#is capable of being sweet? amiable maybe? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cinnamonest · 3 years

Note

I am a bully and mean and saw that Childe’s a Family Man so I decided to be depraved and write some ideas for DadSon and really I feel like Childe can get worse in that situation- especially if we have an AU where the parents are divorced and his Dad is doing the single dad thing. Like, young Ajax is... precocious- a troublemaker as always- but he’s always been perceptive and more aware than any child should be. He figures its not normal for kids to be this attached to their parents, but he sees how his siblings cling to his mom when he comes for visits and decides nah, he’s fine. But then his Dad introduces him to his girlfriend and he’s... quiet. He dislikes her and wants her gone, but he’ll play “nice” for now bc you like her. When he goes to sleep for the night, he wakes up due to some noise from your room and peeks in and sees you fucking your girlfriend and thats the first time he learns what masturbation is. He can’t get it out of his head and he spirals as he gets older. There’s guilt, bc you’re so sweet and kind and here he is, your son, wanting to fuck dear old dad till he’s weak in the knees and bedridden and drowning in his cum.

He gets... bold, one night. Dad broke up with his girlfriend and he’s drunk himself into oblivion to cope. Ajax carries him to bed and then he... notices the bulge in your pants... the odd squirming and twitch of your legs as he tugs down your bottoms and watches your dick rise to half mast. He plays with it, unsure of wtf he is doing as he feels your harden in his hands- and he gets bolder, touching you as he would touch himself and freezing up when your climax splatters across his face. You passed out, and Ajax hurriedly cleans you and pulls your pants up then runs back to his room with his heart thundering in his chest. His mind running a mile a minute as his obsession grows and darkens his mind.

He searches how gay sex works later that night, and carefully but steadily works his way towards it.

He’s long since taken over the household chores due to your busy work schedule- especially cooking. Your diet is healthy and full of fruits, and you applaud him for being a better cook than his mom as you tuck in. What you don’t know is your after dinner tea is laced with sleeping pills that make sure you stay deep asleep as he practices stretching your hole and finding all your sweet spots. He’s learned to earn money from doing... things, and managed to procure everything he needs to properly prepare you to take his dick when the time comes. Its rewarding when you begin to react to his fingers without him sucking and fondling your cock, how you whine and twitch and come undone in a handful of sharp thrusts at specific angles, how though unconcious, you squeeze his head with your thighs as he goes down on you, and he makes sure to come on your face and belly everytime and take pictures. Every once in a while he compares dicks and marvels at how he’s beginning to outgrow you, and ruts in between your thighs to satiate his desire.

Its taken some time but he’s going to be an adult soon. He already has everything lined up- a scholarship, a job with good advancement opportunities, a new apartment he could py for wholly by himself, etc. He’ show you he’s independent and totally capable of taking care of both of you- so you don’t have to worry about your cute little son anymore, Dad. He’s all grown up and ready to take care of you now- financially, emotionally, and sexually.

He’s so happy that when he comes home he nearly overlooks his mother- his birth mother- in the living room talking to you, a stack of documents on the coffee table as you look nervous but amiable to whatever the fuck she is saying. When he asks what’s gotten you two so happy, thinking oh maybe Tonia got into the highschool she applied for or Teucer made the soccer team- you ruin his mood by telling him you two are thinking of getting married again. And he lashes out. Screaming and arguing about why you two separated in the first place and you CANT get back together! You cant, cant, cant! You have to calm him down and send his mother away, saying youll discuss it later. And ohhhh boy are you miffed with his outburst. You start scolding him and nagging that he shouldnt have done that- there are better ways to express his disagreement and he’s being an emotional, angry brat about it.

And Childe snaps. He grabs his Father and drags him to Childe’s room as he flails and struggles, unable to fight off his son’s honestly inhuman strength as he throws him on the bed and strips him down. Your words are cut short as he gags you with your own balled up underwear, and ties your hands back your own shirt as he rummages for the lube on his desk drawer and settles between your legs. You kick at him and he brushes you off as he soaks your hole in the cold lube and pushes his fingers in, making you choke and stutter at the invasion that- doesnt hurt. Childe sighs, saying he wanted to do it more romantically, but if you’re going to ruin his chances like that then he’ll just speed up and skip a few steps. Your eyes are wide as you beg him to stop through your gag when he shucks off his bottoms and digs his dick out of his pants- already at half mast and huge, as he pumps it while pressing it against your ass cheeks, taking pleasure at how you flinch when he drags his cock head along the crack, over your slick hole, and nestle it lovingly against your testicles, letting you realize just how big he is, then return to your hole. You feel tears in your eyes as he pushes in, groaning loud and low into your ear as he bottoms out. Your brain is still trying to process as he leans back and grins, making sure to drag your hips up so you can see where you two are connected, giggling that his cock was made to be inside you. That he was born to give daddy dearest all the love that mommy failed to.

As he rocks his hips you shut your eyes tight and try to ignore his wanton moans, the absolute aching fullness in your anus as its speared open by your son’s dick, the disgust that swirls in your gut to your body not only being postively receptive to his actions, but also his many confessions of what he’s done to prepare you for this moment, how you almost ruined it. But he’s a good son, he’ll forgive you. Just don’t speak to mommy ever again, okay?

You come with your cock untouched and long before he does, and your face burns in shame. Childe takes a moment to stop and collect some of it on his fingers, smearing it on your face so you don’t forget, and licking it off your stomach with his tongue, giggling that you taste sooooo much better than when he first sucked you off. He’s so glad you like his cooking.

Then he starts thrusting himself in, deep and harsh and forcing your legs flat against your torso as you cry out in pain and pleasure as he chases his own high- dangerous threats falling from his lips as he makes you swear to never ever think of anyone else other than him. Convulsing as he empties out inside of you and you cry at the burn of cum splattering against your bruised guts.

Tears fall from your face as you hiccup and wait for him to pull out, to end the humiliation. Childe merely smiles when he sees the look on your face as he flips you onto your stomach, pressing himself against you and slowly massaging your sensitive dick as he asks sweetly, if you think one round could really satisfy a healthy young man like himself, when he’s been lusting for you for years? Oh no, Dad. He’s going the whole goddamn night and day. And with that horrific revelation sinking in, Childe smiles and presses a kiss to the side of his daddy’s temple and leans back, ready to truly breed his father to the brink. Who knows, maybe if he fucked him hard enough dad could become all nice and round- like he was pregnant. Even if Childe knew that sadly couldn’t be.

#tw: incest #lena's asks #q #!!!! ive been fed

75 notes · View notes

thatslikely · 3 years

Text

Mill Boy - F.W.

Mill Boy- Fred Weasley x fem!reader [1800s muggle!au]

warnings: mentions of child labor

word count: 3.4k

a/n: probably part one of a minseries? y/n and fred are about 10-11 in this so part ii could possibly be a timeskip

“Mum, can I go play? Please?” you pleaded, doe eyes shiny and prominent. Your mother, a hard working housewife, was bent over the sturdy kitchen table, dousing dirty dishes in scalding water, preparing them to be piled with the beef warming in the flames of the stove across the airy kitchen.

“Fine, Y/N, just please don’t get your dress dirty. Your father worked hard to afford such a fine cotton. He wouldn’t be pleased to see it ruined, now would he?” You eagerly nodded in agreement, ready to go enjoy the meadows lying across the walls of your humble residence. It was a beautiful spring day, most enticing one yet. Birds fluttered through the lush, brilliant cedar trees, enjoying the tranquil air that comes with the season. Ox-eye daisies dotted the expansive hills, all the way down to the slowly trickling creek.

You slipped your muddied boots over the clean, cotton socks adorning your feet, grabbing your hat to shield your youthful eyes from the golden star above right after. You slipped it over your locks, which were neatly tied into pig-tails with silky, baby pink ribbons Mother bought you for your birthday.

You skipped through the propped back door, little giggles of delight humming through your throat. Any traces of the harsh winter that stormed the land only a few months prior were washed away with the glimmering sunlight, which coerced the wildflowers to bloom from buds to petaled cups of sweetness.

With a smile, you followed a path of vibrant, woolly blue violets, carefully plucking their stems for a nice arrangement to become the perfect centerpiece for dinner. The colour, in your opinion, complimented the pastel pinks of your dress perfectly, filling you with even more glee. How you wished that you could spend all your time out of the confines of buildings, having fun and being free of responsibility.

It was most unladylike to go splashing in the cool water of the stream, and you would surely be scolded for it if you chose to do so. You had attempted to conceal your submersion in the winding brook once before, but the liquidy footprints you left on the floors of your house quickly outed your escapade. Fearing another stern talk, which was not pleasant in the slightest, you simply skipped to its edge, astutely observing its reflective surface with admiration.

The crystalline liquid glossed over smooth stones adorned with moss so peacefully, its pace never wavering, not even for a second. The mere idea of something perpetually in motion, never having to stop and take a break, as you did many times after a long day of running in the fields, chasing butterflies, astounded you.

Everyone had to go to sleep, or stop for a breath every once in a while, right? Scampers, the stray which adored your family’s covered porch, went to bed at odd times, most often at noon. And yet, he still slept. The grocer down the lane kept his shop attended every time you’d visit, but the windows would soon be curtained and dim when the moon came out to rule the seemingly never ending sky.

You prodded the cool creek with your finger, letting the water continue to flow past it unbothered, as if it were nothing but another stray twig. The thirst for answers dripped down from your mind, enveloping your body in a sensation that couldn’t be mended by simply drinking the water. You were amazed, and you had to see more, know more. You followed the bends of the stream, far beyond the view of your house.

Nobody had ever outright stated that you shan’t see where it goes, where the water ends, so naturally you had to discover it yourself. Maybe you’d be met with a secret alcove, your own private pocket of the boundless world. Alternatively, maybe you would stumble across a small house entangled high up in the branches of a tree, and fly up to its entrance like a fairy from a tale recited before bed. Or even, most enticing of all, maybe there was a prince waiting for you where the water ends; a prince who’d sweep you off your feet, offering you a chance to live in a magnificent castle situated in a far away land.

You hummed songs that your frilly-dressed peers would chime in unison during recess, filling the still air. The toes of your boots leaped from one large rock to another, balancing on their flat surfaces like a game of hopscotch.

The soft, sweet humming echoing through his cove from a ways down the creek instantly perked Fred’s curiosity, luring him in like a siren’s song. He halted his stick-poking of the ants inching up the burly trunk of the ancient tree, swinging his gingered-head down, so his vision lay unobscured by the low-hanging branches.

No one ever came to visit Fred when he lay slouched in the safe, knotted branches of his tree; whether it was because his family couldn’t locate him or the fact that they were aware that he needed a break, he didn’t know. Days spent in the mill were painful and excruciatingly long, so during the few spare moments he had to himself, he’d spend it talking to the lush wildlife surrounding him. He’d never be talked over by the weeds or birds, they’d just sit and listen, exactly what he needed.

He nearly fell to the grassy ground trying to find the source of the melodic songs, curious to see who dare disturb the previously hidden Fort Fred. He imagined himself as a skillful militiaman, like his brothers, ready to charge and overtake the enemy, even if the music-maker was nothing near a threat.

Just as he was about to jump down to investigate on his own two feet, the source was finally revealed. An absolutely beautiful girl- a princess, rather, approached the tree. She was dressed in a light pink gown, as if she had just come back from a royal ball. Her singing brought serenity all around, as if she were somehow communicating with the birds and butterflies, allowing them to chirp and flutter along. At the same time, however, her well-loved boots and hat altered her look to something of a daring adventurer, exploring the unknown paths of thicket.

“Hello,” you said angelically, clasping your hands together across your waist. You were completely surprised to meet a companion on your previously solo expedition, and a dashing, amiable one at that.

You’d never seen this particular boy at school before; he seemed different than all your icky male peers. The boys at school would tug on your pigtails during tests, claim you were infested with disgusting germs at recess, and chase you around the yard tauntingly. But this boy’s features resonated nothing but kindness: the crinkles around his eyes from smiling, light orange freckles all across his nose, his shaggy, fiery red hair topped with a patched-up flat cap.

Maybe there was a prince at the end of the brook after all.

The friendly-appearing boy hopped down from his perch in the tree, smoothing out the wrinkles and leaves in his suspendered trousers and white button up with a suspicious look. “And who would you be, miss?”

“Erm- my name’s Y/N. What’s your’s?” You couldn’t help but smile, and your cheeks prickled as if a ladybug were crawling across them.

He stepped closer to you, his composure open and honest. “I’m Fred, Fred Weasley. I live down the way, near the mill.”

“Nice to meet you, Fred Weasley.” You did a proper courtesy, just as you had been taught so many times before, then adding, “what’s a mill?”

Fred’s jaw dropped, as if it had no hinges. “You’re joking, right? You don’t know about the mill? I work there just about every day of the week.” He pointed further down the creek, opposite the direction of your house, astonishment swimming in his mahogany brown eyes.

“I’ve never heard anything of the sort. What do you do in a mill, exactly?”

“Well, there’re these big, loud machines that're always moving. They get power from this huge wooden wheel upstream that’s always spinning. They make tons of pieces of fabric out of wool. Maybe I even weaved some of the cloth used to make that very dress you’re wearing right now.”

You marvelled at his descriptions, even the simple way he spoke, articulated his words. Those utterly despicable boys at school would’ve just stuck their tongues out at you disrespectfully, not giving you the time of day, but Fred couldn’t be more different. He spoke to you as if you two were something of equals.

“Oh wow.” You were barely able to suppress a flustered giggle. Why were you feeling so, mushy around Fred, the sensation comparable only to the consistency of porridge? “I didn’t know you were so talented to do that.”

“Aww,” -he blushed, scratching the nape of his neck- “I mean, it’s not too difficult, you could probably do it if you tried. After a while ‘course.”

“Nonsense.” You not-so-nonchalantly rubbed your palms up and down your dress, noticing beads of perspiration accumulating on them. While doing so, the bushel of hooded violets resting in your pocket became evident. You pulled one from your stash, saying, “do you want one of my flowers? I picked them down near my house.”

Fred swore at any moment, if anything were so much as to touch him, he would burst. He’d never experienced these, admittedly strange, feelings before. It felt like his last meal wouldn’t settle in his stomach, or as if he’d just run a horse’s distance by the way his heart was pounding out of his chest. Was he sick? Should he go tell mum?

“I, erm, of course,” he stuttered, barely capable of moving his lips to form coherent words. “You have e-excellent taste in flowers, miss Y/N.”

“Thanks. I picked plenty, for a nice centerpiece at home. Mum always loves flowers.” You fiddled with the frills and layers of your dress, doing something to occupy your energetic fingers. Fred studied the flower intently with his brows furrowed, tugging on its petals and anthers.

After Fred was satisfied with his examination of the violet, he said, “you know, there’s some really pretty yellow flowers growing down by the mill. They’d go perfectly with these here.”

“Will you take me?”

“Of course I will. We’d best get going, though. Don’t wanna miss dinner.” Fred gestured for you to follow his lead, walking through the knee-high blades of grass as if he were wading through a river. When he quickly noticed your look of apprehension, not wanting to dirty your dress or have an unwanted animal encounter, he grabbed your palm with a grin, forcing you to trail behind him.

You two distantly followed the path of the creek, adventure flowing through both of your veins. Fred’s grip on your hand was gentle, despite the calloused patches scattered over his skin, no doubt a result of the ‘large machines’ he described working on in the mill.

After a while of giggling and jogging, the distant outline of a building across the stream was visible. Its four walls were composed of rough, grey stones used as bricks; it’s roof was sealed with jagged pieces of slate, some out of place. But the biggest surprise came not with the building itself, but to the right of it. A humongous, wooden wheel spun through the rill, rhythmically splashing the previously tranquil water as it continued flowing. It was as if everything today was out of a fairy tale, but this was the most outlandish of them all. A giant wheel, spinning in pace through the water?

“Well, we’re here.” While Fred usually dreaded returning back to the mill, as his time within the confines were never pleasant, tolerable at best, he was glad to be here with company and a different mission. He wasn’t going to be making fabric today, no, he was on the search for bundles of corn-yellow flowers, with the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on. True royalty, a princess through and through.

“Wow. That wheel’s ginormous! How does it work?” This time, it was your mind that curiosity flooded, and it ceased to relent.

“Erm, I don’t exactly know. All I know is that the creek pushes the wheel, for some reason. I’ll ask Dad about it sometime, he’ll know.” You nodded appreciatively, satisfied at the promise of an answer.

“Now what do you say we go find some of those flowers?”

“Yes please!” You started peering around the water’s edge, attempting to spot any signs of cheerful, yellow flowers.

While you continued digging through ferns and bushes, searching for gold, Fred enchanted you from a distance across the shaded meadow. “I think my brother Percy said that the flowers are called Golden Alexanders. He’s one to always go a bit heavy on books during his breaks.”

‘You’ll have to ask your brother how they got their name. The first part’s fairly obvious, the Alexander portion not so much.”

“I’m gonna have to ask everyone in my family questions if I keep showing you new things by the looks of it,” he giggled, walking around the grassy plateau with his hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

“Teacher always tells me during lessons, ‘curiosity killed the cat’-”

“Poor kitty,” Fred muttered.

“-But satisfaction brought it back. So you best bring me back some answers tomorrow, because I don’t exactly fancy dying.” Fred’s eyes widened with his new, highly-important mission. “I’d at least wish to go out in a heroic way, not at the hands of my own unquenched curiosity.”

“That’s quite the big word.”

“I know, I learned it the other day!” you giggled, covering your toothy grin with your hand. “Isn’t it cool?” Fred responded with a handsome, wide smile and concurring nod. His eyes were filled to the brim with joy; they reminded you of warm evenings sitting around the crackling fire charring logs and embers.

You scourged through the brush for a while longer until the soothing trickling of water was interrupted by Fred’s distinct voice, shouting, “Oh, I think I found some o’er here!”

You skipped to Fred’s direction, the toes of your boots patting the grass lightly. Fred was leaning down over a small patch of Golden Alexanders, watching a few bumblebees buzz between the central stigmas protected in the wreaths of small petals.

Without thinking, you swiftly wrapped your arms around Fred, his back pressed to your chest tightly. “Thank you, Fred. These’ll look great. You’ve got quite the eagle eye.” Your cheeks burned, and your soft arms were swept with tiny goosebumps.

