#its not a fix all forever home. its a place to finally chill for a bit. to go to the beach. to go on hikes in the forest. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrspillow · 3 years

Text

Sorry (Jellal Fernandes x Reader)

"Hmm... strawberry cake..."

Suppressing a small laugh you turned your head to Erza, your best friend of childhood days that never seemed to miss the opportunity of shoving cake into her mouth.

You had seen the amounts of baked goods the redhead could swallow within minutes, not even speaking of hours, but when it came to strawberry cakes, it turned ridiculous.

"I do not know how you aren't fat already, Erza", you mused and put your chin onto your palm, still watching that food orgy of hers "But I guess that's okay, Ichiya likes your body just the way you are."

Even though she was wearing armor, you could see the shivers running down her spine and her face growing blue as she choked on that cake.

"Stop that", she didn't like being teased with a matter as serious as Ichiya, not even by you "You know exactly he gives me the chills every time."

You shrugged and turned back to the field inside of the Domus Flau arena in Krokus, watching the pair of wizards fight it out. Although you were no part of a guild, you were busy cheering on for Fairy Tail whenever they entered the field.

Yeah, sure, there were shouts of boos and the mocking of the other guilds but with Erza alone, they couldn't be any worse than the best.

You just knew it.

Even when the both of you were just kids and surely no force to reckon with, she wasn't just a surprisingly powerful mage but also kind and caring for those in her family. She was everything that made you change minds back then and you couldn't have been more grateful. It was only then that you realized just what exactly it was that you were doing and you felt so dirty the moment it became clear as day.

You snapped out of your stupor before it became obvious you were lightyears away and focused on the matches ahead of you.

Snatching the list from Gray's hands (who was too absorbed into fighting off Juvia - as always) to take a glimpse at the letters, you let out a sigh of defeat.

"Can I have a piece too?"

Just as you felt your eyes sliding shut, Natsu bumped into you, nearly making you fall over the handrails but at least, you were awake now.

"Is it finally over?" you leaned back and let out a yawn "Thank God!"

After all, you weren't that much into stuff like tournaments, Fairy Tail was basically the only reason for you to come into this cave of pent-up masses.

Nobody answered you, either tired as well or already on their way through the door and out of the arena, back to their sweet sweet home. You got up quickly and grabbed Erza (still next to you but with a very empty plate - you could only guess Mira had sacrificed her even more cakes) to get out.

It was just then that you noticed how far the sun has gone westwards making you suppress another yawn that made its way up. You got to go to bed soon enough anyway so no need to rush.

The way back out was surprisingly swift and without running into any hostile guilds (lucky you). So you were out before Natsu broke something or bumped into somebody.

"Let's go grab something to eat, (Y/N)? You coming?", you heard Gray's voice from behind you, making you turn around and give him a bright smile - only to decline.

"I'd love to, really, but there is that thing I need to get done yet. Don't worry, I'll be back soon, just start without me.", your voice was sweet enough that you nearly even betrayed yourself, if it hadn't been for that tiny tiny voice in your head.

Why don't you just tell them?

But you brushed it off without a second thought, no need to worry your friends about your self-made worries and troubles.

"Okay...", Erza didn't seem as convinced as you would've liked "You sure?"

A simple nod was enough to soothe her and so, you made your way back into town, taking a stroll through the streets devoid of people or friends. You were alone with your thoughts and the memories that came with them.

You sighed making eye contact with the horizon to take in the way the sun was drowning beneath these parts of bustling streets and places.

You hadn't missed the silence that came with the night for you had heard it over and over again in those sleepless nights.

It shamed you to this day that you hadn't noticed the way he was using you, cocooning you in soft and sweet words to make your finger bleed from hard work and your skin shining from the sweat and tears spilled for him. The worst part of it all was that damned silent voice within you, asking again and again if what you were doing was right.

How could you build weapons of mass destruction meant for thousands with a straight face?

How dared you think sacrificing people to a black wizard could be a way to achieve paradise?

How did you fail to notice that you would never be able to sleep after you were so willing to make these sacrifices more for him than for Zeref after all?

Who knew.

Did I know?

You wondered for years if maybe, just maybe, you had known what you were doing. You probably weren't even able to throw the cloak of ignorance over your shoulders to save yourself from the cold feeling of guilt.

Shame, shame on you.

You hated the way he made you feel so far away from everything like he had built a place away from the wars and the screams of the world, simply made for the two of you.

And again, you failed to notice how it was only the mist caught in between your fingers.

"(Y/N)?"

At first, you thought it was only the back of your mind, playing tricks on you by reviving past days and voices. But after some seconds, you had noticed the silhouette nearby and wondered if you had heard his voice.

Maybe you were going crazy.

At first, you noticed the dark blue hair, sticking out to spite the cloak it was put under, then that tattoo you would notice everywhere.

Jellal Fernandes.

Surprisingly enough, your panicking mind took it upon itself to react, stumping you with the bright - borderline hysterical - laugh that came out of your mouth.

You just couldn't help it. The way he appeared after decades with nothing to say but your name just about the moment you had wallowed in self-hate and guilt was just ridiculous.

Jellal stood quiet, not even his face gave away whatever irritated look he might have had, giving your laugh an untimely end. And that was just about what you needed to come back to your right set of mind.

"What are you doing here?" You didn't bother the biting hate in your voice or the way his shoulders slumped from your tone.

"I came because Erza told me you would be here.", he started when he had straightened again "She said it wouldn't be a good idea but I came because I wanted to speak to you."

You didn't trust the way this man looked so sad. You couldn't.

Not even enough to sit next to him when he scuffled over to the next bench and gestured for you to take a seat.

Not ever, not in a thousand years would you take that seat.

So you stood like a tree, unmoving and unwavering in your place, staring at him and ready to defend yourself by any means.

Would he try anything funny?

From the way, you knew him back then? Definitely.

Surprisingly though, he didn't try to press you into sitting down, instead starting to talk about whatever it was that lead him back to you.

"It took me a very long time to properly realize what had happened in the Tower of Heaven" he started "I did things in there that I never remembered to have said or done, horrible things. And when I remembered, it was like watching through the glass as someone else moved my body."

For the blink of an eye, his hand hovered over his head before he opted to pull down his hood and revealed the dark blue hair. Jellal sighed before he put his face in his hands for a few moments as if he was trying to get ahold of his last pieces of sanity.

"And when I understood what I had done, I felt so, so guilty. I tried to sacrifice hundreds - no, thousands of people, I manipulated you, Milliana, and the others to work for my cause. The worst of it all was the way I led you to believe in the lies I told you over and over again. I remember that look of adoration in your eyes and I misused it for these terrifying things."

The way he spoke of these sins the two of you committed so easily made you relive the shame of it over and over again. It was like your mind couldn't stop.

"I need to atone for these sins, for the things I did to you, and I wanted to start by telling you how sorry I am for the way I treated you and led you into believing these tales.

I do not ask for you to forgive me or to see beyond that, I came here to apologize because that is what you deserve."

For the first time since he started talking, he looked into your eyes as if waiting for your response and your mind came to an abrupt halt.

What exactly was it what you were feeling?

Hate?

Sadness?

Anger?

...No.

For the first time in forever, you could sympathize with him - that person who you had thought of as a monster for much longer than you wanted to admit. He had been taken advantage of and used to do whatever malicious things asked of him. He did not have a choice.

What did he feel like when he discovered how many people had been suffering under him? Was it sorrow? Betrayal? Shock? Or even anger?

And only when you were ready to answer was it that you too were looking into these dark eyes.

"I remember every damn word you spoke whenever you looked at me so fondly and I remember how you laughed at me for even believing in your farce. " you didn't try to cover up the bitterness sneaking in when you recalled your heart break into pieces just like that.

"And now that you are sitting in front of me, asking for forgiveness, I don't even feel the hate anymore." it had stilled to numbness in your heart, always there, but only with that hollow feeling, never leaving.

"I cannot forget", you further explained feeling unshed tears prick in your eyes "My memories have become a part of me and they will never leave again. A Sorry won't fix everything."

By then, two or three tears escaped over your face before you could wipe them away, not escaping Jellals gaze.

He turned to look at the ground for a few seconds, then he moved off the bench and cast a sad smile at you, only to walk away from you as if that was his clue to disappear back into the night.

Only when you understood where he going, you set into motion, reaching out for his hand.

"But..."

The blue-haired male revolved when he felt your hand in his, soft as in those memories he still held close. His eyes became wide at the side of your tearing and red eyes, paired with that tiny, hopeful smile directed at him.

"But... I won't give up on you."

His mouth carved up to mirror your smile as he squeezed your hand just like sunlight kissing your skin.

#fairy tail #jellal fernandes #jellal #jellal x reader #x reader #anime #writing #crime sorciere #reader insert #(y/n)#imagine

168 notes · View notes

starlightsearches · 3 years

Text

Eyes On Me

Requests are open ✨ Modern Armitage Hux x F! Reader Warnings: RC is a sex-worker, discussions of sex, language. AN: Hi friends! After stressing over the newest chapters of Office Romance for the last, uh, forever, I thought I'd reward myself by writing something fun, flirty and fresh! I started working on this a few months ago after partaking in @thembohux's wonderful sugar daddy content, and then I had to put it on pause for a while until I picked it back up a few days ago. I have no plans for this story: no additional concepts, no plot points. Mostly I wanted a place to dump PWP in the future. If there is enough interest, or if you guys have any ideas about stuff you'd like to see in this storyline, please let me know and I might continue sooner rather than later. No sex in this chapter, but because of the nature of the story I'm still gonna ask minors to not read. Thanks!!

He’s already at the restaurant when you arrive.

That never happens. You’ve spent hours alone in restaurants sipping on wine and kissing your teeth, waiting for the moment some investment banker with a receding hairline finally decided you were worth his time—as if he hadn’t contacted you first.

You were hoping for a chance to find the restroom before the meeting, maybe fix your hair and refresh your lipstick—like you normally would before introducing yourself to a new client—and instead you’re rushing to the table, fanning yourself with one hand and hoping that you don’t have any leftovers from lunch stuck in your teeth.

Your heels click rapidly against the tile; you’re practically running over the hostess as she leads you towards the back of the mostly-empty restaurant, right next to the wide picture windows, which overlook the garden and the golf course beyond. There’s only one person seated there—a man much younger than you anticipated, closer to your own age than any of your clients. He has to hear you coming, loud as you are, but he keeps his eye on some distant point beyond the glass, brow creased, looking pensive.

You take stock of him as you approach: he wears a crisp, three-piece blue suit in a classic and well-tailored cut, black shoes shined to a polish, so clean you could see your reflection in them. The watch he wears is out of place, understated as it is; certainly not what you’d expect from a man in his pay-grade. It probably has some sentimental value, considering the signs of wear on the leather straps, and the nicks studded in the metal. His hair is slicked back and neat, a shock of red tamed into submission with shiny gel.

When your eyes trace over his face, you find it difficult to look away.

Pale skin stretches over angular cheekbones and a proud nose, his features carved with the decisive hand of a master. His jaw is strained, eyes severe—storm-colored and intense—but framed by soft lashes and an intelligent brow. The combination makes your legs go numb for a moment.

You didn’t expect him to be so handsome.

The tension in his face is lost as soon as you approach, his full, pink lips part in a whispered greeting as he stands. Chill fingers meet your own, his handshake firm and formal, but his eyes widen when you lean in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, catching the faintest mouth-watering whiff of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille on his skin.

He pulls away from the unexpected embrace, taking your chair in both hands as he pulls it out from the table. There’s a rosy tinge over his skin, his hands gripping the wood back of the chair tightly, but you don’t miss the way they shake when he lets go.

He’s nervous. How sweet.

“Armitage Hux,” he offers, the gentle lilt of his accent like a melody, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You offer him a smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

The waiter arrives at the table soon after you’re seated, probably eager for something to do during the post-lunch lull, and you let Armitage order for you, as he’s more familiar with the menu. Soon enough, the table is spread with an array of exquisite desserts and a coffee for each of you.

Armitage sips from his mug as you sink your fork into the chantilly cake, your lips wrapping gently around it, lingering there before you pull it from your mouth with exaggerated slowness, moaning slightly when the fresh berries burst against your tongue. It’s not an act, as far as he can tell, but a genuine reaction of pleasure, as if you couldn’t possibly imagine something more enjoyable than a bite of cake and the taste of a blackberry.

Jesus. What has he gotten himself into?

You sample a few more of the desserts he’s ordered, making silly comments about each, probably sensing his nerves and hoping to put him at ease.

You have kind eyes. It’s the first thing he noticed while scrolling through mountains of photos in the email, discreetly marked as a list of potential assistants for hire. You stood out among all the others; even after his initial hesitance, and the thirtieth or fortieth time he’d decided that it wasn’t worth it, the image of you stayed with him in the back of his mind.

To his dismay or delight—he hasn’t yet decided—the effect is only magnified in person, and he’s glad when you glance away, reaching into your purse and pulling out your cell phone, tapping at the screen a few times before setting it face down on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I record our conversation today,” you ask, “I find that it’s helpful to keep track of these introductions, and it would be a little too conspicuous if I pulled out a notepad. Everything that you share with me will be kept between us, of course.”

He nods in confirmation, and you settle into your seat, leaning over the table, attention entirely focused on him. “Alright, then. Tell me about yourself.”

He shifts in his chair, trying and failing to get comfortable. “I’m not sure what you’d like to know.”

“That’s alright. You can tell me about work, or your hobbies. Any pets?”

There’s the softest hint of humor in everything you say, but you treat him like he’s part of the joke instead of its target. He’s not sure if it’s unsettling or not.

“I work in finance—First Order investments. I don’t have time for hobbies . . .” he hesitates, trying to decide if you’re seriously asking him about his pets, “ and I have a cat named Millicent.”

“How sweet. Are you married?”

He splutters into his coffee, setting the cup back down on the table before choking out his answer, “no.”

You wave his distress away with a flighty hand. “It’s alright if you are; I’m not here to judge you. It does help to know, though.”

“No, I’m not married,” he confirms.

“Great,” you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs. The gesture feels more suitable for a therapist than . . . whatever it is you are, “Let’s talk a little bit about why you contacted me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s always a reason. Usually it’s a big life event, but not always. Things like a recent divorce, close family member or friend getting married, a new promotion . . .”

You finish the sentence with a flourish of your hand, inviting him to imagine all the different reasons men would want to buy your company, and his face falls.

If anything, it was the opposite. Nothing had happened for too long, his days all painted with the same brush. Arrive at work. Sell his life for the success of his father’s company. Leave the office too late. Continue working at home, Millie on his lap and a glass of wine.

And then repeat.

“No,” he coughs, clearing the tightness in his throat, “Nothing of that sort.”

You purse your lips. “Is there anything specific you’re hoping to get out of this?”

He turns too sharply, pain singing up the side of his neck, the sun stinging his eyes. How god damn embarrassing, sitting across from someone so lovely, knowing that they had to be paid to be there.

He bites down on the inside of his lip, hoping to stave off any more unfortunate emotions. He’s startled from his melancholy when he feels your hand against his, brushing the tips of your fingers over his knuckles. There’s some hesitation in your touch, a hint of apprehension; it surprises him, and after a moment, he lets his eyes find yours again.

“There’s no shame in being lonely,” you say, before pulling your hand back, a serious look on your face, “it’s the most human emotion.”

He scoffs, “and what would you know about that?”

You glance down, pressing your lips together before offering him a sad smile that’s achingly familiar. “I’m lonely more often than you might think.”

He wonders what might have happened if he met you under different circumstances. If he had found you organically, maybe sitting alone at a hotel bar—would he have had the courage to approach you? Would the conversation flowed this easily, would you have pressed your hand against his shoulder and smiled, maybe left him with your phone number, or held his hand tight in your own as he led you back to his hotel room?

It’s a ridiculous question, a fantasy in the purest sense. You wouldn’t have looked at him twice.

You cough gently, clearing the emotional charge from the moment before continuing your line of questions.

“Why don’t we talk a little bit about your preferences for appearance, like certain kinds of clothing, or lingerie?”

He takes a deep breath, letting out the last of his self-pity with it. Thank god, he knows the answer to this one. “Black lace.”

“Okay, I can do that. Do you have any other requests? Specific hair styles? Nail colors?”

His distaste must be clear on his face, because you laugh, “do people really care about the color of your nail polish?”

“Oh yes,” you nod, eyes wide, “you’d be surprised what some men consider essential.”

“No, nothing like that,” he hesitates, “but if you have any darker lipsticks . . .”

“Of course. What about intimacy? Is there anything specific you’d like to try?”

His toes curl in the tips of his shoes, a familiar guilt accompanying a very unfamiliar thrill, thinking about what he’d like to do to you. He can see it now, the images achingly realistic: his hand circled around your neck as you chase your release against his thigh, or your lips curled around the head of his cock, shiny trails of spit leaking from the corners of your mouth. The way your eyes would roll back in your head as he thrust into you, his lips at your neck, leaving currents of bruises in his wake.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says instead, embarrassed he had let his thoughts run so wild, especially in public. He digs his nails into his palms, hoping the pain might redirect the blood currently pooling in his dick.

You pluck a stray berry off one of the dessert plates, pressing it against your tongue. “Then we can explore together.”

You can’t help but be pleased; despite a few unorthodox moments, this was a fairly easy meeting. He’s a pleasant person to be around.

You take another bite of dessert, this time choosing to sample the bread pudding, still warm from the oven and coated in a caramel drizzle, letting the sugar melt in your mouth.

“There is one last item we need to discuss,” Armitage says seriously, and you look up at him, setting your fork down again as you swallow, “I have one more request, but it’s a bit . . . unusual.”

Oh, god. Nothing good could come from those words. “What is it?”

He leans closer, speaking quietly. “Unfortunately, my work requires that I attend a variety of events with my colleagues and our clients, and I would like to request your presence as my date. I have a reputation to uphold, both in my personal life and my employment, and I’d prefer to avoid a scandal. To prevent any gossip about this arrangement, I’d like to request your exclusive attention.”

Your teeth click together, jaw tense. Of fucking course something like this would happen—nothing could be too easy.

You take a calming breath, trying your best to give him a diplomatic answer despite your annoyance. “With all due respect, Mr. Hux, this is my job. My employment. I make a living providing my company to a small set of loyal clients, I do my job with the utmost discretion, and if you can’t respect the value of my time—”

“I assure you,” he interrupts, sliding a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, removing a folded slip of paper, “I understand how valuable your time is, and for the privilege of your undivided attention, I offer . . .”

He slides the paper across the table, and you reach for it, unfolding it in one hand.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your features in check when you read the number—it’s actually a little more than you’re currently making per month between your four other clients.

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering your course. The other girls would tell you to make a counter-offer, but you’d never really learned how to execute a successful negotiation, and just thinking about raising your price has your heart racing, the adrenaline doing nothing to aid your mental calculations.

He clears his throat, reading your panic as dissatisfaction, “and I’m prepared to make that payment weekly.”

Holy fuck.

“I can’t accept that much,” you press the paper back towards him, sliding your hand across the table until he stops your progress with his own, his fingers brushing gently against your wrist. He must not be used to touching people unintentionally, because he pulls his hand away, resting his tightly-clenched fist against the table.

“As I said before, I understand the value of your time.”

You trap your lip between your teeth. “I’ll take this amount, twice a month. Gifts are also appreciated—jewelry, perfume, or clothing—but won’t be considered as part of your payment unless I’m also given a receipt.”

“Of course,” he concedes with the faintest smile, “diamonds don’t pay the rent.”

You suppress a laugh at his dry humor, “and some men have truly horrendous taste.”

It’s only for a moment—the briefest flash of heaven. He smiles at your comment, the sun shining in his eyes, illuminating their emerald facets, and everything else ceases to exist.

He’s going to be trouble. You’re sure of it.

He presses his lips together, embarrassed for his little lapse before returning to his serious demeanor, “what happens now?”

“Now, I formalize a contract that I’ll have you sign covering the details of what we’ve discussed today. Then, I’ll contact my other clients and let them know that I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future, and then—” you lean forward, deciding to tease him, leave him wanting, “—you can take me to dinner.”

18+ Hux Tag List: @thembohux, @writingletterstothefire, @missmadwoman, @evarinaandlat, @sitherin-mxschief, @imafatassmess, @toasterking, @rosevon7975, @pradahux, @armitages-galaxy, @dark-lord-of-the-simps, @daughterofaries, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @theold-ultraviolence, @mrs-ghuleh, @lemongingerart, @isthisheaven5, @trash-queen-af, @generalthirst, @tobealostwanderer, @huxxoxo, @theoriginalannoyingbird, @liceforlunch, @g3n3ralhux

Join my tag list here!

#armitage hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x you #armitage hux/reader #general hux/you #armitage hux/you #general hux/reader #armitage hux fanfic #armitage hux smut #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux oneshot #general hux fanfic #general hux smut #general hux fanfiction #general hux oneshot #my writing #minors dni

102 notes · View notes

nightshade-minho · 3 years

Text

MOONSTORM [ iii ]

You know that feeling when you know you’ve made a terrible mistake?

Yes. That feeling.

It’s a feeling that never really goes away. You had to learn that the hard way.

Irrevocable actions, stupid mistakes. You were heart-wrenchingly familiar with all of it.

To err was human apparently. You...weren’t human, though.

It seems like being superhuman was insignificant, after all. At the end of the day, nothing mattered. None of your powers did.

