#feel like a claw clip would come out if I’m exercising | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 3 years

Text

The 1940s are a nightmare

Summary: When you get thrown back in time, you try to stay below the radar but the 1940s are really testing your patience.

Pairing: 1940s!bucky x modern!reader, 1940s!steve x modern!reader, implied stucky, implied bucky x steve x reader

Notes: I really tried to find out what they did in the late 30s-40s but it was a pain so when I found ‘Arithmetic’ I just went with it

You thought that getting thrown back in time (and across universes) would give you a break from school. American authorities didn’t agree.

So here you were, somewhat infamous from the news, in front of a classroom in a school in the 40s. The principal was standing next to you, knocking on the door. You tried to ignore the foreign feel of strange clothes on your skin and the vintage hairstyle you’d been instructed to do.

The only thing they’d allowed you to bring from ‘the future’ were your Bic pens and a claw clip. Your phone was rotting away in a locker, together with your beloved headphones.

“Come in.” the teacher inside the room instructed.

You were nervous. What you knew about this period of time compiled itself from History and war-movies. Oh, and marvel.

There was quiet chatter as the principal guided you inside and the teacher looked you up and down. You shifted on your feet, uncomfortable.

“I’m Mrs. Watson. You can sit down next to Steven.” The woman curtly said.

“Okay.” You replied, searching for this Steven. You willed your jaw not to drop as your eyes fell on skinny, pre-serum Steve. So you were in the MCU?

“Next time, you’ll say a proper sentence.” Mrs. Watson reprimanded. You nodded as first chuckles went through the room.

“Yes Mrs. Watson.” You replied, already tired.

Keeping your head high, you weaved past students and sat down in the empty seat next to Steve.

“I’m Y/N.” you quickly introduced yourself, fishing a pen out of your new bag.

“Steve.” He replied quickly. The lesson resumed and you tried to find out what exactly they were doing. Relief flooded you as you realized it was only the multiplication of fractions – a topic you’d left behind in seventh grade in favor of the horror that advanced math was.

You copied the exercises from the board, finishing them all without any problem. When you were done, you glanced around the room. When you saw that all the other girls were sitting like they had sticks up their ass, you quickly stopped slouching.

The minutes ticked by, and you waited for the others to finish. You almost began tapping your pen on the table or chewing the end but a few sharp looks from the teacher stopped you.

“Are you having problems, Y/N?” the teacher snapped after a few minutes of you staring off into space. “Or are you too stupid?”

The class laughed. God, you hated these people more by the minute.

“I’m done, actually.” You replied.

The teacher stared at you angrily. “Then come and write the solutions on the board.”

You obliged, taking up the chalk and writing down the answers. The teacher looked like she wanted to kill you for being good at this, but the bell rang, and you fled the room.

It was already midday, so you followed the stream of students into the old-timed canteen, trying not to think about all the possible health risks.

The line was long, and people attempted to entertain themselves quite loudly. You were squeezed in between a boy you didn’t know and Steve, who was standing behind you with Bucky. You weren’t supposed to know Bucky though and hoped you wouldn’t slip up.

Finally, it was almost your turn. Suddenly, you heard the boy in front of you throw the N-word at the lunchlady.

You’d probably misheard, right? Nope. He did it again.

“Hey dude, can’t you treat the lady with respect?” you asked him. He turned around.

“Look at her, people like her don’t deserve respect.” He said coldly.

Keep it together, you’re in the 40s. one half of you argued, silence is compliance the other yelled.

“What exactly did she do?” you asked. People behind you began to grumble. You were holding up the line.

“She’s a filthy n-“ he began, but you interrupted him.

“Stop throwing fucking slurs at a service worker! What the fuck is wrong with you? You better apologize to her right now, or I’ll shove your privilege so far up your ass it comes back out of your throat.” You half-shouted at him.

Luckily, he didn’t beat you up on the spot. Instead, he shut up and took his plate.

You took yours too, as you were next in line. “Thank you.” You told the lunchlady as she handed you your… soup.

Despite the scene you’d caused in the line at lunch, people began sitting down at your table. You tried to ignore them to the best of your abilities and glanced around the lunchroom. There were clear groups.

Guys sat at a table; girls sat at the other. There was exactly one table at the back with a few kids that looked pretty beat-up. One of them had a black eye.

Quickly, you dug into your food, ignoring the bland taste. You stopped eating when you noticed everyone staring at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Aren’t you going to pray?” one of them asked.

“Uh…” you began. You didn’t really pray before your meals. “Thanks for this meal, I guess. Amen.”

Then, you resumed eating, pointedly ignoring the perfect posture and manners some of the girls had.

“So,” you began between bites. “What happened to those guys?”

“Don’t you know?” a girl named Dorothy asked. You shook your head in response. She began to blush, looking scandalized.

Dorothy leaned forward, as if she was letting you in on a secret. She lowered her voice to almost a whisper when she spoke “They’re homosexuals.”

“Oh okay.” You replied, shoveling your food down quickly.

“Aren’t you at least ashamed to go to the same school as them?” another girl asked. You shook your head.

“Should I be?” you asked.

Some of the people at your table nodded their heads vigorously. Your food began to taste even worse.

“We don’t associate with them.” A boy said.

You abruptly stood from the table. “Well, I don’t associate with homophobes.” You carried your food to an empty table and sat down.

The rest of your lunchbreak was spent in quiet bliss.

***

You were actually a little afraid to walk back to your new apartment. News of your opinions had spread like wildfire, and students and teachers alike were beginning to throw you dirty looks.

So, when the bell rang, you were one of the first to leave the classroom and hurry out of school. You passed Bucky and his loud group of friends as well as Dorothy, who spared you no further attention.

The walk to your apartment was short, but as you passed an alley, you heard the sound of a fight going on. Your curiosity won, and you threw a quick glance into the alley.

The racist boy from the line during lunch was beating up Steve.

Throwing all caution out of the window, you ran forward and pulled the boy off of Steve by the collar. Before he could realize what was happening, you punched him across the face.

“I told you to piss off!” you told him, before pushing him away.

You held a hand out to Steve, who was lying on the floor with a bloody nose. “You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, but you searched your bag for tissues, settling on a fabric handkerchief.

“Here.” you said, handing it to him.

A few seconds later, Bucky came running into the alley. “Why do you always get in fights you can’t win- “he began, but then he saw that Steve was already standing.

“Looks like there’s a first time for everything.” Bucky said.

“I didn’t win.” Steve mumbled “She did.”

Bucky looked at you for the first time and raised an eyebrow.

“You beat up Grant Johnson?” he asked.

“Got a problem with that?” you replied.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just asking. I wouldn’t beat him up. Why did ya start a fight with him anyways Steve?”

“He was catcalling Betty and Eliza.” Steve replied.

“You’re a real punk sometimes.” Bucky mocked affectionately. “Jerk.” Steve replied.

“Right, I gotta go. Feels like I’m thirdwheeling on your bromance.” You blurted out, picking up your bag.

You walked away briskly, but you could barely make out Steve complaining to Bucky, “I understood about half of what she said.”

***

The next day, you left your bobby pins right where they were and grabbed your claw clip off the nightstand, twisting your hair in something simple.

Before you left the apartment, you tucked a kitchen knife in your bag. Better safe than sorry.

You’d walked about halfway when you heard someone call your name. You stopped to turn and saw a wheezing Steve running up to you.

“Mornin’ Steve.” You mumbled, taking another sip from your coffee. Apparently, to-go cups weren’t a thing yet, so you’d decided to bring your mug. If you were going to be the weird kid, you were going to give it 100%.

Steve threw you a strange look, but politely ignored your actions. “Nice hair.” He complemented instead.

“Thanks, I feel like my head finally isn’t getting stabbed by pins.” You replied without a pause.

When Steve took out a pack of cigarettes, you paused. “Fucking hell Steve, do you want to die from lung cancer in two or three years?”

“Language. You swear like a soldier.” He said, already lighting it up. You snatched it from him and pointed the cigarette at him.

“Give me a good reason to smoke.” You demanded.

“My doctor told me to, I have asthma after- “he began.

“You have asthma.” You began. He nodded. “And you smoke.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Do you want me or Bucky to dig your grave? You can’t smoke, especially if you have asthma. It’s counterproductive. As your guide from the future, trust me on this shit, okay?”

“Fine.” He agreed.

The two of you walked around the corner, where Bucky was waiting for Steve.

“Hey.” You greeted. Bucky threw an arm around Steve before responding. “Morning. May I ask why you’re carrying a cup of coffee with you.”

“You may. Y’all don’t have to-go coffee cups.” You replied

Bucky shook his head. You walked next to him and Steve.

“We have arithmetic first, right?” you asked. When Steve nodded, you groaned. “Tell me, are all teachers as bad as Mrs. Watson?”

“You’ve got Mrs. Watson?” Bucky asked. You nodded. “Naw, that one’s a real beast.”

***

In the next few months, you, Bucky, and Steve became close friends, Bucky eventually giving up on his old friend group when you got into a shouting match about consent with two of them.

It was becoming colder again, which, according to Bucky, meant that it was dancing season.

You’d glanced to Steve with a pleading expression, who’d nodded in affirmation.

“You’re telling me dancing isn’t a thing in the future?” Bucky said, sounding slightly offended.

Not since COVID. And I don’t think grinding on someone in the club fits your expression of ‘dance’.

“Nope.” You replied. Bucky’s eyes widened in almost comic horror.

“And does that mean you don’t know how to dance?”

You shook your head slowly.

Bucky threw up his hands. “Both of my friends don’t know how to dance.” Then, an almost evil smile spread on his face.

“You know what that means.” He said.

Fuck. Shit, nope. Bucky Barnes is going to attempt to teach me dancing. This is not what I signed up for.

“Nooo…” you said.

“I,” Bucky proudly pointed to himself, “am going to teach you how to dance.”

Steve sniggered.

“Maybe Steve can manage to step on less feet this year if he pays attention.” You teased jokingly.

Learning to dance was incredibly awkward. Ignoring your crush on Bucky, and your conflicting feelings for Steve, learning to dance in your cramped apartment was very… strange.

The recent months meant that the government had backed off and checked in on you less and less, but your neighbors began to annoy you more and more. Especially with the fact that two freshly-graduated ‘bachelors’ went in and out of your house unsupervised.

Still, you ignored rumors and enjoyed meeting up with your friends. And you had to practice. The first dances were coming up and Bucky insisted on dancing with you. You kept telling yourself that all of this was totally platonic.

Your first dance wasn’t as catastrophic as you thought it would be. Steve came with and drank something at the bar while you let Bucky lead, passing an extremely jealous Dorothy. You only stepped on his feet about seven times, but Bucky kindly ignored that.

He even insisted to another dance, and since he asked so nicely, you obliged. You danced three times before you were out of breath and needed a break. Steve slid you a drink which you gratefully accepted.

“I just realized,” Steve began, “it’s been exactly six months since you beat up Grant Johnson.”

“Ah, my fist still misses his punchable face.” You mused. “Care to celebrate with a dance Steve?”

“We’ll look absolutely ridiculous.” Steve argued.

“Yeah, that’s the point. It’ll be fucking hilarious once we get drunk later tonight.”

“You plan on getting drunk?” Bucky asked.

You nodded. “Absolutely. So drunk you’ll have to carry me home. You can do that Bucky, can you?”

“I’ll give it my best, doll.”

***

In the end, you didn’t get drunk. Steve however, had gotten very drunk after two beers and now needed your support as well as Bucky’s to get him home.

“Y/N?” he suddenly asked very loudly into the quiet of the night. “Yeah? What’s up Steve?”

“What’s the future like?”

“More accepting. We try to have everyone be equal to each other. I mean, there’s still struggles obviously, but it’s much better than now. Everyone can vote and racism is much less prevalent. Women are almost equal to men and Homosexuality is accepted. In a lot of countries anyways.”

“Are you a homosexual?” he suddenly asked.

“No, I’m not sure if I’m straight though.” You blurted out. Shit. You held your breath, hoping that they wouldn’t abandon you. Silence settled over your group like a suffocating blanket.

“I get it.” Bucky nodded. “Sometimes, knowing yourself is hard.”

Relief flooded you as you continued to carry Steve home in now comfortable silence.

Bucky walked you home after that, insisting that it was too dangerous to go home alone. You stood on the threshold of your home when you suddenly turned around.

“You weren’t lying to me, right?” you asked. He shook his head.

“It’s love.” He replied simply. You reached up, daring to touch his face.

“You never fail to amaze me, Barnes.”

Bucky gave you a slight smile. “That’s something coming from a time traveler.”

You smiled again and took him by the hand, leading him inside your apartment. Bucky leaned back on the sofa while you poured yourself a glass of water.

“Do you want something to drink?” you asked.

“I’m good, thanks.”

You sat down on the sofa, leaning onto his shoulder as you stared out of the window.

“Do you really not care if people are homosexuals?” Bucky asked.

“As you said, love is love.” You replied. “As long as you don’t hurt anyone with what you’re doing, why should it be wrong?”

“And what if…” he slowly began. “Someone liked both.”

You look up at his face. He was stubbornly staring forward. Abruptly, you sat up. You shook your head.

Bucky exhaled. “What if I liked both?”

“Then I’ll beat up as many Grant Johnsons as it takes for you to be left in peace.” You replied.

Bucky hugged you tightly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” You replied.

Suddenly, Bucky leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You reciprocated, letting him pull you onto his lap.

“I feel torn.” You confessed when you broke apart. “I… I like you a lot, but I also like Steve and- “

“I know. I feel the same way.” Bucky replied. “We’ll sort it out.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Until then, we can keep it all lowkey.”

***

Telling Steve was harder than you thought. A few years passed, and you and Bucky got into a real relationship. But now, authorities were back to contacting you, saying that they finally figured out how to send you back.

It all broke apart when Bucky told you he’d been drafted. That night, the three of you went to the fair and watched Howard Stark present his newest invention. You cried as you watched Bucky be shipped off, Steve awkwardly putting an arm around you.

When Steve came home, all buff and named Captain America, you slapped him across the face.

“How could you?” you asked him, already beginning to tear up.

“You know I have to.”

“I know.” You sighed. The next day, the authorities called, saying it was time for you to go back.

Steve sat in the car with you as you drove to the facility. He wasn’t permitted inside, even as Captain America.

You both sat in silence, looking out onto the streets as the minutes ticked by.

“You have to go.” Steve said softly.

“I know.” You said. Then you turned to face him and pulled him in for a kiss. A real one.

“I- I’m not sure Bucky would be okay with this.” Steve stuttered.

At the mention of Bucky, you began to sob again. “We wanted to tell you. We were in love with each other, but we were in love with you too and it was all so complicated- “your own tears cut you off.

Steve held you for five more minutes before you managed to compose yourself.

“Get Bucky back for me.” You said. Steve nodded. “I promise.” He replied.

You opened the car door, unable to bear it any longer and walked into the building. You’d never told anyone that you weren’t even from the MCU or Earth-616 but the prospect of possibly seeing both Bucky and Steve again made you stay quiet about it.

A man handed you your things, things that had been looked away for years. You ran your fingers over the cold edge of your phone and your old backpack. Quickly, you stuffed a few photos of you, Bucky, and Steve into your high school bag, before handing your things from the 40s over.

“Which year do you need to go back to, Ms. L/N?” a man asked you. Your mind was racing. “2010.” You decided. Six years would be enough to set up a life, study law and become an attorney and intercede before the Civil War began.

He nodded. You stepped onto the platform, visibly shaking.

Then, the room became unbearably bright and suddenly, you were somewhere else.

***

You dropped the groceries onto the floor of your apartment in Berlin before rushing to the TV. Hands shaking, you turned on the TV watching the news report on the bombing of the UN headquarters.

Quickly, you dialed the number of your secretary at SHIELD. Your phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Ms. L/N, how can I help you?” she asked.

“I need you to get me on a call with Steve Rogers.” You said

“But Miss, you’re an attorney working for- “she said.

“I’m well aware who I work for. Do you? I need to talk to Mr. Rogers. Can you do that?”

“Ye- yes, give me a second please.”

Your secretary gave you a number through the phone, which you hastily scribbled down on your grocery receipt.

“Thanks, Andrea. I’ll see you at the office.” You ended the call, only to type in a new number.

The phone rang for so long you thought he wouldn’t pick up.

Then, finally, you heard a familiar voice at the other end of the phone. It sounded slightly tired, but still like the one you knew. “Hello?”

“Steve.” You said. Your throat felt dry, your heart was pounding in your chest.

There was a deafening silence at the other end of the line. “Y/N?” he asked. You didn’t reply immediately.

“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t call earlier, it was a lot.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Steve replied. You sighed with relief. Then, you gathered your bearings as a plan began to form in your head.

“We need to help Bucky.” You finally said.

#bucky #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #1940s!bucky #steve #steve rogers #1940s!steve #bucky x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky x steve #stucky x reader #time travel #pre-serum steve #bucky x steve x reader #1940s #crack fic

345 notes · View notes

whumpzone · 3 years

Text

Linden & Colton - 15

(masterpost)

another exercise in triggering col, haha. ever since ive had whumpy daydreams as a child ive liked thinking about the caretaker brushing the whumpees teeth. this was meant to be fluffier but i like how it's become something unique to colton <3

CW: NSFW, triggered whumpee, heavy references to n0ncon oral sex, dehumanisation, pet whump

Something was bothering Linden as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning. He could hear the uncertain thumps of Col’s footsteps downstairs- sometimes he could hear him dragging his feet, scared to lift them entirely off the ground. He turned his attention back, trying to figure out what was annoying him.

Then he realised, as he looked into the small jar on the side of the sink. Col’s toothbrush was bone dry. There weren’t even flecks of toothpaste down the handle. He frowned. He really, really couldn’t let that happen. He thought about how if Colton only spoke, he might have noticed sooner, might have caught it on his breath, but he stopped himself. It’s not his fault.

The bathroom looked directly through to the staircase, and as Linden walked out he caught the familiar pair of eyes peering up at him, before Col quickly drew himself back behind the wall.

But Linden had seen him, and they both knew it. It was as if Col could tell already that he was in trouble. He rarely pulled back from Linden in any way, but today he was already halfway across the room by the time Linden had descended the stairs.

“Have you been brushing your teeth?” he asked plainly, not knowing how else to go about it.

Col shook his head, of course he did, but there was a brief second where Linden could see that he was considering lying. He liked that.

. . .

Pet had to confess, but it made him feel hot and prickly with fear. He had been bad. Master’s voice was firm and clipped. He was disappointed in him.

“You have to,” Master ordered, and Pet nodded immediately. Okay, okay, I will. I won’t hesitate. “Why haven’t you so far? Were you- was it because you thought you weren’t allowed? Or were you… scared to? Does it hurt?”

Pet’s head started to spin, and he cringed hard as Master sighed, heavy with frustration. “Sorry, sorry. Way too many questions, I know. Besides, it’s not- wait!” Master suddenly looked up at his pet intensely, and like a poorly-behaved dog, he flinched. Master hardly seemed to notice, though, as he continued, “You said the other day, didn’t you, that you can’t hold a pencil well? It’s hard to grip it? Is it… is the toothbrush too hard to hold properly?”

How did he know? Pet nodded, defeatedly. He had tried, fuck, he really had, fighting a losing battle in the wee hours until he could have wept with frustration. He glanced down at his hands. For a brief moment there weren’t clean and unbound, they were bleeding, the wire was cutting into him, cutting to the bone it felt, and he could barely twitch without the pain shooting all the way up his arms. The memories were so real, sometimes. And wasn’t it helpful that the pain never truly left? It had followed him from his old owner’s house to the streets all the way to Master’s front door and beyond, a phantom trailing along his joints, keeping him reminded of his place.

“That’s okay. I can help.”

Master’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, thankfully, and as he turned to stride upstairs Pet followed him meekly, hands cradled before him.

He was ordered to sit on the lid of the toilet while Master busied himself. It made Pet stiffen up. It looked eerily similar to when his old owner had something big planned, and he made his slave sit helplessly and watch. When Master turned to him, holding the toothbrush like a weapon, the association was so strong that it made Pet whimper and duck his head. Oh, god, he was so bad.

“I’m sorry,” Master said, and it truly sounded like there was feeling behind the words, like he really meant it. It was cruel. “I don’t have a choice.”

You do, Pet thought, even though it was disobedient. Master always has a choice. Master controls everything.

“This is for your own good,” he said. “You understand, Col?”

Oh, Pet understood well. He had endured many horrors for his own good, and this was not among the worst. He would gladly submit to Master’s strange ritual.

But then- “I promise it won’t be too bad. Can you open up?”

Pet gasped. He was back, he was back there, not again, please please please not again. He was strung up and completely defenceless. He wasn’t in control, he never had been, he was an object and he was being used.

He opened his mouth wide, letting his tongue sit over his teeth. Master punished him if it even looked at if he’d try to bite. The corners of his vision started to gloss over.

Then. A hand gently brushed his jaw. Fingers pressed into his skin. Holding him in place? Making sure he stayed good?

He let out a pathetic cry of fear.

. . .

“Col, Col, I’m so sorry, I can tell you’re scared,” Linden said, as Col’s eyes started to glaze over. He hardened his voice, “Col! Stay with me, sweet, come on. You’re being brave, come on.”

He should just get it over with, he realised, and pushed the toothbrush in. Col started to close his mouth, and Linden gripped a little harder on his jaw. He wanted to at least exhaust all his other options before he physically pulled the boy’s mouth open.

“Keep your mouth open, there we go. Now just hold still.”

I’m giving him orders. But it was the simplest way, it was so quick, it was to help the boy. Linden gritted his own teeth. He could worry about the ethics of it later.

Colton’s teeth weren’t as dirty as he’d feared, and Linden made light work of brushing them down. He checked in on Col every so often. His eyes were still glassy, but he seemed at least half-there.

“You okay?” A small huff of affirmation. “Good. Almost there.”

It felt so strangely intimate, brushing his teeth. As if he hadn’t already seen him stark naked in the damn bath. I dunno, he thought. I’m so close to him. He’s sitting so still. There’s nowhere to run.

He finished up just as a strand of frothy toothpaste started to crest over his lip and drip down his chin, some of it along Linden’s fingers. Col rinsed, scooping the water into his mouth with his hands in a rigid claw shape, and then looked in Linden’s direction for the next order.

“Well done, Col. That was important, and you sat there like a wonderful rock and made it so quick and easy. I’m very- I’m very happy with you. We’ll work on holding the toothbrush, yeah? But for now we can head downstairs and get on with the day.”

Col nodded, a bit dull, but Linden decided not to push him.

. . .

Pet felt himself coming back as soon as he was allowed to close his jaw. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened. It felt as if Master had just brushed his teeth, like he said. And yet-

And yet he was rinsing out his mouth, and the taste wasn’t minty anymore but something far more foul, and he was being told how well he took it, how he made it so easy, how he made Master happy. He was back there because he could never escape, never truly.

Master finished talking, evidently, and turned to leave. Pet trailed after him, his eyes filling with tears, but he managed to keep his shaky breaths quiet. Master was happy with him and Pet’s feelings didn’t matter.

first half of the taglist!

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captainseconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonward @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @zipadeedooda-drabbles @penny-for-your-whump @briars7 @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread

@vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate

#pet whump #linden and colton #dehumanisation #pet whumpee #slave whump #conditioned whumpee #mine

305 notes · View notes

mortalfaerie · 3 years

Text

To Fake an Engagement (M.F.)

part 2/?

matthew fairchild x (fem) reader

word count: 1904

synopsis: part 2 of this series. after james and cordelia marry, matthew is being a bitter idiot, and reader goes to talk some sense into him. later, they go to anna’s party and things get a little flirty. no coi spoilers.

You hadn’t expected the next year to amount to much. Certainly, Matthew would forget the deal, ask for his ring back, and probably wait for Cordelia to divorce James to try to romance her.

But, Matthew Fairchild surprised you. He had engaged you for walks, written you letters, and seemed to often hover to your side whenever you were in a room together. For the two months to follow, he even seemed to drink less.

However, after the wedding, he seemed to slump back, drink more, and refuse company. Finally, sick of his dramatics, you went directly to his house and demanded he see you. When he came down to the parlor after being called by Charles, he was disheveled and obviously hungover. He had flushed despite himself when he saw you.

You had glared over the rim of your teacup as he idly stared into his. Finally, he muttered, “I’m sorry.” You were frustrated, but managed to ask, “Sorry on what account?”

He shot you a glare briefly and replied, “You know what. Shall I spell it out? I disappointed you. I am a disappointment, Y/N."

You softened, and schooled your tone. “You are right that I am disappointed, Matthew, but that does not make you a disappointment. I am disappointed that you have neglected my letters, that you seem to have scorned my company. I am disappointed that you will not accept my attempts to comfort you when I have so freely given them.”

He nodded, not meeting your eyes. “I admit to that.” he replied.

“And I am hurt, because I have become so fond of your company in recent months and you have-” you shook your head in exasperation, “ripped it from me without ceremony.”

Your voice had broken on the last word, so you took a long sip of your tea and collected yourself. When you again looked up, he was looking at you with a soft, sorrowful look. “I am so, so sorry, Y/N.”

“I would prefer your commitment to change to your sorrow.” You said in clipped words. Mathew raked a hand through his golden hair, the light catching on the piece of silver on his third finger. Your family ring, still in place.

“I can make no promises.” He said finally, meeting your eyes again. He did truly look remorseful.

“Then promise me you will try, Matthew.” you said, gesturing to his disheveled state. “I am not asking that you quit your vices entirely, I can hardly say I am without vice myself, but I am asking that you try to control them.”

He was looking into his cup of tea when he replied, “I can try.”

“Thank you.” you breathed, and set your cup down. Matthew was seated across a small, circular table in the parlor, and you reached over to cover his hand with yours. He looked up with surprise, and you offered a small smile.

“I did not come entirely to schold you.” you said. Matthew smiled wryly, and it was good to see his face not in a mask of brooding and contemplation. “You came for Oscar, then?” he asked, and before you could respond, he lifted his free hand to his lips and whistled a high tone. You could hear a thump noise upstairs, followed by the patter and clacking of clawed feet on the floor, and saw a flurry of yellow fur bounding down the stairs and into the parlor.

You laughed, your hand still over Matthew’s and offered your other to Oscar, who happily sniffed and licked it. “Hello, old chap.” you cooed to the golden retriever, who thumped his tail of the carpet in approval. Eventually, he went to go curl himself around Matthew’s chair, comforting his person.

You smiled, but answered, “No, I do love to see Oscar, but not him.” you drummed your fingers on the table and continued, “I want you to come to Anna’s party with me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You want to schold me for my drunkenness and then have me escort you to a party?”

You playfully glared at him, but squeezed his hand to ensure he knew you were only kidding. “Yes, I want you to take me. I want to have fun with you and my friends. No flask, though.” you added. “I would not stop you from drinking Anna’s liquor, but you needn’t bring reinforcements.”

Matthew mock pouted but conceded. “Oh, very well. You shall have naught but gentlemanly propriety from me.”

He laced his finger through yours over the table, and tapped your ring finger with his free hand. “I see you still have my ring.” he commented.

