l4long-winded · 8 months ago
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i really wanna see carmy groveling 🤭 might be fun, after a fight or something
how cruel... i like the way you think! i tried to write him as close to his character here while still adding in that groveling element. i hope i've done it justice!
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o.s. a guilty heart's plea(s)
summary: carmen's said some unforgivable things to you. and yet here he is at your doorstep, pleading for you to forgive him (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)
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reflection: as much as i pride myself in my ability to write scenes and descriptions, i still struggle a lot with making dialogue sound good while flowing with my writing. i think this has been good practice for me to really get inside this character's head and see what he could possibly say with a prompt as heavy as this. this took me about a week to write so i really hope i gave it the time and energy it deserves. thank you all for reading and feedback is always welcomed, appreciated, and encouraged!
warnings: cursing, angst, established relationship, implied smut, reminiscing, they're on a break, inner monologue, carmen's pov, rambling, self-loathing, carmen pleading, inability to express feelings, apologies, missed calls, insecurities, acts of service, sydney sweeney mention, smoking, somewhat happy ending (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)
word count: 2,132
( this work has been cross-posted to ao3 )
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Carmen knocks on the screen door ahead of him. It’s his seventh time doing so, the clattering and aggravating sound of metal reverberating against the second door behind that one. Dust coats his knuckles because it transferred from the opaque metal, a small spot shinier than the rest of the door because he continued to rap at the same area. Maybe he should clean it for you later if you actually decide to speak to him again. His hands fidget at his sides, clenching and releasing, staring blankly as he thinks of all the times he’s come over. For his first initial visit, you unlocked the door, gave him a cautious glance over your shoulder, and then led him inside. During the second time, you held his hand as you stepped past the threshold, squeezing it in reassurance.
On Valentine’s Day, when he surprised you with an assortment of flowers from the farmer’s market, you greeted him with a deep kiss, tugging the collar of his shirt to pull him inside of your house. He didn’t show any resistance, blindly following your lead, dropping off the flowers onto your couch as your hands lifted his shirt, and your mouths departed from one another for a smidgen of a second before they found each other again, more impassioned and desperate.
“Open the door, come on, I’m sorry,” he says, more so to himself than your screen door. He’s been close to shouting at it this entire time, making his pleas, encouraging you to open it for him so he can have a discussion with you face-to-face.
He’s called you plenty of times. Each one has either rang for as long as the line allowed or went straight to voicemail. Two weeks have passed without seeing each other. Two long weeks of unanswered text messages he’s sent day by day and missed calls clogging up your phone’s notifications. You’re ignoring him and he knows he deserves it, guilty as the hand in the cookie jar, but he still can’t shake this overwhelming feeling inside of him to see you again. The albums dedicated to you in his gallery are not enough to satisfy this. His fingers twitch every time he swipes at an image and relives the sensation of running them along your skin. That’s when his nose begins to miss the scent that clings to your neck. That’s when his ears long to hear the lilt of your laughter and that particular way you say his name. That’s when his tongue rejects the nicotine and implores him for a taste of your chapstick, or the bubblegum flavor lingering in your mouth greeting him after a shift at work, or the giggles you fall into as he chases the subtle pecks you graciously feed him.
The door behind the one he’s attending to opens. There you are. He can’t see you since the sun is positioned right behind him, warming his back as it sets into the background. At most, he makes out the silhouette of your frame, recognizable to his eyes as he’s acquainted himself with every curve and slope of you, but he’s aware you fully see him on the other side. He wonders if you’re able to tell how little he’s slept since a look in the mirror this morning painted the picture of an exhausted man through dark rings under his eyes and a slackened jaw.
“What do you want, Carmen?” You ask. Not Carmy. Not Bear. Not any of that cheesy shit Richie pokes fun at him for. Carmen. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved to hear the sound of your voice or offended he’s lost every sweet moniker you’ve bestowed upon him.
“To talk,” he explains quickly, “I just want to talk. If you want me to fuck off, then,” he inhales sharply. It would kill him if you told him to fuck off, but he’s also not about to make you uncomfortable for an issue he caused. “Then I’ll fuck off.”
Unlike Carmen, you’re not rapidly firing away sentences in response to him. You’re quiet for a beat and it’s rather agonizing for him because even though there’s only a door separating the two of you, you’re still so far out of his reach. He’s tempted to cup his hands over his eyes and look past the individual holes of the door to check if you’re still there.
“Go ahead,” you say, interrupting his thoughts and refuting his fear you’ve stalked back inside your living room.
“Talk.”
He gulps. He was hoping to at least do this without a barrier in the way, but he’s not about to fumble the one opportunity and chance you’ve given him after two weeks of nothing. He’d be a fool to.
“Fuck… I…” Well, this is off to a great start. He tries to think about the texts he’s sent. He had time to sit down and write out apologies and yet none of them are splurging onto his tongue to save him the awkward discomfort currently stirring in his stomach.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said,” Can you let me figure this shit out without breathing down my fucking neck ringing in his ears, haunting him like a phantom stuck on his shadow because it’s one of the last things he said to you before you took off and rightfully gave him the cold shoulder.
“I was stressed and frustrated and, and I wasn’t thinking. Those aren’t excuses for being shitty,” he shakes his head so hard that his hair untucks from his hat and grazes his eyelashes, “If anything, they make me more shitty because only assholes do that and that’s what I am. I’m a fucking asshole and and and and…” He’s rambling, losing the point of this. He’s got a talent for berating himself. He falls into it naturally if he’s not careful.
“And I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. I didn’t mean any of it. I never wanted to hurt you.” But you did. “I don’t know why I do that. I don’t know why I ruin shit, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but something is and you, you, you always… you’re always there and and and then you weren’t and…”
This is hard. He’s never been good at articulating his feelings. He wants nothing more than to just tell you how he’s fucked up and you’re one of the only people who doesn’t think he is, but after his true colors have splintered out of him and sliced at you as they have other people in his life he cares for, your perception’s possibly changed from that. He believes he’s confirmed every horrible thing he’s ever thought and said about himself and usually, he can handle that self-loathing and dissonance on his own, but consternation bubbles in his ribcage and sparks embers licking at the lining of his stomach at the very idea of you becoming desensitized to the version of himself you’ve fallen for. He wants to shove the curtains back into place, pretend you never stumbled upon the man behind them, and continue walking hand in hand with you in the reverie he knew wouldn’t last. But damn it. He wants it to last longer than this. It wasn’t enough time. He craves more of it, grasping for the seconds in his hands despite how much they’re attempting to evade him as the clock ticks and ticks. 
“Fucking fuck,” he bellows, “Man, fuck me, fucking fuck me.” Vulnerability is so fucking repulsive. Who the hell invented it? He can’t finish a keynote to save his life.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he settles on.
“I can’t fucking sleep, I can’t fucking eat, Richie keeps calling me a dumb shit like I’m not already thinking that. I-I-I need you. I’m sorry for making you feel like I don’t, but I do. I don’t blame you for leaving and I don’t blame you for ghosting me, but please, I can’t fucking do this anymore. I know I’m being a selfish fuck, but I can’t shake what you make me feel and I won’t leave until you talk to me.”
He stares hard at the door. The sun’s lower in the sky, making it more difficult to see if you’re still standing there listening to what he has to say, as jumbled of a mess that it is. His hands leave his sides, anxiously pressing palms first into the metal like it’ll ground him. An urge presents itself to rip it off its hinges and see it for himself rather than wait for verification, but he manages to remain steady where he stands. It’s about the same experience he’s had over the past two weeks of texting and calling to no avail. You’re not saying anything. You’re not denying his insecurities, you’re not soothing his temper, you’re not reflecting it, and you’re not engaging like he’s envisioned time and time again. You’re eluding him. You’re slipping past his fingers like liquid as he desperately grasps.
“Please, please, please say something.” His forehead leans into the surface, eyes shutting tight. “Tell me I’m not shit, tell me you never want to see me again, please talk to me.”
Please forgive me, he swallows. Please forgive me and take me back.
“Just��� please… I… I want to fix this. I want to make it up to you. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Please don’t shut me out. I’ll make you something? Yeah? Your favorite? What about that place you wanted to go off Lake Shore? Or, or that movie you wanted to see with, uh, that Sweeney girl? What the fuck was it?” Carmen’s eyebrows knit together as he tries to remember the name. “We can go see it… we can go to dinner… I can make dinner. I can take time off work and we can travel somewhere, we can take a trip like you wanted, whatever—I want what you want. Please…? Hello?”
Carmen speaks your name a few times among his pleading. His forehead slowly detaches from the door, indents of the mesh left behind on his skin. He goes quiet to listen for any movement, but he can’t even hear your breathing like this. He can’t hear anything besides the wind picking up, blowing cold over the tips of his ears sticking out from his hat. He steps away from the door, a lump in his throat alongside all the affection he doesn’t know how to let out that he swallows with great difficulty. Instead of walking away from your house, he sits on the cement step leading up to the walkway. He meant it when he said he wouldn’t leave until you talked to him.
He camps outside your house. One hand fishes for his carton of Sapphires, plucking a cigarette from the box. He’s got about two left since he’s been chain-smoking to fill the void. Carmen greatly considers trying to make his plea again on his knees in front of the door if that’s what it’ll take as he lights the end away from his mouth. The pressure of the cement will be a motherfucker, but he’s concocting another game plan to gain your attention since he’s already here and the walk back to his apartment is too long for him to jump at it. If that doesn’t work, then he can leave and come back in the morning before work. He can afford to be slightly late as his normal is showing up early and Sydney and Tina know the prep work that needs to be done.
All his thoughts fade as he hears the door behind him creak. He glances back suddenly, catching it as it slowly swings open. He’s in the midst of standing to his feet and flicking his cigarette into a patch of dirt when you come into view. Your hair’s messy, a white tank top on your torso, and a pair of fleece pajama pants he knows are new. His hands yearn to become acquainted with them as he has your other bottoms. Carmen stares at how you’re hugging yourself, presumably because the cold air is filtering into your warm house. The goosebumps littered over your biceps and forearms confirm his theory.
He’s on you in an instant. His arms wrap firmly around your frame, sighing out as his stress undergoes the mitigation of your own arms embracing him back. Your hand finds his hair, incidentally causing his hat to fall off to the floor, but he doesn’t care. He’s far too busy stamping your temples, cheeks, jawline, and lips with kisses he has weeks of time to make up for.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles into your hairline, “so, so, so sorry. Missed you.”
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starshapedb0x · 1 year ago
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𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 ✧˚ · .
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𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you and carlos sainz have had your eyes on each other for so long, but the more you think about the each other the more jealous you get for others who get to spend time with the other. Who will fall first in this little game you’re playing?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 18+ (minors dni and read at your own discretion.), jealousy, semi-public sex, party, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), poorly written smut (first timer guys), mirror sex, Rudy Pankow involved because I need a random celebrity
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: carlos sainz x model!fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2K+
𝐀/𝐍: very much inspired by “boyfriend” by ariana grande and social house music video. first time writing something like this, I might write more, requests always open.
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There you stood in front of the big, dark wood door of the huge mansion where the party you’d been invited to was happening. Your stylist had picked a black sparkly short dress with stars on it, paired with under-the-knee high heel boots. Your ears and neck are adorned with silver jewellery, matching the bracelet around your wrist. The invite said to be there at around 21:00, but you are Y/N Y/L/N. You didn’t need to arrive a little late to make an impact on whoever was in there, but the team that worked with you knew how doing so reinforced that effect. And even if it was a private party, the paparazzi were going insane with your image spread on their cameras. Y/N, the epitome of beauty, the woman every magazine wanted on their covers, every designer on their runway, and every photographer in their studio.
You gave wide smiles to the paparazzi as you walked into the house. Other than the lack of light and the loud music all around, you noticed the main guests this party was for: all of the F1 grid. You were acquainted with them, but from the first meeting, you found them to be a nuisance to your job, to your image, and most importantly, to you, there were a few you tolerated but the way they messed with anyone that was involved in modeling threw you off. But.. him. Carlos Sainz, the one man you’d danced with on those warm summer nights in clubs, parties, or anywhere you were invited that enhanced your reputation. The black classic suit he was in, and to make it a little more informal, without the tie. The dress shirt unbuttoned the right amount, showing off just enough of the chest you’d rested your head on before. And under the lack of light, his eyes looked even shinier.
Throughout those months, Sainz and you had your eyes on each other. You only spoke to each other in person never through texting, but the amount of time both of you spent just looking at each other’s social media pages was too much to be safe for the average person. You saw every picture posted on his account, along with every one he was tagged in. But so did he. And every picture you took holding a man that wasn’t him a little closer than usual had him gritting his teeth and holding his phone a little tighter than usual. To be fair, you knew what you were doing without looking at it; you helped pick the photos for your social media, thinking about what reaction you’d get from the driver if he were to see them.
Of course, you greeted every one of them, talking loudly so you could be heard over the loud music. What a season! They deserve the break and whatever party is thrown for them, although you were sure they’d rather sleep. The other driver you actually got along with was Lando, so as soon as you went and said hello, the conversation went smoothly, catching up with the last few months. You couldn’t help but eye the Spaniard from the corner of your eye, sliding the tip of your fingers along the side of Lando’s arm as you laughed lightly at a joke he cracked. Carlos couldn’t just walk over and snatch you away from his friend and colleague, slapping his hand away even if it wasn’t touching you, so he decided to play your game.
Approaching another guest, she giggled as you watched the Spaniard move his lips, finishing with a grin playing on them. He eyed you almost directly, but somehow the woman in front of him didn’t notice. At this point, the conversation with Lando had faded out a bit, and he offered to go get you a drink, which, after turning back to him to stop looking at Carlos, you accepted. You stood there for a second. You weren’t going to let Sainz win the game you started. To your luck, Rudy Pankow walked right past you and, upon noticing, greeted you right away. Looking back at the Spaniard, who now had his hand placed very lightly, almost not touching the hips of the woman in front of him, as they both laughed, you hugged the blonde actor tightly and longer than usual. You held his arms, asking him how he was doing and how everyone was. He replied to you, but everything you could focus on was the Brunette man giving you a quick look, your eyes meeting for just a millisecond as the woman hugged him tightly while telling him something he genuinely didn’t care about at the moment.
"Rudy, that’s so nice." You said this as he told you all about what he was filming at the moment. He lowered his head slightly to hear what you needed to say, and reaching your mouth to his ear, you continued. "I really need to go touch up; I won’t take long, promise."
With that, you walked to the bathroom. It didn’t take you long to find it, but to your surprise, the bathroom was huge. There was a long counter with a sink and a vase with flowers placed on the other end, two round mirrors along that wall, and not one person was in there. Right after you left his field of vision, the one and only Carlos Sainz rushingly left the embrace of the woman, whose name he didn’t even remember, and without saying goodbye, basically ran after you.
