broad vase filled with them. You’re confused a moment but then you see there’s a note.

In the same sure hand as the invitation of so many weeks ago, the king apologises for his absence the night before - he was called away on urgent state business.

You want to heave that sigh of relief, want your stomach to unknot, but now there’s something else worrying at it. How did he know you liked Freesias, that they’re your favorite.

You try to start the day as usual, but the question haunts you. Could it simply be because he is the Allfather?

You wonder if Loki will be like Odin in later life.

Sometimes you try to imagine you and he growing old together, but nothing of what you have with Loki has the wisdom of age. Every time you try to imagine the far future, you see yourself alone.

You get the tiniest glimpses of yourselves as a kind of Odin and Frigga. You hope that you would be as elegant as she. You try to imagine Loki's expressions emphasised by time, his hair white, and wonder what you would be to each other. You have never imagined anyone like this. And now you do and it's with one of the most unpredictable, volatile of men. Is that it. You never sought stability and it's not Loki who'll give it to you.

The heat of your relationship is hardly something built to last and there are times when you think it is all you will ever have. When you start thinking like that, the fleeting images of that older couple slip away.

Hornace is leaving just as he promised he would. But he makes a point of coming to say farewell and thank you personally. He’s happier than you’ve seen him since the accident but there’s a clear tension about the future.

“I’ve learnt all I can here, and I can hardly say it’s been boring.” He reflects.

It's true he was here for the attack of the dark elves too, when all he probably expected was quiet study.

“But I hope, for you all" he adds, "that Asgard stays ‘boring’ as long as possible.” He gives a little smile. “But I’m sure you’d be able to handle anything.”

When the flash in the sky shows the bifrost working from afar you realise he's gone and with him another chance. You wish suddenly, crazily that you'd shared your story with him. What harm would it have done? He’s off world now. He would have shaken his head at the craziness of Asgard and certainly not have shared your secret. But you weren't even tempted. Holding your silence has become second nature.

You feel a presence behind you on the balcony and turn but there's no one. You can hear healers voices, not far away just in the next room. But its not that. You know what is it, who it is. Someone very familiar. Invisible, like last night.

“Show yourself!” you say.

He doesn’t, but you’re surer than ever than he’s there. It's in the movement of the air, you’re blocked from the light movement of the wind. And there’s a hint of warmth. Not a sound though and the view is unobstructed.

Thats why you don’t even jump when you feel his arm around you.

And his hand… slipping into your pocket.

Loki leads you away from the healing rooms, guiding you with one arm around your waist, his hand still in your pocket. It feels familiar, affectionate, this closeness, but no one else can see him. So you force yourself to walk as though alone - not leaning into him as you would want, nor leaving too much space to one side as you pass through a doorway. You have to pretend he isn't there, that he's your own personal illusion.

As you make your way across the courtyard, struggling to act normal, who should there be but Asta and Dagny. And from the way they look at you they know something is off. Asta's eyes flick away the instant they settle on you, while Dagny gazes on as though in awe. Your heart stops and your feet freeze. It's like they can see Loki. This is it. Loki makes to step forward, pulling you with him but you stay where you are then falls back by your side, silent.

"Hi." Your voice sounds dead. Asta chances a glimpse at you, her eyes still unreadable, while Dagny smiles nervously.

"Hi." They say in unison, as weakly as you.

Whatever's got into them, it’s something else. It's you Dagny's looking at, not the tall handsome, but totally invisible, figure at your side. They both look troubled. What do they see? You're still standing there and no one says anything. At least they don't try to drag you away for something, to whisper some tidbit of gossip or pushing you for some. There's no pulling on your arm to come see a new dress or enjoy a snack together. You're thankful, but you're worried too, and guilty about how you’ve lied to them, your annoyance at Loki rises a notch.

They embarrassedly try to cover their discomfort, badly. Then pull away, but not before Asta touches your arm and meets your eyes again, this time you read concern. But you are already smiling, brushing them off as you feel they brushed you. You feel a pang as they go, but Loki draws you in closer.

It’s lonelier up on the battlements, just him and you and the wild autumn air.

Against your leg you feel the cold of a blade. He's got a knife and he's cut the fabric at the bottom of the pocket. You want to be outraged, but instead all you feel is rising trepidation. He’s cut a way in. Then the knife is gone and instead there are his fingers, like you knew there would be, delving, exploring, ever so slowly approaching their goal, to reach the core of you without disturbing a layer of fabric on the outside. He’s not standing close enough to you to change the way your dress hangs, but his hand is going deeper. You hold yourself taut, knowing that for appearances you mustn't flinch.

Though he says not a word, though you can’t even hear him breathe, the moves are so familiar. He knows what you like. First he caresses you through the fabric of your underclothes. Then he teases with the tips of his fingers, fighting their way around the cloth. He’s not really going to do this? Is he? But why else are you still here. Why hasn’t he whisked you off already. Because he won’t. He’s going to make you suffer for your pleasure. Experimentally he pushes one fingertip deeper, sliding into your hot wetness. Though you want to gasp you hold it in, hold your breathe. The heat inside doubles. You keep your expression unchanged, unruffled, though the wave of weakness that washes over you makes you think you might faint it this goes any further. Well then Loki would just have to catch you.

He crooks his finger and you repress a shudder, sway on you feet a little and close your eyes a second. Then open them, scared you showed something. But there’s no one here. Not until the next patrol passes.

He lets you calm down, your heart rate slow, your breathing become normal, though nothing will calm the fire within. Then, gently and meticulously, he continues.

To a casual observer you are all alone, but all the time he has you, twisted around his finger. Your world narrowed to that point where his able fingers are undoing you from the inside, while you try to stay as unruffled as a porcelain doll. Your efforts multiply the sensation and he knows it. You are burning up inside, concentrating on breathing normally when it’s getting difficult to remember how.

“Don’t move.” he says.

This is it, he’s going to kill you with this. You’re so wound up standing still is getting difficult.

“Can we go?”

“I thought you were enjoying… the view.” He murmurs in your ear.

You want to curse, you want to throw him on the ground and have your way with him. You might look as though you are standing alone, admiring the landscape and tasting the wild sea air blowing off the waves, but in reality you couldn’t care less about this place or time, and the only purpose of the breeze is to cool your heated blood.

Part of you wants to hold out. Holding out is what’s making it all the better, even though you want release like nothing in the world. You want to hold out longer than him, until he has to take you home without you begging.

Why here?

I wish we could see each other in the day sometime.

Did you bring this on yourself.

You hear a sound behind you. Footsteps, is it a patrol? It would be expected that they pass here soon or later. Would it be normal that you looked over at them, or would it? Loki has stopped, he withdraws his hand even. You feel its loss with regret, so he doesn't want to play it quite that dangerous - you're almost disappointed, but it helps you calm yourself. Once you feel composed turn your head. And every trace of lust evaporates in an instant.

“Papa!”

The simple sight of him snaps you out of the grip of desire and into that of shame. Though your heart’s still racing.

He frowns at you. Surely its not that obvious, if you are flushes it might be from the wind. No he’s got that worried look, just like Asta. How much did he see? Surely he'd notice something’s amiss if not what it was. Papa simply knows you too well.

And you were going to tell him.

Loki removed his hand like he'd burnt it the second your father appeared but he's still standing there at your back.

"I'm so glad I found you." Papa says and there's his familiar loving smile. But underneath it he looks uncomforatble. Like the girls but a hundredfold worse. He doesn't elaborate and the silence lengthens.

"What I mean is. If there's anything you want to talk about..."

You smile and shake your head, words trapped in your throat and Loki's hand snaking out to squeeze your arm.

"I mean, if you are happy then that’s what’s important, but if there is...something... happening that is not what you want then you can always come to me. However, whenever I will find a way to get you out of it.”

You nod, perplexed, and he reaches forward to take you in his arms. Loki releases you.

You are confused by his words, angry with yourself and angry at the stupidity of Loki’s being there and yet not being there.

There’s a resignation in Papa's face as he pulls back and looks at you.

You were going to tell him the truth and if he already knows it then the chance is lost you are swamped with guilt: you lied to him as you did to everyone with your silence. And now he knows…something. He doesn’t look upset as you might expect or shocked. More like sad. You swear to yourself you will find him later. You have to explain.

It’s then that the patrol themselves arrives, jogging in formation and a change comes over him. You must have imagined the sadness, now he looks more happy, proud.

"I must be getting on."

You make to follow but what more can you say. Loki grabs your wrist. If you pulled he’d let you go. You waver. If this means the truth is out then you have to talk to Loki.

As your father’s shape disappears along the walkway and the soldiers round the corner out of sight on the other direction, you turn toward where Loki must be standing.

"Show yourself." you hiss.

He takes the other wrist in his other hand. He says nothing but draws you to him and then you’re flying through nothingness and landing in a whirl in your chambers.

“Tell me what’s going on. How does Papa know?”

“Love?” Loki whispers, not releasing you but caressing your back. You know he’ll try to seduce you again.

“No.” You say pulling back. "I should have told him myself"

“He knows nothing." Loki says innocently.

“How do you know?”

He trails a caress down your arm.

“You know him, you know I’m right. Everything will be fine.”

You want to trust him but you’re feeling too mixed up, guilty about Papa. And Loki just wants to take you to bed again. And then of course he’ll disappear again. Your anger is rising and you don’t want another fight.

"No, I..." You pull away.

Loki lets you go but, still giddy from the flying you teeter on your feet. He goes to steady you, his gaze heated, but you pull away. Before you can give in, you stumble out though the bathroom and onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you and leaning back on it.

You’re sure he will follow you. You wait for his knock on the inside of the door, trying to gather your resolve not to give in to him.

It never comes.

Chapter 25

#loki #fanfiction #lokixreader #MCU #imagine loki

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thedefinitionofbts · 8 years ago

Text

Heaven’s Gate

Pairings: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Angst, Guardian Angel Au

Words: 11K

Description: In which Min Yoongi dies and is recruited to be a guardian angel, but he sure as hell didn’t expect to see your name on that little piece of paper telling him what mortal being he was assigned to look after.

Warnings: Past Death, Mentions of Suicide and Bullying

White light.

It’s the first thing Min Yoongi sees when he opens his eyes to an empty space made up of fluffy ivory clouds with silver lining and hues of baby blue, light lavender…. and pastel pink? He’d call it a room, but there were technically no walls to confine said space, just a blank nothingness that seemed to go on for an eternity.

How absolutely nauseating.

“The fuck happened?” He murmurs to himself, only to be jolted in surprise by a particularly loud and obnoxious voice.

“Welcome to Heaven’s Gate” The voice echoes. It’s a sound that reverberates throughout the entirety of the dreamlike area; making it hard to identify which direction it came from.Yoongi’s eyes dart around, only to lazily land on the male with an annoyingly pretty face that he can’t stand to look at for longer than a few seconds.

“And you are?”

“Kim Seokjin, voted best Gatekeeper for five years straight.” He declares proudly, and Yoongi can swear he can see the air of arrogance evaporating from the guys irritatingly perfect hair.

Yoongi scoffs. “Then will you care to explain what’s going on?”

“Oh right, I was just about to get to that part.” The man reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a scroll, tied neatly with a red ribbon which he unknots and causes the long strip to cascade to the floor, which isn’t really floor-like at all, but looks more like it’s just made of solid clouds or some shit.

“Min Yoongi. 24 years old. Suicide.” The man reads.

“You’re telling me I’m dead?”

“Of course. Why else would you be here?”

