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frillyfacefins · 1 year

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This Trip was the Right Decision (WangTang)

Fandom: The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty Rating: Explicit Pairing: Wang Zhi/Tang Fan Tags: wound care, graphic description of blisters, Episode Related, episode 9 - liaodong arc, Hand Jobs, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Mentions of Jealousy, Manipulation, since this is a pre-relationship WangTang fic..., Wang Zhi gets emotionally overwhelmed Word Count: 8,414

Also on AO3

Summary:

On that night in Liaodong, after Tang Fan storms out of his tent because Wang Zhi won't let him solve the case right then and there, Wang Zhi follows him out into the cold and takes him back to the warmth of his own bed. His pretense is simple: Tang Fan has been on horse-back for the first time, and for days on end, so obviously there must be wounds that need tending, and he assumes Tang Fan is too preoccupied to take care of his own body. It might have been a pretense, but Wang Zhi turns out to be absolutely right. (And he is rewarded for taking care of Tang Fan by being allowed to 'take care' of him in another way, too...)

Notes:

This fic is inspired by Chapter 60 of the novel (hence the title), and also by how pitiful Tang Fan looked in episode 9 getting lost between those tents ... If you would like a refresher of where the story is at this point, I actually have a rewatch-thread for the Liaodong-Arc over on twitter <3 Look at the end of the fic for research notes

“I’m still worried about Sui Zhou. He can die at any time now,” Tang Fan says the second he drops down into the seat beside Wang Zhi. He must have run into Jia Kui on his way into Wang Zhi’s tent— Wang Zhi didn’t even have time to set down his gaiwan. At least there is no reason to suspect that Tang Fan might have been eavesdropping, no matter how well-timed his entrance was. It looks like Tang Fan didn’t even have the patience to cover himself with more than his traveling coat, which is far too thin for the night winds of Liaodong. He looks so pitiful, hugging himself against the creeping cold. A few hours ago, when Wang Zhi helped him dismount from that horse, he was so stiff that he could hardly lift his arms, but now he is vibrating with worry and stifled energy.

Wang Zhi’s relief at Tang Fan’s arrival has melted away most of his brittle, heavy frustration at his inability to find those damned horses, like warm rain washing away the last dregs of dirty snow in spring. He had felt so helpless for the last few days, so useless, as if some part of his brain was missing, or as if something was swimming in front of his eyes, a dark spot obscuring the solution to this confounding mystery. The spot is still there, but he doesn’t mind it now that Tang Fan is here. He doesn’t need to see in the dark if there is a fire-stick hanging on his belt.

But now that the solution is within his reach, he suddenly feels so tired it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. His body has finally released the weight of impending failure, so now there is space to let in the exhaustion that he has shoved to the side again and again and again.

He is weak, and he knows it. But he also knows that Tang Fan doesn’t know. Tang Fan looks at him and sees a solution to his own problems. This is what they are, in the end — tools they each need to survive. Tang Fan, a lock pick for any door Wang Zhi can’t kick in; Wang Zhi, a knife to cut through any knot Tang Fan can’t undo.

Wang Zhi looks at the gaiwan. Tea gets cold so fast in Liaodong. He knows that he could just have Ding Rong boil new water for him whenever he wants, but he has already dismissed him for tonight, and by now he has gotten used to the stale tang. He doesn’t need the comfort of warm tea; he just needs it to clear his head.

He puts the cup down on the table between him and Tang Fan.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ve got someone to see to that. Your priority is the horse theft case.”

Of course, that’s not enough for Tang Fan. He is the kind of person who can’t believe that anything is happening if he isn’t there to see it; at least not when it concerns his growing circle of hangers-on.

“But I’m worried about Sui Zhou now and I can’t set my mind on solving the case.”

He is leaning forward, hugging himself tighter. Too bad, Wang Zhi thinks. The horse market has to open. The case has to be solved. Neither of them has a choice.

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

Tang Fan looks at him for a moment, then he stands up and storms off as fast as he stormed in — only to turn around again at the entrance of the tent. He comes back, arms down, hands clenched into fists, a look of resolve on his face.

“Let’s solve it now!” he says “Tell me about the case, come on!”

Wang Zhi feels a stabbing pain behind his eyes. It’s not as if it makes a difference if the case gets solved now or in six hours. Tang Fan has to know that, right?

Yes, Sui Zhou could die between now and then — but how long has it been since he was thrown into prison in Ji’an? Tang Fan has gone there, come back, found horses, come to Liaodong… If Sui Zhou survived for all this time, he will survive for six more hours.

And if he doesn’t, Wang Zhi will take the blame. As well as the miserable life of every single scumbag official involved.

He might make it fast, he thinks. A mercy, but he owes those sorry bastards that much. After all, if nothing had happened in Ji’an, Tang Fan would not have come to Liaodong.

Tang Fan wouldn’t be standing in his tent in the middle of a cold and windy night, looking at him with such grim determination that even Wang Zhi can’t hold his gaze. He sighs and stands up.

“You were on the road for two days,” he says, turning away and walking towards his desk. “You must be tired. Go back to get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He does wonder, really, where Tang Fan’s limit is. Even if he can stay up for days on end, driven by that obsessive need for answers, for solutions, everybody has their limit. And Tang Fan is a weak scholar, a willow branch in the storm, blue-lipped and red-eyed.

“But Sui Zhou is in grave danger now! How can I sleep?”

He looks up at him — Wang Zhi has stepped onto the raised platform — with such desperation in his eyes as if only Wang Zhi’s words are keeping him from immediately rescuing Sui Zhou, not miles of road and days of travel. Tang Fan is not made for this kind of problem — a problem that cannot be solved in one desperate charge, a problem that needs more than a clear pair of eyes and a clever tongue.

“Things can only be solved one by one. It’s pointless to be anxious,” he says. It’s the truth, and he has to believe that Tang Fan knows it. But of course it feels cruel, when everything Tang Fan can think of is his friend who is in danger in a place so impossibly far away. “Now that you’re in Liaodong, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He sits down on his desk, intentionally not looking up at Tang Fan’s pleading face. He doesn’t have to review the documents Ding Rong has prepared right now, of course he doesn’t; but he also doesn’t want to continue this discussion, and the excuse of “I have work to do” seems more acceptable than “I want to go to sleep, too.”

It takes Tang Fan a few moments, but finally he says softly: “Okay. I get it.”

Wang Zhi doesn’t even want to guess what he means by “it”. When he storms off this time, he really leaves.

Wang Zhi can’t stop himself from looking after him. He lets out a huff; if from annoyance, frustration, or relief, he doesn’t know.

He is so tired, but even after Tang Fan is gone, he can’t make himself get up and leave his desk. He can’t work, either. He is sitting there, staring at words hardly legible in the light of burned-down candles, and he thinks about the cold wind and Tang Fan’s pale face.

Eventually, he stands up. But he doesn’t walk behind the wall dividing the tent into work and private spaces, where he knows that his bed is waiting, thick blankets and furs on a warm kang, with thick curtains all around it. Instead, he takes a small ceramic pot from a shelf and walks to the entrance of his tent, and surrenders himself to the cold winds of the Liaodong night.

Tang Fan, this weak little scholar with skin like mutton fat jade and limbs as thin as longevity noodles, has spent days riding a horse. He’s seen the wince when he had stood on his own feet again after Wang Zhi had helped him down, had seen the way he had shifted his hips and the thin line of his lips when he walked.

Wang Zhi knows what this kind of exertion does to people who are not used to it. And with how preoccupied Tang Fan is right now, he can’t imagine that he has even spared a thought about doing something about the pain he must be in.

This should be Sui Zhou’s role — making sure that Tang Fan is safe and taken care of.

But since Sui Zhou isn’t here, Wang Zhi will do what he can.

It has been only moments since Tang Fan left his tent, but when Wang Zhi finds him, he has somehow lost his already insufficient coat and is now running around between tents in nothing but his middle clothes, clutching a leather whip to his chest.

Wang Zhi really needs to save Sui Zhou. It’s extremely obvious that Tang Fan can’t be left alone without diving headfirst into disaster, and Wang Zhi simply doesn’t have the time to keep pulling him back.

Well, he can keep him on dry ground until Sui Zhou is back, at least.

He deliberately steps down hard on the gravel-covered ground so Tang Fan won’t jump when he approaches him. Tang Fan still whirls around in fright, clutching the braided whip like a shield.

Wang Zhi frowns at him. “I only looked away for a heartbeat… Where in the world is your coat?”

He can’t see him very well in the torchlight, but it seems like the blue of his lips has spread to the rest of his face. He is shivering like a newborn foal, staring at him with eyes that look gigantic in the near dark.

He is shivering too hard to answer him, so Wang Zhi lets out a displeased “Tsk” and takes off his own fur coat. Tang Fan looks like he wants to protest when Wang Zhi bridges the last distance between them and wraps the coat around his shoulders.

The cold immediately bites through his yesa, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He’d originally wanted to hand Tang Fan the ointment and be done with it, but now that he sees Tang Fan huddling into his fur coat — into the warmth his own body has left behind — it suddenly seems like a bad idea to just leave him out here. Even if he showed Tang Fan the way back to the tent he was sharing with that little girl, how would Wang Zhi be able to sleep when he was worrying about what else Tang Fan got up to in the middle of the night?

So he answers Tang Fan’s inquisitive stare with an eye roll and grabs one of his hands. Tang Fan responds by dropping the whip to the ground. His fingers feel icy and stiff against Wang Zhi’s.

Wang Zhi gives the weapon a last look before he pulls Tang Fan back towards his own tent, then he glances at Tang Fan’s face. He seems embarrassed; Wang Zhi sees that there is a little more color in his cheeks now when they pass by a lantern stand.

The guards in front of the commander’s tent try not to react when they see Wang Zhi come back. Even though he is doing his best to keep his body under control, he knows that he is shivering, and he knows that they have to wonder why his fur coat is now on the little official who had come out of nowhere earlier that day and brought two Oirats with him — as if the Three Guards and the Jurchen aren’t enough to deal with.

He has wondered about that aspect of Tang Fan’s arrival himself, of course, about why in the world those two were traveling with Tang Fan. The girl seems to be of high status, though assigning Han labels to Oirat women is always difficult. There had been a tiny, unpleasant whisper in his mind when he had first seen her, just a susurration that tickles a place he doesn’t dare to look at, but then again, that is Sui Zhou’s problem, not his.

He thinks back to the braided whip, to the embarrassed look on Tang Fan’s face, and wonders whether the pride he takes in his understanding of other people’s inner workings is completely justified.

But it doesn’t matter, so he forces the thought aside and leads Tang Fan into his tent and past the dividing wall to his own living quarters. His hand is still wrapped around Tang Fan’s reed-thin wrist when the other suddenly stops.

He looks up at Tang Fan with a frown, only to meet a similar expression.

“Why did you bring me back here?” Tang Fan asks.

Wang Zhi feels his grip on his wrist become a little firmer and feels the bones shift between his fingers. So fragile that he feels like he should put them into a velvet-lined box for safekeeping.

It takes a conscious effort to relax his hand.

“You said you can’t sleep in your tent.” It’s not really what he said, but Tang Fan still looks dazed by the cold, and Wang Zhi hopes he will let it slide. “My bed is warmer than yours, and I don’t have to worry about you running around stealing random women’s weapons.”

Oh, that was more than he wanted to say, and he immediately sees a shift on Tang Fan’s face, a slight tightening of his eyebrows. He has to be really tired if he lets nonsense like that slip.

Wang Zhi thinks fast. “Also, you can’t tell me that all those days on horseback did not leave their marks on you.” For the first time in ages, the words he finds sound insufficient to his own ears, but they’ll have to do.

To drive his point home, he shows Tang Fan the little ceramic pot he has been holding in his hand this whole time, then looks pointedly down at his thighs. The confused suspicion on Tang Fan’s face immediately switches back to that sweet sheen of embarrassment.

Wang Zhi carefully tunes his smile to keep it from showing the guilty relief he is feeling.

“You might have to walk for a while tomorrow,” he says, “and I’d rather not have to wait for you every five steps because you’re in pain.”

Tang Fan is looking away, at the floor somewhere a few feet left of Wang Zhi. He is shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he’s debating with himself.

He’s thinking too much. Wang Zhi knows what a dangerous thing Tang Fan’s mind is when it’s running wild, so he decides to grab its reins and yank it to a halt.

“Take off your pants and lie down on your back”, he says.

It has the exact effect he has hoped for. He manages not to look smug — or not too smug, he’s too tired to be sure — when Tang Fan’s head whips around and his eyes stare at him in shock.

“What?” Wang Zhi asks as if he can’t understand Tang Fan’s reaction. “This is the easiest way to make sure any wounds you have get treated properly.”

Tang Fan frowns, but he isn’t running out of his tent. A good sign. And so is the red color the tip of his ears have turned.

“You can’t just say something like that, Wang-daren…” The formal address seems to be Tang Fan’s attempt to bring some distance between the two of them, but the way his frown turns into a pout shows how toothless his little protest is.

Wang Zhi allows himself a little chuckle that might be a little less put-on than most of his laughs.

“Are you afraid I will take advantage of you, Runqing?” He makes the words drip with ridicule, picking up what Tang Fan has balked at and presenting it to him in his flat palm, like candied fruit to a skittish horse. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me,” he lies. “Or did you forget that I don’t have what it takes to taint it?”

That does the trick. He has gambled on Tang Fan still feeling awkward about Wang Zhi’s status, like most men do; and he is rewarded with a guilt-stricken look on Tang Fan’s face.

“That‘s not what I meant,” Tang Fan mutters, but he‘s not meeting Wang Zhi‘s eyes anymore. He is hugging himself again, but only with one arm, and his eyes are flickering towards the bed.

Nearly there.

