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deleteddewewted · 3 years

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Incel!Shinsou x F!Reader fanfic idea (Part 2)

So here we are, Incel!Shinsou is back and this time with a bit of growth that he needs to make independently (While thinking about the reader of course. Thank you so much to @blossominglark for sending in such a lovely message! Also here you can find a small explanation as to why i even started the Incel!Shinsou series.)

"I think I want you. I think you're bad. I think you're good, it's like the love I never had. I think I need you. Oh God, it's true. I think I'm falling and there's nothing I can do" - Beetlejuice Chill by Life After Youth

Part 1: Incel! Shinsou x F!Reader

Part 3: Incel!Shinsou x F!Reader (1/2)

How difficult could it be? To forget that you ever existed... thats what's haunting Shinsou ever since the conversation you two had a few days ago. He cant seem to focus anymore, everything just reeks of you. (His own bedroom where you two would sit on the floor and work on your project together. You would laugh at something that came on the television, every time resulting in his face heating up and heart beating harder at the sound, the beautiful sound, of your laughter. It doesn't feel the same anymore. He cant sit or sleep there anymore.) Shinsou starts speaking with Aizawa more, to be honest its not like Aizawa gave him that much of a choice. He needed to understand what was happening with his son and you in order to help or bring some constructive input.

Shinsou goes on and on about how he mocked you to his "friends". When questioned on his "friends" he said that they were all telling him that you needed to be taught how to be a "proper woman" the "perfect girl for them".

("Hitoshi what-...why would you...?"

"I don't know! It made sense when i was young and- i... i dont understand how or why and...please just- help me i dont understand!"

"It's ok, it's ok, come here." Aizawa hugs Shinsou tightly. He starts running his hand over Shinsou's hair comforting him.

"What did you show them? What did you tell them about...her, exactly?") A mess of tears and regrets, thats what Shinsou is. A puddle which he somehow drowned you in out of a bitter rage that had nothing to do with you.

Aizawa finally holding a grasp as to how Shinsou's mind worked, he couldn't help but feel defeated. He neglected his son so much he became bitter and resentful towards the wrong people, the wrong person. (Aizawa only ever told Shinsou that his mother moved away from them because it was "too much for her". Young Shinsou couldn't grasp why his mom would leave him, but again he never really asked questions since he saw how upset it made his dad. "Dont worry Hitoshi, ill be here for you no matter what. Got it, problem child?") An intervention needs to be made now. To prevent even more damage, to keep his son safe and his sons ex-friend safe.

"Hitoshi? The posts and things you put online, you need to delete everything now." Urgency was a must, damage control needed to happen now. Who knows if Shinsou wrote about where he lived, where you lived and studied at, if he showed those "friends" of his your face. Who knows how much information he put out there to a bunch of strangers about you. "Ok, ok. Let me delete everything...yeah...thats-yeah...makes sense." He's slipping, Shinsou is slipping into a pit of shock and disgust, he needs to fix things and that only starts by wiping away years of miss informed opinions disguised as truths.

Everything is gone. No more accounts. No more pictures. No more you. He didn't make any announcements or even address why he was wiping everything. He didn't answer the piles of questions flooding his inbox about why he was doing all of this, he just didn't care anymore. He couldn't find you either. No account on any platform with any signs of you. (He should have asked for your socials, but knowing where you two started off at he thinks its better that you two didn't. It saved you from his incessant torment he saw himself being capable of.)

Week one came and went. You didn't show up for classes and people started to take notice.

"Does anyone know why y/n isn't at school anymore? Is she sick?" Midoriya asked one day. Everyone kind of just looked at each other hoping that someone might have an answer. Be it that no one other then Shinsou was in the same class as you, everyone in his friend group knew about you since you where always nice despite the way you presented clothing wise. (The clothing didn't matter nor did the labels, you were still so welcoming to everyone. Hell, you even welcomed Monoma and that guy is considered psycho by everyone.) Shinsou couldn't do anything but listen to his friends (Midoriya, Shoto, Denki, Mina, Iida, and Ururaka) go on about how nice you were. How they miss you. He misses you . He ruined this, he ruined your school experience and pushed you to lose the friends you had because of his own ignorance. He forced you to choice between showing up to school and dealing with him or not coming in at all and losing the friends you had because of him.

The Sports Festival was coming up soon, here all the students would compete against each other to show off their skills. The Festival acts more as an opportunity for the different Courses to fight each other since its focus centers on the physical strength and wellbeing of the students instead of their study of focus. It also helps with publicity by letting UA show off their students to the general public. (Shinsou didn't understand why the school would have a Sports Festival. UA was better known for being STEM and Art focused which meant that many of the students only had to take 1 year of P.E. instead of the 3 years other schools required.

"So again, what's the purpose of this?"

"Its just a chance for the different Courses to bully each other, and for the General Course to get mocked." responded Togeike. Be it that she never spent time with Shinsou, they both had a mutual attitude and just stayed away from each other out of disinterest. It wasn't after Shinsou's personality changed did she feel more comfortable being around him and started speaking to him casually throughout the day.

"So what does the Business Course do during-"

"Hey, didn't you and y/n work on that project together?" This caught Shinsou of guard. For the past week its all been about you and how you hadn't been coming to class. (You haunt him even outside of school, the guilts too much for him at times.)

"Yeah...what about it." he snarls. Just because he's changed in appearance and largely in attitude, that doesn't mean he's over the way he treats people. Cant she get to the point already-

"Geez man, i just wanted to ask if you needed her number." That...was off. Why would she assume that he needed your number?

"Why would you give me her number? Don't you think that as former project partners i would already have her-"

"You're clearly upset about her not being here, so shut up. Either take it or leave it, jackass." she bit back. How did she know? Shinsou has always had a resting bitch face which made it hard to read his emotions. How did she manage to figure it out? (God he was an asshole!)

"Yeah, please....i'm sorry. I could-"

"Please shut the fuck up, i don't want an apology from you. Take it and fix this shit. I hate seeing people mope and you're pretty much dying in a pit here." Togeike really gives no fucks and she was tired of the purple haired boy looking like a kicked puppy. She assumed it had something to do with you. When you started skipping class, Shinsou also started to look upset and wouldn't speak that often. It wasn't like Shinsou was shy, he just didn't see the need to speak all the time. So to see him become even more silent was concerning.)

He left school that day with a skip to his step. He has your number! He has a way of contacting you! Yet, he still knew that having your number wouldn't fix anything. You left him alone and it wouldn't be fair for him to barge back into your life without proving he's improving, that he's actually deserving of you're friendship at least....

The Sports Festival.....

He can prove himself to you there....

Everyone will see it, every student at UA has to be there for credit....you'll have to be there. You'll also have to participate for the start of it, so you'll have to interact with someone.

(This was it)

This was so much fun to write! Lets give this a slow build up to give him proper character development and redemption. The next part will be the Sports Festival and what he plans on doing to get you back. Let's set up that his intention is too for one, make an impression on the school for when he decides to transfer to the Art Course but also to make an impression on you and get you to notice him in a positive light. Our poor incel is trying his best ok....

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lunnybunny12 · 3 years

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Prof Lupin x Werewolf Reader

A/N not the best but i wanted so see if the idea could work.

Master list

It was a full moon the night before and buy the way you felt... it was definitely a bad one. You woke up that morning in the dungeons of Hogwarts with a pounding headache and 3 new scratches on your arm.

The walls were littered with deep claw marks and a light layer of brown fur, dusted the stone cell. You hated it. You hated being in that cell once a month. It was your second year doing the routine and it was driving you up the tiny walls. All you wanted to do at that moment was ease the pain on your arm.

TIME SKIP> LATER THAT DAY

Your classroom door creaked open, pulling your attention away from the charm you were casting.

In walked a lady in long, emerald green robes and a large pointy hat. She was on the older side and had her silver hair tied up in a bun that was hidden under her hat.

"Good afternoon Professor Mcgonagall" You chimed. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I apologise, Professor but I must borrow you for the remainder of the class," She said, smiling at you with an apologetic look. There was no sense of urgency in her voice. She had a kind and respectable air around her that always made you feel at ease.

"Well children" you began, swishing your wand and muttering a spell that made the room rain blue slips of paper. "Looks like you have an hour to kill. Please take a paper to ensure that you don't get detention and Professor McGonagall will sign them on your way out."

One by one, your students filed out of the classroom and had their slips signed.

"Have a good afternoon, children," McGonagall said closing the door behind the pair of you.

As you entered the hall, you saw Professor Lupin waiting outside your door. This seemed a tad bit strange to you. For one, he was supposed to be teaching DADA to 3rd years at that time and second, he had been outside of your classroom before. A few times actually. The first time, you were in a rush and unable to talk. The second time, he managed to get out a polite greeting before a students spell blew up a statue.

Each time you mentally kicked yourself because over the few months he had been at Hogwarts... you had become a tad bit smitten.

Seeing that the two of you had exited the classroom, Lupin made his way towards you.

"Are you alright (Y/N), you look awful."

You sent your friend an amused look. McGonagall was fully aware of what you were but it never bothered her, Snape or Dumbledore.

"Professor Lupin." you said failing to hide your embarrassment." To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I assure you, Professor (Last Name), the pleasure is all mine." He replied. He held eye contact with you for a second. It looked like he was about to say something before Minnie cut him short.

"Right. You two follow me. We mustn't keep dumbledore waiting."

McGonagall stopped in front of a huge door. With a strong push, the professor opened the heavy door enough that the 3 of you could get into her classroom.

"In you go"

"Minnie may I ask what this is about?" you asked only to be cut off mid-sentence.

"We will discuss that when we are in the classroom."

She let out a slight laugh "The pair of you look like scared children. There's no need to worry you're not in trouble, we just need to talk to you." The Professor asked guiding you both to the front of the room.

" Yes professor I'm fine" Remus answered her with a sigh.

Before you could answer her, the door opened, revealing the headmaster. He had the same calm air around him that McGonagall did but he also radiated power (In both magical and un-magical ways).

"Good morning Professor McGonagall, Lupin..." Dumbledore greeted. " (Y/N) ... any new injuries today?"

You fiddled with your shirt sleeve. "Nothing I cant take care of"

Dumbledore turned to Remus and asked the same question. The man took a quick glance at you before his eyes cemented themselves to the floor.

"I assume you are curious as to why you are here (Y/N)."

"To put it mildly professor" you joked.

McGonagall was amused but didn't show it.

"We're both Werewolves. You and I" Remus said trying to be confident as he planted his hands in his pockets.

The pair of you looked at each other for a moment in silence. You were both Werewolfs. No wonder you felt something when he was neer you. He was a lycan. Like you.

During the silence, McGonagall went to hold your hand in a supportive way.

"I'm sorry what?" you asked looking at Lupin.

"(Y/N) don't get upset. We were only doing what we.." It was your turn to cut Professor McGonagall off but you started awquadly laughing.

"What? why would I be upset?"

At the corner of your eye, you saw Lupin shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Is this why you've been trying to talk to me outside my classroom, Remus?"

The teacher paused for a second with panic before he scratched the back of his head. "y-yes. That's what I... wanted to talk about." He answered, the last bit of his sentence drifting off into nothingness.

You weren't convinced.

Time skip

Later that evening after making sure the students were in their houses, you retired to your chambers. You were in the middle of getting into your nightclothes when you heard a knock at your door.

"One moment!" You said scrambling to tie your robe.

It was too late for a student and it wasn't any supernatural being ether, it was Lupin. He had that same charming smile he hid when he first arrived and his hands still firmly cemented into his pockets.

"Remus!" you smiled, adjusting your dressing gown to shield yourself from the cold. " Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes everything's fine... may I come in?" He asked chewing his thumbnail. "It's about what we discussed today."

That's when it clicked. Obviously he'd have questions about how to keep things quiet and how to avoid detection in a place like this.

"Oh yes, of course, come in," you said, opening the door to allow him in. "Take a seat anywhere."

The second he did so you thought of something else. Didn't he go to Hogwarts as a boy? He should already know how to do all of that.... right?

You closed the door and shuffled on your feet for a second. You had never had anyone in your chambers before so you weren't exactly prepared for guests.

"Sorry about the mess I'm not much for company. I'm sure you have a few questions. In all honesty, I do too. Do you want some tea? I'll go make some tea."

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU SAYING??? TEA? WHY WOULD HE WANT TEA AT 11 PM?? words were spilling out of your mouth quicker than you could think of them.

"Are you alright, Professor?" He asked, snapping you back to your senses. With a sigh, you took a seat across from him, rubbed your face and took a minute to calm down.

"Forgive me Lupin I've been... feeling a lot of things, today."

You saw Remus sink into his seat a little.

"Good things all good things but you're not here to hear me talk about my stuff," you said shifting in your seat. "What can I help you with?"

He was fiddling with his nails. It took him a second before composing himself to look at you.

"All good things?" he asked.

You were taken back buy the question and paused for a second before answering him " ...Mostly good things."

He sank in the chair again. "And what was the bad thing?"

"... I was... a little disappointed." you said with a small sigh.

The cheeky smile wasn't on his face anymore. He looked upset.

"Remus what's this about?" when you didn't get a response you tilted your body to look him in the eye.

"Disappointed in what?"

"Honestly?" you asked. He gave you a nod and with a sigh, you gave him your honest answer.

"I was disappointed that the only reason you were waiting outside my classroom, was to tell me what we were. What we become. I was disappointed that, of all things we COULD have in common... to get us to talk... was that."

He turned his head to look at you and was greeted with kind eyes and s content smile.

"Other than that? ALL good things"

After hearing you say this, he sat up straight in his seat. You Practically saw the gears turning in his head.

"T-that.." he begun, picking his fingers again "That wasn't the reason."

Your eyebrows knotted together in confusion. Whatever he wanted to say made him nervous.

"That wasn't the reason I was outside your classroom. I just said that to avoid telling you the real reason."

This was getting interesting now. Why was he really there then?

"Then why?"

He paused and looked at you.

"Because I ... wanted to ask you if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade with me."

You just got more confused. "Me?"

"Yes (Y/N), You."

He got off his seat to kneel in front of you and loosely held your hands in his own.

"And it's not because of what you are, It's because of WHO you are. You're this beautifully talented women who puts passion into everything she puts her mind to. Someone who isn't scared to be who she is."

You were shocked. You heard every word that came from his lips and you couldn't believe what he thought about you.

With a smile, you leant down and placed a kiss on his forehead. His head shot up to look at you.

"Thank you, Remus. Those are the nicest things anyone has ever said to me." You squeezed his hands.

"So is that a yes on the date to Hogsmeade?" He asked a smile slowly finding its way to his lips.

With a wide smile, you leant down to give him another kiss on the forehead but instead he caught you in a real kiss. It was accidental on both ends but neither of you pulled away at first. When he did he was filled with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean for that to happen"

You laughed and kissed his cheek. "let's save the proper ones for Hogsmeade shall we?"

#remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin smut #remus lupin x reader #professor lupin x reader #lupin #remus lupin #harry potter #funny #fluff

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marvelmymarvel · 4 years

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Behind the Mask

Kakashi Hatake x Reader

Synopsis: You never realized how much you missed seeing him in the mask, until he put it back on.

Song: City of the Dead by Eurielle https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=7bpwXXEKDAg&feature=share

A/n: The gif I think is when he was 14ish, but him and the reader are both 25 in this story. Also, I’m a sucker for Naruto Mom Figure reader. Fight me on it.

Everything felt tense despite the crowds around you cheering happily. You didn't know if the feeling was because of your own Shinobi instincts or if you knew that an enemy was planning on targeting this event thanks to Kakashi. Naruto tugged on your arm, snapping you from your thoughts as he began to bound towards the seats. You were able to catch yourself and catch up with him, but the sudden loud roar of the crowd caused your breath to catch in your throat.

Naruto let go of your hand as you entered the mouth of the archway leading to the stands, you were on the second level of the arena, hoping that maybe you could have time to get the both of you out of there in case something happened. The second level was also where you saw them. Your eyes caught sight of the ANBU on the roof tops, causing your blood to run cold. “Son of a bitch” you breathed out, if Naruto caught sight of them he would surely know that something was up.