“I swear, I was expecting to go to hell.” Yoongi scoffs again. He remembers receiving treatment for depression and having suicidal thoughts in the past, but he never went as close as to actually follow through, or at least not that he can remember, not even in the vaguest sense. It was eerily strange, but Yoongi shrugs it off, not wanting to concern himself with how he actually managed to end his own life and not even remember the details.

“Well, you’ve never inflicted harm on others, so they must be giving you another chance.” Seokjin says. “And you will be rewarded for your services.” He singsongs, wiggling his brows as if the offer was even remotely tempting to Yoongi in the least.

“So there’s a catch?”

“At Heaven’s Gate we like to call it, a second chance. An opportunity, if you will.” Seokjin replies. “You are simply assigned the task of being a Guardian Angel. Upon successful completion of your duties, you will be allowed to enter through these gates.” And as if on cue, a pair of metal gates are made visible in the distance, like they just sprouted from the cloudy flooring.

“Do I have the option of going to hell instead? I’m rather fond of the idea of a fiery pit.” Yoongi mutters, voice detached, expression void of any kind of emotion.

Seokjin chuckles. “Don’t be too quick to come to conclusions. Why don’t you take a look at this before turning your back on this amazing opportunity.”

Opportunity. Yoongi was beginning to hate the word, especially coming from someone who was smiling like everything was all rainbows and butterflies, and this who situation didn’t seem like some crazy nightmare.

As much as he doesn’t want to, Yoongi takes the slip of paper from Seokjin’s out stretched arm.

Min Yoongi, assigned to be Y/N’s guardian until her death.

Y/N. It was a combination of letters that Yoongi was not expecting to ever see again, not when he was alive and certainly not after his death. Why you? Of all 7 billion people who were still alive on earth, why did it have to be you?

And Yoongi sure as hell isn’t a fan of love that crosses over to the next life, especially not after spending years trying to forget about your existence. Your perfect skin, fragrant hair, and that smile that made him forget all that he despised in the world. It was bullshit. Because even at the tender age of 7, he knew that girls like you would never consider guys like him, but you always managed to surprise him with your kind words and friendly glances, actions that made it that much harder to erase you from his mind.

“A second chance for you and her.” Seokjin says, voice again almost giving Yoongi a heart attack because he was so engrossed in his own thoughts he had forgotten about the gatekeeper breathing down his neck. Yoongi could already see the suggestive expression on the guy’s face without even having to look up. But he doesn’t need a second chance, not when the first one was already more than he thought he deserved. “All you have to do is read over the terms of agreement and sign the contract before you are sent back to the mortal realm to fulfill your responsibilities.”

“Until death?” Yoongi mutters, finally looking up a Seokjin with raised eyebrows.

Seokjin nods like it was something that was obvious and not strange in the least.

“Won’t that be like 70 more years of labor?” Yoongi inquires, making a disgusted face. “That’s longer than working a normal job back on Earth. Even in the mortal realm, retirement starts at like what, 65?”

“Actually, it’ll be less than a year.” Seokjin responds, a statement that makes Yoongi’s airways clench in a way that’s more painful than when he was punched straight in the gut for the first time.

“Guardian angels are only assigned to people who are about to die.”

Yoongi’s mouth drops, and he has trouble registering Seokjin’s words.

“That’s part of the deal. You work as someone’s guardian angel and the both of you end up together in the afterlife.” Seokjin explains. “Ummm, it’s kind of like soulmates, but in a more distorted way.”

“What kind of twisted phenomenon is that?!” Yoongi snaps, he feels irritated, almost angry at the world.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules around here.” Seokjin defends. “It’s just the way things are.” He walks over and hands Yoongi a pen, one with a feather attached to the end. “Look at it this way, you’ll finally get the girl~”

At that Yoongi scoffs. “I don’t give a fuck. I’ve already long accepted that her and I are not meant to be.”

“So you’d rather her live and never see her again?”

Yoongi doesn’t explicitly respond, but his answer to that question is obvious.

Seokjin sighs. “Well, it’s a pity because I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

The next thing Yoongi remembers is seeing the humble confines of your apartment for the first time. In which he’d be lying if he said he never out of pure curiosity or some delusional shit, imagined what your life outside of school was like or what kind of a person you really were. In his daydreams, he always saw you as a girl of intellect, not overly feminine, not completely tomboy either, but just a pure and kind soul, bright like the sun while secretly housing the dark side of the moon somewhere in that beautiful mind of yours. In his real dreams you were….well, let’s not venture into that territory because we’re trying to keep this PG.

But in all honesty, Yoongi didn’t give a fuck because every day he saw you whether it was from afar or through the awkward interaction he had with you on seemingly rare occasions when he was alive, he’d always add another layer to his construction of you in his mind. But within these corporeal walls lies a part of you that his imagination was not skilled enough to conjure, or maybe you were just never any of the things he made you out to be.

At the moment he was leaning against the corner wall, the only place in your room that wasn’t cluttered with miscellaneous items, staring at the way your books and papers were piled on your small desk next to your sleeping laptop, your unmade bed with sheets wrinkled in more ways than he thought possible, and the sunlight filtering through the dusty window blinds creating elongated shadows on the relatively bare walls.

He’s about to fall asleep out of pure un-eventfulness when the image of you walking in to the room with freshly washed hair makes his heart do things he didn’t think it could after he left the world in which it used to beat in.

Yoongi jerks awake, shaking his lazy bangs away from his eyes, and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down slowly. The gulping sound his throat makes is so loud in his head that he’s almost afraid it’ll wake up your neighbors.

“It’s so like you to wake me up early on a Saturday morning.” You say out loud.

“I-I’m sorry?” Yoongi voices, making his way over to face you almost nervously. He was your guardian angel and yet he still felt out of place, awkward, unnecessary, like this was all a mistake the heavens made. He mentally curses that Gatekeeper Seokjin for throwing him into this mess without further explanation.

Yoongi stares at you, the way your lips look so soft and glossy, having just been moistened with lip balm. The sight alone makes him bite his inner cheek, a feeble attempt at distracting himself from inappropriate thoughts with pain. A tactic he was far too familiar with when it came to denying himself of whatever he felt he didn’t deserve. But the way your skin naturally glows without makeup and the calm expression displayed on your face makes his jaw go slack.

Snapping out of his momentary trance, he cautiously waves an arm in front of you, realizing you haven’t replied to him yet. But you weren’t making eye contact with him, and there was not indication that you even knew he was there.

Yoongi furrows his brows, confused. You were talking to yourself, in an empty room, unaware of his presence.

So Seokjin didn’t even bother to tell him that humans can’t see their guardian angels….great. But then again, it should’ve been obvious because Yoongi sure as hell didn’t know they existed when he was alive. He mentally face palms and blames it on “lack of sleep”, not that he even knew the partially dead needed sleep at all.

“What should I wear?” You say out loud once again. Yoongi turns to find you standing in front of your open closet, hands on your hips, eyebrows furrowed, and biting your inner lower lip. The articles of clothing stock piled in the cramped, could-hardly-pass-as-a-walk-in of a closet, to Yoongi’s surprise, were all dark or neutral colored. Last he remembered, you liked to wear floral dresses and brightly colored blouses. He suspects your tastes have changed over the years, not that he was complaining. Your style now was much closer to what he would personally opt to wear anyways.

He watches you pull out a black hoodie and compare it to another dark grey, zip-up sweater.

“I’m leaning towards the black hoodie,” Yoongi says for no apparent reason other than out of pure instinct, assuming you can’t hear him anyways.

“Black hoodie?” You say out loud, while placing said hoodie in front of your torso as you looked into the full-body mirror.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. Could you actually hear him? He makes another attempt at waving a hand in front of your face, but receive the same no reaction response as before.

“Y/N?” He hesitantly murmurs your name, despite feeling absolutely ridiculous upon hearing the sound leave his lips.

Your ears perk up a little, and you think you’re just imagining things, but you turn your head around anyways just to make sure. It’s like those moments when your alone and all those creepy scenes from every horror movie you’ve ever watched make their way into your mind, so you have to check, even though you claim to “not believe in ghosts or that supernatural bullshit” and you know there’s nothing there.

And as expected, there isn’t.

But Yoongi sees you turn to face him, and he wants to think that you can maybe, just maybe sense his presence. He waits for you to say something, but only sees you shrug and turn back to face the mirror.

He sighs. So much for introducing himself as your guardian angel…not that he was actually hoping to do that. He notices his body looks almost transparent as he tilts his head down to inspect his feet and legs for the first time, there’s even this subtle glow that makes his entire body look like it sparkles under natural lighting. Thank god you can’t see him.

The next time Min Yoongi looks up to see what you’re doing, his heart almost jumps out of his throat and he averts his eyes more quickly than he’s probably ever had to when he was alive. Because you had just removed the oversized t-shirt you had thrown on after getting out of the shower (with nothing underneath) and were about to change into the clothes you had picked out to wear. That infinitesimal peek at your bare body makes Yoongi sweat and think of all kinds of things he knows are probably illegal as a guardian angel, which he again believes should be something the half dead should’ve lost the ability to do, who was making up these stupid rules anyways?

He wipes his clammy hands on the side of his thighs, trying to forget the image of you. Ironic because it was something he found himself doing even when he was alive.

Min Yoongi was 7 years old when he learned that people in the world are not as accepting of those who are “different”.

He used to think that maybe it was because his hair was too messy or maybe it was the way he dressed, or spoke, or walked, or breathed. But it didn’t take long for him to find out that it wasn’t just one thing that made people stray away from him, it was everything that his very being was composed of.

Being introverted and socially awkward was enough to make him the target of childhood bullying. That he could handle. Those kids that beat him up just to get a laugh out of it and make them feel better about themselves or “more superior”, that’s was whatever. He was numb to the pain, the bruises, the toilet paper stuffed bloody nose that he would sit in the bathroom stall to wait out. And that one guy that forced Yoongi to give him his lunch money? Well let’s just say Yoongi was never hungry at lunch anyways.

In middle school, it was the rumors. The ones about him eating dogs or weird ungrounded ones about him practicing voodoo. Like what the fuck?

Then in high school, those rumors escalated to ones about his sexuality and sickening fetishes that would either make him a laughing stalk or this repulsive human being that no one would even dare go near.

His alcoholic father left him and his mom when he was 5, and being raised by a single mother who tried her best to provide for her son and keep him happy was the only thing that forced him to tough it out. Yoongi didn’t want her to know, didn’t want to her to carry the burden that he hide from her, how people taunted him, how he had no friends, how he would hide in the bathroom during lunch just to avoid the disgusted stares. So he pretended like he was fine, that he liked being alone, and none of the things people said or did to him bothered him in the least. His mom believed him.

You, however, weren’t as easy to trick.

“Stop it!!” Even through the ringing in his ears, Yoongi can hear the girl’s scream slice through the snickering laughs of the group of boys hovering over his half passed-out body.

“You’re hurting him” The, then 9 year old you cries. The tears nipping at the corner of your eyes are threatening to spill over as you look at the limp boy with tousled hair and a black eye try to stand up only to fall over in pain.

“I’m going to tell Mrs. Choi.” You threaten before you feel a hand grab the collar of your floral blouse.

“You better keep your little mouth shut.” The heavyset kid warns, he glares at you menacingly before pushing you to the ground. “He started it anyways.” He lies.

“Then why are you guys not bleeding like he is?” You snap at the group of boys aggressively.

“Listen” The kid behind the first one cuts in. “Don’t make us come after you too. If you keep your mouth shut, we’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

You rush to the beaten boy’s side when the group of bullies leaves.

“Are you ok?” You whisper, helping the boy stand up. It wasn’t that hard because he was such a frail child, even though you were a petite little girl yourself, you could probably piggyback him no problem.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” He mutters. “Thanks, but don’t try to help me again.”