Despite it all, you still lost him.

warnings: depressing shit (it gets better though dw) mentions of death, violence, sexual content, future smut

wc: 2.8k

moonstorm masterlist

It felt like the world had lost all color.

It had happened so many months ago, and yet it still felt like it happened just yesterday. The memories of stumbling out of his lair, covered in his blood and your tears, still fresh in your mind.

The image of his face, betrayed and yet so calm as he uttered those last words to you...it haunted you constantly.

You found yourself looking at the moon every night, dreaming about what could have been. The nightmares endlessly plagued your sleep as well, causing you to fear even your own bed.

No...even after Hyunjin's effects on you wore off, your own brain took on the responsibility of torturing you by conjuring up more heartbreaking dreams. Dreams which made you long for something you knew you’d lost forever- never to be yours again.

You never truly realized how much you’d gotten used to having him around. Life was so glaringly empty and meaningless without him. It was a complicated relationship…and yet it still left a giant hole in you. An all-encompassing despair that threatened to swallow you up.

With him gone, it just didn’t feel right to be a superhero anymore. How could you be the strong role model for everyone in the city to rely on when you knew just how weak you’d become? Even when the newspapers were covered with your heroics, even as the mayor addressed the city and expressed his desire to give you a medal for stopping yet another supervillain from roaming the streets- you stubbornly refused to don that costume ever again.

You stayed hidden through it all. You just couldn’t bring yourself to go out in public anymore. Your vigilante costume lay forgotten in the back of your closet- crumpled and sad.

It just...felt wrong. At the moment you felt nothing but pathetic. You didn’t have time to waste saving a snotty kitten stuck on a tree or stop a petty criminal from robbing a bank- all you were fit to do was eat ice cream straight from the can, and watch a soulless movie. The same routine, day in and day out. You hadn’t left your apartment in nearly a month, not even to buy groceries. Every second was spent wrapped up in blankets, pondering what you’d done.

Was that selfish of you? Probably. You were discovering new flaws by the second.

Sighing, you sat up a little, your ass almost numb from how long you’d spent lying down. Glancing up, you saw your father’s portrait looking down at you. You swallowed and slowly stood up from your bed, groaning to yourself. Why did he suddenly seem so disappointed?

Maybe a little bit of fresh air is what you needed, considering you were starting to believe the paintings were changing expressions. After all, you had work to do anyway- might as well take advantage of the nearby café’s free WiFi.

***

Here at last.

You sat down in the corner of the café, so tired you could barely move a muscle. But you had to get a move on with your life- the recovery should have happened by now.

And yet here you were, months later. Nothing seemed to be able to fill the hole he left behind, and even now you wished you could go back home as soon as possible.

Had it...had it been a mistake?

Of course it had. Your misery was evidence, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could convince yourself that you’d done it for the good of the city.

The truth was... Hwang Hyunjin scared you.

He made you feel things, made you want to be someone else entirely. Every ounce of rigidity and austerity you’d imposed in yourself disappeared every time you were with him. He made you want to give everything up- give up all the responsibilities and burdens you carried on your shoulders to be with him. To be like him- free.

It wasn’t Hyunjin who was a threat to the city. No, not directly.

It was you- or rather the lack of you.

This city needed you to survive, and if Hyunjin managed to change you...it surely wouldn’t have lasted long without your help. Hyunjin had never really been the city’s biggest threat- there were far worse villains and it was them who you really fought against.

He was more of just an inconvenience, someone you had to deal with from time to time. And then he’d struck that deal- after which the nature of your relationship had turned into something entirely different.

Every time he acted up, it was usually just a ploy to get your attention. And attention was exactly what he got. You’d reinforced his behavior like an idiot.

You told yourself it was a chore, but it wasn’t all that convincing. You’d loved spending those nights in his bed, loved the way he was an expert at making you come undone with his body and his words.

It really had seemed like a good idea at the time. The right thing to do. However, it was quickly starting to seem like anything but.

You sighed as your mind tried its best not to travel back all those months. Dipping a teabag into the liquid, you mindlessly observed the customers in the cafe. Many of them were young, teenagers who were heading out before class.

You sighed as you recalled your own high school days, the times Hyunjin and you had hung out in a cafe much like this one.

“You don’t have to help me with this project, you know.”

“Ah, shush. It’s our final year. I’m not going to leave you alone.” He smiled as he flipped through his books, taking a sip of his coffee occasionally.

“You act like you’re not sticking to me like white on rice the rest of the year.” You roll your eyes, chuckling to yourself.

“Don’t get snippy with me, missy.” He smirked, still thumbing the pages nonchalantly. “Or I’ll have to punish you.”

“You- I- what?” You wouldn’t admit it, but the thought caused a fluttering sensation in more than one place. It was a little bit of a shock, considering the two of you had done nothing more than make out and flirt, until now.

“Chill. I’m kidding.” He shook his head, looking up at you. “Unless…” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Stop it! I’m supposed to be working right now.” You whined, swatting him with a rolled up paper.

“I don’t care.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Hm...do you know what I’m thinking of right now, Y/n?”

“W-what?”

“Thinking about how easy it would be to slip my fingers under your skirt and play with that pretty pussy of yours. I’m pretty sure it’s soaked your underwear through by now.”

Fuck.

Your cheeks flushed as you stared at your plate. You couldn’t find it in yourself to respond properly- his mere words had already turned you to a mess.

“S-shut up.” You mumbled, reading out formulas aloud as you tried to divert your attention from it. Hyunjin let out a teasing chuckle at your lame attempt to change the topic, shaking his head as he stared at his book again, unaware you were looking over your own at him, pressing your thighs together subtly.

God, he was so...so annoying.

You snapped out of it, sighing as you looked around at the much less crowded cafe. Had it always looked so dull? So lifeless?

The thought of him was hurtful- it felt like a dull knife, screwing itself into you. Reminding you what you’d done.

You’d killed the love of your life.

And now? There was no way to bring him back.

***

“Murder is never something a superhero should resort to. A good hero always stays true to themselves- they only kill if it’s absolutely necessary.”

A cough.

“But of course...villains are exempt from that rule. Killing one villain’s life could save countless others.”

Hm. You weren’t exactly sure if your father was right. Although you were just a child, you still had some knowledge of morality.

Was he? Killing just...seemed wrong. You didn’t know if you could bring yourself to do it, no matter how evil the person was.

“Surely there are other ways to neutralize someone evil, Father?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, before shaking his head coldly. “Untrue.”

“The truth is, some lives are expendable, my dear Y/n…” Another cough, before he cleared his throat and fixed his gaze back on you.

“You must always look for the greater good.”

***

You still remembered the day you first met Hyunjin.

He was 13, and you were just a little younger. Your families were good comrades and allies, so your eventual meeting had already been planned.

The two of you were in the living room with everyone else as they talked to each other, mingling and chattering like adults usually did. Hyunjin and you made an unanimous decision to sneak out to the rooftop, and get to know each other better.

“So...our parents are allies now, hm? This means we’re going to see each other a lot more.”

“Of course we are! We’re both prodigies, like my dad and your mom...we inherited their powers, so they’re obviously going to want to cultivate those.”

“You speak pretty fancy for a 12 year old.”

“Hey, so do you! Besides, we’re gifted, aren’t we?”

“Hm.” He sighed, swinging his legs and inhaling. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke up again.

“Do you actually like having these powers?”

“Oh? Well, yeah...I do...my father tells me stories of his days as a superhero. I want to help people, just like him.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d much rather live a normal life. Get a normal job, find someone to love, and have a normal marriage in a normal town.”

You pressed your lips together. “To each their own, I guess. Personally, I just want to get rid of all the evil in the world and make my father proud.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Evil…” He tapped his chin. “How does one even know the difference between good and evil?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I’m pretty sure it would be obvious in every situation.”

“I disagree. The distinction is blurry. No one knows for sure, and definitely not at first glance.” He sighed. “I would know.”

You brought your knees to your chest as you observed the city below. “Well, I guess you’re right…” you paused, your heart feeling a little heavy for some reason.

“Do you know?”

“The line between good and evil is thin, Y/n. I can’t say I know for sure. But do you know what will always help you remember?”

“What?”

“Your heart.” He said softly, glancing at you and offering you a small smile.

“Just do whatever feels right...trust yourself.”

***

You sighed and shut your laptop.

Home. You needed to go home, cause your heart ached too much. You definitely weren’t ready to go back to work yet. You hadn’t done anything productive today really, just drink coffee and reflect on your actions. Regretting....regretting it all.

It’d been wrong. The wrong choice, the wrong decision.

You knew that, now. There could have been another way. You shouldn’t have rushed into it like that...how could you?

You felt a surge of hatred towards yourself engulf you. It was all your fault, this pain you were feeling. You didn’t have anyone to direct this immense anger towards except yourself. You realized this little fact in horror, your heart clenching as you wished things could have been different.

Finishing off your coffee, you placed a few bills on the table as you left the café, heading home. Ready to burrow under the blankets again, wallow in your self pity and pain. There wasn’t much else to do except succumb to acceptance.

You made your way down the street, humming the saddest song you knew under your breath.

All of a sudden, you felt eyes burning into your back. Your own eyes widening slightly, you turned around quickly-

But there was no one there.

Weird. Sighing, you decided to go back to going over your plans for tonight in your mind.

Maybe watch a movie in hopes of triggering some sort of emotion in you...or maybe take a bath, light some candles and listen to depressing music- shit.

It happened again. Someone was following you- you could feel it. Uncomfortable, your breathing slowly started getting heavier as you tried to formulate some kind of plan in your head-

The next thing that happened was so sudden you barely registered it for a second.

Your hand was gripped, so tightly you felt it would bruise. Aggressive, shocking and swift as lightning- it took several seconds before you realized someone was trying to kidnap you.

“Stop! Leave me alone!”

Struggling against the person holding you, you caught a glimpse of the masked man and decided to scream, hoping to gain some attention from somebody, anybody. There was no way this was happening, not right now. Your day had already been bad enough, why was the universe so intent on rubbing salt in your wounds?!

The urge to fight had never been stronger. Yet there was no strength left in your body. You couldn’t fight back against this man- he was taller than you and somehow even matched you in strength. Unless you exposed your powers, there was no way you would get yourself out of this predicament. Somehow you managed to smack him with your arm weakly, making him hiss.

“Let me go, please!”

The coffee cup fell out of your hand, brown liquid spilling all over the ground as you were pulled into the dark alley so quickly, no one would notice. Your eyes darted about in panic, trying to work out a possible escape route when the masked man caged you in, his arms on either side of you.

A horrible sense of déjà vu enveloped you. It’s all you can do to not scream, trying to keep yourself calm so that you could escape.

It’s ok, breathe in...and concentrate.

The heat within you started to crackle, your palms beginning to burn up gradually.

Your eyes blinked as you decided to try and take a good look at the person holding you. Their head was covered with a black mask, their finger held over their mouth as they ran their eyes over your distressed expression.

Inhale. Exhale.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hissed, staying still and pretending to give up the struggle. “Unhand me now, or you’ll regret it, trust me-“

“Shh! Y/n, please…” He shushed you, his voice shaky.

You stopped in your tracks.

Huh?

That voice…

“I’ll explain... but first we need to get out of here, fuck-” He looked from side to side quickly, scanning his surroundings.

Shit. Why does that voice sound so familiar?

“Who- who are you?!” You managed to get out, the heat fading away as deep, panicked confusion took over you instead.

There was a small sigh as your assailant stood up a little straighter, groaning. And then, his fingers deftly pulled the mask off, clutching it in his hands tightly.

Golden locks spilled out, a handsome visage coming into view. Plump lips and beautiful eyes, looking oh so familiar.

No.

It couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck was going on?

It’s him.

But it can’t be.

How? It’s not possible-

You’re definitely losing your mind.

The man’s breathing got quicker as he watched your expression morph from fear into one of pure, electric shock.

“I know you’re shocked, Y/n, but please listen to-“

Your chest started heaving, quickly rising and falling as your heart pounded against your rib cage.

This...could not be happening. What was this? Was this a nightmare? Yet another sick, twisted dream? He couldn’t be standing right in front of you...it was impossible. No. No no no no no no no.

It was all too overwhelming, and your brain and body seemed to agree on that. Your mind swam, your thoughts all over the place as you felt yourself sway on your feet.

“This- I-“ You stumbled over your words, tears slipping past quickly as you tried to form words to express what you felt.

Pain. Searing pain, taking over, spreading from head to toe.

Your breathing slowed as the world suddenly went black, Hyunjin’s shouts in the background fading away...until there was nothing but silence.

Pure, unadulterated silence.

#hyunjin smut #hyunjin angst #skz smut #skz angst #hwang hyunjin smut #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin imagines

236 notes · View notes

pynkhues · 3 years

Note

Prompt 47!

Sorry this one is so late! I hope you like it!

47. Cuddling under blankets

It takes her two days to cave.

Two days to feel the frost in her joints, her perspiration crystalise, her breaths escape in clouds of bitten mist, and god, Beth thinks, staring up at the roof of the cabin, half expecting stalactites. This is not what she had in mind when Rio said safe house.

Not that she was entirely sure what she did have in mind before - - well. Just before. Had never spent all that much time thinking about where it was Rio went when everything had gone south, but if – gun to her head – she’d had to guess, she’d have thought: luxury apartments, sundrenched holiday houses, riverside lodges.

A place his G Wagon would look at home in the driveway, the parking lot, pulled up on the curb.

Somewhere he’d look at home.

The thought makes her wet her chapped lips, sink deeper into the threadbare blankets on top of her still-trembling body, and her gaze dart sideways to where Rio crouches stoking the last flickering embers of the fire.

It’s raining. or rather, it’s sleeting. Shards of ice colliding with the thick glass windows, escaping down the chimney to make the flames spit and smoke below, and when it had first started, Beth had watched Rio cuss. Watched him prod balls of tattered newspaper and sticks she’d collected and tried to dry yesterday, but it hadn’t done much good. The rain had gotten heavier and the fire smaller and she’d seen the chill find him. Pink his nose, ears, stiffen his fingers, and she’d though good, she’d thought he deserves it, but she’d still left him the last of the hot water in the flask even as her own fingers were turning blue.

Now, she holds them close to her mouth, exhales, but her breath is barely warm, and she can’t stop trembling, so she shoves them between her legs instead, and looks at him across the tiny, dim cabin, and says what she’s been saying for the last half hour:

“It’s going to go out.”

He’d ignored her the last time, and scoffed the first time, but now at least it’s enough to make him spin around and look at her, bundled upright on the only bed in the place, the look on his face like he’d forgotten she was even there, and Beth huffs, tilting her chin towards the fire.

“Poking at it isn’t going to miraculously fix the chimney leak,” she adds this time, a shiver rolling up her spine as Rio stares back at her, the erratic glow from the dying flames licking across his features – his plush lips and sharp nose and swollen eye, but god, it’s not that. It’s just - - it’s the cold. That’s all, and when his nostrils flare a little, it’s too easy to add: “Well, it’s not,” because she’s right.

Across the room, Rio finally drops the fire poker back to the tray and stalks his way towards the tiny sofa where he slept last night, tucking his arms high up into his armpits as he drops onto it, leaving his back to her as he hunches forwards, making himself as small as possible in the frigid space of the cabin.

And she doesn’t feel bad.

She doesn’t.

This entire situation is his fault.

It was him who showed up three weeks ago with a new plate, telling her to print two million dollars cash. It was him who’d had that spring to his step while he told her about a new client, and it was him who had her show up at a hotel bar with a suitcase full of fake cash to meet a guy who turned out to be an old-partner-turned-bitter-rival of Nick’s.

She still doesn’t really know what happened, just suddenly it was a few days later and Rio was back at her place with a black eye and a limp and an order.

Bring the plates.

He’d driven them through the night.

Now, across the cabin, he drops a hand to rub at his bad leg, and Beth’s frown deepens as she wriggles back into the dusty mattress, her gaze holding on the narrow line of him, and here’s the thing.

It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it.

Last night had been bad enough, but tonight with the rain and the sleet, without any real insulation and no fire, they’re practically case studies for hypothermia. For the bone chill and the frost bite and the slurred speech and the shuttered eyes and the slip towards a forever sort of unconsciousness.

And like, she knows that the best ways to avoid hypothermia are warm drinks, food, blankets, getting off the ground, and body heat, and just - -

Look.

They finished the cocoa hours ago.

Beth sniffs, rolls her eyes to the ceiling, feels a jittery tension in her body as she blinks hard and finally just says it:

“Come here.”

Rio twists his neck back instantly at that, his eyebrow arched, but he doesn’t make any indication that he’s likely to move, and right, Beth huffs. Why should this be any easier than literally anything else? Her head’s already starting to feel heavy, her thoughts tangled, and she figures the best way forwards is to - - well.

Be the danger.

With a trembling hand, Beth slowly unwraps the blanket from around herself, revealing her stiff jeans and loose sweater, the cold washing through the thin fabric like a rinse, and her teeth are already chattering when she says:

“Body heat.”

His other eyebrow raises to join the first, gaze dropping to her chest where she knows her nipples are peaked in cold, and Beth scowls.

“Not like that. Just - - we’re both freezing right and now, and this - - look. It works.”

“Yeah? You learn that at Journey Scouts?”

“Got the badge and everything,” she bites, and she’s sure she’s visibly trembling now, can feel it, and she sees Rio stare at her, shake his head, start to tell her to bundle up before she kills herself or something, and she adds: “You either come over here and get in the blanket with me or we’re both going to freeze to death right now, and what are your gang buddies gonna think of that, huh?”

Outside, the wind howls and the sleet is starting to get heavier, thicker, careen into hail, and god, it’s cold, and Beth can barely feel her anything anymore, and Rio’s still staring at her, his eyes (or, well, the one she can see below the swelling) dark, and she’s halfway to giving up and flinging herself back on the dusty mattress and trying to shiver her way to any sort of warmth, when Rio suddenly pushes up off the couch and beelines towards the bed.

Which - - right, Beth thinks. This is good, this is what she wanted. In her head, there are vague flashes of real warmth, his body pressed into hers, a memory of heat and desire twisted up and around and over and over, and something drops through her like a lick of flame, and she swallows only to suddenly find herself being gripped around the waist and pushed sideways. Within moments, Rio’s slipped his body beside hers and laid them both down, the mattress frigid beneath them, as Beth desperately tries to adjust the thin blankets back across them both.

She inhales sharply when she feels Rio’s leg press sideways against her own.

His arm against hers.

Both of them suddenly pushed like fish fingers against each other on their backs.

Or like corpses.

The thought makes her swallow.

Makes her gaze flick up to see his swollen face, his pink nose, his unusually pale features.

God, it’s cold.

Beth sniffs, looks down as she wriggles further beneath the blankets, curling her socked-toes to try and hold the blanket to them.

“So,” she tries. “How long are we going to be here?”

“I dunno,” he answers instantly, voice light, like he’d been waiting for her to ask. “How much holiday leave you got?”

Beth scowls, twisting to look at him, and then away, and then back, fixing on the way he hasn’t taken his gaze off the ceiling. It leaves her with little to look at but his swollen eye, the skin darkened with bruises around his temple, and she can’t quite keep the edge out of her voice when she asks:

“Did your brother give you that?”

“Cousin.”

He sniffs as he says it, nose wrinkling, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d swear he winced too at the motion of it. Pressed against her own, his arm feels tight, stiff, his leg cold against hers, and fine, if that’s the way he wants to play it.

“Oh, sorry. Did your cousin give you that?” Beth asks, correcting herself, and at least now, Rio does twist his neck to look at her, his eyes wide in the dark, the whites of them near luminous, and god he is - - he is too close. So close she can feel the cool of his breath against her cheek.

He doesn’t reply, and Beth swallows, something in her gut twisting, fingers trembling as the silence pulses between them, and she doesn’t know if it means yes, or if Rio’s insulted she’d even think that (Nick had just seemed - - and Rio - - something. There was something, that’s all), and it makes her look away. Makes her stare up at the ceiling like he’d been doing, like she had earlier too, watching the timber roofing tremble and listening to the shatter of sleet.

She thinks her toes are going numb.

She thinks her lips are.

She thinks the cold is starting to wrap its fingers around her ankles and pull her into its clutches, starting to leave her tired, and suddenly she’s grasping at anything to distract herself. Anything to keep her head above the threat of frigid oblivion, and she’s halfway through the chorus of Do You Wanna Build a Snowman? before she even realizes what she’s humming.

It’s not until Rio snorts beside her that it means anything to her slow turning head.

Beth’s gaze fixes back on him, and it’s sudden then – the memory of Jane and Marcus singing it to each other through the laundry room door while they played, back when Rhea still came around, back when Beth thought - -

After - -

Beth blinks.

A shiver wracking her chest as she clutches the blankets a little tighter.

“Does Marcus like Frozen?” she asks, like she doesn’t know, and from the way Rio makes a low noise of affirmation, she knows that he doesn’t.

Something in Beth loosens, tightens, loosens again.

“He really likes that snowman,” Rio says, sniffing again. “Olaf.”

His lip twitches – something between a smile and a grimace, and Beth can’t help but grin in reply, her own gaze holding now on the twist of his mouth.

“Jane had a stuffed one that sang the song from the movie. The Summer one. I took out the sound box and stitched it back up.”