“It’s no problem, really. I’m just glad you’re happy.” You unleashed Fred from your grasp, nearly tumbling to the ground with flusteredness. The porridge-ish feeling was back, and your now-wobbly legs weren’t exempt. “Your smile’s contagious, you know.”

Fred’s reaction to your hug was slightly different, but equal in magnitude. His chest puffed as if it were fluttering with butterflies that would glide low near the grass, his neck, which tingled after your every exhale, was burning like brush, and his breath all but stopped, which he paid no mind to.

To distract himself from the foreign sensations racking his body, he pointed to the revolving wheel sputtering the crystalline, flowing water, saying, “Do you think it's possible for me to climb the wheel? I’d wager I could.”

“You’d be a madman if you did.” You daintily trailed behind him like a curious cat, spying on his actions from afar.

“Then I guess I’ve got to do it.” He stepped one foot on one of the damp wooden beams, which proved successful until the churning of the wheel shook off his balance. He stumped to the group with an ‘ow’, groaning, “Princess, you were supposed to catch me.”

“Sorry,” you cheekily giggled, suppressing your smile with your cupped palm. You looked in all directions but Fred’s to avoid an assumed scornful glare, but instead you were met with a chuckling redhead, his umber eyes screwed shut with laughter.

Childish titter occupied the still Spring air, blending in with the trickling water and occasional melody chirped by a lone sparrow or two. Your fingers intertwined with Fred’s to prevent you from falling backwards into the puddles of sludge strewn through the sunset-soaked blades of grass.

Eventually, Fred could be your stabilizing tether no longer, and you both fell backwards, hands still locked playfully. You started to get up from the soft cushion composed of a plethora of plants before the flat-capped ginger motioned for you to remain relaxed on the ground, the large tufts of your gown and all.

You complied, and before you knew it, you were making out the shapes of pink-hued clouds, improvising tales and fables to enchant Fred with.

“That one looks like a rabbit, doesn’t it?” you would say, or “that one looks like a mule-”

“-riding on a carriage!” Fred finished, giggling in unison with you. As your throat erupted with chuckles, you and the prince beside you clutched your stomachs which were rattling with joy.

After a while of staring up at the deepening sky, you said, “I think I’ve got to go back for dinner, Mum’ll be expecting me.” Fred immediately stood up, quick as a soldier, and he outstretched his arm chivalrously to help you sit up as well.

“I’ll walk you back, don’t worry. Who would I be to let a princess such as yourself brave the wilderness alone?”

“How kind of you, good sir,” you replied with a joking curtsy and exaggerated accent dripping with poshness. Your fingers intertwined with Fred’s again for the second time that day, and this time they felt more familiar, as if you could pinpoint every sun-owing freckle or crease in his pale skin.

Your connected arms swung rhythmically as you both relaxedly walked towards the direction of your humble residence, careful to avoid stepping on dotted ladybugs that scurried through the grass. Occasionally, you or Fred would release a clever wisecrack or randomly twirl, basking in the pink rays of sunshine that gradually depleted, but for most of the trek home, you stayed quiet, simply enjoying each other’s company: a luxury that was hard to come by in Fred’s house of nine.

When your house was finally visible on the thin line of the horizon, Fred’s eyes couldn’t help but light up. Your home didn’t look much different than the Weasley’s, save for its size being half as big. Your chimney wasn’t as crooked and worn by the elements as the gingered clan’s was either, but the young boy didn’t seem to notice. All he could see was an elegant castle suited for no one but the best.

At long last, you arrived on your back porch. The door was wide open, where your mother leaned her aproned hips against the frame with a smile. Wonderful aromas wafted from the kitchen to you and Fred’s nostrils, beckoning you to take a seat at the dinner table and dig in. “Now who might this be, Y/N?”

“My name’s Fredrick Weasley ma’am.” Youthfulness glinted his eyes as he reached his hand to shake your mother’s. “I go by Fred.”

“You’ve got quite the firm shake,” she said, suppressing a chuckle, “I hope you and Y/N had fun today? By the look of her dress, she did.”

Your cheeks burned like a tin fresh out of the oven as you looked down in horror to see brown splotches of dirt strewn across the fluff and frills. “Mum, I-”

“Shh, Y/N, don’t worry about it,” you mother cooed in a whisper, eyeing the oblivious redheaded boy next to you, who was equally smudged with mud but complemented with a sweet, wide-mouthed smile.

“Well, Y/N dear, it’s dinner time. Does your guest Mister Weasley care to join us?”

“No thank you, Miss Y/L/N, I’ve got to be on my way back to my home as well.” Fred pulled you closer to him, so that your chest was mere inches away from his’. A sudden burst of confidence pumped through his veins, and with that, he gave a light pack to your cheek.

Your eyes widened with shock; his lips left a tingly imprint on your nerves as he turned back around towards the creek. I’ll never wash my face again, you thought, cupping your cheek with your palm.

“Bye princess, I’ll see you tomorrow, promise?” he shouted, giving you a final wave.

“Promise. Bye, Mill Boy. See you then!” And with that, he was off following towards the water in which he came, the orange sunlight turning his figure into a fading silhouette.

general taglist:

@amourtentiaa @probably-peeves @anchoeritic @theweasleytwinsgirl

weasley twins taglist:

@horrorxweasley

send me and ask or dm to be added!

76 notes · View notes

bbnibini · 4 years

Text

PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA -- prologue/zero🔖

With darkness blanketing the starless sky in Devildom, it was hard to keep track of time without the aid of clocks conveniently placed in most parts of RAD. Truthfully speaking, you have been tardy and even missed class in your first days as an exchange student(much to Lucifer's ire). A demon's way of life was starkingly different from a human's-- you recalled the culture shock and the homesickness you felt before. It was hard to believe that almost a year had passed since then.

You've been through a lot, have been dragged to countless shenanigans by the demon brothers and even died in a few timelines or so. How you managed to even stay sane from all of that mess was a miracle. You'd even like to believe you made friends along the way.

True, most of the personalities you encountered weren't the most friendly bunch, but you somehow gained their trust, and now you began to dread ever leaving. It's only one or two months more before your exchange program will be over, so sometimes you couldn't help but wonder if the brothers feel the same way.

"Do they like me?" You had some suspicions, but dismissed them in a self-deprecating fashion. They were powerful demons and you were only human. While your birth origins had an interesting backstory, it didn't really mean much. Lilith was her own person, and so were you. The brothers made it perfectly clear to you that they know how to tell both of you apart, and you were thankful for that. The last thing you'd like is to be a vessel they can pour their grief and their pent-up feelings at. You barely knew Lilith in the first place, so how on earth can you be capable enough to heal their hearts? Nevermind being loved by them? Out of the question!

That was what you thought anyway, but they seemed to think otherwise; for now, you found yourself eating your words when you saw a suspicious looking letter in your locker.

Drawn on the corners of the envelope were pink carnations, while an elegant handwriting was placed on the centermost part of its back. It read:

" With Love, from Your Secret Admirer"

You felt your heart beat out of your chest. Your sweaty palm held the envelope with trembling hands as you looked consciously at your surroundings.

You shook your head and tried to rationalise.

"This is impossible. This must be a prank."

You were wrong, unfortunately. When you opened the letter and read its contents, it was definitely a love confession. The same pink carnations were seen at the corners of the stationery. Three words you thought you'd never hear in your life were peppered all throughout. You get it. Whoever sent this to you clearly meant it.

The question was...who?

You rarely check your locker as you had most of your school supplies and your books kept in a compartment under your desk. The only times you do is when it's time to change your uniform for the appropriate season. Putting school uniforms in a locker shouldn't be common sense--you knew it was unusual, that was why you put it in there in the first place. You don't trust your own memory and your motor skills so you hated to ruin your uniform before you even got to wear them. That was what happened when you placed all your uniforms in your closet before anyway.

...let's just say that whatever you put in that closet will never see the light of day again. Even with Lucifer's stern lectures, you couldn't seem to keep it tidy for even a second. Saying that, keeping your uniforms in a locker was even his bright idea.

...wait a minute.

Could it be? You shook your head.

While it's true that not a lot of people really knew about where your locker was, not to mention how often you open it, Lucifer...really?

He was the last person you'd ever suspect. If he had something to say to you, he wouldn't be so roundabout like this. Not to mention the handwriting in the letter is completely different from his penmanship. How do you know?

Well...ehh...he might have signed a few...documents for you to get you out of trouble...cough. But! That is besides the point!

Did he even have time to send this? He told everyone not to bother him while the student council was preparing for an upcoming school festival. Would someone so preoccupied and had the notoriety of being eternally overworked have the time to write a disgustingly sweet love letter? Some might say that he must have sent it at an earlier time but...

...the letter's stationery still had its scent so it should be written quite recently. Your assumptions of its recency were confirmed once you saw a cookie tin inside your locker. Inside them were cookies (duh) that suspiciously looked and tasted like the ones Barbatos offered you this morning. Still warm too... Wait...

Barbatos?! You felt your cheeks warm. You didn't expect that! True he was always nice and amiable to you, but you always attributed that to his occupation. As a butler, he had to be proper and courteous at all times. That was why it was so weird (at least in your opinion) that he would ever send you a love letter. Your relationship with him never really gave you that impression. It was pleasant, but not romantic. Still, you didn't dismiss the possibility that it could be him, even if that was highly unlikely.

Speaking of highly unlikely, Mammon had been acting suspiciously since yesterday. He...actually smelled a lot like the perfume used on the letter's stationery!.

Nah. Mammon. Really? Could he really write something so embarrassing like this? Not to mention the grammar used in the letter was quite highfalutin. Perhaps if someone was well-read however, writing a letter like this would be a breeze. Maybe Satan?

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. You're starting to suspect everyone.

Maybe, maybe focus on the impossibilities first?

It couldn't be Levi. You were with him all this time! In fact, he's currently waiting for you to get your uniform as we speak! The twins are also out of that list. You're quite sure they don't know about where your locker was located. You didn't mean to keep it a secret! It's just, there was a time when you didn't really trust Belphegor a lot so you were on guard with him. You had to keep your mouth shut in front of Beel too--it was inevitable since the two of them were really close. Saying that, it is not the case anymore! What happened with you and Belphegor is now water under the bridge! In fact, you're contemplating on sharing the cookies with them later.

Asmo couldn't be the sender either. While it's true that the stationery seemed like his style, he is also stuck helping Lucifer for the festival. He also didn't seem to be the type who'd resort his confessions to love letters. He'd always been open about expressing himself after all!

So that narrows it down to four. You opened the notes app on your D.D.D and wrote down the possible senders:

1. Lucifer - The person who suggested to place your uniforms in your locker. Is one of the only people who knows where and when you open the locker.

Contradictions-- The letter is only sent recently (meaning it was most likely sent this afternoon) , as it came with a tin of freshly baked cookies. Lucifer is too busy to send it. Handwriting isn't the same either.

2. Barbatos - The cookies in the tin looked and tasted like the ones he gave you this morning. He has plenty of time to put the letter and the cookies in your locker.

Contradictions-- He doesn't seem to see you in a romantic light. Does he even have time to date anyone when he's so busy serving Diavolo?

3. Mammon-- Has the same scent as the stationery in the letter. Acted weirdly since yesterday.

Contradictions-- The sender's manner of writing didn't resemble Mammon at all. Also, he doesn't strike you as someone who'd write a sappy love letter.

4. Satan-- The vocabulary used in the letter could only be written by a well-read person. The sender's writing style also resembled Satan's.

Contradictions-- Satan is also helping with the festival preparations. He isn't crossed out of the list however because he finished his work early and went to the library once he was done. The library and your locker are on the same path, so he would have enough time to send the letter and the package.

Satisfied with your notes, you exited the app and noticed a notification on your DDD. Someone was calling. You decide to....

💌 [ Answer it quickly ]

💌 [ Answer it after several rings ]

💌 masterlist

54 notes · View notes

thebibliomancer · 3 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #242: “EASY COME... EASY GO!”

April, 1984

“Okay Avengers, the party’s over!”

Being a buzzkill, party-hating Cover Vision!

Hmm. Something about this cover makes it feel like from an older era. The returned Mighty Avengers logo or maybe the inking? Or perhaps the Silver Age DC superdickery energy to it? I can’t put my finger on it but this feels like a cover you’d see in the 70s instead of the 80s.

Last time on Avengers: Well, they went to San Francisco for a two-parter where they fought Morgan Le Fey to save Jessica Drew’s soul. As ya do.

Vision has also been a tube boy after he walked into a null field. Starfox hooked him up to the Titan supercomputer and that didn’t fix him, it did overclock his robot brain and let him broadcast giant holograms of his own head. That’s almost as good.

This time:

Some guy: “HOLY GEEZ!”

An interesting note, this guy has only ever seen Quinjets in pictures and never thought he’d see one in person. Tells you how often the Avengers hang around Ottumwa, Iowa.

We start with the Avengers in mid-return from California.

In one of the Quinjets, She-Hulk is telling Starfox that she wished they could have spent more time before returning to New York so she could have shown him LA.

Starfox: “Ah, well... I’m sure another opportunity will present itself, She-Hulk! Besides, the scenery around her has plenty to offer!��

Wanda looks like she’s trying to astral project away from Starfox putting his hand on her shoulder but she’s really just distracted thinking about Vision.

The Avengers on the Jessica Drew mission radioed back to the Mansion that they were bringing Hank Pym home but Wanda suggested that Hank could examine Vision and maybe fix him. But Vision rejected the idea and Wanda is at a loss for why he’s determined to overcome his robo-paralysis on his own.

I’m also a little confused why they didn’t call on Hank Pym sooner to examine tube Vision but then again that would have been super awkward for Wasp and Reed Richards, that hack, said Vision should have recovered quickly.

Speaking of super awkward, Hank and Wasp are alone together in the other Quinjet.

Hank is also baffled that Vision turned down his help. He repaired him once before! Remember? He got super tiny and had a fantastic voyage inside him? In Avengers #93?

Jan comments that she hasn’t heard Hank sound so confident in years and he confirms that devoting his time fully to SCIENCE and taking superheroing off the table as an option has done wonders for his emotional outlook.

He also reiterates that he never felt cut out for the superhero life. Aw, enjoy it while it lasts, bud.

And he thanks her for calling him Hank instead of “Dr. Pym” like she did at the hospital.

Wasp: “Oh... That. Well, when you flew out at my request to help save Jessica Drew’s life... after all we’d been through... the divorce and all... I’m afraid I slipped into my stuffy Avengers chairwoman voice. I thought it might make things easier, but it didn’t... For either of us. I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank Pym: “That’s okay, Jan. I understand. Your ‘stuffy chairwoman voice,’ huh? Heh-heh. How often do you have to use that?”

Wasp: “Wellll... Most of the time the others will go along with ol’ ‘dingaling Jan’ -- but sometimes, I have to get tough. That never fails to grab their attention!”

Hank Pym: “No doubt! Once, I was the only Avenger who knew how tough you really were! I’m glad the others are learning.”

Wasp: “I guess that none of us are ever too old to learn, Hank.”

Feels like Hank is rewriting some things in his memories since Jan often had to diminish herself to make him feel better but then again it didn’t always work so maybe the idea is that he knew all along how strong she was?

Either way, nice to see these two interacting so amiably.

Also, I like that she’s able to be an effective leader while still being ‘dingaling Jan’ since it doesn’t change how smart and capable she is. And the contrast if she has to get serious only helps.

I think overall I like that her leadership style is so uniquely her and that when her character was retrofitted to operate outside of being ‘Hank Pym’s partner’ she still remained recognizably her.

We have a whopping several women on the Avengers at this time (glorious) and Wasp, She-Hulk, Scarlet Witch, and Captain Marvel all feel like different characters.

Since Vision declined Hank Pym’s help, Wasp drops him off back home in Central Indiana.

Once these two were husband and wife, friends and lovers. But they were very different people and, without meaning to, they hurt each other very much. Today, they have perhaps put a small bit of that hurt behind them. Today, they have again become friends.

Daaaaw. Friends.

Wasp returns to Avengers Mansion to discover there’s a full-on party going on. There’s even streamers and a Captain America who seems incredibly enthusiastic about streamers.

(In another fun bit, Monica knew about the party already because she flew ahead to the mansion before joining Wasp in the Quinjet after she dropped off Hank. And she was bursting to not tell Wasp what was going on as they landed.)

Wasp is even more surprised when she learns that the party is celebrating Hawkeye’s marriage.

Wasp: “Barton? You mean Hawkeye? Married?!?”

Hawkeye: “‘Fraid so, Jan! I’d like you to meet my bride... Mockingbird.”

Mockingbird: “How do you do?”

Wasp: “Oh... fine. You’ll have to excuse me. This is... quite a surprise.”

A reaction that Mockingbird says she’s getting used to because she’s seeing it from all of Hawkeye’s friends!

Hah!

Hawkeye asks Cap on the sly whether he made the right move, getting married, but Cap is very supportive, saying its the most responsible thing he’s ever done.

Hawkeye: “What?! Cap, you cut me to the quick! Haven’t I always acted in a mature, responsible manner?”

She-Hulk: “Look who’s talking... the man whose proudest achievement is the invention of the water-balloon arrow!”

Provided She-Hulk isn’t just making stuff up, there’s some serious off-screen shenanigans that we didn’t get to see, possibly involving Hawkeye shooting water balloons at She-Hulk all day.

But... CLINT. YOU INVENTED AN ANTI-GRAVITY ARROW!

Why am I the only one who remembers that?

Thor shows up at the party next, back from his own solo adventures, and offers his own congratulations to Hawkeye.

Mockingbird is undergoing some culture shock here, as she’s astounded that Hawkeye calls Thor “Goldilocks.” And when Thor turns his Thor charm on her, and blesses their wedding, she’s rendered briefly speechless.

Its fun that we get this side of her. I think she was similarly blown away when they met Cap on the subway.

But even though she was a SHIELD agent and then a freelance superhero, she doesn’t seem to have a lot of exposure to your Avengers types so Hawkeye pulling her into those social circles is a lot of fun.

She’s going to get used to it though. I know that she Avenges herself in the future.

Also, look at Thor’s flagon of mead. Holy shit. Its as big as his whole torso.