“Why? They were clearly ganging up on you.” You respond, unable to understand why this scrawny kid was acting like he could’ve fought them off in the state that he was in.

He scoffs. “I just don’t need anyone else to get involved ok?”

“Your name’s Yoongi, right?” You ask, looking at the name written on the nametag that was about to fall off his uniform.

Yoongi looks up at you, meeting your eyes for the first time, and although they were red and puffy from producing tears just a couple of minutes ago, they look so soft and tender that Yoongi swears he’s never seen anyone look at him in such a way, void of disgust, mockery, and judgment. And it wasn’t just because you seemed kind or caring that Yoongi remembers his first encounter with you as some defining moment that he would go to carry on for the remainder of his life, and evidently after his death as well, it was because you radiated a kind of sympathy that wasn’t out of pure pity or innate concern, there was that rare hint of understanding mixed with a bit of powerless frustration at the cruel world.

“I’m Y/N” You introduce. “From now on, we’re friends, and friends help friends when they need it.” You state with absolute resolve. Looking back it doesn’t sound that epic, but to the 9 year old you, it felt pretty heroic at the time.

“Leave me alone” Yoongi responds after a moment of silent awe at your confidently radiant face that felt almost blinding to him at the time.

You didn’t know why he was being so difficult, but you figured he was the kind of person who took a long time to open up and trust people, especially with all that you suspect he’s been through.

But unlike the naïve 9 year old you, Yoongi knew that getting close to him would only result in your misfortune.

And he was right, more or less.

Yoongi finds out the guy who woke you up on a Saturday morning was someone who went by the name of Kim Taehyung.

Your boyfriend, he wrongly assumes.

The whether was mild, sunny with a cool breeze, the kind that if Yoongi were still alive would inspire him to go outside and compose songs, a hobby of his that no one but you knew about. He’s perched on a tree branch, trying to ignore your conversation with Taehyung happing below, knowing that if he really didn’t want to get involved with your life he’d probably just elect to not follow you at all. But something about Seokjin’s words informing him of guardian angels only being assigned to people who are about to die, compels him to stay close to you, not letting go of the nonexistent possibility that he could maybe do something in that moment you are fated to die. It’s a fleeting thought, but a stubborn idea nonetheless.

“You’re late” Taehyung says when he sees you approaching him.

“And it’s Saturday” You counter, crossing your arms. “What was so important that you had to cut short my beauty sleep?”

“You’re already beautiful enough” Taehyung says, making you roll your eyes and Yoongi gag a little.

You playfully punch Taehyung in the arm. “Get to the point” You order.

“Jungkook wanted me to invite you to play Overwatch with us.” Taehyung says. “He suddenly had the urge to try and break our 10 hour nonstop record last night while we were eating pizza and watching a movie, and I told him you had this weekend off from work.”

“And that’s why to texted me to rush over to the park at 8am on a Saturday morning?” You exclaim, eyes widening to the point where it looked you just jumped out of a manga.

Taehyung nods, and Yoongi expects you to be completely floored by his reason and scold him for such a ridiculous proposal, but contrarily, you’re don’t do any of those things.

“Then what are we wasting time here for? Let’s go!” You shout, hoping to your feet and waving at Taehyung to follow.

Yoongi soon learns that Jeon Jungkook was the infamous Overwatch fanatic, and that his apartment was more luxurious than most 25 year olds due to his father being the head of some hotel chain. He also learns that the 3 of you had become really good friends in college, a friendship that carried on until after graduation and is kept alive by binge watching Marvel movies and playing video games on weekends.

The moment Taehyung walks into Jungkook’s apartment, Yoongi knows he was mistaken to have assumed he was your boyfriend because the interaction between the two (on a sidenote: extremely attractive variations of the male species) is skin numbingly gag worthy, and screams nothing but boyfriend. But something about their relationship tells Yoongi that they’ve been through a variety of trials and hardships before finally getting together out of necessity because there was nothing about them that gave off the “soulmate”, we-are-destined-to-be-since-the-beginning-of-time, type of aura.

But then again, Yoongi has been wrong on more than one occasion. And he sure as hell doesn’t know squat about love and relationships and things he’s never even experienced when he was alive.

“I honestly don’t think we could go for more than 10 hours.” You say as you reach over and grab a potato chip from the opened bag sitting on the coffee table among all the other snacks and sweetened beverages. The 3 of you were four hours in and you were already feeling your butt cheek falling asleep.

“What are you talking about? We’re already over a third of the way to reaching our last record.” Jungkook says, face still concentrated on the screen.

“Yeah, but we had more preparation last time. This decision was kind of just out of the blue.” Taehyung responds, tongue peeking out from his lips due to intense concentration.

“And Jimin was so disappointed that we wasted so much time.” As soon the name leaves your mouth, you know you’ve made a mistake. Where did that thought come from? That was so uncalled for. You mentally scold yourself, afraid to look up at Jungkook who had stopped playing completely.

“Y/N” Taehyung whispers, and you know it’s best to not utter another word.

Yoongi then learns that 3 wasn’t the magic number for your group of college friends, but rather 4. And that he was right about Taehyung and Jungkook not being soulmates.

Your popularity grew in middle school, whether it was for your gorgeous looks or academic prowess, you didn’t know exactly, but it was hard for a girl of your caliber to not grab the attention of boys and girls alike. Although you were always considered one of the prettier girls in school, puberty did you more justice than you would’ve ever thought and being one of the earlier bloomers, it was no wonder guys would do double takes when you passed by in the halls.

Being popular kept you away from most of the shit that went down in middle school, namely the bullying and ungrounded rumors that a certain someone you really cared about, aka Min Yoongi, had to deal with day in and day out. What you hated about being the center of attention was the fact that it made it that much more difficult to spend time with said person, and it certainly didn’t help that he tried to avoid you at all cost, minus those moments when there was no one around and you would seize the opportunity to corner him in the empty hallway or find him sitting alone, hidden beneath the shade of a large oak tree in the park by school.

“You again?” Yoongi mutters as you plop yourself into the cool grass next to him.

“Stop pretending like you’re not happy to see me” You smile, ignoring the bored face he flashed you in return. You were used to Yoongi acting indifferent. He was someone who rarely expressed emotion, whether it was pain, anger, joy, or grief, his apathetic expression seldom faltered. You figured it was a sort of self-defense, and your hunch was proven right on those rare occasions where his beautiful smile would make an appearance. You wished he had reasons to smile more because you knew somewhere within the walls that he built over the years lies a boy who was lively and goofy and pure sunshine waiting to burst from rainy clouds, that side that everyone was meant to have.

“Stop coming to see me and I won’t have to pretend.”

“Ha, so you are pretending!” You point at him, and you can almost see his cheeks flush against his pale skin as he searches for a better comeback to hide his previous accidental revelation.

“Whatever” He mutters.

“Awww, come on Yoongi. I know you don’t mind me sitting here with you.“ You look down at the single earpiece of his headphones that he was fidgeting with, the other piece was placed in his ear. “Whatcha listening to?” You question.

“Music” He responds.

“I know that.” You roll your eyes. “What kind of music?” You continue to pry.

Yoongi doesn’t respond, and you suspect he’s trying to ignore you, but after a few seconds of hesitation he slowly hands you the earpiece. You smile, heartwarming expression plastered on your already blissful face, and gently take the earpiece to stick it in your ear.

You don’t know it then, but you're the only person Yoongi has ever shared his music with.

When high school came around, things started to get more complicated. You had passed those days of naivety and innocence, where you would guilelessly help Yoongi upfront, in a direct type of manner that gave him room to blatantly refuse your assistance. Now having learned to be more artful in your tactics, you defend Min Yoongi secretly, becoming the sort of person to quietly take care of him, in a way that made all your actions unsuspecting, verging on deceiving to those around you.

“I heard he’s a drug addict,” One of you “friends” (but you would categorize her as more of an “acquaintance”) had said to you when she saw Yoongi walk by you guys on his way to his locker.

“Who? Yoongi?” You query, glancing at the male dressed in all black.

“Who else?” Another girl snickers.

You shrug. “Where are the receipts?”

“It’s obvious enough.”

“What did I say about talking about rumors?” You cross your arms and look her straight in the eyes, staring her down until you can sense the bit of fear emanating from her nervous expression.

“I know, but he’s-“

“Stop wasting my time” You cut her off before she could say some stereotypical thing about Yoongi you didn’t want to hear. “He’s not worth a discussion.” You say, covering up anything suspicious.

And that’s how you spent high school protecting Yoongi, acting like you didn’t care, drawing attention away from him whenever he was brought up. Of course you still didn’t know what happened to him physically or outside of whatever made its way around you. It was all you could do, and although it didn’t seem like much, it did make a difference. Yoongi knew. He’s caught you on more than one occasion; passively defending him, putting on a show, but he never had the chance to express his gratitude. And that was purely because he sucked at expressing his feelings and was completely inept at putting his true thoughts into words.

“You play the piano?” You exclaim, sneaking up on him in the empty music room.

“W-wha, uhhh, y-yeah” Yoongi stops abruptly when he sees you run up to him. You took him by surprise, yet again, but something tells you he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to see you. “W-where w-why…Y/N?”

You giggle at the way he begins to stutter. “Don’t worry, it’s just me. I promise, there’s no one else.”

Yoongi sighs. “Can’t even get a moment to myself.” He purses his lips and shakes his head.

“What song were you playing? I’ve never heard it before.” You walk up and sit next to him on the piano bench, starting a conversation topic like always, attempting to get him in his comfort zone because you knew introverts needed a topic to focus on, one that genuinely peaked their interest, in order to get them talking.

“Just something I wrote.” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly.

“You wrote that beautiful melody?” You gasp. “That’s amazing Yoongi” You whisper in awe, genuinely amazed at the hidden talent you always knew he had.

He doesn’t respond but instead begins playing it again.

And you just sit there, leaning against him as he plays, long slender fingers dancing with each press of the piano key. You can feel his rhythmic breathing, the small movements of his body as he’s absorbed into the music, an artist in his element, and you have a passing thought that he might feel uncomfortable with you so close to him and probably hindering his performance. Whatever the case though, Yoongi doesn’t voice his discomfort or tell you to move. He just plays as if the two of you were the only people in the world. The melody is meltingly smooth and soothingly gentle, and you know it’s conveying something within him that he usually doesn’t let out. It's a song that brings you to a place you didn’t think existed, that place you always want to go when you’re lonely or longing to be taken somewhere far but don’t have the means to get there.

Well, Yoongi takes you there.

Yoongi follows you as you walk home after leaving Jungkook’s apartment.

He doesn’t know enough about your past to understand why you guys stopped playing Overwatch so abruptly or why Jungkook, who was so adamant about breaking the old record, turned into a completely different person when you mention someone named Jimin.

“Way to go Y/N” Yoongi hears you scolding yourself as you walked along the empty street. “Looks like you still haven’t learned your lesson from the first time you slipped up.” You continue to mutter.

Yoongi trails behind you as you cross the road, making sure to look both ways before crossing, but you on the other hand are still caught in your thoughts.

“Y/N watch out!” Yoongi shouts when a person on their bike almost rams into you.

You stop, snapping out of your thoughts and dodge the cyclist just in the nick of time.

You hear the ring of their bike bell and a rushed “sorry” before you are met with dark, empty silence once again. You turn around and see that yet again there is no one there, you let your gaze linger for an extended period before slowly turning back around.

“Hello?” You attempt to draw whoever it is you think may be hiding in the shadows or behind a bush out, while at the same time hoping you’re alone because this shit was getting creepier by the second.