Rio barks on a laugh, even as Beth cringes at the memory. It probably wasn’t her finest parenting moment, but after hearing the same song for the thirtieth time in a day, she was about to start tearing at the wallpaper.

“I told her he just wasn’t feeling well,” she adds. “But secretly I’m hoping she forgets he ever sang.”

It’s weird, the voice in her head that tells her it’s not a secret anymore.

Not now that she’s told him.

She doesn’t know why that leaves her pressing her arm to his a little tighter.

“Damn, you’re doin’ better than me,” Rio tells her, his voice low, a little slurred, hoarse with cold. She thinks that’s one of the symptoms of hypothermia, isn’t it? God, she can’t remember. “I gave Marcus’ to one of his cousins.”

Beth laughs.

Looks at him.

Vaguely, something in her head tells her to listen to his chest. Check for a rattle. Is that for hypothermia? No. Pneumonia, she thinks. Tries to summon up her badge training. God, she feels drunk suddenly. Woozy. She lifts her head and places it on his chest anyway, and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t act it. Instead, his arm circles around her shoulders, pulling her into him, which is silly, she doesn’t need the rest of her to hear the ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum of his heart beneath her ear. Doesn’t need to drop his mouth to the crown of her head, doesn’t need to inhale either, but she shivers at the warmth of his exhale there when he does that and when his freezing hand finds her shoulder, it’s too easy to reach back.

To pull it around her arm and under, squeezing his fingers into her armpit to warm them, and when his fingers creep forward to squeeze her breast, she doesn’t move them, couldn’t, she doesn’t think, not with his heartbeat so close, and his chest isn’t rattling but it might, she thinks, and god, it’s so much warmer like this, so she shouldn’t move her head just yet.

Just to be sure.

Just to warm them up a little.

Just for now.

#beth x rio #intimacy prompts #thanks anon!#this was a fun one and let me write one of my fave tropes which i have written tragically little of haha #beth boland #rio #my fic

65 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years

Text

if the world was ending | mitch rapp

word count; 5152

summary; mitch broke up with you because he couldn’t handle being in love again, and now he regrets that decision, and would do anything to take it back.

notes; this is a song fic, but I didn’t include all of the lyrics, so don’t send me asks about missing chunks, please! check out the song!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex.

I was distracted, and in traffic I didn't feel it when the earthquake happened, But it really got me thinkin' Were you out drinkin'? Were you in the living room Chillin', watching television?

His key would continuously seem to miss the lock on the door, and Mitch let out a low growl, shoving at the metal once again as he tried to force the lock to work, blurry eyes and exhaustion taking him over. Before he could question it, the door was opening from the inside, metal shifting and gears clicking before the wood was moving from his sights to reveal you instead, a bright smile on your face and one of his black henleys on your shoulders, hanging slightly loose around the open collar as it faded away into a pair of sleep shorts and fluffy socks clad on bare legs.

You were a sight for sore eyes, messy hair and teasing grin, and all.

“You didn’t even check who it was, what if I’d been an intruder?” He chastised, stumbling forwards one tired legs and pressing a kiss to your lips, humming happily as you pressed back into him just as eagerly, before he was kicking the door shut behind himself and dropping his bag down by the front door.

“An intruder with a key?” You raised your brows at him, his lips flicking up at the sides as his shoes followed; phone, wallet and keys all being discarded onto the side unit, and his eyes were locking onto the couch, joy filling him at the idea of laying down. “Not that you know how to use it, apparently.”

“You try using a key after six days in Russia with no sleep and having to fight, like, four people at once. Everything hurts.” You placed a hand on his chest to stop him in his movements as he edged toward the couch, a whine falling from him as he turned to look at you.

“You’re covered in blood, you’ll ruin my cushions, you need to wash up first.” He let out another sigh, despite knowing that it was a true and fair request, and nodded his head. “How about I run us a hot bath? I’ll put those bath salts in that make your muscles all tingly, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

He nodded, a wave of serenity already washing over him simply at the idea that he’d get to relax in the warmth of the water, his back pressed to your chest as you wrapped around him from behind, holding him close. You were always so good at making him feel safe when he came home, and he knew it was one of the reasons he’d fallen for you in the first place. What was intended to be a simple fling to satisfy the cravings for basic affections and the lust deep in his gut had become much more.

He had a key to your apartment, and the cat the roamed the halls was friendly enough to bump its head against his shins and purr. He’d met your friends, and knew the names of every worker in that Thai place down the street that you loved so much, and they knew him. It had been so easy to slip into something more deep and meaningful with you, but there was still a clawing guilt in his stomach every time. The true intentions he’d had that night when he’d bought you a drink in a shitty bar while you wore a tight dress and danced under low lights, not to woo you and love you but simply to find a quick fuck, someone to warm his bed and quash the loneliness for a little while.

He hated that he couldn't give you what you needed, that he wasn’t able to love you, because he just didn’t know how anymore. Every time he came home and went to your place instead of his, the key he held and the emotion in your eyes every time you looked at it, it was only a matter of time before you said those three little words to him that he couldn't say back, and everything he so deeply craved would come crashing and burning down at his feet once again. Warmth would shift to icy chills and he’d have locked himself out once again, because commitment just wasn’t something he was capable of anymore.

The water was running, gentle hands skimming up his sides as you helped him to undress, his own hands working over soft skin as he pushed your clothing to the floor, mouths melding in soft kisses, fingertips leaving goosebumps over flesh as you embraced one another’s touch once again, and even with the respite from his guilt that your presence provided for him, it was still always there. A pit in his stomach that was growing bigger and bigger, because as the tender moment stretched on and on, he knew tonight was going to be when you said it, full of bliss and joy and expecting to hear the phrase back, and so he kissed you, deeply, willing you not to, so that he could selfishly claim just a few more hours with you before it was all over.

It's been a year now Think I've figured out how How to let you go and let communication die out I know, you know, we know You weren't down for forever and it's fine I know, you know, we know We weren't meant for each other and it's fine

Pressing his forehead against the side of the plane, his eyes fluttered shut for a second, the painful ache spreading over the entirety of his body was enough to make any other grown man cry, but that wasn’t the cause of the burning behind his eyes today. Today, Mitch had the painful reminded of this day a year ago when he’d been on his way to see you, but he didn’t quite have that luxury anymore. His throat was tinging, choking back the emotions he held, one’s he so wanted to release, and his nostrils flared with a deep sigh instead.

“You’re been pouting like a child all fuckin’ day. Will you cheer up? You’re ruining the beer I’m anticipating when I get home with your foul mood.”

He cracked his eyes open, hoping they didn’t appear as glassy and red as they felt, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat, scowling at his mentor in hopes that he’d lay off. That tactic clearly hadn't worked, however, because Stan shifted a little more in his seat, dragging a curious gaze over every inch of his face in a way that made Mitch squirm in his seat a little, uncomfortable at the scrutiny he was being afforded.

“You look depressed.”

“That’s because I’m stuck on a plane with you.” He muttered, moving himself to look out of the window instead, and his mentor barked out an amused laugh, but Mitch could still feel his lingering stares.

“No, I think you’re freaking out about what happens after you’re no longer on the plane with me.” He hated that Stan could read him so easily, that to everyone else he was a safe that was locked up tight, and that it was so easy for the other man to crawl under his skin, get on all of his nerves and be one of the only people who truly knew him. “You weren’t even this on edge and tense when we were on our way out, never mind coming home.”

“I just don’t like going home to an empty house, okay? It’s too quiet. Cold.”

He grumbled the words out, but Stan scoffed, and was fixed with a harsh glare in return, but he didn’t flinch like Mitch wished he would, seemingly unaffected by the burning stare. “And who’s fault is that, huh?”

Mitch opened his mouth, gaping a little, before snapping his jaw shut tightly, feeling the muscles twitch and tense as his teeth ground together. He could feel the divet between his brows, where they had puled together, a spot that always formed when he was angry or confused or concentrating, and he could still feel the warmth and weight of you sinking down into his lap while he wrote up his reports, your thumb smoothing over the spot, followed by a brush of your lips as you told him to relax.

The thought made his eyes sting once again, and he cursed a little under his breath, giving in at the stares they were sharing as he cowered out, blinking forming tears away quickly. “I don’t get what your problem was. You clearly care about her. Why can’t you just tell her that, and stop sulking? It’d do you good o have her back, I liked you better when you weren’t sulking and single. Less of a bitch to work with.”

“You’re a bitch to work with.”

“What are you? Five?”

He knew it had been a weak response, and he cringed a little on himself, sinking down further into the plush leather of the plane seat and trying to sift through his thoughts, something that Hurley clearly acknowledged, because he waited patiently but expectantly in silence, running a hand over his jaw as he watched Mitch try to gather his thoughts up and sort himself out. “It’s not so easy to just say. It’s complicated.”

“It really ain’t.” Stan shrugged, something about his tone making Mitch feel like he was about to get some kind of fatherly advice, and his curiosity got the best of him as he peered over at his superior. “I’ve heard you say that word before. Heard you say how much you love beer, how much you love beef dumplings and noodles on a Friday night, how much you love knocking cocky recruits on their ass.”

“Saying I love food is not the same as being able to say I love (Y/N).” He hissed, hopes dropping as he realised the statement wasn’t going to be useful, but Stan smirked at him wickedly, shrugging his shoulders and sipping his drink.

“Yeah, well, you just said it.” His face twisted up, moving between several different expressions, before a slightly nauseated shock was what he settled on, as he realised that the words he’d never been able to say aloud before, or even internally acknowledge, had finally been voiced for the first time. In front of Hurley, of all people. He was never going to be able to live this down. “Now, why can’t you say that to her?”

“Because everyone I’ve ever loved before has died, Stan.”

He could see the shock flick across the older man’s face, and it brought him a sick kind of amusement to know he’d caught him so off-guard, but then he was shrugging, and again moving back to that irritating level of passive smart-ass that only he had managed to master so effectively. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have the same training you did before now, did you? You’re not even thirty. You gonna’ spend the whole rest of your life miserable and unhappy just because of a car crash and a shooting, both of which were beyond your control?”

A dull aching in his chest flare dup a little at the mentions of those events, but he knew it was true, and his body deflated with the breath he let out as he gave the weakest rise and drop of his shoulders that he could, his hands clasping over his stomach as he turned to stare out of the plane window. A large hand found his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly, but he didn’t bother to look over.

“Just stop being a dumbass, you clearly love this girl, so why don’t you just get your head out of your ass and go see her?”

Stan wandered away after that, ice clinking in his glass as he handed it off to a flight attendant before disappearing to the bathroom, and Mitch was left alone to wallow in painful thoughts with a stabbing pain in his chest as his heart continued to long for you.

But if the world was ending You'd come over, right? You'd come over and you'd stay the night Would you love me for the hell of it? All our fears would be irrelevant If the world was ending You'd come over, right? The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight And there wouldn't be a reason why We would even have to say goodbye If the world was ending You'd come over, right? Right?

He was sweating, hands clammy with a nervous perspiration that made him feel uncomfortable in his clothes, like he wanted to curl up into a ball, dig a hole in the earth, throw up, or some combination of all three. The walk he’d done was so familiar to him, and yet right now, as he stood before your door, it had felt eerily unfamiliar.

There were definite changes.

Your neighbour’s suspicious cat sat out on the front of the apartment building but did not come over to him, even when he’d called out its name, taking the welcome distraction as he crouched down and held his hand out to it, trying to tempt it into remembering him, into approaching him again, but it hadn't. The small animal had simply stared at him as he stood there, before mewing loudly and running away when he’d taken a fraction of a step closer to the door.

The elevator in the main building was working, it had broken only a few months into seeing you before, and now it was back up and working like it had never been broken. The lights in the entryway were brighter, and the hallways had been repainted, the soft grey that they had once been was replaced with sky blue, much brighter and cheerier, and he remembered you telling him about it while laying in bed together one night, it was the exact colour you’d voted for when the building meeting had taken place to discuss it.

The crack in the framing by your door that you’d never gotten around to fixing was mended, damage done by the previous tenants and he’d always said he would fix it for you, but had then always forgotten to bring the tools he would need for it, and he choked down the regret in his throat as he brushed a finger over it. He knew the route, his feet feeling like dead weight under his body as he’d trudged along the halls, before finding himself here, all but trembling with fear and anticipation outside of your door.

The paper and ribbons wrapped around the flowers in his hands were crinkling loudly with every shake he made, and he took a deep and steadying breath, shaking himself down from head to toe. The rapping of his knuckles on the door felt like it reverberated along his entire body, his heart thumping painfully hard against his chest as he waited, eyes fixed on the floor as he watched warm light spill out from under the threshold and into the corridor, soon blocked by a shadow as he heard the scuffling of your feet along the floorboards.

Breath was stuck in his lungs, a choked sound leaving him as the door swung open, your voice ringing out but dying in your throat as you spoke, claiming that whoever it was that you were expecting - certainly not him - was early, and he dropped his eyes, just for a split second to scan along your body, before he was looking up at your face once again.

So pretty, and if he’d thought the melodic ringing of your voice was enough to end him then he had been entirety unprepared for the sight of you. The little black dress he loved so much was fitted to you like a second skin, a cocktail dress he’d seen you wear so many times before as he took you out for drinks and celebrations, his body flooding with heat. Hair styled up, makeup to perfection, and he would have been just as breathless if you’d crawled out of bed to answer the door but you were stunning, and he hated every ounce of himself for ever letting you go.

His jaw dropped as you stared at him in shock, pain flashing in your eyes before you hardened your gaze on him, an act he’d never wished to have you aim at him and yet he knew he deserved it, and yet the words were burning on the tip of his tongue as every moment he’d ever shared with you flashed before his eyes, swirling in his mind, and pulling one very prominent one to the front.

The last time that he’d almost uttered the phrase to you, the one he was determined for you to hear from him now, even if you no longer felt the same. The last time you’d worn this dress, and you’d taken him with you to celebrate one of your friend’s birthdays, his cheeks heating up as he looked at you, but saw that day.

I tried to imagine your reaction It didn't scare me when the earthquake happened But it really got me thinkin' That night we went drinkin' Stumbled in the house And didn't make it past the kitchen Ah, it's been a year now Think I've figured out how How to think about you without it rippin' my heart out

You were giggling into his mouth, red lipstick smeared across his chin and cheeks as your fingers scratched at the stubble lining his jaw, tongue tangled together as you stumbled into your apartment. The door slammed as it closed, hard enough to shake the walls, but neither of you cared, especially not when you were making such sweet sounds for him as his hands slipped lower and lower across the silk lining your body.

Shoes came off first, his shoes being toed off as you tried to kick off your heels, sinking a few inches further down his body as the height fell away, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to be able to lean over you, keeping his mouth firmly on yours as wet tongues tangled together. You were stumbling through the apartment, tripping over one another’s feet and laughing breathlessly as your hands worked down the buttons on the front of his shirt.

You were pushing the material from his shoulders, blazer and dress shirt falling away to the floor with a distant ‘thud’, the fluttering of material sounding out, and the heat around you both was crawling higher and higher. It was frantic, a night of teasing and longing looks, sipping champagne and cocktails with sly winks and whispered needs. He’d cleaned up for the event, and you’d made it clear before you’d even left just how good you thought he looked, and you were clad in dark black silk with thigh slits and heels and you were enough to bring any man to his knees, and he absolutely intended for that to be his next destination.

He was rucking up layers of fabric in his hands until the skirt was bunched around your waist, making you hold it up, and the closest surface he could pin you to was the counter of the breakfast bar, barely having even made it through the kitchen, and hissed as bare skin found the cool marble. His knees hit the floor, your panties following until the scrap of lace was pulled tight around your knees, but then he was helping you up, sitting you on the surface, letting your lay back as he spread your legs and dived right in.

You were dripping for him, before he’d even done anything but kiss you, a groan slipping from his lips as he all but drooled at the thrill of getting to indulge in the honey that was slick on your thighs. That was where he started, licking up the mess you’d already made of yourself as you squirmed and panted underneath him, letting him tease you with small bites and sucking at your soft skin until you’d growled in frustration, a hand in his hair pulling him closer until you were burying his face into your core, sounds that filled every wet dream he ever had taking over.

His scalp had burned, the scratch of your nails and tugs of the strands and your thighs and hips had been littered with red marks the shape of his fingerprints that would be purple in the morning, but he knew you loved it just as much as he did. Two fingers had slipped into you, scissored and curled as he lapped around them, driving you to the point of senseless babbling just with his fingers and tongue, before you’d exploded around him. Then, he’d fucked you.

Deep and slow on the counter with your arms wrapped around his neck, legs tights around his waist as you clung to one another, a collection of tangled limbs, a moaning mess and you chased your highs, until the two of you had been all but sobbing one another’s name into the other’s mouth as you kissed your way through your peaks, and he’s spattered your thighs and cunt with his arousal, pulling out at the very last second and leaving you trembling underneath him when he’d scooped it up and pressed it to your lips.

It was hot, and erotic, but the moments after had been loving and tender. Taking a shower with weak muscles, sinking to the bottom of the tub together as water thrashed down from overhead, soft kisses and laughs and whispered confessions until the water had gone cold, and you’d collapsed into bed together, leaving a mess t tidy up int he morning, sheets sticking to wet skin as you were too lazy to even dry off, just cuddling together under the sheets, drunk on one another, and the words had been so close that night. A sleepy, post-orgasm haze, he’d so nearly whispered them against your lips as you kissed him goodnight.

I know, you know, we know You weren't down for forever and it's fine I know, you know, we know We weren't meant for each other and it's fine But if the world was ending You'd come over, right? You'd come over and you'd stay the night Would you love me for the hell of it? All our fears would be irrelevant

“I love you.”

You flinched, like you were standing too close to a fire and had been burned, and it felt like a knife twisting in his stomach as he watched your reaction. Your arms came up to wrap around yourself, toes digging into the wood of the floor as you stood your ground but he knew your nervous ticks, he knew you, and he frowned, but didn’t let it deter him.

“I love you so, so much. I’m a fucking idiot, I know I am. I know you hate me, and you’ve probably moved on and can find someone who actually deserves you, but I’m selfish, okay? I wanted you to hear it, I had to tell you, for my own peace of mind. I had to know that I cam here, and had the balls to tell you that you are the person who hasn’t left my mind in an entire fucking year. Every thought, every dream, every time my heart beats, it’s all for you, and I had to tell you.” He took a deep breath, scanning your face for even a twitch, any slight tell of an emotion he could get, but you were offering him nothing. “I couldn’t say it before, I was scared and I didn’t know what I was feeling and I know that I hurt you. It kills me every day to know what I did, to think about your face, and the way you’d cried when I walked out, because it haunts me, okay? A year ago today, I lost the best thing in my god damn life, and I just had to tell you, because in another year, and another ten years, and forever on, I think I’ll still love you then. I had to know that you knew.”

You were staring at him, eyes wide and a little glassy as he took a deep breath, lungs screaming out for oxygen and his mind was finally blank. The incessant buzzing he’d become accustomed to as his mind whirled around you on a loop had finally stopped, and he was left in calm, the aftermath of an event, the silence that came after an explosion, the harmony after a fight when everything just went still.

But there was always more to come.

Only then did the thoughts about what you were wearing catch up to him. Pretty painted lips and sharp eyeliner and that sinful dress that made his blood run warmer in his veins as he burned from the inside out. A quick glance behind you confirmed that there was a pair of black strappy heels to match the outfit, a necklace with a gem that he’d never seen you wear before was hanging between your breasts in the low neckline of your dress, skin soft and freshly shaven on the slit up your thigh on your dress.

He let out a sigh, shoulders slumping a little, but he tried to offer you a reassuring smile nonetheless. “Date?”

Your brows pulled in with confusion, and he could physically see the walls surrounding you begin to crumble away, before you let out a heavy sigh, your arms dropping as you caved under his faze, finally speaking to him; “No. Drinks with the girls.”

“Ah, right..”

A tepid silence took over, and he tried not to drop his eyes from yours. Soaking up every moment he had with you before you inevitably kicked him off of your doorstep, and you crossed your arms over your chest, leaning on the doorframe. “A distraction. They’re taking me out to cheer me up, because it’s been a year since the best thing in my life walked out on me.”

Mitch felt his breath hitch in his throat as he stared at you.

If the world was ending You'd come over, right? The sky'd be falling while I'd hold you tight No, there wouldn't be a reason why We would even have to say goodbye If the world was ending You'd come over, right? You'd come over, right? You'd come over, you'd come over, you'd come over, right?

A fistful of his shirt, a harsh tug that he wasn’t expected that made him fall over his own feet, and then there were lips on his own. He couldn’t help it, the embarrassingly needy whine that left him the second his brain caught up with what was happening, and he dropped the bouquet to the floor, hands finding your hips as he pulled you into him. Bodies collided, flush and pressed together, your hands circling his neck and fingers in his hair, heat flooding him from where you were pressed to him, and it felt like he’d been cold for the entirety of the past year, goosebumps rising and falling along his skin as he fell back home, into your arms.

Your cheeks were wet as you gasped into his mouth, tongues sliding together, panting from breath as noses bumped. It was urgent and rushed, not the kiss he’d imagined with you if you’d forgive him, but the one that seemed most fitting. Messy and uncoordinated as if you were learning each other for the first time, becoming familiarised once again with every inch of the other, hands roaming and tongue exploring, until you were satisfied that you were thoroughly reconnected.