Biting your lip, you let the boy drag you down to the middle row, innocently unaware of the threat that the ANBU’s presence foreshadowed. “HEY!” Naruto’s screech caused you to jump, eyes wide and frantically searching around for any threat, only stopping when you heard Naruto laugh beside you. “Man, you are jumpy today! Kakashi-Sensei wasn’t kidding when he said that you jump every time he surprises you”

Your eyes narrowed at the blonde before you stuck out your tongue at him, “Don't forget who raised you, ya little shi-” Another roar of clapping and cheers cut you off and pulled Naruto’s attention to the fighting below. He soon joined in on the cheering, standing quickly as he shook his fists and screamed along with those around you. Slyly, you drug your eyes across the mouth of the open roof.

“Did you see that!?” Naruto screamed back at you, making your e/c eyes snap back to his. A sweet smile formed on your face, dread flowing through your veins as the number you counted repeated over and over in your head. “No... But I’m sure it was amazing, right!?” 8, there were 8 ANBU on top of the building.

This was serious.

Naruto nodded at your question and began to explain what just happened but before he could finish, he was once again cut off by the cheering. You watched him silently, your smile falling as you realized how stupid this was. You should have just told the kid that you couldn’t go, but you knew him. If you told him no he would come by himself, and in turn he would have been in danger without you being there to protect him.

But who was to protect you?

Sure you were a Shinobi, had been for about 11 years now, but you weren’t the best of the best. You were no Kakashi, hell, you were a nobody. You were just a pawn, you weren’t the queen of the chess board. “Fuck” you hissed as Naruto knocked over his drink onto you in excitement, his face falling in fear at the word that fell from your lips.

“I’m sorry”

You realized it sounded harsh just by the way his voice shook, forcing a smile onto your face you stood and brushed off the ice that soaked your pants. “I’ll go get us another drink, okay kiddo?? You stay here and keep cheering.” leaning over to press a kiss to the top of his head, you smiled at the way his mood changed. He didn’t fight you off, once again engrossed in the fight as he began cheering.

Turning away from him, you let your smile drop as your thoughts began to cloud your head. You weren’t safe, meaning he wasn’t safe. Fuck, where was Kakashi when you needed him?! No, no he cant know that the two of you are here, he told you not to be here. He specifically stated that this attack would most likely happen. But did you listen, no, and look where it got you!

In danger.

“Fuck” you snapped out as you whipped the empty cup into the trashcan at the top of the stairs. A couple people threw glares your way at your profanity, but you simply pushed past them and headed towards the bathrooms. You had to think of something, but you couldn’t with all of the screaming going on. Spotting the sign for the bathrooms, you picked up your pace, the taste of silence on your tongue.

Turning the corner, you began to walk down the hall towards the bathrooms. While the silence began to surround you the further you walked, so did the fear that something was off. Stopping in your tracks, your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to pinpoint the feeling. Your breath caught as the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, spinning around, you were face to face with an ANBU.

But the mask gave you a mixture of both dread and relief.

The mixture of feelings confused you, but what confused you even more was the fact that you instinctively threw yourself into his arms. You let out a sob as you shoved your face into his neck, he wrapped his arms around you slowly and while it was sweet, you could feel his anger in the way he held onto you. Despite everything going on around you. Despite the fact that he was pissed off on another level that you were here.

You couldn’t help but feel safe when your own personal ANBU was near. “I told you not to come here, Y/n. What the hell are you doing here” Kakashi's snarl caused you to whimper as you shoved your face further into his neck in order to ‘hide’ from him. The feeling of his arms around you was nice, and the mere sight of the mask you missed so much filled you with relief. Yet, you couldn’t help but be concerned with why he was wearing it.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled back from him. Looking up, you could see a hint of his Sharingan from the left eye hole while the other was pitch black. “Why are you wearing the mask” you whispered out, hands slowly going up to cup the sides of it. He didn’t push you away as you traced your fingers along the red lines, something you used to always do during his time with the elite group of Shinobis.

“That's what you’re asking me?”

You fought back a sly smirk, but he saw a hint of mischief glimmer in your eyes as you cocked your head up at him. “You know I’ve always loved this mask, but I never liked what it did to the man I loved behind it” Sadness soon replaced your mischief as you remembered the sleepless nights and panic attacks that being apart of the ANBU did to Kakashi. The third Hokage pulling him from the team was the best thing that he could have ever done, especially since Kakashi is too damn stubborn to quit.

Even if it could have killed him.

Nausea formed in your throat, causing you to gulp at the sudden change of your emotions. You didn’t want to see this mask anymore, you just wanted to see him. Tears formed at the corners of your eyes as your fingers rested at the bottom edge of the mask. Kakashi didn’t fight you as you lifted it up with shaky fingers, knowing that what he went through was also felt by you, just on a different level.

Quite possibly a worse level.

“I hate this mask, I hate what it did to you” you whimper out, tears falling down your cheeks as you ripped it off his head. His eyes stared at you, pain clearly evident on both his face and in his eyes. You didn’t know if it was his own personal sadness, or if he was saddened by your reaction, but it didn’t matter to you.

You dropped the mask to the ground before placing both hands on his face, “Please, never put that back on.” The both of you knew that he couldn’t exactly keep that promise, but neither one of you wanted to say it. Your fingers snuck under the top of the cloth covering the lower half of his face, only then did he grabbed your hands in his, eyes warning you to be more cautious of your surroundings.

“We’re alone” you muttered out, eyes wide and pleading for him to let you see him. It wasn’t like you didn't see his face as you saw it every day, but right now, right here, the need to see him was intense. He could sense your urgency and how you were teetering on a mental breakdown. He wished that he could tell you that he was a different person now behind the mask.

But you had to see it for yourself.

Letting go of your fingers, he let you peel down the cloth till it fell below his chin. His hands rested on your cheeks, thumbs swiping away the tears as your own hands wandered around his face. “It's me, I'm still here with you” he cooed out as your fumbling grew rough and desperate. Nothing felt real, it felt like you were both transported to the past. The past where you loved seeing him in the mask, as it showed strength, yet you hated it as it hurt the man you truly loved wearing it.

“I don’t want to lose you”

He shook his head firmly, his own fingers digging into your fleshy cheeks as if he was trying to ground you to him. “You’re not gonna lose me, stop your tears. Its just a mask” his words would seem harsh to anyone else, but the words he spoke were the same words you would coo in his ear when he couldn’t sleep. They were the same words you’d remind him every time he left for a mission. They were the same words you’d state when he’d return.

Its just a mask.

Nodding, you moved your hands down to cup the sides of his neck, enjoying the feeling of his warm flesh on your finger tips. He observed you, looking for any signs that you were about to breakdown again, but he was relieved when a smile formed on your lips. You looked back up to say something but were unable to get a word out as he pressed his lips firmly against yours. A moan of surprise flew from your lips as he pushed you back towards the wall. You tripped over the mask, causing it to skid across the hall as you sunk deeper into his embrace.

For a minute, the two of you felt alone in the world. As if nothing else mattered and no danger could ever get to you. A particularly loud roar of cheering broke you apart, breathing shakily as you tried to catch your breath.

His thumb caressed your chin lovingly, "Next time I tell you to stay home... Please listen" you smiled sheepishly at the words, completely forgetting about how much trouble you were in. "Actually, do me a favor. Fake a sickness to Naruto, that'll surely make him worried enough to help you home... You both need to get out of here" he continued to talk as he moved away from your breathless body. He pulled up his cloth as he reached down to grab the kicked away mask.

It would be the last time he'd wear this mask... He had to make sure of it, because he wasn't sure if he could see the heartbroken look on your face again. You nodded at his plan, knowing that Naruto was always worried about your health and in turn would do anything to make sure you were 'safe and sound'. Moving back to you, Kakashi stopped just centimeters from your face. Your eyes were trained on the mask in his hands, the urge to burn the stupid thing bubbling to the surface of your chest. He cupped your chin once more before forcing your head up to look at him. "I love you" he whispered out before pressing his covered lips against yours. Pulling back, he slipped on the mask and began to walk down the hall.

"Please come back to me" you cried out, pushing off the wall shakily as you watched him go. He halted at your outcry, a hidden smile forming on his lips as he looked back at you.

"I'll always come back to you"

#kakashi imagine #kakashi imagines #kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake imagine #kakashi hatake imagines #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi #kakashi hatake #naruto imagine #naruto imagines #naruto x reader

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sicjimin · 3 years

Note

hi!! if youre still doing the prompts can i suggest G 2 and G 3 with sickie yoongi and your choice of caretaker? maybe yoongi tells the guys (or just the caretaker) he cant sit in the backseat cause he gets carsick but they dont really listen cause theyre too busy with schedule? thank you!!

2. I told you I can’t sit in the back seat…

3. I’m starting to feel really queasy… can we pull over?

TW : emeto

Yoongi squints when the bright sun hitting his body. He could hear the other members have been chattering away in the car as he's the last one to get in.

"Namjoon-ah, can we switch the seat?", Yoongi asks when he sees Namjoon has occupied the passenger seat. " I—", before Namjoon even managed to open his mouth, Seokjin chimed away, "Yoongi-ah, just get in. We're running late!"

Yoongi huffs before giving in, not wanting to delay the schedule further. He squeezed himself beside Taehyung. Good thing he's not in the middle, so it will be easy for him if he ever wants to get out or just to sleep. And with that, he turned on his headphone and closed his eyes, hoping that by the time he's awake, they already arrived at their shooting location.

—

"How long again until we arrived?", Yoongi groggily asks Taehyung beside him that currently playing with Jungkook. Taehyung looks at his watch, " Um .. an hour?"

Yoongi groans at the answer. To be honest, he starts feeling dizzy. His short nap just makes him feel groggy and more aware of the motion of the car. Yoongi shifts his position, looking away to the green and road that passing by, hoping that it could distract him from coiling nausea deep in his stomach. His hand unconsciously making its way under his shirt, clutching it tightly as if by doing that, it could stop sloshing.

"Are you okay hyung?", Taehyung asks, and Jungkook beside him becomes curious too. They have been doing a lot of trips together, thanks to almost 10 years of being together, so they know each other habit by the back of their hands. Yoongi looks at them from their peripheral sight. He didn't want to say it because it hards enough for him to open his mouth as his tongue has to feel thick with saliva, but maybe it will be good to let them know so they can do something if he is bound to be sick.

"Usual .. i feel dizzy", Yoongi mumbled. His fingers now tapping anxiously on the car door.

"Are you gonna be sick?"

Yoongi shakes his head slowly, "No .. i think i could hold it", and with that the two youngest back on their things.

10 minutes later, Yoongi feels way worse. The car had taken a curve and it was like Yoongi got lost in that one moment, and all his senses are shut down. It was only when Taehyung grabbed his hand did Yoongi come back to reality. That's when Taehyung asked him if he's okay, or if he needs anything else to drink, or what about something in particular. But Yoongi wasn't listening to any of that; all his mind could think about was those words coming out of Taehyung's mouth. He felt a lump formed in his throat, as his hand gone cold and his mouth feels bitter with his breakfast that starts to coating his tongue.

Yoongi sucked a deep breath, pressing his fist on his shaky lips, trying to let out words without something else coming out, "I’m starting to feel really queasy… can we pull over?", Taehyung's eyes widen at the remarks, frantically tapping Seokjin's shoulder, causing Namjoon to look back too and when they met with Yoongi's state, they understand the urgency.

"Yoongi-ah, can you hold back for few minutes? I will change the lane but it's kinda crowdy", Seokjin asks from the driver seat, his eyes busy looking at the rear mirror and Yoongi at the back seat. Yoongi huffs out a more nauseated breath as he nods. Yes, he can do that.

Yoongi took a few steps away from the car towards the back of it as soon as Seokjin managed to pull over, where could hide him better. He didn't want the members, especially Hoseok and Jimin, to see him get sick or he will set another dominos of sickness to them too.

He could feel his body tremble as he bent down, but he couldn't hold it in any longer so he dropped to his knees. His legs felt weak and weak enough that he was having a hard time standing up again. The world started spinning, making him dizzy and more nauseous. He grabbed onto the car for support and closed his eyes, fighting not to throw up. He heard Seokjin and Taehyung calling to him, but he couldn't make out what his friend was saying as his stomach lurched, throwing everything he'd eaten into his mouth. Seokjin's voice grew louder until he finally caught sight of Yoongi kneeling in the grass. As soon as he did though, he ran to him and sat beside him on the ground, putting a gentle hand on his back, forming a circle pattern.

The sight of vomit forming a puddle below him only make Yoongi's stomach twist further. He squeezed his eyes shut everytime his stomach lurch on his throat. He couldn't really comprehend Seokjin's comforting words beside him or Taehyung yelling to someone to bring him water as his ears ringing, adrenaline rushing on his worked-up body. It took him a few empty gagging before he straightened his body, looking completely spent as he pants for air. He feels terrible. He opened his eyes and meet with Seokjin and Taehyung's worried eyes, "Hyung .. drink this", the younger offered bottle of water to him, that he gladly accept as the bland taste on his tongue start building up a new wave of nausea.

"How are you feeling?", Seokjin asks. Yoongi spits the water in his mouth, leaning his back to the car, exhausted, " Peachy"

"I don't know you would be this sick ..", Seokjin murmured, looking guilty as he was the one who rushing them.

"You know i can't sit in the back seat", Yoongi huffs. " Can i trade with Namjoon now?"

Seokjin shrugs, following behind Yoongi to get back to the car, and so is Taehyung. "Just kick him, he won't protest"

Come to their surprise, Namjoon already seated on Yoongi's former seat, "Hyung? Why are you here?", Taehyung asks.

"I know hyung get sick because he was in the back. I figured if we want to last long without anymore stopping, we need to change seats"

"You're leader for a reason, Joon-ah, i gave you that", Seokjin grins as he put on his seatbelt. Yoongi grunts beside him, " If you put it like that, i sound so fragile. but thank you Joon-ah"

#bts sickfic #bts emeto #tw emeto #tw vomit #sick!yoongi #caretaker!seokjin #caretaker!taehyung

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aquariusshadow · 3 years

Text

Live!Blogging Legacies s4 ep2

oh boy oh boy oh boy time to continue the weekly routine!!!

lesss gooooo

i really am loving the cleo backstory we're getting

hehehe kaleb/mg fist bump

that was cute

wade?!

hello sir its been a while!!

hgnnnnnnnn

oh look a new headcanon forming

mg listening in on lizzie since this is the first time he's heard anything about ethan so he's missing his boyfriend

no ifs ans or buts

clarke? i have to be forgetting something from the last season

aw man poor cleo

having to rewatch her trauma over and over

i swear if we're poorly attempting to recreate methan with lethan im gonna be hella annoyed

superheros were methan's thing

finsie's really growing on me

i find myself saying 'aw' after every one of their scenes now

ok lizzies not that into ethan

mg's spying on ethan no ifs ans or buts

i dont want any 'oh mg's spying on lizzie' nonono ill stay in denial until the show tells me otherwise

yesssss

i really liked the clarke/mali!landon scene

well hello josie being honest with hope

"i don't need ethan to get in the mix with that again"-MG

told ya

thats all

episodes over for me

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

please

dont do this

i beg you

WHY

NOOOOOOOOOO

"With your ex-boy wonder" YALL

YALL WANT ME TO BELIEVE MIZZIE YET WE GOT THIS LINE FROM KALEB

ok now i want landon showing cleo everything about star wars when they get out of malivore

so what is clarke like...mali!possessed or something?

apparently so

plz go sit down next to ethan mg

plz

nono mg take ethan back to the school

METHAN REUNION?!

i really hope we see more of landon and cleo's friendship dynamic

"his boy"

"mg's already looking out for your--his boy"

kaleb you got to her in time

take some well deserved credit

you deserve it

lizzie and kaleb friendship rights!!

you know, honestly? this is the first season...since maybe s1 where i actually believe malivore is a legitimate threat

like the pacing in this episode (and the past two) are really doing a good job showing the urgency needed to defeat malivore

thank you clarke

watch, alarics lying bs is gonna catch up to him

mg youre getting your boy back

"you just cant stop yourself from saving people, can you, Essential?" YALL

oh no

honey

bby no

ethan

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

hoenstly finch is handling this remarkably well all things considering

shes communicating with josie when given the chance

being honest about all her feelings of fear for josie and love for her

and i cant blame her for saying shes not sure she can be in a relationship with her

which, does make sense

i think they'll get back together tho

MALILANDON NO

oh now we're telling the truth

this is what happens when we lie people

nooooooooooooooooo

well......i honestly dunno if ethan’s dead, sucked into malivore, or if this is a legit fake-out and he’s gonna be fine

So my favorite thing about this episode was (and I briefly mentioned this in the bullet points) how the pacing seems to fit the urgency of the Malivore threat. It reminds me a lot of season 1′s intensity regarding Malivore and I’m glad we’re switching the tone to properly showcase that as the MotW format was hindering the much needed tension.