“You can’t see me.” Yoongi responds, knowing fully well that you probably couldn’t actually hear him either.

“Am I just imagining things?” You say out loud, still looking around at the empty part of town with only the dim streetlights and a lit up convenience store a block away.

“You probably don’t remember me either.” Yoongi says again, still keeping himself a distance away from you, almost unable to stand too close in fear of exposing himself to you, though he knew it wasn’t possible.

“Is this how you felt? Is it how you are feeling now?” You say to no one. The image of the person that suddenly sprouts in your mind is something you were used to by now. You would often think of him, especially in moments when you felt scared or alone. Moments like these where it felt like he was by your side, an impossible dream because you haven’t seen that person in a long, long time, and you’re not sure you ever will again.

Yoongi furrows his brows, thrown into confusion once again. Who were you referring to?

He doesn’t have a clue that it’s him.

During the last year of high school before college, you see Yoongi less and less often. He skips class for reasons you don’t know, and you suspect it's because he’s seeking treatment or just avoiding the source of pain that he’s dealt with for more years than he should have.

You admire him for being so extraordinarily strong, as well as brave.

Of course, you still couldn’t resist hunting him down and interacting with him despite his obvious attempts at avoiding you whenever he could. But when no one was around or when he thought it was safe, he would still lower his walls just for you, even if it’s only a tiny bit.

“You’ll come and visit me, right?” You ask, smiling at Yoongi, the way you always did, the way you always do because you knew people didn’t smile at him enough, because seeing him always put you in a brighter mood, and also because you knew it was the only way to get his own beautiful smile to come out of the dusty shadows.

The two of you were standing on the school roof, a spot that you would often find him sitting alone and a place that had become your unspoken sanctuary for the last 3 years. It was a place you could gaze at the cerulean sky on clear days, view the city standing gloriously in the distance, and feel like everything you were dealing with in life was insignificant in the greater picture of things.

“I don’t make those kinds of agreements.” Yoongi sighs. “It’s better if you just forget about me.”

“No” You whine. “I can’t believe you would be so cruel to me.” You gasp, playfully offended, but also knowing that he’s just saying these things because it was just an automatic response, characteristic of the Min Yoongi you knew.

Yoongi turns to look at you, tousled hair ruffling in the wind. He doesn’t look annoyed or irritated; he never did when he was with you. His dark orb-like pupils are dilated as he gazes into your eyes, and his expression hovers there for longer than it normally does, longer than he ever allowed himself to stare.

“Y/N” He utters so gently that you almost miss it. His voice is low, smooth, and almost soft enough to fall into, like the fluffy clouds that were floating in the sky right at that moment.

You watch as he lowers his gaze and you can almost feel the oncoming Yoongi-sigh. But before he lets out that signature huff of air, you take a large step in his direction and wrap your arms around him, a gesture you never had the audacity to do, but something told you he wouldn’t pull away, not this time.

And he doesn’t.

Yoongi does, however, tense up the moment you make contact, and you swear you can see the shock displayed on his face right then, even without having to look up. It's a tiny jerk that makes you think he’s going to runaway, but you feel his muscles slowly relax as you gently stroke his back while nuzzling you face into his chest.

“Yoongi, you can’t leave me,” You murmur, and to your utter surprise or maybe not really surprising at all, you feel him cautiously lift his arms and return your hug.

“Ok… I won’t…” He says, almost awkwardly because he’s not used to this, and to any outsider the tone in his detached voice would make it seem like he was just saying things to get you off his case, but you knew him well enough to know he wasn’t the kind of person to say things he didn’t mean, not in moments like these at least.

You pull away to tilt your head towards his face.

“Promise?”

It is then you finally see him smile.

One that makes his lips curve upward and his eyes disappear.

“Promise.”

Yoongi remembers the one and only promise he’s ever made. Of course, how could he possibly forget? He fucking promised he would live long and happy, and come to see you sometime in the future. The one promise he made to the only person he truly cared about.

Yes, he spent the next few years trying to erase you from his memory, but Yoongi is not one to break promises, especially not the only one he’s ever made in his life.

Which brings him back to…

“There’s no way I could’ve committed suicide.” Yoongi voices when he wakes up from the little nap he took while you were asleep.

It had become routine. After learning that you worked part time as a barista at a coffee shop, he had been following you to work and coming home with you every single day for a couple of weeks now. You were also taking some classes at the local university in hopes of earning your Master’s degree in some business related field, but besides that, there was nothing new, nothing really interesting going on in your life, and he fleetingly wonders if you’re sick of your dull routine. But then again, that’s life right?

“How’s Jungkook doing?” Yoongi hears you ask Taehyung when he walks into the coffee shop to order his usual.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Taehyung says, just as the bell above the door rings to signal another customer has walked in.

Yoongi still can’t believe Jungkook is still not over you mentioning this Jimin guy. But of course, he also doesn’t know the details about their past.

“Hey Kook” You greet, as Jungkook walks up to the counter. “Iced Americano?”

“Please” Jungkook says, no indication that he was holding a grudge or anything.

Yoongi watches you turn to expertly prepare the drink. He watches Jungkook wait by the counter, conversing with Taehyung like there was nothing bothering him. Everything seemed normal, and again, Yoongi doesn’t really understand, but he figures he doesn’t really need to.

Not until he notices another glowing figure sitting in one corner of the coffee shop.

Glowing. The same way Yoongi’s own body glows. And the people in the shop don’t seem to be aware of his presence. The guy wasn’t even drinking coffee for heaven’s sake, and Yoongi’s pretty sure people aren’t allowed to sit in coffee shops if they aren’t buying a drink or something.

The glowing male turns to look at Yoongi, meeting his gaze. He smiles at the dazed Yoongi, an expression that makes his eyes disappear into half moons.

“You, ok?” Your voice snaps Yoongi back to your conversation with Jungkook.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Y/N. I didn’t mean to overreact.” Jungkook apologizes. “I know it’s not your fault. I’m just still getting over-“

“It’s ok, I was too careless. I know how hard it must be.” You reply. “Take your time.” You smile, a grin that throws Yoongi back to a time when that gesture was directed at him, and he knows how Jungkook must feel now, because anyone at the receiving end of such a bright beam of soothing light would feel better in an instant.

“Awww, you guys” Taehyung cries, grabbing both you and Jungkook into a big bear hug.

So now that that’s over, Yoongi turns back to the glowing boy, but to his astonishment the mysterious boy is not there anymore. All that’s left is a seat that is now occupied by another customer, one that is, quite sadly, not glowing.

Yoongi shrugs. If he’s important, he’ll show up again. He thinks to himself.

And for once, Yoongi is right because he decides to follow Jungkook out of the coffee shop, after the male finished his drink and bids you and Taehyung good-bye, knowing that your shift doesn’t end for another three hours. Yoongi doesn’t know why, but he has a hunch that he knows who that glowing boy might be and he thinks following Jungkook will give him a chance to prove his hypothesis.

Once Jungkook is alone, Yoongi spots the same glowing boy standing at the corner of the street.

“Are you what I think you are?” Yoongi inquires as he walks up to the smiling boy.

“I see you’re new at this” The boy replies. “Nice to meet you, it’s not every day I’m lucky enough to run into another guardian. I’m Jimin by the way.”

Jimin. Predictions confirmed.

“Yoongi” Yoongi responds. “And I’m assuming you're his lover boy?” Yoongi nods towards Jungkook who was crossing the street.

“Yes. Jungkook, the love of my life.” The boy hums with a calming smile. “I would trade an infinite number of lifetimes just to be with him for one.” He sighs.

“So you’re also waiting for him… to die…?” Yoongi questions cautiously, feeling awkward just asking the question straight up.

“Yeah, he doesn’t know it yet, but we’ll be together soon.”

Yoongi feels like he wants to throw up, it’s that nauseating feeling that stems from your stomach up to the back of your head. That kind of car-sickness that doesn’t end until you get out of the vehicle.

“Hey man, you ok?” Jimin looks at Yoongi concerned.

“I’m fine” Yoongi responds wearily. “The idea just doesn’t sit well, that’s all.”

“I know what you mean.” Jimin says with a sigh. “At first, I thought of it that way too. Like people who kill themselves just to be with their lovers in the afterlife, it just seemed wrong. But Namjoon explained things to me in more detail when I asked him about it.”

“Namjoon?” Yoongi repeats.

“Yeah, he’s one of the Gatekeepers.” Jimin explains. “He told me that it’s more complicated than that. Jungkook and people with guardians, they’re going to die anyways. Meaning it’s not our fault that they will live shortened lives. It was fated from the beginning. We as their guardian angels are just supposed to make sure their transition to the afterlife is smooth, and in return, we get what we’ve always wanted. It’s supposed to be viewed as a win-win situation.”

“And they have no say in the matter?” Yoongi questions, knowing fully well that love is a two way street, and this who deal seemed like some shitty slave contract.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but Jungkook and I were together before I died. It was excruciatingly painful to watch him suffer after I left him.” Jimin sighs, gazing at the boy who was walking down the street, hands in his jacket pockets, hood covering his unkempt hair. “I’m just glad Taehyung has been with him since I left.”

“What happened to you?” Yoongi queries, curiosity getting the better of him like it always did.

“Cancer” Jimin responds stoically. “And he stayed with me through it all. Even when I was spewing my guts all over the hospital floor, he stayed to clean up, telling me it’s ok. That everything will be ok.”

Jimin’s story made sense, unlike his own. Yoongi feels that he could at least accept Jungkook and Jimin’s situation, but something about his own state did not sit well with him. The two of you weren’t like them. Yoongi doesn’t even know if you remember him, after all, he had avoided you for years, and as hard as he had to work to erase you from his mind, you had probably long forgotten a person like him existed.

“So your lover…are they here?” Jimin asks, looking around but his gaze was only met by the empty streets and dim city lights.

Yoongi sighs. “Calling her a lover would be stretching it from this world to the next.”

Jimin giggles. “Awww come on. What do you mean?”

“Her and I were not meant to be, and this who thing is some glitch in the system.” Yoongi says. “My life was shit. Must’ve carried over to the afterlife as well. I just wished she wasn’t dragged into this unfortunate fate.”

“Hm, you’d think they wouldn’t make mistakes up there.” Jimin ponders.

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two guardians. In that time, Yoongi continues to stare at the boy walking down the street who had now stopped to buy a bag of chips from the convenience store he just passed.

“I guess there is one other thing…” Jimin begins saying. Yoongi’s ears perk up at the mention, and he slowly turns his head to look at the glowing boy, translucence enhanced by the gradual moonlight replacing the setting sun. “So this is just something I heard from another guardian, but he told me that there’s a way to actually save your person.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen.

“But it only works if they die from an accident, like not from natural causes like disease.” Jimin corrects. “He said we had the ability to materialize and save them from peril, but of course it comes at a price.”

“We can materialize?” Yoongi mutters.

Jimin nods. “But it’s against the rules, so I’m guessing there’s some consequence. I don’t know what it is though.”

“So we technically do have the option to save them?” At this point, Yoongi has drowned out whatever look of worry Jimin has on his face because only one thing mattered to him at this point.

“I wouldn’t risk it though. It hasn’t been tested, and I’m sure nothing good could come from it.” Jimin finishes.

…

Ever since his conversation with Jimin, Yoongi has been mulling over the idea of materializing and being on the alert for that fateful moment where he’ll have to make the decision of going against the rules. Not that he was ever concerned about the rules, he just didn’t know if it was possible to materialize or how to even go about doing it.

Maybe instinct will just magically kick in when the time calls for it? He doesn’t buy it.