As you looked at yourself in the mirror, carefully running your fingers through your hair to fix it up, a silhouette showed up behind you. And without even looking carefully, you knew exactly who it was. "Carlos Sainz. You looked like you were having fun over there."
"Cállate, Princesa." (Shut up, Princess.) He says it in a more joking way than anything else. He makes his way over to you, shutting and locking the door behind him swiftly. You turned to him, and the moment your eyes met, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. The Spaniard’s hand flew to your hips, roughly gripping them. You threw your arms around his neck, letting your hands run along his dark hair. Both of your lips crashed into each other abruptly. Both of you lost the game. You lowered your hands to his chest, sliding them up to his shoulders under the black blazer he was wearing. It was far too hot in here for him to be wearing that. You slid your hands down just slightly, and Carlos placed his arms back, letting the blazer fall off, landing on the cold floor. His hands fell right back on you, and they roamed along your back. Every touch of his fingers against your skin made you press up against him, closing every air gap between you. He lowered his hand to the back of your thighs, picking you up and setting you down on that counter. As he set you down, you grabbed his shirt’s collar and pulled him towards you. It all felt so desperate and somewhat rushed. Both of you felt hot and in a trance; you both pulled away from each other. Carlos looked at you with those brown eyes of his, and you held your breath at the sight in front of you, his mouth slightly open, panting quietly, his once neat hair now messy. But you weren’t the only one in awe. Carlos looked at your face, lips red and swollen from the previous kissing, cheeks visibly warmer than before, and eyes carefully watching his every move. Nothing else mattered right now; the music was significantly lowered in volume in here, and all you could hear were your company’s panting along with yours. The Spaniard didn’t take long to place both of your lips back together, and you roughly roamed your hands on each other, moving almost savagely on the counter—CRASH! Only you looked at the fallen, now broken, vase on the floor. "Wait, Carlos—"
"It doesn’t matter, cariño." He said, his hands reaching the zipper on the back of your dress, sliding it down and placing his hands under it, sliding one of the straps down to reveal more of your neck, then sliding the other one down to reveal your breasts, your nipples hardening at the contact with the cold air. He trailed kisses down your jawline and neck, reaching them. He worked carefully on both of your nipples, giving them equal attention. His hands rested on both sides of your waist. You rested your head back on the mirror behind you and intertwined your fingers with his hair. You couldn’t help but let out a soft moan, breathing shakily. His hand moved to the side of your thighs, sliding to the inner side of them, and not long after, right under your dress, lightly touching your clothed clit with his fingers. At which point you gasped, feeling almost dizzy. He rubbed it on top of your black lace panties just the right way—enough to keep you shaking from pleasure in his hands but not nearly enough to make you cum. "Carlos.."
"Dime, niña bonita." (Tell me, pretty girl.) He whispered lowly in your ear.
"Please, please make me cum." You desperately told him he slid your panties down your legs, you whining at the loss of contact in between your legs, and threw them near his blazer, and in a second he got on his knees in front of you, leaning his head against the inner side of your thigh. Your hands still rested on his soft hair as he pulled you towards him, sliding you on the counter. He pulled your dress up and guided his finger on your folds, hovering over your clit before pressing down. His finger slid slickly inside you, earning a choked moan out of your mouth. His tongue started working on your clit, and at the contact, you abruptly gripped his hair and practically screamed. As he got quicker, Carlos added two more fingers, and you could do nothing but let him, at this point only seeing stars. His pants were getting tighter as your moans became louder and your legs shook under the influence of his actions. Your legs instinctively closed around him as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and you let out a string of moans, calling out his name. The Spaniard pried your legs open and got up. "I don’t remember saying you could cum, cariño. Fucking the obedience back into you doesn’t sound like a bad idea."
You panted, fucked out, and were sensitive from the orgasm you’d just had. Carlos didn’t seem to care as he slid you down from the counter and turned you around to face the mirror. You could see him with his hands lowered in the mirror, but what confirmed he was unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants were the noises, the clinging of the metal part of the belt and the unzipping of the dress pants. After doing so, he looked up at you, placing his hand near your mouth and resting his fingers on your lips. You took them in your mouth, sucking gently on them and coating them with the saliva built up from simply looking at the male behind you. Carlos stroked himself a bit, sighing, before pressing his cock against your pussy. "Fuck. Carlos, just do it." You moaned out, lowering your head with both hands to your sides and supporting yourself on the marble counter of the bathroom. He stopped himself.
"What do you want me to do, Princesa?" You shivered under his touch, one of his hands going up to your breasts, flicking the hardened skin of your nipple between his fingers, the other under your chin, almost wrapping around your throat from the front. He made you look at yourself in the mirror. "Look at you. I bet none of those guys have ever left you like this, have they? I know you posted all those pictures just for me. You get off at the thought of me getting jealous over you, huh? Princesa?" 
You looked at yourself in the mirror; the mess you were in under his touch was unmatched. Fucked out and breathless, still waiting and begging for more, your hair falling on both of your shoulders, your skin glistening with sweat and desire, He was right; no one to ever touch you had touched you like he did; you were ruined for other men after today. "I need you right now, please, Carlos, please." You begged, looking at him through the mirror.
"Only because you asked nicely, niña bonita." He slid his cock into your pussy slowly, groaning.
"You had to put it all in, you fucking asshole." You said that, struggling to keep your legs still so you wouldn’t fall.
"Perdóname, but I’m not halfway in." (Forgive me.) He cooed, leaning against you and tightening the grip on your throat to hold your head up still. Your knees gave out slightly, and you tried to keep your strength on your arms. The unstoppable noises slipping out of your lips could only encourage Carlos more, as he finally thrust in everything he could, earning sharp panting for you underneath him. He started thrusting into you at a slow pace, although it didn’t take him long to speed up, and it didn’t take long for you to feel that pit in your stomach again. Finally, it hit you—that sweet spot you liked so much. Your whole body trembled as Carlos hit it, and noticing it, he angled his thrusts towards that same spot. It was being used and abused, and you couldn’t hold out like this much longer. You were practically screaming; no one outside could hear you both with the loud music and chatting of everyone, but even if they did, at this point you couldn’t care less. "Y/N, Y/N.." Carlos chanted, his thrusts getting sloppier, his breathing getting heavier, and his moans getting louder.
"Please let me,.. ugh.., please let me cum, Carlos." The way his name slid off your tongue drove him wild. "Cum for me, Princesa." He almost begged in your ears; you felt yourself tense up, and from there you were lost, crying out his name, gripping on anything you could around you, and your legs shaking from the wave of pleasure that shot through you.
As you rode out your high, you felt Carlos halt and pull out, spilling his seed onto your thighs, holding you against him, and pressing open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could reach on your skin.
__________________
Carlos was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out, his blazer on the floor next to him. You sat on top of him, head leaning against the counter; you were dressed now, and you innocently giggled at whatever he was saying. He had his fingers running along your cheek, and you had your fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. Your lips inches away from his.
"Estás tan hermosa—"
An unlocking noise was heard, and Lando walked in. Both of you halted and leaned back away from each other’s touch. Lando looked at the both of you, still you sat on Carlos’ legs, furrowing his eyebrows and visibly gritting his teeth. He looked at the broken vase on the floor and at the way you were now adjusting the strap of your dress while Carlos buttoned his shirt back up. And before any of you could speak, he just backed away.
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maybe-moonchild · 3 months ago
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5/29/2014
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WC: 5.3k
Strawberry vodka lemonade was your liquid courage. 
It was what drove you to excuse yourself from under Trent Warren's arm that was thrown over your shoulders. Your friends boo’d you from across the pong table, but you were already slipping away. 
Flash’s living room was stuffy, the entirety of Midtown High’s senior class packed inside, bodies spilling into the backyard. It had been your requirement that all seniors be invited to the party. No one left out, no hurt feelings, or unwelcome to the celebration. 
After all, you had all graduated today. 
Peter’s head was easy to spot as he pushed through the crowd and towards the back door. He’d always been tall and lanky but, sometime during high school, he’d filled out. It wasn’t weird that you’d noticed. Everyone had noticed. Come on… how could you not?
Your grip on your solo cup tightened as you maneuvered through party goers that were too drunk to notice where you were going. Maybe no one cared anymore. Now that everyone was graduating and moving on to what was hoped to be bigger and better. 
Who peaked in high school wouldn’t matter. Who dated who, slept behind their friends' ex was no longer important. Who punched who in the face over a rumor that someone started would be forgotten and replaced with newer and shinier memories.
You just knew that you would never be able to forget Peter Parker. 
Thinking was easier once you’d stepped outside. Without the overwhelming stimulation, your eyes and ears adjusted to the quiet and lack of flashing lights. You searched every face, standing on your toes and straining to catch him before he was gone for good. You managed to get a glimpse of the back of his head before he disappeared around the side of the house. 
You called out,  “Hey!”
Grass tickled the soles of your feet as you jogged to catch up. Your sandals had been forgotten somewhere in Flash’s room from when you’d helped set up his place to host the party. What was more important was that you managed to catch him. 
Peter was right at your fingertips. 
At the sound of your voice, Peter hesitated. Like he was debating whether he should stop and turn around or just keep going all the way home. But he stopped. 
It took him even longer to actually turn around. 
Neither of you said anything for a few long seconds. You were nervous- the most nervous you had felt in a long time now that you were standing closer to him than you had in longer than you could remember. More nervous than cheerleading tryouts freshman year when Nancy Lewis, the captain, had it out for you but you made the team anyway. More nervous than when you clicked submit on your NYU application 7 months ago. 
You gave him a timid smile, “Hey.” That one word dripped with everything and nothing all at the same time. Years of dependency and avoidance all rolled into one. 
His teeth chewed at the inside of his lip and he paused long enough to make your smile falter.
“Hi.”
It was awkward; the kind of quiet that no one is sure how to fill. Clearing your throat and squaring your shoulders, you relied on the strawberry vodka to carry you through.
“I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I mean, I didn’t think you would.” you practically blurted the words out just so you wouldn’t lose your nerve. Shaking your head, you try to relax. “Not in a bad way. Just… you usually don’t, but I’m glad you did-”
“I didn’t plan on coming.
That time, your smile really faltered. His eyes were hard but the second he saw your expression, he felt guilty and quickly looked away. It was harder for you to recover this time. 
“I’m glad you did.” The strawberry vodka coated the words and stung your tongue. At least taking a sip of your drink gave you something to do as you thought. 
You took a breath and tried again. 
“We haven’t… Well, we haven’t really talked in a while. So… I was- well I was hoping to run into you again. Since we graduated and all,” you stumbled through. Even if you sounded awkward, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 
You just wanted to try.
Peter didn’t know what to say to that. He was trying really hard to be nice but, god, it was harder than he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t like he was a mean person. It wasn’t even that he wanted to be mean to you but something about your unsure smile made him want to tear it down. 
He can’t exactly say, ‘I don’t want to look at you’ or ‘I was hoping to have evaded you entirely, gone off to school and tried to forget your existence that always seems to be pressing on the back of my skull even when you’re nowhere near’. 
So he settled for something neutral, a little vague.
“Yeah.” 
He swallowed, nodding slowly before tearing his eyes from the ground and finally meeting your gaze. A nervous tic took hold of his forehead and he rubbed it idly like he could somehow rub away the scowl threatening to slip through. He fought the urge to run by shifting his weight from foot to foot. 
“I didn’t know you wanted to run into me,” he muttered and you just shrugged lamely. If you talked right now, your voice might’ve cracked. Yet again, you focussed your tipsy brain on keeping the smile up. 
Peter couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help but shove his hands into his front pockets and add, “Considering you didn’t want anything to do with me for the past four years.”
The smile fell off your face. It didn’t come back. 
His words did what he intended: hurt you. 
You pressed your lips together to keep down the scoff burning in your throat.
“That’s not true and you know it,” you argued.  “I never replaced you. I might have made other friends but that didn’t mean I just cut you out.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he muttered, an edge creeping into his tone as he stared at you intensely. He wanted to see you hurt but the only reaction you gave was the twitch of a muscle in your neck.
Peter was pissed off.  He was pissed off that he wasn’t good enough. That you chose others over him. That he’d  never been enough. That maybe he never would be. 
Peter did a bad job at feigning indifference. The jerky movements and harshness of his voice gave away that he wasn’t all that detached like he was trying to seem. You could tell considering you still knew his mannerisms like you had four years ago. 
When you said nothing, he couldn’t help but keep going. Alcohol didn’t have the same effect on him ever since he got bit by that spider two years ago. Not like he’d been a big drinker before then anyway; Peter wasn’t exactly making it to the top of the guest lists. Booze metabolized too quickly in his system for it to do anything besides give him a brief buzz and a three minute hangover. 
But when Ned had begged and pleaded (like literally on his knees and gripping the bottom of Peter’s shirt because ‘it was the last high school party he could attend to try and woo Katie into elopement), Peter couldn't say no. So he really tried to keep as heavy a buzz going as humanly possible.
It worked. Maybe a bit too well. 
Which was why he was drunk and wouldn’t shut up.
“You always had plans with other people, always busy with cheerleading or making rounds to different tables at lunch after sitting with me for five minutes. I’d be lucky if I got to walk to a class with you.”
“That’s not how it went and you know it,” you countered with a step forward. 
“Just admit you traded up. That you got exactly what you wanted.”
You stopped short, the close proximity between you two feeling like two opposite ends of magnets.Your breathing was a little rapid, pink flushing your cheeks from the alcohol. Or it could just be the blood rushing to your face from anger because, yeah… you were mad. 
“And what would that be? What exactly was it that I wanted, Peter?”
It was the booze, that’s what you both told yourselves. That the bottle of rum you’d giggled into with Flash and Katie as people started arriving was finally hitting you full force. That the beers he’d choked down just so he had something to occupy his mouth with instead of talking during the party had him chatty now.
Alcohol seeped beneath the hard exterior of everything you’d been sitting on for the past four years as it all bubbled to the surface. 
“Really?” He leaned in closer, the citrusy vodka strong on his breath. Peter's eyes flickered around your face like he was looking for the truth. “Who was the one that always said it would be you and I against the world? How many nights did I crawl in your window when you were too scared to be home alone and your parents were at a conference?”
When you didn’t have the answer, Peter leaned a little closer.
“How many times did you show up late to the movies an hour late because practice ran long?  How many times did you invite a new friend along to our plans that only acknowledged my existence because you made them? How many times did I help you with your homework because you let some moron quarterback keep you up all night and you forgot?”
“Are you serious right now?” It was the most you’d raised your voice the entire conversation. 
