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#‘all scenes EYE see have been devoid of love :/‘ the fuck are you watching where there’s an abundance of gay sex in the first place? harold
greelin · 2 years
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“gay sex should be more tender” gay people can and should fuck nasty
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riot-in-bloom · 1 year
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live laugh love tregear (just make tregear do whatever the fuck he wants to do tbh)
ah, a brave one. i did end up overthinking this prompt with a bit of perfume research and watching a particular scene in skyfall (the bond movie), but at the end of the day, unsettling hiroyuki is one of his favourite hobbies. while i do refer to him as tregear, he's in his kirisaki form here.
Humans, by all means, should be of trifle bother to Tregear. That had been true, until recently.
Kudo Hiroyuki taints his vision every time he closes his eyes, uttering despicable words of hope and bonds that only madden him more. As it seems, the Tri-Squad, as the ragtag crew of the Son of Taro and their friends had foolishly announced themselves, had chosen to borrow his body for a place to stay and fight Kaiju. Hiroyuki had, as a result, gained the nerve to talk back to opponents far stronger than him. But by bringing a human into such matters, if anything, they'd provided him for the perfect subject to his experiment of sorts. Plus, Hiroyuki having such a pretty face to crack, to fracture with despair, is only the cherry on top. 
Hiroyuki's probably — no, definitely — heading home, about to turn left on the bridge that Tregear currently waits on. Those from the Land of Light always have a different aura to them, one he's able to spot from miles away, even in his human form, as he is now. Normally, the pesky Son of Taro follows Hiroyuki around as a duckling would its mother, which renders Hiroyuki’s location starkly tangible. The aura of the Light is instead fuzzy right now, remnants of what an Ultraman could rub off on a human after prolonged exposure. How intriguing, indeed, for the Son of Taro and his buddies to not be present.
He's right two minutes later, as he expected to be. The only thing more satisfying than his accuracy is the steely glint failing to surface amongst the sea of fear in Hiroyuki's black-coffee eyes.
“Tregear…”
“Kudo Hiroyuki. Where are your manners? Should you not be saying hi?”
It takes two seconds to flutter his fingers into a wave. In response, Hiroyuki steps back gingerly with his left foot — he's limping, judging on how quick he is to shift his weight onto said foot as soon as he's done.
“Why are you here?”
The world vanishes from Tregear’s senses for a bit, before coming through to him again, this time from behind Hiroyuki instead of ahead. It’s funny, how consistently humans hate feeling like prey; this one, for instance, stiffens almost immediately upon Tregear’s breath falling onto his back, and more so when Tregear’s hands reach out to grab at his chest. It feels firm when Tregear touches it — he’s kept in good shape, which would make sense given his physically demanding job —  and the fabric above is most certainly cotton, albeit of the unsoftened variety. 
There’s obviously no need to partake in such prodding. But Hiroyuki’s being careful with his breathing now, seemingly taking shallow ones that hitch after several mental checks of his safety every few seconds, and that has an element of fun to it.
"To see you, of course. It has been a while since I've seen you at this time of night."
Hiroyuki stays stunned while Tregear allows himself to let his hands roam some more, not once putting up a struggle. How responsible; he's apparently kept the policies of his workplace manual in mind — more specifically, in the event of him getting robbed. Flipping through that had been an immense bore, showcasing more examples of humans setting chains of rules over trivial matters. Regardless, he takes his time prodding and pinching the chest muscles, for no one dares to come here late at night.
As with many other circumstances of meeting, Hiroyuki's skin is evidently freshly washed, and Tregear can feel the humidity off of his hair. Usually, however, this would bring some particular flavours human noses seem to be fond of: more specifically, the scents of bergamot, lavender, and a smidge of thyme. The air in between them is devoid of these scents at the moment, instead bestowing him with citron and some musk, in a ratio that's strangely familiar. Just where does he know this from?
A memory of a few months ago — before he'd even met Hiroyuki — surfaces itself. Ah yes. Stony ruins had surrounded him as he'd stepped into the building, examining his handiwork of a being close to death. An easily won battle shortly after, with another being who'd stayed virtually unscathed but angered regardless, had left a sour taste to the sweetness of his chocolate at the time, as had the dust to his nose. There had been guns, if he recollects correctly, along with some part of time where the warmth of the being’s arm radiated onto his. 
“Want some?”
“Screw off!”
He’d seen that being again a few times after, but never alone. No, every subsequent time, he was accompanied by Hiroyuki.
Oh, dear. The limp, the scent, the lack of the Tri-Squad on his person today; the implications of such are rather fascinating, indeed, if it’s to follow any kind of human logic.
“Playing with fire, aren’t you? You’re daring to indulge in things you’ve broken."
He disappears, gracing Hiroyuki's vision with himself again while walking towards him, topped off with wide eyes and a raised tone perfectly fabricated to be accusatory.
"Quite intimately, it seems. You never learn.”
“What do you mean?!”
Tregear drops all expressions as he holds his face inches away from Hiroyuki’s. He’s not meaning to do what Hiroyuki would most likely assume is about to happen, no. Instead, he inhales deeply, showily exhaling for emphasis before backing off.
Hiroyuki’s face warps into a multitude of emotions: shock, anger, sadness that brings water to his eyes, along with the undeniable twitches of denial his face tends to make. The timeless conclusion comes through, once more: humans are so easy to lace with guilt.
“I don't think I need to say. You already know, don’t you?”
It’s now that he finally decides to turn his back to Hiroyuki, hands neatly in place behind his back while walking the rest of the length of the bridge, letting the contemptible aura of light fall behind. The despair he’s missing out on must surely be delectable, given the frantic huffs that are audible even from here, but nothing of the exquisite variety that he seeks.
“I’ll be sure to have a fun game set up for you next time, Kudo Hiroyuki.”
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moonlit-reveriee · 3 years
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Baby Blue
technoblade x fem!reader
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concept: techno is scared of ‘corrupting’ the reader, but the reader’s kinda into it...
content warning // NSFW, virgin!reader, very minor angst?, small argument that gets resolved
listen to this while you read: BBBlue (Single) by Olivver the Kid
(this fic was heavily inspired by the lyrics of this song, so i highly recommended giving it a listen!)
───※ ·❆· ※───
When Techno found out you were a virgin, he was terrified. Not necessarily of the thought itself, but of the implications.
He’d never forget the look on your face when you told him. You tried to be casual about it, but he knew you well enough to spot the dusting of pink across your cheeks. You nuzzled yourself closer into his side. Whether out of embarrassment or something else entirely, he couldn’t tell. All he could feel was his heart dropping as the voices chanted at him to “ruin her”
Of course you, his pure sweet angel, would be a virgin. He once again crumbled under the idea that you had chosen him. How on earth could a person like you even think of being with a beast like him. Yet alone, giving up your virginity to him.
He hated how horribly turned on he was by the thought of taking it.
The voices had been relentless about it ever since. They were hyper focused on your every move, twisting every thought of his into something promiscuous. When you rolled out of bed in the morning and stretched, a small sigh escaping your lips, it was endless cries of “make her do that again” “you should fuck those moans out of her” “make her scream”
While making breakfast together in the morning, they wouldn’t stop telling him to “bend her over the counter” “take it right here”
Even at times where he was alone, the voices preoccupied him with endless thoughts of you. He was fairly certain they had forced him to imagine every possible way in which he could have you. “imagine fucking her against the wall” “you can be gentle for the first time y’know” “she’d feel so good writhing underneath us” “press her face into the mattress instead” “make her get on her knees and suck you off” “she’ll be such a pretty little slut for us”
He tried to take care of himself as often as he could, but it was becoming impossible to keep up with. There were only so many times a day he could jerk himself off alone behind locked doors. He was desperate, and sexually frustrated to say the least.
He felt disgusting for it.
After a week of this torment, he could barely even look at you yet alone touch you without the voices and his own guilt pounding against his skull. You couldn’t even think about broaching the subject again, because he was avoiding physical contact like the plague. He wouldn’t come to bed until he knew you were asleep, and would leave long before you woke.
As much as he tried to hide it, you could tell he was tired. Something was wrong, but you knew that he’d never just tell you about his problems unprompted. Techno was insufferably stubborn in that way. After several days of avoiding your gaze and leaning away from your touch, you chose to confront him.
“Techno”, you called for his attention quietly, trying to sound stern while remaining gentle with him. He didn’t turn to fully face you, but he glanced at the spot on the wall just above your head.
You struggled to find the words you wanted to say, so you settled on telling him, “Techno, you look tired.”
He turned his attention away from you. “Just a lot of work around the house this week. I’ll be fine after I rest.”
“Then come to bed with me.” You saw the way his body tensed and tilted away from you at that simple suggestion.
“I just need to write a couple letters first. You can go ahead of me.”
“Techno...”, you whined, daring to take a step closer to him. He gave you an almost panicked look, “why does it feel like you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you”, he responded quickly, trying to look through you instead of at you.
“Yes you have”, you responded firmly. A flash of guilt washed over his face at your tone. “You haven’t kissed or touched me for nearly a week now. I don’t even know for sure if you sleep in the same bed as me anymore. Fuck, you barely even talk to me.”
Angry tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you wanted to hold them in. Techno felt his chest tighten at the sight of it. He instinctively turned and reached out to comfort you, but forced himself to freeze.
“There”, you said, gesturing towards him, “just like that. You’re stopping yourself. Why are you doing that?”
He repeatedly opened and closed his fists at his side, wanting to have any conversation other than this one.
“[y/n], there’s just a lot going on in my mind right now”, he said. It wasn’t a complete lie. “I just need to work though it.”
“Then let me help you.”
“No”, he responded a little too quickly, “I- I mean, I just don’t want to talk about it with you yet...”
“Why not?”, you retorted, trying to squeeze any information you could out of him.
“I just don’t, okay? It’s uncomfortable, I don’t want to talk about it yet.”
“... is this about me being a virgin?”
“I never said that”, he replied, but the tension in his shoulders was enough to tip you off.
“Ah geez Technoblade, if it was that much of a problem for ya, you should have just told me”, you said sarcastically, “instead of avoiding all physical contact for a like week straight!”
“It’s not a problem, [y/n].”
“Certainly doesn’t feel that way.”
Techno huffed in frustration, grabbing a fistful of his hair at the root. He wasn’t sure if he was more upset with himself, or the fact that a few of the voices were still begging him to “please fuck her already”
“Love, I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t want it. They”, he tapped a finger against the side of his skull, “they want it so badly. It’s driving me insane.”
He breathed in and out shakily, trying to gauge your expression in the brief moments before he continued.
“I’m a monster. I’ve spilt more blood than anyone every should in a single lifetime. My appearance is more beast than man.”
He looked up briefly to find you staring right at him, a tight-lipped frown upon your face.
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
“I- ... I don’t want to corrupt your innocence”, he admitted.
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
“[y/n], you’re so perfect”, he answered almost breathlessly, “you’re so kind and so pure. Just living with me does enough to taint your reputation, I don’t wanna-“
He cut himself off to swallow thickly. He almost seemed scared of the words he was going to say next.
“I don’t want to ruin this part of you either...”
A heavy silence filled the tiny sitting room of techno’s cottage. In those few seconds, your eyes widened ever so slightly as his words suddenly clicked in your mind. This hulking boar of a man, an undisputed war criminal, was scared. He was scared of damaging you, your reputation, or your recently revealed ‘innocence’. Compared to himself, he saw you as a pure being who could be tainted by unwholesome thoughts.
If what he said about the voices was true, then his actions of the past few days would’ve made sense for him.
“Oh techno...”, you muttered softly, tentatively placing a hand on his jaw. His posture was curled inward, making him look small despite his size. He was stiff at first, but allowed you to lift his gaze to meet yours. He searched your eyes desperately for an indication of your reaction. You gave him a reassuring smile.
“Do you remember when we first met?”
A small wave of confusion washed over his face, but he nodded anyways. “It was at the festival...”
“That’s right”, you said, moving the hand on his face down to rest over his shoulder, “and do you remember what I did that day?”
“You threw an axe into Schlatt’s shoulder”, he answered, watching as the scene played out in his memory.
You lived with Niki in her bakery at the time, and witnessed firsthand the injustice she faced during Schlatt’s presidency. As the chaos after Tubbo’s execution occurred, you took the opportunity to hurl your axe where Schlatt stood upon his podium. The blow wasn’t fatal, but that wasn’t necessarily your goal. You just wanted to see the man in pain.
“It was a lucky shot really”, you admitted, “I wasn’t even aiming properly.” That managed to draw a small smile onto Techno’s lips.
“And do you remember”, you continued, “when I tried to confront the Butcher Army by myself?”
He grimaced at the thought. You had told him you just needed to make a quick trip to L’manburg for some supplies, leaving him at home alone to recover from the previous day’s events. You returned that evening with a sprained wrist and a couple large bruises forming on your body. None of them were trying to kill you, but you took a pretty good beating from Quackity just for trying to confront them.
“Why are you bringing all of this up now?”, he asked.
“Because”, you said, “this is the evidence that will support my next point.”
He looked bewildered by that statement, but continued to listen.
“I’m not a perfect person”, you resumed, “I have blood on my hands just like you do. I know it’s hard to compare to you, but I’m not devoid of my own sins. I can be mean, I’ve hurt people. I’m not a pure, angelic being who would quiver at a single inappropriate thought. I think you forget that sometimes.”
He let your words swirl around in his head; he couldn’t deny the logic in them. The evidence prevented him from denying the truth of your statement. He could almost be mad that you’d talked him into a corner, but he was more overjoyed at the fact that you knew him well enough to do so.
“And you know...”, you spoke quietly, letting your hand fall down to rest on his chest, “if you did somehow ‘corrupt my innocence’ as you say... I really wouldn’t mind that.”
Techno’s breath hitched in his throat. There were a brief few moments, maybe minutes, where he just stared at you. Then his lips were on yours; sudden and clumsy, but passionate. You gripped the fabric of his shirt as he grabbed at your waist, desperate to have you in his arms again.
“I’m sorry, I had to”, he muttered, his lips left hovering a hair’s breadth away from yours.
“You’re so silly sometimes”, you sighed affectionately, rubbing small circles into his collarbone. He gave you a gentle smirk before pressing another kiss into your lips.
“I’m sorry darling, I really am”, he said as he drew you into a tight hug. He took in your scent and the feel of your skin for the first time in days. It felt like he could survive off the feeling of your arms wrapped around his body alone. He wondered why he ever let himself be depraved of this.
“You know I trust you, right?”, you spoke with your face pressed into his chest.
“I’m not sure why, but yes.”
You decided not to reprimand him for saying that. You could help him unpack all that later. Instead, you brought your head up to whisper in his ear.
“You have my full and unconditional consent to take my virginity whenever you’re ready.”
Techno inhaled and held his breath, though for what, he wasn’t sure. It took a while for the full weight of those words to sink in. He leaned back to stare at your face, bringing one of his large and shaky hands up to cup your cheek.
“Are you sure?”, his eyes were wide with trepidation, practically pleading with you to tell him the truth. You leaned into his palm, indulging in the feeling of his skin on yours.
“I want you, techno. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”
Techno was lost in your words. The sudden absence of guilt left his heart light and airy in his chest. For the first time in days, the voices were only a gentle murmur.
“she’s so beautiful” “she wants you” “make her feel good” “show her how special she is” “make her smile” “she’ll be so pretty” “she’s always pretty” “be gentle, no need to rush”
“make love to her”
“... I think I’m ready now.”
───※ ·❆· ※───
ayyyy guess who finally finished writing something!!!
parts of this feel a little rushed but ehhhhhh i was just excited to finally post it. i looove writing techno as an extremely self-conscious character who’s too caught up in their own head to see how ridiculous they’re being. so, this was a treat for me to write
i hope you enjoyed :D
-moonlight
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belit0 · 3 years
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Hey, can you write Indra + size kink + cockworship + nasty cum stuff ?? Sorry, i'm hungry for that man
Sorry this took me SO FUCKING LONG omfg
No need to be sorry, I’m as hungry as you. I haven’t written smut in a while, so bear with me, I’m getting back at it:,(
Tw: Indra knows nothing about communication
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When Indra enters the house, the sun has already set. He looks drained, tired. It’s been days since he started wearing his hair loose, devoid of his usual ponytail, and it only helps to make him look more massive than he is.
His steps are heavy as he heads to the bedroom, and when he looks at you with those expressionless serious eyes, you know he won’t be eating dinner today either. That’s okay, you’re not used to spending time together as a normal couple anyway, and you know you’d feel weird if he actually sat down with you and joined you for a meal.
His form disappears down the corridor and you know he has found the way to bed, seeking comfort from the adversities of the day. His shadow is dragged across the walls by the candlelight, and for a moment, it looks like the demon everyone says he is.
But of course, you know better than to believe those ridiculous tales.
It’s been months since this man appeared in your village, a place led by a poor wretch who was trying his best to get his people ahead. Only a few enjoyed good fortune, privilege, and wealth, and you were not one of them. Life before Indra, here, was based on working hard for pennies, finding food wherever possible, wearing the same clothes repeatedly for lack of more garments. Poverty was rampant among almost the entire village population, and despite the leader’s best efforts, nothing seemed to work for the betterment of the situation.
But a mysterious man with long hair and thick shoulders, tattooed eyes, impressive physique compared to the famine-stricken people... left everyone captivated. With just a couple of suggestions and commands, things turned around, and the outlook brightened for everybody. This mysterious man quickly rose in the hierarchical power of the village, and the current leader ended up giving up his place.
Indra became their ruler overnight, and hopes for the future of the town seemed to grow stronger and stronger again.
Town expansion was inevitable, welcoming visitors and travelers intrigued by the legends of this man who brought fortune to a doomed place. Enemies were also unavoidable. The Otsutsuki defended and used all his power to prevent the destruction of the foundations he had built with so much effort, leaving everyone terrified in his steps.
His red eyes became stories used by mothers to frighten disobedient children, his violet beast traveled on the tongues of all the merchants and their incessant rumors.
Respect mingled with fear, yet Indra never wavered.
He looked imposing as he walked the streets of the town, staring at nothing in particular, an expression forged by iron and ice. His towering figure seemed to cast a gigantic shadow over every other man nearby, and all the women were dying to take the vacant place at his side.
Everyone thought as he became leader he would choose one of the few wealthy ladies of the village as his wife, but he did not.
It was months after his ascension to power before he communicated with a woman. And that turned out to be you.
Although the village prospered and grew bigger every day, your life remained the same, complicated. Money was scarce as well as food, and working hard every morning was necessary if you wanted to get a crumb of bread.
You tended the garden of a prosperous family, kneeling in the morning dew, your clothes covered in dirt from the work you had started just a few minutes ago.
Footsteps in front of you broke your concentration, and when you looked up, a tall figure was staring down at you. A flowing robe floated in the wind, and that frown was visible even from the floor. Indra was intimidating without uttering a word.
“You look thoroughly filthy.” He had said. “I’m sorry, my lord.” You had replied, bowing your head in respect.
You did not finish that day’s work, for offering you a wide hand, Indra Otsutsuki himself lifted you from the dirt and escorted you to get a fresh change of clothes. Not one of the worn-out ones you used to wear, but an expensive one, of excellent quality, full of exquisite details. A garment of high society, one of the kind he himself usually wore.
From that moment on, he did not leave your side. It was only a matter of time before you moved into his residence, an immense house in the middle of town. You became the envy of all women, no one being able to understand how their leader could choose a servant girl as his partner.
And despite the fear you felt towards him at first, although his haughty looks seemed to be empty initially, you eventually grew to understand him. Dread turned into respect, affection, love.
After all, he saved you from that life of misery to give you one of luxury and privilege, asking for nothing in return. Even though you slept in the same bed every night, he never touched a single hair on your head, never came near you, never took the initiative you feared he may take.
“Why me?” you asked once, the blush on your face shielded by nighttime darkness inside the room. A large space lay between you both on the bed, and Indra, while you couldn’t see him, probably had his back to you. “You are the prettiest.” He replied simply, and you caught a note of amusement in his voice.
During the day it was rare for you to see him, but at sunset, you would both be in the bedroom. No lustful touches in the middle were necessary to make the night complete, for the silences which at first were awkward eventually were filled with chatter.
That intimidating look, that wide-backed warrior with blood-colored eyes, became a companion, a pleasant person to spend time with. Never smiled, never laughed, but you know he is calm, that he enjoys the moment as much as you do. You’ve seen him interact with other people, how his muscles tense when someone is way too close for his comfort, how his brow furrows when anyone speaks to him. You know you’re the only person he tolerates, appreciates, and loves around him.
That’s why seeing him arrive like this is something uncomfortable in your chest. Slowly following in his footsteps, you find his clothes lost all the way back to the room. You pick up garment by garment, and there is a certain satisfaction as you smell his clothes and feel his perfume. As you reach the doorway, he is already tucked into bed, buried under sheets. One of his arms supports his head and acts as a pillow while his other hand scratches his chest, which is slightly uncovered. One of his legs is bent, and covers slip off his skin, revealing a thigh and worked muscles. His eyes are closed, but he knows you are there.
Leaving his clothing on a chair, you approach him and sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in your lap. Rarely have you seen this scene, where he relaxes with all his rights in his own bed. Sex has never been addressed between the two of you, and it’s something you’re grateful for. Rumors travel faster than the wind, and many a woman has walked around claiming to have spent time in the bed of the mighty Indra. Whether that’s true, you don’t know, and you’ve never asked either.
If true, your experience is undoubtedly unparalleled.
Still, seeing him like this, becoming one with the bed and stretching out, getting a taste of his toned chest and his thick thigh... Curiosity suddenly demands more.
“You’re staring.” His eyes are still closed, but to be put on display is still just as humiliating. “I’m sorry...” You’re not sure if get up and leave at that moment, but it’s his voice that clears the uncertainty. “Why? I’m your partner, naturally.”
It feels like confirmation of your actions, and you become brave all at once.
“Can I help you... To feel better?....” Your voice is full of hesitation, yet one end of his lips lifts, revealing a wickedly tinged smirk.
“Be my guest.”
Climbing on top of him, your hands tremble with anxiety and anticipation. His eyes flutter open and he watches you intently, analyzing where your actions lead. The man really is huge, and being partially on top of him, the size difference is even greater. Indra seems to rejoice in your stupor, picking up on your intentions and stirring the sheets covering him as you settle between his legs.
Whatever nervousness you felt about what was to come only grows worse at the sight of his size, as even half-hard, his cock’s intimidatingly enormous length.
“Already frightened?” The teasing tone sliding across his tongue fills you with new determination, and with both hands, you hold his shaft. One at the base and one at the head. Your tongue timidly explores that unfamiliar surface, feeling in your grip how hardness invades his dick second after second.
Your lips wrap carefully around it, and pushing gently, inch by inch, his length finds its way into the pleasantly warm depths of your mouth. One of your hands slowly slides down, dragging skin in its wake.
Fixing your eyes on Indra while trying to deal with the raw, inexperienced situation and size, you notice impatience and need, lust swimming in red eyes dominates his expression.
From an instant to the next, your shoulders are enveloped by two gigantic hands, and position is turned around, a vast body hovering over you and trapping you underneath it.
“You teasing little fucker...”
Being handled like that awakens something on the inside that you rarely felt before, some sort of tingling urgently needing to be soothed. A broad palm grasps your chin, which moves your face in the direction Indra desires as he suddenly engulfed your lips.
You have never kissed this man before, and to be making out with him for the first time in these circumstances should feel wrong... but it only builds up more sensations in your lower belly, a treacherous emptiness, and an almost unfamiliar fire.
Your hands awkwardly find his back, and the need to press him against your face, to demand more, to extract more from those luscious lips is interesting. There is no more distance to close between the two of you, but you want to crush yourself against his labored chest until becoming one.
The moment ends quickly as you gasp for air, and trying to recover, a sultry Indra, who grins viciously seductive overpowers your gaze.
“I’ll introduce you to a thing or two...”
Before you comprehend what his words mean, the position changes again, and his two knees are one on either side of your head. He looks even more terrifying from this angle than in everyday life, and you don’t venture to peek at his dick. Two of his fingers slide across your lower lip, caressing your cheek, and suddenly squeeze your face harshly. Your mouth is forced open, but when his cock slides over your tongue and you understand the functionality of the pose, you ease back.
Your lack of experience was driving him crazy, and rather than loosening him up, you were upsetting him further. Managing the matter with his own hands, or rather with his own hips, Indra finds peace again.
Rising to height, one of his palms cradles your face, while the other supports himself against the wall. You try to find stability by holding onto his thighs, and as he buries himself lower in your mouth, sensations in your body become almost unbearable, coupled with his movements.
Indra is kind at first, gradually pushing into your inexperienced cavity slowly, closing his eyes tightly and fighting the urge to destroy your mouth.
Yet when your jaw relaxes completely, grasping the rhythm and feel of the situation, he lets go. The beast is finally released, and the Otsutsuki fucks your lips with abandon, hitting the end of your throat with each thrust. His hips move with agility, and imagining him between your legs with the same surrender and strength makes you hold on.
Tears decorate your cheeks and eyelashes, blending with the saliva dripping from your mouth every time that cock lunges at your face. Indra becomes completely abstracted, tilting his head back as deep growls rise from deep within his chest.
When air is inevitably needed and you can no longer avoid gagging, you repeatedly slap his thighs, drawing his attention. He leans his forehead against the wall and holds your face with both hands, withdrawing his dick from your throat and catching his breath with difficulty. His gaze is fixed on you, and although you could probably look better, you feel really appreciated under those red eyes.
The fluids from your mouth completely soaked your chest and cheeks, your clothes are soaked, and at the sight, the Otsutsuki slides his fingers across your wet skin, then strokes his shaft twice.
When you catch your breath, you place a kiss on the head which has been hitting the back of your throat for minutes, showing he may continue.
Without a second thought, he burrows deeply into your mouth, reaching a depth he hadn’t hit before. The grunt he exhales makes your skin crawl, and you really want to see him enjoy you like this for the rest of your life.
He gives you time to breathe again, and his thrusts become more shallow, seeking more contact with the softness of your tongue and the warmth of your cheeks. It isn’t long before his length is completely out of your cavity and he works it rapidly, seeking the longed-for finish. You’re not sure what you should do, so you simply watch him, amazed at the size of his hands.
After a few seconds, several white shots paint your face, staining your hair and chest, leaving practically nowhere without even a drop. It’s unexpected, but satisfying.