Jarvis is really dedicated!

Over in a quiet corner of the party, Wanda tries to convince Vision to let Hank Pym take a look at him but Vision dismisses the idea.

Vison: “Please, Wanda, let’s not spoil this happy occasion! Surprise parties are all too rare, and few of them are party to as many surprises as this one!”

And instead of explaining what he means, he turns his hologram off.

Well, okay.

AH HA HE WAS REPAIRED AND JUST DIDN’T MENTION

For reasons of surprise.

What a whimsical turn for the Vision.

Aw, that panel of them kissing and everyone cheering is sweet. That’s how I like to remember them. Not, err, later developments.

(I also like Mockingbird being confused whether or not he’s still a hologram because of his intangibility)

Everyone congratulates Vision for being bipedal again.

Vision: “It’s good to be moving, Jan. But my recovery shouldn’t come as that big of a surprise. As I told you a few days ago, it was just a matter of time before I isolated the cause of my body’s motor dysfunctions -- and initiated the proper repair systems.”

But he tosses some sweet cred to Starfox, for hooking up to an alien supercomputer. It’s like matchmaking but with networks.

The surprise of his surprise recovery pales compared to his next surprise, as he announces (without consulting Wanda at all, geez) that its imperative that she and him stay with the Avengers full-time.

All I’m saying is communication is important, Vizh.

And maybe you should have brought this up with Wasp too? She is the chairwoman and as Cap points out, the team is already pretty packed, especially with Hawkeye and Thor back.

Vision: “Yes, the ‘chairman’s privilege’ limit! But you’re not the leader now, Cap... the Wasp is! And she’ll just have to change that limit -- or the membership roster -- to include Wanda and myself! We will be needed in the upcoming emergency!”

Kinda dropping a lot of surprises on this surprise party, Vision! I don’t know if you really get the concept wholly? You’re not supposed to save up all the surprises for this one day.

Also, Vision’s speech bubbles have changed. They’re still rounded rectangles but they’re not yellow anymore and the font is a bit italicized. Hm. Wonder if that means anything.

Anyway, Vision announces that while he was a tube boy, he detected two major fluctuations of Earth’s electromagnetic fields by some “unknown energy of near-infinite power.”

He’s secretly been working with Reed Richards on this and neither of them have been able to track down what this nonsense is. But until this malevolent mystery is uncovered, he and Wanda as two of the more powerful reservists must obviously be active Avengers.

But how does he know its malevolent if he hasn’t been able to uncover what it is? Deductive reasoning and intuitive presentiment!

Pffffft.

I think this might be my favorite recent punchline from this book.

But Vision has more than just bad vibes to be given a frighten by this upcoming ominousness!

Vision: “The energy I detected goes beyond the limits of any known to man! The power flux showed on our screens for a mere fraction of a second, and then disappeared without a single trace. That concerns me... And it should concern all of us! If we cannot discover the source of this energy, there could be catastrophic consequences!”

And to show how seriously he’s taking this, he makes this horrifying face.

He looks like he’s trying to eat Wasp.

I do not care for this. Either the specific panel or the overall idea of someone eating Wasp.

Anyway, Vision and Scarlet Witch goes off to check the super advanced equipment he installed in the monitor room without asking anyone. He’s doing that a lot lately.

Wasp is both annoyed that he went over her head and impressed with his initiative in doing so.

But she has other matters to attend and asks Thor and Cap(tain America) head down for a private meeting with her.

And now the party is kind of over!

Yeah, you ruined it, Vision! You put too many surprises on the surprise party! You could have saved some for later!

Vision and Scarlet Witch went off to the monitor room. Wasp, Cap(tain America), and Thor went off to have an executive meeting. And Hawkeye and Mockingbird slipped away from their own party not long after that!

Leaving Captain Marvel, She-Hulk, Starfox, and Jarvis to stand around awkwardly wondering where the party went. They didn’t even cut the cake yet!

Dammit Vision!

Hawkeye snuck out to the garden behind Avengers Mansion that’s been there all along. And Mockingbird followed to see what’s bugging him.

Hawkeye: “I’ve always loved this spot. Great tree, isn’t it? Ya know, it’s not easy to get an apple tree to grow this big in the city!”

But Mockingbird sees through that and asks what’s really his beef.

Hawkeye: “Aw, it’s just that I can see another membership shuffle in the works!”

Mockingbird: “So?”

Hawkeye: “So, I’m the one most likely to get bounced!”

I like the range of Hawkeye emotions here.

Hawkeye says that since he has a life (marriage) outside the Avengers now, he doesn’t mind so much being cut from the team. But if they’re going to be facing the latest and greatest menace of all times, he wants to face it with them!

Mockingbird: “That was pretty profound... for a guy who’s supposed to be a butt-head!”

Hawkeye: “Well, thank you, Mrs. Butt-head!”

Aww.

This is a fun bit too.

Mockingbird asks if Hawkeye wants to go inside and get some cake but he shoots an apple from the tree and offers Mockingbird one.

Pretty slick, Clint.

Over at the monitor room, Vision is really into monitoring whatever is upcoming. Super into it. So Wanda has to ask a question.

Scarlet Witch: “Darling... Are you sure you’re all right?”

Vision: “What sort of question is that?”

Scarlet Witch: “You’ve been acting so peculiar lately!”

Vision: “Wanda, how do you expect me to act? I’ve just recovered from spending what seemed like an eternity in a life support tube, able to move about only as a holographic image! Before that, my body was possessed by the dying sorcerer, Necrodamus. And that was almost immediately after I’d gone through the agony of losing an arm. Thankfully, the Inhuman scientists of Attilan were able to restore my limb. But you must admit we’ve both been through a score of trails these past few months! And now, I’ve detected something which could be the biggest menace we’ve ever faced! All things considered, is it really so surprising that I’m acting this way?”

Huuuuuh. I mean, he has a point. That’s a lot of shit in a very short time frame to endure.

This could very reasonably be a reaction to it all.

That’s a very unnerving smile though.

Over at the not-secret but private just Wasp, Thor, and Cap(tain America) meeting, Wasp, Thor, and Cap(tain America) are meeting.

Well, really, its more that Thor is recapping the tale of Beta Ray Bill for the other two. But we, the readers, just get an editor’s caption telling us to read Walter Simonson’s Thor (and I don’t need to be told twice) and Thor summing up to the salient point that Donald Blake is gone forever and is definitely never going to come back multiple times.

What Cap takes from this is ‘hey i hope that means you’re back on the team then!’ which Thor affirms.

Thor: “Aye, Captain America! Some of my finest hours have been as an Avenger. It would be the greatest honor to continue my service in your company... if you will have me!

But Wasp isn’t going to dump Thor from the roster!

Problem being, what the heck is she going to do with the roster? She doesn’t want to dump anyone off it, she doesn’t want to tell Vision to eff off, but she doesn’t want to lead an unwieldy team either. Six is a good number of Avengers!

I love Wasp’s note paper where she’s scrawled various roster ideas, clearly getting more and more frustrated with the exercise.

Cap suggests that maybe a temporary expansion would be the best move, if there even is a menace!

He’s somewhat doubtful of Vision’s story but wouldn’t you know it, as soon as he says that, the priority alarm goes off because Vision has detected the Ominous Energy Readings again.... IN CENTRAL PARK!

And lest anyone doubt Vision this time, an enormous and blinding flash lights up the Manhattan skies.

Cap: “I... believe you, Vision.”

Hah.

The Avengers head for Central Park with devices that Vision has created that will help them trace the energy but he could have saved the time.

There’s a big obvious structure that wasn’t there before. Odds are pretty good that that’s the anomaly.

Hmmm... Y’know, that structure looks familiar. As if I’ve seen it somewhere... But wheeeeeeeeeerre. I guess its a secret to everyone.

The sudden appearance of a large structure right after a massive flash isn’t even the weirdest thing going on. As Reluctant Science Guy Starfox waves around the detecting device, he realizes that the Ominous energy isn’t coming from the giant structure. It seems to be coming from everywhere. But it dips as you get closer to the structure.

Starfox posits that the energy is being focused on the ring from another location.

Curiouser and curioserer.

The Avengers poke around some more. Hawkeye calls attention to an arch built into the wall of the structure. It’s just real interesting. It’s super, incredibly interesting. Plus, the air is nice in the arch.

And it’s an arch. It looks like it’d be a doorway or tunnel to the middle of the structure but it doesn’t go anywhere.

Huh.

How fascinating.

She-Hulk, Cap(tain America), Captain Marvel, Wasp, and Thor join Hawkeye in the arch and agree that it’s a pretty interesting arch.

Perhaps this arch was made for them.

As soon as they join Hawkeye in it, there’s another blinding flash of light and those Avengers vanish in a curl of smoke.

Wow.

I can’t believe Hawkeye, She-Hulk, Captains America and Marvel, Wasp and Thor are dead.

Huh. And Wasp was just complaining about having too many Avengers!

Everyone is appropriately shocked by this, especially Vision because there were no energy emissions coming from the thing so it should have been inert.

Scarlet Witch and Starfox wonder whether the missing Avengers have been teleported somewhere, into some other story... or destroyed.

But before they can investigate the structure for clues, or see if it’ll strike again?, the whole thing vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

The plus side is that it makes Starfox lean toward ‘teleported’ which still doesn’t answer where the Avengers have been taken or who would do it.

If it’s the Collector again, I swear!

Here we go... Follow @essential-avengers because I thought I had more time! Oh geez, I don’t know how I’m going to handle this... Also, like and reblog because I like to think I do good work.

#Avengers #Ominous Energy #the Wasp #Captain America #Captain Marvel #monica rambeau #the Vision #Scarlet Witch #Thor #She Hulk #Hawkeye #Mockingbird #Starfox #Vision ruins a party but not how you'd think #Jarvis is the world's best butler #Everyone's shock and alarm that Hawkeye got married #frequent culture shock for Mockingbird #Essential Avengers #essential marvel liveblogging

13 notes · View notes

highsviolets · 4 years

Text

ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO

ne plus ultra (n).

(1) the highest point capable of being attained

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off. in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling. “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

Tags: @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @ohhellokenobi @obitwo @nobie @cherieboba @lazzwhile @rentskenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @justrunamok @citadoll @obirain @catsnkooks @royalhandmaidens @kyjoraven @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @snips-n-skyguy0501 @saintlaurentkenobi @answer-the-sirens @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @icedcoffeeandgays // please send an ask or fill out this form to get added to my taglist!

#userkarina #userlilylils #usernobie #ayatlovesme #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan x reader insert #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x y/n #prompt requst #cristina writes #prof kenobi #fic: ne plus ultra #i have been so fucking excited to post this #also i actually proofread this one

117 notes · View notes

write-a-bad-romance · 4 years

Text

Two Hares Running Side by Side [Part II]

Part I here

Characters: Jean d’Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte, Sebastian, Comte de Saint-Germain, minor characters adapted from historical figures

Pairings: Napoleon x MC, Napoleon x Jean, Sebastian x Saint-Germain (main)

Words: 2940

Warning: Slight gore and major character amputation.

"Herr Mozart....or, Wolf as he asked me to call him, was unexpectedly amiable to my visiting him. One of his violinists even invited me to play, and I was elated when they applauded me and...."

Leon didn't need to read the rest of the letter. He understood.

There was little you could hide from Leon, not even in writing. He had long suspected his fiancé's fondness for the young musician. The more he read her letters, it was as clear it went beyond simple admiration.

Her feelings didn't go unrequited, it seemed.

Leon was a kind man. He didn't believe that he was, but everybody else insisted he was. He didn't climb the ranks of the Grande Armée through hard work and ingenuity alone.

Leon didn't want to accuse his own fiancé of unfaithfulness. Leon, on his part, believed his feelings to be earnest. But could he say the same for her?

With the letter crumpled in his fist, he strolled along the streets, in need of a distraction. He had gotten so used to having people around, to getting himself so busy there was no time to nurse festering wounds. Thoughts grew louder in silence, after all.

He stopped at a familiar bookstore, one he and Sebastian liked to frequent on breaks. Large yet cozy, and only sparsely crowded. It was the perfect sanctuary, and Leon grabbed a novel from the shelves to start reading.

But none of the words drew him in, and soon Leon put the book down to observe the other persons. One was particularly noticeable, a tall figure clad in a black shirt.

It was none other than Sergeant-Major d'Arc, flipping through a selection of leather-bound notebooks.

Jehanne, Leon gulped uneasily. Memories of gloved fingers stroking the nape of his neck resurfaced.

Leon (along with Sebastian and Saint-Germain) swore to pretend nothing happened to preserve the sergeant-major's dignity. The man in question himself woke up with no recollection of what transpired the previous night, and everything was back to usual.

But Leon's head was currently in a jumble, and it took him a while until he noticed that the other man had spotted him.

Iolite eyes bore into emerald eyes, and Leon had never felt more vindicated in his entire life.

So he did what most sensible men would do, sweep it all under the rug and show your opponent your flashiest grin.

"D'Arc! What a coincidence!" he greeted. "You alone?"

D'Arc held his chosen notebook to his chest, a rosy-colored thing that didn't suit him. "Mm," he answered. "My friends are currently preoccupied....elsewhere, and I need to replace my old journal."

"Ah, so you're keeping a journal!" Leon exclaimed, only to scold himself because soldiers keep a journal nowadays and that it's an obvious thing to say.

"Not for....reasons you might expect," D'Arc looked away. "I've been told that my writing is terrible. Gilles suggested I practice my cursive in a notebook."

The other man's bluntness never stopped being a surprise to Leon. "Ah."

They exited the store together, and Leon thought about following him for the entire day. Leon felt guilty for imposing himself on the man, but it was bound to be a long day, and he needed a distraction.

Was it safe to assume he was close enough to Jehanne—D'Arc to take up his personal time? Soldiers don't usually grope their superiors when they're drunk.

It didn't hurt to ask, Leon thought. And his initial embarrassment was already long gone. "Seeing as we're both alone, why don't you accompany me? I can treat you if you like."

Leon could sense some slight hesitation on Jean's part.

"Fine," he muttered. "I don't see why not."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

D'Arc ended up following Leon throughout their entire excursion. The Sergeant-Major wasn't one for small talk, but Leon didn't mind the peace.

He had to admit it was immensely refreshing to learn more about d'Arc. One, he was apparently skilled in sewing, and that he'd mended his own uniforms flawlessly. And second, he had as much interest in flower viewing as he did in testing weapons.

There were rumors about a soldier whose firearms expertise was unmatched and was second to none in swordsmanship. This mysterious soldier was said to swing his sword out in the open every morning without fail, even during midwinter.

The sharpshooter turned out to be d'Arc, who didn't seem to take much pride in his commendable habits. He even asked (insisted really) Leon to keep them a secret.

Even more blackmail material, Leon thought, amused.

But Leon felt some degree of affection for the innocent man, and something tugged his heartstrings when d'Arc marveled at the posh café they entered. There was probably none in his hometown, Leon wagered.

D'Arc, the humble man he was, refused everything else but water (Leon insisted he try the café’s renowned rose tea). And it wasn't until Leon ordered a plate of colorful macarons that the youth's interest was piqued.

And you said you're against sweets. Leon smiled as he took a bite of his own crêpe.

He was puzzled when d'Arc suddenly bent down and set a sheet of crumpled paper on the table.

Leon's eyes widened in recognition but didn't immediately snatch the letter back into his pocket.

"Must have fallen when I took out some coins," Leon smiled. "Thank you, d'Arc. I didn't notice."

"I didn't read it," d'Arc whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

But there was a tinge of redness on his cheeks, and the way d'Arc tried to bashfully hide his face was....was....

Darling. But damn the entire Grande Armée if Leon had to say it out loud. Last he checked, he had none of Sebastian’s inclination.

"Don't worry about it," Leon cleared his throat. "You've told me your secrets, and I showed you mine. It's alright."

D'Arc raised a thin eyebrow. Any other officer would've found the act insolent, but Leon wasn't just any officer.

He was a considerate officer. And a distraught one.

"I suppose I can't blame you for peeking then," Leon smiled wryly. "I should've kept my problems to myself. Put that letter back in my quarters or something,"

D'Arc listened calmly and took a sip of his tea.

"But maybe I'm just not capable enough to solve this one," Leon mumbled. "I'm never good at this.... at this sort of thing. She's always the one to go after me and make me sit down and....and talk. But we're far away from each other, and I'm at a loss on what to do."

Leon ran a hand through his black locks. He was crumbling in front of his subordinate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that d'Arc trusted him with his secrets, and that was grounds for confiding in the man, wasn't it?

And d'Arc's presence was calming, like a sturdy bastion amidst the whirlwind around Leon.

"We're drifting apart. My fiancé's got a fancy for this gentleman whom I had introduced sometime during the holiday. I can't entirely blame her," he continued. "He was elegant. Very charming, I might add. A bit standoffish, perhaps. But definitely attractive in every sense."

He straightened the creased letter over and over.

"At least he can be by her side all the time," Leon toyed with his fork. "I never thought once that I'd be losing her. We've been friends together with Sebastian. I simply can't imagine the thought of us, well....not being together."

"I'm not supposed to leave this as it is. But," Leon's breath hitched. "I have too much on my plate right now. A part of me wished I could run away. I don't run from problems, I don't. But this? This is something completely new."

When Leon finally raised his head to look at d'Arc, the man was staring outside the window.

Had Leon finally bored him?

"Choose your battles," d'Arc finally replied. "Be it at home or at the front."

D'Arc snatched a macaron and rotated it between his gloved fingers.

"I have no real experience in matters of the heart," he went on. "But you are a capable commander, Second Lieutenant Bonaparte. Even if you can't guarantee they'll eventually result in victory, you're always willing to see them through."

Leon listened to d'Arc, articulating his words like a saint. Do pious men all speak in tongues?

"Look," Leon countered delicately. "War and people are two very different things. You can't just think about...defeating the other person and be done with it."

Leon sighed. "Friendships may suffer, and hearts can break. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt...us."

"But does it hurt you?" D'Arc asked.

"Huh?"

"Does it hurt you?"

Leon laced his fingers on his lap. Did this cause him to lose sleep? Did it cost him hours of pondering whether the relationship had any hope of salvaging?

If the relationship was even worth salvaging?