You nodded. “I have upheld my end of our deal. I keep it in my pocket at home, as to not have my parents suspect you are courting me in earnest, but I wear it in private.”

He pressed a kiss to the ring, and said, “You wound me, Y/N. I am courting you in earnest. Was an engagement not the prize of our bargain?”

You blushed. “Well, if they are to think that, it will be when there is an engagement.”

Catching you in your words, he grinned. “When indeed.”

The night of Anna’s party, Matthew, regally and ostentatiously dressed as always, arrived on time in his carriage to escort you. Your parents had known Matthew to be a good friend of yours for 2 years now, and thought little of your sharing a carriage alone. Once inside the carriage, he pointedly showed you his pockets were empty of his flask, and you were pleased he had remembered.

You made an interesting pair upon arrival- you, dressed in an elegant but sensible blue party dress, layers of chiffon secured with a cinching midnight belt, and ivory lace sleeves and collar peeking out beyond the hems. Matthew, on the other hand, wore a brilliant purple waistcoat and evergreen colored blazer, which he quickly discarded in the heat of the party.

You both drank, though it was clear Matthew exercised effort to be moderate in his drinking, but it was enough for you both to lose inhibitions as he turned you about the makeshift dance floor in Anna’s parlor, you giggling when he dramatically turned you and to your surprise, lifted you off your feet. The two of you staggered away from the dancing couples, laughing, both red faced, as he pulled you against his chest and your laughter was muffled in his shirt.

He hummed to the piano music, where a vampire had seated herself and begun to play jaunty country dance music from the previous century, but to your surprise, he made no move to release you from his embrace. Neither of you did, really. When you had contained your laughter, you had contentedly rested your cheek against his chest and listened to him hum. He was warm, and the smell of him- clean linen, sandalwood, and the hint of wine that you both had earlier, was at once rich and comforting. You stood like that, lost in the rightness of the feeling of his arms around you, for probably 5 minutes before a voice caused you to jump apart.

“Matthew! Y/N! I take it you two are enjoying yourselves?” Anna asked, sauntering up to your corner of the room.

You blushed, and busied yourself with adjusting your skirts as Matthew, quick and cunning as ever, invented a story of how yes, you were enjoying yourselves, but you had a sudden dizzy spell and had to leave the dancefloor. He had been steadying you, he claimed, and you nodded along. Anna, an older sibling herself, was a master of seeing through invented stories and gave you a look that said she didn’t believe it for a moment, but it was all good fun. Her attention was grabbed by another partygoer, and she moved on quickly.

You shot Matthew an incredulous look when she passed, and he gave you a bemused smirk. “Horrible thing, corsets? Making girls everywhere faint and swoon.”

You scoffed and playfully nudged him, but he laughed in response. “I recall you were the one insisting we leave the dance floor.” You pointed out.

“Yes, because you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe!” he exclaimed.

“Because you-” you set in, but quickly realized you couldn’t remember what had started you two in laughing, and the both of you began laughing again.

Falling into a comfortable silence, the two of you leaned against the wall behind you, watching other couples dance, drink, and be merry. At some point, you leaned your head against his shoulder, but he didn’t move away. Instead, you felt him shift his weight and rest his head on yours. After a few moments, you yawned, and felt him chuckle beside you.

“Oh Cinderella, has midnight come so soon?” he teased, and you wrinkled your nose in mock disdain.

“I think it is well after midnight now, and you are hardly Prince Charming.” you retorted.

“Is that so? If I am not, why have you danced only with me all night? If this were a ball, people would say we are in love.”

You were glad then that he couldn’t see your face, because you felt the hot rush of blood invoked by his words. You cleared your throat. “Well, this isn’t a ball.” you pointed out.

“And thank the Angel for that.” he remarked, and drew an arm around your shoulder. “Otherwise, I’m sure you standing alone with me in a corner- and, touching, my Lord,” he feigned shock, and continued, “would be the scandal of the season.”

You laughed. “I think James and Cordelia took that honor already with her confession and their swift marriage.”

You felt him stiffen at the mention, and he replied, “Ah, yes. That would be difficult to beat.” and there was a hint of bitterness in his voice. Wanting to take his mind off of it, you turned out of his grasp and extended a hand.

“Dance one more set with me, and then you may take me home.” You said.

“Methinks the lady doth command boldly.” he said, an eyebrow playfully cocked.

“I believe it is the waltz.” You smiled and added, “And now you can hold me as close as you like and no one will breathe a word of scandal.”

There was a strange, momentary burst of color in his cheeks, but he nodded and took your hand, letting you lead him again onto the dance floor.

On the carriage ride back to your house, you were seated on the same bench beside each other, despite having room to sit opposite. You were drowsily leaning into his shoulder, and he was tracing patterns on your hand with his, when he again tapped the ring on your hand.

“I think you should hide this away before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin, Cinderella. Otherwise your parents will think I am courting you in earnest.” He mused playfully, echoing your earlier words. You yawned and deposited it in your pocket, immediately missing the feeling of it.

“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” You murmured sleepily. He hummed pleasantly, and then said, “You know, if you did become Y/N Fairchild, we could cause all the scandal in London and no one would be able to scoff.”

You laughed, and replied, “I will consider that when you make your proposal.”

“When indeed.” He remarked again.

#matthew fairchild #matthew fairchild x reader #the last hours #the mortal instruments #the infernal devices #the dark artifices #the shadowhunter chronicles #cassandra clare #chain of gold #chain of iron

72 notes · View notes

babyybitchhh · 4 years

Note

This is the anon who commented about yami! I didn't like nozel at first but I can't lie, he kinda grew on me and he's fine asf. I couldn't look at magna in anyway until I saw him with his hair down. Now I'm like 👀👀👀. More than anything, I just want yami to ruin me. Spank me and call me a good girl pleaseee

Yessssssss

Yami was BUILT to be daddy. So strong, so rough around the edges but with a big soft heart, so beefy 💗🥴💗

Words: 3937

Warnings: daddy kink, alcohol, drunk fingering, vaginal fingering

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172960

❤️❤️❤️❤️

You probably should have known better than to start drinking with them. No, not probably. You definitely should have known better.

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty though, and you could see now just how grievous a mistake it had been to accept Vanessa’s invitation without stopping long enough to consider the consequences but, well ... she was one of the only other women in the squad and she seemed to like you well enough. You wanted her to keep liking you, of course. So you’d foolishly jumped at the chance, far too eager to be included in this decidedly unorthodox team bonding exercise of theirs.

The Black Bulls were, by nature, sufficiently rowdy enough on their own but adding alcohol to the mix only seemed to fan the flames. They were the very definition of unruly. Clothes had been shamelessly discarded, more cigarettes smoked than you would have thought possible, arguments over nothing at all turned heated with alarming frequency only to be immediately forgotten and you, you were stuck in the middle of it. Thoroughly lost in your own world and floating serenely through the hazy bog of consciousness without a second thought to what chaos was going on around you.

It was kind of nice, actually. Liberating.

“Remember, ya’ gotta’ have at least three matching pairs to discard,” Magna reminds the assembled party as he quickly deals out a fresh hand. “Or you can do the same suit if ya’ want, but it has to go in order. No incomplete sets.”

The worse for wear table everyone had initially gathered around started off cramped, a tight fit for so many people and with little elbow room to spare. As the night wore on, however, most of the plucky squadron had gradually called it quits and retired until eventually only four remained. You were proud of yourself for outlasting the others but you also knew just how in over your head you were with this particular group. Yami could likely drink anyone under the table and Magna appeared to keep up with him just fine. While Vanessa didn’t exactly hold her liquor well , she could certainly put it away. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that you were on your last leg here even if you were, for all intents and purposes, having a good time.

“Alright, lets see what ya’ got.”

Feeling simultaneously as light as a feather and sluggish under the weight of heavy, invisible chains, you slowly flip your cards over. It was hard to tell which way was up anymore, especially when your inner vertigo was so off kilter. You were warm, too. Almost unbearably so. Clammy in the worst possible way and you teeter forward in your chair, struggling to focus your swimming vision on the cards spread out in front of you.

It was a shit hand.

Grumbling under your breath, you distractedly tug at your clothes. A soft, fitful whine claws its way up your throat when it does absolutely nothing to alleviate just how stiflingly hot you are and, in fact, only seems to make it worse. You were absolutely burning up and this card game was its own special brand of torture, you decide with nothing short of woozy contempt.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Yami asks mildly from his spot beside you.

He was infuriatingly collected despite having consumed even more alcohol than you had, guzzling down mouthful after mouthful while you’d taken your time sipping on the fruity concoctions Vanessa made special just for you. You’d lost track of how many cups he’d emptied quite some time ago but you were still only on your third. It didn’t make sense. How were you so damn tipsy already?

“Hot.” You groan, not bothering to look up from what was possibly the worst hand you could have been dealt. Letting Magna shuffle the deck was, unsurprisingly, yet another mistake to add to the ever growing list.

Turning his head, Yami glances over at you and you catch the movement from your peripheral but still refuse to divert your attention from the cards. Maybe if you just stared at them long enough, hard enough, they’d morph into something you could actually use. You weren’t a magic knight in name only, right? Surely your grimoire was good for something .

“You’re drunk.” He suddenly announces, loud enough to make Vanessa whip her head around.

“M’not.” You grumble.

“Bullshit.”

The inebriated witch inserts herself into the fray before you can respond, wrapping slender arms around your shoulders and pulling you in against her bosom. “Awww, honey! Did’ju really like my drinks that much?” She coos at you sweetly. “I wasn’t tryin’ to get you drunk. Promise.”

“M’not drunk.” You insist, louder this time, much to Vanessa’s giggling amusement.

Heaving a clipped sigh, Yami leans across the table and taps your cards with a thick finger, slowly drawing your attention back to them. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” He says around the cigarette in his mouth. “But someone who isn’t piss drunk would probably know better than to lay their hand out on the table like this. Do you even know what game we’re playing right now?”

Mouth tugging into a frown, you wrack your muddled brain for the answer to that question. “Go fish?”

Magna inelegantly snorts at that. You can feel yourself starting to flush in embarrassment as Vanessa begins fussing over you, softly petting your head with murmured, nonsensical endearments. She definitely wasn’t helping matters and you sincerely hoped none of them could see your fluster.

Yami doesn’t seem to miss it though and he purses his lips, pinning you with an unimpressed glower. “That’s what I thought. Sorry, sweetheart, but you’re officially cut off. No more booze tonight, okay?”

Both you and Vanessa groan in unison. Your head immediately starts to spin in earnest now and you slump against the other woman even as she grabs your drink and holds it up to you as if she were bottle feeding a baby. The notion that she might accidentally dump it all over your head when she was just as intoxicated as you doesn’t even cross your mind and you obediently open your mouth to accept her offering.

“Come on, captain! At least let her finish her dr-drink first! I worked really hard to -”

Yami cuts across her babbling with a huff, standing and grabbing hold of the cup so he can pull it away despite Vanessa’s best attempt to keep it in her fumbling grasp. You watch it go, feeling an odd mix of disappointment and relief. The giddy, jovial mood you’d been imbued with was nice, yes, but realistically your body probably couldn’t handle much more. It was likely for the best.

“Just knock it off.” Pointedly setting the drink down towards the center of the table, Yami turns back with a furrowed brow. “Are you trying to kill her or something? What all did you even put in that?”

Vanessa hums a noncommittal sound of guilt, winding a strand of your hair around her finger.

He scoffs and moves closer with an accompanying shake of his head. Your heart gives a little jolt when you realize he’s coming towards you, not Vanessa, and you can’t help the anxious tinge that sparks in your chest. He was probably mad at you for getting so drunk. He looked mad. You didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of his lectures though and you lean further into the softly swaying witch next to you in search of protection.

Much to your faltering surprise, however, Yami’s tone sounds closer to exacerbated than angry when he says, “Alright, brat. C’mere. You get to sit with me for the rest of the night so I can keep an eye on you and make sure someone doesn’t try to sneak you anything else.”

You blink, thoroughly confused, and it feels like even something as simple as a muscle twitch takes a small eternity to accomplish. Yami either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care though.

Shooing Vanessa away, he bends at the waist and curls big hands under your armpits, hauling you straight up out of your seat. You outright squawk, flailing weakly in Yami’s grasp when you suddenly find yourself much further from the ground than you were used to. But your panic lasts only a terrifyingly brief moment and you relax when he draws you close, allowing you to curl your limbs around his thick frame. With a slight jostle, he adjusts his hold and secures you to the front of him. You instinctively nuzzle further into his arms, drunkenly whimpering as you tightly lock your elbows behind his neck.

“You’re no fun …” Vanessa whines on your behalf.

He clicks his tongue. “I’m thinking ahead. You’re not.” He says, those rumbled words reverberating inside your skull and further grounding you by some margin. “But if she gets sick, you’re the one who’s gonna’ clean it up.”

With that admonition, he moves back to his own chair and sits down again. It takes you a moment to get situated on his lap, still unbearably hot and fussy now after forcibly being removed from the fun. The last thing you want is to look like a lightweight in front of your teammates but he finally stills you with a large, mindful hand against your lower back. The silent warning in that innocuous gesture is enough to make you quit while you’re still ahead and, mewling something unintelligible, you press your warm face into his neck so you can settle in to pout.

Magna says something then, successfully distracting Vanessa from the subject, and the game carries on without you. The three of them don’t seem to mind the loss one bit as they seamlessly pick right back up where they’d left off.

It's hard to shake the feeling that your presence at the table was nothing more than an afterthought to them, or maybe a simple nicety, and it stung a little. There was no denying that. But you were much too hazy and disoriented to linger on it for more than a moment, molding yourself to the firm weight against you and going pleasantly slack in Yami’s arms. He was surprisingly comfortable, given his hard physique. A little too warm for your liking when you already felt swelteringly hot, but ultimately comfortable.

The even rise and fall of his broad chest is almost enough to lull you into dozing off right then and there with your head resting on his shoulder. Yami’s rough fingers tracing nonsensical, soothing patterns across your spine is the only thing that keeps you tethered to reality and you sit there, eyes closed, just listening to the slurred conversation going on at your back. It sounded far away now. Muted, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton, but you didn’t mind that too much. Magna was loud enough when sober and even worse when he was drunk.

A long moment later, Yami removes the cigarette from his lips and turns towards you when the other two start bickering about the validity of a certain card sequence. “How you feeling, squirt?” He asks, pressing his mouth against your hair.

“Good.” You murmur dreamily.

He laughs, very quietly, and gives you the briefest squeeze. “Yeah? You’re deadweight, baby girl. Sure you’re not gonna’ pass out on me over there?”

“Mmhmm.”

With a soft click of his tongue, Yami focuses back in on the game. The hand resting on your back slips lower, inconspicuously giving your behind a playful tweak that seems to go unnoticed by the table's other occupants given that they keep talking without pause. Magna would more than likely look away, politely pretending he hadn’t seen it, but Vanessa … if she’d caught so much as a glimpse, you’d be hearing about it right now. That was at least one reason (of which there was many) why what you had with Yami, whatever it was, still remained a secret to the rest of the squad even though it was probably a miracle they hadn’t caught on already, especially when he was so damn handsy with you.

Normally you’d err on the side of caution for that reason alone but you felt just daring enough to give him little push back. Emboldened by the liquid courage sitting hot and heavy in your stomach, confident that he wouldn’t have initiated this had it not been safe to do so, you discreetly roll your hips into him. The drag of your pussy across the front of his pants makes your breath hitch and he stiffens underneath you. That’s all the reaction you get for your trouble though, prompting you to lift your head from his shoulder and lean close to Yami’s ear.

“ Daddy …”

It’s nothing more than a tiny, breathless sigh but the effect it has on him is instantly noticeable. Steel chorded arm tightening around you, he breathes out a terse exhale and pulls you more firmly against his chest until you can scarcely breathe. A wavering puff of air slips from you as your thighs flex around his waist, silently trying to urge him on. It doesn’t work though and a shudder works its way down the length of your spine when he turns towards you again, growling right against the outer shell of your ear.

“Watch it.”

You whine, bucking against him more insistently. “ Nooooo .”

Yami snorts and swivels his attention back around to the cards clasped in his other hand. Pressing your face into the crook of his neck, you take a deep breath until the naturally heady scent of him swarms your senses like a fragrant, masculine cocktail. You can taste him in the back of your throat and it just makes you want him all the more.

Another wiggle of your hips is all the incentive he needs, calloused fingers slipping further down to grab a pinching handful of your ass. Roughly nudging you to sit a bit higher up on his thighs, he reaches lower and snakes his hand under your skirt. You squirm at the first touch against your panties, whimpering softly into his skin. Yami merely tightens his arm around you as he ever so carefully pulls the thin layer of cotton aside just enough to slide those sinfully long digits past the flimsy barrier.

“Spoiled brat,” He murmurs fondly, just loud enough for you to hear. “Already so damp and needy for me.”

You bite down on your tongue to keep yourself quiet, shuddering when he casually traces the length of your slit with abrasive fingertips.

Magna abruptly cackles about something and the sudden noise makes you jolt. Yami, to his credit, remains perfectly still though and merely waits a torturously long beat before continuing in rumbling hushed tones. “How long were you sitting over there in your own mess, hmm?”

“I - it’s not a mess.” You warble into his shoulder, your cheeks flushing hot.

“Oh? This certainly feels like a mess to me …” Pausing, Yami dips a finger into the meat of your labia and the slick quality of your pussy suddenly makes itself known. You hadn’t noticed until now, either because you were too caught up in your inebriated stupor or simply too focused on pouting to pay it any mind, but you were absolutely soaked. It wasn’t exactly surprising. Your body always responded eagerly to being manhandled by the captain but even this seemed a bit excessive.

Whining low in your throat, you decide you don’t want to play this game after all and try to angle your defenseless little cunt away from his searching hand. But Yami puts a stop to that quickly enough and shifts his legs further apart, forcibly spreading your thighs until you can’t find the leverage needed to wriggle out of his hold. You lip quivers when he takes advantage of this vulnerable position to worm a finger into the tight, squeezing heat of your body, gummy walls contracting around the intrusion with a pleasant flutter. It takes everything you have not to throw your head back and unabashedly moan up at the ceiling.

“Can’t you feel that, baby? You’re so wet I didn’t even have to work you open.”

Hiccuping, you shove your face against Yami’s neck again. “Dah - daddy … please .”

“Shh.” He warns even as he starts up a slow pace, sedately pumping into you. “Keep quiet or I’ll have to stop.”

As if on cue, Vanessa says something to him then and Yami effortlessly diverts his attention to the slurring witch as if nothing about the situation were out of place. You dig your nails into the broad expanse of his shoulder blades and bite back a groan, suddenly feeling ten times hotter than before. Even with all your concentration focused on keeping as still and quiet as possible, you find yourself imperceptibly arching to give him better access to your sticky cunt. It was certainly a blessing in disguise that she was just as drunk as you were, otherwise she might have given the whole thing a second thought. The way you were sitting on his lap. The smallest twitch of your hips to accompany the shallow quality of your breathing. It was so obvious what you two were doing. How had they not noticed already?

The table.

Neither Magna or Vanessa could see over it unless they came around and stood right next to the chair. You were essentially safe from the waist down and a fresh spark of confidence alights throughout your whole system with this realization, doubling and then tripling your arousal. It was still risky doing something so brazen right in front of them but you were just drunk enough not to care.

Loins twisting and curling, you carefully rear back to meet his shallow thrusts. You’d never felt more uninhibited in your whole life. “Oooh, daddy,” You whisper, choking on it. “Right there.”

Yami doesn’t miss a beat, easily keeping up with the conversation as he allows a second digit to slide in with the first. You feel the stretch in your bones and you quietly seeth, lashes fanning against the apples of your cheeks when it pushes you to just this side of discomfort. Even being as wet as you are, his fingers were just too thick for your eagerly clenching passage to accommodate them without some resistance and you hedonistically bask in the searing burn. It felt good. Almost good enough for you to lose yourself to the pleasure but, somehow, you manage to keep your wits about you instead of shamelessly writhing in his lap.

You may as well have thrown caution to the wind though. Discretion hardly mattered anymore. You already felt like a blatant little slut and the shock of how much that turns you on has your pussy drooling obscenely all over Yami’s hand.

“Hah - harder, daddy … nnghh, harder, please.”

Rather than obliging, he actually pauses his ministrations and you quietly mewl at the loss of friction. You squirm on top of his muscular thighs and desperately try to fuck down on his digits, panting like a bitch in heat against the captains neck. He shifts underneath you, says something to Vanessa that makes her direct a chiding tone at Magna. Their bickering starts up again and with the rise in volume, Yami gives his wrist a good twist that shoves his fingertips into your upper wall. Static electricity shoots through your system at the sudden pressure on that pulsing sweet spot and the tension in your gut immediately starts to toe the line of unbearable.

Your mouth drops open in shellshocked ecstasy but nothing comes out. It’s hard just to draw breath when the dizzyingly sharp jolt of arousal has your toes flexing uselessly in the air and you tremble, quaking in his arms. Unperturbed by the effect this is having on you, Yami takes his time caressing the velvety soft lining of your insides with sedately smooth motions. Those worn fingertips gradually curl up in the general direction of your belly button and press in deeper, harder, making your cunt absolutely gush around him. You weren’t going to last much longer at this rate.

“Oooh god !” You gasp, clutching him in a death grip.

Turning your head, you press your cheek against Yami’s shoulder and fix your gaze to a random spot on the far wall. The room looked like it was tilted on its axis - - spinning, spinning, spinning - - and all you can do is whine and shake when he scissors his fingers, making more room for himself within you.

You weren’t just overheated anymore. It was as if you’d caught flame, burning from the inside out, and it only gets worse when he flexes his hand, jabbing at the spongy soft spot again and again.

A choked off squeal rises in your throat, just barely held back by tightly clenched teeth. You’re almost positive you can hear the greedy, slopping clicks of your pussy sucking him in deeper just below the surface of the enthusiastic argument going on behind you but they don’t seem to notice. They just keep shouting back and forth at each other, oblivious to what was going on at the other end of the table. You have no idea how you’re getting away with this - aren’t even really sure if you will get away with this when all is said and done - but that’s the very last thing on your mind anymore as you haltingly roll your hips into the blinding pressure.

“Ah - ahh - d - dah - ahh - ddyyy !”

“Do it.” Yami murmurs, his mouth pressed tight to your ear. “Come now , baby. Do it while you have the chance. Come on.”

Your eyes roll back in your head and you give your pelvis one good little twist. The drag of your throbbing clit across the front of his rough pants is the last push you need, the resulting friction searing your veins. It sends you spiraling right over the edge into doped out bliss and you squeak, jerking against him when full bodied tremors grip you in earnest and make you shake.

Riding out the cresting waves as discreetly as you can, you blink back an onslaught of reflexive tears. Your pussy squeezes tight, milking your orgasm on his fingers, even though the effort of forcing yourself to remain quiet nearly breaks your resolve. But you manage, somehow, to breathe through it even as your hips weakly buck in unmitigated pleasure, subduedly twisting in his arms. It felt like you were drowning in it, choking on immense, all encompassing relief.

But Yami doesn’t immediately let up on his concerted attack, continuing to work you over until the spasms start to subside and you whine in frazzled distress. Digits finally stilling inside you, he offers a brief kiss to your hair and it makes you breathe out a tired sigh. You immediately slump, going boneless on top of him, now even clammier than when you’d started. The sweat clinging to your skin has you feeling worryingly damp but you were also satiated and comfortable. It was an acceptable tradeoff, as far as you were concerned.

“Such a good girl. You even managed to stay quiet for me. I’m proud of you.”

Smiling at the hushed approval in his tone, you snuggle further into Yami’s musclebound frame. You were floating on cloud nine, no longer concerned about being removed from the card game; not when the pleasant afterglow and the reassuring presence of your captain - your daddy - had you feeling so at peace. There would always be a next time.

#Black Clover #yami sukehiro #yami x reader #self insert bullshit #My writing

149 notes · View notes

bang-to-the-tan · 4 years

Text

Vessel Euphoria Chapter 9 (Final)

► SciFi!AU

Thriller

Warnings: Description of Corpses, Major Character Death, Mind Control, Upsetting Themes Throughout, Alien Parasitism

↳ Summary: 6 months ago, the crew of the space vessel “Euphoria”—destined for a scientific study on a distant planet—dropped out of all communication. You and your fellow crewmates are inbound to reestablish communication with home base, but things are not as they seem and the fate of the mission is placed in grave danger.

Previous Masterlist

The base slides smoothly over the horizon like it’s being raised from the ground itself, pulled into existence past fields and fields of gently waving flowers. Your heart sinks when you quickly scan the surrounding area and spot no sign of Hoseok and Jimin still being here. On the one hand, that’s good. It means they haven’t broken down on the main path, nor have they been stranded at the primary base.

On the other hand...it doesn’t answer for where they are now.

You set your mouth in a straight line and soldier on, one hand tightening around the steering wheel and the other tapping out the controls on the dashboard to activate the garage door. As it slowly creaks open, you spare a glance at your compatriot.

He’s stock still. Frozen to his seat, eyes wide and unseeing. Not for the first time, you wonder what exactly he’s thinking about.

“Jeon.” You say after a beat. “I need you here. With me.”

He nods, stiff, but he doesn’t look at you.

It’s good enough. Par for the course. At least he isn’t screaming anymore.

You steer the vehicle inside, noticing at the last second that there are decapitated flowers clinging to the front—ones that had been climbing the door while it was stationary, and then snapped out of place when Jimin and Hoseok opened it. The thought gives you some strange comfort. You can retrace their steps on the way back. Everything’s going to be okay.

You pull the buggy into park, unbuckling and stepping out, followed shortly by Jungkook, whose every movement shakes.

He looks up, forward to the side entrance, and the heavy metal doors shut behind you with a loud groan, closing you out of the natural light of the two suns, bathing you instead in the bright, white industrial lighting of the garage.

Jungkook is already heading towards the door, keying in the code, and you have to skip to keep up as the door hisses open.

“Door 1C opening,” the overhead intones.

“I need you to stay with me,” you reiterate as the two of you step inside the decontamination bay.

“I am here,” he mumbles.

“Door 1C closing.”

“I mean, I need you to not run off.”

“Bay 1, beginning decontamination process.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch when the nozzles ahead start spraying the sanitizing fluid, casting the two of you in a momentary downpour.

“Jungook,” you say again. It takes some effort to coax your next words out, but you have to ask. You have to, even if he’s going to lie. “Is Namjoon alive?”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath that ripples through his body. When he turns to look at you, his expression past the rapidly drying sanitization liquid is pained.

“I don’t know.” He croaks. It sounds truthful. And you don’t know if that’s better or worse.

“Door 1B opening.”

Jungkook’s eyes flit from yours to behind you, widening, his lips parting as if in shock. Your heart plummets into your stomach. You whip around, hand poised to hit the emergency lockdown button on your right, thinking of Namjoon and Jimin and Hoseok and those damned flowers, scanning the bay behind you for any trace of movement, the rush of your blood loud in your ears. The area is empty. Out the window? The garage looks the same as how you’d left it. Empty.