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koobunno · 2 years
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Hi, I really loved the second part of you JK two-shot!! By any chance, will you add a drabble about the fam? Like when their baby girl's hospitalized or any scene like that...You can if you want but no pressure hehe,,
-- okay i'm astonished bc this is my first ask hehehe
this drabble is flooded with fluff and a bit of smut if u squint
thank u anon for the idea, had to re-read the drabble to understand,,i'm dumb hehe
“What the fuck!” you threw sharp glares at Jungkook who is caressing your child before he goes to shower, not that you hate lewd words but you both agreed to not curse in front of your daughter or anywhere she can hear. Returning to work on your case study for the conference the day after tomorrow, Jungkook then again disturbed you with so much panic in his voice, “Y/N!! She’s burning hot, what the heck!” Not even a second passed, you immediately turned your head to where they were, Jungkook carrying her while draping a palm simultaneously over her forehead, cheeks, and neck. “Keep her warm, Kook.” You reminded him and of course he obliged as the loving and caring father he is.
This isn’t the first time you’ve encountered situations like this, you see children experiencing things like this almost every day. But damn it, the pounding in your chest has never been this vigorous. As you aim for the first aid kit, taking out the thermometer, and went back to the bed where Jungkook and your more than a year old child are. You saw her wrapped in a swaddle blanket already, knowing that Jungkook specialized the skill even before she was born because of the classes you both took. Your husband changed into his sweatpants and a sweater with his car keys on hand. You propped the thermometer and for fuck’s sake, you never wanted to run this fast. A forty degree fever for a one year old is never something to be complacent for. You grabbed your phone, your pouch, and a coat, not even budging to change your pyjamas.
“You sit at the back babe, I forgot where I put the keys of the car where her car seat is.” Jungkook told you and it is evident that he is trying to be calm but is failing. He handed you your sleeping hot child as you nodded.
Hugging her while fishing for the phone in your pocket as you sit at the passenger seat and Jungkook buckling his seatbelt, he starts the engine while you type the hotlines of the hospital’s emergency center, notifying them that you’ll arrive any minute. You also called a driver and a househelp to prepare some necessities for your daughter and some for you and Jungkook. It has been long forgotten because of the panic earlier and they’re already in their headquarters by the time it happened.
Jungkook halted at the facade of the emergency center where some nurses and the doctor on duty were standing, anticipating your arrival. You went down the car as Jungkook handed the car keys to the valet chauffeur. The attendings performed the necessary tests on your daughter while you fill up the required forms for admission and such things, Jungkook standing at the back of the technicians, cooing his crying daughter by making funny faces.
--
“Mr. Jeon?” you heard a nurse calling for Jungkook as you opened your eyes from sleeping on your husband’s shoulder, devoid of sleep you didn’t relent on resting your head on Jungkook. You felt him putting his index finger against his lips, not knowing you’re awake already. “The admission process is done already, sir. May I know who is your preferred physician for Y/D/N?” The nurse politely asked and even before Jungkook opened his mouth to speak, “Me, put my name on it.” You said exasperatedly. Jungkook looked at you gently, “Are you sure, baby?” he asked. “Yes, bun. I can handle it.”
Jungkook is slightly worried since you have important errands and loads of work to do, he knows you can endorse this to your colleagues but he didn’t say anything even if he knows you’ll beat the shit out of you for your daughter, though he knows he will too.
--
After some papers, you arrived at the VIP ward of the hospital. Your daughter is still sleeping and your husband is preparing the things that your house helpers brought earlier. They also proposed to take charge of accompanying your child but you and Jungkook refused, being the paranoid parents you two are.
A resident doctor along with an intern knocked on the door of the room and bowed to you to show their respects. You can’t suppress the giggle when you saw the intern’s mouth slightly agape when Jungkook went out of the bathroom wiping his beautiful hands with tissue, you can’t blame her, really. “It’s Influenza, Doc.” The resident told you while handing you the results of the tests. You nodded and you felt your husband’s arms snaking your waist and the other on his while greeting the people in front.”Okay, check if we have stocks of Tamiflu from the pharm and also isotonic IV bags.” Jungkook, not relating to the terms you’re blabbing, went to your daughter’s bed because she woke up and threw her tantrums because of the tubes on her small chubby feet.
“What does my muffin want, hmm?” he sweetly talked to her and the baby’s expression changed in no second, being the daddy’s girl she is. After the doctors went out of the room you saw the two of them playing and watching on your baby girl’s iPad.
--
A day passed and you needed to attend a conference, you wanted to ditch it but you cannot because no one’s available to do proxy for you. With heavy feet, you approached Jungkook, who took a week of work leave and brought all his work to the hospital room. “Bun, are you sure you can handle being alone with her?” you asked him for the nth time, making him giggle. “Babe, yes, I can, you’ll be back before dinner time, right?” he replied while signing a mass of papers on the bed table where he sits and your daughter between his arms, nibbling on her frozen fruits. “Okay, okay. Call me every hour, no, every 30 minutes, understand?” you demanded as you leaned to kiss your daughter and your lips met your husband’s cheeks. “No kisses for the bub, momma.” he said while slightly laughing at you. “Mhmmm, I forgot.” you chuckled. “How about for her hot dad?” you teased him. You turned to him and saw his pointer finger on his luscious lips, you gave him a peck and left after.
Jungkook kept on his task of calling you every 30 minutes and it is the 4th call since you left. “Babe, I swear you should focus on that damn conference, she’s sleeping already.” Jungkook said as you keep your phone in your purse to politely hide it as you talk to your husband. “Okay, fine, Mr. Jeon.” you teasingly replied, knowing that the title gives him a ring in every possible way. “What the heck, babe?” he gasped scandalously and it made you laugh a bit. “I’ll be definitely asking for the keys of your office, woman.:” he added, knowing that the management will give it to him without a second thought. “So insufferable, eh?” you hitched “See you later, Mr. Jeon!” and before he could even reply you ended the call and prepared to make a speech for the conference while of course, anticipating the office scene later.
--
After three days, you’re now processing the discharge letters for your daughter. She had some light problems because some of her lab tests results came so low or some came too high. You were frustrated, yes. Jungkook noticed that because it is undeniably noticeable. You saw him taking a nap with all the bags packed beside him. You went to his sleeping figure and hugged him, he was awakened by the gesture but hugged you back. “Thank you, Jungkook.” you told him, teary eyed. “Hey why are you crying?” he said, alarmed, “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant again, babe.” you glared at him for his lousy joke. He tightened the hug and said, “Just kidding, thank you, Y/N, always remember I appreciate you.” He went to the bed where your daughter is sleeping and grabbed her. “We appreciate you okay? We’re grateful for you.” you nodded as you wiped the tears that escaped. Grabbed the bags and got ready to go home.
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swbumblebee · 3 years
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General Kenobi had been very, VERY smug when he returned to the gunship (leaping onto the still extended ramp in mid-air, of course. Dramatic bastard.) twirling Mauls unlit double lightsaber. Bloody and bruised and generally a bit worse for wear, but very smug.
 Cody couldn’t help but smile at the troops infectious cheering (despite the familiar mix of exasperation and relief) watching his General’s face flush at the attention, contradicting his cocky bow.
Resuming his characteristically confident gait, the Jedi Master brushed off concerned questions and requests to visit medical as usual, (“A few bumps and scrapes that’s all Commander, I’m quite fine I assure you.”) and just about managed to hide his limp as they rendezvoused with the rest of the mission group on the Negotiator.
Cody smiled conspiratorially with Rex as General Kenobi was mobbed by Skywalker and Tano, practically vibrating with excitement at sight of the new weapon.
 “Master Obi-Wan can I have a go?”
 “Wow Master Drallig is going to flip his lid!”
 “I know! You should’ve seen Maul’s face”
 Their Jedi were such children sometimes.
 ---
 That was three days ago. And it turns out, three days in the company of a Sith lightsaber did…Things, to their resident Jedi.
Cody’s General had once told him that Jedi loved Kyber crystals. They were surrounded by them in the temple and a Kyber crystal was supposed to bring out the very best in its Jedi.
Well, if a Jedi crystal helped them be the best they could be then Cody surmised, based on the scene in front of him, that a Sith crystal did the exact opposite.
He stared in shock at the only three occupants of the room he had just unwittingly strolled into, each surprising and unnerving him in their own unique way;
General Skywalker was biting his lip, glancing worriedly at his companions and fidgeting his hands like a nervous youngling. A far cry from the Hero with No Fear.
Commander Tano was grumbling angrily to herself, spitting quiet words with unusual venom as she kicked a chair back underneath a table, glaring around as if the Universe itself had pissed her off. Contrasting jarringly with the happy flippant teenager he’d seen trailing around after Rex.
General Kenobi was a similar juxtaposition to his usual self, and it alarmed Cody the most to see his larger-than-life, Force-of-nature General sitting with his head in his hands staring at the table with an almost comically miserable look on his face.
Cody didn’t quite know weather to advance or retreat.
“I feel awful” General Kenobi groaned. “Everything hurts” he moaned, staring pathetically into space with big sad eyes.
Cody had a genuine fear that his Jedi had been possessed by a spirit of some kind.
“Master you’ve got to look after yourself!” Skywalker looked at him anxiously, biting his nails. “You know maybe, maybe I should put trackers in your sabers, I’d know where you are, both of you, all the time then” he said determinedly.
His Master ignored him, simply sinking down to rest his head on the table.
“I’m so tired. I wish Dooku and his cronies would just fuck off for a while” he muttered. Cody felt his mouth drop open. He could count the times he’d heard his classy General swear on all the fingers of one elbow.
Tano rolled her eyes, glaring at both of them and slamming her mug down with a disparaging noise, completely devoid of respect.
 She looked between them both angrily. General Skywalker looked back, nibbling his lip again.
“Do you think Rex is OK? I haven’t heard from him in a few hours.” He said, and then made as if to stand up “Maybe I’ll call him, check in” he offered with faux lightness.
Commander Tano rolled her eyes.
“For Force sake, Skyguy stop worrying Rex is fine!” she snapped, pulling him back down and directing her ire at her Grand Master. “And what’s up with you?” she demanded.
“I’m knackered.” Came the short answer “my back hurts because I’m a thousand years old and I’ve had a headache for as long as I can remember” he informed her flatly, still staring into space with large glassy eyes. “I give up, I just want to go to bed.”
Tano had absolutely no sympathy.
“Yeah well, you can’t” she huffed.  
Skwalker reached across the table and clutched at his mentor’s hand.
“You’ll be fine Master. Hey maybe we should just all go somewhere” he suggested, a hint of desperation in his voice. “You, me, Snips, Padme, Rex” he said excitedly “we can just find somewhere safe and stick together and wait this whole thing out.”
Cody didn’t spare any time thinking about his omission from the list of people Skywalker considered his. He was too busy deciding if he was more alarmed by the young General’s willingness to completely abandon his duties or General Kenobi’s seemingly debilitating lack of strength and this willingness to just give up.
 "Master Obi-Wan, your beard is too long would you kriffing fix it please or get rid of it?”
Then again, Commander Tano’s seemingly blinding anger could be a real problem.
"I need it to look older, but sometimes it makes my face hot." came the miserable reply.
“No don’t change Master”
Cody backed away slowly, a once might a cage full of angry Nexu.
 He wondered who to get in touch with about dangerous artifact disposal at the Jedi temple. Did they have a bomb squad? They're going to need it.
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jamaisjoons · 3 years
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of oleanders & honeysuckle I ⤑ knj | m.
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⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 when one of your coven sisters, malise, had first mentioned your soulmate, you’d been young and unbothered - preferring to chase the elusive seduction of power. now, you’re twenty-five, and having established yourself as a powerful witch of the sisters of elysia, you've grown tired of the cold embrace of power. looking to settle down, you move to carelia in search of the one destined for you. within days, you come across the charmingly handsome apothecary owner, and warlock, kim namjoon. something about him magnetises you. but is he the one the universe has fated for you? 〞strangers to lovers au. supernatural au. witch/warlock au. soulmates au.
❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: witch!reader x warlock!namjoon
❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: angst ∝ fluff ∝ future smut
❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 12k
⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: mentions of death, oc has a traumatic™ childhood, oc is also an orphan so mentions of parental death, brief mentions of religious persecution? (yn’s parent’s coven is destroyed by knights from a new religion), brief depictions of fighting/violence, there’s no smut in this part but namjoon is hot as fuck, namjoon in leather which needs a warning in itself, use of magic ofc, namjoon is I N S A N E and im simping for him
➵ 𝑎/𝑛: this was,,, supposed to be a oneshot but fneorifnge i’ve been so lazy and i haven’t been writing as much so in order to post something I’ve decided to split this into four parts! also sorry there’s no smut in this chapter but the next three parts all have smut yeehaw 🤩
⏤ beta read by the lovely @yeoldontknow, @nightshadevinter, @inthecrescentmoonight​ and @jjungkooksthighs​
⟴ Series Masterlist
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It’s the dead of winter. Snow crunches under your soles; the muffled sounds of your footsteps intermingling with the odd cracking branch, and crinkling leaf-litter as you navigate through the Forest of Ingredeen. The sky above you is bleak: faint wisps of smoke-grey clouds obscuring the otherwise stark, white canvas; and the harsh light causes your eyes to squint in the slightest. The thick blanket of snow that surrounds you doesn’t help; the pristine-white coating only further reflecting the brightness. Despite the austereness of the sky, life continues thriving around you. Barren skeletons of deciduous trees are juxtaposed by evergreens of pine, fir, and yew – the latter of whose verdant branches still boast succulent needles of jade and viridian. Some of them, most notably the yew trees, still bear fruits: the scarlet berries adding a splash of colour to the contrary dreary scene.
Stillness befalls the entirety of the forest, and the eerie silence only amplifies the sounds of snow crunching under your feet. The air is equally stagnant, with not a single gust of a howling gale, nor a gentle wisp of a susurrus breeze, drifting through the atmosphere. Though, that's a small blessing you’re thankful for; because even with the absence of the wind, the frigid bite of the cold settles into your bones. As a matter of fact, you’re dressed in a thick-piled winter cloak - the black material lined with fur – as well as your woollen dress and leather boots. Yet, you still feel the brisk chill kiss your skin, the surface turning icy as it prickles with goosebumps.
Curling further into the warmth of your cloak, you pull the piled fabric further around your body and continue walking through the dense thicket of trees. The quiet is strange, and heavy, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the woodland was devoid of all life. Nonetheless, every now and then, the shrubs around you move: their foliage rustling as hares and squirrels scuttle about, and wintertime birds flit through the canopy: sweet chirps of birdsong and languid flaps of wings resonating through the air. Albeit, they come infrequently, with long, gaping silences between. But they still come, and that settles the inkling of unease that flutters through your stomach.
You’ve only just moved into the large province of Carelia; the nation nestled between the much smaller territories of Alphana and Eyres; the latter of which had once been your previous home. Of course, in spite of Carelia being a large country – abundant with diverse wildlife and vast expanses of wilderness – the population of inhabitants itself was fairly small. In fact, throughout the entire country, there were only five human settlements; a significant decrease from the almost overpopulated country of Eyres. Naturally, that wasn’t the only difference. No, here, in Carelia, magic was bountiful – the very essence of life so palpable that you could feel it thrum in the air. Not that any of that was surprising by all means. No. After all, nature was plentiful here, and as a result, it meant that the innate magic of life was equally as powerful.
Taking a deep breath, you watch as your breath fogs in front of your face, causing your nose to scrunch at the sight. You had chosen to leave your previous coven, of your own volition. It had been a spur of the moment decision, after one of your past sisters, who’d specialised in oracles and premonitions, had suggested through thinly-veiled euphemisms that you’d find your destined soulmate here. When she’d first prophesied her vision, you’d been but a young wiccan, at the tender age of eighteen, a mere two years after your initiation into your coven, and you hadn’t cared too much. Back then, the idea of love, soulmates, and destiny had been far out of your mind. Rather, your entire being burned with the need to learn, to hone your magic and see just how far you could take it.
Your past coven had been a famous one, known by the entire world as the Sisters of Elysia. It had been an elusive coven, shrouded in mystery and repute, and one that was only open to the most powerful, or promising, female witches. In fact, it had been so exclusively prestigious, that it could only be joined by invitation from the High Priestess herself; a powerful seer with the ability to seek out the potential, innate magic of a witch or warlock. Though of course, the Sisters of Elysia had only been interested in an all-female coven, and even the most powerful warlocks had been turned away. Not that they’d even consider joining, though. No, they had their own coven for that – the Brotherhood of Requiem.
Being discovered by Mardella, the High Priestess, at the age of fifteen had been a blessing, and an honour; and having been told you’d had an incredible affinity for the Destructive Arts and Alchemical Restoration, two powerful schools of magic, had been even more of a privilege. As such, Mardella, and the rest of your sisters, had taken you under their wing, and taught you all about witchcraft for a year. And then, the very day you’d turned sixteen, you’d been formally initiated into the coven.
After that, you’d spent years upon years training your two schools of magic, honing them to the skill they are today. For the vast majority of your young adulthood, you’d chased the beguiling essence of magic – learning as much as you could about the two different archetypes – and soaking every ounce of the information into the very fibre of your skin. Power was a seductive thing, something far more enticing than the notion of love, and readily, you’d fallen into its clutches. Naturally, it was only made easier by being part of the Sister of Elysia.
You see, your previous coven had been a nomadic one – and its migratory nature had made learning all the more easier – especially since at the age of twenty-five now, you’ve traversed almost the entire world, and seen more things than an ordinary witch of your age would have. At first, the vagrancy of your previous home had been exciting. You’d loved travelling the globe, visiting different countries, and learning all types of cultures while simultaneously acuminating your magic. As a matter of fact, you had craved it – and wandering about the different kingdoms had whetted your own innate wanderlust; as well as the desire to learn as much as you could.
The Sister of Elysia had been your home, and you’d loved the family you’d created – after all, the blood of the covenant was thicker than the water of the womb. Or so, you’d been told all your life. Nevertheless, despite all your attachment and adoration for your coven – you couldn’t help but find that something was missing. You see, your blood-related family had been torn from you at the young age of ten, the coven of your parents razed to the ground by Knights of the Seven Lights: a new religion that had swept through Eyres, and in the bloodbath that had followed, you’d lost everything.
Orphaned from childhood, you’d spent the next five years living in the abandoned church that your parents’ coven, Mages of Mirror Lake, had occupied when they’d still been alive. Thankfully, the Kingdom of Eyres had a warm temperate, and winters were non-existent. Hence, even though you were essentially homeless, you’d somehow survived. By all means, you’d had to forage for scraps of food, clothing, or any other basic necessities – sometimes even needing to find a neighbouring human settlement and stealing whatever you could get your hands upon – but you’d survived. Moreover, you’d even continued sharpening your skills in witchcraft, using the ruined library of the church in order to continue your schooling.
For five years, you’d lived like that. Using the school of Destructive Arts, you’d kept those who would harm you, typically members of the Knights of the Seven Lights, at bay. And using the school of Alchemical Restoration, you’d heal and look after yourself; as well as the odd human who was desperate enough for a treatment to an ailment that they would turn away from their new religion and back towards the Magic of Old. Eventually, though, you’d met Mardella, who’d sought you out and brought you back to the Sisters of Elysia. And that was where you’d found your home, happiness, and solace.
That was, until now.
In the recent years, your magic had grown listless, and you, yourself, had grown restless – until eventually, you found yourself at an impasse.
You no longer found joy in travelling, and considering you’ve travelled everywhere there was little more you could learn that way, and even less that you could discover. You’ve reached the peak of your power. You’ve spent an entire decade garnering your knowledge, immersing yourself in the seductive lure of the Black Arts, only to hit a culmination. And now, there was nowhere else you could go except down. Of course, you could always consider learning a new school of magic if you so wished to continue chasing power. Except, lately, that deep, insatiable need for it had started diminishing; the searing fire dwindling until it was nothing more than weak flames licking at your being.
You still loved to practice your witchcraft, of course you did. You’d never really lose your love for power or magic. But your hunger for it had ebbed, its cold seduction releasing you from its tantalising embrace – and the moment that had disappeared, you’d found yourself lost. For the longest time, power had been your only vice, the only thing you had sought after, and cared for. But with that thirst gone, you had no idea what to do; or where to go anymore. More than that, you'd found yourself craving for some sense of home, of belonging. You had that with your coven, of course you did. But it just wasn’t the same.
A while now, there was a small, distant part of you that craved what had been stolen from you from a young age. A family. Love. You craved a sense of belonging; the affection of a lover, and the comfort and safety that they afforded. Something that was out of your reach with the Sisters of Elysia. By all means, it wasn’t as if there were rules that forbid romance. No, of course not. It was more, with how elusive the coven was, and with the doctrine that knowledge was power, and power was prestige; it meant that while romance wasn’t frowned upon, it just wasn’t something that was frequently entertained. Especially since the Sisters of Elysia had no room for men. Though, of course, if you fell for one of the sisters, that was a wholly different matter.
Which had all been well and good when you were younger. But now, you’re older, and you no longer covet power. Rather, you yearn for a sense of security, of home, of stability.
And thus, lately, you’ve found yourself going back to Malise’s oracle; the seer having foreseen of your soulmate almost a decade ago. You see, everyone in the world has someone fated for them – the knots of destiny tied by the Moirai long before even your own grandparents were born. Naturally, not everyone who was bound together actually found each other; after all, the world is large, and the universe was rarely ever so kind. No, more often than not, soulmates could be born miles apart, or even countries apart – and as a result – very few people found love with their soulmates. That is, of course, if you’re a human with no ties to the Magic of Old.
For witches and wizards, it was different.
The natural essence of the universe – the energy that made up the Magic of Old – was what guided practitioners of the Black Arts, and it was that very power that had bound the two beings together. And as such, for witches and warlocks, it was easier to find soulmates. Easier. Magic was mysterious, and the universe very scarcely answered definitively. Oracles were particularly attuned to the cosmos, hence their ability to catch glimpses of the future. But that’s all they were, mere glimpses and vague inklings. It was very rare for a seer to be able to clearly see the future – which is why Mardella was so powerful: she was particularly harmonious with the world.
However, Mardella very rarely involved herself with matters of the heart. As the High Priestess of the Sisters of Elysia, she embodied the fundamental teachings of knowledge and power; and as such her prophecies were seldom about the frivolities of romance or soulmates. Malise, however, was another matter. Frequently, the seer would have visions about soulmates, and she could even control them to a degree – having them at will. The first vision she’d had of you and your destined lover, had been involuntary; the fortune triggered randomly. She’d tried to speak to you about it, even offering to look further into it. However, you’d quickly dismissed her. After all, back then, you hadn’t cared.
Now, though, was a completely different matter.
Thus, a week ago, you’d sheepishly slunk into her chambers, and quietly asked if she’d be able to find out more about your soulmate. Her response had been eager, and she’d conducted her divination swiftly. As usual, her vision had been vague – veiled in euphemisms and cloaked with mysticism – the universe purposely responding to her questions with ambiguous answers. All she could say was that it was a man, a warlock to be specific, and that he lived in Carelia. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The idea of moving and settling down in Carelia – a kingdom so rich in nature and magic – immediately had excitement flourishing through you. Your earlier listlessness quickly faded, and with a new sense of purpose, you’d formally, and abruptly, left the Sisters of Elysia before you made your way to Carelia.
Naturally, there’s not much you know about your soulmate – because, really, living in Carelia and being a warlock was barely any information to go off of. Nevertheless, as mentioned before, despite how large of a country it is, Carelia only had a small population of humans inhabiting it. More than that, despite the abundance of magic, there was only one coven that was still prolific in the nation: Coven of the Evening Star. Moreover, out of curiosity, and before you had moved, you’d brewed the Essence of Venus; a potion that took on the scent of your destined lover. Each fragrance is wholly unique, customised purely for the individual, and completely memorable. In fact, you doubt you could ever forget the scent.
Thick notes of a pungent scent made up the bulk of your soulmate’s fragrance. Despite the sharpness of it, it was fruity and warm; with subtle hints of rich honey and ripe citrus. The fragrance was sharp, deeply intoxicating, and incredibly comforting. The telltale scent of honeysuckles in full bloom. Undercurrents of morning dew and fresh soil cut the effluvious aroma, adding a depth of light freshness and earthen musk to it that had your stomach flourishing with warmth. The first time you smelled it, you'd completely melted into the scent - something about it calling to the very recesses of your being, and soothing your soul - and you'd wanted nothing more than to sink into it.
After that, you'd immediately found yourself daydreaming about the mysterious warlock it belonged to. Lost in your fantasies, you wondered what his name was, what he looked like, and what he was like. You wondered what kind of magic he practised, and what he liked to do in his spare time. Moreover, you wonder just why he smells the way he does - and whether the scent of honeysuckle was wholly natural to him or artificial. Momentarily, you wonder where the fresh soil and morning dew comes from too. Mainly because, none of the notes that make up your soulmate's scents are common, or ordinary. Though, that's something you're thankful for, because hopefully, just hopefully, it would make finding him all that bit easier.
Distracted by your thoughts, you don't notice the dense thicket of woodland start to thin: the space between the trees growing further and further apart; until, all of a sudden, you're thrown out of your thoughts by the sight that greets you. Out of the blue, you find yourself in a large clearing. The glade is spacious, fringed by shrubs and bushes that make up the understory of the forest. Above you, the once thick canopy has cleared up, allowing dense beams of stark-white light to flood the ground: the sky's radiance bathing over the forest floor and casting its harsh brilliance over the structure that makes its home in the middle of the meadow.
When had you reached home?
Your cottage is moderately sized, and homely, but nevertheless, a sight to behold. The roof is gabled: made up of thin, multi-shaded hues of black slate, and the walls are smooth: made up of clay and stone of varied shades of beige. Flowering vines scale the exterior of your home, from the climbing roses that frame the oakwood entrance to your home, to the branches of clematis and moonflower that intertwine together over the side walls. Trumpet vine hangs over the edge of the roof, the lush foliage draping over the large windows that peek into your home. A wooden fence encloses your land, with the only entrance a small gate that breaks up the stakes. Bushes fill the space between your home and the timber barrier, however, being the dead of winter, only a few still bloom: the large shrub of daphne in the corner by the chimney, little clusters of violas nestled between clumps of cyclamen, and the vines of winter clematis that creep over the walls.
