#that energy running through them I can’t even imagine there would be nothing like it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

villainessprefect · 1 year

Text

title: The Best Touch

summary: You're sick and run into the twins who have a brilliant idea to leave you with someone (who isn't the nurse).

ship: Azul x gn!reader

word count: 2,179

note: originally written when I was sick like 2 months ago and just kinda checking it and doing it now lol

Read on AO3!

"Ugh."

You don't bother to hide your nasally groan as the bell rings. It sounds louder than normal, making your headache worse as it feels as if the bell just rang right in your face. You put a hand to your head, hoping that could help soothe the pain. It doesn't.

Despite being friends with troublemakers, you aren't one to ditch class. Prior to coming to this world, you'd always been one to have perfect attendance. Even on your worse days you would show up and force yourself to get through the day. That stubbornness of yours had its pros and cons and today you were feeling the latter. Especially after telling yourself that you managed to make it halfway through the day. If you can live through lunch and stay conscious during the next couple of classes you could go home to a well-deserved nap.

A soft paw comes at your shoulder. You blink, nearly forgetting where you are as you turn to see your other half.

"Hey, henchhuman, you're not looking so great." It's always strange to hear Grim sound worried. For a moment, you think you're imagining it. "You think you can handle the rest of the day? One of us has to pay attention in class, especially in that snoozefest called history."

Well, he tried, you guess. It's not easy for him to loosen up and show concern for too long.

"I'll be fine," you say in your best normal-sounding voice, which fails as it ends in a cough. "Just don't expect me to fight for food in the cafeteria today."

"I don't always need your help!" Grim huffs. Despite pouting, he doesn't hesitate to climb up your arm when offered to him. He perches himself on your shoulder and while you regret the extra weight you figure it might help keep you awake. You wouldn't want to fall with him on your shoulder since you'll never hear the end of it.

"...Maybe I'll grab ya a sandwich just this once."

You smile as you get to your feet. While you doubt that you have the stomach for it, you're grateful.

Being one of the last to leave means the halls are fairly empty. The crowd has already formed near the entrance of the cafeteria and it's not something you're looking forward to. At least, for now, you have room to stumble and sway without bumping into another student. Unnecessary fights and tumbling to the floor are being avoided today. Although the latter might come true with how sluggish you're feeling.

It's fine. Everything will be fine. All you have to do is grab a seat and eat something and then go on with the day. You can do this.

"Lil Shrimpy~!"

You jolt instantly from hearing that nickname. There's only one person who calls you that and while you don't mind him like most, today isn't a day you think you can handle Floyd. You hold your breath and turn to spot not just one eel, but two.

"Keep moving!" Grim hisses in your ear and you whine. The poor creature tries to hide behind you as the twins approach.

"Hey, why didn'tcha answer me calling out to ya earlier?" Floyd asks with a hum. When you don't answer promptly, he tilts his head, heterochromatic eyes boring into yours. "Man, you look worse than a flounder."

"Nothing. I'm fine." You sniffle.

"Y-Yeah! My henchhuman is perfectly fine!" Grim reiterates with all the courage he can muster. Which instantly disappears the moment Floyd's gaze turns to him instead.

"Are you certain?" Jade inquires. "As my dear brother said, you don't look as pristine as you could be, Prefect."

You can't tell if he's poking fun at you or not. He probably is, like always, but at least when you're healthy you can tell. Right now, you don't have the energy to keep up with either of them.

"Someone's lying~! Don'tcha know what happens to liars?" Floyd's voice echoes in your head.

You shut your eyes and try to breathe. A coughing fit feels like its about to burst from your mouth and you raise a hand to cover it. No matter how hard you try to hold it back, it escapes.

"H-Henchhuman?!" Grim shouts in a panic. You feel him clutch onto your shoulder. This is the worst you've sounded all day, so it's no surprise he's worried.

The headache that's been lingering feels worse. Hell, it feels as if the pounding is going to drag your head down to meet with the floor. So much for avoiding that today.

And is it just you or is it getting hotter in here? You've already taken off your jacket. Maybe you should head to the bathroom and splash some cool water on your face.

You try to turn but feel a wave of nausea. You forget that two underwater giants are watching you like prey. They see how you fumble, take a misstep, and slam against the wall. A giggle escapes from one and in this state, you can't tell who.

"Hey!" Grim cries as he falls along with you. While you slide down, he jumps off your shoulder and lands on his hind feet. Paws press against your arm, shaking you weakly. "Dammit! I should have ordered you to stay in bed! We could have totally ditched today."

"Oya? Is someone having trouble with their housemate?" Jade asks.

Grim jumps as the twins hover beside you both. He takes a step back, about to take another before he pauses. The cat hisses, fur standing on end.

"I dunno why you're still here, but they're my henchhuman!"

Floyd laughs, loudly. "The earless seal thinks he can mess with us?" His laugh comes to a sudden halt as he takes a step forward, stomping inches away from your fallen figure. With ease, he picks up the cat by the fur on the back of his neck. "Go ahead and try to hit me if you wana~" Floyd challenges with a sharp grin.

Grim raises his paws in defense. He wants to protect you, really, he does, but how can he? Without you, he can't handle both of them at once! You could distract one or both since they find you more interesting. But left alone with them, it's as if they've become the cats and he's the mouse.

"Now, now, you know fights shouldn't break out in the halls while no one is around," Jade chimes in. The way he says it makes it sound as if he's never done it before. "You should know, Grim, that we're worried about them too."

"Nyah?" Grim blinks, paws dropping. He glares at Jade. "Worried? You two? You probably just want to eat them!"

"Shrimpy does taste delicious!" Floyd chirps and licks his lips. Grim doesn't want to know what that means or if he's playing around or not, and now he really doesn't want to leave you alone with them.

"If you don't hurry, you won't get anything to eat for lunch." Jade takes a step forward and pulls the cat from his brother's grasp. Floyd pouts but lets the cat go free. "We'll make sure the Prefect gets the best care at the nurse's office."

"Ngh..." Grim looks between you and the eels. Your poor defenseless body disappears behind them, both wearing matching, untrustworthy grins. He shuts his eyes, hating that he can't do anything. In a fit of anger, he blows fire at them. It misses, unsurprisingly, but the cat is already on his feet and running to the cafeteria. He can get back up there.

Once the eels are alone, they glance at each other in sync.

"Eh? The nurse? Seriously? That's so boring." Floyd sighs. He moves and picks up your unconscious body with little effort, throwing you over his shoulder. Once he's comfortable with how you’re held, he begins to walk in the opposite direction. "I know a better place to take them~"

~...~

"Azul!" Floyd shouts as he kicks the door open. If it weren't for magical reinforcement, the door would have flown off its hinges.

Used to this action, Azul isn't surprised by the sudden intrusion, but he is still annoyed. He lifts his gaze from the pile of papers on his desk, about to snap at Floyd and demand a reason for his appearance until he sees you hanging over his shoulder.

"Why...do you have the Prefect?" He clears his throat, trying to conceal the hint of worry that seeps out.

"They're sick. So, thought you'd want them." Floyd shrugs nonchalantly, adjusting you as he does.

"What?! You should take them to the nurse's office!" Azul shakes his head as he gets to his feet. Sure, he wouldn't dare turn away a chance to spend time with you, but not when you're being carried like a sack of potatoes by Floyd while you're ill. It would be beneficial to him if he knew beforehand so he could make the proper arrangements to show up with the right cure and have you in debt to him. How can he do anything like that now?!

"Nah, don't wana." Without either consent, he flops you down onto the couch. He doesn't hide his knowing grin as he heads to the door. "Have fun with them!"

Azul catches his brother's figure in the hall and he can't pinpoint who planned this. Not that it mattered, both were going to be working an extra shift for this.

"I swear, those two..." He mumbles and bites down on his tongue when he remembers that he isn't alone.

He steps to the side of the couch, gaze cast upon you. It stings to see you...like this. Weak and fragile. In pain. Taking in a single breath is a toll on your very body as if you're breathing water instead of air. He can only imagine how much pain you're really in. You wouldn't dare to expose all of your pain, even in this state.

Azul frowns, eyes filled with worry. He's thankful that he has the privacy of the VIP room to allow such emotions to show. He can already hear your voice, telling him that he should relax more, no need to be so perfect all the time. But he has to be, for you. He wonders if you do the same. Putting up a front to be strong. Maybe you'd spill more while in a weakened state. It's a hard temptation to pass on.

He lowers himself to your level. Carefully, he takes off a glove and presses his hand against your forehead. He's not surprised by the heat radiating from you. Just how long have you been like this? And how did the twins manage to find you? He could take a simple guess. Your persistence to attend class despite everything is the answer. Or rather, your determination to fight all odds.

"My, my, the Prefect can take care of everyone but themselves," he murmurs, voice so soothing and gentle.

The sound of his voice is comforting, you yearn to hear more. As your eyes flutter open your vision is hazy. It looks almost dreamlike with only Azul being in focus.

"A...zul?" You breathe out. You're dreaming, you have to be. One second you were leaving class and the next the Octavinelle housewarden is in front of you. Definitely a dream. You give him a weak smile and take the hand that is still pressing against your forehead. You pull it down to your cheek, nuzzling into it and keeping it pressed against your skin.

"Cool..." His hand isn't cold, but against your feverish skin, it feels pleasant.

Meanwhile, Azul is frozen by your actions. He's grateful that you aren't fully conscious so you can't see him floundering for words nor the way his cheeks burn. He's almost afraid to say more and wake you once more.

"Prefect?"

You hum in response, but that's all you give him. You've fallen back asleep it seems. Azul lets out a breath he'd been holding. Then his gaze falls back to his hand nestled perfectly against your cheek. It's almost like a dream come true for him to hold you like this...but not while you sleep!

"I have work to do, you know," he says softly as if lightly scolding you. He won't get a response and he doesn't want one. Letting you sleep and recover is what he wants. Besides, you can't see how he has to hide his embarrassment when trapped like this. "And here you are eating up all my time. You're a lucky one. I don't just let anyone do this for free."

He wishes that he could at least prepare some tea or medicine for you to wake up to. Wouldn't that be amazing to wake up to? For now, he has to be content with watching you sleep. It seems that his hand had some healing effect as you’re sleeping easier now compared to earlier. Maybe he'll offer to do this for you again...at a price, of course.

#twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #gn reader #twst x reader #azul ashengrotto x you #octavinelle #grim #jade leech #floyd leech

307 notes · View notes

cows-wearing-my-sweater · 1 year

Text

celestial

word count: 1044 warnings: none notes: i was in the middle of writing a totally different fic but i suddenly got way more inspiration for this so i kinda had to do it LOL (p.s listen to mazzy star or slowdive while u read this)

“I thought I was so obvious about it,” you say with a laugh.

Matty shrugs. “Maybe I just couldn’t believe I deserve someone like you.”

You tap his shoe with yours, a simple sign of affection. It’s easy with him. It’s easy to say nothing and everything while you lie next to Matty on your rooftop in the dead of night. It’s that early summer sort of night, the type where the air smells sweet and cool, and the stars are brighter than you previously remembered. You wonder if the dot in the sky that seems to sparkle is Venus. A moment of comfortable quiet falls before you prod him further. “Someone like me?”

“Well, yeah.” Matty says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re just… you. It feels like I’m doing you a disservice when I try to find something I can compare you to. ‘Course I didn’t think someone like you was gonna be fucking in love with me. Not after I’ve acted like a twat so much,” he adds.

You hum thoughtfully at this. Your hand searches for his in the dark, and when you find it you link your pinky fingers together. You’ve always done this – the motion is second nature now. You like to imagine you can feel electric pulses running between the two bodies through such a small action, like you’re two parts bonding into a whole. “You’re not that much of a twat,” you tease him. “I’d still like you even if you were. You’re just too good.”

“You’re crazy,” Matty tells you affectionately.

“Says you.”

Matty doesn’t respond, but taps your foot. It means “I love you.”

You bring your focus back up to the stars and point out a constellation to Matty. You don’t really see the shapes they supposedly make, but you know they’re there regardless. “It always amazes me that these are the same stars that have always been watching us. It’s the same sky and moon too. They’re constants.” You say this more to yourself than to Matty, but he listens nonetheless. “So much has changed but it’s still the same universe. We’re still so small and it’s still so big.”

Matty studies you while you speak. Your eyes reflect like pools of the celestial sky; he could dive in them and be bathed in starlight. He could reach out and touch your skin and it would burn him, just as if he had touched a star. His fingers beg to trace your lips in an attempt to capture the sounds that escape them; it equates to hearing a beautiful orchestra for the very first time.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you point out. You had been speaking for quite awhile, completely uninterrupted. Usually Matty would have thrown in his own thoughts by now, but he’s still just watching you speak.

“Am I?” he asks with a frown.

You nod and slip your hand from his, raising it to poke his temple with your index finger. “What’s going on in there?”

Matty grins at you. He’s been waiting for this opportunity. “D’you really wanna know?”

“Yes, idiot, of course I do/”

A look of satisfaction appears upon Matty’s face. “I’ve been thinking about you and what you’re like and how I still get surprised that you’re in love with me the same way I am with you. And I’m in love with the way you love, [Y/N], you have so much affection for such beautiful things. You make me feel like a beautiful thing with your love.” You take note of the familiar glint in his eyes, the way he seems to emanate energy when he gets excited and can’t stop rambling. “There’s a natural sort of beauty about you and some days I’m not sure a world like this could have produced something so perfect. It’s like… you must have been sculpted from some celestial body that we haven’t discovered yet. If there were some kind of divine power, you’d be the reason I'd believe in it.”

You bring yourself closer to Matty and nestle yourself by his side, his arm wrapping around you. “I was right when I said you’re just too good.” You think hard on what to say next, turning Matty’s own words over in your head again and again. It’s more than difficult to be so effortlessly poetic in the moment the way Matty is. You tell him this. “I wish I could place you right inside my head so you would be able to see just how much you occupy my mind every single day. You’re everywhere I look and my love for you follows. It lives where I live.”

Matty leans into you further, turns his head to rest on yours. He needs to breathe you in. “You know when something just feels really right, like it’s where you’re supposed to be?” he asks. His voice is softer now, his lips closer to your ear.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“This is one of those things. Being with you, I mean.”

“I could’ve told you that from day one,” you tease. “You were too busy thinking I couldn’t be in love with you.”

Matty gasps dramatically. “I cannot believe you’d speak to me like that after I poured my heart out to you.”

You pointedly ignore this. Tree branches up above you sprawl across the sky, reaching out into nothingness. Gentle breeze shakes them, leaves rattling in unison. The sound makes you tired, and Matty’s body warmth certainly doesn’t help. You stifle a yawn, but not without Matty noticing.

“You wanna go back inside, darling?”

You give a noncommittal shrug. Truthfully, you want to stay out here all night, watch the sky slowly turn to a rosy pink and hear the familiar bird calls; you want to watch things start anew. You’re just as content with the thought of a soft bed though, and, more importantly, Matty’s rhythmic breathing to lull you off to sleep.

The stars twinkle kindly down upon you and your lover. You hope that when you die you become a big ball of light. You hope that Matty joins you in that way, nothing but pure energy, withstanding time and space. You could be eternalized in this universe with him.

#who's gonna stargaze like this with me fr though #matty healy #matty healy fic #matty healy x reader #fluff #naomi's writing !

217 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 7 months

Text

Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 10) -- a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Chapter 10

There’s something wrong with your house, but you knew that when you bought it. As summer ends and the neighborhood kids go back to school, it begins to feel like there’s something wrong with the neighborhood, too. Keigo and the others haven’t found Dabi’s conjurer yet, and with school back in session and two of the former ghosts in the neighborhood going to and from the same place five days a week, the likelihood that the conjurer will find the neighborhood before he’s found and killed feels higher than it should be. You’re worried about that, distantly. If Garaki comes here, it won’t be you he’s after.

You and Aizawa are monitoring any mention or recurrence of any of the aliases Tomura’s conjurer has gone by, but there’s no sign of him. It also seems to have been a long time since he summoned and bound a ghost. You got sick of running messages back and forth between Aizawa and Mr. Yagi, so you finally introduced them, and through a mix of Aizawa’s contacts, Mr. Yagi’s contacts, and former and current ghosts Hizashi knows, you were able to determine that nobody’s created a new haunt in at least a decade. “I don’t understand,” you said. “Did it go out of style or something?”

“It became too dangerous, most likely.” Aizawa turned to his copy of the map and began marking through former haunts, until the entire map was marked in red. “All of these were destroyed by Mr. Yagi and his master. Any conjurer summoning a ghost in this country over the past hundred years was taking a significant risk. Why would they do that when they could just leave?”

“Would they just leave?” You looked to Mr. Yagi.

“It’s possible,” Mr. Yagi allowed. “My master and I did our job well. Even if we missed one.”

“There was nothing to miss. In spite of his overall unpleasantness, Tomura has yet to truly harm anyone,” Aizawa said. Mr. Yagi glanced meaningfully at you. “That doesn’t count.”

You weren’t pleased with the characterization, but it wasn’t worth disputing. Regardless of what anyone in the neighborhood thinks about your relationship with Tomura, they’re at least pleased that it makes him easier to deal with and marginally more interested in helping the neighborhood defend itself. Tomura, meanwhile, notices less and less of what’s going on outside the property line. Most of his focus – all of his focus, really – is on you.

As far as you can tell, he stays incorporeal most of the day, conserving energy so he can materialize fully once you’re home. What happens when you’re home varies. Sometimes he follows you, marking your every move, asking questions about everything nothing, questions that lead and questions whose answers you can’t imagine he cares about. Sometimes he tries to help you with whatever you’re doing, because the sooner you’re done with it, the sooner you can focus all your attention on him. And sometimes he’s not interested in waiting for anything at all. Sometimes he follows you up to your room and pounces on you before you’re even finished changing out of your work clothes.

Today is one of those days, and Tomura’s gotten strategic. You wore a dress to work, with tights underneath because you’re paranoid about clothing malfunctions, and he doesn’t grab you until after you’ve taken them off. Then he pulls you away from your closet, pushes you down on the bed, and pushes your legs apart. This, or things like this, have happened enough that you can sort of keep your wits about you. “Tomura, the door –”

It shuts, keeping Phantom out. The two of you learned that lesson the hard way. Tomura pushed you down in the middle of the bed, but now he pulls you to the end of it, until your legs are dangling over the edge. They’re unsupported for only a second before he props them on his shoulders. It’s embarrassing that you’re so slow on the uptake, but when you figure it out, you sit partway up in shock, staring as Tomura grins up at you from between your legs. “What are you doing?” you ask weakly.

“What does it look like?” Tomura looks way too pleased with himself in the split second before his head disappears under your dress.

He’ll stop if you tell him to. Sometimes you do, and he always complains, but he never refuses. Your head is spinning, and you make one last effort to slow things down. “I can’t reach you from up here.”

His voice is muffled. “Wait your turn,” he says, and a moment later you feel an almost-experimental lap of his tongue against your clit. “I had to wait all day.”

The idea of a human man waiting all day for you to come home so he can throw you on the bed and eat you out is absolutely ridiculous. But Tomura’s a ghost, not a human. You’re not even sure where he got the idea of eating somebody out in the first place. “Have you –” you stutter as he licks again, slower and with more pressure than before. “Have you been watching porn?”