"I'm not sure," Leon breathed. "I still love her. Very much. But I'm afraid I won't be getting much rest if I let this on any longer."

"Good," D'Arc nodded. "You can't fight a war while having...troubles from home lingering at the back of your head."

"Troubles?" Leon couldn't help but ask.

"My father," D'Arc confided. "I haven't spoken to my father since I left home. From the letters my brother Pierre sent to me, it seemed he hasn't quite forgiven me for departing."

"I see," it was a fairly common problem among recruits, especially those as young as d'Arc when he enlisted.

To some, it sustained their will to survive the wars and come home. The less fortunate ones, however...

The coffee tasted bitter on Leon's tongue. D'Arc had to survive, and so did the other countless young men under his wing. Their wings.

Napoleon chuckled. Funny how he was moaning about his love life a moment ago. And now, he was concerned for the younger man's personal struggles.

Friends, eh?

"Is something the matter?" D'Arc tilted his head, exposing a swath of his slightly tanned neck. He had become less paler over the years, Leon noticed.

"It's nothing," Leon ceased his chuckling. "Tell me more about your family, then, d'Arc."

His chest now felt a little lighter, and Leon decided he'd deal with the letter in the evening. For now, he was content listening to d'Arc talking about the mysterious Pierre and his hometown.

Twilight came, and Leon finally found his courage to write to his fiancé and ask about Herr Mozart.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"So things didn't go well between both of you," Sebastian confronted Leon one day over coffee.

"I didn't— I haven't told you. How did you know?" Had Leon been too obvious? Or was it Sebastian's uncanny ability to read people?

"She's been writing to me, too. You both broke off the engagement pretty neatly, I must say," Sebastian sipped his mug. "You even wrote to her parents and told your mother. How gentlemanly of you."

Leon was wary of the tone in Sebastian's voice.

"But you didn't even tell me, your friend of ten years!" He hissed. "I thought you know better, Napoleon Bonaparte!"

"I'm sorry," Leon answered sheepishly. "I wasn't sure how to go about the entire issue, even when it was just between the two of us. I wanted to talk to you, but everything was resolved quicker than I expected."

Sebastian's lip thinned. "Congratulations,"

Outside, the wind was roaring, and mist descended upon the camp.

"So," the grey-haired man clapped his hands. "You're free to pursue whoever you like then."

His friend's abrupt change of demeanor baffled him. "I've just broken things off with my childhood sweetheart. Is a man not allowed to rest?"

"Ah, but she already left you for another man. All while you were moping," Sebastian pointed out, "I'm not telling you to take revenge or anything. But I can see you've already sorted things out in that department."

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," Leon retorted.

"You've got your eyes on somebody," Sebastian waved his hand. "Nothing can escape me, Bonaparte. Don't think I've been unaware."

"There is absolutely nobody," Leon swore. "I've not met with another woman for ages, and you know that."

Sebastian stepped forward and flicked Leon on the forehead.

"So is that what you prefer, Bonaparte?" The man grabbed Napoleon's shoulders, practically shouting in his face. "Lanky, quiet youths with narrow eyes?"

"I-I don't follow," Leon rubbed his forehead. That flick stung!

"So, you like them beautiful? Okay, I can see why!" The other man continued his rant, "Was I too manly for you? How come you're suddenly paying attention to other men when I'm already with Saint-Germain?"

"The fuck are you even talking about." Leon had all but lost Sebastian at this point.

Sebastian finally released his hold on Leon, who stared bewildered at his best friend.

"You said you had no interest in men when I confessed to you," Sebastian closed in on Leon. "But you're eyeballing Sergeant-Major D'Arc all the time."

It finally dawned on Leon that Sebastian was referring to their budding relationship. Their strictly platonic relationship.

"Is that what you're thinking?" Leon gulped. "Nothing more than brotherly affection. Yes, that's it."

But the slate-colored eyes only narrowed at him skeptically.

"Oh, I give up! I accidentally consulted him about her letters, okay?" Leon gave in. "I admit that's rather private considering I haven't known him for long, but he shared his secrets too, alright? I wasn't the only one airing my dirty laundry out in the open."

Sebastian stared down at him silently.

"What?" Leon frowned. "Are you jealous or something?"

But he was instead met with laughter from the other man. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"No, at this point, no." Sebastian giggled. "I have my man, and you get yours. You're free to come crying to me whenever your relationship with d'Arc goes south, though. Consider we're even after keeping me in the dark about your breakup."

"Incomprehensible as always, Adjutant Second Officer." Napoleon squinted his eyes.

"Go at him while it's still eager, then," Sebastian brandished his mug exaggeratedly. "You're not the only one doing the ogling, you know."

"What—" but he was left hanging as Sebastian opened the tent flap and went outside.

"Time is of the essence, Bonaparte!" The man shouted. "Good hunting, I say!"

Napoleon was left in the empty tent with another headache.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Leon wondered if there was a sliver of truth in Sebastian's words.

God only graced his most beautiful angels, and d'Arc was one amongst throes of monsters in uniforms.

Some joked that he was a sort of holy man, sent by God from the provinces to aid the Grande Armée in its lowest point. Others say he was, in fact, a he-witch who could not die and could not be grazed by any bullet or sword.

He was a lucky bastard, Leon concluded. A lucky bastard who also happened to be a living embodiment of beauty.

D’arc was perfect in many ways that Leon and his men couldn't be. He was pious, educated despite his origins, and had no interest in women whatsoever.

The sergeant-major was kind to nurses and milkmaids they met while passing villages, yes. But he was also known to fly into an unexpected rage when he discovered his lads were smuggling wenches into camp.

When teased why he didn't just volunteer to be a standard-bearer, d'Arc simply answered, "You men wouldn't survive a day without me behind the cannons."

It wasn't ambition, Leon noticed. Some men just found their purpose after escaping death after five battles despite no real hope of staying long upon entering the camp.

"I wager he's just horribly repressed," Sebastian joked one evening over wine. "Hey, maybe you'd get a chance with him. With those types, you never know!"

Leon thought of nothing when his best friend suddenly confessed that he harbored feelings for him, back when they were only with the army for six months. He kept mum when he learned Sebastian was visiting their blond doctor after hours and only coming back before dawn.

Hell, Leon himself was been looking forward to a quiet life with his fiancé and their children, back in Paris. He also never expected to be left to continue his life in the barracks, tending to an empty heart and a never ending war.

At least, there was now a face to look for after the smoke cleared.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"We only had to amputate one of his legs. He'll make it through the night. I guarantee he survived." Saint-Germain's words rang in Leon's ears as he weaved through hordes of medics.

He didn't find Sebastian immediately after they retreated. And now he knew the reason why.

The ward smelled of soiled linen and painkillers. It was a miracle that they found a makeshift hospital nearby, a university building filled with rows of beds and better supplies than what they were used to having out in the fields.

Leon found Sebastian on a bed near the window. There was an empty space where the left leg should have been.

Leon scrambled to grasp at his pale hand, thankfully still warm. Yet the man barely stirred, even as the afternoon light streamed in and hit his bandaged face.

"Sebastian...." Leon whispered, "Can you hear me?"

But the man didn't. The morphine was potent, and Leon was left to stare blankly at his best friend's prone body.

Nurses came and went, and more soldiers were wheeled in. The clamor inside the infirmary was constant, but Leon was deaf to everything but the slightest rustle from Sebastian's paralyzed form.

⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋

#ikemen vampire #ikevam fanfic #ikevam jean #ikevam napoleon #jeanpoleon #riri tries ikevam

28 notes · View notes

virgil-writes · 3 years

Photo

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (eventual Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four

chapter 4 - the hag’s cabin

SFW, mentions blood and mutilation, around 2K words.

It was like he had snapped out of a bad dream.

A flash of red blinded him for just a moment, hand shooting up to cover his eyes as he stood up straight, fingertips dripping with blood that wasn’t his. He opened his eyes to a much clearer view of the woods, a pressure relieved from his shoulders, and a strange yet friendly face staring down at him with avid curiosity. Blood-tinted eyes watched him closely, an amiable smile on her wrinkled face. The hag’s skin was light enough to glow in the scant moonlight, spindly silver hair wild and framing her face in the most awkward of ways. He was reminded of Mother’s little game of disguise, the unassuming crone of riddles and wisdom.

Maybe it was Mother all along, and in that case, he better be on his best behavior. She was surely capable of it all, confusing him on the path and assuming the form of some horrible abomination; but why would she bother? She did seem genuinely surprised, perhaps even wary. Was this another one of her games to keep them all on their toes? To ensure obedience, another way of displaying her powers to remind him that even at his best, he was not an omniscient near-god. In her eyes, he was a second class citizen with a thing for tinkering that she kept around. A dangerous, homicidally inclined one, but a second class failure nonetheless.

The hag’s dirty clothes fluttered in the wind, the smell of death seeming to emanate from within her bones, strong enough to choke him. For a moment, he expected her to cackle, conjure up a staff made of bones to wave at him while she spoke her nonsense, telling him to repent and surrender to the Black God. Instead she laboriously extended a frail hand to help him up, blackened fingertips offering him no comfort.

“Come closer, dear, let us have a look at you.” She spoke at last, tender, almost motherly, her voice sounding like a legion of disjointed souls pooling together to form a sentence. She took a step in his direction when he did not answer, bones cracking with effort, frame barely supporting her own weight. It looked to him as if her every movement was torture, like she had been living on borrowed time for far too long and the earth had grown tired of waiting to reclaim her to dust. “Let us bathe you, take care of you.” Her words were sweet, her tone malicious. “Everything will be fine.”

Oh, yes, naturally. She looked like she had come straight out of a fairytale book, but surely it would all end up alright. It would all be fine, surely, him being bathed in a large bubbling cauldron with herbs and salt for soap, trapped inside a cage being fattened for later use in culinary endeavors. The fat on his body would be used for tallow, the skin for the shade of some lamp, the heart to power said lamp.

“Think I’ll pass.” Was all he could say through gritted teeth, barely a whisper in the dissonance of his thoughts. Her snicker was low and delighted, form fading away in a cloud of crimson mist.

The terror that had consumed him had disappeared just as quickly as it had taken hold, his racing heart and staggered breathing giving way to the burning rage and overconfidence he usually carried with him. He looked around for the yellow flowers Donna used to trick people’s minds, for any sign that what he had witnessed was an illusion. The snow felt real as he crushed it with his fingers, the wind caressed him just so to keep him alert and awake. Heisenberg looked down at himself to look for anything that might be amiss, a misshaped piece of fabric, a hue that looked off; he counted ten fingers, pulled back his sleeve to look at his wristwatch, numbers crisp and clear. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Sheer terror, like he had not felt in years, adrenaline pumping in his veins to make him feel alive after decades of keeping his nose just above the water. Despite it all, he felt light as a feather. In a way, he felt free.

He rose to his feet to take the path ahead, ducking to miss the arch of the twisted tunnel, holding onto branches and feeling like they held onto him in return. A mere couple of meters away, a crude fence and wooden gate separated him from a clearing he had never seen. Slabs of stone marked the way towards it, visible despite the icy landscape, their surface well-worn and freshly disturbed. Had the hag come this way? Would he meet a series of monsters that made him offers he could not refuse, like the tales Miranda had concocted of him and his siblings?

He knew the mountain held a multitude of paths and clearings, nooks and crannies untouched by man and lost to time, mazes and caves and all manners of things he had only read in old books of fiction. The villagers would always say there was much that surrounded them, not altogether pleasant, older than them, older than the bones of this earth. Monsters and spirits, legends lost just beyond the village gates. Even as a child, swallowing his fear like a bitter pill, he labeled them all fools, pawns in the hands of a cruel bitch who kept them isolated, a flock of tarnished sheep that would never break free of their bonds. And yet it seemed the joke was on him, was it not? Here he was, mother’s prophecy fulfilled, standing alone in the forest deep, lost like the child who ran away to pick berries, having just witnessed something he could not explain.

Heisenberg peered into the trees in silence, breathing labored and pulse too loud in his ears. He watched for eyes in the forest, long fingers that camouflaged in the tree bark. Silver hair mistaken for spider webs, humanoid shadows that tricked the unwary. All he sees is a curious hare that stops to stare at him before going deeper into the woods to find its den, all he hears are the sounds of the night and the forest alive at last.

The smell of rotting carcasses inundated his nostrils as he walked, a series of carefully placed, crusty wooden stakes protruding from the ground like sickly trees that refused to wither. Blood dripped and congealed at its base, the decapitated heads of lycans and samcas and moroaicas neatly impaled, but looking so alive. He could almost hear it, the groaning and stretching of broken jaws as they tried to break free.

An incredulous smile crept up to his lips as he reached out to touch a nearby lycan’s head, skin soft and clammy underneath his fingers, veins protruding on swollen flesh. Sharp teeth and exposed gums, no doubt a lycan, and he is too slow to react when the creature bites down onto his hand and all but tears the skin between his thumb and index fingers. It tries to finish the job but cannot break free, just enough movement to open and close its jaw, and Heisenberg looks down in disbelief to his bleeding hand, to the monster that should have turned to dust.

He reaches for the hammer in a half-horrified haze, swings with full strength to knock the stake to the ground, amazed when all heads spring to life and groan at him in a last breath that would never end. His morbid curiosity has him bring the hammer over his head and down onto the earth, bones cracking with the impact as the failed experiment finally crumbles to dust beneath the metal. What kind of fuckery was this? The pain in his right hand felt too real to be an illusion, the blood dripping onto his boots too viscous to be a trick of the mind. His mind spun with theories, with curiosity. Before he leaves, he should confiscate one of these for further study at the factory.

Heisenberg could hardly contain his excitement as he vaulted over the fence, anxious for the next chapter of this night full of surprises. He expected a gruesome display; an altar proudly displaying a sacrifice, the hunched over beast he had met before munching on an animal corpse. The hag kneeling by the stream, washing bloody clothes as a presage of war and death. A circle of witches chanting in tongues and cursing his entire, nonexistent bloodline for generations to come. An enchanted maiden with a delicate bosom and sinuous form inviting him to ravage her innocence, only to eat him alive liver first in a fit of madness.

Instead he was greeted by a curious chicken peeking at him from a hole in the trellis of its coop, a tiny goat grazing by his feet. There was a horse, real this time, penned in and cozy for the night, oblivious to his presence.

The small hoofed animal doesn’t seem bothered when Heisenberg grabs it unceremoniously, inspects its fur and hoofs and horns, pinches at its flesh for any hint of supernatural. On the contrary, the goat seems to enjoy it, tiny tail wagging rapidly as Heisenberg stares it down like one would an annoying baby that is too cute for one to be angry at. It seems almost sad when it is put back down onto the snow, gives Heisenberg a tentative headbutt and walks away in defeat when he ignores it to investigate the rest of the place.

A small cabin stood just beyond, green shingles on the roof and walls covered in clay, narrow porch and swinging front door, a light bleeding out into the night through the narrow window of the attic. Suspiciously innocuous. There were no chicken legs, it was not made of sweets, and instead of decay, what he smelled made his stomach growl in response. He would eat that damn black horse the moment he saw it again, leg first as he moved up his feast.

A delicate wreath of wildflowers adorned the red door, slightly ajar to encourage his exploration. He did not recognize the symbol drawn just beneath his feet at the threshold - was it a warning? A welcome message? Heisenberg made sure to remain perfectly quiet as he stepped inside, taking care that his boots would not squeak against the wooden boards. The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, the colorful woven rug a pleasant change from the bleak scenario of ice and death. He pushed the door all the way to reveal a room that was equal parts cozy and mysterious.

To his right was a wood stove, a bucket of firewood resting beside it, white ceramic kettle embellished with blue flowers whistling loudly on top. A shelf stocked with grain and spices stood just beyond, hooks with a multitude of pots and pans beneath it. The small kitchen also had a rustic counter and ceramic sink, cutting board and bone-white knife abandoned halfway through a large carrot. The small dinner table was set for two, a pair of teacups resting at the end of it. There was no sign of electricity, candles and lanterns of wrought iron working double time to ward off the dark of night.

He walked further in to to look at the rest of it, the diminutive living room that was also kitchen and dining area. The couch was a wooden skeleton covered in coarse fabric, cushions looking like they had patched a thousand times over. Somehow, they looked leagues more comfortable than any of Alcina’s fancy armchairs. Dusty tomes fought for space on a wooden stool beside it, candle wax frozen solid halfway over the edge onto the ground. A rickety ladder was almost hidden next to it, woolen socks overhanging one of the steps.

Right in front of him, on the far wall, was a sturdy brick fireplace, cast iron pot hanging over it, the tasty looking stew he had smelled from outside bubbling invitingly. A soft whimper alerted him to the presence of a furry creature curled up in front of the fire, looking compact despite its real size, oblivious to his presence and sound asleep. Heisenberg chuckled as he walked closer and bent down to pet it with a little too much force, the shaggy shepherd hound lifting its head to look at him in annoyance before busying itself with its nap once again, too tired to give a fuck about anything else. Craning his body to the left he peeked at the mezzanine, candle lit but bed empty. No one home, it seemed.

It was difficult to remain quiet when anger bubbled under the first layer of his skin; he was furious at his Mother and sister, at whoever had pulled the stupid prank earlier. He had been sent on a wild goose chase, had gotten lost in the woods, had bled his own blood and now stood inside a poor soul’s shack doubting every single thing that had happened this far. Even a man like himself had limits, however, and if he had simply stumbled upon a well-kept homestead of a peasant trying to live their life alone in the middle of the woods, he would leave just as quietly as he had entered. It was only fair, considering he, too, would do the same if given the chance. Perhaps his prey still wandered somewhere and he had gotten lost along the way, but it was time to go back to the road and hunt down the motherfucker who had almost made him piss his pants.

A couple more minutes and he would leave the forest, march up to Castle Dimitrescu and give Alcina a piece of his mind. Maybe he should climb up to the belfry, call everyone over and proudly display his limp dick as he twirled it around like a helicopter blade. Imagining the look of disgust in his sister’s face brought him some comfort.

“So this is the monster that lives in these woods, huh?” He asked the dog, half expecting an answer, with his back turned to make his way out.