“Come on now,“ Wang Zhi says on a sigh, as if he feels very much put-upon by Tang Fan‘s theatrics. “The sooner I take care of your wounds, the faster they will heal. Do you really want to suffer any longer than necessary just because you are afraid to show me your dick?”

Tang Fan still has a baleful look on his face, but he seems to finally demur. He carefully lifts the fur coat off his shoulders and drapes it over a nearby clothes stand, then he reaches for the tie in the back of his shirt, his shoulders stiff and his hands fumbling — if from exhaustion or cold, Wang Zhi can’t tell.

Wang Zhi steps in and taps Tang Fan‘s arm with the back of his hand.

“Turn around,” he says.

Tang Fan frowns at him, but he drops his hands and does as he is told.

One of the ends of the ties has slipped through the loop, turning it into a knot that can‘t just be opened with a simple pull. Wang Zhi’s fingers aren‘t as nimble as they usually are, and his eyes are straining in the dim light, but he eventually manages to undo the tight little knot and loosen the cinch around Tang Fan‘s waist.

He takes a step back afterwards, and watches as Tang Fan opens his shirt to reach the ties of his pants. They‘re less finicky and also tied in the front, so Tang Fan doesn‘t need Wang Zhi‘s help for those.

Tang Fan still seems clumsy and uncoordinated as he pulls his pants down and only then realizes he is still wearing his boots. He looks embarrassed and frustrated as he flops down on the edge of the bed, his crotch obscured by the tails of his shirt as he pulls off his boots and tosses them to the side, with his pants following right after.

Now naked from the waist down, he squeezes his thighs together in a bout of shyness and looks up at Wang Zhi.

“How exactly…?”

For a moment Wang Zhi sees his own hands cradling Tang Fan‘s blushing cheeks; he wonders whether his lips are finally warmed up again, and somewhere in the far reaches of his mind there is a voice that urges him to find out.

He shoves those thoughts into the same corner where he hid the bitter aftertaste of seeing Tang Fan clutch that whip.

Wang Zhi keeps his mind forcefully blank as he sits down on the edge of the bed and takes off his own boots.

„Put your feet on the bed, lean back and spread your legs.“

He shifts onto his knees and gives his attention to the pot of ointment he is now carefully opening. He hopes it will make Tang Fan feel less awkward while he scoots around on the bed and gets into position.

Wang Zhi looks up again when Tang Fan stops moving. Maybe he should have been prepared for the spike of warmth that runs down his back when he sees Tang Fan like this, leaning back and propped up on his elbows. He is careful to let his gaze slide down slowly, starting at Tang Fan‘s furrowed eyebrows, following the flush that has escaped his cheeks and is now flowing down over his neck to his chest, where the open panels of his shirt expose milky skin and just the shadow of light brown nipples… His position is making the skin of his stomach fold, an illusion of softness betrayed by the jut of his sharp hip bones. His pubic hair is sparse, but silky, his soft cock and balls a reddish brown that gets dark where his sack meets the plush whiteness of his ass.

Wang Zhi’s eyes finally reach his thighs, and he lets out a little hiss. He would have regretted letting go of himself so much, but right now the feeling of being right — of being absolutely justified in the excuse he found to bring Tang Fan back to his tent — is stronger than his desire to keep his face pristine.

It‘s no wonder Tang Fan has agreed to let him deal with his wounds. The long days in the saddle have obviously taken their toll. Tang Fan‘s inner thighs are covered in sores and bruises, mostly blisters in various states of healing, but also two calluses with various smaller blisters lining the raised skin.

Wang Zhi dips two fingers into the ointment and goes to work.

There is only one blister that hasn‘t opened yet, right next to the crease between Tang Fan‘s butt cheek and thigh. The edge of that blister seems a little inflamed, but when he touches it it feels soft and giving under his finger, so he assumes there is no use in opening it to let out the fluids since it likely won’t burst on its own. Tang Fan is shifting above him with every touch, soft whimpers filling Wang Zhi‘s ears. He moves from the closed blister to a burst one farther down, and Tang Fan’s hands clutch Wang Zhi’s bedding.

This one must have opened recently; the center is raw and wet, not even the thinnest membrane covering it yet. The edge of his skin where it meets the raw flesh is vaguely yellow and surrounded by circles of angry red that bleeds into a reddish-blue, a ring-shaped bruise with yellow-gray spots leading back to the creamy white of healthy skin.

There are several blisters on Tang Fan‘s thighs that look like this, some bigger, some smaller, some already covered by tender new skin, some oozing clear liquid now that Tang Fan has aggravated them by spreading his legs.

Just putting salve on these wounds won‘t be enough, Wang Zhi realizes as he sets a thick glob of ointment onto the weeping, raw skin of the first open blister. He tries to remember where Ding Rong put the box with less frequently needed medical materials as he carefully rubs the ointment into the bruised edges. He hardly notices that his other hand has found its way to the outside of Tang Fan‘s thigh, or that his thumb has started to rub soothing circles into Tang Fan’s flesh.

No matter how thin Tang Fan is, the insides of his thighs feel as soft as steamed buns. The color is similar, too, where it isn‘t inflamed or bruised. He wonders how long it will take until the skin will heal completely, and at the same time he wonders how hard he would have to squeeze to leave bruises of his own.

The small noises Tang Fan makes change depending on which part of his wounds Wang Zhi is touching. He stays as gentle as he can while he kept probing, sounding out the various notes he can strike on Tang Fan‘s flesh. Hissing intakes of air follow when his fingers cover the raw center of a burst blister with a thick layer of salve, pitiful, high-pitched whimpers accompany the gentle pressure of Wang Zhi massaging the ointment into the inflamed red circles blooming outward. When his fingers — his ring finger and pinky, mostly — brush over only slightly bruised or completely hale flesh, he sometimes draws out a little gasp, a ticklish sound, often followed by a jump in one of the lean muscles below the thin layer of fat making Tang Fan‘s thighs feel so soft that Wang Zhi can hardly ignore the voice deep in the recesses of his mind that is wondering whether they would feel as delicate against his lips as they do beneath his fingers.

He finally emerges from his reverie when he realizes that all of the open blisters he can reach are covered in ointment now. There are still the welts, which reach farther towards the back of Tang Fan’s thighs, and a few bruises that dip too far back for him to properly reach.

“Can you…” Wang Zhi starts, but notices that his voice is rough. He swallows and ignores both the heat in his face and the temptation to look up at Tang Fan’s face. “Can you pull your legs up? I need to…”

He doesn’t know how to explain. His head feels strange, filled with something that is lighter than exhaustion but still makes everything seem soft and hazy. So instead of telling Tang Fan what he needs him to do, he slides his hands, his right one still slick with the ointment, under Tang Fan’s knees and carefully moves his legs until Tang Fan understands and reaches out to replace Wang Zhi’s hands. He pulls his thighs against his belly, and Wang Zhi feels a sharp, dangerous thing in his stomach when he notices that Tang Fan is shivering again. He knows, of course, that it’s not because he is cold — his skin is warm under his hands, slightly damp with sweat, even. The new position shows Wang Zhi more of Tang Fan — his long, tender-soled feet, his skinny buttocks, the shaded crevice between, a hint of a tight furl…

That sight more than anything makes Wang Zhi feel light-headed. He doesn’t know what to call it — “hole” seems too crass, “anus” too medical, “entrance” as if he was planning to…

It’s hard to put something he can see so clearly into that corner of his mind where he has shoved everything else dangerous about Tang Fan, but he tries anyway.

He scoops out more ointment and spreads it on the blisters he couldn’t reach earlier, then he uses his thumb to spread it over the calluses. The slight trembling of Tang Fan’s thighs becomes far more noticeable, until Wang Zhi has to hold him steady with his other hand on his thigh, a little higher than the wounds, while he makes sure that every part of the calluses is properly covered. The way he is holding him makes Tang Fan’s buttock look rounder, and its soft, mostly unbruised skin looks so enticing that Wang Zhi’s grip gets a little too hard. He lets go when Tang Fan presses out a mewling “Wang Zhi!”

For a moment he feels unmoored, reeling. His eyes flicker up to Tang Fan’s face and the flush he sees there mirrors the heat he feels in his own. He quickly lowers his eyes again and completes his task as quickly as possible, leaving a little too much ointment on the last inch of callused skin before he pulls his hand away and stumbles off the bed.

“Stay like this, I just need…”

He tries to ignore the frantic beating of his heart as he looks around the sleeping area. He vaguely remembers seeing the medicine box in the trunk to the left of his bed when he had taken out new middle clothes this morning. He nearly trips on his way there, and then he fumbles with the unlocked hasp, because he doesn’t want to touch it with his still ointment-covered hand, and he doesn’t want to wipe his hand on his yesa. He knows how to get this kind of stain out of silks, of course — every Palace eunuch does, it’s part of what you need to learn to serve royalty — but even if Ding Rong packed the chalks and resins necessary to get grease stains out of silk, it’s a lengthy process that he just doesn’t have time for in the foreseeable future. So he does his best to keep his hand away from both the wood of the trunk and the silk of his clothing until he finally gets the top of the trunk open. There are several handkerchiefs in one corner, and he quickly pulls one of them out to wipe his hand, then he slips it into his sleeve. He was right about the medicine box. There is no need to take it out of the trunk, he opens it as it is. A parcel of linen lies on top of the other medical materials, and he only has to rummage for a moment to find a pair of sharp scissors to cut that linen into broad strips he can use to bandage Tang Fan’s thighs.

Wang Zhi comes back to the bed with the scissors and an ample amount of linen. From the corners of his eyes, he can see the searching expression on Tang Fan’s face, but he feels a little calmer now, a little less lost, like he can take that look without falling apart.

He still doesn’t make eye contact, to be safe.

He eyes Tang Fan’s thighs and the way the blisters are distributed across them, then he cuts strips that should be broad enough to not cut into his flesh, but still thin enough to be snug and not slip off.

The process of wrapping the bandages around Tang Fan‘s thighs feels soothing. He has to concentrate on the task, hold down one end of the linen strips against his skin with his left hand while his right hand loops the rest through the triangle made by Tang Fan‘s arms, thighs, and belly, then he has to grab the bandages with the ring and pinkie finger of his left hand while his thumb is still holding the end in place so he can pull his right hand back again. The tension has to be right, not loose enough to slip off, but not so tight that it would either hurt or dislodge anyway with Tang Fan‘s movements. It is precise work that doesn‘t require a lot of thinking, like polishing a rare vase or ironing embroidered silk. He is using the laboriously acquired and carefully honed adroitness of an experienced attendant‘s hands to bandage Tang Fan‘s wounded skin with the same care one would take to wrap priceless porcelain.

He is so absorbed by his task that he only notices Tang Fan‘s heavy breathing after he fastens the bandages around his second thigh. He also notices that Tang Fan‘s hands are shaking. His knuckles are white, the fingertips red — maybe from the effort of holding his legs up for such a long time? His arms and thighs are quaking slightly with the strain as well.

Wang Zhi sits back, his eyes moving to Tang Fan‘s feet so he won‘t accidentally look at this intriguing, dangerous place between his skinny buttocks again.

“You can put your pants back on,” he says. There is still a remnant of that floaty feeling in his head, a memory of warmth at his fingertips, but he feels calmer now. He has done what he has set out to do. Tang Fan‘s wounds are taken care of. Yes, there is still some uncertainty about what is going to happen now — he doesn‘t know if Tang Fan will want to go back to his own tent. He‘d told him earlier that his bed was warmer and that he‘d rather have him here and not worry about what kind of trouble he got into outside, but who knows if Tang Fan even remembers that… But then again, making him stay here feels far less fraught than touching his naked skin. Tang Fan has been very easy to manhandle thus far, it would be similarly easy for Wang Zhi to just put him under the covers. Wang Zhi definitely won‘t let him leave alone, because the chances that he would find his tent on his own are practically nil, and maybe the prospect of Wang Zhi having to follow him outside into the cold again after he helped him with his wounds would shame Tang Fan into staying.

It is only seconds after he told Tang Fan to put his pants on again that all of his careful ruminations on how this night is going to end prove completely premature.

Because Tang Fan makes a weird little noise in his throat, and when Wang Zhi looks up at his face he sees that he is blushing even worse than when he had first put himself on display for Wang Zhi.

“I‘m sorry,” Tang Fan whispers, and before Wang Zhi can ask what he is sorry for, he lets go of his legs and lowers his feet back onto the bed.

With the earlier angle, Wang Zhi hadn‘t been able to see much of the state of his cock. Because of the tilt of his hips, it had just been nestled against his belly, and he honestly hadn‘t been very focused on it, either. But now that Tang Fan‘s legs are back on the bed — still spread, because Wang Zhi is still sitting between them — his cock is still lying against his stomach, and while it isn‘t substantially bigger than it is in its flaccid state, his foreskin is definitely tighter now, and his red tip is leaking droplets of clear fluid onto his stomach, which is visibly moving with Tang Fan‘s heavy breaths.

Wang Zhi only notices that he has been staring when Tang Fan reaches down between his legs to hide this testament to how much he has apparently enjoyed Wang Zhi‘s touch.

“I‘m sorry,” he repeats, and this time he‘s the one who can‘t meet Wang Zhi‘s eyes when he looks at his face again. “I didn‘t mean to, it‘s just… I guess it felt really good… I mean, your hands and all that…”

He suddenly pulls his legs to his body and pushes himself up on his elbows. “It will go away in a bit, I‘ll just need something to clean up so I can put on my pants— “

Wang Zhi stops him with a hand on his knee before he can do anything so stupid as getting off the bed. The calm he had felt is gone, but this time whatever strange force replaces it doesn’t feel uncontrollable or disorienting. He feels focused, and hungry.

He feels like he did when he made Tang Fan take off his pants. It‘s a kind of anticipation that scares him, but that isn‘t frightening enough to keep him from taking what he wants when it is right there for the taking.