Carelia is large, and there are few settlements littered around the wild expanse of the wilderness. Nevertheless, your home is still secluded from even the nearest community - your new coven. Most people would be daunted by the fact that you're living alone in the woods. However, you? Not so much. After all, with your proficiency in the Destructive Arts, it would be hard for someone to get the best of you. Not to mention, that you had lived by yourself in the woods from the ages of ten to fifteen. No, to you, living alone in the forest, is somewhat comforting, and nostalgic.
At the comforting sight of your home, the corners of your lips curl into a slight smile, and you begin walking down the thin, winding dirt path that leads through the gate and to your home. Getting to the entrance to your cottage, though, you abruptly stop; the smile on your face falling. A small wicker basket sits on the shallow concrete step at the foot of your door. Curiosity colouring your being, you place your own basket of firewood and food down, before cautiously pulling back the soft linen cloth that covers the contents. Seeing the items inside, however, your curiosity is swiftly replaced by surprise.
A pot of lilac makes the centrepiece, the four-petaled flowers blooming in soft shades of periwinkle and blush despite the mid-winter atmosphere. Next to the pot lies a bundle of dried lavender, wrapped in a piece of plain brown parchment and tied with silk black ribbons. A few of the desiccated petals litter the base of the wicker basket, and in spite of its dryness, the thick, piney-floral scent of the bulbs intermingle with the cloying - almost sacchariferous - scent of lilac into a delicate floral aroma. The last items in the basket are three muslin sachets that contain a mix of rosemary, sage and cloves - the bag tied shut with red thread.
Thanks to your background in Alchemical Restoration, you’re well versed in the craft of herbalism, and from your extensive knowledge, you know that all the items signify protection. Lavender for purification and healing of the soul, lilac to banish malicious spirits or malevolent intentions, and the sachets to ward off negative energy. Having only moved into your new home yesterday, you haven't had a chance to properly ward off your property, and as such, the protective charms that keep you safe are basic and easily penetrable. Thus, the gift of the flowers and herbs is incredibly sweet. If a little strange, considering you have yet to meet any of your new coven members, or even announce your arrival. Nevertheless, you don't sense any negativity radiating off of the basket. In fact, if anything, you can feel a soft aura of safety enclosing the items - the gifter having clearly cast a few more wards of protection around them.
“Hello,” a voice suddenly speaks, and not expecting it, you immediately startle. Instantly, a rush of adrenaline surges through you, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on edge, and a swell of power to flood through your fingertips. Before you can even consider your actions, lightning begins crackling around your fingertips: small bolts of bright, purple-hued sparks arcing around the pads of your digits; your magic involuntarily manifesting itself in a bid to protect you.
Spinning on your heel, you thrust out your hand on instinct, causing a large bolt of lightning to appear out of thin air. The moment you turn around, however, your eyes blow wide and despair courses through you. The newcomers are dressed in two large cloaks, their coats effectively hiding their forms from you. However, from the design of the brooch that fastens their coverings - the emblem of an intricate silver star - you know that they’re members of your new coven; most likely coming to greet you. Nonetheless, the damage is already done - your magic having flooded out of you and into the air.
The lightning bolt surges towards the two and you watch as the female’s hands move in a flash, a spell immediately slipping from her lips as she erects a shield in front of her and her partner. It appears just in time - your own magic colliding directly into the middle of the barrier. To the witch’s credit, the shield manages to deflect your attack, and the force of the collision causes the lightning to bound into the stratosphere. A large flash of blue blazes through the sky, accompanied by the thunderous sound of lightning cracking, before your magic dissipates and ebbs back into the atmosphere; a terse silence once again shrouding the forest.
The moment it disperses, the aura of power around you fades away, and your shoulders immediately tense. Clambering to your feet, “Sweet Earth Mother, I am so sorry,” you quickly splutter. Adrenaline still coursing through you, your heart continues beating rapidly and your hands turn sweaty. Though, this time, rather than fear, it’s out of trepidation: a ripple of nervousness fluttering through you. This was not a good way to greet your new coven members.
The shorter of the two, the woman, pulls down her hood, and you’re met by mesmerising, cat-like eyes and a mischievous smile, “It’s okay. I kinda startled you on purpose,” comes her coy response. Nervousness replaced by confusion, your eyebrows furrow as you regard her in puzzlement. Beside her, the taller of the two lets out a little sigh and pulls down his own hood. The first thing you notice is that both of them have identical features: the same, sharp eyes; smooth, glass-like tanned skin, and small, pouty lips. Twins, no doubt.
“Yeah, and you almost had us killed. I told you not to startle her,” he chides, causing the woman’s cheeks to puff in a pout.
“Hey! I saved us, didn’t I? If it weren’t for my shield, we’d both be ash,” she backfires. The man simply scoffs and shakes his head.
“If you hadn’t scared her, we wouldn’t have needed the shield in the first place,” he retorts. The woman opens her mouth to retaliate, however, not having a comeback, she quickly closes it.
“Fair enough,” she concedes with a simple shrug of her shoulders.
“Purpose? Test?” you reiterate softly, breaking their little spat.
“Well, yes, of course. Your reputation precedes you, ____. I just had to see if the famed Witch of Ruin was truly as powerful as the rumours made you out to be,” the woman replies. Hearing her words, you let out an awkward chuckle.
Witch of Ruin.
Gods, you hadn’t heard that in a while.
You’d first gained the epithet during your years in Eyres, after you’d single handedly defeated a small group of the Knights of the Seven Lights, who’d come to ‘purge’ you of evil. After that one event, you’d gained infamy as the Witch of Ruin; rumours of a child born of chaos, lightning and fire, spreading through the country. As a result, more and more groups of the Knights would come looking for you, and one by one, they would fall at your hand. By all means, it had all stopped once you’d been rescued by Mardella. Nonetheless, being initiated into the Sisters of Elysia, of all covens, had only caused your fame to grow. After all, it was a coven that prized themselves on power.
Still, you haven’t heard that epithet in a while; having stayed your lust for power a while ago, and falling more into your love of Alchemical Restoration in the recent years. In fact, if you were being completely honest, you’d tried your hardest to put the nickname, Witch of Ruin, behind you. Mainly due to the fact that it had been born out of your need for survival. Not to mention, your anger, and what could only be considered ‘teenage angst’, over your circumstances from when you were an adolescent.
The man in front of you bows, the movement breaking you out of your reverie abruptly. “I’m sorry about my sister. I’m Min Yoongi, and this is Yoonji. We’re here to welcomeyou to the coven,” he apologises. Then, straightening out his back, he glares at his twin pointedly through the corner of his eyes, “Welcome. Not test,” he mutters. His words cause Yoonji to pout and stick her tongue out.
Eyes blowing out, you quickly shake your head while waving your hands dismissively. “No, no. It’s okay! Would you like to come in?” you ask as you gesture towards your home. This time, it’s Yoonji who shakes her head.
“Usually, we’d love to. But we don’t have long today. We need to get back to prepare for the coven meeting tomorrow,” she replies, her mischievous smile curling into an apologetic one. “We’re only here to drop off your initiation robes, as well as let you know that your formal induction into the coven will take place tomorrow, at evening’s twilight, in the Lunar Grove,” she continues.
Eyebrows knitting together, you cock your head to the side, “Lunar Grove?” you repeat, causing Yoongi to smile at you kindly.
“Someone will come collect you around dusk and bring you to the meeting spot,” he supplies, and you nod in understanding.
“Do we not have a building to convene in, or…?” you find yourself asking before you can stop.
A tinkling laugh slipping from her lips, Yoonji shakes her head. “The Coven of the Evening Star reveres nature first and foremost. We feel that buildings impair our ability to connect with both nature and the universe. So, while we aren’t a nomadic coven, we do not have an official church building to worship in either,” she explains. Mouth forming a little ‘o’, a ripple of sheepishness washes through you. You remember Malise telling you something about that, however, in your excitement to move and settle down, you hadn’t completely researched your new coven; a blight on your part.
Sensing your mortification, “Don’t worry about it too much. Our coven is very different from your old one, so I’m sure it’ll take you a while to get used to everything anyway. In the meantime, we’re here to help you with whatever you need,” Yoongi speaks, his voice low and comforting. A grateful smile curls onto your face as you thank him.
“Not to mention, everyone is excited to meet you. It’s all anyone can talk about lately. About how we’re not only going to meet a previous member of the Sisters of Elysia, but that she’s also joining our new coven. Not only that, but she’s also the fabled Witch of Ruin… I can assure you, that almost every member of the coven will travel to view your initiation tomorrow,” Yoonji chuckles lightly. The moment her words slip out her mouth, you let out an awkward laugh, and hearing the sound, Yoongi rolls his eyes.
“It’s not that daunting, don’t worry. And Yoonji is exaggerating, I doubt that many people will turn up,” he says while pointedly glaring at his sister through the corner of his eyes. Before she can say anything, however, he’s cutting her off, “We really must get going now, though. We still need to complete preparations for your initiation,” he continues before thrusting a neatly wrapped bundle of fabric towards you. “These are your Initiation Robes for the ceremony tomorrow. We look forward to having you join us,” he finishes.
Taking the bundled material from him, you smile at him once again, “I’m looking forward to joining,” comes your reply. With their business complete, the two of them turn on their heels and begin walking away. All of a sudden, however, a thought springs to mind, and you quickly call out to them. Immediately, they stop and turn back towards you, a look of interest on their face. With a wave of your hand, you gesture towards the wicker basket still laying on the porch of your door. “Did you send me this, by any chance?” you ask as you point towards your gift.
The twins glance at each other, a knowing glint flashing in their eyes as they silently communicate amongst one another. Simply watching them, you await their response. You don’t have to wait long, however, because a few short moments later, they’re both turning back to look at you; their heads moving eerily in sync - almost as if they’d planned it.
“It’s not from us, no. It’ll be from Namjoon,” Yoonji explains.
“Namjoon?” you dumbly repeat.
“Mhm. Kim Namjoon. He’s a warlock in our coven. He specialises in Herbalism, and he runs the apothecary that supplies us with the ingredients we need for our rituals, spells or potions. It’s probably a gift welcoming you to the neighbourhood,” she explains. For the umpteenth time today, confusion colours your face.
“Neighbourhood...? I didn’t think I had any neighbours,” comes your response. The land you own now, once belonged to the human settlement that borders the Forest of Ingredeen. When you’d purchased this area of land from the chief, he’d tried to explain that it was a secluded property and that a powerful coven lived in the Forest - and one that could take offense to a strange witch moving into their territory. Of course, once you’d explained that you were soon to join the coven yourself, you’d assuaged his fears and he’d easily bequeathed the land to you.
“Oh, theoretically, you don’t. But Namjoon’s home is the closest to you; he’s about a ten, maybe fifteen minute walk north-west from here. The rest of us live deeper in the forest,” Yoongi explains, his hand lifting as he points towards the general direction of Namjoon’s home. Eyebrows quirking, you turn your gaze back down to the gift as you look at it in interest.
“It’s a wonderful gift,” you mutter under your breath. Despite it being the middle of winter, the pot of lilacs are in full bloom: the velour petals still brightly coloured despite their pastel hue; the leaves still succulent, and a vivid shade of pine-green. Not to mention that the quality of the dried lavender is some of the best you’ve ever seen. Fully dessicated lavender usually tends to lose some of it’s scent, and with the deep, dusky-mauve shading, you know they’ve had all the moisture removed from them. Nevertheless, the camphorous scent of it is still strong; wafting into the atmosphere in soft waves.
“He’s incredibly skilled in what he does,” Yoongi responds, his voice laced with pride. Then, after a short pause, he continues, “He’s similar to you. He was raised by the Brotherhood of Requiem, but moved here and joined the coven, hmm… maybe two and a half years ago?”
Stilling at his words, your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline. If he was part of the Brotherhood of Requiem, he’d have to be incredibly skilled as a warlock; not to mention powerful. Mind casting back to Malise’s oracle, your heart flutters at the discovery. Could Namjoon be the one you’re destined for? Suddenly, you find yourself itching to go look for him. Though, of course, you wouldn’t know unless you smelled him. And it’d be a bit odd to walk up to a stranger and simply sniff him. Especially if it turned out he was not your soulmate. Still, his gift was sweet, and generous, and that in itself is enough of a reason for you to go meet him.
“If that’s all?” Yoonji asks, her words cutting you out of your thoughts. Startled by her voice, you snap your head back up and grace them both with a sheepish smile.
Scratching the back of your head, “Yes! Sorry to keep you,” you quickly respond. Neither of them say anything. Rather, they smile kindly before once again turning around and walking away. You watch their backs retreat, until their figures disappear into the dense woods that surround your home. Once they’re no longer in sight, you bend over and pick up both your gift, as well as your basket of firewood and food, before entering your home.
As soon as you’re inside the warm comfort of your cottage, you let out a soft sigh. Considering you’re about to leave soon, in order to go thank Namjoon for his gift, you leave on your heavy cloak. Instead, you pad further into your home - dragging in the snow on your boots with you - and into the kitchen. With a casual wave of your hand, the two baskets begin floating in the air before following your figure, and with another flick of your wrist, the firewood sails through the air and towards the fireplace; your food sorting itself out into the pantry and fridge.
Left with only the gift, you carefully place the basket onto the wooden counter of your kitchen island. Gently, you pick up the lilac pot, and the moment you touch the ceramic vase, your eyes widen. A soft thrum of magical essence flitters through your fingertips - travelling from your extremities and down your limbs, only to settle into your core. A sensation of comfort fills you, as well as a spark of energy, and immediately, you know that both spells of protection, and vitality, have been cast upon the pot. The former is obvious - the protection wards boosting the natural magical essence of the lilacs. The latter, however, probably explains just why the lilacs are still in bloom; their life force is most likely supported by the magic cast into it.
Thoughtlessly, your fingertips graze up the side of the vase, along a plump leaf, and towards a supple petal. Another spark of magic jolts through you, and as the calming sensation washes over you, a smile unknowingly curls on your face. It wasn’t often that witches and wizards could imbue feelings into an object; and even less often into a living organism. He really must be a powerful wizard. As you place the vase onto your windowsill, a small frown mars your lips. How are you going to pay him back?
Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind. Swiftly, albeit carefully, you empty out his wicker basket and once it’s empty, you wave your hand; summoning small empty mason jars and your own blend of different tea leaves. The items soar towards you, and with another wave of your hand, they precisely land onto your kitchen counter. Eyes flicking over the different tea leaves, you promptly decide on three different blends - your most favourite ones. In the first one, you scoop in your special blend of cardamom, nutmeg and cinnamon: the laden scent of aromatic spices diffusing into the air and flooding your senses as you fill the jar. The second one, you fill with a blend of chamomile and jasmine; a soft aroma of a floral fragrance replacing the previous, headier one.
With the first two done, you turn your attention to the third, and final one. A mischievous glint flashes in your eyes. Lavender and oolong. A fine homage to his own gift. Opening up the last container, you fill up the last mason jar: the delicate, fresh scent of the lavender intermingling with the sweet, elegant one of oolong. When you’re done, you quickly shut all three jars, wrapping the neck of the containers in a satin ribbon, before attaching a manila label to them. Summoning a pen from one of your drawers, you quickly scrawl on the names of the teas in blue ink.
Once your thank you present has been packed, you cover them with the cloth and grab the handle of the basket, before making your way back out. As you step into the cold once more, the gelid air kisses your skin, causing a soft shiver to run down your spine. Huddling further into your fur coat, you begin walking in the general direction of Namjoon’s home. You’ve no idea what it looks like, or how far it realistically is. Yoongi had mentioned a ten, perhaps fifteen minute walk, but considering you didn’t know the forest very well yet, you weren’t sure how long it would take. You hope it really is a ten to fifteen minute journey. And, of course, that you don’t get lost.
Thankfully, after faithfully sticking north-west, it’s not long before you happen upon what you believe to be Namjoon’s home. The glade of the property is similar to yours: the dense woodland clearing up into an open expanse. In the middle, and a little towards the left, sits a quaint little cottage; with a gambrel roof made of dark brown wood shake, and stone walls of greyed-white to match. Unlike your home, this one has large square windows around the entire property, allowing thick shafts of light to filter through. Yet, despite the panes of glass, you can’t see into the building: the thick cotton curtains blinding your view of the interior.
The area surrounding the cottage is wild, and almost overgrown - in a strange, coordinated way. An organised mess if you would. Small trees skirt the property, growing near the moss-clad, brick fence that separates the forest from Namjoon’s own land, while smaller brushes and shrubs litter the spaces between. One section is covered in flowering perennials, another with potted plants and herbs, and the last third with low growing blossoms. Eyes widening at the sight, you take in a deep breath, only to be filled with a renewed sense of vigour.
Breath hitching in the middle of your throat, you look at the property in surprise. The magic in the air is thick; so palpable that you feel the very cells of your being begin to vibrate with power. Not only is it potent, however, but also pure - the quality of life’s essence so refined that it’s almost suffocating. In fact, you have to physically keep your magic in check, lest it fritz and grow out of your control. Taking a deep breath, you purposely subdue your inner magical core - dulling it towards the vigor of the energy in the air.
Fingers clenching around the woven handle of the basket, you grip it tighter as you step onto the property, a faint ripple of nervousness fluttering through you. With the potency of magic in the air, you desperately hope you don’t trigger any protective wards surrounding the land. When you safely cross the boundary between the forest and Namjoon’s home, your shoulders tense and you immediately come to a halt. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, and a nervous edge tinges at the corners of your being as you wait for something to happen.
After a few moments of silence, you let out a relieved breath. The wards, if there are any, have accepted you. With that knowledge, you begin your descent down the brick path, from the outskirts of the property and towards the arched front door. Stopping by the dark wood entrance, you lift your hand and gently rap your knuckles on the surface, before stepping away as you wait for an answer. Long, drawn out moments pass, and when you get no response half a minute later, a frown descends upon your lips.
Is he not home?
Lifting your fist, you knock once again; and just like before, you don’t get an answer. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you shuffle to the side and towards a window. Then, stepping onto the tips of your toes, you attempt to peek into Namjoon’s home; looking for any signs of life. However, with the curtains drawn shut - only a sliver of an opening between the two, thick pieces of fabric - you barely have a sufficient view of the inside. Shoulders drooping, you let out a deep exhale and flick your gaze down to the wicker basket in your grasp. If he’s not home, there’s nothing you can do about it.
Disappointment settles into your bones, and for a moment, you consider abandoning your gift on his front porch - just like he’d left his. The thought only lasts a brief moment, however, because suddenly, you hear a small commotion from the back of his home. Startling at the muffled cluttering noise, you raise your eyebrow. Maybe he ishome. Intrigued by the noise, you follow after the sound. It leads you around the perimeter of his home, and getting towards the back, surprise colours your face as you see another building behind his cottage.
The emporium is fairly small, almost the size of a large shed, and made of a beautifully preserved walnut: the timber panelling still ripe with its rich colouring. Walking further towards the building, and to the front, you come to a halt at the entrance. Large panes of glass fill up the front wall, but in spite of the glass, your view of the interior is partially obscured: the dark-tinted, translucent surface preventing your complete view into the shop. Two large pots of firs sit on either side of the door, and just above the tips of the tree, hangs a banner made of dark linoleum. ‘The Blackthorne Codex’ it reads; the letters gleaming in burnished shades of bronze under the stark brightness of the sky.
Steadily, you approach the shop, and placing your hand on the brass handle, you push it open. The tinkle of a bell chimes through the air, and the moment you enter, you're assaulted by an onslaught of sensations. A balmy heat greets you immediately, the warm air rushing past your face and immediately heating up your numb skin. Following the heat is a sacchariferous fragrance: notes of a fruity tartness flooding your senses. Currents of a warm, woody scent coalesce with the stronger aroma; the piquant spiciness of what you know to be cloves weaving with that of dried black cherries into an amalgamation of intoxicating aromas. The incense is strong - almost overpowering - and wholly unique: perhaps a blend of his own concoction. It's so potent in fact, that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue: tinges of a pungent sweetness dyeing your tongue and causing you to salivate.
"Sorry, I'll be with you in a moment." The deep voice comes out of nowhere, the sound breaking the silence and causing you to jump.
Taking heed of the voice, however, you walk further into the shop, simultaneously letting go of the door handle and allowing it to shut behind you. Once you're into the heart of the shop, prickles of heat sting at your skin, the chilled surface quickly warming up - and from the magic charged in the air, you have no doubt it's thanks to some warming enchantment. Carefully placing your woven basket onto a table near you, you unclasp the heavy cloak around your shoulders before quickly shrugging it off and draping it over your arm. With the thick material off of your body, you let out a sigh of relief - your body quickly cooling down.
More comfortable with the temperature, and with the man - who you assume to be Namjoon - still keeping you waiting, you take a moment to look around the shop. Neatly stacked shelves of mahogany line the entire perimeter of the shop, the surfaces chipped and faded with age. Nonetheless, despite their worn appearance, they're not decrepit. Rather, they're antique - with a rustic feel to them. Glass containers of all sizes line the shelves: large jars of preserved tree barks and animal products occupy the top shelves, smaller sized flasks of various herbs, botanics and minerals fill the next few ledges; and little vials and ampoules of oils, extracts and essences litter the final racks. Each one is faithfully marked with a black label, the nature of their contents scrawled in gold ink.
Hand sketched drawings are strewn across the very tops of the walls, the drawings depicting a variety of beautifully illustrated, and incredibly detailed, plants and flowers. Looking closer at them, you can even spot labels, along with scrawled annotations, pointing out to different parts of the plants. They’re vivid, and colourful: the dazzling hues contrasting with the darker shades of the interior. Turning your gaze, you carefully peer at the counter that separates you from the back of the shop.
Similar to the rest of the store, it's made up of wood, with a white marble tabletop that offsets the walnut wood of everything else. One half of the wall behind is filled with a stack of drawers, each one labelled in black ink; the other half holding a door that undoubtedly leads to the back. A cash register sits in the left corner; the till glinting in polished shades of murky gold and varnished oak. On the opposite side, sits a small book rack stacked with aged tomes and grimoires. Next to it, are a few pestles and mortars, some made of marble while others are made of stone - each one with its own specific purpose.
As you’re admiring the interior, a man suddenly slips out from the back. He appears out of nowhere, causing you to jump. The moment you spot him, however, you freeze. He’s tall. Incredibly so. And his size is only emphasised by the corded, bulging muscles that fill his frame. He’s dressed in black leather trousers - the tight material clinging to his full thighs - and with each step he takes, you could swear the material threatens to tear. Moreover, the snugness of his trousers only emphasise the length of his legs: the toned limbs seemingly going on forever. His top is simple, a plain white t-shirt. Yet, despite the simplicity of it, you find yourself swallowing thickly.
Similar to his trousers, the cotton fabric of his shirt clings to his broad chest, highlighting the smooth, yet prominent, outline of his pecs. From how taut the material is, the garment straining against his upper body, you can spot the faintest hint of his dark nipples - the sight of them causing your cheeks to tinge with specks of heat. A simple leather apron is tied around his hips; the hide straps emphasising his trim waist and slender hips. Gaze travelling further up his body, your eyes lock onto his, and this time, you gulp audibly.
He is, perhaps, the most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.
And you’ve traversed the world.
Tanned skin - as smooth and delectable as dulce de leche - glows under the ivory light filtering through the window. It casts a halo of argentate around him - the silvery hue juxtaposing his delicious, honey-kissed skin in the most enchanting way. Dark locks of silk, as black as coal, fall in choppy waves around his face, the front tips kissing his eyelids, and the back ends grazing the nape of his neck. They frame his face, accentuating the elegant slant of his cheekbones, the gentle slope of his nose, and the angled definition of his jaw. His eyes are hooded, and heavy, with a deep-set crease at the inner corners that only highlight the sharpness of them.
Irises of obsidian peek from between his keen eyes, the inky depths freckled with specks of silver and jade that only add to his allure. Eyes glimmering, he radiates an air of power: waves of soft, yet dominant, energy seeping off of his being. If you didn’t know better, you would say his aura practically thrummed with the same lively essence of the very forest itself. Sucking in a sharp breath, the cloying scent of black cherries and cloves floods your senses as you lock eyes, and effortlessly, you sink into his dark gaze.
A look of surprise paints his features, and in a once over, his stare sweeps over you. In one, long glance, he takes you in in your entirety, from the very tips of your boots, to the top of your head, and then back onto your face. His features are carefully stoic as he observes you - his eyes giving nothing away. But then, all of a sudden, it changes. A strong, thick eyebrow rises, and sensual, voluptuous lips pull into an impish, lop-sided grin. It’s wolfish, practically predatory, and almost as if he could devour you whole with a single look.
In two, swift strides, he moves closer, and pressing both hands onto the edge of the marble counter, he grins at you. The movement draws your attention, and your gaze immediately flicks from his eyes and towards his sinewy arms. So enamoured by his handsomeness earlier on, you hadn’t noticed the identical tattoos that brand each of his biceps. Three bands make up each tattoo. The outer ones are simple - embellished with geometric patterns and alchemical runes - and made up of the blackest ink; the colour so rich, it soaks up the light into its ebon void. Framed by the two simplistic bands, however, is an inner one - this tattoo more intricate, and vibrant. Thick, unassuming vines of pine-green form the bulk of the design, with supple foliage of fern-green and moss engraved between.
“Hello. Welcome to The Blackthorne Codex. I’m Kim Namjoon.” The man greets. His voice breaks you out of your trance, and instantly, your eyes lock back onto his. Then, features twisting into one of apology, “Sorry about the wait. I had a slight issue with some stock in the back. How can I help you?” he asks.
For a moment, you simply stare at him, your mind completely blank, and your face effectively illustrating it’s emptiness. His voice is low, and baritone, with a mellifluous undertow that threatens to drag you under and drown you in its beguile. Of course, the enchanting lure of his magic does nothing to help. Neither of you say anything, Namjoon waiting for you to reply, and you waiting for your mind to process the Adonis-like man in front of you. Eventually, and once you realise he’s staring at you, your brain finally kicks itself into gear.
“Oh. Oh!” you quickly splutter out, your cheeks tinging with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t… expect you to be so young,” comes your reply.
Arching an eyebrow, “Young? I’m twenty-eight years old,” he replies, a playful inflexion to his voice as his smirk deepens. Finally getting a hold of yourself, you simply roll your eyes, a coy smile curling onto your own lips.
“Hmmm. Well, when I heard about the man who lived in the forest, and was dropping off welcome gifts at my house, I couldn’t help but assume he was an old man,” you counter. That has Namjoon pausing.