So because Yoongi doesn’t want to risk not being able to use said hidden ability in the moment of truth, he does a test run. One in which turns into the biggest mistake he’s made so far because it actually works, and he regrets it the moment he hears you scream.

“Ahhh!” You shriek when you hear a voice out of nowhere. “Who the fuck is there?” You shout, eyes darting around your apartment. You were sitting at your laptop, finishing that essay you were supposed to be halfway done with by now when you heard a voice call your name.

“Yeah, I figured this was a bad idea.” Yoongi says. “You probably just think you’re going crazy, and I totally just fucked everything up.”

“Answer my question!” You order, still biting your nails out of pure nervousness. There was clearly no one in the room, but the voice was unmistakable. Maybe this was stressed induced schizophrenia, if such a condition even existed. You think it’s plausible because even before today, you’ve been having mild hallucinations of someone following you.

“I’m your guardian angel” Yoongi replies, realizing it sounded even dumber than the decision to make his voice audible. “Or ugh, your conscience?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? This isn’t some children’s TV show!” You exclaim. “What the hell is wrong with me? This is all in my head isn’t it?” You plead, hoping that it’ll go away and you won’t have to seek treatment for this. Maybe you should take fewer shifts at work or take a break from school until this all blows over.

“Ok, ok guardian angel, please I’m just trying to protect you. It’s not you, I’m real.” It’s not you, I’m real? Wow, way to go dumbass. The panic is making Yoongi spew more shit than he intends, only worsening the situation. He’s not good at handling these things, not when he was alive, and evidently not now either.

“Am I in danger?” You question, trying to calm your rapid breathing.

“No, no. I mean…” Yes, you’re about to die but I don’t know when. “No, you’re perfectly safe. I’ll… ugh… protect you.” Yoongi reassures, hoping that it sounds good enough to believe.

“You sound familiar” You suddenly say after registering the tone of said voice you were hearing. It was way to similar to merely be a coincidence. “Are you-“

“We all sound like this.” Yoongi lies, another panic driven statement. “Us guardians. We’re designed to sound like people you know in real life, as to make you feel more...ugh... comfortable.” Yoongi physically face palms. Nice going, just keeping digging that hole for yourself.

“Oh no wonder.” You murmur, the thought of that person puts an endearing smile on your face. “Do you look like him too?”

Yoongi blanks for a second. Him. Were you actually thinking about him? Or was he the one going crazy now.

“Umm, we don’t have physical forms” Yoongi lies, again. “Hence you can only hear my voice.”

“Oh” You face drops. “Do you perhaps know why he hasn’t come to see me? Er, sorry, I mean, do you know how he’s doing or if he’s happy?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about” Yoongi tries to stray away from the topic; he doesn’t know why you’re so concerned. Maybe he was mistaken to think you were thinking of him.

“Yoon-, I- I mean, never mind” You cut yourself short, realizing how ridiculous your question was. How the hell would your guardian angel know about someone else? A person you haven’t seen in years and has nothing to do with your life anymore. “So was there something you wanted to warn me about?” You query, thinking there must have been a reason your guardian angel or whatever decided to contact you now.

“Oh, no, no, just go back to writing your essay” Yoongi says. “Call me when you need me.”

And then his voice is gone. Of course he’s still there, but you don’t know it. You just assume he went back up to the heavens or something. It's almost impossible to go back to writing that dreaded essay, so you sit there, staring at your screen until your eyelids start to droop.

The next day, you wake up to your unfinished essay thinking last night was all just a weird dream.

…

A couple of days later, you’ve almost completely forgotten the voice of your guardian angel. After a long day of work, you’re on your way home, ready to change out of your white shirt that was splattered with coffee stains and take a long hot shower. Yoongi is following you home again, knowing full well that this routine will probably just continue unchanged. He hears the shower turn on, same old sound he sits in the living room listening to everyday, all seems to be normal, until…

“Ahhh!!!”

Yoongi hears a scream and a loud thump before he rushes into the bathroom without a second thought.

“Y/N!” He shouts, panicked voice audible to you once again. Was this it? Was this the moment of truth? Yoongi’s heart is racing and he’s afraid he might be too late, but upon entering the steam filled bathroom, he’s rooted to the ground. Eyes wide. Mind completely and utterly blank.

“Oh, you’re back” You chirp after hearing the frantic voice cry out your name. “Sorry, I just slipped.” You step out of the shower and look around. There was obviously no one visible there, but you knew your guardian angel must’ve come back thinking you were in trouble.

Yoongi swallows, eyes glued to your bare figure. He was in so much shock that he forgot to look away or somehow lost the ability to because the water dripping from the parts of you that have always been covered by clothes was mesmerizing and he feels like he’s about to faint. It was like his entire body was frozen, and you don’t even care he’s there because you act like your full naked form on display for him is so fucking normal.

“So are you always here or do you go back up there when I don’t call you down?” You ask, feeling kind of ridiculous talking to yourself out loud, but also having the habit of doing so since you were young. It’s just that, this time around there was actually someone listening.

“I-I…ugh, I-I’m always around…” Yoongi stutters, grimacing once he hears how stupid he must sound to you.

“And you can see me?” You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Have you been watching me every minute of the day?” You accuse playfully.

“I-I-I…” Fucking hell. Get it together. “I usually just hover in the vicinity.” Hover in the vicinity. Smooth. Yoongi mentally face palms so hard he can almost hear the nonexistent slap.

“And you’ve been with me all my life?” You query, genuinely curious and wondering why this guardian of yours decided to show up only recently.

“Not exactly.” Yoongi replies. “It’s kind of a recent thing.”

“I see” You murmur. “So does this mean I’m never alone anymore?”

“You’ve been feeling alone?” Yoongi voices before he’s able to stop himself, the concern in his voice makes your heart tug. You were beginning to like this guardian of yours, not only was he funny, he reminded you so much of someone you’ve been longing to see.

“Don’t we all?” You question back, only to realize maybe angels don’t feel what normal humans do. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t know….” You trail off.

When you’re finally fully clothed, Yoongi lets out a breath of air he didn’t know he was holding and can finally look at you again. He had been trying to keep his focus on other objects in your bathroom for 20 minutes now, and it was getting tiring.

“So, are guardian angels just new spirits or people who used to be alive?” You ask, as you plop yourself on your bed and snuggle under the covers.

“We’re people who used to be alive.” The truth leaves Yoongi’s lips before he can realize he was digging himself another hole. What happened to the Min Yoongi who was all cold and standoffish?

Your eyes widen. “So who are you? I-I mean, when you were alive?” You realize it may not be an answer you want to hear because if guardian angels were humans who were alive at one point, that really makes them no different from ghosts or the undead.

“We get our memories erased.” Yoongi lies, at least he still has it in him to do so.

“Oh…” You murmur, disappointment evident in not only your voice but your lowered face.

In the days that follow, you find yourself starting conversations with your guardian angel more often than you probably should, but you wholeheartedly enjoyed talking to him. It felt good to know someone was listening, and his voice was just so sweet and nostalgic it was like an addicting song. You would call for him whenever you were alone, during your 15-minute walking commutes to work or class, while taking a relaxing stroll in the park, before bed, when you wake up…the list goes on. He always seemed to know what to say to peak your interest, remaining mysterious but also unintentionally being quite obvious about some things. You wouldn’t quite call it wearing his heart on his sleeve, but you were somehow always able to detect the underlying meaning of his words.

Yoongi finds it hard to refuse to answer you whenever you strike up a conversation, even though he knows what he’s doing is probably not allowed and Seokjin will probably get on his case sooner or later, but Yoongi wouldn’t be Yoongi if he actually gave a fuck.

“It would be so much cooler if you guys didn’t have your memories erased. Then I could like ask you for life advice and stuff.” You say, while sitting in your small kitchen and eating a mouthful of fried rice.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Hey, it wasn’t a question so he was technically not obligated to indicate he was listening. You know he is anyways.

“By the way, how old are you?” You ask, realizing you don’t even know if you were unknowingly hanging out with an old man. He sure didn’t sound that old though. Mid twenties if you had to guess, but then that also means he must’ve lived a short life.

Yoongi wants to say he’s ageless, but something inside him doesn’t want to lie this time.

“24” Yoongi voices.

“Do you ever wonder how you died?”

Suicide. “Not really” Yoongi mutters.

“Or about how your friends and family are coping with your passing?”

I don’t really have friends. My mom passed before I did. “They probably just mourned for a few days.”

“I guess that’s a perk to having your memories erased. You don’t have any attachments or emotions for that matter. It must be nice in that sense.”

If only. “Yeah” Yoongi responds.

“Wow, I’m making dying sound like it’s great.” You shake your head. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. None of us really know what it’s like.” Yoongi says.

“Don’t you?”

“Ugh…” Shit. Why the fuck did I say that? “Memories erased, remember?” Yoongi quickly reminds.

Yoongi doesn’t want you to think that dying is great. That the afterlife is this wonderful place where you could be happy for an eternity because it’s not and whoever thought it was a place anyone would aspire to go is fucked up. Happiness doesn’t occur without contrasting sorrow; hope would not be without trials. Sure, you can’t do anything about fate and if your time comes, it comes. But Heaven’s Gate is no more than a consolation, a piece of solace to make people feel better about the things they can’t control, something that will always come in second to the precious gift that is life. Yes, there are numerous obstacles in life, hardships that compel you to give in, challenges you are constantly forced to face, but without darkness, light could not exist.

Without the shit he dealt with growing up, Yoongi would not have loved you so dearly, so unforgettably.

…

Two months later, Min Yoongi learns that when the fateful day finally comes, he’s not actually as prepared for it as he hopes. Of course, he didn't expect to be able to predict something would happen. No, guardian angels do no have that perk. He can only look back and say he was glad he was able to pull it off. Kind of. And he’s referring to materializing, not the actually “saving you” part, because he still doesn’t know how he feels about that decision he made. However, he learns to accept it, like every one else who is powerless in the hands of destiny.

The actual event happens in a flash, the on coming headlights, the honking of horns, and the frantic scream that escapes from your lips. And Yoongi doesn’t think in that moment. He doesn’t have time to. He just remembers slamming his body against yours, blocking the oncoming crash while pushing you out of the way. Like that cliché drama type shit that he always made fun of when he was alive. Ironic isn’t it?

You, however, aren’t able to register what happens. Not at initially at least, but you do recall the moment you can see him. Like actually see his physical form, and oh how blissful that infinitesimal second is, until you realize the entire scene is tinted in crimson and flashing lights. His tangible figure lying right in front of you, blood dripping from the side of his lip, a deep cut on his temple near his eye still gushing with the goopy red liquid, and limbs lifelessly splayed on the ground.

“Yoongi?” You manage to croak. Disbelief and confusion, pain and insatiable yearning, all making their way into your shocked body.

His eyes lift to slowly meet yours, and you can almost see his lip twitch into a frail smile.

In that moment, he longs to reach out and touch you, seeing that you were so close yet so far away. So fucking far away. Something he’s felt about a lot of things in his life, albeit never more so than at that instant. But he can’t feel his body, everything has gone numb and there’s that ringing in his ears again. The same sound he heard when he first stood at the entrance of Heaven’s Gate.

“Y/N” He says softly, and the sound is exactly the way you remember it, exactly the way your guardian angel says it, and you almost can’t believe you never realized it was him the whole time.

“Are you- were you-“ Your brain is too foggy to make out the question. The scenery is almost dreamlike, and you think that maybe this was it, or at least it was supposed to be. There was still so much you wanted to ask; so much that time and this world would not allow you to put to rest. You feel your eyelids begin to close, despite your utmost effort to keep them open, to stay conscious so you can still see the male lying in front of you for just a little bit longer.