Jungkook.

You spin back around, adrenaline suddenly kicking your legs into gear, but you’re too late, he’s slipping out the door, turning, you’re almost there, breath caught in your throat. His fist jolts out to slam into the button to the side of the door. You’re three steps away.

“Decontamination Process Manually Restarted”

Two steps away.

“Jungkook!” His name tears from your chest like a warcry.

One step.

The door slides shut in front of your face, just as you reach forward, and instead of his suit, your outstretched hand lands on solid metal. You look to him through the window, fire rushing through your veins, and though in some corner of your mind, you know it won’t give, you’re already pounding on the door with your fists. The lights overhead flicker, casting a strange pallor across his drawn face.

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes through the speaker in your suit, tinny and choked.

“Don’t—”

“I’m sorry.”

He turns, slow, keeping eye contact as long as he can. You surge forward, clawing at the window as if you could pry it open and clamber through it. Panic skitters through your fingers, up your arms, nesting at the base of your skull.

“Jungkook, don’t—!”

He finally spins on his heel, breaking first into a jog and then into a full sprint.

“Don’t leave me here!” It hurts, it hurts to scream like this, but it doesn’t make any difference. You catch a last glimpse of his form running through the entrance foyer, down the hallway, disappearing past a corner.

The nozzles above you turn back on, dosing you again with the sanitization, distorting your view of the room into rivulets and waves.

Fuck. Fuck.

“Namjoon,” you whisper at the door, slipping off it, searching for a button that would allow you to cancel the process. Anything to speed it up, anything to get you out of this room, give you time to catch up. You should have seen this coming. Why didn’t you see this coming? Hoseok was right. Jimin was right. Shit.

There’s nothing here that you can use. The button to your left is for communication. The panic switch beneath it is for the door behind you. You’re trapped. You rail against the door again, expletives leaving your lips as a colorful string of damnation and curses, punching, kicking, an outlet for every misgiving and anxious thought you’ve had since you boarded the Epiphany so many months ago. It all wrenches from you in a flurry of emotion, leaving you empty and cold, skin crawling.

The lights above turn back to their usual glaring white.

Your entire body stills, breath baited, listening for the overhead.

“Manual Decontamination Complete”

You can taste your heartbeat. Feel every muscle tensing like a racehorse at the gate. Your gaze is fixed on the corner where Jungkook had fled. You have one objective in mind. You’re going to catch him and you’re going to kick the shit out of him.

You should never have trusted him.

“Door 1B Opening”

You’re flying.

You throw yourself out into the foyer without even so much as a stumble, narrowly avoiding clipping yourself on the door as it slides open. Feet pounding the metal beneath you, thoughts racing, you’re already skirting down the hall, turning left violently, dashing towards the archway at the end. Do you remember the layout? The Euphoria’s base schematics are a little different from the ones you’ve seen before, but from what you can recall, you should have a straight shot at the communications tower.

Just hold on, Namjoon. You think as you clear the doorway, almost losing your footing on the smooth surface of the abandoned mess hall. The table you pass triggers a memory—the camera log. The birthday celebration. There are still dishes in the sink built into the cabinets lining the far wall. Your heart constricts but still you run like your life depends on it, already reaching the adjoining hall.

You pull up short, forced into a halt by the scene that grabs your attention out of the corner of your eye and knocks all remaining wind out of your lungs. Ahead is the pathway to the tower. To the left is the quarantine room. And from here, just past the window, you can see a figure slouched in front of the quarantine’s door. Your first thought is Jungkook, by the dark hair.

But you know that isn’t right.

Your feet move of their own accord, pulse deafening in your ears, skin prickling with cooled sweat. You can’t swallow past the lump forming in your throat as you inch closer to the body. Not for the first time, you’re grateful for the lack of smell inside the suit. It’s not Jungkook.

It’s Kim Seokjin. His rumpled jumpsuit partly unzipped at his collarbone. His lips parted, eyes glazed and unseeing. Bile rises in your throat and you have to look away.

There was a struggle. A desk and chairs, overturned, minor blood spatters dried onto the walls. A fight, ranging from the doorway, carried over to the quarantine door.

The handle, you realize with a sick feeling; the apparent source for the pool he’s sitting in.

His head must have been cracked against the handle with enough force to kill him. Was he...was he trying to get into quarantine? Was Jungkook trying to force him into quarantine?

You get your answer when you drift unwittingly closer, pulled by intuition.

Another figure, hidden at first by the short walls of the quarantine room. Curled up, head down, back against the other side of the door. If not for the greened, sickly pallor of his skin, you might think he was only resting. It has to be Taehyung.

“Everything’s fine, Taehyung! I need to talk to the captain!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

This time, you have to physically turn away. The world tilts. The ill feeling you’ve been harboring threatens to rise and take you with it, and for a moment, you consider undoing your helmet just to vomit. The only thing that stops you is the thought of smelling the corpses. Instead, you force yourself to stagger out of the room, feeling for the walls of the hallway with one free hand and clutching the other to your chest, challenging yourself to remember your breathing exercises.

Inhale.

One, two, three, four.

You knew they were dead. Hoseok told you they were dead.

Hold the breath.

One, two, three—

It’s something else entirely to see it for yourself.

—four, five, six—

There’s nothing to be done now. They are dead. They aren’t coming back.

—seven.

Exhale.

Hot tears slink down your cheeks, blurring your vision, choking up your throat. It’s impossible to think straight. Impossible to concentrate. You try, anyway.

One, two, three—

Jin’s playful, easy-going nature. Taehyung’s extravagant sense of wonder. You almost knew them. Six months you listened to them live their lives and tell their stories. Is this heartbreak? Is it justified?

—four, five, six—

And what about your own crew? What happened? Hoseok and Jimin, missing. Jungkook, even, gone rogue. You’re alone.

—seven—

You aren’t. You’re not alone. Yoongi at least, is safe, locked inside the med bay.

—eight.

And Namjoon.

Namjoon.

You have to save Namjoon.

There’s no reason you can think of for Jungkook to chase a dead man.

Your feet are unsteady. The tilt of the world seems off, disallowing you your balance, making it all too easy to stumble, to miscalculate where next you’ll step. But you’re moving again. You push all thoughts of Jin and Taehyung to the side. You’ll mourn them later. Bury them later. You’ll do something sentimental, to honor their memory. You’ll tell Central Command. Let them notify the families. Maybe there will be rest for them in the end. Maybe you can rest, too.

You think of Namjoon instead. It’s such a faint glimmer of hope, but you grasp it and cradle it, and pray that it won’t shatter in your hands. You move forward again, picking up speed down the hall, focused on the door. What if he’s dead? Then it’s all for nothing. All of it.

But what if he needs you?

The thought kicks your body into gear before you have the chance to stop it and you’re running again, stumbling, tripping, reaching, scrambling for the handle and thrusting it down with all your might, unable to stop the buzzing in your temples, the shakiness of your limbs. The door gives too easily, swinging inwards with your force, and you almost fall flat on your face following it, swaying into the room drunkenly.

Somehow, you know that it’s empty before you even get a proper look at the place.

You fucked up.

In your mind, you can see the diagram. The layout of the base. You can see exactly how you got it wrong. How you reversed it in your head. This isn’t the communications tower. This is the med bay. Medical cots lay about the room, orderly in their lack of use. Surgical tools glinting in the faint light from the hallway. Shit. Shit.

Your hope dwindles, but as you turn on your heel, you hear a crackle. A series of beeps overhead, signalling the start of an intercom announcement. You freeze.

“This is Flight Officer Kim Namjoon, of the Vessel Euphoria.” Your heart leaps into your throat, and even though you know he can’t hear you, his name leaves you in a loud whoop. Adrenaline floods back into your body, urging you back out the door, ears peeled to listen, breath baited.

Maybe it’s a trick, you think wildly, suddenly paranoid. Maybe Jungkook is playing an old message through the speakers to confuse you. Even so, after six months, you know every half second of those tapes better than the back of your hand. The hesitation, the pauses. The way he takes a breath before he says his name. This is either a new one you haven’t heard, or possibly…it’s possible he’s okay. It’s possible he’s still safe, locked away in the tower. Your pace quickens.

“I am...making this announcement based on my best understanding. My best intuition. I—”

Something is wrong. He sounds...tired. He sounds...scared.

“The best decision I could think to make for the sake of my crew.”

You continue, steps slowing in your confusion and focus. You pass the quarantine room, refusing to look back through the window as you listen intently to every crackle and pop of the speakers.

“I’m so sorry. We failed. I—as an officer, as a leader. I have failed. I’m sorry.

Using the officer’s recall, I held back the logs of my crew members for months. This was a deliberate action taken on my part. I...I have reason to believe at least one of my crew is unwell. Beyond unwell.”

You halt in your tracks. Your heart is live in every strand of your veins, in your ears, thudding, deafening.

“I have reason to believe he is...sick. To the point of endangering himself. Endangering the mission. The rest of the crew.”

Namjoon takes a long, deep breath. When his voice comes back over the intercom, it’s shaky. You have never heard that in his tone before.

“I have reason to believe it’s infectious.”

The floor threatens to slip out from under your feet, leaving you teetering on the edge of space. Ahead, the ceiling spins, whirling, blurring, and you have to squint your eyes against the vivid motion of the universe as it folds in on itself around you. Your shoulder thuds into the wall, desperate for some support, even as you slide downwards.

“With that in mind, and considering the evidence I have collected over this time, I’ve made a decision.”

The lights above sink into a red glow that bathes you and the hallway around you in an ominous rose. No.

No, you know what that means. You’ve read all about the color codes for mission bases. Codes for emergency repair. Blue. Codes for emergency transmission from Central. Orange.

And red.

“No, Namjoon.” Someone is choking, sobbing, coming in through loud and clear in your helmet. It’s you. You hardly recognize yourself. Your voice sounds raw, painful. “Namjoon, don’t do this.”

You’re staggering back upright, peeling off the wall. Your body throws itself forward, past the mess hall again, lurching, careening for the hallway on the opposite. The red lights paint everything like some horror art film dousing the walls in blood.

“Namjoon, you can’t.”

You can’t let him send that code. You can’t let him finalize it. Your mind races. If you can reach him before the message is over, you can stop the relay. You can stop it from getting through to Central. There’s time. He’s making a mistake.

“I’m calling for a Code Stigma.”

“No. No, Namjoon, I’m here.”

“This is the hardest decision I’ve ever made. But it’s for the best. It’s for the best I can do. I’m sorry I can’t do more. I’m so sorry.”

“We’re already here.” You turn the corner. You can see it. The door is open. Jungkook. He must have made it inside. You can’t breathe, but you’re still moving, still arguing with the intercom between shaking, shuddering inhales. “Namjoon, we’re already here, you can’t do this.”

“Code Stigma.” He’s choked up, now, audibly trying not to cry himself as he continues with protocol.

“As marking a planet unfit and unsafe.”

“No, Namjoon!” You’re screaming, feet pounding the grates beneath.

“A mission given a Code Stigma will be discontinued.”

“We’re already here!” You reach the door.

“And given the nature of the declaration, there will be no return journey.”

“Namjoon, please!”

“And given the nature of the declaration, there will be no retrieval unit.”

“You can’t do this to us!”

Your knees buckle and you collapse into the communications room, tears flowing freely past your chin. The monitor ahead is filled with the bust of Kim Namjoon. Hair too long, pajamas too grubby. He’s been crying, too, eyes red and puffy, cheeks shining. In front of the screen, Jungkook stands, swaying, like he’s not far from falling to his own knees. His back is mostly to you, busy watching the video as tears stream silently down his own face, eyes flitting to and fro across his commander’s face.

“I’m so sorry.” Namjoon says again, sniffling. He tries to put on a brave face, but his expression crumples and he has to pause to drag his forearm under his nose. “I failed. I failed you. I failed....everyone. Things got out of hand. I still don’t know what happened. Something went wrong...”

“We’re already here,” you whisper, hoarse. “Namjoon, we’re already here.”

“It’s too dangerous. We can’t go home. I don’t know what this thing is, but I know it’s spreading. I don’t even know if I have it.”

Jungkook cranes to meet your eye, his face just as pained as yours.

“Don’t send anyone for us. For their sake. We’ll maintain logs, even decommissioned. We’ll keep researching, as long as we can.”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook croaks. You stare at him, at how the light paints him blue across his face and red from the hallway in his hair.

“...Code Stigma,” you reply, breathless, scratched. You try to make him understand, he has to understand, he has to press the button, end the signal. “He’s calling for a Code Stigma. Jungkook.”

“I will process a full report soon after this sends, detailing my decision.”

“He did.”

“Jungkook. Jungkook, that’s a death sentence. That means we can’t go back. That means they won’t come for us. We—we—but we’re already here.” You can’t draw a proper breath through your throat. It comes out as a rasp. He can’t let it go through. All he has to do is press the button, just in front of him, to the right. He can fix this. “We’re already here.”

“You weren’t supposed to be. H-he never had the chance to send it.”

Again, you break, already knowing the answer before you ask the question, chest constricting painfully. “Why not?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better leader. Please learn from my mistakes.”

Jungkook’s gaze slides off you to a far corner of the room. You don’t want to follow it. But you do anyway. Another figure, hidden by the shadow of the door. Slouched against the wall, like the others. Another dried, congealed puddle beneath him. Something cylindrical rests in the pool next to him. It’s a fire extinguisher, you realize dimly. It’s covered in blood. In this light, it looks black. Empty, void. Like a hole in reality.

“And...please tell my mom...that I’ll be thinking of her. I’m sorry I couldn’t come home.”

A wail interrupts whatever it is that Namjoon says next, beginning as a high-pitched whistle and descending slowly into a bone-deep howl, driven from your chest and throat as it takes all of your hope with it, voicing every despair from the depths of your soul as you shriek, closing your eyes against the terrible sight, curling forward in your position on the floor, scrabbling at the grates beneath you like you could bury yourself under them. Dimly, you feel warmth appear at your shoulders. The feel of weight plopping onto the ground beside you. Body heat, encompassing your miserable form, another voice raised in anguish with yours. Your hands fight back, pushing, but it doesn’t move, and, still screaming, eventually, you give up.

Your communicator crackles. You’re scrambling for it before you’re even cognizant of the world around you. You must have blacked out at some point, because Namjoon’s voice has gone from the background, the screen blank but for [MESSAGE ENDED] and the lights in the hallway have returned to a bright, industrial white.

“Officer Jung, reporting. Specialist, do you copy?”

You thrash underneath Jungkook, scrambling for the device pinned to your side. He rolls off easily, hesitant, sinking back into a kneeling position beside you.

“Hoseok, Hoseok,” you chant, desperately, your voice little more than a dried-out whisper. It takes three tries for your fingers to steady enough to push the button on the side for a reply. “Hoseok, I’m here.” Even though your chest is a vice and your breath is coming in sobs, you have no tears left and can only heave labored noises in their place.

“Where are you?”

A deep gulp, a smack of your lips to try and make speaking less painful. It does little to help. “Primary. I took Jungkook to primary. I was looking for you.”

There’s a pause.

“I told you not to go there.” he says, low. “I gave you a direct order—”

“Hoseok,” you interrupt with a painful swallow and another breath. “Hoseok, he—Namjoon made a Code Stigma. Vessel Euphoria’s mission is a Code Stigma. Jungkook sent it out.”

“A Code Stigma.”

“We—”

“What were you doing out there?”

“J-Jungkook said,” you throw him a glance, but he’s not looking at you. He’s back to staring emptily at a space yards away, body sagging. “He said there were fuel cells out here. For the ship. I thought I could come collect them and find you on the way. What happened to you? Why were you gone so long—”

“We had an issue off the main road,” the answer is dismissive, more intent on grilling you, “He said there’s fuel cells out there?”

You frown. “W-where, what do you mean? Is Jimin okay?”

“You need to get the fuel cells and head back. That’s an order, Specialist.”

It takes a monumental effort, but you stagger up into a sitting position, beginning to breath hard, brows furrowed in confusion and an unsettling feeling of something not being right again coiling in your belly. “Hoseok, where’s Jimin?”

“He’s fine. We’ve spent enough time on this planet, we need to get into orbit.”

“But the code—”

“For the Vessel Euphoria’s mission. Not ours,” he says quickly, professional and heavy. “We’re going home.”

Even despite your misgivings, your heart soars and you lean to press your forehead against your communicator. Home. Going home. Leaving this nightmare behind. Yes. You’d like to go home. With your crew. Out of here, away from this decay and death and misery. The in-office therapist is going to have a field day with all of you, you think with a half-crazed, wry chuckle. But it’ll be worth it.

Home.

“You also need to let Specialist Min out of the med bay. What the fuck were you thinking, locking him up in there?”

Another pause.

“He...I left him the code,” you reply, hesitating. “Did he not see the note?”

“Specialist,” Officer Jung snaps. “I don’t want an answer. It was rhetorical. I’m giving you another direct order. Get those cells and come back. I am in no mood.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Signing off.”

“Jungkook,” you heave. You sniffle, blinking rapidly to clear your vision, straightening. “Jungkook, we’re gonna go home. Did you hear that? It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head. Your stomach contracts.

“Wh—where, Jungkook,” you shuffle forward, catching his attention. His eyes flit to yours, and there’s regret there that you immediately don’t like. “Jungkook, where are the fuel cells? We need cells for the ship and fuel for the buggy.”

He shakes his head again, mute. Frustration mounts inside of you and its all you can do to stop yourself from attacking him.

“Jungkook. Look,” you try a different approach, “Look, if you help me, if you help us, we can take you with us. We can take you with us, back home. You can get the help you need. We can leave this all behind us. Whatever happened here—we can get you help.”

“No.” he interrupts. “No, we can’t.”

“Yes, we can. We have to.” Panic is threatening to climb up your throat and throttle you. You reach for his hands, which he allows limply. You try again to be understanding, calm, but there is so little of you left. Your thumb rubs circles into his knuckles, more of a nervous twitch than a soothing motion. “Just tell me where—”

“Flamethrower.”

“What?” your voice is a whisper.

“The fuel. I took the scorcher and made a flamethrower. It’s gone.”

The path. The path burnt up to secondary. That’s how he got up there through the flowers.

You shake your head furiously. “No. No, Jungkook, no, it’s, you said—”

“I lied.” He drops his neck to look at you head on now, expression contorting in pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I lied. I had to.”

“No. No.” He’s wrong. He’s wrong.

“I had to come back out here. I had to. Once I realized you didn’t know. He—he didn’t get to send the message. We can’t leave. We have to stay.”

“No, no, no, no.” You’re pushing his hands away, suddenly incapable of being around him, touching him, looking at him, but he follows your movements even as you scoot and try to stand, his hand still outstretched, now pleading.

“We can’t. We can’t, listen to me.”

“No, no, no, Jungkook, no,” you wail, staggering to your feet, throwing yourself against the communication dashboard for support, clutching the keys beneath your fingers for any grip you can get, even as reality slips from under you.

“Listen, of course it wants to go home. Of course it wants to go home,” he continues, standing with you, stumbling too close, too close, trying to placate, make you understand. You understand. You understand perfectly.

“I’m not sick, Jungkook,” you spit, hiccuping. “I want—I want to go home!”

“I know you do! I do too. And so does it. And that’s why we can’t go. What happens if it gets on Earth? Please.” He’s sobbing again, reaching for your hand again. Your world spins, tilting sickeningly beneath your feet. The fuel cells are gone. It was a lie. You listened, he tricked you, and now, now….

“Nobody’s coming for us, Jungkook.” You don’t know if you’re even speaking aloud at this point. “We can’t...we have to go home…”

He’s pulling you into an embrace again, and you go limp in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he cries openly into your shoulder. You don’t even have the strength to push him away.

Previous Masterlist

#bts sci fi au #bts thriller #bts fanfic #vessel euphoria

63 notes · View notes

catharrington · 4 years

Note

26 and 40 for sleepy prompts??

Thank you so so much for the prompt~~ I am in love with this list!! Always accepting more ;)

Sleepy prompts: 26/“I know it’s embarrassing I still sleep with a Night light” && 40/“It’s just a nightmare, it’s nothing real.”

***

Steve was warned about Billy Hargrove from the second he got the college’s Email listing his new roommate. Whispers about how he’s a jerk, walks around with no shirt on, maybe no pants, leaves beer cans crushed around his room. The type to hang a sock on the door knob to let you know he’s busy.

Steve braced himself as he packed up and moved into his senior dorms. The boxes of his sparse belongings and heavy books itching on the palms of his hands.

Billy Hargrove ticked off a box as soon as he opened the door. He was laid out on his already claimed bed, kicking his legs so his cotton exercise shorts rode up his thick thighs; and he was shirtless. Steve’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he took in curling muscles tanned glittering copper. Still sticky, still sweating with it. Like he just got back from riding his golden chariot laps around the sun.

Steve moves his eyes to his small desk at the foot of the one unclaimed bed. Sets his box down hard like he stumbled, when really it was more to try and wake himself up.

“Hey,” he turned around all practiced plastic ease, running a hand through his messy hair he knows he’s let grow out way too long. It’s curling over the bottoms of his ears. Billy’s eyes flick down to follow the movement. “I’m Steve Harrington,” he introduces himself.

Billy leans back more on the bed. His abs flexing. He licks his lips, replies, “Billy Hargrove,” like he’s doing Steve a favor.

Steve takes his hand back that was outstretched, that’s just fine with him not getting burnt. He glances around the small room a few times just to take it in.

Their beds are parallel to each other running along either wall, at the foot of each bed is a desk and matching bookshelf, and separating them like a line in the sand is a floor length window that looks out to the campus. Billy’s got a couple band posters up, one of just some guys crotch in leather pants, the other a sunny yellow Cerberus foaming at the mouth. And a hot to the touch lava lamp sitting alone on top his bookcase.

Steve doesn’t have more than him, maybe he’s got a little less. Where Billy has his posters Steve leaves his wall blank, but where Billy’s bookcase is comfortably filled with reading material, Steve’s wood threatens to give out under the weight of his medical textbooks. Stacks and stacks of hard bound bricks take the space quickly, some on one side of his desk crowding his laptop and some even making a pile on the floor under his bed.

“Nursing?” Billy asks the second day they are existing in the same space.

Steve’s the one lounging out on his bed, highlighter behind his ear and hair pinned back with a thick clip so it doesn’t bother his studying. Hasn’t gotten it cut quite yet, doesn’t know if he ever will while Billy keeps taking long glances at it.

Billy’s talking to him over a Mark Twain novel as if Steve’s more interesting. “Yeah,” Steve shrugs, feels a blush rising at the attention, “want to do something important. Figured it would help people.”

“Must be pretty smart for that?” Billy’s eyes are a pretty shade of blue. Like the sky.

“I mean- I guess I am? but nah, more like,” Steve’s stuttering, “It’s really just lots of memorization. Remembering terms and locations- that I’m good at. When it comes to getting creative I fall flat on my face,” he laughs.

Billy laughs with him, simmering into something warm and sunny. They go back to their books and it’s not until next week Steve picks up that Billy’s a Language Arts major in creative writing. He feels like he’s shoved his foot in his mouth maybe a tad, but doesn’t want to ask.

He’s laying awake in bed thinking about it, letting his eyes wander over the spines of all of Billy’s bookcase in the low light and wondering what he writes. He’s never seen him write. When he hears him for the first time.

It’s just a low groan, a pained noise starting in his chest and dripping from an open faucet slowly through his gritted teeth. Sounds like he’s hurt, sounds like he’s scared. The lava lamp is molten next to his bed casting him in a glow of fire that burns his copper skin until it melts fat drips of sweat across his forehead to his pillow case. The noise gets louder, Steve lifts himself to one elbow, waits for a second as it gets louder still, then right as Steve’s gripping his blanket... Billy stops.

He exhales, twisting in his bed to kick his flat sheet into a pool around his hips. Steve doesn’t know it but he exhales too. Lays back down and grips his blanket to his chest as he watches Billy’s naked chest rise. The sweat dry on his skin.

Steve doesn’t know when he passed out but when he wakes up he’s alone in the room, and the lava lamp is turned off.

He found it annoying once, just once, to have the whole room washed in tones of red every night. Reminded him a little of his pool back home in Hawkins and how the blue light clung to his bedroom window like fungus. How he used curtains and blankets to drown himself in pitch black. But that never helped, and this red light seemed to be something Billy takes comfort in.

At the very least, comfort in a scheduled way. An hour before he sleeps he sips at a beer chilled in their shared mini fridge, Steve using his shelf for protein bars and Billy using it for a six pack that never runs out, leaning over his desk while his rippling back muscles block Steve from seeing what he’s doing. What he’s writing, Steve imagines again, his fingers lightly playing over his laptop as he listened intently to pen against paper even louder than his keys clacking.

But louder still, louder than the crushing of beer cans or the rush of blood in Steve’s head as he watches Billy from the corner of his eyes strip to his boxers to go to sleep, is the volume of Billy’s groans keeping him awake at night.

They are sporadic and every couple days, some dismissable, but some worse. Steve struggled with ignoring them when he knows he can’t. Knows his eyes are fixed on the way Billy’s strong rib cage flutters under his skin as he gulps for air. Watching mute as Billy’s stocky fingers rolls his sheet up to cover his neck, just to bring it back down.

The red light is on. The lava is moving shapes around the room. Shadows that are crawling mad like a pack of wild dogs to get to Billy. He groans and growls and fights back before he exhales. Always the same. Steve exhales himself now, counts the seconds until Billy’s rib cage jumps return to normal. Wonders briefly, if he should be using his nursing schooling for this.

He’s forced to, quicker than he wanted to, still scared to get burnt by that copper skin. But it’s two months they’ve been living together. Two months of nightmares and red lights. Never sleeping and drinking too much coffee. Two months of Steve laying awake cataloging, highlighting, memorizing, the way Billy’s hips turn inwards sometimes when he dreams in the exact motion of getting kicked in the ribs.

It’s on this day, this red lit night, that Billy doesn’t groan. His snarls soften to whimpers before they even start. Billy doesn’t wiggle as if he’s fighting back, he simply reaches out one hand, towards the middle of the room. Into the streaks of light the cheep curtains over the window lets in. His fingers curl in a begging way, reaching out.

Steve closes his eyes, tries to ignore when he knows he can’t. Listens for the symptoms of it slowing down and stopping but they never come. He opens his eyes only to notice Billy’s crying. Fat drops of tears look molten lava down his pretty face. Turning his golden freckles to tar with their tracks. Billy’s hand stays out, grasping, fingers clawing.

Steve lifts himself up on one elbow. Moves his blankets off his body with one arm. Sinks down to the ground in his soft flannel pajamas and worn high school basketball tshirt and kneels by the edge of Billy’s bed. Steve gathers Billy’s begging hand up in his own, intertwining their fingers together and clutching flushed hot skin to his chest.

It takes a moment for Billy to wake up. Steve slouches against Billy’s bed, using their joined hands to hold his chest up while his other hand moves to ginger colored curls. He tucks one behind Billy’s ear. Let’s his fingers graze over the metallic skin flushed and burning blood red, let’s it light his skin on fire. Steve runs his hand from Billy’s chin to his chest, tracing the hammered sword edge of his collar bones as they vibrate with the noise of his whimpers.