“Wait. You’re ____? The Witch of Ruin?” he asks, his strong eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as he gazes at you in incredulity.
Taken aback by his surprise, you cock your head to the side, “Is that such a surprise?” you ask while lightly waving him off. Scoffing in response, he simply shrugs.
“I just expected you to be…” he begins, only to halt as he ponders his next words. After a short pause, “More menacing,” he finishes.
Once again, you roll your eyes, before waving your hand dismissively, “Well, I guess we both had incorrect assumptions about each other.”
“Touche,” Namjoon laughs. “So, what brings you to my humble apothecary? Need ingredients so soon, already?”
Placing your basket onto the counter, you slide your present over to him. “Hmmm, no. I come bearing a thank you gift,” you reply. Namjoon chuckles, and for a moment, you feel your abdomen stir with a fuzzy warmth. The sound of his laughter is enchanting: deep, rich, and thick like honey as it drips from his mouth like viscous ambrosia. His eyes flash with mirth, and he angles his head down to look at you through his sharp, hooded eyes.
“A thank you gift in response to my ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ one? Your parents must have raised you right,” he jokes. His tone is light, and airy, and you know he means well - realistically knowing nothing of your past. Yet, you still find yourself gracing him with a rueful smile. Though, there’s only a faintest hint of bitterness laced through it.
“They did. Up until their final moments,” you respond. At your words, Namjoon immediately halts, and visibly, you watch every single one of his muscles locking; the corner of his jaw simultaneously twitching.
Face immediately dropping, Namjoon glances at you for a moment - his eyes carefully guarded, and giving away none of his inner thoughts. Unconsciously, you bristle; in preparation for his pity, and the meaningless words that tend to fall out of people’s mouth when you speak of your traumatic childhood. They mean well. You know they do. But it’s been close to sixteen years. And you’re tired of the constant condolences and well wishes. Tired of the way they walk on glass around the issue of your parents. After all, you’ve long since come to terms with it.
To your utter surprise, however, Namjoon’s face immediately relaxes, and his - what you assume to be trademark at this point - wolfish grin once again creeps onto his pillowy lips. “Well, then I’m sure they’re happy you’ve retained your manners then. Or they’d probably rise from their graves and haunt you,” comes his breezy response. That’s it. No ‘I’m sorry’s’ or sympathetic looks, or that tone people take when they find out you’re an orphan. Just a lighthearted joke. Perhaps, to someone else, he may seem insensitive. Perhaps, someone else would be offended. But you? You appreciate it more than he could, or would, ever know.
“Hmmm. Considering my mother was a necromancer… you’re right. She’d definitely be the type to raise herself from the dead just to lecture me on societal etiquette,” you deadpan - your voice purposely flat as you retort. Eyes bugging wide, Namjoon splutters as he chokes on his own spit.
“A necromancer? Please tell me you’re joking,” he replies, a look of bewilderment colouring his visage. Features twisted almost comically, it’s all you can do to laugh.
“Of course, I’m joking! What do you take my mother for? She birthed the Witch of Ruin. There’s no way she’d be foolish enough to practice necromancy,” you laugh in response. Hearing your reply, Namjoon immediately relaxes, and seeing the relief on his face, you can’t help but laugh harder. Necromancy was a false school of witchcraft, one only perpetrated by humans who wished they could practice magic. However, they had one thing wrong. There was no magic that could raise the dead. None.
After all, magic came from nature, and the cosmos, and life itself. It’s why most, if not all, witches and warlocks worship some aspect of the natural universe. Some worship the sky, others the sea, a few the mountains, and many the earth and forests. But no self-respecting practitioner of the Magic of Old, would ever worship the dead. Or even consider bringing the dead back to life. Mostly because it was an impossible feat.
Once a living creature reaches the end of its life, the magic that sustains it fades away. Instead, it returns back to the universe, only to be rebirthed into a new form of life. Sometimes that’s in humans - the species having faint tethers to the universe - or what they’d call their ‘souls’. Sometimes, it’s in witches and warlocks - a child born particularly talented in an archetype of magic. More often than not, though, it’s into the very cosmos, as the sea, or the plants, or the stars. Or really, any component of life, or power, that makes up the universe.
“You have me there,” Namjoon concedes with a chuckle. Then, turning his attention to your gift, he gestures towards it. “So, what do we have here?”
Cheeks flushing with heat, you pull your lower lip between your teeth and begin to chew on it while Namjoon unravels the cloth from the wicker basket. When he spots the three, neatly wrapped jars, he flicks his gaze to you in surprise. Suddenly feeling far too self-conscious - was the gift too much? - you suppress an awkward smile. “I don’t know if you drink tea… but these are some of my own special blends,” you explain, your voice a few decibels above a whisper, and laced with your unsureness.
You watch as Namjoon picks up one of the jars, only to open the lid and take in a deep breath of the aromatic fragrance. “God… that smells good. Is that lavender… and oolong?” he asks, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
Floored by his deduction, “How did you even… you can barely even smell the oolong,” you point out. You’re not lying. The scent of lavender is always strong - and overpowering - and no matter what ratios you blend of the two ingredients, you can’t seem to find a way to bring out the oolong. At your obvious shock, Namjoon laughs.
“I spent my day tending plants, or selling them, ____. I know what most of them look, and smell, like. Even if it’s subtle,” he replies.
Intrigued by his words, you look at him curiously. “If you don’t mind me asking… what school of witchcraft do you practice?”
Snapping the lid back onto the jar, he places it back into the basket. Then, eyes flashing mischievously, his lips curl into a teasing smirk. Gazing at you with his smouldering eyes, “How can you not tell? Weren’t you raised by the Sisters of Elysia? I thought they were supposed to be incredibly knowledgeable. Or perhaps… they don’t hold a candle to the Brotherhood of Requiem,” he provokes. Jaw dropping in surprise, you instantly bristle.
“W-What’s that supposed to mean?” you splutter in indignation. “The Brotherhood of Requiem is not better than the Sisters of Elysia,” you continue with a hiss.
“Hmmm… not if you can’t guess what my magic is,” he backfires easily. Huffing at his response, you roll your eyes. Though, there’s no real ire to it.
“Well it’s obvious you practice Herbalism. But with the potency of the magic surrounding you, that can’t be all you practice,” you reply smartly.
Laughing, “I guess you’re right. Botanic Arts. I also practice the Botanic Arts,” he explains. Ah. That would explain the aura of life that surrounds him.
Contrary to your Destructive Arts - a discipline that was focused on elements of chaos, such as lightning or fire, in order to bring about calamity; the Botanic Arts was a discipline focused around the elements of life, such as earth and nature, in order to bring about life. Nonetheless, even with their juxtaposing natures, they were both two incredibly powerful schools of witchcraft, and if used correctly, even the Botanic Arts could be wielded as a cataclysmic magic. A notion only emphasised by his incredibly imposing presence; as well as his sheer confidence.
“How about you?” he asks, his words breaking you out of your thoughts.
Lips twisting into a wry smirk, “How can you not tell? Weren’t you raised by the Brotherhood of Requiem?” you mock, throwing back his own words at him.
With a snort, Namjoon looks at you pointedly. “Well, everything I know about you is from rumours. The witch of ruin, a child of chaos, birthed from lightning and fire. So… I’m assuming you’re proficient in the Destructive Arts. But… considering you just brought me tea leaves I doubt it’s just that,” he says, imitating your own sentiments. Tongue poking out, you swipe it across your lips as you feel the corners of your lips twitching.
“Alchemical Restoration. The teas have healing properties,” you reply as you try to suppress your grin.
You can’t help it.
Namjoon is unlike any other witch or warlock you’ve ever met. In your life, you’ve travelled the world, and you’ve met many of your kind; from all different walks of life. As such, you’re not new to a little flirtatious banter, nor were you unknown to the pleasures of sex, or a budding romance. Nonetheless, it was rare for it to go past that. The moment they found out who you were, who you truly were, they would immediately lose interest in you - either by their own jealousy, or intimidation, or insecurities that you were most likely better, and more powerful, than them.
However, here was a man, who knew who you were, and still continued showing an interest. Or well, at least what you hoped was interest. Though, with the way his eyes subtly roam over your figure every now and then, and with how he keeps his attention focused on you, and only you, you doubt you’re wrong. Namjoon is different. Because even knowing who you are, and knowing about your past, his demeanour hasn’t changed. He’s not the least bit intimidated, nor insecure, or resentful. If anything, you have a feeling you’ve only stoked his interest. And that has a fuzzy warmth blooming within the pits of your stomach.
“A remedial discipline? Didn’t take you for the type,” comes his immediate answer. Then, eyes flashing in mirth, “Though… I can’t say I’m mad. I don’t even want to thinkabout what your gift would be if you just practiced the Destructive Arts… perhaps you’d set my apothecary on fire for daring to intrude on your property?” he teases, and as the words slip out of his mouth, you can’t help but hear the flirtatious intonation.
Your conversation is ordinary, and full of pleasant niceties. Yet, buried between both your tones, is a touch of something deeper; something heavier. Perhaps it’s the playfulness of his entire demeanour, or the coquettish nature of your own replies. But no matter what it is, you can’t help but feel the spark between the two of you. You don’t know where it’s come from, or why. After all, you’re both strangers, and this is your first time meeting. Nevertheless, you can’t help but feel drawn to him - a baser need, something more corporeal pulling you towards him. A flutter of excitement flits through you,
In response to his words, you childishly stick your tongue out. Then, “Yes, well, as much as I adore the Destructive Arts and the power trip that comes with it… I’ve just… somewhat grown tired of it,” you find yourself confessing - the words falling from your lips before you can even stop them. That has Namjoon’s devilish disposition dropping, his features twisting into one of inquisitiveness.
“Oh? Why is that?” he asks.
Once again, and before you even realise what you’re saying, you find yourself shrugging. “Honestly? I don’t know if I ever really even wanted to learn the Destructive Arts. But after my parent’s coven was destroyed, and once the Knights of the Seven Lights began hunting me… I had no other choice, you know? I learnt it because I had to. Because I needed to survive. It was born out of my need to prove something… that I could endure everything, and that I would still come out on top,” you confess. All of a sudden, you pause.
Eyelids widening in the slightest, you quickly halt your tongue as you realise what you’d just blurted out. It’s not often that you talk about your past. You’re over it. Or well, you’re more numb to it. But it wasn’t often that you brought it up - wanting to leave the past… well, in the past. Hell, the only reason the Sisters of Elysia had known, was because they’d saved you from that life. But you never spoke about it. At least, not of your own accord. And certainly not to a random stranger you’d just met. So really, you’re not sure why you’d suddenly, and completely out of the blue, truthfully spoken about your past. Especially in a casual meeting like this.
Nonetheless, something about him calls to you. You don’t know what it is, and you can’t accurately place it. But there’s something about him that you find reassuring. He’s a stranger, and realistically, you know nothing about him. Yet, still, you can’t help but trust him. There’s an air of power around him, yes. It pulses around him in an enticing fashion: a refined aura of magic that is both completely sensual, and commanding. However, woven between that presence, is a sense of solace. The kind that’s filled with a promise of safety, and home. The kind you’ve been desperately searching for all your life. It beckons to you, and effortlessly, you find yourself magnetised to him.
Momentarily, Malise’s words echo in the back of your mind. About how you’d find your soulmate here, and fleetingly, you wonder if it’s him. A part of you is desperate for him to be. For him to be the one you call your home. Yet, even with that yearning that tingles through you, you can’t bring yourself to put any real hope on it. He’s enchanting, and you’re completely enamoured by him. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s your one. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, and seldom did it ever play to one’s hand. Soulmates aren’t perfect. And just because you’re fated for someone, doesn’t mean that you’d work out. Love wasn’t that simple. Thus, with the attraction that you do feel for him already, a weird, twisted part of you doesn’t wantto know. Just in case, he’s not the one destined for you.
A heavy air befalls the two of you; the tension intensifying until it’s so thick that you almost suffocate within its hold. Jittery under the sudden pressure, your hands turn clammy as you begin shuffling from foot to foot. You want to say something, to make a casual joke and immediately diffuse the stiffness in the atmosphere. Nonetheless, your throat is tight, and your mouth dry, and you simply can’t bring yourself to force the words out. Sensing your awkwardness, however, Namjoon quickly comes to your aid. The corners of his lips tugs, and the plush petals of his mouth pull into an easy smile as he points back towards your gift.
“Well, they seem really well-made, and I can already tell just how high quality these are. I’m looking forward to trying them,” comes his airy response. Then, after a brief pause, an impish smirk teases at his lips. “... And giving you my honest opinion,” he taunts. A sense of relief washing over you at the return of his playful demeanour, and with the tension quickly diffusing, you grace him with your own coy grin.
“I’m sure you’ll find them to your standards. It’s not like I could give you something subpar after your lavish present, after all,” you counter. Eyes lighting up suddenly, “Which, speaking of high quality, the lilacs and lavender… where did you get them?” you question. A deep, throaty chuckle emanates from the middle of Namjoon’s chest, and you watch his speckled onyx eyes glint in amusement.
“I didn’t get them anywhere. I grew them myself,” he responds. Taken aback by his answer, you blink at him owlishly. He’d… grown them himself? Well. You hadn’t been expecting that. Though, now that you think about it, it makes sense. Initially, you’d thought that perhaps he’d only enchanted the lilacs, in order to keep them blooming. However, with the sheer life imbued into them, you realise that for that level of magic, he’d probably have to grow them himself. Which, with his mastery in the Botanic Arts, paired with his expertise of Herbalism, would be a feat easier said than done.
With a fleeting glance, you flick your gaze around his shop, only to catch his eye once again. “Do you grow most of your stock?” you ask, astonishment evident in your voice. Once again, Namjoon chuckles, before nodding easily.
“A lot of it, yes. If not most. The things I can’t grow, I have to source from the human settlements. Though, it’s mostly animal products or minerals,” he begins, a look of thought crossing his face. “The minerals, because I don’t have time to go mine for that… Nor do I want to,” he laughs. “And I can’t bring myself to hunt for animal products myself because everytime I do, I end up not wanting to hurt them and letting them go. So I rely on humans a lot for those kinds of things. It’s why, unlike the rest of the coven who lives deeper into the forest, I live closer towards the edge… and also why I’m your only neighbour,” he continues his explanation.
Mouth forming an ‘o’, “That makes sense,” you reply.
“Why do you live so close to the edge? I’m sure High Priest Torin would have offered you a home in the coven’s territory?” Namjoon questions.
With a nonchalant shrug, “I just needed a change I guess. With the Sisters of Elysia being nomadic, we never had an actual home. And so we’d always live in temporary homes while sharing living spaces. Moving here, I knew I kinda just wanted some more privacy, you know?” comes your answer. Once again, there’s nothing but truth in it, and internally, you wonder just what kind of bewitchment he’s cast on you, for you to be so honest. Though, it’s probably just his natural charm.
“Plus, I’m focusing more on my Alchemical Restoration, and I want to be able to help as many people as I can. Both, our coven, and the humans in the country,” you continue. Then, letting out a sigh, “Except… I’m still new to the area and the Forest of Ingredeen is huge and I have no idea where the human settlements are,” you finish. Then, after a small pause for thought, “Other than the Sundale settlement, that is,” you ponder out loud.
“Oh. There are a total of five in the entire country, and they all border the Forest of Ingredeen since it’s the oldest and most ancient woodland,” Namjoon points out. Taking his hands off of the counter, he shuffles towards the book rack on the tabletop, and pulling out a large scroll from the corner, he unravels it flat onto the surface. A large map greets you; the parchment yellowed and the ink faded with time. Still, you can make out all the details of the cartograph. It’s of Carelia, you note, with the human settlements clearly illustrated, as well as the paths to them.
“These are the general routes that you can traverse. Though, not all of them are in use anymore. And newer ones have been created. There’s also no real roads to follow,” Namjoon explains, a small frown marring his lips. Then, flicking his gaze towards you, he looks at you through hooded eyes. “If you’re free tomorrow, I can show you around? I doubt anyone knows these woods as well as me” he boasts.
Lips pulling into a flirtatious smile, you loll your head to the side before cocking your eyebrow. “Like a date?” comes your glib suggestion. Your voice is light, and airy, and your tone completely casual. And of course, you don’t expect him to actually agree. Still, to your complete disappointment, Namjoon shakes his head
“Not like a date,” comes his quick response, his voice causing ripples of devastation to tinge at your being. However, “A date,” he continues. Instantly, your disappointment is replaced with delight, and your heart simultaneously flutters.
Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you chew on the soft petal in a bid to suppress your grin. “I’ll look forward to it.”
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a/n: SCREAM god fneorngeoirgnoeig i dont know why that was so long when absolutely nothing happened but  i hope y’all liked it ahhh 🥺👉🏼👈🏼 i’m hoping to get the next part up next weekend but jfneronorign no promises rip ♡
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wolfygirl1900 · 3 years
Text
Words can hurt or heal
summary: Katsuki Bakugou defeats a villain but not without some collateral damage unfortunately. Some civilians got injured abd while most understand that it's just how life around heroes and villains goes, one Karen decides that isn't good enough....
A/N: i had some help from @kure-san and @bakugous-trauma with this a little bit but i really felt like Bakugou bottles up his feelings until it eventually blows up. I know it's a bad habit because i have it too
Katsuki sighed heavily trudging up the steps to the apartment he shared with you and unlocked the door. He couldn't get that woman's words out of his head all day no matter how much he tried to shove it down like he normally did.
He sat on the chair you had set up for you two or anyone else to take your shoes off and began to tug at the straps of his boots toeing them off and setting them on the neat shoe rack before unhitching his gauntlets. He shuffled towards the kitchen smelling the delicious baked chicken in the oven and checked on them to feel some semblance of normalcy.
His mind replayed the scene again; a villain had attacked a bank and collapsed part of the building, unfortunately some debris fell on some of the workers and civilians. Katsuki tried his best to keep his explosions small but powerful enough to defeat the villain while he did win, there was so much damage caused by the villain and a lot of bystanders had gotten hurt. It normally bothered him since he wanted to be a good hero and the best.... How could he be if people got injured? He scanned the rubble helping the authorities to make sure there weren't any deaths, thankfully there weren't, just a lot of injuries...
"You!! This is all your fault!!!" A woman screeched at him and stomped up to him shoving at his chest. "You almost killed my husband!! You're a horrible fucking hero!! This is all because of you!!" She continued flailing her arms gesturing to the damaged building and rubble.
Her words stung but he was so used to the sort of things she was yelling about.
"If it wasn't for you, All Might would still be a hero and this would never have happened!!" She screamed at him and glared. "You should have either joined the villains or killed yourself!!"
He flinched slightly and stepped back as a pair of policemen grabbed her and pulled her away as she continued screeching. He watched her leave his chest already beginning to tighten. He swallowed back the lump that tried to form and paused as one of the policemen he normally saw on his patrols came over.
"We are so sorry for that.... Her husband isn't waking up but heading to the hospital right now." He said and set a firm hand on the pro hero's shoulder. "Go ahead and go home, we got the rest of this."
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed forcing the rest of the memory back. He paused hearing music coming from the living room and turned the oven down before walking to where you were curled up on the couch with one of your new favorite books. He sat next to you and played with your hair for comfort.
You paused feeling the couch move and his hand in your hair. You smiled up at him lovingly but his eyes were devoid of the usual burning light you loved. You frowned and marked your spot setting your book aside before facing him fully.
"Katsuki? Baby what's wrong? Did something happen at work?" You asked and touched his cheeks. You watched him open his mouth to say he was fine as usual but what came out instead was a strangled sob.
Burning hot tears spilled from his eyes and he pulled you in a bone crushing hug sobbing loudly into your shoulder. You could hear him hyperventilating slightly and sniffle loudly. You frowned and hugged him back rubbing his back waiting for him to calm a little bit so you could find out what had happened.
Katsuki's chest tightened even more and he felt like he couldn't breathe properly. He buried his face further into your shoulder and the crook of your neck soaking your sweater with his tears.
After what felt like hours, he hiccuped slightly and finally spoke. "A woman said All Might's retirement was my fault and i should've been a villain or dead... All because her husband had gotten injured during a fight.... Maybe she was right.... Maybe I'm not cut out for being a hero..."
You frowned listening and turned your head kissing his temple. "She's a fuckin' moron." You said and gently took his wet tear stained cheeks in your soft hands lifting his face to look at him in the eyes.
"You are an amazing hero, Katsuki. Like holy shit, you save so many people and you aren't afraid to dive into things head first. You are brave, strong and despite your hard exterior, you are so fucking kind." You said and stroked his cheeks wiping away his tears gently. "Listen, if you want to, baby you call in tomorrow and we can get some flowers and visit that guy. I'm sure he'll thank you for saving him and the others."
"But y/n.... People got hurt because of--" he tried to argue you before you had gently placed a firm hand over his mouth.
"People get hurt all the time, especially when there's heroes and villains involved. But they understand that that's pretty much a requirement with living in a word full of quirks, heroes and villains." You said and took your hand back.
He listened and nodded. He hugged you once more and sniffled feeling a little bit better. Now he could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him.
"Now let me check dinner and we'll eat and go back to our room, watch something funny and go to sleep, how's that sound, boo?" You asked and kissed his cheek gently.
He nodded and followed you to the kitchen. He helped you and ate with you before you both went to the bedroom and snuggled. You hummed getting your favorite show ready to watch and paused hearing some snoring next to you. You looked over to see that Katsuki was now curled up and passed out. You smiled gently and turned off the tv and lights before laying with him and sleeping with your husband glad to know he was feeling much better now.
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oh-no-a-whovian · 3 years
Text
Despite my claws (love me) Part 3
18+
Summary: Missy Moreno is missing right after fighting a notorious villain. Marcus will do whatever it takes to save his little girl. Even working with that villain to find her.
Pairing: Marcus Moreno x villain-reader
Warnings: Swears, violence, injury, weapons, Mentions of abuse and trauma. Brutal murder. If there’s others let me know
Word count: 5916
Masterlist PT1 PT2 PT4
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The sun light streams through cracks in the curtains and you feel nauseous as the train starts to creak and move along the rail. A small cloud of dust plumes into the air as you drop Marcus onto the bed and he leans up on his elbows, finally conscious enough to move. You can feel his eyes on you as you stand frozen in front of him, looking around the space and feeling the sway of the train. It really is the same. Maybe more dust but nothing has moved. You’re willing to bet your old outfits are still in the wardrobe. It’s like you never left and it makes you want to burn it all down.
“You weren’t planning on telling me that he’s your father, were you?” you can hear him but you just can’t react, can’t move, you feel paralysed in place. You really never wanted to be here ever again. Last time you were on the train you barely had a mind of your own. He allowed you a little freedom but ultimately, he treated you like every other person he’d taken. He’d treated you like a slave. “[Y/N]” Marcus calls, pulling you from the whirlpool of your thoughts as he grabs a hold your hand. “Are you okay?” he asks when you finally look into his eyes.
“Do I seem ok to you?” you tell him honestly with a sneer curving your lips. “I thought it seemed pretty obvious that I didn’t want to be anywhere near this fucking train, Marcus. Now let’s kill everyone and get this over with.”
“No! No killing”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” You snap, climbing on top of him, pinning his wrists above is head with one hand and wrapping the other around his throat as he struggles, keeping your face mere inches from his. “The people on this train will not hesitate to shoot you in the face or stab you in the gut”
“[Y/N]” he warns, fighting against you.
“Are you really gonna risk your daughter for your morals, Moreno? You can either grow a pair or stay out of my way.”
“They were normal people once, you said that. Maybe we can save them…” he pleads beneath you, no longer struggling against your vice like grip.
“I. do not. care. Now, have the sedatives worn off enough for us to try to figure out where Missy is?” you ask as you sit up on his hips, releasing your grip. He nods without a word, his eyes following your hand as you check the fake scar and the edges of the mask. “Last time I was on the train the prison car was in the middle but it’s moved every few months.” You consider aloud as you climb off Marcus’ lap. “Unfortunately there won’t be a map of the layout… If we ask where the prison car is we’ll immediately be caught, locked up and brain washed. I don’t need that again.”
“But if we take too long, it could be too late” he points out.
“Yeah, we definitely don’t want to take our time. We should…” a knock on the sliding wooden door interrupts you and you glance at Marcus on the bed with worry. “What do you want?” you snap, sliding the door open with force, the emotional mask you wear sliding back into place, your lip curling in anger.
“Your father wishes for you and your friend to join him for dinner” the man at the door says. His face is devoid of emotion, not even a glimmer showing in his grey eyes. He doesn’t even look around the space in front of him, just stares as if there’s a wall right in front of him.
“I’d rather not” you reply, making to slide the door shut. He grips your wrist with bruising force, his silver eyes finally focusing on yours.
“It wasn’t optional, Sekhmet”
“Fine” you tell him, ripping your arm from his grip and sneering at his use of your dead name. You’re not that person anymore. Haven’t been for years. “How long?”
“An hour” you nod and watch as his eyes glass over again, hating that you probably looked the same once. No soul behind your eyes.
You close the door when he finally walks away and press your back to the deep coloured wood. Marcus is silent as he stands from the dusty plush surface of the bed and you can feel his eyes on you as you keep yours cast to the floor.
“We don’t have time for dinner, [Y/N]” Marcus says as he moves less than a metre from you.
“We don’t know where Missy is on this train and if he’s pretending to be an actual parent then he’s not hurting her. We have time, just not much.” You sigh, looking past him to the window. The particle filled beams of light flicker in and out, then vanish. The light that replaces them is an eerie mix of green and blue with violent flashes of purple. The sounds of clashing stones cracks through the air to match the violet blooms. “We’re not on earth anymore”
Marcus’s brown eyes glance between you and the window, confusion furrowing his brows. There isn’t a sound to indicate that the train has breached the fabric of reality, no sign, just one second you’re on earth and the next you’re on some unknown planet you can’t even breathe on. Marcus pulls open the ashy curtains, freezing at the sight sitting just outside the train.
Colours swirl around a circle of nothing and around you asteroids glowing with vibrant lines of violet smash into each other making the bursts of purple you’d seen through the cracks in the curtain. The ground around the train’s tracks is cracked, reduced to rubble with magma oozing out from the lines.
“What happened here?” Marcus asks in quiet horror as the train passes what looks to be the remnants of an ancient temple, the statues barely recognizable and the stone walls crumbling. “Was it the- the black hole?”
