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rabbitenn · 6 months

Note

i just had a thought that i knew you’d do justice. trigger in a royalty au?? like would it be an arranged marriage? child hood friends? rival kingdoms?? i just think your writing style is perfect for this. it’s up to you if you wanna do headcanons or a paragraph. i just really like how you protray these characters.

remember to rest, eat, hydrate, and take breaks :D

REGALITY.

No crown could burden you and no army could ever dream of keeping you apart from him. In every version of reality, you both know it’s together, til the end.

ft. Yaotome Gaku, Kujo Tenn, Ryunosuke Tsunashi x gn! reader.

cw/genre: royalty au, romance, fluff, some mild angst. Reader is implied to wear a dress in Gaku’s and Ryu’s.

hello, dear and a thousand thanks for this request ! I love royalty and fantasy aus and you asked it for my favorite group too <3 also, thank you for trusting me with this idea, I hope you will like how I executed it, even though I’m very late to posting it.

♡ YAOTOME GAKU

— Arranged marriage ‧₊˚ ⋅

“Be more selfish. You can show me your emotions and allow yourself to depend on me.”

Tonight, millions of stars accompany you as you make your way through the palace’s halls.

Countless silver pinpricks, filtering in dancing glimmer through the floor to ceiling windows.

And yet, you feel lonely.

The rustle of the gray silken curtains aflutter on the nocturnal ambiance is the only sound breaking the complete silence.

Anyone should be happy on such an occasion as today’s, right?

You got to wear a beautiful dress, everyone smiled and tender vows were exchanged.

Not to mention, your last name now was that of one of the richest lords in town, soon to take over his father’s rule.

Handsome and desired by everyone in the kingdom. And still, something in the sharpness of his gaze makes you keep to yourself.

Yaotome Gaku.

You would have never imagined you’d end up marrying him.

Not that you had any say in the matter, of course. Your family had essentially succeeded in selling you off and increasing their social status.

You let out a sigh, fiddling with the silver band now adorning your ring finger. The moon reflects on it, a cruel reminder of the shackles bestowed upon you.

You take a break, sitting on the stone windowsill.

Your mind wanders off into the night. It would be nice, to be a star. So free, you against an endless sky.

The celestial seems to absorb you, your thoughts leaving the real world if only for a second, a sort of black hole, so far away and so close at the same time, sucking you in when your fingertips graze against the great unknown on the other side.

You don’t notice the footsteps approaching in that instant.

“It is late. You shouldn’t be here.” A deep voice pulls you out of your trance.

You start, eyes widening when they meet steel hued ones.

Against your better judgment, you stand up, taking a step backwards.

Why do you react like this?

There is no denying the man before you looks absolutely stunning.

Is absolutely stunning.

His liquid moonlight gaze seems to pierce through you, tendrils of argent clouds falling over them in the slight curl of his hair. Lost stars kiss his pale complexion, the penumbra of the palace at night embracing the other half.

“Yaotome-sama!” You exclaim, bowing briefly.

A shadow of hurt passes over his handsome features, his eyes, downturned, averted to the side.

“Please, just call me Gaku.” He asks of you, tone bordering on pleading.

“Alright. Gaku…” You trail off nodding.

He seems somewhat… flustered? Maybe it’s the late hour, but his harsh features just fade into something gentle with a tinge of fierceness.

In that moment, you wish you had met under different circumstances, instead of just through political and economical interests.

“[Y/n]…” Your husband begins. You don’t dislike at all the sound of your name when he says it. “I know you didn’t choose this, and I’m sorry we had to meet like this…” His expression softens. “But you can tell me about your worries and thoughts weighing on your mind.” Gaku’s eyes fixate on you, the rest of the universe silent and invisible to him right now. “If I can’t be the lover you dreamt of, I will at least do what I can to make you feel comfortable and safe.” A demure smile reaches his lips. “So, it’s okay if you’re selfish.”

You stare at him a little dumbfounded, the daze of his charming presence and the care he’s putting into his words, rendering your heart into a frenzied dance.

The next time Gaku takes a step in your direction, you don’t retreat.

♡ KUJO TENN

— The bandit and the prince ‧₊˚ ⋅

“Catch me if you can, mister Kujo.”

Giggles leave your throat as you run through the ivy maze.

You try to stifle them, this moment of borrowed time, too precious for its bubble bathed in auroras to pop.

Upwards, the sky dyes in shades of cherry blossom and tangerine, periwinkle clouds giving way to an horizon lined in citrine.