Steve presses the length of his fingers to Billy’s skin until he doesn’t vibrate. Until his breath is evening out. Steve’s doing his job, helping, trying not to get burnt. He watches with a medical detachment until blue eyes flutter open. Then Steve’s breath is hitching.

“Steve,” Billy mutters, his voice raw. His blue eyes glance around them for a moment, taking in the way Steve’s got his hand and whole arm possessively tucked under his body weight and the way his feather light fingers haven’t lifted from his skin. Still pressing his collar bones just with the fat of his fingers, as if he’s steadying himself to press down ivory piano keys.

“Steve?” Billy repeats his name in a question. Then he lifts one hand to drag across his face in embarrassment, and when he moves the rainfall of sweat collected there he seems to get it.

“I’ve been noticing these are happening frequently, but this is the severest they’ve gotten yet.” Steve explains in a calm voice he thinks his emergency response professor could be proud of.

“You’ve been noticing shit bout me, pretty boy?” Billy coos back.

Steve’s tone of voice crumbles. “You’re very loud, y’know?” and it’s more like a squeak.

“Sorry,” Billy lets the word roll loud and heavy from his chest. He turns like he wants to pull away. Wants to hide and pretend it’s normal, most likely. Steve doesn’t think he’s done holding Billy’s arm.

“Don’t have to be sorry about nightmares. Everyone gets them.” Steve traces collar bone to shoulder, runs over the swollen curves of his biceps to his glowing red arm wrapped in his own. Cuddles up to Billy’s arm like his pillow left forgotten on his bed. He folds himself over more in a way he should be called crazy for, doesn’t seem to have the energy to care. He hasn’t been sleeping much. Hasn’t been sleeping at all.

“It’s just a nightmare,“ Steve continues. His chin bumping into tanned skin with every word, “it’s nothing real.”

“It was real once,” Billy whispers out. Blurts the words quick. His swollen red eyes move to watch Steve’s reaction. His emergency response professor would be proud in the way Steve only gave a gentle smile in reply. Prompting for more with a nod.

Billy reads him, line for line, before he continues on. “My old man used to get drunk, take a whiskey bottle by the neck and just swig until he felt like a different man. He used to stumble into my room and remind me I ain’t shit. I wasn’t wanted. I was forgotten and I’ll always be forgotten,” Billy’s talking like he’s not paying attention to his words. He closes his eyes and turns as he speaks, rolls this time towards Steve. Bubbles him in with hot skin and melted tears and intertwined fingers finally tightening their grip.

“Sounds like you’re a survivor, Billy. You’ve lived and grown. It’s okay to be afraid, it’s okay to remember, but in this dorm he isn’t real.” Steve notices the way Billy’s crying again. He hopes it’s not because of him. “You are safe now. Here, you are safe. No one is coming in that door.”

And Steve really hasn’t had much course on therapy for trauma survivors, other than the symptoms of shock. He can set a broken bone and stitch a cut, give CPR, but for this he stops blowing dust off his piles of text books. He doesn’t care what his professors think, he’s biting his lip as he worries unprofessionally about Billy understanding how safe he is. How much Steve won’t let that happen again. How much he wants those blue eyes to open up, washed garnet gemstones in the lamps light and sparkling just as brilliant with his crying.

How Steve wants only to pet across that skin until the motion settles him and the shadows of lights from the boiling lava stop appearing as wild dogs.

Turn into clouds shifting though a sunset sky. Turn into safety.

Billy opens his eyes. They find Steve’s easy in the dim light. “I know it’s embarrassing I still sleep with a night light,” he says playfully.

Steve laughs back. Turning his eyes down before looking back up. Catching those eyes anew always seems to take his breath away. He must be burnt a special shade of crimson under this light. “It’s not embarrassing. Lava lamps are hip, very retro cool,” Steve teases.

Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s tugging on Steve’s arm and motioning with a tilt of his impossibly sharp jaw bone towards the bed. “Wanna get up off the floor? Pretty boy like you shouldn’t have such dark circles. People are gonna think I’m,” he trails off, lets his eyes scan over Steve’s faded tshirt once before flicking back to his in a way that made Steve’s eyelashes flutter.

“I’m abusing you or something in here,” Billy finishes.

Steve smiles, not a smile to produce comfort or reassurance; but just smiles because he’s happy. He lifts himself from the floor enough to scoot into Billy’s narrow twin size bed with him. Billy doesn’t move his arm Steve has basically claimed. Steve doesn’t get his pillow from his own bed, so he keeps a hold of the well crafted bicep to use as a pillow.

This close Billy smells sweaty, there’s beer on his breath, but there’s also something earthy. Pressed paper that holds the smell of ink, and leather, and trees.

Steve runs one hand up Billy’s chest and gets his hand back on his collar bone, while Billy reaches out a hand slower and almost hesitantly until he’s pushing Steve’s messy hair off his forehead. Billy gathers up silky locks in his large well worn hand before tucking them behind Steve’s ear. His thick fingers follow the way it curls under his ear. Billy follows the way Steve’s soft skin gets softer behind his ear and around to the back of his neck.

There he lets his hand rest, cupping Steve’s long neck as if it was the most natural thing to do.

While Steve kept his hand right next to Billy’s pulse. Examining for a flutter as they slept that thankfully never came.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove fic #my fic #harringrove fanfic #steve/billy #prompt fill

100 notes · View notes

cxmetery-gates · 3 years

Text

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD SCARY STORY

SUMMARY: With teases and friendly banter, Lynn can’t help but fall under Mr. Hiddleston’s charming spell. WORD COUNT: 2.1k NOTES: Thank you to everyone reading! Dark!fics get a lot of criticism and though the story has not turned into one ((yet)), I’m very humbled by all the likes and reblogs :) WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

"I'M NOT ONE FOR COMPLAINING," I pant– while simultaneously lying with a straight face– dragging my feet up another flight. "But can I ask which floor your room is on?"

Only a step ahead of my slow pace, the male teacher smirks. "Not fond of stairs?"

I shrug. "Not really fond of anything involving exercise."

"I would agree," he glances back, a grin marking his face. He makes a huff, more than likely on my same page, but perhaps better off. He appears to be fit so I'm doubting three flights of stairs is killing him like it's slaughtering me. "But, a morning run isn't the worst way to start the day."

My nose wrinkles. "So you're one of those guys? Gotta make those gains, hm?" I'm not sure where my overly confident attitude is coming from. It's not like me to make comments like these to my teachers, Mrs. Gibbons being the exception but even then I am reserved. Something about being close to Mr. Hiddleston has completely altered my professionalism around people of a higher authority. Hopefully it doesn't last long and I don't run into the principle any time soon.

Finally, after what seemed like climbing Mount Doom, we reach the last step. Pausing, Mr. Hiddleston looks down to me. "You've got quite the nerve talking to your superior like a classmate."

It's obvious he's teasing, so I go along. "My superior? What, because you're a hundred thousand dollars in debt thanks to a fancy piece of paper and you've got a couple more decades on your shoulders?"

"'A couple decades?'" He repeats, quite amused.

I shrug with sass coating my entire being. "Give or take. What are you, forty? Nearing fifty?"

His gives a chuckle. "Try thirty-three."

"Really?" I ask doing a small run down while he looks away. I don't find myself in the company of thirty-somethings all that often but I can't lie; he's looking really good, especially from the backside. Mr. Hiddleston hums, and I'm not sure if that was a positive or negative sound. "You sure? Because I could have sworn I saw some grays up there."

"Oh, ha ha, you're so clever," he mocks, voice suddenly raising just a couple octaves. It causes me to jump but I giggle, feeling a strange girly feeling arise from my stomach. All I can do is tell myself not to throw up from nerves, over and over in my head.

Feeling just as confident, I reply with a whisper. "Shh! There are classes in session! You're going to get detention!"

He shakes his head. Mr. Hiddleston attempts to be serious but there's humor and teases filled between each word. "Funny you mention that: I happen to be the teacher in change of detention this week. And don't think I won't put you there because you're helping me: any other teacher would have landed you a weeks worth just from your comment on my age."

My eyes roll. "As if. You're too nice."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive," I reply, a smirk hanging on my lips.

He looks down, given my lack of height, and I move my face towards him comically. There's a smirk playing on his thin lips, the corners desperately trying to form a smile. Eye contact remains steady, but I see it more as a funny, friendly game of domination. A moment passes before he looks away, a small sigh parting his lips. "We'll see about that," Mr. Hiddleston retorts, causing me to chuckle.

From his belt, he wears one of those mini extendable cables that can hold all sorts of keys and chains. I'm honestly not quite sure what they're called. Fumbling with the keys, Mr. Hiddleston flips through several before find the the right one and pulling it towards the door, a thin wire keeping a hold on the instrument. When I was much younger, my mother would wear one clipped to the pocket of her scrubs, but hers was smaller, only allowing another clip for her RN tag. Each night consisted of me as a toddler pulling on the name tag and watching the cord return to the circular piece of plastic, unable to see the thin cable coil within. The small piece of nostalgia sets a comforting warmth in my chest.

Despite the insignificant memory, I snicker at his device. The sight of such a young and handsome man keeping his keys together with such an instrument is dorky, and definitely cute.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he sighs, flipping the fluorescent lights on. I follow him in while getting a look around his classroom.

It's relatively simple and mundane, surprisingly enough. Not like I was expecting red velvet walls or a jacuzzi, but maybe something with a bit more personality. The walls are neatly littered with the typical English teacher posters, from "Best Shakespeare Quotes" to the differences between "to," "too," and "two." There's a blank white board in front of rows of desks and a projection screen pulled down over it. Across the room are a few book shelves consisting of dictionaries, thesauruses, and books worth reading. From the distance I can easily spot several of my own favorite books, instantly earring couple brownie points from me.

I follow Mr. Hiddleston who takes a left, as a wall with a pencil sharpener blocks the right. We walk parallel to a wall which is entirely ceiling high cabinets, all closed to the curious eye. His desk sits catty corner and is much like his classroom: mess free and boring. I consider making a comment but stop myself when I notice a few photos on the filing cabinet. One is him with a graduation cap and gown, his hands bearing a diploma. The next looks like a guys night out with Mr. Hiddleston wearing a (distractingly tight) black shirt and two other men accompanying him. And last, and the one that is set before the others, is a picture of the teacher with an older woman. I can only assume it's his mother. This causes a heart warmed smile to etch across my face. It's always lovely and precious to see older men respecting and appreciating their mothers. My own tells me "mama's boys" are the worst type of man to date because in her mind, they are still children who cling to their mothers for support, emotion and financially. I have to remind her that it's not the case for every man, just for the guy she chose to marry.

"Please, set the books wherever you like." My random tangent gets interrupted by a voice, causing me to jump six feet. Mr. Hiddleston places his stack of books on his desk. I would follow suit but looking at the small space, I decide to give his personal bubble some room and I move to the nearest student desk.

Brushing my hands over my black jeans, I turn around. While the teacher shuffled through stacks of papers, I awkwardly and silently stand close to his desk. Only a few second pass do I actually realize my situation: me with the hottest teacher, all alone. I can only imagine all the jealous teenagers clawing at this chance. However, I have a job downstairs waiting for me. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Hiddleston?"

His eyes quickly shoot up. "Oh, uh no. No, thank you." Mr. Hiddleston pauses a moment to set his papers down. "I'm sorry for keeping you. I was looking to see what hour of the day I have you, but it appears there isn't one."

My eyebrows knit together at his comment. "Well, you'd have to look for a "Carolyn" if that were the case." I pause for a moment, confusion riddling my face. "Wait, whaddya mean?" Almost instantly, I'm repulsed by my southern slang, despite myself not having any drawl to my words. My voice is basically that of an incoherent cave woman compared to his smooth, charming accent. Aside from this, I feel myself floating; he's looking for a time to see me again. I have to contain a girlish squeal just as reality sets in. He's probably just curious if he actually has me or is considering making a "see you at this time" comment. Nonetheless, my heart skips a beat or two.

"Most seniors take my course as their final English requirement. Are you not a senior?"

I feel myself dimming at his comment. Unfortunately, it would appear reality strikes again. But it was honestly quite ridiculous for me to even consider the reason why he was looking for my name was for something other than educational. However, I simultaneously feel my body lighting up. "Oh, no, I definitely am a senior. I chose the writing class for my English elective. I, uh, want to be a writer so I figured it would help in the long run."

Mr. Hiddleston seems interested in what I have to say. Most tell me writing isn't a career or I have a one in a million chance in making it big. Well, if George Lucas can write the three prequels all alone and still make bank, I think I've got a pretty good shot. "Fascinating! What is your preferred genre?"

With some hesitation, I blurt out, "Fantasy, but also some horror and thrillers. I've tried sci-fi once; didn't work out too well."

"I love a good scary story," he comments, giving me a wink. I take this as a small gesture, but my insides are literally screaming. Never has a friendly wink turned me into a flustering mess. Part of me say he knows what he can do, and if that's the case, he's quite the cocky bastard.

Playing along, I give my shoulder a shrug and coolly reply, "Perhaps I can run a rough or final draft by you."

"I wouldn't mind that at all."

How does such a small statement cause all my organs and two hundred and six bones to turn into jelly?

Brushing my long hair from my face, I peek over at the clock. It's been a bit longer than I expected, the hands informing me I have five minutes left of my first class period. "Well, I ought to get going if there isn't anything else I can do for you?" I make sure to say this in the form of a question. I wouldn't mind being late to my next class just to see a gorgeous face a while longer.

Mr. Hiddleston's lips part for a moment just before clamming shut. The look in his blue eyes tell me he wants to say something, but doesn't. I'm not sure what would constitute such a hesitation; initially, I thought he would have asked me to help shelve the twenty-or-so books. The look is intense, or appears to be, just for a flash, less than a second. My own anxieties begin to shake just as a kind smile grows along his lips. "No, but I do appreciate the offer. Thank you, Carolyn."

I visibly cringe at my legal name, this look not going by the teacher so easily. He bursts a small laugh. "Not a fan or your name, are we?"

Shaking my head, I say, "No particularly. It's a bit vintage. Well, not terribly so, but I'm not over the moon about it." I pause awkwardly, my flustered nerves getting the better of me. I croak out some sounds before finishing my tangent. "I go by Lynn, though."

"Lynn it is then," Mr. Hiddleston announces. "I'll let you get going then. The bell will ring soon and I don't want you to be late on your first day back because of me."

I smirk while crossing over to the door. "Nah, I don't mind." Instantly I want to smack the back of my head. To anyone listening it would sound like I had been flirting with a teacher. Well, to be fair it would have sounded like it not matter what time someone were to jump in at. Even so, this comment I naturally came up with put me in a case of "oh fuck." With reddened cheeks, I take a look over my shoulder so see Mr. Hiddleston unfazed by my comment, thank the holy lord, except a ever growing smile. He takes his eyes off the paper in front of him, meeting me with his pretty blues.

"I'll see you around, Lynn."

"Likewise." And with that, I part down the hall, this time invested in taking the elevator.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

TAGLIST:

@khadineberry

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TAGGED, LET ME KNOW!

#obsessive teachings #dark!tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston fanfiction #teacher!tom hiddleston #loki #high school #stalking #obsessed love #obsessive #dark!fic

11 notes · View notes

longsightmyth · 3 years

Text

Hey do y’all want a bit of the first draft of the Lillian v Cain duel well you’re getting it (may I please stress again first draft)

Cain’s arm tightened across her throat, and Lillian gasped for air in spite of herself. Dimly she could hear Dorian shouting, and Chaol tried to move into the ring but someone had taken his crutch. Her eyes fell on Kaltain, who watched avidly.

They locked eyes, and Kaltain bared her teeth and bit at nothing. Her fingers flexed, clawing, and Lillian remembered that she’d known how to fight this sort of grip since she was eleven, when her parents had taken her behind the house and started running her through exercises.

Lillian scrabbled for Cain’s fingers, digging a nail into the bed of his at the same time she wrenched his thumb back and out with the other. She couldn’t hear the sound that made, but Cain dropped her and she rolled away, grabbing her staff on reflex and stumbling to her feet.

She didn’t give him time to recover either: Celaena had never needed any recovery time, and Lillian had grown used to hitting without thinking, countering without really registering where the strike was coming from. He ducked but not quite in time, taking the staff blow across the shoulder. Lillian didn’t stop, bringing the staff up and around this time and clipping his chin.

Cain stumbled back. His grip on his sword was still firm, but he looked unsteady. Lillian wanted to say something clever, but she felt sick and her breath came in desperate pants. She could feel her legs trembling, and her head hurt.

But she was, against all probability, still alive. She wanted to stay that way. Dorian’s shouts had fallen away, and Lillian’s focus narrowed entirely to Cain.

Strangle me, will you? she thought coldly. Kick me while I’m on the ground, like in Endovier? Threaten my friends?

Not anymore.

She jabbed, and he countered, and they repeated. Cain was more cautious now, with a bruise spreading to cover his whole jaw and probably a matching one across his shoulder if she hadn’t broken anything. She might have.

Lillian spun left, Cain blocked and chopped back, she redirected and tried to slide underneath, he stepped back again, she followed…

Oh. He was trying to draw it out. He was betting his experience with injuries would let him bear his better than she would. Lillian was irritated to realize that he might be right: Endovier had been a horror, but it had not been marching in the rain or fighting in the cold with broken limbs or whatever else nonsense Cain had bragged about to Hollin.

Lillian let herself cough, but Cain was on guard now and didn’t rush in. She started moving slower, just a bit, little by little.

Cain stayed cautious, but he also started moving faster.

#myth talks truthteller

4 notes · View notes

yukiwrites · 3 years

Text

Where Your Loyalty Lies [13/??]

Summary: Kamui’s kidnapping didn’t go as planned – She managed to get away and ended up at Silas’ doorstep. They were raised as siblings, but she has always felt different; her fangs and red eyes and urges to run amok, what did they all mean? Would going to the castle as the Crown Prince’s retainer help her find more clues? Will the war between Nohr and Hoshido be the answer to everything?

Previous chapter <=> AO3 <=> Next chapter

___________________________________________________

Chapter 13: Determination

___________________________________________________

The beast growled at the back of Kamui’s head. She could almost feel it breathing down her neck while she wrapped herself with the thick bed sheets Eleonore had sent just a day previous. It was as though the bed -- not small but certainly not big either -- was cramped with both Kamui and her beast, as it gnawed its jaw and slithered its tongue over the young woman’s cheeks. It made her shiver within herself in a way she hadn’t done in more than a decade.

Had all of her training been for naught? Would the beast always grow just as strong as Kamui whenever the dame improved herself?

She knew herself -- she was stronger now than in the past; she even managed to push back her itches to the point of controlling when they would happen! But all of that crumbled once they arrived together at Stockarres -- once Kamui willingly allowed the beast to take over her body to show off its prowess to all who would witness it.

It was as though the control Kamui had over her own consciousness could be snatched away from her as if they were reins of the carriage that was her life. The place she had always fought for within her; the spot whence she would be able to proudly call herself 'her own person' was in danger of being stolen from her.

Just a push was all it needed for Kamui to lose this battle.

And she didn't feel strong enough to fight back. Not after succumbing once.

Just once is all I need, it was as though the beast slithered to her ear, giggling with its forked tongue between its teeth. One more time and you're mine.

Huffing, Kamui dug her nails into her right arm, still wrapped with an old rag, though even that was being torn here and there. Part of her rationalized that if only she would go through this itch right there and then -- down there under the trees and the perpetual shadow of the forest -- it would all be okay come morning. She would be herself again.

Yet, there was no telling if she would be able to come back were she to run amok on her own -- would she return as herself, or as the beast whose ever-growing roar threatened to make her tear her own flesh apart? It will be okay, she kept telling herself. I'll be okay, I'll be okay, I'll be okay, she chanted inside her mind so as to drown the growls and roars.

Besides, she was going to meet King Garon the following afternoon -- what if she needed the power to escape? Perhaps conserving her strength-

"No!!" Kamui held her own head between her overgrown claws. "Don't tempt me into trusting you again!" She seethed under her teeth; her entire body trembling with a cold that came from within her terrified heart. "It's true that I usually feel more refreshed after- after exercising, but I can't- oh, I can't!" She sobbed into her own arm, her breath as shaky as her unfocused gaze. "I will-" she sniffled, overly conscious of the tears that streamed down unannounced from her eyes. "I'll overcome you! I’ll... I won't shy away from fear!"

Her voice echoed in the eerily empty room, the only noise of response coming from within her mind. In a desperate attempt to cling to some sort of hope, Kamui's memories fell upon her as though they were a waterfall.

The first time her Master saw her diphormism -- and told her to get strong enough to beat it to submission; the first time she agonized over her inner beast -- and the weeks of aching secrecy that followed, only to be found out by her Brother and accepted within his chest; the day she and her Lord danced, in which he accepted her for who she was regardless of her race -- as long as she did her duty, who or what she was did not matter.

Her duty; the people who accepted her. The warm and firm touch of the Crown Prince's hand on her back, making her strangely wanting to stay more within his arms than anywhere else before. The teasing smile he flashed her just on the previous night when he placed in her the trust inherent of her position. Her own past, shrouded in mystery -- the fog-like voices she oftentimes recalled from the depths of her memory; the origin of all of this grief, all of this despair.

It wasn’t simply for the way other people would accept her that she needed to overcome this daunting beast, no. It was also, and especially, for herself.

"I... I won't lose to you!" Kamui managed to roar with a conviction that was born from deep within herself -- deeper than where the beast could reach. She felt as though there was a light shining from her depths towards her voice, giving it power and strength. "THIS IS MY BODY, AND I’LL CONTROL IT AS I WILL," she huffed, sitting up on the bed as though she could look at the beast's eyes while she stared at an empty wall. "You won't terrorize me; you won't seize control of me... I WON'T LET YOU."

Then, there was silence.

The growling had grown quieter and quieter until it disappeared completely, though her right arm still itched somewhat.

Huffing, Kamui looked around as if she would be able to physically see the shadow that terrorized her life for so long, though she understandably saw nothing but the empty room all around her. She felt a smile itching at the corners of her lips while her heart thumped triumphantly. A win! She had managed to suppress the beast by sheer will!

Kamui wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would never come back -- or that she would be able to escape this immediate itch, in fact -- but being able to silence it so surely like just now was something she didn’t think she would be able to accomplish. Not after Stockarres.

Breathing deeply, the dame stretched herself before falling back on the mattress, keenly aware of the softness of the pillows and the blankets she had wrapped all around herself.

May sleep be kind to her tonight.

Dawn welcomed Kamui after the dame slept barely three hours, though she was much too anxious about her meeting with the King to truly feel the exhaustion that surely would seep into her energy later. Kamui allowed Jakob his entrance by the dresser, already wearing her uniform.

“Good morn-” Jakob opened his mouth to greet, but Kamui interrupted him without even taking her eyes away from the mirror.

“Do you know how to do a braid, Jakob?” She groaned, taking her hands away from her hair lest she cut it all up in frustration -- she had managed to make short work of the naturally wavy locks by twisting and turning them so much they barely resembled their usual look.

The dame had to find a way to replicate the hairdo Clara used to make for her -- the one in which part of her hair would be rolled into a braid around her head so as to hide her pointy ears from view. She wouldn’t be able to wear a coiffe to completely take any chances of someone figuring out that her hairdo was deliberately hiding her ears, but she didn’t feel safe enough to display them in King Garon’s presence.

Jakob smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as though tasting something foul, walking towards his lady with an impeccable poise. “My lady, if only you’d look at how I style my hair every day…” He positioned himself behind Kamui so she could see his reflection on her mirror -- once she did, she widened both her eyes and her smile.

“Wonderful! Oh, Jakob, could you please style my hair in a way that hides my ears with a braid? I never did anything more complicated than a ponytail by myself, so I didn’t know what I could do!” She clasped her hands excitedly, adjusting herself further into the chair so as to throw her hair in place for Jakob to work on it.

Sighing, the butler glanced at the hot pot of tea that would surely grow cold by the time he finished styling Kamui’s hair. “Perhaps after breakfast, yes? Your meal will run cold…”

“Please, Jakob! I’m so nervous about it, I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach anything unless I am absolutely sure the hairdo will be good enough. Probably not even after it, if I’m being honest…” She muttered the last part, fiddling with a random lock of hair that had survived the onslaught.

“Hahh, very well, milady. I shall do as you asked.” Jakob unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt, rolling his sleeves up right after. “How would you want it styled, apart from the braid? Entirely up, half-down…?”

“Honestly, as long as the braid covers the ears, I don’t care about the style; you’re free to do whatever you want with it.” She flashed an apologetic smile, scratching her cheek as though she hadn’t actually thought about anything past the braid. Which was true, of course, but she had been so focused on trying to hide her ears that there was hardly any room for other thoughts in her mind.

Once again the butler sighed, reaching for the hair brush and clips scattered all over the dresser -- which displayed Kamui’s dozens of attempts at trying to replicate the style -- before he grabbed Kamui’s head, making her look straight ahead. “Very well, milady. I shall exceed your expectations.”

Disentangling the mess Kamui had made on her own hair took longer than either of them expected. However, the butler managed to come up with an intricate yet quick to braid hairdo: starting from either side of her hair, he made two thick braids that would lay over the pointy bit of her ears, joining them together behind her head into a layered lattice look.

“Although milady is wearing your uniform to meet the King, at least your hair should be presentable.” Jakob said with a proud puff of his chest, though added in a small voice: “Especially after the mess you have made before…”

“Ahem,” Kamui cleared her throat as she enjoyed the now cold tea, unbothered by its temperature now that her hair was safely done. She would sometimes sneak glances at her reflection in the mirror -- Jakob had managed to make her look jovial and upbeat: and that was before she even put on any resemblant of make-up! Honestly, she looked so cute she even wanted to put on make-up to complete the entire set.

She would apply only a light color on her face, however. The dame wanted to look presentable before the King, yes, but she also didn’t want him to pay too much attention to her. She would be armed -- as all Knights were allowed to, though not if they were to be within a three meter radius from the King -- so that would be one less problem should things go south-

“No, no, no,” Kamui shook her head so as to shoo away the pessimistic thoughts, conscious of how her beautiful braids followed its movements. “It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright.” She muttered to herself, as if unaware that Jakob was standing in wait right in front of her. Taking a deep breath, the dame puffed her chest, psyching herself up for the upcoming challenge.

However, she would only meet the King at noon, so she would still report to her Lord as usual during the morning. Which was honestly her solace for the moment -- to dig into her duties so as to ground herself more into the impact of her choice and how much she had at stake to slip up when meeting the King who had ordered her hunt so many years ago.

Kamui would succeed.

Like when she trained herself to half-death, she would put all of what she was into following through her own goals.

It was just that, now, that goal gnawed at the pit of her stomach, urging her to get ready to put her own head inside a lion’s open jaws.

Although it took Jakob quite a while to finish her braids, since Kamui didn’t need any more preparation apart from a light make-up, she arrived at her Lord’s common meeting room at the usual time, greeting him with the same respect as she always did.