I think all the main friendships were really strong! We got Lizzie and Kaleb friendship, Josie and Hope friendship, MG and Kaleb, and the one I’m most excited for, Landon and Cleo’s friendship. I’m really glad the show is exploring different friendship dynamic this season, it really helps solidify that the Super Squad really is a legitimate Squad of close friends.

Uh...well, y’all know how I feel about Mizzie and Lethan. Did not like it at all. It all just feels very forced and stupid especially when the strongest dynamic out of all three really is Methan and that should legit be the main ‘relationship’ focus (be it romantic or otherwise at this point).

Those Methan crumbs tho?!?!?! YALL I-

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constantlyunlightening · 4 years

Text

Quiet

Day 10: Public Places w/ Shoto Todoroki

Warnings/Other Kinks: Bratty Dom, cum play (i guess that’s what I’m gonna tag it as), panties in mouth

If you haven’t read my Shoto Todoroki NSFW headcannons, you should. Cuz this is in line with my bratty dom theories. Is he dumb or being a smartass? Who knows?

Anyway, Shoto is super fun to write. I really liked doing this one and I hope you guys like it too!

Disclaimers: 18+ years old to read, all characters are aged 20+

He told you the next time you wore that dress in public, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back. You had taken it as a compliment at the time, not a threat.

But on the day where the two of you were supposed to be heading to some fancy hero event, you found that specific dress laid out on your bed waiting for you. Honestly, you thought the gesture was adorable! Was Shoto picking out an outfit he wanted you in? You had simply forgotten all about what he had said last time.

So you put the dress on.

It wasn’t until after the two of you mingled around the event a while before he pulled you to a corner and you heard his deep voice dance against your ear. “So you wore it? Remember what I said last time?” His voice bounced in your skull and the hand that heated up at your waist quickly jogged your memory. “I warned you.”

And with that, he dragged you away at the nearest opportunity and shoved you into a supply closet. That’s how you ended up with your dress hiked over your hips and Shoto fucking you into the walls of the tiny closet.

You’re pretty sure the two of you had knocked something off the closet shelf in your flurry, but the cock pounding you into the wall made it really damn hard to think. Shoto had his head dipped down, lips and teeth and tongue attacking the flash that stretched your collar bone as he tightened his grip on your thighs. You were clawing at his back, trying to bite the inside of your cheek but the way he was tearing into you made it so hard to keep your noises down.

“Sho-shoto,” an urgent, whine of a whisper was all you could manage to hiss out without screaming. “I- if I make too much noise, we’re going to get caught.” A tangle of words, ushered out as quickly as possible to keep you from yelping as he speared deep into you.

He didn’t pause his hips, but he did pause the ministrations he had been trailing over you, only so he could look up at you with hues of smoke and frost. It was almost vexing how calm he looked. You were falling apart and other than the beads of sweat rolling down his face and a few labored pants. “Then stay quiet?” He offered, as if the solution were obvious. As if you could keep quiet with the hero pounding you senseless.

With a raspy groan, you covered your mouth with a hand you detangled from his shirt and shook your head as his length rocked against your insides, slipping in and out much too snugly. “I-I cant-”

You couldn’t tell if the way he stared at you silently was him trying to actually access the situation or was him just hiding his smirk. Was he being a smartass with a poker face right now? Or was he genuinely racking his brain for a solution. You’ve been dating this man for how long now? And you still had no idea as to if he was the smartest person you knew or the dumbest.

You weren’t ever going to find out you were pretty sure. Especially not right now with your whole body vibrating in need.

He pulled out of you, and the seemingly randomness of it had you trying to suppress a yelp as your body strained with the sudden emptiness, trying to clamp over nothing. “Sho- what are you doing?” Your voice sounded pathetic even to your own ears as Shoto released your thighs, gently settling you back onto the ground. Had he decided to stop? Had the solution to her not making noise was to just be done? He sure didn’t seem frustrated at all but it wouldn’t be unlike him to leave you hanging and pretend like he was doing it to actually help. Or maybe he did think he was actually helping? Either way. He can’t just fuck the air out of you and stop! He couldn’t!

In your panic you failed to realize he had been working on tugging off your panties from underneath your dress balling them up in his hands. You opened your mouth to question his actions again but in the next moment, the balled up lace was in your mouth. A muffled noise strangled out around it as Shoto was once again grabbing your thighs, and dragging you right back up against the wall and in the air. “I didn’t have a gag,” he stated simply as a small smile came to his lips. It looked so tender. But you couldn’t help but think it felt rather conniving. “It had a wet spot on it, so I know it tastes good too. But you can take it out if you think you can keep quiet on your own.”

The break without him inside you had been just long enough that the pleasure had mellowed out and left you with an ache-y opening from his earlier attack. And so when his head pushed back in, the sensitivity had you absolutely choking on your makeshift gag. You knew for a fact you wouldn’t be able to keep the noise down on your own. Shoto seemed well aware of this too as he slowly began to resheath himself in your heat, letting you adjust to the painful sensitivity and let your need build back up with each and every inch of him plugging into you. Again, that sweet smile had reached his lips as he got himself buried balls deep. “See? It worked.”

He seemed self satisfied. And it was hard to argue with saliva starting to pool at the back of your throat, dampening the lacey gag. Your hands were free. You could have reached out and removed it, but Shoto decided it was time to return to that pace from earlier without any warning. His hips were snapping up and you felt like you could feel him all the way to your stomach as he rocked you against the wall. You could no longer think about the way you could taste yourself on your panties, couldn’t think about how anyone could catch you two locked away in the closet, couldn’t think at all actually. You couldn’t even fucking see as your eyes rolled back into your skull.

He wasn’t kissing your neck anymore, but instead, focusing on watching your face contort into pleasure and you knew for a fact he was messing with you when he spoke up again with that same steady cadence. “Your eyes are looking weird. What’s wrong?” He questioned, concern etching his voice but he knew. He had made you make this face all the time and maybe he had been concerned the first couple but now he knew. Now he was just doing his very best to get under your skin as you helplessly wriggled your hips down onto him. “Should I stop?”

This little shit.

Don’t you dare! You tried to snap out at him but all that you could get out of your mouth garbled around the fabric and you felt a burst of drool dribble down your chin as you whined and huffed. And Shoto, your loving, caring, sweet, sweet partner found it within himself to fucking laugh. This man who had the poker face of a statue managed to find his sense of humor at your expense while he was balls deep inside of you. It wasn’t a boisterous laugh, hardly more than a chuckle but it was more than he usual produced. And the real kicker was, you were too senseless to even fully enjoy it right now. In contrast to the urgency in which he speared into you, he managed to let a hand move up to help clear the dribble off your face with his thumb before he regained his grasp on your thigh and continued wildly knocking your thoughts out of your head.

“I won’t stop unless you ask me to,” he murmured in reassurance as he dipped his head back down, and you missed the growl he let out against your skin as you trembled and writhed around him. He would have loved to take more time with you, but the event put you at a limit and he wasn’t about to leave his precious lover empty handed.

He was about to leave you utterly full in fact.

With the force from his speed keeping you suspended in place, his hand found a spot above your folds and the pad of his thumb found that sweet spot of yours fairly quickly. He groaned deeply in response to the muffled keening you gave off as he rolled your clit under his finger and as he teased and toyed and rammed his cock into your cervix, you gave in to an orgasm that rocked your whole body and he lost himself in tandem. You were filling up with sticky heat as Shoto left one last love bite against the expanse of your shoulder and your body milked him for every drop of his worth. He had to collect himself before he could slowly pull out of you, watching a drop of his essence plop on the ground beneath you.

You were shuddering as he carefully lowered you to the ground, trying to inhale deeper but choking on the concoction of saliva and lace. Shoto was kind enough to help fish out the soiled undergarments and let you flounder for air.

“Are you alright?” Real concern this time as he brushed the hair out of your face and you were met with that combo of smog and snow as his gaze met yours.

You slowly managed to nod your head but as you caught your breath and came to your senses, a few realizations hit you at once.

You were still in public.

And you were now filled with wet cum that was starting to leak down your inner thighs.

You moved to clench and you gave a loud whine. “Shoto! Why did you do that? I can’t clean up here.”

He blinked and his head tilted to the side and stared down at you. “Do what?”

Was he for real?

“You- its all up inside me now! How am I supposed to walk around right now? Why couldn’t you have picked somewhere we could wipe down?” You scolded quietly, embarrassment flooding through you at the thought of walking through the party like this. Then you spotted the damp pair of panties Shoto was holding in his hands and another flare of emotions ran through you. You groaned.

“I figured we didn’t want to make a mess in here. Was I wrong?” His brows furrowed and now you were left to believe that he seriously just didn’t think about the implications of his girlfriend having to walk around the rest of the evening filled with his load, and a pair of soaked underwear.

Or maybe his poker face was really just that good.

#shoto todoroki #shoto x reader #bnha smut #kinktober #todoroki

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castiels-majestic-wings · 3 years

Text

Sixth Sense - Chapter 3

Paring: Loki x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2,255

Warnings: Accidental violence/injury. Mental health (Loki).

Posted: 03/01/2021

Odin wasn’t particularly fond of you staying in Asgard. But you had insisted to keep a close eye on Loki. You had told him it was to make sure the darkness didn’t get stronger. But there was something else, after reading him so deeply, so intimately. Something changed. You no longer feared him, but you felt as if you wanted to save him. You needed to save him. From his thoughts, from the entity that harmed him before his forced attack on Earth. You knew he was tortured before his attack, you saw the footage, keeping tabs on what was happening during the battle. But now, you just felt worse. He thought he was the very monster his father despised. He had been lied to his whole life, even by his mother- whom he trusted the most.

Getting lost in your thoughts you didn’t hear Thor entering the room. He was worried for you, he had seen you read auras before but you had never acted like this afterwards. He hoped he hadn’t caused you harm letting you come here. He stared at your figure for a moment. You were facing away from him but your facial features seemed stressed and concerned. Your eyes were narrowed, facing the ground. Your right hand rested on your face while your left draped over your knees. You were unmoving. Completely still until you felt something and your head jerked up and your eyes met Thors. Your eyes narrowed, you had never sensed someone’s presence before. Was your being here helping you tap into your powers. The endless possibilities of being in a magic realm, would that make you more powerful, dangerous?

“Thor- I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You seemed deep in thought” You couldn’t tell him about Loki if he knew his feelings- from what you understood- it would break him.

“Yes, I think my pow- my abilities, I think they’re evolving” It wasn’t exactly a lie. But not the whole truth of what was on your mind.

“Evolving? How so?”

“Before I could only read auras. But now, I can sense them. Not straight away obviously. But what if- what if being here, is making me more powerful? Compared to earth, this realm is one of magic.” You stated, wanting his opinion on the matter.

“It’s possible. So you could sense my presence without knowing I was there?”

“Yes, and-”

“And?”

“And- and I feel a connection- to Loki I mean. I had never read that deep into someone. I felt like his therapist, but it’s more than that. A man like that, he wouldn’t willingly let me read his emotions. But I still felt them. I cant tell emotions from peoples auras, Thor. But with Loki. I did. Is it my being here? “

“We need to tell my father about this” Thor turned to leave but you grabbed his arm holding him back from walking further.

“Don’t. Don’t tell him yet. He doesn’t trust me, not yet. Wait until I gain his trust, then you can tell him” Thor turned to face you again, as your arms fell to your side.

“What if being here causes you harm, Y/N?”

“And what if it doesn’t? If Odin finds out- He will banish me from Asgard for eternity. Thor, trust me on this. There are things you don’t know, about Loki, about your father. Thor, please. Give me a month.”

“One month. No more, no less.”

“Yes! Thank you, Thor” You pulled him into a hug in which he accepted. After pulling away you knew you had to ask Loki about it. You began walking and Thor automatically followed- being you protector here. You memorised the way to the prisons, once Thor had realised your destination he held a hand out in front of you stopping you.

“Are you sure this is wise?” He looked down at your smaller form, concern filling his eyes.

“His speciality is magic, who else could I ask about this?” He frowned, knowing he was the only one that you could ask for answers. A sigh escaped his lips, lowering his hand, letting you continue. Once in the prison you had asked the guards to leave, they denied until Thor had ordered them to. Loki looked up confused with your visit. Sitting up from his laying position on the bed he was given.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice was dull. He knew there was no point in being strong around you, you could read him as easily as the books he reads.

“I have a question, related to magic.” His eyebrows perked in curiosity.

“Magic? Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“My abilities are evolving. I assume it’s my being here. I can now, not only read auras but sense them. And I think they’re still growing.”

“Well, this is the realm of magic, my dear. There are endless possibilities for the reasoning of your growth. But I would say your assumption is correct.”

“Would I be in any danger being here? Will my body be able to handle the change in my abilities.”

“That all depends on you. If you’re strong enough to sustain it, you will be fine. But if not, there is a certain danger to it.”

“Thor let me into the cell. I need to test something”

“Are you sure? He just said it’s dangerous”

“Only if I can’t handle it. I’ll stop before any permanent damage is done. Don’t worry so much. I’m stronger than I look.” Thor was hesitant but complied. Loki didn’t make a move to hurt you even with Thor on the outside. You sat in from of Loki with a chair, much like last time.

“Look, I’ve never done this before so if it hurts I’m sorry.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Just relax” You placed your fingers on his temples gently, closing your eyes. You tried to concentrate on him, his pain. You wanted to understand him more. Then you saw the tesseract and a purple titan with a deceiving smile. A tear rolled down your cheek as you searched for the cause of his pain. You saw auras within his memories. Those of his adopted family in happy memories turned sour. He believed his life was a lie. He didn’t want to love anymore, in fear he would get hurt again. He-.

You were brought back to reality, your hands were no longer on Loki’s temple but within his hands. You had caused him pain. Making him relive those memories. Thor had entered the room at this point. You still didn’t notice the tear on your cheek until Loki wiped it away.

“How- how did I see that?”

“That I’m not entirely sure of. It seems you hold abilities even more than you already possess”

“But I read auras, not emotions and memories.”

“I’m afraid you might be wrong there.”

“You are not doing that again” Thor demanded, voice deep.

“Why not? This would be the best way to heal your brother”

“Y/N you screamed as you cried. I do not think its best for you to continue. I shall call Stark and-”

“No! I- I need to continue”

“Y/N it will harm you”

“No, you don’t understand. I need to continue Thor. Not only am I helping Loki, but I’m expanding my knowledge of my powers. Who knows what other abilities I possess.” Excitement and urgency filled your tone, making Thor rethink his decisions. Was it wise to keep you here, letting you continue? Without his father’s knowledge? What was he thinking? He trusted you. He had to let you do this. You know the dangers, yet still want to continue, who was he to deny that.

“I shall not stop you if this is the path you choose. You cannot stop. You must continue forward until the very end” He lectured you as if you were entering battle.

“I know. But I trust my gut, Thor. This is something I have to do. There are no choices in this, no decisions that will change my mind. Its something I know that must be done” Thor nodded saying nothing more. You turned your attention back to Loki. He stayed silent, knowing exactly what you saw.

“Thor, leave us. Can you mute the cell? The barrier would have that ability I assume?” Thor huffed but nodded, answering your question as he left. He gave a thumbs up showing that he could no longer hear you, but you had to check. You knew what he was like. You turned and yelled.

“Thor is a giant asshole with an ego bigger than Tony!” Thor didn’t budge, but Loki stifled a laugh. You turned towards him and let out a giggle yourself.