“Stay alive.” You hear him say. “Live long and happy, and I’ll be waiting for you at Heaven’s Gate.” He manages to leave you with one last message, and even though he knows it a lie. It sounds good enough, and he figures it’s beautiful enough to give you the strength to keep going.

And then he’s gone.

...

Heaven’s Gate. The name alone is powerful enough to put a smile on your face.

But what Yoongi doesn’t know is that it was not his words that impacted you, it wasn’t the name of the place where he says he’ll wait for you that filled your heart with bursts of life.

It was the fact that you saw him when you needed him the most. The physical presence of the boy you thought you’d never see again, right in front of you, close enough to touch, was enough to keep you going.

But you know the next time you talked to yourself, there’s probably not going to be anyone there to answer.

…

White light.

He’s back at beginning.

“The Gates of Time, the Cusp between worlds, the singularity, honestly the list goes on.” Seokjin’s voice echoes through the cloudy, ethereal space once again.

“What?” Yoongi questions while squinting his eyes to allow them to adjust to the brightness.

“They finally told me the truth” He replies with a proud grin. “Or I guess they didn’t know until you broke the rules. Tsk.” He shakes his head disappointed. “I must say though, you have been the most interesting case by far.”

“Can you speak like a normal person?” Yoongi mutters, annoyance sprouting in his chest. Not surprising since seeing the guy’s face was enough to make him irritated, and that’s when he hasn’t opened his mouth yet.

“You do realize how you died now, don’t you?” Seokjin asks.

“Didn’t you say it was suicide?”

“Yes, you committed suicide when you jumped in front of the car to save Y/N.”

“W-what?” Yoongi looks at Seokjin uncomprehendingly. “I did that after I died and became her guardian angel.” He reminds the Gatekeeper.

“It’s the chicken and the egg riddle that has no answer.” Seokjin singsongs. “Now you’re stuck in a cycle that has no end, well until she dies of disease when she’s older.” He furrows his brows. “Actually, I’m not entirely sure until when. You might’ve been right about the 70 years. Or maybe this is your punishment. Ha! I don’t have a clue, you’re the first of your kind!”

Yoongi wants to punch the gorgeous male in the face, but he holds back. Barely.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the show.” Yoongi opts to say instead. Well at least he was right about it being impossible that he committed suicide for the purposes of ending his own life. Kind of.

Seokjin sighs, face dropping from its previous giddy expression. “There is no way to untie the intertwining of your fates. It’s the whole distorted soulmate dynamic I mentioned earlier. I would’ve assumed you’d catch on by now.”

“So the whole second chance, opportunity bullshit was a lie?” Yoongi voices emptily.

“My apologies…I really didn’t know at first.” Seokjin replies disheartened that his upbeat attitude before most likely did more harm than good. He’s used to telling jokes that no one but himself finds funny, except that nice Gatekeeper named Namjoon who laughs everytime. “It is a cycle you are forced to live. Unless of course, you decide to switch places with her.”

“That’s an option?”

Seokjin nods. “Let’s say you don’t save her. The result is, she dies, you remain alive, and she becomes your guardian angel, forced to live the repeated cycle in place of you.”

“So just as shitty, if not shittier.” Yoongi nods in understanding.

“Luckily the others are not as unfortunate as you are.” Seokjin states. “Oh how tragic would it be if that were the case.” He looks up at Yoongi, realizing that comment was uncalled for. “Sorry” He whispers.

Yoongi has heard of star-crossed lovers. Those separated by distance, time, and even parallel universes, but he’s never imagined the scenario of soulmates separated by life and death.

And he doesn’t know if he’s making the best decision by submitting to the cycle, he can’t differentiate right from wrong any longer and he sure as hell doesn’t want you to suffer in his place. Unfortunately he doesn’t have the ability to break the cycle that he started or thinks he started. He was never skilled enough for those kinds of tasks, not that anyone is when it comes to things they can’t control. It’s fate or whatever they call it. So Yoongi does the only thing he can do at this point, which is why each and every time you reach that crossing at the border of life and death, Yoongi will save you.

Until the day the two of you finally meet at Heaven’s Gate.

...

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checkurselfb4umachuwreckurself · 7 years ago

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Holiday fic for Guardian- April Fools! it’s something entirely different.

“From Dust To Dawn” 1.2k.

Mieru has questions. Yuuri has answers. ...Maybe.

(it’s not especially shippy, but could be read as Duskship or somethin without an official ship name)

It was foolproof: Go in, state the case, if he doesn’t approve, it was a joke, and if he does… well, that’ll save the step of crying into her pillow all night. Okay, maybe not “foolproof”, but it had potential... Right?

Sora was busy devouring a chocolate rabbit in… less than traditional ways, so he didn’t notice Mieru sneak out of their shared room. Mieru and Sora’s room was to the left of where Serena used to live and Yuuri’s room, so they slowly and quietly snuck over. It was fairly early, so she had the nagging feeling she might wake up someone if she made even the slightest noise.

She stopped at the metal door in front of her. It had cheesy door decorations on it, just like the others; a paper cat with Serena’s name on it, and a paper tulip with Yuuri’s name. No one really knew who put them up there, but at least they weren’t overly tacky. She raised their hand to knock, but quickly yanked it back in fear. She pulled out her crystal apple, staring into it. “Please, please, please,” she said, staring at the icy blue crystal. It was the same as it was earlier; foggy, with smoke of purple, pink, and blue. There were new streaks of black and white, but that didn’t interest her. What did any of it mean, anways?

The door opened, causing Mieru to almost drop her apple. “What do you want, Princess?” Yuuri hissed. He was still in pajamas, hair unkempt, and his eye mask was knotted somewhat into his hair.

Mieru back up to the opposite wall. “I-I just wanted to talk to you, maybe?” She prodded her fingers, hoping for even just a little sympathy from Yuuri. Her prediction said nothing about this.

Yuuri sighed, placing his head into his hand. “Do make it quick. It’s early, and a weekend.” He turned around, ushering Mieru to follow, mumbling “time doesn’t grow on trees” or something of the same caliber.

She sat the same place she always did, on Serena’s empty bed. The sheets were neatly folded at the head, rather than in a drawer, implying someone might someday return there. Yuuri stood at his bed, making it up before hopping onto it to face her. “Yes?” he asked, watching her fidget.

Mieru was caught off guard, looking up to him with a blush. “I-I JUST WANTED TO ASK YOU SOMETHING, THAT’S ALL!” she cried, leaning back to the wall.

Yuuri’s head cocked, and his expression drooped more than usual. “I know that, Princess. Speed it up, will you?” Yuuri always seemed to call Mieru “Princess” when he was a bit annoyed with her, or when he was just teasing. It was probably due to her deck “Prediction Princess”, but she never noticed how much it irked her until a few days ago.

Her hands were in her lap, as her heartbeats slowed to a normal pace. “I’m…” Mieru looked up softly at Yuuri. “I’m not sure I’m a girl.”

Yuuri’s eye widened, but then narrowed again. “I’ve told you countless times that I will not participate in this “April Fools” nonsense or-“

He was quickly cut off. “I’m serious!” Well, there went Mieru’s back-up plan. It was all or nothing now. “I just…” they petted at their dress’ skirt. “Sometimes I really feel like a girl and… sometimes wearing dresses and looking like me… makes me feel gross.” They looked over to the mirror. “Like, I can’t even face myself those days.”

Despite the harsh tones earlier, Yuuri nodded. “You’re facing dysphoria. I’m very sorry to hear that.” His face scrunched. “It’s a pain, I know.” He busied himself unknotting his hair. “How do you feel today?”

Mieru looked up, relieved Yuuri understood. “I feel fine, I guess. I don’t feel uncomfortable in this.”

Yuuri gave a rare soft smile. “That’s good.” He paused, looking at the wall behind him. “Does… Sora know about this? I mean, I helped him through his… well, discovery, I guess.” That was about a year ago. Yuuri was the oldest in the wing and was always looked to for help involving stuff like this.

Mieru shook their head. “Nope. I wasn’t sure he’d understand.” Mieru wasn’t exactly sure why they thought Yuuri would understand either, but it was a risk that was begging to be taken. “You’re the only person that knows.”

A curt nod. “So, how do you feel when you’re going through dysphoria? Masculine? Something you can’t place?” It sort of threw Mieru back how involved he got with the concern. He almost felt like a big brother to them.

“I guess masculine. Like I should have been born a boy.” Yuuri nodded, he could relate. Mieru continued fiddling with the hem on their dress. “Like, I should be wearing something like you two. Fancy still, but more guy-like.” They looked up nervously. “Ya know?”

Another nod. “Yes, I would definitely recommend you expand your wardrobe next time we’re off the island, it’ll help at least a bit.” He tapped his finger to his chin, leaning forward face them more. “Not to… pry, but have you considered binding? It always helps me, and Sora handles it quite well.” Yuuri obviously wasn’t wearing his binder right now, but he still remained interested.

Now it was Mieru’s turn to nod. “Yeah… maybe, I guess.” Mieru crossed their arms over their chest, somewhat defensively. “As long as it doesn’t hurt.”

A less soft smile ended up on Yuuri’s face now. “I can’t promise anything. Maybe your apple can help?” He asked, with a little wink, sticking his tongue out.

Mieru gave a faked laugh. “Hilarious. I actually only came to you because my crystal apple was being useless.

Yuuri was never a fan of Mieru’s reliability on fate, so he quickly changed the subject. “So when you feel masculine, male even, what are your thoughts on pronouns? He? They? Either?”

There was a dull silence to let Mieru think. “I guess “He” is good, “They” is fine for anytime, really.” Mieru wasn’t overly sure about their thoughts on pronouns, as long they weren’t considered a “girl” when it felt, well, wrong.

“I see.” Yuuri’s hair was fairly untangled and his eye mask was on his pillow now. “Well, I assure you, I apologize for calling you Princess when you felt like a guy.” He wasn’t the greatest at apologies, most of them were fake as hell, but it was definitely an attempt this time.

They didn’t respond for a while, trapped in thought. “Hey Yuuri?” they asked, getting a sharp “hm?” in response. “Do… do you think it’d be weird if I went by “Dennis” when I felt like a guy? “Mieru” is kind of… girly.”

Yuuri gave out a laugh, causing Mieru to shrink. “Nonono, I don’t dislike it, rise up, Princess.” He gestured his finger upwards, and Mieru followed. “It’s a bit flashy, but I think it suits you.” Yuuri looked to the clock, which was now at 8am. “I could talk to you all day about this, and I would, but I have an essay to write, as do you.” The two walked to the door, Mieru walking out with a smile. “Good luck, Mieru, Dennis. ”Mieru waved goodbye, and walked next door, entering quickly.

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck, pulling out the laptop. He pulled out his document, sorting out his information. …but all he could think about was Mieru and Dennis. He drilled his fist into his eye in frustration. Why was he so invested in this? Yuuri shut his laptop, leaning back on the wall, listening as best as he could, hoping the discussion he was overhearing was a good one.

#monches #sorry I couldn't think up and guardian fic ideas I hope this is okay #Snarky Arc V #I still kinda like this au okay okay

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homosexualisopod · 5 years ago

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Donald Trump is a secret virgin. His giant hand never plunders the sodden honeysweet hormone folds of woman or man. No sex germs ever leap from the perfect angel penis of Donald Trump, bumblebee, into the electric rosebud of a beautiful lady who is singing while astride a crescent-moon, lowered from above. He never deposits a check for fixed semen assets into the asshole of a broad-shouldered middle-class knowledge worker nor does he dump a gallon of warm-but-not-expired sex milk down the pants of a woman that he "merely" meets on the street and takes a shine to on account of her Gumption and Stride.