“What’s porn?” Tomura sounds thoroughly uninterested, which is a good thing for you. You don’t want to explain – well, at the moment you’re not good for explaining much of anything. Tomura’s hair tickles against the insides of your thighs, and his hands press eagerly into your hips. Your stomach lurches. “Stop moving. Why are you trying to –”

“The marks.” Your heart is hammering, your body torn between the impulse to lie back and spread your legs wider and the impulse to get up and run. “People will see them. They’ll see them and they’ll know –”

“I don’t care if people know.”

“I do. My friends – my boss –” It gets worse the longer you think about it. “I don’t want them to know what we do.”

Part of you wonders if you’re being ridiculous. You’re an adult, and if you were with a human boyfriend, everyone would assume you were having sex with him. Then again, if you were having sex with a human, you wouldn’t wind up with ghost handprints on your hips that your boss is going to see through your clothes. And Tomura’s not your boyfriend. “I only leave marks when I want to,” Tomura says. He emerges from under your dress, his hair messy and his mouth wet. “You have enough already. Nobody’s going to get confused.”

“So you won’t leave them here?” you ask, and Tomura shakes his head. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

He disappears under your dress again, and you lie back on the bed. The impulse to spread your legs wider is still there, and when Tomura runs his tongue over the length of your entrance before closing his lips around your clit, you give in without a fight. The house is alive around you, humming with electricity and creaking slightly in the early-autumn wind. It’s quiet in your room other than your own harsh, unsteady breathing and the increasingly obscene sounds emanating from under your skirt.

Tomura’s never done this before, so he doesn’t have any bad habits, and based on the direction his explorations take, he’s well on his way to developing good ones. Your entire body feels like it’s being tied in knots, knots that get tighter with every swipe of his tongue. You’re trying not to move, to arch your back or buck your hips. You’re worried that if he has to try too hard to hold you down, he’ll forget about his promise not to leave marks. But in your efforts to stay still, you completely forget about staying quiet.

At first it’s just quiet, desperate sounds leaving your mouth – little gasps, split up here and there with moans when he sucks on your clit or gives your entrance a long, slow lick that makes you wish for something, anything inside you. You could ask Tomura to finger you, and the thought sits fully formed on the tip of your tongue, only to disintegrate when he pushes your legs a little further apart and licks inside of you. The rush of heat that sweeps through you is almost overwhelming. “Tomura –”

“What?” He stops, which was absolutely not what you wanted to happen. You unclench one hand from the blankets on the bed to hit yourself in the forehead. “Am I doing it wrong or something?”

“N-no,” you stammer. You’ve gone from having to convince Tomura that his technique could use some work to having him ask on his own, which is really great for any time except now. “I just, um – no. You’re good. Really good. That’s why I said your name.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say, wondering why his voice sounds like that. “I don’t want you to stop. Tomura, please don’t –”

You break off in a gasp. Tomura was never the most methodical about this, but he’s thrown himself back into it with an absurd amount of enthusiasm. You feel like you might pass out. It’s hard to think, but you don’t want him to stop again, so you talk, struggling to breathe. “You’re so good at this,” you manage to say. “You’re doing so well. I don’t want you to stop. Tomura, please – ah –”

His grip on your hips tightens. You think you hear him whine. But his lips close around your clit again, teasing you with his tongue, and you lose the ability to focus on anything else. Unclenching your hands from the sheets feels impossible, so you bite your lip instead, managing to restrict the sounds you make as you come to a few desperate moans. In the past you’ve had to tell Tomura to stop or push him away to avoid getting overstimulated, but this time he lets you go in a hurry, emerging from under your dress and scrambling up onto the bed. His mouth and chin are wet and there’s an almost frantic look in his eyes.

“Tomura,” you say, puzzled and breathless. “Are you okay?”

“Tell me again.” Tomura’s mouth presses against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips. He speaks without pulling away. “I did it right. Tell me –”

Now you get it. “You were perfect,” you say, and Tomura presses himself against you, grinding against your thigh. “You did such a good job. You made me feel so good, Tomura. Nobody’s ever made me feel like you do.”

It’s not empty flattery, as much as you might wish it was. You sit up, rolling Tomura from his side to his back and undoing his pants. His cock springs free, and like always, you’re surprised at how big he is – but the few seconds you take to stare is too long for Tomura to wait. His hips thrust uselessly upwards, seeking your hands, and you oblige in a hurry, stroking idly while you look him over. His face is red, the color extending down his neck and beneath his shirt, and his blue-grey hair is glued to his neck and forehead with sweat. He has longer eyelashes than you thought he did. His eyes are dilated to the point where you’re shocked he can see. You’re sure you look like a mess right now. There’s no way you look anything close to this.

“You’re pretty,” you say without thinking. Tomura’s mouth falls open and a moan escapes him. His hips jerk frantically against your hands as you continue to stroke his cock, as you slide one hand between his legs to fondle him. “You’re so pretty, Tomura. And you make such pretty sounds, too. Listening to you the first time you touched yourself turned me on so bad. I kept imagining what you must have looked like – all sweaty and desperate and so, so pretty –”

Dirty talk never used to be your thing, and this barely counts, but the effect it has on Tomura is mesmerizing. He’s squirming on the bed, worse than you were by a long shot, his hands grasping the sheets or yanking at his shirt. You see his hand rise to scratch at his neck and you stop fondling him to pull it away. “You look even better than I imagined,” you say, holding his hand even as his grip tightens almost to the point of pain. “You look so pretty like this. And the way you sound – there’s nobody in the world who sounds as pretty as you do. You did so well for me just now. Are you close?”

The sound he makes in response is somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and you think, like you always do, that the two of you need to work out how to come at the same time. Touching him invariably winds you up again, and he’s too impatient to let you touch him first. “You’re so good, Tomura,” you say. You can feel the tension in his body increasing, the movements of his hips growing sharp and uneven, and you drag his hand to your mouth, speaking through his fingers. “You’re perfect.”

You usually try to contain the mess he makes with your mouth, but you’re slow this time, too busy watching him fight to hold onto his physical form in the face of an orgasm. Most of his cum winds up on your dress, although some of it ends up on your face. You can live with that, so long as you don’t have to change the sheets on the bed,

You wipe your face with your sleeve and lick your lips, working off a vague sense that it would be rude to wipe your mouth. Guys who want you to swallow get offended by stuff like that. “What does it taste like?” Tomura asks in that raspy, breathless voice that always winds you up.

“It doesn’t taste like anything.” You’re almost eternally grateful for that.

“What do you taste like?”

You cringe a little bit. “Not everything tastes like something else.”

There’s a pattern to things now. Tomura usually dematerializes for a while after the two of you are done, and you do whatever you need to do – showering, to start with – until he comes back. Then you negotiate about the rest of the night, Tomura wanting more, you reminding him that there aren’t unlimited supplies of life-force and doing more today imperils his chances for tomorrow. Most of the time you win. If the pattern is followed, he should be dematerializing right around now. You get up.

Or try to. Tomura grabs you and pulls you back. “Where are you going?”

“The same place I always go.” You try to peel yourself out of his arms, but it doesn’t work. “What? You’re not going to let me go?”

“No. You won’t let me go with you.”

“You don’t need to clean up,” you remind him. “You’ll be fine as soon as you dematerialize and come back.”

“I don’t want to.” One of Tomura’s legs hooks over your hip to hold you in place, another one of those weird things he does that reminds you he’s got no idea how straight guys are supposed to behave. “Don’t leave.”

You don’t want to deal with this right now. You need time alone after you and Tomura hook up to get your head screwed on straight, to remind yourself that this is insane and not normal, to keep it all in perspective. But your track record for getting away from Tomura when he wants to hold onto you is not good, and he’s never acted like this before. You let him pull you back onto the bed. At first he curls himself around you, almost like the two of you are spooning, but then he changes his mind, pushing and pulling at you until you realize that he’s after a complete switch in positions. “If you wanted to be the little spoon, you could just ask.”

“What’s the little spoon?”

“The person in the position you are right now.” You adjust your arm around his waist and press against him from behind. “This is called spooning.”

“Why?”

“Because it looks the way spoons look if you line them up properly in the drawer instead of just throwing them in.” You’re guilty of the latter, but in your defense, you’re usually in a hurry. Tomura makes a skeptical sound. “I’ll show you later.”

He’s cold, but you’re still overheated, and holding him like this helps you cool down. It would help you settle your mind if you weren’t still confused about why this is happening. You could ask Tomura, but when it comes to talking about how he feels, he’s a typical guy. It’s about the only thing about him that’s typical. Tomura doesn’t know what he’s supposed to want, and you have a feeling that he wouldn’t care even if he knew. He wants the things he wants, and while he’s not great at communicating them, you usually figure out where he’s going with it eventually.

It’s quiet for a while, and Tomura’s the one to break the silence. “Did you mean what you said?”

You don’t pretend you don’t understand what he means. “I meant it,” you say. You’re not an expert in praise kinks, but you’re pretty sure it doesn’t work if the praise is false. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

Something odd happens to Tomura then – he shivers, or his embodied form fails for a moment, and you instinctively tighten your grip on him. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re pretty, too,” Tomura says instead of answering. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you say. You need to shower, but you can shower later. You adjust your arms around Tomura again and close your eyes.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but you were up late last night and early this morning, and this afternoon’s hookup wore you out more than expected. You don’t sleep for long, but Tomura’s gone when you wake up. You’re curled up around the space where he used to be. You wonder how long it was before he left, and why it’s okay for him to leave you when you’re not supposed to leave him. You hate how lonely it makes you feel.

But you shake it off, like you do any time you start feeling that way about a ghost that can’t understand human feelings, and proceed with the rest of the night. And the rest of the night goes exactly like it usually does. You shower, start the laundry, start making dinner – and Tomura shadows you, angling for a second hookup. He’s getting strategic about that, too.

“You like it when I use my mouth,” he says. “Better than my fingers.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You focus on the food you’re trying to cook, reminding yourself firmly that you’re hungry, not horny. You turn the question around on him. “Which do you prefer? Handjobs or blowjobs?”

“Handjobs,” Tomura says without hesitating. You blink. “You still use your mouth a little bit. And you can talk.”

“The talking really does it for you,” you muse, even though winding Tomura up is the last thing you should be doing if you want to eat dinner any time soon. “Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting. I like your voice.”

That’s not what you expected him to say. You set down your knife so you won’t amputate your fingers and focus on him. He’s looking away, scowling. “You talked to me. I couldn’t figure out how to talk back at first, so I listened. I like your voice.”

“I like yours, too,” you say. Then you think about drowning yourself in the sink and ask a question before Tomura can get too smug about it. “How soon did you talk to me after you figured it out?”

“As soon as I figured it out.” Tomura won’t look at you. “I messed it up the first time and you ran away.”

“You got angry. I didn’t know what you’d do.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you. Or Phantom.” Phantom’s been poking around by Tomura’s feet, pretending she’s not hoping he’ll drop some food. Sure enough, he steals a piece of the carrot you just sliced and drops it on the floor for her. “I helped you before. You knew that.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do when you got angry.” You don’t want to have this conversation again. “I still don’t know.”

“But you’re not scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you.” You startle as Tomura’s arms loop around your waist, as his chin notches over your shoulder. “You figured out how to talk just so you could talk to me?”

“I needed to learn anyway,” Tomura says. There’s a pause. “Yeah, I did. So what?”

“Nothing,” you say. Tomura thinks you’re pretty. Tomura taught himself how to materialize and talk so he could talk to you. It’s a good thing he can’t see your face right now. You’re finding it hard not to smile.

Your phone rings from the living room, and you go to investigate it. It’s Aizawa, so you pick up. “What?”

“One of the unbound ghosts has gone missing,” Aizawa says. “When was the last time you ran the search for Garaki?”

“Last week,” you say. You run the search every week. “Do you want me to run it again tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Aizawa says. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” you protest. “I can’t go in after hours. Mr. Yagi –”

“Call him and ask.” Aizawa hangs up the phone.

“Asshole,” you mutter, and you go ahead and call Mr. Yagi. He picks up on the second ring. “Sir, Aizawa’s worried about something and he wants me to check the database again tonight.”

“Of course,” Mr. Yagi says at once. You grit your teeth. “Update me on what you find, if you find anything. Izuku’s working on generating a map for all the conjurers on the list.”

“And Aizawa wants to come with me,” you add. “That’s not policy, is it?”

“Technically, the database is public record,” Mr. Yagi reminds you. “Just make sure no one spots you.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. You hope he can’t tell that you were hoping he’d say no.

Tomura follows you as you change into your street clothes, clearly unhappy. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the office. I won’t be long.” You stick your head out the front door and realize that it’s gotten colder since the sun went down. You find a hoodie and pull it on. “Aizawa’s just being paranoid.”

“He’s outside,” Tomura says. You don’t question how he knows that. “You didn’t eat yet.”

“I’ll eat when I get back,” you say. You lift your bracelets out of the bowl where you keep your keys and slide them on, then tuck your keys into your pocket before turning to Tomura. He’s either pouting or sulking. “Don’t do that. I’ll be home soon.”

Tomura’s frown deepens and he dematerializes, which annoys you. It’s not like you wanted this to happen. “I was going to give you a kiss goodbye, but since you’re going to be like this –”

“I’m not.” Tomura materializes again, right in front of you, and pushes you back against the wall for a kiss. You feel an odd tingling where his hands touch you and get the sneaking suspicion that he’s marking you again, but it’s only on your shoulders, and it’s not like Aizawa will be able to see it. Tomura draws away. “Go.”

You leave, your head spinning a little bit, and find Aizawa standing just outside the fence. There’s a suspicious-looking bag slung over his shoulder. “We’re not breaking in,” you say.

Aizawa ignores you. He gets into the passenger seat of your car as soon as you unlock it, and the two of you drive out of your neighborhood in complete silence. You’re not pleased with this, and the bad vibes Aizawa’s giving off prove that Tomura’s moods aren’t the only ones that can affect other people. You don’t speak until you’re halfway there. “So what’s up with this ghost who went missing?”

“They haunted an apartment building that came down fifteen years ago. They’ve stayed in the vicinity of their old haunt,” Aizawa says. “We sent Keigo and the others to speak to them, to see if they’d seen or heard anything. There was no sign of them anywhere in the city.”

“Which means – what?” you ask. Aizawa doesn’t answer, and it pisses you off. “They could have just left.”

“A ghost like that doesn’t just leave.”

“Maybe they decided to,” you argue. “Or they could have embodied themselves. There are a lot of things that could have happened that aren’t ‘they got snatched by a conjurer’. Can ghosts even be killed?”

Mr. Yagi said they could, but he also didn’t tell you how. “They can,” Aizawa says shortly. “If they clash with a being of greater power – another ghost, or a conjurer – their spirit can be blasted apart and scattered. Each shred retains some small piece of consciousness, but there are so many that there’s no way to piece them back together.”

“Conjurers can do that?”

“They threaten it when binding unwilling ghosts,” Aizawa says. “Eri and Magne both report receiving that threat, although it’s doubtful that Chisaki could have carried it out, given how easily Hizashi defeated him.”

You never appreciate a reminder of how strong Hizashi is. It makes it harder not to be scared of him. “The worst a conjurer can do to a human is kill them,” Aizawa continues. “The worst that can be done to a ghost condemns them to eternal torment. Most ghosts are hesitant to confront a conjurer, and the fear remains even once they’re embodied permanently. We were surprised that Tomura was able to convince Atsuhiro.”

You were surprised, too. But you’ve got something else on your mind. “So it’s just a power game. They clash and the strongest one wins,” you clarify, and Aizawa nods. “What if they’re equally powerful?”

“Then it comes down to a test of will,” Aizawa says. “The stronger-willed of the two will win, and in ghost-conjurer conflicts, the conjurer is the stronger one.”

“Why?”

“They’re human,” Aizawa says simply. “Humans don’t want to die.”

It’s quiet again in the car. You make the turn into the courthouse parking lot and choose a spot that’s hard to see on the security cameras. Aizawa speaks again as you’re turning off the engine. “If you’re worried about Tomura, don’t. There’s no conjurer on the planet stupid enough to cross your property line.”

“I’m not worried about Tomura,” you say. You’re lying. “What’s in the bag?”

Aizawa unzips it, revealing – “A gun?” you squeak. “There are metal detectors. You can’t bring that in!”

“The metal detectors are on the way into the courthouse, not the public defenders’ office.” Aizawa zips up the bag again. “Conjurers are still human. It takes a lot of ghostly power to stop a bullet.”

You were already unhappy about this whole thing. Now it’s worse. You pull up your hood and get out of the car. “Just keep it hidden. Mr. Yagi told us not to be seen.”

The two of you sneak across the parking lot, keeping to the shadows. If anybody spots you, you look suspicious as hell. You unlock the door to the office, lock it again behind Aizawa and yourself, and sneak through the halls until you reach your cubicle. “I’m just running the Garaki search again,” you warn. “Then I’m out.”

“Fine.” Aizawa leans against the wall behind you, scanning the office.

He’s acting like he thinks someone’s in here, hunting the two of you. It’s making you uneasy. You ignore it as best you can and focus on the search, cross-referencing both identities and coming up with the same points of connection as always. Then, because you got dragged out here and you might as well be thorough, you focus on the city Aizawa’s worried about and run a library search for public records-adjacent documents – the kind of things that are publicly available, but aren’t considered national government property. When you run the wider search, something pops up that didn’t before; a business license, for a clinic in the same city. You draw Aizawa’s attention to it and he pulls out his phone to search. Meanwhile, you keep looking. You find a record of property taxes on the location of the clinic, paid by check. There’s a scan of the checks attached, with the same name over and over again – Garaki Kyudai.

Aizawa swears. “He’s not listed as one of the staff – he’s listed as the clinic’s founder. It’s been there for decades. Long enough to have summoned that ghost.”

“Why would he kill his own ghost? I thought they avoided killing conduits.” There’s a newspaper article, a recent one. You try to open it, hit a paywall, and start looking for a way around it. “Have you heard from Keigo and the others since they said they couldn’t find the ghost?”

“No.” When you glance back at Aizawa, he’s got his phone to his ear.

You get around the paywall and start reading. The article’s about the sale of historic old house in the city, one that’s been in the same family – the Ujiko family, fuck – for over a hundred years. It went on the market last week, by order of the last descendent of the Ujiko family, and – “Aizawa, I’ve got a picture of him!”

“Print it,” Aizawa orders. You do, in color, and meanwhile, whoever Aizawa’s trying to call picks up the phone. “Keigo, where are you?”

You can hear Keigo loud and clear, even though he’s not on speaker. “We’re on our way home. Can you give us a ride back from the station? It was supposed to be Jin’s mom’s turn, but it got kind of late.”

Aizawa glances at you. “Sure, but somebody has to sit in the back,” you say. You hop up to retrieve the article from the printer and come back. “Ask him if there was any sign of ghostly power in the city. Specifically in the neighborhoods. Um –”

You scan the article, pass the name to Aizawa, and wait. “No,” Atsuhiro says into the phone. “We found nothing, not even traces. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll meet you at the train station.” Aizawa hangs up the phone and turns to you. “Garaki was there, now he isn’t, and a ghost is gone. We need to figure out where he went.”

“I’ll see if there’s a forwarding address.” You find the name of the realtor involved with selling the house, pick up your work phone, and make a call. It’s after hours, but a realtor selling a house this fancy might pick up.