Your breathing grows shallow, as you take a left turn between the shiny verdant leaves.

Behind you, light steps follow.

And despite the dead end standing in front of you in the form of a wall of greenery speckled in the pink of hyacinth blossoms, a smirk plays on your lips.

You stand there, resigning to your inevitable fate, eyes closed, taking in the scent of azaleas, singing of secret nights, passion filled.

The taste of sweet daybreak coats your tongue; a shared interlude of curtains falling over the stage for last night’s dreams, a preamble to the wait for the hours before the dawn to come again.

A gentle aroma of strawberries and cinnamon suddenly dances around you, as if clapping for your heart to spread its butterfly wings to its tune.

“Checkmate.” A cheeky voice whispers, his soft lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Turning around, your lashes flutter open, your prosecutor’s arms already around you.

“Heh, it seems you caught me, your highness.” You tease, leveling him with a bold gaze.

“It wouldn’t be the first time now, would it?” The prince winks, his hold on your waist tightening. “And it’s Tenn to you.” He utters, voice barely above a whisper, as his forehead touches yours.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“I know that, just teasing you.” You giggle, your grin widening. “So, you still remember? When you failed to capture me the first time?” Your gaze flits to his lips. “Is that why we’re playing now, so you can finally catch me, Tenn-Tenn?”

Of course he remembers. How could he not recall the moment he met the one who gifts him moments of freedom like this?

—

“And what, may I ask, does a sneaky fox like you happen to be doing in my chambers?”

A curse leaves your lips through gritted teeth. The crown prince was not supposed to come back so soon. Wasn’t he at some gala tonight? Did you miscalculate?

“What? Didn’t expect me to come back so soon?” He chuckles. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

What would be your chances of winning in a fight against him? You’ve got your daggers…

You notice the thin sword hanging at his hip from the corner of your eye.

You could potentially have an advantage in close quarters…

It’s not like you want to hurt him, just… maybe knock him out as you take what you need for you to be able to buy a ration of food.

You run for it.

But before you know it, the prince’s sword grazes the side of your neck, the cool metal a threat enough to draw blood at the minimum movement.

Your daggers freeze mid-air, your hood falling, revealing your identity.

You let out a ‘tsk’. This is troublesome.

You lower your weapons.

Tenn retracts his sword.

Rosy eyes scan over the person standing before him. Dark shadows gather under their eyes, as if sleep or food were a rare luxury for them. Their face is gaunt, lips parched. Ragged clothes sway around the thief, several stains coating them.

And yet, the prince doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful.

The fire in the burglar’s stare burns intensely, a thundering blaze, tearing down whatever they have to in order to survive.

“And what, pray tell, do you need all of these gold and jewels for?” You spat, tone clipped.

The man lowers his blade, his eyes never once leaving you.

“I don’t.” He states. He reaches up, unclasping one of his earrings.

Extending a gloved hand towards you, he says:

“Take it.”

You scoff.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not like that. You probably risked a lot just to sneak in here, didn’t you? It would be a waste to leave empty-handed. So take this.” The prince gently removes one of your blades from your tight grip, putting the jewelry in your palm. “Sell it for a good price. Get enough food to last you for a while. Please.”

You seem to hesitate for an instant, but then your fingers close around the accessory.

Without another word, you step into the room’s balcony and disappear into the night.

Tenn follows after the trail of your ripped crimson cape.

By the time he reaches the veranda, there is no trace of you.

That night, he leaves the gallery’s glass doors open.

Just in case you wanted to come back for the blade you left behind.

A few nights later, that’s exactly what you would do.

—

One of Tenn’s hands comes up to cup your jaw, fingertips brushing against the pointy earring dangling from your lobe.

Identical to the one he always wears.

The exact one he gave you that night.

The impending cyan of the morning unfurling above augurs the nearing of your departure.

Neither of you want for your hidden romance painted in soft shades of watercolor to come to a close.

Your prince’s eyes soften, its quartz shade, the fleeting memory of early sunsets over the castle’s gardens.

‘Please, don’t go’ is spelled in the last rays of the crescent dipping behind the distant mountains reflected in Tenn’s gaze.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, your breath at a standstill as you are put under spell by Tenn’s angelic aura. So warm, so perfect… A safe haven.

You turn around your face slightly, leaving a delicate kiss to his bare palm.

Then, with one last squeeze to Tenn’s hand, you step away.

“Meet me at midnight again.” Your lover whispers, as his hands leave your face.