He let out a wet and hoarse laugh, raising one hand to sit on your jaw and wipe his thumb under your eyes, clearing away the tears that were already threatening to spoil the masterpiece you’d created, and he knew how long it took you to do it.

“Baby, please don’t cry. You’re going to ruin your makeup.”

You let out a laugh, and he cleared your face, stealing a few more pecks as though at any moment you were going to realise what he’d done, go back to hating him, push him away as if this was the last he’d ever get to see you. You were staring up at him, with glassy eyes and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and Mitch swore he couldn't even feel the floor anymore, as if he was floating, up in the clouds and lost to the world.

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait right here, until you come back. We can talk, or you can yell, whatever you want. I’ll be here.”

“I‘m not going anywhere.” You pulled him back in, another collection of sweet kisses that he didn’t deserve but would always accept, never willing to give them up again. “I’d rather stay in and watch TV with you, but you have to go and get us takeout. You know I hate walking to get it.”

“I do, I do know that.” He sniffed, breathy exhale like a laugh as he held onto you tightly, before dipping down to collect the discarded flowers from the ground. A few crumpled petals fell away to the floor, but they were otherwise intact, and he pressed them into your hand carefully, watching as you admired them, thumbing at the delicate leaves and bringing them to your nose.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook, you know.”

“I’ll spend the entire rest of my life making it up to you, I swear.” You only nodded, letting him into your apartment as you led him inside, smiles and tears and he dipped down, lips brushing your earlobe as he listened to you gasp in surprise. “I love you, so much.”

“I love you too, Mitch. Even if you are a fuckin’ idiot.” He only nodded, following your lead as you took him by the hand and guided him through to find a vase and water for the flowers. “Go get my phone, I need to text my friends.”

He did as told, trailing through the apartment, bringing your purse back with him and presenting the item to you, his hands searching for your body once again, just needing to hold you and know that it was real, to know that this time, you weren’t just a dream his mind was conjuring up to torment him with.

He didn’t need a night out, he didn’t need you to be dressed up, he didn’t need anything but you. You and him, and the love you shared, it was enough to get him through anything.

If the world was ending You'd come over, right?

#mitch rapp #mitch rapp x reader #mitch rapp x reader smut #mitch rapp/reader #mitch rapp/reader smut #mitch rapp american assassin #mitch month #mitchtober #mitch-tober #dylan obrien #dylan obrien imagine #dylan obrien fic #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien x reader smut #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien/reader smut #dylan obrien american assassin #dylan obrien mitch rapp

445 notes · View notes

finitevariety · 2 years

Note

hello your writing is legitimately so masterful like, every sentence and word sounds so in place i was wondering if you have any specific thoughts you want to share about your process or thoughts about writing in general, i guess? like i completely adore the way you manage to have each line serve function and characterization and metaphors that somehow always work? i would love to peek inside your brain if you want and if not that’s chill too, just popping in to say your fic is so awesome!! thank you for sharing

hi OP I read this at work and was smiling most of the day waiting to come home and answer--thank you so much 🥺🥺

Below the cut I talk at length about my ~process~. Though it is pretty long, it does contain screenshots of draft fics if that's your thing :)

If after all this you want to talk more about anything I mention here (or don't mention!) please DM or ask off anon. I don't mention much about my particular writing style here but I'd be happy to go into more detail if you like about why I do certain things/don't do others.

My process, such as it is, definitely doesn't suit everyone, and looks like this:

one: have an idea. stream of consciousness this idea into a google doc.

I throw out random ideas for dialogue, and beats I want to hit (and sometimes why). Some of my writing for this part plays around with 'blocking' (i.e. who is where, doing/saying what), but most of it is handwavey and excited and extremely cringe. I actually have a 'succession odds and ends' doc where I dump everything that's not quite big enough to be its own thing. It's the source of this illustrative example, which is part of a probably-won't-be-written plan for 'what if Ben Elton Stark but for the Roys'

two. start fleshing out the story more.

this depends on whether it's a long or short fic but typically i will start at the beginning and do a 'first pass' to really think about who does what where (and why). This process is less manic and unlike step 1 doesn't happen in one great burst.

take this, for example, from a half-written affair fic:

you'll see me still not giving a shit about punctuation, spelling, or formatting--I claim there's method to this. I also have a habit of talking to myself in square brackets when I have a thought or know something's not quite right.

Sometimes these notes are useful for future me in picking up the thread of the vibe:

but sometimes they're just useless, e.g:

Above examples from the final chapter of bold and forth on, which is 1/3 fully finished and 2/3 in the write/edit steps below.

Anyway, I keep doing this right up to final edit stage so the doc becomes a dialogue with myself. Re: dialogue, I find that this stage is where I get the script right: it tends to change very little between here and the 'actual writing' stage--though more scenes often emerge later, and with them new speech.

three. actually writing the damn thing

I do this VERY slowly and edit as I go, meaning that it takes fucking forever to finish a scene. I sometimes find it hard to start writing properly--this is the most rewarding part, but steps one and two feel pretty cathartic without a lot of effort, so sometimes I just want to keep spitballing instead of actually writing the damn thing. To ease myself into it, I start by fixing the spelling, punctuation, and grammar from the touch-type madness of the previous steps (see! method!). Before I know it, I'm in the zone.

To help myself along I will:

leave notes to myself in square brackets, as above.

read parts of the fic aloud. This is absolutely key for me in getting the rhythm of dialogue and images down.

simply keep the tab open more often than I have it closed. I find that all change to a fic is useful change in the end, even if it might not feel like it 'up close'.

This is a bit rich for me to say given the word count of bold and forth on, but I do think it's important to be ruthless with your writing. I write and rewrite sentences so many times only to end up removing them entirely. There are whole scenes that did not make it into BFO.

Sometimes I have trouble deleting scenes, sections, or even phrases that I like but which don't fit. To that end, I have an 'odds and ends' file where I shove everything that doesn't quite work. It really helps me feel less shit about removing things, even though I never end up using them elsewhere.

four. final pass edit

I think something is 'written' when all my square brackets are gone. At this point, I'll read it through aloud AGAIN and sometimes read back from earlier if it's a multichapter thing, to check that the tone's consistent. I tend not to change too much at this stage, but I do have to let it rest for a while to be sure.

#uhhh #long post #ask box #anonymous #bfo deez nuts #haarping on

15 notes · View notes

maidskeppy · 3 years

Text

So I saw all this Skeppy jail stuff, and I decided to write something about it... enjoy!

Warnings: angst, spoilers, possible lore inaccuracies

"Oh man, he’s gonna be pissed if he sees this…”

Skeppy muttered to himself while digging up sand at a desperate pace. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, he had let a creeper into his and Bad’s home, which had decided to detonate while standing right against the front wall. While most of the wall was fine, the window had completely shattered, and the floor had a huge hole in it. Skeppy could fix it all, but he wasn’t sure how much time he had before Bad got home.

He almost had enough sand when he heard fast-paced steps approaching. Bracing himself for another lecture about being careful, he turned around to face…

Dream?

Skeppy wasn’t even sure when they had last met up. He knew Dream had been busy, with important-sounding things like war and politics, but Skeppy hadn’t paid much attention to anything that didn’t directly concern himself, Bad, or the Skywars map he had spent months constructing. “What’s up?” He asked, not sure what to expect.

Dream sighed, and for the first time, Skeppy noticed the exhaustion in his posture. He was breathing heavily, and a few drops of sweat briefly shone on his forehead before slipping below his mask. “Skeppy,” he began, wheezing the name out with difficulty. “It’s Bad. He needs you.”

“Wait, why? What’s going on?” He was already putting away his tools, ready to run.

Dream shook his head. “No time to explain. He’s hurt, he needs you right now.”

Even if there had been time to explain, that was all Skeppy needed to hear. He ran as fast as his body could physically stand, yelling several times when Dream couldn’t keep up. “Come on! Where is he?”

“In here,” Dream finally panted, placing a hand on the door of the prison. With his other hand, he fished a keycard from his pocket, swiping it to gain access.

Skeppy followed, squinting through the dim halls. “Why would Bad be in here?”

“He agreed to help me guard it,” Dream instantly responded. “We might have to use it soon, and… we need all the help we can get. But there was an accident. This way.” He pointed down a long hall, lined with entrances to what appeared to be tiny cells.

The hall was only just bright enough for Skeppy to see into each cell. From where he stood, they didn’t even look big enough for a person to fit into. What was supposed to go in them? Most of them were marked by signs, but he couldn’t afford to take time to read any of them, not when Bad was hurt and alone and probably crying for Skeppy. Answers could wait.

He had darted out ahead, but the careful attention he gave each cell allowed Dream to quickly catch up. Occupied with his task, Skeppy didn’t actually realize how close Dream was until a hard shove forced him past the entrance of the cell he was examining. Turning around, he was met with the slam of iron bars, sealing his only way out.

“Dream, we don’t have time for trolling!” He banged on the bars with both fists, hoping they would somehow be weak enough to collapse. They weren’t. “We have to find Bad!”

“No, Skeppy.” Dream stood outside, all traces of exhaustion mysteriously absent. “I have to find Bad. And then I have to let him know we’re doing things my way from now on… as long as he wants his precious little Skeppy to stay safe, anyway.” His words were drawn-out and sickly sweet, a vicious mockery of them both.

Skeppy launched another futile attack on the bars. “Oh my God, you’re actually fucking evil. Dude.” Had he been like that the whole time? The idea was starting to hurt his brain, especially since he was no longer even sure if Bad was hurt or not.

Dream shrugged. “Maybe it looks bad from your side, but I’m doing what’s best for everyone. Now don’t go anywhere… not that you exactly have a choice.” With that, he was gone, leaving Skeppy alone in his cell.

Now that he was inside it, Skeppy was questioning the use of the word “cell”. He had so little room to move that a better word would probably be “cage”. He couldn’t even properly sit or lay down… which meant he wouldn’t be there for long, right? Yeah, it had to be temporary. Bad would find him, work things out with Dream, and get him out.

He sighed, not quite out of relief, but out of an unshakable trust that it would come.

—

Losing track of time proved easy, as he realized when he next heard footsteps in the hall, and couldn’t produce an answer to how long he had been left alone for. He didn’t think he had fallen asleep at any point, so it was probably less than a day, but that was as specific as he could get. Leaning forward the tiny amount he could, he tried to get a look at his visitor.

Twin metaphorical weights of stress tumbled off his shoulders when he glimpsed a familiar set of eyes, framed by an equally familiar hood. Once Bad saw where Skeppy was waiting, he rushed over, clinging to the bars that separated them. “Skeppy! Are you okay?”

“I will be once I’m out of here.” Skeppy reached out, his hands closing over Bad’s fingers as much as they could. “What’s going on? Dream’s trolling us, right?”

“You don’t have to worry about Dream anymore. Actually, they’re probably dealing with him right now.” Bad cast a look back towards the prison’s entrance. Though the thick obsidian walls prevented any sound from escaping, he could imagine the scale of the commotion.

“Great. Let’s go home.” He didn’t even care if Bad saw the creeper hole. They could fix it, go to bed, and hopefully forget this ever happened.

“Well…” Still holding the bars, Bad took a step back. “Here’s the thing, Skeppy.”

If that was already enough to chill Skeppy’s blood, what happened next turned it to ice.

As Bad watched Skeppy, the vibrant red in his outfit faded to a dull gray, then to white.

“Bad, what’s happening?” He asked, even as he started shaking in a way that suggested he already knew.

“I have to do something important, Skeppy.” His fingers stroked Skeppy’s palms in an attempt to be comforting. Skeppy hated that he couldn’t even bring himself to pull away. “Something dangerous. People might start thinking they can use you to stop me.” He shook his head. “I won’t let them.”

He didn’t wait for a response. “I know it’s not the nicest place,” he said, voice taking on a placating tone. “But it won’t be for long, and I’ll visit you all the time, okay? I’ll bring all the foods you like, and drinks, and games, and anything else you ask for. You won’t really be missing out on anything!” Was he smiling? Was he really smiling? Skeppy wanted to reach out and slap him, right across the face.

He resorted to the only tactic he had left. “Don’t do this, Bad.” He kept his voice soft and sad, hoping it would be enough to have an effect. “You know I won’t be happy here. Is whatever you’re doing really worth that?”

Bad bit his lip, and for a second, Skeppy saw a battle rage in his eyes. Then it was over, and Bad pulled his hands away from Skeppy’s. “Skeppy, I know you don’t understand yet, but I’m doing this so we can be together forever. No more problems, no more fights, nothing trying to keep us apart.” He looked down, hands twisting together. “Don’t you want that?”

Damn it, he was even better at guilt trips than Skeppy was. “Yeah, of course, but…”

“It won’t be long,” Bad promised again, leaning closer. He carefully positioned his face against the bars, making it clear what he wanted. Skeppy sighed, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“It better not be.”

“See you soon, Skeppy.” Bad gave him a kind smile. Somehow, its sincerity hurt even more than Dream’s cruelty. When Skeppy didn’t answer, Bad looked away and started walking, disappearing from view within seconds.

As soon as he was gone, Skeppy felt a broken noise escape from his throat. It sounded like a strangled hiccup, but the way it forced streams of tears from his eyes made it feel more like a sob.

Whatever it was, it echoed through the hall for a moment, then faded away. Once it was gone, Skeppy heard something faint but unmistakable: a single footstep, which wasn’t followed by another.

He waited for a little longer, delaying his conclusion for as long as he could, but it increasingly set in despite his best efforts. If Skeppy had heard that footstep, then Bad had heard him crying. And he hadn’t come back.

There was no reason to keep holding back. He slumped as far down as the cage would allow, and let the tears come.

He didn’t realize that his sobs weren’t just wordless sounds until the walls echoed them back to him.

Despite everything, he was still crying for Bad to come and save him.

He could explain it away by blaming habit- that was what he always did when things went wrong beyond his own ability to fix them. But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t make it feel like the truth.

He loved Bad. He had loved him through all their fights, all their time apart, and he would keep loving him, no matter how long he was kept here. And he couldn’t decide what was worse: the thought that Bad didn’t love him as much in return, or the thought that he did, and could still bring himself to do this.

In his cramped position, he wasn’t sure if it would even be possible to sleep, but sleep eventually came. When he could no longer physically stay awake, he finally drifted off, hands still gripping the bars in the same position they had been when Bad had been there to hold them.

#skeppy #badboyhalo #skephalo #skeppy jail #the skephalo can be platonic or romantic #dreamsmp spoilers #dream smp spoilers

130 notes · View notes

nad-zeta · 3 years

Text

Seasons

Pairings: Vlad x Reader

Words: 1400

Comments: Eeeeeeeek! I'm not even going to try and hide my intentions this weekend! ❤☺hehe this is for a special little cutie who goes far too underappreciated,☺😳😳😳😳 sooooo here I am dubbing it appreciation weekend for this special dear hehehe! Who is this cutie you might ask? Well, we will just have to find out! ❤❤😳😳

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

Life works in mysterious ways, or at least that is what the white-haired pure blood thought when he observed the humans.

Lucky, he thought them to be— for, in their short lives, they were allowed a singular soulmate. A life companion to share the load— a place to call home— a safe haven for their hearts, and most of all, someone to share stories and memories with.

He had known no such luck being born and raised a so-called creature of the night, a vampire — pureblood— destined to walk the earth alone for all eternity. Time forever stopped while the world around him continued to move along.

That is until one curious morning when the last grain of the immortal hourglass had fallen, and the clepsydra had been turned over once more— new golden grain falling through the cracks to mark a new beginning.

It started in the months of autumn, a curious little dot appeared on his wrist— he thought nothing of it at the time— thought it to perhaps be a mole or sunspot of sorts. Surely it would leave his porcelain skin in due time, vampiric blood not allowing anything to plague the body for too long.

The world around him started to wither, as leaves discoloured and fell from the trees, staining the earth with a new colour pallet of golden hues. The once warm, humid breeze turned nippy and cheeky with its trick of the mind days. Not being able to decide whether it wanted to be hot or cold—or perhaps it liked to keep the earth on its toes. Despite the sun beaming down, jackets needed to be fished out of the winter storage, lest you wanted to be subjected to autumn chill.

Autumn was a time of housekeeping, not only bringing about warm blankets and soft cuddles but also the time to prepare landscapes for the winter months and the brilliant spring to follow.

Vlad would be out during these months, deadheading his beloved roses and collecting the fallen leaves to make his own compost. A fresh patch of soil would be dug and tuned to plant an array of autumn beauties into his beloved garden. An array of pansies and violas were expertly selected for the task of bringing vibrancy and colour into this sanctuary of his— as the world continued to transform with the season, fading in like a softly sung hymn.

The first mark of the winter season had begun with the wind howling through the breeze; he hadn’t noticed it before, but as the season progressed, so did the little mark tainting his skin.

One morning while he was out and about bringing in some of the more delicate plants— to protect them from the imminent biting frost that would sweep across the land with the first peek of the morning sun— something curious caught his attention. Crimson eyes roved over the surface of his skin and instantly widened— mind you, he almost dropped the pot nestled between his bicep and chest— when he saw the thin inkling on his skin. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he placed the potted plant down on the kitchen counter and traced his long delicate fingers over the new line that had formed.

Winters were cold—too cold— too cold to move, and far too cold to function. Yet Vlad would still be out in the trenches, come hell or high snow, pruning his fruit trees and planting his winter crop. Despite the dead desolate world outside the castle walls, his garden continued to flourish and flow with life. Pops of colours contrasted the pure white blanket covering the earth— hellebores, camellias and glories of the snow being tended to, and bringing a smile to Vlad’s face. Of course, Marshmallow enjoyed the winter months far too much, springing around the snow as Vlad nurtured his lovely garden.

When evening would settle, and the temperatures would drop to unholy coldness, Vlad would sit in his library with Marshmallow, comfortably nestled in his lap and read. Mark, seemingly forgotten with the rush of the winter bang.

Next was spring, oooh, wonderful spring. The snow finally melting, and the earth once again changing, taking on a new form, a new colour palette, if you will. The world around seemed to blossom, making it easy to forget the once barren wasteland that swept across the land like a plague only a few weeks prior.

In the early days of spring, Vlad would be out hardscaping, assessing the winter damage, fixing up his bed, and expanding his garden. It was one of Vlad’s favourite times of the year. He would often spend the warm spring days in his gorgeous garden, simply sitting in the peace, surrounded by the orchestra of nature. Enjoying the fragrant cup of strawberry tea while admiring the labour of the fall and winter growth. The true test— to see which of his hardy bulbs had withstood the winter’s chill to bring about their blessings to his garden. And sure enough, his nurturing green thumb encouraged even the most delicate of flowers to take up residence in his garden and brighten the landscape.

Oooh, and another reason to love spring? It was strawberry planting season!

Vlad would practically be buzzing with excitement as his pale hands dug through the dirt to deposit the tiny seeds of his all-time favourite snack. He hummed gently, the floral breeze carrying his soft voice through the garden like a prayer and a blessing to all his plants.

Sitting back on his heel with a satisfied smile, he grabbed hold of his hand towel to clean the dirt from his hands. One stain, however, refused to budge, ingrained in his skin and seemingly spreading like venom with the passing of time. He contemplated asking Charles to take a look at it, or hell, even Faust, but ultimately thought better of it.

It intrigued him —this little thing that seemed to change shape and form with the seasons. His fingers traced over it then, down the long line, following the delicate curves, round and round— mind racing to decipher. And that is when out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of the tulips he had planted during the winter, now breaking through the surface with blossoming buds. That’s it— his crimson eyes widened, connecting the dots and seeing a pattern in the mark that had been plaguing his skin. A blossoming flower? A tulip, perhaps? 'A sentimental promise of love that will never grow old,' he mused with a hum, thinking of the various Floriography he had studied through the years. ‘But what use or place had it had on his skin?’ came his next thought. Fingers tracing over it once more, his shoulders shot up to shrug it off as he continued to prepare his garden for summer.

Summer once more! The most fantastic time of the year for one reason and one reason only. It was the time of the year the strawberries could be harvested and enjoyed. Oooh, how Vlad loved summers and indulging in his favourite strawberry treats. Garden in its full glory at the peak of its majesty filled with vibrancy and brilliance. It felt like something from a storybook, a fairytale garden with butterflies and bees dancing from flower to flower, birds happily chirping in the trees, and the crisp floral notes combined with sunshine carried through the air. Even his flower shop would be bright and magical with all the various summer flowers out on display.

The ring of the bell announced a curious customer one summer afternoon, and within moments his heart stopped. A breathtaking woman entered the store, one who seemed to not quite belong—radiating an air of old and new. He watched quizzically from the counter as she wandered around the flower shop before bright eyes met his own.

He had not known it before, but now, with time seemingly stopped between the two, he knew. He was in the summer of his life, and with her by his side, the summer would continue forever.

For life did work in mysterious ways, and the moment he shook her hand in introduction, the inked stain finally bloomed and filled with colour to match the one hidden beneath her sleeve: a matching pair of purple tulips, a symbol of everlasting love.

:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

#Eeeeek my attempt at writing vlad #lol did i butcher this poor man #freaken maybe #jip #definitely yes #hehehee oooo weeeeelll #ikemen vampire vlad #ikevamp vlad x reader #ikevamp vlad #vlad x reader #vlad

51 notes · View notes

calehenituseappreciation · 3 years

Text

i hc wilbur made tommy president because he planned to go and press the button while tommy spoke and kill him along with himself

wilbur wanted end all his unfinished symphonies and as the person who raised tommy- he raised him like he raised l'manberg. he doesnt care for fundy- not since he denounced him- so he wanted to end him :)

i need a fic where tommy is the one who goes to stop wilbur and wilbur fucking stabs him before pressing the button saying "it was never meant to be" tommy loses both first and last lives to that phrase

tommys last words are it was always meant to be fucking wilbur survives the explosion and has no one to kill him and now he has to live with the consqunces tommy becomes toast- short for ghost tommy i refuse to write so many letters each time- and immeditly looks for his older brothers and he finds wilbur first :) wilbur is exiled for his crimes and also out of fear- they tried to rehabilate him! they really did but then he freaked out over seeing toast... in a bad way.... and he and toast burned georges house on toast suggest (maybe we should burn something! that always helps me calm down!) this is after wilbur is trusted enough to be not... in a prison... after phil convinced them he needs help and toast tries his best ok- (WHO LEFT WILBUR WITH TOAST!) (I THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME! I WAS ONLY LEAVING FOR FIVE MINUTES! AND RANBOO WAS THERE TOO!) and toast tries to go with but everyone is like "yeah no" and toast is like "whhhhyyy i just wanna stay with wilby!" and everytime anyone tries to tell tommy about the wrongs that have happened to him he screams and clutches his head in pain and everytime he comes back he doesnt remember the convo toast,,, is the most BABY toast calls everyone cutesy nicknames unironcially he calls eret rere toast, chriping happily: TECHIE!!!! tubbo: TOMMY STAY AWAY FROM HIM! toast, in a very lost and confused voice: why? techno, freaking out: tommy? toast: hi!!!!!!! im toast!!!!!! :D techno: lowkey ab to cry toast: NOOOOOOOO DUN CRI! toast: there there techie... i know what will help! tubbo, sighing: arson? toast: ARSON! phil comes just in time to find tommys dead body and l'manberg gone hes not around for the withers neither hes there just to see the crater and wilbur in chains with blood on his hands trying to off himself phil will forever blame himself for not making it in time :> dream: taking wilbur away in boat toast, floating behind the boat: o^o dream do you have any games on your phone .///^///. looks at exileinnit hmmm spins roulette wheel who should i hurt... i picked d all of the above they dont let toast go with him but because he is baby and you can't tell him what to do tubbo: sighs finally now that the exiles done toast can you- tubbo: looks up tubbo: GOADDAMN IT

toast is promptly kidnapped back to l'manberg the next day toast keeps going back tho and no one understands why- he literally killed him! why does he keep wanting to go back! (toasts unfinished buisness keeping him tied was helping wilbur and l'manberg- he loved wilbur even at his worst)

toast vibes around everyone but he stays with wilbur- where ever wilbur goes is where he builds his home

its shitty but its an 'ome Toast, teary eyed: Dad? Why does everyone hate Wilby? Why can't I be with him... Phil, with no idea what to do: niki bakes cakes with niki whenever hes in l'manberg he keeps accidently setting her bakery on fire but hes sMOL AND GIGGLES A LOT AND HE HAS FLOUR ON HE GODDAMN SELF toast is a part of mexican l'manberg i dont make the rules mexican dream: AYYYYYYYYY HOMIE toast, giggling: 'OMIE!!!!!

Toast is wholesome while everyone is literally willing to murder Wilbur while also trying to stop him from khs toast is just a very happy lovely child and cries whenever anyone is mean to 'his big brother wilby!' and so they all constantly glare daggers over toasts shoulder wherenever he cant see em meanwhile Phil is just dying inside because Tommy is a ghost by Wilbur's hands and Wilbur keeps trying to commit suicide and oh god what is he supposed to do- he simply avoids this struggle by avoiding them toast, waddling up to philza: papa do you have any games on your phone? all im saying is that tommy called phil papa before changing to dad or fathercraft phil,in the tired parent voice: tommy please sit down- just for five minutes- at least for 5 minutes toast: sits down and then proceeds to struggle to continue to sit but he must because dad told him to toast is just ADHD incarnate wilbur, trying to end himself: im gonna escape my consequences toast: HI!!!!! :D wilbur: FUCK ITS MY CONSEQUENCES toast,,,, is so baby Wilbur is just not allowed to have anything remotely sharp i like how theres so much angst and im just hyper focusing on ba yby dream uses toast the same way he uses ghostbur! :D toast doesnt realize of course even after wilbur tells him dream is bad but he keeps forgetting!!! Everyone: da baby Dream: how can I profit from this oh dream is manipulating wilbur btw wilbur: suffering toast: i made you a card toast trusts eret wholeheartedly and this hurts eret because she knows if toast remembered he probably wouldnt- they wanted redemption but not like this- not because of death Toast: you look cool Toast: you are friend now Eret: sobs I don't deserve this Toast: what did I do wrong Toast: how can I help friend!!!!! Eret: sobbing more toast looks at everyone says "ah! friend shaped!" if ur wondering wheres the angst toast is the angst- toast is just tommy without any bad memories and hes so different they thought he was happy before they thought he was fine tommy was hurt too but since he internalized it no one cared toast sees wilbur being sad and goes! i know what will help! n-not arson tho people dont like arson when you do it.... BUT ITS OKAY! I BROUGHT A FRIEND! shows friend, the sheep and wilbur just fucking sobs Toast is wholesome chaotic in a perfect mix- toast is tommy but without the 'asshole on purpose as a self defense mechanism" someone mentioned something about Tommy masking insecurities once Toast doesn't remember. and he's fine with that he doesn't have any insecurities toast hurts because in retrospect toast, meeting bad: WOAAAAAAH! YOU LOOK SO FUCKING COOL! bad: LANGUAGE! toast, cringing back, looking at the ground: ..sorry :( bad: ...you can swear toast: :D bad: once toast hasnt sworn since "hes saving it for special occasions" sometimes he accidently swears and immedtly gasps and looks at bad and bad just sighs and is like "its okay it was an accident" bad never would have thought itd take letting tommy swear for him to stop huh... its almost like... hes a child.... and the negetive reienforcement.... was doing more harm then good.... toast: exists in an amount of happiness no one has ever seen him in before everyone: pain how much pain was tommy in before? they thought tommy was happy- was... was he not happy? he's so unabashedly joyful and energetic looking back they can see how forced every laugh felt, every smile- He's not afraid to just talk to people, make new friends he became so much more cautious after Eret, had it really effected him that badly? He's open. He never lies about how he's feeling, never brushes anything away how much was Tommy hiding, how much pain, how much fear- It's chilling. bone chilling. There's no way to fix what's been lost. No way to apologize to who Tommy used to be, to try and make it better. None of them every bothered to see him as anything more than a nuisance, an annoying child or cannon fodder and they'll regret it for the rest of their lives everyone: having a mental crisis toast: GUYYYYSS!! I MADE ANOTHER FRIEND!!!

"Wilby?" Wilbur heard Tommys voice say in an innocent tone.

Was he hearing things? Tommy's dead. He killed him himself.

"Wilby why are you in prison?" The image of his little brother asked, "Did you commit arson without me?" it asked in a pout.

"TOMMY!" Tubbo yelled running into the cell where Wilbur was kept, going through the bars with ease, "Tommy get away from him!"

"But 'ubbo!!!! Wilby is 'ere!!!!" Tommy (?) said with a smile Wilbur hadn't seen since Tommy was a child.

"Tommy, I understand you don't remember anything right now but you need to come back over here!" Tubbo demanded and Tommy flinched

Wilbur was struck with the sudden realization that this isn't just his mind- no no it can't be- but Tubbo acknowledged him he has to- Wilbur reached his locked hands towards Tommy only for him to pass through him. What? No no it was just his imagination that makes sense.

"Oh sorry Wil! I'm kinda dead! I don't remember how i died... but i think im a ghostie!" Tommy said plainly, floating off the floor. Wilbur looked at him in confusion. Whats happening?

the first time toast sees the crater toast srceams in intense amount of pain- its so loud you can hear it all over the smp- and just dissapears for a few days before reappearing with no memories of what happened toast saying things tommy thought but never said- he calls eret "big brother" and eret fucking d i e s toast cals all the l'manbergians older siblings He's far too honest for anyone to handle tommy was always honest too but he learned from experince that honesty only lead to hurt Tommy was like an enderchest, you could never see beyond the exterior, everything inside was exclusive to him and him alone Toast is like when someone dies and all their fuckin items explode onto the ground. you just see everything and most of it was pain and everyone feels bad because they thought he was the only one uneffected that nothing had ever put a damper on his happiness and energetic smile- at what point had that smile became fake? also for angst reasons the last memory toast has is before the elections toast has uwu boy vibes but more chaotic toast goes to dream smp from logstedshire purely for sam nook toast starts making his hotel since he sees nobody has a home (including dream LMAO) (and he wants to make a safe place since everyone keeps saying something about war) and wants to make one and asks sam for help since apparently hes good at building and sam lets him pay after he finishs the hotel and sam nook is there since day one because i dont think i could handle a world without sam nook toast: biting everyone tubbo: wHY DO YOU DO THAT?????? toast: once techie bit all the cupcakes and then said it was his cuz he bit it so im biting everyone to show their mine!!!!! tubbo: i- tubbo: i am both flattered and disgusted everyone, remembering how tommy used to bite everyone upon meeting and then everyone would get mad at him and yell at him until he stopped biting people on meeting: sadly whips and nae naes hes a BABY toast deserves the fucking world also i havent talked ab it but there is wilbur and fundy angst here fundy confronts wilbur also not that fundy is angry about not not not getting murdered by his father but also why does he consider tommy his unfinished sympohny and not him? he raised fundy too- maybe he just only ever loved tommy (based off his insecurity of how close wilbur and tommy are based off wilbur raising tommy and wilbur only being there for fundy by the time he was older and also using hybrid age go nyoom for this dream manipulates toast during wilburs exile along with wilbur and toast realizes both of them were being used by him and fucking screams lourder than he ever has before and dissapears for a week and then shows up at technos house (he got lost and he didnt know why he was at logsted shire- he doesnt remember the place) on the day of the excution and tries to help technoblade but keeps forgetting that everyone is trying to kill techno the butcher army is hesitant when "hey why are you all attacking big brother Techy-" "HE SPAWNED WITHERS IN L'MANBERG!" "he did?" toast asked tilting his head in confusion "YES! HE DID! AFTER YOU DIED! NOW WHERE IS HE TOAST! WE NEED TO CAPTURE HIM!" whenever tubbo talks ab how theyre planning on excuting techno or how there was no trial toast has flashbacks to tubbos excution but hes never able to hold on to the memories just leaving him feeling bad toast sees anything traumatic and just makes the blue screen noise toast has to reboot every time anything truamatic happens and when he does he doesnt remember what happens after

toast hurts on a "THE FUCKING IMPLICATIONS OF THIS" level just.. everyone trying to make up for not noticing tommys hurt and trying to be good to toast when its already too late... far too late glatt is also here because whenever ytoast dissapears after something trauamtic he bounces back to the land of the dead for the bit and sometimes he drags glatt out to the land of the living with him only works bc toast has unfinished buisness so he can freely go between and just stays in the land of the lving until he can finish his unfiinshed buisness ghostbur and toast wouldve been good friends if they ever met anyone yells at toast and he immeditly starts sobbing

basically when everything is calm and peaceful and everyone is happy together after dream is in prison and toast is like "oh... this is what ive always wanted"

"toast?" tubbo asked, confused toast smiled softly, "i think its time for me to go" "what?" wilbur asked his pitch unusually high due to the fear lacing his voice "i think... i think this was my unfinished buisness... this is the last thing i wanted when i was alive, the reason i stayed... i think its finally my time to go now" toast said smiling tearfully "no! you vcan't go! we just got you back!"

basically when everything is finally ok, when things finally calm down toast fades back to the void/afterlife thing

#dream smp #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #dream smp hcs #dream smp au #dsmp

100 notes · View notes

expectingtofly · 3 years

Text

Reunion

15x18 coda, Dean goes to the Empty to rescue Cas, Dean confesses his love, happy ending, forehead touching because of course there is

~2k words

also posted on ao3

Jack snapped his fingers and Dean felt something lurch inside his chest, his footing and balance suddenly unstable and tilting, then, just as suddenly, steady.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to darkness extending in every direction, an unnatural light without source illuminating only a few feet ahead of him. He might’ve thought he was floating in space if he couldn’t feel and see his feet on the ground. Fear crept through him as he turned in a slow circle, taking in the total darkness surrounding him. The Empty.

“Cas?” he called. No words left his mouth, not even a vibration in his chest or throat to tell him he’d spoken. It struck him how quiet the Empty was—no, not just quiet—silent. Completely and utterly silent. He couldn’t hear his own breathing, took a step forward and couldn’t hear the movement.

“Cas, where are you?” he called again, or tried to, because panic was welling up in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Silence, like a sponge that soaked up any noise. Desperation, always on the brink of overwhelming him since Cas had been taken before his eyes.

Shutting his eyes again, he took a deep breath, tried to steady himself. Chuck was dead, everyone who had vanished returned. The world set back to rights—but not completely, not yet. He had begged Jack to send him to the Empty, to let him fix this. To save Castiel. He had to do this. He could do this.

Opening his eyes, Dean began walking. He didn’t know where he was walking towards, didn’t even know if he was walking in a straight line. The surface under his feet felt steady enough, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that his next step would find him falling into an abyss. The air around him—if it was air at all—seemed to pulse and waver, as if his movements disturbed this place.

He didn’t know where he was headed, but he had to move, had to search. Ever since Cas had... died (the word still seemed so unfairly final), every other duty had shrunk before this one. Defeating Chuck, saving their world—it was all a precursor to this mission: finding Cas and bringing him home. Maybe it was selfish of him, but Dean knew that if the world went back to normal but didn’t include Cas, nothing would ever feel right.

His eyes strained as he scanned his surroundings for something, anything. At a chill creeping over his shoulders, a tingling across the back of his neck, he spun around. Nothing was there.

Wary, he turned back to the direction he thought he’d been walking in and continued forward. Then he heard a voice that stopped him in his tracks.

You’re not supposed to be here, it whispered. He couldn’t physically hear the words, only felt them slither through his mind. Not a human voice, too sinister and sharp. A voice that must belong to the Shadow, the entity that ruled the Empty, that took Castiel from him. You don’t belong here.

“Where’s Castiel?” Dean tried to ask aloud. His mouth moved wordlessly.

The Shadow laughed. Tendrils of ice snuck along Dean’s arms and he couldn’t resist looking around himself again, wishing he could see the Shadow, put a face to it, fight against something physical.

Castiel is asleep, Dean. He’s content, peaceful. Dean shuddered as the words filled his mind, chilled him to the bone. He asked me to bring him here, don’t you remember? Conjured every happy memory of you and him, spoke of his love for you—his favorite subject—until I heard his happiness from here and returned him to where he belongs. You know that.

Dean knew. Every time he shut his eyes, blinked, he saw the smile on Cas’ face as the Empty enveloped him.

Cas doesn’t belong here, he told the Shadow, thinking the words now instead of trying to speak them. He began walking again, faster now, searching the darkness before him. Millions of angels and demons rested here—where were they? Where was Cas?

The Shadow laughed, more of a sensation crawling along Dean’s skin than a sound in his mind. He doesn’t want you to save him, Dean. Why are you here, truly? To do the noble thing? To fulfill your own need to always save, to always rescue? Are you really that selfish?

The atmosphere around Dean seemed to shift, to press back against him. His movements felt sluggish, as if the Empty was actively fighting him.

You don’t deserve Castiel. You’ve known it for so long— isn’t that why you’ve kept quiet all these years? You never could tell him just how much he meant to you because you knew, you knew you had no right to feel this way.

Dean could feel cold prickling at his scalp, as if the Shadow was roaming through his head, picking through his memories, his doubts, his fears.

Castiel is delusional, isn’t he? the Shadow asked, a hint of amusement in its voice. Why would he ever love you? After the way you’ve treated him, abandoned him, broken his heart time after time after time?

A heavy, despondent feeling settled in Dean’s chest. His footsteps slowed to a stop, almost without his meaning to. Exhaustion settled on his shoulders. It was true, what the Shadow was saying. He didn’t deserve to be loved by Cas, didn’t deserve his sacrifice.

Yes, the Shadow hissed. Leave Castiel alone, Dean. He’s finally at peace. He no longer has to hear how unneeded, how unwanted he is.

I need him, Dean thought desperately. I want him.

The thought brought back Castiel’s own words: “The one thing I want is something I know I can’t have.”

You can have me, Dean had wanted to tell him, but the words caught in his throat because it seemed too good to be true, that Cas wanted him, always had. And then it was too late to tell him.

I’ll bring you back to Earth, the Shadow whispered. Leave Castiel alone. Leave me alone. Castiel doesn’t want you to wake him.

Dean almost nodded his head. His legs felt rooted to the ground, his mind racing with every reason why Castiel was better off without him, all the ways Dean had failed him.

But then Castiel’s words echoed in his mind, louder than the Shadow’s, louder than every painful memory: I love you.

The tears in his eyes, the resignation to his death. Dean knew he couldn’t doubt those words, the weight of emotion behind his sacrifice. Knew he couldn't doubt Cas’ perfect contentedness to sacrifice himself to save him.

“Good things do happen, Dean,” Cas had told him when they first met, and it had seemed so unlikely, so undeserved, but he knew now Cas’ love was one of those good things, the only one that mattered right now.

Take me to him, he told the Shadow, thinking the words with as much force as he could. Take me to him or I will never stop searching. I’ll search this place for eternity, calling Castiel’s name, and you will never get to rest.

The same threat he knew Cas had made when he first went to the Empty. When he died and Dean had felt like he died too. The same fight Cas had put up to return to him.

The voice in his head snarled, Don’t be foolish, Dean.

But Dean knew this was the clearest his mind had been in a long time. Clear certainty of what he must do, of what he must tell Cas. That Cas could have him, all of him, forever.

He began walking again, calling Cas’ name in his mind. Cas died peacefully because he saw no other way, because he needed to save Dean’s life. But there was another way now. No more sacrifice. No more finding peace in death. They could find peace in life, on Earth, together. Dean would make sure of it.

The Empty pushed against him, but he kept walking, kept calling Cas’ name, calling and searching, and the Shadow spat, Fine! I’ll take you to him and you’ll see that I am right.

In the blink of an eye, Dean was no longer alone. A few feet in front of him, a body lay on the ground. The familiar tan of a well-worn trench coat. Castiel.

His heart in his throat, Dean ran forward and dropped down by Cas’ side. “Cas!” he said aloud, the words sucked out of his throat into the vacuum of the Empty. Gingerly, he touched Cas’ shoulder. His eyes were closed, a look of bliss on his face.

Dead, Dean thought with a jolt to his heart. Then he noticed the small shift of Cas’ trench coat and shirt as his chest rose and fell silently.

Sleeping, the Shadow corrected him. And you’ll never be able to wake him because he’s happy. He’s where he wants to be.

Please, Cas, wake up, Dean begged in his mind. He took Cas’ hand in his own, felt its warmth and squeezed tighter. Please.

The Shadow laughed and Cas’s eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.

Cas, I need you, please Cas.

He doesn’t want you, the Shadow taunted in a singsong voice. He’s happy, so happy. The words curled in Dean’s mind, sent a shiver down his spine.

Shutting his eyes, Dean prayed, sending his words outwards, an instinct so familiar, so effortless, it felt like breathing. Cas, the fight’s over. Chuck is dead, everyone’s safe. You can wake up now.

The Shadow snickered, and Dean ignored it, focused on the physical weight of Cas’ hand in his.

You can have me, he prayed. I’m sorry, for never letting you know, for pushing you away. You never deserved any of it. You’re loyal, and kind, and forgiving—and you say I changed you, but you changed me. You changed me for the better, and I don’t want to live without you.

Lifting Cas’s hand, he brought it to his lips. I love you, Cas, you have to know.

Don’t leave me.

I love you.

Distantly, he thought he heard the Shadow howl in anger, and then Cas’ hand shifted in his, fingertips brushing his lips.

Almost scared he had only dreamt the sensation, Dean slowly opened his eyes.

Blue eyes met his gaze.

“Dean?” Cas asked, his voice loud in the silence of the Empty. It rang in Dean’s ears as he stared at Cas, at his eyes open wide and questioning.

Then he unfroze and moved. Grabbed Cas and pulled him to his chest, buried his face in Cas’ neck, clutched at his trench coat. He felt Cas’ hands settle on his back, grip his jacket.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean tried to say. The Empty still stole his voice, his words silent. He prayed instead. I love you.

“I didn’t think you could,” Cas whispered, his voice muffled in Dean’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you loved me back.”

Pulling back, Dean cupped Cas’ face in his hands and Cas held onto his wrists. I do, he told him, prayed. I always have.

Cas smiled, his eyes wet, and Dean felt a tear drip onto his thumb.

Will you come back with me? Dean asked. Will you be happy with me?

Cas nodded and pressed his forehead to Dean’s. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

Shutting his eyes, Dean breathed a sigh of relief, felt his own eyes prickle with tears. Thank you.

He helped Cas to his feet, holding tightly onto his hand, and Cas addressed someone Dean couldn’t see. “We’re leaving, and you’re going to let us go.”

You can’t, the Shadow snarled in Dean’s mind.

If you ever want to sleep again, you’ll bring us back to Earth, Dean told it.