Aizawa is tapping his foot, clearly impatient, while the phone rings twice, then picks up. You leap into the conversation first. “Hello, this is –” you check the article for the reporter’s name and borrow it as an alias. “I made an error in the article I wrote about the house and misquoted the doctor. Would you happen to know where I could get ahold of him to correct it?”

Realtors are a lot more gullible than you thought they were. You find a pen but not a piece of paper and end up scribbling the address on the back of your hand. It doesn’t look familiar, which is a good thing. “It’s not here.”

“We need to keep it that way. He’ll have to be lured even further away.” Aizawa slides the printed-out article into his bag. “For now, we need to retrieve the others.”

The two of you sneak back out to your car. You drive to the train station, sticking to the speed limit like your life depends on it, while Aizawa peruses the newspaper article for more details. “Garaki is older than we thought. At least old enough to have summoned Tomura – but he would have summoned Tomura before Dabi. It doesn’t make sense unless he lost a significant amount of power in the interim, which wouldn’t have happened if he was using Tomura as a conduit.”

“I don’t think it was him,” you say.

“The evidence is more compelling the other way,” Aizawa agrees, “but we can’t rule anything out.”

“If we can’t rule anything out, then we need to think about whether he’s Hizashi’s conjurer,” you say. You see Aizawa’s shoulders stiffen. “If he’s two hundred and fifty years old, he’s old enough to have summoned Hizashi, too – and since Hizashi wanted to escape the world between, he wouldn’t have had to try too hard.”

“Hizashi said no.”

“Hizashi said he doesn’t remember,” you correct. “If Garaki was his conjurer, too –”

“It’s immaterial.” Aizawa cuts you off. “If Garaki finds us, we’re all in danger. We’re almost to the train station, and we don’t have any solid conclusions. We shouldn’t tell the others until we’re sure.”

You don’t like this secret-keeping thing. “But you’re going to tell Hizashi.”

“And you plan to tell Tomura,” Aizawa retorts. You would if Tomura cared about this at all. “What happens in our respective households stays there. But there’s no reason to throw the entire neighborhood into a panic with news that Dabi’s conjurer is on the move.”

“Fine,” you say. “But we can’t sit on this for long. Two days and we’ll tell everyone what we know. Whatever we know.”

“Fine,” Aizawa says. He’s silent for the rest of the drive, until you pull into the train station parking lot and he sandbags you with this: “Keigo and I would be grateful if you encouraged Tomura to keep a lid on his – feelings. Dabi has next to no self-control, and Hizashi’s self-control, while impressive, is not up to this task. Some restraint on his part, or yours, would be appreciated.”

It takes you a second to interpret that one, and once you do, your face goes up in flames. Tomura’s apparently so horny that he’s making the two other non-asexual ghosts horny enough that their partners are asking you for help. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I, um – I’ll see what I can do.”

Aizawa leans his seat back and closes his eyes. “Good.”

The silence in the car after that is extremely awkward, and you’re grateful when Jin, Keigo, Spinner, and Atsuhiro all pile into the car. Rather than one person sitting in the back, all four of them squeeze into the backseat, with Keigo sprawled out across the other three’s laps. Spinner wants to tell you about the day’s events, Atsuhiro wants to sleep, and Jin wants to go to McDonald’s. Jin is the loudest one. You pull into the drive-through.

As much as you’re tempted by the fast food, you have food at home, and you’ve sort of lost your appetite. Fear over the threat of the conjurers, discomfort at the idea of withholding information from the rest of the neighborhood, and the sheer cringe of being told to make your ghost less horny will do that to you. It’s a relief to drop everyone off at their respective houses, Aizawa in particular, and pull into your own driveway.

The first thing you notice when you open the front door is the smell. It smells like food cooking, and it doesn’t smell burnt. Did Tomura let somebody else in the house to cook something? He must have, and the evidence gets stronger when you hear footsteps through house towards you. But when you look up, there’s no one there except Tomura, and Phantom trotting at his side. “Take your bracelets off. You’re supposed to take them off when you get to the neighborhood.”

You know that. You just forgot, because you were busy trying to convince Jin to let you stop the car before he got out. You slide them off your wrists and drop them into the bowl with your keys. “Did you let someone in the house?”

“Why would I let somebody in the house?” Tomura looks annoyed that you’d even consider it. “You had to leave before you were done cooking, so I finished it.”

“You – what?” You’ve heard terrible things about ghost cooking from everybody whose ghost gave it a shot. Even the embodied ones aren’t very good at it. “How?”

“I’ve seen you make it. I did what you do.” Tomura catches your wrist, fingers closing around the same spot where the bracelet was and pulling you along. “Come on.”

You were making soup before you left. It’s kind of hard to mess up soup, but then again, you’ve heard stories from Shinsou about Hizashi managing to mess up instant noodles. The kitchen looks sort of like a bomb went off in it, but none of the ingredients scattered around look wrong for the soup you usually make. When you peer into the pot on the stove, nothing strikes you as immediately wrong. “Are you going to try it?” Tomura asks impatiently. You pick up a spoon and dip it in. “Well?”

Your ghost can cook. Somehow you got the only ghost in the neighborhood that can cook – or at least the only ghost who can copy what their human did exactly enough that there’s little difference in taste. You retrieve a bowl and a ladle and fill it up, then switch off the burner and put a lid on the pot to trap the heat in. Tomura follows you as you head for the kitchen table. “I did it right,” he says. You nod. Your mouth is too full to talk. “I know how to make other things, too.”

You’re not sure you trust him with anything more complicated yet, or maybe at all. “Maybe we can work on it together. It’s probably boring for you to just stand there and watch me.”

“Watching you isn’t boring.”

That’s not what you were expecting him to say. “Oh.”

It’s quiet for a little while. Phantom comes to nap at your feet and you keep eating your soup, thanking your lucky stars that you skipped the fast food tonight. “I wish I could taste things,” Tomura says out of nowhere. You eat another spoonful of soup, burning your tongue in favor of displaying your shock. “I’d be better at it if I could.”

“Not necessarily. I can taste things and the things I cook still aren’t very good sometimes.” You’ve heard Aizawa theorize that the fact that former ghosts have tastebuds is what gets them into trouble with cooking – they judge taste by the strength of the flavor, and they can’t distinguish between flavors that are good and flavors that are bad. You focus on Tomura. “This is really good, though. Thank you.”

Tomura looks pleased with himself. “I know.”

You eat a second helping of the soup and put the rest away for lunch tomorrow, and then, even though it’s later than usual, you decide you want to watch something before you go to bed. It’s less that you want to watch something and more that you want to hang out with Tomura a little longer, but there’s no way you’re telling him that. The two of you settle onto your usual couch cushions, and Phantom hops up into her spot on the middle one, getting comfortable. You pass the remote off to Tomura. “I don’t care what we see. You pick.”

Tomura gives you a skeptical look. “You hate what I pick.”

You hated it when you thought it was giving him ideas. There’s no point now that it turns out he can get ideas all on his own. “Not tonight I don’t.”

Tomura’s always a bit like a kid in a candy store when he gets ahold of the remote. You watch the light flicker across his face as he scrolls through show after show and finally settles on the last thing you were expecting him to choose. “You don’t want to watch that,” you say.

“It says it’s a disaster movie. I like those.”

He does. One time you made the mistake of watching Twister and then had to spend the rest of the night explaining how tornadoes work – and then showing him videos on YouTube when he realized you didn’t know what you were talking about. “This isn’t that kind of disaster movie.”

“The ship sinks, doesn’t it?” Tomura doesn’t wait for your answer before he presses play on Titanic.

The two of you get through the opening of the movie in the usual fashion. Tomura keeps asking you questions, missing part of the movie while you answer, and then asking more questions about what he missed. It takes him a little bit to grasp the framing device. Ghosts don’t have the same sense of time as people do, and you have to explain why the same character is being played by two different actors a few times before he gets it. And then he’s confused, confused to the point where he makes you pause the movie. “Why is this happening? When is the ship going to sink?”

“We can fast-forward to that part,” you say, probably a little too eagerly. “Do you want to do that?”

“I want to know why this is happening.” Tomura gestures at the screen. “Do you know? Or is this like the tornadoes again?”

He’s never going to let you forget about that. You sigh. “All this stuff is happening because the filmmakers want the people watching the movie to care about the characters. To understand what they want and want it, too.”

“Why?”

“So it matters to you when the ship sinks with all these people on it.”

“How many people are on it?”

“Uh – around two thousand.”

“Two thousand?” Tomura looks floored, probably because he’s never seen a group of people larger than forty or fifty. “How many of them die?”

You probably know a little too much about this shipwreck for comfort. You were kind of a weird kid. “About fifteen hundred of them. Give or take a few.”

“How do they die?”

You should have known Tomura was going to fixate on the body count. “Let’s just fast-forward to that part.”

You’ve been fast-forwarding for about two seconds when Tomura stops you. “Go back.”

“Why?” you ask. Tomura gives you that dumbest-person-ever look. You hate that look. “Why do you want to watch all the boring stuff?”

“To see if they can make me care about it.” Tomura settles back onto his couch cushion, looking smug. “I bet they can’t.”

Now you get it. He’s decided it’s a game and he wants to win. You rewind back, resigning yourself to a whole lot of explaining over the next hour and a half.

But you don’t have to explain quite as much as you thought you were going to. Some of the things you thought Tomura would fixate on are nonevents, because he was summoned and bound to the house in the same era as Titanic sank. He’s not confused by the lack of phones or the weirdly elaborate clothes – when you look at the clothes he materializes in, the shirt and pants are similar in style to what some of the characters wear in the movie. After extracting some assurances from you that the movie’s going to go into lots of detail about how the ship sinks, Tomura starts asking other questions, usually about the characters. And sometimes he doesn’t have questions. He has opinions.

“That one is stupid. I don’t like him,” he says of one character. You ask him why. “She’s scared of him. I can tell. He gets in her space when she doesn’t want him to and he grabs her and pulls her around. You had to tell me that stuff, but he’s a human. He should know already.”

“He does know,” you say. “He wants her to be scared of him.”

Tomura looks like the thought’s never crossed his mind, which is ridiculous, given that he’s a ghost who was summoned specifically to haunt and terrorize people. “Aren’t they supposed to get married?”

“Yeah.” You unpause the movie and up the volume. The last thing you want is for Tomura to start asking questions about marriage.

You were worried Tomura was going to have a bunch of questions about the love story, but he keeps mostly quiet on that front, which is a relief for you. He also doesn’t spend a bunch of time talking about how stupid it is, which is less of a relief. Most of his annoyance is focused on the characters for caring about the diamond necklace that keeps getting passed around, because it’s a rock and it’s stupid that humans care about rocks that much. The only question he asks about the love story serves as yet another reminder that ghosts don’t understand humans very well. “Why do they treat that one that way?”

“Because he’s poor and they’re not,” you say. “They think you should marry your own kind.”

“They’re both humans. That’s the same kind,” Tomura says. “Humans are humans. It’s stupid.”

“Humans divide ourselves up by all kinds of stupid things,” you say. When you think about it, it’s a really long, really pointless list. “We kill each other over a lot of that stuff, too. Or we have in the past. People say this stuff is old-fashioned, but a lot of them still feel this way. They don’t say it like that, though. They’d say those two don’t have enough in common. Their life experiences are too different. That kind of thing.”

“Humans are stupid,” Tomura says. He looks weirdly unnerved. “The ship had better sink soon.”

The scene changes and you breathe a sigh of relief. “Yep. Right now.”

The disaster portion of the movie clearly lives up to Tomura’s expectations. He shuts up for the most part, focused on the screen. You have to admit that the movie does a good job of laying things out: Ship sinking, ship sinking fast, not enough lifeboats, water too cold, et cetera. You don’t have to explain anything at all. You’ve seen this one enough times that you don’t feel guilty zoning out, but you don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until Tomura starts shaking your shoulder. “Why are they staying behind?”

You squint at the screen. “Women and children first.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know,” you say. The rationale behind that was never clear to you, and if you can’t figure it out, there’s no way you’re going to try to explain it to Tomura. You don’t want a repeat of the tornado thing. “This is basically the only shipwreck in history where they did that, though. On most wrecks men took all the boats and the women and children drowned.”

“You’re a woman.”

“Yep.” You remember imagining how you’d escape from Titanic as a kid, then running the same thought experiment as an adult and realizing that you probably wouldn’t. “Anyway, I don’t know why they did it like that instead of the other way.”

“It’s stupid,” Tomura says. You flop over the arm of the couch and decide to forget about it.

You must be really tired, because you fall back asleep in spite of the noise from the movie. The next thing you wake up to is Phantom crawling onto your lap – or Phantom, still mostly asleep, being dropped onto your lap by Tomura. At first you’re confused, but then you feel the cushions shift as Tomura settles into the spot Phantom was in before. He’s moving quietly, trying not to wake you up, but you wake up anyway. “What –”

“Nothing. Shut up.”

You roll your eyes, and catch a glimpse of the screen in the process. The ship’s vanished. “The good part’s done. Want me to turn it off?”

“No,” Tomura says. Phantom makes herself comfortable in your lap. “Go back to sleep.”

He’s acting strangely. You pretend to go back to sleep, keeping your breathing even and your eyes mostly shut, alternating between watching the screen and watching Tomura on the cushion next to you. He’s still focused in spite of the fact that the ship’s already sunk. He usually gets focused at some point when he’s watching a movie, but this time, his expression’s different than the usual interest. He looks unhappy, but if he’s unhappy, why wouldn’t he let you turn it off? Why is he studying the screen like his existence depends on the outcome of this barely-a-disaster move? You let him think you’re asleep through most of the wrap-up, and take your time waking up when he starts shaking your shoulder again. “What does this mean?”

It’s the last scene. “Her ditching the necklace?”

“No. This stuff. Why is she on the boat again? It sank. And she’s not old anymore either. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh,” you say. Suddenly you understand why he’s confused. “I guess it wouldn’t make sense to you. Ghosts don’t die.”

Aizawa told you they do, but he also called it eternal torment, not death, so you’re going to go ahead and assume that dead for ghosts and dead for humans are two separate concepts. Tomura looks pissed. “She’s dead?”

“She’s a hundred and one. Humans aren’t supposed to live that long.” You were faking sleep too convincingly, and now you’re actually tired. You smother a yawn. “This part – she’s dead. She died in her sleep. This is her meeting everybody again in the afterlife.”

“Is that what happens?”

You’re way too tired for this. “We don’t know. People don’t,” you say. You have a feeling ghosts might, but if Tomura knew, he wouldn’t be asking this question. “Some people think it’s like falling asleep. You’re just gone, forever. Other people think it’s like in the movie – when you die, you see everybody you love who died before you, and you’re all together forever. But like I said, we don’t know. And I don’t think about it too much. It’s probably the sleep thing, anyway. The other way would be too nice.”

You’re rambling. “Does that make any sense?”

Tomura dematerializes. That makes twice in one night. “Okay. Good talk.”

You switch off the movie before the theme song can really kick in and weigh your options. You could boot Phantom off your lap and head upstairs for the night, or you could twist around and fall asleep on the couch. You choose door number two, stopping just long enough to pull your phone out of your pocket and set an alarm. You got a text from Aizawa about two seconds ago, too: When I asked you to address the situation, I didn’t mean to do it like this.

You don’t know what ‘like this’ means, and you’re too tired to care. You set your phone screen-down on the coffee table and go to sleep.

#lovhalloweenhorror #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #reader insert #x reader #shigaraki tomura #ghost story #loser nerd ghost boyfriend

45 notes · View notes

brighteststar707 · 5 months

Note

either 20 or 24 with seven? i loveeee awkward and blushy saeyoung <3

can’t wait to see what you come up with for these prompts— you always come up with the most interesting scenarios and your descriptions are just so immersive :’)

Hi, sorry for the delays on this fic! I thought I'd pick prompt 20 and write my own version of the iconic 'hearing your voice...' phone call! That's some clumsy flirting if I ever did see it hehe

Thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy (and happy holidays <3)

Clumsy Attempts at Flirting

✦707 x Gn!Reader ✦ Words: 1054

There is a disturbance in Seven's head. Perhaps some faulty connection or something finally knocked loose during his last field mission, he's not sure.

He finds himself in the backseat in his own mind. He has no control over his racing thoughts and plans, much less the ability to focus on the demanding tasks ahead of him. Every time he tries, it's like his brain disconnects and leaves him with nothing but static. He tries to focus on agency work but finds his hands working on a robot prototype instead. He takes his car out for a drive to clear his head and finds no reprieve in even that.

It's embarrassing for him to admit this, but you're the only person keeping him somewhat sane at the moment. He finds himself opening chatrooms just to talk to you for a few minutes. Your voice manages to cut through all the noise the way nothing else can and it soothes him for short periods of time.

There is a sneaking suspicion in his mind that you're the one who's causing all this chaos to begin with, but that idea brings him no relief. If you really have unsettled him so, there is no solution he can imagine that would bring back his focus.

Either way, he likes to talk to you often just to keep the buzzing at bay. He knows that it's a temporary solution to a problem he suspects runs much deeper and is harder to solve. There is no place for you in his world. He'd like nothing more than to keep you as far away from it as possible, for you to never have to know of the terrible things he has done just to survive.

(If only that didn't mean having to keep himself away from you too - but he really doesn't have the time for fanciful thoughts like that.)

He tries other remedies. He tries to sleep, goes for longer drives, drinks energy drinks to keep him going. He even builds you another robot, hoping that if he indulges in one of his passing ideas it will keep the others at bay to no avail. The only thing that helps him focus is hearing from you.

You send him little texts throughout the day (as if you can tell how heavily he relies on them) and appear often in the chatrooms. With each passing day, he grows more and more distracted and, consequently, more desperate for any form of connection with you. His subconscious is occupied with nothing but the memory of you. Echoes of your voice, the sweet sing-song way you always seem to say his name (as if it makes you happy just to hear from him). It bounces around in his head at the most inopportune moments.

Less pleasant are the fears for your safety. Your voice in his mind twists into something awful, terrified, calling for him to help you. But you are, as always, somewhere he cannot reach. He finds himself occupied with all the different ways that things can go wrong - on top of all his other fears.

He closes his eyes and sees your face, his fingers type your name through lines of code of their own volition. It's getting dangerous.

He imagines it's that sense of desperation that causes him to type out your number one day (he doesn't even remember memorising it). He only notices what he has done when he hears your voice on the other end.

“Oh…you picked up! I just wanted to hear your voice while working, I must have called you without thinking. I… was worried I was going to forget what it sounded like.” God, he doesn't know what he's saying.

Somehow, you reward him with a laugh. His head spins.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” He continues. He isn’t sure what to do if you say yes.

He can hear the sound of your voice on the other end and it sends a jolt of electricity through him (better than even Dr. Pepper could do) but all he can grasp is you telling him something about being responsible for what he’s done. His heart jumps in his chest. You're teasing him, and he probably deserves it, but he can barely take it at the moment without turning into a blushing stuttering mess.

He starts to babble – about what, he can’t remember – just to fill the empty air so you don’t hang up. He wants this conversation to go on for a bit longer, just to keep hearing you talk. Pity it seems to have come at the cost of his filter. He finds himself talking about a dream he had a few hours ago.

Since meeting you, he has revealed so much about himself that he wouldn’t think of telling other people. He hears his voice saying things he has never dared to say out loud before.

