#if i removed the silly glasses they would be too powerful
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╰─▸ ❝ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄! ❞ ──── 𝐟𝐭. 𝐋. 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him with a raised eyebrow while your lips quirk up into a smile.
𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: hazbin hotel | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: lucifer morningstar/f!reader | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 2.57k.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fem reader, dom reader, dom fem reader, sub lucifer, bottom lucifer, manipulative reader ( i have awoken an obsession in writing them i’m afraid ), reader is longtime friends with alastor, mentions of alastor, reader is ‘the seamstress’ overlord, lucifer crawls across the floor like once? maybe twice, oral ( fem receiving ), begging, brief master kink, whining, some degradation, praise kink, lucifer is 100% being a Good Boy, leg humping, self-inflicted overstimulation, and he WHIMPERS, crying, lucifer’s just a needy lil guy tbh.
𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐬: i have fallen into a rabbit hole </3 | 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃!— @mrskreideprinz. @p-ersus. @herohibiscus. @vampcubus.
— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!
Breathy whines and whimpers echo through the dimly lit room, the flickering flame of candles catching on the deep red wine in the glass you’re holding with your non-dominant hand. The other is currently being lavished with needy, borderline worshipful kisses, your wrist tightly gripped by the man you’d had wrapped around your pinkie finger for the last five or so years. After being abandoned by his beloved wife and his sweet little daughter, he had been a mess — a mess a long-standing overlord like yourself had been quick to clean up and turn into something else, something more. Playing the concerned friend with ‘hidden feelings’ had been more than easy ( whether or not those falsified feelings had festered into something real was for you to know, and for you to know only ), and you’d had him eating out of your hand faster than even you had expected. After only two years he’d removed Lilith’s ring, and a month after that he’d begged for yours, which of course you’d accepted. You’d helped run the kingdom in his name ever since while he lavished you with attention and tended to his silly little hobbies. Your empire had expanded from a simple series of shops in every Ring that clothed the upper class to a behind-the-scenes Queen of the nation; typically you’d have celebrated with your oldest friend, but he’d disappeared after a tie-up with the Media Demon, and you’d not heard from or of him since. Briefly you’d worried he’d succumbed to his injuries, but then waved them away; little could injure Alastor, and no mobilized television screen would be able to kill him. Once he needed your services as his only tailor again he’d return, and you could demand and receive answers from him then. Until that time, your time was split between all of Hell, the whims of Rosie, and of course the dim-witted desperate King you called your own.
Alastor would be proud, if not envious, of the web you’d weaved across Pride, if you did say so yourself.
With one leg you push Lucifer away, planting the ball of one of your feet against his bare chest and making him fall back onto his calves, kneeling before you just as he belonged. He whines at the loss of skin contact when you withdraw your foot, but you ignore him, pondering; honestly he’d been far too easy to shape, so much so that it was almost disappointing at first, but his resolve and desperation to please had been more than entertaining. Every moment he kept by your side made your power grow, and considering the abandonment issues that ran rampant like poison beneath his skin, eating away at his brain and filling him with anxiety, that meant you were never alone for more than a few hours. If you weren’t steadily growing stronger, you’d have questioned if the clinginess were at all worth it.
“Please — Please, let me… Please…” The soft whimpers from the floor in front of you catch your attention instantly, and you gaze down at the mess of a man before you. His hair — typically so well-managed — hangs messily over his eyes, and his wings flare out behind him, the massive feathered limbs twitching every now and then as he holds himself back from touching you without permission; the kissing had been reward enough for the necklace he’d surprised you with at breakfast, even if he wanted more. To get more, he had to earn it.
“Do you know any words other than ‘please’?” you ask, amused by the sight of the puddle of an angel before you as well as his vastly shrunken vocabulary. He’s on his knees before you, eyes wanting and voice thick as he begs, and it does nothing but feed the raging warmth in your lower abdomen. In control though you may be, the King of Hell would get what he wanted before the night was through; after all, how could you deny someone who was being such a good boy?
“I know whatever words you want me to say,” he promises in a whine, “What do you want me to say? To ask? I’ll do it, I promise.” You know he will; when has he ever not done what you ask? Never.
“You’ll be good?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you sip your wine, and he whimpers and nods, hands fisting and unfisting around nothing as he continues fighting the urges to grip at you like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. You fight off the urge to laugh; he was just so pathetic, you couldn’t help but feel fond of him. There was just something about sorry men on their knees that did it for you every time, and the King of Hell was no exception.
“S-So good,” he moans shakily, his pupils dilating as you crook a finger in his direction as the smallest invitation. He crawls on all fours closer to you before leaning his head against the warm skin of the inside of your thigh, nuzzling against you before hiding his eyes against it. “I will, I — I…” Fuck, he couldn’t even think — exactly how you liked him. His breathing is picking up, getting heavier than before — he’s getting all worked up, and you haven’t even properly touched him yet.
You cross your legs tightly, displacing him, and a questioning noise falls from his lips. “Mmm… Ask me for permission,” you purr, and you watch his pupils slowly dilate and his eyes fill with a fresh surge of want.
“F-Fuck, okay — C-Can I? Please, can I?” he asks, a pleading tone in his voice that has you clenching around nothing.
“Can you what?” you ask, turning to study your fingernails lazily after taking your last drink of wine, putting the glass on the table next to where you were sitting. He lets out a noise of complaint, demanding your attention be put back on him, and you acquiesce easily; you could certainly give in to one or two of his requests, wordless or otherwise, considering he’d be begging to bury himself in your cunt before the night was out.
He trembles, barely holding himself back from descending upon you like a starved man would a meal. “Can I touch you? I want to taste you, wanna make you feel good, please—“
You narrow your eyes and fight off the smile making the corners of your lips twitch; you can’t smile yet, it would ruin all the fun. “Who are you asking, Lucifer?”
“Fuck. Fuck. Master, I’m-!” he whimpers, and you raise an eyebrow in silence, watching as he bites down hard on his bottom lip before asking, “Please, Master, can I lick your pussy?”
Your heartbeat quickens. “Hmmm…” you squint slowly at him, as if pondering the thought for the sole sake of teasing him, and he plants a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee before looking up at you, asking silently for the permission he felt he needed.
“Please?” he begs again, and you smile finally, watching the way his ruby eyes light up with barely-contained excitement.
“It’s alright with me,” you purr softly, uncrossing and spreading your legs for him. He lunges forward, curling his forearms under the backs of your thighs and burying his face in your cunt immediately. He’s sloppy as he eats you out, drooling from the taste and excitement, and you sigh happily as you relax into the couch cushions. The man was ever-so-talented with his tongue, you’d discovered years ago, and his favorite hobby was to lie between your legs as often and long as you would let him — and oh, would you let him. All he wanted to do was please you, to ensure your comfort and make sure you never wanted to leave him, and a while your pity for him turned into a soft fondness that urged you to acquiesce to some of his more romanticized fancies, which was why the two of you had had a lovely dinner tonight before you’d led him by his red tie to your shared bedroom.
“Fuck,” you groan, letting your head fall back at the same time as you close your eyes and bury your free hand in his feather-soft hair, drawing him deeper into your core and coaxing a moan from him at the sensation of his hair being pulled a little. “That’s it, sweet boy — more tongue, just a little more… What a good boy you are…”
Your hips roll up into his learned tongue at the same time that you catch your own bottom lip between your teeth and grab at one of your breasts lazily, kneading it in time with each swirl of his tongue against you. A shaky string of words into your cunt that you faintly recognize as whiny pleas for you to love him and stay with him forever only stimulate you more, the vibrations making your hips jump up. A small bump against your leg goes ignored the first time, as well as the second, but the third catches your attention and you open your eyes and look down to see him grinding against your leg like a dog. Bullying him crosses your mind, and you are nothing but a slave to your own whims in the bedroom, so you do.
“What a pathetic fucking man!” you laugh, startling him out of his focus on your cunt and cumming against your leg, and he blinks up at you with wide eyes. He never stops lapping at your cunt, and you scoff meanly. “Humping my leg like some mutt, how unfitting of a king. You’re so desperate to get off that you can’t even wait for the opportunity to use my cunt like a real man — but at least you’re good with your tongue, aren’t you?”
Lucifer whines out a moan into you as he nods an affirmative, and you laugh again, this time more breathily. “You like that, don’t you?” you ask mockingly, tugging at his messy hair just enough for it to sting a little. He whimpers into your core, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes. “The mockery, the harsh words, me being mean — and the praise. Can’t make up your mind on what you want more can you?” A shrill whine is your only response as he nips at your swollen clit, and your hips buck up into his face as you moan, “Mmm, you just want to get cunt-drunk, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh!” he agrees, thrusting hard against you and lapping up every drop of slick you had to offer him. He was talented when it came to slipping back and forth between focusing on smothering your clit with attention and dipping his tongue into your wanting hole, and it took all your inner strength not to lose face and wrap your thighs around his head.
“Please,” he says, voice slurred with desire, “Please, more — Love more, let me have more, I want more-!”
“More?” you ask mockingly, clenching around nothing as his long tongue circles your clit, and he moans into you desperately enough that the vibrations nearly force a whimper of your own from you lips. “G-Go ahead and ride my leg,” you say shakily, grinning down at him patronizingly as he immediately starts grinding down on you hard. “And cum whenever you want — after all, you’re just my dumb little pussy-whipped pretty boy~”
He lets out a shrill cry, thrusting against your leg hard as he bites and sucks at your cunt and cums all over your calf, moaning and crying with tears running down his face. Shrill cries fall from your lips as you stop bothering to hold them back; he was already getting sloppy in the ways you liked him best, him hearing you call out for him would only further your shared desire.
“What do we say?” you ask, keening as he sucks at you greedily, and he lets out a stilted cry of his own.
“Thank you!” he gasps, continuing to roll his cock against you and hiccuping through tears at the overstimulation he’s forcing upon himself as smaller spurts of cum rush from his cock and coat your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you..!”
“Good boy,” you murmur, moving your hand from his hair to gently caress his face, and he lets out a shaky sob as he nuzzles into your hand. You lay your head back, content to doze as he comes down from his own particular high while clinging to you.
“Love you,” he whispers quietly, and you hum softly back at him in response, wordlessly sharing the feeling. “So much. So, so much, more than anyone…” You let him babble mindlessly, knowing how fond he was of doing so, and listen in silence while watching him with a deep fondness sparkling in your eyes. After about a half hour or so he slows his chatter to a stop, beginning to play with your fingers and nibble at his lips, clearly wanting something.
“What is it, Lucifer?” you ask lazily, petting his head gently, and he lets out wordless whine that makes you raise an eyebrow. “Well?”
He’s quiet for a moment, for some reason unsure of himself, before he finally voices his desire. “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him smugly while your lips quirk up into a smile.
“More?” you ask mockingly, then scoff and cross your legs, cutting him off from what he desired most, a surprised unintentional chirp falling from his lips. “Mmm, I don’t know if you deserve it…” And so begin the waterworks.
Lucifer bursts into tears, overstimulated and wanting and needy, all while being denied of the only thing he wants. He was a man lost in a vast desert and you were the small spring he stumbled upon after days — after tasting you the first time all those years ago, once in a night was never enough. You’re just being mean to bully him like you always do now, and he knows it.
Your cum glistens on his lips and chin, and his tongue darts out to lick it up without thinking, sending a surge of heat rushing through your core. “But — But I was good!” he argues shakily through his tears, “Please, I just want — want to make you feel good, ‘nd I wanna feel good too…”
You gaze down at him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and biting down on it harshly to ground yourself; God, he’s fucking cute. So needy and desperate, his face coated in your cum…
You smile and spread your legs again, fighting off the urge to laugh at the way his feathers fluff up and he starts trembling in excitement. He’s always been an insatiable little thing, and you should have known better than to start to doze off after he’d achieved just his first orgasm — besides, you can handle him! This was your King after all, and you know him like you know your own mind. What’s a half dozen or more orgasms before the night is out? You could always sleep past noon if you really wanted, and it wasn’t as if he’d be leaving you anytime soon.
“Then go ahead, Your Majesty,” you purr softly, watching the way his pupils nearly swallow up his irises entirely at the rumble in your voice. “I’m all yours.”
𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.
#lucifer morningstar x reader#sub!lucifer morningstar x reader#sub lucifer morningstar x reader#lucifer magne x reader#sub!lucifer magne x reader#sub lucifer magne x reader#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin x reader#lucifer morningstar x you#sub!lucifer morningstar x you#sub lucifer morningstar x you#lucifer magne x you#sub!lucifer magne x you#sub lucifer magne x you#hazbin hotel x you#hazbin x you
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Lovesick Idiots
Soft!Gojo x Shy!GN Reader (Canonverse)
tags/warnings: 18+ blog, but this story’s pure fluff, gojo has the flu, you’re a secretary at jjk tech, you’re both crushing on each other, slight angst, kissin (ish), cuddling, lots of comfort and fluff<333333
summary: you take care of gojo when he’s sick and he can’t seem to hold back anymore
loosely based on one of my hc posts!
~4k
thanks for reading and enjoy <3
_________________
When Shoko tells you Gojo has been out with the flu, you almost don’t believe her.
“Are you serious? I just thought he was on a mission for the last few days!”
She sighs, swiveling her chair away from where you two are sharing an improvised lunch of leftover juice boxes from the cafeteria and a split open bag of chips on her desk. Sun rays catch between the tree branches outside of the window, and the dilapidating shadows dance over Shoko as she spins her chair back and forth between the glass panes and you.
“I’m literally- well, basically a doctor. I just dropped off meds for him the other day. Go check for yourself, I’m sure he’d love a visit from you too.” She suggests, giving you a sidelong glance as she takes a cigarette and her lighter out of her coat pocket.
“What do you mean by that?” You scowl at her, fully aware of her insinuation. You run the point of your shoe over the outlines of the floor tiles, willing the butterflies in your stomach to tame their excited flutters at Shoko’s claim.
Ever since you joined Jujutsu Tech as a secretary, it seemed as though Gojo thought of you as his personal assistant. Frankly, at first he annoyed the hell out of you, with his pompous attitude and copious amounts of paperwork for all of his missions. However, he would occasionally bring you a souvenir from his travels or leave a small snack on your desk as thanks, oftentimes a sticky note nabbed from your desk drawer with a silly drawing left on top. The kind gestures would chip away at your heart with every instance, and your tolerance for him eventually grew as well. He seemed to catch on to this, and he would often spend class breaks trying to get a smile out of you. He would claim he had never seen it despite making one appear on your face whenever you conversed, and you would always roll your eyes and tell him to get back to teaching. You had to admit you had developed a borderline pathetic crush on the white haired man, with his bright cerulean eyes and obvious charm. It was difficult to deny him when he leaned over your desk, asking about your day and coyly flirting with you to get a lollipop from the bowl you kept in your drawer for the students. Even with his blindfold or sunglasses on, you sometimes felt his gaze sweeping over your face for far too long. Although, it was probably just your imagination.
“You know what I mean.” Shoko coolly returns your stare as she slides the window open, “Everyone knows that idiot likes you, and that you like him. For some reason.”
Your cheeks immediately heat, “He doesn’t like me. And you have to admit he is kinder than he lets on, and very handsome.”
You sometimes saw him come in fresh from a mission, a bored and almost numb look on his face. Although he would treat you the same as usual, you could tell something was breaking beneath his constant displays of power and invincibility. You had called him out on it once, and to your surprise he had placed his hand on your head with a dreary fog in his eyes. The weight of it seemed greater than you had anticipated, as if every bone in his body was dense with a grief that threatened to seep out at any moment.
“Have you ever had a best friend?”
When you silently nodded, he had sighed and removed his hand from your head, resting his elbows along the edge of the table and looking at the ground. The dark fabric of his sorcerer’s uniform broke out in crisp folds where he bent his frame against the counter, and his voice was unusually small when he spoke.
“Me too, once.”
You had carefully patted the broad angle of his shoulder at the news, “I don’t know what happened to your friend, but you seem like the type to bottle things up, whether out of duty or the need to always put on a brave face. You’re only human though, so go easy on yourself.”
“I’m not a human, I’m a sorcerer. A weapon against curses. The strongest.” He had said, a bitter grimace spreading across his lips.
The uncharacteristic acidity in his words had you taken aback, but you kept your calm gaze on his jaded one.
“To me, you’re the strongest because you still have your humanity. A heart, and a good one at that. Being strong at all times is an impossibility, even with your gifts. Though I know you try to be anyway, despite acknowledging that fact.”
You paused for a moment, the air stilling between you both, “I don’t mean to offend you-”
“No, finish what you have to say. I’m listening.” Gojo shifted his posture, keenly tilting his head towards you.
His devoted attention and proximity, as slight as they were, ignited something in your chest.
You permitted yourself to continue speaking, carefully regarding the man before you, “What I mean to say is that your ability to be strong ultimately relies on the inevitability of your weakness. You’re a teacher for that reason, right? To help the students establish strength from their current weaknesses, and ultimately better the sorcerer world? Don’t neglect your humanity, Gojo, I think it really suits you.”
He didn’t say anything for a long stretch of time, squeezing a large hand around his cheeks and puckering his lips out in ponderance. Then, he had let out an entertained laugh.
“You’re so cute.” The tall man ruffled your hair, and you had watched in confusion as he walked away to meet with the elders. His conscience appeared to be lighter, and your eyes had worriedly trailed after him until he disappeared into the other room, hoping he could sense that you would send him any extra strength you possessed if he ever needed it.
After that, he always seemed to seek you out when he was in a similar state. Even when you weren’t having a great day either, you both managed to be smiling after talking to each other for a handful of moments.
Shoko scoffs, “I’ve known Satoru for years, he’s as unhinged as they come. I’m happy if you’re both happy though.”
“What is there to be happy about? Nothing’s going to happen.” You dismiss her words with a wave of your hand.
Sure you considered each other as friends now, but you always assumed he treated you the same as he would anyone else. Gojo was meant for greatness, for impacting the sorcerer world and its history, he couldn’t possibly place you in any sort of mutual importance. As much as you told yourself that, you couldn’t resist craving his presence and hoping against hope.
“Oh really? So you’re not going to his apartment after school lets out?” She quirks up a brow, blowing out a stream of gray smoke before pocketting her lighter.
You give her a scathing stare, popping a potato chip into your mouth and giving it a hard chew, “Absolutely not.”
_____________________
As soon as you park your car across from Gojo’s apartment, regret begins filling your stomach.
“I should really think things through before doing them.”
You barely finish the mournful thought when your phone rings, high pitched and incessant.
“Hello?” You don’t even look at the screen to check who it is, your gut twisting with recognition at the energy behind the static.
“Hey, did you come to visit me?” Gojo drawls on the other side of the line.
His voice instantly irritates you and makes your heartbeat fasten simultaneously. You can almost feel the bastard peering between his blinds at your rigid loitering on the curb. Damn him and his six eyes.
“Is that a problem?” You question, hoping he can sense your glare as you open the side door. It clicks open with ease, and you nearly misstep when Gojo heartily laughs.
“Not at all.” He coos, and you can practically hear the shiteating grin on his face.
“Good, I’m coming in.” You pick up a container of hot soup from where it was precariously riding in shotgun before shutting the door and making your way to the apartment entrance.
“The door’s already open.”
When you make it to the door, you see Gojo with his cellphone poised next to his ear and holding the door open for you. The sight of him in black sweatpants and a cream colored knit sweater shouldn’t make you flustered, but it does. The ends of his messy hair brush at the top of the doorframe, and even in his disheveled state he’s unnervingly attractive. His shoulder is leaned against the doorframe, his slender form emanating a confidence and power that you know he meticulously maintains in spite of his easy going demeanor. He has on his sunglasses too, though behind the tinted lenses you can still see the shimmering sparkle of his eyes and the long white eyelashes framing them as he scans your figure.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sick?” You arch a brow, deftly taking off your shoes as he runs a hand through his pale locks.
“Oh, yeah. That.” He blinks innocently, as if he actually forgot, “I am.”
“You’re hopeless.” You shake your head at his nonchalant demeanor.
A look far too smug for his circumstances curls across his defined features, “Good thing you’re here to take care of me.”
You send him a withering stare, and he raises his hands up in surrender.
“Really, I feel better with you here.” He claims, and your stomach does a flip at his flirtatiousness.
“Huh, guess I brought this soup for nothing.” You lift the container into his line of sight, and he immediately starts coughing.
“Actually, I’m very ill. You’re probably gonna have to feed me. Look.” He holds his large palms out with feigned shakiness as you straighten your shoes in the foyer, not believing him for a second.
“Come here.” You stand up and place a hand to his forehead, “Wait, you’re actually burning up. How long have you had a fever?”
He mimics you, placing his hand over your forehead, “Since I met you I think.”
You almost scold him, but then his glasses slide down his nosebridge and you notice the red tip of his nose and the bags under his eyes. Although his cheeks do seem a little more sunken in from being ill, the defined cut of his jaw and the pretty perch of his sharp nose over his dewy cupid’s bow is enough to create a deep sense of longing within you. You want to hold him, and some part of you instinctively realizes that he probably needs it more than you could ever truly know.
Gojo sniffles after a moment, and you drop your hand to pick his own off of your forehead, “Go to bed, now.”
“Aye, aye captain.” He salutes you before walking off, and you can’t help but softly chuckle at the sway of his tall figure as he stumbles into the hallway.