The Shadow whined and griped and snarled. Indiscernible sounds that fought in Dean’s mind, filled it to a cacophony—then everything spun and Dean clutched Cas’ hand.

Bright sunlight.

Dean squinted up at a blue sky and realized he was laying on his back. Grass tickled his face and, slowly, he sat up. An open field, a warm breeze, daytime. He let out a shaky breath and heard it, heard birds chirping in the trees lining the field, heard the wind shifting the leaves.

Earth. Home.

Cas shifted, and Dean looked down at him where he lay, still tightly gripping his hand. Cas blinked up at the sky, at him, and Dean started laughing, from relief, from joy. A smile spread across Cas’ face and he sat up, leaned into Dean.

“Thank you,” he said and there wasn’t any sadness in his eyes anymore, just happiness.

“I love you,” Dean said aloud, finally, and the words never sounded so right.

Tag List:

@becky-srs @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @xojo @marvelnaturalock @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you @aelysianmuse @prayedtoyou @spnwaywardone @letsjustdieeveryone @spookyskeletonsandallthezombies @good-things-do-happen-dean

Let me know (message, ask, comment) if you’d like to be tagged in my other random destiel fics or removed from the list :)

#coda #15x18 #i've read so many good codas on this subject #and had to add my take #honestly i'll be happy with anything that involves #a love confession #tears #and pretty please a forehead touch #destiel #deancas fic #castiel #angst and pining #happy ending #expectingtofly writes

153 notes · View notes

yujikuna · 4 years

Text

when the night is over

summary: bucky comes home to you after a long mission

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: fluff, angst, and like two lines of smutty action

a/n: i always said i would never post my stuff on tumblr, but here i am. also, i’m sorry in advance. inspired by when the night is over by lord huron.

The white house across the field is illuminated like a mirage in the desert. The scene is picturesque in the way that dawn has begun to take over the sky, and the large willow tree that sits by the pond east of the house flutters in the breeze.

Every light is on, and the sconce above the front door is lit as a silent invitation for him to enter. Small lanterns line the path leading from the driveway to the porch, beckoning him forward.

He strips himself of his gear before he ascends the porch steps. There was no place for it there. This was holy ground not meant to be tainted by the dirt and blood caked on his soles and his heart. Each piece he takes off feels like a layer of skin being pulled back until he is left with only a bruised and tattered soul longing for solace. His boots are left in the yard.

The second step creaks under his weight and the rusted hinges of the screen door screech when he opens it. He would have liked to remember to fix them later, but all of his worries and responsibilities are forgotten as soon as he steps over the threshold into the metaphorical Eden that he shares with you.

There’s no need to knock. This is their sanctuary. A safe haven far, far away from the terrors of the world.

“Bucky? Is that you?”

Of course it’s him. It’s always him. No one else knows that this place exists.

His bare feet pad across the cold hardwood, following your voice and the smell of breakfast to the kitchen. It makes him think of someone else, someone older with blue eyes and brown hair like his who sang as they cooked and made him their certified taste-tester. But the thought is fleeting, and he pushes it away.

You’re a vision standing there in front of the stove. A dream. But you have to be real. There’s no way a man as twisted as he could ever create something as ethereal as you.

Bucky takes a moment to watch you. You’re humming and swaying to the song coming from the radio sitting by the window as you flip blueberry pancakes and sizzling bacon and stir scrambled eggs. He can’t see your face from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t need to.

He’s happy. He’s so utterly, devastatingly, happy that he can’t contain everything he feels within his cracked heart and has to let it pour out of him. Has to let it go wherever it can find a home. It always ends up finding its home with you.

He found his home with you.

He doesn’t think twice as he crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your hair, the strong scent of your shampoo tickling his nose. His titanium hand grasps your hip as his flesh one gathers your hair to push it over your right shoulder. You let out a soft sigh when you feel the tip of his nose trace a line from your shoulder up your neck, ending with a kiss behind your ear.

“If you want breakfast you’ll stop while you’re ahead, Sarge,” you tease. You don’t move away, though, just close your eyes and tilt your head back to rest on his broad shoulder.

“Don’t need food,” Bucky says, the words muffled by your neck. “Just need you.”

The song changes, slightly more up-beat than the one before, but he just presses his chest closer to your back. He feels seventeen again, swaying with you to the mellow jazz in the background. The hand that was holding your hair trails down your side, stops to give your hip a little squeeze, and then continues its journey to your leg.

His calloused palm is rough against the soft skin of your thigh. A hum falls from your lips when his fingertips dance across the peach fuzz there, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It travels upwards again, but stops at the delicate hem of silky fabric.

“This a new dress?” Bucky’s face is still burrowed in the juncture between your shoulder and neck, a grin on his face when he feels you try and fail to suppress a shiver at his lips moving across your skin when he asks the question.

“Mhm. Got it on sale a few weeks ago,” you say. The kitchen is quiet for a moment, only the sounds of soft music and sizzling bacon filling the silence before you speak again. “You’ve been gone so long, Bucky.”

“I know. ‘M sorry. ‘M here now, though.”

You turn in his arms to face him. Something warm that he hasn’t felt since he left bursts in his chest when he sees your face. He had been gone longer than usual this time. Mission after mission after mission-- they never seemed to end. But even after all that time, here you were, just as beautiful as always. It was like you never changed.

A smile takes over your face when you look at him. “Your hair’s longer,” you say, running your fingers through the tangled brown tresses before swiping your thumb across his cheek to remove a smudge of dirt. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up and breakfast will be ready by the time you get back?”

He wants to protest, wants to stay there in front of the stove with you and sway until the food is burnt and the sun finishes rising and sets again in the night. Wants to hold you until the house gives in on top of you and you both turn to dust and become one with the earth below.

He would be okay with that, content with the thought of his aching bones finally being laid to rest entwined with yours, but you just kiss the tip of your pointer finger and press it to the dimple of his chin before shooing him away and turning back to the food.

Breakfast is spent with you on his lap, his metal arm wrapped around your waist to keep you from getting up, the two of you basking in the first light of daybreak as it filters through the sheer curtains hanging on the window. In between bites he kisses your shoulder blade, and when you finish you cuddle against him while he goes back for seconds.

You’re so warm against him, and he can’t help but tuck his hand underneath your dress to feel the heat of your skin on his. He swears he can almost see his own breath.

‘S cold, he told you there in the kitchen. The furnace is acting up, you had replied. Another thing to add to the nonexistent list he was keeping.

Dishes are left on the table. Pans are left on the stove. The sink is so full that it’s overflowing to the counter. They’ll clean later. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. It can wait, but they can’t.

In the living room, a basket of laundry is taken from the couch and deposited on the arm chair instead. A stale cup of water from the night before is moved from the coffee table and poured into the overgrown pothos by the window and Bucky watches you sit the glass on the floor. It can wait.

It’s so achingly domestic, he thinks, coming home to a well-loved house and being well-loved by the woman in it. There are no false pretenses, no need for the two of them to pretend to be someone they’re not. It’s almost like he never left-- like time in the little white house in the field was frozen, allowing the two of you to pick back up exactly where you left off.

Bucky dutifully follows you to the couch, and the last of the tension in his body melts away when he opens his arms for you to fall in to.

He plans on staying there forever.

Soft touches and soft kisses and even softer words. The radio plays softly in the background as you tell him what he missed, and he listens diligently while you run your fingers through his hair. Eventually you pick up a thin book and a pen. You tried to show him how to solve the puzzle in front of you, but each time you looked at him you noticed the spaced out look and dopey smile he always got when he was watching you, and gave up soon after.

“…Six, seven, eight, nine.” The last number is nearly cut off by a choked giggle when you feel him start to kiss down your neck. He can tell you’re trying to ignore him, but he continues mapping his way down your body, looking up at you as he kisses the inside of your knee. “Bucky.”

The expression on your face is adorably stern, but the almost imperceptible quirk of your lips and the benign tone of your voice tells him everything he needs to know.

It’s there on the couch that he is given his final homecoming with your arms wrapped around him tightly and his hands, one warm and rough and the other smooth metal, grasping your legs. You’re a vision above him. A dream. Beautiful. Ethereal. He feels your warm breath ghost over his face and your eyelashes brush his cheek before you cum around him, a whispered ‘I love you’ and one final kiss urging him to follow. He would follow you anywhere. His beautiful girl. His home.

The air between the two of you is electric as you fall into his chest. He swears he can feel it in his fingertips, his toes, his brain, his heart. Every nerve in his body feels alive.

Another giggle and a slow, languid kiss is shared between you. “Do you think that was it?”

Bucky reclines on the couch, bringing you with him. “I hope so,” he mumbles into your hair. He pulls the discarded blanket over you to slow the creeping chill seeping into his bones. “We gotta get a move on if we’re gonna have four.”

You pinch his side and push yourself onto your elbows. “Four?” you ask, a teasing glint in your eye. “I’m pretty sure I agreed to one.”

“Nope, I vividly remember you telling me we could have as many as I want, and I want four.” The sun has set, but he ignores the darkness outside, instead focusing on your blissful smile and the way the soft light of the lamp on the table dances over your skin.

“Absolutely not. There’s no way I could handle four kids.”

“Okay,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face, “we’ll compromise and have six instead.”

“Six?” you squawk, your tone full of mirth. “Why stop there? We might as well have enough babies to fill an entire freight car.”

The electricity that runs through his body in response to your final two words is enough to make his jaw lock and his muscles seize. He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t hear your worried pleas for him to look at you.

Bucky wants it to stop. It’s too painful, too much, too soon, and he can see you above him still through the fog of his mind-- his shining sun. He can see you, can feel your hands on his face but you’re soon eclipsed by the current running through his body.

Too painful, too much, too soon. The night wasn’t over yet. He was supposed to still have time. Too soon, too soon, too soon.

Did he tell you he loved you? He knows he does, he knows you know, but did he tell you? He can’t see the sun anymore. Was it even there to begin with? He can’t remember.

Bucky closes his eyes, unable to move. He feels lost inside his own mind. Where was he?

When he opens them he thinks he sees the sun. But it’s not soft daylight being filtered through lace curtains or your warmth melting him down to his core. It’s harsh and white and he’s so, so cold.

A man steps in front of his chair.

“Доброе утро, солдат.”

“Я жду приказаний.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #winter soldier x reader

385 notes · View notes

earendilslight · 3 years

Text

Soooo, I've been simping Thresh since 2014 and now I finally can be open about my love for him because of the cinematic, and since I'm about to apply for the C1 Cambridge certification and I'm in desperate need to practice my writing, it's a perfect time to write fanfics with Thresh 💖

It's just a very little text, maybe, if it gets enough love I'll turn it into an actual fanfiction. But in the mean time, enjoy!

Also, if you happen to notice any mistake let me know!

------—------------------------------------------

He came out of the shadows, where the dim light could reveal his features. It was a tall man, with long dark hair, dressed all in black, from the elegantly fixed necktie to the long-leathered trench coat that covered him down to the knees, a common attire used by the upper classes in Noxus. His face was slim, almost as the shape of the tip of a spear, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked incredibly flexible as he smiled pettily at me. But it was not his smile that shocked me, no, it was his eyes. Eyes that shone like green, supernatural flames, like something evil lingered behind his mortal appearance.

The gaze of the monster in my nightmares. It was the same eyes that had terrified me for as long as I could remember, and now they were there, in the form of a devilman who smiled at me with cruel intentions. I suppressed a gasp, with trembling fingers, grasping at my robe while taking a step back.

I was petrified. How was I supposed to know this was the creature I pretended to make a deal with? I wonder If I would've been so bold to come here if I had known.

"Having second thoughts, miss?" he asked. His voice was deep, dark. The whisper of a phantom "You are indeed right to be frightened. Your soul would be in constant agony, roaming forever inside the lantern. Your friend made a choice, a very foolish one, I must say, and now he must pay the price of his own naive decisions. There is no point in wasting your life as a prisoner nor I'd like to carry a soul like yours."

"A soul like mine?" I said, trying to sound confident, but I could barely utter any words without stuttering.

"Do you wish to spend eternity in the lantern?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"No!" I replied almost immediately, without hesitation. The man looked pleased, even though there was barely a change in his expression.

"Then leave this place at once." He turned around,walking back to the inside of the house.

I realized how much of a mistake I'd made almost too late. I had been so scared that I was about to bail my plan and abandon Charles to his fate. I would never see him again, it didn't matter what choice I made. The only difference would be that, if I could convince that man to take me instead of him, Charles could be free and we could actually find a way to release myself and every other soul trapped in there. He, from outside, while I researched closely to the monster. And even so, I was shaking. Until that point, I hadn't considered the whole implications of being at the services of this devil, and the possibility of dying or, in the worst case scenario, spending the entire eternity in agony, was terrifying. But, hadn't Charles made sacrifices for me too? He was the only family I had left. The thought of my little brother suffering forever was unbearable, wasn't I supposed to be the one to protect him?

I couldn't abandon him like this...

"Wait!" I cried, so hard that it echoed across the entire yard and inside the manor. The man stopped at the door, turning slowly, first his head, then his whole body, now barely a silhouette in the dim light, staring at me without moving a muscle. I had my hand extended towards him, like trying to reach for his own, and I realized he was observing my gesture.

"Maybe... I could be of use outside the lantern..." I muttered, not even sure of what I was saying. He chuckled, almost amused with my comment. It was a muffled sound, not even a laugh.

"How come?" He asked with curiosity. Now I had his attention. It might have been a ridiculous thought, but I was starting to believe it could work.

"You're new to Noxus, sire" I said, straightening my back with an almost futile intention to appear confident. "People here talk a lot. In fact, most of them are already wondering who this mysterious visitor is. Where did he come from? What does he want? Noxus it's not a place who treats kindly it’s visitors, especially those who appear out of thin air and might be dangerous"

"Oh, I assure you, miss, I do not fret a bunch of drunken peasants who might try to trespass. Believe me, they are right to consider me a treat".

"I also consider you someone with a plan" I replied rapidly, getting to keep his eyes on me, and now, he seemed kind of... surprised "You don't strike me as a man who just wanders around this city in search for souls to torture. I believe you are here for a reason..."

He turned completely around, with an annoyed expression in his sharp face. As if I were a ridiculous fly trying to explain to a deadly spider how to seam its web.

"Your reasons are unknown to me" I continued "but I do know that once the people of Noxus begin to suspect you, Gods forbid, those who roam in the shadows, you would be the target of much more dangerous creatures than just drunken peasants."

It was true, actually. Unfortunately, Noxus was a city where you could disappear while walking back home just for people to find your dead body around the market the next morning and no one would bat an eye for you. Not to mention the multiple cults that made human sacrifices to the forgotten deities, besides robbers, assassins, rapists, the spirits that still roamed the streets late at night. Not to mention people had seen members of the Black Rose being more active than before. If this man was careless enough, some of them would notice, sooner or later, that there wasn’t something right with him.

"And what does this have anything to do with the liberation of your dearest brother from the lantern? And with you not taking his place inside of it?"

"I can be of good use outside the lantern, like I said"

Oh, dear God, what was I doing?

"If you let him go, I will be at your service, sire. You can keep me alive, not... dead and I can do anything that implies going outside the manor. People would suspect much less if they see actual movement in the mansion. It's not weird for a lord to have people at his services, even if it's just one harmless housekeeper..."

He seemed… intrigued by my proposal. I could tell he was analyzing every word that came out of my mouth, trying to find a deeper meaning or maybe ulterior motives behind my desires. Keen eyes watching my every move and reaction, almost as piercing through the flesh, into the darkest parts of my soul.

"Imagine I agree to your proposition” he speculated “What makes you think I would just let you go outside as you please?" he started walking towards me. There was this dreadful air around him that made my skin crawl. Like my heart was sinking down my throat and my blood froze little by little in my veins, with every step he took down in my direction.

The glowing, flame-like eyes coming closer, slowly, like the inevitable march of time and death, until the man stood there, five meters away from me, and I could smell the scent of his clothing, carried by the wind. Incense and the sea. Not the dry wood and dust of the hills of Noxus, but a fragrance I almost had forgotten, the one I smelled when I was a child, in a ship...

"I'm pretty sure you have ways to keep me bound to this place" I said, without escaping his glaring and hiding under my robe my shaking hands, while he studied me like a specimen he was about to dissect. "I do not doubt you could trap my brother again, and me, if I betray you. Or to even kill me, if it comes that way"

Maybe he was amused by my daring, maybe he was surprised at how much of a imbecile I was. Either way, he didn't utter a sound. The wind started to blow, much more cold than before, a voice that sang between the trees and the grass, moving the branches of the cypresses and the oaks as if they were to start dancing with the breeze, dragging with it heavy, grey-colored clouds announcing the impending storm.

“Do you wish so much to become a prisoner?” the man asked once more. The surrounding darkness of the clouds made his eyes brighter, like wildfire in the middle of the sea, blurred by the mist of the bay. “To never set a food without being watched? To know the true depths of the despair that brings with it the lack of freedom?”

I smiled, softly. Even when his face showed no change, I could tell he was, at least, studious to my reactions. I believe he was expecting me to be frightened by this, or to a certain degree intensely disturbed. For better or worse, life hadn’t treated me kindly. Since I was ten years old I had been at the service of people who considered me little more than trash and a burden, the next master worse than the last. Ironical, isn’t it? Seemed life had prepared me to serve a monster.

“Sire, I have served my whole life as a prisoner. From one Master to another, I’ve been tied to Bilgewaters my entire life” I admitted, looking directly into his cold gaze and when thunder started to strike, his eyes weren’t dulled by their light. “I do not fret to serve one more time, even if it’s forever…”

There was something that changed in his air. I cannot point out what it was, but his semblance was different, as if the winds of the storm had finally made him feel cold, even though I doubt something like him would be able to feel coldness. His previous smile had disappeared, and his mouth was now a grimace, a straight line, which made the jailer look much more severe than he already was.

“What is your name, miss?” the man asked, with a muttered, calm voice, with both hands behind his back.

“Senara Raion, sire” I responded, trembling not only because that man made me feel paralyzed, but because a very thin but chilling rain had started to fall above us.

He stared at me, thoughtful, almost as if he were expecting a reaction on my behalf.

“Miss Senara, tell me…” Suddenly, he extended his hand towards me, with no alteration to his face. “Do we have a deal?”

I looked at his face, the diabolic eyes, his gloved hand. There was no turning back…

“We do, sire.”

Had I known the future consequences of my choice… I would’ve never set foot on that hill...

-------—-----------------------------------------

Hope you liked it!

#Thresh #Thresh x oc #League of legends #League of legends fanfic #I'm a simp for that man #Daddy pls chain me #I should be studying instead of writing this but it gives me lifeeeee

13 notes · View notes

thesightstoshowyou · 4 years

Text

Jason Voorhees x Reader

Part 4 - End

Read Part 3 here

Warnings: Mentions of previous violence

Your fingers tap against the mug in your hands, nails clicking rhythmically against ceramic. You set the mug on your railing to shove your hands in your pockets. It’s colder this morning. You wear a sweater to protect yourself from the crisp breeze that rushes through the grass and trees. More and more leaves, red, gold, and orange, flutter around the clearing to gather in piles on the ground.

Out of the corner of your eye you glance at the latest gift resting on your top step. Sticks carefully bent into a circle hold brilliant fall leaves intricately woven between the curved wood to create a wreath. You’re amazed by the skill, honestly. It’s astounding hands so adept at reaping could also create something so delicate.

The wreath is one of many gifts you’ve received over the past month and a half. After the flowers came a bundle of fishing lures soldered together in the shape of a fish. Next was an intricate wood carving of a canoe. Then came three rocks, each with a detailed painting of a different tree adorning its surface. Each gift you have received after has been crafted with the same patience and skill as the others before them. Jason is certainly an artist.

You close your eyes, inhaling the scent of decaying leaves and sharp, chilly air. Jason hasn’t tried to enter your home again, as far as you’re aware. You’ve made sure to be inside before sundown with your doors securely locked. Not that a door would be able to stop him, but it helps your peace of mind.

By now, you’re fairly certain he doesn’t want to hurt you. If he had, it would have happened by now. You’re still not sure what to think of the whole situation, but if the creative gifts are anything to go by, you believe he is nursing some kind of crush.

So…what do you do? Do you continue to do nothing, ignore it, and accept the gifts as they come? You don’t imagine this can go on forever. Eventually he will come looking for you.

Sighing, you drain the remainder of your coffee and make your way inside to place it in the sink. You return to the porch to retrieve the wreath. Carefully, you affix it to your front door. A wry smile crosses your face. It is very pretty.

The next morning you rise before the sun. You don your jeans, flannel, boots, hat, and a light jacket. Pancake fixes you with his biggest puppy dog eyes as you lock him in the house.

“Sorry, bud. I have to do this one alone.”

As you enter the forest, you’re struck with how still the air feels. No branches sway in the breeze, no birds sing, no squirrels skitter in the undergrowth. The only sound is the stomp of your boots on rotting foliage and the occasional rustle of a leaf parting from its tree and tumbling to the forest floor.

Your breath curls white before you as you walk and you shrug deeper into your jacket, partly from the chill, partly from nerves. Your skin crawls, the fine hairs on your arms all standing on end. You’re being watched, you’re certain. Or hunted. In the hush of the dark it takes all the resolve you possess not to bolt like a frightened rabbit.

