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strangelysamantha · 3 years

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crumbled cookies ☆

jj maybank x plus!reader (fem!reader)

warnings: abuse/hitting, hate speech, fat shaming, bullying, insecurities, swearing, fighting, jj’s dad, luke (yikes!) mad jj, mention of pills.

words: 3,365.

summary: you decide it would be a good surprise to stop by jjs house quickly to drop off some of your homemade cookies, since you believe he isn’t feeling the best. then, unexpectedly jj's dad comes home with an unwelcoming embrace, which ruins the surprise.

request? nope, but requests are open :)

a/n: i randomly thought about this, i obviously don’t believe that us plus size baddies should ever be insecure, but i thought it would be a nice little angst imagine with fluff at the end! if you could, please comment and like if you enjoyed it, thank you! after i write a few requests i will proofread my stories :)

my masterlist

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jj hadn’t answered any of your texts, usually this would worry you, but you understood that sometimes he just needed some space to be alone. you surprisingly were used to this because he always disappeared, and if he genuinely needed you, he knew where to find you. it also wasn’t bothering you because he had only been MIA for a few hours.

you, assuming that jj was just overwhelmed, decided to stay home and bake homemade cookies. jj always complimented your cookies, he loved taste testing them, and more importantly, he loved how you put so much effort into making them perfect, even if you were only making the cookies for him. jj wouldn’t admit it, but he definitely didn’t see you as just a friend. he didn’t know how he viewed you. he was too confused for his own good with his emotions. all he did know was that he depended on you, and that he never wanted to lose you. it would ruin him, especially if he had done something to intentionally lose and hurt you.

you preheated the oven, excited to use a new cookie flavor for jj. you danced lightly to the music playing in the background of your kitchen, softly humming along as you gathered the dry ingredients, mixing them together. it was a fun little game you guys played, where he’d try and guess what extra ingredients you added that affected the cookie's flavor. he almost always got it wrong, but he was so cute sitting there always trying to guess it right, when he didn’t even know that much about cooking anyway.

unbeknownst to you, you were completely unaware of his feelings, despite the same feelings bubbling in your heart too. jj was your best buddy, and obviously you guys had flirtatious banter but it was nothing too serious. it didn’t help that every girl jj had a one night stand with, was the complete opposite of you. how could he like you, when every girl he fucks was not only skinny, but also rich, and mysterious?

pope wasn’t on your side either. he would always express how nauseated he felt when jj would jokingly flirt with you, and openly play with your feelings. he was quite vocal in scolding you when you would tell him that jj blew you off, or jj had pissed you off. deep down you did agree with pope, he wasn’t wrong.

a beep was heard from the oven as it was fully preheated. you had fully completed the cookie dough, now adding the most important ingredients. you decided to be nicer, and chose an easier flavor for jj to guess. you did this just in case something was seriously wrong he could at least be lifted up for guessing it right. m&ms and hershey’s kisses would be mixed together, creating a chocolate m&m hershey cookie, with added caramel on top. you quickly evenly separate the dough, before placing it in the oven waiting for it to rise.

the timer in the kitchen went off as you pulled the cookies out of the oven, careful to not burn yourself. you stick a knife into the cookie to ensure it was fully cooked before smiling contently to yourself. you let them cool off as you got dressed and prepared to go to jjs house.

you added caramel before sliding four cookies into a ziplock baggie. the cute baggy had a drawn on heart and a nice message for him. you didn’t expect to stay long, and you honestly didn’t even know if he would be home.

when you arrived to jjs house it looked vacant and abandoned. the nerves finally catching up to you as you realize he hasn’t talked to you all day. you knock on the front door, waiting for a response but you are left standing there waiting. you frown before hesitatingly walking down the steps. you look up when you hear a car approach, and a glimmer of hope flashes your mind as you thought it was jj, but instead it was his dad.

your heart was beating fast, and you didn’t know what to do. you waited to see if luke would talk but he just looked at you confused, and obviously annoyed. you shook your head quickly, “i’m so sorry, i was just going to drop these off for jj, but he’s not here so i’ll be on my way.” you smile softly, and start to walk away but his strong arms grab yours. you’re startled since his reaching for your elbow was quite unexpected.

“well you are already here. might as well get it over with.” his voice was unrecognizable as his emotions weren’t clear. you nod shyly. “no really i don’t want to inconvenience you, i can come at another time.” he shakes his head before walking to his door, opening it as the door loosely opens entirely, hitting against the wall to its side. you walk behind him being extra cautious in case he tries to grab you again.

you walk straight to the kitchen to set the bag of cookies on the counter, which was no use since right when you placed the bag, luke had scooped it into his hand reading the note. “oh, so you are the one dating my son?” your face twists in confusion. “no, no. jj and i are just friends.” you laugh awkwardly, swaying from feet to feet. the floors creak beneath you causing you to stop shaking back and forth. “okay good.” his eyes look up and down your figure as his mouth forms into a line. “i wouldn’t want him dating someone like… you.” his words hurt, but you didn’t want to break down in front of him.

you feel uncomfortable under his intense stare so you hurried to put an end to the conversation. “uhm. okay, welll thank you for letting me drop them off, i appreciate it mr. maybank.” you nod softly before he states, “no.” you turn over to him, “no?” you repeat as more of a question. your patience wears thin as you notice the cookies are still in his hand, and he is carefully undoing the ziplock that concealed the cookies.

he pulled a cookie out, before admiring it closely. “chocolate chip m&m caramel cookie. very yummy, very good choice.” you avoid eye contact, trying to focus on anything else displayed in the room. “and it’s still warm.” he stares at you as he takes a bite of the cookie, its crumbs slowly falling from where he sunk his teeth in. “it’s quite good.” you smile softly, “thank you… but-.” he cuts you off completely. “of course you, of all people, would be bringing him cookies. i’m not surprised, i can see you are trying to fatten my son.” his words stung you because this wasn’t what you were expecting. his father seemed intoxicated, and before you could leave it seemed like he still had stuff to say to you.

“yes the cookies are good, but they don’t excuse you for lying to my face. you are just like my ex wife… lying, scheming, going behind my back, but still creating delicious snacks.” you stumble back a little, as shock sets over you. “how did i lie?” you ask, quite confused as you hadn’t even talked to him that much. “i know you’re dating jj! i see his hickies i see that when he leaves this house it’s always to meet with your fat ass.” his words hold no meaning, he was just a lousy drunk taking his anger out on the closest thing to him. you stayed silent, when he suddenly shook his head before grabbing the rest of the cookies and throwing them on the floor, jumping on the bag, completely squishing them.

the once yummy cookies, now downgraded into a small pitiful pile that was brutally smeared against the kitchen's tile. your heart speeds up as his eyes are focused on yours, as if trying to read your emotions. “i’m sorry, but i’m not sure what i did to deserve you ruining my cookies?” your tone comes out sassier than intended which definitely didn’t help your case.

“pick it up.” he threw paper towels towards you, as he waited patiently for you to clean up his mess. you silently obeyed scooping your mutated bakery treat up. you got most of it cleaned, but you ran out of napkins. you bite your lip trying to think of a quick solution to finish picking it up so you could possibly leave, but it’s too late because he’s already grabbing your arm forcing you up. tears stream down your face, while you contemplate your choices.

before you could even register what had just happened, his hand had collided with your cheek, as he screams hurtful comments. “you are good for nothing. i honestly hope that jj didn’t choose you, because if he did, that would make him an embarrassment to this family.” he pushes you to the floor, and you quickly try to stand up so you can leave. you hurry to the door, but he catches you before you could get in your car and drive away.

“you can't tell anyone about this. i swear if you tell anyone...” his tone is laced with venom and your face scrunches up in confusion. “dont act stupid! god this is why people treat you the way they do.” you look at him one last time before he sends a fast fist to your face, that hits the side of your nose, and your eye. your face begins to pulse as the blood rushes to the quick forming bruise. you couldn't think straight as everything had happened so fast. all you wanted to do was drop off cookies, but somehow you were now being punished just because you resembled this man's wife. your breath is shaky as your tears are starting to slow down, but they are still evident on your cheeks.

jj’s dad stumbled backwards as if he had finally realized what he had done, before he eventually collapsed on the couch and fell asleep. as he landed on the couch, multiple loose pills fell from his pockets ensuring you that he wasn't mentally in the right place, and he was very obviously intoxicated.

you avoided jj at all costs, which was actually easy since he hadn't even contacted you. you were dreading his routine appearance that was bound to happen soon. you knew it was inevitable, he hasn't missed a nightly check in once, and you had been doing it for months. when you first met the pogues you were slightly scared since you were new in town and you didn't have any friends. so, jj took you under his wing. he quickly became protective over you, which is why he created this elaborate plan to sneak into your bedroom before bed every night. whether it was to just chat, talk about your day, or even just cuddle. you could always expect him at your window at around the same time every night.

usually you would confide in jj, ask for his advice. granted his advice isn't the greatest but it does help that he listens to your problems. not tonight. that wasn't the case. if anything, you wholeheartedly hoped that he would forget, or he would be too busy. he hadn't seen you since before your whole encounter with his father. you wondered if his father had told jj about what he did, and if he did, how did jj react?

you glance at the clock noticing that in the next ten minutes jj would be climbing his way into your window. your body was shaking with nerves as you glanced in the mirror. your black eye was a dead give away that something had happened. could you even tell him the truth? what if you lied, and then he called you out on it saying he already knew about it because his father told him. you contemplated every outcome of the future event that you weren't even ready when he slightly tapped your window. you quickly pulled on sunglasses that easily blocked your eye.

you smile widely, sliding your window up as he gracefully lands on your floor without making a noise, a talent he had perfected. “hey princess!” he has a huge grin on his face, his goofy smile is reason enough as to why you can't break the news to him about what his father did. “hi!” jj pulls you into a hug and you gladly take it. you wrap your arms tightly around his abdomen, as his arms are rubbing your hips. the hug ends and he slowly pulls away, his hands lingering on your hips before he grabs your hand to move to the bed. “do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?” jj asked. you waited, contemplating your choices. “either way is fine, you can choose.” you smile as he immediately gets into the little spoon position.

“hey i forgot to ask you why you are wearing those stupid glasses inside.” he laughs lightly as he reaches for them and you completely jump off the bed, scared he actually grabbed them in time. luckily, you were fast enough and the glasses were still settled on your face. “i have a horrible headache, that's all.” you nodded as his face slowly fell, he stood up, moving to sit on the edge of your bed. he glanced up at you. “we can turn the lights off so it isn't as bright in your room.” you shook your head at his compromise. “princess, i need to see your pretty face before i can declare that you are okay.” you hesitated, trying to piece together a quick story that you could tell him to explain how you wounded up with a gruesome bruise. he wasn't going to leave unless he knew you were okay.

he watched you intently, trying to see what you were hiding. “before i show you please promise me you won't freak out.” you reach for his hands and he grabs them in return, slowly nodding. “no, that's not going to count. please tell me that you won't be angry at me.” his heart swiveled up inside his chest as he heard that you thought he would be mad at you. “i promise that whatever you are about to tell me won't make me upset, and that i could never stay mad at you.” you nodded to his words. “okay so you know what you just said?” he tilted his head confused, “yeah?” you breathe in, trying to calm your nerves. “remember that.”

you hesitantly reach your arm up to expose your once hidden eyes. at first it doesn't register so he stares at you blankly. but the moment he saw it, he was already standing up, and freaking out. “hey you said you wouldn't be mad!” he ran fingers through his blonde hair, his eyes wide. “what the fuck…? i said i wouldn't be mad if YOU did something, i never said anything about not getting mad when it involves someone else!” he looks back at you and immediately investigates your eye. his jaw clenched as he looked above you, his hand gripping your chin. “who the fuck did this to you?” you stayed quiet, until he looked down at you waiting for an answer.

silence fills the room leaving it eerily silent. “i can't tell you jj,” he laughs, shaking his head, “that's a funny joke, now tell me what happened and who the fuck hit you?” you looked away. “jj there's nothing you can do.” he followed along with your shenanigans. “and why is that?” you couldn't look at him so you looked at the floor. your silence was only making him more worried. “who was it actually? who are you protecting!?” he was getting frustrated. “fine. i'll tell you, only because i know you'll find out sooner or later.” he pulled you onto his lap, one hand holding your thigh, while the other grabbed your curvy hip. you took a deep breath before continuing. “okay. earlier today i baked you cookies and i stopped by your house so i could drop them off. but your dad was there, and i was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. it was my fault. okay?”

he shook his head, his grip on your thigh tightening. “you're telling me that my father gave you a black eye?” his tone was shockingly low as he absorbed every word you said. “yes. and he stomped on the cookies i made you.” his chest started heaving. “i fucking hate him! everything in my life he has to ruin. you, you mean so fucking much to me, and he’s over here throwing punches at you!” you stayed quiet. “jj?” he looked down at you, trying not to get too worked up because the last thing he wanted to do was scare you, “yes princess?” you hesitated with what you were going to say. you leaned your head to rest onto his shoulder.

“i- okay, i really appreciate you, but i can't have you getting hurt because of me. you're not my boyfriend, and you don't have to protect me anymore. i know you feel obligated with that pact we made when i first moved here, but you don't have to inconvenience yourself by coming over here every night, or by fighting people who harass me, or anything. jj, i feel so bad that you are roped into this position because i never intended for this to happen.” he stays silent, “no way am i leaving you. princess, please throw that thought away right now. i’m here for you always. and i am going to continue to protect you because even if i'm not your boyfriend, that doesn't mean i don't want you safe.”

you are so stunned by his response that your breath gets caught in your throat. “what do you mean?” he smiles looking down, his hands finding themselves comfortable around your hips. “what i'm saying is, that i do want to be your boyfriend. i want people to know how much you mean to me, and i want the whole world to be jealous that i have you, and they can't have you. i want to be the one who protects you. so, if you'd want me too, i'd love to be your boyfriend, if not that is completely okay.” you stared at him, “jj, you'll never know how long i've wanted to do this.” he looks at you confused before your lips connect to his. you run your hand through his hair, while the other hand is sitting on his jaw. his hands hungrily grasp your hips as he pulls you closer to enhance the kiss. you both pull away, smiling.

you asked jj to spend the night with you. he agreed, which resulted in him laying on his back as your head lay still on his chest. one of his hands was always touching you, so he could ensure you weren't going to go anywhere. as you slowly fell asleep beside him, he started to think about what his father had done. with anger clouding his better judgement, he stealthily slipped out your grasp, and climbed out your window, set to fulfil the goal in his head.

eek i hope this was good <333. perhaps a part two...???

#jj maybank #plus size reader #jj maybank x plus!reader #jj maybank x reader #maybank #jj #jj maybank angst #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader angst #outerbanks imagines #outerbanks fanfic #fiction #writing #jj maybank plus size reader #jj x fem!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader

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inkbyajm · 4 years

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Bottled Up

pairing: C.H. x fem!reader

category: angst, fluff

warnings: yelling, crying, insecurities

word count: 2.2k

notes: apologies for the tardy post, i wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote the whole angsty scene because i didn’t know if it was written well enough, i wanted to make sure you guys could feel the emotions that i vividly visualised and tried my best to put into words :( i did send it to a friend to check and she seemed to like it, so let me know how it goes for you, my loves. the angst for this one was inspired by 2 different songs - hold me while you wait by lewis capaldi and i will run from you by cemeteries. it’s not necessarily about the lyrics, but more about the melody and the mood you get into listening to them (they go in order). give those a listen :) also, beware of the upcoming philosophy references, i did study philosophy last year, hopefully no one gets triggered lmao

< previous next >

Is a person’s scent something a normal human being picks up on before taking into account the rest of their features? Would a normal human being remember said scent and be able to recognise it in a crowd full of strangers? Corpse wasn’t too sure about the answer, but one thing he did know, is that she smelled delicately sweet, like cherry blossoms, and that ever since he had noticed it during their game night a few weeks ago, he simply couldn’t let it go. It was intoxicating, but in a calming way.

━

Corpse and (Y/N) each lay on their beds in their own homes, going into the third hour of their call. He couldn’t exactly fall asleep, so he had decided to see what his dear friend was up to, and even though she was this close to succumbing to sleep, she said nothing and stayed up to keep his busy mind company.

“Okay, hot topic: what do you think about soulmates? More specifically the romantic type?” the girl asked, not knowing how much of a risqué question it was. How was he supposed to answer?

“I don’t really have an opinion on it. Why?”

“I read Symposium by Plato the other day and it presented an interesting concept about human beings. Basically-” Of course she fucking read philosophical books. How were they even having a conversation with each other? Why were they even friends? She was on a whole other level of smart. “-so this guy says that humans were like androgynous blobs, so they’d come in two sets of everything a normal person has. But those humans were so powerful, the gods were literally shaking in their robes, so Zeus decided to cut everyone into two to weaken them. But then humans became so miserable, they spent their entire lives searching for their other halves. In the end, Zeus kinda felt bad and said fuck it, I’ll give y’all dicks and vaginas for every time you wanna hug each other. And that’s the oldest explanation there is about the idea of soulmates.” she sighed, finished with her rant.

“That was...not at all the story I expected to hear.” she heard him mumble on the other side of the call. “Yeah, Greek philosophers were up to some reeal freaky things, you would have loved them,” he laughed at her joke, “I honestly think it’s cute. Not the whole cutting people into two thing, but like, longing for someone and then finding them because you finally feel complete. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a strong independent woman who doesn’t need a prince in shining whatever to sweep me off my feet. But it does sound nice, that ideal comfort, a person you’re just...meant to be with, I guess.”

There was a moment of silence that neither of them really minded, before it was Corpse’s turn to ask the second bold question of the night. “Have you found that person yet? Your soulmate?”

She’s never thought about it before, but she hasn’t really thought about soulmates that much either, it was a spontaneous thought she had said out loud. “I’m not sure, actually. (B/F/N) could be one, I guess.” (Y/N) shrugged in return. Wasn’t she going to ask him about it? She probably didn’t care that much. Understandable.

“My favourite quote about love is «You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly.». It’s by Sam Keen, the American philosopher. It maay be the hopeless romantic in me shining through, but I do very much agree with his statement.” Did this mean anyone could have a chance with her despite their fuckups? So if he were to try, would she-?

“Obviously, there are some things that just can’t be ignored or avoided, but at that point it’s preferences and personal tolerance. Depends on the person, ya know?” she swiftly added, unaware of the effect it had on him. Sick. Some people were just meant to rot alone.

The final question was posed by (Y/N). She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t at all curious. This little crush of hers had been steadily growing with every hang out, every laugh, every hug and every glance. There are rarely ever moments where one could casually discuss a topic this personal with friends, at least there weren’t with friends one had feelings for. This was the perfect opportunity.

“Corpse?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever been in love?” her voice was soft, her approach gentle.

“Well, I’ve been in relationships before, so I guess, yeah? It’s been so long, I don’t even know what love feels like anymore.” he let out a breath resembling a chuckle. Lamest fucking answer ever. But it was true. He hadn’t thought about love in that way in quite a while.

“A lot of people describe it as having an intense range of overwhelming feelings. Lightheadedness, slight shakiness, heart palpitations, some people have even reported losing their appetite. Crazy how human bodies work, huh? Oh! Speaking of chemicals-”

She had continued on to ramble about...chemistry? Eyes? Corpse couldn’t really hear what she was saying anymore, let alone concentrate on her words, as he pieced everything that’s been happening for the past few months together. The nauseating feeling. The pounding of his heart so fast it felt like he was about to die. The urge to make as little eye contact with her as possible, because otherwise he’d turn into a furnace. The obsession with her perfume, like he was some fucking creep. The fool was falling in love. And it was at that moment that everything had come crumbling down.

━

(Y/N) and Corpse hadn’t talked for a couple of weeks. Or rather (Y/N) messaged the 23 year old many times, but he’d either claim to be busy or just not answer at all. There were two possible reasons for the sudden lack of contact: he was indeed busy with his musical projects and couldn’t allow himself to be distracted; or something much more serious was going on. It didn’t matter, for she was already in her car, on her way to his apartment.

Arriving at her destination, she used the spare key he gave her months ago, a sign of absolute trust, and allowed herself into his humble abode. Silence reigned in her friend’s residence. She thought maybe he had gone somewhere, and though that was unlikely, it wasn’t unprecedented. The door to his recording room was closed, and while she was tempted to check if he was in there, she refrained from doing so, knowing that specific room was not to be entered unless he was around to give permission.

“Corpse?” she called out just to make sure. There was no response for a few minutes, which made her assume she had the place for herself, until she heard a door open behind her. Turning around, she saw his figure emerge from said recording room in a white t-shirt and black sweatpants, his curly hair disheveled.

“Hey, how are you d-”

“Why are you here?” he spoke flatly, interrupting her. “Well- You weren’t, um, answering your messages or any of my calls, so I thought something had happened.” she replied, suddenly nervous, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “Nothing happened. I told you I was busy.”

The air around them seemed colder as tensions rose. (Y/N) could tell he was irritated, but she couldn’t exactly figure out why. She had never seen this side of him before. “Okay. Tell you what, I assume you haven’t had dinner yet, so why don’t I go ahead and start cooking something up while you-”

“Get out.”

She blinked a few times, not quite registering the words that had just left his mouth. “Sorry?” Her voice was quiet. She was taken off guard.

“Are you deaf? I said get. the fuck. OUT.”

Corpse shouted the last word, making her flinch in what appeared to be fear. Good. Run away while you still can. Heart pounding, (Y/N) took a second to remind herself whom she was speaking to. “I see that you’re angry, but at least give me a reason why-”

“You want a reason? I just don’t fucking WANT you here!” Anger grew inside of him like a tumor, but it wasn’t intended for her. She had simply been caught in a storm that had been building up for years. “Do you understand that?! I can’t fucking be around you without feeling like I’m going to EXPLODE.”

His words hit her like paintballs. They were only words, plain and simple, but they dug deeper and deeper into her skin with each hit, until, eventually, it broke. Eyes burning, she felt the tears slowly welling up in them.

“Why are you doing this to me?!” her own voice grew louder with frustration, but mostly, confusion.

“Maybe because I can? Because I’m a goddamn asshole?”

“Don’t say that.”