Padding into the kitchen, you begin searching for a bowl to reheat the soup in. You had been to his place a couple of times for get togethers with the rest of the Jujutsu Tech staff, but this was your first time visiting alone. He occasionally volunteered his place for such gatherings, and part of you wonders if it is because he was lonely after being raised surrounded by people and then ultimately becoming the last standing member of the Gojo clan. His apartment is quite large, and more of a penthouse than anything. The floor is all dark hardwood with tall ivory ceilings, and the windows are draped over with dark gray curtains. It’s clean, minimally yet tastefully decorated with luxurious furniture and amenities, and you expect nothing less from such an esteemed man like Gojo.
“Gotcha.” You grab a speckled ceramic bowl from the second cabinet you try, quickly dumping the soup in and microwaving it. Once you fish out a spoon from a drawer and equip yourself with napkins, you follow the direction Gojo went until you find yourself looking down at his prone form clutching a pillow to his chest in bed. There’s cooling cups of tea on his nightstand with the teabags murking up the bottoms, and the wastebasket that you guess normally goes by the desk next to his bedroom window has been pushed to the side of his bed. The plastic bag is stuffed with crumpled tissues and cough drop wrappers. The air is rather warm, with a humidifier sitting on his dresser drawers and blowing a river of steam directly at the bed.
“Gojo?” You grab his desk chair and slide it to the bedside, sitting and pressing your knees to the sheet lined edge of his mattress.
“Hm?” He flits his eyes up at hearing your voice, and then deliriously grins, “Oh good, you’re here.”
“You let me in.” You gently remind him, contemplating how he had managed to take care of himself in such a feverish state. Come to think of it, you hardly remember him telling you if he had anyone that looked out for him now that his family was gone.
“Oh, right.”
“Is it okay if you sit up for a bit? I brought soup, I think it’ll help.” You present the steaming broth to him again, and he languidly stretches before scooting up to rest his shoulder blades against his cushy pillows.
After he faithfully finishes the soup, you have him take another dose of the flu medication Shoko had told you she dropped off for him. Then, you take the remaining bowl and leftover tea cups to wash them. You even empty the trash, ensuring to wipe down any surface and washing your hands. Gojo watches you as he slumps in bed, eyes lazily following your movements as he lets out sporadic coughs or sniffles. Once you feel that his room has taken on an organized enough state for him to easily navigate as he regains his health, you sink back into your seat beside him.
“Alright, how are you feeling now?” You check his temperature again, and smile when his forehead is noticeably cooler.
“Great, thanks to you.” He crouches down to meet your eyes, the purr in his voice tickling your ears.
You flick his forehead, and he winces.
“You’re acting…different. Not that I mind, but are you sure you’re alright Gojo?”
“I always feel like this around you.”
“Like what? Sick?” The idea makes you scoff, since he was the one that made your gut wrench upon the mere sight of him.
“No, weak.” He answers absentmindedly, eyes falling to his palms, “But…I don’t mind it. It’s actually nice.”
The sentiment tugs your heart strings, but you try to think rationally. It was probably the medication, or the flu affecting his brain. You don’t want to make assumptions and entertaining any other idea would be unhealthy considering the way Gojo had eroded the wall around your heart months ago.
You mull over your words before mumbling, “I think you should go to bed Gojo.”
“I can’t, I’d rather talk to you. Frankly, I thought I was already dreaming.”
“Stop messing around, you need to rest.” You insist, frowning as you fold the blankets over his lap.
Gojo lightly shakes his head, his chest is rising and falling in rapid succession. You’re afraid he’ll agitate his flu with such sudden and uncalled for vigor. Even so, he presses his fists into his sides, a shallow scowl punctuating his mouth.
“It’s not a joke!”
Gojo’s protest astounds you, and then he says it again, more gently and as if in apology, “It’s not. I’m not joking.”
The resigned tone lurching along his throat forces your lips to part in surprise, and the entire room seems to hold its breath when he turns away from you. The lines of his back are tense, and you can see him struggling to breathe from the ragged movement of his shoulders. You had seen Gojo upset a handful of times, but never like this. Without thinking, you reach out a trembling hand, hoping he won’t break if you touch him with anything less than the utmost delicacy.
You momentarily forget that his shields may be up, and you only remember the possibility when the warmth of your hand somehow finds stable rest on the center of his back. It shocks you, and Gojo must feel your arm stiffen in epiphany when he turns, sliding your hand across his back and then catching it in his as he turns to give you a meaningful stare.
He rubs the pad of his thumb over your knuckles, briefly admiring the way your hands fit together before his eyes are drawn to yours again. Specks of periwinkle and the sky reflect in his irises, a glow so brittle and beautiful that it makes your heart ache.
“I’m in love with you, you know that?”
The honesty clutching his cadence stifles any speech you had left, and you can see the panic spike in the opalescent blue of Gojo’s eyes as more admissions hurriedly spill past his lips.
“I never really understood love at first sight or that supposed gut feeling one has where they feel that they’ll eventually fall for someone upon meeting them. At least, that was until I met you. I fall more in love with you every day. I can’t stop it. I tried.”
His last statement is agonized, like he betrayed himself and more importantly you, by not controlling his emotions.
“Talking to you is never boring, and I worry about you all the time when I’m away, even if I can still see you. Isn’t that pathetic?”
At his question, your words return to you and you pull his hand closer, adrenaline coursing through your body from being allowed to hold even just a part of the man you had never thought would spare you anything more than friendly conversations.
“I don’t think it is.” You encase his hand in both of yours, praying your genuity comes across and that he can feel the pulse in your palm quickening from every word he utters.
“That’s another thing. Like I said, with you…I don’t feel the need to be strong. I can be weak, and not feel bad about it. Hell, I can just be. I’m…really happy you came to visit me, I don’t permit very many people to see me like this. I can’t.”
“Gojo, you have the flu. It’s only natural.”
“I know, but I used to always hide when I was sick as a kid and the habit’s kind of stuck. I hated anyone knowing I was sick. Still do, if I’m being honest.”
“Well, you’re safe with me. You deserve protecting too.” You caress his cheek, and the skin there is so smooth. He silently absorbs the touch, eyes closed. Seeing his innate beauty up close is like staring into the light of the sun, and you lower your head in embarrassment, “That probably doesn’t mean much coming from someone like me, but-”
“No, it means a lot. And I believe you.” Tears brim at his eyes, and your heart breaks at the same time his voice does.
“Is that okay? Can I do that please?”
“Of course it’s okay.” Your hand cradles the back of his head, and he automatically brings his face to rest in the nape of your neck. His hand leaves the comforting envelope of your own, and you feel him settle his arms in the curves of your waist to bring you closer instead. It feels perfectly natural and right, like a star finding their place in the comforting darkness of the night sky. You know Gojo will have to continue shining, but now he can always find reprieve in your arms.
You rub soothing circles over his back, feeling him shudder at your attentive motions and embrace you more tightly. His fingertips dent the soft flesh beneath your clothes, and your heart puddles in the bottom of your chest at his unexpected clinginess.
“I’m here for you, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here.”
He draws back with his eyes squeezed shut, furrowing his brows until you start smoothing the skin between his eyebrows and across his cheeks. You keep one hand weaving through the hair on the back of his neck and hold his face in the other, easing Gojo so he can fully relax into your touch.
“Hey, hey.” You soften your voice, stroking his hair with featherlight touches to accommodate his increasing vulnerability, “It’s okay, Gojo.”
Slowly, he opens his eyes and turns to kiss the inside of your palm.
“Only because it’s you.”
Any semblance of hesitation you had around your heart completely crumbles.
“You know I’m in love with you too, right?” You finally confess, the simple affirmation leaving you sincerely.
The brightest and most genuine smile you’ve ever seen from the sorcerer lights up his face, and he wraps you in a hug so blissfully that you feel your cheeks warm as they squish against his broad chest.
“God, being sick is the worst. I’d do anything Heaven asks of me to kiss you right now.”
“Better not, I don’t want to miss work.” You peer up at him with a determined look, but you melt at the sight of a pout jutting from his lips, “We can cuddle though if you’d like.”
He nods with a sniffle and you laugh as he pulls you down into the bed with him. You spend a good portion of time holding him and massaging his head to soothe his congestion and overall grogginess, and he gratefully sinks into your caring administrations. When he’s not snuggled into the crook of your neck, he reels back every so often to trace over every facet of your features. You can feel his eyes skirting along the skin, especially the curve of your lips.
“Don’t even think about it.” You warn.
“I won’t, I promise. I just really want to...” He whines, and it’s so endearing that you accept that Gojo will be ruining so much of your future resolve with just one look or plead.
You sit up, covering his mouth with your hand and then planting a chaste kiss where you estimate his lips to be laying underneath your palm.
“There? Happy?” A pointed look leaves you, and you raise a brow in askance.
His eyes briefly remain widened in shock, and then they soften significantly. Moonlight rippling over an azure sea. To your satisfaction, he nods.
You give him a shy glance and move to lower your hand before yelping with surprise as Gojo grabs your waist and flips you onto your back. The lack of effort he expends to do so has you gasping, and you all but fall apart when you see how Gojo is staring down at you. His eyes are trained on your lips, and he has both hands pinned at the sides of your head. You’ve never seen him so focused, and you have to remind yourself not to give in nearly a thousand times before you see him dipping his head downwards.
He covers your lips, and then your forehead, each cheek, and your nose as he kisses the makeshift barrier of his fingers against your skin.
The brief yet longing pecks have you so stunned and breathless that you can hardly react outside of instinct, closing your eyes and shivering whenever he comes closer.
Then, he starts slowing down, and you feel blood rush up your body. His white lashes fan down as he repeatedly presses kiss after kiss onto his hand while your lips are mere centimeters below.
“We have to stop.” You catch his wrist in a trembling grip, though your protest is so unconvincingly soft it makes you embarrassed.
A gentle exhale parts his lips, and you can see his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat as his gaze remains transfixed on the enticing shape of your mouth.
“Okay, okay.” He quietly acquiesces, tucking his fingers up and behind your ear.
“Come here.” You laugh goodnaturedly at his eagerness and pat your chest, where he reluctantly settles on top of you again.
He lets out a defeated sigh, but obediently nuzzles into your warmth. After a moment, quiet fills the room, and you can feel yourself starting to drift off as you loosely scratch your hands across the muscular plane of Gojo's back.
Sleep tugs at the edges of your consciousness, and you guess that Gojo is also falling asleep when you vaguely hear the lightest whisper against your neck.
“I hope you let me love you forever.”
Before the world darkens completely, you manage to murmur a reply.
“As long as you let me love you back.”
_________________
The next morning, you blearily open your eyes and then jolt awake at not recognizing where you are.
“Morning!”
You whip your head around, and your visage falls upon Gojo beaming at you with a coffee in hand and his arm bracing him against the doorframe.
“Good morning.” You do your best to mirror his expression, but you must not have come close based on how Gojo wheezes at your attempt.
“Someone’s still a little sleepy.” He strides over to you, stroking a hand down your hair and then bending to kiss the top of your head.
“Hey! No kissing! You’re still sick.” You swat him away, and he happily chuckles.
“Actually, I’m all better.” He holds out his hands, and even strikes a pose before taking a sip of his precariously full coffee.
“What? How?” You rub your eyes and yawn.
“It usually doesn’t take me long to recover. Shoko’s medication helped too, and your nursing, of course.”
“Huh. Alright, great. We should probably get going to work-”
As soon as you try to finish your sentence, coughs erupt from your throat and you can hardly get a word out.
When the fit is over, you and Gojo simultaneously meet each other’s eyes with surprise.
The corners of his mouth lift into a smirk, and he places a hand on your forehead as he regards you with a smug hum.
“Looks like it’s your turn to be taken care of.”
_________________
End Notes:
just felt like writing something nice for Gojo :) <3
#myfics#gojo fic#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo x y/n#jjk gojo#gojo satoru#jjk x reader#jjk x you#gojo fluff#gojo oneshot#gojo sensei#jjk x y/n#jjk fic#jjk oneshot#jjk fluff#jjk imagines#gojo imagine#gojo fanfic
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Time Skip (Time Patroller!Vegeta/Reader)
AN: I hate this! Very much! It's not my best and I know it, but I reallly wanted to write this silly idea with Vegeta and tbh, I think I made it more complicated than it needed to be. I'm not sure how well I managed to get his personality down and make Reader interesting so please be nice to me-
Pairings: Vegeta/Reader, Goku/Reader and Trunks/Reader suggested
“Hm. And you’re sure of this?”
“Yep. Seems like Fu’s been really active lately.” You take a sip, exhaling warmth, “The later quadrant of the 3rd dynasty has been in a wreck. The Namekians tried their best to remove the problems caused by suddenly having to deal with a wartorn Saiyan instead of the usual overgrown frog monster.”
Vegeta hummed, eyes closed in thought. The cup in his hand steamed softly, light blue glass tapping under a finger. His eyes were closed in silent bliss as he brought the warm drink to his lips, “You’d think he’d get over this ridiculous stretch for power. Surely after all his stunts he’s regained enough of himself to be content after the mockery we made of him.”
You shrugged, “Well maybe he just wants to kick your asses sooner.” His bitter grunt went ignored, “Speaking of,” The red cup was set down onto its plate, “Is Goku going to come back anytime soon? I’ve been wondering about that for the past hour now.” He could feel the weight of those curious eyes falling upon him in a familiar leer. The urge to scoff was pushed down-did you think so low of the idiot already?
Vegeta sighed through his nose, “The idiot is out on another solo mission. Some bullshit involving Earth this time, Fu seems to have thoroughly pissed him off by removing some important events and resetting triggers again.” A light twitch to his brow belayed his suppressed irritation, but the glass in hand barely rippled. It would be unlike him to let a perfectly good drink go to waste.
The brow raise at his statement was palpable, “Really? What kind of events?” The table rocked just so when you stood. Clearly the buffoon screwed something up in the base again–probably from fucking you too hard on it, again. Which he would have to repair. Again.
He was quickly tiring of cleaning the moron's mess.
Instead, he focused on his drink, delightfully warm in his grasp. A special blend, made from a hybrid of earl grey and some similar variant from planet Vegeta he had swiped the seeds of during his last visit. Though unfortunately it was very bitter on it’s own, something even the prince admitted was not very pleasant. But adding a few of the more passive leaves from Earth seemed to be enough to drop the acidity, making a near spicy tingle to an otherwise placid delight.
“The one involving that woman he met as a cub.”
All movement paused on your end of the table, halfway between grabbing your dishes. His senses ticked on the curl to your energy that belated the little sneer you'd make whenever you heard something unsavory. The dishware clinked softly as he set the empty cup down, the little saucer being pushed aside.
“...Chi-Chi?” Your voice was soft, he noted. Quieter than your normal bite, “...What did he do to her?” Though you tried–for which he would commend–there was still a wavering note to your voice. A sign of what to come if he spoke the wrong words; sadly, it was all he had for tonight.
“..She was killed. Found dead by the boy version of himself before he could ever know her.” His arms, sleeveless in his blue one piece undersuit, crossed over his firm chest with a finger tapping at his bicep, “It appears he had found her too late and the reptoid chasing her caught up. No doubt because of that twisted imp Fu’s meddling.”
Finally he let his eyes open. A glance towards the woman worthy of being his mate told him all he needed to know.
You were not his former wife. His wife would have been calculating strategies the moment the words left his lips. Her blue eyes would shine with the deep intelligence he’d fallen for, the respect he bore proudly on his breast shining through his own as she dug deep into her mind at possible retribution for such actions and ways to rectify everything back to normal.
It was hours like these where he was consistently reminded of the differences. His old mate was fire incarnate, bursting into a roaring blaze at the sound of any insolence. She would immediately launch into tirades of the bastard’s tyranny and how she’d give him a piece of her mind-something that commonly led to more romps in the bedroom than he could count.
Yet, while you bore the same intense fire and will Bulma had, your reactions differed vastly.
Tonight you were silent. Your eyes, so unlike his old mate’s, stared at the cold stone with a hard glare as if you intended to break it. If given the power he wouldn't be surprised if you did. Though he could see through the farce you had laid--behind the presented anger on your face the vapidness he’d only seen on planets he conquered centuries ago stalwartly remained. A gaze warriors make when presented with an unwinnable scenario yet refusing to surrender.
He knew you wouldn't admit it, but you were about to cry. He commended you for trying but the salt twisting in your scent gave her away.
A brow of his own raised, “Woman-”
“It’s fine.” You cut him off, grabbing his cup and heading to the kitchen, “I know he gets emotional about it. I’ll keep some leftovers in the fridge for his stupid ass when he gets home.” The bite in your words was twice as venomous than a stake to the heart. Fury barely suppressed stoked the flames of your ki and he curled his lip at it stabbing into his own.
Of course you’d gone from upset to angry, like all the times before whenever one of them acted like an idiot. If you were a Saiyan he’d be more than aroused by your rage–and he had been many times–but the reason behind your ire was a bucket of ice water to any fire in his loins.
The topic of their former wives was delicate. You’d accepted it was their past, part of them to the core-it wasn’t like you were going to reject their offerings after all this time. But he knew the topic itself was still difficult to cover. You’d been told how long they’d been married and mated. The loss had been devastating- one of the many reasons you’d been their choice next was related to the intense pain both elder Saiyans had felt. To know that one of your mates was reliving the grief had to be an immense weight on your shoulders. Coupled with the insecurity you were undoubtedly revisiting, he knew you were in turmoil.
Though he could not help the twist in his gut at having to address the issue once more. A bitter coldness dripped into his ribs, the resentment palpable but contained. You were, at your own core, still human. The frailty you fought hard to hide would still find ways to break through regardless of the power shared between you and them. He turned the irritation inward at his own ridiculous response–he could not expect you to be as complacent as a normal Saiyan.
Though it didn't stop it from being annoying.
Silently he stood up. The chair was scooted back against the table, cup abandoned for now as he entered the kitchen, arms crossed firmly over his chest. Those angry eyes that could rake gooseflesh over his skin were focused intently on the dishes clattering within the sink. The rag squelched soapy suds across the glassware in your irate scrubbing, as if you could scratch out the feelings within. You were completely involved in the task, which left you wide open.
You yelped when your feet were swept out from beneath you, “Vegeta what-!?”
“Quiet, woman.” Firm, muscled arms braced underneath your back and knees as you were hoisted up against his broad chest. The awkward dangle of your long legs and shoulder nearly being shoved into his cheek went ignored as always as he turned away from the sink.
He could feel your confused glare burning into his cheek while he trudged out of the kitchen. Your legs dangled over his arm, back in an awkward angle from his hold. The bemusement seeping from your gaze raised his hackles when he had to scrunch your body together just to squeeze out of the doorframe in the dining room to the living room and it took tremendous effort not to glare in your direction. Instead he dropped onto the couch, cradling his mate in his lap.
Even at this angle you were still so much larger. An eyebrow twitched when his shoulder propped up your bicep, your knees squished up on the other side of his chest in a familiar crushed carry. And yet he could feel you were so very small right now as he held your in his grasp. He could hear how your heart thrummed like a bird in a cage, held back by the irritated glare you leveled at him
“Vegeta what are you doing.” It wasn’t a question. You stated what you wanted, a fact he found incredibly attractive even with your current state. He knew you were upset, both at his actions and the situation you’d found yourself in, but he;d be damned if he didn’t remedy the clear mistake in your logic.
"I know you're overthinking again." You fell silent, no doubt staring at him in mute shock, "You're second guessing Kakarot's bond to you. You're thinking about how he doesn't respond with the same anger whenever you are in danger, and maybe you've even got the insane idea that he would return to the woman of his past." A soft swallow bobbed in your throat. The sound drew him to glance at you, tracing the downward path of your soft skin from the corner of his eyes. Tense as a drum, a frustrated frown on your lips.
"Well I'm going to tell you to get over yourself. The fact you have such little faith in his bond to you is unacceptable, even if he is an idiot. He spent decades on his own grieving the loss of his first mate. It was damn near pathetic how inconsolable the bastard was, always lamenting what he lost and giving me a headache even when he understood I was going through the same." His eyes closed as he glanced away. Remembering the burning pain never ending in his ribs, the encroaching darkness that remained at the edge of his consciousness. It was maddening how close he'd come to reverting to his old ways just to bury his feelings deep until he was nothing but a ball of rage again.
Yet he held firm, glaring holes into the far wall, "And then he found you. And he refused to shut up about it. He prattled on about your face, your voice, not even your name was spared as he made a fool out of himself. He could barely focus during training and got plenty of what he deserved when he allowed his thoughts to drift to you." The prince scoffed, "Even Trunks could see the obsession festering in that idiot long before he could admit it to himself. It was as humiliating to watch as it was to hear."
Finally he set his narrowed gaze to yours, "If you honestly believe he would leave you to return to his old life, after all the blood and pain we've gone through to make you ours, then you're sorely mistaken. And I do not want my mate to be so weak as to have waning faith in her mates."
You were staring at him. The irritation was still present in your eyes but had lost much of it;s intensity. A cute flush began to decorate your cheeks, but it was ruined by the all too familiar struggle of you trying not to laugh. Indignant by your amusement he glared harder, to which you snorted outright.
"You're terrible at making people feel better, aren't you." Your snickering made him huff and look away annoyed, "Don’t be like that, it was cute.” A low growl, “Alright, handsome. You're very handsome when you try." His obstinance weakened when you drew him back with your fingertips on his jaw, kissing his cheek. Had he been a weaker man he would have blushed harder, "Although I didn’t expect you to defend Goku of all people. Are you starting to go soft on him now?"