“Mmm, no. Apparently a planet would orbit a black hole just like they would a sun. So I’ve heard anyway” you tell him, watching the scene outside with awe. “Was probably a war or over population… they probably just over used the planet.” You shrug, glancing away from the aftermath of an apocalypse. “This isn’t the time to mourn their loss, Marcus.” you whisper gently as you place your hand on his shoulder, your fingers sliding subtly under the sleeve of his vest. You love how warm he is, you’d never tell him though. You doubt it would be accepted.
“You’re right” he sighs, looking at you, an unreadable look in his warm chocolate eyes. “We should go to dinner… with your evil father”
“Just, remember you’re meant to be a villain doppelganger of Marcus Moreno. You can act how you usually do but like you really hate it and yourself.”
“Right” he replies, looking at you with concern.
“You can either make up a name or use your normal one and ‘refuse’ to tell your real name.” you tell him as you check the fake scar once more, comforting yourself with the warmth of his cheek. Any excuse to keep touching him right? “Depends on your improv skills”
“I have a question…” he says, watching as you remove the blades from your back, continuing when you don’t say anything. “They keep calling you Sekhmet…”
“Your question?” you pause, the blades still in your hand and your chest feeling tight.
“Do you want me to just pretend I knew or that I’m not hearing it… You seem really tense when you hear it…”
“Just don’t use it, ok?” you ask him as you drop your swords onto the bed and another cloud of dust flies into the air making you sneeze and growl. “Fucking… ugh let’s just go.”
“You know where the car is?” he asks, following you as you stomp from the room.
“Uh, yeah. The only car he moves is the prison car. Maybe we’ll be lucky and the prison car will be between us and that arsehole hmmm?” you muse. “Hey you!” you call out when you finally spot one of the poor brainwashed bastards in the isle. “Get someone to clean my room” you’re not sure if you’ll find Missy tonight, might as well have a clean place to sleep right?
“Of course, Sekhmet. Your father has asked that we do as you ask” the woman smiles, her eyes just as empty as the man’s from earlier. Even her hair is dull and lifeless, hanging from a ponytail.
You grab Marcus’ arm as he reaches out, stopping him from asking the brainwashed woman where his daughter is. She steps past you both, Marcus barely registering as an obstacle in her mind as she makes her way through the corridor.
“She’s not gonna tell you shit, Marcus.” You growl “pay attention!” you smack the side of his head “the second our cover is blown we have to get off this train or kill everyone trying to take it over. Asking questions is cover blowing, got it? We need to find the prison car ourselves”
“I just want my little girl back.”
“I know… but you need to listen to me, Marcus.” You say, continuing down the corridor. “The next car should be the private dining room. I’m gonna try to see into the next two cars. If there is only two cars ahead then the prison car is somewhere along the other end of the train” you whisper.
A shiver runs down your spine as you reach the dining car door, your body freezing with your hand raised to the door. You keep getting waves of horror and chills of fear. Your hands shaking and heart beating way too fast. You don’t want to show weakness. Need not to show weakness. You know Marcus would never take advantage of you, never try to hurt you, he’s too good. But your father will and you can’t let him. This place really did fuck you up.
Glancing at Marcus you force yourself to knock, swallowing the fear in your chest.
Another woman, lighter skinned this time, slides open the door an eerily serene smile on her lips as she leads you both to the table. Your father isn’t in the room yet so you breathe a little easier as you take a seat at the mahogany table. You fix your eyes on the door leading to the front of the train, hoping to get a glimpse of the next car when your father comes through. If the next car is his room then the prison car isn’t up this end and you’ll have to make your way to the other.
The woman places a glass of amber liquid in front of you as the door opens revealing your father. You peek at the space behind him, seeing his bedroom and further through the controls for the train. You were really hoping the prison car was up this end.
“Sekhmet! So good of you and your friend to join me for dinner” your father says grinning as he sits at the head of the table.
“Didn’t exactly feel like a choice” you mumble, rolling your eyes and sipping at the drink in front of you.
“Now, now, daughter. You haven’t seen me in five years and I haven’t seen you in much longer.” He points out, smiling at the brainwashed woman as she places plates of food in front of each of you. “Is it too much to ask that I get to spend some time with my little girl?”
“Oooh! It’s almost like you care!” you say, your lips curving into a mix between a sarcastic smile and a sneer.
“You’ll show me respect, Sekhmet. You know what happened last time you got too mouthy” your breath hitches and you shy away, looking down to Marcus’ hand when it moves onto your thigh. He’s glaring at your father, the fake scar making him look even more threatening. “What’s your name boy?” your father asks Marcus once he’s satisfied that he’s curbed your attitude.
“I don’t have one. You can call me Marcus, I tried to steal his life, may as well take his name on the way out” the man beside you says to your father, a sinister smirk on his lips. You’d be lying if you said ‘bad’ didn’t look good on him. He seems to be an ok actor at least.
“Hmmm… and what reason have you two decided to leave that world?”
“Given that we were in three different fights with like fifteen different people just today. I figured it was time for a change in scenery” you tell him, keeping your eyes on the plate of food in front of you. “He was unconscious so I got our shit together and got out.” You say as you jab your fork into a piece of the food, popping it into your mouth. “One of my contacts said that your train had been spotted circling the city”
“Interesting” your father says, his eyes shifting between you and Marcus as he places pieces of food in his mouth. “What did you think of the view?” he asks, nodding toward the window you can all see. Outside pieces of glowing debris float and collide outside the moving train’s window.
“Didn’t think much of it.” You admitted, you thought it was morbidly beautiful but you’ve seen so many places. It’s just one more to add to list.
“Did you recognise it? We passed a temple a while ago.” You pause, confusion marking your features as you glance between the monster you call your father and the ruined world outside.
“Why would I?” you shake your head, watching out the window to see if maybe you do.
“This place was one of your favourites when you were a kid. They were the first lot to make that lion head statue for you.” he tells you, waving over the brainwashed woman for more to drink. You stare out the window dumbfounded. How? “They worshipped you like a god.” He muses.
“What happened to them?” Marcus asks, looking out the window as a particularly large chunk of asteroid collides into the shielding around the train.
“No idea. I suspect they tore their world apart after their ‘god’ hadn’t returned in a long time. Not the first time I’ve seen religious turmoil destroy a planet.” He replies callously, sipping at what you assume is konjac, his favourite.
A heavy silence fills the room as you stare into space. You don’t know what you feel. Horror? Sadness? Fear? Guilt? Rage? Everything? You are definitely holding yourself still though, the urge to end your father at the forefront of all thoughts and feelings. You know you can’t, not yet anyway. If you do all his minions will go berserk. You’d prefer to do it on a planet with a breathable atmosphere. So you can jump if need be.
You can feel your father studying you, hear his fingers topping on the wooden table. He’s probably looking for weakness, for a moment to call in the troops and lock you and Marcus away. It would definitely fast track finding the girl but fuck any plans for escape.
“I need to prep the next dimensional phase. You know where your room is.” Your father says dismissively as he gets up, gesturing for his little slave to lead you and Marcus from the room. You hadn’t even noticed the weapons strapped to the small of her back till now. This place is fogging your mind and you fucking hate it.
~~~~~
You watch Marcus with interest, fighting what you know is a bad decision. You didn’t say a word the whole way back to your old room, how could you? The place you loved most is gone, the one man you’ve started feeling things for is your enemy and is in the most dangerous place you could think of and you’re pretty sure your father has already started his mind game, manipulative bullshit. You need a distraction but you know you shouldn’t try that. You want to lash out.
You keep your back pressed against the door and breathe slowly. You can feel Marcus’ eyes on you but you keep yours closed. You’re pretty sure if you open your eyes right now you’ll jump his bones.
“So… are you immortal?” Marcus asks. You finally look up at him with raised eyebrows.
“What no?” you smile, amused by his question, breathing as the urge fades. You step over to the bed, examining the fresh green silk sheets and the smell of fresh linen in the air.
“Well your father just implied that the goddess from Egyptian mythology was you…” he says as he props himself by your wardrobe with his arms crossed.
“I was” you admit. “But although I do age slower, it wasn’t cause of that.”
“How then?”
“Know how I mentioned that we could be gone for centuries for earth?” you start, posing yourself on the now dust free bed, continuing when he nods. “Well it goes the other way too. We could end up surrounded by dinosaurs next phase jump. Has something to do with quantum entanglement or something. Or maybe how if you put a mirror light years away then looked through it, it theoretically would show the earth millions of years ago.” You propose as you lay on your back, your knees in the air and spread so you can see Marcus between your thighs. It’s a pretty good view. “It’s sciency stuff.”
“Does that mean there could be two versions of the train at one time?” he frowns, looking to the ground.
“Mmm probably… though they’d have to keep a certain distance or risk blowing up…” you pause, seeing worry on his features once again. “If you’re thinking that there’s a chance that this train from a different time point has her that isn’t possible.”
“How do you know that?”
“The space he’d have to keep between the trains is like… two states wide. Any closer and reality tries to correct them, forcing them together like hyper magnets” you tell him, rubbing your temples to remember the things your father had taught you before he stole your free will and mind. “The resulting destruction from the explosion would be devastating throughout time.”
You sigh as you look out the window to the vibrant colours of space, seeing the ruins of a once beautiful planet in a different light. You’d shown them a picture of a lion from earth during a stop there and for some reason they made statues, altars and places of worship in your name. Sure you’d done a few nice things but was that really worthy of worship? Their goddess of healing. You became something else to the people of Egypt. A goddess to be feared. You earned the title they gave you many time over since.
“This is all your fault” you hear Marcus say and you glare at him raising from your spot on the bed.
“I’m sorry?” you challenge, daring him to say that again.
“This. Is. All. Your. Fault.” He sneers, meeting you toe to toe with anger in his eyes. “If you weren’t doing awful things, my daughter wouldn’t have been grabbed!” you leap onto your feet and press your hand to his chest and force him to the wall, pinning him with your body and getting right in his face.
“Need I remind you, that I am trying to help you! You would never have had a chance without me!” you shout, baring your sharp teeth. “I’m on a train that I never wanted to see again. My own father tortured me on this fucking train!” you take a deep breath to calm yourself, keeping him pinned but lowering your voice as he looks down ashamed of his outburst. “I wasn’t even doing anything. I had no plans. I think the most ‘evil’ thing I had going on was a few stolen paintings in my warehouse and renting out space to a known drug dealer….” You sigh, loosening your force but not moving away. “If I did have something planned, I would have been a lot more upset about the children showing up instead of you…” you admit. You know he wouldn’t care about a revelation like that, you know you’re a monster in his eyes. How could you not be? You don’t exactly have much of a moral compass.
You move to step away and give him space but it seems he has other plans. He grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him and pressing his lips to yours like you had done earlier when you made the deal with him. He wraps an arm around your waist and threads his other hand’s fingers in your hair, kissing you with bruising passion. You move your hands up his body as you kiss him back with fierce aggression. Gently you curve one hand on his jaw and the other around his throat, squeezing a little as you nibble on his bottom lip.
You gaze into his lust filled eyes as he pulls away for air, panting like he’s starved of it. You could spend eternity in this moment, even in the worst place in all of reality, you’d stay. His dishevelled hair, soft lips, the warmth of his skin and the gentle tug of his fingers in your hair. If you could have Marcus Moreno for eternity, you would.
~~~~~~~
“How long does it take?” you hear Marcus ask as you glare at the clothes you used to wear, glancing to see him staring out the window to the ashy desert that now surrounds the travelling train. He’s lying naked on the bed, propped against the wall with his arms behind his head, just a silk sheet covering him from you.
“Uuh, depends.” You reply, grabbing the only outfit you’d ever liked from that point in your life and shoving it into your bag.
“On what?”
“Destination mostly. Whether or not there’s a version of the train already there. But apparently there’s a few other reasons that I didn’t get to learn…” you tell him as you pull a shirt on.
“Do you know how to… direct the train back to earth in our time?”
“Somewhat… after a few attempts sure. But I’m not sure we’ll get a few attempts…” you watch as a sand storm forms in the distance, the grey ashes swirling into the air promising violence.
“Why?”
“Just… I need you to trust me and if I say jump, you’ll grab your daughter and jump. Okay?” you can see hesitation in his eyes but he nods. Gently you lift his hand and press your lips to his palm, silently thanking him for not arguing. Getting up with a sigh you grab his clothes, vest and swords and put them next to him. “Get dressed, we’ll start making our way down the train soon. They’re gonna be suspicious…” you huff as you pull on your harness, your gun already in the holster, and pull on your jacket to conceal it.
“Do you have a plan?”
“Well… half of two plans…” you shrug. “We can sneak along the outside and try to figure out where the car is from the windows. Not my favourite. Or! We can move along the inside saying we’re looking for a drink then wing it if the prison car is past the kitchen…” you smile, knowing both plans are fucking awful.
“So we’re just gonna wing it then?” Marcus asks, an unimpressed look on his face as he fastens his vest and puts the Katanas in their sheaths on his back.
“Pretty much. We need to take our things and us being out of the room is suspicious as is… I don’t see this ending in anything but a fight. We just need the fight to be after we find your daughter.” You tell him as you pull on the harness with your two khopesh blades attached. “If we die tonight, it’s your fault.” You grin before stepping over to the door and sliding it open to peek along the hallway.
“We’re not gonna die”
“mmmhmmm” you roll your eyes, gesturing for him to grab the bags and follow. You can’t help your pessimism, it was hard enough getting off this damn train the first time.
You slide open the door to the next car silently, gesturing for Marcus to be quiet. On the right of the hallway is a familiar door leading to a room filled with bunk beds. One of four cars where your bastard father keeps his slaves. On the left a door with a window leading to the ash desert outside, the wind and sand swirling violently.
You creep through the car, then the next, hoping that the neither door to the bunks will open to reveal you two dressed for war sneaking through. Marcus remains quiet behind you, seeming to trust that you know what you’re doing.
The next car is the mess hall and you pause as you peek in. there’s a few of the brainwashed sitting at the long tables, people of different races all staring blankly at the walls as they slowly move the food into their moves. You’d never under estimate them though. They may be slow when doing menial tasks but they’re fast as lightning when it comes to drawing a gun on you. They’re almost as fast as you when it comes to melee too. It’s the main reason you want the fight to be later. So you can jump from the train and avoid them, whether your father is still in control or not.
“How are we getting through?” Marcus whispers in your ear, his body pretty much squished to yours to see the room. His body curving around yours and his hand holding your hip for stability.
“I don’t know… they may be practically zombies right now but... they still know when something is off in their peripheries.” You whisper, flinching slightly when one of them rises, moving into the next car. You assume it’s the kitchen, going by the strong food smell that floats through when the carriage door slides open. “Keep the bags low and as close to the tables as possible. Act normal.”
You rise from your position, standing tall as you slide the door open. A couple of the brainwashed stand at the sight of you, glaring at the intrusion. Their eyes shine a little brighter at the trespass, almost like they have actual thoughts. You know they don’t.
“What reason are you here, Sekhmet?” one that you recognise asks as he glares between you and the man behind you. Probably eyeing the blades on both your backs.
“Father is getting the train ready to take us to our destination, I’m just getting a drink before. You know how that world is, Cole” you tell him, putting your arms up passively. “Could be days before we find water…”
“Sounds like a you problem”
“And when exactly did my father give you free will to make an opinion?” the other mindless look at Cole, ready to jump him. Clearly they’ve been made stricter since you left, they weren’t so ready to jump you when you were showing signs of free will. Cole stutters, his eyes wide as one of the others grabs him. You can’t seem to help the sadistic grin that spread on your lips as he’s dragged past you toward front of the train. You know he’s probably not free, his brainwashing was probably only just wearing off. Everyone would know if he was truly free.
“What was that?” Marcus hisses as you step into the next car.
“A distraction” you tell him, watching the two men doing dishes with their backs to you as you pass through the kitchen.
“If he was free he could have helped us”
“Even if he was totally free he wouldn’t have wanted to. He’d have attacked us instead.”
“How do you know?” he argues, not taking no for an answer as he follows you into the next car. Another garrison car. The prison has to be soon, you’re sure you’re running out of train cars.
“I just do” you snap, freezing as a door slides open at the noise. The woman eyes you both from the door way, silently waiting. “Father said we could get some water from storage” you tell her, praying your lie will sell but moving your hand to the blade on your thigh anyway. You don’t know what allowances he’s made for you. Or if he actually made any at all. Without a word she moves back into the room filled with bunk beds and shuts the door and you finally let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Releasing your hold on the bone grip of your blade you glance back at Marcus, trying to say ‘shut the fuck up’ but with your face.
“Let’s keep going” you whisper.
It’s almost peaceful, the sound of the train moving and the gentle snores from the sleeping people in the carriages. It’s a shame that it’s also horrible.
The next train car is another garrison and you move through it swiftly, keeping your ears focused on sounds within the room but taking note of the door to the outside. There’s three more cars, just three and you’re pretty sure none of them have exits. Missy must be in one.
You slide open the next door and you’re greeted with an almost empty sitting room. A plush blue carpet and ugly green couches and a holographic screen floating in the middle. Standing to attention by the opposite door is a buff woman, glaring at you as you take in the ugly ass room. You don’t remember it being so damn ugly.
“We need to get into storage. My father said I could take some water and I was told it’s in there.” You tell the strong woman, gesturing toward door behind her.
“You’re not allowed past.”
“My father said I could” you insist.
“You’re not allowed past” you glance between the woman and Marcus incredulously. ‘This bitch’ you glare, trying to decide what to do. You know Marcus will hate it but…
“Fuck it” you sigh, ripping your blade from its sheath, slicing it toward the woman’s throat. A strong arm blocks against your assault and a fist collides with your nose with a crunch. “Shit” you hiss, stumbling back as you clutch at your bleeding face.
“[Y/N]!” Marcus shouts as the woman shoves him aside to get to you. You’re not sure if his shout was worried or pissed as the woman shoves you violently, launching you back into a glass cabernet. Throwing punches into your gut and smashing her fist into the back of the cupboard, barely missing your head. You grimace at the crunch, that would have been your face again if you hadn’t dodged her fierce fist.
A small trail of blood trickles from your nose, filling your mouth with the familiar metallic tang and you spit it out as you move away from the woman. You flip you blade as the woman struggles, her fist stuck in the cracked remains. She growls at the hole keeping her hand in place then looks at you with rage in her eyes. A rare sign of emotions from the brainwashed zombies.
With bared teeth she rips her hand from the wood, tearing the flesh of her wrist and hand as the splintered wood fights the force. She doesn’t scream or cry out as her blood pours down her fingers, she just sneers, glancing at something over your left shoulder to the door she was guarding.
Marcus steps up to your right, his fists raised ready to fight the buff bitch.
“Why do you carry around swords, if you’re not willing to use them on people!” you hiss, keeping your eyes on your prey.
“They’re for monsters!” he yells, dodging as the guard makes the first move, trying to land punches on both of you. Even with her bloodied hand she flails, growling as she shoves past you. You couldn’t see it coming, couldn’t know that she had a gun sitting in a holster by the door. She rips the gun from its holster stuck to the side of the little table by her guard post, aiming it at Marcus.
You hear the bullet fire and feel your body move, the bullet ripping into your side as you shove Marcus out of the way. “Fucking bitch!” you scream and you throw your knife with deadly precision as she aims her gun again, the blade imbedding itself into her skull. She stumbles, her eyes going wide and her mouth dropping open, the gun falling loose in her hand. With one hand clasped to your side you step up the woman, you don’t know how she’s still standing with a blade lodged in her brain. You wrap your fingers around the hilt of your blade and try to pull it from the woman’s head, frowning when she moves with it, gurgling on the verge of death. With a sickening sound the blade pulls free,
Marcus is staring in horror as you turn to him, the woman finally falling to the ground. You can feel the blood oozing from your side and you wince as you move your hand to see. You wipe your blade off on your thigh and gesture for Marcus to move.
“Let’s get this over with Marcus” you breathe, moving to the next door despite your body’s protest. “Leave the bags here, we won’t be able to get out from the end. It’ll be sealed tight.”
Grunting you pull open the next door, ignoring the shelves of stuff and passing around the edge of the room. The next car has to be the prison car. On your way around the sides of the train car to reach the other door a label catches your eyes and you let Marcus pass as you pause to look at the bucket like container filled with weird little capsule like things. The label says they’re filled with water but they look like fucking tide pods and you shiver at the memory of that internet sensation. You grab the handle and take it. You’d be damned if you end up stuck out there without water.
“[Y/N]! The door is locked tight” Marcus calls out as you round the corner.
“Yeah it’s got a DNA lock” you cough, moving him to get to the receptacle. Grimacing, you place your blood coated hand upon the lock. A small buzz sounds from the lock as it clicks open. Moaning in pain you press your hand back to the hole in your side, hissing at the sheer pain. It will heal, it always does. Leaning against the wall you let Marcus open the door and go in, breathing slowly as the train jostles you.
“And here I hoped you might have actually been coming around.”
You freeze, your wide eyes looking to Marcus in the next car. His eyes meet yours as he holds his daughter, finally reunited. You breathe slowly, wincing in pain as you turn toward your father’s voice. Your eyes lock on the barrel of a gun. Shit
A/N: part three is here! Been try to make things a little less specific like features of Y/N and the meal. Curious to know what people pictured as their (plate of food) hopefully no one here is colour blind cause idk how to make this for colour blind people, sorry ⬇️. like and reblog to share the love!
@love93sstuff @superawesomegeek @whore-of-many-hot-men @sara-alonso @farfromjustordinary @i-d-k-any-more
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miss-choco-chips · 3 years
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Umm... I was wondering if you could Maybe do a follow up on your mini fic Last Line from dicks pov? It gave me alot of feelings and i would love to see the fallout?
Your work is really good! Its so cool how your brave enough to put pieces of yourself out there for other people!
Hey babe! Thank you for your kind words! It made me smile getting this, you are very sweet <3
I totally forgot about Last Line lol, but when I saw it reminded me that I actually wrote a bit more of it, both before and after the scene I posted. So, this isn’t exactly what you asked, but here’s some backstory and then the fallout!
---.---
Four years old, and he watches the red string on his finger pulled taunt towards the crying boy, the color of the thread well disguised among the red blood of the murdered acrobats.
Nine, and he watches from the shadows as it swings right and left, following Robin’s pirouettes from building to building. The thread, that usually goes a few feet before ‘vanishing’ from sight, was almost completely visible now, at such a short distance from the person holding onto its other end.
He’s on his twelve when he tries to explain to Dick the importance of him going back home. He wasn’t sure of his success, even though the older hero took him to the manor, because during his whole speech, Nightwing hadn’t looked up from the red joining them together. It wasn’t exactly how Tim wanted him to find out, but… Batman needed a Robin, and he was out of options.
At fourteen, he feels Kon’s hand clenching on his shoulder, as they both watch from the side how Nightwing swept Barbara off her feet and twisted her around, laughter falling from both their lips even as Dick thread’s end was pointing towards Tim. The third Robin didn’t turn to look at his best friend, didn’t meet Bart’s eyes or react to Cassie taking his hand on hers. He just made sure his face was perfectly devoid of any emotion when he muttered, low enough only a kryptonian would hear, ‘I wish it was any of you’. 
(A few nights later, when he and Conner were sitting quietly on the Tower’s roof, the clone took Tim’s hand with his own, his lack of red string blatantly obvious as he said ‘If I had any, I wish it could be you’. To this day, it’s the sweetest thing anyone ever said to him)
He is so, so tired, and he’s only sixteen. But keeping up with the shitfest that was the Battle for the Cowl, helping Dick while ignoring his red string (pulling him towards Nightwing, now Batman, stark contrast against the dark of his suit, with distracting insistency), dealing with Damian’s abuse as expected of him as the ‘mature, older brother’, coping with Bruce’s death, the shock of Dick throwing him, his soulmate, away so so easily…
(Shouldn't be surprising; Dick had been discarding him in favor of others since they met, shamelessly displaying his various relationships in front of him with an attitude that might be called cruel from anyone else but that just earned him playful shoves from other Leaguers while Tim was expected to swallow his pain, because a red string isn’t a promise, Dick is free… and yes, he knows that, but it doesn’t mean shit to his dying heart)
(Maybe, when he left for proof of Bruce being alive, it wasn’t so much for his old mentor than it was for himself)
----.----
Tim is seventeen and halfway across the world, looking at the string attached to his hand that never truly meant anything to any other than him (not to Bruce, who never took Dick aside and talked to him about consideration with his soul mate; not Dick's conquers, who never gave a fuck  about the red string in the hands that touched their skin, even when a lot of them knew who was on the other end of it; not Dick himself, who after asking every thing out of Tim and having it, forcefully took the one thing Tim wouldn't give by choice and claimed Tim was his equal, his soulmate, so he never could be his sidekick... even if it was the first time ever that Dick even mentioned the string tying them both together), when he thinks 'you were always free; now, I'm freeing myself’.
He gingerly bites on the string, and with his other hand takes a handful of it and pulls.
The pain piercing his heart is expected, but not new. He had been feeling it since the first time he saw Dick's back as he walked away with someone else.
He times it carefully, too. He doesn't think Dick would care, but just in case, Tim waits until it's morning in Gotham, when he's sure Dick is probably sleeping after patrol.
Maybe he would wake up without noticing
---.---
In Gotham, Dick is carried by Alfred and Damian to the cave, when the new Batman's screams of pain woke everyone in the Manor up. They are suspecting cardiac arrest, and then Dick looks down to his hand and notices the string, always tense, signaling him where his north is, where Tim is, laying loose and lifeless.
He panics, asks Superman to track Tim down or something, and when the man confirms Tim is still alive somewhere in the Middle East, he knows.
And like a freight train, the parting words Kori told him the last time they saw each other hit him right in the chest.
"He isn't going to wait for you forever"
----.-----
When Tim does come back, at nineteen, it’s a quiet thing. 
He spent the last how many days carefully setting his systems up, making sure his mainframe would outstand Oracle’s scrutiny when she realized he was back in town and tried to hack her way into his life.
(He didn’t blame her, of course not. Dick was charming enough, good enough, anyone he set his eyes into would be helpless to nothing but fall in his arms.
And, wasn’t Tim the one who would have been intruding, had he tried to chase after the first Robin? Everyone knew he and the original Batgirl were a perfect match, thousands of times better than Tim, whom Fate just wanted to screw over.
But not anymore)
The first thing he did, once the safe houses were chosen and his programs up and running, was to ruthlessly hack into the Batcomputer and take a look at patrol routes. 