“How?! How can I not say it when it’s the truth!” He wanted to stop. His mind told him to cease whatever it was that he was doing. However, blinded with resentment towards himself, he only spilled words he would regret after it was too late.

“I can’t function like a normal fucking human being. I can’t be a good friend, son, or whatever the fuck else, and I sure as hell can’t love you.”

The paintballs had turned into a singular sword. A very long, very sharp sword that had found itself plunged deep inside her chest. How did he found out? When? Had she been too obvious? Had she been pushy? Clingy? Way out of line? The woman before him was unable to conceal her shock, as tears came rushing down her hot cheeks. Her voice brittle, she tried defending herself. She couldn’t leave it at that. She had to try. Try to have him see reason. “You don’t love me, that’s fine. But you didn’t have to deliver it this way-”

“But I did.” breathless with fury, Corpse clenched his fists so tight they had turned cold, yet they were still trembling. “You can get so naïve and dumb, you won’t understand things unless they’re spelled out nice and fucking bold for you.”

He closed with (Y/N) until their noses nearly touched. He noticed the way she silently shook, her eyes which shed endless tears never leaving his gaze. Unable to make a single sound, she felt the man’s hot breath on her face, his aura domineering.

“Now get. out.”

Her body wouldn’t cooperate as she just stood there. Staring back at him, her inner brows raised. Corpse wanted to hug her. Envelop her trembling figure with his and tell her he was sorry, that he meant none of it, that he had lost his mind. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. And with his own tears threatening to spill, he created a distance between them. He needed her gone.

“Leave! GO!”

His yelling was enough to jolt (Y/N) out of her trance, and, in a hurry, she sprinted towards the entrance. The door closed behind her, she felt a sudden urge to fill her lungs with much needed air. She jumped at the resounding scream that emanated from deep within his soul, letting out all of his pent-up rage.

Feet carrying her all the way to her car parked outside of the building, the young woman managed to climb in, and this was the queue for her body to break down. The night was young. The street empty. No one around to hear her long-lasting wailing. She clutched the steering wheel for support, fingers wrapping around the leather in a tight grip. A headache was creeping up from the back of her skull. Her ears pulsated in response to the heavy pounding of her heart. Clumsily, (Y/N) inserted the key into the ignition, felt around for the gear stick, and drove away. She didn’t know where she was going or how long it was going to take to get there. She needed to get out.

What went wrong? When did it go wrong? She couldn’t help but feel guilty, feel at fault. She had never seen that side of him before. He had never treated her that way before.

It was the hugs, wasn’t it? He had to have noticed the way she held on for a second too long to enjoy the smell of his cologne. Her vision blurred as she resumed softly weeping, her salty tears staining her top. Or it might have been the touchiness, she would practically glue herself to him during their movie nights. Unaware of both her actions and surroundings, (Y/N)’s breathing quickened, becoming ragged. Maybe he didn’t like the way she called him three times a week. Her hands were slowly losing control over the wheel, over the vehicle she was driving. She invaded his privacy. That was definitely it. Fuck. How could she have been so damn blind, selfish, ignorant, FUCKING STUPID.

Lights. Something was moving towards her- MOVE.

With a sharp turn, she dodged the approaching car just by a hair’s breadth, but as she had avoided one accident, another came just as quickly.

#corpse husband x reader #corpse x reader #corpse x you #corpse husband x you #corpse husband fic

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honeysidesarchived · 3 years

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WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. ii: they whose lives do not taste of evil ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.7k

warnings: none that are chapter specific.

rating: m/t

notes: thank you to everyone who has loved on me and supported me after posting the first part of this! it really makes me so warm and fuzzy inside and i cannot express in words how grateful i am. ♡

as always, thank you to my love @starcrier for being my most wonderful beta. ♡♡

Morning light filters through the curtains in the bedroom. The air conditioning had clicked off moons ago, having decided that the room was at its sufficient temperature; now just a few rays of the sun are warming the carpet on her side, cutting across the cream-colored knit blanket at the foot of the bed. Through the windows, she can hear the bustle of New York—churning, grinding, a beast of its own as it laboriously beneath their own feet.

Sometimes, Euphemia thinks that she hates New York—that she misses the countryside in Italy, that she misses bare feet on grass and warm, dark earth and the sticky-wet of pulling fruit straight from the vine. Sometimes, Euphemia thinks that New York is a beast waiting for her, to swallow her up, teeth ripping through pavement and concrete and brick to bite bite bite until it reaches her.

But not today. Today, Euphemia is not thinking about the Beast. She is thinking only about the fact that Santino’s spot beside her is empty, and then she’s reminded that today he will be wandering out into the world under the Table to ask a man who doesn’t want anything to do with Santino to grant him a favor. To grant Santino what he is owed, as he would prefer it framed.

Euphemia sits up in bed. She’s not sure when it is that she finally fell asleep, but if the drag of exhaustion in her mind is any indication, it wasn’t very long ago. She can’t recall if she dreamt, or if she rested even at all—if she had to guess, she’d think she spent the entire night tossing and turning, restless, with the burning itch of John Wick’s threatening presence looming in her future.

She can hear Santino out in the kitchen; the smell of coffee drifts in through the open door. The blonde slips out of bed to wander out, her footfalls quiet on the plush carpet, and she sees him—dressed, polished up, as though he got a perfect eight hours of sleep. An old song hums through the speakers of the sound system on the entertainment stand.

So much for keeping him distracted, Euphemia thinks ruefully.

“Good morning,” Santino greets, pouring a cup of coffee and setting it on the island counter to scoot it in her direction. “You were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You could have,” Euphie replies, taking the cup in her hands and using it to warm her fingers rather than drinking the coffee. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t feel like I have slept at all.”

“Yes,” he agrees somberly, “you were restless.” His hand reaches up, the pad of his thumb tracing the slope of her jaw. “My little worrier.”

She crinkles her nose at him, finally relenting and taking a sip of her coffee. He’s made it just the way that he knows she likes—strong, rich, cream and no sugar. Santino winds his arms around her and laces his fingers against the small of her back, leaning so that he can get a long, good look at her.

“Well, go on,” he prompts her, eyes glittering playfully. “I know you want to say something to keep me home.”

Euphie’s chest tightens. It’s a little cruel of him; he wants to hear her ask, even though they both know there’s nothing she could say to change his mind. He likes to have her ask just so he can tell her no, and usually, she won’t bite. Not for his ego.

But this is different.

She sets the coffee aside, her hands instead finding his chest, holding on to the lapel of his jacket. She says, “I don’t want you to go, Santi. Please don’t go. We can stay in bed all day, or—what if we went back to Italy? Just for a little while? My mother would like to see you, I know.” Swallowing, Euphie feels her lashes flutter, the desire to let her voice wobble with emotion almost overwhelming. I won’t, she thinks, I won’t cry. “We can do anything you want, but—not this.”

“Sweet Euphie,” Santi sighs, taking her face in his hands. “Così dolce, just for me, aren’t you?” He leans in and kisses her temple; for a split second, she thinks that he might acquiesce, that he might set it aside, even for one day—indulge her, the way that he likes to do. Santino has always wanted her to be selfish with him. When they’d started dating, it took her months to get used to the way he’d buy her anything, cook her anything, give and get her anything, and for a girl who’d had so very little for so long, it had almost been nauseating. She would eat her fill, and Santino would say, more, cara mia? Would you like more? As if he had known that allowing her to indulge herself in the fruits of his world under the Table would curse her to stay, forever.

And here she was. Stuck. Blissfully, dreadfully, wretchedly, sickeningly and wonderfully stuck.

“But no,” he continues, pulling back and tilting her chin up with his fingers. “Business needs to be taken care of before I can relax.”

Euphemia releases a breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. It’s not an unexpected response, but she won’t kick herself for trying—not considering the circumstances, considering what he is leaving to do. In anything else, she might have been too proud to say please.

Her fiancé plants a kiss on both of her cheeks. “Drink your coffee,” he commands, his voice light as he grabs his phone and tucks it into his pocket, heading for the door. “What time is the engagement party?”

“Seven,” Euphie replies tiredly. She does as he bids like it’s second nature to her now, taking a drink of the coffee. “Be back by five, Santi.”

His hand is on the handle to the door outside. She thinks she might be sick. He says, “Wear the red dress I like.”

“Maybe. If you behave.”

Santino flashes her a grin from the doorway. She wonders if anyone else is comfortable ordering him around, or if she’s just so accustomed to living with an apex predator that she’s become numb to his dangers.

“Yes, cara mia,” he purrs. “Anything you say.”

Except that isn’t true, she thinks, watching him open the door and greet Ares, who has been waiting—lurking, in the hall to the elevator, like the shadows cut across the floor from the chandelier lights. There is a tiny moment where their eyes meet over Santino’s shoulder, and Euphemia hopes that she might see pity; she’s miserable, after all, knowing that Santino is walking into a slaughterhouse.

As ever, Ares is unreadable. There is only the tiny, almost imperceptible quirk of the corner of her mouth, and then door is closed and Euphemia is alone. And there is a tiny, vicious part of her that says, we ought to get used to being alone. We never should have forgotten it in the first place.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Santino is late, and when he shows up, he doesn’t say whether things went well or not.

They must have gone well enough, because he’s alive and in one piece and in a fine enough mood. But that is the problem—his mood is fine. He arrives at his own engagement party in a fine mood, and Euphemia can’t decide what’s more irritating: that he’s late, that he won’t tell her how it went, or that he can’t fake being delighted for a few hours.

“Ah, there’s your man,” Winston says, a smile lifting his expression. The older man had been keeping her company as the hour ticked by and she had to say hello and hi and thank you to every guest attending at Santino’s behest—yet another frustrating detail, Euphemia mentally notes, that he’d bothered all of these folks to show up and didn’t have the decency to arrive on time himself. She’s very certain that Winston did not intend to stay as long as he has, and for that, she feels poorly.

But she’s too irritated to express it properly. “Is that one mine?” Euphie asks lightly, turning her gaze away from Santino striding into the room and getting stopped by guests on his way to her. She twists her untouched champagne flute in her fingers, fixing her gaze back on Winston. “No man of mine would come late to his own party. Not if he wanted to walk out in one piece.”

Winston laughs at her words and gives her hand a pat. “You are a woman after my own heart, Euphemia Volpe.”

“I’ll be accepting applications for the position of my husband shortly, I think.”

She feels Santino’s hand on her waist just before he leans into kiss her cheek; the movement is so quick that she doesn’t have the time to properly avoid his affection, and he almost certainly does that on purpose.

“I am so glad you could come, Winston!” Santino announces, reaching and shaking the older man’s hand. “And that you got to spend some time with my own personal star.” He turns to her now, finally, reaching up to take her face in his hands. “Mi dispiace, Euphie, I did try to hurry.”

She tilts her head a little, lifting her chin out of his grasp. “Don’t apologize to me,” Euphemia replies. “Winston is the one you kept waiting.”

Santino grins. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes—or rather, it doesn’t look like the kind of grin that you make when you’re happy. Nothing about him screams happy, future wedded-bliss. Everything looks strained, like someone’s pissed him off and he’s just had to do something about it.

He looks at Winston, dropping his hands. “I’m sorry, truly.”

The man waves his hand, as though it isn’t a big deal—but it is, Euphie knows, at the very least to her; Winston has always treated her kindly, regardless of whose arm she was on-and he puts a hand on Santino’s shoulder. “I only came to say congratulations and see this fine lady, and then I was going to be off. So—congratulations...” His gaze turns to Euphemia. “Miss Volpe.” He kisses both of her cheeks. “Here I have seen you. And I will be on my way.”

Euphie says, “Thank you for coming, Winston. You did not need to wait around for this idiot.”

“I never say no to time with a beautiful lady,” he admonishes, making to leave. “Santino just happens to be here.”

“I will walk you out,” Santino declares. He’s only just arrived, and he smells a little bit like smoke, and he’s carrying with him a strange, frantic energy; but before Euphemia can think to say anything, he’s kissing her—hard, and a little desperate, and she can feel an eerie tremble in his hands before he pulls away and takes her drink out of her hand and swallows the entire thing in one go.

And then he’s off. Walking away with Winston, who looks calm and unbothered by the erratic display (though Winston always looks that way, so it’s no good gauge for Euphemia to tell when something is off). But something is off. As they’re walking, Santino is talking to Winston with a frenetic urgency that translates only in ways she can recognize. To the outside eye, her fiancé is composed, and perhaps a little stressed, his strides collected and tight and his lopsided grin to sharp to be pleasant.

His kiss tastes of ash. She can feel it in her mouth, still, gunpowder and smoke lingering in the palette, but she will not bring herself to think about where it came from.

By the time Santino returns from “walking Winston out”—which probably means talking to Winston about something he doesn’t want Euphie to hear—she has decided to bring it up. She doesn’t know how, yet, but she’s going to do it.

He slides his arms around her as she visits with some of their friends, burying his face into the crook of her neck, like he just can’t stand not to be touching for a second longer. The conversation carries on blithely without her; Euphie reaches up and cradles the side of Santino’s face with her hand, fingers brushing the dark, honeyed curls at his temple. She’s decided to be sweet about it.

“You seem stressed,” she murmurs.

“Not stressed,” Santino replies, speaking the words into her neck. He sways a little, turning her in his arms and pulling her against him so that he can sway her with him. The movements are leisurely in comparison to the energy that he’s carrying; pushing and pulling with the lull of the delicate music playing overhead. It should be a dream, this engagement party. It’s all golden light and warmth billowing from an ornate fireplace, the people that she cares the most about celebrating her and Santino’s love.

Euphemia says, “You smell like smoke.”

It’s not a question, and Santino knows it. He holds one of her hands in his and presses their foreheads together.

“You are so beautiful, Euphie,” he sighs dreamily. He kisses her again—less urgent this time—and she knows what it means: it’s better if she doesn’t ask. She’s going to be a D’Antonio, which means that problems get taken care of for her, and she doesn’t have to worry about following up.

Still, while the warmth of his kiss is distracting and lovely, and the feel of his hands pressing into the base of her spine where the plunging back of the red silk dress he likes the best on her makes her skin break out in delighted goosebumps, she cannot help but think, I should know. I have a right to know what’s going on.

“Santi,” she begins, lower her voice even more, “if something has happened—”

“Nothing has happened,” Santino insists, turning her slowly before drawing her back against him. “Mia piccola volpe, stop fussing. I promised you, didn’t I?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Yes,” she replies after a minute, “you did.” But if something has happened, she wants to say, and can’t bring herself to because Santino is kissing her again, pleased with her concise and obedient answer; he kisses her again and again, between breaths, funneling all of his frenzied energy into her instead. He gives it to her to hold, but won’t tell her where it’s come from or why it’s there. Just shoves it into her for safekeeping.

People cat-call and holler and whoop and laugh, and he grins against her mouth, lifting her up against him playfully—just far enough off the ground that she loops her arms around his neck to steady herself, unable to focus on how frustrating it is to be worried, and not know why.

“Ti amo,�� Santino rumbles against her collarbone, kissing there reverently. “What do you think about leaving, hm? Sneak out of our own engagement party early, so I can take you home and enjoy you properly?”

It sounds too good, to go home. It sounds too good, because just that morning, she was begging him not to leave.

“I don’t know,” she ventures, smoothing her hand absently over the lapel of his suit jacket once he’s set her back down. “I don’t know, Santi, I...”

Her voice trails off. Ares is by the door. Once, the woman had been a comfort to her; now, she’s a reminder of this traitorous thing Santino has done, this thing that sits between them but only he can see and touch and feel, and Euphie just has to suffer the consequences of it one way or another.

“Come on, cara mia,” he coaxes, drawing her eyes back to him, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger. “We can do whatever you want.”

There must be something he isn’t telling me, she thinks. Something that’s blown his pupils wide until the black at them is eating away at the gorgeous jade green of his irises. Something dreadful, that he knows she’ll hate. That she’ll fuss about.

The question sits there, just on the tip of her tongue. What about Wick? she wants to ask. But she already knows that he won’t tell her, and she is learning quickly not to ask.

Ignorance is bliss, anyway.

#santino d'antonio x oc #john wick fic #spilled ink #santino d'antonio/oc #f: where there is no temptation there is no glory #c: euphemia volpe #santino d'antonio #i still feel exceptionally shy about this but dkjhfdkf #thank u thank u thank u everyone who has given me love!!!!#x: senza tentazioni senza onore

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ppersonna · 4 years

Text

planning forever - myg

↳ summary- you have special news to deliver to your husband, yoongi. and you find your inspiration to do so in a unique way.

↳ rating- PG

↳ pairing- min yoongi x reader

↳ word count-

↳ genre- fluff, oh my god the fluff

↳ warnings- mentions of sex, some swearing, min yoongi is D A D D Y

↳ a/n- happy birthday to @carly-bean-blog ! my sweet angel who has been with me through nearly my entire blog life. you’re so special to me! myself, @chimoona and @sombreboy wanted to do something special for you. together, we created your future ;). we hope you enjoy your day, sweet peony!

"You forgot your lunch.”

The voice of your husband, Yoongi, chuckles lightly through the phone in an amused tone.

“Shit,” you sigh, walking into work with arms packed full. Keys, your jacket, nametag, and an energy drink fumble in your grasp.

“Good thing you’re married to the nicest man in the world,” he goads. You roll your eyes, but he’s right. Min Yoongi is simply the sweetest, most kind man you’ve ever met. It’s why you married him.

“Hmm,” you tease as you shove your items into your locker, “Did I marry Namjoon?”

Yoongi grunts through the phone and it forces you to laugh.

“Not funny,” he sighs. You know he’s holding back laughter, maintaining his stoicism.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you smile. “My break is in about four hours.”

“I’ll bring it then. We can eat together.”

Your heart warms at the idea of sharing your simple sandwich and chip combo with the quiet man—the one who so easily captured your heart. You love that he’s willing to spend time during his day to sit at your boring job and eat lunch with you, all to make you happy.

“I’ll see you then.” The smile that's on your face nearly makes up for the fact that you have to suffer through a grueling eight-hour shift. Yoongi makes all the bad things in your life good. He takes those bad days and holds them tight in his arms until the bad melts away and you’re simply left with nothing but bliss.

“I love you.” He says it so easily, so much easier than when you first met him. Yoongi’s icy demeanor quickly melted after he spent time with you. Your infectious laughter, kind heart, and easy-going attitude had the man falling fast.

“I love you too, Yoongi.”

As you press ‘end’ on the phone, one hand drops to your stomach. You rub it idly. Consciously, you know it’s early and that you’re showing no signs of growing a life inside of you, but you can’t help but smile at the tiny fluttering in your belly.

---

Work goes by slower than you’d like. You’re excited at the idea of seeing Yoongi, but four hours suddenly seems too far away.

It’s as you’re arranging the new shipment of artisan, 100% organic cotton diapers that you’re forced to pause.

On the box of the far-too-expensive diapers, is the cutest baby model you’ve ever seen in your life.

You stare dumbly at the box for what feels like hours, unblinking as you take in the baby’s chubby cheeks and silly grin.

Maybe it’s the new pregnancy hormones coursing through your veins, or maybe this baby is sincerely so cute it’s making you cry—either way, tears slip down your face and a dumb, deliriously happy grin spreads across your face.

You’re pregnant. You’re going to have a baby with Yoongi. Maybe your baby won’t look like the tiny one on the display box, but it doesn’t matter. You’re going to have a child with the man of your dreams and you suddenly want the next eight months to go by faster.

The only problem that remains is, well, you haven’t told your husband.

It’s not like you two meant to get pregnant. You weren’t opposed to the idea but having sex was never with an end-goal of conception in mind. Yoongi wanted kids and assured you of that before you agreed to marry him. You both knew they would come at a time that felt right, when the universe and stars aligned.

And it appeared that they had. You noticed the symptoms a few weeks ago. Missed period, a little nauseated in the mornings, increased hormones. So, during a lunch break at work, you bought a pregnancy test and scurried to the staff bathrooms, only to come out with a positive reading and a grin on your face.

It wasn’t that you were scared to tell your husband. Frankly, you were far from it. You wanted to make sure the moment was just right. The pressure of telling your husband he was about to become a father was overwhelming. You couldn’t just tell him casually, as if discussing the weather. No, you wanted something more. And you agonized for weeks about how to make it happen.

But now, standing in front of the diaper section with tears pouring from your eyes, you throw any need of extravagant celebrations aside. Seize the day—it’ll happen at lunch and there’s no use backing out now.

The next fews hours creep by painfully. You take note of every ticking minute as it passes, practically hopping on your heels with excitement, waiting until you can pop the news. You finish stocking the nursery aisles with a happy heart and a smile on your face. You’re so engrossed in stocking shelves and running through the dialogue in your mind that you slowly lose track of time.

Hours pass and—

“_____,” Yoongi’s low voice bounces off the tall aisles behind you.

You turn on your heel and come face-to-face with the most familiar, welcoming pair of deep brown eyes.

“Baby,” you laugh, amused at how domestic he looks with both hands full of sack lunches like a father at a soccer game half-time.

He pulls off the look well. It reminds you why you fell in love with him in the first place. So kind and doting on those he loves most. Gosh, he’s going to make a great father.

“I knew I’d find you here,” he says with an eye-crinkling grin. “You love this department.”

“Love? I’m assigned to this department.” You close the distance with a small peck and tug your lunch from his hand. “But I guess you can say I have a fondness for it.”

He takes a step back and reclines in a nursing glider, motioning for you to join him in a neighboring seat.

“It’s the graveyard shift—do you think anyone will mind if we eat here?”

You look around the completely vacant store like a covert agent, then answer in a hushed tone. “For the time being, it looks like we’re off their radar. The coast is clear.”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughs, “I love you.”

“Love you too, rule breaker.”

It felt good to be bad in the most wholesome way in the most wholesome department of the entire store. Well, aside from the home decor section. Those fragrant eucalyptus candles and plush throw pillows in the shape of wild animals melts your heart to no end.

The two of you empty your bags into your laps and make small talk about your days. While you were toiling over the display case for Jessica Alba’s latest line of gluten-free, non GMO shampoo for thin baby hair, Yoongi watered the plants and did the dishes.

Real riveting stuff.