A snort had him rolling his eyes, "Of course not. I don’t play favorites, especially with Kakarot. It’s just insulting that you think so little of his attachment to you as if he would return to his old life like a cowering dog. And I will not stand to have our Saiyan ways defiled by your ignorance." Now he was letting her go in favor of crossing his arms, refusing to look at her.
It was your turn to roll your eyes, "Fine, I'm sorry alright. You're right, I was overthinking." You waved at his glare while sliding off his lap to the cushion next to him. Your hands busied themselves by straightening the rolled up sleeves of your sweater back down over your wrists while he clicked his tongue at you.
"Don't apologize to me, apologize to him. It was his bond you insulted, not mine." With a nod to the closed door he settled into the couch more comfortably. You glanced at him when his arm found it;s way over your shoulders and hauled you into his side, "But I doubt he will be back anytime soon, so get comfortable."
You sighed, “Fine, I’ll just find something to do until then.” With a brief peck to his jaw you made to get up but instead, found you couldn't. A few tugs on his grip proved it sturdy and your wide eyes found his, "Wait, are you going to hold me until he gets back?" Another, harder pull did not change his hold, the beginnings of a smirk tugging the edge of his lips. You faced him with a glare, "Vegeta, I can’t sit here all night."
He raised an elegant brow, unphased, "And why is that? Tell me, is it because you neglected to finish the cleaning you set out to do this morning and have been reduced to doing it late at night." When you failed to answer, indignant rage immediate on your face, he smirked, "Of course you did, lazy woman. You just sat around like a princess waiting to be serviced didn't you? Expecting me or Kakarot to help you through them, I assume?"
Your pout was at full force, "Kind of, yeah. But let me guess, his royal shortness wasn't going to, was he."
His brow twitched but his smug grin remained, "Not even being my mate will spare you from your own incompetence." A devious chuckle answered your miserable groan.
"I know Goku will." The bite punctuated you turning away with your nose in the air. A desperate attempt to gain ground in the argument.
"You could ask Kakarot to rearrange the planets and he would do it for you." He dismissed the thought with a wave of his free hand, reclining back into the couch. Checkmate.
You leveled an unimpressed raise of your brow at him, "You say that like you wouldn't." Unexpected play, but he could retaliate still.
Just as uninterested his gaze lazily flowed towards your lips and back, "As an action to prove my loyalty to you, I would go to any limit. Even bringing the head of that Fu bastard to your feet if you desired." Ground reclaimed, checkmate.
You cringed, "Gross, no. That's Hell to get out of the carpet." Of course you weren;t the same level of tactician as he, but you were much wiser in knowing when to forfeit before the combat became too much.
He shared a soft chuckle with you in place of verbal sparring, exhilarating as it was. The tension had ebbed out of the air, a peaceful silence falling into the room. He could turn on the TV, since the remote was sitting on the coffee table mere feet away, but he was comfortable as he was. His mate was leaning into his side, pacified once more and his son and Kakarot were nowhere to be seen for the next few hours. He had you all to himself for the foreseeable future, but all he wanted was to remain as he was with you in his grasp.
A soft kiss to his cheek made him grunt, "Thank you, though. For trying to make me feel better." You grinned at him from above, your head nestled down into his shoulder.
He stubbornly ignored the warmth on his cheeks as he let the traces of a smile grace his face. Instead he pressed you even closer in an attempt to drown out the thundering beat of his heart in his ears.
#vegeta x reader#goku x reader#trunks x reader#the bite writes#dragon ball#this took me over a week to write the basics#then nearly a whole month to finish :)#I am in pain
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apple... do you think kylar would dislike the angel tf? i was thinking... maybe because of his hatred of the temple and all things holy, he'd defile a pc with the angel tf solely to rub it in that he's that powerful and to instill even more fear into jordan etc,etc.
i'm thinking that angel tf pc is a high-ranking official in the temple, below jordan, but above the masses, you know? normal people can't see your angel tf, but kylar can.
he first plans taking you as a jab against the temple—a showcase of his authority and power—he plans on ending your life, but... seeing you splayed out so prettily on the sacrificial altar... kylar thinks you have a far better purpose for the future!
i think before he subjects you to the marriage ritual, you'd be more of a pet than anything else. sitting at his feet, his fingertips sliding against the edge of your halo like he's running them around the rim of a glass. you'd be horrified—struck by a carnal fear that only runs deeper as time goes on—you don't dare run because you've seen what abilities he's unleashed on his own followers of all people... any misbehaviour is met with sweetly sang threats about him 'clipping your wings' (he'd rip them out...)
and it's not like he hates you! no! he's saving you! he's been far kinder and offered you a way out of your forced purity! but don't think that he'd let any other members of the temple live who try to 'rescue' you. his kindness only extends to you! speaking of... maybe you should worship him, now!
... you can imagine there's a whole lot more noncon in the marriage ritual and a lot of tears on your end. i like the idea of a cute priestess/priest being defiled by and eldritch horror cult leader and taking them for himself :)
kylar's like: "nonono! don't be silly! your place is as my spouse! not as some temple member! and hey, if you're lucky, you can help me with some of my rituals!" (his rituals r just... sacrificing people... you don't want to help him)
now i'm thinking of the succubus tf with cl kylar... he's in heaven :)
(omg hello ????? your brain ???????? i was smiling so wide reading this like i have been blessed ??)
He doesn't even know your name at first when he takes you, this is only a show of power to him. Jordan is probably weeping right now, knowing they can never recover you. Good, it's what they deserve. Now, what to do with this pretty little songbird? Kylar deliberates over your fate for a few minutes, but finally decides to give you back to heaven. This is an act of mercy in itself, right? Really you should thank him for this. He arranges for your sacrifice to happen the next day and to have you locked away until then.
The night passes, and he decides to do you an honor and preside over your passing himself. He's giving orders to the executioner when they bring you out, in the covering robes. Kylar's very excited for this, they've never sacrificed an angel before, who knows what will happen ? He's taken precautions, just in case, but you were so easy to capture, you probably can't do much. He's practically squirming with glee while they strap you down to the altar. Until they remove the fabric. Suddenly, he's not smiling anymore.
You're prepared to face death, though not without tears running down your cheeks. You watch the deathsman prepare his axe and start to swing, and close your eyes, ready to meet your god in the afterlife. But it's not the pearly gates that greet you when you open your eyes, no, it's the cult leader's arm, raised over you, his face turned in a threatening scowl aimed at the poor deathsman, or at least what you think was the deathsman. It looks more like a pile of carpaccio, if you're being honest.
While you were pondering over the deathsman's fate, Kylar turned to you, eyes now truly taking in your sullied and tainted form. Your innocent eyes rimmed red with too many tears, your lovely body covered in grime, your luscious lips bitten raw... Your wings are missing chunks of feathers, your halo is stained red. What a picture of besmirched innocence you make. He can't afford to just let you go ! No no no, not when you could be so much more useful to him in... other ways.
#this was so much fun to write sorry ill try to elaborate i think but omg i loved your ask so muchhhh#apple's writing#apple answers#cult leader kylar
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may i request a freedom fries fic where solly giving spy random hug attacks and spy pretending to be annoyed by them but secretly loves them because he’s touched starved? ty in advance!
GOD YES
Warning: none!
Rating: General
“Commander Chomp, deploy yourself.” Soldier sets one of his raccoons onto the floor, and the snarling beast skitters away. He climbs up the furniture and leaps towards an unsuspecting Spy, who immediately screams.
The raccoon lands on her arm, crawling and climbing across his body as the man rises. Spy shakes and flails in an effort to toss the creature off of himself. He crawls down her back, over her head, and under his armpit with those devil claws.
With a powerful twist of the body, Chomp goes flying and lands on a bookshelf. He gives a disgruntled hiss before hurrying to a nearby nest. As she stares at the little monster, Soldier comes in from behind and hugs her. Bulky arms holding much too tight for comfort.
“MON D—Soldat, why was I viciously attacked by that thing?” He turns around, glaring at the American whose arms rest around her waist. Soldier simply looks up with his darling grin as if nothing was amiss. Even as the raccoon loudly hisses from the nest.
“A distraction so that I could ambush you with a hug! Oorah!” In his head, it was the perfect strategy. Send Commander Chomp in to get Spy’s attention then surprise her! What Soldier failed to realize was the fact that Spy would have to defend himself from a rabid animal. The foam dripping from the jaws enough to prove that she should absolutely not get bitten.
“Your little ambushes are obnoxious, juvenile, and utterly pointless in the grand scheme of simple PDA.” Soldier did not understand a single word that statement. He simply gives Spy another smile and kisses her lips.
“Hehehe. Silly Spy, PDA are the people who keep our great American food and drugs safe!” How desperately Spy wants to correct him for a number of reasons. Her balled fists still, and he simply huffs with disdain.
“Dearest, you know how much I hate surprise hugs.” And yet, Spy finds his hands cupping Soldier’s square jaw. His firm, all American features that make Spy fan herself most days. Still, she leans in for a kiss, arms embracing the man tenderly. Such a peculiar partner Spy has chosen for himself.
“And yet you are giving me a hug! The mission was a success! Medals for everyone!” Spy chuckles. Dear god, how could she have fallen for such a strange man? At least his hugs are warm, and his lips always in wait of a kiss.
“This is not a hug. It is a backstab.” Right as she aims the knife, Commander Chomp returns! He dives onto Spy, buried deep in her suit as she screams. The couple separate so that she can run frantically like an animal. Glasses and picture frames rattle as Spy slams his back against the wall.
Eventually, Spy removes her jacket and wraps it around Chomps. With the wriggling sack of raccoon in one hand, the other opens a window and tosses the animal outside. There, several of his companions sit in wait before returning to Soldier’s room through the vents.
“Soldier? My joyous light? I will kill you if one of your disgusting creatures touches me again.” Spy grimaces at her tattered jacket. She sighs, knowing how expensive it will be to replace. So much for seat warmers in his convertible. Maybe next year.
“You sound like you need a real, genuine American hug! Open your arms, maggot!” Arms outstretched, Soldier drags her in front of the fireplace. The two stand, Soldier happy to hug while Spy takes out a cigarette to smoke. What a strange man indeed. At least they missed the wine collection.
Gay people in my phone -H
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hi eliza! song for writing prompt: infrunami by steve lacy
Hi hi!!
Thanks so much for the ask, and the lovely song! I had to write this with Daimyo Boba because, well, the song simply demands it! I hope you enjoy!
Even from a distance, you looked like pure starlight.
The blinding heat of the desert had faded away - burning sands and bloodied suns replaced with softer hues of lilac and turquoise, painting the sky unlike any artist could ever hope to capture. Lively music from inside the palace floated in the cool breeze that played coyly with the edges of your dress. It curled against your calves and trailed behind you like wings.
To put it simply, it took Boba’s breath away. And for the fifth time in one evening alone, he mentally cursed his aloof ignorance.
“If you keep sulking in the shadows, boss,” Fennec slid beside him with a knowing grin, arms crossed, “I’ll make a move on her myself.”
Boba grunted, his narrowed eyes and near possessive expression hidden behind his helmet.
“Didn’t know that’s how she felt.” When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, even more gravelly than usual. “Wouldn’t have done. Kriff, wouldn’t have said…”
“Mistakes happen. In our profession, they’re usually lethal.” Fennec lifted an angled brow, gesturing at you with a jerk of her chin. “This won’t kill you.”
For once, Boba wondered if she was wrong.
“Take a chance.” She pushed herself off the wall and turned to go back inside. “If you want her, show her.”
Karking hell, he felt more comfortable with disintegrating people than talking to them, much less wooing one. And after the blunder he’d made…
He was moving forward before he could stop, much less control, the action. Damn, what had gotten into him? His heart was pounding like a drum, mirroring every footstep that drew him closer to you. He was on the balcony too quickly, his thoughts still a jumbled mess, even as you turned, the sharp downturn of your lip quirking further.
“I don’t want to talk right now.” You looked out to the dunes, frown settling like stone. He noticed your fingers grip the railing tighter, the twitch of your cheek. You weren’t afraid, you were hurt. “Please…leave me alone.”
Boba hated that everything in him instantly withered. The urge to slip away to the safety of Slave 1 was so tempting, but…
“If that’s what you wish,” he took a careful step backward, forcing a softness to his tone that he remembered his father using. “I…wanted to apologize.”
Your brow flew up at that. Clearly, it wasn’t something you’d expected.
“But...” Boba gave you a nod before turning to walk away. “Won’t trouble you any further.”
“Wait,” your voice was both harsh and soft, like shards of glass swaying in the ocean, ready to cut, or to wash away - all depending on what happened next. “I…should apologize too. I was…foolish. Foolish to think that you actually would…”
A forlorn shadow flitted in your gaze, swallowing the light in your eyes. It crushed Boba to see it, even more so knowing that he’d caused it.
“I shouldn’t have entertained the thought. So I’m sorry for getting upset over something stupid.” A stray tear slipped down your cheek, which you quickly brushed away with a casual swipe of your finger, but not before he noticed. “You’re our Daimyo. A powerful hunter. You could have anyone you want, it was silly of me to think that I stood a-“
“Mesh’la.” Boba took a tentative step forward, heart breaking a million times over when you looked up at him, those beautiful eyes glassy with tears. You tried so hard to be stoic, to be brave, even as he stopped before you. “Never should have said those things. It’s not your fault. I was afraid…”
“You, afraid?” You raised a brow, too curious now to back away. “Of letting me down? Of worrying I wouldn’t take it well?”
“No. Quite the opposite.” He sighed, lifting his hands to his helmet. The last thing he needed to be now was a coward, and he couldn’t keep hiding. Once it was removed, he met your probing gaze. “I do want you, little one. Was afraid you wouldn’t be interested. Figured I’d encourage you to pursue someone younger. But I didn’t know…”
He closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Stars, this wasn’t easy. He flinched when he felt a warm hand rest over his own. When he opened his eyes, you were beside him, watching him with something he swore could be interpreted as hope.
“Didn’t know what?” Your voice had taken a gentler tone, the fire dimming, replaced with a soft yearning.
“If you’d want me.” Boba watched you closely, waiting for you to pull away, but you didn’t. In fact, you leaned in closer. “Was afraid, princess. But everything I’ve ever wanted was right there, all along, and I’d been too blind to see.”
Silence fell, save for the wind that whipped through your hair and the music that gradually faded away. You watched him, the shadows fleeing, and your frown slowly, every so slowly, curved into a shy smile.
“You mean that?” Your voice was shaky, a blush flushing your cheeks when he brushed a thumb over your chin, lifting your face to meet his.
“I do.” He met your gaze with a smile of his own. “Could we…start over? Give this another shot?”
“I…” your gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Yes, Boba. I’d like that, so much…”
“Good,” he smiled fully this time, stepping beside you as you both shifted to face the dunes. “If you were wondering, mesh’la, of everyone in that palace, I only ever wanted you.”
#ask answered#ask and you shall receive#acatalystrising writes#boba fett#boba fett x reader#the book of boba fett#star wars#tbobf#book of boba fett#boba fett x f!reader#boba fett x fem!reader
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Hey babe, could I get a "You're cold. Come here" for foxxay, please?
And 100% you do the build up to the big moments better than anyone I know, bitch
I hope you're feeling better 💖
darling <3 i would move the moon for you were it in my power! i'm setting this vaguely within the Camomile and Chlorine AU setting simply because i can and i have missed it kind of dearly.
Dusk, and the air pools like tepid water in around Cordelia’s ankles.
“Pick a hand,” Misty tells her, and holds out two closed fists. “Any hand.”
They’re sitting at Myrtle’s wicker bench set, one on either side and facing each other. One of Misty’s legs swings back-and-forth beneath the table, occasionally bumping Cordelia’s shin – cool where she’s removed her shoes. Their empty dinner plates have been stacked to one side, a candle burns just off-centre, and the cicadas chirp their mellow music to herald in the night. Cordelia tucks a hand around her wine glass, the other just beneath her chin. She eyes Misty’s closed fists with a quiet kind of intrigue.
“What’s in them?”
“In this one,” Misty says, shaking her right fist, “are all your hopes and dreams.”
Laughter bubbles up from Cordelia’s belly before she can think to hold it back.
“And in the other,” Misty says, eyes narrowed, pointedly ignoring her, “is everything that you tell yourself is more important. Work. Job. Career.”
“They’re all the same thing—”
“Reputation,” Misty talks over her, prompting Cordelia to laugh again. While she makes a valiant attempt to hold back her own amusement, she's clearly straining to keep her expression neutral. “Money. You know what I mean. All that stuff society tells you is important. Shit, I don’t know… a fancy car.”
“Okay,” Cordelia agrees, tucking a smile into her glass.
“So,” Misty says, and nods expectantly.
“So?”
“Why, how much have you had to drink, darlin’? Pick one.”
The pet name rolls off her tongue like it’s nothing, meant to tease, to jab, a barb against Cordelia’s inability to keep up with the way that Misty’s thoughts spiral into one another, and yet— Cordelia prays the night is too deep, the light from their candle too weak, to show the true extent of her blush. She takes another sip of wine. She clears her throat, twice.
“Well,” finally, eyeing Misty’s hands and not the amusement that dances like a will-o-the-wisp inside her eyes, “that seems like a silly question.”
“It’s absolutely not,” Misty insists, “but tell me why.”
“The answer’s obvious, isn’t it? The second option makes the first option achievable.” When Misty’s expression cracks with a frown, Cordelia elaborates: “Money. A successful career. I’d be able to build my life exactly how I want it – my house, my lifestyle, my travel… my brand new fancy car. It seems like it’s a no-brainer.”
Misty nods, expression guarded.
“But,” Cordelia says, and lowers her glass to the table. “But the way you said it, the two options you gave me, you make it sound like that second option doesn’t already include all my hopes and dreams. You make it sound like they can’t be mutually exclusive.”
“Huh. I guess I did.”
If Cordelia didn’t know better – if Cordelia had, perhaps, not already finished that first glass of wine – she’d call Misty’s expression knowing.
“Which suggests,” Cordelia continues, “that there’s something else I want. Some other… hope or dream. Something I’d want more than financial security, or a nice house, or a successful career. Some other, secret wish I’ve been hiding, maybe.” A giddy pulse trembles through her veins, but where Cordelia had meant to tease, she only finds herself wondering – if, perhaps, she’s accidentally hit some kind of mark that she’d never even known to aim for. “Something… better.”
Across from her, limned in silver, Misty tilts her head ever so carefully to one side and catches starlight in her eyes.
For a heartbeat, Cordelia loses her breath and her train of thought.
“So,” Misty says again, and emphasises both fists still held aloft, waiting for Cordelia’s answer. “What’s the verdict?”
Cordelia holds her gaze for a spell longer, asking herself that same question.
And maybe she’s a little tipsy. Maybe it’s the night time air and the spell that it casts over her, sometimes, filling her lungs and her head with fancy. Maybe it’s just because it’s Misty asking, and if Cordelia can be her true self with anybody, if she can expose the bones and bricks of herself, the foundations, the roots so deep even she may be looking upon them for the first time, she knows she’s at least in safe company.
Maybe it’s just a game and it doesn’t have to be that deep.
But when she reaches out to pick a hand, there is no hesitation.
Her fingers settle over Misty’s right fist, a barely-there weight and yet heavy as an anchor. A declaration of intention. A promise. A secret.
“Jesus!” Misty hisses, and the moment bursts like the pressure equalising inside Cordelia’s ears.
She almost manages to draw her hand away before Misty is capturing it between both her own.
“You’re cold. Come here.”
Cordelia hesitates just long enough for Misty to tug on her hand, to threaten to pull her over the table herself, and then Cordelia is standing, losing Misty’s touch, making her way around the table. Misty shifts up the bench and does not hesitate to draw Cordelia into the warm spot she’s just vacated, to wrap her arms around her and rock the pair of them, laughing, from side to side.
Then their laughter calms, and the rocking stops, and they’re still sitting with their arms about each other, daring the chill air to part them.
Misty tucks her cheek against Cordelia’s shoulder and muffles her yawn.
“What is it, anyway?” she asks, blinking the moisture from her eyes. “This big, secret hope-and-or-dream you’re hiding from me?”
Cordelia’s smile is a private thing, hidden, at this angle, from Misty’s wondering gaze.
She feels very full of something. Something warm and bright and electric. Something that sparks inside her belly and makes her want to laugh, again, that she has to clamp her teeth around the soft inside of her cheek to keep it down. Repressing it makes her muscles shake, which Misty only mistakes as a shiver and holds her ever tighter.
“I don’t know… maybe I don’t have a name for it, yet.”
“Maybe you’ll tell me, when you do,” Misty whispers, and Cordelia relaxes in her arms.
Maybe I already have.
#butimnotasexyrussian#asks#prompts#fic#foxxay#goodeday#misty day#cordelia goode#cordelia fox#camomile and chlorine#bruh your ask fucking disappeared on me for like five minutes as soon as i came to find it again to post this#tumblr thinks it's sooooo funny#but thank you so much for this oh my gosh !!!! i'm doing it i'm writing
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My DNA
Jen pov
I sat at the table with my head down, I was so tired. I had started to have migraines, and we were in the desert. I whimpered and squeezed my eyes shut, "Make it stop." I whispered.