“Oh, I am afraid that would be me,” said a woman’s voice somewhere behind him.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #virgil writes #long post //#tw blood

3 notes · View notes

todisturbtheuniverse · 4 years

Text

FIC: Set All Trappings Aside [1/8]

Rating: T Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Pairing: f!Adaar/Josephine Montilyet Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Class Differences Word Count: 1900 (this chapter) Summary: After months of flirtation, a contract on Josephine's life brings Adaar's feelings for her closer to the surface than ever. It highlights, too, all of their differences, all of the reasons a relationship between them would not last. But Adaar is a hopeful woman at heart; if Josephine can set all trappings aside, then so can she. Also on AO3. Notes: While the context for this story is the Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune questline, some of the conversations within it didn't quite fit for this Inquisitor. The resulting fic is a twist on the canon romance. This Adaar and Josephine have featured in other fics, so you may miss a little context if you haven't read Promising or Truth-Telling, which both come before this one.

On any other day, Josephine would have enjoyed this: a beautiful, cloudless afternoon in Val Royeaux; the scent of delicate, baking pastries floating on a soft breeze; Adaar standing close at her side, close enough that clothes and arms brushed. That last, especially.

But today, there was no room between them for unspoken fantasies, sparks of electricity, daydreams. Adaar's tension simmered in her taut arm, fingers twitching as if to seize her belt knife at the slightest provocation—or maybe ready to pull loose her daggers instead. Her dark eyes flicked to every passing face. She stood so close not for any courtly reason, but because she clearly expected an assassin to materialize out of the nearest rosebush and make an attempt right there in the street, while the passersby tittered and gasped.

It was Orlais. They probably would titter at such an event.

But she knew that she would not have received such a cordial warning only to be targeted fifteen minutes later. That would be unprofessional, and the House of Repose was anything but.

"Inquisitor," she murmured. "Please do not be so alarmed."

Adaar spared a glance down at her. "Alarmed is an understatement."

"I am safe enough here," she reasoned, though despite the cloudless sky, despite a bard's voice twining sweetly through the air, despite the scent of flowers in the garden just behind them—all so familiar, Val Royeaux as she'd known it for so long—she did feel a chill. "And there is a way to undo this."

Adaar glanced around again, gave a grumble of frustration, and took Josephine's arm, tugging her into an alcove out of the sun. She did this very gently, her fingers leaving only the slightest impression in the crook of Josephine's elbow.

"Yes, there is," she said, lowering her voice. She glanced over Josephine's shoulder once—looking for threats from the only direction that remained—and then refocused on Josephine's face, her gaze heated. "Point me at the House of Repose, and I will eliminate them."

There was no humor in her voice; there was no anger, not even veiled; but the chill in Josephine's blood deepened, biting like the wind that always snuck through Skyhold's wounds.

She hadn't forgotten what Adaar was capable of. No, there was evidence enough—history enough—of that. It was just that this coldness, this ferocity, was something new, different. In Josephine's company, she was gregarious, smiling, cheerful, never without a joke or three; the visible daggers and hidden knives seemed like a mistake, lethal weapons accidentally hung on a gentle, sweet woman. Even with blades in her hands, in the practice yard, she joked and ribbed and laughed. Every round seemed like a game to her, punctuated with a grin.

But for ten years, Adaar had been a mercenary. Josephine imagined that plenty of clients had pointed her at a target before, to great success. The Inquisition had pointed her at such targets. But she had never worn this face, still and calculating, so out of place on her features.

"This is a personal matter," Josephine said. "I could not use Inquisition resources to—"

Adaar let loose a stream of curses under her breath, composure dissolving; they were heated enough that the surrounding passersby gave her frightened little glances before scurrying on their way. But it was better than that awful look that had so briefly settled on her face.

"I'll take the Valo-Kas with me." There was passion in her voice now. "It won't be an Inquisition operation. This is no longer your Great Game, Josephine. This is your life. I won't wait while they—"

At a loss for anything else to do—she had never seen steady, implacable Adaar so rattled before—Josephine reached out to take her hand. Adaar's palm was thickly calloused; the little ridges caused by Josephine's laboring with pens seemed minute by comparison. Adaar stopped, mid-sentence, and looked down at her as if startled.

She didn't pull away, though.

"I know the House of Repose," Josephine said, holding Adaar's gaze. "I have a little time. I can take care of this without bloodshed—surely they are amiable to that, if they brought us here, to give me warning—"

"They're an assassin's league," Adaar protested, but she looked more bewildered than angry now.

"You don't understand. It's business; this is only what they're paid to do."

"I don't understand?" Josephine had never seen this look on Adaar's face before, either: not just confused, but hurt, her mouth twisting with it. "I've been a mercenary, Lady Montilyet. Fancy contracts or not, I know how this business works."

Adaar pulled her hand away and took a step back, and Josephine silently cursed her own clumsiness. She was rattled, after all, to misstep so badly. She knew—not from being told, of course, just from months of observation—that Adaar was sensitive about her own low-born roots. Not ashamed, never, but she'd been thrust into what passed as a noble's role with no experience, and Josephine had worked so hard to show her that it was all easy enough to understand, to navigate...only to take all that back with three little words.

It was just that her head was still swimming with the outrage of it, the—the injustice of it. A contract a century old stood between her and something she'd worked her whole life to obtain? A contract she'd never known about? No one had warned her that such a thing could be possible, that she could come this far in righting her family's status only to be turned away at the eleventh hour.

"Please—Inquisitor." The right title, now, not her name, to show her the respect she deserved, but Adaar didn't react the way a dignitary would; she bore it more like a burden than a privilege, and her frown deepened. Josephine had to work to make her voice level again, but she succeeded, hands clasped before her to hide any trembling. "That was poorly said. I apologize."

Adaar merely watched her, no emotion discernible in her eyes, and didn't reply.

Josephine's heart twisted in her chest. They'd never argued. In jest, maybe, or professionally, when they disagreed on war table matters, but not like this. She hated it, but she had to make Adaar understand. If there was a path before them that offered no bloodshed, only a little time, then she had to take it.

She took a steadying breath. "I only meant that they've extended me a courtesy, based on...extenuating circumstances...and, if my interpretation of that is correct, I have a little time to negotiate this before it gets out of hand. It's not a typical situation. The usual rules don't apply."

"And if it isn't?"

Josephine blinked. "If it isn't…?"

"If your interpretation is wrong."

For a long moment, they looked at one another, and Josephine wished that Adaar would not stand so far away; she wished that she had not brought this trouble to Adaar at all. But she'd had precious few alternatives.

"If my interpretation is wrong," she said, "then I suppose we must do things your way."

Adaar's face softened minutely, maybe hearing Josephine's reluctance. She closed the gap between them and placed her hands on Josephine's shoulders.

This was a dire situation. Lives were at stake—not just her life. Her poor messengers. Her heart ached for them, guilt and grief tangled up. But when Adaar looked at her like that, she...didn't forget, exactly. But the pain eased. When Adaar touched her, capable hands molding to her shoulders like they alone could protect her, her heart beat with something that was neither guilt nor grief.

"We will do things the way you like, until the House of Repose sends someone to kill another of your messengers, or you," Adaar said. "I'm going to assign guards to you; Leliana and Cullen can decide which of their people are best-suited."

"Really, I think that is unnecessary." It was a weak protest.

Adaar ignored this. "As soon as there is another attempt, you are out of time. Understood?"

Adaar didn't pull rank very often. She preferred to wheedle and convince everyone around the war table to do as she liked by getting them to see her side, not just by demanding it.

"You can't eliminate an entire assassin's league," Josephine told her quietly.

"I'm sure Leliana has some ideas." Adaar held up a hand when Josephine opened her mouth to argue. "No, I don't plan to kill them all. Something more creative would be required. I'll have to think." She eyed Josephine, one eyebrow raised. "I want a plan in place. In case."

"I suppose that is a fair compromise," Josephine allowed.

Adaar fixed her with a serious stare. "For the tongue-lashing Leliana is going to give me, I could ask for a lot more. She will not like leaving this untended."

"It is my decision. Leliana will understand that." Reluctantly, she thought, but didn't say.

Adaar grimaced. "I didn't say she was going to give you a tongue-lashing."

Josephine managed a weak smile. "Oh, she will. She just doesn't scare me as much as she scares you."

Adaar snorted, reaching up to pull the length of her braid over her shoulder. "She doesn't scare me. This, though? This scares me. The Inquisition needs you. I can't seriously look at a direct threat to one of my advisors and do nothing."

"I don't plan to do nothing," Josephine declared, bristling. "And I'm certain I will need your help, so you will not be doing nothing, either. But these are dangerous times, Inquisitor. Whether it's the House of Repose or a wandering demon, we are all in danger. There are other ambassadors."

Adaar's dark eyes blazed. "Forget your post. Forget the fucking Inquisition. You're my friend first and my ambassador second, and I'm allowed to fret for your life."

It shouldn't have warmed her the way it did, but she felt herself begin to smile, anyway, a flush rising to her cheeks to replace the chill. She'd have been hard-pressed to stop it.

Maybe she remained unconvinced that Adaar felt any romantic affection for her, no matter how Leliana teased. A bit of harmless flirting sometimes, nothing more.

But there was affection. The warmth of it felt as magical as any cloudless day in Val Royeaux.

"Then by all means," Josephine said. "Fret away. But I am sure that I am safe, so long as I'm with you."

Adaar's eyes searched her face. If Josephine wasn't mistaken, her cheeks had darkened a little, too.

"I will make sure of it," Adaar said—low, ardent, a promise. It did terrible, wonderful things to Josephine's stomach.

Adaar cleared her throat and looked up, glancing carefully around the courtyard. Apparently satisfied with her findings, she removed her hands from Josephine's shoulders. Josephine missed the warmth of them, the steadying weight of them, immediately.

"Time to get back to Skyhold," Adaar said. "We can discuss the details of your plan on the way. Stick close."

As if she had to ask. Josephine walked at Adaar's side, arms occasionally brushing, and wished she could stick much closer than that.

Go to Chapter 2 -->

#josephine montilyet #inquisitor adaar #f!adaar x josephine #f!adaar/josephine #biowarefemslash #dragon age #inquisition #friends to lovers #developing relationship #mutual pining #class differences #universe writes #i have picked this fic up and put it down for approximately five years #finally got it to a place where i want to post the dang thing #weekly updates commencing

20 notes · View notes

project-ohagi · 5 years

Text

Keiji Akaashi x Reader {Haikyuu!!}

The grace with which he had been blessed was astounding, even to his upperclassmen. You always searched for him in the onslaught during break and lunch, hoping against hope that he would gaze your way. His politeness and the blunt way he voiced his opinions were surely going to be your downfall; every time he opened his mouth, your heart began pounding in your chest, and all the blood in your system would surge to your ears and cheeks. The sound of blood swirling around your head almost drowned out your love's magnificent voice. Almost. Once, he caught you zoned-out, on cloud nine, and questioned the intensity of your blush. The handsome setter thought that perhaps you were ill and seeking medical attention. Afterwards, he seemed to make a routine of greeting you every morning, and on the off-chance you happened to meet in the hallways.

Although he never appeared too interested in physical contact, his friend was incredibly touchy-feely. It humoured you for a while, but gradually, the amusement was replaced with fury - that was your man, your gorgeous specimen, and no matter how close those two were, Bokuto was not getting Keiji. You dedicated an entire journal to learning and recording his habits, mannerisms, likes and dislikes, as well as any other helpful bits of information. You wanted to know everything.

Sitting behind him in class had its advantages, because he couldn't tell that you were writing about him, and from your angle, you could garner his mood from the movement of his upper body alone. You didn't need to be an expert at deciphering facial expressions. You were quickly becoming a master on the topic of Keiji Akaashi. Following him also worked in your favour - the way he stood (hands interlocked behind his back) was utterly adorable, so you started copying it. You would try out the things you knew he liked, and also considered joining the girls' volleyball team. However, that way there would be less chance of you seeing his matches up close.

You examined his character in more depth, exploring how he talked to, and acted around, his classmates and team mates. His closest confidante was indeed Bokuto, but you feared that striking up a conversation would lead to some weird places. He was such a loud, rambunctious individual, and you couldn't risk the exposure. Not when you were so near to completing your most daring, yet most exciting plan. It needed perfecting and executing, but that was now only a matter of days. Keiji was quiet, but certainly not shy. Heck, you weren't exactly sure he was capable of reading the mood, but all his little quirks combined to make him so incredibly endearing.

Your Romeo was far more special and charming than anyone else in your life, and you were prepared to go to some insane lengths to keep him caged. Ten foot tall iron bars, and an ivory roof would surely sedate him. He would look so handsome, so perfectly submissive, splayed out amongst your sheets. His hands would turn a hot white as he gripped them, trying to chain himself to reality. The poor thing wouldn't know what to do, lying and trembling beneath you. Nothing would be veiling his perfection from your eyes, so they could feast on what they saw, and it would satisfy them for life.

A sticky white liquid would dribble down his stomach, having been shot out a short while earlier, when your lips closed around his throbbing member, and sultry moans filled the room. Keiji's soft, haggard sounds would be music to your ears - a choir of angels, and your legs would further entrap him. Lining his member up with your aching hole, you would sheathe him inside, relishing in the sudden, pleasure-induced moan that escaped his lips. It would be throaty, in his lustful haze. Leaning forwards, you would forcefully press your lips together, coaxing his tongue out to play. At some point, he might gain control, turning the tide of dominance. Pinning you to the bed, perhaps he would will you to beg, to plead for his glorious sex. He might release you, or he could make you suffer. Maybe he would pull out, so that only the tip remained, or perhaps he would even deny your orgasm, as punishment for screwing with him. Would he do that?

Licking your lips, you imagined all the possibilities, ranging from soft sex to rough sex, to no sex at all. It was entirely plausible that, once he gained the upper hand, he would tie you against the bed, stranding you until morning, or whenever someone decided to walk in and found your naked, or semi-naked body, shaking from the cold, desiring nothing but Keiji Akaashi.

Then again, Fukurōdani would provide the best environment. Plus, it would be much easier to find and lure your prey in a place that he felt comfortable. You might be able to find a jump rope to tie his hands, and maybe the gymnasium's storeroom would be a good spot to launch an attack. However, first came the annoying part: removing Keiji's larger-than-life friend from the picture. You didn't really have to go to the extreme of killing him, but that was always a viable option. No, you could just get someone to help you take his attention off Keiji, and go home by himself. He was constantly hoarding your beloved, never letting you get too close. You could have even sworn he glared at you once, for attempting to limit the space between yourself and the setter. Regardless, he had to go, if only for a few hours.

You crossed your legs, well aware that you were growing too aroused, from your fantasies alone. The object of your (obsessive) affections tilted his head in concentration. You loved this, because it meant that he was working really hard. He was incredibly smart, but never boasted about his grades. You adored his humility. The temperature had risen significantly in the past few minutes, but you hadn't noticed, since you spaced out. However, the heat seemed to affect Keiji, as his blazer was draped gracefully over the back of his chair, and you could see the sweat rolling down his neck. In that moment, all remaining reason flooded out, and you had to stab your hand with a sharpened pencil, just to stop yourself from leaning in and lapping up the substance. Glancing at the clock, you realised that there were less than ten minutes left. You sighed in relief. Keiji's dark eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of your flustered state. He would attest to being concerned. You were a classmate, after all.

He looked back towards the teacher, listening with one ear. The notes in his book were becoming more and more confusing - his focus was wavering, as he tried to disperse it between you and the lesson. He always appeared so cool, so collected, able to dish out the most brutally honest comments without batting an eye, but, a slight panic was building in his stomach. It twisted unnaturally, bringing him to the brink of nausea. Although, no-one would be able to tell, not even if they invaded his personal space, like Bokuto. The extraordinarily beautiful setter often noticed you staring, out of the corner of his eye, but he never said anything. You seemed quite timid, since you scarcely talked to anyone, so he didn't necessarily want to make you uncomfortable. However, while he thought that you kept your head down and got work done, you actually had a very different, very special reason for scribbling in your book, only sparing two or three glances towards the teacher.

Earlier, you had been in the process of writing out, and testing, various methods of torture/execution. You see, Keiji had a bad habit of being friendly around the girls at school. Well, he was an incredibly amiable person anyway, but, much like Aobajōsai's setter, he had a fanclub. They were absolutely obsessed with him.

Although, they could never love Keiji like you did.

Their president was a small-ish, brown-haired female, who compensated for her height by donning these ridiculous, strictly prohibited heels, which gave her a few more inches. She had a horrible, toxic sort of personality, and a smile that could wipe out an entire species. For her, you implemented a very special, very inhumane plan. One day, during lunch, you asked her (privately) about joining the Keiji Akaashi Fanclub. She was thrilled to have yet another member, and she entrusted you with all sorts of written documents, ready and waiting for your signature. The two of you had a clandestine meeting, because you wanted to 'show' her something. You shrugged off all her guesses. There was a spring in your step, and a happy giggle bubbling in your throat. In your bag, an iron contraption sat amongst your school supplies. After placing it (with much force) on her head, and twisting it violently, almost breaking the poor girl's jaw before the fun really started, you hauled her into the furnace.

She had been your first victim.

Proceeding her, were five more members of that detestable, and frankly annoying, club. When they were dealt with, you transitioned into Phase 2, which primarily involved the possible abduction, and definite enchantment, of your love: Keiji Akaashi. So now, you were in class, gazing dreamily at him, and wondering about your plan. It needed a touch more...flavour, so it would, unfortunately, have to wait. At least until tomorrow.

The bell rang, and freedom had never tasted so sweet. Thankfully, your chosen methods of extermination required minimal bloodshed, so nothing was visible on your clothes. Just as you packed away your items, and got out of your chair, a mildly concerned-looking Keiji blocked your view of the door. You recognised a slight imbalance in his stance, indicating that something was troubling him.

"(L/n)-san." He addressed, nonchalantly.

Your response was almost too quick. "Yes, Kei-Akaashi-kun?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Did you need me for something? You're always staring. It can be confusing."

"Ah..." You guessed he stopped himself from saying 'annoying'. "I can tell you tomorrow, maybe?" You muttered, attempting to stall for time.

Shaking his head, he spoke, "Please tell me now."

This was happening far too suddenly, yet you weren't about to let this opportunity slide. "Um...well, I could tell you on the way back? We go the same way, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, we do. Let's go then." His fingers brushed past yours, causing your skin to prickle.