No, really, there is nothing sexier than a man who takes care of the home. It only makes you want to pop the news sooner, but the sandwich clutched in your hands makes for a less glamorous prop in your otherwise fairytale picture-perfect moment.

“Oh! I also did the laundry and folded it the way you like.”

“Bunched up and tossed in the drawer?”

He winks and points his finger at you. “That’s my girl—nothing gets past her.”

“Nothing does, nothing does…” You stare off blankly at the display behind Yoongi and notice a package of diapers is slightly askew. You begin to make a mental note to fix it later, but are abruptly snapped from your thoughts at Yoongi’s words—

“Nothing gets past me either, ______.” He sighs and reclines, belly full of sandwich. He closes his eyes and rests his head against clasped hands. “I know you’ve been keeping a secret from me, I can sense it like a bloodhound.”

With that, you pop the rest of the sandwich into your mouth and chew quickly. It seems the moment to savor has quickly evaporated and it was time to come clean.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but—”

“—You got me that Pioneer DJ System for my birthday. I knew it! When I saw a purchase on our credit card for $500, I knew I caught you red-handed,” He looks at you for confirmation and assumes he’s right based on the reddish hue of your cheeks.

“You’re the idiot,” you snicker, nervously biting your lip between your teeth. “That wasn’t a DJ System, that was a crib.”

He holds up his finger in an AH-HA moment of victory, but pauses mid-celebration and looks at you with a crooked smile. “C-crib?”

“I’m pregnant, Yoongi.”

You can’t keep the butterflies from fluttering, seeing his face slowly shift from slightly amused to tear-dabbed and nearly shaking.

“You’re...you mean...we’re…” He stands from his seat and takes a knee beside you on your rocker and places his hand gently on your stomach.

“Yes,” you confirm through a strained voice, edging back tears of your own. “We’re having a baby.”

“This is, I mean,” He stammers and verbally struggles to come up with the right words to say that properly shows the multitude of emotions coursing through his body.

“Are you happy?” You ask despite the answer being written plainly on his face.

Of course he’s happy. It’s the happiest moment of his life and it’s all happening under the watchful gaze of a Peppa Pig cardboard cutout.

“Beyond,” he confirms, stroking your belly gently as if you were made of glass. “And excited, and scared.”

“Me too.”

“But mostly happy.” He strokes his hand through your hair and curls the loose strands behind your ear to place a soft kiss on your cheek. “God, I can’t wait to spend forever with you two.”

“Already? You haven’t even met the kid. What if he/she is a brat?”

“Too late, I love them already.”

You lean forward and kiss your husband, capturing his plush lips with your own. It’s warm and soft and reminds you of home.

“I love you,” you whisper, lips still touching his.

“I love you too,” he smiles, “Forever.”

#bts fluff #min yoongi #yoongi fluff #suga #suga fluff #bts fic #bts imagine #min yoongi fluff #bts sfw #agust d #agust d fluff #bts imagines #min yoongi imagines

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sailtoafarawayland · 3 years

Text

Savage

(A Dark Swan/Dark Hook vignette)

It was cruel, she knew that, knew that she shouldn't do it – but she was slipping a little more every day in her steadfastness to keep some small part of herself from the darkness, and his kiss had made her remember, had called her back to herself if only for a moment. She needed to feel him, to remember what it was like to be loved by him, held by him. She needed it as she needed to breath, and she was just far gone enough that she would drag him through hell to get it.

My muse wouldn't leave me alone yesterday, and this was her demand. It takes place during S5 Ep2 - “The Price”. I'm very pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you all are as well. Please read through the tags if you have any triggers.

Rating: Explicit (sex, language, trigger warnings - rough sex, hate sex, verbal humiliation, degradation, anal sex, come marking, emotional manipulation)

AO3 - FF

Savage

Killian could hear the sound of glass clinking to his left as she spoke, but drowning out even her voice was the the call from dead ahead, a heavy, bolted door looming – whispering, drawing him closer. His breath quickened, his body thrumming with something he couldn't place as it neared, and then like the tide receding all at once, the pull was broken, Swan's hand appearing in front of him, the scent of rum burning sweetly as his eyes found hers.

“I still also know the fastest way to a pirate's heart is through his liver,” she smiled, drinking in his gaze, tumbler of rum extended in her hand.

“There's an even faster way,” he breathed, desperate to find his Emma once again in those eyes that were like looking through frost.

He swallowed her small gasp greedily, pouring every ounce of his love for her into the kiss, her taste a balm for his misery as he clung to the hope that this would be enough to bring her back to him, but the touch of her fingers in his hair was hesitant, and then it was gone altogether. Their lips parted, her words filling the space between.

“Now there's the pirate I remember,” she teased, leaning back in to claim him once more, but the sound of her voice, distant and unable to bridge the gap between them made him pull back entirely, his eyes taking in everything that their kiss hadn't changed.

“It didn't bloody work,” he breathed, panic threaded through each word as he stared at her unbelievably.

“You've been talking to Belle.”

The distance between them seemed to grow even as she stared intimately into his eyes, something in them luring him with a dark whisper.

“Why didn't it work?”

“It didn't work because there's nothing to fix,” she retorted, her voice climbing in a way that felt almost human – almost like his Emma. “This is who I am now. Why can't you accept that – why can't anyone accept that?”

“Because this isn't you,” he insisted, knowing that somewhere beneath the guise of the Dark One, his Swan was still there, waiting for him. “What the hell happened in Camelot?”

“That seems to be the question of the day,” she nearly spat, face hardening as she looked away from him and moved toward the door.

“Then bloody answer me!” he roared, anger rippling beneath his skin like something alive as she turned, her face as closed to him as his memories.

“I wish I could.”

He strode across the distance to where she stood, needing to find something between them that felt familiar, something that felt how it used to be – that they were it for each other, meant to be.

“You can tell me anything.”

There was a flicker of something at the edge of her mouth, words she was holding back, but then they were gone, replaced with a tired smile as she slung her arm over his shoulder in something that was far from an embrace.

“But that would be no fun,” she purred, leaning in, their breath mingling and noses bumping as she inhaled him, “and I'm tired of talking – now, do you want to stay, or not?”

“Sorry, Swan,” he said, pulling back just enough that he could gaze into the eyes he knew were hiding something. “This may be who you think you are, but this isn't who I am.”

He felt the weight of her arm fall from his body, her head tilting curiously as she watched the battle he knew she would see inside of him – how the small step he took away from her clawed at his chest. Regret rose bitterly in his throat as he made the decision to leave her and moved toward the door, the exit that would be their last chance all too close – and then she spoke.

“But what if it is?”

He could hear the hint of truth in her words, something that fell oddly between the Emma he knew and the coy demeanor of the Dark One.

His footsteps stilled against the floors of the house she'd called her own, the soft white curtains of the door separating him from outside, a barrier between what he knew, and what she was tempting him with.

“No more games, Swan,” he growled, turning about and bearing down on her, though it seemed she had expected as much. “What does that mean?”

“You've always been a pirate, Killian – a man playing hero. You don't remember Camelot. What makes you think you haven't forgotten one more black spot on your heart, and that I became exactly who I needed to be...for you?”

“More riddles,” he hissed, the nauseating wave of fear in his stomach overwhelmed by anger, his fingers wrapping painfully around the bare skin of her arm as he drew her close and gently shook her – his hand barely feeling like his own as he did so.

Panic surged in his chest as he struggled to ease his grip, but her words had woken something inside of him – something dark and vengeful, something that wanted to make her understand how much he was hurting. How was it that there were no ends he would not go to for her, and yet she still wouldn't trust him, wouldn't give him the truth?

“You see,” she shrugged, stepping into his anger and stroking the painfully tight line of his jaw as her eyes flickered toward where he was leaving bruises on her skin. “It's never far below the surface, Killian, who you are.”

“You're wrong, Swan,” he muttered, forcing his fingers from her around her arm and stepping back, his breath coming on a shudder.

“Stay with me,” she coaxed, but beneath the impassive demand he could hear her for the first time, feel her – his Emma – and the temptation was too much for him to turn away from again. “This is where you belong, I promise you, Killian.”

She brushed her lips against his once more, her body calm as his raged in front of her, a storm caged within a glass bottle, savage and waiting to burst free.

Time seemed to still as she waited for him to respond, her lids heavy with desire as she studied the chaos churning beneath the clear blue gaze focused only on her. Her warmth was so close to the surface, and yet unreachable. He wanted to shake her until that thin layer of ice shattered, until she cracked and the truth came pouring free. He wanted to feel her skin hot and pressed against his own, alive, her precious control swept away as he made her scream his name over and over.

He wanted, gods, he wanted.

And so he took.

Maybe he was exactly what she said he was.

He slanted his mouth roughly against hers, taking no care for her comfort as he bent her backwards, the steel of his hook snagging her dress and tearing down the side of it, the firm, pale swell of her breast and its rosy peak bared to him from beneath the remains of her torn undergarment. Satisfaction pounded through his veins like the sea itself as she returned his kiss with equal passion, the glass tumbling from her hand and shattering against the floor as she threaded her nails into his hair, biting his lip hard enough that he pulled away, and giving her the opening to take back some control, yanking him closer and slipping her tongue into his mouth, the both of them falling to the floor.

He returned her aggression, biting her lip roughly and reveling in the sharp hiss of pain he drew forth. She held a finger to the swollen wound and pulled it away to show him what he had done, a bead of red blood staining its tip.

“There you are,” she teased, and before she could utter something else he didn't want to hear, – words that would stir the fury within him more than it already was – he was pinning her down, the back of her hands smacking the hardwood floor as he pressed her roughly into them, brace and hand equally demanding of her submission as he hovered over her, darkness swirling in his gaze.

“Shut up,” he hissed, ignoring the creeping certainty that something was wrong, that this should have all gone differently – that somehow, he'd ruined everything, “and don't bloody move.”

She obliged with a smirk, her eyes hungry as she followed the path his hook made against her skin, dragging along her collarbone just enough to leave a red welt before snagging on what remained of her dress and freeing her other breast for his perusal. They rose and fell with her excitement, nipples hardened and begging to be touched.

He pinched one roughly, delighting in the keen of pleasure his unkind touch pulled from her, her hips bucking beneath the spread of his legs, still wrapped in the useless fabric that had once been her clothing.

That wouldn't do.

He rose to his feet, ignoring her cry of frustration at the thought he was leaving – he had no such intentions. She'd woken something inside of him that he couldn't name, but it was angry and tired, wretched and needy, and he planned on letting it have its way with her.

He looped his fingers and hook into the balled up material around her hips and dragged it from her body, her feet kicking at it eagerly, pale legs falling back to the floor and opening for him – her arousal soaked through her panties and shining at the edges of her thighs.

“Look at you, Swan,” he hissed, tossing the garment aside and kneeling over her body once more – claiming it, “all powerful, and yet here you lie on the filthy floor, cunt sopping wet and begging to be filled by a dirty pirate.”

He dropped down, hook digging into wood as he fisted his hand among her tightly coiled hair, each silver strand drawn back into perfect obedience. He took pleasure in yanking until she gasped, feeling the strands that had once been a beautiful, soft gold pull free.

Emma let herself feel it all, the throbbing pinch at her lip, the stinging tug of his hand in her hair – let herself feel human again. Pain, pleasure – it didn't matter. Each of them was a sword that cut through the darkness suffocating her, surrounding her and whispering, making her forget who she was and why they were here to begin with. She needed all of it, needed him to remind her – or she'd lose everything.

“How does it feel, Dark One, to beg like a bitch in heat?” he growled.

His words were another jagged cut, another blade she'd need to take responsibility for, but they reminded her what tears felt like, even though she wouldn't let them fall.

“I haven't had to do much begging, now have I?” she quipped, lips twisted in a smirk as she rolled her head purposefully against his grasp, her scalp burning, “and you seem plenty eager.”

“Oh, you'll beg for it,” he promised darkly, “because if you don't, I'll walk out that door and leave you lying here in your own desperate need.”

It was a lie, she knew. He could no more leave her now than she could ask him to – yet another choice she'd stolen away from him.

His cock was raging against the confines of his jeans, and in his heart he knew that whether she begged or not, he'd be taking her right here, sating the gnawing hunger that was burning through his gut and trembling at the tips of his fingers – but he wanted to hear it, wanted to hear the Dark One pitiful and helpless for something she couldn't otherwise get – his willing participation in her little game.

He released her roughly, the back of her head knocking against the floor as he stood and loomed over her, fingers nimbly unfastening the button at his crotch and freeing his throbbing length, its weight heavy in his palm, swollen head thick and glistening with his own smeared arousal as he jerked it over her naked, writhing form.

“Is this what you wanted, Swan? Is this why you brought me here?” he sneered, eyes flickering closed for a moment as his fist rolled over the head of his member, his entire body shuddering with anticipation at having her. It felt too long to have been without her, without the tight clasp of her walls, the way she arched into him, the soft caress of her fingers against his face, the way she'd sigh into the air when his stubble razed her neck.

His hand slowed as his mind conjured memories of Emma golden and warm, welcoming beneath him, offering herself up and shyly taking the praise he showered on her – her curls long and splayed on his bed, hips bucking into his mouth, his name falling like a dream from her lips...

“Having second thoughts, pirate,” Emma goaded, noticing how his movements had stilled, his face taking on a look that was far away in another time, another place. “Still think you're the hero?”

Her words dragged him from his reverie, reminding him that this was not the same Emma lying beneath him anymore.

“Tell me, Killian, how much of a hero will you be when I find someone else to give me what I need?”

Blind, red rage overcame him at her words, at the thought of her seeking release with someone else, another man's hands mapping the curves of her body that he knew so well, the pieces of her that were the same no matter which version of her was lying before him.

“Make no mistake, Swan – Dark One or not – you'll always be mine. This body,” he snarled, dragging her roughly to her feet and tossing her bodily onto the nearby sofa, his temper flaring anew at her smug look, “is mine – and while you may entertain ideas of soothing that ache somewhere else, we both know you've been ruined for other men. It will always be my cock you imagine filling you completely, my seed painting that beautiful skin of yours, my hand at your throat, pushing you over the edge, isn't it, Swan?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, spreading her legs lewdly in front of her and dragging a finger – the one still smeared with blood from her bitten lip – through her wet folds, pink flesh parting to reveal her tight center throbbing for him, “but a girl can only be so patient – Dark One or not.”

He was on her before he could rightly understand how he'd gotten there – no memory of crossing the distance between them – but his nails were digging into her thigh, yanking her forward so that her pert bottom hung over the edge of the couch, the sound of a table clattering to the floor behind him as he kicked it out of the way and knelt between her splayed legs, his hand moving to angle the raging hardness of his cock against her core.

Feeling her warmth for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he surged forward.

She cried out beneath him, her body flexing as his entire length was buried inside of her, impossibly large and tight and feeling as if he were splitting her in half in the most sinfully perfect way. There was no breath of a reprieve before he was dragging himself free and repeating the action, his hand gripping her side as if it were the only anchor he had, his hook rending the cushion beside them as he pounded relentlessly into her.

“Tell me then, Swan,” he panted, his words broken by the wet sounds of her arousal spreading between them both, skin slapping against skin, “is this what you needed? A good fucking by a ruthless pirate?”

She bit back the words pushing against her closed lips, words he was dragging up from somewhere deep and forgotten with each thrust of his body into hers, words she couldn't say – I just needed you, Killian, to pull me back, no matter how much it hurt. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Her sharp breaths built into a whimper as her body opened around him, his thickness stroking every hidden place within her, waves of pleasure rippling through her core and shooting down her legs, building in her body like something that would snap and tear her apart. She was near her climax, but one look into his eyes, hollow and hungry above her, made her realize he was far from done with her.

With a pained grunt he pulled out of her grasping depths, ignoring her keening pleas as he lifted her up and flipped her over, her chest tossed against the back of the couch as he spread her legs, revealing her abused sex to his gaze. She shuddered wantonly as his fingers explored her, spreading her wide and dragging the slick wetness from her walls before smoothing it over her clit and pulling a broken cry from her lips.

“You should see yourself, Emma,” he rasped, shoving several fingers back into her at once as she jumped away from him toward the couch, whining at the nearly painful sensation, “so open and ready for me. No other man would have you, would they, Swan? Not like this, stretched open by a filthy pirate – rather used, aren't you?”

He threw the words at her purposefully, meaning to hurt, to wound her the same way she'd wounded him – the way she'd made him doubt who he was and what he could be. His cutting words reminded him that whatever had happened in Camelot, she'd done what she had to match him, to equal the the black-hearted pirate he would always be. He needed her to feel just as broken.

“Another man would simply leave you wanting, Swan, but not me. I'm yours as much as you're mine, so tell me, love – do you want it?” he purred, swiping the belled head of his cock along her folds once more. “Do you want me everywhere?”

“Yes,” she hissed, knowing what he was going to demand next.

“Then beg for it,” he commanded, slapping the side of her ass with his throbbing length, staining her cheek with the mix of his precum and her own juices . “Beg for it, and I'll give it to you.”

She wriggled against the couch, the words leaving her pitifully as she searched for the feel of his length anywhere against her.

“Please, Killian,” she moaned – she could give him this, could let her control slip for just a second. It wouldn't break her, not entirely.

“That's not good enough, Swan.”

“I need you,” she whispered, every word she pushed past her lips far too close to the truth of what she wanted to say, too dangerous. “No one has made me feel what you do. There's no one else, there never will be. Please, I want you – need you, all of you...”

“Where do you want me?” he purred darkly, his fingers swiping the viscous arousal seeping from her folds and dragging it higher to where her tight ring of muscle was bared for him. “Do you want me here as well? Is every part of you mine, Swan?”

“Yes,” she hissed, thrusting back against the pressure of his finger as he pushed against her unyielding muscle. “Need you...everywhere, Killian, please...”

“That's a good girl,” he praised, and rising up on his haunches, he pressed the tip of his cock against her opening. It had been some time, but he knew she could take him like this, remembered how tight she would be around him – and if it was too much, well, he wanted to make sure he left his mark with his body as well as his words, something inside of him demanding it.

His grip was uncompromising around her shoulder as she moved instinctively away from the burn of him entering her, pulling her firmly back and only making him stretch her more quickly as she breathed out soft, desperate noises beneath him.

“Just like that, Swan...take it, darling...gods, you're so bloody tight.”

“Yes,” she ground out, her body finally relaxing as the thick head of his cock slipped fully inside of her, every inch that followed a welcome burn pushing back the fog of darkness she could never truly escape from.

He paused in his thrusting, and Emma both heard and felt a cold wetness spreading between her cheeks, his saliva dripping down to meet where his cock was settled tightly inside of her ass, his fingers spreading it thickly along his shaft as he worked himself further into her.

“I'm going to fuck you so deeply that you'll be able to taste my seed as I spill it into you, would you like that, love?” he panted, his body rutting into hers as his saliva spread between them, easing his intrusion just enough. “You're not going to be able to sit without remembering how it felt to have me fill it up – is that clear?”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered, gasping and biting her already bruised lip as he drew far enough out that she thought he would pop free, her body already craving the fullness of him as he left her empty. Shameful pleasure ignited along every inch of her skin as she bowed beneath what she had turned him into for her own selfish needs, at what she had forced him into becoming because she was weak.

She couldn't help but remember the times they'd done this before, how deep he'd been, how connected they felt, and she let that memory wash over her, taking away the guilt and leaving only bone-deep satisfaction as his cock reamed her, his balls slapping against her sensitive flesh as he took what he needed from her, what she'd forced him into wanting.

“Oh god...” she moaned, her thighs trembling alongside his own as he sped up, her back sinking lower as he gripped her sides painfully between his hand and brace, his own groans joining her own. He thrust erratically into her pliant heat, the tight grip of her channel dragging his orgasm from him at the same time hers tore past every last barrier she had, her core clenching achingly around nothing as he swelled impossibly large and burst deep inside of her ass.

His nails bit into her as he growled and pushed harder against her, the zipper from his pants branding her skin as he pumped rope after rope of his hot release into her. Then with a harsh breath, he yanked himself free and grabbed her, twisting her down so that she fell onto her back against the cushions, staring up at him as he jutted his hips forward and jerked the last of his cum from his balls, splatters of his seed landing across her cheeks and chest as he groaned out his satisfaction.

Emma closed her eyes, regret and guilt surging back in to fill the emptiness that he'd left behind, her body sore and longing still as he rose shakily to his feet, stepping back from both her and the couch. How much farther had she pushed him toward that looming darkness in an attempt to pull herself back from its edge?

The air stilled between them, both of their breaths settling as they watched one another, knowing that between them, something had shifted – some path washed into nothingness behind them.

He tucked himself back into his jeans, feeling like some of the tension he'd been shouldering was gone, perhaps the burden of what he had needed to live up to vanished. His eyes drifted along her body, limp and splayed across the couch, his release leaking from her abused body and dappled like stars across her chest. Her lips turned upward into a slow smirk, one that they'd often shared before after making love – though this one was changed, haunted by shades of things he didn't yet understand.

The need to suddenly be somewhere else – far from this place she'd called her own when he didn't really know her anymore, when he felt as if he didn't know himself – rose up like the bottom of the sea greeting a long awaited friend.

This is where you belong. I promise you, Killian, her voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Whispering, whispering.

But it wasn't his Swan that whispered at the edges of his mind, and instead of turning toward the front door, he found his steps leading him toward the back of the house, back toward the basement door that had caught his attention earlier – when she'd distracted him with a drink and some nameless hope that had fled his body along with his release into her.

This time, she didn't stop him.

A wave of her hand made the bolt slide free of its own accord.

His hand wrapped around the knob, and when he turned back to look for her, she was standing in the hall, silver hair perfectly coiffed once more, her body hidden beneath the sinuous black of her dress, the only reminder of their activities the ring of bruises blooming around her arm like dark flowers.

She nodded, encouraging him forward – and the handle turned smoothly beneath his palm, ushering him into the darkness below.

END

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#Captain Swan #CS fic #cs fanfic #sailtoafarawayland #savage #emma and hook #dark swan #dark hook

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suganovakawa · 4 years

Text

𝐒𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐄 .

PAIRINGS : tooru oikawa x fem! reader , slight hajime iwaizumi x fem! reader

GENRE : angst , romance

WARNINGS : cursing , car accident , recovery from amnesia

SYNOPSIS : tooru doesn’t understand how special you are to him until he comes close to losing you forever . as he struggles to comes to grips with his feelings and balance it with his future , you still have to recover from your own injuries , but without your memories to assist you .

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐗 < [ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐗 ] > 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈

if he really wanted to, tooru could tell you everything right here and now.

word count : 2k

saudade masterlist .

SAUDADE

( 𝐧 . ) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant , or that has been loved and then lost ; “ the love that remains ”

⠀his knee wasn't the reason why he started crying on the gym floor. screw his knee for all he cared, tooru had dealt with his injury time and time again, a shot of pain through his bad knee hardly fazed him nowadays. nothing he couldn't just walk off.

⠀any resolve he had, his emotions couldn't be contained the moment you entered the gym. the pain he felt was unlike anything he had experienced before, clenching his jaw in futile attempts to suppress his gushing tears, his vision obscured and his ears focused solely on your soothing voice. he was too ashamed to talk amidst his breakdown, letting you do all the work and talking as he sat there, helpless. he didn't have it in him to dare explain himself.

⠀nothing hurt more to oikawa than watching you take care of him. even after your car accident, your amnesia, everything you've been through since then; you were still stubborn enough to take care of him first. the third year wiped his face, trying to collect himself as he watched you panic over his knee. his breath caught in his throat as he watched you gently place your hand where the brace was, as if afraid to injure him even more.

⠀"i'm fine," he whispered hoarsely, his voice drowned out by the remains of his early breakdown. "you can go, i'll be okay. you don't need to be here."

⠀even now, he was pushing you away - but your stubbornness remained. "but your knee," you urged, shaking your head as his words only seemed to pull you closer to him. tooru had never felt so claustrophobic in an open gym in his life. "please, you hurt yourself and it's my fault. the least i can do is get you something."

⠀you hardly even knew him. you had no recollection of him, withheld absolutely no memories - and yet you were as adamant as ever in wanting to care for his well being. he clenched his jaw at your words; he was beyond undeserving of your kindness from the start, yet you always kept finding your way back to him. he was nothing but a bad luck charm to you, but every single damn time you came back. tooru didn't know if you were stupid, or the universe just wanted to mock him for how he treated you before.

⠀he had only started getting back to practice for two days, only for his motivation to run down the drain the moment you waltzed into the seijoh gym by chance. even now, everything was coming back to him - he felt sick to the stomach. you were still fussing over his knee, almost cradling him as you looked around for anything that would get him off the ground. he was so distracted in his own thoughts that he never realized the pain in his knee never subsided.

⠀"there's a chair over there." giving into your relentless persuasion, he pointed to a folded chair not too far from the doors. "if you really want to help, getting me off this floor would be a good place to start."

⠀"got it!" no sooner had he finished his sentence, you were already off your feet, sprinting to retrieve the chair without a second thought. he watched you take the foldable chair and drag it back to him under your arm, focused completely on returning back to him as quickly as possible.

⠀something didn't feel right. his knee hurt much more than usual. while he became accustomed and numb to it, pain is pain. he tried to reach out and help you unfold the chair but you swatted his hand away, shaking your head as you flattened the seat for him to sit on. his breathing was ragged, fresh from his tears.

⠀your hand extended for him as support. after a moment's hesitation, he reached out and placed his hand in yours, the contact foreign as you managed to stand your ground for him. he pulled himself off the ground, clenching his jaw as he plopped all of his weight onto the chair the moment he hovered over the seat. he kept his right leg stretched out, to not bend or put any stress on his knee.

⠀before anything else could be said, you left him again, only to return with another chair for his leg. tooru watched silently as you took a deep breath, gently taking hold of his leg and lifting it onto the chair to elevate his injured knee. the male felt his heart race; how did you know to do this? the way you took control of the situation so effortlessly, it put him at a loss of words. anytime this happens, he usually has to tell people step-by-step to get his knee properly taken of.

⠀but you. you were always the exception, even now. what could the captain possibly say to you now? he watched warily as you simply sat down on the ground right next to him, looking comfortable where you were. the silent that soon passed between the two of you was deafening; you were right here. literally sitting here, you came to him. he didn't have to search for you. everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to explain was overwhelming his tongue. but nothing came out; oikawa was a coward.

⠀"do you need me to do anything for you?" he was alarmed that you spoke up first, your face confused as your eyes met his. "should i call someone? do you want me to grab your bag? do you need help outside?"

⠀"no." out of force of habit he quickly snapped back, only for him to clear his throat with a cough and shook his head quickly. "no, but thank you. usually the pain subsides in a little bit. i'll be able to call for a ride home once the pain becomes manageable."

⠀"are you sure? i can call hajime, i'm sure he wouldn't mind - "

⠀"please, do not contact iwaizumi." hearing his name out of your mouth nauseated him to the stomach. "why isn't he with you anyway? aren't you two always together?"

⠀you seemed embarrassed at the fact that he knew as well. tooru hid a scoff; only an idiot wouldn't be able to see how he followed you like a lovesick puppy. "yeah, i get that a lot." he was taken aback by your tone - you sounded annoyed. "actually i... i asked him to leave me alone today. he's left me alone since lunch. i thought it'd be harder to get him off of me, but he never argued."

⠀did something happen between the two of you? the brunet third year couldn't decide whether he should be concerned or relieved; his face remained neutral, but this was certainly news to him. "why did you ask him to stay away from you? don't you... enjoy his company?" he spat words out like venom in his system, pausing for a second before sighing quietly. "i'm sorry, i don't mean to pry. you don't have to answer."

⠀"no, it's alright." you laughed - a sound tooru hadn't experienced in much too long. goosebumps travelled through every inch of his body as you shook your head. "truth be told, i just wanted to be alone for the day. i also..." your voice drifted off, looking down at your lap as you spoke up again as a whisper. "i've been wanting answers to my empty memories."

⠀and just like that, an invisible force punched tooru deep in the gut, his hands visibly going to his abdomen and wrapping his arms around himself hastily. "your memories, huh?' was all he bring himself to respond with.

⠀"i'm sure you've heard about what happened to me, with the car accident and the amnesia that followed."

⠀oikawa's back stiffened. "believe me, i know all too well."

⠀"i hope you don't mind me just ranting to you," you pursed your lips and hugged your own knees together on the ground, resting your chin atop your kneecaps. "but hajime hasn't told me a thing about my car accident, and it's been getting to my head. he'll tell me vague things before the accident, but never about the accident itself. i just want to know, i want to remember everything myself." looking up at your fellow third you, your head tilted. "wouldn't you want to know?"

⠀this was what iwaizumi was freaking about? tooru had heard of his skirmish with makki and mattsun, but because he wasn't on speaking terms with any of them, he couldn't go up and ask them for confirmation. he was almost angry - who was iwaizumi to keep your life locked away from you? it was the perfect chance to throw tooru under the bus, but he never took it. why?

⠀"i... would want to know, too." he hated where this conversation was going, but he had no way out of it. he wanted the subject change so badly, but it was coming to a point where it would be suspicious to do so. he wasn't ready. he wasn't ready to face his demons and confront you about the situation. if it was going the way oikawa was imagining it to be, you knew nothing about him. and you were assuming he knew nothing about you, either.

⠀"it's been frustrating. weeks have gone by at this point, and i don't remember a thing. i just want to remember something, anything from what happened."

⠀it was all coming back to oikawa, that dreadful day. the loss against karasuno, the words that hurt you, and the way your unconscious body was in iwaizumi's arms as he told his former captain to never step foot near you again. tooru did good in doing that, as he deserved to never be forgiven for what his immaturity caused - but you made your way back to him time and time again. he didn't know what to make of it, and it drove him crazy.

⠀"i'm sorry, you probably have no idea what i'm talking about." he watched as you stood up, dusting your uniform off as you crossed your arms loosely. "just the ramblings of a little girl, nothing special. thanks for letting me rant, though." you looked down at his knee before locking eyes with tooru once more. "do you need anything before i go? it's getting pretty late."

⠀"i'll be fine. i think i'll get up and get my things in just a few moments. thank you for helping me." to prove his point, he removed his leg from the chair and slowly bent his knee to sit up more. the sting was there, but it was manageable.

⠀"alright." awkward silence ensued, before you bowed quickly. "anyways, sorry for distracting you again, oikawa. see you tomorrow." you turned around and began walking out of the gym, since there was nothing else you could say to keep the conversation going.

⠀"wait!" he stood up, walking fairly slow to catch up to you, which you had already turned around confusedly from the urgency in his voice. you remained silent as he stood right in front of you, hardly any space separating the two of you as he struggled to find the right words to say. "whatever iwaizumi has told you or not," he said quietly, "what i can tell you is that now and before your accident, you're a wonderful person." he swallowed a lump in his throat. "and anyone who ever treats you like shit... doesn't deserve to have you in their life."

⠀mixed feeling arose as he noticed the faint blush color your cheeks subtly, backing up from you after finishing what he wanted to say. "it's not much," he muttered, "but i wanted you to know."

⠀"thank you, oikawa." you nodded your head and smiled. you had an unreadable thought in your eyes as tooru acknowledged your gratitude with a nod of his own, before watching you walk out of the gym rather hastily.

⠀just like that, he had let you slip out of his grasp again.

⠀he waited for you to exit the school before breaking down again in self pity, sliding down against the gym wall and biting his lip quite stubbornly to avoid yelling out in agony.

⠀"anyone who ever treats you like shit," he whispered, "doesn't deserve to have you in their life."

a/n : too dramatic? probably KFKSKFKMD

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lorelylantana · 4 years

Text

Luminescent

Written at @hestuu‘s request

Oneshot Rating: G

Ao3

Link hated how his reputation was leveraged against the Princess. He hated how his name was twisted into a blade raised against the one person he was sworn to protect at all costs. She had every right to be angry, to rage against the insults spat upon her by an ungrateful court. She didn’t deserve to be treated the way she had been, least of all by her own father.

He welcomed the bursts of outrage, the sneers and snide remarks made against him when they were out of the castle’s shadow. Link, of all people, knew how crucial it was to have an outlet for the tide of emotions she choked back when the court was watching. Her wrath was much easier to withstand than the quiet sobs that he heard much too often as he watched over her room at night. There was life in her rage. Power in her voice when she shouted her displeasure. A far cry from the defeated, weary gasps for breath that tore at his heart in the dark of night, anger gave the Princess strength. He was grateful for the force of Zelda’s fury driving her forward, even if it was away from him.

So he was calm in the face of her frustrations, and his patience was rewarded a few months after he was assigned as her guard. She still didn’t hold him in high regard, but she had grown accustomed to his presence. Thus, he was thoroughly ignored while she went about her studies of Hyrule’s plant life. He couldn’t help but notice how different she looked out in the wild. It was difficult to notice when he just started as her guard, but the more time he spent with her, the more relaxed she became.

That’s when he began to notice it. It was faint, and invisible in the direct sunlight, but when it was overcast or they walked under the shade of a tree Link could see this glow about the Princess. He could only catch glimpses of it at first, only when the stars aligned and she was content. These sightings were so few and far between that for a long time Link was convinced that they were mere tricks of the light. This phenomenon seemed to accompany a discovery of some sort, be it the perfect sample or a breakthrough in her research. This very observation led Link to cast aside the fanciful notion of a sparkling princess in favor of a much more reasonable explanation. Her expression brightened, nothing more. These moments stuck out to him for their rarity, nothing fantastical about it.

Looking back, it put into stark clarity how much pressure she was truly under.

Things changed after that day in the desert, though he wasn’t sure why. He could understand how an attempt on her life might shake her up a little, but to have her demeanor change completely worried him. Perhaps the incident cut deeper than he’d originally thought. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the difference, because she began to smile more. She had a spring in her step, and her hackles no longer raised at his presence. This newfound ease fostered a friendship between them.

Any doubts Link had about those little flickers of light, they were banished in short order. Freed of the suffocating disdain for the one person she couldn’t shake, the glow surrounding Zelda’s happiness became undeniable. He could see it filtering through the trees in the rare moment of separation when she walked ahead of him. Link brought a slice of fruitcake along one of their trips after a particularly harsh scolding, and she burned brighter than their campfire. People began to tell stories of a light spirit traveling the land, a beautiful young woman drifting through the woods and leaving sparks behind. The whispers insisted blessings awaited those lucky enough to glance at the shining maiden.

Link was inclined to agree.

Instead of being ignored, Link was sucked into hundreds of Zelda’s little inquiries while they walked the wilds together. Scientific endeavors were a bit out of his wheelhouse, but it didn’t matter. Zelda thrived simply by having someone to bounce ideas off of, turning to look at him with a glowing grin and a theory. Bit by bit, her smile began to chip away at his reservations, replacing his professionalism with a growing desire for her companionship.

Joy was a precious commodity in those years leading up to Calamity, tenuous and fragile and oh so precious. Indeed, any levity in those shadowed times was to be savored, but what Link coveted above all was Zelda’s delight. The Princess of Hyrule deserved every speck of happiness she could get her hands on, King and court be damned. It was hard won, but worth every effort to see her grin. Link pursued Zelda’s smile with the same relentless dedication that made him the youngest knight in Hyrule’s history, and he swore to do anything in his power to make her happy. Anything to see those rays shine around her.

It wasn’t long until Link’s rising affection began to overwhelm him. He began to crave Zelda’s light, spending days gazing at her. He told himself that it was only natural, because he was her guard and he was sworn to protect her. It had nothing to do with the flutter in his chest, that strange flavor of anxiety that drew his eyes to her like a magnet. A byproduct of almost losing her to the Yiga, surely.

Link was mesmerized, he would go out of his way to make her smile. Not because of romantic interest, of course not, but because he wanted to name the elation that rose whenever he saw her in the light. He wanted to soak up as much of her luster as he could. One flicker of her sweet, gentle luminescence set him adrift in a sea of contentment and affection. It was intoxicating. He’d bring her flowers, only because she was looking for specimens, and various odds and ends nicked from the Ancient Tech Lab, all to nurture the small bursts of incandescent glee that sent his heart pounding against his ribs.

They were sitting among the flowers when he succumbed at long last. She was trying to convince him to eat a frog. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but the pleading look of anticipation on her face was enough to make him consider it even as he recoiled in disgust. She leaned too far, however, and she tipped over, tumbling over without her arms to steady her. Link couldn’t remember the details, all he knew is that when they were still once more Link’s hands curled around her hips and her hands pressed into his chest, that wretched amphibian sitting primly between her wrists. They were frozen a moment, caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment, before Zelda let out a stream of giggles that struck him down.

She had a smile like the sun, but when she laughed she was radiant.

He watched her shine above him and realized that this is what it felt like to be in love. He understood, now, why she always seemed to brighten his day, how she sent his blood running hot to the tips of his fingers and toes. He loved her because who wouldn’t? Who could look upon this young woman so full of fire and compassion and not be awestruck? Who could hear her voice, an elegant stream of thought and wisdom, and not be weak? All the stars were in Zelda’s eyes and she still shone brighter.

Of course he loved her. It was only natural.

To bask in the warmth of her presence was a privilege he thanked all the gods for.

The light shining from Hyrule Castle cuts through any lethargy left over from the Shrine, replaced by a searing, deep yearning to see more of it. When night fell and she was silent, Link found himself wandering around, looking for any substitute convincing enough to trick his mind into ease enough to sleep. At first he slept surrounded by fireflies, but there were precious few places that were safe to sleep. Later he would keep a candle burning when he was in his house, and when he wasn’t he’d settle for clutching a star fragment to his chest. It could lull him into a fitful sleep, but it couldn’t banish the nauseating restlessness writhing in his stomach and constricting his heart.

It wasn’t enough, he wanted to bathe in that light, and if that meant wading through darkness then so be it. This sentiment drove him to complete all manner of miscellaneous, almost random tasks. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge, however, after he learns more about the princess, either through stories or his memories.

He learned that she’s most likely to shine when he wears his Champion tunic, so he rarely takes it off. He kept the ingredients for fruitcake on hand at all times, and has hundreds of wildberries tucked away. She liked to see Link swing the Master Sword, or watch him wield weapons Robbie crafts for him, so he does at every opportunity. Then, when Link was stronger, he began to hunt guardians down for their parts. She liked watching him clear Hyrule Field, perhaps it built her confidence in him. It didn’t matter why it made her happy, all he cared to know was whenever he’d dispatch a particularly troublesome guardian he could see her light reach out to him from the Castle Sanctum to wash away his exhaustion.

He liked doing these little things for her. It gave him a sense of normalcy that anchored him as he stumbled about Hyrule in search of who he was, and he couldn’t help but feel a deep, vindictive sense of satisfaction whenever he watched her light pierce the darkness swirling about the castle. Each glimmer from high in Hyrule Castle renewed his determination, sending him running towards the power he needed to slay the beast.

Link thinks she loves him, but he’s not sure. Or perhaps it seems too good to be true, and his doubts shield his heart from disappointment that would prove too much after the journey's end. He really hopes she loves him, because he cherishes every gleaming inch of her being.

He notices what he thinks is affection in her eyes when Zelda smiles at him. He notices the little rays of light, precious and small during the first few days when she was tired and grief stricken, but there all the same. Then he set about cheering her up. Link was always a man of few words, so whenever he saw her dim and space out he would bring her back to earth with bits of fruit and give her the trinkets he’d gathered. Countless little gestures that made her glimmer against the desolation.

It’s arrogant, but he thinks she shines brighter when she looks at him. The thought makes him grin for hours, which makes her smile in turn. They fed off of each other’s fragile glee. His touch sends sparks leaping off of her skin and sometimes he grabs her hand just to see her shine a bit brighter. One night, he holds a Silent Princess from Satori Mountain out to her, and rather than take it she takes his tunic in her hands and pulls him close. She kisses him, and he has to shut his eyes against the blinding light that radiated out when he wraps his arms around her.

There was not a single word in any of Hyrule’s languages that could properly describe the bliss of holding Zelda in his arms. The euphoric radiance when he grins down at her. Zelda is warm, and so beautiful, a living ray of sunshine tucked in his embrace. Link pushes a shining strand of hair behind her ear while she looks up at him, a smile on her lips. Link rests his chin on her head, finally at peace.

#oneshot #zelink #botw zelink #loz botw #botw #legend of zelda #legend of zelda breath of the wild #botw zelda #botw link #writing request #LantanaLore

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treksickfic · 3 years

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The City on the Edge of Forever

I’m so excited to share this with you, anonymous requester! After you sent in your prompt, I had another anonymous reader get in touch with me to let me know they’d already written a story that matched your wishes exactly.

The author of this story is French, not a native English speaker, and they’ve written a beautifully touching story that expands on the TOS episode, City on the Edge of Forever. I am posting it here on my blog, with their permission, because they do not wish to have an account nor have their identity attached to the story. This writer has already become dear to me and I’m honored that they trusted me with their writing. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s a long story, nearly 3,000 words, so RIP to your dash if you’re on mobile. I didn’t want to post it on AO3 or anywhere else except my blog, which feels safer.

Trigger warning for panic attack and trigger warning for some mild emeto, if you’re sensitive to that. It’s not very graphic.

“James Kirk, I demand an explanation!”

Scotty, Uhura, the teleportation technicians, and the security guards were completely dumbfounded by the doctor's explosion. They watched the captain stagger off, livid, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He disappeared without a word, with long stiff steps, from the room.

“Jim!” yelled McCoy.

“Not now, doctor.” Spock's cold, dry voice stopped him.

Spock squeezed McCoy’s arm firmly and Scott was sure to read in his black eyes a burst of fury. McCoy noticed it too, because despite the storm of his own eyes, he remained silent.

“Everyone, at your posts,” declared the Vulcan. “Scott, you are in charge for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Scotty nodded, refraining from asking any questions.

As soon as they had come through the Time Gate, seconds after they left, it seemed, but many weeks later for them, he had seen that they were not fine at all. The captain was pale, deaf to their questions, obviously struggling with the tears that filled his eyes. The doctor was just as white, his face contracted with a terrible anger. As for Spock, he kept his eyes fixed on Jim, his usual indifference altered by deep and obvious concern.

What the hell had happened?

This is precisely the question McCoy yelled at Spock, pulling himself brutally out of his grip as they entered his office, safe from prying ears:

“Damn it, Spock!”

“If you calm down, doctor, maybe I could explain.”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN? Shit, Spock! How do you want me to calm down?”

“Breathing. Deep, and slowly. Start by sitting down.”

“Don't fuck with me!”

“The Vulcans don't fuck with people. Now, please calm down.”

Jim killed someone without thought. There's no way I can calm down. Shit!”

Spock gritted his teeth and an aura of icy disappointment emanated from him:

“Jim killed someone without thought...do you get along, doctor? You've been aboard this ship for over a year. You even pretend to be the captain's friend. How can you accuse him of this without thinking for two seconds?”

“I saw it ! He prevented me from—"

“--and your poor little mind preferred to give in to this abject emotion rather than try to find a logical explanation. Jim, the most compassionate man we know…would he have acted like this for no reason?”

These words had the effect of a cold shower on McCoy. He shook his head, gradually coming to himself. He hadn't actually thought for a single moment, mired in a nauseating fury that he hadn't even tried to control. Shame replaced anger and he sagged in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

The past few weeks had been a total blur. He had woken up in a room with antique furniture, with an adorable woman at his bedside: Edith Keeler. It had taken him some time to realize that she was neither a hallucination nor a very good actress, but that he was indeed in a different era. Back in the 1930s. And he had barely had time to figure it out and come out of the bedroom to find answers before Jim and Spock, overjoyed, fell on him.

The next second Edith was dead. And it was Kirk's fault., He had kept him from coming to her aid. It had been too much emotion, too quickly and too soon. He had not managed to digest it, even less to understand anything other than what he had seen:

Jim had killed Edith.

But now that Spock had brought him back to reality, it all seemed absurd. And he noticed certain details: His friend's trembling when he held him; the tears in his green eyes when he leaned against the wall; Spock's unusually soft words when he had defended Jim, "he knows doctor, he knows."

How could he have seen nothing? Holding back a moan, he confronted Spock's stern face again:

“Explain it to me.”