“Dame Kamui greets His Highness the Crown Prince,” she bowed gracefully after closing the door, somewhat already ingraining the noble curtsy into her from early morning instead of only turning it on during the meeting with King Garon. Her more elegant actions coupled with her girly hairstyle and features made both men take a second too long to reply to her greetings.

Richard switched the weight of his body to another leg, glancing at his Lord when Xander made a gesture for his older retainer to bring something out. Sighing inwardly, the tall man turned to the side to pick up a package -- there was something soft wrapped inside a high-quality, green brocade cloth -- which he promptly handed his Lord.

“You may rise, dame Kamui.” Xander allowed Kamui to straighten her back at the same time he got up from his desk, circling it with his characteristic elegant steps. With a glance at his new retainer, Xander could see how she had chosen her own way to dress herself to this, so to say, battle.

And it was a battle in and of itself, to meet the King under his summons -- of that Xander was painfully aware.

He could see how Kamui’s usually slit-like eyes were covered with round irises; how her noble poise slipped instead of a knightly reverence; how her back was more erect than usual -- and how her breathing was uneven even after such a short walk from her quarters to this common meeting room.

Xander spoke, “it is no simple task, the one you will be fulfilling this afternoon, Kamui.” He stopped in front of Richard, swiftly undoing the golden knot that held the ornate package, not paying any mind as the green cloth slipped open to reveal a deep violet cloak from within. “Yet it is a burden that you shall bear for as long as you are in my service,” the Crown prince stepped away from Richard, holding the cloak in his hands as he approached Kamui. “This simply holds a symbolic meaning, however it would please me greatly if you would wear this when it is time to meet my father, the King.”

Wide-eyed, Kamui watched as Xander flapped the cloak open, twirling it behind her back as he closed the well adorned clasp on her chest -- the weight of the fabric as it slowly fell over her body somehow made Kamui remember the dance they shared; it made her feel as though she were still within Prince Xander’s arms… and it made her feel safe. The golden straps which adorned her chest, right above her heart, conjoined into a brooch with the Crown Prince’s symbol: a shield in front of two crossed blades with the symbol of Nohr etched right into its middle. At the back, there was a larger one of such symbols beautifully embroidered in a way that would unmistakingly tell anyone who saw her from afar that Kamui was under the Crown Prince’s protection.

It was Xander’s way of telling Kamui that, although he wouldn’t be there with her physically, he would still be showing her his entire support through his symbol.

“My Father is a very intimidating man -- as is his duty as the King.” Xander exhaled softly as he patted Kamui’s shoulder after making sure he had properly clasped the cloak together. “This is a task you must complete on your own -- what I can do for you at this moment is to bestow my seal upon you so you can face him proudly, under my name.” He nodded, taking a step back to allow Kamui a look around herself.

Overwhelmed with the support, Kamui’s eyes burned with tears, though she managed to stop her trembling chin as she held the cloak with both hands, twirling around herself to take a look and sigh in wonder as the heavy fabric followed her movements and sprawled itself way farther than any dress she had ever worn.

Richard snorted, though it went unnoticed by the other two, wondering if his Lord had overestimated Kamui’s height. “It’s really eye-catching, so only wear it in official events from now on, yes? I avoid using mine as much as I can, so I don’t want to be seen with you while you wear this corny thing.”

“Corny?” Kamui repeated, not noticing how she smiled brightly, looking down on her shiny new cloak and twirling around herself once more as Xander turned to his older retainer to glare at him.

“I never kept this from you, my lord.” Richard raised his palms in self-defense, smirking as Xander sighed and leaned on the desk.

“It is filled with my sincere thoughts, Richard. It is not… ‘corny’.” He grumbled, crossing his arms as he directed his gaze to the glistering Kamui.

Before the black-haired man could reply, Kamui raised her shiny, round eyes to Xander. “I think so too, Lord Xander. It’s a wonderful gift! I’m humbled.” She bowed deeply without ever letting go of the cloak, making her look much smaller than she actually was. “I shall hold onto this with all the care it deserves.”

Xander’s frown lessened, making way to a soft smile as he nodded to Kamui’s statement, not even feeling like pointing to Richard and telling him to learn from his new partner. He simply watched the giggly Kamui pull the cloak this or that way while she walked around the room towards her usual seat, meeting her glistering gaze more than once during the way. Her smile brightened more each time their eyes met, the beams of warmth from her pure glee kept Xander in place, as though he wanted to keep on being the recipient of her smiles.

Once Kamui sat down, coincidentally right beside where Richard was standing, the older retainer poked his partner. “You’re wearing it now? I’m sure my Lord simply put it on you as a formality. You should take it off and only put it back on when it’s time to go.”

The dame resolutely shook her head. “No, I want to keep wearing it. Its meaning wasn’t lost on me, unlike on some people.” She bonked her head on Richard’s arm, snorting as he sighed to leave her side. “It’ll give me the strength I need,” Kamui murmured to herself, though not realizing she was still under Xander’s gaze.

Unable to stop smiling, Xander closed his eyes as though to etch this image into his mind before moving away from his spot, circling back to behind his desk so they could start their usual work for the day.

Fortunately or not, the morning passed by faster than usual -- perhaps because Kamui had been so absorbed into her duties so as to forget the passing of time that she was stunned over how well that worked. Once she gave her Lord her final bow before leaving, she could barely make out the surroundings around her due to the dizziness she got from how loud her heart was thumping.

Her steps echoed in her own ears as though they belonged to someone else while her hands dug into the cloak that danced behind her fast pace. Kamui absent-mindedly tapped onto the brooch with Xander’s seal, feeling it with the tips of her fingers as though to keep herself grounded in reality -- that served to help her stop her mind to wander into the darkest corners of her being.

The dame could barely remember what she had rehearsed she would say to the King once she was before him, her mind taking all it had to simply keep her on her feet. Kamui would glance upon her reflection whenever she passed a silver decorative armor that adorned the corridors, making sure that her ears were properly hidden, or open her arms that held the cloak so as to allow the wind to make it flap behind her in a somewhat playful manner, surprising even herself whenever a giggle was born under such circumstances.

As she arrived at Krakenburg’s common area, the air itself felt heavier to breathe, as though there was a thick layer of pressure hanging on its inhabitants’ shoulders. It was in the corridor that led to the throne room that Kamui met her brother.

“Silas!” She called out with a squeaking voice, not wanting to raise it too loudly right outside the place into which the pressure seemed to spiral out of and converge into.

“Kamui!” Silas replied in an equally squeaky voice, running to meet his sister halfway, his steps as fidgety as hers. Huffing, the siblings wordlessly looked at one another, as though trying to check if their appearance was somewhat off to meet with the most powerful man in the kingdom. “That’s a new cloak, isn’t it?” He commented, looking over Kamui’s shoulder with a discerning eye.

Somewhat shy, Kamui spun around herself to show off her Lord’s present. “Lord Xander gave it to me, as his support.” She pressed her lips to hold back a smile, her cheeks lightly flushing with the memory of Xander putting the cloak on her. “I hope that His Majesty’s eyes will fall on it instead of, well…” The dame bobbed her heads to the side, afraid to even talk aloud about her physical appearance.

“Y-yes,” Silas nodded nervously, glancing from his sister to the massive door that led to the throne room. “I’ve just arrived, so I don’t know when someone will call for us or anything.”

There were two silent guards right in front of the doors, though Kamui didn’t dare to call out to them. The both of them would wait until they were summoned inside; there was no need to urge the King to meet them, nor to annoy him into thinking that they were impatient subjects who deserved punishment.

She would get in, present herself and get out. Simple.

Kamui took a deep breath, walking a few steps until she was completely in front of the door, being followed by her uneasy brother.

Simple.

Long moments turned into long minutes that, in turn, spiralled into a very stretched out hour. Yet, the siblings didn’t so much as glance the guards’ way, patiently waiting in front of the room with their eyes fixated on the door. Their insides were already overheating from how nervously they were digesting the situation that a simple cough from a passing maid was enough to startle them out of their skins.

Kamui felt like she had been holding her breath for one entire hour; so when the massive doors creaked open, she was surprised to notice that she could inhale even more air to keep in there, making her even dizzier. If Kamui had had any brainpower to spare to think about it, she would be surprised to think that the beast kept itself obediently quiet while they waited (since it usually disturbed her whenever she was anxious), but she was already having trouble on remembering how to breathe, let alone how to think.

In the wake of the eerie wind that blew once the doors were fully open, a familiar-looking man called after two burly guards had heaved the doors open.

“Lantanoir siblings. You may enter and place yourselves before His Majesty.” His face was blurry -- and Kamui couldn’t tell if it was from her dizziness or from the swirling atmosphere that got thicker and thicker the further she stepped into the room -- but the dame could somehow remember his voice. He was the Marshal of the Court, Lord Abbington.

The Marshal spoke to them in a low voice as they walked through the long hall towards the middle, circular point over which the staircase to the throne led. He explained the common etiquette that one should bear when greeting the King, though all of his advices were mostly common knowledge, especially to the two Royal Retainers who had had that sort of knowledge beaten into them during the first weeks of their service.

Once they got close enough to the place they should kneel at, Lord Abbington stepped to the side, scurrying closer to a column as he raised his voice. “Presenting the Lantanoir siblings, personal retainers chosen by Crown Prince Xander and Youngest Princess Elise.”

Kamui threw her cloak back so as to allow herself to kneel more comfortably, unfastening her sword out of her belt to place it on the right side of her body, as the etiquette called. Since she was right-handed, placing her weapon on the right side of her body would make it difficult for her to grasp it were a battle to break out -- it was a way of showing respect to the higher authority as well as to imply that her life was at his hands should anything happen. Silas did the same two steps away from her, giving them both proper space to place their weapons away from one another’s touch.

“Dame Lantanoir greets His Majesty, the Sword that defends our Kingdom.” She lowered her head, overly conscious of how her braids moved behind her back.

“Sir Lantanoir greets His Majesty, the Sword that defends our Kingdom.” Silas said at the same time as his sister, their voices in a somehow unison as their silvery locks shone under the eerie green glow of the magical fire lit across the walls.

King Garon inhaled as though to welcome them, but no words left his mouth -- instead, it felt like a pressure hit the both of them with the intensity of a powerful gravitational magic, stemming from right above them.

“...!” Both siblings swallowed a groan of pain as the weight pressed itself on their shoulders and back, making their knees and necks cry out in discomfort.

Yet, amidst the pressure, Kamui could almost… hear something. Two somethings, perhaps? There was a vague sound of running water and… whispers. They were so soft she couldn’t make out any word of it, but it was like someone was mumbling something right above her head, at the same time she felt a pair of eyes stare holes at the back of her neck. She wanted to steal a glance at the stare, but her body was frozen under the pressure.

Had they been hit by a powerful binding magic? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything? They could barely glance at each other as they felt the thick energy lick at their faces, preventing them from properly breathing.

“It’s the first time we meet, Lantanoir siblings. Isn’t this such a wonderful family reunion?” A voice that could only be described by the sound that someone makes when they scratch a blackboard made the siblings’ hairs stand on end. “Raise your heads, both of you.”

As though compelled to, the two of them felt their heads snap up, followed by their neck complaining in pain. Their eyes met a black-haired man’s single one. He wore layers of robes adorned with golden trinkets, a black and white mask covering half of his face as he wriggled his fingers in a motion that could only be taken as witchcraft. He was chanting something under his breath while his fingers moved to apply the magic, which both Kamui and Silas imagined was the reason why their bodies were suddenly so heavy and somehow out of their control.

“I am Iago, Royal Adviser to His Majesty the King.” He opened both arms amidst a half-baked bow, a somewhat lizard-like smile growing inside his thin, dry lips. “I shall keep this brief since His Majesty does not enjoy long talks: We have heard much of the… ah, little lady’s service under our Crown Prince. Especially that you had a direct hand at saving the Eldest Princess, Lady Camilla.”

Kamui’s throat was clogged up. She couldn’t speak.

Seeing that, Iago moved his index slightly to the side, making the pressure gnawing at her neck lessen, which allowed her to properly breathe.

Wide-eyed and out of breath, Kamui glanced at her brother (who was still unable to look away from Iago) before turning back to the Royal Advisor. Now she understood why Richard was so disgusted by the simple mention of the man’s name. “I am merely the Crown Prince’s weapon.” She lowered her head once again, unable to even look upon the snake-like man. “I simply did my duty.”

Iago opened his mouth with a smirk, but was cut off by the explosive voice of the man that had been silent until now. A man that had been as tall as, if not taller than, Xander in his youth.

A man whose pitch-black armor somehow made it impossible for anyone who gazed at their own reflections in it to walk away the same. His black and white beard along with the wrinkled face tried to display the years that weighted down on him, yet the sound of his titaneous voice made all present shake within their very souls just the same as it had been in the past.

“It’s no small feat, little girl, to save the life of a royal.” Garon rested his head on one hand, not moving away from the throne despite the presence he exuded making Kamui think he had gotten up. His voice shook something inside Kamui’s very being -- it felt akin to when the beast would poke at her consciousness and bring forth all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. It was as though she was actually hearing the beast’s voice, which shook her tremendously.

Up until then, Kamui had only, well, imagined that the beast had a voice. She did hear roars and growls every now and then, but any articulate wording it might’ve had, they all came from Kamui’s own head. It was an unconscious way to make sense of the beast’s inarticulate noises so as to place herself somewhere that was removed from properly admitting that she had a... feral side deep within her. Something that wasn’t truly herself that shared her body and mind.

But when the King spoke, Kamui could feel her entire body shake with terror, as though she had been injected with freezing water that reached all the way into her very heart. Unbeknownst to her, Kamui raised her trembling gaze to him, somehow catching a glimpse of the bizarre, round statue that lay right above her head, on the ceiling.

Under the gaze of both statue and King, Kamui could only gulp in wait for his next words, gripping at her cloak to stop herself from shaking so terribly.

“Though, as you said before, it was your duty, so I shan’t concede you a reward.” Garon shrugged as though enjoying how Kamui looked like a frightened kitten drapped into his eldest son’s rags. “I will keep close watch on you from now on, Dame Lantanoir.” His voice slithered slowly, descending down the steps towards Kamui, wrapping itself around her neck and whispering into her ear: “I shall wait what other feats you will show us.”

US? Kamui couldn’t help but think amidst her despair, her body so cold it was a wonder she was still considered amongst the number of the living. Her lips trembling, it took the dame three moments too long to shakily lower her head. “I-it will be my utmost pleasure to serve, Your Majesty,” she managed to croak out in a barely audible voice.

It served to both Garon and Iago’s amusement, as both of them chuckled with the little rodent’s soft words.

“And you,” Garon turned to Silas, whose lower lip was almost bleeding from how fiercely he dug his teeth into it. Startled, the young knight felt King Garon’s voice grasp at his chin, forcing his face to turn to him as though he was using his own hand. “Try to make a better job at serving Elise than her previous retainer. Though it will be amusing to watch how long you’ll last.” He sneered as though finding the death of Princess Elise’s previous retainer a passing topic one discussed over tea.

With a simple gesture of his chin, Garon ended the meeting.

“You are dismissed.” Iago waved for the two of them to leave, the pressure above their shoulders suddenly lifting. “I shall see you around the halls,” he smiled wickedly, licking his dry lips as the two retainers gave their silent bows, collected their weapons and turned to leave.

Kamui’s legs were shaking so badly she almost tripped twice, ultimately falling on her knees the moment the large doors to the throne room closed behind them. Silas flopped on the floor beside his sister, their faces so pale they could’ve been mistaken by ghosts weren’t their breathing so aggravated.

The two guards in front of the throne room said nothing, well used to this kind of sight whenever someone new or old came out of there. Only Crown Prince Xander, First Princess Camilla and Iago, the Royal Adviser managed to leave that room with their heads held high, as though unbothered by the filthy atmosphere that surrounded it.

It took Kamui many minutes to stop her trembling, though when she thought she would have full control of her body, she started retching and was unable to stop the urge to throw up, staining the carpet right in front of her in a disgraceful manner. “G-gods, I-I’m so sorry, I, ughh…” she tried to look up to the guards behind her and properly apologize, but another wave was coming, making her throw up transparent liquid.

“K-Kamui-” It took everything Silas had not to follow suit, one of his hands dutifully stretched to pat his sister’s back as he covered his nose with the other one so as not to inhale the stench of the vomit, his own body curving into a retch as well.

“Agh, gods- hahh, hahh…” Kamui breathed heavily, throwing herself on her behind to pull her head back, squeezing her eyes so as not to look at the huge door she just vomited in front of. Conscious of her cloak, Kamui wrapped herself around it as she drew large breaths, not wanting it to touch the mess she had just made. “We need,” she huffed, feeling as though her senses started to return to her, “we need to get out of here! S-Silas-”

“Y-yes, yes, let’s go-” Silas nodded, though his legs were still limp on the floor. His body was turned to Kamui as he tried to support himself with his elbows to look up at her. “C’mon, hold my hand-” he tried to lift it for her to hold, but when she did, it collapsed on the floor with a soft thud.

“Let’s go, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Kamui muttered to herself, squeezing her eyes close and stretching them open, getting a proper view of the world after a few tries. She dared to get up, feeling more like a newborn fawn than a human being, though was still able to hold her own weight. “Silasss!” She pulled his hand with the most difficulty she had ever felt in her life -- it was as though all of her strength had been left inside the throne room, either forgotten or taken hostage until she had brought back her mental fortitude.

His body heavy, Silas leaned on Kamui’s shoulder as the two of them limped back to Strömborg without ever looking back.

The cold air of the outside managed to wake them up in some manner until they could finally separate and walk on their own. They staggered once they reached the familiar walls, sitting on the dead grass between everywhere and nowhere, their heads still spinning.

Kamui felt terrible for throwing up on the carpet like that, feeling that she should come back there to warn someone or maybe ask for a broom or something so she could clean it herself, but her body… It didn’t listen to her as it trembled still. The afternoon air, although not as cold as when dusk fell, was still cold to their lungs and invigorating to their bodies.

The dame hadn’t needed to worry about the stains, honestly, since that was basically a daily occurrence at that part of the castle. Many weak-hearted people fainted or foamed at the mouth or even peed themselves; so vomiting was the least of it -- leastwise the most common.

Still, that shame would follow Kamui for the rest of her life -- she was so embarrassed she didn’t even have the face to go back to her Lord’s office to report that the mission had been a success. Had it, really? Probably? She barely remembered what had happened there, honestly.

The only thing that set all alarms inside her head were the eerie presence she felt staring down at her neck and the passing whispers that left as soon as she made out a word of understanding -- all of it surrounded her in place, as though wanting her to stay that way for the rest of her days.

Shivering, Kamui held herself under the cloak, trying to keep the vivid memories away lest she was sucked back in there. Her head was operating at its minimum capacity, somehow having fried itself to simply bring Kamui back to Strömborg; if she thought too hard about anything, she’d most certainly pass out.

Beside her, Silas was sitting on the grass while breathing heavily, the toll still greatly apparent on him. Taking in a shaky breath, Kamui managed to put herself on her feet once again, hugging the cloak for comfort more than anything, despite it weighing much more than she could bear at the moment.

“I’m going back to my room to put this away,” she declared in an unfirm voice, each step she took depleting her already low energy. “Then I’ll go back to Lord Xander.”

“K-Kamui, don’t force yourself, ugh…” Silas bent forward, breathing through his hands. “I’m sure the Crown Prince would understand-”

“He would. But-” she huffed, each breath refreshing her further, “but I won’t. I need to- to get used to this.”

Having said that, she left under heavy steps; leaving a panting Silas to bring himself back together.

Kamui miscalculated how much strength she would need to go up the apparently endless flight of stairs to her quarters, so when she arrived, she crumpled on the floor in exhaustion. Breathing heavily, the dame took off the cloak, using the most of her arm to throw it on the bed as she lay on the floor beside it.

She had stopped thinking at that point, so all she could do was simply follow through the motions of the actions she had imprinted on her mind before reaching her quarters: she washed her face and her mouth with the cold water always at the ready on the silver basin, then trudged to the bed to fold the cloak as neatly as she could at the moment. She then placed it atop her emergency bag, taking upon herself to bring the cloak with her whenever she went.

Surprisingly, the more she moved, the more strength returned to her, although bit by bit. Taking a quick breath, the dame braced herself to the trek down the stairs as well as the entire way toward her Lord’s common meeting room.

Once she stood outside the door, Kamui’s head was much clearer. She could feel her whole body and, honestly, apart from the shame of the embarrassing act in front of the door, she felt mostly fine.

Kamui took yet another deep breath before using her personal set of knocks to let her Lord know it was her who requested entry.

Xander’s voice from inside sounded confused and alarmed. “Kamui?”

“Dame Kamui greets the Crown Prince,” she said in a steely tone after entering, bowing not as a noble but as a knight who had completed their duty.

“I am surprised to see you here, Dame Kamui. Approach.” Xander gestured for the dame to come closer, to which she obeyed. “Have you succeeded?”

“You’re pale. Were you not able to meet the King?” Richard asked before she could reply, though Kamui kept her head down.

“I-I was able to meet His Majesty, yes. Should I not have returned?” She fidgeted, glad that the pressure from the Crown Prince’s eyes wasn’t sickening as the one that came from his father.

“Most who meet my Father for the first time do not have the means to return so quickly.” Xander said simply, though Kamui could deeply understand the underlying meaning of his words. It was harsh, it was hard, it was daunting, to meet the King and be the same person right away. Kamui herself had wanted to curl up to a ball and never leave her room just a few minutes previous, but she managed to persevere. Looking at the worried glint in her eyes, Xander opened his mouth yet again. “Did something happen back there?”

Flinching, the dame lowered her head even more, a flush of color running through her face to display her shame. “I-I am ashamed.”

“Out with it, girl.” Richard urged, eager to know if he could use whatever she was going to say as teasing or blackmail material.

“I-” she squeezed her eyes as she fought with the lump in her throat. “Ithrewuponthecarpet!” She bowed deeply. “I’m really sorry, I feel so, so-”

“Before or after you entered?!” Richard slapped back immediately during the time it took for Xander to blink in surprise.

“A-after…” Kamui squeaked out in response, too embarrassed to lift her head to meet either her Lord’s or her partner’s gaze. Richard deliberately snorted loudly, though cleared his throat to show all present that he was controlling himself so as not to burst in laughter.

Honestly, Kamui would have smiled at his open distaste of her as usual, but since it was something that dug into her ego so deeply, she only squeezed her eyes in shame.

“Kamui, come here.” Xander’s voice snapped the dame out of her spiral of self-apprehension, making her immediately look up at him. He gestured for her to circle his desk and stand beside his chair. “Allow me to tell you a secret…”

“I can hear you.” Richard cleared his throat, somehow knowing what the so-called secret entailed.

Xander’s smirk simply grew as he whispered: “The first time Richard entered, he was unable to serve for two days.”

“I was a young boy, not a grown woman.” The Royal Retainer rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. This was a sore subject to him too, it seemed.

“He was seventeen.” Xander said as he looked straight at Richard’s eyes before looking back to Kamui. “Do not worry about what happened. Just do not allow that to happen again. Strengthen yourself; train your mind just as you do your body.”

Daring to poke a smile at the corners of her lips, Kamui nodded under her Lord’s comforting words. It was also a relief to know that her apparently unshakable partner had an unsavory past he put behind him -- it gave her the means to pave her own path in his likeness so she, too, could serve Xander with the confidence befitting her station.

For now, however, she was still left with a bit of shame and the drive to better herself so as not to allow that to ever happen again.

#xander #kamui #kamarx #corriander #fire emblem fates #richard #silas #fe14 #wyll #where your loyalty lies #my writings #jakob

3 notes · View notes

riverboundao3ff · 4 years

Text

Riverbound, Chapter 21

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and you can’t stop thinking of that video John showed you that one time with the human gamer yelling “CAPTAIN! LOOOOOK!” even though this is very much real life and there is a fucking enormous pirate ship barrelling right at you.

You barely have your sickles out before Vriska comes barging out of her cabin in full pirate ensemble, sword strapped to her waist and fangs bared. “Eridan, take the lead with me! Aradia, Terezi, and Karkat follow. Try not to get yourselves killed. Micah, up to the crow’s nest and see what the enemy is doing. Feferi, keep us at full clip in a circle.”

“I’m not a very good captain!” Feferi yelps as she almost snaps the wheel in half.

“Don’t worry about it, the 8rigantine’s been through some serious shit. She can take a rookie at the wheel!”

Micah zaps up to the crow’s nest with the eyepiece and trains it on the enemy ship. Despite your bloodpusher hammering away in your chest cavity, your feet carry you over to Aradia and Terezi, both grinning ear-to-ear like the maniacs they are. Both are amazing fighters, and you are… very small. Small, and not very strong.

If Crabdad could see you right now you know the old guy would shit himself on the spot.

“Why am I here,” you mutter, gripping your sickles for all they’re worth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck--”

“Shouldn’t Feferi be giving the orders?” Eridan mutters to Vriska, scowling.

Vriska sneers back at him. “My ship, my rules. If you don’t like it you can swim back to shore.”

“I’ll throw you overboard first, bitch.”

“Good to see some things never change,” Aradia snickers, but you can’t bring yourself to rib Eridan for his black crush as you watch the other ship pull right up against the 8rigantine.

“What’s it look like?” Terezi asks.

“Big. Probably one-and-a-half times the size of the 8rigantine…” You trail off as you see the hostages on board and do a quick count. “There’s about fifteen lowbloods on board. Most of them are rusts and bronzes. I see one gold.”

“A psionic?”

“Yep.”

“Dibs,” Aradia calls.

“He’s all yours,” you mumble, beginning to regret being hatched.

Well, it’s too late to back out now. Aradia lays out the plank with her telekinesis and sends a massive shockwave across to the other ship before the terrified hostages can so much as try to rally together.

“Aradia! Don’t hurt them!” Micah wails in protest.

“Sorry!”

She doesn’t look very sorry, but Vriska and Eridan are already charging across the plank together with fearsome battle cries, Terezi right behind them with swords drawn and Aradia bringing up the rear. From the crow’s nest, Micah yells something about the violetblood captain being in his cabin.

“Oh, I am so getting grounded for this,” you tell nobody in particular, and then you bound across the plank in four quick strides, ignoring the dark, churning waters below, and fling yourself into the fray.

Some bronzeblood takes a swing at you the second your feet hit the deck, but you can tell her bloodpusher really isn’t in it when she scrambles back as you knick her cheek with one of your blades. You dodge around a pair of unarmed rustbloods, sweep the feet out from underneath another bronze, and end up back-to-back with Terezi.

Not too long ago you would have been losing your mind at the thought of fighting alongside the girl you crushed on for a pretty sizable amount of your miserable existence, but at the moment you kind of want to smack her upside the head for letting Vriska drag you guys into this. “Where’s your crazy-ass moirail?”

“Looking for our target! Micah said he’s in his cabin,” she yells over a rustblood girl’s furious screeches as Terezi is able to deflect every blow.

You swipe at a boy who tries to lunge for your arm. “Well I wish she’d hurry--”

A shockwave knocks your flat on your ass before you can finish that sentence. Your ears ring, and you roll over with a groan to see Aradia and the goldblood psionic circling each other, both crackling with invisible energy.