Right, cool. Just keep this momentum, and everything will go smoothly.

While walking, you spotted him fumbling with his fingers - something he did quite frequently. It wasn't really a sign of anxiety, but you found it adorable. His gunmetal blue eyes were fixated on the road ahead, and his lips had long since been sealed. You desperately needed to take action, otherwise, if your actual strategy did not work, you would completely fail. You couldn't let him go home, but it would seem really strange if you asked him to join you for a cup of tea, or something to that effect. Whilst you were pondering this dilemma, droplets of water dripped down on to your hair and clothes, thoroughly wetting both of you. Since your house was close, and you lived alone, this was the perfect opportunity to invite him inside. Silently, you thanked whatever god was out there, listening to your prayers.

The two of you hurried inside, grabbing some towels and shaking yourselves off. Your (e/c) eyes glimpsed his shirt, now transparent due to exposure to the rain. Gulping, you averted your gaze, attempting not to grow too aroused. Keiji looked around, seeing nothing he didn't expect. Your hallway was pretty barren, to be honest, because everything of personal value was compiled in your room. That is to say, you had lots of...helpful tools.

"Thank you. I figured it might rain, so I gave my umbrella to Bokuto-san." He nodded politely.

Sighing, you stated, "You do so much for him."

"He's our captain. If he loses his cheerful nature, he won't be as good in practise." He clarified, not seeming to understand why you suddenly sounded quite out-of-sorts.

I need some love too, y'know?

You smiled. "I get that. Sorry, I wasn't trying to offend you."

He followed your lead, walking slowly behind you. "It's alright. I should have brought another umbrella, so you didn't get wet."

"It was inevitable."

I'm always wet when you're around, Keiji.

"I apologise anyway." He bowed, halting his movements.

You stopped outside your bedroom door. "Then, how about you make it up to me?"

#akaashi keiji #keiji akaashi #akaashi #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu #yandere #bokuto koutaro #fukurodani #x reader #akaashi keiji x reader

32 notes · View notes

the-nagakenny-archives · 5 years

Text

Facing my Fear (part 3)

Kenny and Lindsay roamed around the jungle and came across a familiar tree. “Hey, that’s the tree you and I were sitting in after you launched me in the air!” Lindsay excitedly pointed out. Kenny indicates, “Believe it or not, we happen to be close to the area, where you and I first met.” Kenny showed Lindsay the vines she swung on, the bolder he rested on and greeted her, and the shrubs they both slept in. “Well, ain’t that something!” Lindsay exclaimed as she does a little twirl. “I get to stay close to you, which is really is a…ah!” she tripped on a root that was hidden under some flowers. She gets up as Kenny reaches his hand out to her. “Are you alright, Lindsay?” Kenny asked. Lindsay grabs Kenny’s hand and when she was about to answer, she notices a brightly colored frog on her arm!

Lindsay jumped and yelped, flailing her arms everywhere. When the frog finally jumped off, Lindsay stopped moving to see the frog was no longer on her and exhales. Kenny looked shocked and confused after watching Lindsay act so frantic. Lindsay noticed and felt embarrassed as she apologizes. “I’m sorry, Kenny. I was not expecting that to happen…” suddenly, Lindsay noticed the frog on Kenny. “Now it’s on your tail!” she pointed out. However, the naga was unfazed as he chuckled while gently picking it up and playfully scolded the frog. “Shame on you! Scaring a sweet young lady! Now off you go.” Kenny gently puts the frog down and shoos it away. He goes up to Lindsay to comfort her by slowly rubbing her arms up and down. Kenny gave her a bolstering smile, but Lindsay was still feeling sheepish for letting Kenny see her get scared by a little frog.

“That was the second frog that spooked me since I got here.” Lindsay said.

“Poor thing,” Kenny said amiably. “Here, have a seat. Tell me all about it.” Kenny made a resting spot with his coils for Lindsay to sit on. She goes on, “I’ve been afraid of frogs and toads since I was a toddler. I was frightened by their appearance as well as capabilities; those bright bulging eyes, big mouths, long stretchy tongues, plus hopping and sticking onto anything nearby. Although, as I grew up, I’ve learned to get past the looks. They’re kind of cute when they swim, sit around and croak, mainly just minding their own business. I also think their cuter when they are angry.” Kenny jokingly states, “Yeah, you never want to tamper around such a creature or else: squeak!” Lindsay giggles as Kenny continues, “And with all due respect, you humans sure are jumpy when it comes to small creatures.” Lindsay scratches the back of her head, “That’s true. Once again, I do apologize for being hysterical.”

“No worries, love.” Kenny said admiringly. “So what about the last frog you’ve encountered?”

Lindsay continues, “It happened last night in my tent. I woke up in the middle of the night because I felt something squishy moving on my thigh. I pulled the covers off to reveal a frog. I sprung out of my tent to get rid of it. Luckily, I was alone when this happened. I don’t think I would live it down if anyone were to see me jumping around in my pajamas.”

“Maybe there’s something about you the frogs find attractive.” Kenny stated. Lindsay shrugs at that statement. “Maybe. But it doesn’t give them the right to cling on to me without my consent.” Kenny slyly grins at that remark. “What you’re saying is true. But, frankly I can’t blame them; you really are a special individual, who is sweet and beautiful. Surely anyone would love to be close to you…even yours truly.” Kenny winked at Lindsay, making a goofy smile spread across her face.

“Oh, Kenny…” Lindsay blushed.

“Seriously though.” Kenny assured. “You are one in a million.” Lindsay thanked him for the compliment and decided she’s ready to continue her adventure in the jungle with Kenny. Once she got up from Kenny’s coils, Kenny loosens his tail, holds out his arm to Lindsay like a gentleman and she happily latches on. While they are on the move, they hear something from a distance as Lindsay says, “I hear a waterfall.”

“Me too. You wanna go check it out?” Kenny requested.

“Yes, please!” Lindsay answered excitedly.

“Alrighty then! Luckily I know a shortcut.” Kenny instantaneously slithered through a path while Lindsay tries to catch up. “Wait! Kenny, don’t leave me behind!” she says while running after him.

---submitted by lind187

#ask-nagakenny #submission #lind187 #story #haha cute so far ;v;

13 notes · View notes

deviationdivine · 6 years

Text

Blue Blush (Connor!Prompt Request)

TLDR: Connor’s having one of those days at the DPD that just culminates in him winding up naked...

Word Count: 2,837

TW: Fluffy Boy Connor, Language, Suggestive Themes

A/N:Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Nothing to see here.” “Um, you’re fucking naked!” - @sammyreh request! Here we go! My main man Connor’s back with more fluff to cure my chronic angst. Thanks for participating baby!

How lovely you look today. Any day will be beneficial to his visual component analyzing each detail for memory storage. Already he has seen you first entering DPD but that does not stop him wanting to be around you approximately twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks in a month and-

Calculations drop out of range the closer you come. Realizing that he fell into distraction reminds him of what Hank calls it. The lieutenant says he is ‘whipped’ but Connor is unsure if you would partake in the sexual gratification of S&M. Whips appear to be quite popular in the area.

A flood of information filters in his scanners. Oh. That is not what the lieutenant meant.

Wiping out a flood of sexual content he automatically steps forward with a cup of coffee brewed specifically to your preferences. “Good morning, Love.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

Your greeting is airy with a wisp of mischief. Catching him off guard is rare. After all he will hear a pin drop with that supersonic hearing. It isn’t so much surprise but confusion settling into his cute face. Then he plays off your formal address all too cleverly.

“We are much more than colleagues now, Y/N.” The android admonishes teasingly, offering the hot beverage to you. “In fact, I do believe we are dating.”

Is that so? You laugh at the little joke. Breezing past his lips husky and endearing; your body leans into his chest acting as a harmonious magnet. Tangling fingers around silky tie pulls him down just enough but directing him isn’t necessary.

Connor places a sweet kiss that quickly transforms in a sultry tango to your lips. Wanting to curve fingers with the shape of your face, cradling, claiming you as his, he does remind himself of current priority. This is work. He does not wish to cause an uncomfortable climate. Most have no opinion about this new relationship the two of you have begun.

Hank obviously rolled eyes when Connor first admitted. Actually, it was not in disgust. The lieutenant thought it was “about time they worked it the fuck out” in his usual unpleasant terms.

There is a nudge of doubt still weighing through his system. Even as you come to hold a place for him in your rapturous human heart; Connor imagines if he did not become deviant.

Never will he doubt you or these feelings. He doubts how good he truly is for someone like you. Someone who is a lively spark in this world, making him feel further human. If he may hold, protect you forever that will be enough. Even if you decide to move away from this connection for your sake as a human dating an android; Connor drops his gaze. Being free with thoughts and decisions empties his mind for only his internal voice to ruminate. At times being alone is not best for a deviant.

“Connor? Are you OK?”

Stroking his cheek draws him up in a snap. Indicator flickers in a call sign interrupting this pleasant sensation reserved only for him. He reserves for you as well. As long as you want to be with him perhaps that is enough. To hold a moment tenderly expecting an end or his days of struggle eclipse logic too severely.

He is more adaptable than this. Having something precious to lose makes the android surge with an entire new string of emotions.

Maybe he should ask Hank. On second thought, let’s not ask Hank.

Connor smiles now. Appeasing worry is part of his programming. He is meant to integrate in an amiable way. He still follows patterns of protocol but more so out of choice. An unmistakable need to make you happy fills him with purpose.

“I just received an emergency call,” Connor breathes against your hand. Tiny peck of the android’s bottom lip grazes palm where you continue to offer a soothing caress. Tasting the natural chemicals held within your body spiking for every touch and affectionate fondle of skin.

“It seems I will be out in the field earlier today. And – Hank is late.”

Anderson is late? Shocking! You smirk. “Well, that’s on him,” you chide. “But still… I’d like you having backup. Do you want me to-?”

“No, Y/N.” Connor is quick to shut down the suggestion. He knows of the astonishing capability you possess. There is more at stake.

Arguing won’t change his mind. He’s pretty good at making his own decisions. It makes you happy to see him not tied down to code or orders. He’s also pretty good at this coffee thing. Sipping it now creates a warm spread.

“Mmm,” purring approval gets him going.

Lusty clouds dot caramel cocoa, those same eclipses you notice each time kissing turns into heavy petting. Connor lets go of his pristine, intelligent personage while loving you. He takes breath away. Can only dream of how it will be when you two have sex. “Exact amount of cream. Connor, if you weren’t a detective you’d make a delectably hot barista.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Take your lovey dovey shit outside!”

Wrenching back from Connor’s warm, loving space is a good opportunity to roll eyes in disgust. You blatantly ignore the obnoxious entrance of Reed. “Be careful,” a little whisper floods your feelings. They always were like this for Connor but knowing he’s yours? It adds extra uneasiness.

He does not seem to be worried at all. That smile can light up the earth. He warms you like the sun.

“Androids are capable of avoiding unnecessary injury to biocomponents, Love. My model makes me quite effective.” Connor pulls at the threads holding your blissful laughter at bay. Poking gently, hoping to spill splendorous sound tinkling like china glass. Whenever you laugh the metal melts a bit more around his artificial heart.

You bless him with a diminutive giggle. All is right within his world then. It means everything he desires now. Deviancy opens gates, unleashing his true self. He-he wants to hold this forever along with your perfect form in his arms until the end of time.

“Gonna keep eye fucking or do your job tin can?!”

Connor’s smile snaps into a line. Drawing fingers against your waist as a silent disengagement and promise to remain safe, the prototype detective walks out of break room on a clear path to Gavin Reed.

The human detective yawns not worried. He snorts at the droid. “The fuck you looking at?”

“Opening your mouth to Detective Y/L/N will need proper adjustment,” Connor explains smoothly. “Would you like me to assist you, Detective Reed?”

Any jokes Gavin had on loop don’t make it past this plastic asshole’s balls. Getting in his face he must have a big pair of gonads! “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten your stunt in the evidence room motherfucker!”

“I’m sorry,” the prototype snipes sarcastically. “I suppose this concludes our bromance then.”

“You motherless piece of shit!”

Unfazed by the varying degrees of dirt that escapes Reed’s mouth, Connor takes a page out of Hank’s book as the lieutenant would say: “Do go fuck yourself, Detective Reed. I believe that will solve all of your problems.”

Gavin is too stunned to even harp back. That’s a first! Goddamn android saunters off like he’s some hot shot too. Anderson taught him this shit! He knows it! Well…he’ll get this prick back. Today.

“Uh, Connor?” Chris Miller’s eyebrows rise at the android. Coming in slopped up in mud and – that better be mud! “What happened to you?”

“I had a minor accident.” Explaining crisply, Connor’s perturbed affectation is due to his constant gathering of humanity. More simply put: he is pissed off. Holding up his arms did not lessen the entirety of this ruination. His jacket is completely soiled.

“Just minor?” the officer snorts, returning to computer. “Wait til Hank sees this.”

Ignoring Officer Miller’s amusement puts Connor on a path for locker room. A swift move that Gavin takes notice of. Removing feet off desk, Reed gets up casually before taking off in the same direction. Whistling on the way downstairs echoes in stairwell but Gavin shuts up by the time that prick could be in earshot.

Jacket, jeans completely caked in mud, dirty liquid already seeps through white shirt. Jumping a fence into several pedestrians did not end well despite calculations. The thief in question decided to use collateral damage to slow his pursuit. Connor fell face first in a giant puddle of soggy dirt from last night’s rain shower.

The android strips dirty clothing. Resting shoes atop bench they are remarkably unscathed. Obtaining a locker for himself is both beneficial and rewarding. He never imagined much need for it being an android. Hank was right this time.

Connor smirks. Stepping out of aisle to enter shower stall he needs to rinse splatters of dirt from synthetic skin.

Reed takes a peek now seeing the coast clear. “Let’s see you get out of here naked plastic prick.” Gavin proceeds to gather up the droids clothes intent on humiliating the bastard. This will stick it to him on a lesser note but he’ll sit back and laugh his ass off all the same.

“What the hell did he fall in?!” Gavin holds the muddy pile away from himself. If he gets anything on this jacket he’ll kill somebody.

Wet tousled hair smoothes in a comb beneath Connor’s fingers returning to locker. He freezes, running a searchable scan. Where are his clothes?

“Connor!?”

Jolting around at your frantic voice floods indicator scarlet. Priming himself to jump into action and protect he steels his fluid stance. You are alone. There is no sign of any distress besides your rising heart rate. Oh.

The android peers down assessing his current absence of clothing. “Nothing to see here.”

Nothing to see? How about broad shoulders ripe for finger digging, clavicles made for flush kisses and a muscle toned body stark naked in the DPD locker room? Connor is absolutely wow. No, really. This is…what???

“Um, you’re fucking naked!”

Raising eyebrows at your language does remind him of Hank. The android remains standing without sense to hide anything about his state of undress. Simply he gazes at you fondly and free of inhibitions. Obviously this is far too intimate. Even in a relationship your embarrassment is palpable. “Are you all right, Y/N?”

A breath escapes in poor answer. Frankly there is nothing to say without making a fool of yourself. It shouldn’t be this nerve wracking. After all you two have been together but not this far yet.

Connor cocks his head with a tiny smile. Obviously it does not bother him. However, he does not wish for you to feel uncomfortable. “I apologize. Would you like me-?”

“Connor.” Pressing a palm to his chest stills the entire world. Bare and chiseled just as his sharp cheekbones, sculpted jaw he is a beautiful statue. He’s an ancient work born out of Greece. Tall perfection making you weak in the knees fully clothed. Without you need to start fanning yourself before passing out.

Keeping eyes up is difficult. You swallow.

Your touch melts him into you, eyelids drifting in a flutter. His eyelashes are like snow kissing against yours when he leans in to overtake lips. Right now he quietly stands absorbing closeness. Somehow you think this vulnerability eases him and how can you complain?

Cyberlife be praised. They were good for something at least. You giggle. Reaching up to cup his face pulls his head to meet your level.

Connor’s lips mimic yours touching softly at first. Arms thread to the warm curves of your body. Pulling you flush produces a shared groan into your mouths. His LED is ablaze, frame shuddering pleasurably into your figure.

Ohhh. You can feel him pressing fully into your groin.

“Connor.” Bracing hands against the android’s bare chest establishes more. This type of intimacy is new. Wanting it is a personal truth but down in the locker room of the DPD?

“I realize we have not had this opportunity. Removing our clothes for one another.”

“No,” you agree quiet. “We-we haven’t.”

“Does it bother you?” Worry replaces lust in your android lover. “If so I will-”

“Connor, nothing in the world involving you would ever make me uncomfortable. Besides, I love what I see.”

The android grins crookedly. Sweeping you close to show you everything he will offer. His back collides with lockers allowing you power over him. It is a silent turn on for the android known for dominating in combat.

Tender kisses raining over your lips as stardust. Connor is a star. He’s your star. Glowing forever in your heart and this is the only thing.

“My Heart,” he whispers into the sweet crook of neck. His tongue traces skin tasting what he loves most in this world.

A dangerous shiver causes a soft moan to slip. Tracing fingertips down his perfect torso creates a light shade of blue. Shimmering in a blush to synthetic skin, you gasp, smiling up at him.

“What the fuck!” Reed nearly throws up finding you pressed up against that plastic shithead. Like he needs to see a human and android fucking!

Wrenching back from your boyfriend leaves a serious problem. It’s pretty obvious since there’s nothing in the locker. You sneer already suspecting! “Get the hell out, Gavin! Better yet. Get Connor’s clothes you asshole!”

The detective snorts. Crossing arms over his chest, he takes one good look at this fucking shit and doesn’t bother hiding disgust. Fucking androids. Now they’re over here stealing humans for themselves. What a joke.

“Didn’t take the plastic prick’s shit.” Reed denies but pulls off a cocky smile. Let’s see you prove it. “What? You gotta problem with your robo boy’s package? Ain’t got one?”

Connor sidesteps from behind you without care. He throws a hot glare onto the human.

“Ah, fuck!” Gavin turns his head. “You son of a bitch! I didn’t need to see your dick!”

“Certainly were interested enough to bring it up though.” You sneer at the idiot. Can somebody fire this scumbag? “Does that answer your question? Oh, that’s right. You’re embarrassed. Because my boyfriend is obviously way bigger than your teeny pencil dick.”