“I'll do it quickly. In the timeline of our current story, Edith Keeler dies in 1930. In the one you walked through, paranoid after the cordrazine syringe accident, her ideals of peace and openness reach Roosevelt's ears and America becomes a peaceful country. That prevents its involvement in the second world war. Germany wins and dominates the world. Our time, therefore, does not exist.”

“Oh.”

“By the time you got there, after roughly locating your destination, we got to know Edith. A very charming woman, particularly intelligent.”

“And, Jim—"

“Was deeply in love with her. But for the good of a whole world and not solely himself, he let her die and prevented you from committing irreparable damage.”

“My god.”

McCoy put his head in his hands, overcome with excruciating guilt. Spock watched him, suppressing the harsh words that itched on his lips. The man had realized his mistake. It was useless to add more in the current state. He sighed for a long time, feeling unpleasantly empathetic towards Jim. He admired the way the man had managed to silence all of his instincts to save everyone:

“You should go see him, doctor. I think leaving him alone right now is not the best solution. Especially since he slept and ate very little while we were on earth, and even less after he realized that Edith had to die. He was ill several times during the night. He needs help.”

“Perhaps it is better ... Chapel—”

“No, Leonard,” Spock said, as kindly as he could. “He needs you.”

McCoy let out a deep sigh. He felt silly, and unforgivable. But for the sake of his friend, and indirectly, the sake of the crew, he knew Spock was right. Grabbing his medical equipment, he left in the direction of the captain's quarters.

*****

Jim rested his forehead against the cool edge of the toilet. The doctor's words were circling in his mind, adding further weight to his overwhelming grief. He felt sick, his stomach as tight as his chest. A discomfort that had become familiar over the past few days. The intense nausea that rolled and rolled, threatening at every moment to overflow was a most unpleasant physical manifestation of his stress.

Despite his efforts to conserve food that was already scarce in their daily life in 1930, there were times when he couldn't do anything about it. Nightmares woke him in an agonizing sweat, on the verge of ruining the atrocious coarse cover of their flop.

He managed each time to sneak into the bathroom before returning the meager pittance with spasms he tried to silence. He also appreciated the discretion of Spock, who had the delicacy of pretending to sleep when Jim returned to his bed several minutes later, breathless and exhausted. But now that he was alone, aboard the Enterprise, he had no reason to contain himself, and did not fight the gagging that came out violently, like revenge for being held back so long. His stomach, however empty, kept revolting, replacing his sobs with endless contractions.

He had barely activated the door to his quarters when they had started, and he had yielded to the spasms with some relief. As unpleasant as vomiting was, his whole body tense and sore as he curled up over the toilet, at least it kept him from thinking about it. Being sick kept his mind on constant alert, focusing his attention on the spasms, gasps, bile, burning and kept the fear away. Unbearable, interminable, but ... secondary.

He coughed cautiously, catching his breath, feeling even sicker from the pungent smell that hung around him…the smell as horrible as the way he felt. This place of suffering and abandonment suited him.

He leaned over awkwardly when the bile passed his throat for the umpteenth time and spilled out in a long convulsion. He grabbed his stomach and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the mess coloring the water again. The dizziness began to build, the light becoming unbearable as a migraine took hold of his temples, seeping through to his sinuses. He shivered, trying to reach for the chase to vent some of his weakness, when a hand rested on his forehead. Incredibly cool, it brought such comfort that he could not suppress a fragile sigh.

Tenderly the hand placed a damp cloth on the back of his neck and then finally came to cover his eyes. There was the terribly aggressive sound of the toilet flushing, then a voice whispering for the light to drop to 20%.

That voice ...

His comfort immediately ceased, replaced by anguish. He coughed sharply, spitting out more bile in an effort to shake off the impending grief. He could do nothing against the intense tremors that made him gasp, nor the panicked sob that burst through the vomiting.

“Shhh, Jim.” The voice was a broken whisper. “Shhh, everything is fine.”

Kirk wanted to yell at him to go away, to leave him, not to hurt him anymore. Irrationally afraid of the anger that had rained over him earlier at the prospect of having to face reality. Instead he could only moan, shaken by a horrible, nauseating cough.

Feeling Jim shake and panic under his fingers, McCoy was crushed by an intense wave of guilt. He had seen Jim gripped with grief, stress, drunkenness, anger... but never so completely. It was the first time he seemed ... broken ... and it was largely his fault.

The abnormal heat radiating from his skin indicated a high fever and explained his lack of self control. McCoy took a syringe out of his bag and spoke in a very soft voice so as not to hurt his friend's headaches.

“Jim, I'm going to inject you with a painkiller, it'll help you relax.”

He had no other answer than a small hiccup and a burst of bile.

Nervous vomiting, McCoy noticed. It was serious. He was going to have to play it safe to get the captain to calm down enough to free himself from his sadness and he hoped the hypo would act quickly. He thrust the syringe into his biceps and took advantage of the slight respite that followed to quickly run the medical tricorder over Jim’s upper body.

The latter told him what he already knew: extreme stress, high fever, deficiencies in iron and magnesium, low blood pressure...nothing to indicate a gastric bug apart from weakness due to deficiencies, which reinforced his theory of psychogenic nausea.

McCoy was relieved to find that the sedative had done its work: Jim was shaking less and seemed more lucid.

“Bones...what--?”

Bones. So he didn't blame him. This man's empathy would kill him eventually, the doctor thought. He put a protective arm around the Jim’s shoulders and another under his chest to support him. He could feel the angry stomach muscles that continued to struggle and tighten. He gave a sad little smile.

“We are going to talk about all this. But first, we are going to get out of this horrible room. You need to lie down.”

“Um, that's not safe,” Jim grimaced with a little hiccup.

“I'll take a bucket, but I want you to lie down. Doctor's orders.”

“If it's an o-order,” he stammered, in a slight attempt at humor.

Jim allowed himself to be helped without opening his eyes, too ill to protest, and too weak to fend for himself. Bones almost carried him to his bed.

Once lying down, McCoy carefully removed Jim’s boots and socks, pulled up a wonderfully warm blanket and put a cloth on his forehead. Then Jim heard the familiar whirr of the tricorder passing once more over his body and finally the sound of several mixes. Careful fingers rested on his right temple.

“Can you open your eyes?”

“Urgh, Bones, I'll throw up if I open them.”

“There is a bucket, don't hold back. I need you to look at me.”

Jim groaned but obeyed. The light, even though very dim, made him moan in pain. It penetrated his head like a blade and triggered, as announced, a violent nausea.

McCoy held him very gently as he threw up a thin trickle of bilious saliva. He fell completely exhausted on the pillow once the attack was over. The doctor muttered something unintelligible and wiped his face.

“I should send you to the infirmary, Jim. You have serious deficiencies and that added to the stress...this is a perfect combination for a migraine in due form. I'll put you on an IV to regulate your sugar levels and give you a strong pain reliever. It should help you feel better.”

Once everything was in place, a tactical, hesitant silence settled between them. Jim could feel his presence, sitting on the edge of the bed rather than a chair, and the warm, warm hand pressed to his shoulder. The exhaustion and sadness rose in power now that the disease could no longer build its walls around his mind. He saw Edith again. Edith and her sweetness, her love, her joy, her magnificent ideas.

"She's fair ... but not at the right time," Spock had said, trying to make her listen to reason when he...he told her that she had to...die. He had desperately looked for another way but...but—

He clenched his teeth, overtaken by the intensity of the pain. By the gesture. He had even been unable to look at her body. He had not turned around, refusing to see what he had just done, struck head-on by the horror and disgust emanating from the doctor.

He swallowed, feeling the tremors start again, the despair skyrocketing. McCoy, hearing the gasps in his friend's tight breath, tightened his grip on his shoulder.

“I ... I loved her...Bones—"

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and he sniffled, trying to pull himself together:

“Jim,” McCoy whispered, his own emotions rising. “I ... I don't even know how to apologize.”

“You have nothing to excuse. You are right. I ... killed her.”

“No. You saved our world. You did what you had to.”

“Oh, you spoke to Spock,” Jim whispered with a bitter smile.

“Yes.”

Despite the darkness, McCoy could see the paleness growing and the captain's face tightening with the effort to hold back the sobs. He searched for a moment for words he could say to alleviate the pain. Not finding them, he shook his head.

Jim tried to speak, with difficulty. “I shouldn't—”

“You have the right to be sad. You just lost the one you love in an act of unimaginable courage. Jim, I'm an overly impulsive old fool, I can't even imagine what you've been through and I sincerely ask forgiveness for this unjustified anger.”

“Please, Bones—"

“No, let me finish. Thank you for your understanding, but you don't have to. I acted like an idiot.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“That's no excuse. I know you and should have taken a step back.”

“What is done is done.”

“Jim, what I'm trying to say is that you must not let my emotionally spoken words get to you. You didn't deserve it.”

“I...I searched and searched...and searched again. I couldn't get away from her even when I knew that—”

“You were in love.”

“No, Bones. I'm in love. A selfish person who regrets choices that he shouldn't regret.”

“You are human, and you are suffering. Let it go.”

Another tear rolled down, then another, and finally it was a torrent that poured into the pillow. The captain put a hand over his mouth to silence the gasps of despair and the overwhelming agony of loss. Bones gripped his shoulder, patting it in a comforting gesture. He watched Jim sob like a child, breathing laboriously through exhaustion and mourning. Then he gradually calmed down until he fell into a deep sleep.

The doctor sighed and wiped away his own tears that had started at the same time as his friend's, and that he had not tried to stop. He readjusted the IVs and scanned Jim’s body for the third time. His fever was still high from a mild viral infection after several weeks in the cold and fatigue undernourishment. Jim would be off for a few days and stay in bed.

When he left the room, the doctor was not surprised to find Spock standing and waiting with arched eyebrows.

“How is he?”

“Exhausted and cold, but fine.”

“Has he been able to express his sorrow?”

“I guess, yes.” McCoy smiled, thinking of his friend's relaxed face as he left the room.

“And were you able to express yours?”

The doctor jumped slightly, not at all prepared for this question, much less for Spock to say it. He was sometimes pleasantly surprised by the well-hidden sensitivity of his Vulcan friend. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it.

“You are about to cry.”

“Damned be your insight, Mister Spock,” the doctor growled, a little annoyed.

“Humans all must cry at one time or another to get better, doctor. I do not understand why you put a manly bulwark in front of this natural mechanism.”

Bones laughed. “Wouldn't you find it embarrassing for me to break down in tears right now in your arms?”

He expected Spock to answer him, "Vulcans don't know the gene, doctor." Instead he replied, in his usual relaxed and serene tone, “If that makes you feel better, no.”

Such compassion was so strange that it almost seemed out of place. Leonard burst out into a frank laugh that turned without realizing it into a flood of tears. Tears of his own sadness this time, not empathy or guilt. Sadness he didn't think he had. Maybe he was also a little in love with Edith after all. And that the Vulcan understood it well before him.

Spock, moreover, did not pretend to leave, contenting himself to stay by his side until McCoy’s tears turned back into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” the first officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Mister Spock, because I’m thinking of the absurd spectacle we would have made if someone had been there. The ship's doctor weeping like a baby in front of a motionless Vulcan and their captain's closed door.”

Spock coughed and McCoy would swear to anyone who wanted to hear it that he was blushing.

“Well, you're not a hopeless case,” he said with a smirk, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Spock.”

Then he turned on his heel towards the infirmary without hearing the relieved sigh of his alien friend.

#star trek sickfic #sickfic #TOS sickfic #sick kirk #panicked kirk #emotional hurt/comfort #physical hurt/comfort #emeto #tw emeto #tw panic attack

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hhjs · 4 years

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rewind, revive. (all that we are.)

pairing. — kim sunwoo x reader.

genre. — angst.

alternatively. — wherein letting go is all but a reminder of why he seemed to hold on.

mystery trope!

word count. — 2.8 k

note. — inspired the nbhd's 'wdywfm' and 'reflections'. (impacting characters exactly in that order of the songs.) this is unedited so bear with me lmao

Regret is a funny thing.

One can feel it approaching light years before the realisation hits. Like squinting at dim headlights in the distance, before the vehicle picks up pace, before the tires skid against wet gravel, before it finally, finally occurs that it's too late, too late to go back and walk away, to stop oneself from facing the impact head on. From having the air knocked right out of one's lungs.

Sunwoo knows for a fact what he is doing fits that criteria.

Something about the prevailing silence that comes after heated arguments is utterly eerie; being an on and off couple for the longest time indicated that you recognised that much.

"I think we should take a break. Figure things out on our own."

He looks at the little scar you'd gotten from accidentally ramming your toe into the doorframe because you were too excited to see him. (It's healing.) No, that's not right. From this position, sat atop the sofa, when he's holding his head in his palms as your tone rises mid syllable, that's all he can see. No, he can't look at you. He can't look at himself in your eyes now, dropped way below all expectations you held to him once, silhouette of his peeved face in them leaves a rancid emotion inside his belly.

"Is that what you really want?" You ask, this time with a slight hint of surrender in your voice.

Sunwoo wants to say he doesn't exactly know what he wants, what he is feeling, perhaps it's the aftermath of working too hard, taking on too much stress, or so Changmin explained to him earlier that week, he doesn't quite perceive himself as someone who could lament his problems easily - however, it's very clear to him that he is pushing you away, sealing himself off suddenly, missing out on dates, calls and falling short in the department of being his usual affectionate self.

Or maybe, Sunwoo doesn't love you anymore.

What if he's never loved you at all? What if whatever you have is all a resultant of mere infatuation and he was too young to differentiate from the start?

Whatever it is, Sunwoo isn't too sure, but you... obviously notice. He's always finding excuses to distance himself and it's changing you, who you used to be when he fell in love with you. In fact, every day is a constant evidence of just how disconnected your relationship is from how it was in the beginning, in the 'honeymoon stage' or whatever. The way he tenses up when you throw an arm around him every night he plops down against your shared bed too late, only entertaining your comforting words with monosyllabic responses; he seems to test your patience, trying to find your breaking point.

And this is it, he thinks.

What you suggested as an innocent movie night with him, trying to get him to talk to you, about anything, anything at all, soon took a bad turn when you reached out to interlock your arms and he found himself brushing you off.

It was just the same little act that piled and piled atop all of his 'little acts' and this final blow sent everything tumbling down, all at once. The way you stared at your spread out, empty palm as you asked him why he was being like this is an image he finds difficult to forget.

Albeit he doesn't hesitate, asking you to stop nagging him, to stop overreacting. To just leave him alone.

Now, with the weight of his words absent inside, all he senses is blatant emptiness taking refuge in its place, an epiphany that he can't take back what he said.

You don't say a word when Sunwoo's reply comes in the form of an affirmative nod and what's worse, he thinks, is that you don't look surprised.

As if you saw it coming all along.

...

When he agrees to put up with one of the double dates Eric set, it's because his friends are convinced that the relationship has reached a dead end. Sunwoo ignores that idea and indulges in what he perceives as newfound freedom.

Even though the excitement of getting to know someone new is momentary, replaced by a strong underlying feeling that nauseates him. Whenever Sunwoo looks over the candlelight and watches his date smile back at him, it feels like he's doing something wrong. Something hypocritical.

Recently, every day feels the same. Every hour melding into the same old routine. This is boredom, Sunwoo tells himself, though he's positive it's anything but.

It's quite a surprise not having chanced upon you by accident, given years of dating has merged your social circles.

Really, when he thinks about it, Sunwoo's known you for the longest time.

Since he was sure he would fail a calculus pop quiz and he kicked your chair to gather correct answers, you were so shy, innocent and how that sparked a sense of adoration in him for the first time ever, since you ended up becoming best friends in spite of your essentially different personalities. Sunwoo tries to remember the exact feeling of snowflakes collecting on his cheeks, in your eyelashes, his cool fingers in his pockets, while a street light buzzed overhead - not every detail is clear - but the sight of your beaming face as he timidly confessed his feelings is unmistakable. As time passes, he tries thinking about it more and more, afraid someday he'll look back and miss out the most essential rudiments of the event. Or worse, forget altogether. It's such a distant, fleeting moment that elicits a bittersweet sensation in him. Sweet because some part of him will always be entwined with some part of you, bitter because you were no longer together.

Sunwoo shakes his head, as though the gesture ought to come in assistance in ridding himself of the aforementioned thoughts. He's the one who wanted this whole break thing, right?

He pushes his trolley around, leans on the handle like he used to as a kid and paces up through empty lanes after looking around to see that the seven eleven store is mostly empty. He successfully breezes through aisles and throws in packaged kimbap, frozen fried rice and crisps to his trolley; and then, suddenly, a juice extract shelf in the distance catches his eye.

Sunwoo focuses his vision and marks his next destination, all the while imitating low humming of a makeshift engine with his mouth.

But of course, much to his dismay, his trolley jams right into another that approached out of the aisle to his side that he hadn't kept an eye on in moving only forward.

He mutters a string of quiet apologies, bowing briefly and hoping to God that the person hadn't heard him swear under his breath. "It's alright."

Sunwoo looks up and blinks curiously recognition washing over him.

It's only been a few weeks but the sight of your face, the real thing, not instagram photos, not the ones in his money bag or photo frames in his drawer, hits him with the force of a bullet train.

Your face is bare, shadows splattered against your forehead and the tip of your nose because you're wearing his - and he only realises now - ridiculously big, pink bucket hat, a hand casually positioned into a jacket pocket, there's something so endearing about this.

"Hey." Sunwoo says.

"Hey."

You stare at him for a good second and then as if realising something, you blink rapidly, fishing out a pear extract juice to dump it in his trolley. "Here."

It is an unspoken gesture, to relay that you still remember what he likes and what he doesn't like, that you've unraveled the likes of Sunwoo, excavated all the little, measly, trivial quirks, secrets and lies buried deep inside the cavity of his chest.

"Thanks." Sunwoo just stares, entranced.

It is only when he's back home, nuzzled into the comfort of his favourite blanket that still smells a little like you, does he realise he misses you.

...

"I don't care."

Sunwoo thinks he means it, like this, when he has a hoodie pulled over his head and balances a controller with great expertise, looking perfectly unfazed by Chanhee's comment about whether or not he should invite you to his party, it almost sounds true. "I just wanna see them." He settles. Time apart only reminded him just how impatient he could be when he wanted something and wasn't getting it immediately. He is seeing clearly, you're the only constant in the overwhelming vicissitudes of his life, the only one who saw him at his worst as you did at his best and stayed. That comfort, that very familiarity, is far better than the infamous honeymoon stage or any stage, for that matter.

Sunwoo realises that now. Even if it's just a little late.

Rolling his eyes, Chanhee pushes a grocery bag containing the former's snack and tears open a packet of honey crisps.

Prior to this confession, no matter how much Sunwoo insisted that he was fine, that his stare didn't linger every time he mistook a stranger for you, that he definitely didn't pretend to do the dishes even though he refused to do the chore under any other circumstances just to overhear his friends talking about a new event in your life, or just... about you, Chanhee doesn't believe him.

In retrospect, no one does. But Chanhee is least discreet about it.

"I don't suppose that's a good idea..." He pauses, swallowing, "What if things go south?"

Beneath an act of trying to untie the grocery bag, Sunwoo contemplates that he doesn't know how to respond to this inquiry, he had pictured your next meeting many a times, prepped himself to do or say very particular things, the way you always made up, time and time again forgiving each other in spite of all obstacles in your way, to a point where you friends got tired of you going back and forth, convinced that you could never really break up... - no, he is sure nothing can change, that's a blatant impossibility, Sunwoo knows you and you know him. No matter how much he fucks up - you know he'll always come back to you.

That's how it has always been.

"Figures, huh?"

Sunwoo scoffs, noting the way his friend's expression morphes to a confused furrowing of brows. He holds the yellow classic salted packet up instead whilst wrinkling his nose more than necessary, knowing the remark would prompt Chanhee to get annoyed and forget all about his own remark. “You got the wrong flavour again.”

The older male crumples a crisp in his palm and flicks it at Sunwoo.

The answer is simple, he'll never know if he never tries. Love is not chance but a decision, love is a choice, isn't it?

Well, Sunwoo chose you, he chooses you. He'll choose you over and over again.

...

"Can we talk?"

You nod slowly, a sigh escaping your parted lips. An expression on your face that Sunwoo can't put a finger on. But he doesn't have to, not when you comply so easily, joining him out into the balcony divorced from the apartment rife with noise and evidence of inebriation.

You lean over the railing, your eyes travelling far off into the impossibly dark scenery, the silence is imbued with a vague sense of eerie, the kind that ensues before something terrible happens.

All Sunwoo can think about is how beautiful you are. Suddenly, he feels guilty - see, he can't remember the last time he appreciated you, showered you with accolades you most certainly deserve. He mimics your position, turning his head slightly to take in every detail. Committing it all to memory. Things are different now. You look different.

Last time he saw you, he could map out the swollen quality of your eyes, nails bitten and chipped, the little characteristics that gave away you weren't doing well. Now, there's an indescribable glow to your face, something under the perfectly dolled up look, the red beret on your head, matched with an utterly fabulous coat that guards you from cool autums.

It's a new outfit. The discomfort is newer.

"You look great." He finally speaks and it's not the best way to start a conversation that's dangling by its last finger, akin to an inexperienced acrobat - he doesn't know what is.

You chuckle. "Is that what you wanted to say?"

"N-no...I just.." he pauses, the words all bundling up on his tongue into one big mess of sentences that don't make any sense. When you finally look at him, leaning back on your elbows now, Sunwoo gulps, this isn't a figment of his imagination, no, this is real. It's now or never. "I'm sorry." He starts, the mere utterance of those words seem to spark no change in your appearance. As if you're waiting for him to continue. Right now, apologies just aren't good enough. "This whole thing was so stupid. Baby I-I know I fucked up but... I love you. Okay? I promise I'll do anything to make it up to you. Whatever you want."

You stare at him for a long second, just letting his words sink in but also just seemingly allowing yourself to think. Then you push yourself up, standing straighter. "You dont have to." You say simply, a hint of finality laced into your tone. All Sunwoo finds himself thinking is how you don't reciprocate, uttering the same I love you like you always did. Out of habit.