“Back off! Back!” the psionic shrieks, blasting yellow sparks at Aradia. “He’ll kill us all if we lose the session!”

“Nobody’s dying today,” Aradia tells him calmly.

“What?!”

“Just keep fighting. We’re here to help.”

Some of the other hostages obviously overheard the whole thing, because you see several stop circling a hissing Eridan to turn and stare at her. None of them have even tried to attack him. He uses the opportunity to break free and roundhouse the psionic into the mast, knocking him out cold and sending cracks up the wood.

A nearby zap alerts you to the cavalry’s arrival. “Eridan!”

“He was attacking Aradia-!”

“Micahlookout!”

The mast splinters apart at the base and comes down through the deck, before toppling over towards your alien friend. They teleport out of the way just in time, reappearing to grab the unconscious goldblood and disappearing again.

The bronzeblood boy you’ve been swatting at scrubs furiously at his ganderbulbs. “What the-- did I just-?”

“Yeah, they do that,” you explain.

“I wanna go home.”

“Same.”

The sound of glass breaking has everybody jumping back as Vriska and the violetblood dude come tumbling out of the cabin window, screaming and clawing each other up with no mercy whatsoever. Serket’s metal arm is making progress in tearing a gash in the violetblood’s side, but he’s still way stronger than her and just as angry.

“You fucking bitch! This isn’t how you play the game!” he snarls, kneeing her in the gut so hard you hear something snap.

She spits blue blood into his face. “This isn’t a game anymore.”

He kicks her off him and springs to his feet, only for a blast of energy to carve a perfect hole through the center of his chest before he can so much as cuss her out again. There’s no blood, no bits of flesh dangling down into the gap. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eridan lower his rifle, brows drawn together in concentration.

You stare in shock as Vriska kicks the still-standing corpse overboard.

The following splash is the only sound to be heard for the next couple of moments. You and Micah make eye contact and stare at each other for a little bit. Eridan and Vriska high-five and start ushering the hostages across the plank to the 8rigantine. Aradia just shrugs and helps a bronze girl with a bad knee to her feet so they can go, guiding Terezi along with her other hand.

“Well, that was quick,” you mumble, making your way over to Micah.

They don’t show any outward signs of distress, but the way their gaze doesn’t focus on anything in particular once you both make it to the other side tells you everything you need to know. You want to throw Serket overboard as well; for fuck’s sake, she knows humans are fragile about these sort of things!

They look over at you. “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

“Yeah.” You look out at the horizon, where a pod of skywhales are surfacing to breathe. “I’ll be honest. This rebellion stuff is way less fun than I thought it was gonna be.”

“Me too. Wanna get out of here once we get the hostages back to shore?”

Oh, fuck yes. “Sure. Can we get some of your weird human food?”

“Ask Dave, my guy. I’m broke as hell.”

“Fine.”

You wait impatiently as Micah helps the others down to the beach once the 8rigantine makes it to shore, but you can’t help but feel a surge of warmth when you see the dawning realization on the former prisoners’ faces when they realize that they’ll be going home. You’re smiling as a few of the younger kids grow brave enough to give Micah hugs, which is understandable given that the alien is very soft and huggable. It’s no surprise to you that they’ve managed to land in somebody’s diamond.

“Nothing like trauma to help bring people together,” they say as you watch the group walk off together towards town. “One of them said that they’re gonna make a group chat and call it ‘Hostage Gang’.”

Everybody gets a good chuckle out of that, and most of the tension leaves as you guys head back to Vriska’s hive. Terezi and Aradia start arguing about what blood caste has the thickest skull bone, with Terezi in favor of seadwellers and Aradia insisting it’s the indigos.

Micah bumps your arm. “Ready to go?”

“Yep.”

“Cool. Lemme grab my backpack.”

They zap away and are back in the span of two seconds, backpack slung over their shoulder. You have to tell yourself not to stare, even if you’re still definitely not used to your weird alien friend’s wacky spacetime powers.

Vriska’s face falls. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna bring Karkat to Earth to hang out. I’ll be back soon,” Micah tells her.

“... Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Aw, missing your lusus already?” Eridan taunts, before hightailing it back up the path to Vriska’s hive with a furious pirate girl on his heels. Terezi takes off after them with a shriek of delight, with Feferi begging them not to start a fight and Aradia waving back at you as she pelts sand at the back of Eridan’s head.

“Good god,” you mutter.

“Love those assholes,” Micah says, every word laced with affection. They hold out their hand, and with a lot less caution than you used to, you take it.

In the blink of an eye, the both of you are outside Dave’s apartment building with the sun going down behind the skyscrapers in the west. It’s hot as fuck, even for you, and teleporting never fails to make you a little dizzy.

You look up and down the alleyway. Cool, no other humans around.

Taking a running start, you kick off the dumpster underneath the fire escape and grab on to the last rung of the rusty ladder. You pull yourself up with a grunt and start hiking on up to the top floor, concentrating on the horizon to calm down your tilting vision. A bang of boot against metal lets you know Micah is right behind you.

“Why don’t you just teleport up?” you ask.

“Do you want me to take you up?”

“No. It makes me dizzy.”

“Sorry, dude.” They yank off their hoodie with a huff. “I need the exercise.”

“Don’t let Equius hear you say anything like that. For my wriggling day last sweep he gave me an exercise regime and video-called me to personally ensure that I was doing it. It was fucking terrible. Every time I see a stretching mat my ass clenches up so hard I taste shit.”

“... Do you think he’ll come around?” they ask.

You snort. “Who knows. I like the guy, don’t get me wrong, but… he’s pretty set in his ways about the authority of the Empire and the hemospectrum. If Nepeta can’t get through to him, nobody can.”

“Eridan decided he wants to change. So did Vriska.”

You bite your tongue before you can tell Micah that they unwittingly became the lusus-figure of those two jackasses the second they waltzed into their lives. “Yeah, well. Equius is a whole other hoofbeast, pun intended.”

By the time you reach the top level, your thighs are burning, you’re out of breath, and Micah has to brace themselves on their knees while sucking in air like an upright mechanical cleaning device. The usually pale skin is flushed red, and they’re making absolutely no attempt to cover themselves.

All humans have red blood, dumbass. Get over yourself. “How come you can go for three hours straight on Just Dance but get winded going up a few flights of stairs?”

“Man, shut up. You’re breathing heavy, too,” they wheeze.

“Barely.” You pull out your palmhusk and shoot a quick text to Dave, telling him to check the fire escape. Your palmhusk is barely back inside your sweatpants pocket before the window you and Micah are under slides open.

A messy head of blonde hair pokes out, and your gastric tract does a flip when a smirk lifts up the corners of Dave’s mouth. “Two aliens, chillin’ on my fire escape, five feet apart ‘cause they’re not gay.”

“I regret ever letting you in on the incredible gift that awaits this world that is Vine,” Micah sighs. “All those iconic seven-second videos, all those memes that have yet to define Gen Z as a culture… and some greasy millennial Texas kid gets the first crack at it?”

“Micah. Mickey. Mickaroonie. Gen Z was born at the start of 1995. I was born in 1996. I barely made it, but I made it. Slipped right in there like the intruder through Annie’s window, RIP Michael Jackson. Vine is my birthright, same as yours.”

“It will be your birthright.”

“What the fuck is a Vine?” you demand. Stupid humans and their stupid human culture. You still have difficulty believing that their planet is divided up into thousands of different sectors, each with their own laws and languages and governments. How come they just can’t pick one thing and go with it?

“Hush up and get inside, Karkles, both of you are letting all the cold air out,” Dave drawls, backing away from the window so you and Micah can hop in.

You do so and almost immediately eat shit when you land on a pile of comic books that slip out from underneath your feet. “Fuck!”

“Keep it down, bro, the walls are thin.” Dave chucks an empty juice bottle into the trash can across the room. “Thin as a rin-tin-tin, gotta keep on silencin’, can’t let the haters in from the world that keeps on burnin’--”

“If you shut up we’ll tell you about the rebellion that’s happening on Alternia. Past Alternia, that is,” you offer.

That gets his attention. He turns to you, brows drawing tightly together. “A revolution? On your hellhole of a planet? Isn’t that, I dunno, really frickin’ risky? You’re not in danger, are you?”

“Not in my time period, dummy,” you say, crossing your arms to block out the surge of warmth inside of you that has nothing to do with the Texas heat. He cares about your safety. “It’s like, ten sweeps ago? Fifteen? I dunno, Micah’s the one who’s actually in it.”

“Yeah… I don’t know, either. Alternian measurements of time are confusing. But yeah. Me and a bunch of my friends are gonna overthrow the government,” Micah explains.

“Hell yeah, stick it to the man. But, like, be careful.”

“I will. Time shenanigans are kind of my thing.”

“Can we get food now?” you demand.

“Hell yeah we can.” Dave glances behind him, but there’s nobody there. “Yeah… let’s see, Bro’s not gonna be back until Saturday, so we’re good.”

Micah glances over at the calendar on the wall and frowns. It’s Tuesday. You’re not sure what Tuesday is in relation to Saturday, but they don’t seem happy about it.

The three of you end up sneaking around downtown Houston until you locate a McDonald’s. It’s weird, how much safer you feel on Earth in comparison to Alternia. These aren’t your people, and this isn’t your planet, and yet when a group of teenagers pass under the tree you and Micah hide in while Dave goes inside to order you don’t even flinch. It helps that the sun has gone down and you know that humans can’t see in the dark.

“So…” they say, eyeing you thoughtfully. “Do you want me to leave you guys alone? You know, city lights, fast food, two teenagers sitting together under the stars…”

FUCK. You slap at them with a furious hiss. “No! I-- what, no! Who told you? Was it Sollux? It was fucking Sollux.”

“It wasn’t Sollux. You’re pretty obvious, dude,” they remark.

You scrub your face with your hands. “I… he’s just so great, which is stupid because he pisses me off, and he’s an alien, and it’s just impossible. A-And he’s human-heterosexual!”

“Hey. Look at me.”

You look at them.

They smile at you, and your racing bloodpusher calms as you remember that this person is one of the few you can trust with your life. “No relationship is ever easy. You know this. But what you don’t know is that people always find ways to come together. My moirail is an oliveblood assassin, and she’s easily one of the top three things that’s ever happened to me.”

You can’t help it: you smile a little. “What are the other two things?”

“Rice bowls at Chipotle. Meeting you guys.”

“You’re a sappy fuck,” you tell them, even as you snort into the crook of your elbow.

“I sure am, hotshot. Oh, hey, here’s Dave--”

“--eeeeeEEEEEE here it is! Help me up,” a familiar voice announces. You look over the branch you’re stretched out on and reach down to help Dave up while Micah grabs the bags of food from him. His palm is just as warm and sweaty as yours, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once everybody is settled in and munching away on shitty, delicious human food you break out the big guns. “Micah has a moirail.”

“Which one is that?”

“They have a girlfriend. Ew, can’t believe I’m resorting to highblood slang.”

That gets his attention. “Oh, real shit? Is she hot?”

“Yes, Dave. She is hot.”

“What’s she like?”

“Kind. Shredded as all hell. Loves sappy romance novels. Lowkey murders people for a living. Gets embarrassed easily. Like, I’ll say something like ‘I’m gonna shooshpap the anxiety right out of your soul, honey-bunches’ and she absolutely loses her goddamn mind--”

You shriek and slam your hands over your ears, trying to not blush and give yourself away. “No, no, noooooooooo, Micah I’m under nine sweeps old please-!”

“I don’t get it! Why is talking about feelings so sexy?” they yell, throwing their hands up while Dave loses his mind. “Damn! I touched my friend’s cheek the other night ‘cause he was messed up about my ribs being broken and he just about exploded.”

“Slut,” you wheeze.

“Your ribs are broken?” Dave stops laughing and starts poking at the other human. “What? Are you okay? How did you even climb this tree?”

“I’m fine now, buddy, Alternian medical tech is pretty great,” they assure him, ruffling his hair as he swats at them.

“Wack. One time I was in the ER ‘cause I needed stitches and the nurse didn’t even numb me up, she just frickin’ went for it. Big-ass needle, big-ass thread, screaming six-year-old, I think I scared the whole McFrickin’ clinic half to death--”

You want to hear everything about Dave’s bravery in the face of a mediculler, but before you can ask for more details a beam of bright light hits Micah right in the face, making them reel back with an arm thrown over their face.

“What are you kids doing up there, huh?” a deep voice calls.

You look down and almost shit yourself.

Underneath the tree are four fully-grown adult males, all big and with guns strapped to their belts (seriously, why the fuck do humans run around with so many weapons on them when they’re so stupid?) and wearing blue uniforms.

Oh, shit. Dave told you to never trust the ones with the blue uniforms.

“We’re eating McDonald’s in a tree, officer,” Micah explains cheerfully.

“Can I ask why?” The one in the front glares up at you. You shrink back into the foliage as much as you can. Dave grabs your hand, squeezing tightly, and you squeeze back.

“Why not?”

“Can I see some I.D?”

“No. We’re not breaking any laws. This is public property.”

You stare in disbelief as Micah pulls out a fry and munches on it without a care in the world. Were they really not afraid? Did humans just… not fear their authority figures?

They can teleport. Of course they’re not afraid, you remind yourself.

“How many of you are up there?” another one asks.

“Three.”

“Are any of you armed?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you come down, please?”

“No, thanks. We’re fine where we are.”

“You guys want a cheeseburger? The lady who took our order gave me an extra,” Dave offers. “It’s got onions, though. Onions are nasty.”

The one farthest to the left says something into his walkie-talkie. Micah grins.

You know that grin. “What are you--”

“Hey, officers! Wanna see something cool?” they yell. “Watch this!”

They push off the branch they’re leaning on and lunge towards you and Dave. You barely have time to yelp before they’re grabbing your arm and zapping you guys out of there.

Delighted peals of laughter fills the whole apartment as you land face-first into Dave’s bed. You spit out a dirty sock that somehow ended up in your mouth and shove them off the end of the mattress, but you’re laughing too. You’ve never seen anything like that.

Dave looks over at you, gorgeous red eyes twinkling behind his shades and a big smile lighting up his respiteblock, and just for a moment, everything is perfect.

#homestuck #riverbound #hiveswap #hiveswap friendsim trolls #pesterquest #Dave strider #Karkat vantas #c21 #the guardian #mspa reader

12 notes · View notes

love-carries-on · 4 years

Text

Love Carries On: Chapter IV

The next morning, Logan and Virgil left early in the morning to go to the doctor, while the other three took off for the local dog shelter and then to the training facility. The second they walked into the shelter, something about Diego changed. They had filled him in on the plan, but when he walked in, his eyes went flat. He furrowed his brow, teetering on his feet and almost crashing into Roman. Patton reached out and grabbed his shoulder, helping him to stay upright. He blinked a few times, before the look cleared and he smiled brightly.

“Doggies.” He whispered, looking around at them all with wide eyes.

“Yes, D. Doggies.” Patto responded. He looked around at all the different dogs, he saw a few that caught his eye, larger dogs with a playful look in their eyes. But none of them seemed right.

The woman who was helping them with a dog walked behind them, gesturing to dogs and providing information about them. Roman walked away from the other two so that he could think without the woman talking to him. That’s when he saw her. She was sitting laying in the middle of her kennel, panting, but at the appearance of Roman; she sat up, her ears pointed at attention. When Roman was about thirteen he had hyperfocused on learning everything he could about dogs, and from what he remembered, she appeared to be pure-bread. She was a long haired German shepherd, her fur was black and what could only be described as orange or golden. She watched Roman, either waiting for some type of command or waiting for him to pet her.

The woman hurried to catch up to Roman. “That’s Stella, really a sad story. She was brought in after her last owner died. The people who brought her in said she used to be a service dog, and that she might not go well because she wasn’t exclusively a pet.” She leaned towards the fence, like she was fond of Stella. “We’re a nonkill shelter, and quite frankly she’s a sweetheart.”

Roman bounced excitedly, This is the perfect dog for Logie. “Pat, D! I found the dog for Logie.” he gestured them over, clapping his hands.

They came over, and after relaying the information he learned about Stella; they were fully prepared to adopt her. Roman texted Virgil about her, and waited for his go ahead. They wanted everyone to love her just as much as he did.

Virgil received the text as soon as they had stepped into the doctor’s office. It buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled out his phone just as Logan tapped him on the shoulder to say something.

“How’s the dog shopping going?” He asked carefully.

He couldn’t see the shock on Virgil’s face but it wasn’t hard to assume that he was surprised. “You are aware that Roman is rather loud yes? Besides, you’d have to tell me at one point, I would need to be present when the dog was being trained.”

Virgil sighed, and had his phone read the message to Logan. “We found a dog! Her name is Stella and she’s really pretty! I’ll send you a picture. The lady said that she was training to be a service dog, I bet Logie will love her.”

Logan laughed, and pulled out his phone. “Call Roman.” He spoke to his phone, and the phone started ringing.

He answered after two rings, trying not to sound like he was covering for something. “Hey Lo, how’s the doctor’s going?”

“Roman, I know you’re trying to find me a dog.”

Silence.

“And while I thought it was a bad idea, and I still think it might be a bad idea. Patton was right; I should make use of every opportunity I may have to help myself.” A lie, he was only truly accepting the dog to make Patton and the rest of them happy, he didn’t really want a dog because of how people might look at him.

“I’m glad you’re on board.” Roman smiled in excitement.

“Well you’d need me to train her anyhow.”

“Mr. Hollow.”

“I’ve got to go Ro, but get Stella, and we and we can talk about her training when we get home.” He hung up, and reached out for Virgil’s hand to lead him to the door.

Roman closed his phone and turned back to the other three. “Logan knew we wanted to get him a dog.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that we should get the dog so that he can help us train her and take all advantages of anything that could help him.” He shrugged, but turned to the woman. “How does this all work?”

“You’ll sign some papers, there are a few fees that need to be paid. After that, you have a few things you should do for your dog; but nothing that comes with me.” She opened the kennel door, and let Stella out.

Stella sniffed at the three standing there, and then sat down and waited for them to pet her. Roman moved towards her first, petting her ears and her neck, smiling when she pushed against his hand. The woman brought over a leash and clipped it to Stella’s collar. She handed the handle to Roman, and then led them back towards the front room.

“I’ll get the papers so that you can sign for her.” She slipped into a back room, coming back with a paper. “It’ll be a $25 dollar adoption fee and a signature here and then she’s yours.”

Roman nodded and reached into his pocket for his wallet while Patton signed for Stella. He pulled out the money and set it on the counter. The lady took the money, looked over the paperwork and then bid them goodbye. As soon as they were out to the parking lot, they started to figure out how to fit everyone in Roman’s red 2000 Taurus. He drove, and Patton sat in the passenger seat. Dorian (who it appeared Diego had switched to) insisted on sitting next to the new dog.

He spent the entire time they drove home petting Stella, and cooing at her. As soon as they got home (deciding that the first order of business was to go home so that she would know where she was living and she could explore), Roman made a call to the veterinarian clinic in town. He found out from the person who had answered the phone that they had an open spot in about an hour. He set up the appointment, glad that Logan and Virgil should be home by then so that Logan could meet Stella.

They got home fifteen minutes before Roman wanted to leave to take Stella for a checkup. The minute they opened the door, she went from panting on the floor, her head in Dorian’s lap, to sitting up stiffly, her ears perked and eyes trained on the door. Virgil saw her immediately, and recalling what his parents had taught him when they had a dog, he patted his thigh.

As if waiting for this silent command, Stella bounded over to him, wagging her tail excitedly. He did the hand command for sit, and she followed his commands with ease. He grabbed Logan’s hand and led him down towards her. He seemed briefly confused, and then he felt the dog and a smile broke across his face.

“Hi Stella.” He murmured, and he couldn’t see it, but her tail started wagging.

“Do you want to see if she knows voice commands?” Roman translated Virgil’s signs as he came over. “Or that’s what Virgil asks anyway.”

“Uhm, okay.” He cleared his throat, before turning towards where he thought Virgil was (based on the hand on his, towards his left). “What should I say?”

“Well she’s already sitting. So maybe lay down, or see if she knows how to heel.”

“Okay, umm, down.” He used a firm tone, and despite the fact that he had been petting her seconds before, her fur disappeared from underneath his fingers and he assumed that she was laying down now.

He stepped away from Virgil and more towards the center of the room. “Stella heel.”

He felt her brush up against him, and then the feeling of her sitting down, it was clear that she knew most commands. He reached down and pet her. “Good girl.” His tone was warm. He had been hesitant about getting a dog simply because he was unsure how much love he had, he loved four men, surely that was all his heart could hold, but this dog had already secured a place in his heart.

“Well, I need to take her to the vet so they can do a checkup and make sure she has her shots.” He grabbed his keys off the table. “Want to come along?” He could tell that Logan was already attached to her. “And then afterwards we’ll go shopping to get her all of her things.”

“I would like to go yes.”

“Excellent, we need to leave like right now though.”

“I see.” He walked back towards the door, standing in front of it. He couldn’t hear Stella near him, so he put out his hand just a little bit. “Stella, come.”

Immediately he heard her claws against the floor, and then felt her head against his hand. “Let’s go.” He directed the comment at Roman, stepping back to let him open the door so that they could go get in the car.

Logan opened the back door and patted the seat; waiting for Stella to get in and lay down. As soon as he felt her shift the seat, he closed the door; walking around to the passenger side. He could only tell the difference because Roman directed him around, shouting out the window to direct him.

As soon as he was seated, and buckled in, Roman started the car. It was a short drive into town. The arrived a few minutes early and seated themselves in the waiting room. Stella laying at Logan’s feet. She’d clearly picked her favorite even though she had her head rested on Roman’s foot.

The nurse came out, and seeing as Logan, Roman and Stella were the only people in the waiting room, she gestured them back. They got Stella up on the table, and Logan and Roman stood near the door awkwardly.

Thankfully the appointment went well, the man (who’s name was Dr. Martins) could see nothing wrong with her, she seemed to have a lot of energy and would need some definite exercise, she was about two years old. Nothing out of the ordinary, because the files the lady at the shelter had provided didn’t have a list of shots, he gave her a rabies shot, along with her distemper, parvo, and adenovirus shots. Then, he billed them for it and sent them on their way.

“I’m glad she was in good health.” Logan commented as they went back out and got into the car.

“Yeah so am I.” Roman started the car. “I guess on to Walmart we go, then we’ll make a call to the service training facility.”

“There’s one in town?” Logan couldn’t recall any mentions of that place in town, and if there was he didn’t remember it.

“No, but the closest city has one, and it has really good reviews. I assume they’ll train Stella very well.”

“I presume I will be making the call.” He raised his eyebrow, turning to face him.

“It’d be best yeah.” He paused to navigate a turn. “She’s your dog.”

“Roman, she may have been meant for me but she’s all of ours dog.” He reached back, seeking out her head so he could pet her. He could hear her tail hitting the seat and the car panel.

Finally, he felt her under his hand, and gave her head a warm pat. “Can you get the number pulled up then so that I can dial and you can drive?”

Roman handed him the phone after a couple minutes, and he could hear it ringing. He held it up to his ear; just as someone on the other line picked up.

“Hello, this is Crystal, how can I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Logan Hollow.” He paused to consider what to say. “I would like to talk with someone about setting up a consultation or a time when I can talk to someone about training a service dog.”

There was a pause, like someone was writing something out, or maybe checking something. “We’ve got a lot going on today but tomorrow might be a good time to come in and we can meet you, meet your dog.”

“That should work out,” He paused again, not entirely sure what he can say. “Thank you.”

“We have nine in the morning and noon open if you’d like to pick a time.”

“Noon should work.” He knew how his boyfriend’s were about waking up. “Alrighty.” There was a pause as the woman entered that into the computer. “Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow at noon Logan.”

“Okay, thank you.” There was a beep as the woman hung up, just as Roman pulled into the parking of Walmart.

“Do you want to come in with me? Or stay here with Stella while I get all the things?”

“I’ll go in, we can crack a window for Stella.” He didn’t want to say it, but Roman tended to be forgetful, so it wouldn’t surprise him if he forgot something important while they were shopping.

“Okay, should I leave the car on then?” He paused before turning the key.

“No, I believe that if we roll the window down she should be okay.” He reached back and hit the button.

He finished rolling it down a little bit and opened his door, allowing Roman to turn off the car and get out. They walked into Walmart, Roman’s hand on his wrist to guide him inside and make sure he didn't get hurt. As soon as they were inside, Roman grabbed a cart and they assumed their usual positions; Logan resting against the handle of the cart while Roman stood near the front with his hands on the cart, guiding it around.

“Where to first?” Roman said it as quietly as he could, stepping closer to Logan as he spoke.

“The pet aisle. We need to get bowls, food, toys, treats, probably a harness, pet bags just in case. A bed or somewhere she can sleep.” He paused his movements. “Which means, no dogs on the furniture.” He meant it, he knew how the rest of them were about their love for animals, and he could already hear the disagreement that him and Patton would get into over whether or not Stella is allowed on the furniture.

Roman led him over to the aisle. “What all should I grab?”

“Metal bowls, treats, a leash and harness, color doesn’t matter. If they have pig ears as a treat grab a few of those too.” He paused to think about where everything would be in Walmart.

“Are the dog beds and kennels in this area?”

“Yeah, do you want me to get the big ones?” Even after he asked it he felt like he asked something stupid.

“Of course Roman, those would work best.” HIs tone was sort of flat, no judgement or confusion, just a simple statement.

Roman grunted as he set down the dog kennel in the cart, settling other stuff on top of it. He had grabbed everything that Logan told him to, except for the pig ears because there weren’t any but he did find a bone instead that looked alright. He had grabbed a red harness and red leash (his favorite color) as well as two metal bowls and some green bags should they be needed. He looked down the aisle but couldn’t see any dog food.

“Uh Logan, what about dog food?”

“Try the next aisle over.”

He went over, dragging the cart and Logan with. As soon as they were over there, he saw that the entire aisle was full of different animal foods.

“What kind do we want for Stella?” There were a lot of options and he felt a little overwhelmed.

“Purina dog chow should work, a rather large bag so that it lasts for a while.” He paused to think about what size. “Maybe like a twenty six pound bag. Let me know if you require assistance.”

“No, I got it.” There was the sound of someone straining to pick something up, and then a thump as he set the bag down in the cart.

“That should be all we need, Patton didn’t send us with a shopping list and I believe that you grabbed everything we need for Stella.”

They went to the front of the store and Logan paid for all of the stuff, helping Roman load it into the trunk. Stella was doing fine, in fact, when they got in the car, she was asleep in the back.

They went home, opening the door to let Stella out to go to the bathroom. As soon as she was done, she trotted to the door, and waited for them to let her in. When they did, they smelled the smell of Patton cooking something,

Virgil got up off the couch as soon as he saw the door open and helped to get all of the bags. AS soon as they were all inside, Virgil set up the dog kennel in their bedroom, setting the dog bed inside of the kennel. He put the bowls in the kitchen and put the bag of food in the pantry; just as Patton finished cooking.