Because he is a virgin.

Me and Donald Trump were chowing down on a hambone together, kicking back in our overalls and passing back and forth a thermos full of black coffee after a hard shift of Work Bizness, sitting on a steel beam inside a skyscraper, legs dangling.

“Hey there, my favorite man,” I tell him in a ribald fashion. “How do you like your sex? What is your preferred sex situation during an intimate time?”

But he does not answer. Instead I can see the bashful computer in his perfect mind clicking away. He is red with exertion, perhaps embarrassment. Am I mocking him? Do I know his shame?

“Sex is quite the act,” he tells me, growing arch but morose. “I enjoy it and it feels like singing straight from your heart directly into the heart of another...it is like punching, but punching with love.”

“You are exactly right,” I tell him, putting him at ease. There is brown skyscraper grease on both of our faces from another day of hard labor. “You have hit the nail on the head about sex, thus proving that you are not a virgin.”

I prefer to lie to Donald Trump. He is a painted eggshell tumbling along a conveyor belt into the smashing machine, and his pain is my pain.

He relaxes, but it is not the tranquil unknotting of concubitus supreme. It is barely relaxation at all, sans spurts, sans triumph, sans attainment of loosened repose. His face retains its angelic rictus.

For he is a virgin. He is a secret virgin. No one knows about his unravished flanks and glands. He must hide his non-crime from sinister America. But there is no shame in such a man! He is a soaring vestal, a sexless raptor, circling imperiously over unplowed fields, spying defenseless quivering prey from afar, which he must ignore, instead soaring majestically in the opposite direction to avoid being soiled by the false fluids of Another.

One time his butler tried to console him: "All heroes are virgins," he said, offering him a plate of summer sausage and yellow cheese. "To be strong, one must never come of age. It is not shame! It is a badge of merit to be so pure and to be made of so much white light that other people want to bathe in your very name the way that native women might bathe beneath a waterfall."

But Donald Trump could not be so easily consoled.

He cried forlornly, weeping secret tears of secret shame, because his mighty heart was hurting. His heart is the loneliest of his organs but not the least used. That distinction belongs to his pristine penis, which might as well still be in its original packaging: unblemished, untasted, unhandled.

He eats his husk of summer sausage while staring at yet another beautiful woman he has purchased but who must be made to stand in another room behind a sheet of one-way glass and disrobe for him in what amounts to a self-created mockery, a temptation, a woman he can never touch and who must never see or know him. She does not know why she is being paid to "remove her top" and to "smile like she is in love." He must remain continent as the pressure mounts inside him, must not reach out, smash the glass, try to grasp her long hair as his gift bubbles forth. His abstinence is not necessarily a choice, but it is his by unshakable disposition. When he is finished, his gift is scraped from the smooth one-way window by his butler and deposited with the others, and the woman is taken to the "old elevator" and given kindhearted advice about investments by his strategic manager.

He is a virgin in an identity way. It is as much a part of him as his perfect face. And yet it is a secret. No one can know.

His stubby, snuffling penis, like the wet nose of a blind hound, has never burrowed into a vagina to get out of the cold world, digging and digging a shallow hole and then collapsing into it, only just penetrating the surface membrane of alien flesh, paws over eyes, too timid and too stumpy to nuzzle any further.

He has never even done this. He has never even nuzzled his knuckle of a peesnout into a woman or man for even one instant of neritic relief.

The closest Donald Trump has ever come to completing a sex act inside a person is the time he accidentally ejaculated in his sports car while rounding a deadly curve (he was not driving, but his eyes were closed and he Forgot) and a woman tried to Own his semen from where it dried against his wide leg (it was a pleasant day and he wore a man's cargo shorts), wiping it with her camisole and then attempting to take it into herself by dabs and thrusts. Never again does he ride in cars with women who might try such a thing. Now he only rides alone.

Normally, his gifts are kept in jade jars that he purchases directly from trusted antiquities traders in modern Qatar, filling one a month and storing these emoluments away in his family vault, the way that other members of his proud family have stored treasures taken from the sea and trophies of war. The gifts harden into a smooth paste in the jars, and then a glassy calculus. Does Donald Trump make jewelry for his friends and admirers from this smooth, frosted shale?

What careful hands craft this rare jewelry? What powers of ensorcelment and magnetism might these pieces contain?

His children were made in America. They are not imports, as has been whispered. They were made by powerful and strong American artistry and science, ripening in office buildings standing proud and alone on suburban greenswards. His children are native to this land. No one must question this. They gestated inside the bellies of American breeding cows, cows that had all four legs amputated so they might be comfortable laying on giant purple silk mats, being fed grapes and fine finger sandwiches and delicious brie. These wombcows gave his big, lumbering fetal Trumps room to grow and play. No women were harmed, and Donald Trump remained chaste and unruint.

Would his Trumps be like him? Would they look like him? Would they have his grace and intelligence?

His Trumps were manifested from special gifts he created for the specific purpose of passing on his best traits, squeezed forth while staring into his own eyes by way of a video machine. He chose the women who would combine with these gifts lovingly and purposefully, manfully, using real executive vigor and decisiveness.

The process you don't even want to know about! There were races and wrestling matches and world challenges. A competition at the klavier might become a disputation in Ancient Greek that might last all night long.

The frenzy! The fevers of competition!

He never ceased inspecting these prospective Mothers. He was unsparing with the calipers, seeking perfection, knowing that to combine his gift with a woman's gift...her Blood Clot full of Frail Humors and Sensitive Touches... would be a dangerous thing, and yet he knew he must not hoard his essence, his excellence, his light.

Alone, away from the vicious throng, he is free to be as simple and honest and innocent and full of virtue as any other virgin. Alone, in his tower, he removes his suit and puts on a simple sailor's frock, an honest shirt with modest shorts. He pulls up his knee socks and puts on a humble cap with a special ribbon and he dances and sings and practices learning new facts about the world. He tells the world how he feels...brain to brain...finger to phone...watching the television and speaking to the television.

He has a virgin's simple trust. He loves the world and the world loves him.

He watches himself on the television and he sees something more than even you or I might see. His butler gives him rubs and tests his blood and skin to make sure he is still perfect. He is still perfect.

Does he wonder, wistfully, what he might become if he gives in to his darkest longings? If he risks infection and injury to slake his unholy passions inside a woman or man the same way you or I might do?

Me and Donald Trump are eating fried oysters from a red pail while laying on our backs on a raft made of logs and floating lazily down the mighty Mississippi river, our nation's hardest-pumping muddy artery.

He tells me his hopes and fears, telling me of his noble purpose in fulfilling the destiny of our great land, of protecting us from infection and disease, from being penetrated by outside penises, from accidentally lowering ourselves by commingling the skin dirt of the high people with the skin dirt of low people.

I am listening, but I cannot stop staring into his perfect ice blue eyes. I am lost in them. How has he avoided the probing of a glistening mons pubis by his muscular and swarthy cock nubbin, a nugget as hard and strong as an American silver dollar (I have felt it against me when he has become too excited, discussing his plans for our country, and has fallen over with delirium and I have steadied him)? How has he avoided concupiscence for so long? I feel myself drawn toward him, hypnotized, opening to him, and I can sense his discipline, how hard he must work to stay celibate, to keep away from the needs of admirers like me.

He pays the women prime wages to tell the television that he is not a virgin. He pays them better than celebrities are paid to pretend to be real.

"Oh yes, Donald Trump has definitely done the business," they say, averting their eyes.

"He has definitely mounted me and I have definitely felt the sweat from his jowls fleck my backbones as he grunts his way to victory in my belly, in my hand, in my anus, in my mouth. I have definitely had his penis and I am definitely not the only one."

He has watched others mate, of course, many times, even encouraging this, urging his wives to express themselves; to explore. But he can never join in such a way; never, never, never. He would lose everything...himself, his maidenhead, his answers, his virtue, his light. Build the wall. Build it high.

When he is with a woman in public, he must pretend to dominate her, to be above her, to prove that he "could have her" to the People. His wife must be of such attractiveness that it is "obvious" that he has had sex with her and will do so again. No one must question this. There must never be a Time of Testing. He will never pit his fantasies against the reality of her body, and so the sport is good and the People cheer. But it is exhausting to wonder, to know if his domination is correct, if the sham of his brutality is done with the proper rhythm and anger.

The way that he loves his land...America...is the only intimacy that he truly knows. The way that he speaks to his people...America...is his only erotic poetry. But he will never melt inside his true love...America...as he drifts to sleep beside his only mistress...America...because he has never done such a thing with anybody and he never will. He wants to have America because she is the most beautiful, but then what?

America will never be aseptic enough for Donald Trump to actually sub-agitate and smash out. Donald Trump will never hitchhike South and gag America's meat hole, IRL. His fat, glowing cherry--as jolly and eternal as Santa--will continue to fuel his legendary endurance, but he will never seal the Deal: he does not want to; he does not know how.

He is a secret virgin. He doesn't have to be a virgin and it doesn't have to be a secret. But he wills it so with his enormous soul.

It is his shame, but he should not be ashamed about the one thing that makes him Great, that makes him different, that makes him strong, that keeps him compelling in a world full of flaws and weakness and boring withered skeptics who have been drained by their own vices.

There is one holy truth that his fans and acolytes and servants whisper to each other in the furtive penumbra of his glowing heat as they orbit around him, basking in his healing radiation.

They whisper to each other, proudly and in awe.

They whisper:

Donald Trump is a secret virgin.

#donald trump #Donald Trump is a secret virgin #Donald Trump is actually black according to my friend Revii #memes #copypasta

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ifinallygavein · 8 years ago

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A Cabin Where the Fire Burns

So I finished that smut fic I wrote for fun awhile back. This is my first so I hope you enjoy!! As always constructive criticism is welcome.

Aelin and Rowan the maid of honor and best man at Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding. It’s winter and they’re driving through the mountains to get to the destination. The weather gets really bad, an epic snow storm takes them by surprise so they pull over. They notice a little drive way off the side of the road and follow it to a cabin abandoned for the winter.

WARNING: THIS HAS VERY SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT!!

Aelin closes the door behind her. The wind howls on the other side to remind her of the blizzard they just left outside. Oh yeah. Rowan is here too. He’s Aedion’s best man so Aelin tolerated him. In fact recently she’d really started to warm up to the guy. But she refused to like him like that. The maid of honor and the best man banging? How much more cliché could you get?

Shivering she steps farther into the dark room. As her eyes adjust Aelin can see that it looks really nice, but there’s almost no furniture. Trying the light switch she also notes the lack of electricity. Great. At least it’s better than sleeping in the car. She turns on her phone’s flashlight and starts looking in some of the boxes and stuff. These people are so weird, Aelin thinks, they brought like everything except furniture. Thankfully she finds a few candles in one of them.

With shaking hands she lights them and places them around the room. Her cold wet clothes are starting to bother her. Ignoring that fact she starts to work on lighting the fire. Of course they have a fully operational fire place but not even a folding chair. After a few minutes of work she has a roaring fire crackling in the hearth.

Wait, she wonders, where’s Rowan? It’s not a big cabin he can’t be too far. Aelin ducks into the next room to find him shifting around some boxes.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Despite herself her teeth chatter.

He turns and looks at her. His hawk-like eyes assess her in one fell swoop and he tosses her a bundle of cloth. She’s pretty proud of the fact that she caught it even with a shivering body. In her arms Aelin now holds a set of clothes. What looks to be a thick, lined flannel, a man’s judging by the size not to mention the buttons are on the other side, and a pair of leggings that are also lined, as well as a pair of thick fluffy socks.