“I’m just saying,” Peter shrugged. He raised his hands in surrender, nothing sincere about the action. 
“Just saying what? That I’m a whore?”
Peter's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. His scowl dropped to shock. “No!” That was certainly not what he was saying. Not ever!
“Well, that’s kinda what it’s sounding like,” you snapped. 
“Well, that's not what I- I’m not saying that. I’d never say that-” he cuts himself off with a huff. “I’m just saying that- I was there. For you. I was there for you.”
The hole he was digging himself in just kept getting bigger and bigger. If he was lucky, he could crawl inside and bury himself in it like a grave. Lay to rest all the thoughts of you that had been sitting in his head so long they’d practically atrophied into his brain tissue. 
The statement made you feel defensive, arms folding over your chest like you could protect yourself from his words. Scowling, your fingers flexed on the half filled solo cup, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. Even though it was late May
“What has that even got to do with anything,” you cried out in frustration. Even though it was just the two of you out in the open yard, it felt harder to breathe out there compared to the cramped party inside. 
You still didn’t get it. The realization was agonizing, that you just didn’t understand what that had to do with everything. 
He stopped thinking entirely. 
So without  thought, he stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands and towering over you. 
“Because I was jealous, you idiot.” 
There's a deafening quiet once those words are out into the world. He could never take them back. You could never truly pretend you’d never heard them.
His eyes bored into yours, big and brown as their intensity slipped to distress, his breath rushing over your mouth. You were so still that you weren’t sure your heart was beating. If you really thought about it, you would easily be able to put together why he would be jealous of some football player having your attention for a week or two before you got bored. 
If you actually thought it through, you would have to accept that he didn’t just feel resentment for you. 
Suddenly, the hum of anger that had been buzzing in your body is replaced by something else entirely. Something you cant quite place or name or- fuck, you dont even know if you want to know what it is.
Peter's whole body wanted to sag, to sink down into your touch and just give himself a moment to simply be. To just be with you without the entire weight of the world weighing down his shoulders, without having an explosion hanging between you two like a cloud. 
His heart was racing in his chest, thudding so hard it hurts as it slams against his ribs. Peter stared at you with disbelief, the booze having stunted his own thinking. 
You were so beautiful, so damn beautiful with your cheeks flushed pink and your parted lips. Your eyes wide and bright as they remain locked with his own because neither of you could seem to look at anything else. Maybe there was nothing else worth looking at. 
His thumb stroked your cheek, his voice faltering as he leaned closer, 
“This,” he says and pulls your face closer.
You went  rigid for barely a second when his lips pressed against yours. It wasn’t like it was the first time you’d ever kissed him either; in fact, it was the third time. 
You had just never thought you would do it again. It was why you didn’t think, you just moved. 
Kissing Peter was almost instinctive. 
Your eyes fell shut but it didn’t make you any less aware of every single detail about him. The solidness of his forearms that your fingers were curled around as you leaned into him. How 
Strawberry vodka and Peter Parker had to be the best thing you’d ever tasted. 
If you thought you were drunk before, you might as well have blacked out now. You were even drunker on the feel of his hands moving to tangle in your hair, the swipe of his tongue on your lips. When he deepened the kiss, it made you stumble back in the grass. He kept you upright, going until he had your back pressed against the siding Flash’s house. 
If you were able to think, you’d think this was stupid. 
Not thinking sounded a fuck lot better than acknowledging that. 
A sound of protest died in the back of your throat when he removed his hands before they’re back on you. They found their way under your thighs in an instant, hiking them around his waist like you weighed nothing. It surprised you enough that you gasped into his mouth. You looped your arms around his neck for both support- but also so your fingers can twist and tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. 
How long had Peter wanted this? 
When he was nine, he wanted to hold your hand, to sit pressed up against you when you watched cartoons or link arms as he pulled you around the street on his skateboard. After he kissed you the summer before sixth grade, he wanted to do it again. Nothing more than pressing his lips to yours and pulling away after a second. At fourteen, he still didn’t really get the whole kissing thing. 
Then he dated Gwen Stacy all of junior year and half of senior year. Gwen was amazing. She was kind and brilliant, her spot at the top of the class securing her spot in Oxford which meant she would be moving to another country at the start of fall. When he acceptance letter came, Gwen and Peter’s breakup was amicable and they’d spent the last few months easily falling into friendship. 
So maybe it was around then that he was able to put a name to what he thought about when you crossed his mind. Of kissing you with everything in him, burying his face into your neck, holding you the same way you held him when Ben died. 
You deepened the kiss when he groaned, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of your thighs and you nipped at his bottom lip in response. It was hard to focus once he’d moved his hands when they were touching anywhere they could. 
Cupping your face, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, resting on your neck. You could barely keep up but he didn’t care when he finally got to feel you. 
It was a stupid night, a stupid moment, a stupid everything.  Neither of you cared.  
The two of you pulled each other close and closer, the heat of the moment drowning out the voices of reason in your head.  
It felt so right. Nothing but your lips on his in the night and the sound of the party a million miles away.
Over your high school career, you’d been on some dates, had some flings with different variances of the same kind of asshole. The ones you’d kiss, or more, were nothing like this. 
 Not even kissing Trent Warren felt like this- Fuck. 
Why did you have to think?
“Oh my god,” you breathed out once you managed to pull away. Your hands flew to cover your swollen lips, eyes wide and frantic. Peter let you pull away even if it hurt him. 
Confused, he gently set you on the ground once you unlocked your legs from around his middle. Your shaky hands shoved the hair out of your face, pressing a palm against your forehead in shock. 
It wasn’t like you were dating Trent. That was never going to happen, you were satisfied with the little fling the two of you were likely going to carry out for some of the summer before he left for college. 
You didn’t even freaking like him that much so it didn’t even have anything to do with the star of the soccer team at all. 
But this? It felt like you were taking advantage of Peter- not because of your mutual intoxication but because…
You weren’t sure, okay? All you knew was that there was a reason, so deep down into your brain, that you couldn’t grasp it. 
This was all wrong. You were both drunk. Tensions were high. Neither of you were thinking clearly. Both of you made mistakes that you will regret the moment your hangover hits in the morning. 
Just like that. His heart fell to his stomach as he watched you look around, searching for anyone that might’ve seen the two of you tangled together.  He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Everything was happening so fast.
Swallowing, he said your name so softly it was almost hidden by the loud shriek and splash in the pool around the side of the house. Neither you or Peter even flinched at the sound. When you didn’t speak, the backs of his fingers found your chin, gently lifting your eyes to his. 
“Leave him.”
“What?” You practically blurted the word out. If you didn’t think your eyes could get wider, you’d be wrong. Your hands fell to your sides to hang limply and useless and the abruptness almost made you reel back. It feels like he’s just said something absolutely preposterous, like he’s Spiderman or something. 
"Leave him," Peter repeats. Pleading, his eyes searching yours. “you’re too good for him. You always have been.”
It’s so stupid but Peter’s heart had always known. He had always wanted you. He has just never been dumb enough to do anything about.
Until now, he guessed.
You leaned away from his hand to make space as you slipped around him. His body turned with yours but you weren’t doing it to get away. You just couldn’t stand being stuck between him and the wall you’d just been pressed up against. You paced, shaky hands pressing against the heat on your face. 
“We’re drunk,” you tried to rationalize with a wave of your hands. “Neither of us knows what we’re doing… or saying.”
His heart sank even further with each word. 
Peter nodded curtly in agreement, “We are drunk.”
But deep down he knows better.
He wanted this. Always. 
He wanted you. Always. 
“But I still mean it.”
You halted to a stop so fast that you nearly tripped on your own feet. Peter knows he's pushing the line, doing something they can't come back from but he has to know. There was no sign that this was all a joke. 
“Peter,” your voice was thick with desperation. “You can’t mean it.”
“Yeah, I can.”
“No. You can’t.”
His eyes met yours, determination unwavering. He wanted you too much for his own sanity. “You can’t kiss me like that and say it doesn’t mean anything.” Because it did. It meant something to him.
The only reason you bit down on your lip was because he was right. You couldn’t say it didn’t mean anything. Not when you kissed him back the way you did. You twisted your shaky hands into the fabric of your dress like it would somehow give you some semblance of control over the way your head feels like it was going to explode. 
“Pete.” The nickname fell from your lips like it had millions of times. You don’t know what to tell him. You didn’t think there was anything you could say to fix things like you’d hoped to when you chased him down. Not when his expression was so desperate to hear what he wanted. 
“You were my best friend-” you started in the hopes of explaining but just shook his head and laughed. The sharp and bitter sound was enough for you to cut yourself off. 
“Right, right, of course.” He looked away, staring off into the dark yard. You looked as hopeless as you felt. 
"Can you just..." you stepped forward, barely moving closer but trying nonetheless. "I didn't... I wanted to fix things. I wanted to make things better."
The sound of your voice cracking at the end made his heart lurch. Peter actually managed to peeked up at you from the corner of his eyes because. Looking at you directly would burn like looking directly at the sun. The sound of your voice broke at the end, the crack making his heart lurch.
“Make what better? I thought you were perfect,” Peter snapped quietly. His head turned away from you again so he didn’t have to see the damage of his words. 
That hurt, cut through your chest and forced you to inhale sharply. It just made the lump in your throat so much worse. 
You focused on anything else as you blinked hard. Fresh cut grass, the sugary vodka still clouding your senses, and whatever floral Bath&BodyWorks perfume Katie had doused you both in earlier. All too overwhelming and not overwhelming enough. 
"You know it's never been like that." Squaring your shoulders, you triked again. "It's never... You know I never wanted you out of my life. That it was never about  picking you or them. I tried to do both. You're the one that pulled away."
Peter just scoffed again, shaking his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Your mouth snapped shut in, trembling lips pressed tightly together. 
“Maybe I was sick of waiting for you to remember the loser across the street that used to be your friend.” 
Your jaw practically dropped at the implication that you would ever think that. Something about the way he said it made it feel like it had come from your own mouth. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides. 
“I never thought that,” you shot back, mouth still hung open in disbelief. “You were the one that pulled away when I had more than just you in my life.”
Peter scoffed but you keep going. 
“I invited you to games so that you would watch me cheer and you made it clear you would rather die than go. If I tried to stop by at your place after practice, you would tell May to pretend you weren’t home.”
Peter had never been all that great at sharing you. 
Before you moved in across the street, he’d started approaching that age where he realized that he didn’t have all that many friends. Aunt May was always hinting at him to invite kids in his grade over after school and Uncle Ben didn’t understand why Peter wouldn’t, at the very least, try a sport for a single week. 
Then you moved in across the street and he had a best friend that he could do everything with. Even when you played with other kids, you always came skipping back over to his house the second you got home. Sometimes you even dragged him along with you. 
When high school approached, he’d been more concerned with getting lost or failing his classes. 
You were more concerned with being singled out as a target or being lost on the outside. 
Everything was fine between you two until the second week of school. Wait, that wasn’t true. You hadn’t actually done anything wrong but when he walked into school that morning, expecting you to be waiting at his locker for his arrival, you weren’t. Instead, you were on the other side of the hall, chatting excitedly with two girls on your cheer team. 
Deep down, he had known you were talking to them to pass the time while you waited for him to arrive. 
But when you didn’t notice his presence the entire time it took for Peter to open his locker, exchange his things, and walk towards his class, he’d held it against you. Just like he held it against you when asked if your weekly movie night could be rescheduled to Thursdays because Fridays were gamedays. Or how, you were okay when some of your other friends joined the two of you at lunch. 
Peter just couldn’t stop. 
Anytime you apologetically told him you had plans, it was another tally accumulating how many times he’d been scorned. Even if the next words out of your mouth were asking if he was free the day after, it didn’t change anything. The cycle didn’t stop until November of freshman year. 
That was when you’d stopped trying to chase him down. Decided to not call him on the phone just to hear it ring twice before he sent you to voicemail.
“So I was supposed to sit alone on the bleachers while you cheered for a bunch of assholes that shoved my face into a locker freshman year?” His head cocked to the side but, hey, at least he’s actually looking at you. “Drag me around behind you like some kind of pet?”
“No!”
“So I could’ve stood alone in the corner at a party? Still making sure you got home safe? Wait on the sidelines until all the cool people were busy and I got called off the bench? Be there to comfort you when you picked, yet another, asshole that broke your heart just to break mine again and again?”
You couldn’t blink because if you do, the tears that had welled up in your eyes were going to start to fall. Those words make the lump in your throat so big that you can barely swallow it down.
“That what you wanted?” He asks and throws up his hands.
You told yourself you were both just drunk. Peter didn’t actually mean it. You told yourself that over and over again, the tension in the air was so heavy that it practically crushed you from the weight. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it… The mantra repeated in your head like a prayer in the hope you’d believe it. 
You couldn’t convince yourself that it wasn’t the truth. 
When you didn't answer, he stepped closer. Your voice cracked but you managed to force out, “No.” Peter couldn’t help it, a cold and bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. He was pissed off, that much was clear. 
“No?” he asked. He was close now, his chest brushed yours with every breath. It was so far from what you ever wanted but you could barely shake your head no, your hair shifting along your shoulders. “I think you did, whether you realize it or not.”
Even though his voice has dropped, he might as well have screamed it at you. It didn’t make it any less deafening to hear. 
“Anything else you want to say?” You were quiet too, the words felt like glass in your throat. So you swallowed down the shards, finding that glass would hurt a lot less than having to stand here and listen to him much longer. 
He ran his hands through his hair and paced a few steps away from you while wiped at your face. It only took him a few moments to turn back a second later and step back up to you. There was barely an arm's length between you two but it still felt like you were on opposite sides of the solar system.
"You want to know what I think? What I really think?"
You had to grit your teeth just to keep your bottom lip from trembling. 
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I really do.”
He stared down at you, his breathing still ragged. He wanted to say things, terrible, awful things. He wanted to cut you deep - to hurt you like you hurt him. 
Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that he was in your space, his chest practically brushing against yours. 
And then he was talking, the words falling from his lips before he could stop himself.
"I think,” he murmured, wetting his lips before continuing. “I think that letting you patch me up when I fell off my skateboard nine years ago was the biggest mistake of my life."
For a long moment, you said nothing. You didn’t move, you didn't blink, you didn't breathe. If you didn’t take a few seconds to calm yourself, you were going to start bawling before you could make it to the safety of Flash’s bathroom. 
With a shaky breath, you stepped back, forcing your trembling lips into a tightlipped smile. A part of you wanted to mean it, like it could somehow reassure him.  So you sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. Peter just frowned and waited because he couldn’t do anything more. 
Your laugh was pathetic and watery. Nothing was funny. 
Aside from you because you just felt like a joke. 