“Let me help you,” he says.

Tang Fan freezes in the process of sitting up and stares at him. His eyes are as black as his hair, which has come loose from his top knot at some point. Wang Zhi had noticed the loose strand earlier but hadn‘t commented on it, and now he is being rewarded with the sight of Tang Fan‘s long ponytail kissing his reddened cheek and falling down to lie against his white shoulder.

The remainder of his middle clothes has vanished into the furs of Wang Zhi’s bed, and Tang Fan is completely naked and so beautiful that Wang Zhi feels like he understands what all those salacious romance novels mean when they talk about how the hero „feels his loins stirring“. He shouldn‘t have anything to stir, not in his loins anyway, but Tang Fan seems to have a knack for achieving the impossible.

“It‘s going to go away by itself,” Tang Fan says, his voice no more than a reedy whisper. “You really don‘t have to do that, you‘ve already…” His voice trails off as if he doesn‘t know how to finish that sentence. Wang Zhi pushes Tang Fan‘s right knee to the side, then does the same to his other leg, so he is back in the position he was in when Wang Zhi started rubbing ointment into his wounds.

The little clay pot is still on the bed. Wang Zhi doesn‘t touch his bandaged thighs, but still crowds in closer to Tang Fan, until he runs out of space — then he carefully lifts Tang Fan‘s legs and puts them on his own knees. He is so close to him that the soft, flowing fabric of his yesa‘sskirt is touching Tang Fan‘s buttocks and balls. When Wang Zhi looks down at Tang Fan‘s crotch, he notices how hard his own breathing has become. He can see his brocade-covered chest rise and fall, the details of his embroidery stark against the simple linen of the bandages.

Where he had been too afraid of looking at any part of Tang Fan except for his raw thighs, now he can‘t get enough of the way his body is reacting to him. His eyes are rushing from his flushed face to the pebbled brown of his nipples to the jut of his hip bones to his hard, leaking cock to the delicate skin of the folds at the very top of his thighs. He wants to taste him, to kiss and lick and bite, to really leave his own marks — to suck bruises into his skin that linger long enough for Sui Zhou to find them when the Ji‘an issue has finally been dealt with.

But he knows that it would be too much. Tang Fan looks like he is about to fall apart as it is, and Wang Zhi knows he needs to rein in whatever has taken a hold of him, at least a little.

He retrieves the pot of ointment and opens it once again. He manages to catch Tang Fan‘s gaze and holds it while he dips his fingers into the viscous salve, and he doesn‘t miss how Tang Fan‘s lips fall open at the squelching noise when he pulls his fingers out again.

It‘s the first time Wang Zhi has ever touched a cock, but he won‘t let that stop him. He puts down the pot and squeezes his hand into a fist to spread the ointment on his palm, then he holds his breath and wraps his slicked-up hand around that slim, dark, foreign part of this brilliant, troublesome little scholar that he somehow managed to drag into his life and now even into his bed.

He hates that he can‘t look at his own hand and at Tang Fan‘s face at the same time, because when he hears a noise that sounds like a dying animal coming from Tang Fan, he looks up too late to catch that fleeting moment of his first reaction to Wang Zhi‘s touch. He still gets rewarded with a look of absolute bliss on Tang Fan‘s face. He looks as if he has lost all control over his muscles. His eyes are only half-closed, his jaw slack, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out between his open lips. Only his eyebrows have enough tension left to pull up toward the center of his forehead. A delicious line is forming there, completely different from the frown Wang Zhi has become accustomed to seeing whenever Tang Fan is angry or suspicious or lost in the depths of his unfathomable mind.

Wang Zhi made this little line appear, and for a moment he feels like it exists only for him.

Apparently he takes a little too long to admire him, because Tang Fan‘s eyes open a little wider, his lips close on a needy whimper, and Wang Zhi feels movement under his hand.

He can‘t keep the apologetic smile off his face as he returns to the task at hand — that is, Tang Fan‘s dick (literally in his hand). He rubs his thumb over the soft skin around the tip, pulls it down a little to expose the wet head just out of curiosity, then he lets go again and starts to move his slick hand up and down his shaft. His only real reference points for any of this are crude jokes and flowery allusions in spring books, but it seems pretty intuitive to him…

…at least until Tang Fan lets out a not-quite-ecstatic whine and wraps his own hand around Wang Zhi‘s. His fingers are so long that his thumb and forefinger are completely encircling his wrist. Wang Zhi looks up at Tang Fan‘s face, and Tang Fan blushes harder under his frown.

“Just… Let me show you how?”

A cold sliver of humiliation runs through the hot swell of desire in Wang Zhi‘s stomach, but strangely enough, it doesn‘t seem to cool him at all. He is perfectly aware, of course, that Tang Fan knows best how to touch his own cock, and he accepts the instruction with hardly more than a little twitch of his mouth.

Tang Fan‘s hand feels hot and sweaty around his own fingers, and it only takes a few seconds until the sting of being found wanting in anything gets replaced by the realization that this is the first time Tang Fan has touched him of his own accord.

That thought hits him with such violence that he forgets to participate in what their hands are doing, but Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to mind much. He is apparently perfectly happy to use Wang Zhi‘s hand as an aid to get to where he wants to be. Wang Zhi only snaps out of the blank space his realization has left him in when Tang Fan‘s legs move off his thighs. He is confused at first until he realizes Tang Fan is putting his feet on the bed to give himself more leverage, and then his hand is getting squeezed so hard by the bigger one covering it that he feels slightly afraid that he will accidentally crush Tang Fan‘s hot, hard dick.

Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to have any such concerns. He starts to thrust his hips up into the squelching wet cocoon of Wang Zhi‘s trapped hand. Wang Zhi‘s wrist hurts a little — something isn‘t quite right about the angle — but the pain is hardly more than a niggling itch in his mind, because what Tang Fan is doing is clearly working for him. He should have expected that Tang Fan is loud in bed, but he definitely couldn‘t have imagined how his moans and whines and yelps would seep into his skin and fill his veins with molten gold, viscous and hot and so heavy that it feels like he is about to suffocate. Something happens at the core of his body again, at that place that ought to be empty, and when Tang Fan‘s hips stop moving after an especially hard push and his moans turn into a long, high-pitched keen he feels a deep shiver run through his entire body even before he registers that some liquid other than the slippery ointment is coating his hand now.

Tang Fan stays frozen in this position for the duration of several breaths, his hand still clutching Wang Zhi‘s so hard that his knuckles stand out white from the straining red of his fist. Now that Wang Zhi has been released from whatever mania Tang Fan‘s ecstasy has plunged him into, he can appreciate the slightly absurd image Tang Fan is making at this moment. His hips are still lifted and his tiny buttocks are clenching in the effort to hold them, his face is still scrunched up in concentration, though it slowly starts to relax, and his free hand is clutching at a pillow above his head. Wang Zhi has time to look at the dark hair under his arms, his far too-visible ribs, the taut muscles of his belly, before Tang Fan finally releases the last bit of tension from his body and deflates like a paper lantern after its candle is doused.

Tang Fan closes his eyes for a moment, his face still flushed scarlet, but completely relaxed. His hand falls away from Wang Zhi‘s, and Wang Zhi lets go of his cock. He is a little surprised to see that it hasn‘t just gone completely flaccid again right after Tang Fan‘s emission, but is instead becoming gradually softer with every deep, exhausted breath Tang Fan is taking.

He takes a moment to have a closer look at the seed covering his hand. A few drops have escaped onto Tang Fan‘s stomach, but enough of the liquid has mixed with the residual ointment to give his hand a vaguely milky coating. He spreads his fingers to see the liquid draw strings between them and rubs his thumb over it to get a better feeling for the texture. It‘s fascinating to think that this liquid is the subject of so much mystical importance, the magical jing that allegedly pulls yang energy out of a man‘s body. He wonders whether he has just made Tang Fan even weaker than he already is… At some point he should ask Pei Huai about this, he thinks. The man is weird and might at some point become a liability, but he has interesting views on traditional wisdom, and since Wang Zhi has a neat little file on all of his illegal importing of Western materials (thoroughly encoded of course), he doesn’t really worry about that specific medical maniac getting any leverage on him.

He will put a few more choice bits of meat into Tang Fan’s bowl at breakfast tomorrow, anyway. Just on the off-chance.

He does think about licking his hand for a moment, but he pushes that urge away. He has gone far further tonight than he ever intended, but that might just be one step too far.

Tang Fan looks as if he is about to fall asleep, even though the position he is in — especially the angle of his legs — can‘t be very comfortable. Wang Zhi takes another long, fond look at his face, marvels at the long lashes touching his creamy cheeks and the softness of his thin, slightly opened lips, then he lets out a little sigh of his own and changes from his kneeling position to sit back on his folded legs.

Either the sigh or the motion makes Tang Fan come out of his post-climatic haze. Wang Zhi is not looking at his face at that moment, but using his clean hand to pull out the handkerchief he‘d earlier stuffed into his sleeve, which is a little difficult since he had stuffed it into his left sleeve and his clean hand is also his left… Apparently Tang Fan can see the edge of the handkerchief peeking out and deduces what exactly Wang Zhi is trying to do here, so he sits up — his bandaged legs still straddling Wang Zhi‘s knees, a comfortable, warm point of contact — and gently grasps Wang Zhi‘s forearm.

„Let me do that,“ he says, his voice still rough from all the noise he had been making. Wang Zhi looks up at him, but Tang Fan is focused on getting that handkerchief out. His hands are a little shaky, but he eventually manages, and when Wang Zhi tries to take the piece of cloth to clean himself, Tang Fan refuses to let go.

He doesn‘t explain himself — his eyelids keep drooping, so Wang Zhi assumes he is too tired to talk much — but he still insists on cleaning his mess off Wang Zhi‘s hand. The touch of the handkerchief, and of Tang Fan‘s fingers through the cloth, feels very pleasant on Wang Zhi‘s hand, which has started to throb slightly, maybe because Tang Fan had squeezed him a little too hard earlier. He can also feel slight pain in his wrist, likely from the strain of being held at an unnatural angle while moving. It‘s a good thing that very little of his work these days is directly related to what he can do with his hands, so it won‘t be an issue if that pain doesn‘t go away by tomorrow. Maybe it will be a reminder of what happened tonight, some actual proof that this wasn‘t just a dream.

Tang Fan is trying to be thorough, but it‘s very obvious that he is pushing his body‘s limits. He cleans up Wang Zhi‘s hand well enough, even rubbing between his fingers, which makes a strange little shiver tickle up his arm into his chest. When he is finished, he lets out a weak little yawn and turns his bleary eyes to the furs next to them.

He is too tired to even notice that his now soft cock is still not cleaned up. Wang Zhi takes the handkerchief back and gives him a quick rub-down, then he wipes the few drops off his belly as well. Tang Fan squirms a little, but he is hardly able to hold himself upright, so he doesn‘t complain.

Once both of them are reasonably clean, Wang Zhi drops the handkerchief on the ground next to the bed and stands up, carefully disentangling himself from Tang Fan‘s long, long legs. He helps Tang Fan lie down with his head on the pillow he‘d been clutching earlier, then he strips down to his own middle clothes. He takes the time to fold both his outer layers and Tang Fan‘s discarded middle clothes and puts them aside, then he comes back to the warm kang where he left his brilliant little scholar and takes down the bed curtains. He snuffs out the candles, then he slips into the warm cocoon and arranges first the duvet and then a fur blanket over the both of them. Tang Fan is moving a little, maybe trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

Wang Zhi feels tired to the bones too, but this tiredness feels better than the exhaustion he had felt earlier that night. He doesn‘t feel hollowed out and filled with fog like he did earlier, but warm and soft and strangely safe.

“Good night,” he whispers. The only answer he gets is deep, rhythmic breathing. He smiles as he rolls onto his side, his back to Tang Fan since he can‘t sleep with his back to the curtains. The warmth of the heated bed, the softness of the furs, and the noise of Tang Fan‘s breathing envelop him, and he hardly has time to feel smug about how effectively he has put Tang Fan to sleep — despite Tang Fan‘s protestations when he had entered his tent in that flimsy coat what seems to be hours ago — before he feels the delicious heaviness of sleep finally pull him under its surface.

___________FIN______________

Some research notes:

Kang: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kang_bed-stove

Yesa: https://torguqin.wordpress.com/2011/09/15/yesa-for-dummies/

The ointment is historically inaccurate, bc I assume Wang Zhi would use powder for open wounds, but I wanted him to really get to touch Tang Fan ;)

Comments are always super appreciated <3 I also have a currently ongoing complete rewatch thread on twitter with tons of screenshots, have a look if you love Sleuth! (There are unproportionally many Wang Zhi screenshots, to be fair, but the heart wants what the heart wants...)

#tsomd #sleuth of ming dynasty #sleuth of the ming dynasty #the sleuth of ming dynasty #tang fan #wang zhi #wangtang #fanfic #the sleuth of ming dynasty fanfiction

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reidslibrarybook · 3 years

Text

A Gamble of Feelings

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Request - love i am begging for poker player spencer please with a fem!reader being all dolled up to entice an unsub or something and 🤲🏼🤲🏼🤲🏼

Warnings - language, sexual innuendos, alcohol, gambling/poker, food

Summary - A tipsy night playing poker leads to an unexpected revealing of well-kept secrets.

Category - fluff

Word Count - 6.3k

Song - best friends by laufey

A/N - CONGRATULATIONS TO MY LOVE, @reidsacademia, ON 1K. I’m so proud of you and I can’t wait to be there for you next milestones <3. Also big thank you to @samuel-de-champagne-problems for being my beta as always, love you, rosie.

masterlist

join my taglist here!

—————————————-

The sharp taste of liquor burned your throat as you swallowed the rest of your drink, nodding towards the bartender for another refill.