“Something really strange happened when I was calling you before… My hands were just pressing your number automatically… It was like I was in a trance. I thought about hanging up, but I’m glad I didn’t.”

“I’m glad you didn’t too.” You sound genuine. Warm and so welcoming, he could just curl up and....

“Hah… hearing your voice… makes me want to take you to the space station.”

Why did he say that? It’s official, something is wrong with him. He feels the heat rising through his body and he feels like he’s about to catch on fire.

Before you can say anything, he blurts out, “Oh, I have lots of work to do so I need to hang up… Um… thanks for talking to me!”

He hangs up, buries his face in his hands and groans. You’re never going to talk to him again, and he’s certainly never going to get any work done anytime soon.

Still, despite his embarrassment, the memory of your laughing echoes through his head. It sends shivers through him despite still feeling so hot. He wants to - no, he has to - hear it again.

He keeps his face firmly planted in his hands (the skin of his cheeks is so hot, he idly worries that he's got a fever). He has no idea what he's going to do with himself.

He wants to call you.

#blogiversary 2 #mystic messenger #mystic messenger 707 #mystic messenger saeyoung choi #mysme seven #mysme 707 #mystic messenger saeyoung #saeyoung choi #mysme #my writing

50 notes · View notes

katsheadinclouds · 9 months

Text

chapter 2

Joel Miller x gn!/f!reader

series masterlist - chapter 1

summary: You’ve left a community formed by ex-FEDRA soldiers with a group of people in the hopes to find Jackson, Wyoming. Being the only surviving member of that group, you come across Ellie and Joel, following them through the wilderness. When you’re accidentally seen by Ellie, you have no place to hide. Or ability to do so, when your body shuts down.

rating: mature

chapter warnings: angst, anxiety, PTSD, trauma, grief, thoughts about death, temporary mutism, bad puns, no use of y/n

word count: 5.5k

notes: Happy Sunday! We finally meet Ellie and Joel! Even though there is heavy anxiety described in this chapter, there’s some levity as well in the form of Ellie and Joel being like father and daughter already and when we’re dealing with Ellie, there has to be puns as well.

divider by cafekitsune

The cold earth under you is unforgiving behind this damn rock. It digs into you, making your body ache even more. You can hear the girl’s footsteps and you hold your breath. The revolver starts to shake in your numbing hand as you try to figure out what to do. Could you crawl? Where would you go, there’s no place to hide. And even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. Your whole body is in panic mode.

You choke on your breathing when you can’t hold it in any longer and your skin prickles from your distress. Is she going to kill you immediately? Is she going to call for the man to do it? You could kill her if you get your hands to work. But that would mean the man would come after her. And then you’d definitely be dead.

Are they going to… You can see your brother, his smile and his bright eyes. You can imagine his warm hand wrapped around yours… And then it flashes into that horrifying look on his face, when he wasn’t him anymore, but a shell of the young man he was supposed to become. The glassy eyes, the gray skin.

The footsteps stop. You look up and see the girl. She’s looking at you with her gun pointed towards you. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You just keep opening it and your body shakes while you look at her with pleading eyes.

You want to say so many things. “Please don’t hurt me.” “I’m not infected.” “Please leave.” “Please, you won’t see me again.” “Please.” But you can’t. The girl keeps staring at you and her brows furrow together. Her gun lowers just a little.

Your revolver slips from your hand and your arms flop down. You have no energy to keep them up. You have no energy to do anything. You’re cold and hungry and scared. Maybe it would be for the best if she just shot you. Then you wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore.

The girl takes a step back. She keeps her eyes locked on you while she backs away and disappears behind the other side of the rock you’re hiding behind. You can hear her fast steps getting further and further, she’s running away. Maybe she won’t say a word to the man, maybe she’ll let you be. Maybe she’ll let you live.

You know it’s wishful thinking. You feel your body slump to the side until you feel snow against your cheek. The cold feels good against your skin, at least it feels like something even though it competes with the numbness. Your body isn’t yours anymore, it’s someone else’s. Your breathing won’t calm down. And you’ve lost the ability to focus on anything around you. The only thing you can see is flashes of your brother. You hope the man and the girl will end your life quickly.

“Just come on, I don’t think they’re infected.” You hear a voice. The girl.

“Goddammit, what the hell do you think you’re doing,” a disgruntled voice says. The man. And the unmistakable click of a rifle. You squeeze your eyes shut and you wish…

“Look!” The girl says, her steps right next to you.

“Get away from there, you can’t be sure.” Heavier footsteps. A light stumbling sound. You wish you could speak, ask them to leave you be. You’ll be dead eventually anyway, either from hunger, the freezing temperature, infected or your own hand. They don’t have to waste their ammo on you.

A light whimper leaves your throat and you can hear them both stop. Like they’re holding their breaths. You feel something poke your shoulder harshly and you blink your eyes open. The man is staring at you with hardness in his eyes, crouched next to you. His rifle is aimed right at your face.

The girl is standing behind him, her head peeking over his shoulder. No one says a word. You’d still like to, but you can’t. You want to fade away, disappear completely. You just want this to stop.

“Hey, you focus on us,” the man’s deep voice says harshly. You can feel the rifle poke your shoulder once more. You look at him in fear, waiting for him to do what he wants to do. He wouldn’t be holding that rifle like that if he didn’t mean to use it.

“Are you hurt?” The girl asks. The man sighs deeply out of frustration. You focus on the girl and her open face. She looks like she has grown up in this violent world. But she still has that innocence in her, that little crumb of childlike naivety, that she’s probably going to lose sooner rather than later.

You open your mouth and try to tell her no, but your jaw is slack, and your tongue doesn’t move. You just look at her and a whine escapes your lungs.

“I take that as a no. How long have you been following us?” The man questions, his hand tightening around the rifle once more.

“Can’t you see that they’re not a threat?” The girl points her hand towards you, but this time the man doesn’t just sigh but stands up and turns towards her. He whispers something to her which makes her face fall.

His gesturing makes you believe that he’d like to be a bit louder to make his point across, but he also doesn’t want you to hear what he has to say. The girl takes a step back and the man comes to stand right in front of you before he squats down, his gun once again on you. You stare ahead, not really focusing on anything while you wait for him to decide your fate.

“How long have you been following us?” He demands. You force your head to move to shake it, only for the snow to dig against your cheek more firmly. You tap your cold finger against the ground. You know it doesn’t make any sense. Your movements don’t make any sense to you either. But you try. He follows you and a deep crease settles between his brows.

“What’s your name?” He asks. His voice sounds just a little gentler, a little quieter, but it hasn’t lost its edge. You dare to look at him straight in the eye as you let out a trembling sigh out of your mouth. He nods and stands up. He says something to the girl, and she takes off running. The man turns back to you but doesn’t come level with you. He just stares for a moment, before he exhales in resignation.

“Can you sit up?” He points his rifle to the ground, easing your racing heart just a smidge. You shake your head slowly. You really would just like to be left alone. They can’t help you and they certainly won’t take you with them wherever they’re going.

It would be for the best if they’d leave you so you could end it now when you still have a little resolve left in you. And then he sees it. Your revolver. The handle is peeking from under your thigh where you fell on top of it and with his boot, he nudges your weak leg to the side to get the gun from you. He tucks it into his jeans, right next to a knife sheath with a thick handle poking out, and that cold, hard reservation on his face gets only deeper.

The girl comes running back carrying something in her arms. The man puts the rifle on his shoulder, she gives him the bundle, and he says something to her in a hushed tone. She nods vigorously, thrill on her face. He hands her the rifle before he turns to you and leans towards your cold body.

He throws the bundle to the ground right next to you. The girl is pointing the gun at you, her eyes hard and focused. The man grasps your arms tightly, bruising you even through your thick winter coat. And suddenly he lifts you to sit you up against the rock. Air fills your lungs and you gasp hard as it freezes your throat. He grabs the bundle from the snowy ground, a blanket, and wraps it around your shoulders.

He looks at you for a moment before he reaches down. You follow his every move, scared he’s going ambush you. Maybe he’s not helping you at all. Maybe he’s going to grab that knife from the sheath and jam it right into your throat.

He kneels in front of you and slowly reaches towards your face. You flinch away, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. You’re surprised you’re feeling scared. You thought you’d be ready for it, your death. But now that it’s seemingly here, you can’t help but feel it. Your breathing makes you lightheaded and your whole body seizes up.

He catches your chin between his fingers, turning your face slightly away from him. There’s something cold touching the other side of your face. It drags across your cheek and temple, slowly moving back and forth. The movement makes you blink your eyes open and see him carefully assessing your face.

“What the hell has happened to you?” the man asks in a hushed tone. The crease between his brows doesn’t ease up as he picks up more snow to wipe at your face.

“Did you bring it?” He talks a little louder and the girl jerks into action, coming to stand right next to him. She takes something from her coat pocket and hands it to him. He looks at it and wraps it around his hand before he touches your face again. A cloth. You lean into his touch just the slightest and he immediately pulls his hand back. You see the faded cloth in his hand, it’s covered in blood. Your stomach drops and you feel bile rise in your throat. You swallow it down, willing yourself to keep from vomiting.

“Can you stand?” He asks, rising to his feet and taking a step back. You look at your legs and try to move them, but still nothing. You look up and feel your eyes welling up with tears. No, you can’t let this happen. If you can keep yourself from puking, you should be able to keep yourself from crying. You can’t show yourself breaking in front of them.

It won’t help your case in any way and the least you want is for them to pity you. The girl exhales sharply and you see her give the man a pointed look and an eye roll. He turns back to you. He doesn’t say a word, just leans down and takes a strong hold of your arms before he pulls you to your feet. You don’t know how he does it, since you’re boneless against him, but he hauls you up and you stay standing. His hands move to your shoulders, steadying you.

“Can you walk?” The girl pipes in and the man practically growls at her. A shiver runs through you and you try to plead with your eyes. You know you can’t walk and the longer you stand, the weaker you feel. Your body involuntarily starts to lean towards the man. Your knees are about to give out any second. His hands get a little tighter against you.

“Keep them in your aim,” he says to the girl, before he lifts you in his arms. You lean your head against his shoulder and try to keep on breathing, but it comes out shallow with the sobs you’re trying to suppress. You sway gently in his arms and from the corner of your eye you see the girl following you close by, the rifle tightly on you. You squeeze his jacket in your stiff fist and hold on to him, like he could save you rather than kill you.

Their campfire crackles as he stands you down next to it. You look him in his deep brown eyes and maybe it’s the look you give him, but he helps you sit down. The girl gives the rifle back to the man before she comes and tucks the blanket more tightly around your shoulders.

“Ellie!” The man hisses. You look at her and she gives you a gentle smile.

“They’re clearly cold,” the girl, Ellie, tells him and stomps to sit next to him. Slowly you let yourself fall to your side, not really caring about the gasp Ellie lets out. The man grabs her arm and keeps her next to him, while the gun looks to be just resting on his lap. But the way he’s holding his hand on it tells you he would be quick to point the barrel at you.

It’s quiet except for the fire that tries to lull you into a sleep. Except you don’t. You hear the man and Ellie talk with hushed voices, while their gazes never leave you for a few seconds longer. There’s something cooking on the fire and after a while they eat. Ellie asks him if they should save something for you, a moment passes and he shakes his head. While you listen, you can’t comprehend what they’re saying. It’s just the sound of people talking that comforts you.

The different orange hues flicker in front of your eyes. The way they’re burning probably means you haven’t blinked in a while. And then it starts again. The flashes of your brother. You feel him around you and see his dead eyes.

You don’t know when you’ve started crying, but you are. You can feel the cold, salty tears on your face falling in a steady stream. With a shaky hand you try to wipe them away but more keep coming out.

You can’t see anything else than your brother. You weren’t there for him, you weren’t able to save him. You should have been able to do it all. You made a promise to yourself a long time ago to keep him safe. And then you think about your sister, whose panicked, but strong face flashes in your memory, who died while helping you.

It was your fault. You made them leave the QZ in the first place. It’s all your fault. Now you’re paying for it.

You’ve lost everything, and everyone. You realize instantly that there’s no chance for you to survive either.

The morning light creeps in grey and cold. Your body is stiff from lying on the hard ground for so long in the same position. The man is standing next to his backpack, but he’s quick to turn towards you when you gasp as you sit up.

You blink your dry, swollen eyes and wrap the blanket around your shoulders and neck. He looks at you with an expression that you can’t read. Ellie must still be asleep. You turn your head slowly first to the man and then to Ellie, whose figure is in the darkness of the cave where she had set her sleeping bag in.

“Can you speak?” The man asks with a quiet voice. You open your mouth and let out a breath. You try to make your tongue work, but it’s still not cooperating. He just nods, then turns back to his pack.

Not long after Ellie wakes up and says morning to you. She talks about something with the man, and they turn their backs to you, planning their next move.

“You hungry?” Ellie asks you suddenly, offering you a piece of jerky. You know you are, but you still shake your head no. They can’t waste whatever they have on you, when you know they’re going to leave you here. Ellie keeps talking and sits next to you, clearly too close for comfort for the man. She tells you about a dream she saw — she was running with sheep, but they kept nibbling her feet so that her shoes kept falling off. She chuckles and sighs, her eyes on the man. Slowly she starts to talk about hunting.

“Joel here promised to teach me, even though he’s not sure how I can handle the dressing,” she says, her words pointed to the man, Joel. He doesn’t say anything to her, just sits down and takes a bite of the dried meat in his own hand.

“Have you tried hunting?” Ellie turns to you while she chews. You look at her, and then at Joel, and nod. The memory of your brother and sister floods your head. You hunted with them, not even that long ago. It was right before you met the travellers…

You pick a stick from the ground with weak fingers and start drawing with it on the ground. You swirl it until you realise that you can use this in your advantage.

“Thank you,” you spell out and look at Ellie, who’s following your every move. She straightens her back and her head whips up to look at Joel. He notices the writing on the ground as well and then looks at you.

“What’s your name?” Ellie asks, her voice full of anticipation. You write it down for her and she repeats it to Joel. He nods curtly.

“How long have you been following us?” He asks, this time his voice is sharp.

“Two days,” your hand starts to shake when you know what this means. You’re being interrogated. And this can lead to you getting yourself killed.

“What are you doing out here alone?” Ellie’s voice is gentler, even though she has that sting of impatience lacing the words. You’d like to tell her, and him as well, since he’s the one with the weapons by his side, but you can’t.

Your hand wobbles and the stick breaks with the pressure. You’re not letting yourself cry even though you can feel the tears stinging in your eyes once more.

“Where are you going?” He asks coldly and you can see Ellie whip her head towards him.

“Joel,” she whispers loudly. He doesn’t focus on her. He’s keeping an eye on you and your reaction. You see his hand wrap around the rifle. You reach for the broken stick and write carefully on the ground with your unsteady hand.

“They’re looking for Jackson,” Ellie reads out, her eyes full of questions which she directs at Joel. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s measuring you to determine what to do with you.

“We can’t leave them here,” Ellie points out and Joel finally lets you from under his scrutiny to look at her with anger.

“We also can’t take them with us,” he points out.

“But they can’t even talk, how do you think they’re going to survive out here if the scary people find them?” Scary people? You swallow thickly and a shiver runs down your spine. You look at Joel and see in his eyes exactly what he’d like to say. They can’t survive and it’s not my problem.

“We’re looking for…”

“Ellie!” His voice is hard, and she quiets immediately.

“What harm is there if we take them with us, Jackson can’t be that far off from where we’re headed?” Ellie sounds convincing. And Joel seems to know it too, even though you can read the expression on his face so well.

You gave that same look to your brother, after the siblings had sacrificed themselves for the rest of you to get away. You have to think about yourself. You can’t save everyone. And you know that he’s thinking about it. You’d only slow them down, possibly bring harm with you if you run into those scary people Ellie mentioned.

The quiet between the two stretches and fills with tension. Joel is logical, Ellie is more empathetic. You duck your head down and write carefully on the ground. You can feel Ellie reaching forward to see what you have to say.

“No, we’re not leaving you. I’ll find you something you can lean on and then we’ll start walking. It can be on our way, right, Joel?” Ellie won’t let go, even if you’ve just said to leave you, you’ll be fine. The lie is so obvious that even Ellie knows it. She stands up and instead of leaving your side, she offers you her hand. You look at it, and then at Joel who watches the scene in front of him disapprovingly.

“C’mon, you’re coming,” she says once more, almost annoyed that she has to be so persistent. You reach your hand out from under the blanket and she takes it without questions. Your hand feels weak against hers and when she pulls you to your feet, you feel wobbly and like you’re going to fall any moment. She leads you to lean against the cave wall. She turns to Joel and mouths something to him. His frown deepens. She walks confidently away from you both, announcing that she’s going to look for something to help you walk.

You don’t dare to look at Joel. You just know he’s still staring at you. You can feel his eyes boring into you, trying to figure you out.

Ellie never leaves far and comes back after finding a fallen tree with thicker branches. She has somehow managed to twist one of the branches off the trunk and gives it to you after ripping the small twigs off it. She’s smiling the whole time, like she’s excited about what’s happening here. Your stomach is churning from the tension between you and Joel. He makes you uneasy. She goes to collect her sleeping bag and backpack, checking that she hasn’t left anything behind. Joel moves slower and you don’t blame him.

If you were travelling with a child and a stranger would just appear and join your group, you’d be wary too. When he keeps your revolver tucked into his jeans and pulls his backpack on his back, it’s like him saying he doesn’t have any other choices. Ellie has decided to trust you and she’s forcing him to do the same.

You listen to your footfalls as you follow the pair. You wonder how they know each other. Joel is the one who only speaks when there’s something to say. Ellie is the one making the conversations happen. And then there are moments when Joel says something unprompted. A remark about a tree, how a bird is a sign of something according to his late mom and Ellie eats it up, asking more questions.

She makes him talk and he’s not totally opposed to it. You walk just a few steps behind them, your legs getting stronger the longer you keep on going. After a while you lose the branch Ellie got you because you feel like it’s only slowing you down. Ellie doesn’t try to ask you any questions, but she does turn towards you to say something every once in a while, to include you in their small group.

Suddenly she swings her backpack off her other shoulder and starts digging through it, pulling out a book. You knew you saw right, no matter how out of place it seemed back then. You hear Joel groan when he looks back at the girl, his shoulders hunching forward.

“You’ll love these,” she tells you, her eyes shining excitedly, before she clears her throat. “The past, the present and the future all walk into a bar. It was tense.” She giggles and you don’t know what’s really going on.

“I’m glad I know sign language, it’s pretty handy.” You listen to her and then realise what she’s reading out loud. Bad puns, in a book, and she’s carrying it around. This can’t be the first time she has opened it around Joel, based on his reaction.

“Oh, this is a good one! I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. I just can’t put it down.” She laughs with her head tipping back. The moment is so weird, like hiking through the cold wilderness is just something they like to do for fun. You feel yourself being confused and amused at the same time.

Ellie turns to you, walking backwards for a moment.

“What do you call it when a cat wins first place at a dog show?” She pulls the book close to her chest, looking proud of herself. Her cheeks are blushed and she looks like she’s waiting for you to answer. You open your mouth and blink a few times before she snickers. “A cat-has-trophy!” She turns back around as she tries to find a good joke to share.

“Maybe Will Livingston can retire again,” you hear Joel’s rumbling voice and see he’s giving Ellie a bored look.