You gave him a curt nod and stood straightened. “Okay.” It’s all you could get out. 
So, with one last look, you bent down to pick up the discarded solo cup. You’d never be able to drink strawberry lemonade vodka again after tonight. All you’d ever taste is him. 
He watched you carefully, the anger leaving his body in waves and dissipating into the night. Every time you took a step away from him, he felt more and more like a jerk. 
You don’t turn back around as you slip back around the side of the house. 
It was that look on your face, like he broke you with his words. The look on your face that cut through every last bit of anger and resentment to get at what lay underneath. 
Love.
And it kills him. 
It kills you too. 
The next time you see him again, you’ve both graduated from college; celebrating in some divey bar where you accidentally spill your drink on him.
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whalesforhands · 1 year ago
Text
the flowers that bloom without you (tartaglia x reader)
warnings: I LOVE CHILDE SO MUCH, angst, blood and slight gore descriptions, hanahaki au, reader is not traveller, reader is childe’s childhood friend
“Does love truly need words?”
Ajax never really understood what you meant by that. Never really got your cryptic bouts of speech as you stared out the window, blanket tucked over your form as you listened to the bustling of the city, your face looking weary, bags under your eyes dark, skin almost icily cold whenever he would lay a hand upon you to personally check on your condition.
From personal nurses, personal doctors, hells, even researchers that he paid extensively to search for the cause of your illness. Yet, an answer had yet to be found, he’s growing restless with every passing day, anger and irritation swirling in his head with every lower-rank recruit he inevitably beats to a pulp to release stress.
Just what was the source of this stubborn disease?
Your condition would never get better if you had stayed in the cold, unforgiving climates of Morepesok.
You would only seek to worry him whilst he was out on the job, thousands of miles away from you. His family can only do so much by informing him of your worsening, deteriorating self. Your insistent coughs, your shortened breaths, a body that seemed to be growing colder and colder that rivalled the icy winds of the small fishing village that you both grew up in.
Another thing Childe has noticed in the time you spent writing each other, was that you liked to prance around the truth.
You weren’t getting better like you claimed in those letters.
He doesn’t ever wish to come home only to see your tombstone. He could never begin to even fathom the thought. So upon the news in which he had orders to depart to the warmer atmosphere of Liyue, he whisked you away.
(Despite your initial rejections.)
He’s not taking anymore chances. Not when you had insisted that it was nothing, that you’ll be fine, only for it to end with you collapsing to the ground right before him, mouth spewing globs of blood that had caked up and solidified within your throat. He didn’t know whether he was more disgusted to that sight, or of himself for being too patient with you.
Though, you seem to be having quite the improvement to your wellbeing ever since you’ve arrived in the bustling city of Liyue.
“A crush? All of a sudden?” He’s chewing on some sweet potato snacks he had bought for you to come try together, a bag of the aforementioned snack on his lap as he opens his mouth to let you throw another into his mouth for him to catch. The odd, salty sweetness is actually quite addicting.
(And so were the giggles you made whenever he successfully caught one.)
“It’s not all of a sudden!” You’re huffy, defensive, angry and quite frankly, offended as you cross your arms, lightly smacking him as he feigns pain, an overly dramatic yelp and rubbing of his injury following.
“I had it— Since—“ It’s cute how you fight to find the words, puffing your cheeks up, growing determined as you look back up at him. “Since a really long time, okay?! That’s how you know feelings like that are real!”
Always the hopeless romantic. He laughs at you as you continue to blow a fuse, warmth emanating in his chest as he notices the drastic improvements to your health.
You’re looking bright today. Face more coloured, hair even shinier than usual, eyes brighter than they have ever been before. Maybe you were getting better.
A light flick to your forehead as he watches you swipe at his hand with a blush and a smile.
“Why don’t you just confess then?”
You grow silent.
“I… don’t think I could find it in my heart to.” Your tired eyes trail out to the bustling city of Liyue as your demeanor falls back into a calm, eyes blanking out as murmured words are caught on his ears. “Falling in love is so unpredictable…” His fists clench.
He thinks you’re stupid, foolish even, to keep those messy, deep feelings hidden from this secret crush of yours. Those stringent secrets you keep, never telling them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You slap your cheeks, as if to snap out of your trance choosing to smile up at him from atop your bed instead. l swear I will find that strength one day!”
You’re so stupid. Yet, he still loves you all the same. You are his dearest childhood friend, after all.
(And that’s all you’ll ever be… Right?)
——
The festival is loud this year. You stare out of your bedroom window, barely able to see the explosion of colour against the starry night sky, obscured by tall buildings and infrastructure.
“Miss Lumine invited me to watch the lantern rite with her today!” His eyes are alight with mirth, his grin excited and just so… Full of life.
Ajax always looked the prettiest when he was happy.
So it’s okay. Whatever is okay as long as he is happy. Anything for him.
You don’t even mind the feeling of the flowers blooming deep within you. The itch in your throat, the fluttering you had to endure in your lungs.
You do it for love. Love so deep-sated and rooted to your very core, it hurts. Love so hard to describe, you sometimes fear that it doesn’t exist until you see him walk into the room, causing the blooming, the feelings literally swirling within your lungs, shortening your breaths as the petals flutter about in your heart.
You’re in love with him. Unbelievably, helplessly so.
You can’t even feel the hot tears dripping onto your hands as lights of the glowing, festive explosions shine through your window, casting you in an almost apologetic glow as you hear the laughter of the common folk outside.
He chose her in the end. You’re not surprised, really. Who would even want to spend their time with the terminally ill? Who would ever want to watch the fireworks from within a glorified hospital room? The scent of iron with an undertone of flowery fragrances, paired with quite frankly, a shitty view?
“Ajax— Would you have time to watch the fireworks with me this year…? Since you have—“
You take in a breath, your hands trembling as they dig into the skin of your thighs, your blanket obscuring them where you laid. “Plans with Miss Lumine.”
Lumine, Lumine, Lumine. The traveller who had stolen his attention away with barely a twitch of her pinky finger, the one who had a natural disposition for battle, a prowess for duels. She who was charming, skilled and everything you weren’t.
It hurts all the more at the thought of what a wonderful person she is. Everything that you could never even hope to be.
You can’t even resent her, for her kindness and willingness to help those who needed it preceded every silver of hatred you built. She was simply… Her. And you could never find it in yourself to hate someone who had as much goodwill as she did.
A contemplative hand is placed under his chin, before that stupidly pretty smile on his face breaks out. “Of course! I’d be stupid to not come spend time with you.” A wink is sent your way as he holds your hand, winding your pinkies together.
You want to cry.
“Love can be so fickle, Ajax.” You’re staring straight into his eyes as that promise manifests from the entanglement of your fingers. Are you… Tearing up?
“For if you get caught in it’s arms,” You’re still smiling as he throws you a look of utter confusion, patting your head as he showers you with attention, unwinding your fingers to bring out a handkerchief to wipe at your tears for you. The bouquet of glaze lilies by your bedside shimmering in the afternoon sunshine.
“You’ll be happy even if you di—“
“There you go being cryptic again,” He’s sighing, absolutely confused as he lightly dabs at your eyes. “You’re going to make me sad, you know?” All this talk about death… He wants to keep you smiling, even if it’s just for a little while.
It doesn’t matter that he broke that silly promise. He’s happy, so you are too. That’s all you could ever hope for.
——
“I’m surprised you picked me.”
“Of course, comrade!” He’s smiling, twirling a lone Glaze Lily in his hand as he regards the traveller, leaned back and elbows rested upon the railing as he looked up at the brilliant sky.
“I’m not one to turn down a good time. Plus,” The flower is held between his fingers as he straightens his back. “I’m here to collect my insider information from my favourite errand girl.” A handsome grin growing on his cheeks as he sees the golden-haired girl stand beside him.
“I want information, comrade.” The chopsticks in his hand are fumbled with, the mechanics of it lost. “On someone precious to me.”
“Hanahaki.” Lumine’s voice is dead serious as her eyes get lost at the sight of the lanterns above. “A terminal illness that stems from love, causing flowers to take root in their lungs.” An ironic disease, taking ‘blooming feelings’ far too literal, utilizing such a pure emotion against the victim. It makes him sick to his stomach.
Good. As expected of the famous, reliable little traveller. More competent than any goon he’s ever had.
He’s growing anxious with her words, though. “And the cure?”
“Surgery. It’s possible for a procedure to be done to remove the roots on the lungs. There’s a surgeon in Inazuma that—“
Then it’s done. That’s all? Then you’ll be cured and won’t be bedridden? He’ll arrange for it at the earlie—
“But,” Lumine’s voice is slightly shaky, her grip on the rails tightening as the feel of the metal digs into her palms. “The feelings of the victim will disappear.” Her golden eyes meet a palpitating, uneasy blue. “Sources cited that… The surgery will remove any and all emotion from them.” He knows what she’s implying.
You’ll never fall in love again.
“I don’t ever want to let them go, Ajax.” Your hand is over your heart as your shy gaze meets his. “It’s so precious to me.” The smile on your face begets the stuttering in his chest, the sweat on his palms.
Beautiful.
No. He— Can’t. The thought of you never able to think of another person romantically… Is sickeningly appealing. No. He can’t do that to you. Not if you’ll be unhappy because of it.
He gulps, as if swallowing the lump stuck in his throat. “Is there no other solution?”
“Reciprocation of their feelings.” Lumine’s straightforward, quick to the point. “True reciprocation.” Requited love.
He grits his teeth. So he has to track down whomever you admire… And make them love you? That’s… Honestly not that hard of a request. You’re… Lovely. The loveliest person he has ever had the honour of knowing.
It’s hard to not fall in love with you. And he…Doesn’t like the feeling, the idea of you being in love with someone else. He never did. And he doesn’t think he ever will if it’s not—
(What is he going on about? This isn’t the time for this!)
“Fine.” It’s spat out in disgust. “Do you have any leads on the bastard?” It’s a last resort, a manifestation of the fact that he would do anything for you.
(Even if he feels the ripping, clawing pain at his heart.)
Lumine looks… Absolutely unimpressed. Hand massaging her temple as she fought the urge to wring the Harbinger’s neck.
——
It’s a rush he never thought he had to face, didn’t want to face. How is he so dense? So stupid?
“So? Who is this crush of yours?” The smile is unsteady, almost forced on his face as he watches your expression switch to one of embarrassed shame, almost choking on the scallion pancake in your mouth as he pulled the fork away from your lips.
“He— He’s…” He’s right before you. Closed eye smile, teasing grin and absolutely, infuriatingly cute.
“You can’t just ask that all of a sudden!” Your hand lifts up in defensive, pure embarrassment, not taking into regard how much the adrenaline of love can give you so much strength.
It ends with you coddling a weeping Ajax’s head in your lap, stroking his hair as he continued to fake the apparent agony you caused him, letting him snuggle himself into your arms and overtake his ‘competition’ vying for you.
Good. It’s good that he was the one filling your mind. He doesn’t like it when that secret admirer of yours is the one that takes over your thoughts. He doesn’t want to admit how warm you make him feel on the inside despite how cold your body is.
He doesn’t want you to want that stupid loser of a person who made you so fluttery, making you akin to a blushing schoolgirl whenever he brings that crush of yours up.
Was it stupid of him to not have noticed that he was in love with you all this time? How long had he been tying himself back? How much longer does he have to give to you?
How long did he make you suffer?
Time has been cruel to him, to you.
——
You’re smiling. Why are you still smiling? Aren’t you in pain? Aren’t you scared that you’re going to die? Why are you spending your last moments like this?
He hears it, barely even breathed out from your choked throat.
“Ajax…” You coughing fits are acting up again.
“If- If in another lifetime…” It’s getting worse, your breaths are hacked, blood spilling from your lips with every syllable forced out. “If you could ever learn-“ A multitude of bloodied petals bloom within your throat, suffocating your words, a final attempt to save you the heartbreak you knew all too well. “To love me-“
He calls for the doctor, turning away to grab their attention before your fingers weakly tug at his sleeve.
Your face is aghast with the pain, your mouth stained with blood, crimson petals discharge from within you, stalks entwining and curling itself around your heart, a final comfort and a warning of your last moments.
“Would you please have me?”
Realization strikes, the feeling finally settling down in his stomach in an odd satisfaction, the dull throb of pain in his brain as his breath hitches.
Why? Why why why why why why? Why now?
He doesn’t say anything, trembling hands grasping your own in his before he leans in to capture your cold, colourless lips with his own, returning every ounce of unsaid affection, every bit of undivided attention he owed you.
Childe— No, Ajax doesn’t care that all he can taste is the vile flavour of petals mixed with blood and bile, he can only feel you through this kiss so raw and emotional, that all he can comprehend is the texture of your bitten lips, the slipping warmth of your skin, the feeling of loss that envelops his entire being.
He pulls away, hoping, praying that you understood his reply to your confession. That your eyes will flutter open, staring at him as if he picked the stars from the sky and placed them in your hand, tears that stained your cheeks flaring within your eyes from happiness, skin reinvigorated by the jubilant feeling of having this silent love of yours finally being heard by the object of its affections.
It all goes quiet save for the sounds of his despaired sobs as the wind carries your final breaths away.
Too late.
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stinkysam · 1 year ago
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Monkey D. Luffy - When are they gonna kiss ?
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Warning : none
Genre : fluff
Synopsis : "Opla!luffy x male reader, meeting a powerful devil fruit user who’s fairly attractive and luffy is super shy about it and his crew is just confused" + "OPLA fic of Luffy here he meets a reader and they're really flirty with him and the others are just like "get together already" and maybe if you're okay with it you could have a bit of smut as well." - anon 1 + anon 2
Reader : male (you/yours)
A/N : Part TWO
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Now, this is new for him.
In all his life, Luffy has never stopped anything for someone good-looking. Hell, he didn't even know what the world saw as a criteria of beauty.
You're handsome if you're cool looking, right ? Like cyborgs, for example. They're so cool they have to be handsome for everyone !
So for Luffy to find you attractive without being a cyborg, you have to be a special kind of handsome.
And that you are !
Cool, handsome, strong, you have it all and Luffy can't help but look at you with wide eyes as he smiles.
He almost asked you to join his crew before knowing what you were capable of doing. You were too cool/handsome to not be on his crew.
But when he saw your power and how you used it, yeah you definitely had to be a part of his crew.
Talking about them, the crew, they have noticed the way he looks at you, stealing glances your way, eyes shinier than usual, acting as if he's being giddy.
At first it was weird to see him act like this, although they only knew Luffy for a couple of days, watching him stop running everywhere for someone attractive was definitely not on their bingo cards.
Sanji, Nami and Usopp were quick to see Luffy's crush on you. While Zoro only thought he acted this way because you looked cool. Like a kid being shown his Christmas presents before opening them.