Rowan uses her silence upon inspection as his opportunity to speak. “You should change into those. If you stay in you wet clothes you’ll get sick.”

Normally she disagrees with him on principle but she’d been hoping for something to change into anyway.

“Did you find something for yourself?”

He resumes digging through the boxes. “I’m looking.”

Aelin turns to leave and says, “If you find something change in here. And don’t come out until I tell you to.”

For once he doesn’t argue. So she walks into the main room and strips in front of the blazing fire. The heat on her naked skin warms her to quickly. She pivots and puts her back to the hearth. Running her fingers through her long waves, Aelin attempts to dry her hair. The wind tangled it into a hopeless mess so it gets caught every two seconds. Finally though she manages to mostly unknot it and leave it only kind of damp. She looks over at her pile of sopping clothes and wrinkles her nose in distaste.

Remembering how long she’s been standing there she pulls on the dry clothes. They smell like cardboard and laundry detergent. She supposed it could be worse. Thankfully the leggings fit but the shirt and the socks were far oversized. Aelin strides over to the room Rowan is in and knocks on the wall beside the threshold.

“All clear.” Being so far from the fire reminds her of the bite in the air. “Did you find any blankets in there?”

She hears shuffling and then Rowan appears in the doorway. He wears a flannel similar to hers and a pair of sweatpants.

Aelin snorts. “Nice look. Very bold statement.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up, I didn’t want to sleep in jeans.”

Ok, I can relate but I’m still going to make fun of you. She thinks. He huffs out a mildly annoyed breath. I know. Who says I have to like it?

She crosses her arms. It irritated her a little that he could read her like that. It irritated her a little more that she could do the same. Rowan retreats into the room and comes back in a second, arms full.

“But yeah, I found blankets. We’ll have to share though. There aren’t that many.”

Typical, she thinks. But at least we found some place otherwise we would’ve been screwed.

Aelin takes the blankets from him and flounces into the main room. She kicks her wet clothes off to the side and gestures for Rowan to come help her. Together they spread a blanket on the ground and then layer a few more on top. As the pile gets smaller Aelin realizes there’s a few pillows too. At least there’s that. Super tired from their long drive and small hike, Aelin plops right down and starts fluffing her pillow.

“I guess we’re going to sleep,” Rowan grumbles.

Aelin shoots him a look. “Unless there’s something better to do.”

Again he rolls his eyes but sits down on the other side without any further objection. She takes that as his agreement (not that she was really looking for it) and burrows into the little nest they made. Rowan follows her lead. Soon the two of them are laying side by side as far away from each other as they can get. It would probably be more beneficial to sleep more closely to share body heat but neither of them acknowledges that fact.

Soon Aelin begins to nod off. She’s about half asleep when she feels a shift of cloth across her shirt. A sudden cold sensation makes her eyes pop open. Glancing down Aelin notes that her blankets are gone. What the… she thinks before turning over and seeing Rowan with them over his body.

Just my luck, she grouches, of course he’s a blanket stealer.

She yanks on the edges and manages to snag her half back. Rolling back over she tucks the corner under her so he can’t pull them off again. As she begins to doze again she feels another abrupt chill. Angrily she flops over and shoves his shoulder.

Rowan turns to look at her and runs his hand through his hair. “What?”

The jerk has the nerve to be sleepy? “What do you mean ‘what’? Stop taking my covers!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. Are. A. Blanket. Hog.” Aelin enunciates slowly.

“And?”

Huffing in exasperation she says, “And it’s cold. I am cold.”

“So am I.”

“Why do you have to be so annoying?”

“Me?” he sits up at that. “You’re the annoying one.”

“Sure because I’m the one hoarding all the blankets.”

“Well you’re the one that has to stop every fifteen miles to go to the bathroom.”

“And you’re the one with the crappy taste in music.”

Offended he says, “It’s classic rock.”

“No,” she corrects, “Classic rock is Journey. Not whatever noise you were playing.”

As they argued the two had drawn closer and closer until their faces were inches apart. Nose to nose. Rowan glances down at her mouth and when his eyes return to meet hers they were dilated so there was almost none of that beautiful pine green left. That look he was giving her.

Aelin doesn’t let herself think as she closes the distance between them and presses her mouth to his. All she could think was how right it was. Before she knew it her tongue flicked at the seam of his lips, which he parted for her allowing her to explore his mouth. Without breaking the kiss she scoots closer. Rowan drapes his arm over her side and across her back until his hand grips the dip in her waist and draws her even closer so their chests are flush.

They break the kiss to gulp down some air. Rowan leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Me too,” Aelin agrees breathlessly. She’s surprised by her lack of hesitation and more so by the honesty of her statement.

His eyes drift open and he smiles at her for the first time. It makes her heart stutter. She’d seen him smile before a few times, but never at her. Because of her. Aelin felt her own smile unfurl across her face. Slowly leaning forward, eyes drifting shut, she kisses him again. A flame seems to leap out of the hearth and dance between them. Her fingers find themselves woven into his hair. The kiss intensifies until Rowan is lying on top of her.

Aelin draws her legs up so they circle his waist. She pulls him down so his hard torso is pressed against her and there’s no space between them. Her hands untangle themselves and drift to his chest where she starts unbuttoning his shirt. Rowan gets the idea and starts helping her while desperately trying to continue their kiss. Aelin finally pulls away. He sits up between her knees and shucks off the borrowed shirt as fast as he can.

She lets her eyes traverse down his bare skin. The hard planes and ridges of his muscled stomach, the bulges of his chest and arms. That tattoo. Unable to help herself Aelin sits up and runs her hands all over the smooth skin. Rowan shivers under her feathery touch. With the light of the fire haloing him he looks like some kind of god. An Adonis reincarnate.

His hands find her shirt quickly and she begins to strip it off as quickly as possible. However once the buttons come undone she lets the shirt hang open. Gazing directly into his eyes she slowly parts the front and pushes it off her shoulders to reveal her breasts. Rowan drags his eyes down her body hungrily. When he looks back up at her face his expression is near feral with desire.

She hooks her hand to the back of his head and brings him back into a kiss, lying down as she does. Their chests are pressed together. Heated skin against skin. Eagerly Aelin grinds her hips up against his drawing a groan from deep in Rowan’s throat. He copies her motion and she grunts as a spark ignites low in her belly.

Fumbling slightly Aelin starts to pull down her leggings. He holds onto her wrists to stop her. For a second Aelin thinks he doesn’t want to do this. But he loops his fingers into the waist band and slowly tugs them down. When he pulls them off her ankles his eyes flick up and run over whole form laid bare before him. While normally this position would feel exposing Aelin felt nothing but want. He locks eyes with her in a silent question. When she gives him her nod of approval he starts to kiss his way up. Over her calves and knees, then slowly up her thighs. Low across her stomach on her hips. Then closer and closer to where she needs it. Finally his mouth hovers right over her sex. He releases a hot breath out that has her gritting her teeth.

“Are you doing this or not, buzzard?” Aelin ground out.

His tongue dips down into her. She fists the blankets grinding her teeth to keep the noises she’s making from escaping. Rowan licks up until he finds the wet bead of nerves. When he does she can’t stop the moan that whooshes past her lips. She glances down and finds him grinning up at her before he presses a finger into her. Aelin’s head falls back. Her breasts heaving. Torturously slow, he circles his finger with his tongue keeping rhythm.

“God, yes.” She breathes.

Rowan stops his movements only long enough to say, “I think we can do better than that.”

Before she realizes what’s happening he inserts another finger. They circle and split and slide in and out while his mouth keeps working at her apex. Aelin’s so close she can see the edge. When Rowan curls his fingers it sends Aelin careening over. She anchors herself using Rowan’s hair, back arching off the makeshift bed, expletives tumbling out of her mouth.

Aelin releases his hair and grabs his face pulling him into a kiss. He settles over her his hands playing with her breasts and sliding along her hips. She grinds up against him only now realizing he still has pants on. Though she can certainly feel him through the fabric. Thankfully they’re only sweats. With ease she unties the laces and pushes them off so they hang around his knees. Annoyed, Rowan sits back and shoves them off.

When she catches sight of his length Aelin’s desire rekindles. She pushes him back and straddles him. Starting at his lips she kisses her way down his body; from his sharp jaw, to his neck, across his sculpted chest, over his abs, finally stopping to suck a hickey onto each of his hip bones. Looking up at him she takes his cock in her hand and notices he’s laying with his hands behind his head in that arrogant guy way. Aelin decides to see how long it would take him to lose his cool. The answer was about two seconds.

When her tongue circles the head he grunts, “Oh shit.”

Aelin takes him deeper until her jaw aches then she pulls all the way out and runs her hand up and down his shaft. Coquettishly she says, “I think we can do better than that.”

She climbs up his legs until her hips hovered over his. Holding him steady she teases him at her entrance to her own pleasure. Her eyes slipping shut, she feels her wetness drip down on him.

“Aelin,” he barks.

Her eyes flutter open and she looks down at him. He’s truly handsome especially with his hair tousled like that. His tan skin seems to glow in the fire light and his eyes… his eyes were dark with want. Spread out under her like that… I’m going to ride this man into the sunset. Maintaining eye contact Aelin lowers herself and sinks onto him. She goes down, down, down until he’s fully seated in her. Her legs were completely spread as she sits on him.

Rowan’s voice is rough and thick with lust. “This is the sexiest thing I’ve seen in my life.”

She leans forward and whispers in his ear, “I know.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. In a husky whisper he asks, “Are you doing this or not, princess?”

With that she begins to move. Slowly she rises up and sinks down. Up. Then down. Rowan’s eyes roll up in his head and his hands move up her thighs to rest at her hips. Without warning her strokes come faster. Eyes snapping to attention his gaze takes her in. Hands planted on his stomach, breasts bouncing with movement, hair wild, face flushed with heat, eyes burning with passion, and himself buried in her. A deeply primal part of himself roared in approval.

Soon her desire began to quicken.

“I think I’m going to come again,” She whines.

Aelin began grinding down to create friction on her clit. When Rowan sees what she’s trying to do he reaches between them and rubs his thumb against the bundle of nerves. Her insides go completely molten.

“Fuck, yes. OH, Rowan!” she cries toppling into waves of release.

As soon as she finishes he wraps his arm around her waist and rolls Aelin onto her back without pulling out.

“I’m not done with you yet,” He growls.

He grabs her ankles and spreads her legs as far as they could go and begins thrusting into her. With each stroke her gasps get higher and higher. “Oh my God! Don’t stop!”

Rowan continues his merciless rhythm. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the air. Aelin claws at the blankets beneath her searching for something to hold onto. Back arching she cries, “Harder, Rowan!”

He’s happy to oblige her. Releasing her ankles he grabs her hips and slams into her relentlessly. Her legs begin to tremble around him. The new angle and force leaves both of them moaning in pleasure. Rowan leans down and sucks a kiss onto her neck. This is Aelin’s undoing. She clamps her teeth down onto his shoulder screaming in pleasure. He pounds into her chasing his release and when it comes to him Rowan roars in pleasure.

He looks down at the sated woman he just bedded with nothing but pure male satisfaction on his face. Aelin made a debauched picture lying there sweaty and gasping from their exertions.

“Not a word of this to anyone,” she pants out breathlessly, “Lysandra will never stop saying I told you so.”

A lazy grin crosses his face. “Don’t worry,” he leans down and gives her a chaste kiss, “it’ll be our little secret.”

#rowaelin #smut #fanfiction #cabin the woods #what a lovely fire #maid of honor and the best man #don't judge me I know it's a cliche

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