You waited for the man behind the counter to come back with your glass, flashes of Spencer’s charming smile plagued you. You had known him for 10 years, your friendship going back to the day you stepped foot in the BAU.

The two of you were fresh meat in the unit, immediately taking comfort in each other’s cluelessness. You barely knew you were falling down a slippery slope until you had already reached the bottom, staring up with your heart held in your open hands for him to take.

Every day you faked a smile in front of him, laughing off the pain that came along with your unreturned feelings. You pretended like every single giggle or smile that came from him didn’t radiate a cosmic rift in your heartbeat, accommodated by a throbbing ache that spread across your chest. You had never experienced the odd clashing feelings that came along with being next to him but you could never stop yourself from staying by his side.

The bartender placed the glass in front of you, nodding as you looked up and gave him a polite smile to thank him for the drink. Before you could even reach for the glass, a hand slid it away from you, causing you to look up and see Emily with a pitying look in her eyes.

“Really?”

You sighed, reaching for your glass and successfully ripping it from her protective grasp. “What?”

“Moping? You’re really moping in Vegas?” She asked, raising her eyebrows at you and pursing her lips slightly at the sorry scene before her.

“I’m not… moping,” you put both your hands around the cup and fiddled with your fingers slightly, swirling the liquid inside around to distract you from the odd tension that came about when Emily was around in your time of melancholy.

She put her hands around your wrists, her body heat warming you up from the cold, dry casino air. “Look. This has been going on for too long, either tell him how you feel or get laid.”

You smiled slightly, placing your alcoholic crutch on the table and letting out a deep breath. “I know. I just… I don’t know. It’s been hard to let go of him, you know, since I spend so much time with him,” you admitted, looking to her for an answer to all your problems

Emily laughed, “Well there’s your problem. You’re too attached, just distance yourself from him. Problem solved.” She grabbed your drink and swallowed the rest, taking away the opportunity for you to drown your sorrows.

“It’s not as easy as you make it out to be.”

“How hard can it be for you to avoid him just until your feelings die down?” She looked at you, expecting a snarky comeback with no hesitation. She waited and waited but the answer never came, just you sitting in silence shifting your eyes around.

“Oh, god,” she whispered, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

You closed your eyes, pushing down the loaded pile of feelings and trying your best to organize your rampant thoughts.

“I- I don’t know,” you said, defeated, “I just don’t think I’ll be able to-”

“All you need to remember are three simple things: create physical distance, create mental distance, and rebound sex. In simpler terms, don’t stand near him, don’t think about him, and find someone to fuck around with for a little while… just long enough for you to forget about Spencer and move on.”

Would you want to live a life without him in it? Even if it meant that your heart would be spared from all the self-inflicted torment and torture, would you give him up? He was always there for you when you needed him so would it be selfish of you to leave after the years of hurt?

If this was any other person, you wouldn’t hesitate to cut them from your life— but it was Spencer. You thought of him constantly, a never-ending reel of short clips of Spencer playing right in front of you that never failed to make you smile. With every single stab of pain came a pleasant feeling of warmth that made your heart glow.

“Maybe, I-”

Emily stood up, grabbing the glass out of your hands and pulling your feet. “No ‘maybe’s. You’re getting over him, I can’t stand seeing you like this anymore.” You looked up at her, sucking in a breath and developing an ounce or two of courage, “B- but I-”

“Nope,” she fixed up your hair and straightened out your red dress, smiling at her shoddy work that somehow made you look 10 times better than you did a few moments ago, “Do you remember the three things I told you?”

You nodded.

“Good,” she smiled, “You are gorgeous and you deserve all things good so get your pretty little ass out there and find someone to break your back.”

“Emily,” you whisper-shouted, your mouth half-open in shock from her inappropriate comment.

You laughed along with her, remembering that you were there to have fun. JJ, Hotch, Rossi, and Penelope weren’t able to make it solely for personal reasons but everyone else was available to stay an extra night or two in the glamorous Las Vegas.

Derek suggested going to a casino where he was bound to pick up a girl or two, all while losing himself in the bright neon lights shining from the slot machines and screaming gamblers around a black jack table. You weren’t opposed to getting a little lost either, intrigued by Emily’s suggestions as you began to actively look for your next someone who you could lose control with.

Emily began to talk again but all you could focus on was the spinning of the revolving door of the casino, Derek walking out of it as Spencer followed behind him. She noticed your speechlessness and turned around, following your eyes and sighing as soon as she figured out what— or who— managed to take your breath away.

Your eyes lit up as soon as Spencer stood next to Derek. It was like all the pain and the heartbreak was washed away with a single breathtaking glance.

She nudged you. “Remember the three things I said, don’t get distracted.”

“Right, th- the three things. Yeah,” you said mindlessly, completely focused on him.

“Where have you guys been,” she sighed, “We’ve been pre-gaming for the last hour and a half.”

Derek laughed, making sure his cuff links were in the right orientation. “The kid wouldn’t lose the sweater vest. I practically had to pry it off of him.”

You giggled, knowing full well that Spencer was a stubborn man who really did love his sweater vests. His eyes met yours, the soft hazel glow automatically causing your heart to beat faster than you had liked.

“I didn’t want to get cold… a- and sweater vests look great,” he whispered, nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“They do-” you were stopped from reaching toward Spencer by Emily’s subtle cough, “Um, they do look great.”

She pulled you back towards her side, suspiciously smiling and whispering into your ear, “Distance.”

“Right,” you slipped back to her, breaking your eye contact with Spencer and looking towards the ground. He furrowed his brows, noticing your odd shift in behavior as you bit your lips slightly. The bright lights of the machines around you illuminated your effervescent glow, your satin dress causing a tightness in his chest.

Right as he walked in, his eyes magnetically snapped to your figure, drawn to the beauty that settled around you— the bright smile you had on your face stopping the whizzing world around him. He was anxious on the way there, nervously fixing his hair in the side mirror of the car and fiddling with his suit. He probably wouldn’t have left the poor tie wrapped around his neck alone if it weren’t for Derek placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an attempt to cheer the two of you up, Emily grabbed your hand and waved the two men in front of you over to follow her. “Let’s go play some poker. We can order some drinks at the table.”

She dragged you along, your heels catching on the carpet below your feet slightly. You finally made it to the table right as Derek and Emily sat down on the other side of the table, leaving just one seat between you and Spencer.

You rushed to place your hands on the back of the chair, trying to pull it out for him to sit, but it seemed like he had the exact same idea. He placed his hand right on top of yours, the contact electrifying every single cell in your body. There was no part of you that wasn’t sent an electric shock, waking up the mundaneness of the average day with one single touch.

“Sorry,” you huffed, withdrawing your hand to relieve the odd, nameless feeling accumulating on the top of your hand.

He shook his head, pulling the chair out further and motioning for you to sit. “I um, I’m sorry too,” he laughed, “You can sit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yea, I um, I’ve played poker before so I think it’s only fair that you get a chance to play before I do. I can just watch,” he said, smiling with the same boyish grin that appeared on his face the first day you met him.

“Thanks,” you sat down as he pushed the chair in. His knuckles managed to brush across your bare back, left exposed by the pretty red dress you donned. The touch, just like before, sent shivers down your spine— a feeling that excited every single part of you.

The game began as the dealer started to pass out cards while you looked around to see what the people around you were doing. You had never played poker before, which was the second reason you initially wanted him to sit instead of you— aside from the obvious reason being your need to watch him just as you had done since you met him.

You stared at the cards, clueless as to what your next move should be. Thankfully, you were seated at the very end as everyone had started calling out their moves, it was only a matter of time before it was your turn. You could feel his eyes on your hands and the cards in front of you, the chances of your victory was laid out before him as you asked for his help silently.

Soon enough, you heard a shuffling behind you growing closer. His breath ghosted across the back of your ear as his hand landed right on your other shoulder. Spencer’s lips swept across your tender skin as he began to whisper into your ear.

“You should raise,” he huffed, the uncontrollable tingles beginning to overtake your ears and your neck. You nodded, trying your best to keep some semblance of a poker face while attempting to reign in the bursting feeling in your heart.

The man to the right of you finished speaking, everyone’s eyes immediately drifting over to you. “U- um… I r- raise,” you stuttered, his hand on your shoulder distracting you from playing the game. You looked up and met Emily’s eyes, shrugging as you tried to communicate that there was no way you could create any kind of distance between the intoxicating man hovering behind you.

He sucked in a breath tucked in a piece of your hair so you could hear him clearer than you could before. “You should call for the next one.”

“You’re not supposed to be helping, Spencer,” you laughed slightly.

“I know,” he chuckled, “But you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Emily kicked you under the table, turning your attention from Spencer’s beaming grin to her scolding look. You refused to look up, averting your gaze from her piercing eyes down to the cards in your hands. As much as you wanted to stop how much your heart hurt, you could never bring yourself to create any sort of rift between you and Spencer.

He was always there for you, ever since the beginning— checking up on you when he sensed something wrong. There was nothing he hadn’t done for you and that was the reason you loved him, he was always following right behind you when you needed him… and you wanted it to stay that way.

There was always that lingering thought, the stray nightmare about Spencer moving on with someone new, someone who wasn’t you. The thought of it haunted you, terrorizing the little droplets of hope that fell from your eyes.

But you loved him in more ways than one. It wasn’t pure romance or chemical attraction, your friendship is what led to your little crush and it was your friendship that made you stay.

All the late nights arguing about which movie you should watch or your endless teasing of his haircuts put a smile on your face and filled the self-imposed hole in your heart. You compared what your world would be like without him, and it wasn’t worth the risk.

Living in a universe without Spencer wasn’t worth it.

—————————————-

A wide smile graced your face when you heard the slamming of cards come from across the table. Derek had his arms crossed in frustration as Emily tried to figure out how she hadn’t been able to win once since the game started a little more than half an hour ago.

“Dammit,” Derek groaned, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand laced with fingernail-shaped indents.

“You know, Reid. If you’re just going to backseat-play, you might as well take her place,” Emily sighed, upset with the amount of money she lost.

“They’re just jealous,” he said in a hushed tone, laughing into your ear slightly. You joined him, grabbing the pile of chips in the center of the table and stacking them up neatly.

“Here,” you stood up and pushed the chair out so Spencer could sit, “You should start playing before Emily and Derek rip my head off.”

“A- are you sure,” he asked, his eyes filled with worry as his hand migrated to your forearm, “I- I don’t want to just take your seat if you still want to play-”

“I’m sure, Spencer. I’ll just watch, and hey, you never know. Maybe I could be the one leading you to victory this time,” you joked.

He laughed, sitting down and settling into his seat while the man in the center of the rounded table began to deal out everyone’s cards. The tension immediately filled the atmosphere again, every single person looking around at each other with straight faces. You stood behind Spencer, your hands grabbing onto the back of his chair as you admired how he looked from the side. His jaw was clenched, his jawline never having been more defined than when he was focusing on something.

You were so preoccupied with your conflicting feelings that you never noticed how handsomely dressed he was that night. His hair was slicked back with a few pieces in the front framing his head, wearing a tailored and well-pressed suit that must have cost him a pretty penny.

You ruminated on Spencer’s clean-shaven face while fighting the strong urge to plant a soft kiss on his cute, button nose. The game continued as you went on watching the little faces he made as he concentrated on winning the game.

Every single day at work, he’d bite his lip or scrunch his nose— both of which drove you absolutely mad. As he sat playing at the table, he began doing the same maddening nose scrunch and lip biting that tested your self-control.

A lock of his hair fell, your hand reaching forward to tuck it behind his ear without a single thought. You had no regret, taking in the way the overhead light seemed to shine brighter on him than anyone else in your eyes. He didn’t look up or back at you, his gaze still fixed on the cards in his hands— the only thing that changed was the apt smile on his face.

Your heart began to flutter at the small gesture, your heart beating against the walls of your chest. Your brain turned to mush as the sounds and people around you were muted, the only thing you were able to comprehend was his smile after winning yet another game.

He pushed the chair out, lost in the luster of his feelings while wrapping his hands around your waist. A blinding smile wide on his face stunned you as he pulled you right into him with a hug. Spencer picked you up and swung you around, laughter racking from both your chests at his preordained win.

Your feet finally reached the ground, your faces only a couple of inches from each other. The urge to kiss him had never been as strong as it was then, there was nothing stopping you from leaning in and planting your lips onto his. Your hands tightened around his neck, never wanting to let go of him, as you looked into his eyes.

Mesmerized.

His eyes flicked between your eyes and your lips, the sound of Emily and Derek standing up left him unfazed. All he could focus on was you and the want in your eyes, the lust in beginning to well as his hands tightened around your waist. There wasn’t a moment in time that could begin to compare to the way he felt with you.

Your arms fell to your side, forcefully backing away from him and struggling to be released from his grasp. He furrowed his brows while you looked around for Derek and Emily who were stationed right behind Spencer.

“I’m leaving,” Derek said, putting his suit jacket back on.

“What?” Spencer asked, “Why?”

“I’m losin’ money here, kid. No point in staying when I can get a little lucky somewhere else,” Derek raises his eyebrows suggestively, walking away while eyeing women walking by.

“I’m going to get another drink and maybe a little someone on the side,” she winked, walking away and mouthing ‘three’ to you.

Spencer turned back around to face you, shifting his weight between his feet. The silence that settled around you was no longer lighthearted or loving, rather awkward and gauche. You looked up at him, realizing that your sudden effort to push him away may have come off harsher than you intended.

“Let’s um, let’s go back to playing,” he laughed, trying to lighten the mood, “Maybe a couple more rounds?”

You nodded, walking towards the table solemnly, beating yourself up mentally for causing some kind of problem between you and your, first and foremost, best friend.

“Right,” you whispered, faking a smile, “Look. Spencer, I didn’t mean for-”

“Ma’am,” a deep voice from behind you called out.

You turned around as seven tall men surrounded both you and Spencer. “Sorry, what’s going on?” You asked.