“Okay, okay, last one, I promise. My friend David just had his ID stolen. We just call him Dav now.” She claps the book dramatically closed and cackles. You feel your lips stretching into a small smile, and it gets wider when you see Joel roll his eyes at the girl. She runs up to him and swats him with the book.

“I’ll always have puns for you,” she singsongs. Joel’s eyes flit across your face, raises his other brow almost in challenge when he sees you smiling before he turns his attention back to the trek ahead. Their relationship is odd. They seem close, but there’s also an invisible wall between them that he’s trying to keep up.

A clear blue river runs on your left and you look at the glimmering surface in the sunlight. It’s inviting, fresh, and you’d like to dip your feet into it, maybe splash your face with the water. But Ellie’s pace leads her to walk right next to you, rather than with Joel, and it’s obvious she’s deep in thought.

“Hey Joel?” Her voice is unsure. “What if this is the river of death?” Your heart skips a beat, not knowing what she means. Joel stops right on his heels and digs out his map, following something with his finger while looking around to find some tell-tale signs of where you are.

His hesitation makes you nervous. He has been so confident so far, intimidating, and now when those falter, you can’t help but feel like something is wrong.

The horse hooves are the first thing you hear. And then the neighing mixed with people shouting. They ride over a hill and surround you. Your knees give in right away. You fall to the ground face first, the hard snow drilling into your face. You turn your head, your wide eyes trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding around you

Your breath catches in your throat and your head is screaming at you to save yourself in whatever way you can. These people are going to kill you. Joel and Ellie lift their arms up, and you try to mimic their movements, but once again your body betrays you. It’s not working. And you start to panic.

These people aren’t like Ellie and Joel. They don’t have the patience to see if you’re a danger or not. And if you can’t lift your arms up, they might just shoot you before asking questions. You can’t catch your racing heart and your lungs burn from the panicked gasps that you’re letting out. The shouting only gets louder but you’re not sure why. Are they shouting at you? You hear a familiar, demanding deep voice, but you can’t comprehend what Joel is telling them.

From the corner of your eye you see Joel’s feet turn towards you, just for a moment. He must hear you panicking. You try so hard to do as you’re probably told to, but you can’t. And it’s only getting worse.

This is something new. Black spots swim across your vision and it’s almost welcoming, when you feel your head getting lighter and lighter. Your whole body shudders before a wave of cold sweat breaks the surface of your skin and you’re falling.

Deep into a dark abyss, where you feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing. A pure void that you don’t know if you should be scared of or glad about. It’s just you and you’re sure this is your end. Your brother and sister are with you, smiling, until they’re not. You see his dead eyes. You feel her hand slip through yours.

This is your nightmare, your death. And you wish someone would take your head off your shoulders so you wouldn’t have to see these images or feel these feelings ever again.

When you open your eyes, you’re not sure what you expect to see. It’s not the light curtains hanging in front of a window, where gentle sunshine streams in. The room isn’t big but it’s comfortable. The bed you’re in is large, probably the largest you’ve ever slept in.

You’re alone and there’s only quiet around you. The light yellow wallpaper is making the room feel warm, like you’re cocooned in a comforting hug. The duvet on top of you feels surprisingly heavy and when you move your arms from underneath it, you realise there’s also a blanket on top of you.

You’re not wearing the clothes you had on before anymore, but a light long sleeved shirt, some sweatpants and thick socks. You know you haven’t dressed yourself, but you also don’t know who else it could’ve been.

You test your body. With tentative moves you wiggle your fingers and toes, then your legs and arms. You reach your arms over your head and stretch your legs out, revelling in the relaxing feeling of blood flowing through your body and your muscles waking up. You’re relieved your body is doing what you tell it to do.

In a way it all feels like a dream, a nightmare, that didn’t actually happen. But when you open your mouth to ask if there’s anyone here, you can’t say a word. Your jaw is tight and your tongue sits against your bottom teeth like it doesn’t know what its function is.

You try to let out a sound, but your throat burns from the effort. You close your mouth and sit up cautiously. Your heart beat picks up suddenly. You feel like you’re in danger even though there’s nothing to prove it.

When your socked feet touch the wooden floor, you freeze and stare at them for a long while. There’s a chair and a nightstand next to your bed. You take the glass of water from the surface with both hands and put it to your lips, but don’t drink. It might not be water.

You put the glass back down with shaky hands. You feel weak and your head hums with the feeling of not having eaten anything for presumably a while. There’s a sweater on the chair and you pull it on, the shirt swallowing you.

With unstable hands you roll the sleeves a few times before you stand up. Your weakness gets more palpable when you try to walk, so you find support from the furniture and finally the walls, when you open the door to your room and step out. There’s stairs and you slowly walk them down step by step, a smell of some food wafting from downstairs.

You follow your nose and find a young black woman cooking something in the kitchen. When she sees you, she stops and smiles, gesturing for you to come sit at the table. You don’t know what’s happening or if you should trust her.

She speaks in a gentle voice, not expecting you to say a word. But she keeps talking. She introduces herself as Sasha. She tells you you’re in Jackson and that you’ve been sleeping for the past couple of days. She’s one of the people who has been looking out for you. And those are the magic words that make you follow her to the dinner table and sit down.

She tells you about the people who found you and that you were brought here after their sniffer dogs had cleared you to not be infected. Apparently, there are some things that you have to go through with a doctor, mainly the fact that you have been under tremendous pressure and the doctor wants to start rehabilitating you as soon as possible.

She asks if you have any questions and slowly moves a pen and a piece of paper in front of you. You stare at them for a while before you take the pen in your hand. The man and the girl. Joel and Ellie. The woman stands up from the dinner table and goes to stir something on the stove while you write their names down. She sits back next to you and looks at the paper you push slowly towards her.

“The last I heard, Joel and Ellie left a few days ago. His brother, Tommy, lives here with his wife, Maria. They told the people who found you everything they knew about you, which was very helpful.” She has kind eyes and the way she speaks soothes you.

“I didn’t get a chance to meet them personally, but I believe they were invited to stay. I don’t know if they’ll come back, but at least for now they’re not here.” You nod at her words and slump against your chair.

“I have some broth on the stove, it’ll be ready soon.” Sasha gives you a warm smile and sets the table for the two of you.

#the last of us fan fiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x gn reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #katsheadincloudswrites #fractured fic

38 notes · View notes

kavaeroexe · 2 years

Text

grip of multiple hands

yan!Padme x reader x Yan!Anakin

summary : you guys spending a night together after your latest attempt to escape

warning : typos, bad grammar

attention! please do not try to repost my works, i only post my works on tumblr, if anyone see someone stole my works please inform me through the comments, tag me in the works, or message me!

“how far did they go this time?”

“pretty much as far as yesterday.”

Padme sitting elegantly on the couch, just to look at you being dragged by Anakin a bit harshly since you being an extra rebel this week, that’s not what they want from you, remember?

Anakin placed you on the couch and makes you sit between him and Padme. you grumbly saying “let me go, free me” multiple times but they didn’t even listen to you, just playfully careesing you cheek and hug you close to them

“dear, do we make some unacceptable mistake? may i know so we can probably fix it? we want to give it the best when it’s about you, you know about it.”

Padme hold you close, with her sound that you could say is pretty sad, you know she, no- they genuinely wants the best to you, its just their obsession. it ruins everything, you think.

“i want some personal space, is it that hard to get?” you grumbled, feeling that Anakin hold you even more tighter than before. no need to let go, your energy, spirit, condition could not make it to let go form they’re holding so tight onto you, not wanting to let you go, even the slightest.

“you know we can’t grant your wish about that.” Anakin replied, but Padme hasn’t let her voice out about what you want, so foolishly of you look at Padme, looking at her face, just to see she’s nodding her head in a form of agreement with Anakin. stupid, why would you even think that she’ll grant you wish upon you who have making an escape so so many times that now they don’t want to let go of you.

“ I’m terribly sorry, but you know we can’t make up on that one.” Padme replied and then brushing your hair that is soft, silky, perfectly taken care so carefully by the Senator’s maids everyday. every touch that they gave to you fills with obsession, possession and of course, overwhelmed love, so do with their words, no doubts. “I don’t want you to run so scarily like that ever again, okay love? giving you ‘personal space’ could make you run away, and we don’t want that, besides you’re safer with us rather than to be alone, let alone that ‘freedom’ you’re talking about.” she kisses you cheek, soft and warm cheek, oh how she loves it, so does with your first expression when she could saw you face heaten up when she kissed your cheek for the first time after she confessed her love to you. so sweet yet now its just a nothing but memories.

Anakin holds your hand carefully, as if it’ll break into pieces if he grabs it too hard, the last time he dragged you before, he thinks it was close before he might break your little hand into pieces and he thinks he would never stand to see your face dying out of hurt, especially because of him. he then kiss you hands and hold it like before, like its his last time to see you before you’re gone, forever.

He remembers the first time he finally able to hold you tight, right in his arms, when he’s back from his mission, oh how he loved your relieved face and you bright smile because of you seeing him, that means that smile just for him, he loves it so much, he start to imagine what you’re face like if he actually often go to dangerous mission and then come back to see you run for him.

actually it hurts him to see you escape every single time you got a chance, don’t be a foolish, all he wants is just you to be safe, secure, and want you to be happy, and he’s sure that you aren’t happy if you go outside and somebody else just might catch, kidnap, or even kill you for some stupid credits.

let this night pass, and next day they’ll sure they would make you forget about the outside world. they’re going to make sure that they are you world, nothing else matters for you, goodluck trying to escape next time, dear.

#star wars hc #star wars x reader #yandere star wars #star wars #star wars writing #star wars fanfic #padme skywalker #padme x reader #yandere anakin x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin x y/n #anakin x reader #anakin imagine

404 notes · View notes

starmybrainrot · 1 year

Text

Fluff!Bang Chan Imagine

Genderless Y/N has a rough day and gets overstimulated at work. When they get home, Chan is there to help calm things down. (I don't write fluff or Y/N stuff, so don't be mean lol) word count: 1786 cw: pretty detailed depiction of overstimulating situations ______________________________________________________________ As the big hand on the clock joins its partner, the work day is officially over. That’s normally good. Especially today.

It's been a particularly stressful day at work. Nothing insane had happened- it wasn’t as if someone had a stroke in their office. But little things had piled up all day.

For example, you’d woken up late. Not having time to stop and get coffee from the shop near you, you decided to get some at work. You took a crowded, stuffy metro ride all the way to work, just to be met with a broken coffee machine. It was like that all day. Someone coughing too loud and far too near you. Having to rush through your lunch. A meeting running just ten minutes too long. Nothing particularly unbearable, but the overstimulation sank in fast. It was like your skin was burning but only on the inside. Every sound too loud, every smell too strong. It was unbearable.

So, usually, 7:00 would be a relief. But today it’s a new worry. Rush hour traffic. Everyone’s going to be on the train. It’d be just like this morning, except people would be even more annoyed this time. Pushing, snapping, more teenagers running around outside the stations.

Your hands tremble with mounting anxiety as your train speeds towards home. Three stops left. You think to yourself, white-knuckling the pole on your left. The train lurches to a halt. Someone steps on your toe and the pain is amplified, swimming up your leg like neurotoxin. The man mutters an apology and bows his head a bit before hurrying off.

Two stops left. The person next to you is blasting their music too loud. Someone keeps swinging their foot- it’s clipping against the ground. Yet another person coughs too loudly. You swallow harshly and screw your eyes shut. The train stops. More people get off, more people get on.

One stop left. You think, biting the inside of your cheek. Just one more… A baby starts crying at the other end of the car. Someone forgot to silence their phone- the tone is blaring from mere feet away. More coughing, sneezing. What if you get sick? Oh, God, you’re going to get sick-

The train stops and you practically throw yourself off. There’s no time to stay still. You make your way off the train, tap out of the station, and make your way up the steps in almost one fluid motion. Your legs speed up faster and faster until you’re practically running up the stairs to your building. Fingers still shaking, you manage to get the key in the door, turn around and try not to slam the door as you shut it.

You take a deep breath, and immediately a small sense of calm fills your lungs. The neurotoxin that’s wrapped its tendrils around your bones is being fought off by the faint, sweet smell of your boyfriend’s apartment.

“Y/N?” Chan’s voice creeps around the walls of your house. “You finally home?” It’s slow, calm. It sounds like he’s been relaxed for a while. You don’t have the energy to wonder when he got home or why. All you know is that he is.

Instead of responding, you take your shoes off and place them on their designated rack. While you’re fussing around with them, slipper-muffled footsteps creep up behind you.

“Y/N?” Despite being sing-songy, Chan’s saying your name still makes you jump. You turn around to face him, unsure of how to react. He knows what to do, though, and hugs you. It’s a happy hug, one that continues fighting off the blackness in your stomach. He kisses the top of your head and pulls back, holding your face in his hands. He smiles to himself, running his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Hi.” He says, the smile on his face widening to a grin. You can’t help but smile back. Despite how shitty you feel, it’s impossible not to. That pretty dimpled smile… It's contagious. It’s as if the gods took all the stars from the sky and put them in his eyes, where his teeth are. So warm and bright, no matter how big or small it is. So you smile.

“Hi,” You manage back. You don’t have much energy to talk, but there was so much love in that single word you couldn’t help but return it.

“You’re gonna wash up, right? After work ‘n’ everything?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Cool. I’m gonna go back to our room.” He pauses, as if he's thinking of something else to say. When he can't find anything, he just kisses you again.

His lips feel perfect yours. Pillowy, soft, still tasting of the cherry Vaseline he applied hours ago. He holds the kiss for a second longer than most gentle kisses are. His hand stays holding yours for a moment later. Even in such small movements, he’s clinging to the softness, the innocence.

He can sense the anxiety that’s mounted in your chest, your throat. He doesn’t want to rush you into talking, he just wants his baby better. So he holds it. He clings to the calmness for just a second longer.

You pull back and smile at him. He nods and turns around, fingertips skimming the door frame as he walks back into your bedroom.

Washing up is fast but is in no way fun. Your soul still feels like it’s scratching to get out. The smell of steam is the only thing in the bathroom, and without Chan’s smell or the soft touch of his skin, the toxin is back in your bloodstream. You can feel each individual jet of water from the showerhead, each drop of soap, each plume of steam rising off your skin. You don’t stay in that shower very long

You’re able to bundle yourself in pajamas. Safe fabric, finally. Something soft, familiar. That worn out t-shirt you stole from Chan. The shorts that are a bit too stretch out but you can’t bring yourself to toss. Nothing too tight, too smooth, too rough. Everything’s safe.

You run your fingers over the hem of the shirt as you walk into your bedroom, the cool fabric slipping between your fingertips.

Peering into the bedroom, you just sit and admire your boyfriend for a few seconds. It’s clear he’s going to go to sleep early. Despite it only being about 8:00 or so, he’s already shirtless and partially under the blankets. He’s lazily scrolling on his phone, a thousand-yard stare painting his eyes. And yet that bright, joyful smile hasn’t left his face. It’s more tired now. Much more gentle. Much less upturned. But there’s so much peace in his face. The faint magenta light that glows against his walls has painted his skin a beautiful mural of pinks and purples. He looks like something you’d find in a prodigy’s photography portfolio.

You take a deep breath and walk in, clambering on top of the mattress. Without a second of consideration, you lie face down on his torso. Resting the side of your face in the middle of his chest, you slip your arms under his back, holding him close to you. He’s smooth and warm, his typical gentle, warm smell filling your nose. You take a deep breathe, letting your lungs fill with him.

Without a second’s hesitation, Chan rests one hand on your back and the other on the back of your head. He looks down and kisses your, his lips brushing ever so faintly across the top of your head.

“Why, hello there, my pretty baby.” He muses, his voice high and playful. He may be tired, but he’s overflowing with happiness at the mere sight of you. Being able to see, touch, smell you. Each sense activated is another damn bursting with golden light.

Hi. You think. You don’t respond out loud. You want to. Really, you do. But there’s no energy. WIth the overstimulation fading away, all you can feel is how tired you are and how shitty you feel.

Chan strokes your head lightly with his fingertips, trying to lull you into a calmer state of mind. It’s working, thankfully, and he wants to make sure it stays working.

“You okay?” He asks you, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Mm-mm.” You manage, unmoving beneath is soothing hands.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Mm-mm.”

He sighs. You can’t see it, but he nods.

“That’s okay.” He assures you. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to.” He kisses your head again, this time longer. He holds your head a bit firmer, pressing you into his lips. “I love you so much, my baby.” He sighs.

With that, he doesn’t say anything else.

You stay like that for a while. The only sounds are the pitter-patter of an approaching storm against the window and the breaths of Chan beneath you. His warmth leaks into you, that golden love inside of him infecting you yet again. Sticky sweet honey that holds the two of you together.

Each breath you take in unison, every small circle of fingertips on skin, all the tiny kisses you press into each other. With each and every miniscule act of love, you’re pulled closer together. Closer to each other’s souls, closer to sleep.

Eventually, the overstimulation and anxiety has completely leached itself out of your body. His fingertips no longer feel like hands. You’re able to snuggle deeper into his chest, he’s able to hold you tighter. He buries his face in your hair as you bury yours in his skin. He smells good. He smells like home.

Despite sleep dangling above your head like an anvil tied with twine, it’s yet to knock you out. Your eyes are shut, your body is still. Yet you still haven’t passed out. No matter if you have or not, it’s comfortable. It’s sweet. It’s safe.

After a half house of this wake-sleep silence, Chan speaks up again. His voice is raspy and deep, indicative of someone about to pass out themselves. Still, he doesn’t stop himself from speaking to you again.

“I know you had a bad day, and I want you to remember that tomorrow’s going to be better. Even if work is worse, I’ll be waiting right here when you get home. I promise. I’ll be waiting right here for you. I’ll always be here to make sure you’re alright. You’re the love of my life, Y/N. I can’t just let you feel like shit.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Y/N. Sweet dreams.”

He presses one final kiss onto your head, and as his lips leave your skin, you’re finally pulled under.

#bang chan #stray kids #skz fanfic #skz bang chan #bang chan imagines #skz fluff #fluff #kpop #kpop imagines #one shot #bang chan oneshot #cuddling & snuggling #warm and snuggly #comforting #domestic fluff #im not okay #genderless reader

65 notes · View notes

box-of-chaooos · 9 months

Text

I can’t remember who gave me this prompt but thank you tysm!!

Stuck on the bus and this caught my eye so let’s go

Any adaption but I’ll be writing in the 1986 ver

The emerald city, a sparkling palace of peace and wonder that sat in the centre of oz, ruled by the kind and wise king who was recently crowned, king scarecrow. The straw man was a wonderful king and made all the people happy as could be but he was bored. Bored out of his new mind it wasn’t as fun as he’d imagined it to be it was much slower, much much slower. Nothing new ever happened no excitement no action, sure it wasn’t a terrible thing it made the working system smooth and well oiled but dull as could be.