He would need to keep clear of Diamond District and Old Gotham, least he risked crossing paths with B and R. The Financial and City Hall Districts were apparently Batgirl’s playground for the night, and if he wanted to drop by and let Cass know he was back, he could always search for her by the Upper West Side down to Chinatown.
He would avoid the Upper East Side like the plague, though. Maybe Coventry too, just to be safe. Lots of skintight blue in that direction.
Which left… Crime Alley, the Bowery and Burnley, mainly. He needn't check to know who’s house that was.
And that’s how he ended, on his very first night back on the streets, dragging Red Hood’s bleeding ass away from a blowing up building.
-----.-----
Apparently, saving a recently rehabilitated murderous vigilante was a bonding experience, because Jason didn’t kick him out of his side of town, nor tell on him. 
He couldn't, however, do anything to prevent the criminal gossip mile from spreading, and before a week had passed, half the city was aware of the new player on the board.
-----.------
Jason was taking a breather, smoking while sitting on his favorite rooftop, when the rustling sound of fabric told him his peace and quiet was over.
“I thought you were back at being N”, he greeted, not bothering to turn around or get up. 
“B was out of town, and Robin needed someone to watch over him during patrol.”
A quick glance around had Hood snorting, “Then y’re doing a shitty job. Don’t see the midget anywhere.”
It would never NOT be weird to hear a strangled laugh coming out of the Bat suit, as tight and humorless as it was now. It seemed big ol Dick wasn’t doing so great tonight.
“Batgirl took him to a party in Diamond District. Gang war.”
He humms in response, not bothering to keep on the smalltalk. N, no, B was here for something, and it wasn’t Jason’s job to ask it out of him; if it was important, he would do it himself.
“Where is him, Hood?”, he finally went to the heart of the matter. 
Jason tilted his head, still looking over his city, unmindful of the steps coming closer to his position, “Robin? Ya just said it, B. Going senile? Gang war, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t play around. You know I mean…”
Oh, yeah, Dickie still wasn’t sure what to call Timbo. Criminal gossip only went so far, for someone who didn’t bother to shout his hero name to everyone he beat up. It was very possible only  Jason was aware of his new monicker. All gothamites knew was a young vigilante showed up recently, wearing red and black and hanging out with the Hood, which immediately upped his street rep to ‘not to be fucked with’.
“Lil red?”, he completed for his older brother, feeling both charitable and petty. Batman’s wince was more evident by the rustling sound of his cape; he had hit a sore spot, hadn’t he? 
“Where? I’m not asking again.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m not answering. Must be ‘roundere somewhere, the little creep.”
“Hood, I’m running out of patience.”
“And I’m out of cigarettes, your point? I don’t have him on a leash asshole. We just share the same hunting space, it’s not like we go home together and do face masks while we talk about feelings.”
They did go to a safespot, though, and share beer and pizza while cursing their relatives and Fate as a whole, but it wasn’t necessary information for the fucker. He just breathed in the last of his smoke before dropping the cigarette butt and stepping on it, stretching as he did.
“Now, any more of this riveting conversation, or can I go? No, wait, it was a rhetorical question; get out of my part of town, ass. I’ve been plenty generous by letting you come this far, but our truce lasts as long as the lot of you don’t build any sandcastles on my playground and you know it. Now, scram.”
He could feel Dick’s reticence at leaving without what he came here for, but Oracle must be talking him into letting it be for tonight, because he didn't push. Jason turned just in the right moment to catch the way Dick looked down to his gloved hand, as if expecting the lifeless red string to be pulled taunt in Tim’s direction by some miracle. Jason felt the smallest ping of pity, quickly washed away by the memory of the younger hero’s haunted eyes as he told Jason the story of his severed soul bond and how he came to do it.
Thirty seconds after the bat vanished into the night, a little red bird landed softly on the spot next to him.
“Thanks, Hood”, he muttered, just as tired and hurting as he’d been ever since he saved Jason’s ass and they became partners, but with the smallest hint of lightness that made him prouder of driving Dick away than he’d ever been.
“Don’t mention it, but fair warning, the big B scomin back home in a few days, and he’s harder to kick out than a hurting, annoying bluebird.”
“I know”, Tim sighed, well aware of both facts. “I’ll play it by ear. For tonight, what about bashing some skulls and ruining Two Face’s new op? Good intel says it’s just a few blocks from here, and shattering bones always makes you smile.”
“Babybird, you speak the language of love.”
“Wasn’t that french?”
“I’m trying to compliment you, don’t be a smart ass about it.”
“I am smart, and I do have a good ass. That seems like an impossible request.”
----.----
195 notes · View notes
the--sad--hatter · 4 years
Text
Red - One-Shot (Loki x Reader)
Pairing: Loki/Reader 
Warnings: Injury, blood, moral compass shifting. 
Summary: When the cost of being a hero is too high, what will become of you? And when you’re on the precipice of change, who’s the person who helps you? 
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Scores of hero’s had battled him before you had your turn, and it was only luck that placed you in his path when he was already exhausted. Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all.
 Maybe it was fate.
 Whatever it was, it was the crucible in which your downfall was contained. You might have been an Avenger, a fighter, a hero, but you were not equipped to fight a god and survive, let alone win. But he was already weakened by the Widows bite, his ribs bruised by the Captains Shield, his energy depleted by the witches power, his flesh scorched by Iron Man’s repulsors, his spirit sapped by his brothers ego. He had been battled into near submission and when you drove your dagger into his chest, he could not stop it. The blade pierced his skin, sliding between his ribs with ease, and crimson blood poured from the wound you had inflicted, spilling over your hand.
 His blood was cold, dripping down your wrist like icy water and coating your hand like a scarlet glove.  
You both moved in tandem, looking down at the dagger, each as equally shocked as the other. Your breath crystallised in the cold air as you gasped, heart hammering in your chest. It was in the moment you realised you may have slain Loki, that you realised you really didn’t want to. Fear gripped your heart, squeezing until it hurt so much that you couldn’t breathe.
 Had you just killed someone, killed the god of Mischief?
 “You missed.” He whispered, his voice filled with sympathy.
 You’d just stabbed him, and he was showing you sympathy? You dragged your eyes away from the terrible wound you’d inflicted, from your fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade sticking out of his chest. His words settled over the fog around your mind and seeped through it, until they made some kind of sense.
 “I missed?” You repeated hopefully, pleading with your eyes.
 His face softened exponentially as he gave you a small and fleeting smile.
 “Yes. You did not pierce my heart with your dagger.” He clarified, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and very carefully pulling your hand away until you released your grip on the fateful blade.
 You let him manoeuvre your shaking hand away, trying and failing to swallow down the whimper in your throat as blood continued to pulse out the edges of his wound.
 “Wait! No! Stop!” You yelped as he grasped the handle, stalling him before he could pull it out.
 “I must remove it so my body can begin to heal it.” He sighed, his already pale skin growing paler by the second.
 Right, Asgardian, or something. Not human. He probably wouldn’t bleed to death if he removed it, hopefully. You ignored the incessant buzzing in your ears, vaguely familiar voices demanding information, begging for assurances of your safety. All your attention was reserved for Loki, and for what you had done to him. He yanked the blade out in one swift movement, before you had a chance to prepare for it. Crimson liquid welled up in the gash left behind, streaming out of it in an alarming stream, and your hands moved of their own accord, twisting to press against the wound in a fruitless attempt to keep any more of his blood from spilling out. His blood was, quite literally, on your hands.
 What the hell had you done?
 You had trained for this, every day for months. You had been trained to be a hero by the best of them, but you hadn’t prepared yourself for what it meant to be a killer. Adrenaline and training had pushed you forward in your task, and only when the blade had sunk deep and it was too late, did you realise what your task really was.
 “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” You whimpered, choking on the fucking useless apology. “Please don’t die. I don’t want you to die.”
 “You don’t want me to die, or you don’t want to be my killer?” He chuckled weakly, devoid of humour and dripping with weariness.
 But even as he had asked the harsh but fair question, his hand cupped your cheek, gently lifting your face until you met his eyes. There was absolutely no anger in his gaze, none. No rage, no hate, no disdain. Just exhaustion, pain, and sympathy.
 “I don’t want you to die.” You admitted.
 You didn’t want to kill him, you didn’t want to kill anyone, you knew that now. But more than that, you didn’t like that he was hurt, and you couldn’t bear to see him injured any further. He was supposed to be the villain here, but he was the one comforting his attempted assassin, and the hero’s were the one ‘s who had put the knife in your hand and told you where to strike.
 Good and bad weren’t simple concepts right now, they weren’t black and white. They were just red, blood red.
 “In that, we have common ground. I would prefer to survive this as well.” He sassed, and against all odd you found a laugh bubbling out of your chest.
 “There, that’s much better.” He crowed softly, tracing the edge of your smile with his thumb.
 “Why? I hurt you. I…” You whispered against his fingertips.
 “You’re not like the others, you’re not like anyone. Of all those who have hurt me, and there have been many, you are the first to show any kind of remorse. Strong enough to stab a god, and kind enough to cry for him.” He explained. “You are not like them.”
 Your heart had been hanging on by a flimsy thread, but his admittance obliterated it. You could feel the fissure’s running through it, feel it tremble in your chest, and just as it was about to crumble into dust, he wrapped his arm around your waist and strode forwards, leading you with him in some kind of tragic waltz across the battlefield. Darkness fell over the two of you as he backed you into the shadows of a nearby building, pressing you further into the darkness as the sky shook and the familiar figure of Thor fell from the clouds and landed on the concrete.
 Loki’s arms fell away from you and he stepped to the side, letting you see what he’d left behind. You, held aloft in his grip, eyes filled with fear. An illusion, meant for Thor.
 “LOKI!” Thor bellowed. “Unhand her, and face me brother!”
 “Step out of the shadows, show him you are quite safe.” Loki, the real Loki whispered.
 An offer, not a challenge. One you didn’t understand the point of.
 “Or?” You asked.
 “Let The Avengers watch you burn into ash at my hand, and escape them and the life you so clearly do not want.”
 He was offering to kill you. To have your team watch you die. A cruel offer, a dark one, but…
 You didn’t want this life, he was right. And you never really had, you had only gone along with everybody else’s plans for you. You had let Earth’s Mightiest Hero’s mould you, twist you into one of them, suit you up as an Avenger, never once really telling you what that might mean. What it might cost you.
 Cruel, Dark, and Justified.
 “Kill me.” You hissed decisively.
 They would suffer, but they would survive. You weren’t close to them, not really. There would be some guilt, a little anger, and then they would move on. They would be more affected by having lost something to Loki, than actually having lost you. So you didn’t feel a shred of guilt as illusory flames roared to life over your doppelgänger.
 Thor’s roar was all rage, and not pain. His eyes were fixed upon the fake Loki, and not the smouldering remains of what he believed to be you. Loki’s illusion moved in tandem with him, both conjuring a glowing blue cube from nowhere. In the distance you saw the rest of The Avengers converge upon the scene, and you turned your back on them, concerning yourself with the only thing that mattered anymore.
 “Take me away.” You begged, ripping the jacket of your super suit off and pressing it to Loki’s wound.  
 The hero was dead, long live whatever the hell you were going to become now.
 “Come. Freedom awaits us.” Loki whispered in your ear, wrapping his arm around you once again as the world bled into blue.
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418 notes · View notes
hermannsthumb · 3 years
Note
Could you please write #43 grandparents/neighbors one?
43. we’re having our family meal at my grandparents’ house this year so fingers crossed your parents still live next door and you grew up to be even hotter
from winter writing prompts here
oh god this one got so long. sorry everyone! thank you to @k-sci-janitor for the alien bit because it was so fucking funny
------------
Holidays have gotten a little weird to manage since Newt transformed into a fully-fledged adult with an apartment and a job and stuff, so while he hasn’t made it to the big Geiszler celebration in Germany every December since starting college out of elementary school, he still tries to make a point of dropping by his dad’s for dinner and a movie or something to fill his holiday quota. It’s fine by him; he loves his family, but they’re definitely overwhelming, and trying to submit final grades and work on syllabuses for the next semester all while distant relatives ruffle his hair and ask him when he’s going to hit his growth spurt is not his idea of a relaxing time. It’s a constant point of contention between him and his dad. This year more than most, apparently.
“Your grandmother misses you!” he tells Newt sadly over their Chinese takeout. “She calls me every week to ask how you are, and why you never visit with them. Every week.” He waves a fork at Newt. “You’re breaking her heart.”
“I’m in the lab, like, twenty-four-seven, dad,” Newt sighs. It’s a well-rehearsed conversation at this point, but it doesn’t get any less tiresome. Especially because he knows his dad is lying about the phone call thing—Newt is a great grandson and texts his grandmother plenty, thank you very much, he would know if he was breaking her heart. “I’m working straight through winter break this year. Seriously.”
“That’s what you did last year,” Newt’s dad says. “And the year before that…” Newt turns the volume up on the TV to cut his dad off before he can segue into the next part of his argument, which is (usually) that Newt needs to work on his personal life, maybe settle down, produce some grandkids of his own. Or at least adopt a cat. Also well-rehearsed.
He’s not sure why he says what he does next—maybe in a desperate attempt to distract his dad further. Maybe because of the sudden onslaught of childhood memories the mention of his grandparents’ house brought on. “Hey, do you remember that boy who used to live next door to grandma?” he says. “He had the weird haircut and always dressed kind of funny?” Old-fashioned, and a little too formal for the sort of things that little kids tend to do, climbing trees or playing in the mud—sweatervests and polished loafers and starched-white knee-highs.
Newt’s dad blinks at him. Newt half expects him to declare that Newt is nuts, and that he has no idea what he’s talking about, like this is one of those horror stories where the childhood friend turns out to be some ghost who died fifty years prior. The clothing would match up, he guesses. But he smiles in recognition a moment later. “You mean the Gottlieb boy?” he says.
“Gottlieb,” Newt echoes. It sounds familiar enough. “Hermann, I think. When I’d stay with grandma for the summer we would play together every day. I wonder what he’s doing now.” Hermann was a smart guy, a real geek like Newt; he used to carry a graphing calculator around in his pocket and build the most goddamn pristine model spacecrafts Newt had ever seen. Hermann’s dad shipped him off to a prestigious boarding school the last summer Newt spent there, when they were around twelve or so. Newt started at MIT not long after. “Dude’s probably designing rocket ships by now or something.”
“You could ask him yourself if you came with me,” Newt’s dad laughs. “The Gottliebs never moved away, and their children actually visit. I’m sure your Hermann visits, too.”
“Ha,” Newt says. “Yeah.”
It’s snowing by the time Newt and his dad finish their movie, and Newt (fearing his dad’s driving even in ideal conditions) declines the offer of a lift home to trudge his way through it to his T stop instead. It’s nice to have the chance to be alone with his thoughts, anyway, because he can’t seem to get funny little Hermann Gottlieb out of his head. What is he doing now?
A quick Facebook search on the train produces a few Hermann Gottliebs, but none of them promising—none of them have the brown eyes or strangely angular face (devoid of any baby fat even that young) Newt remembers, none of them are from the right German countryside, none of them went to a preppy English boarding school. Google (utilizing the information Newt does have) is a little more rewarding, and by the time Newt presses the button to request his stop, he’s scrounged up a decent amount of info: Hermann Gottlieb has a doctorate in astrophysics, Hermann Gottlieb publishes papers at a slightly terrifying rate, and Hermann Gottlieb turned out kinda hot.
As Newt stares down at a slightly grainy current photograph of his old friend—haircut and clothing unchanged, a cane in hand, some round librarian glasses perched on the end of his nose, wide mouth twisted into a scowl—he suddenly recalls another thing about Hermann Gottlieb: the summer Hermann was sent away to boarding school was the summer that Hermann kissed Newt goodbye, shyly and tearfully, under the shade of the tall maple tree in his yard. It was the last time Newt ever saw Hermann. It was Newt’s first kiss.
“Oh, boy,” Newt says.
He texts his dad when he gets back to his apartment. When do we leave?
Newt feels like the belle of the fucking ball when he steps into his grandparents’ house a week later, snow dusting his shoulders, small suitcase clenched in his hand. His cheeks are kissed; his scarf and hat and leather jacket are brushed off and tossed onto a coat rack; his hair is in parts smoothed down (too messy!) and ruffled (too flat!); he’s hugged more times than he has been in the entire last year, probably. “Still playing around with bugs in the dirt, eh, Newt?” his grandfather booms, tucking Newt into the crook of his arm with enough force to knock Newt’s glasses off.
“Actually,” Newt squeaks, scrambling for both what he remembers of his very rusty German, and his glasses before they can hit the ground, “entomology isn’t really my main focus at—”
“Newt’s studying jellyfish now,” Newt’s dad declares proudly. “He went on a diving expedition this July.”
“Diving? How exciting,” Newt’s grandmother says.
“Yeah,” Newt says. He pushes his glasses back on. “Yeah, it was fascinating, I was lucky to get the funding for it. You wouldn’t believe the sorts of—”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Newt’s cousin says.
“My little Newt’s a daredevil!” Newt’s dad says.
“It’s not that dangerous,” Newt says. “As long as you’re—”
“What happened to that nice man your father said you were dating?” Newt’s grandfather says. “With the, the what was it, the poetry? The poet? We thought you’d bring him!”
Newt flushes. Trust his dad to talk up some random guy Newt dated in March like it was a long-term affair and not an elongated one-night stand that fizzled out after three weeks. Though maybe that one’s on Newt—it’s not like he mentioned the one-night stand part to his dad, after all. He definitely didn’t mention that the guy ended it with a poem, too. “We broke up,” he says, weakly. He wriggles out from the throng of the crowd. “Look, it’s so great seeing you all, but I’m actually, like, really tired, soooooo…?”
“Oh, of course you are,” Newt’s grandmother says. She pats his head. “What a long flight you must have had! We’ll send someone up for you for dinner—you can have your old guest room.”
“Cool,” Newt says.
He scurries up the stairs.
The guest room he slept in during those summers is almost exactly the way he remembers it, but a little dustier—the floral quilt on the bed, his grandma’s sewing table crammed into the corner, the bookcase stocked with a weird combination of kid’s books and illustrated encyclopedias that Newt used to pore over for hours as a kid, often with Hermann. Newt draws back the embroidered curtains and peers out the window at the Gottliebs’ snow-capped house next door. Hermann’s window was directly across from his. It still is, technically, though the curtains (these navy blue and embroidered with little constellations) are pulled tight, and Newt has a feeling that Hermann hasn’t set foot in his old room in well over a decade. Two decades, probably.
He remembers the one summer he showed Hermann how to make a soup can telephone, and they managed to string it all the way across between their windows before discovering it kinda didn’t work as well as Newt said it would. He remembers when Hermann’s dad banned him from the Gottlieb house for tracking water all over their front hallway after he and Hermann went wading in the creek, but it was really Hermann who did it, because he forgot to take his shoes off and they got soaked, and Newt just took the fall for it so Hermann wouldn’t get in trouble. And when Hermann asked Newt to play astronaut with him, and Newt insisted on being an alien and mimed the chestburster scene from Alien, and Hermann freaked out so bad he fell in a mud puddle and got grounded for ruining his clothing, and Newt got grounded for that and for watching Alien when he wasn’t supposed to, and they spent the following few days staring sadly out across at each other before Newt’s grandma finally got tired of his moping and sent him to work weeding the garden. He remembers knotting a little friendship bracelet for Hermann out of embroidery thread he found in his grandmother’s sewing basket and Hermann vowing to keep it until he died.
Newt’s half of the soup can phone is still on the windowsill, though the string snapped and crumbled apart years ago. He picks at the peeling Chicken Noodle label, so distracted that he almost doesn’t notice the light suddenly seeping through at the edges of Hermann’s curtains, or the way they’re pushed open—almost.
Hermann—real, live, adult Hermann, botched haircut and round glasses and all—stares out at Newt with a shocked expression on his face. Newt drops the can with a clatter.
Then he waves.
“Hey, Grandma?” Newt says, poking his head into the kitchen. Tonight’s dinner is a massive pot of soup boiling away on the stovetop, dessert a mountain of cookies and tiny pastries on serving platters on the counters. Newt hasn’t had food that looked this good since he moved out, to be honest. The intersection of Newt’s sad lack of cooking skills and his attempts at vegetarianism means he eats a lot of boxed mac-and-cheese and frozen Vegetable Lovers’ pizzas. “Are you—?"
“Oh, Newt!” Newt’s grandmother says. She sets down her wooden spoon. “Are you feeling rested, then?”
“Yeah,” Newt says. “Grandma, I was wondering, could I—uh—maybe run some food over to the Gottliebs? To be…neighborly? We just have so much, and—”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Newt’s grandmother says. “They keep to themselves, mostly, but I can’t imagine they’d turn it down. You might even see your little friend again! What was his name? You were so fond of him.”
“Hermann,” Newt says, quickly shoving cookies into a red-lid plastic container. “Thanks, Grandma.”
He tucks the tupperware under his arm and nearly wipes out on the icy front path he runs to the Gottliebs’ so fast. Before he can so much as catch his breath and knock, their door swings open; Hermann, dressed in a tacky Hannukah sweater, arches an eyebrow at him. “I saw you sprint over here like a bloody madman,” he says, in blessed English. He must’ve remembered how shitty Newt’s German was when they were kids. “Hello, Newton. What’s so terribly important?”
His voice got deeper—expected—and he swapped out his German accent for an English one somewhere along the way. Probably at his stuffy boarding school. He also got taller—he’s got a few inches on Newt now, but Newt admits that’s not exactly hard. God, he’s even hotter in person. “Uh,” Newt says. Why is he here? Oh, right. He thrusts out the tupperware. “I brought some cookies over for you?”
Hermann peers down at the offering over his glasses. His forehead wrinkles. “How considerate,” he says. He pulls an olive-green parka on and steps out onto the porch, tugging the door shut behind him. He taps at a peeling porch swing with the end of his cane. “Just leave them there. Would you like to take a walk?”
It’s freezing, and snowing, but for some reason, a walk sounds like the best idea in the world right now. “Yes, please,” Newt says, and chucks the cookies onto the swing.
“I must say,” Hermann says, after their meandering walk around the Gottliebs’ yard takes them to the old maple tree. The branches are bare, but thick, and shield them from most of the falling snow. Hermann’s breath puffs out white in front of his angular face. The last time I stood here, Newt thinks, he kissed me. “I really did not expect to see you.”
“I didn’t expect to see you, either,” Newt admits. “From what I remember, you and your family weren’t—uh—well, very close. I didn’t think you’d be coming back to share in the holiday cheer with them, is what I mean.”
The corner of Hermann’s mouth twitches up. “That’s certainly one way of describing it. Yes, I suppose you’re right—my father is a bit of a bastard, isn’t he?” Newt laughs awkwardly, unsure whether to agree or attempt to weakly the defend a guy who openly hated him for being a bad influence on Hermann most of his childhood; he’s grateful when Hermann continues and saves him the choice. “This is the first year I’ve come home in a long while. My brother’s just had a daughter, you see, and I thought I should start getting used to playing uncle.”
“Oh, congrats,” Newt says. Hermann shrugs, and Newt has the distinct feeling that this is Hermann’s older brother, who used to dissemble Hermann’s telescope and hide the pieces around the house when Hermann annoyed him, and tattled on Newt and Hermann to Hermann’s parents the one time Newt snuck in to see Hermann after he got banned. He always made Newt thankful that he was an only child. “Same here, actually. Not the uncle thing—I mean I haven’t visited since I was in college. Too busy.”
“I know,” Hermann says, and then adds teasingly (in a way that makes color flood Newt’s cheeks and his heart beat just a little faster), “I’ve looked you up online. Er—quite a bit recently, in fact. I was curious. You’ve made quite the name for yourself, haven’t you, Dr. Geiszler?”
“I,” Newt squeaks, and then coughs. “I mean, I guess? I like…science.”
“I oughtn’t be surprised,” Hermann says. “You were always giving me bugs, and salamanders, and funny little frogs—”
Newt liked bugs, and salamanders, and frogs, but he liked Hermann more, and the gifts had a lot more to do with the latter than the former, because what kid wouldn’t want bugs or salamanders or frogs, right? Not that Hermann ever appreciated them—especially not the worms Newt would pluck from the sidewalks after rainstorms. He thinks he got grounded for that one, too, because his grandma wouldn’t believe that he really wasn’t trying to terrorize the poor Gottlieb boy. “And what about you?” Newt says. He pokes his elbow into Hermann’s side. “Dr. Gottlieb? Guess those model rockets paid off.”
(“No, Newton,” Hermann would snap at him on the rare occasions he would allow Newt to watch him piece one together, “the glue hasn’t dried yet. You have to be patient, or else it’ll fall apart.”)
“Not yet,” Hermann says, “but I hope soon.”
Hermann smiles at him. A snowflake catches in his eyelashes—his long, pretty, dark eyelashes. “Do you remember when you kissed me here?” Newt blurts out.
“It’s hardly the sort of thing I’d forget,” Hermann says. He reaches out and tucks a piece of Newt’s hair up into his hat. “I like your tattoos—I saw the photographs on your social media accounts. They suit you.” Newt wonders if this means Hermann saw the shirtless selfie he posted on Instagram. “I’m also pleased to see you’ve gotten your braces removed. It wasn’t a very pleasant experience last time.”
Then he leans in and kisses Newt. Again, technically. It’s so light and brief Newt hardly believes it even happened. Their glasses clack together, and when Hermann pulls away, he straightens out Newt’s.
“I confess,” Hermann says, “that I’m wholly pleased to see how you’ve turned out. I hope that wasn’t too forward of me. I’ve been thinking about doing it all night.”
“Jeez, dude,” Newt says, blinking at him, his head swimming just a little. Hermann looks smug. “Not, uh, not too forward. So. Uh. You wanna get dinner or something this week and catch up?”
Hermann snorts, and nods.
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arigatouiris · 4 years
Text
an inconvenient crush // kenma kozume x reader (1/2)
Author’s Note: A new story?? SO SOON?? Thank you for all the love for my previous Kuroo story, it meant the world to me. I write for myself primarily, yes, but it brings me SO MUCH JOY to know that my words reach you. It helps with the motivation to put them out more often. Thank you. This story is very close to my heart because I’m a gamer, although I don’t stream. I’m more like Kenma though, personality wise. Haha.