“I need you two to come with us.”

Your breathing quickened right as you were about to turn around to ask Spencer what was going on. Before the words could leave your mouth, he placed his hands around your upper arms comfortingly and softly pushed you towards them.

“It’s best if we listen to them,” he nudged you slightly, his hand placed ever so tenderly on the small of your back burning the skin he was touching while they led you into an elevator.

Spencer made sure to keep you close to him, looking over at you occasionally. He’d find you biting your lips anxiously or playing with your fingers nervously. He placed his hand on top of yours, giving you a comforting look to assure you that the both of you were going to be alright.

The elevator opened with a ding, the men in front of you spilling into the secluded room and motioning for the two of you to follow. They all pulled out handheld metal detectors, scanning your body the way airport security would check you. Spencer was calm, it was almost like he knew exactly what was going on while he left you in complete darkness.

“Dr. Spencer Reid.” A woman walked in behind the two of you, smiling mockingly with her arms crossed at Spencer. “It’s been a while Dr. Reid.”

He nodded, “It has, a little less than 10 years.”

She muttered a quick ‘thank you’ to one of the men after he handed her a flash drive that she plugged into the computer on the desk in front of her. The TV mounted onto the wall flickered on as the security camera footage began to roll.

“Spencer,” you breathed as soon as you saw the two of you, Emily, and Derek appear on the screen.

The camera switched to another that followed you to the poker table, zooming into you and Spencer when he leaned in to help you play. Another feed popped up right beside the footage that recorded the two of you from behind. The new one detailed your facial expressions and how close he was to your face.

You were pictured staring straight at your cards as he whispered into your ear. What you didn’t know was that he was looking at you the same way you looked at him, a little smile appearing on his face as soon as you won.

It disappeared for a short moment as a flash of pain crossed his eyes, a sparkle that was reflected by the tears that pricked his eyes, something you knew all too well. He looked at your smile just as you looked at his, a look of pure, unadulterated desire.

And the twinge of heartache left as quickly as it came, the same adorable smile reappearing on his face just in time.

The blonde woman zoomed into the cards in your hands and the way he’d speak to you from behind. She was focused on the game while the two of you were unknowingly paying attention to the other’s facial expression in every single second of the clips. You were watching yourself fawn over him as he watched himself dote on you from the side.

Eventually, the two of you switched places on the footage, Spencer taking the seat and playing the game in your stead. The tell-tale heat began to overwhelm your cheeks at his lovable smile that came about when you tucked his hair behind his ear.

You heard a giggle escape from his lips, looking over to see him staring right back at you with the same grin. You giggled along with him, your knuckles brushing across the other’s— the friction causing sparks to erupt between the both of you.

The videos on the screen disappeared, a picture of Spencer at 22 with his hair grown out to his shoulder and a wide, toothy smile smug on his face appeared next to a darker picture of him minutes ago. He had grown older, that much was obvious, his features much more defined and mature than they were before.

The picture of his younger self reminded you of the first time you met him, innocent with a doe-eyed gaze. But why would they have a picture of him then and why were they so interested in him now?

“The different haircut didn’t do it for you, huh?” He joked, causing you to elbow him slightly for provoking someone who already seemed pissed at his presence.

She laughed, “Very few people can count cards like you can, Dr. Reid. Your technique’s so infamous that we were able to spot you in… thirty minutes?”

“Forty-three… you guys are gettin’ lax.”

“Spencer,” you whispered, “What are you doing?” He ignored you, his eyes scanning her and the room you were in. You followed his eyes around, jumping from each security guard and to the elevator door that was still wide open.

You had only ever seen him so cocky once before when the two of you were undercover as a couple in Ohio. You took the opportunity to experience him in ways you never had before but the teasing and the flirting and the touches were endless. He knew you were flustered and capitalized on it, using his relentless ‘moves’ to convince you to agree to watch a rerun of Solaris.

“Then you’d understand my problem,” she hissed, turning around to take one last glance at the pictures displayed on the TV, “If banning you from my casino isn’t enough, then what is? What am I going to do with you now, Dr. Reid?”

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, grabbing your hand and taking it in his, “You’ll never have to see me again, scout’s honor.”

She turned around abruptly as he winked at her smugly, yanking you towards the elevator door and hastily pushing the button. The security guards ran to you but not in time to make it into the tiny room, their pounding reverberating through the mirror-lined walls.

“Spencer, what the hell,” you yelled, looking at him in disbelief, “You’re banned from the casino and you still decided to come in and play?”

He laughed, “I’m banned from all the casinos in Vegas, Y/N. This is the only way I can have fun.”

“We could get arrested, o- or worse… suspended.”

“Don’t worry,” he reassured, grabbing your arms and brushing his hand across your jawline, “We’ll be fine.”

It was like you lost all function in your body, the only things that came out of your mouth were unintelligible fragments of words. “I um, I… h- how?”

Spencer smiled right as the doors opened revealing the brightly lit casino. “We’ll just have to run before they can catch us.”

Before you could object, you began running with him through the crowd of bartenders and gamblers. You looked back at the stairwell that was right next to the elevator, the same 7 men yelling and running towards the both of you.

“Spencer, g- go faster,” you shouted as he happily obliged, his hand gripping yours tightly. The wind blew through your hair, the people around you staring at the odd couple sprinting through the busy floor with several large men chasing after them. In the elevator, all you could feel was fear but that feeling was long gone.

You let go of every single chain that held you down and let yourself lose control with Spencer. You defied every rule you set for yourself, taking in the thrill of running alongside him— averting the very scary men following you.

Neither of you could stop laughing, an exhilarating feeling running through all the pathways of your body. Butterflies erupted in your stomach while hearing his giggles from ahead of you with a large cheeky grin on his face.

You stopped suddenly, your heel breaking as you tugged Spencer back unintentionally. “What’s wrong?”

“I um, my heel broke. I can’t run anymor-”

He picked you up, your arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. “I’ve got you,” he offered.

Spencer continued on with you in his arms, your chests flush against the other as your hearts beat in sync with the other. Your focus shifted from the angry men behind you to the one holding you in his arms and the wide smile on his face. You had never seen him so happy to be running away from seven giant security guards all while carrying you.

You realized a long time ago that life without him would be thoroughly mundane and it was reinforced again while you were on the run. Nothing else mattered in that moment, nothing else existed.

It was just you and him.

—————————————-

The night wound down with the two of you settling on staying at the hotel to avoid any more trouble. You stopped by a drug store, grabbing some snacks to munch on for the rest of the night.

You got back to the hotel room you shared with Emily, dragging in the large bag of junk food that Spencer had bought on your way there. He shut the door gently behind you while you placed the bag on the table, grabbing two bottles of tequila hidden under a pile of potato chips and chocolate.

“Where’d you get that from?” He asked, walking over to you and inspecting the glass bottles— most likely checking the proof.

“I may or may not have bought it while you were drooling over the gummy bears in the candy aisle,” you teased.

You slipped the bottle out from his hand and placed them on the table after emptying the rest of the bag out. Spencer helped you sort through the things you bought, opening each bag and stealing a few pieces of chocolate.

“Spencer,” you giggled, “You got chocolate all over your face.”

“What?” He mumbled, his mouth full of the little bits of chocolate.

“Here,” you grabbed a tissue from the table, stepping closer to him and gently wiping away at the corners of his mouth.

He looked at you silently, stunned at how focused you were on him… how close. It had been like the air was sucked out of his lungs, no longer dependent on anything but you. Spencer felt his cheeks warm along with the anticipated rosy color dusting his cheeks.

“There,” you smiled.

He cleared his throat, fixing the tie and tightening it up slightly. “Th- thank you,” he stuttered, immediately feeling the need to change the subject to avoid anymore of his feelings spilling out of him, “So um, what should we do?”

You looked back to the bottles of liquor on the table, noticing that you had one for each of you. “Truth or drink?”

“I- I don’t know, is it really the best idea for us to be drinking when we’re flying back tomorrow morning?”

“Just answer the questions and you won’t have anything to worry about,” you teased.

“Okay,” he huffed, sitting down in the seat across from you and grabbing the half-eaten chocolate bar.

The game started off slow, neither of you wanting to be the first one to ask an arguably risqué question that could turn the atmosphere in the room from fun to awkward. With each passing question, the both of you seemed to get a little more comfortable asking something of the other.

“So… what was your first impression of me?” He asked, pushing your bottle closer to you in a lousy attempt to win after telling him that there was no winning in the game.

“I thought you were pretty cute,” you admitted, stuffing a potato chip in your mouth before continuing, “But your hair back then was horrendous.”

He smacked you lightly with the bag of gummy bears he had in his hand, opening it and eating some pieces with a pout on his face. You laughed, shaking your hand at his childish behavior.

“Fine, fine!” you surrendered, “What was your first impression of me?”

He slunk back into his chair, somehow embarrassed to answer the question. You smiled, pushing the bottle of tequila towards him and grabbing the plastic red cup— pouring some in. “You don’t have to answer the question,” you smirked. “No,” he blurted tipsily, unwilling to be the first to take a drink instead of answering, “I thought you were um, I thought you were really pretty and that you’d probably leave a couple of weeks after you came.”

“What?”

“Well, I just assumed that you were going to sleep with Derek which would become an HR nightmare. I thought that Hotch would just end up transferring you,” he admitted, sheepishly.

“Ew, Spence,” you laughed, “Even if I did sleep with someone on the team, it wouldn’t be him.”

“Okay… then who would you have slept with?”

You looked at him, his eyes searching yours intently… quietly. The answer was obvious, but you weren’t ready to admit that despite pushing your friendship further than you had before. The two of you continued to stare at each other, Spencer tempting you to answer his risky question.

You could hear the pounding of your heart in your ears trying to silence the intensity of his gaze. You quickly reached for the bottle at the same time he did, his hand engulfing yours around the cool glass. The contact sent shock waves that traveled from their area of origin straight to your back, the room around you spinning.

He asked again, “Who would you have slept with, Y/N.”

“Let go of the bottle, Spence. You can’t just make me answer.”

He refused to loosen his grip on the bottle, and likewise, your hand. You found yourself lost in the hazel coloring of his eyes, afraid to answer him. The video shown to you earlier wasn’t definitive proof of his feelings, you had no way of knowing if he felt the same. You’d much rather keep him as a friend than lose him by taking a risk that you never even wanted to in the first place, especially not when you had a way out of it. The only problem was a very attractive hand keeping you from placing the bottle on your lips and taking a sip.

He slipped out of his chair, hand still firmly placed on the bottle, walking over to you. Spencer towered over you, trying to get some kind of confession— one he had been trying to get for all the years he’d known you.

His feelings might not have been evident but yours were and he needed you to say them out loud, he needed you to tell him you felt the same.

“Y/N, just tell me.”

“Tell you what,” you asked, standing up as your hand left the bottle, “What is there to tell.”

“Tell me you love me,” he breathed, still standing there at the table as you kept your back turned away from him. You sucked in a breath, unprepared to face the truth.

“I’m drunk, Spencer.”

“So am I.”

You turned around, looking at him and looking at his sincere and genuine eyes— the soft glow of the light above him highlighting the tentative smile on his face.

“Spencer,” you whispered while he walked up to cup your face, his face kindly urging to spill your feelings to him, “I- I’ve loved you for s- so long.”

His hands migrated to your waist and the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. “I love you too.”

You exhaled a breath of relief, you were so madly in love that you failed to see it through the dizzying haze of your feelings. Everyday the two of you would stare at each other from your desks, watching as you sat frozen in time— desperately waiting for someone to make a move.

It was over, the biggest obstacles were overcome with a simple sentence that came from your drunken self. You sat there in his embrace, reveling in the warmth that spread through your heart knowing that he felt the same.

He pulled away from you, silently asking if it was alright for him to kiss you. Your answer came in the form of a single pull of his tie, bringing his face right to yours in a messy kiss. He smiled, giggling slightly at your assertiveness and deepening it by pulling you impossibly closer into his body.

You opened your mouth slightly and wrapped your hands around his neck as he leaned forward to push himself forward onto you. Your fingers found themselves tangled in his unruly brown curls, the two of you smiling against each other’s lips after stumbling on the paper bag on the floor.

You both continued your tender endeavor, your sloppy and intoxicated kisses distracting you from the way his hands roamed your body cautiously. Ten years of feelings smushed together into one kiss that couldn’t even begin to challenge the way you felt for each other.

You moved in accordance with one another, your lips partaking in a coordinated push and pull of the tide. A fervency for him blossomed in your chest, tugging at his suit jacket for more. You were starved and hungry after all the years you were left craving the taste of his lips.

He obliged, his hands pulling your face closer to his as butterflies danced in your stomach from the alluring scent of mahogany that came from his cologne. All he could focus on was the way you pushed against him passionately, holding onto him like he was bound to disappear from your possession. He could barely focus on himself, distracted by the beat his heart decided to skip as you continued.

Spencer pulled away from you, panting as he placed his forehead against yours to slow down the flurry of feelings.

“I love you,” you mumbled against his cheek, reaffirming what you said moments before.

“I love you too,” he smiled, pushing the hair out of your face and looking fondly at you.

With the symphonic sounds of your laughs harmonizing and his arms pulling you close to his chest, you smiled knowing that there was no one you’d rather fall in love with than him…

Your best friend.

—————————————-

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bellafragolina · 2 years

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Writing / Headcanon request for a reader who finds Volo heavily injured in the mountains post game and while they KNOW they would solve a lot of problems for themself and all of Hisui if they just left him there to rot, they can't bring themself to do it and drag him back to their tent and actually help him recover. Volo is being a snarky, mean asshole trough all of this while reader just rolls their eyes and snarks right back, mocking them because do they REALLY think this is gonna change anything? Do they REALLY think this act of kindness will be enough after all he has been trough in his life?