"How are you feeling?" "Agh!" I gripped my head and looked at Gwen. She looked concerned, Gwen pursed her lips and searched through one of the cabinets. I groaned and put my head down again, it hurt so much. "Here, this might help." I looked up at Gwen, she held out a glass of water and a white pill.
"Thanks, Gwen," I took the pill and downed the water in a heartbeat. I sighed and wiped my mouth, then I went to lie on my bed. I winced as the bed squeaked and knew what I needed. I brought up my screen and winced again, "Agh, switch to sunset pallet." I said and my screen changed color. It still hurt, but it was easier to look at. I materialized a pair of noise-canceling headphones and then wrapped my bandanna around my eyes.
I sighed in relief and laid down, I felt myself begin to doze off. I snuggled into the sheets, but then the throbbing in my head got worse. "Ugh!" I whined pulling the covers over my head and curling in on myself.
~~~~~~~~~
"Jen, it's time to wake up." I sat up and slowly lifted my bandana. Grandpa smiled at me and set my headphones on my bed, "How are you feeling?" he asked. I removed my bandana and sat up, "A lot better, I just gotta finish waking up." I mumbled and rubbed my eyes. Grandpa nodded, "Ok well once you do head inside." Grandpa said then left.
I yawn/sighed, "Hey Bleep, where are we." I asked and opened the window curtain. Bleep looked at me from his spot at the foot of my bed, "My exterior scan tells me we are at your aunt Vera's retirement complex." Bleep said and rolled into my lap. I smiled and hopped off my bed with Bleep in hand, "Ok, try not to talk too much, Aunt Vera doesn't know about my smarts and stuff." I said and put my bag over my shoulder.
"Understood." Bleep rolled down my arm and into my bag. I smiled at how silly he could be. I then grabbed my headphones and put them in my bag, I wanted to avoid using my powers as much as possible while visiting Aunt Vera. I grabbed my bandana and headed out of the RV and toward Aunt Vera's home.
As I walked I noticed her neighbor looking out his window. I smiled and waved but he glared at me, he hissed then closed the curtains. "Wow, they really make you feel welcome here," I said sarcastically and headed inside. "Jen! I was worried you wouldn't be joining us." Aunt Vera said smiling at me from her spot at the dining table.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," I said, I hugged Aunt Vera and took a seat next to Gwen. "Oh, I wasn't upset dear, just a little worried, Max told me about your migraines." Aunt Vera said and made me a plate of jello with chunks in it. I happily began to eat while making small talk.
"Vera, this is delicious, now what are these chunks?" Grandpa suddenly asked. Aunt Vera smiled "Pork chop, and the white ones are cauliflower." she said. I and Gwen shared a look, I simply shrugged and put the last bite in my mouth. "Oh hey, what is that?" Gwen rushed and left the table, I know what she was doing and it wasn't gonna work.
Aunt Vera smiled and approached the shelf that Gwen stood at. They began to talk and I smiled at them, I guess Aunt Vera had been getting lonely, it wasn't often anyone in the family stopped by.
"Jen, would you like some candy?" I turned and saw Aunt Vera approaching me with a big bowl. "Oh, Yes, please." I took a piece and popped it into my mouth. My taste buds were overrun with the taste of coffee, it was bitter but good. I was about to thank Aunt Vera, but my head began to throb. "O-Ouch," I put one of my hands on my head and squeezed my eyes shut. "Jen, are you having another migraine?" Grandpa asked, I nodded and gripped my head tighter.
"Oh dear, let's get you to bed." Aunt Vera said, and she helped me stand up. She grabbed my bag and led me to her bedroom. "This is the quietest room in the house." Aunt Vera said, I nodded and sat on the bed. Aunt Vera closed the curtains and then left, I sighed and put on my headphones. I quickly chewed and swallowed the candy then laid down to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~
Vera pov
I returned to Gwen and Max, they sat in the living room chatting about Jen. I put on a smile and sat across from them, "She's out like a light." I said. Max smiled, "Thanks Vera, I should take her to the doctor once we get to the next town." Max said.
I kept my smile and nodded, however, I secretly hoped he forgot. Now don't get me wrong I adore Jen, but medication will stop the effects of the candy. I can't have that, Jen needs to remember even if it's just a little.
"Well, I think I'll turn in for the night," I said and stood up. I smiled at Max and Gwen, "You two sleep well." I said then left for my room. Upon entering I saw Jen was still sound asleep, which made things very easy. I walked over to my dresser and reached my hand behind it, I pressed the button on the top left corner. The floor opened up and I descended beneath the house to a secret room.
Now, most people think I'm some old bitty, but that is far from being true, I'm a plumber. I entered the room, the walls were made of metal and the room was split down the middle. One-half of the room consisted of relics, ingredients, books, and other things. The other half was plumber equipment of every kind, I smirked and approached the big screen in the room. I examined it before nodding my head.
~~~~~~~~~
Jen pov
"Aunt Vera has a lot of prune juice," I said while looking in the fridge. I closed the fridge and turned to Gwen, "No offense to the old people, but why does it feel like they were always old?" I asked and pulled myself to sit on the counter. "I don't mind it," Gwen said getting a cup of water.
"Oh, morning Aunt Vera, I made you some coffee," Gwen said pouring a mug. Aunt Vera smiled "Thank you, Dear, how did you girls sleep?" she asked. "Oh I slept fine, your bed is really comfortable," I said with a smile, Aunt Vera smiled back and took a drink of her coffee. "Where is Max?" I looked around and realized Grandpa wasn't anywhere in sight. "He said he was gonna go on an early walk," Gwen said.
"Oh, that sounds like a good idea, who wants to tag along?" I shrugged and hopped off the counter. "I think I'll stay here, maybe find some breakfast," Gwen said. I and Aunt Vera nodded and then left, we walked down the sidewalk in silence.
As we walked I looked around, nobody was out, I know it was early but late enough for people to be up. This made me kinda uneasy and I moved a little closer to Aunt Vera. "What did you dream about?" "Huh?" I looked up at Aunt Vera not sure I heard her right. "What did you dream about last night Jen?" she repeated, "Oh, I can't really remember too much, but there were voices, broken glass, and...and some type of green ooze," I said trying my best to remember.
I closed my eyes, I really was trying, but I wasn't sure why. "Watch out!" I was quickly grabbed and Aunt Vera pulled me to her chest. I was shocked and heard hissing, it was from some old people. They had been playing a game of shuffleboard, but now they were shooting pucks at us. "Come on!" Aunt Vera grabbed my hand and we started running, but the old people were in pursuit. "Aunt Vera, what's going on?" I asked while dodging pucks. Aunt Vera pulled me out of sight and kept me close, "Things aren't what they seem Dear." she said.
"Jen, Vera, what's going on?" I turned and saw Grandpa. "Grandpa, the old people are some kind of alien." I said, "I know, come here, I'll keep you safe." Grandpa hissed and his arms stretched out toward me and Aunt Vera. "I don't think so!" Aunt Vera moved in front of me and high-kicked the alien's hands away. "This way!" we started running and Aunt Vera led me to a fenced area.
"Aunt Vera, we are gonna be cornered!" I cried, "Not while I'm here." Aunt Vera picked me up and flipped over the fence. We landed and Aunt Vera set me down, my eyes were wide. "Jen, move aside." Aunt Vera ordered and once I moved she pushed a dumpster against the gate of the fence."Quick, we need to open this door." I shook my shock away and saw there was a trap door. I heard hissing and knew what I needed to do.
Vera pov
"Aunt Vera move!" I turned and saw Jen had some type of gun. I moved and she shot the door, it melted into nothing and we jumped down the tunnel. We fell and I pulled Jen close and landed with her in my arms. I set Jen down and she looked shocked. I smiled "No time to explain Dear, we gotta save everyone. Now, what do you got in your arsenal to help with that?" I asked with my hands on my hips.
Jen skilled for a moment before gaining a wide smile. She pulled up an orange screen and clicked on a few things, then an advanced motorbike materialized right before my eyes. I smirked "Get on." Jen got behind me and I revved the engine covering the aliens in dust.
We then raced down the tunnel, luckily I knew where we were going. I looked back and saw we lost the aliens, but I didn't slow down. "Aunt Vera, I don't know what's going on, but you are awesome," Jen said and hugged me. "Aww, thank you, Jen, now hold tight." I recited an incantation and put a shield around us, then went full speed.
I crashed through the arcade the aliens put up and landed in an area full of pods. I turned the bike to its side just barely missing a pod with Max in it. "What happened to everyone?" I looked at Jen and frowned, "They're being prepared to be dinner." I said and headed straight for the ship. I opened it and saw pods already loaded, "Aunt Vera, we got company!" Jen called.
I rushed back out and saw the aliens approaching, "Oh no, they found the ship, we need to leave now!" one cried and attempted to grab a pod. "I don't think so!" I turned just in time to see Jen tap something on her screen and transform. Jen transformed into a Pyronite, but that wouldn't be much use. "No, Jen, they thrive on heat, you can't help as a Pyronite," I said and got ready to recite another incantation.
"Who said I was using my fire on them?" I looked back to Jen, she fired at the underground water line. It began to rain on us and the aliens melted leaving us standing alone. "Now to take care of the pods." "I can handle that one Dear," I closed my eyes and focused my energy. "Wow, they're glowing purple." I heard Jen say, I then recited an incantation and sent everyone back to their condo.
I opened my eyes and saw Jen beaming with joy and curiosity. I approached Jen and put an arm around her shoulder, "Ready for an explanation?" I asked and started walking. "Heck yes I am, I want all the tea don't spare a drop," Jen said and it made me laugh.
~~~~~~~~~
Jen pov
"Now don't be strangers." Aunt Vera said and hugged Grandpa. "We won't, bye Vera." he said and walked away, "Bye Aunt Vera, it was nice seeing you." Gwen said and hugged her, "Bye Gwen." Aunt Vera said.
Gwen walked away and I stepped up to Aunt Vera, "You especially don't be a stranger Jen," Aunt Vera said and I nodded. "I won't, and thanks Aunt Vera, for everything," I said hugging her right. Aunt Vera hugged back, "Your welcome, Dear," I pulled away and headed for the RV. "Oh yeah, Jen," I turned back to Aunt Vera. "Everything happens for a reason, and it can hurt." Aunt Vera said and I was a little confused.
I simply nodded and got on the RV, and went to the back. I climbed on my bed, "What do you think she meant by that Bleep?" I asked pulling up my screen to watch a movie. "I cannot be sure, but she left you these." Bleep rolled out of my bag with a bag of candies. There was a not attached and I grabbed it, "It you ever need to remember - Aunt Vera" I read and looked at the bag. I put my screen away, "No pain no gain." I said and are one of the candies.
#ben 10#gwen tennyson#kevin levin#max tennyson#Albedo#Azmuth#Genderbend#Jen 10#Gwevin#Alben#Ben x Albedo
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3. The Alice Scene (Tiff Goes To Youth Group)
This was a Sunday that I wanted to take it pretty easy during, so I wrote a scene from Beach Day that takes place during the Tiff Goes To Youth Group chapter... debacle.
Word Count: 935
She doesn't say anything until they're at the church's small kitchen area— stove, cabinets, minifridge, sink. It's a place Tiff knows well. It's another hiding spot from when she was younger and it was kind of funny to hide under the sink with the soap and Comet.
She turns on the sink, holds one of the four pitchers beneath it. (She doesn't know why they need four pitchers. It seems like overkill.) Hesitantly, but knowing she should, Tiff asks, "So... I think you have a question you want to ask me. Would you... like to?"
"Ask a question?" Alice's voice is suddenly timid, suddenly all too mouselike.
"Yeah. Go ahead. I'll answer anything. You want to know about geiger counters?"
"No." She considers it, accepts the pitcher when it's full, hands Tiff another.
Tiff considers the issue. it might be worth it to just prove it to her that she can be trusted. She's no Zacharias Cain; she won't use this against her in the name of repentance. It might be better to drop the facade for a moment— wash away the paint of piety, let the glow-in-the-dark of whatever the hell Tiff believes in bleed through, a moment of humanity between rounds of trying to be pristine and holy.
Trust, right? She can prove that she can be trusted by being the most normal she has ever been. Though the portrait of Christ watches from the wall and the church parking lot stands outside the frosted glass, she isn't beholden to either of them. All she's beholden to is the here and now, the infinite nature of trying to make someone comfortable enough to be comfortable with talking about what's on their mind. All she can do is make a Tiff move, right? Take a chance, roll with the punches, live to regret it later.
"It's all bullshit, you know." She turns off the water; she doesn't need to look at Alive to catch the look of pure scandal. She keeps going anyway. "Not faith. The power of believing in something is as real as gravity, whether it's God or a cause or just that you can do something. But all of this? These rules you have to follow or you're going to be stricken from the record and removed from the life you used to live? It's bullshit. I don't think it's easy to see without the benefit of an outside perspective. When you're not in Fort Reverence, though— I don't know. It's all so much lighter. Existing. Being. And it was never a sin to just be."
And she supposes that's the truth. Even with the weight of the world on her shoulders, living is so much easier. There's no infinite pall of fear for her immortal soul at the smallest slight.
"What is it really like out there?" Alice holds the overfull pitcher in unshaking hands, unsure in her poinsettia-patterned sweater. "Without the lying. And without the 'being afraid because your mom is here.'"
"I'm not afraid."
"You're afraid of her."
And you're afraid of telling the truth— for good reason. "There's a timeline where I came in here tonight and went full scorched-earth. This isn't that timeline. I want to preserve what I can. But— I wouldn't be lying if I said it wasn't better. Some things never change. Let me be an emotional downer for a moment— I didn't really have friends here. I think they can smell it on you, when you're different, even if you don't know it yet. But I've found I want nothing more than to just... keep living. I have things to lose now, if it doesn't go on. Sitting on the side of a hill in a sleepy mountain town." And here is where she lays the trap. "Silly things, like petty vandalism, or going out to weird punk and ska shows with my friends, or urging my friend to asking out the girl she's had a crush on for years when we all know she won't—"
"You can do that?"
"You can do anything." She pauses, adds. "I mean, I don't— I don't do relationships at all. I just don't feel that. Sometimes you need an outside perspective though, right?"
"Oh. Gosh." Alice sets the pitcher on the counter and checks the door. "It's— it's okay?"
"It's not a sin, Ally. God wouldn't have made us that way if it were." She pauses. "Us in the general. I guess the whole not-liking-guys thing is a sticking point for some people, though. Kind of lumps me in."
"And what if God didn't make me at all."
"Answer me this, Alice: do you believe in him?"
The hesitation breaks a moment later. "I don't know."
"How about for now?"
A small nod.
"Then I'll tell you what, it certainly wasn't the Devil."
She can't say that the Devil is real and did actually marry a girl in Georgia once. That would be insane and would ruin the mood. Another Tiff move must be made, then. "What's her name?"
"Penelope." Grin of relief on her face, she breathes in through snot. Alice wipes it against the back of her hand. "Penelope Waters. She's a Mormon."
"That's quite the combination." A beat. "Does she like you back, at least?"
A nod. Clearly better of the back of her hand as a handkerchief, she reaches for a paper towel from the roll on the counter.
"Then how could it be wrong? Right? There's no sin here." Tiff tilts her head from side to side and decides to continue speaking despite her better judgment. It’s nothing worth remembering.
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Divine (Gojo Satoru x Reader)
Fandom: jujutsu kaisen
Pairing: gojo satoru x gn reader
CW: angst, descriptions of sensory overload, reverse comfort for gojo, unedited
Notes: bruh idk where all this religious imagery came from don't ask me bc idk LMAO this is not The Gojo Fic™ but have some more crumbs bc i just got this idea :3 (also practiced writing in present tense in this one lol)
Gojo Satoru is otherworldly. Everything about him, from power to physical appearance, is near divine. Everything about him that made him Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer of his generation, set him asunder from everyone else, to the point of alienation. He's been so far removed from humanity ever since childhood, he almost forgets that blood runs through his veins and not Eden's rivers.
Almost.
It's at times like these that he remembers. He remembers that while he is a God, he is one made out of bone and flesh and a beating, human heart. And damn him if that's his only fault, damn him if he's not seraphic.
Being just below omnipotence is one hellish limbo. Satoru barely recalls the last time he's felt the need to sleep, and though he would be a fool to complain, sometimes he misses what it feels like to have his eyelids weighed down by exhaustion. Blessings and curses become one and the same when you're neither mortal nor immortal.
He doesn't quite understand what's going on. There's a strange pricking behind his eyes and his mind is everywhere and nowhere and in infinity all at once. There's too much going on, and he's processing too little. Why does it...
Why does it what? He sifts through the entirety of his vocabulary, looking for a specific, alien word. Ah, he found it.
Why does it hurt so much?
Now that he's finally formulated the question, the answer comes readily to him. The answer lies in the black out, round-rimmed glasses neatly folded on his dresser. He'd taken them off for too long, exposed his eyes to too much sunlight, too much color, too much everything. He really couldn't have helped it.
Because damn him and his stupidly human heart and the silly little pitter-pattering in his chest at the sight of his tiny Megumi who is no longer tiny. Damn him for wanting to remember this day in all its details, rather than the mess of visual and auditory stimulus it would have been with his shades on.
His breathing picks up, he squeezes his eyelids shut until he starts seeing shapes and hues. It's been a while since he's let himself go like this, no wonder pain was so foreign to him, no wonder it hurt so fucking much.
Satoru doesn't know how long he's been rocking on the couch, silently pleading all six of his eyes to stop fucking taking and taking and taking. His mind is begging for the information overload to stop, but the pinnacle of his power, his precious blues greedily take more and more anyway.
A disturbance in the network of cursed energy and stimulus and information that his eyes oversee at all times makes him halt. Six sapphires focus on you. You're gently approaching him, careful not to overwhelm him.
Your hands are delicate as they wipe away tears collecting on his eyelashes. Your lips are balm as they kiss each of his shut eyelids. He finds himself enraptured by you, and his six eyes seem to agree, pinning all attention to you; only looking at you and only processing you.
Satoru leans forward, basking in your tranquility. Had he been any less God-like, he would have been kneeling and kissing at your feet, singing your praises almost religiously. But he's nowhere near the grace of being just Adamic, so he'll settle for quietly trembling at your chest, hoping the few stray tears staining your skin articulate his gratitude better than his prideful mouth ever can.
You slip his blindfold on his forehead, softly tugging it over his eyes. You kiss his salty lips. You brush at his matted hair.
“Let's go back to sleep, Satoru.”
He thinks you're more angelic than he could ever be. He thinks he could survive the purgatory that is his life if you're there.
Jujutsu Kaisen taglist: @belsumu @g0joluvrrr @katsucookie @cinnamonnn-roll @quillvinrune @sugas-sweetheart @carmillous @risuguru | join my taglist here! <33
#gojo x y/n#gojo x you#gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojou x reader#satoru x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojou satoru x y/n#gojo satoru#gojou satoru#gojo#jjk gojo#gojo imagine#jjk#jjk x reader
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The World In My Hands
Characters: Albedo, Childe, Zhongli, gn!reader
Premise: In which the reader holds the world in their hands
Word Count: 1,487
Warnings: None
Author’s Note: Woops I forgot about Scaramouche. How could I forget my favorite like that?? I’m sorry, my mind has simply been overwhelmed by figure skating the past 24 hours, so I’m very tired and emotional haha.
Anyways this prompt was really fun! It was a nice chance to try and write shorter scenarios, and I hope that I did it well. I really really love this trope, it just makes my heart burst! So I hope you enjoy!
Albedo
Albedo leaned back on the couch, letting out a sigh of exasperation and disgust. It just wasn’t working today. The slime particles that he was trying to study were simply sliding here and there on the glass tray, refusing to reveal the secrets behind their elemental infusions. Though Albedo knew that research was rarely simply and nearly always required multiple efforts, he never did get the hang of letting go of the irritation.
“You okay love?”
Albedo turned his head to look up towards you as you swung your arms around the alchemist’s neck. Smiling softly he hummed in contentment as you leaned your head against his shoulder, hair tickling his neck slightly. Closing his eyes Albedo allowed himself to bask in the moment of calm, your presence never failing to calm him, to bring his world back on its original axis.
“What’s up?” You asked after a moment.
“My work.”
“Not going well?”
“No,” Albedo admitted. “It’s not surprising, one cannot expect to solve the problems of the world in a day, with one mere moment. However it can be somewhat disheartening at moments. The world is a puzzle, and it’s hard not to worry that I am simply not intelligent enough to finish it, though I may advance.”
Your head lifted up from his shoulder as you stared down at Albedo, who craned his neck slightly to look up at you. For a moment your eyes seemed to be turned inward, as if you were searching for something within you. Knowing it was probably some sort of answer Albedo waited to see what you might say. He always had all the time in the world to wait for you, since he knew that once you realized what you wished to do you would surely fulfill your goal.
“You don’t have to solve the world you know, some things just exist because they exist.”
“I know, I know that there are things that I may never realize the answer to. And yet, there is a part of me, a darker part, that wishes to simply hold the world in my hands, to look at it through a microscope and feel power over it. I believe it is a fault that Rhinedottir did not account for. Yet I cannot ignore it even though it may be a fault.”
“Oh Albedo,” you shook your head. “There is nothing faulty about you. Besides, you don’t need to hold the world in your hands. After all, I can already do that.”