You decide to relish for a second more in this forbidden moment. You linger closer to him, a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth, before disappearing between frondous greenery.

Tenn stands there, a soft smile on his features as the sensation of your kiss tingles on his skin.

The promise of your return is sealed with the ripple of the pink astilbe petals surrounding the prince.

Dusk can't come soon enough.

♡ TSUNASHI RYONUSKE

— Knight and prince(ss) running away together ‧₊˚ ⋅

“I decided I wanted to enter that light, and at the edge of it, I found you.”

Beams of light threaded in gilded sparkles filtered through the library’s windows. The afternoon was in its prime and yet, you found yourself cooped up inside an empty room.

The rows upon rows of books felt more like the bars of a tightening prison, the book you were copying from, iron shackles tying your feet to the cold grey ground.

You sighed. It was unfair. For your life to be decided like this, just because one day you’re to rule this kingdom.

You didn’t want this. You never asked for the weight of the crown.

The day outside shined in blues and golds and yet, you were trapped here.

You couldn’t stand it anymore. You closed your book, making your way to the huge window.

Standing on your tiptoes, you fumbled with the handle and got it open.

A gust of summer air wafted around you, filling your lungs with all the colors of summer.

You wanted to go play outside like the other children did.

Eight was too young an age to be subjected to the heaviness of endless study days.

Leaning on the windowsill, something caught your eye.

A boy about your age swinging a wooden sword, his body moving with agility as he practised how to avoid enemy strikes.

Maybe he was a knight in training. And right now, you think you’d rather take on a bloody battlefield than spend a minute more learning about centuries old history you couldn’t care less about.

So, using a chair, you climbed up on the windowsill, jumping down the couple of feet separating you from the green grass beyond.

With quiet steps, you approached the boy.

His expression was determined but gentle, his eyes reminiscent of the sunlight you yearned for. Tufts of brown hair swing in the hot air as he gracefully moves with his sword.

Then he stops.

“Y-your highness!” He stammered, bowing down.

Your cheeks heated up, hurt crossing your features in the way you avert your gaze.

“Just [Y/n], please.” You asked. “What are you doing? It seems fun. Can I try too?” You inquired, curiously tilting your head.

He swallowed. “But I will become a knight… I’m supposed to protect you in the future…”

“Please?” You pouted, hands clasped in front of you. “I’m tired of being inside studying…”

With fearful eyes darting from side to side of the courtyard, the boy made sure no onlookers were present.

His hands brushed against yours when he handed you the practise sword.

You held it, it was light, dull, but enough to cut a pocket of freedom in the monotony of your upbringing.

“What’s your name, by the way?” You questioned.

“Ryunouske.” He answered shyly.

With a last smile his way, you began imitating his previous movements, dancing in tune with the doves soaring high in the radiant sky.

Years later, you would know that would be the beginning of your story together.

—

Weaves lap against the sandy coast, early evening bringing with her a sea of aureate copper and indigo. Foamy water gently caresses your feet, your prints in the sand coming and going with each wave.

On the dry sand, a set of armor, a pair of heeled shoes and an intricate dress lie.

Here, it was just you and him.

“Ryu,” You call him, your hand squeezing his calloused one. You stop walking for a moment, indulging yourself a little on the sight of him against the brightness of the soon to set sun.

A smile find its way to your lips, your lover’s toned chest visible through his open shirt.

“Isn’t this nice?” You say, directing your gaze towards the horizon, a few stray seagulls shadowed against the peachy heavens. “Just us, in this magical quiet place… I could get used to it.” You lean your head against his side, as Ryunosuke’s arm loops around your waist.

“It certainly is nice. The sea… it always relaxes me.” The knight tilts his face to look at you. All these years by your side, as your secret companion, your best friend and your lover later on, and nothing would change the fact you’re the most alluring person he could have ever met.

“What would you say, if I suggested we run away, Ryu?” You search for his gaze, those honeyed orbs widening in surprise. “I don’t want to be tied down by stupid rules and traditions, I want to be with you, no matter where.”

Your knight lets out a sigh.

He wants to say ‘yes’. A lifetime of freedom by your side is all Ryu could ever dream off.

And yet…

“Are you sure, my dear?” Both of his hands hold yours in between them. “If we leave… There will be no way we can ever return to your home…”

“This is no home of mine.” You state, steel laced through your tone as you think of that suffocating palace. “My home is with you, Ryu. No matter where life takes us.”