... Because he has already started to fall in love with reader before they battled at the plateau and hated himself for it because NO. HE SHOULD HATE THEM. He can't fall for them further after all of THIS happend. He needs them to stop being kind to him!

OOOOOOH BABY! I like this a lot, anon, you are fantastic, thank you for requesting this

🍓🍓🍓

It was an unfortunate fall, one Volo took in the Coronet Highlands. Lots of tumbles were had, many bones broken, and he resigned himself to dying alone and in pain at the base of a mountain. A perfect end to his tale, he thought bitterly. However luckily (or he claimed, unluckily) for him, you were nearby. You heard his shouting and the scuffs of his fall. Lady Sneasler helped you locate Volo, and for a moment you boggled at his state. It wasn't pretty, and he was still conscious enough to recognize and sneer at you.

You did consider just going back. Lady Sneasler even tapped you and nodded towards the way you came; she was willing to act like y'all didn't see anything if you were. But, the guilt that clawed at the back of your mind, knowing Volo would die slowly and in pain, banished any idea of abandonment. Lady Sneasler was snarky about it, but she helped you get Volo into her basket, and took him to a safer area before returning for you.

With the help of the Nobles, you were able to get Volo to the Mountain Camp. He had fainted from the pain long ago, so you were able to get a Security Corps member informed and send him off to fetch someone from the Medical Corp while you made sure Volo didn't die. You could already tell his legs were broken, probably his arms too. You hoped his ribs weren't broken, or his skull.

A Medical Corp worker came, and winced when she saw who you had. Still, she did her job, and treated his bones, assessed the rest of him. By the time she was done, Volo looked like a mummy with blond hair. It would've been funny if it wasn't so serious.

Volo wakes up a few days later, to find you hanging around. He coughs, throat dry, and you hop into action. You give him sips of water, feed him the rations the Security Corps has been bringing you. Volo scowls and rasps at you, you must know this is pointless? He hates you (he hates your wince when he says so), and this simple kindness won't change anything.

"Maybe you would let me die," you bite back, and sudden his pain is more intense, around his ribs, "but I won't let you die. I don't care if you hate me, if you don't value my life. I value yours, so shut up and deal with it."

Volo hates relying on you like this. Hates the tender way you treat his wounds, change his bandages, with those careful, concerned eyes. He hates how you're so careful with feeding him, how the foods he claims to hate disappear from your rations, replaced with the things he prefers. He hates the looks you give him, the serious stares whenever his breathing gets too raspy or he groans in pain.

He hates how much he loves it.

He tries to make you leave. He's mean, snarky, a plain asshole. He calls you names, calls you weak and pitiful, but you don't go anywhere. You take it all, lips pressed in a thin line, hands as gentle as every. You're never rougher with Volo, never give him well deserved pain. He hates it, but he can't deny the harsher words leave his vocabulary the longer you tend to him.

Volo isn't a bad patient after a while. He can't fend for himself like this, so he's honest and plain with you about what he wants and needs. It's easy to care for him with a plain idea of what needs the most tending. He tells you when he's hungry, thirsty, in need of relieving. You end up working together seamlessly. And he starts to blush whenever you get close.

He brings it up, when you're both at the Lonely Spring, washing up. You're washing Volo's hair, your touch like magic on his scalp. He starts talking all of a sudden, voice flat and tired.

"I hate. . ." Volo pauses when you do, waiting for words that refuse to form on his tongue. "I hate that. . ."

"You hate that I'm the one doing this?" You offer, your own voice small and sad.

He can't look at you. "I hate that you made me love you." You're silent. He grits his teeth. "All these years, I've been so bitter, so obsessed with my plans, then you come around. Show me that maybe I can feel something nice for a change, have something nice for a change. . . even though I know it's not possible."

You'd never love him, right? He's been nothing but rude to you. One moment, having a decent conversation about Hisui, and the next criticizing your every move. You could never love someone like that.

Which makes his face when you kiss his cheek all the sweeter to see. He's the one that's silent now, and you go back to washing his hair, humming a sweet tune. Slowly, he relaxes back into you, and allows his emotions to rush over him. It's overwhelming, but he smiles a little. He can work with this.

🍓🍓🍓

Oh, Volo, you handsome fool. Hope I did your request justice! Have a wonderful day!

#volo x reader #pokemon x reader #pokemon imagines

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testingcheats0n · 3 years

Text

Massive Dream SMP Fic Rec!!

Hey- Hi, I just feel like there are a ton of fanfiction that's really underrated in this fandom- so I'm going to dump it on your dash!!! Most of it is going to be Tommy-centric or SBI-centric, but they are very good!

Source: Me

Finished Fanfics:

Multi-chaptered Fanfics:

that's, like, a hundred miles by No_one_you_know

Dream would kill him. Dream was going to kill him- he was going to- no, he wouldn’t. Dream was his friend- friends don’t hit each other- Dream was supposed to take care of him- Dream /was/ taking care of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He couldn’t clear his thoughts as he stumbled to the family computer, pulling up a tab on google and frantically typing the name into the search bar.

The words Technoblade Watson stared back at him, the little black bar at the end of the letters blinking slowly, mocking him.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Technoblade?

in short: the one where dream sucks as a parental figure, tommy runs away, and visits his least favorite family member technoblade

Hard-hitting, but has a happy ending, though I recommend reading the prequel (in the same series) first, otherwise, it's lowkey depressing.

MORE RECOMMENDATIONS BELOW THE CUT!!

you’ll rise above (crowned by an overture bold and beyond) by azvremoon

Tommy is not sixteen. He has faced too many open wounds, dripping ichor onto blood-stained warzones, to be just a child. He is Blood and War and needless Death, an all-in-one special of everything that can ruin reality.

(Tommy is the blood god. No one should know, but this server can't stop pushing him over the edge.)

+2 more Works that were Inspired by this one

Tommy is a BAMF and Dream, Technblade, and Phil get fucked it is what it is.

Responsible Forever by SilverWing15

“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” /////

“So,” Techoblade says, slow and deliberate, his face shows clearly just how unbelievable he finds all of this, “you saw a boy last night, in the middle of the night, living with raccoons and eating our garbage?”

“I know how insane it sounds,” Phil says, “but I know what I saw. We need to help him, who knows how long he’s been out here?”

“Okay,” Wilbur interrupts, “let’s say that raccoon-boy is real. What is it you want us to do? We can’t go searching the woods for specific bunch of raccoons, I don’t know if you’ve noticed Phil but there are a lot of them out there.”

“Going out and hunting him isn’t going to get us anywhere,” Techno says, “we have to let the raccoon-boy come to us. He’s already come once, you know how tenacious raccoons are. If they came to the garbage pit once, they’ll come again. We just have to set a trap.”

“Those raccoons aren’t gonna know what fucking hit them,” Wilbur mutters.

Or: RaccoonInnit taken well beyond its logical conclusion

Tommyinnit is a Raccoon boi that lives with other Raccoons

Protecting the Traumatised Youth by spookyserpent

Sam blinks. “What?”

Even behind the mask, Sam has the distinct impression that Dream is grinning at him. “A week and he was begging for my attention, even after I stole and burnt his armour, even after the beatings. He couldn’t stand me leaving him because I was the only one to show up, to pay him attention. It was hilarious.”

Sam is going to be sick.

Or, Sam decides to ask Dream about his intentions and ends up becoming a big brother to Tommy and Tubbo. All the while, Dream and George fight, Niki and Jack plan child murder and Ranboo is slowly getting adopted into the SBI.

Awesamdad written back when it was possible... ahhh

Chaos In a Bottle by Lovetribable

After a realization, Tommy leaves the pillar, but instead of going to Techno. He just disappears, leaving everyone to think he's gone.

It takes a war to bring him back.

+2 Sequels and an Alternative Ending

Dadinnit!! + A Sympathetic Dream

Absolutely Anything For Them by Numanum

“There’s a lot you don’t understand, Tubbo,” Dream sighs, meeting his eyes cooly. Tubbo, back against a tree, shudders at his tone, at the look on his face.

The sword at his neck skims across his skin as Dream shifts his grip on it, and he flinches back into the rough bark behind him. Dream smiles at his reaction, seeming pleased- like the cat that’s been toying with a mouse that always tries to run no matter how many times it’s caught. And, despite this being his first encounter alone with the man, he thinks that the comparison is fairly accurate; Tubbo has never felt smaller than he does now. There’s supposed to be a buddy system to prevent things like this- he shouldn’t be alone here, stuck in this situation.

Or: Tubbo becomes a traitor to save everyone and has to struggle with his choices

Traitor Tubbo, but it has the happiest ending possible since it follows the rest of the story.

Where Did You Come From, Kit? by KadeAK (zacixn)

Hybrids are an ancient species of humans crossed with animals, blessed with the favour of nature. They used to live in peace on the SMP’s land, but ever since the dawn of humanity’s modern culture, they have become ostracised and hunted by their once-brethren. Now, the once-thriving subspecies of hybrids have been reduced to ashes, the majority of their peoples struggling to survive in a city capital that can't stand their presence.

To the members of L’Manburg, General Wilbur Soot is just another mildly prejudiced human being, stuck with a hybrid fox kit for an adopted child. However, that assumption could not be farther from the truth. As it turns out, there's a reason why he is the man he is today.

This fic is entirely pre-L’Manburg.

Part of a series, very good.

Take It Easy by sweet_magnolias

Five times Techno scared Michael, one time Michael scared him, and the resolution of those fears.

AKA - Techno learns how to be an uncle.

Technoblade's POV, so expect some Tubbo bashing on the margins of all that Michael fluff.

I suppose it’s never my time to die, is it? by Birb_Whale

The first time it happens, he barely remembers. The second time is when he realized. The third... Twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern

“It’s not your time to die yet, Tommy”

Messed up, but not unrealistic. Purely for the Hurt/Comfort lovers.

This Wasn't Planned, But It'll Work Out by Anonymous

Dream isn't sure what to think when he finds a kid on his doorstep, but he can't just leave him there, now can he?

(He doesn't know what he's getting into, or what he's gotten the kid into, either)

Long, and angsty, with a bittersweet ending Imo.

let's play a game by Aria_Cinabun

Tommy was once a slave. That's gone now - shoved in his past with the memories of blood and gore and death. He wants to forget who he was; what he has to do to survive. Of course, the Elementalists will always come back to haunt him. They aren't the ones who killed his mother, but they're close enough. And now he and his brother have been dragged into the mess, as Elementalists with their own, separate covens, to find the Pit - the place where he'd lived and killed and hurt for the first twelve years of his life. His coven can't know. Can't know who he really is, what he can really do. Can't know anything about his past. He doesn't want a coven full of Elementalists who don't trust him; one of whom he's pretty sure despises him. He doesn't want that life. He wants the life of a pickpocket, on the streets, because nobody questions street kids, and nobody comes asking about his past and pushes him to tell his secrets that he holds closest inside. Tubbo tries to tell him to trust people. But trust is how you die.

Good fantasy AU, has SBI, and is thus fluffy.

Turn of the Tide by SilverWing15

Tommy’s fins twitch at the mention of Dream’s ancestors. Dream talks about them a lot, how they made their fortune hunting down mer pods, how they were cruel and greedy. Nothing like Dream is. They’ve both overcome their roots he says.

Tommy is nothing like the wild mer out in the ocean, who spend their lives scraping by just to survive, who kicked him out of the pod when he was a baby because he was too small. He’s also better than the pit mer, who can’t overcome their wild instincts and know nothing but fighting.

He’s different from them, he’s better than them. He’s Dream’s. //// OR: Change is like the tide, when it comes, you can only sink or swim. You would think that a mer would be better at keeping afloat.

Mermaid AU Pooog. Part of a series.

One-Shots:

Snapped by AmberRunnel

“You don’t know what I went through in that prison cell.”

Jack burst out laughing, blinded with rage and the overwhelming urge to hurt Tommy, to give him everything he deserved. “Oh, is the poor child traumatized? You want pity now?” He twisted his blade, and Tommy’s axe was sent clattering to the ground.

“If the prison was so awful, why don’t I send you back there?”

-|-

Jack doesn't handle Tommy's revival well. There's a simple solution, though. Kill Tommy, and Dream revives him right back into that cell. Problem solved, kid dealt with.

It takes a few confrontations for Jack to realize he's an asshole.

It's fucked up, but god does it hurt in a good way.

the sky is coming down blue by salinesolution

An imagining of New Milo's perspective throughout the Skyblock Randomizer adventure. What did he think of the world he found himself in, and how did Wilbur's feelings and actions change things for him? Here's my way of answering those questions.

He made the fish think, funniest shit I've seen.

You told me to be a hero (so let me die like one) by spiromachia

"You told me to die like a hero," the blond interrupted, spinning on his heel to face the others, holding his arms wide open, "So why not fulfil the ending that was always meant to be."

Across the battle field, through the chaos and destruction, a tree burned.

Even the sound of explosions and cries and bloodshed felt distant enough for the world to become silent for a few moments, each individual slowly coming to the same conclusion, each of their bodies tensing.

Tommy's face broke out into a grin as he lowered his head, glowering at the people around him, and Philza's face flashed with recognition.

"Kill me."

Or... In the middle of Doomsday, Tommy decides to ask Technoblade to be the Lycomedes to his Theseus.

Heavy and dark, but at least Dream gets it.

tomorrow night by meridies

Tommy is desperately searching for his missing brother. Techno is the reluctant psychic who unfortunately got dragged along.

or, two people, more alike than different, learn what it is to have a family at their side.

It's cute what can I say :]

maple syrup by itisjosh

"We could run," Tubbo stares at the sun. "We've got everything we've ever wanted right here. We could run."

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, feeling his head swim. "We could."