“Oh really?” Albedo furrowed his brow, wondering what scheme you might have hit on now.
“Yes really. Want me to show you?”
Albedo couldn’t help but nod, watching as you lit up. Making your way from the back of the couch to sit across from him you took in a deep breath.
“Ready?” You asked.
“I am ready.”
“Okay then, here goes!”
There was a pause as Albedo waited for something to happen. Yet all you did was bring your hands to the sides of his face. Sensing his confusion you let out a slightly awkward giggle.
“What?”
“You. It’s you! You’re my world, so I’m holding the world in the palm of my hands!”
There was silence as Albedo’s eyes widened, a variety of emotions welling up inside of him. Oh you were too perfect, how could you be so utterly perfect? It was as if you had fried some circuit in his brain, and now he could do nothing but sit there, his face getting hotter and hotter.
“Ah! I’m sorry if that was silly!” You flushed, slowly beginning to detach your hands from your lovers cheeks. However before your fingers removed themselves from his face Albedo reached up, moving to press your hands once more against his cheeks.
“I, thank you.” He murmured, looking down slightly. “I, I think you’re my world too.”
Your face lit up with his words, in a way that made it impossible for Albedo to not leave down and give you a quick peck on the nose.
It wasn’t until a week later that he managed to screw up the courage to properly return the gesture.
Childe
He knew that his teasing riled you up, but Childe couldn’t help it. It was fun to see you turn red, stuttering out some half formed response before burying your head in Childe’s chest, or leaning it on the Harbinger’s shoulders. Often mumbles of “I hate you” or “that was so stupid” ensued, followed by half hearted protest as Childe peppered kisses across your blushing face. How was he supposed to resist something like that? Honestly, how could anyone?
He should have known that not even you were immune to the sweet whispers of teasing your loved one.
“Childe! Childe!”
“What is it sweetheart?” Childe asked, mood immediately soaring as he stepped out of the Northland Bank to you running up to him, eyes sparkling, mouth open in a brilliant smile.
“I… have… something to say.”
“What is it?” Childe asked, closing the distance between the two of you and ruffling your hair slightly.
“It’s something important,” you cautioned, taking deep breaths in to steady your breath even more.
“I’m all ears!” He replied, even as the gears in his head began to turn, automatically trying to figure out what you might have to say.
Without warning you leaned over to cup his face, staring so intently that Childe couldn’t help but feel a little flustered.
“What are you doing?” He asked, somewhat embarrassed by the twinge of surprise in his voice.
“I’m holding the world in my hands!” You declared, before whirling around and running back down the main street of Liyue.
For a moment Childe said nothing, nearly standing there, trying to process what had just happened. Your palms had been nice and cool against his cheeks, your gaze so intense he couldn’t help but feel as if his soul had been laid bare for you. What, what just happened?
Had he just been teased?
“Hey, wait!” Childe called out, his legs finally beginning to work again. “You come back here right now!”
Your laugh was music to his ears, even if the Harbinger was still trying to process that, though you were an endless source of entertainment, you gave as good as you got.
Zhongli
There were few moments that Zhongli would consider perfect. More often than not the ex-archon saw life not as particularly positive or negative, merely experiences that might be woven into the ever growing tapestry of his life.
Yet this was a moment that Zhongli was sure he would remember, for it was so peaceful and so filled with love that he felt to not remember it would be in some ways a crime. The air was slightly cool with the evening summer air, a soft breeze ruffling Zhongli’s hair, and yours. Glaze lilies were beginning to open up their petals, shyly pointing themselves towards the direction of the moon, that would soon rise up from the horizon to take its place in the sky. The grass rippled here and there, making soft patterns like waves in a vast ocean of green.
You were currently disrupting this ocean, twisting occasional blades as you sat underneath a tree, Zhongli’s head nestled firmly in your lap. You had been talking at the beginning of your outing, but now you were doing little, only humming a soft tune here and there as you continued to enjoy the evening air.
You were so beautiful, more than Zhongli could put into words. It wasn’t one thing, one aspect of your features, your voice, your words. It was your whole being, your existence that Zhongli could not help but be in awe of. He loved you so deeply, and yet he could not begin to put his love, his adoration into words. It would be frustrating, if he didn’t feel so at peace with the moment.
“Zhongli?”
“Yes?”
You smiled down at him, as you stopped poking at the grass. Laying your hands gently around his face, fingers tickling his jawline, you smiled so brilliantly Zhongli felt his breath stolen from his lungs.
“I’m holding my world in my hands,” you murmured.
Zhongli’s heart stuttered. The action was so simple, so mundane, yet it filled his heart to bursting. How you managed to contain so much in something so simple was beyond him.
Slowly he let his arms reach up, cupping your cheeks in a matter he could only hope was similar.
“I, am holding the whole world in my hands.” He replied, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. He hoped that it was half as effective as yours was.
Your eyes crinkled in happiness as you leaned down to press a kiss against your lover’s forehead. Zhongli hummed happily at the touch, the corners of his mouth turning up into a soft smile.
He really did love you beyond words.
#genshin impact#albedo#childe#zhongli#albedo x reader#childe x reader#zhongli x reader#genshin impact fanfiction#requested#scenarios#my writing#bern writes
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(Down and Up and Down and Up and Down)
Airport was such a strange word.
Ingo repeated it in his loud mind, enounciating the different components clearly.
Airport. Air port. Air, port. Air; port.
A port of air. A port for air. Instead of ships and boats, people docked air on it, docked winds and typhoons and blizzards. Unlike a regular port, an air port stayed inland, away from the sea - maybe to keep the air more in control, unbothered by marine breezes.
Of course those were silly ideas, and he did not say any of that nonsense while he remained in the stark white hospital for a day or so, to have himself checked before he could board the beast called an airplane. The stark white hospital made him think of the stark white hat and stark white coat of the man who smiled with his face, and in order not to think of that he pretended to sleep with his hat over his eyes.
The airport had a roof, unlike a regular port. It was iron and glass, more like a grand central station, but its spaces seemed bigger, airier. Perhaps because the airplanes occupied the sprawling cement field just outside the infinite windows instead of crawling inside.
Ingo stopped and stared at those enormous things rolling closer and further away, landing gracelessly and taking long running starts.
He pointed at them, careful not to smudge the window with his finger: “They fly?” he asked.
Cheren looked around for a second and hurried back at his side from the few meters he had continued marching through without noticing the other’s absence.
“Yep,” he nodded. His hand wrapped around the bony elbow and pulled gently.
The subway master did not budge: “With all that metal?” he argued.
“They have powerful engines,” the gym leader answered.
“They look too heavy to fly,” Ingo continued, very slowly giving in, eyes still fixed on the grotesque machines. “How can they stay in the air even for a few seconds without falling immediately?”
“They’re engineered for that,” Cheren explained quickly, dragging him a bit more harshly across the hall to get to the hangar. “Made specifically so that doesn’t happen - come on, we’re gonna be late - and there's heavier Pokémon that fly too anyways, no? Even Steel types.”
One thing was a Pokémon, another was a man made monstrosity.
Ingo stumbled along without ever removing his gaze from the enormous beasts. An irrational fear told him that if he allowed himself to get distracted all of them would have turned around and charged right at them, turning that careful iron and glass canopy into a burst of broken shards and bent wires.
He could see the resemblance of their silhouettes with those of certain Flying Pokémon, but they lacked completely their lightness.
And besides--
“How do those wings even flap?”
“Oh, uh, they. They don’t.” sliding his hand on an imaginary line in mid air, Cheren struggled to convey what he meant: “It’s really more of... Of a long assisted glide, than a proper flight, but that doesn’t really roll off the tongue that well, you know?”
A woman asked him something. The gym leader showed her a paper of sorts, answered her question and added something to it; she checked if everything was in the norm, reading carefully, and at last handed the sheet back and with an affirmative sentence, making a motion with her hand for the two to follow her. Now there was no more glass; just metal, opaque walls, long tubes that seemed to be of harsh fabrics which attached to the side of the iron monsters.
Ingo leaned a little closer to the young teacher: “And I must board one?”
“I’m afraid it’s the quickest way to Unova,” Cheren nodded.
He heard the man give something akin to a whine.
“Would it take much longer by sea?”
The young man tried dowing a couple figures in his head, fingers scratching the air as he tried to visualize the numbers: “A little less than two weeks, I think,” he finally replied. “And then some more days to get across the continent probably. So...”
Ingo had the same face he always wore, willingly or not, but there was suddenly such a wet and distraught quality to it, similar to the blown humid eyes and miserably drenched expression of a rescued feral Purrloin being very gently but forcibly bathed to get the years of grime off of its fur, that the young teacher found himself fighting a losing battle against the wobbly lopsided smile that wanted to politely giggle at the older man’s distress.
“It’ll be just a handful of hours,” he tried to reassure him.
The subway master ran the edges of his nails against the inside of his fingers and muttered, beyond ashamed: “I don’t trust these things at all.”
Cheren gave a sympathetic wheeze, patting his back as comfortingly as possible: “That’s a common feeling,” he chuckled, “But I promise you’ll be completely fine.”
Ingo certainly hoped so.
The snout of the beast appeared from behind a wall, a long low gurgling noise coming from it as it stood placid on its three pairs of wheels and slurped up something being served in a sort of large cilinder with a straw of some kind; it was smaller than the planes which paraded in front of the glass and steel terminals, with wings attached closer to the top of its head instead of at its middle and large windows across its body.
Somebody - a young woman? - awaited dutifully in a jumpsuit right next to the mechanical death trap. Her hair was auburnred, appearing particularly vibrant against the white and blue shell; she turned to the two men as they began to approach her and waved enthusiastically. Cheren waved back.
She seemed very excited when she ran up to meet them. Her dark blue eyes fixed on Ingo, and she had to hold herself back a moment before she accidentally squashed him in them, instead holding out her thickly gloved hand.
“I’m Skyla,” she smiled. She had a firm grip, tight and snug, and she seemed a little out of breath for some reason, inhaling through her mouth once or twice before she managed to continue with another shake: “It’s... So good to know you’re safe and sound. Honestly.”
Ingo did not say anything for a moment.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” tumbled out of his mouth automatically.
She had a second of stalling before shrugging in what seemed like discomfort, again struggling a little to find the correct words before she could reply: “You have - you kinda already, uh, I’m...” and she a gave a single breathy laugh, more than a little nervous: “Sorry, hold on, I uh... Nevermind that, it’s good to - pleasure’s all mine.”
She was... Weird.
Not in a derogatory manner. It was only the way she stumbled as she tried to work around his amnesia (something she was clearly knowledgeable of) that made the conversation struggle to continue.
“I take it we know each other?” he tried, politely.
“Oh, well, yes, but it’s fine! It’s - this is probably worse for you,” Skyla let go of his hand. She seemed terribly embarassed at her uncertainty. “So I, I’m sorry if I... If I ramble and say stupid stuff. You can stop me if I get off track, ok? No problem. Seriously.”
“It’s quite fine,” he assured her. He looked beyond her, to the airplane - her gaze following his soon after: “And that is yours?...”
The pilot’s face lit up immediately: “Yes! Yes, that’s -- it’s mine, hm-hm,” she nodded a couple times, hands on her hips as she gave her beautiful little unnatural manufactured bastard creature a look of pure pride and affection, “It’s your ticket home! And we should go... Probably really soon if we don’t want to get there at midnight.”
Seemed fair. The subway master did not oppose her hand as it gently pushed him towards the door on the fuselage.
Skyla turned as he was slowly crawling his way into the empty belly of the beast, directing her attention to her fellow gym leader: “Cheren you wanna come with, or was it next week that you...?”
“Next week,” the young man confirmed, “I’ve still got some stuff to do at Snowpoint and then down at Oreburgh - and I have my flight booked already.”
He what.
If the terror in Ingo’s eyes had been vocalized it would have probably sounded much like a deafening shriek that would have put the most haunting horror movie soundtrack to shame.
So he was going to board that airborne death trap alone? He was going to be hundreds of feet in the middle of nothing, sustained by little more than wind currents, completely at the mercy of the uncaring Fates, inside of what was basically a toy abandoned in the hands of the even crueler and arguably infinitely more volatile whims of the easily angered Tornadus and Thundorus?
Both gym leaders replied to the piercing stare that came from over his shoulder with a very frightened silence.
Skyla was very lucky his nails were so lined, or she would have had to fly the whole way through with four long scratches sunk deep on the side of her cockpit.
"... Is something wrong?" Cheren finally asked.
The booming voice spoke in a whisper, which by normal standards sounded more like a reasonable volume: “You will not accompany me?”
The teacher shook his head, honestly mortified: “I... I can’t, really, I still have stuff to do,” he repeated apologetically; his hand went to rest on his colleague’s shoulder as he attempted to calm the other man: “But you’ll be fine! You’re with Skyla, and she’s a great pilot. She’s never crashed anything like ever. Like not even once.”
That last part might have not been the best thing to say.
Ingo’s eyes were growing more humid by the second. He seemed absolutely overwhelmed with the wet misery Cheren had struggled not to laugh mere minutes before. His head sunk a little deeper in his shoulders.
“I fear I have a, ah... Tendency to tightly grasp things, when I panic.” he explained slowly. His knuckles turned whiter than usual as he held onto the metal and plastic tighter: “I... Doubt it would really happen, but I might shatter my own fingers if left to my own devices.”
Skyla blinked slowly, like an affectionate Glameow. Her gloved hand patted at her chest once before sliding to check on her pocket and belt, at last finding what she was looking for and digging into her coveralls to produce a Pokéball.
She held it out to him with a smile: “I can lend you Swoobat if you want,” she offered sweetly. “She’s soft, and she’s huggable and very cuddly, and good at, uh, comforting people... And also she’s got a big heart-shaped stamp right on her nose. One of those has gotta be a winner. Plus I mean, you’ll be perfectly safe! Uh, there’s safety belts and life jackets and parachutes and all, and like Cheren said I’ve never crashed anything in my entire life, so you know, I’m good at this! You’ll be fine! But I can still give you Swoobat to make sure everthing’s super safe. If you’d like.”
Ingo’s gaze fell on the sphere.
“I would appreciate that very much, thank you,” he murmured as he carefully grabbed it from her hand.
The pilot patted his back comfortingly, hushering him into the hollow stomach of her plane. Peeling away a portion of her gloves she checked on her Xtransceiver for the time: “Yup, we should go before it gets too late,” she sentenced, “No one likes a delay.”
She turned back to Cheren for a moment before letting herself be completely absorbed by the metal beast: “So we’ll see you in a week?”
He gave her a thumbs up: “Right on!” he replied: “Have a good flight!”
With two fingers to her forehead she gave him her goodbye, and then she was completely engrossed.
Her mouth repeated instructions out loud with ease as she led her artificial bird out on the cement field and sat tight, hands on its commands, as it picked up more and more speed. A sudden weightlessness, immediately fixed by gravity, and the sensation of stretching the sky with the plane’s snout as if it were the thin film tightly wrapped around the styrofoam trays where supermarkets would place freshly cut fish and meat -- then she blinked at the infinite expanse of clouds and blue, and allowed her shoulders to relax.
A couple switches flipped, the route set; she let go of the commands to lay back into her seat for a moment, trusting her plane to do the bigger part of the work. Another safety check to make sure everything was in order... Once she ascertained the situation was under control she unbuckled her safety belt and went to see how her passenger was doing.
She found Ingo trembling slightly in his seat, face sunken into Swoobat’s fur as he held her tight. Her lively companion had him wrapped in the gentle hug of her own wings, likely percieving his stress but remaining happy as can be; her nose was pressed to his temple and pulsed with calming psychic waves.
Skyla smiled meeting those frightened near white eyes: “She helpin’?”
Ingo nodded: “A lot,” came his reply muffled by a mouthful of light blue fluff.
She sat across from him, perfectly at ease.
“Don’t worry, this big boy knows what it’s doing,” she reassured him when she caught his glancing worriedly at the now empty cockpit.
“Ah... Autopilot?”
“Hm-hm.”
Though he couldn’t understand how that worked, the word helped finally quell Ingo’s shaking form. His fingers gently scratched just behind Swoobat’s ears, making her wriggle in delight and plant her nose squarely on his cheek as thanks with a high pitched chirp.
He looked like... Ingo.
Aside from that small beard jutting out of his chin, the legth of his hair, the state of his coat and hat, and the way his face seemed to sink on itself - aside from the signs the passage of time had left on him, he was undoubtedly Ingo.
And yet Skyla was not someone he knew. She, who had gotten to know him well enough by now, who had been teased and encouraged by him, who had battled against him in friendly but nonetheless harduous matches, who was the love of a life very close to him, was a stranger. She struggled to wrap her head around the mere idea of it.
It must have been worse for him. Infinitely worse. To everybody else, it was a single man who had forgotten them; to him, it was an entire region he could not remember. He would have had to see all these people, listen to them introduce themselves - he would have had to look at them and wonder, have I met them before already? Were we friends? How much did I know about them? And finally (and as she thought that it sent a chill down her own spine, an uncomfortable feeling like something crawling under her skin as she put herself in his shoes) how much do they know about me?
She felt guilty of knowing him. Of being able to think of him as a friend.
Maybe if this was the first time she had met him, it would have been better.
“May I... Ask you a favor?”
Ingo’s voice snapped her out of her daze: “Hm? Oh, uh, sure.”
He fiddled a little with Swoobat’s fluff: “Would it be possible for you to tell me more about Unova?” he asked. Something in the fidgeting of his fingers seemed at once eager and nervous, as if unsure whether his request was plausible or not: “I’d like to be somewhat... Prepared, so to speak, when we arrive.”
She blinked. Nobody is going to test you, she was about to say - but the point was completely different, wasn’t it.
It wasn’t as if he had known much about Sinnoh even before ending up stranded there, no matter how that happened. Any kind of information gained led him further and further from ending up a mere stranger in what should not have felt like a strange land.
So the pilot tilted her head slightly and nodded: “Sure,” she grinned: “I don’t know how well I can talk about, uh - every single thing, since, you know, it’s a lot, but I’ll do my best! Is there something specific you wanna start from, or...?”
He hesitated halfway through shaking his head, furrowed his brows; then finally he asked: “Is the seventh gym a Dragon or an Ice type one by any chance?”
Huh.
A rather weird one to start off with, but who was she to judge if that’s what his memory had unlocked first?
“Technically it’s both Ice and Dragon, but they’re separate gyms,” Skyla replied, playing with a strand of her auburn hair as her mind wandered back to Brycen’s triumphant return on the big screen after the injury that had him step down from it for years, “But the Ice one in Icirrus City has been closed for a while and Victory Road is still under maintenance since it sort of... Half collapsed a few years ago -- nobody was hurt though! -- and they’re working on putting it back together, so the Dragon gym is the seventh right now.”
She watched as her answer made Ingo’s pale face light up before he sank it back in her Pokémon’s fur, ruffling it in a sort of victorious delight.
“I knew it felt right,” he muttered to himself.
The excitement in his voice left her just as giddy as him. Ingo had always had that puzzling ability of dragging others into the transport of his own emotions through sound alone.
They had so much time on their hands, and so much to talk about.
Several miles away and a few hours later, the man with Ingo’s face was looking at someone much smaller through the bags under his eyes.
“I cannot change the schedule,” he was telling her, struggling to turn through a few reports while his hands were occupied with moving already.
“The station’s schedule can, should and has been changed on various occasions for various reasons and by various people including you,” his interlocutor replied, “Most recently by me, right now in this instant, and it says you have to leave at 9:15 PM.”
He paid her no mind, hands waving lazily and fingers bending to form words: “That conflicts with my shift.”
“Your shift has also been shortened by me in this instant.”
“That’s abuse of power.”
“I will bite your shins off.”
The man with Ingo’s face rubbed at his eyes and whined. A nip at his leg had him look down: a very disgruntled Mawile, her enormous primary mouth holding his limb hostage in a fake bite so weak that he could have slipped out without getting even so much as vaguely scratched by her steel teeth, angrily moved her front paws at him.
“Do not argue,” she was signing at him.
He uncerimoniously stuck the tip of his tongue out at her and went back to concentrating on the paperwork, only to find it being impatiently sorted and handled by another pair of human hands.
“Your personal private schedule says he will be arriving around 11 PM,” his interlocutor continued much to his chagrin, not looking at him so that he could not interrupt her. The sheets of paper made a big rockus as they were slammed on the desk: “So you must leave in time in order not to leave him waiting for over an hour or so.”
“I leave when the station closes,” he replied, piqued, as soon as he was in her line of sight again.
She stared right into his eyes: “You want your brother to walk all the way here from fucking Mistralton City?” she asked, incredibly loudly despite her small stature: “You want him to go through the static hell that is Chargestone Cave and pray to all that exists that the Drawbridge is down by the time he gets to it before he has to spend the night on the benches?”
“No.”
“Then go pick him the fuck up!”
“It’s early.”
“Then when it’s time go pick him the fuck up!”