“I had to check. He’s not very fond of us being alone together. Even if he can see us, he thinks you’ll manipulate me if he cant hear us.”

“And what makes you think I won’t.” He tried to shield himself again, going back to his trickster persona.

“I’ve seen your pain, your memories, Loki. You don’t have to hide anymore. Not with me. You hold no hatred for attacking my planet. I know you had no choice. That thing. The purple titan. He forced you to do it. I know you're not the monster they think you are.” You held his hand in a comforting way. Letting him know that he could trust you. His eyes searched yours for deceit. Anything that would show him that you would betray him like the rest of them. But he found nothing. He began to break.

“I didn’t want to do it. I thought I killed Thor. And I hated it. But I had to prove to him- to Thanos-”

“His name is Thanos?” His eyes shut briefly as he sighed.

“Yes. I had to prove my loyalty. He tortured me after he saved me. He needed me. The god presumed dead by his brother. No one would see me coming.” You nodded your head, listening to every word diligently. He poured his heart out, for the first time in his life. He was vulnerable. He told a Midgardian everything that was eating at his conscious. And during that whole ordeal, you didn’t say a word. You let him vent. It seemed as though you were a therapist of some kind to him. Once he stopped, he noticed your tears. You felt empathy, for him. No one had cared enough to ever listen to his words. But now, here you were, sat in front of him, crying. He didn’t know what to feel.

Thor was stood outside Loki’s cell the whole time. Not being able to hear a word. He saw that Loki was the only one speaking. He feared that Loki was trying to manipulate you, he went to interrupt before he saw your hand signalling him to calm down. You sensed his tension. You had to let him know you were okay. Loki wouldn’t open up if Thor interrupted. But when Loki stopped speaking and Thor saw your lips move, with tears in your eyes. He couldn’t take it anymore. He burst into the cell. You stood in defence at the sudden sound.

“What did you say to her Loki?!” Thor had misread the situation. You had to calm him down. You walked towards him, putting your hands up to try and calm him.

“Thor, I’m fine. He didn’t do anything” Thor barged passed you and went to punch Loki but you jumped in front of him taking the hit. You grunted as the force threw you to the wall. Thor pulled back, seeing your figure leaning against the wall. He resented himself for striking you, even if it was by accident. You looked up, holding your waist. The force you hit the wall at caused some more physical damage than the broken and bloody nose. Your other hand made it up to your nose to examine the damage. With the force of a god, you were lucky you were still conscious. Loki had come to your aid, helping you up while Thor was frozen, unable to believe his actions.

“Are you alright?” Loki’s voice showed concern. You kept hold of Loki’s shoulders to keep your balance. The thumping in your head didn’t stop you from yelling.

“You idiot! Thor, when will you learn that your actions have consequences! Stop and listen before attacking someone. It will get you out of so many unnecessary situations!” You removed your hand from your waist, placing it on your head. The shouting had made it worse.

“Damn it, Thor. I told you to trust me.”

“You were crying what was I suppose-”

“I was crying because he told me everything! I got so sad thinking ‘How could he live like that? How did he last so long?’ I cried because I have empathy, Thor.”

“I’m so sorry Y/N I-”

“Save it. I’m not mad. Just hurt.” You groaned in pain as you shifted your weight.

“Let me take you to a healer” Thor’s hands reached out to help you.

“Fine.” You removed your arm from Loki’s shoulders as Thor placed a hand under your knees, and the other on the small of your back before he lifted you. You looked at Loki and saw how hurt he was of your pain. He wanted to take you himself and check on you whenever he could. But as a prisoner, he wasn’t granted that freedom.

Taglist: @lovermrjokerr @lord-byron @lucywrites02 @violetica

#loki #loki lafeyson #loki odinson #mcu #mcu loki #tom hiddleston #loki imagine #loki (marvel)#loki x reader #loki series #loki fic series #mcu fanfiction #mcu fic #marvel mcu #cazza writes

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soukokuwu · 4 years

Note

"requests are closed??" that cannot stop me because i cant read!! ** URGENT ** power couple comfort needed asap chuuya is the diplomat for the inheritor of a newly departed yokohama media moguls empire who agrees to fold the power of the company to moricorp so long as chuuya agrees to a date yah i need this like stat plz

THE OTHER HALF.

✢ genre. fluff ✢ pairing. chuuya x reader ✢ synopsis. you’re going to inherit your father’s media empire, and mori wants in. his ticket? chuuya. ✢ author notes. an urgent request? you got it! in 2 days ehehe i just hope you like this <3

He stares at the pristine white on the walls of the lavishly decorated office corridors. It suits their reputation. Nothing fits the reigning media mogul of Yokohama like grandeur. He would normally express some sort of distaste for how much of these… beautifications are unnecessary, but Mori had already warned him: it is imperative to get on their good side. Political reasons, he added. As if the mafia doesn’t have enough political influence already.

Although why, of all people, he chose to send NAKAHARA CHUUYA as Port Mafia’s representative to head the meeting, Chuuya himself doesn’t know. A cold-blooded, hot-headed vessel of destruction.

Yes, very plausible, very sensible, he thinks.

Sarcasm. That was sarcasm.

Mori always had his reasons for every decision he made. Some are possibly very fucked up, but even Chuuya admits his manipulation tactics and puzzle-piecing skills rival that of Dazai’s. So he never questions his boss’s decisions. At least, not to his face. He just wonders what is hiding behind this certain choice (of making Chuuya go to the meeting, alone) and how twisted it could be.

Cruising through the halls makes him realise just how much he’d hate it if he was a normal human with a normal, boring desk job. The rooms he passes by, with their glass windows and deceiving transparency, are all full of people either typing away on their keyboards or speaking into phones with some sort of urgency. Yikes. No thanks, he would much rather work with violence and be on the frontlines than man a desk at a mediocre job with less-than-satisfactory pay.

The redhead guesses that they’re going to take him to the boardroom (which incidentally, he thinks, is quite an appropriate name for a meeting room — rigid, stiff, flat — full of smiles that are painted on and the chatter of mindless opinions crafted only to cater to the ones who matter. If that’s an indication of anything to come, Chuuya is already dreading it.) After all, they had scheduled a meeting for discussions with the director on future possibilities of working with the mafia.

Chuuya does admit though, it would be very useful to have the media on their side. Not only digital, but print as well. The possibility to spread propaganda and cover up crimes. This company has it, and Mori is hungry, eager to take over. (Or at least, to establish dominance over them.) Maybe that’s why he chose the gravity manipulator. To make them comply with the threat of crushing them with his brute force should they refuse. It’s harsh. Not that he would mind if it comes to that. There’s a certain satisfaction, a certain kick, he gets out of seeing everyone before him cower in fear.

Because it means he’s in control.

And Chuuya loves being in control. After all, he controls the very things that holds everyone in its grip — gravity.

Ironically, though. What he doesn’t have control over is his own feelings. Mostly unpleasant. A temper so fiery and an impulse so unexpected. Today, though, there is a turn of events. Because as he turns the corner to enter the boardroom, he spots a pair of eyes on him, observing him shrewdly.

No, it isn’t yours. But your father’s.

Wrinkled face wrinkles up even more as they eye him from head to toe, expressing obvious displeasure in the form of tuts and a deepening frown. Chuuya can just tell from how the man wears an expensive tailored suit — probably from a high end luxury brand that Chuuya can’t even pronounce properly — and how his tie is tightened so firmly against his neck that he probably always has a stick up his ass.

But a whiff of something… refreshing skips pass his nostrils and all the hostility from seeing the director disintegrates into — what is this? Chuuya can’t even tell, another irritating reminder he doesn’t understand his own emotions all that well.

And that, that is when he first lays eyes on you.

If you’re wondering, no, it’s not that cinematic moment where you walk in and he’s immediately blinded by the light you bring with you thanks to that invisible halo you carry on your head. Chuuya sees the world through anything but rose-tinted glasses. He is captivated by you though, somehow. Maybe it’s the way you stride in so confidently, with your blazer fitted against your body tightly — not too tight — you don’t want to give off ‘sexy’ vibes, do you? Not in the office. No, you just radiate some show of ‘proper’ and ‘togetherness’ that other ladies must be envious of. Or so it seems to him, at least. Then he wonders again, maybe it’s the way you so nonchalantly brush past him, your shoulder nudging against his, not a care in the world for who he is.

He thinks he’s got his reasoning, a feasible enough reason of why he’s intrigued — you’re young, you’re sexily sophisticated (he just knows you are), and to be a part of this meeting, you must have a sort of… power, so to say.

And then you just have to, don’t you? You just have to take a seat on that chair (in an angle that seems to cater perfectly to Chuuya), cross your legs just enough so your skirt rides up your thigh high enough to leave him wanting to see more, but not enough to be considered as a bold move of seduction. The kicker? That smirk you wear when you realise that he’s staring. He always hated that expression; the one that other people wear out of the satisfaction of their triumph. Especially when it’s against him. But then why does he think he can look at yours forever?

Not even five minutes into the ‘discussion’ and Chuuya already finds out you’re the director’s daughter, the one who would inherit the company very soon. (He fails to properly listen to the reason why because his focus starts to fixate on you, the surrounding all melding into one — the sights, the sounds.) To which you respond with batting your eyelashes at the redhead and wearing an innocent smile yet at the same time being shrouded in an air of… mystery.

The debate on just how much of the empire that Port Mafia would control in the future is not quite a negotiation. If they want to, then they can just force the director’s hand, maybe kidnap his daughter — Chuuya glances briefly toward you before focusing back on your father and the tablet (apparently the company made a sort of presentation that Chuuya can say he frankly doesn’t give a shit about) — but no. Even now, he thinks, he doesn’t want anyone to lay a hand on you. Besides, if your current behaviour is any indication, even if the mafia does come after you, you won’t be scared. You look just like the kind of person who always has something up her sleeve. You must take after your father.

“On that note, I will be leaving the final decision up to my wonderful young lady here.”

That manages to bring Chuuya back to his senses.

What? The old man is leaving such an important decision in his daughter’s hands?

Chuuya breathes in deeply. Stay level-headed. He’s got this, he tries to convince himself. Notwithstanding that he has made it this far only because of the training Kouyou’s given him on the art of appeasing old uncles and kissing their ass so that they give him what he wants.

Guess Mori isn’t as thorough as Chuuya thinks he is.

“Now, you can focus on me.”

Right on cue. As soon as the director leaves.

Look at that, he was right. You are confident. You are smug. You are observant. And annoyingly enough, you are in control. Because to do his job properly, he has to act like he’s wrapped around your finger. (He fails to realise he already is.)

Chuuya clenches his jaw, his brain failing to function in this pivotal moment, failing to filter any kind of acceptable responses. So he stays silent, mind going a thousand miles an hour just trying to form words, sentences, yet drawing a blank. And any normal person in your position would have spoken up by now, but you? You’re reeling in his inexplicability, silently. Observing him as though he’s an animal trapped in a glass cage for all to admire.

You lean back against your chair, the padded back bending backwards to support your weight. Your arms are crossed over your chest and the smirk has not left your face. If anything, it gets wider. Neither of you give in. You both keep your gaze locked on each other, and the silence grows on him. The comfort sneaks up on him. It’s weird. Is he dreaming it? Is he being delusional? Why is that he feels that with you, more is said through your silence than words? If so, being under your carefully appraising eye would be an honour.

Chuuya thinks, no no, he knows, he hears you muttering under your breath. He wants to retort, but words don’t find him. Only silence and stillness.

But it doesn’t last any second longer because you scoff in amusement and grab the paperwork regarding the partnership off the spot your father has left behind. Your eyes don’t leave his cerulean ones though. It’s almost as though you’re hyper-focused on him. Or is it the other way around? Maybe it’s mutual?

You do eventually break the stare though, to turn your back and walk out the door, but not before you stop at the edge, bidding goodbye with a lopsided smile and a “Park Hotel, 8pm, seventieth floor.”

Four hours seemed like a lot of time to prepare.

Seemed.

It isn’t.

Because now, at 7.56pm, Chuuya is still staring nervously at himself in the mirror of the hotel bathroom. A flurry of thoughts occupy his state of mind.

Is my tie okay? It’s not lopsided, is it? He thinks about your lopsided smile as he adjusts the black tie set against his red dress shirt. His black coat is replaced by a black fitted blazer. Then he wonders if you’re still in your work outfit.

Damn it, why can’t he get you out of his mind?

You’re a necessary ally, he thinks. That’s why, he convinces himself. Although, not really. If you are just another job, another person the Port Mafia needs to brainwash, then why is he so nervous about this date? His hands freeze in their motions as he questions himself.

Is this what it is? A date?

By 7.59pm he’s up on the seventieth floor, and the moment he steps out of the elevator, an usher tells him to follow. Wow. Having an already established media empire the moment you were born must have been a big bonus for you, hasn’t it? Chuuya imagines you’re spoiled; you’ve lived your whole life with the lavish luxury you currently stand to inherit now. But he gives you due credit. For your father to entrust the dealings of the Port Mafia to you, you must be very capable. Not that he has ever thought otherwise.

In the short hour that he had interacted with you earlier, he knows you’re anything but a bimbo. But you must have thought he was similar to one, huh? What with him being speechless over nothing.

Once he reaches the private room, he’s greeted by you already seated, right leg crossed over your left, fingers flipping through the menu, unfazed by his arrival. The door shuts behind him, and it’s back to this air of oppressed silence. Chuuya slowly glides over to his seat across from you, eating you up from your head down to your little tippy toes. You are less covered up now, your office suit giving way to a remarkably eye-catching black maxi, although he does admit, what catches his eye is that slit that runs up your thigh.

Now, now, you look sexy.

When he settles down, he notices the agreement from this afternoon sitting by the edge of the glass table, all complete save for his and your signatures. The numbers 70 and 30 briefly register in his head. The former, of course, rightfully belonging under you. He furrows his brows. That’s twenty percent lower than what Mori is expecting. How can he negotiate with you, then? What more can he bargain with?

But as he looks up from the document to you, you’re already observing him, wearing a flirty (with a side of smug, as he expects) smile on those lips of yours.

“There’s always a price to pay, Mr. Nakahara.”

Chuuya is slightly baffled. The other workers in your office are boring and own a one-track mind. But evidently you don’t belong in the same group as them.

Is this a game to you?

“Name it.” He does want to know what you’re seeking from him, and he knows he’s not nearly as witty enough to figure it out on his own.

You never give anything away easily though. Chuuya learned that much. Instead of giving answers you lean back on your seat, just as you did earlier, and revert your attention back to the menu.

“So, you are capable of speaking to women after all, huh?”

The rest of the dinner is filled with conversations that don’t pertain to what it should. Instead of discussing the deal, he gets sidetracked, oddly intrigued by what you personally find fascinating. Chuuya remembers that first wave of pleasant surprise wash across your face when he asks about what you like, what you do outside of work. You know, the common exchange. But it must slip his mind that you aren’t used to ‘clients’ taking an interest in you, as a person.

Neither of you realise the abrupt change in the tone of the evening. You both kind of just ease into it.

Chuuya memorises what you tell him; how you actually like what little time you have outside of work; how you talk about books as your escape, the way your favourite author’s name rolls off your tongue so easily even though it’s a foreign name. He notes how your eyes sparkle when he pays you a compliment about how your brain works instead of the usual comments you receive on your appearance. He also loves how you talk just that little bit faster when you’re excited about a topic.

But he also learns how your smile is forced when you talk about your family, or anything remotely related to your work. He notices how you bite your lip when you talk about barely having time to enjoy anything outside of work. And how until now you’ve been a slave to the company, having to learn and grind on knowledge about anything and everything that you need to know to run it. A shut-in with a twist, if he might label it.

Chuuya was wrong then, he realises. Your life has not been one of free rides; easy passes. It didn’t get easier because of who you are. It was the reverse. It got harder because more was expected out of you. Your life at home wasn’t any easier. Turns out your father was, and is still, a tyrant. You’ve never known to enjoy yourself.

“Until tonight.”

Only now does it dawn on Chuuya why you set this whole thing up in the first place. This way you get to have some time to enjoy yourself at a ‘date’ disguised as a business meeting, because then dear daddy won’t get mad at you now, will he? You’ve probably never experienced romance, have you? Given your tight schedules and overbearing parents. Chuuya must be your first.