Word count: 5k+
Pairing: YouTuber! Kenma Kozume x Streamer! Reader
Summary: YouTuber Kozume Kenma has had the biggest crush on Twitch Streamer, (s/n) (y/n), who in actuality simps heavily after Kenma's secret YouTube persona, puddinghead0.
What happens when their paths cross?
Kuroo is honestly tired of Kenma's second-guessing, and (y/n) is a bit of a crackhead.
Warnings: unrequited love, one-sided crush, slight angst, pining, crackhead reader, internet bullying, slang, gaming references, haikyuu manga spoilers, fluff
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C h a p t e r O n e : puddinghead0
Kozume Kenma suddenly turned existential when his eyes shifted to his phone screen for the 12th time in ten minutes.
Was he always doing this? Was he always obsessed with his phone to a point where he'd constantly check for notifications? Did this mean he was deeply lonely on the inside and wanted approval from people on a virtual platform, which meant that the approval was also virtual and none of it was real? Did it mean that he craved to nullify the growing void in his chest by distracting himself with a black mirror that showcased light that could permanently impair his sight?
He let out a breath and forced himself not to look at his phone. He didn't care. It didn't matter. That's what he always said.
    "Hey!" His classmate/room-mate screamed from the entrance to his flat, "Are you watching her stream? Posted two minutes ago!"
His phone was definitely slow. He had been checking his phone but there was no notification. Letting out a breath, and giving himself a mental reason to actually check his phone, Kenma opened the notifications tab to see the one notification he had kept his eye out for had been buried under ridiculous facebook notifs.
An inconvenient crush, that's what he told himself whenever he looked at you. You were a streamer, a bit different from what he did on YouTube because you were primarily on Twitch. There were reaction videos of you on YouTube, which was where he found you, but damn—how could one be pretty while rage-quitting a game? It was abnormal. Nothing about you was normal; college student/Twitch streamer, an apparent baker in your mother's bakery, game reviewer for Sony, and you were insanely cute.
    "She's getting to that part," his roommate commented from behind Kenma's back, while Kenma really just wanted to watch the video in peace, "Shit, she's gonna cry."
You did cry, quite a few times, and too easily if he could add. You cried at the ending of God of War, you cried to The Last of Us (which made sense, but you were perhaps just bawling throughout the entire game), you cried in a game called Detroit: Become Human, you cried far too easily, but you never really quit. He loved how passionate you were about games, and it was the sort of passion he could completely understand.
    "Oh shit," You said in the video, your eyes scanning all over the game screen, "What's happening? What's happening?"
Kenma chuckled at how cute you were, god, you were killing him. You looked worried, and he could visibly see a sweat drop on your forehead, but you were so focused that it didn't matter. Suddenly, there was a screaming sound from the game you were playing, and your eyes popped open as wide as they possibly could and you just sat there, unmoving. He loved how you never squealed or made any loud reactions, except when you were in a fight with a difficult boss, but whenever something traumatic happened, you just froze and sunk it all in. You were currently playing the second part of The Last of Us, and a traumatic scene was definitely happening. Kenma had just finished playing it the night before, so every scene you were playing was familiar.
    "I officially hate this game," You said, your voice breaking and he desperately wanted to hold you, "Fucking hell."
    "God, she's amazing." Kenma's roommate said, eyes turning into literal hearts.
    "Hm." Yeah, she is, Kenma thought, but could never really say.
As a YouTuber himself who streams games, he was aware that you were not as popular, and it was a fact that he really didn't like. Sure, you were on a less popular platform, but Twitch was incredibly popular by itself as well. He also understood the bias that came with being a female gamer, and while it sounded ridiculous to him, Kenma was one of those people who believed gaming required no gender.
He adored your content, and he secretly adored the hell out of you, so seeing you soar would only make him happy.
    "I... I can practically feel what pain she's feeling right now," You spoke about the game, a lone tear threatening to leak out of your eye, "But! We shall persevere. I've been waiting 7 years for this game, so I won't let... won't let something like this halt my interest. Let's see if this has a point to it all."
God, he adored you. But, Kenma considered it an inconvenient crush because of course, the world was small. The first big crush he has on someone and he hoped it would remain over the internet, but it just had to become something more tangible, something that could make him weak in the knees.
You, a college student/Twitch streamer, an apparent baker in your mother's bakery, a game reviewer for Sony, insanely cute, and also happened to be one of his YouTube channel's biggest fans.
He had only recently discovered your personal twitter handle, and dear lord, you were simping after him with no remorse. It wasn't as if he was all you talked about, but he had also noticed the trajectory of the games you were playing were on par with his own timeline. Kenma had finished his final stream for The Last of Us II just the night before and you had now started playing it. Right before that, it was Bloodborne, and before that, it was Final Fantasy VII Remake. However, your public handle was a lot more professional and despite knowing that it was there, he hadn't sent you a follow request because well, Kenma called himself an introvert in every matter but Kuroo just said he was shy.
While he knew that he could easily approach you and have you know he knew of your existence, Kenma preferred not to get into such detail. It was comfortable admiring you from afar, and it was comfortable being where he was—he had his company to work hard over, he was also a computer student and a YouTuber. Sure, he had his hands full especially after calling you abnormal for something that he himself was doing, but he never really fit into a bracket anyway. Kenma's latent obsession with you was something he wasn't particularly proud of and this wasn't because it had anything to do with you, but simply because he didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Change, in many ways, scared him. And by changing the structure or dynamics of him admiring you in secret, while you admired him not so secretly, Kenma was certain that it might not lead where he may have wanted it to go.
Surely, Kuroo was against this sort of caution, calling it cowardly and saying it lacked passion; but Kenma knew it was just a crush. There was no way he could deduce the kind of person you were based on how you gamed or reacted to games, based on the little tid-bits of information you gave out while playing those games, or even how you openly spoke about how much you admired 'puddinghead0's videos. Kenma hated Kuroo for giving him that name, but he was too lazy to come up with a new one.
    "Also," You sprung up in the final two minutes of your latest video, "I'm on Patreon, now! I honestly have no idea how it works, but if you really like the content I make and want to support me, you can become a patron and wish me luck!"
Kenma waited for his stupid roommate to go out of his room before he could open Patreon and find your link, which was thankfully in the description. Without a second thought, he donated to your profile but cussed instantly when he realized what he had done.
He had sent you a donation as himself, as 'puddinghead0's Patreon.
Without a second thought, Kenma called Kuroo and explained what had happened.
    "That is why, Kenma, you need to check a thousand times and not let blind love navigate your actions—"
    "If I knew you were going to spout such nonsense I wouldn't have called you."
He could hear Kuroo snicker while he ran a hand through his hair. Kenma groaned before Kuroo said, "How bad is this, Kenma? She'll be happy. Of course, this means she'll know you watch her content, but how bad can this be?"
    "I didn't want her to know."
    "And leave her devoid of the happiness of having her idol appreciate her content? You're cold, Kenma."
    "You don't understand. What if... What if she tries to contact me?"
    "You, my friend, have not even shared your personal account anywhere. The only way she can contact you is by commenting on your videos, which I am sure you check constantly to see if she did comment, or Tweeting, which she does every three days."
Kenma blushed at the accusation because it was true.
    "She won't know who you are. Besides, there's no harm if she even does contact you! Just tell her casually that yeah, you like her contact. I don't see what the big deal is."
    "Of course you don't—"
    "Oh, she's tweeted something."
Kenma's entire body froze. Leaving Kuroo on the call, Kenma opened Twitter on his laptop and there it was, your latest tweet.
I am trying NOT to freak out over puddinghead sending me a donation on Patreon, pls save my soul, I am dead.
Kenma groaned before hearing Kuroo laugh once more, "She's adorable!"
I know that, Kenma thought before feeling his entire face flash up. Ending Kuroo's call, Kenma looked at your public profile before then moving to your personal one. He wasn't following that one either, but he wanted to see your tweets, he wanted to know more about you—he wouldn't deny any of these facts, but Kenma believed it was far too idiotic to dream of getting to know you through a virtual media. He wasn't even the sort of person to become close to people he met in real life, how could he allow himself a virtual friendship?
The thought staggered him, and the idea behind it was what kept him at bay. Kenma wanted to know about you, talk to you, learn about who you were and what you were doing, but he felt the media that connected you was what separated you.
It wasn't cowardice at all if he was just sticking to the facts and being real.
*
The next day, Kenma walked to his class by himself, listening to the latest podcast by Joe Rogan. While the external sound wasn't entirely muted, Kenma could discern sounds of people talking, cars moving around, and other noises even though he was playing the podcast on full sound. However, there was one sound in particular that stood out. Kenma paused before turning to his right, noticing a crowd of people had gathered there, with some sort of event going on. He didn't pay attention to half the events that his college conducted, his mind was obviously quite busy elsewhere, but when the announcer moved around in a weird Joker cosplaying outfit, Kenma was a tad bit intrigued.
Was it gaming related?
He slowly moved toward the crowd before finally being able to hear what the anchor was saying.
    "We've got prizes for the top three best performers, and one of the participants is the one and only (s/n) (y/n), streamer from Twitch!"
Kenma froze, half-minded to run the hell away from there. But, it seemed as if his feet were stuck to the ground. How had he not known this? Didn't you always announce the events you go to? Why were you suddenly here? A second later, he spotted you, hair put up in an updo, a plain black tee, and regular jeans. You were smiling, but some part of that smile seemed a bit hesitant.
    "We will be playing a bit differently today! Instead of the usual Fortnite battles or Apex Legends, we'll be going went and battling out on Red Dead Online! And of course, if you beat (y/n) here you earn bragging rights!"
He noticed you shift in your position a little bit, clearly uncomfortable with the attention you were getting; it didn't even look like you wanted to be there. Kenma could feel his chest hurt, and his palms were sweating now. That's all it is, he told himself. An inconvenient crush, an inconvenient crush, that's all.
Kenma sighed before noticing how he barely knew anyone there and was almost thankful for that fact; but before he could thank his stars, a hand threw itself around his neck and sprung him forward, earning the attention of not just everyone there, but especially you.
    "We have our first participant," It was his goddamn roommate, "Kenma's a brilliant gamer!"
Kenma's eyes immediately found yours, and you were looking at him with wide, confused eyes. Although this was set in the open and the atmosphere was quite cold, Kenma felt nothing but warmth radiating all over his body at the mere sight of you; you were just a few feet away, and you were giving him a rather sympathetic expression, and god, you looked so fucking pretty—
    "That's great! Sign up, ya'll! Winner will be winning a brand new DualShock 4!"
Oh fuck, Kenma thought before he felt his heart beginning to pound. He was now seated beside you, and he could practically shrink into non-existence. You were unmoving, and you weren't looking at him, but would you have looked at him if you knew he was puddinghead? Insecurity swarmed his being and he could practically feel steam escaping his ears but a moment later, he thought he'd die.
    "This was so last minute," you said, rubbing the back of your neck, "The anchor's my cousin and she's so demanding."
    "Oh," Kenma said, feeling his heartbeat skyrocket, "I see."
    "Yeah! I mean," You giggled now, "I'm not even good at Red Dead Online!"
Kenma smirked, knowing the fact already. You struggled with Red Dead Redemption not because you were bad, but because you couldn't progress with a plot so divisive. You wanted to explore more, and since the game was so vast, you barely bothered with the Online version. You turned to him now and tilted your head.
    "You're a gamer, I heard? Kozume-kun, right?"
Fuck, she knows my name, "Y-Yeah. I game when I'm free."
    "Do you have a Twitch or YouTube?"
There's no fucking way I'll answer that, "No—"
    "Ah, you must really be having a great time then."
Kenma blinked before turning to you with confusion. What did you mean?
    "Don't you enjoy streaming?"
    "Ah, no, no," You flailed your hands shyly, and Kenma believed he could combust, "It's not like that. I just think, after a point, streaming becomes more for the fans than for yourself. I used to do it for me, but now... I'm needed in places like this for promotion, and I need to have a Patreon if I'm popular or it'll look weird, I don't know... Too many restrictions. I just love gaming, you know?"
Kenma found himself smiling, "Yeah, I know. I've seen your videos."
    "Oh?"
Kenma's eyes widened. He wanted to slap himself on his forehead.
    "I—I mean, y-you're popular."
    "Thanks! You're really sweet, Kozume-kun!"
Fucking hell, Kenma placed a hand on his forehead, She's too cute.
    "Say," you said, a sly tone to your voice, "Do you want to get out of here?"
    "I'd do anything." Kenma honestly agreed.
But, you couldn't just up and leave. You were called here as Twitch streamer (s/n) (y/n), and that meant your behavior was restricted. As much as you seemed to hate said restriction, Kenma was certain that you wouldn't go against it. It could take a big blow against your viewership, and you wouldn't take that chance.
A second later, your hand gripped his wrist before you shot him a wink. Kenma's heart jumped to the skies before you pulled him away from the crowd, with participants lining the entrance to enter their names. Sure, you were doing something bad—your cousin wanted you there, but not once had she even asked if you wanted to be a part of this event. Just as Kenma was pulled in without his consent. You weren't a competitive gamer, and you were not going to be, even if it was for someone else. After running away a fair distance, Kenma felt the part of his wrist burn right where you were touching him.
    "I think I need to run more in real life and not just as Ellie." You said, and Kenma chuckled.
    "Running's good."
    "I used to run track," You said, turning to him. "Now I run in games and that's it."
You have no right being that cute, he thought before clearing his throat. He slowly pulled away from you, which made your eyes widen before shooting him an apologetic smile. He was a bit confused as to what you had done, did this mean you didn't care about losing followers?
    "You might think that I've committed career suicide," You scoffed, "Honestly, this is the bravest I've been in so long."
    "What do you mean?"
You shrugged, "Ever since I became a bit popular by streaming, I've just... I could feel myself change with the way my viewers wanted me to be? I don't blame them or anything, I just think that the love I get from them makes me yearn for more. And that yearning leaves me... inept to be myself. It's the downside of wanting to remain popular, I guess."
    "It's not like you can't be yourself and still be popular." Kenma added.
    "Yeah I know," You said, "I mean, just look at puddinghead0, we don't even know what he looks like, and wow. I adore his content."
Kenma froze once more. Was this being recorded? Did Kuroo finally tip you off and was this being filmed for his reaction? Whatever it was, he wasn't going to reveal to you now.
    "Y-Yeah, I think he just doesn't care."
    "I wish I was more like that because I end up caring. I like the comments and the views and the love. Agh, it's such a weird complex moral question. Don't even get me started."
Kenma laughed at your reaction before you turned to him and stuck a tongue out. Kenma rolled his eyes before waving a hand at you.
    "If anything," Kenma said, looking at the ground, "You didn't lose this follower today."
Your eyes widened at his statement. You smiled before nodding, and let out a chuckle.
    "Thank you, Kozume-kun."
*
Locking the door to his room, Kenma began to edit for his latest video. He was making a review for The Last of Us 2, but his mind was elsewhere. He still hadn't told Kuroo that he had met you, which would only cause the black-haired man to tease him relentlessly. Letting out a sigh, he felt sleep douse his eyelids as he continued the edit, right before a notification popped up on his phone.
It was you.
He narrowed his eyes before checking the date and time; it was unusual for you to stream live on random days. He'd learned your pattern by now. You'd been doing this for a couple of months, and it was quite easy for him to know just when and what time you'd begin. However, the screen for The Last of Us 2 was open and you looked like you had just stopped crying. His heart broke at the sight, and he instantly closed the tabs to his own edit, before opening your video on his monitor. You were taking deep breaths before chuckling.
    "Hello to everyone that's still with me," You sounded so broken, Kenma felt helpless as he continued staring at you, "You might be wondering why I'm... yeah. So, I did something and I guess I got punished for it? I was forced into a game contest and I think walking out of it made some of my followers mad. I even spoke to this other person about walking out and honestly, it didn't hit me then that what puddinghead's doing takes a lot of courage."
    "Ah, fuck, (y/n)," Kenma groaned.
    "I guess even when I expected to lose followers, I didn't expect the hate? Some of the comments were just... nasty. I..." You sniffed, "...I didn't expect that you would hate on someone for making a personal choice? And I didn't do it to offend anyone, I seriously don't know how the internet works. Oh, oh wow—" You looked troubled and Kenma could see why. "—losing out on viewers now, great. 'Don't be a whiny bitch', 'This is why girls shouldn't game'..."
You took a deep breath before calming down and saying the few words Kenma feared you might eventually come around to say.
    "This is (y/n), signing off to a world where gaming is appreciated and is not filled with a community of hate. Hope to see you there."
And the stream ended.
Kenma sighed before leaning back, no thought in his head. He knew for a fact that his room-mate must have seen the stream as well, and Kuroo would be calling him about the entire ordeal just to ensure he had something to say about it. Kenma, on the other hand, felt like he had practically pushed you to make this decision and partly felt like taking the blame, despite the common sense telling him that he had nothing to do with it. You weren't the sort of person who would jump at something without a second thought, and even if he didn't know you personally, he had been following you and your streams for months now. It felt like he knew that part of you quite well.
Kuroo was the first to call. Kenma stared at the phone for a bit before letting out a breath and getting back to editing his video. He only had to add commentary, and his mind was already circling on what to say.
Uploading the video took him exactly two more hours, after having missed three calls from Kuroo and twelve messages. At one point, Kuroo had even stopped contacting Kenma, thinking he was busy with something, and he was spot on. Kuroo's eyes wandered on the new notification about his friend's YouTube channel, which was weird considering it was not yet time for him to post something. He knew quite well that Kenma might have definitely seen (y/n)'s stream, and wanted to desperately talk to him about it, but without a clue of what the boy was thinking, Kuroo simply clicked on the notification and let the video play out.
It was the review for the game, The Last of Us 2, and Kuroo knew while giving the review, which was around 8-9 minutes, Kenma would speak his thoughts that were a tad bit uncensored toward the end. He'd talk about the drama surrounding the game, he would even bring up the entire hate that this game was receiving, but instead—Kenma had a rather strange dialogue instead.
    "One thing I don't understand is how toxic the gaming community can be, at times," Kuroo paused, narrowing his eyes at his friend's words, "While we welcome new gamers to the entire journey of learning and discovering the joy of gaming, we also tend to put them down if they didn't adhere to a certain trend. I came across one such incident happening to (s/n) (y/n)'s Twitch channel."
    "Holy shit!" Kuroo sat up straight, eyes wide as saucers at the bold move his friend made.
    "I'm part of this community and I think I have the right to call out how toxic we are in general," 
Kenma's voice didn't even waver, but after knowing him his entire life, Kuroo could deduce that the boy was a bit angry, 
"(y/n) didn't particularly do anything wrong, and she's received some nasty comments about being a female gamer, and I think that's...just disgusting. She has all the right to either attend or ditch a gaming event, and no one has to be forced to do something they don't want to do. We all have games we don't like despite being gamers, we don't have to do it all. I support (y/n), and I'll admit, I'm saddened by how her fans have treated her. Her content is great and I have immense respect for her. I hope she decides to come back and stream more. That being said, I think The Last of Us 2 is..."
As he got around to talk more about the game, Kuroo knew that this was a huge step for Kenma, and he had no idea what suddenly made the boy rethink his entire decision on never bringing her up. Now that he had, he's indirectly initiated a conversation with her, she'd definitely try and reach out now—in any way she possibly could, just to thank him at least.
Kuroo noticed his phone ringing a second later and a grin made its way to his lips.
    "What just happened?"
    "I met her, Kuroo," Kuroo almost had the wind knocked out of him, "She was at my college campus. I was walking back to my room since classes were canceled. There was some sort of gaming event. She didn't want to be a part of it, and neither did I, and we ditched. It was—"
    "You like her more now, don't you?"
When Kuroo received nothing more than silence from Kenma's end, he was certain. His precious, introverted, best boy had fallen for someone. It was a proud moment, almost.
    "You have to tell her—"
    "Kuroo, this... this is all I want to do."
    "That's bullshit, and even you know that."
    "What? You want me to open up to her and tell her I'm the YouTuber she's been gushing about for so long and I was the one who kind of pushed her into doing what she did, and so that she can hate me afterward for hiding the truth because I wouldn't be losing out on anything and she—"
    "Whoa there, Kenma. I'm just saying go talk to her as her favorite YouTuber. You're overthinking this."
    "No, you're underthinking this. I did what I had to do. It was... hard to see her like that."
Kuroo let out a sigh but before he could say anything, Kenma had already ended the call. That boy needs to grow a pair, he thought, a bit annoyed at Kenma's nature of avoiding his feelings. While Kenma believed it was for the best, he knew he was simply running away from it. Kuroo knew his friend adored (y/n), but the boy couldn't categorize that as real feelings because he's met her just once. Finding something real virtually scared him more than finding something real in real life, and while Kuroo wanted to understand that, it only annoyed him because Kenma wasn't even trying.
When you watched puddinghead0's recent video, you were jaw-dropped in awe and absolute admiration. Tears filled your eyes, but what was more was how his voice now seemed a tad bit familiar, though you didn't pay any heed to it since you've been following this channel for an entire year now. It moved you to know someone you've been admiring has been watching your content, but at the same time, he was speaking up for you? You wanted to thank him, you wanted to send him a message and say you were incredibly grateful for what he's done and the only way you knew you could say something was on Twitter.
So you mentioned him on a tweet and poured your heart out within character limit. You wondered if he would notice your tweet since you've mentioned him countless times before, but even if he didn't, even if he paid you no heed after all of this, you were still grateful. However, a second later, you received a new follower. You blinked upon noticing that it was Kozume-kun from the other day. A soft smile fell on your lips at the soft recollection of running away from a gaming event, after which everything spiraled, but you didn't in any way blame him. Your mind again drifted back to puddinghead0 and you sighed.
I'd kill to see him, man, you thought, eyeing your tweet of him dreamily.
A second later, there was a notification. You almost spat out your heart at the mere words: puddinghead0 likes your tweet.
puddinghead0 likes your tweet.
puddinghead0 likes your tweet.
    "Oh my god—" You choked on air. However, a second later, you found it difficult to remain sitting on your bed.
Don't thank me, I hope you're feeling better. You didn't deserve any of that.
Is that a—
...deserve any of that. <3
Fuck me.
Kenma almost dozed off in class right before it ended. It wasn't like it was school where the teacher would wake him up after noticing him asleep, no one really bothered. Kenma was pushed awake by the momentum of the class once it was over and he leaned back before gathering his things. Tightening his hair tie, he casually walked out of class and got to the campus. He spotted the event area, where the gaming event had occurred and instantly spotted his room-mate and a bunch of people gathered there. Rolling his eyes, he walked away from there, not wanting to gather any attention.
    "Kenma!"
He had failed. Kenma froze to his spot before turning to spot his room-mate dashing over to him, a wide grin plastered on his features. Wrapping a hand over Kenma's shoulders, his roommate brought him to the others he was talking to, before releasing him.
    "You're that guy (y/n) ran away with during that event, right?" One of them asked, and Kenma didn't bother to respond.
    "Why did she run though? I mean, it doesn't make sense for her to just up and leave."
    "I've been telling you," The same guy said, "She's not the one playing those games. She's just the face."
Kenma frowned. What is this dick talking about?
    "Man, I think that's harsh," His roommate said, "I just think she's too chicken to play in front of people—"
    "She's literally a streamer." Kenma said, rolling his eyes.
    "Yeah, but why did she—"
    "If you can't understand that she doesn't owe you shit, then there's no helping it. She didn't want to play at that event, and she didn't. I don't see why you aren't calling me a fake gamer for running too." Kenma snapped.
The others shrugged, "That's because we've seen you play—"
    "It's bullshit." Kenma said before walking away. You all are bullshit, he thought before the frown on his face settled into an uncharacteristic glare, directed at what who knows what.
A moment later, he felt his phone buzz with a notification. Kenma opened his phone and saw that he had a message from you, but what confused him was—
The message was directed to Kenma and not puddinghead. His heart jumped as his fingers roamed over the notification, wanting to open it only when he was in the comfortable confines of his room. Swallowing the bubbling anxiety, Kenma fought the urge to smile as he continued walking back, unaware of what the Twitter message could be. It would normally take him around 12 minutes to get to his apartment from campus, but that day, Kenma merely took 7.
On reaching his room, he finally allowed himself to open your message.
(y/n): Hey! I've taken a break from streaming for now, just wanted to let you know. I don't know why I'm sending you this message, but talking to you that day made me realize that I don't really need to seek approval constantly. Also, puddinghead liked my tweet and I'm a bit too happy so I needed to gush, don't @ me
Kenma chuckled, feeling his heart jump at every word you'd said. He knew you didn't realize that you were gushing about him to him, but that didn't matter. He wanted to gush about you too. He felt a stone stuck at his throat at how real all of this felt, despite having only seen you once.
Kenma Kozume: I think he's the sort of guy who isn't too loud about the things he likes. And I think a break is a good idea, (s/n).
(y/n): Call me (y/n), came the immediate response. Kenma's eyes widened at the fact that you were online, and that the two of you were currently exchanging messages live.
(y/n): Yeah, I got the feeling from his videos that he's perhaps a private person. I'm still really glad that he supported me, I can't thank him enough. I'm feeling much better already!
Kenma smiled, I'm glad that you are.
(y/n): Also
He blinked.
(y/n): Do you want to co-op at Bloodborne? I'm trying to get a platinum, haha.
    "Fuck," He let out a breath before chuckling uncharacteristically. "You can't be serious."
(y/n): I'll send you my PSN, and you can add me as a party member. Only if you're up to it, I mean.
Kenma Kozume: Sure, sounds like fun. Also
Kenma gulped. He felt like this was showing off, but he didn't care. He was going to say it.
Kenma Kozume: I already have platinum in Bloodborne. :)
(y/n): Ah, screw you.
Kenma chuckled. He wouldn't admit it, but his heart was hammering against his chest and his palms were sweating. Soon, he'd be connected to you via the DualShock and the two of you would be co-oping in a game that was designed to make players fail. He wasn't too sure how much more his heart was going to take, and while he knew he had to tell someone, for some reason, Kenma wanted to keep this a secret. It wasn't because he was ashamed or he didn't want anyone to find out.
It was simply because it was too good to be true, and he didn't want to lose out on a chance to get to know you more. Because, if this kept up...
If this kept up, Kenma was surely going to fall in love with you.
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im-like-if-a-girl · 3 years
Text
*THE* mean-girl-dean-girl's Supernatural reboot MEGAPOST!