He curls his fingers into fists, knuckles whitening and whitening under the strain. His vision is a blurring film against which you look like a faint silhouette, secluded by rivulets of raindrops racing down windows. It's embarrassing, how he feels, all those bubbling emotions reduced to that of a child being denied his favourite candy.

"W-What is that supposed to mean?" He blinks, finding that you're staring at your spread out palms. Like they're evidence for something you've done.

"Sunwoo." You say. It sounds like a warning, like a don't get any closer. "I don't like who I become when I'm with you."

At this point, Sunwoo just listens. In his mind, he hadn't foreseen this. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew he had to try his best but...this...losing you... that was out of question. Right?

No, he tells himself, he'll fix it, he'll get it together.

"You know, I was really angry at you for breaking up with me...but it was probably for the best." You produce a garbled laugh, lifting your face skyward, looking up at the glossy layers of pollution, of purplish clouds and the barely there moon behind, like you're reading off sentences from them. Sunwoo stares at you, he wants to reach out and trace the curves of your face without thinking twice, without holding back. "We did need time to think... and it made me realise that I've always loved you more than you've ever loved me. Heck, even more than I loved myself...and... I can't be that version of me again." You sniffle, "That's not love... That's devotion."

"Hey, don't say that!" He drags his fingers up from the railing and reaches out to touch your elbow, "Come on...we-we can work it out. We always do." These words , they come out all choked up and hoarse.

You stiffen up at the sound, "You're not listening to me." You shrug him off, adamantly piloting your gaze to linger away from him, your back's turned away from him but then you pause, just slightly looking over your shoulder and your gaze softens at the sight of him using his sleeve to dab at his cheeks. The gesture makes him feel hopeful, just for a second.

Then you sigh, shaking your head, "Don't you get it?" You say, "We can't fix this...we can't fix each other.

Inexplicably, he thinks of a perfect world, where he could go back just once, where it all started, everything before, holding his head in his hands and the little scar on your toe and is that what you really want?

This time, Sunwoo would mutter a quick no. He'd flick on the television and snuggle into your side, talking mindlessly about something that makes you laugh. To forget all about the stupid argument.

But in reality, he lets your words ricochet off of the walls, listening to the transient beats of music pouring into the balcony when you slide the door open to let yourself out.

It shuts.

Everything goes quiet.

And this soundlessness, this solitude, he knows this, he's heard this, he's seen this, he's felt this, this... this is final,

this is goodbye.

228 notes · View notes

hold-my-hand-kuroo · 4 years

Text

four seasons with akaashi

wow i think i’m starting to see a pattern of not knowing what i’m writing???

pairing: akaashi x reader

genre: fluff

Spring comes with many firsts: the first year of high school, first cherry blossoms, and first love.

Akaashi is quiet, but not opposed to interaction. You realize this when you join Fukurodani’s volleyball club as the manager and watch in awe as the silent setter dealt with Boktuo in such a calm manner. You momentarily forget that the two of you are the same age. He’s calm, composed, and quick to put a stop to Bokuto’s antics; you’ve even heard him go through the wing spiker’s long list of weaknesses in passing. In short, you think Akaashi is amazing.

In fact, he’s so amazing that you find it hard to get closer to him although the two of you were in the same class. It’s not that you feel that he’s cold toward you, but it’s difficult to strike a conversation up with someone who seemed to dislike the loudness of Bokuto so much. You’d hate to disturb him, especially since he already has his hands full, but you can’t help catching your eyes landing on his figure from time to time.

Sometimes during classes, your eyes wander toward your right where Akaashi sits studiously, writing down careful notes from each and every lecture. You notice the light pen callus on the side of his ring finger and how he miraculously keeps his paper straight on his desk when he’s writing. He’ll never openly volunteer to answer or read, but whenever the teacher calls on him, his answers are correct, and you can’t help but feel soothed by his voice.

When you’re not looking at him, you don’t catch the stray glances that Akaashi also sends toward your way. He doesn’t understand why but opts to justify it with the fact that the two of you had volleyball in common, and that the volleyball jacket you wore frequently stood out specifically from the rest of the uniforms. Sometimes he’ll break into a smile when he sees that your papers end up shifting, tilted at a ridiculous angle when you’re concentrated on writing or when your brows furrow at a particularly tricky problem. He thinks it’s secretly amusing, endearing almost.

“I’ll help,” Akaashi offers quietly one day, reaching toward the basket carrying the bottles that you had just filled. It’s the first thing he has said to you ever, aside from the casual ‘hellos’ and ‘thanks’ he spared whenever you managed to make eye contact with him. It’s so foreign that you think you’ve done something wrong, but the fact that he’s merely a few inches apart from you makes your thoughts stop.

“Sorry if I was being slow,” you murmur finally, a little embarrassed, and hang your head low. Akaashi lets out a rather affronted noise that startles the both of you, and you turn to look at him, confused.

“No, I just thought it looked heavy,” he tries again, seeming to struggle with his words. Rather than following up, he lets the topic drop and takes a water bottle, not noticing Bokuto smiling rather smugly behind him.

“Don’t mind him, Y/N!” the owl-like boy laughs. “That’s just ‘Kaashi trying to be friends with you! He’s been mulling over it for days now! Whenever we’re in the changing rooms, he’s always like, ‘I wonder if Y/N dislikes me. We’re in the same class and club, but we don’t talk often’—“

“Bokuto, please shut up,” Akaashi says pointedly, trying to cover the taller boy’s mouth. He’s uncharacteristically flustered, and if you squinted, you could see the pink rising on his cheeks along with his frustrated furrowed brows. You almost laugh too; even the stoic setter could have his feathers ruffled sometimes, and in full honesty, it was such a refreshing sight to see.

“Actually,” you start shyly, chuckling slightly, “I was under the impression that I was disliked by you. I guess we both misunderstood.”

Akaashi shifts his attention from Bokuto to you, looking rather surprised. He’s sure that greeting you frequently would do well to break the ice, but he can’t believe that he gave you such a cold impression. It wasn’t lost on him that his silence usually came off unwelcoming, but he decides then and there that he should try harder. For what, he doesn’t really know.

“Isn’t that nice, ‘Kaashi? You made a friend!”

And so, Akaashi returns to scolding Bokuto about interrupting conversations and saying too much while, as promised, helping you hand out the bottles. The banter is lively and nice, the most emotion you’ve seen the setter express, and you think that you could get used to the chaos that is the volleyball club.

Spring is when the first seeds of love are planted, waiting to bloom.

ii.

Summer is hot with the buzzing of cicadas and the smell of sweat mixed with freshly-cut grass. It’s a little nauseating.

Hosting training camps were literal hell; in between making sure that there are enough clean towels, extra bottles, and an abundance of food, you find most of your summer dedicated to manager work. It’s torturous under the beating heat of the sun, and it makes you think about leaving the club forever. Of course, you don’t and never would, but the thought’s there.

Bokuto’s practically bouncing off the gym walls during the days leading up to the big event. For days on end, he’s talking about Nekoma-this or Nekoma-that, and by the time the team of stray cats actually arrives, you’re sure that you already know their names. You note that he’s the closest to the one with messy hair and a cackle louder than Bokuto’s yells. It’s overwhelming, especially for Akaashi who has to be there to calm Bokuto down, but also keep his spirits up for three days straight.

“Tired?” you ask during one of the breaks, handing him a bottle filled with chilled water and a plate of sliced watermelon. He accepts it graciously with a simple nod.

“With the way Bokuto keeps playing, we’re bound to be doing more diving drills,” he sighs. You giggle a little at the exasperation in his voice, but you still feel a little bad. Running around with towels was already tiring enough, so you can’t imagine working up a harder sweat under this relentless heat. “Are you busy?”

“Yeah,” you respond, stretching out your arms. “I thought setting up the sleeping area was bad, but cooking for a thousand volleyball players is absolutely the worst.”

He nods sympathetically and slides over on the stair step that he’s been sitting on, a silent invitation for you to take the spot next to him. You’re touched at his kindness and want nothing more than to accept the offer and just talk for hours on end to Akaashi, but you shake your head. There were things that needed to be done, and you’d hate for Yukie and Kaori to be the ones doing your share of the work. Akaashi seems to understand.

It’s a little disappointing to see so little of each other during the day even though the two of you were at the same location for the same reasons. To Akaashi, you’re a nice and fresh breeze that counters the loud arguments between Bokuto, Kuroo, and the delinquent-looking guy from Nekoma; you’re calm and can read him like an open book. With you around, he doesn’t feel the need to struggle over finding the proper words, and even when he does speak, it’s not a scolding. He’s at ease when you’re there with him.

Much to Akaashi’s luck and yours too, nighttime is when things calm down. You find him sitting quietly at the sidelines of the gym, making sure that Bokuto doesn’t break anything out of sheer excitement as he works on blocking with Kuroo. He’s working on his summer assignments, and it’s expected from him, but you’re quite amused at how even after a grueling day’s practice, he still finds it in himself to study. This time, you’re free and take the spot on the floor next to him.

“Mind if I join?” you ask, waving your math assignments around. He’s more than happy to have you there and nods not once, but twice. “Aren’t you tired?”

“If I don’t do a little bit every night, it piles up,” he mumbles, writing numbers neatly into his notebook. “It helps me go to sleep better, too.”

“I’m usually the night-before kind of person,” you laugh, opening up your booklet as well. “This is the first time in my life that I’ve done my summer work early.”

He hums, which is how he reacts when he’s surprised, you’ve learned. The two of you sit in silence, exchanging words once in a while for help. Akaashi’s way ahead of you, but you’re glad that he doesn’t find you too annoying when you ask to compare answers for the first few exercises that you’ve done. The yelling and crooning of Bokuto and Kuroo become white noise; you’re only fully aware of Akaashi right now and the fact that your shoulders are so close to touching. Five centimeters. Maybe six, but nothing more than that.

Even now, after months of getting to know him, you find your eyes glancing at him from time to time. You’re distracted, and you want to beat yourself up for it, but it’s almost instinctive. His side profile and his concentration are mesmerizing, his silence giving him an air of elegance. You’re so tempted to move closer, to fill those few centimeters and come into physical contact with the boy next to you, but you get flustered at the exact thought. The two of you were friends. Setter and manager. Classmates. Nothing more.

Unsurprisingly, your progress is poor, and you’re a little ashamed to say it’s because you were distracted by Akaashi. Even when the training camp is over, you still haven’t managed to make a large dent into your math work, and you’re ten times less motivated to continue it once you’re home and without Akaashi. It’s a blessing that the boy is an angel and is at your door during the last weekend of your well-deserved summer break.

“I was wondering if you needed help,” he says simply with a bag filled with cold drinks and ice cream in hand. He’s an angel. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t-“

“No I do!” you answer quickly, heart beating fast. “I still have three more subjects to do, so I’m in a little trouble.”

Akaashi blinks at your outburst, and then breaks into one of his rare smiles. He lets out a laugh, a genuine, hearty laugh that you’ve never heard before, and you think you’ve finally discovered what angels singing sound like. You’re so mesmerized by Akaashi himself that it doesn’t exactly hit you that you’ve invited him into your room until much, much later, when he’s again, five or six centimeters away from you. Leaning on his elbow, he reaches over to your paper to point out errors or little tips, but they’re just noises to you. Lovely noises, but you don’t register a thing he’s saying. His mouth is moving, and you’re aware that you should be paying attention, but whether it’s this cursed heat or own nervousness that’s making you heat up and your heart throb like crazy, you’re mind is anywhere but on your work.

“Is something wrong, Y/N?” Akaashi asks, looking toward you.

“No,” you play off cooly, or as cooly as you could. “It’s just a little hot, don’t you think?”

“I have ice cream if you want,” he offers kindly, moving away from you and rustling through his bag. You let out a breath.

Summer is hot, and it’s when you realize that your little interest with the team’s setter is something a lot more than a small crush. It terrifies you.

iii.

Autumn brings in a refreshing chill that replaces summer, and before you know it, the leaves have turned into beautiful reds, oranges, and yellows.

Days have grown shorter, and by the time you leave the school, juggling between manager duties and the cultural festival, the sky outside is practically pitch-black. Walking home alone is a problem, which is why Akaashi takes it upon himself to walk you back home. Him and Bokuto, that is. Akaashi’s aware that he isn’t the scariest or strongest guy around, so he figures that with Bokuto’s large build and even larger voice would provide extra security.

The first time the two walk you home, Bokuto’s talking a mile a minute about how cool his class’s haunted house is coming out and making every effort to invite both you and Akaashi to check it out. Akaashi only comments about how he’ll be busy with his own class, even though you know well that he has free time in the afternoon. You stifle a giggle and nod, encouraging Bokuto to continue and hyping him up out of kindness.

It bothers Akaashi more than he thinks it would, and he almost feels silly for feeling so sour whenever Bokuto had your attention. It’s becoming a more and more frequent thing, he realizes that night. Even during practices, he preferred it when you were talking to just him rather than the other players, and it makes him disgusted with himself for being so selfish. He’s typically not the type of person to tape his fingers, but whenever you walk toward him and offer to help with tape in hand, he never turns you down.

There’s just something about the way your hand radiates a comforting warmth. When your fingers brush against his digits, carefully wrapping the white material around his damaged fingers, he finds it too quick, almost to the point of teasing. There are days where you’ll be so focused on the bandaging that you don’t notice the fondness in his eyes, scanning over your figure and wishing that your fingers would just intertwine with his. Akaashi wants something permanent, something longer than just brief encounters, and he secretly wishes that you’d give him all your attention.

But of course, he can’t say that to you. He find his wishes ugly. You’re Fukorodani’s manager, not his, and it was wrong of him to think otherwise. Still, he can’t help but feel a little bit bothered whenever Bokuto leaned a little too close to you whenever he spoke, shaking your shoulders or patting you on the back out of enthusiasm. Akaashi figures that he wouldn’t be bothered if you weren’t bothered, but it eats away at him when he doesn’t see you rejecting any of Bokuto’s energy.

“Let’s go,” Akaashi says to you one night. You look at him, tilting your head.

“But what about Bokuto?”

“Coach wanted to talk to him,” Akaashi informs before turning toward the door. He makes a motion, so you shrug and follow. The coach part isn’t a lie, but Akaashi leaves out the part about Bokuto nudging him in the ribs and telling him to spend some “quality alone-time” with you, since it’s too embarrassing.

The two of you walk home with you chatting about the day and how busy it is. Akaashi listens to your lovely voice, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing sound there is; it’s a stark contrast to Bokuto’s yelling, and he swears that he could listen to you talk about anything and still be emotionally invested. That being said, he’s not exactly paying that much attention, because as you continue rambling about how making the costumes for your class play is just too difficult, Akaashi becomes increasingly aware of the space between the two of you. Or rather, the lack thereof.

He estimates a few centimeters. Maybe three or four. He’s not sure, but he’s so tempted to reach for the same fingers that had danced around his countless of times during practice. He wants to feel your hand in his, and instinctively, he moves his hand closer to yours. He wonders if you’ve noticed too, if you’re just as aware of him, as he was of you. Maybe then, he’d feel more confident about his feelings.

Akaashi’s no fool. He knows that he’s in too deep when it came to you, but he also knows that those feelings were already there long before autumn started. Even during the summer, he’s curious to know if you noticed how he was sweating bullets when he entered your well-cooled room, or if you saw how often he found himself looking for you during the training camp. He wants to know if he catches your eye in any sort of way, and he needs the reassurance that in some sort of miraculous way, he makes a stronger impression on you than Bokuto does.

Autumn is when the leaves begin to wither and die, much like Akaashi’s self-confidence. He retracts his hand.

iv.

Winter is when the first snow falls.

Akaashi’s still walking you home, much to your pleasure, and although you’re not entirely sure why Bokuto has to stay after to see the coach so often now, you can’t really complain. It’s a little mean, and you do like Bokuto platonically, but you’re grateful for every second alone that you spend with Akaashi. You’re even more delighted when he becomes more involved with your conversations, speaking more and more. It’s like he finally opened up to you, and you’re ecstatic that you’ve become his confidant.

“It’s getting colder and colder, huh?” you say, bracing yourself as a particularly strong gust of wind blows. You grasp at the hood of your jacket to keep it from blowing off, but you’re still freezing nonetheless.

“Should we stop for hot tea?” Akaashi asks, frowning. “The convenience store is just around the corner.”

“Last one there has to treat!” you declare and break into a dash for the store. He follows behind, jogging rather slowly. You knew that in any circumstance, even if given a thirty minute handicap, Akaashi would probably be able to outrun you, so you know that he’s letting you win when he isn’t instantly right past you.

“I guess I’m treating,” he says, walking toward you when you reach the destination, and you roll your eyes. “Not happy?”

“You didn’t have to let me win, you know?” you chuckle as he opens the door for you. “I can well afford two teas instead of one.”

“But I wanted to treat you,” he answers simply. He grabs two bottles of lukewarm tea, his preferred brand and your favorite brand that he has committed to memory.

Even with the tea in your hand, you still find yourself freezing again the moment you step outside the shop. You try to hide it, but your shiver gives you away, and Akaashi is immediately back to frowning.

“We should get you home quickly,” he decides, picking up his pace. Now it’s your turn to frown; it’d only get colder from here, and if that meant rushed walks every night, you’re devastated that your time with Akaashi would be shortened. It’s silly, and you know that you should put your health first, but you wish that there could be another way. You lag a few steps behind him, hoping that he’d notice, and of course, he does.

He takes a peek behind his shoulder, and while still frowning, matches your pace. The two of you walk in the same comfortable silence that you’ve enjoyed for the past months, and you aren’t thinking about anything particular until you feel something warm against your hand that isn’t the tea. You almost stop breathing but choose to keep quiet as Akaashi’s hand maneuvers itself slowly around yours. He’s painfully deliberate about the entire thing, hesitating at each action and stopping every so often as if fighting with himself. Gently, he rests his finger in between yours, and the grip is so loose that you think your hand might slip out. He braces himself for you to fling your hand away, but when you don’t and instead look at him in shock and confusion, he’s out of words for a proper explanation.

“I thought your hands looked cold,” is the best he can manage, because even if you asked him what he thought he was doing, he doesn’t have a good answer. He’s not thinking straight; if he was, he would’ve asked for permission. “Sorry-“

“Yeah, they are,” you answer quietly, looking at the pavement and coming to a full stop. “Thanks.”

When Akaashi feels your fingers wrap around his hand, he almost thanks the weather for being the way it is, so that he can blame his reddening face on the cold. He gives you a light squeeze, which you return along with a smile from ear to ear and a flush just as severe as his. He feels a little dumb now for being jealous over Boktuo.

“Now we can walk slower, right?” you ask, looking shyly toward him, but are dismayed when he shakes his head.

“We still have to get you home, so you won’t catch a cold.” Always ever so responsible. “But I wouldn’t mind giving you a call after.”

“A really long call?”

“Yeah,” is all he says, smiling too. He’s not sure if he can put what love feels like into proper words, but he supposes that it’d be similar to the feeling of your hand wrapped around his, swinging happily as the two of you walk under the light snowfall.

Winter is cold, really cold, but you’ve found the perfect person to keep you warm.

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#akaashi #akaashi keiji #keiji akaashi #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #keiji akaashi x reader #akaashi suffering #reader insert

266 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years

Text

more ways than one (05)

word count; 5015

summary; the pressure of looking after everyone else all becomes too much, and you snap, but there’s someone there to look after you this time.

notes; make sure to check the warnings for any triggers!

warnings; vivid descriptions fo panic attacks, major anxiety references, mentions of death and threats.

It had been a while since you’d had a chance to go back and see the man you were hiding away. You knew he’d be okay, you’d stocked up the house with snacks, over the past few weeks you’d taught him how to cook basic meals for himself. He seemed to be going through the books lining Derek’s shelves faster than you would have imagined, but then again, he had to fill his days with something.

He was catching on fast. Fast enough that you knew he’d be perfectly fine alone for a week, but you didn’t feel good about the amount of time that had passed. You had spent what had remained of the summer break visiting every day, or every other day in the minimum, and as soon as school had come back, things had caught up. Your studies were fine, but yet another supernatural threat was pressing down on you all, and now there was someone hunting down supernatural creatures around Beacon Hills, almost all of your friends at risk.

A week. A week had passed since you’d last been to visit, and you feared for the mood the man would be in when you returned. He’d opened up to you, enough to have small conversations here and there, but you hadn't progressed much further after his session with answering your questions all those weeks ago. Derek had called, extending his trip with Cora until Christmas, and so a weight had been lifted off of your shoulders in that you didn’t have to find him somewhere new to stay.

One less thing for you to worry about.

You had spent the day with the pack, running over scenarios and situations as you tried to find results, only to come up with dead ends. You were at the end of your tether, there was nothing you could do. As a human, you were for once the safest in the group, you and Stiles not being hunted, and yet everyone else was. You hated it, you hated how useless you felt, and you couldn't even bring yourself to hide the frown on your face when you unlocked the sliding door to the loft and entered the large space.

The sound of a thick book snapping shut and stiff material creaking under the movement of a heavy weight greeted you, and you found V popped up on his elbows, a book sitting on his chest as he peered at you from the couch, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed on you.

“Thought you might not come back this time.”

His voice was low, and you let out a deep sigh, shaking your head and running a hand through your hair as you dropped your bag from your shoulder down to your hand, carrying it over to the couch with you. He moved his legs as you made to sit down, swinging them over the edge of the sofa and making room for you to sit down beside him. You flopped back into the cushions, turning your head to look at him and he raised his eyebrows curiously, placing his book down and sitting up fully, enough to scoot closer to you across the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“I’m not going to leave you, I’m just overwhelmed at the moment.” He hummed in response, before picking his book back up and opening it to it’s place. You weren’t sure what you had expected, he wasn’t well-adjusted yet, and you weren’t exactly seeking comfort, but you’d expected a little more from him than just being ignored as he went back to his book.

Digging through your bag, you pulled out your notebook and placed it on the table, open to the page with all the notes you and Stiles had scribbled down while working through problems earlier. However, no matter how many times you went through your bag, you couldn't find the pen you had been using, and suddenly, you could see it in your mind’s eye, tucked behind your best friend’s ear where he’d placed it before picking up the phone when Scott had called.