(or, tommy and tubbo run away together)

Children get away from toxic adults :)

Why’d it have to be so sunny? (The sun shouldn’t shine without you.) by AToZRainToBe

‘A realisation hits Phil in the face like a truck. “Wi- Ghostbur,” Phil says, turning to his grey-scale, translucent, actually-dead son. “You definitely told Tubbo that Tommy’s alive, right?”’

To get away from Dream, Tommy agrees to fake his death, going with the cover story that he jumped from the pillar in Logstedshire. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Tubbo.

Misunderstandings are one of my favorite tropes.

sugar and ice by princedemeter for Aenqa

“He is my son,” Philza says. “Mortal or not, I would see him grow strong.”

Technoblade looks down on earth, at the tiny, angry bundle of cloth and pinking, wrinkled skin. This mortal child, he thinks, lungs filled with breath from the king of gods himself, will not grow strong.

It's mostly centered around Technoblade and Wilbur with Phil being a shitty dad. Pog Gods AU.

a matter of time by meridies

Tommy is twelve years old when his wings first appear, and he is twelve years old when Phil tells him, "All it takes is time and patience, Tommy, and soon you'll be flying even better than me."

or, Tommy grows up feeling like a failure, and it takes him a while to figure out where he's happiest.

Tommy is just finding his place in the world. Powers AU.

That Time a Baby Decided to Raise a Baby by Scitrust

Tubbo wasn't good at making excuses, so when Schlatt asked him why he was leaving in the night, he made something up on the spot. That had been months ago.

At least he sort of had an alibi for that, now.

Or, in which Tubbo finds a baby in the woods on his way to see Tommy, and promptly adopts it.

Part of a collection!! Read it all.

spider lily by blue000jay

Wilbur has a body.

The freckle on the base of his left pinky finger (shared with Techno). The scar on his chin from when he was twelve and over ambitious, diving into too-shallow water. The scar on his throat from the final control room, and the puckered skin on his shoulder from the poisoned arrow that killed him next. Various other nicks and things that litter his skin from years of rebellion and living wild, a kid thrown into a vicious world with too little self-preservation.

(Resurrection AU, for when/if Wilbur comes back.)

The author knows how it's like to live with chronic pain, and it shows :(

Hands tied loose by rabiddog

"Let's run away, Tubbo." Tommy breathed; a wide grin split across his face as his hope grew. "Let's get out of here – far away. We can go anywhere, can't we? Let's just go, you and me right here, right now."

Tommy needs to leave. He has to get out of L'Manburg, he has to leave the Dream SMP for his own sanity, and he wants Tubbo to come with him.

But Tubbo has a family now, a better life - something that he can't give up... not even for his best friend.

Unhappy ending :(

The serpent underneath by rabiddog

Tommy and Techno sit at the memory-filled bench and talk. Technoblade reminisces, he talks, he admits his pent-up feelings, he cries. And Tommy? Tommy listens. (That's all he can do.)

“I’m sorry for everything, you know? For all of it. I’m so sorry about... about the first war, about the withers and the fighting, about...” Technoblade's fingers began to curl around Tommy’s blonde locks. “About Wilbur and everything after. I'm so, so sorry.”

:((((((((

Damning choices by rabiddog

Ranboo would have never expected to find himself in a horrifying situation such as that one - quite literally sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, with three lives dangling over his head and the answer on the tip of his tongue.

Tubbo, Michael, Tommy.

It's his choice. He chooses who lives, and who dies. His new family, or his first friend. But Ranboo... Ranboo already knows.

"Ranboo," He hissed out, voice cracking and somewhat staticky, "It's not your fault. It's not. You had no other choice; I know that, okay? I- I know that- I know- I know..."

:(((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Jealousy is a disease by rabiddog

Tommyinnit isn't new to the idea of jealousy. He understands it completely. He understands the way it runs rampage through his body each time he catches even a glimpse of Tubbo and Ranboo's new relationship, he understands that the emotion makes his heart clench uncomfortably from time to time. He sees it, feels it, and yet he doesn't care.

He doesn't care at all.

"You took Tubbo away from me. You took him away. You took my best friend, and now he's- now he's not my best friend anymore, and I-!"

Word of Honour by rabiddog

Tommy could only stand and stare as Technoblade agreed to hand him over to Dream - as his brother traded him off like he was nothing. Like Tommy wasn't important.

Technoblade was a man of honour. He was a man of pride and sticking to his word. He knew that he owed Dream a favour, and no matter what that favour might be, he'd be compliant with it. Nothing would change his mind. (Not even Tommy.)

Almost canon. F.

Sweet Repentance by rabiddog

Perhaps Tommy should have told Phil about his arguably life-threatening injury the minute his father had opened the door. But of course, Tommy being Tommy, did not.

Dying seemed like a nice enough option as long as he was with his family.

Tommy just wanted acceptance, forgiveness, and peace. He wanted to close his eyes for the last time and finally be able to let go.

Tommy dies painfully.

A White Tulip by astervoid

He picked the white tulip from the bottom of the stem, standing up carefully as he held it pinched between his fingers. It would die now, inevitably, but Tommy relented and held the flower to his chest. What a silly, stupid thing to ground him. He almost hated that it made his breaths come easier and his steps feel lighter. Almost.

Tommy & Ranbooo chill on the bench.

lying to the authorities (again) by touchgrass

"Please tell me that my right-hand-man, my soon-to-be vice president, one of the people I trust the most on this godforsaken server, did not lie straight to my face and tell me he was twenty-fucking-years-old.”

Tommy opened his mouth to protest, but then closes it shut at the furious look on Wilbur's face. Oops.

It is the day of the elections and Wilbur Soot could not have chosen a worser time to realize that half his staff is underage.

The ONLY fic with this premise I've seen on Ao3.

Dear Theseus by rabiddog

Tommy had thought that they'd won - thought that they'd finally beaten Dream, and that everything would be okay. As it turns out, however, apparently Dream had called in that favour from Technoblade after all.

“Please,” Tommy whispered after a beat, quivering hands edged upwards to hesitantly press against the tip of the sword striking through his chest. Why, why, why? Why him? Why now?

Tommy almost wins.

A Shifting World by AplusIsRoman

How was Wilbur supposed to know it would end like this?

The smoke hung in the air and soot clung to his skin. His brother - adopted, but older by two minutes - stood back-to-back with him. The chilling cries of people and the calls of the withers rang through the air above the chasm that was once his home.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

How could he have known this would happen?

Sequel to A Child's World

Age-swap AU. Has a prequel.

heart of the sea by RyDyKG

Here is the secret that he barely thinks about, a secret that he shoves deep and far down in himself:

Wilbur Soot is a siren, and he’s not exactly proud of that fact.

Wilbur-centric. Urban Fantasy AU.

He knows, ok? by Ralli

By some means, Techno has given his raccoon younger brother some cotton candy. It doesn’t end as well as either of them would like.

Very, very cute :)

that's it, it's split (it won't recover) by Jk_Kat

Tommy has always been the fighter.

He has never been the fought for, and he knows it, with every whisper Tubbo directs at Ranboo, with every glance thrown his way- Tommy knows, the way he wishes he didn't, that they think he's dead.

If they're so convinced he's still dead, maybe the one good thing left he can do for them is die.

---

Or, Tommy gets addicted to being dead and thinks that nobody cares about him. The people who very much do try to pull him back from the brink before Dream can't resurrect him anymore.

Messed up, but with a happy ending.

Hugs 'n PTSD by rabiddog

Ranboo knew from the start that the recovery process would be hard - that moving on from quite literally being beat to death would be something hugely difficult to step away from, and that's if Tommy could even manage it at all.

He knew that it would be stressful and arduous, demanding and tough... he just hadn't expected to be holding Tommy through a PTSD-induced panic attack only days after his release from Pandora's Vault.

Ranboo isn't typically an overbearingly protective person. But for Tommy? He just might be.

I love this author if you can't tell.

Big Men don't cry by Shiny22Snivy

The room is small and warm, almost stifling compared to the cool openness of the ravine. It’s cosy and candlelit, and a chest sits open in the corner, full of what looks to be burnt rags of a former smart suit. And sitting in rumpled blankets on a bed, cradling a mug of something steaming, sits Tubbo.

At first, Tommy forgets all about Niki’s vague warning. He’s just so happy to see his best friend again, alive and well and all in one piece. Tubbo’s okay. Tubbo’s okay, and in front of him, and suddenly everything bad in the world is gone, if only for just a moment.

“Tommy?”

And then Tubbo turns to look at him.

Clingyduo fluff.

sins of the father (i broke all my bones that day i found you) by ryter

The thing that hurt Wilbur most was when he saw Fundy tear down the walls of L'Manburg. After all, those walls had gone up to protect his son. But in this world, Fundy trusts his father just a little bit more, and it ruins him.

Or: there's only one way Wilbur never becomes the villain. It's unclear whether this was the better path.

SOME VIOLENCE WARNINGS/BLOOD MENTION. CHARACTER DEATH. SO MUCH ANGST.

Sad, but cathartic.

REVIVED TOMMY HEADCANNONS AHAHAHAHA by racooninnit

i’m dropping ALL the fucking revived tommy headcannons on you guys today get ready for some ANGST

this is different from what i usually post but it was fun

i don’t think there’s a lot i need to put warnings for, obviously there are mentions of the way tommy died and the aftermath of that (i.e. injuries and trauma), but if there’s anything that needs a warning please tell me!

What it says on the tin- not really a fic.

Unfinished Stories:

Ongoing (Less than a month since the last update):

Over the River Styx by CorpseArt

I feel like we should name him.

There’s a scuffle at the back of his mind as he rolls up, curling tight with a shiver despite the heat of the flames licking up his back.

I mean, he’s like – us, but like a worse version clearly because oh man, this is just weirdness. There’s a flare of a tangle of emotions, complicated and fearful, resentful and livid with anger. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been reduced to, stuck in the mind of this- this child.

He’s like your age, Tommy. Are you calling yourself a child?

I mean, I am one so fucking duh. Child murderer.

Or: trauma bonding in the most unconventional of senses.

Just- Read it. Show the writer your support, it's unique, it's amazing and there needs to be more of it.

If history is dead and gone by iregretallmydecisions

“Don’t come any fucking closer,” Tommy shouted, startling Phil into stepping back. Tommy was still looking around wildly, like a trapped animal “Don’t fucking do it.” ---- In which Tommy finds himself faced with his splintered family, while it was still mostly whole. The past is not an easy place to be when the future was not kind. His family is forced to deal with the fall out.

It's better than Rewind, but you didn't hear that from me.

Wilbur Soot's Redemption (OR Ghostbur's Retry) by luckykitty0523

Wilbur had many regrets in his life, being lost in his madness and the urge for revenge drowned leaving a shell of who he once was. It was only in his dying moments that he regained himself but it was already too late for him leaving him drowning in wishes and regrets. However waking up in another different universe where wilbur was never born and family soulmates exist, so when wilbur said he wanted to fix the mistakes he never expected this turn of events.

In one world wilbur dies and he would return as a ghost missing his memory and trying to fix what he did in life but in this one wilbur dies and wakes up in another world where soulmates exist and the wilbur of that world was never born so wilbur/ghostbur takes his place and tries to make up his mistakes to the other version of his friends.

Wilbur adopts SBI + Fundy + Dream.

A Talk Long Overdue by penink

Tommy has his first therapy session with Puffy.

Tommy gets therapy.

Into the Night by Interjection

“Don’t touch me,” Tommy hisses, leaning against the railing. ��I will - I will-”

They’re a hundred stories up. Wind lashes against Phil’s face. Next to him, Sam makes choked noise.

“But why?”

Tommy looks up to meet Phil’s eyes, terror struck so deep in those pale blue irises Phil thinks they must hold all the world’s fears within them.

“You’ll die,” he whispers. “And then I’ll die. But I’ll come back.”

“And I don’t want to come back.”

Others have the freedom to live. Tommy doesn’t even have the freedom to die.

But maybe they can teach him that living doesn’t have to be so bad.

---

(Superpowers AU where whenever someone touches Tommy, they both die. But Tommy will always come back to life eventually. He just wants it to end - but instead, he’s on the run, terrified of how his power will be exploited if he’s caught.

A few people reluctantly team up to save him.)

Funky SBI dynamics + a Sam that cares. Also a lot of angst.

#dream smp #dream smp fic rec #fic rec #sbi #wilbur soot #tommyinnit

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outpost-31 · 2 years

Text

ALRIGHT posting it. lore for how araneri injured his eye and developed anisocoria.

I've mentioned it was from getting into a brawl and injuring his eye but I'm not sure I ever clarified .

@firstweeklastweek (since you wanted to see ^_^)

fair warning for. well it's not physical abuse but an argument does get incredibly physical with his father . and mentioned drug/alcohol abuse again because of his backstory

related screenshots:

actual lore (keep in mind this is copy and pasted):

SO . araneri got his fucked up eye the night he killed cesarine . which is why he has trouble remembering that night. not only was he drunk but it was. upsetting

he killed her, yknow. not only that but he did that while already buzzed. they were drinking together. and after what happened he was in. slight hysterics, to put it gently

He left with his panic, left her to die. Only problem was, cesarine was his safety net. her place and car were places he could sleep safely. without her, he didn't have anywhere to stay. so that night he'd needed to go back home. To his.. distress. He knew it wouldn't go well, ofcourse. it never did. especially if he came home like that

but he still did. even if he downed even more of the bottle he'd been sharing with cesarine in the hopes he wouldn't remember whatever happened when he got back. Worked a bit, I suppose. Not to mention, he wasn't exactly... only drunk .