The man who looked like Ingo hesitated. His hand began signing something, but ended up only dangling aimlessly from his wrist as he bit the corner of his lower lip; he lifted one foot and punted the toes against the pavement as if to crack them against it, althought his shoe prevented him from doing so.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see him. He wanted to. He really wanted. So bad. It had been so long. He wanted to. Needed to. It would have been great. Wonderful. A weight off his chest. But he was scared. It made him feel dizzy. Made him want to yell. Made him want to stay quiet forever. Cheren’s words turned in his brain. What was the point? If he didn’t know him? It would have been cold. It would have been cruel. Verrry cruel. It would have hurt. It would have hurt so much. He wasn’t ready. It had been two days. But he wasn’t ready. And the station protected him. Kept him occupied. Made him think of other things. He had to take care of it. Take verrry good care of it. Follow the schedule. The station’s schedule. It said that he left late at night. He could not contradict it. He didn’t want to. Or he would have had time. Time to think. To get hurt. He had to follow the schedule. Follow the rules.
A little hand ripped a piece of paper and grabbed a pen. She scribbled on it angrily, bit off some clear tape, bent it to make a sticky ring of sorts to attach to the back of the paper, and slammed it on the man’s chest.
He looked at it with some difficulty: it read ‘susbstitute’.
He turned to stare at his interlocutor in the eyes.
She held his gaze with a look like she was going to be on the run for charges of first degree murder very soon: “This is my station now.” she sentenced.
He wheezed a little: “It doesn’t work like that.”
“It HAS worked before!” she yelled from the height of her minuscule stature: “And I will beat this dead Rapidash as many times as I need to if it’s the only thing that gets you to listen to me!”
The man with Ingo’s face slowly threw his head back, mouth open in a long soundless ‘Ah’ of annoyance, much like a child.
Worst part was that it would have worked. Damn him for sticking to the rules.
His little interlocutor ignored his fake tantrum completely: “Your shift has been updated. You will leave the station at 9:15 PM and not come back for the rest of the night or I will hunt you down for sport with a broom like you’re a stray Patrat. Possibly do not come back tomorrow either.”
Elesa ha definitely allowed her to chase him around with violent intent so long as she didn’t kill him, so this was less of a threat and more of a fact.
“Hmmm,” he noted still, fingers cheeky as he signed: “Getting power-hungry.”
“Oh, don’t worry! I hate increasing the amount of my responsabilities too much to usurp you,” she replied with a grin too wide, straight and full of teeth that would have scared a weak heart out of its wits if her grey hat had not been sat in a way that prevented the brim from casting an ominous shadow above it: “But your eyebags are gaining sentience.”
The man with Ingo’s face huffed. Yet another way to tell him to sleep more. Getting creative, weren’t they.
His smile did seem a little more genuine.
-
By the time the signal that they were nearing their destination pinged to let her know the airport was almost in sight, Skyla had gotten lost in a not particularly helpful tangent regarding the acrobatic manouvers performed by ace pilots on historical recreations of vintage planes for well over forty minutes right after going on a similarly unrelated spiel about those same old models, which had been preceeded by a thorough explanation of a plane’s mechanics, itself introduced halfway through her rambling about how Swoobat flight was possible despite their weight after getting sidetracked from a one-sided discussion about radar waves and their function, which had its roots in the description of the differences between male and female Unfezants, with that topic stemming from a very short lived rant regarding Castellia City having a problem with overfeeding stray street Pokémon which had been made worse by a not particularly well elaborated on organization of sorts that had stirred up quite the trouble, something she had been reminded of by talking about a musical she had gone to watch about a man who believed himself to be a hystorical king after falling off a Zebstrika while on an outing between friends, because Zebstrikas were rather common around Mistralton and she had had her own run-ins with one or two -- though she had actually gotten there starting by a small disertation on why the Forces of Nature were really the Menaces of Nature with their constant fighting and bickering that made the weather absolutely impossible to deal with unless somebody either knocked them out of the sky or whined loud enough at the Abundant Shrine for Landorus to go fetch his bastard brothers. What had brought that about exactly was unclear, but it probably had to do with Humilau being close to Undella.
Ingo had listened very intently and with genuine interest to the mostly completely useless stream of information that had derailed his initial request, not minding it at all; in truth, he was relieved by how intensely focused he was on Skyla’s ramblings, free from the grey snowstorm that for years had kept slowly blinding his senses during long conversations.
His knowledge of Unova was still patchy at best, but in return he knew a lot about planes.
Not that it made them less intrinsically horrifying, but still.
The pinging snapped both of them out of the ranting’s momentum.
Ingo turned to the sound, panic slmming back into his brain without even the hint of a warning: “Are we about to die?” he blurted out as the first of his worries shoved itself out of his mouth.
Skyla clambered back into the cockpit before answering: “Nope!” she reassured him: “We’ve arrived!”
Her head turned back towards him: “Got your seatbelt fastened?”
One of his hands left Swoobat groggy form and went to quickly tug at the cable that had never unbuckled from his waist, making sure it was holding onto him tight: “Affirmative!”
She gave him a wordless thumbs up and took her own seat.
“We can commence landing,” she announced to nobody specifically, almost as if practicing before the inevitable call of the control tower reached them. Autopilot turned off and commands snuggly held in her grip, she began the required procedures that preceeded their return upon the ground.
Behind her, Ingo had his grip already tightened and his face back into the light blue fluff around Swoobat’s neck while the helpful Pokémon returned to press her nose to his temple to offer additional comfort. He screwed his eyes shut and began repeating under his breath the proper landing manouvers and motions exactly as Skyla had described them to him a couple hours earlier, as if the technical lingo were a calming mantra for his shaking nerves.
He did not realize he had slipped into a prayer halfway through the procedure’s steps until he caught himself muttering Almighty Sinnoh above, below and all around me whilst tracing circles with his finger on his forearm and the broken tip of his shoe on the pavement -- invoking Palkia through the shape of its shimmering jewel, politely asking the god for the protection of all those within the anomalously shaped space inside of the airplane with the whispered formula one could have easily heard by wandering into anyone of the Pearl Clan, like Irida and Calaba had taught him to do, whereas when he had observed Melli draw a pentagonal shape over his own shoulder he would hear the other warden call to a Sinnoh that was ‘before, after and present with me’.
He did not dare interrupt himself, did not even consider it, really, used as he had become to the motions and words and sorely needing any comfort he could take. He dutifully finished his prayer, thanked Palkia for its attention, and went right back to his recounting of the pilot’s instructions whilst grasping and releasing the soft fur in which he tried to drown.
The process did not manage to repeat in full: inertia had him knocked against the back of his seat as the plane stuttered for the fraction of a second once it finally touched down.
Skyla found him awfully quiet once the plane was finally still. She looked back at him: the man sat straight, eyes blown wide, shoulders hunched around Swoobat.
“All good?” she asked him as she walked closer.
He turned to her, pale and blank in his expression, the spit image of a ghost: “It’s over?” he replied with a breath.
The pilot nodded as she very gently pried Swoobat from his tight hold (the Pokémon squirmed a bit as she crawled up her trainer’s arm to sit on her shoulder, thankful, because as happy as she was to help Ingo he was starting to crush her a little) and took his hand to help him up onto his own feet: “Yep,” she assured him. “A perfect landing too. Everything’s in order and all.”
Ingo deflated like a pouty Jellycent as he wheezed out a relieved sigh.
She chuckled.
“Welcome to Unova.”
The hangar was quiet. Most private planes sat asleep in their places under the shining white lights, tired from their flights, a few missing, a few being attended to by a couple handfuls of people at best; the steps and tinkering of tools sounded much like the ‘plick’s of water droplets falling on the surface of undergound lakes.
Skyla helped him out of the fuselage, sustaining him with her hand in his own. Ingo did not let go once both his feet were safely planted back onto the earth, and she did not insist he do so as she kindly dragged him towards the exit.
When it first appeared from around the bend, it looked like a flash of bright white against both the dark grey of the cement floor and the dark blue of the night sky.
Then Skyla gasped softly, and Ingo looked at it better as it froze in place.
A few steps away, the man with Ingo’s face looked right back at him.
He was not smiling. His mouth was thinned out, lips almost perfect parallel lines. His eyes were wide, surprised - awfully surprised, circled by a purplish shadow. Somewhat scared, too. His hair was a little in disarray, brushing his shoulders. It was white, like his hat, like his coat, like his gloves. Like his shirt, pants, shoes. He was awfully pale. He seemed paralysed.
Ingo blinked; the man with his face blinked with him.
They both remained perfectly still.
It was like looking in a mirror.
Ingo wondered if the man with his face felt that burning pain right below his ribs too, or that strange dread spreading like a slow electric shock through his lungs, or that feeling of intestines shifting and and bubbling and tying into tight knots.
Neither dared speaking. They breathed in unison, quietly, as if to not scare one another. Their arms seemed to tremble.
The man with Ingo’s face swallowed air, bit his lower lip, clenched his fists. Fighting a losing battle against his shivering body, his mouth turned its corners upwards. He inhaled once; twice. He swallowed again.
“Hello,” he finally said. “I am Emmet.”
His smile was so small.
Ingo stared into his own clear eyes and said nothing.
He did not feel his legs move.
He grabbed the white clad shoulder hard enough to break it and pulled his arms over it, above it, around it, slamming into the chest so much like his with such force that the other body stumbled a moment before pushing back and grasping him in a mirroring hug, fingers sinking bruises on it as the held on for dear just like his own were doing. Their faces were pressed against the crook of each other’s necks and they held tight, tight, tight, trying to tear one one another to pieces, rip to shreds, pull apart, completely disembowel.
Ingo adjusted his grip onto the man he still knew nothing about - his name had been told to him already, their relation had been cleared up, the way he spoke had been described, and he had hated himself because none of that had felt like anything to him, but now! Now, his voice--! His voice--!
He squeezed his brother hard enough to break his spine, and with a broken voice he sobbed: “I missed you.”
It was true.
It was so, so true.
Emmet held him back just as strongly and started crying against his throat without a sound.
His hand crawled up to grasp and scratch at Ingo’s hair, to pull him closer as if it were possible for them to clip through solid matter and turn into a single misshapen man. He heard him hack and cough, struggle against the air trying to reach his lungs, he heard him as he spat out strangled noise after strangled noise, chest heaving and spasming; at last, with a raucous howl, his brother sunk his eyes in his shoulder and wet his coat and shirt with tears so dense he couldn’t help but wail in pain as he cried them.
And Emmet held him, held him tight, cradled his head against his cheek and cried with him, still sinking nails into his twin’s back, still feeling the pain of his skin almost being clawed off where it was grasped, and the burn told him it was real, sweet dragons it was real, it was all real, and he just strengthened his grip.
But Ingo pushed away all of a sudden - struggling to breathe, still yowling, face and eyes red - and with his shaking hand began trying to dry his own tears -- he was making a mess, a mess, he was drenching him...
Emmet reached out, held his cheeks, passed his thumbs against his white lashes, soaking the saltwater in the cotton of his gloves.
Ingo heaved as he grabbed his wrists, just as scared he’d disappear as he was.
Their foreheads collided and the older twin melted back in his brother’s hold, falling on his shoulder again as their arms fought and tangled to try and hold as much of the other as possible. Emmet kissed his cheek, his temple, his hair, while Ingo repeated restlessly apologies and mumblings and longing nonsense, and they sustained each other on shaky legs held up by shaky breaths while shaky hearts pumped faster and faster and faster with a chorus of cacophonic thundering percussions into their ears.
Then slowly, slowly, as they listened to them (slowly), everything calmed. Emmet eventually stopped crying; Ingo’s sobs grew softer. They swayed a little, still wrapped in their hug.
“Do you want to go home?” the younger twin asked.
His brother nodded against his shoulder.
Home.
He wanted home.
He wanted to go home.
Skyla’s voice reached them from somewhere that seemed far, far away: “I could give you boys a lift if you’d like.”
“It’s late,” Emmet replied weakly. His neck buzzed with each strained word.
Ingo heard her smile: “I’ve got a bed in Nimbasa, too.”
The ride was quiet.
The twins kept their nails sunken in each other’s sides, unaware of the night sliding by through the windows and turning brighter as artificial stars trapped in streetlamps began multiplying. Ingo could not stop crying, gasping sharply; Emmet never moved his mouth from his brother’s temple.
#pokémon#pokemon legends arceus#submas#submas ingo#pokemon cheren#pokemon skyla#submas emmet#random writing#(rattles my cage) (foams at the mouth) (crawls all over) (screams like a possum)#blankshippers do NOT fucking touch. i will kill you#ITS THE AFFECTION BABY#GOD i have been trying out the hug on myself and when i say they bruised i mean they BRUISED like it legit HURT#but yeah. i am. god i love writing affection and affectionate gestures#the absolute high you get from it... exhilarating#also! a special voice is here :)
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The Law
I started this fic for the Romione Trope Fest, and then life got in the way and I wasn't able to finish it on time. Better late than never! Enjoy my indulgent, silly little attempt at Marriage Law, and please don't think too hard about the world-building. ;)
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The Law
Even though The Daily Prophet is as light as a feather, Ron feels like he's holding a brick. He scowls at today's headline.
Marriage Law enacted with a unanimous vote. Unless previously engaged, all pure-blood magical folks must marry within two months.
Fuck.
Luckily, Hermione is at work and isn't around to see him crumple up the newspaper and toss it into a nearby bin. But that doesn't mean she won't become aware of the news at her job. They've already faced so much marriage pressure from his mother, and they don't need it from the Ministry too.
"Something wrong?" asks Harry.
Ron's best friend stands at the kitchen counter pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Like Ron, Harry's still wearing his pajamas, but instead of blazing orange and studded with Chudley Cannons emblems, they're dark green with a repeating pattern of gold talons. If Grimmauld Place wasn't already full of Holyhead Harpies gear, Ron would think Harry had chosen to represent Slytherin.
It would have been a safe fashion choice, given the state of the Ministry.
"Oh you know," says Ron. "More propaganda." Ron clears his throat and puts on his best impression of Lucius Malfoy, assistant to the Minister of Magic. "One of the biggest issues facing the modern magical world is the slow dilution of magical blood. We must use all of our resources to combat this."
Harry snorts. "You know they're all talk."
To a certain extent, it's true. Ever since Voldemort 'won the war,' he's proven that his preference for winning is stronger than his penchant for ruling. Since his rise to power, disorganization within the Ministry has prevented any new bills from being passed into law. He's packed his speeches with empty promises to ensure the safety of all pure-blooded citizens by restricting the rights of half-bloods and muggle-borns, yet won't respond to the media's accusations of his own questionable blood status. His attempts to squash rumors of senility don't hold a lot of weight when he can't remember small details of the war, like where the battle took place, who he had been trying to kill, or the fact that he never actually won in the first place.
As it turns out, the best way to remove the threat of a dictatorship is to make them believe they'd succeeded. That way, no Death Eaters are running about hungry for revenge, and the magical world can see what a joke a Voldemort-run Ministry really is.
Harry reaches into the bin and smoothes out the article. "Oh darn. You have to get married. How sad for you."
"Shut up," says Ron, only to get hit in the face by a crumpled-up news article.
"It's not real," states Harry. "I mean... it is. To him. Not to The Order."
"But Harry, it was a 'unanimous vote'," says Ron, using air quotes.
"Who voted?"
"I dunno. Voldemort himself, maybe."
Harry takes a seat at the dining table and opens his laptop. He clacks away at the keyboard, most likely crafting an email to Kingsley about how the order would deal with this new "law." Ron's still impressed at Harry's familiarity with the keyboard — it was quite the learning curve for Ron when The Order transitioned to muggle technology. But he was willing to learn it, as it was the best way to remain undetected by the Ministry. Why would Voldemort bother with archaic means of communication when he could enact something fresh and modern, like a Marriage Law?
"Notice how it doesn't specify we need to marry other pure-bloods?" asks Ron. "Reckon that's an oversight?"
Harry laughs. "Either that or he'd have to make marrying your cousin legal first."
"Good point," says Ron with a chuckle.
Ron's laptop dings, indicating a new message. He's pleased to see that Kingsley has copied Ron into his response.
Harry - we've heard of the new law, yes. We'll have an Order meeting tonight to discuss the best way to handle it. Stay tuned for time and location.
"You probably won't have to get married," jokes Harry. Since you two are too cool for that."
Ron smiles at his friend, who's fiddling with the gold band on his left ring finger. Little does Harry know, it isn't the only ring in the house. Tucked away in Ron's bedside drawer is a blue sapphire on a gold band, safely protected by a velvet ring box and a disillusionment charm. One of the benefits of learning how to use a computer was the discovery of Hermione's Pinterest page, a blatant contradiction to her assurances that 'marriage is overrated anyway' and she 'doesn't need a fancy ring'. Discovering her account had felt like finding a clear, static-free radio station that hadn't existed before, full of fresh explanations to previously indecipherable mysteries.
"Thank Merlin for that," says Ron, breathing a sigh of relief that he can only hope is convincing. As the news sets in, Ron's palms begin to sweat and his jaw clenches and everything begins to feel less like a joke.
Of course, to The Order, this is a non-issue. Voldemort's laws don't hold any weight with 99% of the magical world — pretty much everyone looks to The Order for real news along with guidance on how to convince the Ministry they still have power. Within the next two weeks, there'll likely be a slew of fake engagements and falsified marriage documents followed by very real parties and celebrations, because why not? In general, the magical community loves how The Order strings the Ministry along like a hopeful suitor. It's childish, sure, but the war has stolen a generation's innocence, and this is their way of reclaiming it. Plus, tricking the dark side requires collaboration and unity. What better way to heal from the war's attempt to isolate and divide?
But Ron doesn't want a fake marriage. He wants a real one, one that isn't overshadowed by hoaxes or inspired by an archaic law. His heart sinks as he thinks back to the ring hiding in his bedside drawer. The thought of having to postpone his proposal or convince Hermione that he's serious makes Ron wonder if they'd truly succeeded in stripping Voldemort of his power.
"You okay?" asked Harry as he glances at Ron from the corner of his eye.
"Yeah. I'm fine." Ron's ears burn with heat and he knows Harry can see right through his response. He stands up from the dining table and pushes his chair back. "I'll be upstairs if you need me," he says as he brushes past Harry.
"Whatever you say," his best friend mutters before Ron proceeds to his bedroom to regroup.
------------------------------
Ron hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he nearly panics when he wakes up to see what time it is. Harry had confirmed the Order meeting at Grimmauld Place, and they will be over any minute, so he reluctantly rolls out of bed with a groan and hobbles to his bathroom to make sure he looks somewhat presentable.
When he deems his appearance professional enough, Ron leaves his bathroom and heads down the stairs, where he nearly collides with Hermione.
"Hermione, hi. What… what are you doing home so early?"
Hermione beams and flings her arms around Ron's neck. "Just wanted to see you."
Ron smiles back and tightens his grip around Hermione's waist. "I have an Order meeting, unfortunately."
"Oh, when?"
"Tonight," he murmurs into her bushy hair. "We're meeting here."
"What's the meeting about?" she presses. Her embrace strengthens, and Ron basks in the warmth of her body against his. Maybe he can miss the Auror meeting… Harry can fill him in later, right?
But he hesitates to tell her what it's about. It would change things
"I guess I'll find out soon," he says.
Hermione pulls away, her hands sliding to meet his. "Well, if you're meeting here, then it makes sense why the drawing-room looks the way it does."
"Huh?"
"Yeah. I didn't realize you decorated for Order meetings."
"Uh…we don't." As far as he's concerned, they've never done that. Ron peers over Hermione's shoulder to see a dimly-lit room. The light that emanates is a warm glow. Are those… candles?
"Weird, right?" chirps Hermione.
Why would the Aurors set up candles? Unless they really wanted to make a joke of the whole Marriage Law announcement.
Or…maybe…
"Hermione." Ron's voice cracks as though he's a teenager entering puberty. "What is this?"
"She meets his gaze and flashes a smile. "Something I should have done yesterday," she says as the tugs his arms toward the drawing-room.
Does she know about the law? Did Harry say something? "Hermione—"
Hermione clears her throat, and says in the most demanding, Hermione-like tone, "Ron, listen. Let me do this right."
When they enter the drawing-room, Ron is instantly reminded of their first date after the war. The first time they'd dressed up for a night out Ron had taken her to a candlelight muggle restaurant, a place where no one would recognize them. Complete privacy. With a flick of her wand, the drawing-room doors shut, closing them off to the rest of the world and its drama, conflict, and outdated laws. "What are you doing—"
"Ron,"
"What about the Order meeting?"
"RONALD."
When the tone Hermione usually reserves for sparking an argument surfaces, Ron quiets down. Hermione's mischievous smile confirms at least one thing, that there's no Order meeting here tonight.
Harry's such a git.
Hermione clears her throat and continues in a trembling voice, "I've been meaning to do this for ages. I mean, I've had the ring for months. But I kept talking myself out of it because I didn't want you to feel pressured, or I didn't want it to sound like an ultimatum, but with the today's news I didn't want you to think I felt pressured either, and Harry suggested—"
Git.
"Yes," he interrupts, his heart racing, his hair standing on end. There's a part of Ron that's annoyed, frankly, that Hermione beat him to the punch. Maybe his traditional upbringing had given him the idea that men were supposed to decide when to move things forward. But it had never been that way with Hermione. He recalls how she slammed into him and kissed him for the first time, her timid, yet confident tone when she asked him to Slughorn's party, and the way she called him out for not taking her to the Yule Ball. She'd always been the one pushing him further down the road while he hesitated, not because he wasn't ready, but because he didn't feel worthy.
Plus, that prickle of annoyance felt like the first time he met her. 'You've got dirt on your nose.' It made his palms sweat and his heart beat faster, like a young boy who doesn't realize he has a crush.
"Yes," he reiterates.