Oh, he was wrong of course. With the way Luffy's heart jumped in his chest each time you made a comment, a flirty remark always well placed.
Unable to feel anything else other than sheepish, grinning broadly at each of the words you threw his way. Like a dog hearing "treat".
People would be wrong to assume Luffy isn't touched by flirting. The way he perks up each time you flirt with him. Which is all the time. Always flustering him.
The rest of the crew didn't mind your dynamic with him, you seemed like a good person and seeing how you flirted with him, you were clearly both on the same page. They're just waiting for you two to get together, this chase, with the way you're flirting and how he's reacting, grew old pretty quickly.
"When do you think they're gonna… ?" Nami asks, her head resting on her hand as she sat outside on the Merry.
"Kiss ?" Asked Usopp. "I don't know."
"I feel like [Name] is a gentleman." Sanji chimed in. "Even though it's hard to see with all the flirting."
The two others hummed, as Sanji gave them a little en-cas.
"It'll take time." He added.
"Will you please tune it down ?" Said Zoro, trying to nap. Sanji rolled his eyes with Nami as Usopp focused back on what he was doing.
The four of them were unaware of what you two were doing in the cabin. Both growing really close and touchy. More than just kissing.
Each time you two would get intimate Luffy couldn't help but get shy, your pretty remarks making his brain short-circuit and unsure if he's doing the right thing.
Smiling almost maniacally as a light blush spreads to his cheeks while you say the prettiest and dirtiest things to him.
It's relentless, even when you pound into him, short gasps and moans leaving his lips as you whisper dirty things in his ears. His arms wrapped around you as if to keep you against him forever.
God, you're always so beautiful it's breathtaking. Even when you're covered in sweat and panting, you still look as attractive as ever with your voice slightly shaky from the effort and your dilated pupils.
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writingfromasgard · 5 months ago
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Unmasked [Soap]
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Masterlist || Requests || gif by unknown
cw: mentions of violence, grown man crying
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Johnny knows why the life he snuffed out tonight effected him more than any other life he's taken. He had watched them gurgle on their own blood, eyes glazing over as he stood above them. Their eyes had looked too similar to yours and he couldn't keep the picture of it being your actual eyes out of his head. He crushes the palm of his hand against his forehead, begging the thoughts to stop returning as he sat on the stoop in front of your shared home.
His brain plays it on loop, a fear that is unreasonable by any measure. He's damned worried he'll turn the knob and find you on the floor with eyes no shinier than the deadman's. His mind took it ever further now; feeding him flashes of a bloodied body that's cold to the touch.
The door creaks open behind him, a gentle touch of your hands landing on his broad shoulders. He swallows the lump in his throat, tuning back into his body as he feels the chill on his skin.
"Johnny, you're freezing. John said you hadn't checked in with him either." His bastard name sounds so sweet when you say it like that, filled with worry over a man who kills for a living.
He works hard to keep the tremble out of his voice when he responds, "Aye, I needed tae clear my head a bit, pet."
His hand reaches up to cover your hand on his shoulder, giving it a nice pat to reassure you. You take a step to look at his face, concern etched on that lovely face of yours.
"Can I stay with you until it's cleared?" Gods, what an angel you are for saying that.
The harmless question comes with its own set of claws that rip into his heart, forcing him to shut his eyes tightly. His hand leaves yours to run over his mohawk, now damp from the early morning mist.
"Na, I'm comin'." He forces himself to his feet, eyes glancing downward until he faces you.
His normally vibrant blue eyes look into yours, dark crescent shapes under them. Those damned images flash back into his mind despite how lively you look. You stumble backwards as he curls his hulking frame around you, dragging you into the tightest embrace he can.
The noise you make and the insistent tapping on his side make him loosen up, still keeping your bodies flush with one another. He's soaking in the warmth of your body, the smell, the fabric of your pajamas.
"Cannae live without you." He whispers, burying his face into your neck. "You ken that? You ken you're my world?"
You melt against him much to his pleasure, wrapping your arms around him. "Of course I ken."
He laughs at your attempt to copy his accent. It sounds hollow to him, probably you, too. He starts to sway a little, indulging himself in feeling how you move against him. You aren't limp or cold or dying. You're alive with warmth that you're lending to him.
"Let's get you into a hot shower." You whisper against his ear. "You're too cold, Johnny."
"Never cold with you." He mumbles, walking you backwards through the door.
He closes the door with his foot, finally letting go of your body. His hands cup both cheeks of your face and he stares for a long time, committing those shining orbs he fell in love with to memory. No, committing the liveliness in them to memory.
"Don't ken what I'd do without you." He pecks your lips far more innocently than he's ever done before. "Don't ever want to know."
He hears the voice crack and sees your hand reaching up, wiping at his own cheek. "What happened? A close call?"
He shakes his head vehemently. He knows he's crying, can feel the snot start to clog up his nose. "They had your eyes. Same shade. Same speckles.. I.. I cannae stop seein' you behind their mask."
Your expression squeezes his heart, so compassionate, so much worry. He knows you don't know what to do. You're probably freaking out in that pretty little head of yours, too. No one wants to hear that their significant other pictured them dead, shot by their hands.
You slip out of his hands, pressing against him again. Your hand pulls him in by the back of his neck, your noses bump against each other before your lips meet.
"I'm here." You whispered against his lips, diving back into another kiss. "I'm here."
He can taste the salty tears slipping between your lips, his arms crush you against his chest again, lifting you slightly. He walks both of you through the threshold, foot closing the door behind him.
He lets you break from him, following behind you like a lost puppy as he wipes away the snot and tears. You undress him, kissing his skin. He loves when you do this, grounds him unbelievably well. A shower later and he's right where he wants to be again.
Johnny has one of his arms hooked around your waist with a light blanket over the two of you. He buries his nose in the crook of your neck, listening to you read a chapter of a book the two of you picked together.
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pavus · 29 days ago
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PROMPT : Armor. DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION ERA. Words: 1042. Characters: Suri Cadash, Blackwall, Leliana, Josephine Montilyet.
“It’s… shiny.”
Blackwall laughed suddenly and despite himself, clearing his throat with a raspy cough when both Leliana and Josephine narrowed their eyes at his unhelpful addition. Neither of their reactions drew any notice from the Herald – from the Inquisitor, from Suri – who was entirely too distracted by the golden chestplate emblazoned with the unsettling eye-sword-and-sunburst symbol of their order.
She rubbed her thick-knuckled fingers over the unblemished surface of the armor. Volcanic aurum wasn’t used for protection by dwarves; it was purely ornamental, used more often for exports than their own, personal crafts. When she tugged at the raised lip that ran across her ribs and pointed down towards her navel, the suit’s leather straps did much to ensure the chestpiece would not budge. She tugged it again, then nodded to herself, finding the fit more than suitable.
“Well, shinier than I’m used to, at least,” Suri continued, though even she caught the doubt that crept into her voice. Ears as sharp as Leliana and Josephine’s wouldn’t miss it. “It just doesn’t feel like me, s’all.”
Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but clamped them together just after. Nothing important, then. Or, at least, she’d quickly convinced herself not to say what she’d felt in an instant. It wouldn’t be the first time the Inquisition’s diplomat corrected her pronunciation of something. All she could do was try not to take it to heart.
Suri understood why they’d cast aside her usual and dressed her like this instead. 
There was a certain amount of gravitas surrounding the title of Inquisitor. Her role was an important one, offered up to her for reasons she couldn’t explain in any amount of detail. There was a green hole in the palm of her left hand, and with it, she closed the even bigger, greener hole in the sky. If there was anything else that distinguished her from the others, she couldn’t know what it was.
No one had bothered telling her why she was so special.
“So… uh,” Suri began, fumbling pitifully through the half-dark of silence. She reached for something – or, rather, someone – familiar. “What d’you think, Blackwall?”
The Warden had been up in her quarters when Josephine arrived with a pair of Inquisitor soldiers carrying a massive and seemingly heavy crate, delivered straight to them from an armorer in Orlais. Behind them, Leliana followed. When he offered to excuse himself alongside the agents, Suri was the one who reached out.
“Can you stay?” she’d asked without hesitating, without thinking. “It’d do me a lot of good. Show me how soldiers might see… all of this.”
Blackwall paused for just long enough to look her up and down. 
“A show’s a show, but you’ll put on a fine one in that.”
“A show is a show, as you put it, Warden Blackwall,” came Josephine’s immediate, but delicately worded interruption. “But naming Lady Cadash the Inquisitor is more than mere pageantry or puppetry. It will not be a simple show of strength, but a moment that will be scrawled upon the pages of history for even those who are not present.”
Suri’s conflicted stare broke away from the warden and the diplomat, circling back around instead to the spymaster. She caught the woman stroking her gloved thumb over the point of her chin as her eyes roamed from her boots to the highest fold in her samite collar.
“The druffalo hide is the color of cat sick,” Leliana said just loudly enough for all those gathered to hear. “Send the atrocious coat back for something prettier. Snoufleur, perhaps?”
Suri couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and once she did, the others followed suit. 
Blackwall snorted. Josephine’s giggle was swept aside with a delicate – and disapproving – sigh. While Leliana often proved herself blunt for a former bard, none of them had been prepared for the words she cut from her own tongue.
“I still have mine.”
Suri squirmed out of the coat, only noticing once she’d been freed of the thing that the leather did look the exact sickly brown-green color of cat vomit. Her duster had been shoved unceremoniously into a chest at the foot of her bed once they arrived at Skyhold, but it was there. It was an option… and one she wanted to take.
“Send this one back, but don’t have another one made,” she continued. Tossing the coat into Blackwall’s arms before moving around her bedside and dropping to her knees in front of the massive trunk, a certain glimmer of confidence swelled inside her chest. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable in the gold, but she’d be comfortable in something else. “A little something shiny, a little something worn – it’s the best way you could dress me.”
Stealing a glance at Josephine over her shoulder, she caught a smile tucked into the corner of Blackwall’s mouth. 
“If you are… absolutely certain, Inquisitor.” Varric called Josephine Ruffles, and from the sight of her ruffled feathers, she could tell the nickname suited. “I assure you that the issue is not monetary in nature. We only lack time.”
Suri issued an involuntary grunt as she hefted the heavy chest open. The first scent to hit her was smoke, caught in the lining of her coat from their last night in Haven. How it managed to cling onto the fabric, even after her walk through the snow, even through their exodus to what would be Skyhold… 
She shook her head to clear the memories away. 
“I know it’s not a money thing,” Suri said under her breath. “But bronto’s better, and the quality isn’t bad, no matter how old it is. I’ll have them see me in this.”
This time, when Blackwall cleared his throat, he did so to draw her attention towards him rather than swipe it away from himself. He held the cast-off coat in his arms, both hands curling deep into the rumpled fabric.
“I’ve always thought you look well in it.”
Don’t grin. Don’t grin. You’ll look like a little girl. Don’t grin at him.
Suri beamed, all flushed round ears and dimpled cheeks and creased skin around her dark eyes. There was no stopping the inevitable.
“This coat wins, then,” she laughed. “And I’ll be keeping all that flattery in my pocket.”
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mintmatcha · 1 year ago
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can we get some rouge facts? pretty please 🤲🏼 she’s v interesting and i know nothing about d&d so i’m a little clueless about her role in the team. love your world building btw
— 🪐
cw: cisfem reader, reader has a set background and personality, MENTIONS OF GROOMING AND ABUSE!
"Why don't you join them?"
The fiddle swelling and dips and the dancers do the same. You watch where your friends have blended into the crowd, their elbows crooked into the arms of strangers as they prance about. The alcohol has wiped away their inhibitions, but only strengthened yours.
Obsidian has left his partner on the dance floor and returned to you, arm outstretched. He must have seen you watching him and misunderstood that forlorn look in your eyes as something else.
"I'm alright here," you dismiss with a laugh.
"Let me teach you." Obi gestures again, "Or is our fearless leader afraid of the dance floor?"
He hums along to the song, hitting none of the correct notes. Even when he's making mistakes, he's undeniably charming.
"I'm okay, really." You try to laugh again, but the sound is tight in your throat. The crowd spins and laughs and jeers and the sound of it all stuffs your ears. Obsidian steps towards you, closer than a friend should be, with a chuckle on his lips.
"I insist."
Your stomach sours a bit and you aren't sure why. This is familiar in ways you don't want to admit. "Obi, not tonight."
"I simply wish to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room," His fingers loosely wrap around your wrist, but the pressure makes your mouth go dry. There's an ache, deep in the narrow of your bones, radiating out as he lightly tugs, "Come, it will be-"
You rip your hand from his with all the force you can muster. It's much too forceful-- you end up smacking yourself and knocking over your stein. Beer fizzs and bubbles across the waxed bartop, spilling down and over your legs.
"I said no." Your voice aches with the way to rips from you, "Why does no one listen to me when I say no?"
Obi's face drops. Green eyes wide with shock, he simply watches as you push off from your stool and weave out through the crowd. You bump elbows with a poor halfing halfway out the door, only offering the briefest of apologies.
The crisp night air brings you a bit of clarity, but it aches in your lungs. The cotton of your shirt suddenly feels much too tight and you cant help but tug on the edges to free yourself.
You're aware of being followed. It's like a stray dog, tailing behind you just fair enough to avoid any possibility of retribution. He continues until you stop and settle, sitting in the dew soaked grass. It doesn't matter- you're already soaked.
Obsidian stays quiet for a while, rubbing his sleeve against his nose sheepishly.
"Can I sit with you?" he says after a while.
You glance up at the dragonborn. The spot he rubbed is significantly shinier than the rest of his scales, catching the moon shine as he speaks. Your anxious settles just a bit at that; it even tugs a smile onto your face. You pat the ground next to you and the man settles down on to his knees.
"I am sorry," Obi says after a moment, "I should not have pushed you."
You're very aware that wasn't a normal reaction. The shame makes your stomach curl. "It's alright."
"Clearly, it was not." He rubs his snout again, "I should have listened to you."
He places his hand gently on to your thigh- no pressure, just reassurance. "I'll listen now, if you want to speak about it."
The truth is heavy on your tongue. You know better than to speak of it, and yet:
"Adam saved me. I know that," you say carefully. Your husband is always the elephant in the room, waiting to be addressed, "He took me off of the street and gave me a place to live. I'd be nothing without him-- I know that."
Obsidian prickles a bit at that, just the slightest flash of teeth, but he doesn't interrupt.
"He'd bring me to galas. The prettiest dances you've ever seen. I'd wear the nicest dress I could find and he would dance with me until my feet bled from those god-awful shoes." You flex your foot. The thick leather boot barely gives to the pressure.