His parents aren't the kindest people, and all. when their already-hated son stumbled inside from sneaking out, nose bleeding, visibly drunk and smelling like liquor, clearly shaken from .. Something happening that they couldn't quite figure out. his father snapped

they got into a screaming match, one that couldn't possibly have ended well either way it went. araneri was incredibly unstable that night from what he'd just done, too, so it didn't stay civil for long. It got physical and escalated Quickly when Araneri shoved him. and. it resulted in not just a violent backhand across the face, but one that was so aggressive it worsened his nosebleed . the crack sounded like something had broken with how loud it was, he remembers it. But that wasn't what resulted in the injury to his eye. Araneri was. a bit deranged that night . he had been. The second he recovered from the slap so violent it left his head spinning, he leapt on that man with nothing but pure hatred- uncoordinated, maybe, because he was drunk, but with full intent to cause as much harm to him as possible. And he did. The injury to his eye came from the punching and clawing that followed as he tried to hold him down . But he was smaller. weaker than his father, as he always had been. and so HoF intervened .

araneri technically killed three people that night. but only one of them was his own doing. his parents were torn apart by HoF for the injuries they'd caused. and araneri let it happen. he stood over them while they died with absolutely no pity in his heart. Nothing but rage and disgust, from all his pain. His eye had basically been torn open, and half his vision being red and fuzzy did his anger no favors .

Thankfully, they lived outside of town, on the coast. he got away with it, for a time. stayed only long enough to gather his things and fall asleep on a bus that took him to a different city entirely. he was too much of a mess to plan. he just went from there. the only reason his eye didn't get infected was because HoF fussed over him for weeks after he was hurt (and directly after) to make sure he cared for it properly. even in his entirely broken state

that was what solidified his fucked up sense of justice that night, actually. he'd always hated those two, because they despised him. it wasn't just detachment, he couldn't be around them without feeling sick with anger. it had been like that his whole life. he saw killing them as finally taking care of a problem that needed to be solved. he just didn't have the ability to do it before.

and more screenshots because I had a discussion about it:

hes. alot

#araneri my dearest. your past is so tragic #does that mean you didnt deserve what you got? no #no you did. hes still an awful person.#but his backstory is heartbreaking. thats why he spent most of it blacked out #rambles #araneri tag #ask to tag

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seijorhi · 4 years

Text

Acts of Devotion

👀 i um 👉 👈 i hope this is okay...

Akaashi Keiji x Female Reader

TW blood, gore, violence, murder, dub con, nsfw

Akaashi loves you.

He’s known that for a long time now, probably from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, back when you were both just wide eyed first year uni students, wildly out of your depths.

A lot’s changed since then. For one, he now gets to call you his, and it’s his arms that you return to at the end of a long day, his house that you both live in. It’d be a lie to say that it doesn’t bother him that he wasn’t your first love, but he’s contented himself with the knowledge that he’ll be your last. Your only great love.

The only one that matters.

But it hasn’t been without its challenges. He’s learned a lot about love since those early days, about what it means to truly devote yourself to somebody, to give everything you have for them.

Love essentially boils down to two things, Akaashi’s come to realise - sacrifice, and forgiveness.

You always look so beautiful when you’re sleeping. Of course, Akaashi thinks you’re beautiful all the time; when you’re smiling and laughing, when your face is screwed up in petulant anger, when those pretty eyes of yours well with tears and they glimmer and shine - but there’s something about the peaceful expression, so soft and unguarded when you’re asleep that inexplicably draws him in.

There’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to stay, to reach out and brush away the hair that’s fallen across your face, pull you closer and let sleep drag him under, but he can’t.

Not tonight.

Instead he cranes his neck to press a kiss against your lips, a small smile tugging at his lips when you let out a quiet mewl in response. He loves you so, so much… that’s why he has to do this.

He’d forgive you anything. You know that, don’t you?

Sure, it hurt him when he found the messages. Scrolling back through your text history, it was like somebody had grabbed him by the throat and plunged a knife into his gut, twisting it for good measure.

Kaito i don’t know what to do

i love him but lately it feels like idk he’s being a little controlling i guess?

… but maybe i’m just being paranoid?

He knows it’s not entirely your fault. For all the amazing qualities you possess, you are remarkably naive and so very, very impressionable - which worked to his favour in the beginning, he’ll be the first to admit, but now…

Now it’s becoming a problem.

You haven’t realised yet that everything Akaashi’s doing - it’s all for your own good.

Your family wanted you under their thumb. They always asked too much of you, guilt tripped you whenever you tried to stand up for yourself or set boundaries. They’d never be happy for you, not truly. It hurts, he knows that, but some people don’t deserve to be in your life, especially when they treat you like that.

Your job was causing you stress, and your boss was an arrogant, nasty piece of work. His salary is more than enough to support you both, why put yourself through that if you don’t need to? Aren’t you happier now that you don’t have to trudge into that office every day and pretend that it isn’t making you miserable?

Your friends were bad influences. Jealous of your relationship for one, but they were also petty, self absorbed and vapid, always trying to drag you down to their level so you wouldn’t ever outshine them. You’re better off without them, why can’t you see that?

Akaashi’s the only one you’ll ever need.

And he really thought that he’d solved that little problem, but apparently not. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that out of all of them, Kaito’s the one who’s been the hardest to shake. An old friend of yours from high school, Akaashi had known within five minutes of meeting him that he was head over heels in love with you and had been for a long, long time.

He can’t blame him for that. You’re beautiful. Perfect. Entirely his. It’s painfully obvious that even before he came into the picture to sweep you off your feet, you’d never so much as looked twice at the guy. So Akaashi was more or less content to let his somewhat pitiful one sided crush on you slide. Considering that he had absolutely no intentions of letting him or any of your other friends remain part of your life for much longer, it was hardly worth wasting energy thinking about.

Until, that is, he read the messages that Kaito’s been sending you.

Leave him

I’m serious.

My sister had a friend who was with a guy like that. She had to get a restraining order because he wouldn’t let her go - it got scary… You can come stay with me. I don’t want you getting hurt :(

It’s that last one that bothers him. Not the attempts to lure you away from him under the guise of being a safe haven from your ‘dangerous’ boyfriend, painting himself as your knight in shining armour - mildly irritating if not a little amusing - but for putting the idea in your head that Akaashi would ever hurt you.

That he can’t forgive.

He won’t have you look at him with fear in your eyes.

Akaashi’s never tried to deny that side of himself, but he’s kept it from you, locked it away and buried it deep. The things he does… you’re too pure for that. He loves you, loves the way that your eyes still soften when you catch sight of him, the warm, trusting naivety that bleeds out of your every pore. If you knew what the hands that caressed you so gently had done, would you still beg for his touch?

You wouldn’t, he knows that just as he knows that even if you were to uncover the truth, he wouldn’t let you go. He can’t, you’re his.

Is it really so selfish of him to want to preserve that innocent naivety?

But it seems like now he’ll have to indulge once again, and Akaashi, really, truly can’t say that it bothers him. Killing other people has always thrilled him, made the blood in his veins race… Killing other people for you, oh, that’s going to be a whole other level of pleasure he can’t wait to explore.

The pads of his fingers trace the curve of your jaw for just a moment. “Back soon,” he whispers, gracing your cheek with a feather light kiss.

You’ve never asked why the door to the basement locks from both sides, he doesn’t even think you realise that the walls are soundproofed. Tonight he’s grateful. You won’t wake up, he’s almost positive of that, but Akaashi has no desire to be gone from your side for any longer than absolutely necessary.

He usually prefers to take his time.

His first kill was more of an accident than anything else, there was too much blood, he panicked and it was over in the blink of an eye. There wasn’t time to savour it, to really enjoy the sight of the light leaving their eyes, the weak, desperate struggles and whimpers, the tantalising fear that inevitably bleeds into the air, growing more potent by the second - even the strongest break eventually. He’s learned since then how to draw it out, how to have fun with his work.

But he doesn’t have that luxury tonight, and, as he keeps having to remind himself, this isn’t about his pleasure.

Guns are quick. Messy. Akaashi’s never really taken a liking to the crude, graceless weapon. He prefers his knives.

Waving a gun in somebody’s face gives them the idea that they’re going to die, and there are only so many times that you can shoot somebody before they just… bleed out. It’s not nearly as satisfying a death. A knife, on the other hand, brings with it more opportunities. It isn’t death that his victim becomes worried about, at least not initially, but pain. And as his hand glides over his collection, Akaashi decides that Kaito is due for a little pain.

I love him, you’d texted. I love him. I love him. I love him.

That’s what he’s trying to protect.

Long, pale fingers wrap around the handle of his chef’s knife, (eight inches, sharp - a familiar, comforting weight in his hand) and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

Kaito’s mouth is taped shut. Akaashi doesn’t want to hear a filthy word out of those lips. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles tied to the old, wooden chair. He’s good with his knots, the more Kaito struggles, the tighter they pull. And judging from the ugly, purpling shade of his hands and the tears leaking from bloodshot eyes, he’s been struggling for a while.

Good.

Akaashi smiles as he strolls towards his captive audience, fingering the straight edge of the knife. Kaito doesn’t try to speak, but the muffled whines and sobs grow louder with every step closed between them. The fear and tension in the air is palpable.

His breath is little more than a frantic wheezing by the time Akaashi stops in front of him and drops into a crouch. Cool, gunmetal blue eyes meet Kaito’s deep brown ones, blown wide with terror.

“I’m not the monster you think I am,” he admits quietly.

Looking up at him from beneath long, dark lashes, a faint smile on his lips, Akaashi could almost pass for an angel if not for the gleaming kitchen knife in his hand. Kaito pales, his entire body going taut as his gaze slides from Akaashi’s face to the gleaming blade in his hand. He shakes his head in desperation, another muffled scream escaping his gag-

Akaashi strikes fast, like a viper. The blade plunges into the meat of Kaito’s thigh and without an ounce of mercy, Akaashi yanks it back towards his knee.

The scream that rips through the air sends a pleasurable shiver of warmth down his spine, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he feels the muscles beneath him convulse. The gash isn’t too long, maybe a few inches, but it’s deep and Akaashi’s smirk only grows as warm blood gushes from the wound, coating his hand in slick vermilion.

He tugs the knife free, rewarded with another choked howl from his captive as more blood sprays. Bound to the chair, there’s not a whole lot of room for Kaito to move, but it’s somewhat amusing to watch him try to thrash, escape the white hot agony radiating from his thigh through his entire body. It’s hard for the human body to comprehend that level of pain, and from experience, Akaashi’s well aware that it won’t take long for his body to go into shock and simply shut down from the blood loss, and once that happens, he won’t be of much use to anyone.

Kaito’s trembling, face pale, his skin clammy. Impossibly black pupils swallow his irises whole, erratically tracking his captor’s every movement as Akaashi pushes himself to his feet and takes a moment to study him. Tears and bubbles of snot leak in a disgusting mix down his jaw, dripping onto his lap as he sobs against his bindings. It’s pitiful, seeing a man reduced to a whimpering, terrified wreck, but as the hand still holding his knife grips at his chin and yanks his face closer, Akaashi can’t help but gleefully drink it all in.

Your would be knight in shining armour doesn’t look quite so strong and capable now, does he?

Akaashi doesn’t have much time left to make him suffer, but he can’t seem to resist trailing his fingers along Kaito’s injured leg, digging them deep into the ruined muscle - grinning wildly when he convulses and screams, arching up off the chair.

There’s still so much that he’d like to do. He toys with the idea of taking his tongue, of carving his knife deep into his skin just to watch him whimper and bleed… but no. This isn’t about indulgence. This is about you. He has to have more discipline than that.

Dangling on the edge of consciousness, Kaito meets his gaze one last time. Maybe he senses that his death is close, or maybe he’s just searching for a last minute reprieve, mercy from the cold blooded killer before him. Terrified, agonised, delirious from the blood loss, he tries to speak - a plea, he thinks, or maybe just incomprehensible babbling, but his eyes burn into Akaashi’s, desperate and hollow.

Akaashi’s never been one for theatrics. He won’t waste more time monologuing while your friend clings to the last vestiges of life. If Kaito hasn’t guessed by now the reasons he’s ended up here, at Akaashi’s mercy, he’s far less intelligent than he gave him credit for, but he supposes that he owes him something, at least.

“I love her,” he says with a small shrug, as if it explains everything.

And maybe it does.

It hardly matters though, as Akaashi decides to finally end it with a vicious slice across his throat. Blood sprays like a fountain, splattering across the room and drenching him, Kaito’s body slumps in his seat, the last flicker of life slowly snuffing out, and Akaashi revels in the pure, sweet euphoria that floods his system.

He’s never killed anybody while you were home with him before. Normally he’s methodical, quick to clean up whatever mess is left behind. Tonight though, Akaashi doesn’t have the patience for all that.

He should at least take a shower, rid himself of the blood that soaked him to the skin, but the call of your arms, the sweet, soft floral scent he longs to drown himself in beckoning is too hard to resist. He sheds his clothes, casting them aside haphazardly along with the bloody knife as he stalks down the hallway to the bedroom. His heart is still racing, excitement drumming through his veins as he crawls onto the bed and slides the covers off of you.

Dimly, he registers that this is a monumentally bad idea, but all he can think about is the vivid memory of the light leaving Kaito’s eyes and you. Tonight, he killed for you, and it was exhilarating.

He doesn’t think he could stop himself even if he wanted to, and why would he want to?

You’re perfect, beautiful - his. Nothing and nobody will ever be able to separate the two of you, he’ll kill anybody who tries.

You stir a little as Akaashi’s lips graze along your skin, his fingers sliding the silk of your nightgown up over your hips.

“‘Kaashi?” you sleepily murmur, trying to blink heavy eyelids open.

He wonders if you can feel the way his bloodstained hands are trembling as they ease your supple thighs apart. “Shh, baby,” he presses a kiss against your leg as he manoeuvres himself between them, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Let me take care of you.

He needs this.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere akaashi x reader #yandere akaashi #yandere akaashi keiji #yandere akaashi keiji x reader #tw blood #tw violence #tw murder #slasher-ish vibes #tw dub con #just a little #not super proof read because it's 3:30 in the morning

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