He dished everything up and called them all to the table, kenneling up Stella so she wouldn’t come beg at the table. Dinner was a casual affair, and afterwards, they each went their own separate ways to their bedrooms to spend some time just by themselves doing their own preferred things.

Roman was just lounging around as Patton played with his hair; Logan was listening to an audiobook, with Virgil right next to him listening to music, the only person who was being active was Dallas, who was playing with trucks on the floor. They had moved Stella’s bed out to the floor so that she could be a part of the family happenings.

They just hung out and relaxed for hours, before they all retired at different times. First Logan, who was leading Dallas with him so that he could get some sleep, then Virgil with Stella in tow. Finally, an hour or so later, Roman and Patton went to bed, tucking themselves in around D. Just before falling asleep Roman had one thought; Tomorrow is the beginning of a new chapter.

#love Carries On #ts sanders sides #tslogan #tspatton #tsroman #tsvirgil #tsdeceit #fluff #angst #DLAMP #poly #Multi-chapter #disabilityAU #HOH #ADHD #DID #Autism #Blind #Deaf

20 notes · View notes

spyder-m · 4 years

Text

Melt

Summary: After taking a bad hit while clearing out monsters in the slums, Tifa turns to Cloud for help with patching up. Lime. Prompt 'Since the invention of the kiss, there have been only five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.'

A/N: Originally written for Day 4 of the Cloti/Zerith Endless Summer Week, only sharing now because I’m bad at Tumblr.

Ao3 / FF.net / Twitter

One might think that living underneath the plate would come as an advantage in the Summer, the steel sky shading grounders from the sun above. But the arid desert air still beat relentlessly against the Sector, thin and muggy with sweat. Some of the usual, more questionable odours of the slums were coated in an extra, unpleasant layer.

For Tifa, a job as routine as clearing monsters from Scrap Boulevard became noticeably more difficult.

It was harder to regulate her stamina, the speed and strength behind her blows slipping somewhat. It was only exacerbated by the drool that spilt from monsters' open mouths as they barred their fangs; they the dust kicked up, clinging to the sheen of her skin.

Still, she wouldn't let the weather keep her from helping with neighbourhood watch. For the profit, the reputation it brought to Avalanche and the well-being it ensured their little community.

That made it all worthwhile.

Tifa’s grimaced, pinching the damp fabric of her tank top between her fingers as it clung to her undershirt, before wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She lifted her arms above her head, a familiar, practiced stretch, hoping the exercise would cool her down.

Having a second set of hands did help ease the load somewhat. Though not much for the conversation, she appreciated the company. And if the heat was bothering her cohort, he hid it well; the picture of a stoic, disciplined Soldier.

Still, she couldn't help her smirk, noticing his blond spikes drooping slightly, sweat building along his hairline. Noticing her dither, Cloud lifted an eye.

“Could use a shower,” Tifa commented idly. “It’s a good thing we just changed those water filters.”

A country boy at heart, Cloud liked to think he was accustomed to the heat. Particularly in Midgar, having become familiar with the city in his time training under Shinra.

He hadn't, it seemed, spent enough time in the slums. He had not realised how suffocating it could get down there.

In particular, there was something disconcerting about the plate that loomed ominously above upon; the steel feeling as though it was closing in on them. It woke an unnerving discomfort for him. Vague memories of being crammed in a small, tight space, prodded and poked.

Must've been another one of those weird dreams.

Though, the season proved a blessing in helping Cloud get more work. There weren't as many willing to brave the harsh conditions.

As, he was getting to know his way around Sector 7, Tifa insisted on tagging along. She didn't have to push particularly hard to change his mind, not that he'd care to admit so aloud. He much preferred her company to Barrett's.

Though all of Avalanche had shown themselves useful in dire situations, he felt much more comfortable placing his trust in Tifa.

"So, how much further?" He asked, sheathing his Buster Sword, after they had felled the latest pack of Gorgers.

"We should be coming up on it soon, according to Wymer."

"Lead the way."

"Right. We should wrap up soon. I'll need to get Seventh Heaven ready and open before the lunch rush."

The mark in question was a lesser drake, lingering outside one of the factories.

Cautious, it kept to the skies as it circled the scrapyard, wanting to leave a distance between itself and potential threats. Tifa smirked, fixing her glove before she cocked her fist.

"Looks like it’s not going to make this easy."

With a nod to Cloud, she vaulted herself upward, catching their target in the ribs with a whirling uppercut. The drake gave gave a ragged, cry of pain, the wind was knocked out of its lungs; not having expected her to take to the air so easily.

Not allowing their mark a moment of recovery, Tifa continued to rain rapid, powerful blows to its body, hoping to stagger it. With its attention was focused on her, Cloud cycled through different spells, trying to uncover its weakness. Desperately, it began to flap its wings in wild arcs, sending powerful gusts of wind in their direction.

The cool air lashing against their heated bodies almost came as a relief.

The force blew Tifa back, but she managed to tuck her body into a roll, cushioning the impact. She cringed at the dirt that coated her arms in sticky clumps, before returning to her fighting stance as the bird swooped at her.

As she weaved out the drake's path, it abruptly changed direction, kicking up dust to keep out Cloud's reach. Tifa intercepted, soaring up and twisting her body into a kick, looking to deliver the killing blow. This time, however, the drake anticipated her attack, bearing its claws. It caught her across the back in a frantic, clumsy swipe. With a cry, Tifa was swept aside. Unable to brace herself for the fall, she collapsed heavily onto the ground.

"Tifa!" Cloud cried out, before noticing the drake turn its attention towards him. He growled, wanting to check on her but also knowing that it would be dangerous to let his guard slip.

Cloud racked his brain, needing a way to finish this fight quickly. Lowering his sword, he noticed the Wind materia Chadley had given him earlier for compiling Battle Intel. It was the one materia he hadn't tried yet.

Quickly conjuring an aero spell, the drake shrieked as it caught in a powerful gust, dragged towards Cloud. It collapsed to the ground, its wings clipped, leaving Cloud open to bring the Buster Sword down across its neck.

As soon as the drake's body dissipated back into the Lifestream, Cloud ran towards Tifa. His hands resting at her shoulders, helping guide her upright. Though, he kept her at something a distance, not wanting to exacerbate anything if she was hurt.

"Tifa! Are you alright?"

"Y- yeah. Although, now I'm definitely going to need that shower."

"We've done enough for today. Let's get you back to the bar."

Cloud was in a foul mood when they returned to base, hardly an ideal time to have to report back to Barret. He didn’t have the patience or energy to respond to his sarcastic quips and Barret was equally unimpressed to find Tifa had not returned from their routine job unscathed. He was met with an icy glare from Cloud when he tried to pass the blame for Tifa's injury on him.

No matter how Tifa tried to placate the Avalanche leader, insisting it was nothing more than a mistake, Barret remained adamant. Being an ex-employee of Shinra, Cloud was already skirting a thin line, and the lone slip-up was enough to vindicate his distrust.

As if having his skill called into question wasn’t’ enough, the idea that he would play a role in harm coming to Tifa; indirectly or otherwise; left a sickening feeling in Cloud’s stomach. He left the bar in a huff, retreating to his room.

Lounging back on his bed, Cloud found himself tempted to seek out more monsters, thinking perhaps it might quell his anger. Though, he realised it probably wasn’t the best idea. They had just returned from a hunting job, after all, and he wasn't in the clearest headspace.

If he was being honest, he felt that Barret’s words did hold some weight. Perhaps that was why they stung so much.

It was his fault Tifa had gotten hurt. He'd made a mistake to stay back and fight at a distance when she charged in. If he'd been up close, with her, they could have worked together. They probably would have beaten the drake much sooner that way.

At the very least, he could have taken that blow in her place.

He felt guilty. Avalanche had hired him to fight, to keep their members safe and it was a job he tried to fulfill to the best of his ability. Admittedly, he did so out of obligation, wanting to ensure that he got paid in full. But with Tifa, it was different.

Tifa was one of the few left he cared for, one of the first and only people in the Slums to show him kindness. Protecting her was something he took genuine care and pride in.

He truly didn’t want to see her get hurt.

She hadn’t left her room since they'd gotten back.

Cloud was beginning to grow worried.

Tifa had been insisted, stubbornly, that it wasn't a big deal and she would be fine after taking a quick break. One of the cardinal rules of Sector 7, after all, was that bed rest could help cure whatever ailed you.

Cloud hadn't been entirely convinced. So, he kept to his own room, wanting to be to close and keep on an eye on her, without violating her space or request not to be fussed over.

He couldn't make out much noise at first, sensing that perhaps Tifa had been telling the truth and was just sleeping.

After a moment, though, he could hear her shuffling around, the sound of someone setting things on the floor and muttering to themselves as they paced back and forth.

Tapping his fingers against the mattress, Cloud wondered what the problem might be. Why, if she was awake, was she staying cooped up in her room for so long? Did he need to check on her?

Sitting up from his bed and moving to open the door, Cloud eyes strained under the sudden burst of sunlight that assaulted his senses. Having adjusted to the shade and soft colours of his room, the relentless glare was an unwelcome shift.

Shielding the glare with his forearm, Cloud shuffled towards Tifa's door, stopping at the threshold. Exhaling, Cloud lifted his hand, wrapping his knuckles firmly against the door.

"Tifa, are you there?"

"Cloud?" Her voice broke after a moment. "C- can you come in?"

At the quiver carrying through her words, Cloud had to restrain himself from forcing the door off its hinges. He barged into her room, any inhibition he may have harboured evaporating, as concern for her well-being became the sole priority.

For as much she'd undersold her decoration job, Cloud was impressed by how homely Tifa had managed to make the drab apartment feel. The pictures lining the walls, the little nick-nacks on her desk and bedside table. Her clothes, books, CDs. The traces of her presence throughout the room made it feel lived in.

It certainly seemed warmer and more welcoming than his own room. Not that that bothered him. All he needed was a place to sleep.

"Cloud?"

As he turned, Cloud's eyes bulged upon reaching Tifa, stood underneath the shower head. Her gloves, boots and skirt strewn in a pile at her feet. Nothing but the dark material of her undershirt, shorts hugging her long, toned legs.

The shock churned into alarm at the sight of her white tanktop, stained with blotches of red, haphazardly tossed by the foot of her bed. His body, impulsively, staggered towards her, hands reaching her hips at either side.

It seemed the healing spell he'd used earlier hadn't quite been powerful enough. The Materia he'd gotten from Jessie was far from being mastered. There were still cuts littering the middle of her back, blood seeping into the material of her shirt from where the drake had slashed her.

"Do you think you could... help me out?"

Glancing up, Cloud followed her line of sight, spotting what she was talking about. The rags and bottle of rubbing alchohol lined in front of her shower, the bandages. The wound was in a somewhat awkward place to reach, even with Tifa's flexibility.

Even if she could, it was out of sight and she'd have no way of knowing if she was cleaning it properly, letting alone bandaging it up.

His mind eventually catching up to his body, Cloud noticed their close proximity and the way he was holding her. His hands ripped swiftly back, eyes lowering as he coughed.

"S- sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's alright."

Cloud was surprised she would ask for his help with something like this. Though they all received basic training, Soldiers were known more for hurting than healing, and... He wasn't exactly one for being gentle.

He'd scared away Marlene just trying to talk to her.

They hadn’t seen each other for years, and hadn't exactly been the closest friends when they were kids. Wouldn't it be awkward to have him cleaning her wounds when she was half-naked? Surely Jessie would have been better suited.

After all, from how casually Jessie and Biggs examined Wedge’s bare ass for burns and gunshots wounds, Cloud got the sense the group were more than comfortable being half-naked around one another.

Though, he had come to realise that there were secrets she kept even from Avalanche. From the brief words they'd exchanged, it seemed Barret didn't even know what had happened to her parents.

It made sense that she wouldn't want to mention the scar stretching down her chest, right between her breasts, from where the Masamune had slashed her. The very sight awoke a burning sensation in his stomach, a similar entry wound lining his abdomen.

It was a night that he too had lived through. The same pain that he had experienced.

For that reason, perhaps it was easier to ask him.

Sensing that he was the only one she felt comfortable turning to, made it almost impossible to turn down.

The thought that he had a connection, an intimacy with her that no one else did, stroked his ego. He wanted to flaunt it in the face of all those men in town who flirted with her, to their landlady who seemed convinced he wasn't good enough to even be around her.

It was so rare of Tifa to ask anything of someone else.

She had taken him in. Found him lying half-dead at the station when others seemed content to let him rot. The fact that he had been dressed in a Shinra uniform probably hadn't helped.

Yet Tifa had found him work and a place to stay, helped him build his reputation around the Slums and earn money, all the while holding her tongue, resolving not to bother him with the many, burning questions she likely had.

This was the least he could do to repay her kindness.

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm." Tifa hummed, coy. "I trust you."

Though Cloud, for a second, wouldn't hesitate to help her. He sensed they were teetering on the brink of something... dangerous. That if they were to go beyond this point, it could make things uncomfortable between him.

He knew how important their relationship was to Tifa, to him, and wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardise it.

Though, there was something about those soft, pleading, red eyes that coursed warmly through him, penetrating through his guard. Those eyes reassured him always that everything would be okay.

As long as he kept himself restrained, respectful, it should be alright.

Though, after all they'd been through together, he wasn't entirely sure they hadn't mean boundaries left to cross. They were already intimately familiar with each other's greatest hardships, their most personal scars.

There was a strange comfort in having someone see you at your lowest, most vulnerable point; a trust and sense that you no longer have anything to hide from them.

"Alright." He conceded eventually. "Turn around."

Swallowing, Cloud swept the thick curtain of Tifa's hair aside, reveling briefly in its weight and softness. He'd always thought she had pretty hair as a teenager, and now it had grown much, much longer. It must have been difficult to maintain. Yet somehow appeared free of tangles, even after the fights they'd just had.

Still, it couldn't have been comfortable in this heat, and would probably get in the way of him patching her up.

"Hang on," Cloud said, releasing the tie at the end of her hair. Her eyes lifted over her shoulder, curious

Recalling the ponytail he'd worn as a teenager, Cloud's fingers sunk into the dark tresses; softer than he had imagined. He shifted the band higher, tying them out of the way in a sloppy bun.

Tifa sighed, blissfully, as the itchy weight of hair was lifted from her shoulders, fresh air cool caressing against the heated skin. She relaxed at the touch of his strong fingers against her scalp.

The reaction was puzzling to Cloud. The sound coming from her not something he had expected. After having spent years training and perfecting his body as a tool, a means to fight, it felt alien for it elicit such pleasure.

He stepped back, suddenly conscious of the bare flesh he had exposed. The slender column of her neck, the strap of her tank top as it slipped slightly from her shoulder.

With a defiant shake of his head, Cloud steeled himself to lower his gaze, concentrating solely on the task at hand.

His hands hovered over her ribs, strangely apprehensive to cover the last modicum of distance between them. It was skin he had seen several times before, had already brushed against or caught a hold of, in the adrenaline of a fight.

Yet, without the rhythm of battle guiding his movement, anything else to capture his attention, Cloud became overtly conscious of the way his fingers traced each dip and groove of her body, the feeling it evoked within him.

There was obvious tension in her muscles. Something Cloud was unsure if he could attribute to the stress and heat of their work wearing on her, or discomfort from being so close to him. Perhaps once the lingering ache of her injury passed, she would be able to relax.

With practiced care, Cloud took the cloth in his hand, dipping it into the bottle of rubbing alcohol. With measured, delicate movement, he carefully worked the cloth over one of her cuts.

Tifa's muscles cinched up at the contact, hissing as her eyes crinkled into the slightest flinch. The reaction would have been imperceptible to most, but Cloud's hand ripped back swiftly, as though he'd burnt her.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," Tifa said. "Keep going."

Cloud frowned, upset at the thought of causing her any discomfort. Even if it was only fleeting, even knowing her strength and that she had endured far worse; that it would ultimately help her; he wished he could make it more pleasant.

Tifa had asked specifically for him. He didn't want her to second-guess herself or think that trust in him had been misplaced. Secretly, he wanted her to rely on him. To know that even she no longer needed a hero to save her, he would still support her.

Cloud needed to show her that he cared. There had to be something he could do to bring her comfort.

He tried to recall his mother. How she had tended to him when he fought with other children.

Though he would try to be strong and mask his pain, she would always know; lovingly pressing kisses against his forehead whenever a particularly bad wave took him. It made him feel safe and made all of his aches magically disappear.

It was the old cliche, kiss it better.

Looking down, he could make out beads of sweat trickling from the pores of her shoulder, Cloud's tongue slid across his hot, cracked lips.

He was drawn to the familiar, comforting scent of her; a fragrance attached to some of the few, precious memories of his childhood. Yet, there was something equally invigorating about the shape of her body, the parts of her he wanted to discover more.

Somehow, despite the humid weather, he was tempted by her body heat, feeling himself drawing unconsciously nearer. The desire to comfort her, to dip his head and trace his lips over her shoulder in a brief, feather-light caress, was taking over him.

She was so close to him already, it would be so easy.

Cloud urged himself to hold still and concentrate, not to be driven by selfish urges. There was a haze clinging to his consciousness, muddling his thoughts. It must have been the heat must have been making him light-headed.

Still, as he shifted back into place, delicately touching the cloth to her back, a silence rang out through the apartment. The room had become a private space for them, away from the rest of the world.

There was nothing for him to focus on but her.

For Tifa, the sting each stroke of cloth left was passed quickly, worth enduring to revel in the care that Cloud quietly expressed. The way his free hand rested against her lower back, supporting, occasionally massaging her flesh. The way his voice would dip, soothing apologies or words of comfort vibrating from his throat.

It was rare glimpse beneath the layers of snark and stoicism Cloud usually shrouded himself in. The Cloud from her memories, she could still sense traces of. It was a side she felt touched to know, he was comfortable enough to show around her.

Eventually, Cloud washed away the last flecks of blood and dust, leaving only the jagged, broken lines of skin. The scar Tifa would carry on the way to healing. Clearing his throat, Cloud set the cloth and bottle down, letting her know he was finished.

As Tifa turned back to face him, Cloud found himself engulfed by those soft, smouldering red eyes once more; holding him in a prolonged, unbroken touch. He shuddered, rapt by how such a seemingly innocuous, silent gesture could express such intimacy.

In how they knew him so well, could read the desire written in his expression. It was disarming, compelling him to lower his guard, to breach the distance they had always placed between one another. The tension once plaguing Tifa's muscles had melted away under his hands, leaving her slipping toward him. Her hands clasped his cheek, emboldening by the desire to penetrate further beneath those hard edges.

Her face hovered dangerously close to his own now, eyes wide and shining as he sunk deeper in, pulled unconsciously forward. Cloud's heart surged erratically as he felt her breath scorching against his skin. He couldn’t place what was coming over him, lulled by her the delicate flutter of lashes as her eyes closed, lips swelling.

His head tilted, covering the last vestige of distance between him.

His mouth sought hers without another moment to think, to hesitant. It was a movement that came so naturally, the cathartic release of years of pining, of feelings that seemed to daunting and complex to properly convey.

The touch of her lips was sweet, a gentle caress steadily growing firmer, and more confident, each time it was reciprocated. It was a gesture so inherently her. The way she kept him at a slight distance, wanting to show him affection but frozen by hesitance and fear that it might turn him away.

His arms surrounded her tightly, an embrace he hoped might help to ease any doubts about his affection for her, basking in the weight of her body as it melted against his. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers massaging soothingly against his scalp. Their kiss broke as a moan ripped from Tifa’s mouth.

The deep, throaty sound racked his body, a dull, throb coursing through his head. Cloud flinched, images burning, one after the other, into the recesses of his mind. Tifa, lying naked underneath him, her hair unbound and spread over patches of grass. Her body bathed in moonlight, face flushed and voice cracking in a series of eerily similar moans as he rutted against her. Her head resting against his shoulder as dawn bled into the sky.

Overwhelmed, Cloud slipped back, his breathing shaky. The room silently felt incredibly stifling, his head still swimming. Tifa's eyes were half-lidded as they pinned him quizzically, pants spilling from her swollen lips. The vision was almost enough to pull him back.

“I’ll, uh…" Cloud coughed, glancing down. "I’ll leave you to finish getting cleaned up.”

“Oh... Right. Thank you, Cloud.”

Keeping his gaze drawn to the floor as he left, he'd miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

#ffvii #final fantasy vii #ffviir #final fantasy vii remake #cloti #cloud x tifa #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #fanfiction

3 notes · View notes

moonlight-frittata · 5 years

Text

I’m Not Drunk, You’re Drunk

@sailorsunspot gave the prompt, “Catra and Adora get drunk while they’re in the Horde together”

They’re about 16 or so in this (I put them at around 18 or 19 in the show).

Word Count: 1913

---

Adora twisted the cap off a glass bottle Catra handed to her with a shit eating grin. The harsh stench of alcohol assaulted her senses, forcing her to hold the liquor at arm’s length. She blinked over and over, trying to stave off tears caused by the strong fumes. The clear liquid inside was most likely Horde back alley hooch, but could just as likely be fuel for a Class B skiff from the smell of it.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

Catra leaned back against a crate, looking quite pleased with herself.

“I have connections. A few of the senior cadets have a still system somewhere. And one of them owed me a favor.”

The pair sat across from each other behind a pile of spare tank parts, holed up in a storage room of the vehicle hanger. It was one of the numerous hiding spots they snuck off to after dinner to unwind before curfew. Catra dropped hints all day she had a special surprise for this particular evening, keeping tight lips whenever Adora tried to needle the truth out of her.

“You sure this won’t kill me immediately?”

“Live a little Adora, no one lasts forever.”

“Not wanting to die is living plenty!”

“Helen assured me it’s safe enough.”

Adora sighed.

“Have you tried this before?”

“No.. but that’s why I thought we could do it together.”

Adora turned the bottle over in her hands one more time, the smell of alcohol still irritating the tip of her nose.

“I don’t know, Catra.”

“Come on, are you scared I can handle it and you can’t?”

Adora rolled her eyes as Catra snatched the bottle out of her hands and took the first swig. She tipped the bottle upright and swallowed a mouthful. The effect was immediate. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and her face scrunched up in pain. A rough, uneven cough escaped her lips from the burn in her throat that traveled to her chest.

“...yep!..*cough cough*..it’s...good stuff..*cough cough*..Adora!”

Catra shoved the bottle into Adora’s hands and continued coughing into the crook of her elbow. Despite the self induced pain, Catra’s mismatched eyes twinkled with mischief. Adora knew exactly what she was trying to do. A challenge had been issued. One that would be held over her head with unrestrained malace and taunting until the end of time if she refused to rise to the occasion. Adora turned the bottle over in her hands for a moment, weighing the pros and cons in her head while Catra recovered her composure and flashed a cocky grin.

“Ah, what the hell..”

Adora tipped the bottle in Catra’s direction, raising it in a gesture she once saw Shadow Weaver use with a goblet of wine at a banquet for Hordak, and swallowed.

There was no real flavor to the swill she somehow willfully ingested, except maybe an after taste of rusty metal and jet fuel. Adora’s torso hitched in a shudder as the bite of drink seared her tongue and back of her throat on the way down. The warmth of alcohol settled in her belly like hot embers in a furnace. She sucked in air through her teeth and nodded her head encouragingly at Catra before another shudder rippled through her body.

“Bleh. Okay, we did it. Now what?”

Catra took the bottle back and set it between them on the concrete floor. The clear liquid swished back and forth inside before it settled, the container still mostly full.

“Um, I don’t know. It’s supposed to make you feel different. Do you feel different?” Catra asked.

Adora ran her fingers over her chest where the lingering tingle of alcohol settled uncomfortably under her sternum. She felt like her insides had been cleaned out with hot metal, but other than that she didn’t feel anything in particular.

“Maybe we need to drink some more?”

---

“...ahahaha, how many reps are you gonna mess up until you finally fall over, Adooora.”

Catra lay sprawled across a bundled up tarp she pulled off a pile of broken turret parts. Her tail drifted slowly back and forth.

Adora swayed on her feet, one hand propped against the wall, the other holding the half-empty bottle of liquor. Every time she bent over to put the bottle down, the world rushed up to meet her eyes and she had to shuffle her feet to keep from falling down. Catra joked she looked like she was attempting a kettlebell exercise from training.

“You’re just jealous I’m super strong, and can balance real good and can do, other stuff, Catra. Ca-tra. Cat rahh.”

The usual lilt of her best friend’s name felt strange on her tongue. Cat..ra. Adora moved her lips in silence, trying to figure out the normal sound they were supposed to make. Catra. She lifted her fingers to her lips, noticing they felt numb and slow. Just like everything else floating on the fringe of her sight.

“I, think you are drunk. Adora.”

Catra fell back against the tarp and laughed in a raspy staccato clip. After a beat, she moved to sit up but without any of her usual feline grace and nearly tumbled onto her face. It only made her laugh even harder.

The point of Adora’s shoulder blades dug into the concrete wall behind her, solid and steady against the rocking motion of everything else in the room. She gave up the effort to place the bottle on the ground, deciding instead to join Catra on her tarp. Adora made it across the room in a few strides, falling heavily beside her friend.

She lifted a limp wrist and pointed her finger.

“I think you’re the one who’s drunk. Ca-te-rah.”

The glass container dropped between them with a soft thud against the canvas, the liquid inside too shallow to spill out when the bottom hit the ground.

“I mean, that was the point...”

Catra’s words slurred together, a drawl in her annunciation. She turned over towards Adora.

“I’m impressed you didn’t chicken out. Miss future force captain.”

Adora leaned back to close her eyes for a moment, thinking better of it as the world tilted too much.

“I’m not as good as you might think. I can be insubordinate.”

Catra watched closely as Adora sounded out each syllable like a foreign word.

“Pffft, when have you ever been insubordinate in your life?”

Adora’s eyebrows knit together, her blue eyes grey and cloudy with thought.

“I’m...I’m being insubordinate right now! I do stuff people think I won’t do. I didn’t tell Shadow Weaver when Lonnie cheated on her Geometry exam. I lied about Kyle’s one mile time so he wouldn’t fail for the fifth try in a row. I cover for you when you’re late to training, or when you piss off the instructors.”

“Oh yeah, you’re such a martyr, Adora,” Catra whispered. The reply came out sharp through the haze of intoxication.

Adora turned to her.

“Whaat’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one who’s always telling me to lighten up and not care as much.”

“That dumb stuff doesn’t mean anything, Adora. Geometry test? One mile? What does that even really matter. None of it involved you or could actually get you in trouble.”

“Are you serious??” Adora’s voice rose to a breathy shrill. “It could put any future promotions at risk if they knew I lied!!”

Catra shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, but her usual flippant tone was less convincing than usual. The tips of her claws dug into the soft skin of her palm at her side.

“Yeah right Adora. We all know you can get away with anything in Shadow Weaver’s eyes. Perfect Adora! Pride of the Horde! That old witch could walk in here right now with us piss drunk and I would be the only one to get the living shit beat out of me. Once for the drinking, and twice for getting you drunk.”

“That’s not..that’s not true!”

Adora’s head bobbed back and forth, the slur in her words growing more pronounced with every sentence. Her forehead wrinkled from how hard she seemed to be concentrating on the conversation.