At the moment the king was going through old possessions of the wizard, left behind trinkets and inventions piled up in the other room, there was bound to be something interesting there. He searched through many chests finding boxes some empty some filled with little bits and bobs, one had a little wooden horse to make inside. He found puzzle boxes and sparkling jewellery some of which he put on just for the fun of it, admiring himself in the mirror with a giggle but nothing was very attention keeping or eye catching. He needed a book, a nice big interesting book to read with action and drama something adventurous to make him new brain fizzle with pictures and imaginary scenes of the book turning words into pictures. He settled on the idea and had a look through more chests. The wizard had so many books old ones new ones even ones in a different language but they where all more instruction like than story books. He shouldn’t have been surprised the wizard would’ve needed something to help build his inventions but he’d had hope there would be at least some sort of story book. He sighed and sat ontop of a crate glumly putting his head in his hands. He had so much energy to spare and so little time to use it. He shifted uncomfortably something was under him and it wasn’t nice. He stood up turning around to see what was under him. A book. A deep green cover dusty and old with worn edges and a beautiful picture on the front of a princess and a frog. Intrigued by the illustration scarecrow picked it up and dusted it of slightly. The picture was a little bit faded but the colours just seemed to catch his attention. He wasted no time running back to the throne room and sitting down in his velvet throne eager to read this precious jewel he’d found.

Time ticked by and scarecrow was absorbed into the book, slumped lazily with his legs over the thrones arms swinging them back and forth subconsciously as he read the book. It was fascinating a witch, a princess and a prince turned into a frog by a magic spell, there was small pictures here and there which made scarecrows eye shimmer. He was almost finished with the book, it wasn’t lengthy but wasn’t short either. Eyes glued to the book they scanned along the lines of words he began to mutter to himself. “And the princess leaned in, kissing the frog turning him back into the handsome prince he was before” he read, but something made him itch with curiosity. What was kissing? He flipped the page and saw an image of the princess and the frog with their lips touching gently. Was that was a kiss was than? Gently pressing lips to another as a show of love? He was amazed and an idea sparked in his brain. The tin man, perhaps tin man would know after all he was a human once and with a partner at that. He giggled a common occurrence when he was excited or happy and got up the book was tossed aside for now. Since becoming ruler he and the tin man and lion had all found shortcuts to each other’s domains which cut the time practically in half. He grabbed his hat and put the crown on the throne heading down the steps and out the dark room all together.

Winkie country a land once desolate and filled with worry was now filled with life, winkies where free to work and where happy as could be especially with their new ruler leading them. Tin man was having a ball really, he was polished as he needed making his tin shine like diamonds in the light, he was able to forge weapons for the winkies, gardening tools so they could grow crops and plant beds of pretty poppies around the land. The winkies country had never been better. At the moment tin man was in the old witches castle that sat on a little ledge, he was potting up some lovely purple flowers he’d received from a winkie lady as a thank you for restoring their land. Purple, a colour that showed royalty and power but also a colour that reminded him of his dearest friend, the scarecrow. Scarecrows eyes, his beautiful violet eyes, even just paint so filled with life and a passion for living it. It made tin man swoon any time the straw man looked to him with those eyes with that wide smile his new heart would skip a beat he swore he could hear his tin drumming as it hit the metal so hard. His heart was fluttering just at the thought of scarecrow. Soft glove hands, the smell of fresh straw, his voice his laugh his plush body he looked so huggable and warm. “Tin man?” Someone called. He just wanted to hold scarecrow closely. “Tin man?” To love him with all his heart and tell him that. “Tin man!” He jumped startled by the voice. He looked over and saw those exact amethyst eyes glistening at him.

“Scarecrow!” Tin man chuckled happily standing up. “It’s good to see you” he said shaking hands with him. They hadn’t seen each other for a while since they where now kings. “How’s everything in the emerald city?” He asked starting up conversation. “Oh slow but it’s wonderful really, everyone’s very kind and friendly” scarecrow replied. “That’s wonderful” tin man smiled but noticed that his straw friend seemed to be a little fidgety like there was something he wanted to say or ask but wasn’t sure. “Tin man,” he began softly “do you know.. what kissing is?” He asked. Tinman felt his heart skip again, did scarecrow want to kiss him? “I, yes I know what it is… why?” He was getting nervous with anticipation. “Well I was reading this book about a princess and a frog.. and they kissed and I was just wondering…” he shuffled about a little putting his head down. “how does it work?…”

If y’all want a continuation I may have somethin for ya! Keep an eye out hehe I’m back into oz again.

#lgbtq #gay #tincrow #tinman #scarecrow #the scarecrow #wizard of oz #the wonderful wizard of oz #oz no mahoutsukai #the wizard of oz tinman #the wizard of oz scarecrow #fanfic #oz posting #fluff fic #fluff fluff fluff #kissing #romance #tinman x scarecrow

26 notes · View notes

solrika · 5 months

Text

The first part of Bahryn in the Bogan-possessed-Zeb AU. (It's tagged "bogan-marked Kallus" for organizational purposes. yes I know it makes no sense. leave me alone. :p)

Zeb can taste the Imperial’s fear, a cool syrupy slide down his throat, and it eggs him on, makes him unwise. Letting the Bogan uncurl from where it’s been hiding in the back of his head isn’t necessary when dealing with one injured human. Not when the change rippling through his body hurts so much, and costs him a few precious seconds.

The quicksilver flash of calculation hiding under Kallus’ fear flares, and while Zeb snarls through the pain of his ribs cracking open to reveal his second mouth, the agent scrabbles for his bo-rifle.

Should’ve known better, Zeb can’t help thinking, as Kallus braces himself against the recoil and fires. You never corner a wounded animal.

The bolt hurts, almost as much as the shift does, but the Bogan just laughs and knits him back together. Kallus’ fear is back, the scent so thick Zeb can’t even smell the smoke of the damaged pod behind them.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Zeb grins. The kind thing would be to make the kill quick, but he’s got no love for Imperials, and even less for the self-proclaimed Butcher of Lasan. And there’s no Kanan to placate, or kids to watch for. So he takes one slow step after another, letting the Bogan absorb every rifle bolt, watching Kallus drag himself back one frantic movement after another.

“Just drawing it out, mate,” Zeb drawls, switching his tail. “I’ll get you eventually.”

Gritting his teeth, Kallus fires another bolt. “And what,” he pants, hair flopping forwards out of that perfect slicked-back coif, “do you plan on doing with me?”

Zeb has to pause a moment to grunt in pain, curl around the healing flesh, but nothing is going to stop him now. He’s got his prey right where he wants him. “Oh,” he says airily, “haven’t decided. But right now I’m thinking about crushing your head like an overripe meiloroon. It’d be so…” He shows his fangs. “Easy.”

Kallus’ back hits the wall, and he uses it to hitch himself upright, begin hauling himself sideways and away. He’s usually a fast runner, clever enough to squeeze himself through spaces Zeb can’t fit his shoulders, but his leg is wounded and there are no close hidey holes in this vast cavern. This time, this time, there’s nowhere to escape, and the imagined victory tastes sweet.

“What even are you?” Kallus gasps out. “I should have killed you! You should be dead!”

“Like the rest of the lasats, right?” Zeb growls. “No. You’re not getting away that way, agent.”

Kallus, surprisingly, growls right back. “Even if you kill me, the Empire will still win. Every day, we recruit more informers. Every day, we persuade rebel sympathizers to reconsider their allegiances.” He twists the bo-rifle into its staff configuration, and the Bogan laughs in the back of Zeb’s head. There’s no way Kallus is wielding a souled bo-rifle, and without kyber, it’s just as toothless as the weapon’s rifle.

“Every day, more beings get fed up with you lot,” Zeb retorts.

Kallus snarls, a poor imitation of a lasat’s threat, and the fear is still floating in the air between them. “I’m getting fed up with you.” A sliver of bravado, despite all that terror—Zeb could almost admire that kind of courage–and he braces himself against the wall, raising his weapon. “Just get it over with, and face me.”

“Feisty,” Zeb chuckles, and strikes–

–the bo-rifle’s crackling energy burns, just as brightly as the Purifying Flame, and the Bogan howls.

Zeb stares dumbly at his smoking fur. Kallus’ bo-rifle is souled.

It’s alive.

Which means–

“Where did you get this?” he roars, and this time ducks under Kallus’ strike, grabs the bo-rifle’s stock and holds tight. The human strains against his grip, but Zeb just tightens his fingers through the crackling anger of a kyber crystal who wants him to let go– “Where?”

“Lasan,” Kallus chokes out, “it’s a trophy, I told you–”

Lie, whispers the Bogan, and Zeb gives him a shake, uncaring when it makes the agent whimper in pain. “No. Tell me the truth.”

Kallus’ eyes dart over his face, that quicksilver calculation rising, and finally he says, “The Lasat guardsman I faced… He fought well, died with honor. He gave me the rifle before…”

Lie, hisses the Bogan again, and Zeb echoes it.

“Fine,” spits Kallus, “fine, you want to know how I got this? My first unit, on Onderon–one of you killed those boys, one by one, picking off the wounded like it was sport. He savaged me, but left me alive, and I made him regret it.” The smile curving his lips is vicious. “I got the attention of the ISB because I hunted him down and dragged that bastard to the nearest Guard outpost. And I demanded satisfaction.”

“You dueled,” Zeb says, slowly. He can see the shape of it: a young, angry Kallus unable to simply accept prison as adequate recompense for his squad’s death. And the Guard offering a ritual duel, intended to help Kallus spend his violence and make a clean break, but– “And you won.”

“They said I fought honorably.” Kallus tips his chin up, pride running through his voice even now. “And it was mine.”

“But you still attacked Lasan,” Zeb says, returning to the sticking point, “We showed you we were more than that one lasat, and you still–”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a massacre!” Kallus bursts out, and Zeb could feel the Bogan between them, pushing and pulling at the agent’s thoughts like a kit trying to get a snail out of its shell. “It was going to be an example, and the T-7s weren’t supposed to– and honor doesn’t keep you alive–”

Kallus clamps his mouth shut, horror kindling in his eyes. It’s a miracle his heart hasn’t given out yet. “What in the seven hells are you doing to me?”

“I deserve the truth,” the Bogan says with Zeb’s mouth. It burns just as much as the kyber still straining against Zeb’s grip. “I deserve to know what you did to my children.” And then, surging forwards, it crowds into Kallus’ mind.

The moment it lets Zeb go in favor of the agent, he staggers a bit, finally letting go of the furious bo-rifle. I’m going to need burn cream for my hand, he thinks absently, and then has to catch Kallus as the agent’s eyes roll up in his head.

He’s an easy armful, only weighing about as much as Kanan. Maybe a little lighter without the benefit of Zeb’s cooking, all lean muscle and pointy elbows under that uniform. Zeb stares down at him, pokes at the Bogan. Are you going to be done anytime soon?

No reply. Typical.

Most of Zeb still wants to crush Kallus, but the Bogan will be cross if he does it before it’s finished. And a little part of him–

That kyber loves the agent, in a way only a freely-given souled weapon can. Just as Zeb’s bo-rifle resonates with his soul, so does Kallus’, and that means once, this was an honorable man.

Maybe Zeb is curious, too.

#star wars #star wars rebels #star wars fanfics #bogan-marked kallus

13 notes · View notes

charles-and-camilla-fanfictions · 5 months

Text

All the Time in the World - Chapter 11

Birkhall, March 2020

“I love you. Please tell me that you know that.”

“I know you love me… You just don’t love me enough.”

“You’re upset because I put you second to the Crown.”

I don’t answer. I just try to breathe, try to match the pressure around my body from his arms but my limbs have no strength.

“Do you know why I would come to see you?”

“Yes, you’ve told me…”

“That’s the public reason I would give. But my personal reason has nothing to do with that. My personal reason is you. Darling, you wouldn’t even know that I was there. But I couldn’t be apart from you. The reasoning is selfish. How I feel.”

“But you won’t grant me the same wish.”

“No. Because it would look bad on the Crown.”

I open my mouth, ready to complain but I just sob, my heart so heavy.

“And think who that person is. Not my mother. She’s just holding on to spite me. He’s my little boy, regardless of his age. Don’t hate me for that. Don’t think I love you any less.”

The reasonableness of his argument jars through me. “I hate you.”

“You would do exactly the same.”

I hate it when he is right. “Why is it always me that has to submit?” I know I’m being petulant but he has really hurt me, years upon years of knowing I’m not important enough.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about how upset I have made you. But a marriage is a union between two families, not just two people. It isn’t an isolated cocoon of just our love. Could you even imagine?” He kisses the top of my head. “We’d kill each other.”

“This is a bit like a cocoon…”

“And we’re already fighting.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“I don’t want to fight with you either.”

“But it’s always me making the compromise.” He isn’t even aware of most of them.

“I know. I know… I love you. You’re the reason I have happiness in my life. I don’t deserve you. I know I don’t. But I love you. Every atom of your being radiates the energy I need to survive. I don’t have the power to give you everything you deserve in life. I’m sorry for being a failure to you.”

If I didn’t know he meant it, this would anger me. It’s manipulation. But in his case, he means it and it tugs at my heart. How can he still feel like this? “You’re not a failure.”

“I am if I can’t make you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

“Funny sort of happy this is…”

“Nobody is happy all the time.”

“I’m happy every time I know I’m going to see you. Even today. I was scared about seeing you but still happy. Holding you in real life, like this. Even if you’re crying…”

“Better when I’m not crying?”

“Admittedly better when you’re not crying…”

“Hold me until I stop.”

“Can I hold you for longer?”

“Yes. Can we start today again?”

“How?”

I wriggle out of his arms and start taking off my clothes. He gives me a sideways glance and copies me.

“I presume this isn’t what I’m thinking.”

That makes me smile. “Your presumption is correct.” I slip my legs under the blankets, out of the cold, and he soon joins me, squealing slightly as I press my frozen feet against his calves. He kisses me softly and I realise how much I’ve missed him, how much I’ve wanted to be beside him, to hold him, to kiss him.

“What do I have to do to make it a positive presumption?”

“Depends on how loved you can make me feel.”

“I can make you feel loved.” He finds my hand and kisses it repeatedly.

“When we get up, we can start the day again.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“I can’t wait to spend the day with you. Being in isolation away from you has been like living in a prison. But I can deal with being trapped inside the house with you. Just you.”

“Only you. I’m looking forward to it already.”

1980, Bolehyde Manor

I struggle with the seatbelt, not managing to release it from the clasp and he laughs at me, watching me getting annoyed with it before reaching over and releasing the lock.

“Free.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you planning to run?”

“What? Because you’ve released me?”

“Because I set you free.”

“You think I’m free just because you removed a belt from around my body?”

“I’ll release you from everything.”

“The door’s locked.”

He smiles, pressing a button and I hear the clunk as the car unlocks.

“If I run, there’s armed police to stop me just ten yards away.”

“I’ll call them off.”

I hold up my left hand. “You can’t free me from this.” I say the words before thinking and then I curse myself. We don’t talk about this relationship going anywhere or that it’s not. We don’t mention the binds and why it’s not possible. We don’t talk about anything to do with feelings. Just desire. And friendship. They’re easier.

He takes hold of my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the palm of my hand and making me shiver. “I could remove this very easily.” Then he bites my ring finger, roughly, pulling my wedding ring off with his teeth. I giggle, nervously, as he spits it from his mouth and tosses it in the ashtray, amid the ash from my cigarettes.

“It feels very bare now.”

He reaches to kiss me but pulls away before I can respond, then I feel him pulling at my finger again, this time to push a large ring over my knuckle. The metal is warm. He doesn’t let me look at it but I know the ring very well. It sits on his pinkie and he never removes it. My heart is beating so loudly, his protection officers must be able to hear it, sitting in the car behind ours, guarding the drive behind us. His blue eyes are staring at me intensely and he strokes my hand now with his thumb, stirring a current through me. Why did he do that? Why does it make my heart leap with an excitement which is edged in such a warm pleasure? I want to allow myself to love him but I know I can’t.

“Imagine it’s any diamond on this planet. I��d get it for you.”

“Please stop.” I can’t afford to indulge in this pretence. It’s dangerously like hope.

“Or would you prefer a stone instead?”

“No.” I don’t know what I’m saying ‘no’ to. The stone, the roleplay…

“A diamond then. The size of your knuckle. Then you can’t ever take it off.”

I feel him slide towards me, slipping across the leather seat and then we’re in easier territory as he reaches to kiss me. I throw myself into the kiss as kissing him is the only outlet for my heart. I grasp onto his head and push my fingers into his hair, pushing against him fiercely. But then my head is against the back of the seat and I can feel his hands now caressing my face, his kiss so gentle, it forces me to open my eyes and his are there, staring at me and I need to look away but I can’t. How did this become so much more than playing games with my husband? How did my best friend become this burning desire in my heart?

“I think I’m in love with you, Milla.”

“Think? If you were in love with me, there would be no thinking involved.”

“That’s nonsense. Of course the thought process is involved.”

“Then you’re not in love with me.”

“You have the most ridiculous romantic notion of love.”

“Love is different. You said you were ‘in love’ with me.”

“I take it back. I love you. Are you going to argue with that?”

“I’m heading inside.” I push him off me and reach for the ashtray to retrieve my ring.

“Don’t!”

It stops me for a microsecond and then I reach for it again, his hand capturing my wrist roughly. A liquid anger bursts through my veins as he physically restrains me. “Get off me!”

“I don’t want you to get your hands dirty!” He holds out a pristine handkerchief and releases my wrist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to…”

“Yes, you were.” I snatch the handkerchief and fish out my ring from the ash. It’s filthy.

“I’ll get it cleaned. Please don’t put it back on tonight.”

His ring is so heavy on my finger and so tight and my heart is pounding from the conversation we’ve just had. I climb out of the car without kissing him goodbye and walk quickly to open the front door. I’m not surprised to feel his arms around my waist and his lips against my neck, making me ache for him. “You can’t come in, the children are in bed.” I push the door open and his teeth pull at my ear, making me squeal.

“Why not?”

He follows me inside before turning me to face him. He’s not even kissed me and I know he’s staying. Every cell in my body wants him. I manage to put my keys on the sideboard along with his handkerchief with hands which are already shaking.

“I’m sorry for making you angry.”

“I’m not angry.” I don’t have enough resolve to maintain anger with him. He kisses my neck and my arms wrap around him of their own accord.

“I love you. I don’t want to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re shaking.”

I pull away from him. “Follow me. Quietly.”

He’s gone when I wake the next morning and I roll over to push my nose into the pillow he used. I can still smell him and I breathe him in, feeling it curl through me, stroking my heart which is already sending out ripples of distress at being parted from him. I need to get a grip on this. I can’t be in love with him. I allow myself a few long moments to remember last night and that delicious rush which floods through my skin as I recall the feeling of his body flush against mine before I force myself up and into the shower, washing him away. Then it’s time to switch into my other life as I go to wake my baby daughter, her fat little face scrunching up in displeasure at being woken. Back to praising her for having a dry bed, slathering cream all over her, dressing her, negotiating what she’s wearing–why does she care what she wears? Then I heave her on my hip as it takes far too long for her to walk downstairs when she’s dopey like this and trudge into the kitchen. Tom is out on the patio already. I can hear him talking to himself and the door is wide open.

Ambling outside, I see the train track first, a wooden contraption which he has constructed all around the patio and then I see the two of them, Tom and Charles sitting together, building a bridge. My heart feels like it’s falling from that same bridge. I watch Charles explain the need for supports and then help to build the track, letting Tom do the work, allowing him to think and adjust the plan. Laura demands to be put down and I find myself staring at Charles as Laura toddles over to him and he sits her on his knee.