You let out a loud sigh, cursing under your breath and tossing your bag aside, dropping your head into your hands for a second and growling under your breath, the noise muffled by your palms, but still perfectly audible to the man you sat with.

“Are you okay?”

“Do I fucking look okay?” You hadn't meant to snap, and he looked taken aback by your outburst, his brows furrowing as his lips twisted down in a frown, your jaw tensing as you dragged your eyes away from his in guilt, searching across the room and finding a pent sitting on the stacks of books, next to a journal you’d left him a while ago to practice learning to write with, and he followed your gaze to it.

Picking up the instrument, he slammed it down on the table before you, nimble fingers pulling back as he jerked away from you like you were a flame that had burned him. “All you had to do was ask.”

The comment made you want to shout again, anger and frustration from the day bubbling up inside of you, and your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to control your rage, instead trying to work through the issue before you, trying to work out the passwords for the list of prices and names for those being hunted.

The evening continued much the same, as the hours passed on you found everything becoming too much. You were stressed, and overly tired, days of barely sleeping taking it’s toll on you as your tether wore thin. Everything from the scraping sound of the paper each time he turned the page, to the sound of Derek’s obnoxiously large clock ticking away was making you even more irritated.

His leg had been bouncing, twitching like Stiles’ would and you’d told him to stop, you’d told him to move up because he felt too close to you, and now he was sitting on the floor. He’d accommodated every silly whim you’d presented him with, and yet you still couldn’t help the growl that came under your breath as his fingernails absentmindedly scratched at the denim of his jeans as he read his book. It all became too much, and you slammed a fist down onto the table, everything a top it rattling as he jumped and looked up at you.

You were fixing him with a hard glare, and for this first time tonight, and in a long while, he fixed you with the same chilling look that had been his default expression when you’d first saved him. “What now?”

His teeth had been gritted as he spoke, and you scoffed at his attitude, shaking your head and crossing your arms as you looked at him. “You’re making this scratchy noise. It’s annoying me.”

“Everything I do seems to be annoying you, tonight.” You grumbled at his comment, pinching the bridge of your nose and you heard him hum to himself, flicking the page of his book extra loudly in protest. “If it’s so awful being here, why don’t you just leave?”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave. I didn’t ask you to be here. I’ve been perfectly fine alone, in all the days you didn’t have time for me.” He muttered the final words, and your eyebrows shut up, getting to your feet and placing your hands on your hips, trying to intimidate him as you towered over him but he got to his full height, and suddenly you were looking up at him as he glared down at you, now feeling much smaller than you did a second ago.

“This is my friend’s place, I’m looking after you! You should fucking leave!”

“And go where? I didn’t ask you to save me! If I’m so much of a burden to you then you should have left me for dead!” The comment made you swallow down thickly, but electricity was zapping through the air with each comment thrown in raised voices and angry shouts between you both, and the fire burning in his eyes only fuelled you on, no matter how much you knew you may regret your words.

“Maybe I should have! It would be a lot fucking easier for me!” His eyes darkened as he looked at you, jaw sealed shut before he schooled his face into a more neutral expression, and his ability to wash your emotions away only added wood to the burning rage within you.

“Do you really want me to leave?”

“I want you to get out of my fucking face is what I want!” You dropped back down onto the couch, hearing him huff out a ‘fine’ as he moved around the room, and you watched him go, shaking your head and rolling your eyes as he dramatically pulled open the loft door, leaving it ajar as his footsteps sounded on the stairs, disappearing into silence as he left.

A cold breeze swept in, cooling your fiery temper, and you shivered to yourself, the room suddenly feeling much larger with just you in it, and you felt increasingly more lonely as you looked around. Stretching out your muscles, you made your way over to the door, sliding it shut just enough to keep the coldness of the night out, and you felt guilty, knowing that the man had stormed out barefoot in just a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

Your attention turned back to that of trying to solve your benefactor issues. Your mind was spinning, your stomach grumbling, and after another half an hour of wavering focus and drifting thoughts, you resigned yourself to making food. It wasn’t until halfway into your prep of the meal that you realised you had accidentally been making enough for two, instinct having taken over, and you sighed as you dished up your own, before leaving the other half int he fridge as leftovers.

Eating along gave you time to think about what you’d done, and you stabbed at the meal, eating slowly on rapidly cooling food as your appetite dwindled, replaced by nauseating guilt that twisted sickeningly in your guts. You washed the dishes and placed them on the rack, hiding in the kitchen, hoping that if you hung out in there long enough, that when you came back through, V would be back, scowling at you from his seat on the couch.

In a bid to occupy your mind, you made your way back to the couch, curling in on yourself as the thin blanket that kept you warm was no longer providing warmth, instead, leaving you feeling as though you were going to catch as chill, and over an hour had passed by since your friend had left, someone you had pushed away instead of letting in, and tears welled in your eyes as you thought about your other friends.

The words on the page seemed to blur the longer you looked at them, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a heavy and hot tear dripping down onto your cheek, and you were quick to wipe it away. You slammed the notebook shut, pulling your legs to your chest and burying your face in your knees, willing back the tears threatening to spill. You were clinging to yourself, rocking back and forth as the silence of the room took over, and you felt like you were sinking, drowning, entirely alone.

You made the split decision to get up, your body barely reacting in time with your movements as you stumbled to your feet, sniffling and blinking back tears as you dragged the door out of your way, not even bothering to close it again before you were searching the building, top to bottom in a weak hope that you may find the man hiding out somewhere as he waited for you to calm down, but you had no such luck. You searched through the outside, wandering so far away from the main building that you had to use the torch on your phone to just find your way, shivering violently by the time you returned alone.

Your skin was cold to the touch, coated in goosebumps from raised hairs as your teeth chattered, and your arms were wrapped tightly around your own body. The only warmth you had was from the tears slowly tracking down your cheek as you cursed to yourself, rubbing at your nose and your eyes, skin sore from salty tears you’d released.

Your breath felt like you were gasping by the time you were stumbling back into the loft, your heart racing, beating almost painfully hard against your ribs, though everything felt like it was in slow motion. You felt weak, your body giving way beneath you as you sobbed, clawing at your chest to pull breaths in, and you couldn’t find a blanket for the life of you. You knew Derek had them here, and your hands were shaking, so much so that as you searched through the boxes and drawers you were practically ripping them from their shelves, leaving them turned over as things clattered to the ground.

You couldn’t save your friends.

You couldn't save one person you found in the street.

You couldn’t even save yourself.

Your knees hit the floor painfully loud, the thud sounding through the room as your hands laced into your hair, tugging at the roots form your stress as you collapsed to the floor, everything around you seeming to blur away as your oncoming panic attack gave you struggles to even breathe, to wound up to even be able to see your surroundings anymore.

It was too much, you were just one person, you were a teenager. Your main concern should be what to wear to prom, whether you would have a date and which colleges to apply to. Every morning you woke up you lived with the constant fear that today may be your last day, that you may have to hold one of your friends as they died and that you may not be able to do anything to help them, that you may lose someone else.

Your phone lay across the room from you, and a brief thought of clarity to call Stiles, or Lydia or Scott, to call any of your friends flashed through your mind but it was dead, too far to reach in your weakened state and drained of battery from being used as a torch even if you did manage to reach it. It felt like everything was against you as your vision faded from the lack of oxygen you were getting into your lungs, your mind spinning on loops, making you feel both sick and dizzy.

Your body curled in on itself on the cold concrete of the loft floors, a chill sweeping across your skin, and you could barely focus when you turned, finding yourself on your back and staring at the high ceilings. A hand found the back of your head, honey brown eyes peering into your own as you were scooped further up. He was kneeling beside you, legs flooded under himself as he lifted you up a little, and your hands found fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer but simultaneously pushing at his chest.

“Y-Y-You left! You a-actually left!” Your words were stuttered out, and he ran a hand over your cheek, eyes wide as he gaped, no idea how to help you, and so in spite of all your struggling, he simply pressed your cheek into his chest, holding you tight to him as you tugged on his shirt. “There are n-no b-blankets, and y-you left!”

“You told me to leave!”

“I didn’t r-really want y-you to!” Your words didn’t make sense, and instead, you just pushed your face into his neck, sobbing into his skin as he held you close. He was stiff and tense, but his arms were wrapped around you and you were clutched to him tightly.

Eventually, he moved, scooping you up under your legs and holding you tightly to him, his legs a little shaky as he carried you over to the couch, settling back into the cushions with your body still wrapped tightly around him.

When your sobs calmed a little, his fingers brushed over your arm, soothing you with the patterns until your fingers undid from his shirt, sitting flat on his chest, one pressing over his heart, feeling it pump steadily under your palm, and your head was cushioned against his shoulder when you pulled back enough to get fresh air.

“You told me to leave.”

This time when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, and you swallowed thickly, sucking your lower lips between your teeth and nibbling on it for a moment. You opened your mouth, willing yourself to reply, but only a broken sob left you, your eyes dry as you were all cried out, but sadness once again surged your system.

He squeezed you tightly once again, his hands stilling, fingers spreading out wide as he held you. “The blankets are stacked in a box beside the door.” You let out a weak laugh, raising your head just enough to look at him, and his lips flicked up at the corners. “You were talking to yourself.”

He shifted you to lie you down on the couch, a yawn on your lips as he padded across the room, fishing out one of the familiar knitted blankets you recognised so well, before he was making his way back over to you, tucking it around your body carefully. He took a seat beside you, and you shuffled, resting your head on his thigh as you let out a shaky breath, your eyes closing as you finally relaxed. “Y’know, I’m supposed to be the one saving you.”

His response was whispered to you, sleep already taking you over as you warmed back up and relaxed happily, one of his hand’s lifting up just enough to settle delicately on his own legs beside your head, his fingers sweeping over your cheekbone. “Maybe we save each other.”

Sleep soon took you over, and you drifted off with the feeling of fingers brushing through your hair, tucking stray strands behind your ears until you were drifting off into unconsciousness, a well-needed sleep. Your body refused to wake until the sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon once again, almost ten hours having passed you by when pale colours were painting the skies as a new day was ushered in.

You jolted upright when the fog over your mind cleared, finding yourself jerkily rising up. There were indents in your cheek from where you’d slept, the man slumped uncomfortably, half keeled over as he dozed, and he slumped further down into the cushions once you left, the weight distribution changing as he huffed in his unconsciousness and rolled over.

You shrugged the blanket from your shoulders, smiling to yourself as you looked down at the man, draping the soft woollen material over his body. Crouching beside him, your fingers brushed the hair from his eyes, and he pushed his face into your touch sleepily, your hand pulling back rapidly when his eyes opened, fluttering just enough to peer at you tiredly.

“You’re leaving again?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be back this afternoon.” His lips flicked up at the sides, and he opened one eye fully to look at you, the other closed, and if you weren’t mistaken, there was an almost cheeky glint in his opened eye.

“Promise?”

You huffed out a laugh, nodding your head. “Yeah, I promise.” You told him about the food you’d left for him, and he nodded, soon drifting back off to sleep, your keys in your hand as you tried to shake yourself off for the drive home.

When you got home, you had taken a shower and changed your clothes, plugging your phone onto charge before getting yourself some breakfast, before calling Stiles to check in with him. He updated you on their progress, because apparently, they had all been working all night too, and had made a little new progress with which or update you on. There were three lists in total, a second banshee from Eichen house had been recruited to assist, and you jotted down everything else, a hand running through the tangles in your hair.

You packed a bag, collecting up some books and a spare charger to leave at Derek’s another hoodie that Stiles had left at your house and forgotten about that you could wear for now, and give to V later on.

Something had shifted between the two of you, something radical had moved between now and last night, having fallen asleep with the man, letting him ease you back from a panic attack, the air surrounding you both felt different. You were almost anxious on the drive back to see him, your fingers tapping against the wheel as you sat outside for a good while, before eventually shaking yourself down for your unnecessary fears, grabbing your bag from the back of your car and taking them up to the oft with you, choosing to prolong your time by taking all of the stairs, giving yourself a chance to talk.

When you opened the door, you found him looking over his own shoulder, back to the mirror hung up on the wall as he tried to reach his cuts, his shirt in a puddle on the floor, and his head whipped around to look up at you as you closed the door. He fixed you with a bright smile - almost dazzling - upon seeing your return to him.

Your anxiety slipped away, and you raised a brow, watching as he bowed at the waist to scoop up his shirt and tug it back over his head. You waved the bag at him, showing him the contents, and his eyes lit up as he spied the collection of books hidden within.

“You brought me books?”

“I brought you the Harry Potter books. They’re very good, and I love them, so don’t fold the pages. I also brought you a bookmark.” You dropped the bag down onto the couch, and he lingered a few feet away from you, and an oddly comfortable silence falling between the two of you. You weren’t sure whether to speak about what happened the night before, or whether to leave it, whether you should thank him again or not.

He broke your train of thought, the wringing of your hands that you hadn't realised you were doing came to a pause as he spoke. “I ate the food that you left.”

“You worked out how to use the microwave?”

“That what?” The two of you were staring at each other with furrowed brows, and your lips parted, silence settling between the two of you, your heart clenching for him when you realised he must have just eaten it cold, and you made a mental note to teach him how to reheat food, later. Your phone rang, the shrill sound of Stiles’ particular ringtone snapped you from your thoughts, and you fumbled into the pocket of your hoodie to find it.

“Hey Sti, what’s up?”

The man across from you stood quietly, moving forward to pick up one of the books, and Stiles took off in an explanation about a breakthrough they had found, the smile dropping from your face as you listened to him. Tapping the front cover of ‘The Philosopher’s Stone’, he took that one, giving you time to talk as he settled on the couch, and you shot him a reassuring smile, before wandering away into the kitchen for some privacy as the joyful expression dropped from your face.

What had felt like a vacation for a very short while, a brief period of happiness, was once again coming crashing down around you. They had passwords to unlock the lists, and your foot tapped against the floor as he updated you on new information that had come to light. At some point, your feet had just felt too heavy underneath you anymore, and so you were leaning against the counter, your body shaking as you listened to Stiles read off the names of your friends, and who was worth how much.

He promised you it would be okay, that you were all doing the best you possibly could to do protect them. You suppressed the sob that wanted to rise in your throat, telling your best friend just how utterly powerless you felt, and he did his best to reassure you. Once he had hung up, you placed the phone down beside you, covering your face with your hands, squeezing your eyes shut as your body trembled.

You weren’t sure how long you were stood there, nor how loud your phone conversations had been, but you didn’t lift your head again until your name was called from the doorway of the kitchen. You were shocked, he’d never used your name before, you knew he may have caught it from the conversations you’d had, and because you’d never formally introduced yourself, you were surprised he’d learnt it at all.

He had a hand on the top of the kitchen doorframe, practically filling the space as he looked at you carefully, and you wiped under your eyes, smiling carefully and pushing your phone into your back pocket after lifting it from the counter. You avoided his eyes, clearing your throat of the lump that had formed, before wiping your clammy hands on your oversized hoodie.

“How far into the book did you get? End of the first chapter yet?”

Your eyes barely flicked up to his as he ignored your words, taking a step towards you before you were looking up again. Your eyes were lined with tears again, and his shoulders slumped as his brows raised, expression morphing into that of a silent question and you swallowed thickly.

“My friends are going to die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

Your voice cracked at the end of your sentence, and he closed the gap between you both, one arm wrapping around your body as the other cupped the back of your head pulling you into him softly. Your knees all but buckled from the compassion he offered you, and you’d been held like this by Stiles many-a-time, but something with V was different, it was more, and you couldn’t tell why.

It wasn’t a burning warmth or a consuming passion, but instead, it was simply a flicker of possibility, the idea that maybe he would come to mean something to you.

He held you up, for as long as he could, before his hands were once again scooping up under your legs to lift you up, and a weak laugh left you, fighting through the tears as deja vu washed over you. He sat down, placing you down beside him, his arm wrapped low around your waist, your legs across his lap as your cheek pressed into his shoulder. His free hand came up, carefully wiping your cheeks free of the tears flowing from your eyes.

He didn’t ask, he didn’t make you talk, not once.

Instead, he held you, picking up his book and balancing it on your stomach as he began into the second, and third chapter of the book you had brought him. By the time he was ending the third, you were beginning to squirm in his arms, wanting to move without disturbing him, and so he placed the bookmark into the fold of the pages, closing it and placing it down beside you both.

“You keep looking after me.”

“Someone has to look after you like you looked after me.”

“And that’s you?” You shuffled, moving to look up at him as he shifted, not looking down at you but instead moving to press his cheek to the top of your head, silently tucking you under his chin.

“It could be.”

You hummed, nodding your head quietly and stretching out your arms. Getting yourself up, his hand on your back gave you an assist, pushing you to your feet and resting on your back to keep you steady as he watched you, and you spun on your heel, new happiness and joy filling you as an idea came to mind. “How about a movie and a pizza?”

“You’re staying?”

“Do you want me to go?” You watched him, a genuine smile on his lips as he stood up beside you, your hands fidgeting in front of yourself, a single brow raised, and he took your hands in his to steady them, much like you had done to him several times over the past few weeks as he’d revealed more and more to you about his history.

“No. I don’t. I like it when you’re here with me.”

“Cool.” You grinned, taking one of your hands from his and fishing your phone from your pocket, pulling it up and opening an app to order a pizza.

“Cool.” He repeated, and you laughed under your breath, shaking your head at the way the word sounded so odd coming from his lips. You moved ordered you both some food, just enough to fill you up, before you were moving away to find the television remotes and instructing him to fetch some drinks from the kitchen as you unfolded the blanket from last night.

In a split-second decision, you caught his wrist in your hand as he went, turning him around as he looked at you quizzically, and you bounded up on your tiptoes, pressing your lips to his cheek. A barely present kiss was left on his skin, your mouth barely brushing his cheek, but the tip of your nose followed as you fell back down onto your feet and turned away from him to the television in order to choose a film, not missing the small smile on his lips that was mirrored on your own.

162 notes · View notes

lilaacstars · 4 years

Text

you’re in my veins (and i can’t get you out).

rating: T | words: 31.227 | pt 2.

read it on ao3

He watches how her eyes grow big after listening to his offer. His eyes fix on her and start to notice the bruises she has close to her scalp, down to her ear, the edge of her jaw and on the visible part of her neck. Her bangs are falling gracefully to the side - too gracefully- but he can take a peek, with the little cat senses he still has left, and see that underneath that perfect hairstyle there are stitches and missing hair.

He gulps, almost choking on his saliva, it feels thick and heavy and his throat has closed, impeding his ability to breathe, but he hasn’t stopped so his body trembles, and it is like he will puke, but there’s only the acid on his stomach, and it goes up as if it was a bubbly chemical reaction, but his throat is still closed, and he just feels as if his whole body will shut down but it’s too awake at the vision of her. And then the sensations pile up, then crumble down, then pile up again, and it’s a cycle of obscure overwhelming emotions that trigger and stop every reaction his body pulls.

It is disgusting, nauseating, gory even.

Upclose, face to face, breathing the same air, the consequences are not an image fabricated by his brain anymore, and yet, he knows there are so many more hidden marks of treachery that will present itself in flesh and pain.

Her lips tremble and her sight finally fixes on his, only to look away a second after.

However, she leans forward, closer to the window.

Adrien takes one step back and that allows Ladybug to come inside the room.

Her steps are careful and light as if she is ready to jump back to the window and run away from here at any given moment. Adrien is sure that it isn't a baseless guess, but what is truly going through her mind is still a cypher.

After standing in the middle of the room and eyeing everywhere around, she finally walks back to stand beside the coffee table and lets out a long sigh.

Next, Ladybug stands close to the window, only giving little steps in a small space. She takes the end of her long braid and starts playing with the end.

He looks at her, hands on his pockets as he fidgets and waits for her to speak, for her to guide him where she needs to be.

“It’s good to see you,” Adrien whispers and takes one step forward.

Ladybug crooks a brow and tightly hugs herself. She doesn’t answer.

“You haven’t been out as Lady Noire in a long time. Is there a reason?” He asks, trying to sound as ignorant as a civilian would be.

Ladybug lets out an amused scoff but there’s no real joy behind it.

Her eyes are focused on the skyline and a thin layer of gleaming tears is set on her eyes.

Adrien gulps, unsure if the reaction has something to do with him or is all about the thoughts she’s been carrying through her night stroll.

The question wouldn’t be an unusual one for a mere civilian. Maybe they wouldn’t be so eager to jump into it, maybe they would ask other questions first, but he was not a mere civilian… well, he was now, but there had been a time where he wasn’t.

No.

He still isn’t a mere character walking down the road. He will never be, and yet that is the path he must pretend to follow.

“This was a mistake,” He hears the whisper as loud as a siren.

He jolts on his spot and takes fast steps towards her. It only makes her jump faster towards the window.

“I- I’m-”

But before he can formulate a phrase on his mind for his mouth to stop the stammering, she is gone.

His eyes follow as she is only a ship in the night between the sea of city lights.

She is gone.

Gone.

Gone forever.

But is she?

She is not truly gone. She is alive, and she is patrolling, and Paris has their heroine back.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t have a partner, he doesn’t have a friend, he doesn’t have his other half.

He is a broken piece of a human that once felt he finally had the piece that could make him endure life, and now she is gone.

Not truly , but he has been left alone with her shadow roaming through the brightest corners of the life of others, yet creeping on the back of his mind, only smiling on his memories, and frowning and avoiding his gaze into the future.

His breath stops once again. One little detail striking like lightning.

She avoided his gaze as if he was a deathly disease.

Could… could she know who he was?

Marinette seems to be aware that he once was something special; someone special. And Ladybug is as smart as her, if not more.

But if she knows, then she wouldn’t have come. If she hates him so much that she couldn’t even bear for him to touch her when she needed someone to lean on (not in the figurative sense) then why would she seek for him? Why would she come to him?

It doesn’t make any sense and yet he can’t shake the thought out of his mind.

And it stays there, like a fly on the wall. As the days pass he will forget about it, and then the buzz of the wings will echo in the chamber of his mind and then it would be the only thing he can focus on.

Not school.

Not Kagami.

Not his friends.

Not Nathalie.

Not his father who finally makes time to have dinner with him.

Nothing at all.

Nothing but her and the knowledge she might have.