Finally, the sun begins to rise. Rays of light shimmer through the trees, alighting the forest around you in spectacular hues of gold and orange. Birds wake and rustle in their nests, squawking their morning greetings. The noise is a relief. It grounds you, brings you back from the silent purgatory that is a forest at night.

You make it to Camp Crystal Lake unscathed, save for your frayed nerves. You tell yourself there’s nothing to be afraid of. Probably.

As you pace through camp you can find no evidence of the massacre from weeks ago. It is picturesque, leaves raining down around you, the sun glimmering off the lake, snug cabins framed by the changing trees. It would be a nice place to live. You can almost understand why Jason guards it so fiercely.

You circle around camp, peeking through the dusty windows of the abandoned cabins as you go. You wonder where he’s been staying. Does he even need to sleep, or a roof over his head? Or does he prefer to rest outdoors, the moon and stars his only companions?

Once you’ve searched as far as you can, you turn back. You wonder where else he could be, if not here. Should you call for him? He can’t be far. You’re certain it was Jason watching you in the woods on your way here.

He’s not here, then suddenly he is. You freeze in your tracks when you spot him, standing intimidatingly at the edge of the lake. Your heart pounds, whacking against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. Breath trembling in your throat, you swallow.

“Jason. Um, hi. I wanted…to…to uh, thank you for the, uh…the gifts.” You wait. He says nothing. Your panic rises, blood rushing in your ears, nervous butterflies seizing in your gut. Then, he begins to move toward you, slowly, his steps measured. He’s trying not to frighten you.

He stops in the shade under a massive alder tree several feet away. He waits, waits for you. He’s letting you make the decision to come to him.

Your approach is just as cautious. Each step is more difficult that the last, like your trudging through knee-deep mud. You pause, releasing a tremulous breath before stepping out of the weak sunlight to join him in the shadows.

Jason towers over you. He stands so still you might mistake him for a statue if you hadn’t already seen him move. You can finally see the eyes behind the dingy mask; one is hazel, almost gold like the leaves of the tree above you, the other milky white. He watches you closely, intently with his good eye. The skin of his neck is a strange mottled gray. You wonder his face is the same. Is that why he wears the mask?

Without meaning to, your eyes flick down to the unsheathed machete hanging menacingly from his belt. You suppress a shudder when you remember how it had looked that night, bathed in blood. The hand next to the handle is relaxed, limp. He doesn’t intend to use the blade.

You meet Jason’s unblinking gaze again. He hasn’t budged, hasn’t made a sound. He waits for you to speak or make the first move.

Slowly you reach out, hand trembling. You close the distance between you gradually, painstakingly, as though he is some wild beast that might startle. Maybe he is.

At last, your hand rests on his chest. There’s no heartbeat, not that you expect one, but it’s still jarring. Not being able to feel the thump, thumping of a beating heart is so foreign, so wrong. Again, you wonder what he is, how he came to be. Was his desire for vengeance so strong he defied death entirely? Or is it a curse that keeps him going, forces him to become the unrelenting specter of Crystal Lake?

You startle when he moves. He lifts his arms just as slowly as you had. Almost timidly, he places both of his gloved hands over yours, cradling your palm to his chest.

There’s no heartbeat, but there is a person inside none the less.

The End

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading this little story! It was a challenge for me to not write smut, so I’m pretty proud of what I’ve produced lol. I may revisit these two in the future with some drabbles here and there. Please let me know what you thought. I appreciate your interest.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #slasher x reader #slasher fandom #violence mention #this is sappy as fuck #but boy i wish that was me #jason x reader #my writing #reader insert

209 notes · View notes

nicketynic · 3 years

Text

between the shadow and the soul (1/1)

Hey fam!! Guess whose laptop is back from four weeks of computer quarantine (a.k.a. two weeks of fix-up and a godawful amount of time in the mail)!!

This was originally intended for @jonsa-valentine. Originally a ~2,000 word take on a Robb Lives, Jon/Sansa falls in love despite her arranged Southron marriage, this grew and grew as I scribbled endlessly in my notebook.

Enjoy!!

“Jon, you shouldn’t be here,” Sansa hissed fiercely as her leisurely stroll through a Redwyne vineyard was interrupted by her lover appearing suddenly from behind a vine-covered trellis. Outraged worry quickly replaced startlement as she took in his appearance: tousled, hurried, still clad in riding leathers. The reckless abandon of it all left her furious. “Have you even presented yourself at Redwyne Hall?”

“No,” Jon baldly confessed, shamelessly sidestepping her outrage as he shed his cloak and pulled her close. “I came straight from the harbor.”

Despite herself, Sansa went unresisting into his embrace, twining her arms around his neck and guiding him deeper into the thicket of grapevines. “Luck must be with you, then. Willas and his uncle are spending the day in Ryamsport, otherwise your absence would be noticed immediately.”

“Or a few well-placed silver stags will delay my arrival being announced until near the evening meal,” he countered, leaning in to nuzzle into her neck.

The rough rasp of his beard and the weathered skin underneath, the calluses on his hands as he entwined them with hers a shock of sensory delight to her system. Pressing her cheek to his and breathing him in, she realized with appreciation that he must have stopped to bathe in Oldtown, lacking as he was the stench of horse and days-old sweat. Beneath an overlay of leather and seasalt instead lingered the fresh, clean scents of pine and snow. Home, her blood and heart and soul all whispered in unison, as she pressed closer and blinked away the prick of tears.

Gods, she had missed him...missed Winterfell, missed the North. Sansa had gotten everything she was dreamed of, a chivalrous husband and a life full of Southron fancy, but she wanted none of it. She longed instead for evergreen and snow and solemn, long Stark faces. She wished for Jon, the embodiment of everything her heart longed for, everything she knew of comfort and love.

As kind and chivalrous as Willas Tyrell had proven to be, as well as he continued to treat her, there was nothing she could do to change the truth of her feelings. She and Willas could have been Florian and Jonquil reborn, and still it would have come to no good end. Sansa Stark’s heart belonged to another, given away long before the Highgarden heir had ever cloaked her in green velvet and golden roses. She felt near-forgotten parts of her sparking alive everywhere Jon’s touch lingered, previously gone dormant under long months of Willas’ absent courtesy. Sansa had no true cause to complain as her husband’s attention was cast more upon his hawks, his horses, and his correspondence with a certain Dornish prince, but it was easy for loneliness to take root in the cracks of their relationship, lacking as she was any real bond connecting her to Highgarden.

Three years without an heir sent plenty a Reacher tongue wagging, but both spouses duly ignored the ensuing gossip. His gaze turned firmly to the south, hers to the north, but they shared a common longing for the approaching summer. Summer brought the tourney season, inspiring the Red Viper and his paramour to journey beyond the Red Mountains. Summer stirred Winterfell’s king to send a trusted proxy to the Reach, protecting the vital grain trade cemented by Sansa’s marriage contract.

Having expected to see Jon in Oldtown in the role of that proxy, a week out yet as Willas wished to visit with his Redwyne relatives before they were due to attend the celebrations for Old Lord Leyton’s seventieth nameday, it should hardly be a surprise that Sansa should be startled and confused with her former lover’s sudden appearance.

Either ignorant or ignorable of her inner turmoil, Jon sighed her name, pressing soft, sweet kisses to her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, and her cheek as he raised his head to face her. “Sansa…”

“You’re mad,” she began, stopping when he winced and quickly corrected herself to avoid referencing the Targaryen heritage he found so abhorrent. “You’re foolish to have taken such a risk,” she finished chidingly, though her hands proved traitorous as they played with the hair at his nape and stroked his neck, soothingly away the reprimand. “You truly couldn’t wait for Oldtown?”

The touch grounded him, tempted as he was to take the rebuke as rejection and back away. Instead, he breathed out slowly, meeting her eyes with determination rather than chagrin. “I’m a fool, aye, mayhaps even more a fool than the Ser Florian of your songs. But I beg of you,” He tipped his forehead against hers, holding her gaze imploringly. “Here, in this moment, don’t send me away. I’ve missed you so desperately. I feel as if I’ve been cleaved in half everytime we part ways.”

“Jon…” Lifting onto the tips of her toes brought her lips to his and she let the kiss linger, slow and sweet as the first tentative touch they had shared years ago, the eve before she was due to depart for White Harbor to wed Willas in the Sept of the Snows. A clandestine meeting in the godswood to share a private goodbye had spiralled out of their control, as they surrendered to every forbidden longing overshadowed by her kingly brother’s negotiations with the Reach to get their people through a long winter, Sansa’s hand the bargaining chip key to secure the necessary grain trade.

For her people, Sansa chose to do her duty, but first sought one last thing for herself. That night, she lay with Jon in the shadow of Winterfell's heart tree, rising again in the hour before dawn hiding away the gentle, fanciful maiden part of her to become the stern, dutiful woman set to marry Highgarden's heir.

Pulling back at the need for breath, Sansa’s eyes were warm and full as she gazed up at her love. “Jon," she breathed. “Stay with me.”

He kissed her again, fumbling with his clothes as his hands were trembling, joy and desperation coursing through him like a maelstrom. “I’m here,” he whispered shakily against her skin as he kissed her throat, her breast as he loosened her corset and let her dress fall. “I’m here.”

Surrounded by the subtle sweetness of blooming grape clusters (so different from the cloying rose aromas permeating Highgarden, much to Sansa’s relief), they lay together upon the traveling cloak Jon had so carelessly shed. Rich, damp earth was soft beneath his elbows and knees, the sun warm against his backside as he kicked his breeches aside and leaned over her lithe form. His lips were soft as a butterfly’s kiss as he traced the constellations of freckles on her skin, clever fingers finding every secret spot guaranteed to elicit a sigh or moan. Her body sang with pleasure by the time she pulled him close and wrapped her legs around his hips, welcoming him into her body.

And as he moved above her, she kept her eyes on his face, tracing over his beloved features, his flushed complexion, the wrinkle in his brow as he concentrated on finding the right rhythm to please them both. Committing him to memory, she slowly let down the guard keeping the dreamy maiden at bay, and it was hope and love enveloping her, practicality hidden away, when he began to show signs of his impending peak. Cinching her legs and arms tight around him, she held him fast when he attempted to withdraw, something they would have never dared that night in the godswood. But Sansa knew his visit couldn’t last forever, and she would be so very, very lonely again when he was gone. “Stay with me,” she urged once more against his lips, swallowing his startled yelp in a kiss as he tensed and stilled, finding his release inside her.

And just like the flourishing vineyard around them, seed took root and slowly began to blossom.

As magic slowly faded from the world after the calamity of the Second War for the Dawn, the seasons falling into a pattern necessitated new alliances between all the kingdoms involved. Two years of winter would follow every three of summer, so on and so forth until cooperative trade was the key to survival.

From then on, when the snows melted and spring finally arrived in full bloom, the future Lord and Lady Tyrell began an extended tour around the Reach and surrounding regions, visiting family and popular tourney spots, building relationships and connections. If they crossed paths with Willas’ dear friend Prince Oberyn more often than not, and Sansa was able to enjoy her cousin Jon’s company during his journey to and from Highgarden as King Robb’s envoy, the coincidence was all the happier for all involved.

Surrounded by the sultry heat of a Southron summer, it was easy for most to forget that Sansa Tyrell was Sansa Stark, Daughter of Winterfell. But the reminder would always arrive when autumn's chill crept in and Lady Sansa's middle began to swell. Babes conceived in summer they may have been, but it was the winter of their birth that left its mark. Edwyn and his storm-grey eyes, little Alya with her Stark coloring; even sweet Minisa and spirited Brynden, fully Tully in looks, were Northern steel through and through when pushed passed their courtesies.

The years rolled by, marked by passages of joy and pain, contentment and heartache. Seasons changed, politics shifted, children grew, and Sansa and Jon became Lady Tyrell and Lord Snow respectively.

Just shy of her forty-fifth nameday, Sansa Tyrell leisurely strolled through the Beesbury family gardens, arm-in-arm with her beloved cousin, Lord Snow. Strong on the languid breeze was the thick scent of honeysuckle and the lazy swell of the Honeywine river, as Sansa cast reminiscent glances toward her companion through the fall of her lashes.

The arm beneath her fingers was firm and muscular as ever, but Jon had grown adorably sheepish about the softening of his middle over the years, the silver shot through his hair and beard, the craggy lines left by hard winters. Sansa herself was well aware of the marks age and children had left, but it was easy to dismiss those insecurities when her mind was full with memories of the night before.

The humid heat of the summer night had bogged down on them, clinging simply to their skin even as they clung closer to one another. Kisses tasted of warmth and sunlight, lingering gifts from the setting sun they'd made love beneath. Under the pallid luminescence of the night, her lover was a pale, solemn thing, meant for winter moons and cold starlight, but it was summer that gave them their union, and summer that touched the taste of their kisses, southron heat he gladly faced just to touch her once more. Cast with the warm glow of a full-faced summer moon, there was no mistaking the naked adoration and hunger those wintry eyes regarded her with, the same amorous gaze he’d given her at sixteen and twenty and thirty.

Once more in daylight, they practiced considerably more restraint, but it was with a mellow contentment that they walked together. Sansa was reluctant to break the peaceful silence between them, but they only had so much remaining privacy before duty forced them to part company once more. Houses Tyrell and Florent were now kin through Edwyn's marriage to the lovely and clever Mara, and so when Lord Beesbury wished to host a small tourney to celebrate his daughter’s betrothal to Mara’s brother Rycherd, all related houses happily donated further funds to make it a grander event for all to attend. Honeyholt was consequently buzzing with activity akin to the hives it was named for, and Sansa and Jon finding a private moment had been a miracle unto itself.

"Have you spoken yet to Brynden?" she inquired softly, watching him thoughtfully as they turned a corner between two appleblossom trees. He winced slightly, and she gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze, remembering how nervous he'd been when they discussed the matter the night before.

Jon heaved a heavy sigh, giving her a sheepish glance. "I have. I addressed the...situation this morning." A small, fond smile curled his lips, almost despite himself given his anxiety. "We were both eager to escape the formalities. It would have been remiss not to bring him along for my morning ride."

Sansa's returning smile was equally as fond and warm. "He favors you more and more every day," are the words she longed to say, but would never dare to do so in such a public setting. Instead, when she spoke aloud, it was to comment, "Bryn would live on horseback if I only allowed him. Wolf blood, I believe Father once called it." My blood. Your blood. Stark blood. He is every bit your son, Jon.

"But wolf blood or not," she continued gently, "He holds to the Tully words as well as his namesake. How did he respond to your offer?"

Jon sighed, softly and wistfully, resting a hand over the one tucked against his forearm. "He wasn't displeased, at least. I'm not certain the surprise ever wore off by the time we returned to the stable." He smiled wanly. "He asked for time to think. I suppose a crumbling old castle and a bastard’s name cannot compare to what Highgarden can offer."

"Jon," she sighed, the soft, tender tone to his name as close as she could come to the "my love" she wished to truly express. "You cannot truly believe any of that. A second son of a Reacher house can hardly hope for more than the tourney circuit. No boy with so much North in his heart could ever be happy as a pampered Southron knight."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Jon's face, and she pressed on. "I've hardly known Robb to be as much a braggart as he was in his letters about the restoration of Wolf's Den. He was so proud to present it to you. To honor you, Jon, in thanks for everything you've given."

"An honor I was hardly worthy of," he murmured darkly, an echo of the guilt and shame he wouldn't be Jon without. As much as he loved her, every time he lay with a married woman, the cousin he was pledged to protect and respect, he felt he violated Robb and her late father's trust in him, rendering his honor a tainted, broken thing he could no longer be proud of.

“Jon.” Bringing them to a firm stop next to a large flowering bush, grasping his forearms so that he would face her, she held his eyes intently. "You're one of the most honorable men I've ever known. Beyond that, you're kind, loyal, and dutiful to your core. How is that not a legacy Brynden would be proud to inherit?"

At that very moment, however, all thoughts of legacy, inheritance, and choice were driven out of Brynden Tyrell's head when he was knocked hard into the dirt, courtesy of his older brother, whose smirking face appeared into his field of vision along with an extended hand.

Heaving a sigh, he accepted Edwyn's hand, pulled firmly to his feet with a pat to his shoulder. A broad grin cut through Edwyn’s thick auburn beard, a low chuckle accompanying his teasing. "Didn't I tell you enough when we were boys to keep your shield up? Get distracted again, and I'll-"

"Ring my head like a bell," Brynden finished irritably, all too familiar with the phrase after a childhood of training with his brother. Eight years his senior and gifted with the stocky Tully frame, Edwyn had more often than not pummelled the lesson into him, but given Brynden’s undeniable skill with the blade now that he was nearly grown, he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of his brother’s teaching.

A round of musical laughter and mocking applause from the sidelines drew a glare and a reprimanding side-eye from the brothers. Alya remained unrepentant, smirking and giggling. Perched on a fence post, one knee drawn up to her chin and her free leg swinging back and forth, she appeared more of a restless child than a young woman on the brink of sixteen.

“Enough, Aly,” Edwyn firmly rebuked, the disapproval in his low tenor difficult to ignore by the younger siblings who so looked up to him.

Deciding that mocking her twin wasn't worth drawing Edwyn's wrath, she snapped her mouth shut against the slew of creative insults she had planned. Instead, she cocked her head curiously toward Brynden. “What has you so distracted, little brother? Even Sanny would have seen that blow coming.”

Brynden didn’t bother to hold back from glowering at his sister for that particular insult, as Sanny was the family nickname for Sansara, Edwyn and Mara’s three-year-old daughter. “If you must know, Uncle Jon asked me to go riding this morning…”

After finishing his narrative of everything that had happened that morning, Brynden was left faced with his brother’s expression, so thoroughly dumbfounded the younger wasn’t certain how to decipher the mood. Before he could begin to question, a sharp clout landed hard against the back of his head.

"Seven hells!" he yelped, protectively clutching the throbbing base of his skull as his ears rang and his head spun. He glared at his sister as darkly as capable through the pained pinch of his eyes.

"You're a complete and utter idiot," Alya hissed into his face, apathetic to the damage she'd caused in the face of her fury. “Uncle Jon offered to take you North, give you his name, and make you his heir! You have to think about it?!”

“Taking on a bastard’s name doesn’t require the slightest bit of thought?” Brynden scornfully shot back, immediately shamefaced and regretful before the words had even left his mouth. Alya’s stormy eyes lit with fury, looking ready to strike him all over again, Edwyn the very face of paternal disappointment.

Opening his mouth to apologize, he was cut off by Alya storming up to him and grabbing a fistful of his hair, jerking his head around and forcing him down until her mouth was level with his ear. "Don't presume to forget the truth of your own origins, Brynden Flowers." The low hiss of her voice was barely audible save for the sheer vehemence of her tone. "Be glad it was love that birthed you, and not the wrong side of some spoiled lordling's bedsheet."

Warring between shock and offense, Brynden could only stare at his sister, disbelieving that she would ever again dare to give voice to such a poisonous idea. He was so certain they left that ugliness behind years ago, fracturing their relationship in sacrifice to keep their world from crashing down around them.

They were twelve the night Alya appeared in his bedchamber, exuberant with the breathless excitement of a newly-discovered secret, words rambling together with a speed he struggled to keep up with. But still, that understanding did begin to bloom, as did the chill of fear climbing up his spine. Anxious panic clawed at his insides, nausea settling in as he looked up and recognized the glitter of excitement in his twin’s eyes.

She was so certain now that she had the answers, to all the questions she hadn’t been able to let go of the older they grew. Why none of them showed a trace of Tyrell save their name, why Father was never unkind but always distant, why Uncle Jon wrote so frequently and remained so affectionate and warm no matter how grown they became, despite only being a second cousin.

What was there to be excited about, if such a ghastly secret was true? There were as many pricked and ready ears hidden around Highgarden as there were roses, and there were plenty of those sickly pungent blossoms to be found around the castle and surrounding estate. The stain of bastardry aside, forgetting the loss of their inheritance and names, Brynden would fight tooth and nail to never see their mother pay the price for such a revelation.

How easily had Alya forgotten their lessons, to not realize the consequences of the Faith being so central to the Reach? Was it truly so difficult to remember Cersei Lannister’s disgrace, or Bethany Bracken’s death sentence? Even as the best-case scenario, if discovering he was a childless cuckold didn’t transform the mild-mannered Willas Tyrell into someone unrecognizable, the most they could expect was for Mother to be dismissed back to the North as a adulteress, taking her children with her bearing the name “Snow.” The shame and the ridicule would follow her, blacken her name and reputation, for the rest of her days. Would their kingly uncle welcome her home, or would he be ashamed and turn them away?

Was it worth ruining all their lives just because Alya needed there to be a reason behind Uncle Jon’s love?

Those fears swirling around his mind, culminating in a maddening mantra for Alya to just shut up and think about what she was doing, Brynden had reached out to roughly grab her arms, give her a harsh, violent shake, and order in a low, guttural growl he couldn’t recognize that she would never, ever say these things again.

He came back to himself a moment later to find a stricken, betrayed look deep in his twin’s winter eyes. Nausea and horror welled up inside him, as hardened steel replaced the pain and she spat at him, jerking herself away to disappear into the night.

It was the last time she looked at him with anything lighter than mockery. And mockery it seemed to be now, making a mockery of the sacrifice he made to keep them safe. His nostrils flared, his fists clenched, his mouth opening to respond-

Thud!