"I hated them. I hated every minute," you say, "I'd beg him to let me stay home. I'd //beg.//"
You close a hand around your own wrist. Your body has changed over the years, almost to the point of unfamiliarity, but the pressure of a palm against the inside of your wrist always snaps you back to the brittle age of eighteen.
"And he still made you go?"
Eighteen was the first time you started measuring your steps, walking in the shadows to avoid drawing his attention. Eighteen was the first time love felt sour on your lips.
"All anyone would ever say to me was that I was so lucky to be his wife. How he loved me so much." You take Obi's hand from your leg and intertwine your fingers with his. The span and width of his grip are so much different than anyone else you've ever known. "And all I wanted to do was tell them how scared I was of him.'"
"Why didn't you?" He's asking, but its not a question. It's a door, open just enough to let you keep going. "Someone surely would have listened."
"Where would I have gone?" You almost laugh at how ridiculously pathetic you sound. "I didn't have friends, and he was the closest thing I ever had to a father -"
Obi's grip stiffens, and you know you'd made a mistake. His eyes narrow and he knows//.
"Father?" he repeats, voice dark, yet trying to stay even, "He wasn't-- you--- what do you mean by father?"
Those sharp, kind eyes watch you, unblinking, as if he closes his eyes, you'll disappear.
"What do you mean by that, my dear?" he repeats, much softer.
The bar behind you clambors with din, the night is rich with the cicada song, and yet you feel like the world is so, so quiet. All of your words feel earshakingly loud.
"He didn't pursue me romantically until I was eighteen," you whisper, "But Adam took me into his home when I was thirteen."
You brace for what's coming. The anger, the disgust. By the time you realize you've closed your eyes, the silence has stretched out too far. It takes an effort to look at him and face the music.
Obi doesn't seem mad, he's just... sad.
"You were just a child." His voice is so brittle, "I-- Why didn't anyone protect you?"
You wish you knew the answer.
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maybeitsalivescribbles · 8 months ago
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VH - Divide And Conquer
(Tw: attempted torture)
“I can't believe we finally have caught the legendary Vampire Hero”, said Villain.
The two Heroes glanced at each other and shrugged. The taller one frowned.
“Legendary ?” he repeated.
Villain looked at him with interest.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Many have fallen before your might, Vampire Hero. At least two or three of my opponents are behind the bars because of you.”
“Two or three and you call that legendary ? You're easy to impress.”
The other Hero was nervously following the exchange. Compared to his companion, he seemed much younger and frailer. His eyes were shinier and shinier with tears that did not quite fall. When at least it looked like he couldn't take it anymore, he stepped between the two, saying:
“Stop ! It's my fault ! It's all my fault if we got caught. Hurt me, not him!”
Villain gave the young Hero an amused look:
“Why is that little thing with you, Vampire Hero ?”
His interlocutor shrugged:
“You know. He's new. I'm supposed to show him the ropes or something. You have to teach them some way or some other. ”
“Is that so.”
Villain lift the smaller Hero's chin with a finger:
“My dear little one, how can I hurt him ? Many have tried and many have failed. I'll just make him have a nice little sunbath so he's neutralized. But since you've asked so nicely, I will take care of you.”
“Surely there must be another way ! I'm sure you can do better. I-I'm sure that deep inside, you're a little pure of heart.”
“ You heard your protector, you need to learn.”
He grabbed Hero by the arm, who turned his head toward the man who accompanied him. The latter just shrugged.
“Do you think he cares ?” simpered Villain to his ear. “Oh, he doesn't. He might be on your side, but Vampire Hero is evil. You're better off with me.”
Hero whimpered but didn't resist as he was dragged into the stairs.
“There are seventeen steps. Do you hear the sound they make ? There's an echo, so the prisoners down there can hear me coming. It’s all in the anticipation.”
In a sweet voice, he kept describing their surroundings while they were both descending into his torture room. During all the way, the small one didn’t dare fight back. He soon found himself tied up to a chair, helplessly squirming, his eyes giving a pleading look more than ever.
“So, young Hero,” purred Villain, “as it is your first time, I will make you a favor.”
“R-Really ?”
“Yes. Do you see all these instruments in the shelf in front of you ?”
Hero looked at the whips, the canes and the nails, and shuddered so violently it almost looked fake.
“I'm going to let you choose one among them. If not, I will choose, and you won't like it very much if I do.”
“You don't have to do this ! I-You just will make Vampire Hero angry and you don't want to !”
“You think he will rescue you?”
“I know he will.”
“How touching. But for now you're mine. So make your choice, before I get impatient.”
Hero pondered for a few seconds, then whispered:
“Um – the taser ? Yes – the taser, please.”
“If you ask so nicely.”
Villain delicately took the black rectangular shape in his hand and switched it on.
“Why, if I might ask ? Do you think it will hurt less than the others ? Let me prove you wrong.”
The half-hour that happened then looked much more pleasant for Villain than for Hero. And yet, as time passed, Villain felt somewhat uneasy. That had nothing to do with torturing a man, of course. He liked the thrashing, he liked the begging, he liked the naive faith of the innocent who was certain that he could be saved. Maybe that had something to do with the other Hero. While Villain was amusing himself, Vampire Hero was out of his sight. He might have been careless. He glanced at his watch, but Hero making a rather unconvincing whimper forced him to turn his head.
Perhaps that was the problem. Villain was used to the sounds of pain – the gasps, the moans, the howls, the cries and the pleas. He loved all of them without distinction, and of course he knew that they were a little different with each person. It was a familiar melody that Hero was singing, but thinking about it, it was slightly out of tune, and it got progressively worse. It was getting on his nerves. These rookies these days – they didn't even now how to scream right.
“Let's have a break,” he said.
“Oh well, I guess I’ve held that long.”
Villain raised an eyebrow, amused:
“Getting defiant, are we ? Careful, you sound like you’re disappointed.”
He stared into his prisoner’s eyes, hoping to get a look of terror, but all he got was a frown. Hero...genuinely looked displeased.
“Sorta”, he said. “In my time I didn’t have this kind of toys to play with. I guess having a little blue spark in your hand looks fun, but that doesn’t look like it does that much damage.”
“In your time ? What are you talking ab- wait.”
Hero tilted his head. For a moment he sounded impassible, but he broke soon enough. A loud, loud laugh resonated in the room, while the prisoner was squirming in his chair for a very different reason than before. His way of moving betrayed no pain at all.
“Are you shitting me,” said Villain, whose voice was now icy.
Hero grinned:
“You tell me, pal. I can’t believe you swallowed my “pure of heart” bullshit. I was laying it on so thick.”
Villain glared at him.
“Not that you were especially subtle either”, Hero added. “Oooh, the anticipation !” Do that again?”
Villain stood up and went to the door as fast as self-respect allowed. There was no one left under the sunlight. The guards were on the ground, unconscious.
“How -”
He turned back. Hero was now standing up, neglectfully throwing away the remnants of the straps that held him a moment before. He dramatically exclaimed, a hand on his heart:
“Oh no, he got away ! My, my. Poor little me. Tell you what, though. If Vampire Hero were so legendary, you should have bothered to know what he looks like. I didn’t mean to pass for someone else, but you’ve so graciously given me the opportunity.”
“It can’t be ! How could the – the other have escaped then ?”
“I hate to break it to you, but they are several heroes with super strength.”
Villain blushed and stayed quiet, his lips pursed. Hero picked up the taser, looked at it with curiosity, and switched it on. With a smile – a very worrying smile - he got closer.
“Hey, I warned you. I told you that Vampire Hero was going to rescue me.”
*
Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.
Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.
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sannylity · 1 year ago
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Toxic and Infidelity AU for Slimeriana.
I’ve given them way too many sweet and fluffy prompts and AU’s. It’s about time I feed into the toxic couple agenda™️ lol
Charlie and Mariana are childhood sweethearts.
They loved each other as long as they’ve been friends since kindergarten, ever since Mariana shared him his food since Charlie didn’t have any. Sometimes his dad forgets to pack him food, but that’s alright. Mariana soon ends up asking to pack food for two.
Ever since then, they became inseparable. Attached to the hip. You rarely see them without the other.
No one was surprised when they got together in middle school. They were each other’s firsts. First kiss, first date, first boyfriend, even losing their virginities to each other. At some point, they have exchanged promise rings, vowing to replace it with a shinier and more meaningful bands of gold in the future.
Unfortunately, they were also each other’s first heartbreak.
Charlie had to move away.
For some unexpected reason, Charlie is moving an entire ocean away and he is being taken away from Mariana, his everything slipping from his fingers.
They both thought of doing long distance. But they were discouraged by what happened to Quackity and Wilbur, a relationship like theirs turning sour the longer they kept the unattended phone calls and forgotten anniversaries.
So, they decided on one thing.
They’ll wait.
They’ll have to wait.
Mariana promised he could wait for Charlie, even if it takes forever. And Charlie promised the same.
Forever only took five years.
But five years is enough for everything to change.
Charlie comes back to his hometown, to his childhood bedroom and to the same people who welcomed him back with wide open arms.
He asks about Mariana.
The crowd turns quiet.
That’s not reassuring at all.
It was Quackity who stepped forward and told him he’s on his way with his fiancé.
“Fiancé?” Did he heard him right? The music was too loud inside and traffic isn’t any better outside. He was going to ask again, because he honestly just misheard.
Before he even opens his mouth, the front door swings open.
It’s Mariana.
He surely grew into his features, taller and more handsome than ever, but the same exact guy Charlie is still in love with.
“Mariana!” He drops whatever he was going to say to Quackity, choosing to tackle him into a tight hug instead.
The same warmth, the same scent, the same body. Everything felt all too familiar. It’s the first time Charlie felt truly home.
At the same time that he’s tightening the grip around his waist, Charlie fails to notice the stillness of the room and the other man next to him.
Mariana pulls away first, taking a firm step back, which is weird. Charlie was gonna quip and say he promised he didn’t bring any sickness with him.
But then his eyes landed on the other hand Mariana is holding and it stays at the different ring on his finger. And it burns and it burns and it burns.
Mariana is talking. Charlie can hear him talking, but it’s like he’s submerged underwater. He can’t hear anything besides his own blood pounding in his ears.
Suddenly, Charlie remembered his own hand. He hides them behind his back, casually removing the promise ring that he still wore. Suddenly, he can’t find his place in the small town he grew up in. Suddenly, he feels like disappearing, quickly regretting his decision of ever coming back, getting mad at himself in the process for being so naive.
Charlie forces a smile on his face.
“Quackity told me,” He doesn’t have to elaborate before regarding the other guy. Also taller, also more handsome, also better than him in every way. “Congrats to you both.”
He excuses himself quickly. Mariana’s calls falling into deaf ears as he left his own welcoming party just like that.
Charlie ends up at a bar. Of course he does. He wallows in his self-pity. Ignoring the worried calls of his friends. It doesn’t matter. They’ll probably say the same thing and tell him to move on.
That’s not what he needed right now.
He just got back. And this is how he finds out that the love of his life is someone else’s.
Out of his own volition or maybe he’s just so drunk, he ends up wallowing to the bartender like he’s a therapist. Charlie cries for being too late, he cries for the one love that matters to him, he cries for how much he still desperately loves.
But one thing was certain. It wasn’t his fault that he was threatened into cutting ties with everyone, that he was made to believe the future of the people he cared about would be ruined if he doesn’t follow. His grandfather is just the right type of rich and powerful to pull that off.
With a deadbeat dad who has died and the reason for why Charlie had to move, he had hoped for a silver lining that was Mariana.
Maybe he’s been in this bar for hours, maybe he’s been complaining too much. But the bartender gives him a piece of advice that for once sticks right through the marrow in his bones.
“He’s not yet married, isn’t he? He’s engaged, sure. But coming over to see you when he didn’t have to? There’s still something there,” The bartender, a blond and muscular man with a thick Brazilian accent pours him another glass. “If you love someone, you fight for them no matter what. Even if it makes you crazy, even if it makes you the bad guy in the story. You fight for what’s yours.”
Cue Charlie’s attempts to rekindle things with Mariana. Cue infidelity issues because even if their trust is broken, their attraction is so much stronger. Cue their secret affairs, the lies they tell everyone just to keep each other. Cue pretending to be friends while in public, but drive each other mad with jealousy and lust in private. Cue being found out, the decisions and sacrifices they have to make. Cue the dramatic confrontations, the slamming of doors and the tearful drives and breaking of plates. Cue tragedies and happy or sad endings.
Would Charlie and Mariana make it?
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clickerflight · 11 months ago
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Clove: Part 13 - Play?
GUESS WHO'S BACK! IT'S THE BOIIII!!! Let me know if you want to be on the taglist.
Masterlist
Part 12
Content: Werewolf whumpee, fear, ignorant comments about his scars, mentions of past abuse
...............................................
Ephraim had to leave to help make the house safe again. 
Hyrum knew he was safe, he knew Ephraim would be back, he had his bird toy and he was full, huddled under the blankets as snug as a hibernating creature…. but every new sound scared him. A subtle creak of the house settling had him clutching the blanket and toy closer, his heart pounding. He just wanted to be home. In Ephraim’s house. 
He pressed his face into the pillow, taking a deep breath to fill his nose with Ephraim’s scent. It was like warm raspberries picked right off the cane, undertones of bread and flowers firmly carrying home the feeling of safety. 
He slowly relaxed again and got more comfortable, pulling his toy out of the blankets to get a better look at it, running a finger over the carved features of the bird, ears twitching as the ball rolled around gently inside of it.
He sighed and tried to relax, closing his eyes again. 
That went away when he heard footsteps and voices and the front door opened. He sat up quickly, the scents of the werewolf children from the trip to see the merchant reaching his nose. 
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here,” said one voice, which Hyrum completely agreed with as he slipped out of the bed on the opposite side from the doorway. 
“Oh, stop being such a pansy.”
Hyrum silently dropped down and wiggled under the bed, cupping his hands over his face to muffle his breathing as he heard the two sets of footsteps come down the hall, stopping at the door. He closed his eyes as it creaked open. 
“Is he in the bed?” the younger sounding voice asked. 
The older one approached and Hyrum flinched as he patted the bed. 
“No, doesn’t look like it.”
“Is he still in here?”
“Course he is. Can’t you smell him?”
Hyrum opened his eyes in time to see knees contact the floor and a face peering under the bed, right at him. 
“Aha!” the grey haired werewolf said, tail sweeping the floor. “There he is!”
Hyrum scrambled back out without thinking, getting to his feet and backing up quickly enough that he banged rather loudly into the wall, hands searching the blank space behind him as his tail tucked itself between his legs and he ducked his head to protect his throat.