He gets just slightly giddy thinking of that possibility.

And by the time your plates are cleared and the bill is paid (by your father, apparently, because you grinned and charged it to his credit card; Chuuya thinks it’s acceptable because from what he hears, the director doesn’t seem to be a very good man at all, why not charge it to the man?), he makes his mind up to really help you make full use of your night.

That’s how he finds himself ten minutes later with you standing on the edge of the neighbouring skyscraper, your fingers intertwined tightly with his. Your first exposure to his ability. ‘Holy shit’ were your exact words. Despite how you carry yourself in the office, it’s almost unbelievable how childlike you look now, admiring the sight before you. Losing all your childhood because of who you’re expected to be… Chuuya knows all too well what that feels like. Minus the bond that is family, of course. Although now, he guesses he can call the Port Mafia such.

“Forty.”

Chuuya arches a brow. “Forty?”

You press your lips together to suppress a grin, nodding at him. “Highest I can go for you, Mr. Nakahara.”

“My boss wants a half, though,” Chuuya grimaces in faux sheepishness. Of course Mori would be fine with a forty, but it’s fun having a back-and-forth with you. Or maybe this is his way of convincing himself this is nothing more than continuing a pleasant conversation.

There’s something in your reaction that gets him so curious. It’s how you grin yourself silly and can’t even manage to look him in the eye. Or the way you try to untangle your fingers, only to find Chuuya has gripped them even tighter. He doesn’t even have to ask for you to know what he’s thinking of.

“Fifty is for family only, sorry.”

He waltzes through the narrow corridors and carpeted floors like it’s home. It might as well be, he’s been here about as many times as he’s been to the Port Mafia headquarters in the same duration. It doesn’t look as tacky as it used to. Or is it just because he’s used to it? Or maybe the gradual changes all seem like nothing to him because he visits this place every single day.

Chuuya sighs. No matter, he’s got other things to worry about.

“No, forget about making your own notes. Negotiate. I want exclusivity on this.”

There it is. Your bossy, domineering voice.

He leans by the doorframe. Your subordinates all dub you the ‘boss from hell’. Personally he can’t see why. But then again, you’re an absolute angel to him. (He never gets tired of seeing the shock register on everyone’s faces when they see you be all lovey-dovey with him.)

Feels good. Being the exception.

When the conversation ends, you hang up the phone and turn over, finally noticing your boyfriend by the door. It’s like a switch turns in you; your hostility melts away and those deep downturned lines rotate into a smile. Even now, five years later, you still have a childlike innocence to you; he sees this right now by how you skip towards him like an elated dog seeing its owner is home.

Did he just compare you to a dog…? Out of all the things he likes, why did he — he mentally facepalms himself but shrugs it off. Like he’s said before, he has more pressing matters to think about.

It’s amazing to think how far you both have gotten. From being strictly business to unspoken feelings in a matter of hours, to where you guys are now. Frankly, he didn’t think it was possible for someone like him. He gravitates away and thinks back to the first time he stepped foot in here.

Huh, maybe Mori did know what he was doing after all. That man ended up being your matchmaker. Chuuya inwardly grimaces and shudders and the thought.

But you pull him back to earth.

Your arms snake around his neck and you hook your legs around his waist. Lucky you’re wearing a pantsuit today, because the last time you did that, i.e. yesterday, you were wearing a skirt and it rode up your thigh a little too high. Yeah, Chuuya wasn’t too happy when some of your male coworkers got to see a glimpse of your ass. But he can’t blame you, you were just that excited to see him. Something he finds remarkable given you’ve been together for four years.

“Didn’t think you’d come here this early,” you comment as you get down, your hands still round his neck. “What brings you by, Chuu? Or should I say, future boss of the Port Mafia?”

He gives you a peck on the lips. His nickname falling from your lips just sound so right. You’re right, he usually comes by after you both are done with work. That usually means 8pm onwards. (You both are pretty invested in your companies. Especially now so for Chuuya that he’s been announced a few days ago as the one to take over the mafia in the future.)

“Today I’m here for professional reasons, princess, to offer you a proposal,” Chuuya coos, a gloved thumb grazing over your cheek.

“Hmm?” You look up at him quizzically. “Okay, shoot.”

Chuuya grins at you, his eyes closing and forming into crescents. He opens them slowly as he presses his forehead against yours.

“I think it’s time for that fifty-fifty.”

✢ tags. @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes

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drowning-rats-in-fandoms · 3 years

Text

Y/N is an intelligence officer on Ren's ship and he always goes to her before missions

When she first gets hired, she always has the mission information sent to him as early as possible

During the debriefing missions, she has the balls to corrent and add information that aas left out or wrong

It's almost always directed to Hux

Kylo enjoys watching someone else irritate Hux by doing their job

When the missions became more sporadic and information was being brought in left and right, Y/N moved her living quarters closer to Kylo's and Hux's living quarters so when she needs to present the information, she goes to them any hour of the day

Hux hates it, wishing to fire her. He know how important she is to the First Order, so he can't

Kylo doesn't care what time she delivers information. Y/N isnt like the guards that stumble over their words and take for ever to relay information

Y/N shows up (after sometime she is given Kylo's code of access to his quarters), hands him her data pad, and leaves.

Hux get an older model of data pads, Kylo gets her own. Her information is all stored on those two devices

Kylo always returns her pad to the table in her quarters. Hux never seeks Y/N out to give it back.

One mission in particular was stressful

On both their ends

Y/N has a translator implanted in her brain to allow her to read and decipher words

During the mission debrief, Hux suggested that Y/N should go along since she mentioned one(1) time that she is one of the only people able to decipher those words

Kylo immediately rejected, having grown fold of his coworker, not romantically of course

"Commander Ren, General Hux is correct. I should go on the mission."

"You have no field training, you'll hold us back. We can just send you video of the dialect." He thought he had a point

"I remember you forgetting to ask what my previous job was commander, may I fill you in?" She snaps right back, General Hux smirking that she is now attacking Ren instead of him.

"Please, enlighten me." Kylo leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. She was nothing more than a brain.

Y/N untucked her uniform to show a gnarly scar lacerating her entire side.

"That was my last bounty hunting job I did with a mandalorian. Saved his skin and his ship. Left me for dead. General Hux has been watching me for a while to recruit me, saw his chance." Y/N would never credit Hex with saving her life, even though they both knew it.

"I know my way around any weapon you give me. I'll do my job and stay out of your way." She sits down in her seat, readjusting her clothes.

Kylo sits there for a moment, empathetic for her, his mask not showing it.

"Report at the hanger at 0600 tomorrow. Stop by the arsenal to pick a weapon." Kylo then leaves in a rush, the meeting quickly adjourned

Never

Left

Her

Side

The crypt was filled with strange coffins, some decorated, some not.

Cobwebs and rodents fill the place, Commander Ren taking lead and eliminating the distractions.

Any rune Y/N would see, she would decipher, hoping to point her commander in the correct direction.

Once they get to the end of the tunnel, a bare wall is presented to them.

Kylo ignited is Saber and was about to destroy the wall when Y/N shouted for him to stop.

The urgency in his voice made him hesitate, the hand on his arm guiding the saber close to the made him stop. He allowed her to hover his saber closer to the wall, her hand warm though his field clothes.

Then he saw it.

The heirogliphs showed faintly though the light of the Kyber crystal, the regular lights not doing anthing.

"Lights off. Now." The 4 storm troopers accompanying them complied, turning the hallway dark except for the glowing red saber.

The wall completely illuminated with glyphs, making Y/N gasp.

"What is it?" Kylo asked, his mask trained on her astonished face

"You found it. What your looking for is on the other side. I just need to find a way in." Her voice is low, focused. Kylo saw that she was in her environment, adrenaline rushing through her veins allowed for a quicker deciphering.

Her hands voided the saber in weird movement along the wall, allowing for her to read.

Kylo noticed everything about her, the way she bit her cheek when her breathing picked up, her eyes flickering to him fir a moment before continuing to read. Her grip on his forearm tightens as she holds her breath, hovering over the last hieroglyph.

Y/N let's go of Kylo's arm and takes a step back, creating professional spacing.

"In short, you actually have to stable the wall. In long, you can only stab it in one spot. Only you can see the spot using the force. Dont ask me how, it never said." Y/N steps back with the troopers, allowing Kylo to do his thing.

He nods his head to her, she nods back, her face blank.

Kylo turns to the wall, closes his eye, feeling for the weak spot. He grows frustrated when he cant find it, letting out a huff.

"What do you feel." You.

"There is no weakness in the wall." His voice is strained though the modulator, trying to not last out.

"Maybe the wall is all weak and you need to look for the strong spot. Breaking that should weaken the hold on the weak spots, allowing the wall to crumble." She sounded so close to him, like it was only them.

Kylo focuses on the calm in her tone of voice, allowing him to concentrate on his objective.

Not even seconds later, he finds it, the spot is in the direct center of the wall.

"The keystone." He whispers, the modulator garbling the word.

He reposition his last connection to his grandfather, the helmet being completely destroyed by Supreme Leader Snoke. Kylo drives the blade through the spot, the wall immediately shaking.

Two strong hands grab his robes and pull him out of the stones impact, the small group watching the wall shift and change.

Larger pieces of rock fall as the smaller ones swirl in a circle, assembling themselves in the doorway behind the wall.

The door opens to reveal a corpse cradling a book to its chest.

Kylo immediately rips the book from the corpse's grasp before Y/N could stop him.

"Is that what you need?" Chills run down her spine as the entire crypt turns silent.

Too silent.

"Yes." He turns back to her, handing the text to Y/N, allowing her to out it in her book bag.

Before the mission he pulled her aside. Her job is to translate and to protect the text. His job was to get them in and get them out. They agreed.

Y/N facial expression and the sense of dread Kylo could read on her told him to move quickly.

"Stay behind me. Make sure she doesnt get hit." He points to the respectful groups before charging off into the darkness.

Y/N asks the trooper to turn their lights back on to help them see their way back.

Not everyone has the force to guide them.

Everyone did their jobs, quickly and quietly. The six moved through the crypt, moving up from the deep dungeons.

Once they get to the first open area, they were ambushed. Reanimated skeletons, strange tan creatures, and those damn rats attacked the group.

Y/N drew her sword, charging it. She stayed relatively near the middle of the room, not seating out a fight.

Kylo Ren sliced and diced through the enemies, keeping an eyes on Y/N. The troopers shot down the rats with surprising accuracy. Kylo took care of everything else.

Until two yellow monster slipped from the main group and attacked Y/N from infront and behind.

Kylo quickly eliminated the rest of his threats and watched in awe as Y/N gracefully finished the fight.

Her kicked the one infront of her, throwing him on his back. She quickly pivots, her sword cutting up through the stomach, and down across its head. Before the second monster can register what happened, Y/N turned again, finishing off the first monster with a quick decapitation.

She quickly disarms her sword, reattached it to her back, and looked at the other 5 people in her group.

"They said that more are on their way. We need to leave. Now." It took Kylo a sweet second to put his ass in gear and steer his group out of the crypt, not meeting any more strange creatures.

Once in hyperspace, Y/N stands behind Kylo's chair, watching the stars.

"How did you hear them communicate? None of them spoke." Kylo was watching her through the reflection of the window, further respect for his colleague bloomed in his mind.

"The rats were actually in charge. The yellow creatures, called voulnders, were allowed to live in and around the crypts. Their exchange was that the Voulnders were to reanimate the corpses with their magic when their temple was under attack."

"They said all of that?" Kylo turned in his seat, Y/N already standing far enough away to not get hit.

"The wall that you hit showed the pact that those two creatures made. It also showed how to get in. Only a might warrior could." There was a pause before Y/N spoke again.

"Don't let that go to your head." She then walked out of the room.

Over the years, the two grew closer.

Sparring, talking, planning missions. Everything platonic.

When Kylo cant sleep because of the nightmares caused by Snoke, he'd go into Y/N's room, falling alseep on her couch, in view of her bed.

"If you like my couch so much, why not move it to your room." Y/N asks one morning, handing Kylo his caf.

"It's not the couch that puts me to sleep." His voice is low, eyes dropping to the ground.

Y/N hand cups his chin, lifting his eyes to meet hers. Her gentile smile puts him at ease.

Y/N remembers the first time she saw him without the mask.

It was a few nights in after relentless nightmares, the first time Kylo slept in Y/N's room.

He was half asleep, running on caf and a few minutes of sleep. Everyone on the ship could sense his worsening mood, assuming that it was from the last failed mission.

It was a repercussion of it, Snoke filling everyone involved in the mission with thoughts of dread.

Y/N hid it suprising well when on the command deck, doing her job.

But now, in the middle of the night, she knew she looked like shit.

When her commander knocked on her door, she rolled out of bed, her hair in a loose braid, her body clad in a pair of over sized black training shots and shirt.

Her commander was dressed similarly. She recognized the drained look in his eyes from her own.

She stepped aside to let him in her space, her eyes never leaving the constipation of beauty marks on his face.

Y/N shut off her night, resetting their automatic switch.

She grabs Kylo's bare arm and leads him to bed. She lies on her back, and she pulls him into her, his head resting on her stomach.

Kylo didnt right against her, his mind not raising any alarms.

Once her hands started to play with his hair, Kylo was out.

Y/N stayed awake a little longer, enjoying how soft and smooth her Commander's hair is. She falls asleep, her hands still tangled in his hair.

She woke up first at the rising of the dim lights, she took her time to wake up, enjoying the presence of another body against hers.

Kylo's breathing was still even as she replaced her body with her pillow.

Y/N went to her closet, pulled out her repaired bounty hunting armour, the silver beskar reminding her of painful memories of her old partner.

She changes quickly, keeping an eye on the commander in her bed.

"where are you going?" His voice asks, not removing his head from your pillow.

"To fix our problem."

"Snoke doesnt respond well to asking nicely."

"Oh, that's not why in going to Snoke. Go back to sleep if you can Commander. You need it." He seemed to get only a few hours of sleep last night.

Y/N straps the rest of her weapons to her body, her rifle sliding easily over her back. Her viroblade in the holster at her waist.

She tucks the bucket in her arm, looking at Kylo one last time before going on her first line mission during her First Order Career.

It wont be her last.

It only took her two days, the bounty hunter returning to Snoke with a head and the correct location of the cargo.

"How do you know its correct?" Snoke leans in his chair, observing the cleanly severed head at his feet.

"This tracker." Her voice is modulated, she throws the red chip to her Supreme Leader.

Snoke catches it, hums in approval.

"You have a new job. We have a suitable replacement for you."

Commander Y/N Y/L/N, leader of the bounties hunters and scouts of the first order.

The nightmares stopped

Missions became more successful

Kylo still couldn't sleep without being in the presence of Y/N. Her calm attitude put him at ease enough to fall asleep.

#star wars #kylo ren #reader insert #references of the mandalorian #bounty hunter #adventures #slow burn #professional to platonic to romantic #soft!kylo #rage!kylo #sassy!kylo #Kylo Ren is hopelessly in love #reader has a back bone

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buck-nialled · 4 years

Text

Two Million Minutes - N. Horan Imagine

NOTE: this is super angsty and sad as hell and yeah some of yall might cry but YOU CANT HATE ME BECAUSE I WARNED YOU!!

but you’re probably gonna hate me a lot okay enjoy !!!

PLAYLIST

The cold plastic she had been forced to sit in for the past two hours did everything but aid Veronica’s posture. Her figure was hunched over, hands covering her face as she deposited heavy breaths onto her quaky palms. In hindsight: pajama pants and one of her boyfriend’s old shirts might not have been the most appropriate choice to attend the emergency room the night before Christmas Eve. But that thought could not have been further from Veronica’s mind. In fact, all her mind had been doing for the past one hundred and seventeen minutes consisted of screaming her boyfriend’s name to the point where a migraine formed.

“Ma’am?” Veronica’s head snapped up, eyes watery and completely bugged out. A nurse stood inches away, gracing a sympathetic smile. Her heart quickened in its pace. “Did you want anything to drink? Water, or coffee?” The woman offered with a raise of her brows. Veronica never refused a free coffee, but her still trembling hands clasped themselves together, along with her lips as she declined with a head shake.