Honestly, you know this boy is nice. You saw with your own eyes. Accidentally but knowing what’s in store for later is nice. Better than nice.

“What the fuck did you…?”

Connor moves in front of you purposely aware of Detective Reed’s disgust. That is why the android smiles.

Gavin throws in the towel. “Jesus Christ! Go ahead and fuck him down here if you want. I’m out!”

Saying there isn’t satisfaction in Reed squirming like the scummy worm he is would be lying. You did enjoy watching him lose it. The filthy comment out of his mouth is so expected at this point nothing phases. Not even Connor still naked as the day he was created. This vantage gives you a direct view of his toned ass. Talk about sculpted perfection.

“Connor.” Calling for him to turn around, averting eyes to save your life, you reach to snag onto his forearm. Bringing the nude android towards lockers the idea is simple. “Um, wait here. And I’ll find where that jackass took your clothes.”

“Y/N, wait.”

Catching onto your waist stills everything. His voice is uneven. Checking his LED it’s not crimson but amber. What is he thinking?

“Then you do not mind seeing all of me.” Hesitation poisons his statement. Part of him does not want the truth. If you do not believe he is worth you- “As this. As my true self?”

A gentle smile answers in place of words. What can be said that is good enough? He is everything in your world. Can that be enough? Of course it is. Love is whatever you want it to be. This is what you want it to be.

“I know your true self. This.” You rub fingers across his chest. Beneath synthetic skin it’s easy to know what he is but that is what you love. All of him no matter what others see.

You indulge firm hands resting on hips. Thankfully deviancy means being bolder. He’s still a cinnamon roll though. Cinnamon roll that can kill you but still fits. “I only see you, Connor. Skin, no skin why should that mean anything? When I love you?”

The android is flooded with readings. Listening, analyzing each hastened beat of heart radiating out of you. Those beats are erratically for – him.

Connor’s smile transcends beyond that cheap grimace that used to twist his mouth. This is bright. Vibrant in humanity, dimples and pride knowing he can have what he wants.

“My Heart,” he pledges an oath. “I love you too.”

That pet name is going to make you drop. Who knew androids could be this romantic? You clear your throat, pointing down but keeping eyes on his. “Want to put that away now?”

“Oh. Obviously.”

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy @tropfenlady @connorswink @tommy-10-k

#connor rk800 x reader #connor x reader #dbh connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh rk800 x reader #dbh #detroit become human #spicy fluff #follower/reader appreciation request #get lost gavin #wanna talk shit #get hit #sammyreh request #part of the blue series

310 notes · View notes

thatpinkbetch · 5 years

Text

So...I feel like my fic We’re all time bombs ended perfectly, and I don’t want to add onto it, but also, I had an idea of how college would go - particularly for Bakugou. I wanted to add it onto my post about my head canons, but it got...long. So *cracks knuckles* here we fucking go.

Bakugou ends up dorming with Todoroki

It’s not that bad....but it’s not that good. At first

They’re at odds all the time, because Bakugou is instinctively combative with this guy who clearly would’ve been popular if they were still in high school, and Todoroki Does Not Care At All about his intimidation tactics.

BTW Todoroki was home-schooled so he doesn’t even know what the fuck popular is.

It’s a little awkward because that’s just how Bakugou forms friendships - he tries to convince them he doesn’t like them but over time eventually lets it slip through his actions that he does, in fact, maybe kinda sort of like them.

So it takes time but they eventually come to an understanding with each other - learn how to live together.

In the beginning of the semester, Bakugou rants to Midoriya about his stupid ass, pretentious fucking roommate and every little thing they do that pisses him off.

When Midoriya first visits, he does notice that they’re a little reserved, but he still thinks Todoroki is nice - he would never say that to Bakugou, though.

Todoroki hardly ever gets to know Midoriya because whenever he comes to visit, Bakugou immediately takes him out and they go party or hang out somewhere, usually with other friends from high school.

But he’s a little shocked at the stark difference between their personalities.

It honestly is what makes him reconsider his first impression of Bakugou

His first thought is “why would this person, the nicest boy I’ve ever met in my life, date this asshole?”

His second thought is “maybe he’s not a complete asshole all the time?”

Bakugou does seem a bit calmer after the weekends, so already Todoroki appreciates this Midoriya guy

When they’re less antagonistic later on in the year, Bakugou feels more comfortable asking Todoroki to leave the room so he and his boyfriend could have some ~alone time~

This means the couple are at the dorm a bit more often whenever Midoriya visits - he gets to talk a bit with Todoroki, but Bakugou really wants to keep these parts of his life separate, so he tries to not let that shit happen too often.

Todoroki does end up finding out that Bakugou is a pretty nice person from Midoriya, “he just needs some time to warm up to you. And...for you to warm up to him.”

After Bakugou and Todoroki grow accustomed to each other, they find that, by the end of the year, they would consider the other a friend. And when they need to apply for rooming for the next school year, and Todoroki suggests that they ask to keep their same room since they have the right to, Bakugou doesn’t say no. This confirms to Todoroki what he’d suspected - that Bakugou does, actually, like him.

They don’t hang out over the break, but they find that, as their second year approaches, they don’t hate the idea of going back.

And they do see each other - staying in a dorm all break isn’t fun, but for Todoroki, it’s preferable to going home. He also has a friend from class (another rich kid who lived in the same town as him and they were neighborhood friends) he’s allowed to stay with - Iida - so half the break he’s over there.

Bakugou doesn’t go back to his childhood house, but he’s allowed to stay with Midoriya over the break - he does with every break, though the summer break was exceptionally long, so he would occasionally go back for a week and see Todoroki hanging out there and be like “fuck this” and go back.

He was worried about spending too much time living with Midoriya, and that Midoriya would grow sick of him, but as time went on, that fear became less and less of a concern.

Anyways, they’re back for another year, and it begins much more smoothly than the last.

Half way through, there’s an incident where Bakugou comes back to see a child in their dorm.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Language, Bakugou. There’s a child.”

“WHY IS THERE A CHILD?”

Said child starts screaming and throwing things.

“OI STOP THAT, STOP HIM HALF-AND-HALF!”

“He didn’t start until you started screaming!”

“AARRGGHH!” He takes Todoroki to the corner of their dorm so they can talk “in private.” Finds out that this child came up to Todoroki and the latter couldn’t find any trace of their parents, and he didn’t know what to do so he took the child back to his dorm to wait for a more capable adult.

“Why didn’t you take him to the police!” Bakugou whispers harshly.

“I don’t like the police.”

“NOBODY LIKES THE POLICE ASSHOLE!”

“WAAAAHHHHH!”

“Stop scaring the child, please.”

Bakugou is steaming now, wanting to calm this crazy child down.

“I’ll fucking kick his ass, we’ll see if he calms down then.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Todoroki says, seriously.

“Why?” Bakugou asks, sarcastic of course. “It’s how I was raised.”

“Me to, that’s why I know there’s a better way.”

Of course, Bakugou is struck by that - not only does he see Todoroki in a different light, he is also reminded that he’s trying to be a better person, and not get stuck in the same habits - his habits, his mom’s habits.

Without another word, he sighs, then goes over to the kid and kneels in front of them, and with his regular voice (not that soothing, but still much better than the shouting), “Hey kid, look at you right now; you’re acting like me. You don’t wanna be like the big scary man.” Then he points at Todoroki, silently watching them. “You wanna be like that nice man you went up to to ask for help, right? He’s nice and calm, so try being like him. It’ll be easier to find your parents that way.” And then...the child calms down.

Bakugou takes the kid to the police, Todoroki follows because he wants to see how it’s done - he honestly just didn’t know what to do (neglect will do that to young adults.)

Everything is settled, and when they go to sleep that night, they both see the other in a different light.

Yeah obviously Todoroki sees how gentle Bakugou can be, and that he’s not just rough and tough, but only Midoriya has been able to drive Bakugou to be a better person, so Todoroki is...pretty special. Bakugou feels connected to him through their similar experiences.

It’s the end of their second year, and Todoroki ask him if he has plans for living arrangements. Bakugou explains that his boyfriend is transferring - he just got in - and they’re planning on getting an apartment together.

“Oh, okay.”

“...Why?”

Todoroki explains that he and his friend (Iida) have been looking for apartments, and they found a three bedroom one for a good price that’s close to campus and the good grocery store, and he was hoping to invite Bakugou to live with them.

“...How much is it?”

“Holy shit.”

“Let’s fucking do it.”

“But...what about your boyfriend?”

“We can share the room, dumbass. We were going to get a one person apartment anyway.”

So that’s how the third year finds Bakugou, Midoriya, Todoroki, and Iida all living together.

Oh no.

Bakugou has actually had Iida in a couple of his math classes, and while he was annoyed with him at first, they too have come to an understanding - Iida understands that there is nothing he can do to stop his disrespectful behavior, but Todoroki likes him, so he must be a good person.

Iida is also astonished that Midoriya, sweet, kind, amiable Midoriya, is in love with rude, obnoxious, self-centered Bakugou.

He and Midoriya make fast friends - really, really fast friends.

It’s a little annoying to Bakugou, but he can’t say he didn’t see it coming.

Todoroki is also intrigued, because now he gets to see how these two interact.

Bakugou hardly treats Midoriya any different than anyone else, and they’re a little surprised, because Midoriya simply laughs and smiles him off all the time.

Todoroki knew not to take Bakugou seriously, but that’s because he’s Todoroki and does not care enough to ever be intimidated by anyone. But seeing Midoriya interact with Bakugou, they both realize that Bakugou just shouts and swears a lot, and when you learn to speak “Kacchan,” then he’s actually an amazing friend.

The arrangement works a little too well.

Midoriya and Iida and Todoroki get along swimmingly, and Bakugou is irritated by the sunshine that fills his apartment, but at least at night he gets to hold his boyfriend close to him and just sleep. I mean, they often times do other things, obviously, but Bakugou really likes just being able to sleep next to Midoriya, in their own bed, in their own room, in their own apartment, far away from his childhood home. It’s like a dream he never thought possible.

The first time Iida and Todoroki witness the couple having a fight, they’re worried.

Midoriya does something that upsets Bakugou - he damages one of Bakugou’s wheels by driving too fast over a pothole - and Bakugou blows up. Midoriya apologizes, genuinely; it’s clear he feels very bad about what he’d done. Bakugou is still upset. He doesn’t shout anymore, but he walks out, fuming.

Todoroki and Iida try to comfort Midoriya, who looks after his boyfriend with sorrow, but he kinda just...waves them off.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Todoroki asks him.

“No, don’t bother him. Give him some space.”

“I’m sorry about that Midoriya. You were very apologetic, I don’t think he should have stormed off like that.”

“It’s fine Iida, just because I say I’m sorry doesn’t mean he has to accept it. He knows I feel bad, but just because I regret it doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to still be angry. He just needs some time to himself.”

They’re a little startled by that wise commentary, but then they start to understand how this sweet boy could love that rough boy - he has all the patience and understanding in the world.

The next morning they wake up and are relieved to see Bakugou and Midoriya interacting as usual - the former making breakfast for the latter (and also for everyone, but he never admits that’s why he makes a whole heaping of everything).

That previous night, Midoriya had gone to their room to go to bed, cautious, but where else is he to go? Bakugou is in bed, and he simply says, “Come here.” Midoriya goes to the bed and feels himself pulled into Bakugou’s arms, settling in for the night.

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

.................

“I’m gonna pay for it all.”

“The fuck? With what money?”

“I have some saved up. I do have a job here you know.”

“Doesn’t pay that much.”

“Like I said, I’ve been saving up.”

“...For what?”

“Eh, just something, I don’t really know yet.”

“That means it’s something special, you fucker.”

“...I was saving up for your birthday present.”

“...fuck you,” Bakugou says, hugging him closer. With a smile, Midoriya says, “Love you too, Kacchan.”

Bakugou tells him they’ll pay half and half, since Midoriya is insistent on paying since it was his fault.

The chaotic trio continue to visit every other weekend, and now that Bakugou and Midoriya share an apartment with Iida and Todoroki, everyone’s friend group is getting mixed up together.

I don’t really have any more they just...live together and love each other, and then they graduate and do their damnedest to stay near each other and live their best lives.

Midoriya and Bakugou really fucking make it. After all the angst of their teenage years, everything they put each other through, they’re finally happy together. They know that no matter what happens, they’ll help the other through it.

Okay NOW I’m finally done with this fic...this got really long and out of hand but I’m done thinking about this universe!!

#bakudeku #bkdk #boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #my writing #my fic #this has been in my drafts for like two weeks now

35 notes · View notes

leisurelypanda · 5 years

Text

The Blood Price

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479044

@mom---nicole @frostbitebakery @stuckysheart

[Y/N] had her servant girl knock at the door of the enormous castle. It was a strange place to have such a residence. The Scottish countryside was lovely, she supposed, but it was just so far away from everything. London was hundreds of miles away from this place and Glasgow was hardly a center of civilization. However, after the passing of her dear late(est) husband, Viscount Pulteney, [Y/N] was in need of a new spouse, as a single woman was easily manipulated and held little political clout.

Viscount Pulteney was, in fact, her fourth husband, and the second to have been a Viscount. The other two had been Barons, but they had all been elderly. The first had actually been arranged by her father, himself a minor baron. Her first husband had been elderly and without an heir and hoped that a young woman would provide the means of producing another. Instead, he’d died a month into their marriage having failed (entirely on his own) to… rise to the occasion. With no siblings and no heirs, [Y/N] managed to secure the family funds.

So passed her adulthood. She arranged one marriage after another, climbing ever higher until she’d married a wealthy Viscount. He, too, had died, and now, she was scoping out her newest target. It was the only reason she’d come so far north. It was technically autumn, but here, the snows had already arrived. She gathered her fur coat around her.

Earl Rogers, of Brooklynshire. His father had been a rather successful businessman, shrewd with money, and protective of his son. Steven Rogers, the current Earl, had made few appearances in court. The only things that were known about him was that he was wealthy enough to live in the family’s second castle in Balmoral, Scotland and run the business from there and that he was famously handsome, if the rumors from his single excursion into society could be believed.

[Y/N] hoped that that was the case. If she could secure a husband who was both handsome and wealthy, it would make the brief amount of time that she would be his wife… enjoyable at least. Who knows? Maybe after he met his untimely end, she would even play the part of his eternally bereft widow. She would certainly be wealthy enough.

Her servant girl returned looking confused. Her shoulders were hunched and she looked at the ground as she approached. [Y/N] pursed her lips.

“Beggin’ your pardon m’lady, but the steward says that the Earl is indisposed,” she reported. “He begs your forgiveness.”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes as she looked at the castle. “Did he say how he was indisposed?” she asked.

“No, m’lady,” the girl replied.

“Hm…” [Y/N] replied. “Very well. We shall return overmorrow in the hopes that he has recovered.”

“As you say, m’lady,” the girl said.

“Get in and be quick. It is entirely too cold in Scotland,” [Y/N] said. Why anyone lived here was beyond her.

Two days later, she returned and made sure that her girl said that it was the Viscountess of Pulteney requesting an audience. She’d sent letters ahead of her, but received only polite replies. He had inherited his father’s shrewdness, that was certain. It would be a useful trait in a husband if she weren’t planning on his being around for much longer.

She was met with the same result, however. Her servant girl was turned away with nothing more than a nod. [Y/N] gripped her dress through her gloved hands. This was not how she had this would go. She was still a young woman. Perhaps older than the average bride, but that was hardly an obstacle, judging from her past conquests. She had been only 16 when her father had given her in marriage to her first husband. She had been 22 when she married her latest. She was hardly a spinster, but perhaps some would consider her to be nearly there.

She holed up in the local inn for three more days before she returned. The inn was filthy and reminded her of the area where she grew up. Her father had been barely more than a commoner and she hated the idea of being poor ever again.

It was already dark by the time she arrived back at the castle. This time, she accompanied her servant girl to the door. She shivered, but kept her back straight. She would have her audience with the Earl of Brooklynshire. She would not take no for an answer, not after coming all this way.

The door opened and an elderly man greeted them. He looked at the servant girl and nodded amiably at her before turning to her.

“Ah, I imagine you are the Viscountess I have heard so much about,” he said. His voice rasped with age. “Your persistence is admirable, my lady.”

“I have come seeking an audience with the Earl of Brooklynshire,” [Y/N] declared. “I have come a long way and I have heard many wonderful things about Balmoral. I was hoping for an expert perspective to act as my guide.”

“I see. In that case, allow me to escort you to the drawing room,” the steward replied. He opened the door and [Y/N] tightened her hand into a fist in triumph. A foot in the door. It was the first step. All she needed now was for the earl to make an appearance.

“I must apologize for making you wait, my lady,” the steward said. “My lord was regrettably indisposed for the past few days.”

“I do hope that he is feeling better,” [Y/N] replied gracefully. “These Scottish winters can be rather harsh, I imagine.”

“They are long, it is true,” he said. “However, my lord finds that he appreciates the tranquility of the winters here. The cellar is well stocked in preparation each year.”

“Well, that is certainly good to hear,” she replied with a smile. “One can never be too prepared.”

“My lord takes a similar view on such things,” the steward replied. He turned a corner and they arrived in a large room richly, but simply furnished around a large fireplace where a fire cracked and snapped. [Y/N] sat primly on a couch near the fire. “He will be with you shortly to escort you to dinner, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.

It would be a shame to make this kindly old man jobless, but she did not believe in unnecessary expenses and rather than keep on staff she didn’t know, it was entirely preferable to bring in her own people when she inherited new wealth. She relaxed into the back of the couch and stared into the fire, nearly salivating at the thought of having such a luxurious place to call home.

It was nearly two hours after the steward left and [Y/N] was getting impatient. Her stomach was starting to rumble and it was putting her out of sorts. It was surely impolite to keep a lady waiting, but for two hours? At this point, [Y/N] was starting to feel ignored.

To be fair, [Y/N] thought. I did arrive uninvited and impose myself on him.

In the end, [Y/N] decided that such concerns were trivial. If it helped her find a wealthy husband capable of sustaining her for her life in comfortable luxury, it was worth it to appear rude for a moment. She would make up for it later.