The other wolf, a younger kid with darker hair, though not quite black, stared at him while the older came around the bed, slowly and steadily, like he was stalking Hyrum. 
Hyrum felt his heart beating faster, and he whimpered as the wolf took another step towards him. 
The wolf froze, head cocked to the side for a moment. He took another step and Hyrum started seeing spots from how quickly he was breathing, none of the air actually making it anywhere. 
The wolf froze in place, halfway through another step. He backed up a bit until Hyrum felt like he could breathe again, still shaking like an aspen leaf and gasping for air, tears escaping down his cheeks. 
“What’s wrong with him?” the younger one asked.
“I don’t know,” said the elder. “Here, back out of the room. Maybe he’ll be less scared with just one of us.”
The younger wolf pouted, but did as he was told. 
Hyrum did not feel any better, pinned down under the gaze of the older wolf. Was he older? He looked older. He was bigger than Hyrum, with broader shoulders and shinier teeth and flesh on his bones. He would be a real weapon. 
Not that it mattered. Hyrum wasn’t even supposed to be a weapon anyways, apparently. 
“You’re Goldenrod, yeah?”
Hyrum relaxed a little upon hearing the nickname and nodded faintly. 
“I’m Isaac.”
Hyrum watched nervously, not certain of what the other wolf wanted. Isaac seemed to be waiting for something before looking around a little, confused. 
He looked back and asked, “What are you so scared of?”
Hyrum didn’t know how to answer. Wasn’t it obvious? There was a bigger, tougher wolf in the room, blocking his exit after breaking into the house he and Ephraim had been staying at. How was that not terrifying?
Isaac stared at him for a long time before taking a slow step forward and all of Hyrum’s muscles which had relaxed even the slightest were tight again, sweat breaking out down his back. 
Still, Isaac didn’t stop until he was a few steps away, leaning closer. Hyrum could hear him sniffing, could see he was open and relaxed. 
“Wh… What do you want?” Hyrum whispered hoarsely, terrified. 
Isaac leaned back again and frowned. “I haven’t seen another werewolf in a while that’s not from my family. I just wanted to see what your deal was.”
Hyrum didn’t know what that was supposed to mean and didn’t respond, which, to his horror, seemed to frustrate the other wolf. 
“I mean, what is your deal? Mum said there was an intruder in the village and Ephraim has been staying here and you haven’t even left this house once! Don’t you want to go outside? Don’t you want to see other pups and play?”
Hyrum shivered. Being in the sun sounded nice. It always did. But playing with pups? Isaac talked about it like it was a normal thing. And Ephraim was expecting him to be here when he got back. What if he went outside and Ephraim thought he’d been taken? Just the thought of Ephraim worrying over it for even a moment freaked Hyrum out. And what if he did get taken?
“‘M scared,” Hyrum said softly, head tucked in still. He was afraid that Isaac wouldn’t like his answer and would lash out at him and hurt him. Jack always did. 
“Why? We’re not going anywhere crazy. Me and my sibs are playing out in Mrs. Julien’s yard. It’s basically across the road from here.”
Hyrum was beginning to consider the idea, if only because he loved the feeling of sun on his skin. Isaac seemed genuine as well. 
After a long moment he nodded. “Okay… and I can come back here whenever I want, right?”
“Right,” Isaac said, impatient now. “You should bring your toy. It’s almost Angie’s turn to play and she always wants to play house or rescue the princess or sacrifices to the demon lord. Come on!”
Isaac left, leaving no context for what he’d just said, but Hyrum carefully scooped up his bird and left the comfortable room. He saw the two wolves go out the front door, talking to one another. He passed the table in the front room, giving it a wide berth as feelings of panic and fear stirred around him, as though he’d left them under there when he had been hiding there a few nights before. 
He very slowly stepped out of the house and onto the front porch, the wood rough under his bare feet and the sun like a blessing on his skin. 
He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of it in his curls. His curls! He’d never had curly hair before. Ephraim had told him that now he was getting more food and sleep and he wasn’t covered in mange, he was getting his ‘real hair’ in. Hyrum didn’t fully understand it, but he was glad for it as a sign of being taken care of and fed. 
He stepped down onto the dirt path and quickly crossed the road, smooth rocks poking up through the dirt and pebbles here and there. 
He got to the other side and hesitated on the edge of a yard of soft grasses and small wildflowers, four wolves gathered together in the center of the yard where another brother and a sister had been waiting. 
Isaac waved him over and he approached carefully. 
“This is Goldenrod,” Isaac said, and the girl nodded, eyeing Hyrum’s toy a little bit, making him clutch it a little tighter. “Goldenrod, this is my brother Simon, you’ve met Lionel, and this is Angie.” Lionel was the wolf who had come to the house with Isaac, it seemed. Simon and Angie both had black hair and fur and Simon nodded, a little intrigued, though it was Angie who spoke first. 
“What’s wrong with your face?” she asked, tilting her head. 
Hyrum felt a swoop of… what was that feeling? Like he was anxious, but in an entirely different way. He didn’t realize that the way Isaac had talked to him had given him a new idea. One of being accepted by more than just Ephraim, and now he felt like that was dashed. Destroyed by Jack because of the scars on his face. 
He could feel his eyes watering and he looked down quickly, glad for his curly hair for another reason now. 
“Hey! Be nice, Angie,” Isaac barked. “Seriously, mum taught you manners! I was there for it!”
Angie huffed. “I just wanted to know,” she whined. 
“It really isn’t nice,” Simon said in a quiet, slow tone. 
“Oh, come on! Scars are cool!”
Cool? What could possibly be cool about the pain and starvation he went through? What was good about that written across his entire body? For no good reason? There was no reason for it. None of it. None of the silver or knives or ‘training’ or the initials in his arm. No reason for the burns or the broken fingers or the bleeding head wounds or the mange. 
Hyrum turned to go back to the house, wrapping his arms tightly around his body causing the toy to be shoved harshly into his ribs. 
“Wait!” Lionel said, running up and coming around to stand in front of Hyrum. He was shorter than Hyrum was, but he still looked stronger. He looked up into Hyrum’s face earnestly and said, “Please can you stay? We can make her go home! We want to play with you!”
“Hey! You can’t make me go home!”
“We will if you don’t apologize,” Isaac nodded and Simon added, “A real apology, Angie.”
She huffed at both of them but she came over, a rather worn doll in hand and she took a deep breath. 
“I’m sorry, Goldenrod. I shouldn’t have asked about your scars and I won’t ask again. Will you play with us?”
Hyrum was puzzled by her tone. It was strange but he didn’t recognize it enough to put a finger on it. Still, hesitant and feeling a little bit pressure from their eyes all on him, he nodded. 
They all seemed very excited and had him kneel in the grass to play where he lived the strangest hour of his life giving a personality to his bird toy and helping rescue a princess from a demon who wanted to play house with her. 
Part 14
Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10
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clumsiestgiantess · 1 year ago
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My borrower headcannons:
There are four main subgroups of borrower which coincide with different human styles of living.  Culture and appearance range widely between the types.  Borrowers living in the suburbs and the city have different lifestyles with some similarities, but borrowers living in rural places or completely in the wild have entirely different ways of life, and even different adaptations; they’re nearly two different species.  (Kind of like how polar bears and grizzly bears are technically the same species with different adaptations for their environments)
All borrowers have at least a semi-human appearance, and stay under a foot tall.  (The largest recorded borrower measured 10 inches tall).  They all come from a common ancestor: the feral subgroup, which adapted to an easier lifestyle of thievery over hunting.
Urban subgroup:
They can care less if they’re spotted, most humans just ignore the sighting after a moment anyway.  Being caught is a different story, of course.  A caught urban borrower can let out a deafening shriek loud enough to startle whatever’s caught them to drop them. They can fall a good 30 feet without serious injuries, so being dropped is completely fine.
They’re practically tone deaf, but have heightened visual senses and can even see in blinding light.
Have a type of sign language to communicate, and rarely make noise other than to show displeasure or affection (depending on the sound).
The smallest type; usually grows about 2-3 inches tall.
Homes look like nests stashed with every kind of material imaginable.  This type of borrower is a collector and will steal anything they want without need for it.  The shinier the object, the more valuable it is to them.
Body structure is nearly identical to humans with enhanced reflexes.
Many choose to live solitarily or with a small close family, but some live in larger groups for protection.
Suburban subgroup:
They have a type of sign language that they use between eachother, though most also learn whatever language the humans around them know to at least a basic level.
Homes look drastically different depending on how practiced a borrower is.  A normal home looks like a mix of an underground colony system and a den.  However, the better they are at stealing, the more resources they have to make things aesthetically pleasing.  Thus, borrowers who’ve perfected their skills have homes whose interiors are similar to human ones.
Their average height is 4-5 inches tall.
This is the largest subgroup, and also the most interconnected; they often have hidden meeting places spread out like small towns to come together and share stories, trade materials, get help, find mates, etc.  These are few and far between.  A borrower will consider any place close to these meeting areas prime housing, as living in these meeting areas is forbidden.
Many things are forbidden.  This group put together a series of codes that keep them in ‘perfect’ safety.  They also have professions they take on in order to help the community as well as themselves.  These range from perfecting ‘borrowing’ supplies (this is where their namesake comes from), practicing medicine and healing, crafting tools, becoming strong fighters, studying humans and other animals, etc.
These borrower codes contain many fascinating rules, including a contingency plan if they’re ever caught.  Upon capture, they are to “play dead, play dumb, then run.”  Closer studies have found that these borrowers can vomit bile on command, and use the stench to make themselves seem dead and rotting.  If they’ve been caught in the act, this trick fails and they move to playing dumb.  Using their surprisingly expansive knowledge of small animals other than themselves, they are able to mimic the actions of mice or even bugs to appear less intriguing to humans.  If both ruses fail, they will bolt at speeds seemingly impossible for their bodies to move at, and can maneuver with pinpoint accuracy.
They have longer and wider ears to hear potential danger, double-jointed limbs for maneuverability and manipulation, lankier legs for faster strides.
Rural subgroup:
These borrowers usually live outside the houses they take from, preferring natural burrows and tunnel systems than the walls of houses.
If the home has a garden, there’s a large chance there’s at least a small borrowers’ burrow there to stash items.
Some learn a human language as a second language, but most speak in their own language, which is a mixture of animalistic noises and human ones.  Their relations work more animalisticly; body language is a huge part of understanding one another.
Unlike the first two subgroups, these borrowers will attack when threatened rather than bluff.  Their pronounced canines can leave small needle-like holes in the skin, which can easily heal over and become infected.  When biting down, these borrowers’ jaws can lock into place, making it impossible to remove one without killing it.  Even shaking it does no harm due to its swiveling neck, which can turn 360 degrees in either direction.
Average height is 5-6 inches tall.
Their ears are long and pointed, they have thin tails to help balance their quick movements, and slightly padded feet and palms.
Feral subgroup:
These are, as the name suggests, the most wild of the subgroups, and also the oldest subgroup.  They live entirely away from humans and are completely independent, relying on the things they gather and make themselves.
They are the largest subgroup with an average height of 6-7 inches.
They live in long tunnel systems underground or inside trees.  These tunnel entrances can be told apart from other creatures’ by the rudimentary door system.  
If you see these burrows, DO NOT DISTURB THEM.  There can be as many as 30 borrowers per burrow and they are aggressively protective of their homes.  Springing open a large burrow will lead you to be swarmed.  Mind you, these are creatures that can be nearly as long as your forearm, and a dedicated group of about 5 or 6 can kill you if you don’t fight them off or run.  You will not be able to fight off 30 of them.  If you survive the initial attack, seek medical attention.  Their saliva has a good chance of carrying infectious bacteria.
Another caution:  They can and will lay traps.  Usually they aren’t strong enough to capture a human, and will likely only stun you.  However, again, do NOT stick around or you will be swarmed.
They have clawed fingers, long thin tails, and are capable of running on four limbs for faster movement, as well as the longer ears and padded hands and feet of the rural subgroup.  Their pupils can dilate widely enough to have fair night vision, which is useful for getting around burrows.
They are omnivores that can eat raw meat, and their teeth are sharpened versions of other subgroups’.
Due to the sheer amount of space between the habitats of different subgroups, it’s not often that they meet. When they do, the stories are often chalked up to tall tales. Most subgroups view the other subgroups as cryptids of sorts.
(quick ref I made for body structure & height, penny for scale)
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practically-an-x-man · 21 days ago
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More Jessi and/or Hyun-Ki, perhaps?
Oooooh hell yeah!!! I think I'll write something from Jessi's point of view, just to switch things up a little...
____ Picture Perfect
Word Count: 1.8k Content Warnings: heavy emotional abuse and manipulation, toxic relationship (dead dove; do not eat), physical violence, hypnosis and mind control ____
Jessi Juno could confidently say that her life was perfect.
Her name was on every social media site, each one shining with constant praise. Her new single had just hit number one on both the domestic and international charts. She was eyeing a People's Choice Award.
Thanks to her new smoothie cleanse diet, she'd lost five pounds. She was glowing. She'd flown out to Chicago last week to get her hair done by Mario Tricoci, and now it was shinier and softer than ever, her classic pop-star powder-pink. And she'd just commissioned a dress from Donatella Versace herself... perhaps to be worn when she won that People's Choice Award. She was a shoe-in for it anyway. Everybody loved her.
The media was obsessed with her relationship. Jordan Moon had proven to be the boost she needed to really put herself on the map, and all it took was a little sonic schmoozing, a well-timed papparazzo or two, and a few kissy-kissy selfies in Instagram. It was almost too easy.
She was beautiful. She was rich beyond belief. She was on her way to becoming a household name.
She was perfect.
You keep this up, you'll be bigger than Dolly Parton. Bigger than Katy Perry.
No... bigger than Taylor Swift.
Jessi scrolled through her phone, flipping through the #jessijuno tag with detached interest. It was time for her morning post. Numbers were everything. She took a sip from her green smoothie, piecing it all together in her mind. Yesterday had been a selfie, the day before had been an inspo post about her smoothie cleanse, and everything else had been promo work for her upcoming EP. It was time to switch things up.
"Jordan!" she called, and felt her power waver in the air as it left her lips, "Come join me for breakfast!"
She watched him stagger out of his bedroom - of course they slept in separate rooms, she couldn't imagine the thought of sleeping all night with his breath in her ear and his body crowding her space - and trudge dazedly in her direction.
He seemed especially dull behind the eyes this morning, and Jessi suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. That wouldn't look good on her page. People would start asking if he was on drugs, and then there would come the accusations that she was on drugs, because of course she couldn't have a body like hers without a little chemical help.