“I would definitely get punished, are you kidding me? But I got drunk anyway! Because I always go along with your plans in the end.”

She flourished her arms and fell back dramatically. Catra scowled at her, then stared at a spot on the ceiling, annoyed by the turn of their conversation. Adora stayed silent for so long after her outburst Catra wondered if she fell asleep.

“And also Catra,” Adora said bolting upright. “If none of that stuff matters, why are you giving me a hard time about it?”

The hair on Catra’s back bristled. She stared at her knees and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Catra?”

Their shoulders were flush against each other where they sat on the tarp. Catra’s heartbeat spiked in her ears. The comfort of the closeness grew stifling and too much. Adora tried to place her hand on Catra’s forearm, but she moved it away. Nothing dramatic. A subtle shift of the elbow, but it said enough.

“Wait, are you mad at me?”

“We’re just drunk. Don’t read into something that’s not there.”

“Catra..”

Catra rolled to her side and onto her knees, leaning heavily against the crates around her for support as she rose to her feet. Everything moved back and forth like a pitching ship, no matter how still she held herself. Something screamed danger to where the conversation was taking a turn. The drunken cloud was not clearing, instead focusing on a place she was not interested in talking about.

“Come on,” Catra groaned between deep breaths, “we should get to bed before -”

Her ears twitched to the side as the inevitable sound of too much fun filled the storage room. Adora was on hands and knees, retching over and over off the edge of the tarp onto the concrete floor. Catra bit her lip, trying hard not to get sick herself from the sound. It wasn’t something she usually had an issue with, but she also wasn’t normally drunk off her ass when she held Adora’s hair back from a fever.

The dry heaving stopped almost as fast as it began. Adora whimpered quietly, crawling a few feet away from the puddle of puke on the floor. Catra sighed, her anger flickering out before it ever grew into something else. With slow, deliberate steps she closed the distance to help her best friend. Because even if she was mad at Adora, she’d still always have her back.

“Alright cadet. Let’s get you to your bunk.”

Catra held her hand out. Adora lifted her head, eyes glassy and lidded with drunken fatigue. She took the outstretched palm, but Catra still needed to half drag Adora to her feet.

As they turned to go, the back of Catra’s foot bumped into the glass bottle on the ground. It still had some Horde hooch left inside. She started to bend over and pick up the bottle, but her eyes swam and stomach flipped and she decided to leave the spoils of war alone. With one of Adora’s arms slung over her shoulder, the pair shambled back to their barracks.

“...so I guess we lived a little, huh?” Adora mumbled, barely coherent.

Catra chuckled.

“Oh yeah. And I won’t let you forget it for a loooong time.”

#catradora #she-ra #angst #fluff #friendship #look I actually published a thing I wrote!#it was lots of fun writing these drunk dummies ahaha #laura writes #moonlight writes #...I can't remember my writing tag...

72 notes · View notes

detectivesplotslies · 5 years

Text

Passengers on the Road to Nowhere

Saioumota Week 2019 - Day 2: Road Trip & Long Distances

Description: Kaito, Shuichi and Kokichi pile into an old car and drive away from their troubles. Word Count: 2189

Read on AO3 here

The sun beat down on the bill of Shuichi’s cap as he leaned against the window, watching the signs flash by. The map was loosely grasped in his hands until they got closer to their next exit. He crumpled it a bit, tightening his hand, then letting it go again, staring at the tiny creases, like new markings on the face of the region. Maybe making somewhere new, just like they were hoping to find. His half lidded eyes drift to the driver’s seat, where Kaito sits at the wheel. His overly large sunglasses and gel free hair made almost look like a stranger, but the big grin on his face despite everything and his hand tapping along to the song playing through the crusty speakers gave him away.

Shuichi shifted his shoulders with a wince, and turned to glance into the backseat. Sprawled across the entirety of it was Kokichi, seemingly asleep. The hoodie he had been wearing was pulled off and thrown over his face to blot out the sun. He hadn’t said much since the argument about seatbelts, and the middle one was still awkwardly clipped around his waist, even sideways. A bump in the road bounced him up, and Shuichi heard a groan under the fabric.

He turned back to the map, and then out the window. A rest stop was coming up. His tired eyes widened a little.

Coffee.

Carefully, Shuichi folded the map and quietly spoke, low enough so maybe not to alert Kokichi as he got back to his nap.

“Kaito, can we stop?”

He must have been too soft to be heard under the buzz of the radio as Kaito kept tapping along with his eyes on the road. Should he poke him? What if he startles him and they swerve. Shuichi cleared his throat a bit, and tried a touch louder this time.

“Kaito?”

“Hm? Everything alright, Shuichi?” This time he turned ever so slightly towards him, and Shuichi could feel the inspection he was getting behind the shades even if he couldn’t quite make out his eyes. Shuichi smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine, but could we stop? There’s a rest stop coming up-”

“Hey we weren’t gonna stop until it was dark, you know that, it was your suggestion.”

“I know that but… I don’t think a quick little stop to get some snacks or something to drink would be-”

“Shuichi, is this another coffee stop?! We are gonna get spotted for sure one of these times!”

“No we won’t! It’ll just be real quick stop, I’ll be in and out before you even know I’m gone and-”

“We’re stopping?”

Kokichi sat up like a zombie rising from the grave in an old horror film, hoodie still wrapped around his face. He clawed it off quickly and poked his head up between the front seats, grinning ear to ear.

“We are NOT, and even if we were you are not getting out of the car again,” Kaito grunted.

“Come onnnnnnnn, puuuhleeease. My legs are gonna wither away to stubs before we get anywhere, and then you’ll have to carry me. Do you want that on your conscience?”

“Oh so you don’t like to be carried? Good to know.”

“HOLD ON, that was NOT the point! I’ll be good, I just wanna get some air!”

“I’ll crack a window.”

“I need some exercise!”

“You can probably do sit-ups from how you’re lying back there if you want to that badly, Kokichi.”

“Ew.”

Shuichi couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange. He knew that last time was a mess, but for once he was on Kokichi’s side. The quieter boy gently placed his hand on Kaito’s where it held the steering wheel, and the other boy’s grimace smoothed over. He glanced back at his navigator.

“Please Kaito, you could probably use a stretch too, you’ve been behind the wheel for hours. It’s not safe, you know.”

“Yeah! Just cause you can pilot a spaceship doesn’t mean you’re allowed to coop us up in here and crash!”

“That’s not what I said,” Shuichi hurriedly added. He could hear Kaito exhale a long held breath and sigh.

“Fine, but we’re sticking together, okay? That means you too, stub legs!”

“Yes sir!”

Kokichi snickered as he pulled his hoodie over his head, dark locks reemerging moments later under the hood. Shuichi adjusted his hat and checked his wallet. Kaito pulled them over into the off-ramp and toward the sign proclaiming Gas, Restrooms, & Food. The old car’s engine made some ominous clicking sounds as they dropped in speed, but steadily came to a halt in the parking lot. There were only a few spots taken, a good sign really. The trio piled out of the car. Despite his claims Kokichi was the least shaky on his legs as he bounced from foot to foot, and tugged the drawstrings on his hood tight, so only his nose and eyes showed, with a stray bit of purplish hair sticking out like a whisker. The three of them shared a quick look, checking each other over for anything obvious they may have forgotten. Then as one they started towards the little rest stop shop.

The ease they’d had in the car dissipated instantly. The tight knit trio bunched together. Shuichi’s shoulder brushed against Kaito’s arm. Kokichi’s finger hooked on Shuichi’s belt loop like a tether. Kaito kept pace with the both of them while watching the lot over their heads. This was how they were together in public. How they managed crowds, comments, and stares.

The troupe broke apart at the door to go in single file, Shuichi first. The bell at the top of the door chimed, announcing new customers. He made a beeline for the counter while Kaito held the door for Kokichi. It didn’t take long to spot the coffee machine, nothing fancy just the regular and decaf options behind the cashier. There was a line that Shuichi stepped into it while fidgeting with his hands. He turned to watch the other two while he waited.

Kokichi walked down one of the aisles plucking colourful snack packages up with excitement and handing them to Kaito who trailed behind him. Once his arms were full, Kaito started putting one back every time he was given another to avoid a juggling situation. He was nowhere near as good at it as Kokichi was. At least not yet. Both of them had promised Kokichi they’d practice their juggling when they got time to. As they stepped out before turning to the next row Kokichi skipped over to the line and handed him a package of Oreos and winked. Shuichi couldn’t help but smile as he hopped away with an exasperated Kaito in tow.

Shuichi turned his attention back to the line as the person at the front finished their purchase and left. One more person and then he was up. His eyes drifted to the tv behind the cash, it was playing some ads on mute while music played over the actual speakers. He swallowed. The same ad that had been haunting him for weeks popped onto the screen. He reached up and adjusted his hat self-consciously. Despite that his eyes were glued to the screen as the Team DanganRonpa logo spun on it.

Even though it was muted, he knew a remix of the theme music was playing while the convention date and location popped up in big letters. Then the words were shot to pieces. Clips of each fan favourite participant that was announced as a special guest played, one after another in a reel. He hoped Kokichi was still looking for snacks and not watching this like he was. He’d seen it plenty of times. The mute remained a blessing. Shuichi knew that each ‘character’ was introduced with their own voices. And on cue, there was the latest favourite, in his iconic checkered scarf. He remembered the day Kokichi had been called to the recording studio for that one. He had come back entirely drained. Closed off. It’d been a long taxing one.

That’d been the day they decided they were getting out of there. Contracts be damned, they weren’t here to be paraded around for show.

Finally, Monokuma popped up at the end to wave goodbye. The ad was over. Something innocuous about a fruit juice with a cute girl in orange dancing took its place. Shuichi finally was able to look away. He glanced over his shoulder with concern, trying to be sure the other two boys were okay, but he didn’t see them anywhere nearby. He turned quickly, trying to find them but that was just as the woman in front of him was leaving. They collided, her purchase and his hat falling to the floor.

“Oh I’m sorry, I-”

Shuichi froze mid-sentence. On her shirt was show’s logo, big in black, red and white. She hadn’t looked up, having bent to pick up her bag and mutter. His hat sat on the floor beside it. Shuichi’s hands shot up to his face automatically, dropping the Oreos as well in the process.

“Watch it this could have broken,” she was saying. “Seriously…” Shuichi nodded from behind his hands, trying to think. She hadn’t moved. Was she staring at him? He didn’t want to dare look. What if she recogni-

Shuichi felt the hat slide down on his head.

“Hey you dropped this right?” He heard Kaito say, playing up a gruffer voice to his side as he removed his hands. He got a pat on his back. “No harm done, right?” Behind the shades and the grin he could just be a concerned stranger, but if she noticed the goatee she might-

“C’mon, c’mon, you were gonna buy these for me, right?” Kokichi swooped in on his other side, linking their arms and tugging Shuichi towards the cash, past the woman who’s attention was now on Kaito. The fallen Oreos were already in his hand. He slid them onto the counter and through the still-pulled-tight opening in the hood he asked the cashier for a black coffee as well. As his thoughts finally caught up with the transaction Shuichi fumbled with his wallet.

Behind him he heard the woman huff and head out the door with her gathered things. The bell chimed. Kaito slid a couple of the snacks he was still holding onto the counter as well, putting it all together.

They paid cash and left. Kaito carried the bag, Shuichi held his coffee, and Kokichi clinged to Shuichi’s arm the whole walk through the parking lot. They didn’t say another word until they reach Kaito’s old car, and pile back in.

The doors clicked shut. They collectively let out their held breaths.

“‘It’ll just be real quick’ you said, ‘in and out before you even know’,” Kaito sighed, kneading his forehead behind the shades. The heavy moment hung in the air. Shuichi looked down at his coffee.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Talk about a deer-in-headlights, jeez Shumai. You’re so lucky you brought us huh? And what was all that about definitely not needing wanting me out there, hmmmm?” Kokichi leaned into the front seat and sprawled himself across Kaito’s shoulder. He poked Kaito’s cheek. “You should have seen this idiot’s face until I went to get the cookies. You two matched! Frozen like statues!”

Shuichi’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced up at Kaito’s reddening face. “H-hey this is serious, Kokichi, we could have-”

“But we’re fine. We stuck together like you said and we’re fiiiiine.”

Shuichi chuckled and reached out to loosen Kokichi’s hood, and swiping away bits of hair from his face. They really did look like whiskers stuck like that. “You’re right, we’re fine.”

In return he got a brief soft look that broke into mischievous smirk. Kokichi gave Kaito’s face a light pap with his hand and rolled off of him to the backseat again. They heard the fizz and pop sound of the unscrewed cap of a soft drink.

It took the other two boys a moment to realize the snack bag was unopened in the front seat.

“Kokichi! We talked about this!”

“We have more than enough just to buy it-”

“No one noticed, don’t worry about it~”

“We don’t need more risks! You-”

“Can’t hear you over the bubbles!”

The squabble continued as the car pulled back out onto the highway. Shuichi fell out of it after a bit to sip his coffee, enjoying the light mood’s return. This cramped vehicle may not be the best living situation, but for the time being it was their safest place. Where they were themselves. Where there was no audience. Shuichi wasn’t sure how long it would last, but he had a new shred of hope. The ad had still listed Kokichi as appearing at the convention. The company wasn’t telling anyone they’d gone. Any search they were doing was internal and hushed. They were trying to save face, and the public didn’t know to watch for them.

That they could play to their advantage. This might just work. Their getaway might have a destination after all.

#saioumotaweek #saioumotaweek2019 #saioumota #shuichi saihara #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #road trip #my writing #my content #hope you guys like iiit :'D #vr au #postgame #fic

82 notes · View notes

sootcloak · 4 years

Text

Crow’s Shadow: Carrion Circle

Second part of a short serial installment I’m working on as a general exercise on plotting, editing and the like. You can find the other parts linked here - {Part One: Repair Required} - I’ll add the last link once Part Three is up. Same spoiler warnings as Part One apply. Same general content warnings apply.

~2400 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel and Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a tense cross country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe. Twelve help me I’d hoped I could fit more of the plot into this one the last part is gonna be so long, such a pain to edit.

A cold, mountain spring cuts through the highlands. The water runs babbling over old, long-smooth stones. Along its bank, a cart is still. A pair of chocobos sleep, curled in on one another. Bright yellow feathers pool starkly against the grey and white of the highland’s snow-covered earth.

The campfire, dim and growing colder by the minute, pops and sizzles in the moonlit dark. Every few moments, the earth rumbles with a heavy snore from deep in Rostnthal’s chest. The old Sea Wolf is leaned up against the back of one of the birds, a canvas sheet thrown over both he and the chocobo. Hilda lies beneath the cart itself, nestled up in a tight ball of quilts and jackets.

In the back of the cart, Vavara rifles through the packed supplies. She loads specially marked shells into her revolver. It’s reflective white metal glints in the moonlight. It has a mirror shine in the dead of night, it’s engravings doing little to break up the perfect polish she’s maintained. It is a slow process, painstaking with just one hand. The cartridges hum and vibrate in their chambers, the ether concentrate within nervously singing to her heightened hearing.

Six shots in each cylinder.

If he’s there, it’ll take at least fifteen of these to break his barrier. Even with aether-charged rounds, the inadequacy of her armaments hangs over her. Missing an arm means choosing between her spear and a firearm. Damaged as she is, she might not even have enough aether at her disposal to ignite the spearblade.The core nested between her lungs is pressed cold and stark against her heart, like a long-dull knife. Her soul, nestled within it’s crystal depths, aches from long-faded scars. Her whole body would be a treasure trove for him, secrets to decipher, power to steal. Weapons to wield.

Even then, measured against his life - her secrets, her safety, all things are cast into the pot.

She loads a spare cylinder with slow, committed strokes. It’ll take a long time to reload the weapon, even with this preparation.. She didn’t pick this hand, but she’ll play it till the cards are on the table. Folding was never an option, anyways.

Light falls on the small camp, the morning sun casting light into the narrow crevice beneath the cart. Hilda wakes up with a yawn. Her arms stretch across the dirt, eyes squeezed shut. She growls softly deep in her chest, and sits up. Her forehead slams into the wood with an audible crunch.

“Seven hells-” She snarls.

“Gyahah!” Rostnthal’s laughter echoes over the small glade, watching with a gleaming eye as she clutches her forehead.

“‘Ey, Ashenheart! I won! Ye’ owe me a drink when we get back!” His grin is audible, a chuckle reverberating in his voice.

“I never agreed to playing your game.” Vavara says. “Besides, I owe you more than a drink if we all return safely.”

“Heh. Humorless. What with ye’ hangin with the Scions lately, thought you may’ve lightened up some. Guess even they can’t get ye’ out’a that shell.” His voice is no less mirthful, seemingly unfazed by her chilled tone.

“A’ight, come get yer food. Breakfast’s done.” He slaps the side of the kettle, ringing loud and full. Still groaning and clutching a bloodied face, Hilda drops into a cross-legged sit besides Rostnthal.

They goad and poke at one another, the words fading into white noise as Vara sits atop the cart.Her eyes’ light dims, old, ash-soaked memories rising from the shadows of memory. A wave of nauseating nostalgia hits her in the gut.

“You not eating?” Hilda prods Vara with an empty bowl. The old, smoke-scented memories submerge into the dark again.

“Not right now. I had hardtack before you two were up.” She pushes herself up to her feet, her arm stretching, slight shoulders squaring for a moment under the winter overcoat.

“I’ll get the birds ready while you two eat. We need to move soon.” Her footsteps crunch in the snow as she walks away. A hanging tension in the air slowly seeps into the air as she walks away.

“Y’know,” Rostnthal calls out, voice low and rumbling. “Ye’ still haven’t told us where we’re goin’. Or anything else of substance, really.”

“Yes,” She says as she hoists the barding onto one of the birds. She glances over her shoulder, eyes dimly glowing with an unnatural, cold light in the shadow of the brim of her cap. “I am aware.” The words are biting, dismissive.

“D’ye intend for us to go into whatever trouble is brewing blind?” His tone is calm and grim, his one, good eye locked on hers.

“I do.” She returns his gaze, ironclad.

“An’ if that means things get bloodier than they ‘ad to?”

“It won’t. I can’t protect you on the battlefield. Not in my condition.” She turns away, leading the chocobos to the cart’s front. She clips their barding in, the ‘coos’ and ‘kwehs’ of the birds giving her occasional pause to double check her work.

“So you won’t be there.” She says without turning. “I’ll be leaving you and the birds out of danger. When my student finds you, you’ll take him to Dragonhead.”

“Wait, what?” Hilda pauses halfway between bites, eyes narrowing. “I came out here to help, not to be a damned taxi. You’re not traipsing off on your own, ‘specially not after all your talk about this fucker who’s hunting you.”

“You want to help?” Vara’s grip on the wood tightens, words turning venomous. “Then I’ve told you how. You want to die? Then go on, follow me after we part ways.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Hilda’s tone sours, “What’s your deal? We went over this on our first day out, and now half a week in you’re changing your tune? We know it’s dangerous, we get it.”

She sets her half-finished meal aside, standing up. Her hands come to rest on her hips, Rostnthal’s eye moving to rest on her.

“We signed on for this. We knew it’d get bloody, we knew it’d be a close thing. Y’think we’ve not learned to read you? That we were blind to what we were getting into?” She says, defiantly staring down at Vavara.

“So you’re going to ride in and save the day? Vanquish the bad man with your shiny gun and sporty marksmanship? You think you have what it takes to stand against a man who’s decided he’d rather be a demon?” Vavara takes a deep, steadying breath. There’s something about the question which makes Rostnthal’s hairs stiffen. The skin on the back of his arms and back prickles. He’s still watching Hilda, a blooming anxiousness slowly taking up more space in his chest. He pushes the feeling down.

“Wouldn’t have stepped up if I didn’t think I could help” Hilda says, “An’ I may not be some vaunted champion of the realm like those you’ve been keepin’ the company of, but I-”

“You sound like a child. Too busy playing hero to see the danger you’re in.” Vavara’s chiding words cut through her momentum.

“What do you believe you are wagering? Your life? That in failure, you would die?” Her laugh is a single, wrenching cough. “This isn’t a battle of life and death. I’d sooner shoot myself in the head than allow any of those ‘vaunted champions’ to face him. Even the Warrior of Light, no especially the Warrior of Light.

“He does not kill. He captures. And those he captures become another one of the Empire’s experimental weapons. You would not die, you would become a monster to be sicked on your allies, your friends, and your loved ones.

“So I will face him alone. And you two will ensure an innocent boy does not become a monster because my past came to call. And if after hearing that, you still want to be the hero? Fine. You can be like all the others before you and die like one, too.” Her voice nearly chokes at the end. Shoulders tense, she pushes out a hoarse, whistling breath.

“I’ll do what I do best. Survive. And whatever I have to do to make sure he gets through this too? I’ll pay that price. Worry about yourself.”

“Vavara.” Rostnthal says, leaning in. “What’s so important about this kid that yer so concerned about ‘im getting captured.”

“Nothing. He’s just-” She begins, only for him to hold up one hand to silence her.

“Ye’ never go this far ‘just because’. I’ve seen ye’ in the ‘eat of battle. Cuttin losses ‘as never been somethin’ yer averse to. Even with lives. So if this kid is a hazard to himself more than anyone else, I reckon ye’d try and save him, sure. But to be willin’ to train and tutor a complete greenhorn, let alone throw yerself into the fire for ‘im?? Doesn’t add up.”

He waits. His eye locked on her back, her greying, braided hair shifting with a breeze. Hilda glances between the two, silence bubbling and steaming with tension.

“He is Blessed.” She speaks with a hushed admission, her voice accompanied by an undercurrent of choked, hissing metal.

“And from my observations, he has an aptitude for its power rarely seen. But he is young, foolhardy. I took him in because he otherwise would have found the Scions. And I refuse to see them make another martyr.” She glances back to the other two, over her good shoulder.

“His power will invite controversy and challenge, especially if he cannot wield it. And should Llain capture him, the prospect of an anti-eikon weapon imbued with the power of the Echo is a looming threat I cannot risk. If he can wield the Echo, if he learns how to use it to reinforce his sense of self and being, then he would retain his sanity through any kind of augmentation. Any kind of torment.” Her hand reaches up and rests flat against her chest, claw-tipped fingers scraping against the cloth and leather of her coat.

“His soul could reside in even steel and crystal, and be unharmed by the process. But if he is captured before he learns to understand and wield the Echo, he could well become a weapon of terrifying power. An incarnation of death made manifest in steel and ceruleum.”

“I refuse to be the mother of death.” She says, softly, almost-inaudibly.

Rostnthal opens his mouth to speak, but the glare he receives from her in return stifles him for a moment.

“None of that changes what you must do. I trust you enough to determine your own path, if you will not heed my warnings. I will tell you what you need to know, even if it is not all you want to know.”

“No, it does change what we need to do. Whether you think so or not.” Hilda says, her confidence returning.

“That kid. What’s his name?” She asks, eyes fixed on Vavara’s.

“Tahve’ir.”

“Well, he’s going to need a teacher still, by your tone. So getting him out isn’t enough. I’ve got to make sure you both get out.”

“And if you can’t?” Vavara says as the two share a long, grim stare.

“Then I get him out, and come back for you. You said he doesn’t kill, and I doubt he can make it back to Garlemald in a single night. So, we get Tahve’ir out, and if you get caught in the meantime, I’ll run back and get you out in the night.”

“Nah.” Rostnthal’s voice rumbles softly, quietly. “Ye’ ain’t got experience with that kinda work. I’ve ran with the yellow jackets and the like, bustin’ slave rings and smashin’ smugglin’ ops. If she gets caught and we have to pull out, I’ll go. An’ you’ll take the kid.” He looks towards Hilda, a confident spark in his eye.

“Alright. Best not mess it up, y’old drunkard.” Hilda says, she cocks a nervous grin and playfully jabs his arm. He just chuckles grimly.

“So you won’t heed my warnings.” Vavara’s voice is distant, a kind of shrill, haunting whistle riding under the injured voice. “It always happens like this.”

“Chin up.” He says, crossing the distance between himself and her in a few steps. He drops to one knee, and rests one hand on her shoulder. He grips her softly, confidently.

“I’m not ignorin’ what ye’ said. We can’t win in a direct fight? Then we’ll just have to run ‘im ‘round the bush. Keep ‘im guessin’. Keep ‘im dazed. We’ll work on strategies on the way there.” He takes a deep breath, and then stands. He climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Have faith.” He says, patting the birds with a solid, steady palm. “‘Ave faith, an’ all will be well. Besides. Yer not meant t’look so glum. Doesn’t suit yer’ image. Times like these, a snarl’s better.”

She just takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and nods.

She jumps up into the back of the cart as Hilda finishes dumping the last bits of the kettle, and scooping her bowl back up into one hand. The dinnerware sack lands in the back with a cataclysmic, chaotic crash.

As soon as her boots are fixed upon the wood, Rostnthal whips the reins and the birds kick up dust as they run.

The sun sinks back low in the sky again. Pale-red light streaks across the untamed mountains between Ishgard and Ala Mhigo.

A small shack with a sprawling, chaotic garden sits on a low, narrow plateau. Heavy, metal boots scratch into the wet, snow-melt fed earth. A man with sandy skin, a straight back and strong shoulders stands at the edge of the homestead. His hair is neatly, painstakingly pulled into a long, salt and pepper braid. It rests on his armored pauldrons, and hangs down to his waist. His eyes, a gilded, ember orange, take in the small, humble abode.

In one hand, he holds a thick, angular blade. It’s gunmetal edge reflects no light, despite the bright morning. Coarse and rough, like a painted, sharp thorn of ink clutched tight.

In the other, he holds a stark, shining revolver. It’s pearly white metal casts myriad colors onto the ground around him, and up onto his own blackened platemail.

In the light of dusk, his aura shines bright and ethereal around him. Dancing, half-there reflections in intangible glass.

He takes a deep breath, and cracks a cheery grin His shadow stretches over the gardens in the evening light. He can smell the faintest hint of ceruleum in the air.

“Finally. Progress.” His smile is all teeth and ambition.

#ffxiv #ffxiv creative writing #aegis' writing archive #hilda the mongrel #rostnthal the reborn #Vavara Ashenheart #vavara kir vara #llain rem corvis #ok so i was Not Expecting the last part to get seen at all and then uh #then it got seen by someone who i respect and all of a sudden it got a small handful of notes and reads #gave me the motivation i needed to get this to a point where i'm comfortable enough to post it #i'm also genuinely a little more confident in this portion of the exercise #not because i think it's any better?#cuz honestly not a lot happens #it's just setting up the big climax as best as i can so that it has some weight.#but when i read through aloud and silently during editing it all flowed much better #and that was my biggest self critique of the last part was that certain parts just would not flow at ALL #i also feel i captured Vara's cold dismissive tone better here #she's not a necessarily bad person but she's definitely Not Nice #also just for mobile formatting using the double dashes to try and signal line breaks will hopefully help make it more legible in general #insert boilerplate 'i hate this formatting on this site' here #anyways thanks for hearing me rant and for supposedly reading #means a lot to me #have a lovely day fuckers

2 notes · View notes