“Do you have any hot chocolate?” Solemnly, the white-uniformed woman shook her head back and forth.

“Unfortunately, we are out. Would you like a blanket?”

“Please.” The nurse scurried off in an instant, fulfilling herself with another activity. Veronica could not blame her. She—save for the two other strangers in the waiting room—had been the only visitors to enter tonight. If she could, Veronica would be doing just about anything to occupy her thoughts with something other than worst-case scenarios.

“Veronica?” She heard a deep, slurred voice call out. The woman’s head turned to the left, along with the two other occupants, to find one of hers and Niall’s closest friends standing with a slight sway.

“Jake?” Her voice cracked hopelessly as she stood herself up from the chair and waited for his figure to approach. There was a slight stupor in his steps to her, but his embrace when he finally wrapped his arms around Veronica was comforting, nonetheless.

“Hey, any word?” Veronica only shakes her head as she releases a shaky breath.

“They won’t tell me anything…I don’t even know what happened.” She whimpers, glancing back towards the front desk, whom she must have walked up to a dozen times, pleading to see Niall.

“I’m sure when the others get here they can explain. We all got jumbled up between the six and seventh pub and I wasn’t with him.” Jake simply shrugs, just as clueless as she was. Turning her back towards him at the sound of footsteps pattering, she spots the nurse from earlier. Her arm was stretched out, proffering a blanket. Veronica only gives her a silent nod as a thank you, before cloaking her shoulders with the itchy material.

Jake sighs at the sight of tremors running through her, despite the blanket. “Here, those things are like fucking paper. Don’t do shit.” He murmurs and peels off his jacket—one of the many layers he bundled up in before his night out with Niall and the rest of their mates.

“Take it.” He insists. And she does. As the minutes go by, more familiar faces pile into the room and greet her and Jake with sympathetic smiles and any hazy information she could pry from them. From what Veronica gathered from the slurs, a group of friends had collectively encouraged Niall to hop up on one of the pub’s tables and do a little jig. Nobody had ill intent by doing so, obviously, and everybody knew Niall was not idiotic enough to do something he felt was risky. Nobody knew the night would end with only seven pubs and an emergency room visit.

Maura was the first woman Veronica had seen and recognized that night. Their expressions were both identical; fearful eyes, trembling lips. The womens’ hearts were racing in sync as they collapsed into one another’s arms, trying their absolute hardest to hold in their sobs.

“Who is here for Niall Horan?” A group of nearly twenty people stood, including herself and Maura, attentive and silent. The doctor gazed upon the now crowded waiting area and blew out a breath.

“Okay, I know all of you are eager to see him. But I think the immediate family should come into the room first. Too many people might overwhelm him.” Maura, Bobby, and Greg all took quickened steps towards the doctor, explaining their relation. When Veronica asked Maura moments ago, she explained Denise was watching Theo back at their house, phone on hand for any updates.

“Alright, follow m—”

“Wait.” Maura cut in. “Could she come too?” Maura jutted her thumb back to point at Veronica. The doctor followed her pointed finger and met eyes with her.

“Relation?”

“I’m his girlfriend, but—” As she was about to justify herself with the fact that she was Niall’s emergency contact, the doctor cut her off.

“I’m sorry. Immediate family only.” He refuted. Maura glanced back at her, eyes swimming with empathy at her restless state.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay.” I should have gone with cousin, she thought.

“…vitals are stable, everything looks fine. He just took a hard hit.” Breaths of relief are exhaled when Niall’s eyes flutter open. He recognizes his mother almost immediately, as she exclaims at the sight of her son finally awake and unscathed.

“Oh, my Niall!” She cries upon wrapping her arms around him. Startled to see he is most definitely not on his tour bus, he reciprocates the delicate hug. “We were so worried about you.” It might have been the fact that his mind was still foggy from his long sleep, or that he felt quite hungover that made his mother seem more aged than she was over Skype only weeks ago.

“Mum, what happened t’ me?” His eyes meet the doctors as he asks this.

“You took quite the fall tonight, Niall. Luckily your vitals are fine and you seem perfectly healthy.” Niall blinks, eyebrows furrowing to exactly how and where he could have fallen. The last thing he recalls was being on stage with the band, performing. He was only supposed to be off of the stage for five minutes.

“How long was I out for?”

“Only about two and a half hours, which is quite average for a concussion.”

“How’d you all get here so fast? Chicago is miles away from Mullingar.” Niall murmured, reaching a hand up to scrub at his face. He was surprised to feel stubble scratching at his palm and brought the hand away from his face to study it. His eyes travel down to his wrist, the plastic, hospital band reading Mullingar Medical.

“Chicago?” Bobby repeated, just as confused. “Son, you’ve been here in Mullingar for the past week…when were you in Chicago?”

“I was…the band and I were just there playing a show. Are they here? Maybe we can ask Harry and he can explain.” The three Horans and Niall’s doctor all tilted their heads like dogs to his statement.

“Doctor?” The door opens, the nurse peeking her head through the opening. “Could I have a word with you for a moment?” The doctor gives a firm nod and turns back to the patient and his family.

“Excuse me for a minute.” The doctor exits the room to speak with the nurse, while Maura, Bobby, and Greg all stood dumbstruck.

“So you were playing a show with…Harry?”

“Mhm,” Niall confirms. “And Liam, and Louis,” he continues. Biting her lip, Maura begins to feel wary.

“Oh, and Zayn!” He finishes with a small smile, while Maura feels as though she was going to cry again. Bobby already senses her discomfort and wraps his arms around her.

“And that’s the last thing you remember? Like the very last thing before you woke up?”

“Yeah…why?” As he asks this, Niall takes in Greg’s appearance also. He looks more burdened with life than Niall remembers. The circles under his eyes looked darker. But he had a more mature way of dressing. Maybe it’s the two-year-old that’s changed him.

“Could I see all of you out here?” The doctor opens the door, staring at the family in urgency. Sharing apprehensive glances, the three all follow the doctor into the hallway.

“It seems that some test results were mixed up with Niall and another patient. Now, for the most part, everything is fine, except for his PET scan.” The doctor holds up a photo for Niall’s parents and brother to inspect. The majority of the x-ray was black and white, however, the brain held arbitrary splotches of red throughout it.

“This is the scan we took of Niall’s brain when he entered the hospital. We filtered the scan to only see the areas where his brain might have been injured and susceptible to amnestic syndrome…amnesia. Those red spots are where the injury occurred. And a lot of where Niall was injured were parts of the brain which function memory.”

“I’m sure this goes without saying, but from your expressions in the room, it seems Niall has forgotten an extensive amount of time. I’m not sure how much—“ Maura had already done the math in her head.

“Five years.” She breathed out. The men all looked to her. “At least.”

“Right. Well, there is a chance Niall might regain some pieces of his memory back within this next week. After that, the chances he might remember grow slimmer as the weeks go by. It all depends on how well his brain can function independently and if his memory transitions into something short-term…”

All while the family nodded their heads in understanding, Veronica stood feet away shaking her own. Warm tears streaked down her face. Five years? How could five years of him, her, them, be gone?

Hell, Veronica still thinks meeting him was yesterday. But luckily she could remember it had been nearly four years ago. In one hundred and seventeen agonizing minutes, her boyfriend had managed to lose more than two million.

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oberynmartell · 4 years

Text

» mine din djarin x reader

Din never realising that he could become so addicted to something as simple as your touch.

From the very first time you had touched him, when you had leaned forward and placed your bare palm upon his forearm, he was sure had was in love with you. He had been able to feel the warmth of your skin, even through the layers of steel and wool he had been wrapped in, the softness of your palm something he craved knowing, feeling against his bare chest, bare belly, bare cock. Beneath his mask he had licked his lips, schooling his heavy breathing into neutrality, and tried to get the image of your mouth around his cock out of his mind.

You always rested you hand on his shoulder when he was sitting and you behind him, a gesture of silent comfort and solidarity, a gentle reminder that you were there for him, with him. As he took his place in the pilot's seat you often laid your hand upon his knee or, if you were in a particularly teasing mood, on his upper thigh, your hands sweeping back and forth across his skin until he could feel tiny pinpricks of electricity jolting just beneath his skin.

You made him dizzy, made him crazy, made him feel like he couldn't breathe. And he loved it, loved you. Loved every time you came out of the refresher humming some song he had never heard of, loved the nights when he found you curled up tight as an air shrimp with the child's hands fisted in your tunic, loved when you woke up in the morning and padded over to him, all bare feet and bare legs, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders so that you could pull yourself into his lap.

There was just something about your touch that just set his teeth on edge. It was like he had to have you, any time he could, had to touch you, had to put his hands on you. Move his hands down your hips to pull your legs apart urge you down into his lap, pinch at your nipples and cup your breasts through your wrappings, slide his hands down your back to cup your arse in his big hands.

He loved the way you smiled at him so big and bright whenever he pulled you to him, the way your cheeks flushed so pretty when he made you come, the way you hummed softly into his kiss as though uttering a silent prayer to whatever God it was you believed in, whatever God it was he should be thanking for bringing you to him.

He was addicted to you, in every way a man could be addicted to a woman, and there wasn’t a single part of you that minded.

It had been almost two days since he’d had you last, and when he slides the ship into autopilot it’s like you can sense it, sense his need, sense the way his cock is already stirring at his breeches just at the thought of the way he would sink into you, the way he would bury his nose against your clit and make you scream loud enough to be heard in space.

You’re in his lap before he can even turn to face you, draping your arms around his neck and tugging lightly at the back of his hair with your fingers. His lips find yours with practiced ease, pushing against yours with what he hopes is urgency enough to show his need. He has to have you, has to be inside you or else he’ll go mad.

You’re nodding your head before he can even speak, sliding down his lap until you’re seated on the floor between his firm thighs, and you’ve pulled down a pillow from your seat at the helm to rest your knees upon. Din lets his head roll back, overcome with the sight, overcome with the way you lick your lips as your nimble fingers begin to work at his belt, and he’s thankful that he had thought to seal off the back of the ship where the child sleeps fitfully.

You kiss the head of his cock like an introduction, smoothing a thumb over the weeping head to spread the thick beads that dew at the slit you just cant seem to stop kissing. He grunts, his stomach tight, and he wants so badly to be naked with you, to be skin-on-skin with you. He tugs at your shirt impatiently and lifts it up over your head, glad to find you had yet to bind your breasts as you always did during your journeys to the outer rim.

He cups your breast gently as you continue to work at him, planting a set of warm, sloppy kisses against his cock that leave him breathless, and its almost too much, almost not enough, before you bend your head to take his cock into your mouth.

He groans long and low, your mouth so warm and wet and deep that its all he can do not to surge up from his chair and fuck your mouth until he comes down your throat like a spout. Instead Din grips the edge of his seat in a vice like grip, digging his fingers into the soft leather to keep from reaching for you. But as always, you can sense his desperation, reading his expression as easily as if you were reading one of those texts he always finds you curled up and reading before bed.

You push your head down lower, taking more more more of him until he can feel the head of his cock bump at the back of your throat, and you hum in satisfaction, making him cry out in pleasure. “Fuck—“ he gasps, breathless. He can feel every undulation of your throat as you continue to swallow and hum around his cock, your fist squeezing the base of him where he can no longer fit into your mouth. Your teeth scrape gently over him, just light enough to make him shiver, just light enough to make his orgasm begin to dance just out of reach.

He bites the tip of his finger with his teeth and pulls until the leather of his glove gives and begins to slide free, his fingers rough and callused as they slid up your back, rubbing gently at your hunched shoulder blades before moving back to their proper place at the back of your head, tugging just enough to show his reverent appreciation. His other hand reaches for yours as it rests on his thigh, bracing your weight against his as you suck him deep, and he tangles his fingers to yours, bringing the back of your hand to his lips to kiss and kiss and kiss you until his lips feel numb.

Your tongue worked over his cock from head to base, your free hand lowering to squeeze gently at his balls in the way you knew always sent him over the edge, your tongue running over the base of his cock. “Fuck.” he gritted, gathering your hair back from your face. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

Your eyes flick up to his and he almost comes tight then and there, trapped in your doe eyed gaze, watching as your eyes darken with lust and pleasure at the praise. “I’ve never known anyone like you before.” he confesses out of the clear blue, not even sure why he says it. His thumb traces over the back of your hand, as soft and tender and unassuming, as if you weren’t currently gagging in his cock.

“Of all the people I’ve ever met, you’re my favourite.” he says, and he smiles then, choking out a moan that contorts his handsome face into a look of pure ecstasy.

You bob your head down further onto his cock, your lips shimmering with spit and slick and so damned pretty that he wants to haul you up to your feet and kiss you all over. Your fingers are so soft against his, compared to his, as smooth skin and delicate features, without the calluses and scars so long as a bounty hunter had left him. He wants to kiss each one of your fingers in turn, each one of your hands, up each of your arms and elbows and arms and shoulders until he can follow the curve of your neck, the slope of your jaw, the perfect curves of your lips.

He presses a hand down on the back of your head when he feels his orgasm begin to sweep over him, the familiar liquid curl of pleasure flooding his system and rising up and up and up until it almost consumes him. You nod your head in acceptance and pull him deeper, feeling his soft head press into the back of your throat so far that you almost gag, almost choke over him, and his ego swells right there along with his pleasure.

He squeezes your hand softly when he feels himself coming, spilling down your throat as he has so many times before, listening to you hum tenderly as you continue to stroke him with your tongue, your teeth scraping over him in a way that has him yelling, his moans flooding the cabin like an alarm, and the sound alone brings goosebumps to your arms and wetness to your panties.

You pull away from him to nuzzle your cheek into his belly, kissing his bare hip where his breeches had been wrestled open.

“I love you.” you say, and the words make warmth flare in his blood like they do every time he hears them, every time you say them with that pretty smile on your face, that pretty blush on your cheeks, and he knows, he knows, just like he had that very first time he had ever clapped eyes on you, that he loves you too.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mandowhoreians #lets go girls!!#fic: the mandalorian #fic: the mandalorian x reader

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theteej · 4 years

Text

“You need to take serious time for yourself, do self-care, or something,” my best friend Mark said to me, uncomfortably earnestly.

“I’m serious. You haven’t been letting anything in, and you just have to sit and stop running. Go process, or feel, or just let it sink in that you did things and you surprisingly don’t suck.”

Fuck, he’s right.

And so that’s what I’m doing. Last week I booked an Airbnb in La Jolla, a tony coastal enclave of San Diego near where I went to undergrad. I pretended I was on vacation, but in a pandemic. I booked a small studio near the water, and planned to spend these next few days reading, reflecting, walking along the ocean, and staying otherwise indoors and trying to wrestle with this whole semester. I pulled up to the studio last night, unpacked my bags, and cried. Like cried a lot. I felt lonely and scared, but also so numb. I felt a sea of blankness all around me, and a sense of trepidation.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do about all of my stupid feelings.

Where to start?

I feel like I’ve been anxious nearly my whole life. It’s absolutely something that developed as a kid with a violent, drunken father. You learn to live in between heartbeats like that, always testing what’s about to happen, trying to think of the next thing to plan in order to stay safe. Sure, your brain says tauntingly. Things are OK right now, but what if they’re not in a few minutes? Or even worse: Things ARE terrible—what are you going to do if they stay that way forever? These are the gifts Tyrone Tallie Sr left me, along with an unoriginal legal name and a stubborn widows peak visible whenever I grow my hair out for a few weeks.

Couple that with a natural tendency to think quickly, and you have the birth of a personality that masked my calculating self-security by turning those constant permutations into clever moments for interaction or comment. Like many people, my wit is born of trauma; the ability to process things in quick time is born out of needing to feel safe, and frequently gets deployed to put others at ease. That’s one of the weirder contradictory things about being me. I am simultaneously witty and clever and in control, and I am also always quietly freaking out, or at the very least, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which is why this has been….a damn semester. Teaching two classes fully remotely with panicked, overwhelmed students in the shadow of an ever-worsening pandemic that stretches on and on without end and feeling daily gaslighted by the endless selfishness of your fellow citizens—what a gift for the anxious. Ironically, anxiety helped to a certain extent because I didn’t have the shock of falling into a new world of uncertainty or fear that so many non-anxious folk did this year. But that’s hardly a gift, is it? Congratulations! You’re already living as if a bomb can go off at any moment, so you’re not struggling to adjust to the new horror show of life!