Edwyn’s practice sword hit the ground hard as his patience finally snapped, striding forward until his siblings were within arm’s length. Strong hands grabbed the teenagers by the scruffs of their necks, with just enough firmness that wriggling free would be uncomfortable, and whirled them around to face him, stern mien only emphasized by the dark intensity filling his eyes. “Enough! The two of you will stop this incessant squabbling and remember that you are family and pack, or so help me, I will chain you together for the rest of your natural lives.”

His face softened and he sighed. “You’re not getting anywhere continuing to hide from each other. Speak, and listen. Alya, tell him why it’s important to you that he go north.”

A brief mulish stubbornness appeared in her expression, but Alya’s eyes darted from Edwyn to her twin, vulnerability becoming more apparent the more she made contact with Brynden. “I-my betrothal has been arranged. I’m to marry Wyllam Manderly.”

Wyllam Manderly- heir to White Harbor. Which meant his twin, his other half, was being sent North, separating them for the first time in his life. Unless he accepted Uncle Jon’s offer and went north as well…

Oh. Oh. He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. “Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

Alya’s eyes went as wide as saucers, but before anything more could be discussed, they were all interrupted by the arrival of Edwyn’s squire.

“My lords, my lady, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Lady Minisa had gone to the birthing bed.”

If there was anything that gave Alya the slightest hope in regards to her future marriage, it was the genuine affection between her older sister and her husband, Ser Samwyle Tarly. Called Little Sam to differentiate him from his father, Samwell, the heir to Horn Hill had been hopelessly besotted with Minisa from the time they were children. It was likely that adoration that led to him indulging Mini’s wish to travel so late in her pregnancy, though thankfully the couple hadn’t traveled far, having been staying in Oldtown to celebrate his sister Maeve’s first child with Lord Hightower.

Samwyle was a big man, tall and broad, his presence readily felt by all those with him in the corridor as he paced back and forth, Redwyne freckles standing stark against his pale, anxious face. Alya watched as Edwyn approached the nervous father-to-be, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning closer to hopefully reassure and advise. Without the frenetic pacing to keep her attention, Alya found herself shifting restlessly, nothing left to distract her from her racing mind.

Thoughts bouncing from the danger of Mini being in labor to vague, nervous speculation of one day being married to Wyllam and carrying his children, she found herself most often coming back to the fact that her twin, her other half, thought she hated him.

Alya knew she was stubborn, that she was prideful, but even she had been able to admit to herself years ago that she had been hasty when it came to her suspicions about their mother and Uncle Jon. Yes, it had been wrong of him to respond the way he did, trying to force silence on the sister he knew valued the freedom of her mind above all else, but these days, needling Brynden was more habit than true antagonism. Calling him “Flowers” had been a childish thing born of her anger, but still, the only thing that could truly stick in her thoughts…

“Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

She winced at the memory and stared blankly ahead, idly counting grains in the wooden table nearby in an effort to distract herself. A shift in the space, a creak from the bench beneath her, and a warm, solid body appeared at her side. Keeping her gaze affixed forward, she sighed, sliding over until they were shoulder-to-shoulder. “I don’t hate you,” she muttered softly.

The body beside her went slack with relief, shifting closer still until they were hip-to-hip. “I accepted Uncle Jon’s offer,” he offered hesitantly.

Relief rushed through her, and she let her hand fall onto the bench beside them, close enough to feel the warmth of his. They’d held hands so often as children, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d welcomed such a touch from him. “And you’ll visit White Harbor often?”

“So much you’ll think me even more of a pest than you do now,’” Brynden replied honestly. He flexed his fingers, letting his pinkie graze against hers. He lowered his voice, muttering quietly. “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted us safe.”

Alya sighed heavily, giving into her instincts and wearily letting her head fall to his shoulder. Her twin stiffened for only a moment, relaxing beneath her and gladly welcoming her proximity as he had since the womb. “I know. But we’ll all be well, Bryn. Mama will be accompanying me for a time. And Edwyn will be so proud of you, becoming a lord in your own right.” In his heart of hearts, Alya knew if there was any man that Brynden truly considered a father, it was their older brother. Edwyn had seen them through their childhoods with patience and strength, but he had children of his own now. If nothing else, Uncle Jon at least deserved the chance to guide Bryn through the clumsy first steps of adulthood.

Brynden nodded softly, contemplatively silent rather than brooding. He gently settled his hand on hers and Alya reciprocated, their fingers entwining. There was much more left unsaid between them, so much to discuss and uncover, but for now, two halves were side-by-side.

xx Feeling helpless as a spectator and uncertain how much of his heart he could truly show, Jon Snow could only watch the similar anxiety and tension carrying on around him. Along with his goodson, he winced as yet another sharp cry from the birthing room filled the air.

Afternoon had quickly faded into twilight and later still into the hour of the wolf, and Jon had long since sent the twins to bed and his firstborn to tend his own young family. This left Jon as the only one to let the reassuring weight of a father’s hands rest against Little Sam’s shoulders.

He wondered briefly if the boy bore any resemblance to his father anytime Desmera or Gilly had gone to the birthing bed with Sam’s impressive brood of eight Tarlys and Flowers. Jon and Sam’s friendship had continued over the years despite the distance, but necessity had seen him only sharing in the most monumental milestones of his friend’s life through letters. He looked at Little Sam, saw the near-resemblance to his dear friend save for a few distinct Redwyne features.

Pushing away the melancholy, Jon forced his mouth into a reassuring smile. “Steady on, lad. Wasn’t your father or brother able to prepare you for this at all?”

“Aemon tried his best, but Father was too embarrassed.” Jon’s lips twitched into a more genuine grin, both at Sam’s expense and the reminder that “the little monster” had grown into the happy and respected Ser Aemon Flowers.

Jon nodded sagely. “Fortunately there’s none of that shyness between old friends. It gets easier as time goes on, according to your father. Meanwhile, I’m here with you, and we’ll be strong for our Minisa. Why don’t you tell me what you two have planned once you’re able to take the babe back to Oldtown?”

The next hour passed peacefully with Little Sam’s hopes, dreams of his son or daughter growing up with Maeve’s little Lyonel, Aemon’s Hern and Flora, and Edwyn’s sweet Sansara Samwyle’s happy voice died out as Minisa’s cries reached a crescendo, attention fixated on the door for a short eternity before the oak hinges creaked open, and Sansa stepped out into the corridor, relief mingling with fatigue in her expression.

“It’s done. You have a son, Samwyle. Congratulations.”

“A boy.” Little Sam was euphoric and glowing in his joy. “May I go see them?”

“Of course. Minisa’s expecting you.”

The clandestine couple watched as the exuberant young man all but bound for the room, disappearing behind the door. In the sudden silence, Sansa looked back at her lover, something impossibly soft lingering in her eyes.

“The birth was long and hard. I’m in need of freshening up. Will you escort me back to my guest chamber, Cousin?”

“I’d be delighted, my lady.”

Safely barred behind another closed door, Sansa’s lips stole his breath, soft hands linking around his neck to kiss him deeply, joy and life and love thrumming through every connection they shared. Jon made a soft sound of satisfaction in his throat, arms locking around her as they shared again deep, heated kisses. Nimble fingers slipping beneath the folds of his tunic, she flattened her palm just over his pounding heart, thinking fondly of the deep, unconditional love she knew resided there.

Their caresses slowed, lips parting at the need for breath, and Sansa reached up to cup his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the ages lines around the curve of his mouth. “He’s beautiful, my love. I can’t wait for you to see him. I’m to bring you back once father and son have had their time, and Mini sends her poor husband to bed.”

Torn between elation and indecision, Jon hesitated. “A male cousin in the birthing room? Sansa, are you certain?”

“Yes. You weren’t able to meet Sansara until she was nearly a year old- you deserve to meet this child. Besides, Minisa insists upon it. She’s eager for you to meet your new namesake.”

As his eyes widened, she chuckled and stole one last kiss, a gentle peck to the gaping slack of his mouth. “Come now. Your daughter and grandson await you.”

As Jon watched his daughter hold her newborn son, her lovely face awash with a new mother’s love and tenderness, he felt a pang for a past he hadn’t been present for. He thought perhaps some of it was restored to him in this moment, for it must have looked similar to when Sansa held their children for the first time after bringing them into the world.

Propriety checked at the door, there was no earthly force that could keep Jon back from sweeping over to the bed, leaning down to embrace his daughter and pressing a tender kiss to her brow. Minisa hummed with content, arms twining around his shoulders to return his embrace. She bussed a kiss to his bearded cheek, and when she whispered a soft, nonchalant truth sotto voce into his ear, he found himself passed panic or recrimination. Crystal blue eyes met his calmly, steadily, nothing but love and trust to be found in their depths.

“Come hold your grandson,” she told him simply. No accusation, just a simple, short acknowledgment.

Then there was hardly time to think on it further as Sansa placed little Jon Tarly in his arms, letting him carefully cradle the babe against him. He looked down at the tiny face with reverence and felt his heart swell with more love than he ever felt possible. Just like all those years ago, when somehow Sansa managed to work her way into his heart, giving so much and asking nothing in return, filling all the empty spaces inside him until she was a part of everything he was. How could he ever feel empty again, carrying memories like this one with him for the rest of his days?

#jon x sansa #jonsa #jonsa-valentine #asoiaf #my fic #better late than never

48 notes · View notes

catxsnow · 4 years

Text

WW III D.G.

Summary: Disbanding the Titans did more damage on you then anyone would have thought. Based on Titans

Warning: SWEARING YOU KNOW THE DRILL, angst, uh some mentions that you and Dick did the sex

A/N: This is kind of has a similar vibe to OLD WOUNDS, but like more painful if that’s possible so have fun.

GIF not mine.

Word Count: 3k

Being part of the original Titans was something that you were proud of. You were the youngest of the bunch but proved your worth the first time that you fought together as a team. The six of you were unstoppable together and for years you continued to prove that. It was upon losing Garth that the team broke apart.

Jericho too, even though he was never part of the team. He trusted the lot of you like friends and you betrayed him. You used him to get to his father. It had taken a toll on all of you. It was why you all parted ways.

Hank and Dawn left together, you were sure nothing could break them apart. They kept up the crime fighting at their own pace. Donna quit altogether, she couldn't bare to wear that suit again after losing Gar. Dick became a detective in Detroit, never to be heard from again.

You however, you stayed in San Francisco. The city had been your home your entire life and just because the team split apart in their own ways, didn't mean that you were ready to part with your home. The Titans Tower remained vacant. Though you couldn't leave the city, you couldn't go back to your home away from home either.

There were too many memories in there. Memories of spending late night hours with Dawn and Donna being just regular girls during crazy times. Memories of beating Hank and Garth in training and never letting them hear the end of it. Memories of you and Dick, balancing between lovers and haters.

Throughout all the years that you had known Dick Grayson, you couldn't tell how you spent your time with him more: at his throat fighting or between his sheets. The two of you had a fire that never went away, sometimes it left destruction in its path while others it created something beautiful.

He consumed your life. Every day, every hour you were with him. The team couldn't keep up with what kind of terms that you were on half the time. Especially when you were out fighting together, no matter what was going on between you, the two of you protected each other to a whole new level.

You and Dick were perfect together when it came to crime fighting, that was a constant between the two of you.

And then he left. Dick Grayson packed up his bags and left San Francisco, he left you. It had been years ago but you could still remember the pain from him gone. Dick left you without even a goodbye. He thought that it was best to just disappear without anyone knowing where he was gone, without a painful goodbye.

Fuck did that hurt you.

Dick had the tendency to make your life miserable. The two of you fought over everything, couldn't agree on anything, and reeked such havoc that you couldn't tell where the destruction ended and where it started. However, he also knew how to make your life a blessing. Sweet words whispered to you late at night, kisses that would make your knees weak, and affection that continuously dragged you in for more.

His disappearance changed all that. You no longer wanted to feel these things for him, looking back at it, your relationship was nothing but toxic. One minute you were getting dragged down by him and the next you were on a pedestal. Never had a relationship of yours been filled with so many ups and downs.

So, when Dick popped up on your radar in San Francisco, specifically at the one place that you used to call home, you had no choice but to see what the hell he was doing in your city. Not only had he come back, but he had brought a bunch of strangers as well. This wasn't just his building to use, it was all of yours.

Dick, along with the others who had been curious as to who was riding up the elevator, waited for your arrival in. He knew that it had been years since he had come to see you and that leaving your like this wasn't going to be a warm welcome. He didn't know what to expect when it came to you.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Dick looked at you in awe. The years apart had done you well. You looked older, more mature. It was obvious that you were still in the game, muscles were more defined than they ever had been. You hair had changed styles - it suited you better. Dick thought that you looked beautiful.

His moment of awe was abruptly ended when he felt a punch thrown right at his cheek. Dick groaned at the pain and held onto where you had hit him. Your fists were clenched at your sides and it was easy to tell you were pissed. The kids behind him simultaneously let out a noise of shock that some stranger would attack their supposed leader like that.

"What the fuck are you doing back here, Grayson," you spit out. As much as he never knew what you were going to do, he didn't expect you to be this angry. "You disappear for years, no calls, no texts and then you show your face back in my city?" you pushed him back with every statement until he was up against a wall.

Dick had never seen such a fire in your eyes. After all of your fights, you were never this angry with him.

"(Y/N), I-" he paused. The last thing that he wanted to do with you right now was fight. You had done enough of that when you were kids.

"Who's the babe?" One of the kids that Dick had with him spoke up with the sudden silence. There were two boys, both of which must have been around the same age while the girl looked a little younger. You had no idea who these people were but they must have been special to be in the tower.

"I recommend you treat me with some respect, kid. Or I'll put you on your ass before you can repeat that," you snapped. Generally, you were in a lot better mood than this, however seeing Dick again but a new kind of fire in your chest.

"This is, (Y/N) (L/N)," Dick glanced between you and the others. "We, were, uh, partners."

"Partners wouldn't leave each other," you glared. "I don’t know why I even bothered coming here. Fuck you, Dick Grayson." You shook your head in frustration and headed back to the elevator that you came up from. This was a mistake, you shouldn't have even bothered to stir up old feelings that you had buried years ago.

"(Y/N)," Dick called out for you. "I could use your help, starting the Titans back up again." He wanted to tell you that he wanted you back in his life. He would take any excuse to have you back again. Coming back to the tower was driven by wanting to see you again. it had been years, and he had no idea where to start.

You laughed, the kind of laugh that put a chill through him. "You want to start the Titans again? Are you insane? There's a reason I never came back here, Dick. You should have done the same. Leave, before someone else gets killed on your watch."

"I can't do this without you," Dick tried to stop you once more. You were already standing in the elevator, praying that these doors would close faster. He missed you, he just didn't realize how much until arriving there. Memories of the two of you rushed back to him and he couldn't get you out of his head.

"Good. Don't."

Finally, the doors closed. You could feel your chin tremble as the overwhelming desire to cry surfaced. Seeing him again reminded you of what used to be. The two of you were destined to be at your game of cat and mouse forever. He ruined that, and he knew it too. Leaving you was one of the biggest regrets he had.

You hadn't been the same without him. Your fighting became more tactile and aggressive - just as his had. You didn't have anyone to back you up anymore leaving you with more injuries than you ever had with the team. After years of having someone to watch your back, it took a long time to become accustomed to going solo.

One thing was for sure: you weren't going to let him back into your life just to fuck it all up again.

Being an original Titan meant that all your information was stuck in the database, no matter how many times you tried to delete it all. You address, you family, everything there was to know about you down to your allergies. With all that at the tip of Dick's fingers, he couldn't not go over to your home to try and fix things.

He let you cool down, gave you a few days to think about his reappearance. Not to mention that he needed to settle back into the place that he once called home again. Every room that he went in, all he could think about was the memories that he made with you in each of them. His old bedroom struck him the hardest.

Past memories consumed him. The ones of the hours that you spent with him in there - laughing, joking, fighting, the make ups and the break ups. He knew that the path that you guys took was a bumpy one but he wanted it all back. He wanted you back and he knew that it wasn't fair of him to ask you of that.

Dick broke your trust. He left you when he should have known that you were the only person that would have his back. He lost the trust of the others, not after what he did with Jericho. You were the only one who knew that this was all of your faults, not just his. You were willing to share the blame but he put it all on himself.

When Dick showed up at your doorstep, late at night with a bottle of whiskey in his hands as a peace offering, you didn't want to let him in. You didn't want to let him back into your life after he ruined you for so many years. Yet, when you met his eyes, you couldn't resist opening the door a little wider for him to step in.

You brought two glasses to your small living room and handed one over to him. With your history, you were going to need the whole bottle if either of you wanted this to end well.

"I'm sorry," Dick finally brought up the reason that he was there. "I fucked up, I know. You didn't deserve this. I shouldn't have left you, not the way that I did."

"No, you shouldn't have," you agreed. "Jericho wasn't your fault, Dick. We all agreed to the plan, I take as much responsibility as you do. You didn't kill him, Slade did. If there's anyone to blame it's him. I wish you would have understood that all those years ago, I wish the others would have too."

"Doesn't matter," Dick shook his head. "They wanted to throw the blame on me and I let them, I wanted them to."

"You've always been a glutton for punishment," You sighed, taking another sip of your drink. "You can't just come back here thinking that I'm going to waltz back into your arms, Dick. You wrecked me when you left. Do you know how hard it was for me to move on with my life without you? After all those years together I thought that I would have meant more to you."

"You do," Dick met your eyes. Glutton for punishment was right, he was kicking himself over this, over leaving you. "I was never good for you. How many times did we fight? You deserve a lot better partner than me. I always knew that, I just hoped that me leaving would make you realize that as well."

It didn't. Him leaving brought out your worst self-consciousness. You analyzed everything about the situation wondering why the fuck he would leave without telling you. The others all said their farewells, wished you the best of luck. All except him, it was as if the moment the others left that you meant nothing to him as well.

"It didn't," you shook your head, pouring yourself another glass. "I tried to forget about you. Fuck did I try. You meant a lot of things to me, Dick. I just wish that you would have been able to see that."

"If I would have meant that much to you, we wouldn't have argued so much," Dick countered.

"Fight just to fuck just to fight again," You scoffed to yourself. It was true, looking back at many of your years, that seemed to be the trend. Anyone who didn't know you would have just known this, they wouldn't have known about the emotional moments you shared, the genuine care that you had for each other.

"World War Three, huh?"

You knew that if anyone tried to hurt you, Dick would have torn them apart. He would have fought anyone that looked at you the wrong way he cared so much - at least you thought it was him caring. Years of pinning over each other, maybe it wasn't care, maybe it was obsessiveness that he had for you.

The idea of a constant battle of fighting just to make up. Knowing that he could never quite have you but also aware that you couldn't belong to anyone else. Bruce shaped Dick into many things, but his compulsiveness? That was something that you were sure that was formed from neglect of emotion.

"I loved you, Dick," you gripped the sides of the chair you were sitting on to stop you from shaking. "You left before I ever got the chance to tell you."

"We all left, (Y/N)," Dick looked at you with sadness written on his face. "Titans disbanded, we couldn't keep up this act of being a team anymore. You didn't have to stay here either, that was your choice."

You picked up on his tone. I didn't love you back. Maybe he was the self-righteous asshole that everyone put him out to be. You were just to blindsided to see it for so many years. He pulled you into a trap and even when he let you go you still hung on.

Dawn. It was always Dawn that he wanted, not you. He knew with Hank in the picture, he would never get her again. Their fling was short lasting but made an ever lasting effect on him. Dawn didn't realize that it had hurt you more than it had hurt anyone else.

"I hoped that we could be a team again," your voice was strained. You downed the rest of your drink hoping to cover it up. Your disappointment turned to frustration and anger towards him. "You're right, I should have known better than to keep my hopes up. I see you found replacements already."

"I was hoping you would come back too," Dick offered again. You shook your head, going back there would do you no good. Being back with Dick would only drag you into old habits, habits that nearly destroyed you last time. After taking years to build yourself back up again, you couldn't afford the risk.

"I was too blindsided by your cock last time, I'm not making the same mistake again," You stood up from your spot and walked over to the front door. "I think its time to do what you do best and leave."

"I'm not leaving here until I know that you're going to be okay," Dick stayed seated in his spot. He poured himself another glass and topped up your drink. The two of you were going through the bottle like it was nothing. "I always cared about you, I never stopped. Please, just think about coming back to the Titans.

"Dick, please. Just go," your voice trembled. Just because he cared about you didn't mean he ever loved you like you loved him. How much of his feelings were faked just so he could get laid? You weren't the type of person that could have casual sex, you needed that emotional tether. Dick didn't.

"I'm being serious," Dick leaned back on your couch. He wasn't going to leave, he was too stubborn for that.

"I'll come back if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that once upon a time you loved me."

Dick sighed, his eyes sealed shut at your ultimatum. God did he want you back at the tower, he wanted you there as his fighter, as a leader. He couldn't handle a bunch of kids on his own, he needed you there. You already knew the ins and outs of crime fighting, it would be so much easier for him.

He knew he needed you but he also knew that he couldn’t drag you through a roller coaster again. Dick had put you through so much already, it wouldn’t be fair to keep you close just for his own benefit. He cared about you too much to hurt you again.

"I can't do that, (Y/N)."

#IM SO SORRY THIS IS GOING TO HURT YOU #dickgrayson #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson oneshot #titans #titans imagine #titans one shot #dc one shot #dc imagine #dc #angst #catxsnow writes

350 notes · View notes