There were a few times when she was waiting when she thought she saw movement in one corner of the room or another. Other times she felt that she was being watched, only for her to turn around and find nothing out of the ordinary behind her. What little light had been present in the sky was now gone.

Eventually, she got up and walked to the other door in the room from where she had come in. She would go looking for someone to fetch her servant girl. If she was going to be ignored, she could at least go back to the inn and secure some manner of food. Perhaps this was a fool’s errand after all. For someone to be so purposefully reclusive, maybe it was a bit foolish to think she could attract his attention with a bit of nerve and flattery.

She entered a long corridor lit by hundreds of candles. They were beeswax, if the lack of the scent of burning fat was anything to go by. Higher quality candles were a bit of a luxury, since they had to be bought regularly en masse. Her steps sounded on the stone floors as she sought out someone, anyone.

She heard voices from one of the rooms up ahead. She knocked softly before she entered. She stopped in her tracks as she took in the sight before her. Two young men sat on a chair, one in the other’s lap. They were… kissing. Her face scrunched up in shock and revulsion. The idea that two men could be so… enamored with each other was… unnatural, at the very least. She brought a hand to her mouth as she gasped.

“Our guest has arrived, it seems,” one of them said.

He was the one sitting on the other’s lap. He had short dark hair in something like a military cut and he was finely dressed. He had a neat, stylish coat of navy blue with a blood red cravat where it opened at the top. His trousers were light grey, almost white and his black boots matched the gloves he wore. He grinned at her and his grey eyes flashed with… something.

“So it seems,” the other said. He spread his legs and lounged almost lazily. He was dressed in similar attire, but his clothes were slightly newer in style, with smaller buttons going down the center of the coat and tan trousers with white gloves. “To what do we owe the pleasure, my lady?”

[Y/N] took a step back towards the door. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his face. He was handsome, with a square jaw outlined by a short, blond beard. His blond hair was swept back, revealing piercing blue eyes that made her feel exposed by how he regarded her with such lazy disdain, almost as though he was annoyed.

“I… came to take my leave, my Lord,” she replied.

“She came to appraise your home, she means,” the first man said. His grin remained and she noticed it had an almost… feline quality. It was unnerving.

“I have no doubt,” the other man replied. “She has been oddly persistent in her attempts to see me.”

That meant that the one sitting was the Earl of Brooklynshire, then. [Y/N] set her jaw and straightened her back. She opened her mouth to speak.

“How sweet,” the man who stood said. “She’s feeling righteous.”

“Is she?”

“She did walk in just as I was about to ravage you, my love,” the brunet said.

“Bucky,” Lord Rogers chastised.

“There is no harm in the truth,” Bucky said with a grin.

“If you two are quite finished,” she said. “I will take my leave.”

She turned around and the door slammed shut. In front was Bucky, whose grin had grown almost predatory.

“Leave? We haven’t even had dinner yet,” he purred.

“I—I shall not remain in this house a moment longer with this… this… unholy goings on,” [Y/N] declared.

“Unholy?” Bucky asked. His grin fell and his face grew cold and serious. “Less holy than the way you disposed of your husbands?”

[Y/N]’s heart nearly stopped at that. No one knew. She made sure of it. There was no one who could know who lived.

“Your first husband was an accident, to be sure,” Bucky continued. “But the rest? You have blood on your hands, lady. At least have the dignity to admit it.”

She turned and Lord Rogers regarded her with cold, calculating eyes. She took another step back and bumped into Bucky, who took his gloves off and wrapped one arm around her front and held her face with the other. He leaned in and took a long sniff before he sighed. [Y/N] tried to get out, to break his grip, but he was strong and his arms were as firm as iron. His hands were rough and callused, like a commoner or a soldier.

“Humans are so foolish,” he said lowly. “You really are an amusing lot. Always killing each other for the most petty of reasons and denying the kind of monsters you are. So many hypocrites for such a weak race.”

He turned to face Lord Rogers. “Not all, though. My love has a noble soul,” he said. “It almost makes up for the rest of you.”

“Wh-What are you doing?” [Y/N] demanded.

“Giving some justice to the poor souls you murdered,” Bucky growled. “The nobles hardly count, but the servants who knew? Your father when he found out? Their deaths are surely worthy of avenging.”

[Y/N]’s blood froze. How could he know? She couldn’t have left any loose ends. No one could connect her to those deaths, [Y/N] made sure of it. Even the servant girl you brought with you was a recent hire after the former became too suspicious.

“The only reason you’re still alive,” Bucky continued. “Is because my beloved is a jealous man who loves when I feed from him.”

What? [Y/N] thought. Her eyes returned to Lord Rogers’ face and he removed his own gloves as he moved his face almost casually, revealing two punctures on his neck. Bite marks. Her heart skipped a beat. Bucky was a vampire. He chuckled as [Y/N] tried to get away again.

“Is that fear, now?” he asked. “Your heart is beating so quickly. Perhaps you should retire for the evening. I am certain you will find my love’s hospitality very… accommodating.”

“No, I-I must leave,” [Y/N] replied. “Yes, I mustn’t miss my meeting with… the marquis.”

“Oh, a marquis,” Bucky said with a chuckle. “Did you hear that, Steve? She’s meeting with a marquis. To talk about the weather or the colonies, I wonder? Or maybe she’ll seduce him.”

“Well, good for her,” Lord Rogers drawled. “You are certain of her guilt?”

“I am,” Bucky replied. “No one is left to accuse her.”

“Well then,” Steve said as he stood. “What do we do with her?”

“Well, you could let me have her,” Bucky said. He took another sniff and licked up along the expanse of her neck. [Y/N] shivered from the touch. “It has been so long since I have had my fill, my love.”

Lord Rogers hummed, as though he were actually considering letting this, this… creature have its way with her. No matter what crimes she had committed, she was still human, unlike this Bucky Lord Rogers kept for all manner of… perversions.

“Or,” Bucky said. “We could keep her alive for a while.”

“What?” [Y/N] demanded.

“I haven’t agreed to let you turn me yet,” Lord Rogers said. His lips tilted up with a ghost of a smile, though, that did little to reassure her.

“That may be fixed rather easily, my love,” Bucky purred. Lord Rogers’ smile grew.

“Very well,” he said. “Make sure she’s… comfortable during her stay, will you?”

“As my Lord commands,” Bucky purred. [Y/N] closed her eyes and prayed to wake up.

Steve grunted as Bucky practically threw him onto the bed. The next thing he knew, his nocturnal lover was hovering over him and kissing him. He could taste his blood on Bucky’s tongue and he moaned. It was ridiculous how aroused he became when Bucky fed, but it was something he became used to a long time ago. His bare body rested under Bucky’s cold hands.

“My love,” Bucky moaned. “Say it again.”

Steve smiled and arched his neck. “Turn me. Please, Bucky, I want to be by your side forever.”

Bucky shivered above him as his mouth descended on Steve’s neck again. Instead of biting, however, he licked at the wounds, wetting his lips in Steve’s blood before he moved down the expanse of Steve’s body.

“I will almost miss feeding from you,” Bucky murmured. “Yours is the most delicious blood I have ever tasted.”

He began to doodle little patterns with Steve’s blood on his chest. Steve lay back and let Bucky have his fun. It would be the last time and to be honest, Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the feeling of being so weak and vulnerable beneath Bucky’s grip. After tonight… it would never be the same again.

But Steve didn’t care. Humans were dishonest, uncaring, and cruel. Vampires might be the same, but Steve could choose whether or not to be one of them, rather than be born to a rank and life built off lies, extortion, and manipulation. It would be his choice, and he could choose to be different. Leaving humanity behind would be… symbolic.

Bucky’s fangs dug into the mound of one of Steve’s pecs. Steve moaned as they pierced his skin. Bucky dragged his lips over Steve’s body, leaving trails of blood along the lines of muscle and hair. Bucky looked up at him as he finished, his cold lips and pale skin painted red with Steve’s blood. His pale eyes were hungry and excited.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

He captured Steve’s lips in a fierce kiss. Steve moaned as he tasted his blood again as Bucky’s cold tongue slipped against him contrasting with the warmth of the blood. His hands ran down the expanse of Bucky’s back. He was hard and even though he was becoming a vampire, part of him wanted to celebrate his last night of humanity.

“Bucky,” he moaned. “Please.”

Bucky hummed as he kissed and sucked at Steve’s neck. He rolled Steve over and mouthed over the bite marks on Steve’s neck.

“Worry not,” he murmured. “I would never take your humanity from you without letting you enjoy it one last time.”

He dropped a hand to Steve’s opening and pressed an oiled finger into him. It went in easily, Steve still being loose from last night. Steve relaxed at Bucky’s touch, even as his pulse quickened as Bucky’s finger entered him. Bucky kissed his back as he began to press another finger into him, stretching him slowly and lovingly.

“So warm,” Bucky murmured. “I’ll miss this tight heat around my cock when you’re changed.”

“But you’ll be with me forever instead of a few decades,” Steve moaned.

“That is true, and it quite makes up for the rest,” Bucky said. Steve could feel his grin against the back of his neck. With that, he pressed a third finger into Steve’s ass and Steve sighed at the familiar burning stretch.

Finally, Bucky took his fingers out and pressed his oiled cock to Steve’s ass. Steve moaned as the thick head pressed into him. It Bucky pressed into him in one, smooth motion until he was fully seated inside Steve’s ass. He moaned as his hands wandered over Steve’s body.

“Mine,” he purred in Steve’s ear. He nipped at Steve’s lobe and tugged gently. “Always, all mine.”

“Always yours,” Steve agreed. Bucky kissed him again as he began to rock into Steve’s ass. Steve moaned and pushed back with every thrust, trying to get Bucky’s member further, deeper inside him. Bucky moaned and began fucking him faster.

“I cannot wait until I don’t have to hold myself back,” Bucky growled. “I can give you everything I am, make you scream into the night as I take you after we’ve had our fill of blood.”

“Please,” Steve moaned again. “Give it to me, Buck. Want it so bad.”

“I know, my love,” Bucky said with a sharp thrust to Steve’s body. It dragged right along the place inside him that made his body alight with the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. “I won’t harm you, though. I promised, remember? Wait just a little while longer.”

Steve whined and nodded. Bucky began to thrust into him with earnestness, now, but even this was Bucky holding back. Steve dreamed of what it would be like to feel Bucky fuck him without reserve or concern for his wellbeing. It would surely be worth all the waiting he’d done.

Bucky wrapped a hand around Steve’s cock and Steve moaned as the cold flesh worked around him, teasing around the head, and chased him towards his completion. Bucky kissed him long and hard and deep as he thrust into Steve’s body. His grip on Steve’s waist tightened to the point of delicious pain, fingernails dug into his body with the effort not to hurt him overmuch.

Steve reached back and grabbed Bucky’s ass and arched his back. He tilted his neck back in automatic submission, his eternal offering to his dearest love. Bucky sank his teeth into his neck and began to suck. Steve moaned as his fangs pierced his skin. It was the best, most beautiful feeling in the world, feeling Bucky inside him and feeding on him at the same time.

He really would miss this little part of being human. The part of him that was prey for his vampire lover, the part of him that played that part willingly, the part that gave himself completely over to his lover knowing that he would never do anything to hurt him.

“Please, Bucky,” he moaned. “Do it.”

Bucky growled and took his teeth out of Steve’s neck. Steve whined at the loss before his lips were covered with Bucky’s and he tasted his blood again. The dark, metallic taste that he knew Bucky loved so much.

“Come for me first, love,” Bucky commanded. “Come for me, and then I will make you mine forever.”

Bucky jerked his hand over Steve’s cock in tandem with his quick, sharp thrusts. Steve moaned loudly and threw his head back. Bucky wrapped a hand lightly around his throat and licked up his neck over the puncture wounds. Steve tightened around Bucky’s cock and came with a groan. A moment later, Bucky came inside him, filling him with his come.

Steve took several deep breaths as he waited for Bucky to bite down on him. He thankfully didn’t ask if he was sure, but Steve could feel him waiting.

“This will hurt,” he said. “Turning is not a pleasant experience.”

Steve nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Turn me.”

Bucky hummed one last time before his fangs pierced Steve’s neck. Steve moaned at the familiar feeling as Bucky drank more deeply than he ever had before. Soon, Steve began to feel dizzy from losing so much to his lover’s lust. A moment later, Bucky came off to bite his own wrist before he pressed it to Steve’s mouth. Steve drank. The taste was foul at first, but he took what was offered and drank as deeply as Bucky drank from him.

When Bucky finally unlatched his fangs from Steve’s neck, Steve relaxed. Bucky held him for a moment.

“Dying is the easy part,” he murmured. “Being born is what will hurt. You will be awake for the whole thing.”

“How long does it take?” Steve asked.

“It depends,” Bucky said. “Some are reborn the next day. Most take longer. It is said that the longer one takes, the more powerful they are when they wake. It never takes longer than moon.”

“How long did you take?” Steve asked.

“It took me 25 days to be born again,” Bucky replied with a mixture of pride and apprehension. “It was complete agony the entire time.”

Steve set his jaw and nodded. He took a look around the room. It was completely closed off from the rest of the castle, having been built some years ago so that Bucky could have a place to sleep during the day and a place where Steve could sleep with him at night. There were no windows, only paintings of the outside world. Steve didn’t care. Bucky was safe here, during the day. That was all that mattered.

Soon, it would be his place as well.

He closed his eyes, the effort of staying awake becoming too much. Bucky held him until he passed.

Then the pain began.

The only way [Y/N] was aware of the passage of time was by the meals that were brought to her, if they could be called that. They were mostly soup and bread, peasant food of mediocre quality at best. She consumed each meal, however, in case the opportunity to flee ever presented itself.

Each night, that creature, Lord Rogers’… pet, came to visit her. He never touched her, but allowed her to roam about the house for exercise with him as an escort. At midnight each night, she was returned to the bed where she stayed and chained there until the next day. Afterwards, the creature departed to do whatever unholy work his master set about for him.

It had been nearly a month since she arrived. 28 days, to be exact. With each passing day, the creature became smugger, with the past few verging on complete pride, like he had accomplished something extraordinary.

“He will wake soon,” he said each night.

Somehow, her sense of dread managed to grow each day. She did her best to hide it, but the creature seemed amused by her.

On the morning of the 28th day, the servant girl who attended her each day arrived. The one [Y/N] brought with her had apparently been sent home the first evening. [Y/N] wondered if that was true, or if the creature had consumed her blood or if he was only interested in the blood of men.

“How can you stay here?” [Y/N] demanded of the girl when she entered. “Do you know what sort of man your master is?”

“Lord Rogers is a kind man,” she replied. “He makes sure we are all taken care of and want for nothing.”

“But he keeps the company of that thing,” [Y/N] replied. “It’s unnatural.”

“Lord Buchanan is charming,” she said. “He’s a bit of a rake, but he’s better than any man except Lord Rogers.”

“Do you know what he is, though?” [Y/N] asked with a hiss.

“A vampire,” she said with a nod. “He killed the first steward when he arrived on Lord Rogers’ orders. Good thing, that. Pierce was a vile man, liked to grope the girls who were half his age and younger and he stole from the family treasury.”

“And you have no qualms with that?” [Y/N] demanded as her jaw dropped.

“Lord Buchanan feeds off Lord Rogers and kills criminals who deserve it and leaves good folk alone,” she replied.

“What about their relationship?” [Y/N] asked. “Do you know that they’re lovers?”

The servant girl snorted, just as gracelessly as a commoner would. If she were in [Y/N]’s employ, she’d be punished for making such a rude sound in front of guests.

“Of course,” she replied. “We all know. We all know everything. The only ones who had a problem with it were the ones who were guilty of bullying and taking advantage of the weak members of staff.”

[Y/N] pursed her lips but said nothing in reply. Her last ditch attempt to gain an ally had fallen flat on its face. The servant girl began to feed her and [Y/N] accepted the food, if by some miracle, she would be able to escape tonight.

No such opportunity presented itself.

Late that night, her doors opened as they always did. This time, the creature came and stood before the fire. The flames made him seem darker, and the only thing she could make out from his features was his feral smile.

“My lady,” he said. “May I present the Earl of Brooklynshire?”

At that moment, Lord Rogers entered the room, standing tall and strong and proud. He had been well built before, but now he seemed stronger. His skin was now deathly pale, but his hair and beard were as neat as ever. He regarded her and he seemed fascinated, as though he’d discovered a particularly interesting animal.

“You were right,” he said. “I can hear her heartbeat. That… will take a period of adjustment.”

The creature hummed and brought Lord Rogers closer. He smiled as he approached and she saw his fangs glimmer in the night. Her stomach dropped. Despite what the creature had told her, she’d hoped that perhaps he was bluffing. Lord Rogers laughed.

“Is that what it’s like to hear thoughts?” he asked. “It’s so… strange. If I hadn’t been becoming this, you would have been given to my love long before.”

[Y/N] swallowed. Lord Rogers leaned in and sniffed just like the creature had weeks ago when she first arrived.

“I didn’t expect humans to be so… enticing,” he murmured. “To smell so good.”

Sweat began to form on her brow as she felt his fangs at her neck. Her body was still chained to the bed, she was immobile. Her pulse quickened and the creature that was Lord Rogers growled right before he sank his fangs into her neck. [Y/N] shouted at the sudden pain. He began to drink greedily. [Y/N] tried to get away, but was held in place by Rogers’ arms and the chains that shackled her.

“No, please don’t,” she said. The creature, Buchanan, gave her a hard look.

“How many of your victims said the same thing? Did you ever listen?” he asked. [Y/N] said nothing in reply and Buchanan offered her a cold smile. “You will receive the same amount of mercy as them.”

Rogers’ drinking deepened. [Y/N] began to feel dizzy and the periphery of her vision began to seem foggy. It was getting hard to think, even the feeling of fangs at her neck seemed to dull.

Buchanan smiled and bent down to place a kiss to [Y/N]’s lips. It was soft and gentle and his fangs nipped at her bottom lip.

“We’re so glad you could join us for dinner, my lady,” he purred. “Thank you for coming.”

[Y/N]’s last thoughts were about how it was the best kiss she’d ever felt.

#lemons #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #marvel #avengers #vampire au #regency au #female reader #fanfic #vampire!bucky #my work

21 notes · View notes