Teaching this semester has been…just without any context. I’ve taught online, but not in this same planned way and with everyone panicking, and the looming threat of pandemic and election. And yet we did it. We pulled ourselves together, and my students were honest about their needs and their breakdowns and I tried to model humility and grace and confusion and rage as well as they did. We didn’t fuck it up. Or, we all fucked up, and it was okay. We learned things. Students surprised me, and it was glorious. I got to be broken and I didn’t die.

It was an intense semester of overworking as well. I was on a bunch of committees, formal and informal, and we managed to get a new minor—African Studies—passed. I’ll be heading a new program on campus next year, and that’s exciting and terrifying. And on top of all of that, I couldn’t stop volunteering for stuff, or talking about things I cared about. In addition to teaching, I gave fourteen different presentations or talks this semester, an increase in expectations or agreements on my part thanks to the ubiquity of zoom. It grinds on you: the whole, get up, trudge to the back room, power up a personality for the zoom camera, and pour yourself digitally into a screen, only to feel yourself broken into little packets of light and data and scattered across the universe.

The talks went well. The student evaluations went well. Honestly, both were fucking great. And I haven’t let myself feel a goddamn thing. I let it slide off me like rain on a waxed deck, the droplets beading on the slick wood before slipping away into the darkness. I cant let it sink in, because then something good might be happening, and the very skills that have made me capable—the whip-fast reflexes, the self-deprecating humour, the rapid analysis—are also tied to the very deep-seeded anxiety. Everything has to be calculated and understood and prepared for, because at some moment a dark curtain is going to fall over the face of a man with my same name. He will smack me so hard I will go flying out of a chair and hit the wall with a soft, sickly whump, a particularly unpleasant of me at seven that I carry sewn into every cell of my skin and fiber of my being.

I can’t stop and let it sink in because I have internalized the worst calculus of overachiever life—push harder, don’t stop for the good, that’s normal. Stop only for the bad to learn from it, take in its horror, and let it never happen to you again. And so I found myself at the end of the semester holding a bag of relative joy like a party favour, looking around anxiously for bullies to come snatch it out of my hands.

And then Jeopardy fucking happened.

I got to be on television. I got to talk to Alex Trebek, the same man who held my grandmother’s hand on Classic Concentration and saw that her for the beautiful, formidable queen that she was. I got to turn silly trivia knowledge into cash—and I got to do it while being me. And to my confusion—people liked me. It went well, they felt I resonated with something inside of them, and they liked it.

I do not, in my own skill set, have the tools to deal with that. I am supposed to be clever and fast, and witty, and engaging and lovable—but I do not know how to actually think of receiving goodness. I know how to process being witty and clever and delightful—I did what I was supposed to do, good job, next—but I don’t know how to actually take that positivity in.

I keep waiting for all of this to fall apart, for everyone to hate me in the reassuring ways that I distrust or marginalize or disbelieve myself. And yet, I know that’s not helpful. Hence, overachiever’s therapy: forcing oneself to prematurely trade on prize money and spend a three day love/relaxation retreat, less than fifteen miles from my own apartment.

I woke up and cried a little. I then tried to mediate or at least focus on the positives of late. Nope. Nothing came. I decided it was time for coffee. I drank some that I made in the Airbnb, but realized I needed to get outside for a walk. I changed into a bright yellow caftan and an extra-dramatic face mask, and went for a walk on the streets of La Jolla, the bougie and strange bubble by the sea.

La Jolla can double in weird ways like other parts of the world I frequent. It feels sometimes like I’m in Durban (if you’re more partial to Umhlanga Rocks or Durban North) or Wellington (if you love Mount Vic or Oriental Bay), or even Vancouver (if you feel like West Point Grey or the haughtiest parts of Kitsilano are your thing). It’s a rich place, one that I don’t belong in, but one that I can feign a few hours of enjoyment and sun.

Today I walked down palm tree lined streets in the perfect weather, the breeze pushing through my still-short hair with a strange urgency. I picked up a cold brew coffee and a freshly caught and grilled halibut sandwich that my therapist recommended (we decided to briefly be pescatarian for a day and chalked it up to the ‘medical advice.’), then I turned toward the coast. I sat for a long time looking at the waves—unsurprisingly—with a bit of anxiety.

What if I relaxed WRONG? What if I couldn’t let myself feel joy? What if I just wasted the day by…eating this sandwich and not fully appreciating the beautiful ocean waves, golden sun, or nature all around me. After a while I realized that sounded ridiculous, and just forced myself to sit.

And as the old Zulu language dance song “Unamanga” by the late Patricia Majalisa started to filter to my headphones, as I stared out at the sea and the sun, something shifted. I felt something like, I don’t know, a failure in the sealnt around myself, and some drops dripped in, slowly. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to do this in a grand gesture. I could enjoy myself and the small joys I’d found in life so far.

I could be grateful and quietly glad for the little things that happened. It wasn’t about deserving it, or about it being worthy of me. I could imagine for right now, that this was a thing that I could have. I could sit and marvel that some great shit happened to me, and it was OK. Let’s not get it twisted—I didn’t have an epiphany, there were no turnbacks on the road to Emmaus. But I did find a little quietude in my soul for a second and stopped frantically Teflon-ing my heart from joy for a second.

I survived a hell semester, and did well. I got a wonderful opportunity and it went well. I could just let hat happen and also not ignore that it happened, to focus on negatives in an outsized way. I could, in this single afternoon moment, be delighted that things had gone okay. And not worry or strategize about the next disaster, which would happen on its own anyway. And…that’s all I can do right now.

Also, I’m going to work on this more, this whole letting people love me and letting it sink in. I usually avoid it because I feel like it keeps me off my game from the inevitable disaster to follow. But that’s not how I want to live. I’m going to try to think about what it means that some of you all tell me you love me, and then to show it. I need to reconcile the nonstop whirligig of my mind also turns menacingly in on itself so often, and that acknowledging the gift of calculated wit and mirth also means I have to cultivate love and joy.

So tomorrow, I’m going to go for a brief run, I’m going to drink some lovely coffee, and I’m going to walk along the ocean again. (And then I’m going to keep staying in this Airbnb so I don’t catch or spread this plague.)

What a fucking semester, y’all.

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highsviolets · 4 years

Text

Breathless, i & ii

REPOSTING BREATHLESS IN FULL BC IT NOW HAS A BANNER!!!

darling brit made a banner for my favorite fic and i couldn’t be more grateful. it was so pretty it deserved its own post. thank you @afogocado!!!!

“Sorry about your cigarette,” you mumble, crossing your arms to ward off the chill. your eyes focus on a triad of water droplets suspended on his left bicep even as he takes another step closer, vaporizing the gap between you.

“ ‘s not a problem,” he returns with a half-grin. It makes you weak. It shouldn’t. But it does. A new feeling is rapidly bubbling up to replace the onslaught of adrenaline. Effervescent heat starts fermenting in your core — he runs a hand through shaggy hair, now limp and loose around his face — he reaches around you — his palm skates over your bare arm — he’s looking at you perplexed, repeating his question more insistently now.

“would you like one? A cigarette?”

your brain — your eyes, really — toggles between his azure eyes and the pack of Marlboro’s now secure, comfortable, in his palm. His fingers, still damp judging by the condition of the cardboard, are extended towards you, a link, a bridge — an offering? — in that charged space between you and him. His eyes drag themselves from the cigarette curled in his fingers ((what would it feel like to have his fingers curled around your wrist, around your—)) to your face in time to catch your nod.

He watches you. Watches you pluck the white stick from his fingers. Watches you place it to your lips. Watches you lean forward, this time foisting yourself into his space, that forbidden no-man’s-land. Watches you watch him — he’s fumbling with the lighter, more awkward now that he’s not in the water — he’s got it now, the flame appearing with a muted click, and he’s raising the fire to your lips ((you haphazardly wish he would set you on fire in a different way)) — you inhale and close your eyes as the heady scent fills you.

Reluctantly you take a step back, exhaling the smoke and turning your head as you do so to avoid his face. The wind changes, though — what’s that they say about the best-laid plans? — and it’s thrown back into him and he splutters and coughs, pausing his own efforts. your jaw drops. Aw, hell.

“This just doesn’t seem to be my day, does it?” The remark, and your self-deprecating smile, brings a hitherto unseen light to his eyes. Something more than interest, more than mischievousness. maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. his rejoinder is too quick for you to angst over it for more than a moment.

“why would you say that?” the cigarette twirls in his hand, like that kid who sits behind you in geometry does with his pencil when he’s bored. There’s no accusation dancing at the edge of his tone.

you shrug. Squint as the sun starts to make an appearance again. “Well, I nearly drowned, for starters” you drawl. His eyes, those ungodly aquamarine orbs, are boring into you, so you take another drag of your cigarette. Christ. It’s been a while.

“Near-drowning is a pretty low threshold for a shitty day.” The upwards lilt of his voice tells you he’s just messing around, so you roll your eyes. A thought seizes you.

“Well, I do you have you to thank for the ‘nearly’ part, don’t I?” you muse, matching his airy, unaffected tone. It’s your turn to examine him, now, and you rake your eyes over his form, patches of corded muscle still wet, glistening in the sun.

from the corner of eye you see him bite his lip. another impulse screams at you and you listen. You reach out and tug the lighter from his grasp — his hand clutches at the now-phantom object, reaching at nothingness — you take his other hand, the one with the Marlboro, and raise it to his lips — you murmur a few words that cause his eyebrows to shoot up in gentle surprise.

“Will you permit me?”

he nods ((once, twice, rapidly, easily)) and maybe you’re a fool but it seems like his breath hitches and his eyes flicker down to your lips when you light his cigarette.

He nods again, this time in thanks. He tosses the pack onto the table, and the lighter joins it quickly thereafter. it’s the least you could do, you say, as though you did this sort thing — share cigarettes with attractive half clothed life guards — all the time. Maybe you did, in another life. He wouldn’t know.

“I’m Ben.”

“Hi.”

there’s a silence. a few heart beats? half-dozen light years? You’ll never know. He runs his hand through his long hair again ((not quite to his collarbone, but shit, it’s better looking than yours)) and you says something that gives rise to a smirk playing across his diamond-cut features.

“I already know who you are.” Another long drag. A sidelong glance. Strains of The Cranberries waft over from over the iron fence. He shrugs. Another drag, maybe two. “I like the Indigo Girls better.” Another pause. “But Rites of Passage was better than Swamp Ophelia.”

“1200 Curfews is the best of both.” your eyes narrow. “Don’t avoid the topic, Ben. How’d you know who I was?”

A toss and vigorous stamp of your foot and your cigarette joins his, dead in the dirt.

He laughs and the heat in your stomach is back ((did it ever go away)) and it’s creeping through your rib cage straight to your heart and it’s climbing through you and creeping to your fingertips and trickling down to everywhere, everywhere and you grasp onto the table behind you with urgency and it’s all you can do stand upright, damnit and the rickety table sways under the sudden stress.

Hands — strong, sweet ((can hands be sweet)) immediately reach out to steady you, clutching your forearms, holding you in place — pinning you down, ((god you wish)) — thumbs caress your muscled shoulders in small circles — his head is bent, obscuring his vision — trying to get a better look at you — you nod, yes you’re okay, if you really knew me you’d know I was a klutz — he nods — smirks — he already knew that, knew you.

“You’ve been at the pool nearly every day this summer.”

once more he reaches around you and this time, Ben emerges with a towel. He wraps it around you gently, authoritatively, no doubt having noticed the goosebumps on your sensitive flesh. a hand tugs at the edges of the cotton cloth near your neck, dragging it back from slipping off completely. It lingers. He meets your eyes for the first time in what feels like years. You can breathe again now.

“Even if your head’s been buried in books, your friends, they’re still talking about you. Trying to get your attention.” He cants his head. “So how’s The End of History? Worth the hype?” Hands are near, around you, always. Chlorine and salt and sweat and cigarettes envelop you both, heavy, but not cloying.

“You know Fukuyama?” he simply looks at you and nods. “Well, he makes an interesting argument, but I don’t think he adequately rejects Huntington’s thesis.”

Ben smiles, a brilliant, radiant act that could act as your life force for days, you’re sure of it, you would do anything to make sure he smiled like this the rest of his life, he’s so beautiful. “Wise words from a wise woman.”

A man — boy? — yells over the fence — hey, kenobi! — that politics and diplomacy never won over any girls, tell her about the time in the Sheddu Maad neighborhood — he ducks his head — tells Anakin to shove off, mate, leave it alone.

You laugh at his embarrassment, only detectable because you’ve been analyzing him, only because he seems to make sense to you the way no one else does, only because he saved your life, how the hell would you know?

A hand scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna get out of here?” Ben ignores the jibing of his friend and speaks quietly, assuredly, like he knows you’ll say yes.

The fire surges in you again and you wonder what it would be like for that voice to tell you to hold still and you haven’t even finished giving form and sound to your assent when he’s wresting the towel off of your shoulders and pulling the baggy white lifeguarding t shirt over your head and his muscles are bunching with the effort ((and for your benefit, you suspect)).

The towel gets draped gracefully over a lightly tanned arm, the cigarettes and lighter and keys tossed into the pocket of his now-dry swim trunks, your book is secured in the crook of an elbow.

Ben grabs your hand and starts leading you to his car with an errant grin ((shit, he’s strong)). It’s a make and model you don’t recognize. He makes quick work of the necessities, tossing notebooks and periodicals and a set of brass knuckles into the backseat. the towel and your book join the island of misfits, but he’s more careful about those things. he’s like you. He doesn’t do this often. More interested in words and cigarettes than Alicia Silverstone’s clothes in Clueless.

He doesn’t let go of your hand. The nail of his thumb is tracing patterns in your palm and it’s achingly tender and the faintest bit teasing and just enough to grip his hand a little harder than necessary and you ponder how you can exact revenge for his antics.

Rummaging complete, he turns to face you. He’s serious. You can see it in his eyes — they’ve changed — they’re a more delicate shade of blue now, more like glinting sapphire than cerulean — Ben turns so you’re in between him and the car. His hair, too, has changed color, more copper-toned with flecks of gold. You like it better like that, and you tell him so.

“one thing left.”

“What’s that?” you hope you don’t sound breathless. Or maybe you do, and you decide you don’t care. He’s probably going to kiss you anyway. What’s the sense in not telling him you want him to, with all the ladylike weapons you have in your arsenal? He’s nervous now. His thumb has stilled. Ben’s eyes are the color of the sea before a storm, a rippling kaleidoscope of blues and half-greens.

still, he smiles, and it reaches those tempestuous eyes, crinkling and compressing their thunder and lighting around the edges.

a kiss imprinted on your knuckles — his mouth against you — a tongue grazes over your skin, tasting for the first time — you stare unabashedly — the heat has reached your cheeks now, and you don’t even care — his thumb replaces his mouth now, drifting over you the peaks and valleys of your hand.

“May you permit me?” He murmurs gingerly, echoing your previous words with obstinate formality.

and you, too, mimic him, simply nodding. Your hands drop as he leans forward and —

Oh.

the pressure of his lips on yours is feather-light. It’s seeking. Reassuring. Gentle. Exploratory.

But you do not want gentle. You are too far gone for that.

Your tongue insistently licks the seam of his lips and his gasp of surprise gains you entrance to his mouth — he retaliates with a gentle nip on your lower lip — hands move — now on his stubbly cheeks, now threading through his hair — tugging, grasping for purchase for your own stability as much as for pleasure.

he moans again when your fingers rake his scalp and his hands go to your hips, skimming under his oversized t-shirt and gripping your waist, holding you in place even as your legs seem to fall open of their own accord, at this juncture when instinct and pleasure formulate a compound, a melange, a hydrogen bond with irrationally high ionization energy.