The wonder wouldn’t even pretend to hide when the sunset, it would make itself appear in other shapes through dreams. Some of them are tranquil, others are as bitter as reality can be, and yet the bittersweets are the worst. They show the road not taken, they show him taking good decisions after the terrible ones he’s taken, and reward him with what he has always wanted, the unravelling of the secret. Every day he wakes up and knows that he does not deserve any of it, that this can’t happen and that if it does happen he has to make sure he does not gain any redemption from it. And every day he wakes up knowing not only that he has broken every piece of her soul, but also has put her in imminent danger.

When she left he could see her limp, he could see how he prefered a certain grab on the yo-yo, and how short her jumps were in comparison to her usual ones.

There is nothing he can do to make it right, he’s already brought destruction to them, but if he could find a way to protect her, he wouldn’t think it twice.

He is sitting right next to Luka on the café table, as Nino looked for an empty chair he could use, he scribbled on a napkin.

They were waiting for their order to come, only one glass full of fresh water in front of each, and sugar and a plate of napkins in the middle of the round table.

Luka had his phone out, scrolling through, and tapping his foot against the pavement in a comforting rhythm.

This

“Sorry, I found a chair inside almost immediately, but I got bombarded by messages from Lya.”

Luka and Adrien giggled, the first more enthusiastic than the second, but that wasn’t a rare occurrence anymore, so there was no comment about it.

“How many of those texts were pictures?” Luka asks.

“Oh, half of those. She’s so excited that LB is back.”

Adrien stops drawing and looks towards Nino, watching his phone as Luka takes a look through the pictures.

“Ladybug was out?” He asks, pretending to not be incredibly interested. Even if after his breakdown in school he doesn’t think he can get away with it.

“Yeah, there was an akuma attack like an hour and a half ago?” Nino asks and Luka nods at him, “Don’t you have your alarm on?”

“No.” It was too painful to hear the akuma emergency line going off and not being able to do anything.

“Why not? You have to, you’re going to put yourself in danger.

His mouth opens and closes before he can show how uninterested he is in his safety. If he can stumble through the path of an akuma, he might see Ladybug, and no matter how many bruises, cuts, or blood he might lose on the way, all that pain would be worth it.

“It just stresses me out.” He lies, realizing his friends are expecting an answer, “Was she alone?” He can’t help but ask.

The shadow that crosses his friend’s eyes doesn’t startle him. He’s grown accustomed to this reaction.

“Yes.” They nod.

They seem to be interested in continuing this conversation, but Adrien has the call on it, and he doesn’t want any of it. They can’t know how personal it is for him, they can’t know that knowing that she is out there alone makes him feel as if he was cut in half.

“What were you looking for in your phone?” He says, turning his head to Luka, “You looked consumed by your phone.”

“A bike.” He gives a toothy smile.

“You already have one,” Nino says confused.

“I think he means a motorcycle,” Adrien smiles.

“Yes.”

“That’s so awesome,” Adrien chimes, “I have a license for it. My father doesn’t know, of course, but once I’m out of the house I’m buying one bike for myself too. Which ones have you seen?”

And Luka pulls out his phone again, showing the different models he has his eye on.

Adrien is glad that the subject takes a lot of the conversation. As their food and coffees arrive, they’re still talking about the prices, the equipment, the special license he has to have, and how Juleka isn’t very fond of him buying “such a dangerous vehicle”.

“She wants me to buy a car, I’ve tried to let her see that a car doesn’t go with my style.”

“It would be more comfortable for you to carry around your instruments.”

“Yes, but a car will never be cooler than a bike. Also,” He changes the website to a new one, “Look at these amazing suits and helmets.” Nino and Adrien move their chairs closer to Luka to get a better look.

There are different jackets and trousers to suit up for the cold, or not burn yourself with the pipes of the bikes (apparently this wasn’t a rare thing), there are others that only had the objective of making you look while riding. Adrien could understand that sometimes having a cool suit just made things better.

When Luka changes to the helmets, there is one that catches Adrien’s attention.

Is black and matte, with neon green accents around the shield, and all around the curve, as if it was stitched.

“Wow,” He hears himself gasp.

“I liked that one too!” Luka jumps, “But I think I will look like an astronaut, also I don’t think black is my colour.”

“It is mine.”

Nino and Luka laugh.

“When have you ever worn black?” Nino asks and gives him a shake as he hugs him, “I think I’ve seen you only wear it on photoshoots, and you always look so awkward.”

“I look fantastic in black.” Adrien protests, but not truly caring about making a better comeback.

His mind is too busy planning something else.

keep reading in ao3.

#ml fic #miraculous ladybug #ladrien #ladynoir

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janekfan · 4 years

Text

Stipulations

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366131/chapters/64217887

(Kind of heavy? Maybe? If you've experienced some of these themes? Or all of them? At once? I just love to project all over these characters soooo...sorry Jon. You must bear the brunt of my emotional ills :D

Basira is an interesting character to me. Like she's been kept in the dark, Jon has lied and been weird and is "eating" people's fears and I get it? But 177, oof. Take your victim blaming elsewhere! Especially considering she's used him for his powers before and is hypocritical when it comes to Daisy. So yeah. Got feels. Here they are all spilled over a page :D )

Weary, the avatar of the Beholding slipped between shadows in the Institute’s dark corridors, lingering at the door behind which were the key to relieving his acute suffering. He didn’t even notice that his trembling fingers were gripping the handle so tightly they ached, or that his face was pressed against the rough surface of the wood until a sharp sound from behind jolted him out of his ravenous longing.

“Jon.”

Basira. Judging from the livid expression on her face, she’d been repeating his name and was not well pleased with what she saw if the hand on her gun was any indication.

“Step. Away.” And the only reason he did, he could was the whisper of fear the Eye could sense, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “Stop.” Whatever was left of Jon obeyed, his own fear of her very real consequences overriding the desire to takefeedriptearsatiate hunger pangs so deep and ingrained that a part of him he couldn’t remember what it was anymore to not feel starved. Who was he without this need?

Who was he that Basira needed to be afraid of him?

“Ba--”

“Shut up.” He did, with the muted click of teeth and a dry swallow. Without the singular focus of what lay behind the door he felt shaky, weak. Like at any moment his legs would give way and he’d be left here on the floor. It happened sometimes. “What are you doing?” What was he doing? She turned from him. “Nevermind. Come with me.”

“Wh’where?” The fierce glare over her shoulder made him flinch and he followed her without any more questions into his office.

Oh.

“Sit down.” Gratefully. The last time she’d had him stand and, well.

“B’Basira.” He tried again, ashamed of the pleading note that crept into his voice. He wasn’t well. He. He didn’t want to do this but even so, her disgusted disappointment was cutting. He didn’t need to Know to know that she thought him pathetic, that she thought if only he was stronger they wouldn’t have this problem, this inconvenience. This was the only thing he was good for. If he could turn his powers into a tool for them then it proved there was still something human in him, right? Basira was helping him hold onto it, that’s why she asked this of him, because it was helping. From a folder under her arm she pulled a mugshot, sliding it across the desk. Jon didn’t look. He didn’t have to.

“Where is he?” He tried to resist, like she was the one who held the power of compulsion and not him, but he wanted to help. More than anything, he wanted to help fix what he’d done. The headache behind his eyes worsened when the Eye opened, demanding payment he didn’t have to give and dredging up what he needed to Know like drawing water from a depthless well. Static rose in a tide, angry, loud, greedy and he didn’t, there wasn’t enough left, like wringing blood from a stone.

Feed your god, or your god will feed on you.

Basira’s lead pooled on his tongue and fell from his lips and it tasted like ash and ink as the static finally overwhelmed him, rising in a wave, deafening, roaring, punishing him for daring to demand Knowledge for free.

Later. Minutes. Days. Weeks. Years later Jon woke to the rasp of a statement slipping under his door and he descended on it like a vulture, ugly and clawing, weeping with this taste of relief, no matter how small. He read it again and again, the metaphysical equivalent of licking his plate clean and when the static faded and the green was gone from his eyes, Jon jerked back to awareness with a sharp gasp, nauseated with dread realization. Curling up right where he was, Jon covered his face in both hands, stifling his noise and hiding his tears even though no one was left but him.

Hollow in his very bones, like a bird, Jon wished more than anything to fly away from this prison, to somewhere, anywhere, that did not hurt. He wandered familiar halls as an apparition of hunger, subsisting on sips of air and the dust of infinite statements and it felt like punishment. To be kept alive by the Beholding even as it killed him letter by word by sentence by paragraph by--

The tea kettle. Cold. Like him. Frozen and shivering and missing so badly his heart throbbed painfully in his narrow chest. Jon ended up here more often than he wanted to admit. It was a comfort. Security. The last remnant of someone who tolerated him, proof someone had once known him enough to care for him.

Someone else he’d thrown away.

Despite their strained relationship, he was so thankful he still had Basira, that she hadn’t left him in this place alone, even though he knew she couldn’t leave because of him. But he’d always been selfish; there was no reason would that change now. But he could make it up to her. If he was good, if he was helpful, she would reward him and that was more kindness than he deserved. Because he wasn’t supposed to have statements anymore. He was beating this “addiction” she called it. If he could be strong, she wouldn’t have to keep them under lock and key and she knew he wasn’t. He was lucky she was there to do this for him. To protect him when everyone else had gone.

On the days where he couldn’t make it to the tea kettle, Jon lay as still as possible in his office, the migraine caused by demands he didn’t have the resources to spend and spent anyway so bad it took up all the space he had left for worrying about other things. On those days, the hunger was almost quiet, body too full of aches for any one part of him to direct his attention.

Then he lost his ribs. No. Not lost. He had one. Gave the other away. For Daisy. For Basira and he walked into the earth with every intention of rescuing a very important person. The Buried, the Choke, took all the hungry away and replaced it with fear and when he found Daisy and hooked their fingers together in the damp filth of this place, this eternal coffin unending, he never let go.

And still he failed her.

Until he was saved by the familiar hum and hiss of the tape recorders burrowed into his ears and refused to be ignored and they walked out.

Mostly whole.

Daisy. His salvation. His chance to prove he could still be good, passed triumphantly into Basira’s waiting arms. Despite himself, Jon knew he was beaming as much as he still could, hoping for a morsel of praise, the yearning for it almost as debilitating as the emptiness inside him. There was nothing, as he knew there would be, as Basira whisked Daisy away for medical attention and assessment which of course, was a much higher priority than soothing the ego of a monster. The room reeked of the Lonely, made his skin itch and his blood burn because he recognized a familiarity, had laid unconscious claim to it as an assistant. He was the Archivist. It was his job to protect his assistants and though he’d done a piss poor job of it thus far, it didn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his latent power on such a brazen entity that dared touch what was his. He would very much enjoy taking it apart when the time came.

Shaking his head to clear it of these new and aggressive thoughts, Jon stumbled away to clean up, ready to retreat into his sanctuary and rest for a little while until he could be useful again.

It was no longer the kettle he visited. It was the door.

Locked.

Barred.

Basira had forgotten him in favor of Daisy. Of course, she needed her. And didn’t need him for leads and without that slim hope he might get a statement out of it, he found himself going a bit mad with hunger. He Knew where they were in the building, none of them could leave it for long, and the last ounces of his dwindling control were funneled into stopping himself begging for her help.

Basira didn’t, she wouldn’t like that.

Calm. Quiet. Useful. Out of the way. He could be those things. She liked those things.

Jon couldn’t leave the door. Not now when the proximity quelled the myriad whispers overlapping in his mind like a thousand trains of thought. If he listened hard enough, curled up close enough, he could hear them tucked away in their folders and envelopes nestled in boxes, rows of boxes, so many boxes he could eat and eat until, until maybe--

“What are you doing?” With sore, heavy eyes Jon looked up into Basira’s harsh and unforgiving stare and wished for a glimpse of understanding or kindness. “What have you done to your hands?” His hands? It wasn’t him examining his torn up fingers, skin slowly knitting back together, it wasn’t him feeling the twinges of splinters dug in under his broken nails or noticing the smears of red, ruby, rust blood adorning the door like an animal tried to claw their way out. But it was him. Wasn’t it? Trying to claw his way in.

And he didn’t remember doing it.

“I...I, I d’d’dunno.”

“You “dunno?”” She didn’t believe him. And why would she when all he’d done is lie. Like a cat, he was lifted by the bunched up collar at the back of his neck, pushed, stumbling, down the corridors and held at arm's length. Even so, the warmth from her hand, the electric shock her touch sent racing down his spine was heady and distracting. He hadn’t been touched in so long and far too soon it was over as she shoved him into his chair in his office in his wing in his cage of his own making before backing away and locking the door behind her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

If he was quiet she would let him out. He just needed to be patient. That’s all. He was selfish, taking time away from Daisy when she needed it most. Basira did the right thing, protected him from himself. He was lucky to have someone who cared like that, to make the hardest decisions for him and so sorry that he kept causing her problems.

He curled beneath his desk, the small space comforting and contained, keeping all his pieces together as he lost hold of them one by one. So tired, so sick, he tried to sleep and it just wouldn’t come where he was huddled around the aching empty abyss in his body. It was all he could think about, a statement, just one. Please. Anything, a taste. Pacing like a caged tiger when he had a rare burst of frenetic energy, laying on the floor of his office when he collapsed, tugging listlessly at the handle of the door. Crying, crying, crying in his hiding spot but always silent. It wouldn’t do to be heard. Unseen and not heard. That was the best way. And then she would let him out.

She always let him out.

#TMA #The magnus Archives #Jon sims #basira hussain #Daisy Tonner #Jon and Daisy are friends #Bad mental health #PTSD #mental instability #flashbacks #police brutally #starvation #self harm #scratching #manipulati

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xlxndxdx · 4 years

Text

closed starter for @luvnetwork

YEOLJIN WAS GOING TO be sick. he felt light headed, dizzy, nauseated -- everything that just send him spiraling into a panic attack. he knew whenever he started to feel like this, especially when he didn’t have his medication in his system, bad things always followed. the day started with him getting increasingly annoyed by little things until everything began to boil over like a pot of water left on the stove for too long. really, that’s what his emotions were like. one little thing could tip the ice burg and he would snap and tonight wasn’t any different. except for the fact that he was out of medication which only made things that much worse.

HE SIGHS DEEPLY, PACING back and forth in the near by abandoned building he managed to break into just in time for things to start to go haywire. his already high body temperature sky rockets, flames erupting on the ground where he steps. he should be used to it by now but the sight of the bright orange flames leave him startled. okay, just calm down. it’s not that hard, just breathe. he’s struggling as he feels an overwhelming amount of heat in his chest. his hands begin to shake before he completely gives in. dropping to his knees, he lets out a loud scream as flames emitted from his body spread in every direction. with his face in the palms of his hands, he takes a moment to try and calm his breathing before lifting his gaze to look at the aftermath -- only to spot that of a familiar gaze from the door way.

#luvnetwork #& voices in my head and they won't go || yeoljin.

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jafndaegur · 4 years

Text

Noise of Rain | Chapter Nine

Strange Complex Thing of My Love

Sesskag

°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°-.*°

Kikyo stared at the pale cloth that covered the body. Contour of face and chest, she knew them so well. Their hut seemed so quiet without the carry of his voice and she loathed the fact that it was absent—that silent lay as heavy and stagnant as her pregnancy. Every moment she waited for him to stir, his body to creak and groan back to life. But it never did.

Coming off the battlefield had been surreal, like just waking and finding herself on the teetering edge or both sleep and life.

After the body had hit the ground, Kagome’s Ghost General—that was what Kikyo had dubbed the accompanying dead boy—had fled, Kagome slung over his shoulder. They had disappeared into the mountain. Kikyo at that point had been tempted to leave the corpse there, face first in the muck and gore as it had been dropped. But something tugged at her chest and she found herself wandering towards it. Bow and arrows had been dropped. The horse she then guided with the reins towards the mangled body.

Golden eyes gazed unwavering and lifeless out at the massacre.

It took a lot of maneuvering, and she almost gave up, pain in her belly telling her to just leave it. But something refused to let her hands stay. So after what felt like hours, she managed to cross it over the back of her mount.

Now here they were, four days passed, and Kikyo had yet to burn the corpse. It was fine, she'd cremate it.

Swallowing thickly, the thatch flap to the hut fluttered and she forced herself to regain her composure. A messenger peered in.

"Lady Kikyo, the first sacrifice was burned and his ashes are properly sealed for your use. The second sacrifice is restrained and sedated."

She nodded and waved them off.

Before she could visit the sacrifices, she’d assigned a meeting for herself and the shogun. As much as she despised having to put on an act and beg for aid—again—this next move was necessary. Perhaps initially she’d not expected the need to attack Kagome directly. The girl who housed Kikyo’s soul was a minor inconvenience at best. But the body beneath the sheet haunted her, and the idea of putting the soul to rest with Kagome’s blood sewn through the ground dearly eased her conscience. There was a rabid and ravenous ire that was only sated at the thought of the Edo Matriarch’s end. All things would be righted at that moment, the world would have been corrected. Inuyasha’s death before she could cause it herself would be avenged. Her soul would be properly contained within her own body again. And all of this demonic cultivation, which seemed to unite the demons and hanyou and the humans alike, would finally disappear with the quashing of the Burial Mounds village.

The boundaries set by the world which once separated the three would finally be restored.

She pulled herself away from the hut and entered the frozen and cold world. Snow piled in drifts and mounds, and hoofprints lined every which way—clear paths long forgotten.

A warm outer layer made of thatching was left hanging on the outside of her hut. She drew it over her shoulders and shivered when she realized the lingering scent of Inuyasha remained on it. The desire to pitch it was overwhelming and nauseating, but it was too cold to forgo the extra winter protection.

Carrying a brazier in both his hands, the village messenger from earlier waddled over to Kikyo. Wrapping some of the less-hot coals in a thick cloth, she pocketed some of them, enjoying the warming sensation they left against her skin through the material of her garb. With one more breath of relief, she took the brazier and returned into the hut just long enough to dump the coals and embers of fire onto the corpse’s cloth.

Almost immediately the white sheet caught flame.

She hurried from the hut back outside. “I will be staying with the shogun for at least the next day. When I return, I expect the hut Kaede had stayed in to be cleared and prepared for me.”

“Yes Lady Kikyo,” the messenger bowed respectfully.

Again she hated clambering onto her horse with the swell of her belly. But now more than ever did she need this child. It would help emass the Edo Matriarch’s downfall.

“Ensure the fire does not catch the rest of the village,” Kikyo commanded, nose wrinkling when she caught the distinct stench of burning rot.

The messenger assured her he would keep watch.

Riding to the shogun’s stronghold did not take long. Or maybe it did. Everything felt automatic, as if she were merely doing things from muscle memory. To her the scenery faded and appeared in a blink, only existing in a blur of emerald and opal watercolor until they arrived at the red gates that signalled the fort.

Gatekeepers called her arrival and she was admitted in.

Her audience with the shogun was immediate, and they saw her in seemingly before she could shake the snow and sleet from her outer layer. The meeting hall was warm, lit by sconces and a central fire. She made her way over to the lord her watched her with intrigue.

“You are the Shikon Miko.” It wasn’t a question, just a simple fact.

Kikyo inclined her head and slowly knelt before him, keeping her back rigid despite the pain that pulled at her lower spine. Gritting her teeth, she kept her eyes trained on him—intent evaluate his intentions. He seemed more curious than anything, and that made her scoff. A boy at heart it seemed. Fine, boys were emotional and she could use that to her advantage.

“I’m here to seek your assistance,” Kikyo said. “I’d sought a weaker militia and failed to take down the Burial Mounds or the Edo Matriarch. I need help.”

His posture shifted and his eyes widened with his gaze. “You wish to destroy the Edo Matriarch? That’s madness. Anyone across the state would know that she is not something to be trifled with. Rumor and tell have risen very quickly in the wake of her nefarious reputation.”

“Exactly why we must work together,” making a show of it, Kiko balled her fists and dipped her head downwards. “That demonic cultivator killed the father of my child. I want things righted.”

There was a moment of silence, and as tempted as it was to see the warring expressions wage on the man’s face, she knew to remain still and demure. He had to believe her pain. He didn’t know.

He couldn’t know the pain of being separated from half of your soul.

His voice shook a bit, as if outraged. “The partner of the Shikon Miko must have been a great man indeed. Such a crime should not have happened against such an esteemed person like yourself. We will see these wrongs corrected.”

Kikyo had to force her lips not to upturn as she gave a delicate bow.

---

The wind blowing snowflakes and ice into the flare of his bangs surprised him.

When Sesshomaru landed on the border of the Western lands, he found he couldn’t recollect if snow had permeated the grounds. Time flowed differently for him, and probably more akin to not at all, it seemed like just yesterday he’d delivered lotus pods to the miko for her growing village. Whom had been the main reason for his departure.

Traveling to the mainland had been arduous and taxing, not that someone such as himself would quiver at the journey. But it had taken more time than he’d preferred investigating.

On the mainland, there were more people aware of cultivation. He’d been hoping to find out more about the cultivators who relied on resentful energy rather than qi. Much to his disdain, the few records he found were neither helpful—and the few people who did have information did not carry much.

“Most demonic cultivators are quelled and their disciples diminished before they can spread,” one weary passerby had hissed. “I’d cut ties with anyone like that if I were you.”

The information from his trip had been dry and useless. Either being non-pertinent or things he’d discovered from his own observations. Only one sure-fire thing had been confirmed.

If Kagome did not cease her practices, the resentful energy being stored in both the Phoenix Amulet and drawn-in whenever she used Kangaimuryo, her mental state and her physicality would continue to deteriorate until there was nothing left of her. The unorthodox path did not leave its users unscathed.

He turned his direction towards the mountains that housed the Burial Mounds. Nostrils flared. Teeth clenched. Jaw pulled taut. Ill boding pulled at every direction of his instincts and something told him that if he did not fight now—it would be too late to even flee. Snarling and clenching sharp claws into the palms of his hands, Sesshomaru began his return trek towards Kagome.

The scent of blood loomed faint and stale on the wind.

#sesskag #sesshomaru #inuyasha #sesshoumaru x kagome #au: mo dao zu shi #we're finally getting to the thick of it pt1

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