I'm gonna stick a little "keeping reading" here because hoooooo boy, this is a very long post.
Let's start with
Plot
Season 1
Dean kills John while they are out on a hunt in a crime of passion, but Dean doesn't remember because he blacked out. Cue Dean going to Stanford to get Sam and tell him "Dad's on a hunting trip... and he hasn't been home in a couple days."
The audience doesn't know what happened to John, but slowly figures it out with Dean and Sam as Dean slowly remembers what happened that night.
The entire first season, the boys are following the trail John left and fighting monsters as well. They find out Dean was with John, Sam realizes Dean has an unreliable memory, they have heart to hearts about their childhood and the fire, they find John's body, "how could you kill Dad?" but maybe Dean didn't kill dad, whooaaaaaa, misdirection.
It was actually good ole yeller eyes (Azazel) and he made it look like Dean killed John.
Okay, now let's move on to the first episode
Not sure how the opening would work, I would like the story of the fire to be revealed over the course of the first season, but maybe the opening scene could be a little bit of an establishing character relationships and backstory, idk, I haven't thought that far yet.
I'm thinking maybe it's like, Dean gets back to a motel room covered in blood and he listens to a voicemail on his phone from John saying he was on a hunt or something, I don't really know lol.
HOWEVER
I do know that after the intro rolls, we get a scene of Sam waking up to his alarm and "Nine to Five" by Dolly Parton starts playing.
Y'all know where this is going.
Cue a montage of Sam's normal Stanford college life (him sitting through lectures, walking through the campus with friends) spliced with scenes of Dean absolutely slaughtering a nest of vampires (or some other monsters, whatever works best.)
But
Now onto
Characters!!! (And descriptions)
Dean Winchester
Some lovely person on this site made edits of Dean with platinum blond hair and it made me feel some kind of way so we're doing that, homie's gonna have platinum blond hair
Side note about the hair, later when the brothers are running from the FBI he dyes it a dirty blond/light brown (insert jackles hair color controversy here) as a disguise.
He also gets tattoos because we were robbed.
Speaking of tattoos, concept: when Dean comes back from Hell, all of his tattoos are gone. His body is a clean slate, devoid of tattoos, scars, etc. So he gets his tattoos done all over again, which he doesn't mind because he made some bad, drunk tattoo decisions in his youth.
(And before you ask, yes, he does get one for Cas, either a bee or Cas's name in enochian, something cute.)
Dean goes to therapy after Sam gets sent to the Cage.
It's actually court mandated because he got in trouble, lol, he would never go to therapy on his own.
Along with the hair, Dean gets to be the grade A twunk we all know he is.
Sam Winchester
His hair gets longer in every scene he's in
No jk, but imagine
King of Microaggressions
Sam starts off like the sweetheart he is in season 1 but in later seasons he starts enjoying killing a little too much...
It's that demon blood, ba-by!!!
He brings up issues of morality to Dean, i.e. killing monsters who aren't hurting anyone. (Yes I know this is contradictory to my previous statement, but these two facets of Sam can and will coexist.)
Sam and Jess's relationship is explored further, meaning we'll need to start with a different inciting incident, but that's fine, I think everyone can agree fridgings are *(thumbs down)*
Sam doesn't truly know what happened the night of the fire until later, and then he understands why Dean is so protective of him.
Jess
She gets to live beyond the first episode
She is also trans
No, I don't feel like I have to explain myself and I won't 💜
She urges Sam to join Dean in a search for their brother, kind of gets pulled into the hunter lifestyle by association lol.
She dies on a rusty nail after fighting vampires on a routine hunt with Sam
No jk!!!
But imagine....
She's amazing and I love her and Lucifer also uses her as leverage against Sam and possesses her because I think that'd be cool.
She supports Sam 100% and also she and Dean are buddies, pals if you will.
She meets Cas Thee El and immediately she Knows, that is a homosexual.
She dies still so that we can have a Saileen Endgame but she's not dying the first episode or in a fridging. Not on my watch.
Castiel
He gets to keep his raw, light-fixture-exploding power.
I want more of that "I pulled you out of hell, I can throw you back in" energy except over dumb shit like Dean not cleaning up after himself.
He looks like a Dilf in every scene he's in, yeah, that's right, dilf with a capital D for *(GUNSHOTS)* *(gets sent to horny jail)*
Claire
She gets pink hair
And more time with Cas
And maybe a nose piercing
Feel like she should be able to kill a couple angels onscreen, punch a couple homophobes
She gets to meet Jack and teaches him swears and fun slang words.
She deserves it.
Jack
I says "that's my baby and I'm proud."
Jack starts off as a baby, but like Amara he grows up super quickly.
Like, baby to 11 year old in a couple days or less.
This is because Jack's emotional age on the show is on par with that of a 5th grader.
It's at this point when he's a young kid that he runs away from the Bunker and shenanigans ensue.
It's also at this point that Dean threatens to k*ll him.
(Still not sure if I want that in my Supernatural (threatened infanticide? In my Supernatural? It's more likely than you think) but we'll see. We'll see.)
Throughout a majority of season 13, Jack is like an 11 y.o. kid
Season 14 he's like a 16 y.o. teenager
Season 15 he's 21, you get the picture.
Listen, I love Alex Calvert a lot. He's great.
But Jack is a child and should be a child.
Kelly Kline
Kelly, baby, stay right where you are, you're perfect.
Eileen
SHE DOESN'T DIE
SHE GETS TO BE IN THE FINALE BECAUSE SHE'S AMAZING AND I LOVE HER.
BLURRY WIFE WHO? I ONLY KNOW SAILEEN ENDGAME!
She teaches Claire and Jack swears in sign-language. Castiel is not impressed.
John
J*hn W*nchester stans, DNI.
He's dead.
We only see him in flashbacks and only sometimes hear his voice in voice overs.
He's not "down the road" from Dean in Heaven, in fact he instead gets to wander around in some Purgatory like Hell for the rest of his time :)
People who get to say "fuck" on the show:
Cas (but only Once)
Jody
Bobby
Now onto other things
I want more of
Ghostfacers
(they need more screentime because I love them)
Dean/Benny
We know they had a thing.
They definitely had a thing.
Demon Dean
Again, I feel like more should've been done with this. All that build up for what, 2 episodes? was not utilized well at all.
Dean's Bisexuality
Straight Dean truthers DNI, my Supernatural is a show about love and being true to yourself
You think Supernatural is a show about 2 straight brothers fighting monsters?
Naw bitch, this is a show about the Gay Experience
He will get to have relations with men on this show.
Of course, only after John dies does he, y'know, display it. Maybe he kisses Cas on his dad's grave just to fuck John over, make him roll in grave.
We all agree John would be/is a homophobe piece of shit, right?
Okay, glad we're on the same page.
Dads
3 men and a baby with Jack is what I'm saying.
I love it when the Trio are father-figures to younger troubled characters they see themselves in, even better if it's like reluctant-but-loving father figure, oh, that trope gets me every time :'^)
Dadstiel and DadDean are my favorites, but I like it when Sam plays "Uncle Sam" to kids too lol.
"Fellas, is it gay to want a tight knit family with your husband, his son, his vessel's daughter, your brother, his wife, your cop mother figure and her wife and their adopted daughters? Asking for a friend."
Garth
Biggest flaw of Supernatural was underutilizing Garth.
I will never not be bitter that Garth was only in like, 7 episodes out of the whole 15 season series.
Every episode with Garth gets immediately 5 times better.
I love Garth.
Follow ups on characters who had entire episodes featured around them and then just... vanished???
This is mostly about Jesse, the magic kid whose imagination ruled an entire town like, his daddy was a demon and nothing came of that kid??? Only one episode about him?? No follow up???
KID CAN MANIPULATE REALITY AND WE'RE NOT GONNA GET A FOLLOW UP ON THAT?????
Uh, there was that one episode with Ennis the guy whose girlfriend was killed by a monster? I think?? Who we never see again, that was weird.
Tamara from season 3, episode 1.
And of course-
Cassie
She was so cool, and then we never saw her again :////
She gets to be a badass.
Religious imagery
As a former Catholic school student who has become for the most part, disillusioned with religion, religious imagery in TV shows like Supernatural make my brain go "brrrrrr."
Fun episodes!!!
Like, after season 6 or so, there's a drop in funny episodes
I'm talking Changing Channels, The French Mistake type stuff. (Scoobynatural is an outlier and should not be counted.)
So anyway
In my version we would have more fun episodes
I'm thinking
GENDER-SWAP EPISODE, BABY!!
(why they didn't do that in the original, we'll never know.)
An episode where Dean gets to wear eyeliner
That's it, end of post.
I want less
Racism
Yeah I feel like this is self explanatory, nearly every reoccurring character in SPN is white, and black side characters normally die in the episode they first appear in, or they'll be featured as a villain (Uriel, Raphael, Billie, etc)
Also there's a lot of... uh... asian fetishism featured in the show (what with "Busty Asian Beauties) that's really gross, also Kevin was a bit of a stereotype...
Also also it's super yucky how they kill the gods from other religions like???? Uh??? That's super disrespectful, let's not do that????
I know Supernatural is like, inherently racist because monsters are a separate race that are seen as some dangerous "other" that must be eradicated by hunters in a form of genocide-
Okay we won't get into that but
Still
Stop killing all your POC
Fridgings/Unecessary murders of female characters
I know Supernatural starts with a fridging, so this will be a hard thing to remedy, but
One death that really pissed me off was the death of Charlie
Yeah, that was pointless and we're not doing that. Charlie gets to live and be an awesome aunt to Jack.
And also Claire
Charlie Bradbury Superiority
Charlie and Garth get to meet because they're nerd/geek solidarity.
British Men of Letters
I fucking hate these guys
They're "litcherally" the worst.
The worst part is that the actors they have playing the British AREN'T. EVEN. BRITISH.
And you can tell
Uh, and that's all for now, I'll add more later.
tag list for people who liked my "if this post gets one like I'll post my SPN reboot masterpost" post.
@darianyunidi @sarasidlesaid @crazybananaalpaca @playfulpanthress @ultfreakme @fififeelsmellow @heller-char @luna8eaton @princessmeganfire @insanebot109 @queenofnightsnow @mongoose-underthehouse
Thank you for the support, hope the wait was worth it.
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katsuflossy · 4 years
Text
For the Sake of the Mission
Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x reader
TW: obscenities, slight sexual scene, angst
Word Count: 2.3k
Taglist: @sunset-novice-writer @goatsenpaiultimate
A/n: I’ve decided to change it from 18+ because it really isn’t just please use descretion as there are uncomfortable scenes. Asides from that I’ve gotten this idea from some British show my mom was watching so props to y’all who’ll now the reference. Please enjoy!! (Edited)
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The whirring of the vents took advantage of the silence in the room, making up most of the sounds in the metal chamber. It made the air cold, scattering goosebumps on your skin even though around you wore a black sweater. Walls showed no sign festivity, bare of any creative artworks, just reflective of where you currently are. A face devoid of any emotions looked back at you, but even without proper clarity you knew the purpose of the reflection; it wasn’t a giant metaphor to reflect on your mistakes and crimes nor was it supposed to be calming. Its purpose was to make sure you had nothing else left to blame. The only blame was to lay you and your “confessions”.
The interrogation room was like a confessional that didn’t allow you to come back from mistakes.
The contact of soft yet pointed footsteps on the tiles of the floor now dominated the mechanical drone of the vents. Like a sly fox purposefully tapping around its prey as a taunt. Your heart never raced harder before this scenario. Getting caught in the middle of a police raid will definitely pull you into more trouble than you are already in.Your eyes switched from the wall to the ominous black window in front of you. You can’t see them but they can see you. Hell, you don’t even know who is behind that window, gauging your entire reaction at this moment. But that wasn’t what struck your heart in fear.
The footsteps could be heard behind your seated figure. Its dynamic raised louder, practically echoing through the vacuum of a room. You swallowed with much tension as the knob turned, breaking the new presence in the room.
You wondered who it was and prayed it was a low ranking police man. If it was Naomasa, Kenji or any other high ranking officers, your cover would be blown and two sides would place, on your head, a hefty bounty, dead or alive.
Black boots stepped across your vision as you peered on to your own attire, crinkled and worn from the activities you were caught in. The whirring dominated the room again as he laid on the wall, one leg used to support his weight. Your eyes finally connected to his face.
“I spoke at your funeral, you know that right?” You stared blankly into his face. Aizawa wasn’t deterred from your deadpanned face however.
“Imagine making a eulogy for someone you care so much about, believing for 3 months they have died only to have her right in front of you again—” He moved to the chair on his side of the room, “not saying a word to you. Like it has just been a bad dream.”
You kept your tongue on a leash. Your gaze went to the window and back to the hero. He sighed in discontent before placing his hand on the recorder, lifting it up to show the lack of light on the device.
“The recorder is off and there’s no one behind there. So your words stay with me.” You sighed in relief however the situation now seemed more tortuous than what you were fearing.
“I know.” Your voice breaks in soft waves to Aizawa’s ears which croned to get more. After all, he went from listening to you everyday to straight radio silence. There was no explanation or your ‘death’ and disappearance and he had endured the worst. But now he has a chance to find answers.
“I did some little digging,” your head whipped back to his own as he went on, “the most I’ve found was a covert special ops able to infiltrate the League with only two members. One uses death to gain the respect of the league members in order to join their ranks and get a bulk of the information while the other stays on the side of the heroes. I’m assuming the former is you and the latter—“
“How did you get that information! You’re sleuthing around could ruin the whole mis—“
“You were dead.” His words ran echoes through your ears and sent chills down your spine, not in the ways that it used to. In three words his raw emotions shook you to your core and shook your trained mind. It seeped in back the old memories that had been blocked out for the sake of your profession.
“The latter, they’re keeping airtight, I’m assuming only the high members of the Commision have that intel.”
Panic began to whirl around you. If Aizawa had been able to collect such intel on you, others would too. And those ‘others’ are willing to go to any lengths necessary to find that information at the sniff of betrayal. Aizawa sat back and drank in your appearance. Your hair grew in the short but torturous span of 3 months and your skin accepted more battle scars. You should be seen as disheveled, crooked and less attractive but Aizawa thought you were the most beautiful person he’s seen in the past months.
“If you worry about your espionage being revealed, don’t. I used Shinso’s brainwashing quirk to get one of those Commission heads to confess.” Your eyes widened at his honesty.
“Shouta! You can get yourself prosecuted for that!” His eyes glared straight into your own as he scowled further.
“And the same goes for you. How many years do you think you’ll get for faking death and joining Japan’s most notorious villains.” As taken aback you were, you chose to defend yourself.
“It’s my job. You know well if I didn’t obey the Commission’s wishes then I would face even more serious consequences.” You paused your speech, abruptly realising how much anger you had concurred in such a short time with the League, something that should’ve never happened in the first place. You took a deep inhale of air.
“I had to do it for us. I did it for those kids. At the very most, I did it for the citizens of this country.”
His heart and mind were at their final battle. He thought about this reunion nearly everyday and how he would approach you. One route depicted his lashing out at you, the anger bursting through the mask of hurt. On the other route, he pulled you in a tight embrace, hands roaming all over your body to ensure you were in fact real. Now that his manifestations became reality, he couldn’t choose. The concealed pain in your eyes held up a black window like the one on the other side of the room. Only thing was that he was the only one able to see you, the real you.
What did the Commission drag you into? What have you seen?
His heart softened, sending him back to those free late nights, laying on each other watching stand up comedy with a bottle of liquor. You were just bubbly, cracking jokes that rivaled those of the comedian.
His hardened shell finally broke. He let out an airy laugh.
“To think that saving humanity would let us lose the ones we feel human around.” You hummed in dreadful agreement, stripping down a little of your wall as well.
“Indeed, I miss being able to walk outside fearless of any attack from the police or other villains.”
Your words made you sound like a true villain, but he knows you, your way of talking, your body language, your love language.
He leaned back in the chair, letting his back lay against the cold metal as you did the same, making yourselves comfortable as much as you can.
“Tell me. What have you been doing in the last three months?”
You began retelling your life as a spy in the League, how Shirigaki didn’t introduce himself to you until after the first month and the personalities of each villain. You made sure to redact certain information for the fear of roping Aizawa into the same situation they have forced you into, until you blurted out your recent command.
“The last drop off I’ve had they told me I wasn’t close to unfolding the master plans despite leaking various missions that could’ve led to disaster. I had to get close to the members, bond through hobbies, be their entertainer— shit those bastards said to use my womanhood to—“ Aizawa’s eye widened at your slip up, after noticing how careful you were selecting your words. You cleared your throat, heart beating at the speed of light.
“—basically just get buddy buddy with someone.”
“No, that was not what you were going to say. Finish your sentence.”
Your throat was suddenly dry as you tried to swallow down your fear. You took a second in attempting to gather yourself before responding.
“Shouta, I just said they want me to make a friend with one of them—“
“That was not what you were going to say—“
“Well that’s confidential Shouta—“
“I believe I should know when my girlfriend is forced to seduce one of the League’s members.”
You kept your mouth shut, allowing the vents, attempting to blow the tension out of the air, make up for your silence. Shouta stayed still, only moving he exhaled with shaking, tense shoulders, like a volcano ready to erupt.
“Which one is it?” His words came out with a sense of danger, a warning of eruption. You chose to stay silent.
“Shigarki Tomura?” You were silent.
“Dabi?” You were silent.
“Mr. Compress?” Your eyes darted to the side, in an attempt to avoid him from looking into your eyes. But he knew the answer already.
“Fucking shit!” He stood from his seat, a screech emitting through the air before he placed his hands on the table, calming himself down. His anger begged to throw the chair, break the table, punch the walls however he knew the outcome of that route. Many officers would rush in after the commotion before arresting you on sight.
So he breathed, he breathed until the thick humidity of anger evaporated off of his body.
Meanwhile you sat down, guilt gnawing at your heart without hesitation. Your eyes darted to the cameras, one at the corner of the room behind your back and the other on the table, turned off from seeing the look of despair in your eyes.
Your mind went back to the scene before the police raid. Atsuhiro’s hand gently holding your neck as the other laid on your hip. His body firmly pressed against yours, letting you feel the hard bulge on your lower back. He skimmed your ear, calling you a “pretty flower” before zipping down the dress from your back. The dress they bought for you. Just as he was about to kiss you, the police broke down the door of the hideout you were stationed in. Astuhiro escaped and you, along with the little lowlife villains, were the sacrifice.
Your head hung low, shame clouded your thoughts. You couldn’t even look him within the eyes and Shouta saw that. His heart hurt for you like how yours were hurting for him. He slumped his shoulders and let out a sigh. There may be another route he had to choose in order for a better reunion.
“I would’ve never fathom a situation like this. I don’t want you to do this and just the thought of another man touching you makes my blood boil.” You flinched at the harshness in his tone.
“But for the sake of our lives. Do what you need to do.” You snapped your head up to his face, confusion set on your features as he continued.
“It hurts me, like how it hurts you. And judging by your reaction, I know you don’t want to do this also. But if it is my feeling you are trying to protect, don’t, because I know you’ll come back to me at the end of this.”
Within this safe space Aizawa made, you cried. You cried for the first time in the last two months before being a part of the elite League members. The feeling of being human was brought to the forefront of your mind, showing the (Y/n) has known from before. His own eyes stinging from the tears on his waterline.
“Hey.” He lifted your chin to look at your face.
“Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Your cheeks dewy from your tears and your lips red from the blood rushing to your face.
“I will come back to you. I promise.” The corner of his lips lifted up in a bittersweet smile. He let go of your chin to walk towards the door.
“I’ll try to delete that tape from the camera, when I walk down the hall to the right, take the fire escape down the left. Okay?”
“Okay.” Your eyes looked at the camera’s peripheral vision, noticing it didn’t have a view on the front of the door.
In a haste you turned around and ran towards the pro-hero. As soon as he turned around, your fingers entangled in the strands of his hair, pulling down his head to mold your lips with his. A passionate tango of tongues danced within your maw, recollecting the feeling of old times. It wasn’t a goodbye; it was a promise. You both know it.
As your lips parted from his, you wrapped your arms around him, spanning the broadness of his back, and laying your chin on his shoulder. He embraced you with the same tightness. You whispered in his ear.
“For the sake of the mission?”
“For the sake of the mission.”
You released him and stepped back into the door frame, remaking the space you’ve left from three months ago. This time, a sense of hope will pull you through as you complete your mission. And an anchor will keep you grounded to the ones you loved, and not to the villains reaping your empathy.
As he turned to the down the right hall, his eyes met yours before disappearing past the corner. Your training kicked in, both physical and mental, and you ran down the hall to the left.
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kaaytea · 3 years
Note
Can we have some angst of Amiko and Miyuki
Pride Over Probity
A/n: I've been wanting to write this scene for a LONG time and I finally had a reason to!!
KDAU Navi
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"Show me"
Miyuki turned his attention away from his phone, Amiko was glaring at him from the entrance of his dorm. She wasn't even fully in the room yet but the catcher could feel the irritation rolling off his girlfriend in hot waves.
Amiko roughly shut the door behind her and stood with her arms crossed in the middle of the room. It's a good thing Miyuki's roommates weren't here, otherwise, they would be booking it out of the dorm with their tails between their legs. Amiko was generally a level-headed person and the team knew this, but every once and a while there's something that just strikes a fire in her.
"What's wrong Miko-chan," Miyuki spun his chair to face her, a smirk playing on his lips, "Sawamura hit you with a bat again?"
Miyuki snickered at his comment but was cut off by Amiko gliding towards him, her eyes burning into his. It felt like the girl was searching through his soul, reaching into his mind and secrets.
She was looking for something.
The cheeky look in Miyuki's eyes wavered as she stared him down. Fear started to bubble in his stomach, a seed of anxiety planted in his mind started to infest his thoughts. The weight of a particular secret anchored his heart, sinking more and more as the Kataoka studied him.
"Don't you dare try to change the subject, Miyuki."
Miyuki. 
She called him Miyuki, not even Kazuya. An involuntary chill ran through his blood as he watched Amiko.
"Miko-"
"Stand up," she ordered.
Begrudgingly Miyuki stood from his chair, carefully masking his expression as pain shot through his side. He already knew he'd lost this battle. Nevertheless, Miyuki refused to come to terms with his actions.
Amiko's hands quickly found the hem of Miyuki's shirt. Despite how angry she was with the boy she was still gentle with her movements, careful to not be rough with him. Slowly she raised his shirt until it was well above his ribs, her eyes were instantly drawn to the ugly splotches of purple and red staining his golden skin.
Pressure built behind her eyes as she looked at the bruise. Amiko didn't know if she should yell at him or cry. She felt betrayed, out of everyone at Seidou she thought he would at least be honest with her.
"You're a fucking liar," Amiko spat. Her words were simple and quiet, but that's what made them all the more effective. Amiko let Miyuki's shirt fall back and walked over to the small fridge each dorm had, quickly squatting down and taking a gel cooling pack from the small appliance.
"You know I can't tell anyone," Miyuki mumbled as he gingerly lowered himself into his bed, "If your dad knew I'd be pulled from tomorrow’s game in an instant."
Amiko joined him on the edge of the bed and motioned for him to lie down. Once he was situated she lifted his shirt again and gently pressed the gel pack to the bruise, Amiko felt a pierce to her heart when Miyuki flinched at the contact. He'd never admit he was in pain, his pride outshone his honesty.
Miyuki reached for the girl’s hand, gently linking his fingers with hers until she ripped her hand from his reach.
"Amiko.."
Her head snapped to his, eyes alight with a mixture of fury and sorrow.
"Don't. I won't listen to your weak excuses, it doesn't change the fact that you didn't trust me."
Hot tears started to slip down Amiko's face as she looked down at the bespectacled boy. Miyuki tried to brush the tears from her face only to have Amiko jerk her head away from his hand. Her refusing his touch for a second time stabbed at his heart as he watched the one person he loved break down because of him.
"Not only did you lie but you're once again putting baseball over your own health. Did you even think about the repercussions of your decisions?!"
Irritation twinged in Miyuki at Amiko's words. It wasn't even that serious of an injury, hiding it won't be detrimental. She was turning such a small thing into a huge argument for no reason.
"What did you expect me to do? Not play tomorrow?!" Miyuki sat up from his laying position to meet her face to face. His eyes started to burn with anger, an expression that only seemed to feed Amiko's emotions tenfold. "Me not playing would destroy the team. I'm the captain, I'm supposed to lead everyone. We can't get to nationals with discombobulated pitchers." Miyuki might have sounded calm but the bite in his words couldn't be missed.
Amiko felt like she was about to explode. Everything inside her had been building up as the team returned to campus. The small signs of discomfort when she leaned into Kazuya's side and refusing to catch for Sawamura were so subtle but each was a cry into the void for someone to notice.
"Is nationals so important that you're willing to forego medical attention when you very obviously need it?! What happens if playing tomorrow harms you even more? To the point where it could end your career, did you even take the time to think about that?!"
Miyuki broke their stare off when she said that and instead glared angrily at his hands. To be honest he hadn't considered that at all and Amiko, was once again, looking out for him more than he did himself. Baseball was like oxygen to him, without it he'd be caught up in the suffocating demands of normal life.
Unfortunately, his infatuation with the sport was dangerous. So much so that he was willing to risk his health and future for the chance to get his team onto the national stage.
"Kazuya," Amiko whispered. She gently reached out and held one of his hands in hers which directed his attention back to her face. Both of them melted at each other's hesitant touch. "There's still time to get you checked. If we went to my Dad right now there's a chance he'd let you play a few innings tomorrow."
Miyuki sighed and pulled his hands from hers. He knew his words were breaking her heart but he had to play the full game tomorrow.
"I can't do that, Amiko."
His statement was quiet, devoid of all previous aggression. Miyuki was stubborn and prideful, an insignificant injury wasn't going to keep him from his goal, but Amiko could be just as stubborn as him when prompted.
Her eyes grew cold as she hugged her arms to her body. The icy aura quickly spread throughout the room as she watched him. Slowly the girl stood up from the bed and crossed the room to the door.
She looked over her shoulder at the bedridden catcher with a haunting look.
"If I see you deteriorating during the game tomorrow I won't hesitate to tell my Dad immediately."
And with that, the girl quietly left the room.
Miyuki groaned and brought his hands up to his eyes, the action simultaneously pushed his glasses onto the top of his head.
He didn't regret his decisions in the slightest. Nevertheless, he knew he had thoroughly fucked up.
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