Ben’s tongue delves into your mouth ((dominance)) and his chest brushes against yours and he tips his head to get a better angle while his left hand abandons its station on your hip and traverses bare skin, hiking upwards. a mewl erupts from the back of your throat.

he’s migrated to kissing — biting, really — your neck — your head has fallen back against the warm metal of the car — eyes fluttered shut — hands in his hair, scraping at his bare back — fuck, he’s good — it’s not enough —

a car horn startles the both of you. he lifts his head, blinking as though he’s been rudely jolted awake from an REM state. Ben eventually straightens and you follow suit, gathering yourself off the car and twiddling with the edges of your braid.

It’s you who laughs first ((laughing with swollen lips)) and you’re so glad you do. Ben smiles again, that jaw-dropping display of warmth and aliveness it makes your heart skip a ((non-proverbial)) beat. that’s happened so many times in the last few minutes you can’t believe you have yet to pass out.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “ready to get out of here?” a kiss to your cheek. “for real this time?” another to your nose. His eyelashes brush up against your skin — left breathless at the simple intimacy.

you beam up at him. “yes, Ben. I’m ready.”

“my curfew’s at midnight.”

Ben doesn’t look at you when he speaks. Well, he does. Just not right now. He’s busy at the moment, tinkering with something in the hood of his car. hunter green t-shirt — auburn hair — something out of goddamn salinger novel ((or maybe dos passos))

you look up at him. you’re settled on a skateboard ((he’s far too trusting of your ability to remain upright)). listless currents from a fan — somewhere, in the garage, you think — ripple in that nomadic space between his t-shirt and your skin.

remarks are so curious a thing, and you watch yours descend upon him. not quite a cascade. not quite a pittance of cleansing summer rains. it’s something other — but not ethereal — it’s here, it’s now, it’s taking you, too, holding you in thrall — words bump into skin ((sinew and sin)).

“it’s about doing the right thing.” the grind of one metal locking its relatives, corollaries, corrosions, into place has ceased. or maybe only paused. you’re not sure the car is done. but Ben looks at you, and you know he’s done. done explaining himself.

the skateboard’s wheels squeak and cry out against the pavement when you adjust. legs stretched out — ragged vans pointing above ((wherever that is)) — violet tipped hands clutching the back edges — knees exposed — just kissing the faintness of tangible ((affection or affectations, what’s the difference?))

“i know.” freckles gaze into the sun, his eyes, reflections. he expects your explanation to be plaintive. institutional. it’s not. “i just wanted to know why.”

Ben shakes his head, once, twice, thrice — face still half-soaked in the shadow of the hood — astonishment is plain to see in the flatness of his cheeks — the waltzing of his tongue on his upper lip.

Two seconds later he is right there, crouching ((muscles straining)) next to you, the leather tips of air jordans exotic and smooth against the external lateral bone of your left knee. His eyes, screwed up at the invasion of the sun against their tranquility, stare at the meeting of his shoes and your body and then he is gazing at you.

angels manipulate his mouth into a smile — Ben’s yours, now — hands are clasped — battles halt in the ceasefire. “I should really stop underestimating you.”

Ben reaches out. Two fingers ride the length of your cheekbone. They still as skin morphs into frizzled, sun-bleached hair at the crown of your head, in that space between your ear and eyebrow. your head nudges into his terms of surrender. “That would probably be best,” you say. The pause between conditional tense and adverb is like the space between you and him, an assured hesitancy, caught between becoming and being, trapped in an interstitial existence.

it’s so fucking americana it hurts.

hair , secured by a scrunchie the same shade as your fingertips, is given a light tug. let’s get you home, he says, and your presence wilts in upon itself , he senses the rush of photosynthesis exiting your body and brings your lips to caress his.

it doesn’t feel like the first time — nothing ever does — familiar in semantics — murky in meaning — singeing and sweet — a transfusion of significance between you and him.

the breaking away comes with a solemn sigh. he’s rising and bringing you with him. you resist the urge to stage a coup and use the skateboard to rocket yourself into his arms ((a safehouse you’ve found)).

___

time: a nebulous concept for you. it’s pages dogeared and how many days until the next cd is shipped to the store and how many t-shirts you’ve accosted from oaken drawers.

it’s a far more solid object for him. a tangible weave of textures and patterns that he notices in the scrunchies now in the car’s island of misfits ((he still hasn’t told you the make and model)) and how many times you guide his hand around your waist while you eat ice cream ((vanilla in a cone with sprinkles)) and the pens he’s busted through since you first met ((he knows the number , they’re immortalized in a tin cup on his shelf))

Ben’s holding one that has yet to join its brothers in the tin graveyard. The clicker rests against his teeth. It looks seductive in his mouth. Like he can make you keen with just an imitation of the real thing, with words and ideas. Words twirled around the air have power. You both know this.

You’re the one who’s twirling, though. spinning around his bedroom — boombox emitting a Billy Joel song at least ten years mature — mouth forming words you have yet to possess the courage to blare — so much like your kisses.

((the words come through in the translation , the body moves but he hears the soul))

he watches you and he is transfixed. he knows you do not know how much you are revealing to him. at least not consciously. but you want him to crawl into your soul and never leave. he does not see it or hear it or feel it as much as he experiences truth, the clumsy trio dotting patterns across his extremities and seeping into his essence ((what it means to be human)) like an antibiotic ointment. he is scared you will stick to things for which you are not designed. but it’s too late and he’s covered in the stuff, slick with you. unleashed in a trigonometric function of three sides ((him / you , other)). sins and signs and echoing sunlight.

your smile mimics his as you edge toward the bed where he’s sprawled out. you laugh and he matches you, shaking his head in rare & unguarded ((unabashed , unembarrassed)) regard. you are in harmony.

skin meets skin — heels arched into the carpet — he’s too strong too stubborn — and you fail and fall and spill over him — tumbling over his torso, legs mashed — the heat of his victorious grin burns the atmospheric bubble arching over the two of you.

You’re not sure if the record stops or if you’ve just ceased hearing it. he arranges you ((like a bouquet, like a song)) on the bed. he stares down at you. the eyes are stormy again, like before he kissed you the first time ((but nothing’s ever like the first time)). they say eyes are the window to the soul. Your hands whisk the hair that’s dangling there, like you can quiet him by quelling his independently-minded locks. it seems to work. he blinks and when you see the sun again it’s brighter, bluer, but maybe that’s because he’s so still now.

he does not move. He may not have danced but his soul is pressing into you like a dagger ((did you fall on a sword)). Ben cuts off your impending speech with conciliatory kiss. “i know , darling” , and the words etch themselves into reality against your body.

—-

Ben is distant and he is near to you all at once. There are corners of his being that you want to slide and drag and push to the surface. maybe if you do he will start to make sense. form follows function, he tells you, and the words feel as yellow as the pages on which they’re inked.

it doesn’t make sense to you — “you have too much sense, dear one” — elinor and marianne — but for all his purity he does not dance — no ricochets in his lever and pulley soul.

you are glass and flannel and he is steel and silk. he is not quite your sun, or your moon, or your stars, and not even your world. but you are rapidly terraforming to his sundry heights and arid permafrost and the devil’s sun that makes a home in his fingers, in his mouth ((yet he is not lucifer, nor abdiel perhaps he is raphael)).

Ben watches you soak in him. He takes note, n.b., nota bene, notes well, excellently, the stillness of your hands ((the tremors have lessened, but have they learned?)). your words are teal and vermillion and ecru and weeping with tannins. Ben deduces ease, easel, paint, art as you furrow into his chest. His mind infers souls through their bodies. Form follows function. Function follows form. Maybe it’s all the same, and Maybe It Isn’t.

Through your mirror he sees himself with you but he does not comprehend. He is bewildered.

nails boards cones sheets — teeth fingers knees breath — swerving form yielding function clutching grasping — all so very , sine qua non — aspectu sine logos — why does the latin transform into Greek

Morpheus, he thinks, nods sagely. he hurls ticket stubs and lipstick napkins and sense ((you)) into shoeboxes and mailboxes and shadowboxes. he refuses a photo of you, with you, for you and takes your knotted eyes and throws them, too, into the nearest body of water. you are close but you are not near ((droplets on tanned skin, drowning in the water)) and it is all he can do to obey his life and he does not know that sartre laughs at him and de beauvoir pokes her lover.

you are not at the middle of your life and neither is he. the path is still obscured by the trees. is charon delivering you to this threshold of the styx ((stones, bones, death)) or the tip of the world where the stars scrape into the heavens with a different edge? he is rising: he brings you with him. so it was in the past, but does the past presage the future? if he is raphael then he is virgil ((Maybe it’s all the same, and Maybe It Isn’t))

epic firestorm of righteous creation myths — empirical histories — imperial truths. but no. dante, where is dante, is he off in firenze, dancing in florid colors? no. dante is in exile, civitas ex nihilo : in need of virgil. guide him to transcendence.

____

you do not see him for several days. maybe it is weeks. you aren’t sure. time is not empirical, Ben has told you, it’s something you have to feel through its measuring ((sometimes vibrancy tips out of his ridges)). but you wish he had let you take a picture of the two of you. you are more like him than you realize , the truest truths are the ones you can touch.

it is the longest you have not seen him, and it is very hot. the pool, the lake, they’re not the same when you can’t thread sand through his hair and be abducted by his gaze as you read ((spirited away from his bookshelf)).

you’re running out of books — running out of time? — but time is not statistical — multidimensionality of you and him — there is no space where he does not compress himself to exist with you.

“it’s not a phase, mom,” you say, and take another bite of cereal.

“you need to make up your mind.” the crunch is effective at blocking out the noise, and your mind continues on its path. you wonder if DJ Tanner ever felt like this. hair surfaces in your bowl, and you pluck it out, grimacing. Maybe you should cut your hair. it’s hot out. DJ had short hair.

a rap on the table — spoon? knuckle? you can’t tell — strikes you. the words reality and wake up and decisions and wasteful are abrasions on your knees, still sore from too many tries on Ben’s skateboard ((he had smiled at your earnestness and kissed away the latent tears , let your body do its healing)).

you do not speak words so much as you give birth to emotions, agonizing and cruel and hideous. you do not know what you say or if you even say it ((dissociation)). but it is metallic in your mouth and turncoat shaking fingers and the sinking sound of unharnessed emotion in your ears.

it is hot and stifling and too much when you leave. nothing is feeling right — that stillness has lodged in your diaphragm again — opaque skies mock you — rain comes and you are colliding with nature and you are losing

Ben is standing underneath the overhang at the library ((it always comes back to the library)) and you wonder if you’re finally hallucinating. you voice forms itself to his name and he turns, damp hair following a few seconds later, and he drops his cigarette at the sight of you.

Exhilaration delivers specks of mud on your legs and arms but it is no matter. the time and space continuum has rectified and he is in front of you, giving you a cigarette, gray t-shirt abstracting to his muscles as much as your vans cling languidly to soggy toes.

he exhales smoke the way he says your name. it is precise and pious and it blooms over you like pink and purple hydrangeas.

Ben sees the gouges in your eyes and chastises your traitorous hands and absorbs you. cigarettes slump, abandoned, as he presses your cheek to his heart ((the conjunction of your logic and heat meeting his fervent center)). you cling to him and he does not resist but molds himself to you. time stops ((it’s an illusion)). rain continues. Ben’s kisses glide along your hairline, your forehead. it tickles and you laugh and his smile takes shape against your frontal cortex.

you pull him into the rain even as he protests ((but he’s laughing and the clouds pause, time takes a breath , are you time)) and you kiss him. it is like something breaks in him or perhaps the rain has induced erosion or maybe he is like you and there is a filigree thread connecting his head with his heart and constructing a railway through his body. Ben is all the lightning — the sky has crowned a new Zeus — you hold him as the thunder in his soul cracks and pulls

((maybe kant was wrong about time and heidegger was right about dwelling and nothing crystallizes in his soul like you do))

the two of you alight to his car ((still unknown yet cordial, native)) and when you reach his building he opens your door and scoops you up in his arms and it is like that first time by the pool ((but nothing is ever like the first time)).

your hand makes a fist in his soggy shirt and his hair is pasted to his forehead and you cannot censor the searing, violent, desideratum swooping over you ((nor can you pause the absurd laugh that gushes out of your heart at his display of exorbitant chivalry)).

“i can walk,” you say as he wades through water that’s now folding over his skin, lapping up his electrolytes.

“yes, dearest, but you can’t swim, can you?” he likes to respond with questions, but this one’s an answer. Ben’s clutching you so tightly that you can’t see his face but you feel the contentment in his tone—it dashes into you like the rain currently encompassing the Earth, hesitant with the effort of exertion, with the weight of metal souls. “I’m just preemptively forbidding a disaster, darling.” there’s a tenderness bridging Ben’s raw power and mischievousness — the network protrudes — extracorporeal ((does he know?))

He cherishes the rain, Ben tells you later, when existence reduces to you and him and incandescent petrichor and the pasticcio of kisses, heartbeats, palms on skin.

___

Ben is not carefree, but he is not serious. it is like he has learned that he can take up space ((empirical)). there is less constriction, tension, stenosis in his body ((the filigree is stretching his limbs)). movements are not languid but nor are they demonstrations of correctness. not slouching — just not strictly upright.

your hair gets tangled, like his sheets, like his legs in yours, and you tell him you want to cut it. An auburn eyebrow lifts archly, and he runs a finger down the length of your arm, tracing the veins ((your life)). “how will I teach you how to swim if you chop off your legs, darling?” Ben’s voice is charcoal. gray, yellow red orange burning, glowing at the edges. He draws up blueprints for cities in your open palm.

You make a quip about the ship of state and he snorts. When he shakes his head, his other hand — the one not serving as an architect on your body — shags through his hair, tanned skin meeting with copper effervescence in a ragged tryst. “i like its hows” he murmurs against your lips and you cannot protest, not when his caustic tongue ices, soothes, pacifies your conflagration.

The two of you are at the pool, again. He’s on his break. The air’s circulation is viscous, shoving over your skins. It straps you in — like the fanny pack around his waist. Ben’s donned his lifeguard pack for work, swapping out his array of gauche accessories for the traditional red and white accoutrement now fastened at his hips.

the most important things in his life, Ben thinks as he inhales the light spice of a Malboro, start with “l”. learning, lady, library, liberty, lake, logos, love. he doesn’t know from where last word originates; he must learn ((connaître ou savoir?)). in his experience, there’s no such thing as luck. He feels like a character in one of those war movies filmed right before he was born, smoking lucky strikes in a foxhole and just trying to stay alive, goddamnit, just trying to get through the war.

The two of you are always watching each each other. The obtuse phenomenology plays out like a courtly masquerade. veritas, quid est veritas, for here both object and deception are degrees of truth. He smirks around the cigarette and you blush but your eyes hold his and you catch his approval and stuff it inside your heart.

Ben takes your hand and places it on his thigh as you speak. the two of you are straddling a lacquered yellow beach chair, offensive in its self-confidence. he leans forward and touches his forehead to yours. he likes to take initiative — he is making use of his knowledge, he told you once, mumbled and sleepy, when you had whispered the question against his shoulder late one night.

Ben brings himself nearer to you. sweat — splashes — dangling exertions — smoke — sunscreen. it all plays about your lips and in your blood and in his hands that keep yours pressed against his flesh. someone yells at him to get his ass back to work and Ben rolls his eyes.

“duty calls.” his actions, the chair: they embolden you to dip your voice, your thoughts, mayhap you actions to a lower register.

He ducks his head to peer at your face, like that first time when you were falling over ((but nothing is like the first time)). as he passes the remainder of the cigarette to you, the words he speak sound like him, carry his weight, refracted starlight from coal. “we all have a duty. even you.” Ben doesn’t need to say his duties; they are his life, his schedule, the notebooks in haphazard stacks under the bed, his tin cups of pens. you wonder if you are part of his list ((if the cables have let you traverse the journey from his heart to his head)).

when you tell him that he is diamond but you are like one of those new gems they make in labs — what are they called — moissanite, he shakes his head. “you are not so scientific, darling.” fingers squeeze yours. “you are burning skies and delimitations and biting stars — the most natural things that exist.”

((you are not sure if you believe him, because nothing is like the first time)).

#wtf brit #it's SO PRETTY #am v uwu #thank you :)#fic: breathless #modern au #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan x reader insert #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x you #obi-wan x y/n #obi-wan x reader insert #cris writes

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