"Ron, let me finish."
The prickle returns, accompanied by an overwhelming desire to squeeze his girlfriend and bury his face in her hair, run his teeth along her skin, tracing the fine tightrope between anger and lust. It had always been like that with Hermione. "Okay, but the answer's yes."
Hermione beams as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ring box from her pocket. "Ronald Weasley," she continues in a cracking voice, "Will you marry me?"
She pops open the ring box to reveal a black band with a subtle orange stripe down the middle. Chudley Cannon's colors — just like the ring on his Pinterest board, the gallery he had made for himself when he found Hermione's.
"You saw my board?" he asks, knowing full well that his ears are glowing red.
"Yeah. You're such a dork," she says with a laugh. "So it's still a yes?"
"Yes. A thousand times yes," he says, rushing forward to embrace her and bury his head into the pillow of his hair. He thinks of the ring nestled in his top drawer, and is torn between running to retrieve it or living in her embrace forever, refraining from stealing her thunder. "I wanted to be the one to propose to you."
Hermione chuckles, then in a voice muffled by Ron's jumper, "You shouldn't have taken so long, then."
Normally, it pains him to admit that she's right, but once in a blue moon, she says something he simply can't argue with, and this is one of those times. He pulls her closer. "You're right. I shouldn't have taken so long."
#marriage law#romione trope fest#romione fics#hpromione#romione fanfic#ron x hermione#ron and hermione#hermionegranger#ronweasley#romione fanfiction#hp fanfic#voldemort wins#sort of
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Hit It Till It Breaks
Pairing: Oikawa x Reader
Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Mafia AU, NSFW, Drug Dealing, Dub-Con/Non-Con Sex, Dub-Con/Non-Con Drug Consumption, Drug Addiction, Manipulation, Humiliation, Degradation, Prostitution, Slight Pet Play
Prompt: Hard At Work
Summary: Growing up, you’d always loved fairy tales and happy endings. You’d always believed that despite how bad things might seem or get, there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. But you’re quickly realizing that this isn’t a fairy tale, that there is no happy ending, and that sometimes, you only go downhill, farther and farther from the light.
Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist to see how everyone decided to run with this spicy prompt.
(Thank you as always @sawamooora for helping me keep this a coherent degenerate mess~)
It’s hard to believe that bright eyed girl holding her college diploma in the photo on your nightstand was you not that long ago. And your heart clenches when you remember how hopeful you had been. So excited to venture out and experience life. Ready to enter the job market. Ready to be an adult.
Doors opened and closed. But you hadn’t let it deter you at first. It just wasn’t meant to be. You can’t expect to get the first job you interview for!
But then more and more doors opened, only to be shut in your face.Your rose-tinted glasses began to crack as your funds quickly dwindled, as you lowered your standards, desperately mass applying to any small time company vaguely related to your major, only to be turned away at every step.
And now, here you are, barely able to make rent, barely able to even feed yourself with the little you have from odd part-time jobs you’ve managed to stitch together into some sort of financial life line.
Well, you HAD been barely able to make rent, but your hands tremble when you stare at the letter notifying you that your rent will begin to increase starting next month, mind speeding into a panicked haze as you unsuccessfully try to think of what to do, how you can possibly afford to live even in this dump anymore. And before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re scrambling, stumbling to your bathroom, throwing open your medicine cabinet as you rummage for the little pills that you know will help slow down your racing thoughts and provide much needed clarity.
You swear everything seems clearer as soon as the smooth texture hits your tongue and you can finally breathe, slumping down on the cold tiles of your floor, pill bottle still clutched in your hand as you allow yourself to relax, praying for any ideas to flow through you. And it hits you like a ton of bricks when your grip on the plastic container accidentally loosens and the bottle clangs against the floor.
A humorless chuckle slips past your lips as you stare at the rolling cylinder.
Drug dealing. Fucking drug dealing.
You can’t believe you’re even thinking of going down this route, but your mind flashes back to old roommates, old friends, old classmates who had nonchalantly made a pretty bundle on the side, carelessly tossing around and selling all types of prescription drugs on campus. And you vividly remember how simple they had made it seem, how they had all gotten away with it. Scrumptious meals, pricey alcohol, far beyond a college palette, and beautiful clothing were the only “consequences” for their crimes.
If they could do it, you could too. Or so you’d like to think.
But as naive and ignorant as you are about this line of work, even you know there’s a difference between selling to silly college students on campus, and selling it at a popular nightclub owned by an infamous crime syndicate.
Even as far removed as you are from the more seedy underbelly of the new city you live in, you know of the Seijoh Syndicate. Everyone in town does. It’s hard not to when they literally run and own the entire place.
Oikawa Tooru and the rest of the Seijoh Four run their domain with an iron fist. They’re practically nonexistent, merely a scary story to keep people in line, for those who abide by the laws and keep their noses out of trouble, but an all too real nightmare for those who choose to defy them. And you shudder, remembering the horror stories you had heard of exactly what happens to those who decide to try and start their own nefarious business and practices on Seijoh streets without Oikawa’s permission.
But surely they wouldn’t pay you any mind? Right? Surely a mere girl in her early twenties selling the leftover prescription medicine she has in her cabinets for one night won’t do any harm?
Maybe it’s stupid to go to such a prevalent and well known club, especially one that’s notoriously favored by the Seijoh Four. But you convince yourself that it’s the most crowded venue in the area with a target demographic who’s guaranteed to buy you out, even at the obscene prices you plan on charging. How would anyone even notice you? Where else could you go? What options do you even have?
So despite the nervous pit swelling in your stomach, you soldier on, plastering a cheery smile at the bouncer who easily waves you in without a second glance, slipping into the sweaty mass of bodies, going deeper and deeper until you’re surrounded - skin, bones, and muscles pressing against you on all sides, safe from any prying eyes.
Or so you believe.
You know who the Seijoh Four are. You even know their names. But never have you met them, never have you ever seen a picture of what they each look like. Not that it would help you if you did when you’re so laser focused on finding potential customers, not even bothering to look around to see if anyone’s watching you. So you carry on, unaware of the four sets of eyes looking at you in amusement from their roost high above the writhing crowds.
There’s nothing subtle about the way you sloppily nudge people, practically shoving your pills in stranger’s faces, almost wildly waving your merchandise around you in a desperate attempt to pull in buyers. Sweaty nervous hands fumble as you exchange little plastic baggies for wads of cash and Matsukawa raises a brow in disbelief while Hanamaki cackles when you drop your merch and payment, getting on all fours on the trashed dance floor to recollect your goods.
It might be the most amusing show they’ve had in a while, but Iwaizumi feels a pang of pity at the wild hopeless look in your eyes and he swiftly stands, brusquely telling the other three that he’s going to go down and tell you off with just a warning, only to be stopped when Oikawa smoothly stands to his feet, effectively blocking Iwaizumi’s path.
“Now, now Iwa-chan. Don’t be so hasty. Let me go talk to the cutie. I’ve been so bored recently and she looks like she’ll be fun! Plus you’ll make her cry with that scary face of yours.”
Suddenly the sight of you bumbling around isn’t quite as entertaining as the remaining three men watch the brunette prowl towards you, heavy realization of what’s to come sombering the mood.
You’re frantic, flitting about the throngs of flailing limbs and swaying bodies, frustration from not being able to get through your supplies fast enough weighing at your conscious. Sure, you’ve managed to accrue some cash, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough to even feed yourself for the coming week let alone make a dent in the daunting rent that looms over you. And you can feel hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes when you see that it’s almost closing time and you’re still stuck with more than half your inventory, no closer to figuring out how to survive. So when a hand firmly rests on your shoulder, you whip around, ready to take your anger out on the poor soul who’s managed to catch you at the worst time. But you freeze, vicious words stuck in your mouth when you see the handsome man beaming down at you, a thick wad of rolled up bills haphazardly dangling from his fingers.
“I heard you might have some stuff I’d be interested in.”
You wonder if this is all a dream, if the man in front of you is (ironically a devilishly) handsome angel swooping into save you when he casually asks you how much stuff you still have, how much you’d be willing to sell everything for, not even blinking an eye at your outrageous price tag. You’re so stunned by how quick he is to call it a done deal, not resisting even a bit as he wraps his hand around your wrist, pulling you after him, saying some vague comments about wanting to go somewhere a little more private since it’s a bigger trade. All you can think about is how you’ll finally be able to eat something other than instant noodles and not have to worry about rent as you throw yourself back into interviewing, too lost in thoughts to be wary of how you’re being dragged farther and farther away from the rowdy crowd.
But the sound of a door slamming shut behind you jolts you back to reality and Oikawa fights back a laugh at how adorable you are, eyes blown wide like a deer in headlights as your head swivels side to side, dismay and panic making you tremble when you survey the private room you’re in, throat nervously gulping when you notice the three other occupants.
You’re so predictable and Oikawa just rolls his eyes fondly at how you swiftly turn around, trying to lunge towards the door in an attempt to escape, taking his time to leisurely make his way towards you, brown orbs taking in every inch of you as Matsukawa and Hanamaki hold your writhing body in place.
It’s so satisfying watching you crumble to pieces before his very eyes at just the mention of his name, despair and fear swirling beautifully on your face when he continues to introduce the rest of the Seijoh Four. It never gets old, that deliciously addicting feeling of power he feels when people tremble from just a few syllables and he relishes in your pleading apologies and your tears, patiently waiting for you to finish your little sob story, barely listening to the details as he focuses in on how gorgeous you are, broken and vulnerable.
And really, there’s no need for him to pay close attention to your blabbering anyway. It always comes down to one thing…
“So you need money, cutie? How about working for me?”
“Oye! Oikawa-”
“I’m just asking her some questions, Iwa-chan.”
There’s tense silence and your eyes nervously flicker back and forth between the two imposing figures staring each other down, green and brown eyes clashing in a silent argument. But as if they’ve somehow come to a conclusion, Iwaizumi tsks and looks away while Oikawa turns his attention back to you, a sickeningly cheerful grin on his face.
Blood curling fear lances through you and you’re almost grateful for the two pairs of strong arms holding you tight, their grip keeping you from falling to your knees as your legs threaten to give out under the pressure you feel as Oikawa thoughtfully looks at you.
You know the smart answer would be to adamantly say no and promptly figure out a way to leave this moment far behind you, even if it means forfeiting any money you had made tonight. But...a job is a job, right? And surely a job in the Seijoh Syndicate would be more lucrative than anything you’re doing now, right?
Oikawa hides a smile at the way he can see the cogs in your head turn, apprehension turning to curiosity as you stutter out questions about pay and what the job would entail. Desperation is a good look on anyone, but it suits you particularly well and just like that, hook, line, and sinker, he has a new cute live-in maid to replace the recently vacated role.
Working as Oikawa’s maid is more...normal than you would have expected. Not that you’re complaining and other than the embarrassing maid outfit he makes you wear, complete with frilly bow and garters, the chores are mundane. Bring breakfast to him and wake him. Clean his room and do his laundry when he’s away at meetings or jobs. Make sure guests have refreshments when they come over to his large estate, a mansion you now also call home.
If you’re honest, it’s much more relaxing than the multiple part-time jobs you had been juggling previously, and with free board, free food, and the substantial paycheck that regularly makes its way to your bank account, you can see your future brightening up again. When your duties are done for the day, you resume practicing for interviews and keeping up with the industry, feeling emboldened and empowered to finally resume working towards the career path you had always dreamed of.
But the more time you spend with Oikawa, the closer and more entangled in your life the brunette becomes. Alarm bells ring wildly in your head as you’re forced to join him for meals, forced to dress in elaborate gowns and jewelry while you’re waltzed around on his arm, forced to travel around the world with him, and attend to him like a glorified assistant. He’s too charming, too familiar, too bold, and you can’t help but feel like you’re racing towards some inevitable crash as he easily brushes aside any boundaries between the two of you.
You know so many women would kill to be in your shoes and you can understand why, not completely immune to his playful smile and the lilt of his voice yourself. But you know better, know exactly how dangerous it would be to get involved with a man like Oikawa Tooru.
It’s clear from the crimson stains on the clothes he leaves for you to either dispose of, or have cleaned. It’s clear from the wails and sobs of woman after woman he uses and tosses aside like garbage on an almost daily basis. It’s clear from the guns, knives, and weapons, most of which you don’t even know the name of, filling up all the walls, drawers, and cabinets.
So you do your best to keep your distance, building titanium walls around your heart. Always polite, too terrified of what would happen if you pissed him off, but cold enough to deter him from more amorously or intimately testing his boundaries.
And it seems to work as he turns his eyes towards other women, leaving you alone after throwing a few flirty comments and winks your way and ultimately falling in bed with some other poor damsel. But you nervously gulp when it’s just the two of you one night and just as you’re ready to make yourself scarce after turning down his bed and laying out his pajamas, his voice beckons you over and you anxiously bite your lower lip at the sight of pills of all shapes and sizes splayed out across his desk.
Other than your prescription medicine, you don’t have a lot of experience with drugs other than the few blunts here and there during your college years and you had always strictly kept to your recommended doses, never even entertaining the idea of taking more. So the sight in front of you is overwhelming and you hesitantly stare anywhere but at the table surface, anxiously waiting for Oikawa to explain why he called you over. But what you’re not expecting is the warm hand gently grasping your wrist and holding your arm out, small objects being carefully placed in your outstretched palm, and soft coaxing from Oikawa to “give them a try”.
Every part of you is screaming to throw the pills and make a run for it, begging you to come up with some excuse or just outright reject his offer. But it’s as if your body is frozen and he firmly pushes your hand to your mouth, grip tightening enough to make you wince when you hesitate to listen. The slight pain is enough to remind you that you’re not exactly in any position to negotiate and you force yourself to down the pills and gulp down the glass of water he holds to your lips.
The last thing you remember is the unsettling feeling of beginning a descent to an unknown place from which there is no return as Oikawa pulls you to his bed. And then euphoria floods through you as your body slots against his larger frame.
It feels good. Too good. Unnaturally good. But it’s intoxicating and you can’t help but let yourself drown in the hazy waves crashing down upon you, feeling lighter, freer, happier than you have for years. You vaguely register roaming hands, a hot wet mouth, a body on top of yours, something hard pressing against the apex of your thighs, filling you, consuming you in heady pleasure only amplified by the drugs coating your insides.
Bliss. Pleasure. Pure unadulterated joy. And then nothing.
When you come to, the weight of what had happened last night comes crashing down on you, making your foggy mind throb even more and you can feel bile rising inside of you as a toned arm around your waist tightens its hold on you. Oikawa grunts in annoyance when you claw your way out from his hold, scampering on shaky legs to his bathroom, heaving and expelling the contents of your stomach, trying futilely to cleanse yourself of your employer’s touch.
You flinch when you hear footsteps approach, shrinking into the corner of the tiled room, body crouched and curled into a tight ball as you try to save any shred of dignity you still have by hiding your naked body as much as you can from his prying eyes. Salty drops threaten to trail down your face when he hovers over you, sweetly cooing down at you “not to be like this”, “you liked it so much last night”, “come back to bed with me” only to stream down your face when his countenance swiftly changes, handsome face glowering down at you before brusquely turning away and snapping at you to “get on with your work then if you’re going to be an annoying bitch”.
It’s easy to convince yourself that you’re just being smart, just trying to survive as you obediently wash up and don your humiliating uniform, that it isn’t just you being a coward as you submissively go about your usual work day, still sitting with thighs pressed against Oikawa’s legs at meals, making no move to brush off the heavy arm he slings around your shoulders, only slightly flinching when his fingertips teasingly play with the hem of your skirt as he converses with the rest of the Seijoh Four.
But you can’t deny that all you are is a weak fool, desperate to live when you shakily accept the pills he pushes towards you again that night, silently crying yet not doing anything to prevent the inevitable as you swallow any self-respect or pride you had along with the smooth pellets under his watchful gaze, too scared of the glimmer of gunmetal you see on the inside of his jacket to even think of resisting.
And history repeats itself. Over and over again.
Oikawa smiles at how different you are from that skittish creature who fled from his every touch, smirking at how naive and innocent you still are as you try to hide how eager you are for your daily dose, unaware of how he’s slowly been increasing it every night, ignorant of how you unconsciously lean into his touches, pretty lips wrapping around his fingers as he hand feeds you.
Do you know what an animal you are in bed these days? Do you realize how little there is left to differentiate you from one of his filthy whores when you’re so doped up on whatever he gives you, moaning like a pornstar and leaving vicious red claw marks on his skin as you bounce on his cock?
And he knows it’s time to move onto the next phase of your conditioning when there’s not even a speck of shame in your clear eyes when the sunlight begins to filter through the window, knowingly smiling in satisfaction when instead of slinking off to wallow in your regret you shimmy down between his legs and begin to nuzzle and mouth his morning wood, face full of nothing but wanton desire as you take his cock in your mouth.
He doesn’t give you anything that night. Or the next night. Or the one after that. He doesn’t so much as even look at you outside of your usual eye contact, not a single flirtatious word slipping past his lips.
You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, right? To keep things strictly professional between the two of you. To not be coerced into the artificial pleasure you’ve been swallowing on a daily basis for the last month now. To not feel like just another warm body for Oikawa to taint.
Your interview notes and open tab of job listings are right there, begging for your attention, practically screaming at you to pursue the life you’ve always dreamed of.
Yet here you are, not even a week later, on your knees in between Oikawa’s legs as he leisurely reclines in his chair, peppering his inner thighs with kisses and rubbing your face against the growing bulge in his trousers, begging and pleading for another dose, feeling utterly empty and cold inside, unable to sleep, unable to focus, unable to function without the nights of hazy ecstasy.
Your heart drops at the long disappointed sigh the brunette releases.
“Drugs are expensive, cutie. I was just being nice and letting you try some new batches we’ve been producing, but now that they’re on the market, I can’t just keep on giving them to you for free.”
He rolls his eyes when you adamantly tell him you’ll pay whatever the price is, a condescending smirk splitting his face from how quick you are to shut up, soul crushed when he reveals the extravagant cost, a price he knows you can’t afford with the salary he’s providing you with.
But he artfully softens his smile as he begins to unbuckle his pants, sliding the fabric down and letting his throbbing cock spring into view, chuckling when it lightly slaps your face as it’s released from its confines, wondering if you’re drooling from the sight of his erection or the pills he’s playfully placing along the length of it.
“I know you don’t have that money, cutie. But I’d be willing to accept other forms of payments.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before you’re rushing to take him in his mouth and he loudly laughs at how obscene you look, slobbering all over his length, fervently bobbing your head up and down, hastily trying to deep throat him to reach the pill strategically placed right at the base of his shaft, lips puckering as you inhale the drugs, swallowing around him in a way that has him groaning as you stuff your face full of chemicals and pre-cum. And it doesn’t take much longer for him to wash your mouth and throat with warm rivulets of sticky white fluids as he watches the goods take effect, his balls tightening and cock straining with arousal as you reach between your legs, fingers playing with your tight dripping hole while your lewd moans vibrate against him.
It’s pathetically endearing how you can’t keep off of him after that, insisting on sitting on his lap during meals, your cute ass grinding against his clothed cock, always dropping to your knees in between chores, warming his cock in your greedy mouth, always asking him how many pills you’ve earned so far. You really are just his little slutty drug addict now, aren’t you?
But he needs you to be more than that, needs you to learn that you belong to anyone who’s willing to give you the high you crave, needs you to realize that you’re just a free use drug addicted whore for anyone and everyone to use.
So despite how tempting it is to just plunge balls deep inside your tight little pussy, he shoves you off of him one night as you try to grind against his body, feigning exhaustion and boredom of your body, watching in amusement at the panicked crazed look that flashes across your face at his words. Well aren’t you a beautiful sight, throwing yourself at his feet and groveling, saying you’ll do anything for another dose.
Anything, huh?
In your defense, even through the daze of your withdrawal, there’s still a wary expression on your face when Matsukawa and Hanamaki enter the room. Maybe you aren’t as broken as Oikawa had thought. But when you see the little baggies filled with the tablets you’ve become far too familiar with twirling between the duo’s fingers, you practically lunge at them and Oikawa finally allows himself the pleasure of reaching into his pants and stroking himself to the debauched sight playing out in front of him.
Maybe he needs to fuck you in front of a mirror more often if this is what you look like from an outside perspective. It’s like you were made to be used, to be just a warm toy for men to use and Oikawa can’t help but think you look best like this, cocks penetrating both your front and back holes, your body squeezed between two bodies. And he fondly smiles at how you have Hanamaki’s face between the palms of your hands, your lips locked in a sloppy kiss as your tongue ravages the strawberry blonde’s mouth, searching for the pills the man had playfully placed on the tip of his tongue in front of your very eyes before winking at you and telling you to come and get them yourself if you wanted them so badly.
They keep your daily training a surprise, mixing up who gets to wreck your body each day, how many cocks and rounds of cum you’ll need to pay with, what pills and dosage you get. Always keeping you lost and confused, making sure your mind is just a muddled mess that can only think of reaching your next high by any means necessary.
Hell, even Iwaizumi takes part when he realizes that you’re beyond the point of no return, that Oikawa wasn’t joking when he said that there is no other choice for you anymore. This is your life now. This is who you are now. This is your “happily ever after”. He knows all that, can see all that in the way your dazed eyes only come to life at the sight of your addiction, your otherwise listless body perking up at the sound of the tiny objects rattling in their container. And yet a small sliver of guilt has him growling at you to get on all fours, ensuring your face isn’t visible, turning you into just another body for him to mindlessly use as he pleases.