“Good morning, Darling.” It’s said to Laura but he’s looking at me. Laura makes a grab at the track and he hands her a train to play with which she drives over him. This isn’t fair. He can’t be so good with my children. My heart is shouting at me to listen and it’s becoming too difficult to ignore. I return to the kitchen for air, busying myself with breakfast and I notice my ring in a bowl on the side, sparkling clean. I reach for his signet ring, sitting on my finger and run my finger over the feather crest, wanting to keep it. I pull it but it’s tight and it doesn’t budge and I get the first waves of panic that I won’t be able to get it off.

“Do you need help?”

I look up at him worriedly, then smile as he seems to be wearing my children, Laura still playing with a train on his shoulder, Tom clasping onto his trousers. “Morning, Darling.” I bend down and open my arms to my son, kissing his soft hair until he wriggles away.

“I got it on without a struggle so it will come off.” He grasps onto my hand and kisses it. “For now, you’re stuck with the reminder of me attached to you.”

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m feeling incredibly smug this morning.” He puts Laura down, and she rushes off to follow her brother before he wraps me in his arms.

I sink into them as if they were made for me, breathing him in, pushing my lips against his neck.

“Last night was…”

“Stupid…”

He laughs at my interjection, kissing the side of my face. “Incredible. As you well know.”

“I thought you’d left.”

“I won’t leave you without saying goodbye. I was planning on making you breakfast but then I got distracted by Tom.”

“Making me breakfast? You can cook?”

“Scrambled eggs, of course.”

“Wow!” He grasps onto my sides, tickling me, making me giggle before kissing my forehead and drawing me closer.

“When can I next fall asleep with you wrapped around me?” His words are whispered into my ear, making my heart sing, making my stomach churn with anxiety.

“When can I wake up with you beside me?”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses my ear and holds onto me tighter.

“So when am I meeting you and your girlfriend as ‘a couple’?”

He moans into my ear and we pull apart. “Why can’t I just marry you?”

“I don’t know. Something reminiscent of someone called Simpson?” It makes him chuckle but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I would actually like you to meet her properly. Tell me what you think of her?”

“We should probably do it sooner rather than later. You have very bad taste in women.”

“You just never like any of them.”

“Precisely. Really bad taste.”

“Give her a chance. She’s very young.”

“I know of her. She’s a lamb. I can’t really see you two together though.”

“You can help her.”

“What? Help her become more ‘suitable’ for you? Christ, Charles, do you actually like this one?”

“I don’t know. I might do. She’s very sweet. She listens to me.”

“Do you think she’s attractive?”

“Hmmm…”

“Oh God… So you only might like her personality and you’re not sure she’s attractive?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“That’s a start.”

“She’s very amenable.”

“What a quality to possess.”

“It’s quite important really. She’s going to have to do everything my family says and tradition dictates for the rest of her life if she marries me.” “Good point… Okay, amenable then and pretty. Let’s meet her. I’m sure I can pass on some friendly advice.”

“I don’t want to marry her. I need you to know that. I want to marry you.”

“But you can’t, so here we are, discussing potential brides…”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself…”

“Darling, you don’t have to marry her. But you might need to give her a chance.”

“I was meant to be leaving.”

“Some conversations are important enough to take the time to have them.”

“Yes. Call me later. It’ll be good to talk through this with you anyway.”