Fangirls. Ugh. They were always looking for reasons to cancel her. They were jealous of her body, jealous of her fame, jealous their heartthrob K-Pop crush was with her instead of playing into their podunk he-touched-my-hand-once fantasies. She couldn't put that drug-talk into their heads. It would be a nightmare to sort out.
Britney shaved her head, Demi had an overdose, Jessi has a junkie boyfriend.
No, thank you. She had an image to maintain.
She poured a mug of coffee and set it in front of him. Maybe that would perk him up a little.
Jordan took a few sips and muttered something in Korean. Jessi's lip curled before she could stop it. She needed to break that habit, or she'd wind up with wrinkles. Then she'd need Botox - an eventuality she was sure, but she prided herself on her natural features while she had them.
"Speak English," she hissed, "You know I can't understand that shit."
"Sorry, dear." Jordan mumbled, "What's for breakfast?"
"I made smoothies," she said, already pouring him a glass of the thick green slurry.
Jordan let out the faintest sigh but reached for the glass. He'd been in a rotten mood lately, rotten enough that she finally surrendered and bought a jar of kimchi to stick in the fridge... and tossed it out only a day later, because she couldn't stand the vinegary fermented smell. It was stinking up her fridge. He'd just have to deal with it.
While he sipped his smoothie and made a bit of an effort to rouse himself, Jessi plucked his phone off the counter and began to flick through it. She'd made him get rid of the passcode ages ago, and switch to an English interface that she could understand. American couples didn't have secrets, she said. It was so easy to bend him to her will.
Her phone had an 8-digit passcode and fingerprint ID. She didn't let him touch her phone. Of course, just a word out of her mouth and he never even thought to ask. She wondered what he thought about these days. She wondered if he was really able to think about much of anything these days, or if he was just like one of those albino lab rats who mindlessly pressed a button when the scientists dinged a bell.
It was just so much easier this way.
"You called your mom?" Jessi asked, her voice deceptively sweet. Jordan looked up, and she thought she caught a flicker of panic deep behind those dark eyes. She'd caught him.
"She called me." he mumbled. She hated when he mumbled.
"No, this is an outgoing call," she said, "It says so right here on the screen. Don't lie to me."
"It was after the concert. I just called to let her know it went well."
"Hm."
She wondered if he'd remember her phone number if she deleted it from his contacts. Maybe that would fix things.
Or maybe he'd get suspicious and she'd have to put him all the way under again, like the early days. She didn't want him to be a damn vegetable, and the lovestruck puppy act got old too fucking quickly, but then she loosened her grip and he started going behind her back like this. Maybe she needed to tighten the reins a little. He'd hardly know the difference.
"Tell me next time you call her, okay?" she said, which really meant don't call her again. Jordan just gave her a tired nod in response.
Jessi set his phone down and snatched up her own, then reached across the counter for her half-empty smoothie glass.
She leaned in close, pursed her lips around her green-and-white paper straw, smiled with her eyes, and hit the shutter button. Perfect. Jordan was looking down, hiding that dull, drugged look in his eyes, but with the way she leaned in against his shoulder it almost looked like he was laughing at something she'd said the moment before. Jessi's eyes were bright and her skin looked airbrushed, and her hair was just messy enough to appear approachable without being a rat's nest. It was... girl-next-door.
Breakfast with my sweetheart 💖, her mind autofilled, already thinking of the caption as she swiped through filters, Can't believe we've only been together 3 months! You're my everything baby😘😘
Hm. Too formal. Formal was good for promos and sponsorships, not for slice-of-life selfies like this. She decided to dress it down a little, swapping "you're" for a Y2K-chic "ur" and tagging the photo with the mummified ruins of Jordan's Instagram handle. She wished he'd post a little more often. The privacy gag was cute, and pretty convenient most of the time, but her ratings would skyrocket if he just posted a selfie once in a while.
Jessi posted the photo and watched as the likes began to trickle in. She could expect a couple thousand straightaway, but the real boom would come after an hour or two. By tomorrow she'd be seeing the selfie all over fan reels and Pinterest boards. Pictures with Jordan always blew up. People went wild for a perfect little romance.
Of course, they didn't have to know it wasn't a romance behind the scenes. She'd fawn all over him in front of the cameras, but she didn't love him. She didn't hate him, of course - even the social boost wasn't worth bleeding her precious time and energy into someone she hated. He was just... there. Pretty enough and quiet enough to tolerate. Like a kitschy Christmas ornament, she thought, or hotel room wallpaper.
The appearance was all that mattered. She'd collect her accolades, win her awards, and then she'd put her little boytoy back on the shelf when she was through with him. Nobody had to know.
Nobody had to know.
"Jordan," she said without taking her eyes off her phone, "I was thinking later we could brainstorm some new lyrics. The new EP could use just one more song, don't you think? Maybe another collab?"
"Mm-hmm," he hummed, all vague and infuriatingly noncommittal. Jessi rolled her eyes, then sipped the last of her smoothie and slid the glass across the counter.
"Wash this for me, will you? I can't get my hands in hot water with this new manicure."
Jordan stood up without complaint, leaving his coffee and smoothie abandoned on the countertop. He shuffled his way around to the sink, and behind her she heard running water as he began to wash her glass. Jessi smiled to herself. She didn't have to cook or clean. She didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. She had a perfect, obedient, dead-eyed butler to do it all for her.
Her phone chimed, and Jessi scrolled through it as the notifications poured in. Comments, likes, mentions, keysmashes and emojis and rampant jealousy from a thousand sources. She thrived on it.
"Everybody loves me, Jordan," she chirped, throwing her head back to look at him upside-down. If he spoke at all, it was buried under the sound of running water. Jessi sighed and peeled herself back up with a frown. "Tell me you love me, Jordan."
"I love you, Jessi." he responded in a monotone. Good enough. It didn't really matter if she heard it from him anyway. She heard it from everyone else, all the time.
Her life was perfect.
Something slammed into the back of her head, and her vision went white. Jessi made a sound, a pained confused coo like a wounded dove, and felt herself begin to slide out of her seat. She tried to stand and her limbs turned to jelly.
Another brutal impact, this one joined by the wind-chime tinkling of shattered glass. Hot blood spilled from her scalp and ruined her hair, ruined her Juicy Couture tracksuit, ruined her freshly-waxed kitchen floors.
"Wh....th'fuck?" she slurred, her brain spinning around inside her skull. Dimly, she was aware that she'd hit the floor, and tried to turn herself over to look at her attacker.
He didn't look so dead-eyed now. All she could see was his face, burning with rage like she'd never seen.
He hissed something at her in a language she didn't understand, and the world spun away.
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radioactivepeasant · 1 year ago
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Fic Prompts: Snippet Tuesday
Continuing from Monday's Snippet, now we come to the bit with Spy Tess. Now, there's a variety of ways she could've gotten here -- @sparguscityangel had an idea of Tess actually being there to report to the spies who trained her, and those spies being loyal to the deposed king of Haven. Other contexts can involve Tess trying to blend in with Wastelanders like in @sonicringnoise 's Friends in Low Places, or there to bring Jak intel (and shiny new guns) from Haven.
"Tess!"
Jak stretched up, waving her over from a circle of men and women at one of the cookfires dotting the courtyard of the temple.
"Sit over here!"
Jak really wasn't the outgoing type, and he never had been for as long as she'd known him. But after navigating around more Wastelanders than she'd ever seen in her life, Tess wasn't about to pass up a chance for some information from a friendly face. The circle parted, a little begrudgingly, to let her through, but this seemed more related to having to move while eating rather than an objection to her presence. She dropped down to sit on an overturned crate beside Jak, who pulled a paper-thin circle of some kind of bread from a rack by the fire and handed it to her.
"Dax just schmoozed one of the Foothill Wastelanders into trading a pound of peppers for a sack of rice," he said, flashing a quick smile, "I haven't had rice since I was a kid!"
He pointed Tess to a blackened old pot a woman was stirring with a heavy paddle. Rice piled up high on the paddle, and the weatherbeaten warrior jerked her head meaningfully at Tess. After a second, Tess realized what she was meant to do and obediently held up her flatbread. With a squishing sound, the rice was spread across it in a thick carpet.
"Rice from Foothill, shrimp and pepper from Spargus." Jak pointed to each ingredient in the small bowls Spargans were passing back and forth to add to their rice.
"And," Daxter interrupted, suddenly appearing between them, "Corn from Longstump, for just one tomango!"
The king -- Precursors within and without, that was the king! The actual head of the House of Mar was alive! -- shook his head and laughed as he took the ground corn from Daxter and added it to the pot. "You're a wonder, small one. In another life you must have been a master trader."
"Whaddya mean past life? I'm a master now!" Daxter puffed out his chest, soaking in the praise and approval like sunlight.
About time someone gave Daxter his due, in Tess’s opinion.
She sat and watched them all, allowing the food to cover for her observant silence. Not everyone at this fire was from the desert clan, the Spargans. One of the blue Lurkers from the mountain group had seated herself in the circle, humming something in a quavery old voice as she placidly worked a drop spindle. Foothills Clan mostly traded in cloth and metalhead pieces, as far as she could tell. The folk who lived down near the old Precursor Basin made beautifully intricate guns and staves -- and jewelry that doubled as weaponry in a pinch. Tess had haggled for twenty minutes to get a pair of razor sharp bone earrings from one of the Longstump Clan.
Seemed like Spargus was the gang producing all the Precursor artifacts, by and large. Tess blinked as a thought struck her: did this mean the former king of Haven was indirectly funding the Underground? Was he aware of that?
Daxter settled next to Tess comfortably, wrapping shrimp into the flatbread. Periodically he straightened to bark orders at whoever was manning to cooking pot at the moment -- even when it was King Bloody Damas Himself. Daxter took campfire cooking as seriously as he took the menu at the Naughty Ottsel. Tess bit back a giggle as she watched hardened soldiers grumble and comply with every recipe adjustment Daxter demanded.
Obviously, Daxxie knew what he was doing. His coat was softer and shinier now than it had ever been in the city, and he'd even put on either weight or muscle. He was actually getting nutrition out here in this ghastly desert, and that told Tess more about Spargus than any of its taciturn people could. Jak was just as obviously changed by his months in the Wasteland. His face was no longer pale and sunken -- he'd seen enough sun for a smattering of freckles to dance across rosy brown cheeks -- and his clothes didn't hang so loosely off his shoulders anymore. Like Daxter, his hair looked softer, and about as well-kept as the ocean breeze would allow.
Spargus was in better shape than much of Haven, clearly. Maybe it would be worth it to attempt an alliance.
A tankard began to be passed around the circle, breaking Tess from her thoughts. One by one, Wastelanders took a swig of a bitter alcohol, spiced with cinnamon. Tess managed to get a sip that burned like fire for a second before dulling into a warm glow. Definitely better than what Wastelanders usually carried, although not really to Tess’s tastes. She snorted when Jak's turn was swiftly curtailed by Damas deftly lifting the tankard from his hands.
"Not for you, young man." He took a draught and passed it back to the right.
Tess half expected Jak to be angry about this -- a teenager he might’ve been, but Krew never cared about Tess serving him whatever was watered down the most as long as he paid. And since it wasn't safe to drink the water in most of Haven, there wasn't much else Jak could drink without getting sick. But to Tess’s surprise, Jak only shrugged with a goodnatured laugh.
"So close! I'll get it next pass."
"Good luck with that," Damas snorted, leaning an elbow on one knee and pointing. "I've got eyes on the back of my head."
Jak almost seemed like he was going to argue that, but then he appeared to remember something. He grinned boyishly and settled back into his seat.
"It's true, he does," he said conversationally to everyone and no one.
The elderly Lurker looked up from her spindle with a croaking harrumph. "Little one is too little for grog," she scolded. "Too little for Running the Spire, too!"
Damas took this in stride. "Our rites of passage in the desert are more closely monitored than up north," he assured the old Wastelander. "Any trouble he gets into is wholly of his own making. Isn't that right, Jak?"
Jak snorted. "You're really not gonna let that Arena thing go, are you?"
"You took out a wall with a half dead metalpede," Damas answered dryly, "Lava clean-up took two weeks. No I'm not letting "that Arena thing" go."
Well, Tess mused, clearly some things hadn't changed.
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anotherhomedl · 22 days ago
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Affordable Pet Grooming Near Me
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sinnamonpork · 2 years ago
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Touya being a prostitute in the time in between his stay at the hospital and joining the league. His hair would still be its natural snow white and the markings on his skin still light, especially since he just got out from hospital care. I think it would be pretty fun if he met a younger Hawks at that time and the both of them forming a connection, where Keigo was just a starting hero with nobody that knows his name and Touya being an overworked teenager trying every job available to make ends meet.
The two would meet every week without fail to either fall into bed together or spend their time talking about the most random shit. Just lighthearted things, Keigo finding out that turtles were Touya's favorite animal and Touya learning about Keigo's fascination of golden things after that time he wore a golden mesh top. Touya got railed so hard he wobbled around like a baby fawn for three days straight. Keigo gave him a a golden and very very shiny dangling earrings in the shape of a feather after the encounter, and Touya would always wear it to their meetings together just to see the Keigo's bird like eyes prick like a predator about to go on a hunt.
The meetings keep happening for months when suddenly Keigo just dropped off the face of the earth, no show of his face or even a single text. Eventually Touya accepted that it was another person he cared about abandoning him but then he saw the news about pro hero Hawks breaking the top 10. The utter hurt he felt when he realized he got dropped yet again when something better and shinier came along, in this case it would be the spotlight of being a top hero for Hawks.
Oh, or them meeting again in the League but Hawks wouldn't recognize Dabi with all the scars and staples, the hard edges of the man so far from Touya who was soft spoken, showing nothing but care to his favorite bird. At first they'd both be untrusting, both for different reasons. Hawks sees this as nothing but a mission but in Dabi's case this was the man he thought cared for him, yet the hero didn't even recognize him on their multiple meetings. The inevitable attraction eventually winning out though and the both of them falls into bed but Dabi would be reluctant to be touched because he's so, so tired of being used for something. A body to warm the bed, an in with the league, a placeholder, a replacement.
I still don't know how to end this but I'll probably write a 5+1 with Hawks noticing all the clues and how horrible Hawks would feel when he realized this was the man that he met all those years ago, now hardened by time and experience. The man he abandoned after the commission forced him to focus on being a top hero. Touya, who he looked months after getting into the top 5 but all that was left was an empty apartment where traces of his almost lover lingered - one half of the feather earring he gave to Touya sitting at the drawer, the edges looking like it got melted off - but he wasn't there. And now here he was, no. 2 hero and still using Touya(Dabi??) to get an in with the league, like nothing ever changed from their teenage years.
(gosh I wish I got the motivation to actually write this fic because im a sucker for reconciliation stories, especially when there's a lot of history and angst between the characters haha)
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