It’s an uncomfortable position, borderline painful as your knees rock back and forth on the hard floor with every brutal thrust of Iwaizumi’s hips. But you don’t care, the aching pain in your legs just dull background noise as you fixate on the tablets scattered on the floor in front of your face, dropping your entire upper body low to the ground, only your hips raised high as your mouth snaps forward. You’re so close and you mewl as your lips make contact with the first pill, uncaring of the pitiful sight you make licking and lapping the floor, whimpering when a hand firmly grabs you by the hair and roughly pulls your face away from your feast.
“Maybe we should get you a dog bowl, cutie. It’s humiliating even for you to be eating from the dirty floor like that. Hold her hair for me, Iwa-chan.”
You crane your neck back and forth, jaw jutting forward as you frantically fight against the tight grip holding you back, mouth drooling and tongue extending like a ravenous animal. But it’s no use and you whine, too focused on your unfinished “meal” to notice how Oikawa is still standing in front of you, cock pulled out from his pants, his hands rapidly fisting the shaft. And only when thick white spurts glaze the remaining pills do you whip your attention towards him, staring with hopeful wide eyes when he crouches in front of you and grabs your face.
“When Iwa-chan lets go of your hair, you’ll get to have the rest of your treats, but you also have to eat the special seasoning I’ve generously given you, okay? If I see even a speck of it left, you’re not getting anything tomorrow, understand?”
Oikawa laughs at how vigorously you nod your head and with a nod in Iwaizumi’s direction, you’re released and the two men watch on as you lick the floor until it’s sparkling clean, slumping your face in the mess of your own drying saliva as you reach euphoria once more. You wail as Iwaizumi shoves you off a cliff and into floating clouds of bliss with one last thrust, the drugs in your system weaving a comforting cocoon around you that you melt into, unable to escape its soothing pull, giggling in content as his seed fills you to the brim.
There’s silence as Iwaizumi pulls out of you, tucking himself back into his pants before sitting besides Oikawa, joining him as he continues observing your used and drugged up body sprawled across the floor, a dopey smile on your face as cum begins to leak out of your spent pussy.
Minutes pass and Iwaizumi sighs, knowing what Oikawa is waiting for him to ask despite how insistent he has been over the years about not wanting to be involved in this particular side of the business...
“Are you going to have her start working at the brothel soon? She seems just about ready.”
“Not yet. I want to give her a few test runs first before I have her work full-time at that establishment. She’s only been with the four of us, so I’m curious to see how she is with a complete stranger. It’s perfect timing too since Sawamura is coming over for a meeting soon and I know he won’t damage the goods if I gift her to him for a night or two. Plus, she hasn’t completely lost her mind yet so we can get some more use out of her before we toss her aside...”
The brunette rambles on, tone light and airy as if he’s just discussing the weather or a TV show he watched, as if he’s not mere feet away from a woman he’s utterly destroyed and rebuilt into just another brainless profit-making doll.
And Iwaizumi tunes him out, already having heard almost this exact speech countless times by now, unable to even keep track of how many others like you there have been in the past, unwilling to think about how many more there will be in the future. But he snorts at Oikawa’s typical closing line.
“I guess it’s almost time to find a new cute maid.”
#haikyuu smut#yandere haikyuu#yandere oikawa#yandere oikawa x reader#oikawa x reader#tw: yandere#tw: drugging#tw: drugs#tw: addiction#tw: noncon#tw: dubcon
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Lena's wardrobe planning must be a nightmare. Every day she has to account for the fact that this might finally be the day she and Kara fuck in a semi-public space
*EDIT: now on ao3 for your thirsty convenience*
“Tell me again what this article’s about?”
She asks it innocently, as if she genuinely can’t remember. As if she hadn’t spent an extra 40 minutes this morning dripping in a towel in the middle of her walk-in closet, determined to select the perfect outfit for this very conversation.
The way Kara’s eyes are glued to the exposed lines of her clavicle as she sits down tells her the extra deliberation was entirely worth it.
“It’s just a puff piece,” Kara says offhandedly, taking a seat on the far side of Lena’s desk. Or at least, she tries to take a seat but misses the chair entirely, pitching forward and almost taking half the contents of Lena’s desk with her. It’s only her superspeed that saves Lena’s water jug from its collision course with the ground and Kara rights it with sweaty fingers that leave faint smudges on the glass, blushing.
“Are you alright, darling?” Lena asks gently, biting her lip to keep from smirking as Kara, redder than a fire hydrant, finally takes her seat.
“Fine,” the blonde manages, only a little strangled. “Sorry. Just— misjudged the, you know. Chair.”
“Distracted?” Lena asks coyly, voice dipping a smooth half-octave lower as she arches an eyebrow.
She watches in barely restrained delight as Kara’s throat works. “No,” the blonde manages after a moment. “Just— busy. Articles, deadlines. You know how it is.” She seems to have regained her footing now, smoothing her hands over her slacks before reaching into her purse for a pad and pen. “The article’s another clickbait piece, basically. Dress for success: the wardrobes of women in power. Andrea’s making me write it.”
Kara’s voice drips with so much disgust that Lena purses her lips in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Kara. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Don’t be silly,” Kara says instantly, face breaking into a shy smile. “It means I get to spend the afternoon with you. And your wardrobe has always been very—” she breaks off, hand gesturing in the air between them as though she might be able to pluck the right word out of the ether. “—impressive,” she finishes with a small swallow, eyes delicately averted from the expanse of creamy skin on display before her.
“You think so?”
“Of course,” Kara says quickly. Her still floundering hand drifts back and forth in the air as if to encompass Lena’s general existence. “I’d ask if you dressed up specially for this interview, but honestly you always look like that.”
“Like that?” Lena repeats, a teasing lilt to her tone. She leans back in her office chair, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. This piece, a deep red off-the-shoulder dress with a V-shaped neckline plunging just enough to be borderline workplace inappropriate, had cost more than a small car and been custom-made and shipped to her from an upscale boutique in Paris. Looking now at Kara’s wide eyes and pink cheeks, every last cent of import tax feels absolutely worth it. “Like what, exactly?”
Kara’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click and she stares down at the pad in her hands with such intensity that Lena absently wonders if the offending paper is about to be laser-visioned.
“Shall we start with the questions, then?” Kara says quickly, clicking her ballpoint pen with enough force that it shatters the entire casing. She stares forlornly down at the plastic shards in her palm until Lena clears her throat, passing another pen to the blonde with a wordless smile.
Kara removes the lid from the offered pen with the delicacy and focus of someone disarming a bomb. “I hope you don’t find this insulting,” she says as she turns to a fresh page, finally meeting Lena’s eyes again. “I mean, you’re one of the greatest minds in the country and I’m here to ask you about your clothes.”
“Not at all. Wardrobe planning is an extremely involved affair,” Lena deadpans, tilting her head to one side and relishing the way Kara’s eyes skate the cut of her jaw. “Quantum mechanics is nothing compared to the challenge of pairing the right shirt with the right jacket.”
“Right,” Kara says absently, her gaze fixed on the regal column of Lena’s bare throat. She’d foregone a necklace this morning and pulled her still-curly hair up into a soft bun for this exact purpose; knowing that her natural waves were Kara’s favourite, but knowing too that a dress like this deserved to be unencumbered by loose hair or jewellery to really reach its full potential.
“So, um,” Kara starts before swallowing hard, reaching for the glass of water waiting for her on the desk and downing its contents in one swift gulp. “What’s your, um, selection process? How would you describe your wardrobe requirements?”
One corner of Lena’s mouth tugs upwards. “As a woman in a male-dominated world, I’ve learned to use my wardrobe as a tool. My clothing has to be professional without appearing intimidating, project confidence without audacity. Visual impressions precede all other business dealings; I can tailor my wardrobe to my audience the way I would tailor a speech or a press release. When done correctly, it helps me get what I want.”
Kara is staring at her in rapt attention, eyes flicking rhythmically between Lena’s eyes and mouth. She hasn’t written a single thing on the pad in her lap.
“And of course, I have to be careful in the lab,” Lena continues, leaning forward to fold her hands together on the desk in front of her and squeezing her arms ever so slightly against the sides of her chest. It’s always prudent to take advantage of one’s strengths, and the plunging neckline of this particular outfit leaves no doubt in Lena’s mind as to which of her assets she should be emphasising right now. “I can’t wear anything that could prove dangerous.”
“Do you do that often?” Kara asks a little dazedly, gaze now focused a solid foot below Lena’s face. “Wear things that are d-dangerous?”
Lena smirks. Kara’s eyes are locked on Lena’s chest, following its gentle rise and fall with a tangible hunger. It lights a fire in Lena. “You tell me.”
The office falls utterly silent, the air between them leaden with tension. Kara’s eyes linger at the juncture where pale skin gives way to deep red fabric for one more aching moment before beginning a torturously slow crawl up Lena’s chest and neck to meet her gaze once more.
The blue eyes that lock back onto hers are dark and greedy, pupils blown wide. The sight sets Lena’s heart thud-thudding in her chest and damn the superhearing that has surely picked up on it, damn the owner of said superhearing whose lips quirk up in a barely-there smirk.
“You know,” Kara starts, pausing as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Lena can’t stop her own eyes from dropping heavy to take in the sight and the blonde’s smirk grows another degree. “I think if I’m going to do this piece justice, I really need to see the full picture.”
Lena can do little more than stare in silent confusion until Kara stands, dropping her pad carelessly onto the chair and rounding the desk to where Lena sits. “Stand up?” she asks in a low voice, holding out a hand. “That looks like a dress that deserves to be properly admired.”
Lena swallows hard against her suddenly dry throat, taking the proffered hand mutely and rising a little unsteadily to her feet. Kara steps closer until they’re toe to toe and Lena’s not even breathing as a tanned hand reaches up and gently releases her hair from its bun, letting dark curls fall freely across her bare shoulders.
But Kara’s hand doesn’t return to her side once it accomplishes its mission. It tugs through the curls now tickling Lena’s neck, the backs of her knuckles dragging lightly against Lena’s throat until she can’t restrain a shiver. It continues its wandering, sliding up the back of Lena’s neck to bury itself fully in her hair, thumb extended to rub at the hinge of Lena’s jaw.
“Is it?” Kara asks quietly, and Lena barely represses an honest-to-god whine at the sensation of the blonde’s breath hitting her lips.
“What?” she whispers, feeling Kara’s thumb shift against her skin.
“Is this outfit helping you get what you want?”
Lena swallows hard, the movement causing Kara’s thumb to slip down her neck until it trips to a stop directly over her thundering pulse. Lena takes a deep, decidedly un-calming breath, and tries with her last shred of rational thought to claw back the control of the situation she had at some point so thoroughly surrendered. “You tell m—”
She doesn’t even get the last word out before Kara’s lips are on hers, hot and insistent and perfect and fucking finally, and Lena just. Gives up. Gives up access to her mouth as soon as Kara’s tongue hits the seam of her lips, gives up trying to hold back her moans when Kara licks in warm and wet, starts sucking on her tongue.
Gives in to the desire, years in the making, to smooth her hands over Kara’s biceps, her broad muscular shoulders. Gives in to the urge to crush their bodies together, to finally feel the delicious press of the toned planes of Kara’s frame against every one of her own curves.
The hand not still buried in Lena’s hair begins charting an exploratory path up Lena’s side, across her ribs, and Lena is grateful for the sheerness of the skin-tight fabric that does nothing to dull the burning trail Kara’s palm is blazing against her skin.
Three things happen then in quick succession: Kara’s wandering fingers reach the underside of Lena’s breast and the sudden contact causes her other hand to tighten its grip in Lena’s hair, tugging sharply. Lena gasps, head falling backwards as a low groan rips from her throat at the slight sting. Kara’s mouth drops hot and wet to Lena’s neck, lips and teeth sucking and scraping over her rocketing pulse until Lena’s writhing against her.
“How long have you wanted this?” Kara pants, trailing kisses across Lena’s jaw and down the curve of her throat. “How long could I have been doing this?”
Lena’s eyelids flutter shut, fingers digging tight into firm shoulders as Kara sucks another mark into the skin above her collarbone. She lingers long enough that Lena knows it will bruise and in this dress, with this amount of skin on display and no way to cover it up, the thought sends a thrill through her that has her arching up into the heat of Kara’s mouth. “Oh, I don’t know,” she answers breathily, tugging Kara closer still. “How long have I been dressing like this?”
It’s Kara who moans then, reaching down to hook her hands under Lena’s thighs and lifting her onto the desk, pressing herself tight between Lena’s spread legs. In the back of her mind, Lena registers an inordinate rush of gratitude toward her past self for booking out three hours for this interview and issuing strict do not disturb instructions to her assistant.
“Gorgeous as this dress is, it’s kind of in the way,” Kara pants, one hand sliding under the hem of the offending material to skim up Lena’s bare thigh. “But it looks expensive, I don’t want to rip it—”
“Rip it,” Lena gasps immediately, tugging Kara’s mouth desperately back to her own. Preserving an item of clothing has never been further from her mind than in this exact moment. And as she’d said to Kara, her wardrobe had always functioned primarily as means to an end.
And what an end this was turning out to be.
#well this got a little away from me#thank you anon and also today's gifset of lena in that low-cut red top for inspiring this#and for helping me get over crippling writer's block#sc#minific#asks#anonymous#dings dot txt
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They were hiding like they always did, staying in the corners, only ever greeting people and too nervous to make conversation. ‘The adorably shy queen’ the tabloids had named them. Shyness really wasn’t an issue, they loved meeting new people. But every time they even mentioned life outside the castle to another person, they could feel his cold, viridescent stare on them.
They were nothing but a doll, decor. Teenage girls wanted to be them, the boys found them cute. What a truly odd existence. Malleus had gone into the next room with some politician from the west. Having a banquet at political meetings had been his idea, giving them something to do while he worked.
A hand rested on their shoulder, they turned to see Leona Kingscholar. He looked the same, though a bit of rough stubble adorned his chin, he had new tattoos as well.
“We need to talk, herbivore”, the nickname that annoyed them to bits years ago now seemed like a call from heaven. A way out
An ally.
This is a sequel to this story
----
Before everything went to south, MC was a social butterfly. They would talk with anyone and find topic to converse easily but here they were. Too afraid to make a conversation with people to avoid making Malleus upset. They remember first time MC felt Malleus’ raw jealousy on their first year in Valley of Thorns. They were trying to cope with their abduction, to feel normal again and soothe their need to socialize with others. There were noble fae visitors on that day. Maleficent suggested drink tea on the balcony while she, Malleus and some of the nobles had a meeting. The remaining group went to the balcony, sitting on the chairs around the table.
It was silent when the servants brought snacks for the group. MC thought the group hated them since they are a human so they didn’t utter a word. It was silent until one of the fae ladies spoke up and asked how they’ve been faring. MC was reluctant at first, fearing their judgment but as they spoke more, their confidence restored. It was not just the fae lady who initiated the conversation, the rest of the group were good people too. Talking with them soothed MC’s nerves, in fact, they craved to talk with them more. They were on the verge of a mental breakdown after being isolated for so very long, talking with them felt like a cure in that moment. They could not even recall the last time they laughed until that day. All was going well until he showed up. Their meeting ended earlier so he didn’t want to waste any time to be with MC, yet when he teleported, he saw MC talking and laughing with someone who isn’t him. He dismissed the guests politely before teleporting MC and himself to his- no their- bed chambers.
Malleus was enraged that they were getting intimate with another even though it was just laughing and engaging in conversation. The sky darkened as Malleus expression was taking a dark turn. The sky was rumbling with thunder and lightening, as Malleus was taking slow and uncanny steps towards them, making MC flinch with every step. That day, MC felt Malleus’ true rage, true jealousy, true power... It was not uncommon for Malleus to take pleasure in their body regardless of MC’s wishes but that day, it was more than that. It caused MC to have nightmares over a year. Waking up because of a night terror and only to be soothed by the person who caused it was taking a toll on MC. But no one cared nor dared to stand up for them. That day MC learned not to talk with people when Malleus wasn’t around, how much cruel Malleus could get when he wishes and no one would bat an eye. That day MC decided to be obedient, to avoid more harm.
Now here MC was, greeting delegates from different countries and the nobles of Valley of Thorns briefly and making a small talk before moving on to the next person. No one managed to ask questions beyond daily talk and Valley of Thorns related queries. Their court and the delegates saw them as the Shy Queen, thinking that MC was still nervous to talk with people they didn’t know personally. The truth couldn’t be far from that. They just didn’t want to get punished for socializing nor feel that pain again.
MC needed a drink and compose themselves before moving on to the other guests. That was the plan until they saw something or more like someone. They had to take a second look since they didn’t think Malleus would be this bold to invite someone from the past, someone who knew who MC was before becoming Malleus’ prisoner- no spouse. Taking another look at the figure, the realization dawned upon them. It was Leona Kingscholar, the hot guy who was not even trying to be hot, the lion king of Savanaclaw, the person they and Grim kept awake all night for him to help fight the next dorm leader. Leona and MC were not close in the NRC but to see a familiar face...
MC just wanted to run and hug him tightly. They were about to do that but then Malleus came to their mind. Speak of the devil, he shall appear...
Malleus came soon after Leona spoke. MC wanted to explain the situation so it wouldn’t cause a problem but Malleus cut them off, pulling them over, kissing their hands affectionately, making a show in front of Leona. MC recalled the rivalry between them. Leona was powerful but he was in the middle of Valley of Thorns, surrounded by powerful fae, Malleus, Lilia and Maleficent herself. He didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t want him to be harmed so they were eager to remove the reason of current conflict, themselves, from there but it was impossible for Malleus to just let them go. MC’s heart was racing, as if it would go out of her chest when Malleus forced them to eye contact. They thought a kiss on cheek would suffice but Malleus lifted their chip up before kissing them on the lips. If it wasn’t for the years of practice to stay still even while being violated, their knees would have given away.
MC let out the breath they weren’t aware that they were holding. Everything was too much, the stress was getting to them but they couldn’t fail now and make Malleus think something happened between them and Leona. They saw a servant and ordered a drink. Before they could have some alone time, a noble approached them and started talking. MC was having a hard time to have the standard conversation as they has with the rest. They were feeling nauseous as the nobles kept talking but luckily the servant brought them a glass of campaign. Gulping the entire glass in one go, they got the attention of the nobles as they started to make unwanted comments. The alcohol made them relax just a tiny bit. Finally, MC was able to continue conversation. As it ended, they asked for another drink while going over to greet others.
After what seemed like an age, MC found an opening to take a break. They walked into the quieter corridor, hoping for some alone time. They didn’t get what they hoped for...
A hand rested on their shoulder, making them panic since they knew it was not how Malleus touched so this meant someone other than Malleus was touching them. They wanted to warn the person. They turned around to see Malleus’ possible victim, only to meet with Leona’s eyes. “We need to talk” He said firmly.
MC just wanted him to be okay so they couldn’t speak with him, ensuring Malleus’ wrath. They conjured up a smile as best as they could in that situation. “We have already talked, Prince Kingscholar. Now if you excuse me,” MC was going to walk around him and go back to the crowd - so much for relaxing.
“Lizard is in an important meeting along with grandma Lizard. The guards are not checking your every move all the time. They have intervals.” Leona stated casually. “This means we can talk, Herbivore.” He seemed determined to talk.
Mc knew they should have walked away but something in Leona’s voice made them trust his observation. “Be quick please, I don’t want to anger Mal- I mean, my husba- I- I-” They were having trouble with speaking with Leona without saying what went on behind the closed doors.
“I don’t need to smell to know your nervousness, MC. Especially around the Lizard who is supposed to be your husband. Tell me what happened directly now.” Leona looked the same, though a bit of rough stubble adorned his chin, he had new tattoos as well. “Did you return home?” He was asking impossible questions.
MC gulped, recalling the day they lost everything. It pained them greatly to think about the day they thought they would see their family and friends again. “No...” They whispered, clenching their fists and burying their nails to their palm to not cry, yet they couldn’t prevent the quivering of their voice. “Dire Crowley told me to come over to the mirror room. He told me that he found a way to go home and wants me to check it out before going back completely.” They closed their eyes, it was as if reliving that dreadful moment. “My husba- Mal- no my husba... You-Know-Who was there with the old bat. I thought they wanted to see interdimensional travel for the first time but they had other plans. You-Know-Who told Dire that he did a good job before he took me to Valley of Thorns with the old bat. I resisted at first but if you went through what I-” Their voice broke as they felt tears in their eyes, dropping to their cheeks. They wiped their cheek, “I answered your question, now please leave me be before some guard sees us together and reports to You-Know-Who. I accepted this is my life and I live this way now.”
“Not anymore,” Leona objected, MC could feel the anger behind these those words. “Your imprisonment ends today, you are coming with me, Herbivore.” He stated, ordering them around like when they were in the NRC.
In that moment, it seemed silly but hearing them from someone like Leona made them imagine how their life could have changed. Maybe this was their way out and he was their ally.
——
🍪 Anon I love your brain once again!
#twst#twisted wonderland#leona kingscholar#malleus draconia#savanaclaw#diasomnia#warning: yandere#yandere twisted wonderland#yandere twst#yandere malleus draconia#twst mc#twisted wonderland mc#mc/yuu
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