12 notes · View notes

sassyhobbits · 2 years

Text

Misery Business, 8

masterlist

~~~

By the time the bottle of wine had been drained and the cigar smoked to a stub, they declared it was safe enough to head out. Celaena summoned a car to The Vaults then thoroughly thanked and complimented Emrys for the fantastic meal. The cook even shook hands with Rowan.

Though they had talked amicably through the last of desert and wine, by the time both she and Rowan had slipped into the car, exhaustion seemed to take its toll. They could both only sigh heavily and rest their heads back. Celaena could feel a bruise forming on her ribs courtesy of a dirty strike from Manon that managed to get through her defenses.

When they got back to the apartment, Celaena barely had the energy to shower, brush her teeth, and pull on the closest nightgown before she was asleep.

And that night, she slept hard.

So hard that no dreams dared to disturb her, so hard that, when the morning light began to tickle her eyes and awaken her, she felt as though she had only just fallen asleep.

But, the clock displayed the unfortunate truth. The night had gone by too quickly. And Arobynn requested her presence this morning.

Celaena winced as she pushed herself out of bed, body sore in all the worst places. She would likely be late for her meeting with Arobynn, but she found she didn’t have the energy to care this morning.

As she dared to venture out of her room, she was surprised to find Rowan already awake and dressed, fastening the last few buttons of his shirt. He didn’t look particularly haggard, but they had gotten back so late last night that Celaena knew he was likely more tired than he let on.

“You’re up early,” she commented, lifting her arms above her head and stretching.

It was only when Rowan’s eyes drifted down to her body and lingered that she noticed their difference in dress. While her husband was fully clothed and ready for the day, she was in nothing more than her nightgown. It wasn’t unusual for her to wear them while she ate breakfast, but she normally tossed a robe over herself. She hadn’t bothered today, which meant more of her skin was on display than usual. An amount that only grew when her dress rose as she stretched.

It filled her with a feminine sort of satisfaction to know that even Rowan Whitethorn, who had been nothing more than a brooding, cold bastard for most of their time knowing each other, was not immune to her allure.

Arobynn probably would have liked to know this too. A fact that soured her mood instantly.

“Maeve wanted to see me,” said Rowan, gaze snapping back up to hers as if he had never been distracted by the showing of her skin. “She doesn’t like to wait.”

“I can’t imagine she does,” Celaena sighed, running her fingers through her slightly tangled hair.

Rowan finished buttoning up his shirt, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’ll be back later tonight. I’ll see you then.”

He made towards the door, but only managed a few steps before Celaena’s hand wrapped around his upper arm, stopping him in his tracks with a soft request of, “Wait.”

She felt his gaze boring down on her, though she didn’t quite have the heart to meet it just yet. Celaena still held his arm, keeping him close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

She ground her jaw before flickering her gaze up, meeting Rowan’s eyes.

“I would… appreciate it, if you would keep what I did for Manon to yourself.”

For a few moments, a heavy silence dangled between them. If Arobynn found out that she had willingly saved Manon Blackbeak’s life… well, she couldn’t imagine it would go over well. He had beaten her into oblivion for less. She didn’t know if her new marital status would change anything about his reaction, but Celaena wouldn’t be surprised if he simply didn’t care about the bruises left behind or if Rowan saw them.

A warm relief flooded through her as the corners of Rowan’s lips twitched upwards. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Celaena gave a tiny smile of her own before whispering, “Thank you.”

Neither of them seemed keen to be the first to pull away. Her hand remained wrapped around his arm, loosely enough that he could peel away if he wanted. Yet, he didn’t.

She wished she didn’t notice the strength within her hand, didn’t note his pine and snow scent, wasn’t affected by the way he was currently looking at her.

Celaena wanted to blame it on the fact that she hadn’t slept with anyone for months. But, if she were being honest, that was only part of the reason her blood was currently hot beneath her skin, that every inch of her felt electric, longing for Rowan to touch her. The other reason was that he was handsome and, despite everything being stacked against them, found that she liked him. And was unfortunately attracted to him.

She didn’t miss how his green eyes briefly fluttered down, lingering on the curves of her breasts exposed by the cut of her nightgown. When he looked back up, his eyes had darkened in what Celaena knew could only be lust. A thrill raced through her, speeding up her heart and making her breath catch in her throat.

There was something magnetic drawing them together. Celaena couldn’t even recall making the choice to inch her face closer to Rowan’s, to part her lips in offering. She wasn’t sure what was going through her husband’s head as he followed her lead, face close enough to hers that she could feel his breath ghosting across her face.

A chirping cell phone shattered the moment before it even began.

They slipped away from one another as if nothing had happened, Rowan hissing out a curse and pulling his phone from his pocket. He frowned at whatever he saw.

“It’s Maeve,” he explained, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve got to go.”

Celaena tossed her hair back, striding towards the kitchen, nothing but calm, cool, and collected. “Don’t wait on my account. I need to be heading to Arobynn’s soon, anyhow.”

He gave a firm nod, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “Right. I suppose I’ll see you after, then.”

Celaena could only grin at her husband and say, “I’ll be seeing you then.”

…

The meeting with Arobynn started out quite smoothly.

Celaena reported all that had happened the previous night, save for the details with her saving Manon from being burned alive. It was an easy detail to skip over, especially when Arobynn was already so pleased to know that they had destroyed everything.

She remembered a time where she sat in this office nearly every day, when this entire mansion had felt like an extension of herself in a way.

But, coming back reminded her why she had been all too happy to leave. She was greeted with leers from some of Arobynn’s other men, who hated her because they thought he doted on her too much. The housekeepers and cleaners were always too frightened to meet her eyes. And, there was also a faint echoing of pained screams from beneath the expansive house.

By the end of the report, Celaena was ready to leave. She was still worn out from the long night and wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed for a few hours.

"I'm very happy with you and your husband's work," Arobynn said, leaning back in his chair. "How are things progressing with him?"

Celaena kept her face neutral as she answered, "Very well. He… trusts me now, I think."

"That's good news, indeed."

Celaena tried to keep her expression passive and bored, tracing the tip of her finger down the smoothly carved arm or her chair. "What will become of him after we destroy Maeve?"

Arobynn sighed, pushing to his feet and coming to the other side of the desk. He leaned his weight against it, sliding his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers. "It depends."

"On what?"

"How willing he would be to work with us. Rowan Whitethorn is a talented, vicious man. If he chooses to work with us, I will be happy to have him. If he decides that our betrayal to Maeve is too unforgivable…"

Celaena raised an impatient brow. "Then?"

Arobynn's face was cold. "Then you would put him down. Unless, that would be a problem?"

She urged a sharp grin to her lips. "Of course not. It would be an honor."

The art of lying had been one that Celaena had always excelled in. A few months ago, she would have been perfectly content with killing Rowan. But now… she didn't know if she could do it. She could try to convince him to fake his death, but depending on how he handles the betrayal, he could leave her with no choice.

She didn't want to think about that.

"Speaking of your husband," Arobynn said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and producing an envelope. "This is for the two of you. From Maeve and I."

A black wax seal kept the envelope closed. On the other side, written in an elegant, looping script was Mr. and Mrs. Whitethorn.

Celaena scowled. "I told her I didn't change my name."

Arobynn waved a dismissive hand through the air. "She doesn't have the time to write those herself, darling."

She didn't bother breaking the seal. "What is it?"

"An invitation," he explained. "For a small gala."

"Gala?" repeated Celaena disbelievingly.

"More of a large dinner party, but gala sounds much more elegant, doesn't it?" Arobynn crossed his arms over his chest. "We are meeting with a very powerful potential business partner from Valbara, hosting this event at Maeve’s estate."

"And you want us there for what reason, exactly? To look pretty? Neither of us get involved in your politics."

"It certainly wouldn't hurt to show our potential new friends a pretty face," Arobynn chuckled. "But, the two of you are well known. Infamous."

"A display of strength, then."

"That's one of the reasons."

"And the other?"

A smirk curled onto Arobynn’s lips. "We'll be in the heart of Maeve’s operation. There's vital information stored in her office there… and we'll be invited right in."

Understanding flowed through Celaena. "You want me to spy, to break into her office and find her sensitive files. Learn as much about her as I can."

"Indeed. If we are going to find anything to help topple her, it would be there."

Celaena could only dip her chin. "Very well, then. Is there anything else you need? I had a very long night."

"No, that's all for today. I'll send you something pretty to wear for the gala."

She hid her frown. Arobynn had bought her plenty of clothes and shoes and jewelry in the past, but that was when she had anonymity on her side. Now, wearing something bought by him when she would be paraded before potential allies, beside her husband, felt different. Felt possessive.

But that was something she would deal with later. Now, she only wanted to sleep for a few more hours.

…

The week went by quickly, the gala approaching just as fast.

There was nothing remarkable about the days that led up to the event, besides a sudden drop in temperature that told Celaena the fall snows were fast approaching. She and Rowan did their jobs, would come home, sometimes order food or Rowan would cook. Fenrys came over again one evening. It was all terribly domestic.

They didn't share another charged moment like they had that morning after blowing the Blackbeak base to hell, but there was a shift. Some guards let down. She would find herself studying the strong lines of Rowan’s body, the handsome planes of his face, with far more frequency. And she knew she didn't imagine how his gaze would linger on her, the heat simmering in his eyes.

There was no denying the attraction that now clearly hung between them, but neither dared to make the first move.

She wanted him to, though. Celaena wanted him to kiss her hard, to pull the clothes from her body, to carry her to either of their rooms and fuck until they both collapsed from exhaustion. She wanted release. A release better than what she had been giving herself with her hands.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep on playing this game. Though, she couldn't imagine Rowan could last much longer either. Celaena felt his predatory gaze on her as she strode around the apartment in her nightgowns, which only got skimpier and more scandalous as time went on, trying to goad her husband into acting.

The idea was almost laughable. In the past, Celaena never would have thought she would ever have to tease her husband into taking her to bed. But she supposed an arranged marriage would lead to such situations.

Celaena knew her husband was less than excited about the prospect of dressing in finery and socializing. He normally wasn't involved in the business side of things.

"What do you know about this guy, anyway?" Celaena had asked one night as they polished off a bottle of red wine after dinner. "Michael Something?"

"Micah Domitus," Rowan said. "Powerful man. The governor of his city."

"What do Maeve and Arobynn want with him?"

"His operation makes obscene amounts of party drugs. Expensive stuff. I'm sure they want in on that, offer to sell the stuff over here."

Celaena snorted into her wine glass. "The idea of a fancy governor selling party drugs to kids is ridiculous."

"Regardless of how ridiculous it is, it makes him that much more rich and powerful."

She sighed, leaning back in her seat. "I do not look forward to meeting him."

Rowan could only grunt in agreement.

But, despite their reluctance, the night still arrived anyway.

A box arrived the day before, a card with Celaena’s name attached. She knew it had come from Arobynn. The gift that he had promised, and expected her to don.

It was lovely, at least. The material was fine and likely expensive, smooth and soft against her skin. It was black and long-sleeved, the skirt hitting mid-calf. While it looked perfectly modest from the front with its turtleneck and coverage, the back was completely open, leaving her skin on display. She paired it with a simple gold necklace, emerald earrings to match her wedding band, and expensive black heels with a perfectly pointed toe. Once her hair was swept back, the shorter pieces hanging free to frame her face, and her makeup applied, Celaena was thoroughly satisfied. She looked beautiful. She looked powerful.

Still, there was one damned button she hadn’t been able to fasten yet.

Celaena snarled in frustration, breezing out of her bedroom into the space she shared with Rowan.

She found her husband glowering at his reflection in a mirror that hung in the hall, trying to straighten his tie. His attentions quickly shifted once she strode out.

“I can’t fasten this damned button,” she griped, fingers fumbling with the fastening at the nape of her neck. She turned her back to her husband. “Could you help me, please?”

Although she could not see him, she both heard his steps approach and felt the heat of his body as he came to a stop just behind her. Celaena’s breath caught in her throat as his fingers brushed against hers, urging them away so he could complete the task himself.

“These buttons look like real pearls,” Rowan mused as he worked, breath ghosting against the back of her neck.

Celaena clamped down on the shiver that threatened to race down her spine. “They probably are. The dress was expensive. A gift from Arobynn.”

“For what?”

For being his blade in the dark, for helping him take down his enemies, as an apology for forcing her to wed a stranger. But, Celaena said none of that, choosing instead to give a lazy shrug. “Arobynn has more money than he knows what to do with. So he spends it on over-priced gifts.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I adore expensive clothing.”

Rowan chuckled behind her, the sound shuddering straight to her core.

“There,” he breathed at last, fingers dropping from the claspe at her neck, trailing every so lightly down the bare length of her spine. “Done.”

It took everything Celaena had in her to not moan at the sensation of his knuckles dancing down her exposed skin, to not lean back and arch herself into his hard body. Instead, she turned around, facing her husband fully and drinking him in.

He wore a well-fit suit, likely expensive despite his griping about finery. It was a dark gray, nearly black. The shape highlighted his broad shoulders, made him appear nearly regal. He looked mighty handsome, despite his still-crooked tie.

Rowan’s own eyes traveled down her body slowly, before rising again to meet her gaze. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice barely more than a rasp.

He had never said anything of the sort to her before. Further proof of the shift in their relationship.

Celaena only grinned and said, “I know. You clean up quite well yourself, Rowan Whitethorn. Except…” She took a step forward, grabbing his tie and helping to straighten it out. She knew he looked to her rather than the work she was doing to his attire. She pretended not to notice.

Celaena smoothed his now straightened tie against his broad chest. “There. All better.”

When she looked up from beneath her lashes, Rowan was already staring at her. In a manner that made her linger close to him, that made her blood heat beneath her flesh.

“If you’re going to continue looking at me like that,” Celaena began, “then you should at least have the decency to ravish me properly.”

“Is that so?” Rowan asked, quirking an amused brow.

“It is. We’ve been married a while now and you still haven’t taken me to bed.”

“Perhaps I’ve been worried you would take the opportunity to smother me with my pillow.”

Celaena rolled her eyes. “I’m a trained assassin, Rowan. I would do something far more elegant than smother you with your pillow.”

“Good to know.”

She blinked up at him. “So are you? Going to ravish me thoroughly?”

Rowan lifted his wrist, looking at the watch that rested upon it. “I don’t know if we have time for thoroughly.”

Celaena couldn’t hold back the simmering smirk that stretched across her face. “After the gala, then?”

It was as if a flame smoldered behind those pine-green eyes. “If that is what you wish.”

“And what do you wish?”

She felt the weight of his hand on her waist, his fingers curling in tight. “I think you know that by now, Sardothien.”

“So no more hating each other then?” Her hands reached out slowly, trailing down his arms. “No more snarling and spatting?”

“I think the snarling and spatting adds to the fun,” he said. “But, I do believe we are beyond the hating.”

“I find myself agreeing with you for once.”

“Why do I feel as if that’s the first and only time I will hear that from you?” There was a ghost of a smile on his lip. “Still, we do have somewhere to be. And our car is likely waiting outside for us now.”

Although the last thing on Celaena’s mind right now was to go to a dinner party, she knew she must. So, she reluctantly stepped away from her husband who had all but promised her the night of debauchery she had been seeking. In a contrast to their heated words, he was nothing but a gentleman as he helped her put on her coat before offering her his arm.

His face was grim, as if they were about to march into battle.

Celaena patted his arm. “Don’t worry, dear husband. I’ll protect you from small talk.”

He huffed out a breathy laugh as they swept from the apartment. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She wanted to laugh freely, to be prepared to enjoy the night as much as they could manage. But, as she looked up at Rowan, she remembered the task that had been assigned to her since their engagement. To make him like her, to slither deep into Maeve’s operation, only to make it tumble all down.

It took considerable strength to keep that smile on her face as they climbed into the black of the expensive sedan sent to pick them up.

Celaena could only hope that, when the time comes, Rowan would have the capacity to forgive her for what she was forced to do.

…

Celaena had never seen Maeve’s personal residence until tonight.

Unlike Arobynn, who didn’t mind his business venture bleeding into his personal life, Maeve’s home was far separate from the headquarters of her operation. Celaena had expected her manor to be built in the same sleek, modern motifs as the headquarters she had visited last week to be. Instead, she found herself mistaken.

Maeve’s personal home held all the same old-world charm that Arobynn’s mansion did. It was a sprawling estate equipped with tight security around the edges, with neatly trimmed grass and well-lit fountains carved into the images of dancing women to lead the way from the gate to the front of the sprawling home.

Everything was clearly maintained meticulously, from the gardens to the old architecture of the home itself.

“This is Maeve’s home?” asked Celaena in disbelief as the driver neared the brightly-lit home at the top of the hill.

“It is,” her husband replied. “Did you expect something different?”

“I don’t know if I expected a blocky, modern home or a gothic mansion lit only by the lightning that perpetually surrounds it.”

Beside her, Rowan laughed.

There was a line of cars before them, well-dressed individuals streaming out of them and into the entryway. Celaena knew they were all allies or partners of either Maeve or Arobynn. She wondered if any of them were the guest of honor, or just more powerful seat-fillers to impress the governor.

Eventually, their driver reached the top of the driveway. Someone opened the door, allowing Rowan out first who then offered his hand to her, assisting her out of the tall sedan. Once again, he offered her his arm, helping her navigate the gravel road in her heels.

“Did you mean what you said?” Rowan murmured to her as they neared the expansive front doors that offered a slim peek into the ornate insides of the mansion.

“About being ravished? Or not smothering you with your pillow?”

Rowan shot her a sharp look, though it lacked true venom. “About protecting me from the small talk, smartass.”

“Ah, that.” She looked up at her husband. “I’ll certainly try my hardest, but such things can often be out of my control. Who’s to say where I’ll be swept off to when the night starts?”

It was partially true. Knowing Arobynn, he would want to show her off to some folk considering most of the anonymity she had in the past had been lost once she married Rowan. Now Arobynn could tote her around in an attempt to get people clamoring for her services.

And, of course, he expected her to break into Maeve’s private office. Rowan couldn't be with her during that.

Side by side, they strode up the stairs that led to the front of the home and the party within it. As soon as they passed through the double doors, there were people there to take their coats. Once again, in a rare occurrence of gentlemen-like behavior, Rowan helped her take off her coat, handing it and his own off to the darkly dressed workers.

As soon as their hands were free, flutes of champagne were pressed into them.

Celaena would have to commend Maeve on the service they were receiving. It was excellent.

Rowan’s hand rested on her bared back, calloused fingers dancing across the skin as he held his glass up to hers.

“Ready?”

Celaena only smiled and clinked her glass against his. “Always.”

It was impossible to ignore the glances sent their way as they strode deeper into the gilded mansion. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a kingdom’s worth of jewels and clothes draped over bodies. Some, Celaena recognized. Either she had seen Arobynn speaking to them in the past, or they had hired her to take out their enemies.

It was easy to tell the people who recognized and understood just who, exactly, she and Rowan were. A slightly widening eye, a hard swallow, a paling face. All dead giveaways.

And those who didn’t know who they were stared in a very different manner.

Desire and lust, directed at both her and her husband. It was easy for Celaena to ignore the men and women who stared her down as if they were attempting to undress her with their eyes. Those that were doing the same to Rowan, however, made her bristle. Not that he paid them any mind either.

She wondered how long they could make it before someone tried to speak with them.

Celaena quickly found out that the answer was, not very long at all.

Maeve swiftly intercepted them, Arobynn at her side.

“Welcome,” she said, flashing her white teeth in a smile. “I’m so happy to see the two of you here.”

Celaena refrained from rolling her eyes. As if they’d have any other choice.

Maeve looked every bit the elegant hostess that she was. Her hair fell in a gleaming, black sheet down the back of her violet gown. The velvet looked expensive, but judging by the opulence that surrounded them, Maeve could more than afford it.

“Thank you for inviting us,” said Celaena with a tight smile of her own. “It’s lovely.”

“Speaking of lovely,” drawled Arobynn, “you look stunning in that dress tonight.”

Arobynn himself was put together nicely as well. A deep, navy blue three-piece suit, his red hair combed back neatly. He looked untouchable. Perhaps he was.

Celaena knew she didn’t imagine how Rowan’s hand tightened every so slightly on her wait at Arobynn’s words, but she pushed it out of her mind, nodding her head in thanks. “Your tastes remain as exquisite as ever.”

He preened at the compliment before reaching a hand out. “Come with me for a bit, darling. I have a few people who look forward to meeting you.”

Although there was a pit in her stomach at the thought, she still stepped away from Rowan, casting her husband one last look that said, Sorry. Looks like you’ll have to brave the small talk on your own for a bit.

A hint of amusement shone through his otherwise stony exterior. I think I’ll survive it. Just barely.

Celaena offered one last little smile before turning her direction fully towards Arobynn, striding forward and taking his arm. She could feel Rowan’s gaze pinned between her shoulders as she was led away into the chattering, glittering crowd.

“I must say,” Arobynn purred close to her ear once they were swept up in the masses, “You truly seemed to have done a number on Whitethorn. I’m proud.”

Celaena’s heart sank to her stomach. “Oh?”

“The only time he could take his eyes off you was when he was glaring at anyone else who looked too long at how entrancing you are tonight,” he continued. “I do believe you’ve been quite successful in your endeavors thus far. I’m proud.”

Celaena had not been studying Rowan that closely tonight. She had known that, in the privacy of their apartment, he had been allowing his gaze to wander and linger. But had he been looking at her in such a manner tonight, or had Arobynn been seeing what he wanted to see?

“Men are simple,” was all she could work out in response.

“Well, let’s hope that stays true throughout tonight.” Arobynn slowed to a stop before a tall, blond man, a charming (smarmy) courtier’s smile gracing his face. “Mr. Domitus. Allow me to introduce my heir, Celaena Sardothien.”

She masked her surprise as the man turned towards them. Celaena had been expecting to meet him with Rowan at her side, but it would seem that Arobynn had taken things into his own hands.

The stranger turned towards them fully and Celaena got her first look at the guest of honor.

Micah Domitus was a tall, elegant man. His gleaming, pale blonde hair was swept back neatly from his handsome face. He looked as though he were carved from marble, all smooth skin stretched over angular bones. He oozed easy charm, a man who was used to getting what he wanted: money, power, women… it was written all over his finely-clad, lean body.

He smiled slowly, cold eyes tracking her from her head to her toes in a manner that made her skin crawl.

Celaena let go of Arobynn’s arm and reached her hand out. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Believe me,” Micah said, taking her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Where Celaena had expected him to shake her hand, he instead held it, placing a kiss to her knuckles. It took immense strength to not draw her lips back in a snarl, to not snap at Arobynn for what felt like being pimped out.

“May I just say, Miss Sardothien,” said Micah, releasing her hand and drawing back. “You are exquisite.”

Celaena held up her left hand, flashing the emerald ring that sat on it. “I’m also married.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Married life hasn’t made her any less vicious, though,” said Arobynn, taking a step closer. “Should you ever have need of her services.”

“I have my own assassin back in Valbara,” said Micah, taking a sip of his bourbon while still looking his fill at her. “But should I make any enemies on your continent, I will keep your offer in mind.”

Celaena’s hands were balled into fists at her side, nails cutting into her palms. She longed to be anywhere else than here, dealing with Arobynn and his consorts. She had never reveled in it, but she had grown far too used to being away from her master and his schemes. It made everything grate against her far worse.

She found herself longing for a quiet night lounging around the apartment, eating takeout and sharing a bottle of wine with Rowan. She was foolish to let herself grow too used to that routine, to let herself forget that she lived under the thumb of Arobynn Hamel.

There was the warmth of a hand resting against her bare back, the scent of pine and snow surrounding her. Her fingers unfurled, the tension diffused from her shoulders, she could breathe easier.

“There you are,” said Rowan. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

The false smile on her face eased away into an earnest one as she looked up at her husband. He was already staring down at her, expression seeming to ask, Is everything alright here?

Her hand rested on his arm. Just dandy, now.

He didn’t seem to be fully convinced. Celaena saw his jaw tighten before he looked at their guest, his eyes darkening. The way he was glaring down Micah likely wasn’t what Maeve and Arobynn had in mind for their meeting, but it thoroughly pleased Celaena. Her husband was a dangerous man. It would do both Micah and Arobynn good to remember that.

“This is Maeve’s nephew, Rowan,” said Arobynn. Perhaps others wouldn’t notice it, but Celaena had known Arobynn for over half her life. There was a feathering in his jaw, a minuscule sign of fury. Clearly, he hadn’t wanted Rowan here.

“You must be the husband,” said Micah, reaching out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Rowan didn’t take his hand immediately, allowing it to hang in the air between them for a few beats before he gave it a single, firm shake. “Did I interrupt anything important?”

That muscle flickered in Arobynn’s jaw again. “Not at all. Perhaps we should all move to the dining room, then?”

“Agreed.” Micah looked towards Celaena once more. “I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Sardothien.”

With that, he and Arobynn strode away towards where dinner would be served. Though, not before her master could shoot her a sharp glare that told her that he was less than happy with how this exchange had gone. She suspected she would be dealing with the consequences of that later.

Once the pair was out of earshot, Rowan huffed a heavy breath. “He didn’t seem pleasant.”

“Were you pleasant?”

“I’m never pleasant.” He looked towards her, a smile tugging the corner of his lips. “But you know that.”

Celaena snorted out a laugh. “Indeed I did. I didn’t know, however, that your unpleasantness would ever come in handy.”

“You’d be surprised.” His hand still rested on her back, a steady, comforting weight. “You want to head to the dining room? I don’t have to talk when I’m eating.”

“Ever the pragmatist. Let’s go.”

…

Although the food was excellent, Celaena wouldn’t say she had an excellent time during the meal.

She was seated between Arobynn and Rowan, the former who seemed to revel in the fact that he knew his displeasure was seeping her direction. He made it his mission to drag her into conversations she had no interest in being a part of. He could have very well talked up her skill-set without her adding anything.

But, she also knew she had a job to complete before the night was over.

Maeve hadn’t left the head of the table all night, talking with all her guests and keeping herself busy. Her being the hostess would be a boon for Celaena as she would be far too distracted to slip away by herself or to notice whether or not a guest was present or not.

But, Celaena still had to be strategic about it. She sat through dinner and desert, watching as the guests around her drank more. Their voices grew louder, words started to slur, people were distracted. It was the most opportune time to do what needed to be done.

There was a pit of guilt in her stomach at the thought. Not because of Maeve, but because of Rowan. They had built a trust of sorts. And she would soon be abusing it.

She stood from the table, excusing herself to go to the ladies room. Rowan only seemed irked at the idea of being left to fend for himself at the table, especially while the older woman who was sat on the other side of him had indulged in a few too many glasses of wine and was drunk enough to find his grumpiness ever so charming.

No one gave Celaena a second look as she strode away from the dinner table down the connected hall. Quickly, the din of voices and laughter faded away, becoming nothing more than a distant echo.

It was easy to navigate the halls. Arobynn had procured blueprints of Maeve’s home, had pointed out her office. Celaena had studied the layout until she was certain she could find her way with her eyes closed.

She passed by expensive art and sculptures, pottery likely as old as Terrasen itself, as she ventured to the end of the hall and took the staircase to her left.

It was nearly dead silent on the second floor, the hall dimly lit. Her heels were muffled by the carpet runner that stretched down the corridor, her breaths even and deep. Celaena counted the doors she passed until she slowed to a stop before her target. There was nothing about this door that screamed about what lay on the other side, but she knew anyway.

She tried to turn the handle. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. Celaena lifted the hem of her skirt slightly, allowing her to reach under and find the lock-picking kit she had strapped to her thigh as she dressed for the evening.

The lock to Maeve’s office wasn’t anything special. Celaena had it opened within a few heartbeats and was inside within another, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click.

Celaena didn’t dare turn on a light, which left her to work with only the cold light of the moon that filtered through the giant window that looked down upon her grounds. Maeve’s home office was more like Arobynn’s: dark fabrics, well-made, antique furniture, a wall filled with old books. The desk was kept neat and organized, nothing of importance left out on its surface. But, as Celaena rounded to the other side of the desk, she found locked drawers built into it. If there were to be anything that would pique Arobynn’s interest, it would be in those.

Again, it was almost painfully easy to open those locks and reveal the files upon files inside. Exactly what she came for.

Celaena didn’t waste time she didn’t have. Eventually, Rowan would notice she was gone. There were already a few small fibs she had up her sleeve in case he questioned her lengthy disappearance, but she would prefer no confrontation at all.

So, Celaena began reading.

Maeve kept information on her shipments, her buyers, and business partners that even Celaena had no idea about. Her web was vast and wide; she had her claws sunk somewhere in every city in every kingdom. There was illuminating information about her finances and investments, showing how truly deep her pockets ran. Celaena read about those in the police force and politicians that were on her payroll, the areas in the city she had the most sway in. Celaena had always known that Maeve was a powerful woman, but she had underestimated just how much so.

Once Celaena was satisfied she had gotten a significant amount of information from one drawer, she moved to the other. Her eyes skimmed over the neatly organized tabs, trying to find one that would likely hold the most pertinent details that Arobynn would be looking for.

But then, her eyes snagged on a familiar name. A file labeled Sardothien, C.

With furrowed brows, Celaena grabbed the folder, placing it on the gleaming, mahogany desk before her. Maeve didn’t have a file on Arobynn, but she had one on her? What about herself could warrant a file locked away in Maeve’s private office?

Although time was ticking, morbid curiosity got the better of her. Celaena opened the file, eyes roaming over the information held within.

It started out innocent enough: her name, where and when she was born, her age, her height. There seemed to be a few old photos that they were able to take of her through the years, though her face was always hidden. She was sure that had infuriated Maeve before they had become allied.

That should have been it. Celaena had been nothing more than a shadow for years, there was no other information that Maeve should've had on her. And yet, there was more.

Celaena flipped the sheet with her basic information over, revealing what laid beyond.

She could have sworn her heart froze in her chest when she discovered what was there.

There was only a faint, dull ringing in her ears as Celaena looked at the photograph before her. It was a well-dressed family: an older man with steadily silvering hair, a younger man with dark brown hair and a golden woman with a kind smile. Standing before them were two children. If it weren’t for the obvious difference in age, they could have been twins. Same shade of golden blonde hair, same skin turned tan by the summer sun, same eyes-

Celaena’s breathing sped up, pressure building up within her. There were newspaper clippings from the worst day of her life, more damning photos of that little blonde girl and her family, a family tree that ended in a name she hadn’t heard in nearly fifteen years and-

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Celaena had been too shell-shocked to hear anyone approach, but it was too late now. Rowan had found her.

And there was nothing but pure fury on his face.

…

Rowan Whitethorn hadn’t made out to follow Celaena through Maeve’s home.

She had stood, excusing herself to go to the ladies room. A good deal of eyes appreciatively watched as his wife strode away, including those of that asshole, Domitus. Rowan witnessed how he had interacted with Celaena, the way he had been looking at her.

Although their marriage was little more than a business arrangement, she was still his wife. And it would do people well to remember that fact.

Though, he couldn’t blame most of the people for looking at her the way they did. Celaena looked stunning tonight. A beauty edged with danger, like a venomous snake with iridescent scales or a prowling big cat. The allure could draw people in, but always at their own risk.

There had been a shift between them this last week. Where there were once glares there was now heated glances, where Celaena had once snapped at him she now delighted in innuendo. When she wore her nightgowns around the apartment, she knew he was looking at her.

Rowan was aware she was teasing him, daring him to make the first move. And gods, there had been a night or two where he had gotten close to doing just so. He had wanted to grab her by the hips, lift the silky hem of her nightgown, find out what kind of sounds she would make when he touched and teased between her legs.

But, he had held fast, just as curious to see how long it would take her to break.

Regardless of his self-control, Celaena still managed to slip into his dreams in a manner that only an icy-cold shower could cure.

And then just that night, before they had left, the exchange they had shared, the promise that would lead to them in bed… he knew Celaena hadn’t been joking. Neither had he.

That was part of the reason that he trailed after her only a few seconds after she had left. Rowan hoped to grab her, to convince her to slip out of the party early so they could go home and finally do what everything these past few days had been leading up to.

The other reason was that his patience had been wearing thin with the older woman at his side and her relentless flirtations.

So, he had pushed to his feet and followed.

Rowan expected to just catch a glimpse of her slipping into the bathroom, but was greeted instead with the sight of his wife strolling right past it and going up to the next floor.

If Celaena had been a different person, perhaps he would have given her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was lost or misheard the directions.

But she was Celaena Sardothien, and she was not that kind of woman.

He followed behind her, keeping his feet as soft as possible, the rage in the pit of his stomach icy and sharp. He should have known better, should have kept his guard up. In their time living together, he had forgotten who, exactly, Celaena Sardothien was.

When he saw what door she stopped in front of, the kit she had strapped to her thigh, he knew that he had been played.

Rowan didn’t follow her immediately, let her slip inside Maeve’s office and waited a few minutes. He wanted to catch her in the act, to leave no room for her to talk her way out of whatever she was doing behind those closed doors and then…

He wasn’t sure what would come next. Whether this betrayal was coming from Arobynn or Celaena herself, there would be consequences from Maeve.

He didn't revel in that idea.

Regardless, Rowan braced himself for a fight and entered the office.

What he found within confirmed his suspicions: Celaena pouring over files from Maeve’s locked cabinets. A snarl settled on his lips, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He expected her to notice him, but whatever she was reading had entranced her enough that she didn’t acknowledge his presence until he growled, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Those turquoise eyes of her snapped upwards at his voice as he strode across the office, swiftly closing the distance between them. To her credit, she didn’t flinch as he stopped right before her.

“And to think I was just starting to trust you,” Rowan hissed.

He expected her to snap, to try and convince him it wasn’t what it seemed, to distract him with her snarky jokes and her flirtations. But she didn’t do any of that. Instead, she just stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, normally golden skin pale, eyes wide with genuine fear swimming in them. She didn't look upset that she got caught. It looked as though she had seen a ghost.

Against his better judgment, Rowan took his eyes off her as glanced at whatever file she had been reading. He saw her own name printed on the tab, confused as to why his aunt had a separate file for Celaena both here and at her headquarters. And then, he saw the photos. Photos that hadn’t been in the files about his wife that he had read. Photos of a familiar family, newspaper clips with bold, tragic headlines.

Rowan froze. He looked at the photo of the young, blonde girl clipped into the file. No older than ten, dressed in fine clothing. Everyone in Terrasen, hell, everyone on the continent had seen this photo. It had been printed in papers, blasted on the news, for months and months nearly fifteen years ago and now…

He didn’t know how he didn’t realize it before, but looking at the photo now, a younger version of the woman trembling before him, there was only one, impossible conclusion.

“Holy burning gods,” Rowan rasped, looking up and meeting those damning turquoise and gold eyes that stared at him unblinkingly. “You’re Aelin Galathynius.”

~~~

a/n: oop!! new chap! it was a long one too so i hope that made up for the wait. i personally really liked this chapter, so i hope yall did too :))

tags: @val-gon @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @lattristantketchup @poisonous00 @sleeping-and-books @booklover242 @elentiyawhitethorn @shyvioletcat @charlizeed @swankii-art-teacher @nalgenewhore @morganofthewildfire @emily-gsh @fireheart-violet @fangirling-4-ever @leiawritesstories @stardelia @empress-ofbloodshed @fromthelibraryofemilyj @gwynethhberdara @rowaelinrambling @justreadertings @thegreyj @rubyriveraqueen @rowanaelinn

#misery business #rowaelin #my writing

105 notes · View notes