Standing on your tiptoes, you place a soft kiss on his lips. Their salty taste reminds you of freedom. Ryunosuke’s arms wrap around your waist, the silken fabric of your under dress an obstacle for the both of you at this point.

“Alright.” He whispers the moment he parts.

Before the sun completely hides behind the undulating horizon, you’re already making your way to Ryu’s place.

Packing up some food, clothes and essential belongings, you reach the outskirts of town before nightfall.

Hand in hand, you walk towards the sun awaiting in your new life.

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breakyeol · 4 years

Text

Sweet, Sweet Relief

Pairing : chanyeol x reader

Summary: in which your gorgeous best friend knows just what to do to help you relax.

Warnings: strong language, shy yeol towards the end, explicit sexual content; mild muscle kink?? i think??, dry humping for like two seconds, oral (f. receiving) aka pussy eating king back at it again, fingering, park chanyeol bc the man deserves a warning all his own

Word Count: 3.3k

a/n; ah yes, best friends to lovers, my favorite cliche. i can’t stop writing for Chanyeol lately?? which really isn’t that out of the ordinary bc the man is literally my muse, but it seems a bit excessive at times yikes. but i also think it’s a good thing because i’m making some leeway with his prince au!!! yay!!! hopefully it won’t be too terribly long of a wait! until then, i hope these drabbles turned one shots will hold you over :) enjoy!

“You’re stressed out.”

It wasn’t a question.

You sighed, head shaking as you spared Chanyeol a glance from the corner of your eye.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not.” Was his abrupt response, concerned eyes dragging over the length of your tensed features, pausing on the visible lines above your brow and at the corners of your mouth.

He was right, of course. You weren’t alright. In all honesty, you hadn’t been alright for the past month. Your latest assignment was beating the absolute shit out of you, draining your mind and body of all its viable energy and leaving you an exhausted, stressed out disaster of a person.

Unfortunately, you knew that if you admitted it out loud to Chanyeol, he would not let you spend another second staring at your stupid computer screen. But you really had to get the project done by the end of the week or you were totally and royally screwed. And if he couldn’t make you feel better, Chanyeol would end up feeling like shit and that in turn would make you feel even more like shit than you already do and it would be an endless cycle of the two of you feeling like shit and does anybody really need that right now? You were already struggling enough without having an extra pouty, sulking best friend to tend to.

“Chanyeol—“ you began, running your palms over your face as you concocted a number of things to say to get him to stop worrying. But, he didn’t give you the chance.

“I can do it again.”

Your hands fell away from where they’d begun to press against your sore eyes, a look of confusion crossing your features.

“Huh?”

He swallowed, shifting where he sat beside you on the plush sofa. You followed his every movement through narrowed eyes, your confusion building as a shade of pink dusted over his cheeks.

“I–if you want me to... I can do it again.”

It took you a second. To put the pieces together. To remember. For the shock to settle over you. It took a second, but it was with a jolt that you realized what he was talking about. Warmth blossomed beneath your skin, but you forced your expression to fall into that of gentle chiding.

“Yeol. We agreed that it was a one time thing.”

The near rejection had him crumbling in on himself, the blush coating his cheeks intensifying tenfold as he fiddled with his fingers in his lap.

“I know but... I don’t mind. If it helps.” He suddenly straightened his back and you damn near jumped out of your skin as one of his hands fell across your thigh. He stared into your eyes, determination and sincerity burning in his own. “I want to help.”

“Yeah but you don’t have to help like th— ah!” You yelped in surprise as he suddenly pushed you and you fell backwards onto the couch with a soft ‘oof’. “What the h– ell…” your voice gave with an embarrassing crack as Chanyeol crawled on top of you, straddling your hips and caging your head between his arms. The sudden change of position caught you completely off guard, and you found yourself grappling hopelessly to try and get your mind back on track.

“Let me help you, y/n. You know I’m good at it.” His voice had dropped an octave, softening into a near whisper. Heat pooled in your cheek, and you blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Sure he was good —probably one of the best you’d ever had if you were being completely and totally honest—, but accidentally fucking your best friend while you are both wasted and horny beyond rationality is completely different than committing the act while sober and capable of discerning between right and wrong. And this— this had to be wrong.

Even if it felt so deliciously right.

Quickly ridding yourself of the thought, you pressed your palms against his chest with every intention to pushing him away, only to falter at the feeling of taut, bulging muscle beneath your fingertips that you were almost certain hadn’t been there the last time you’d laid your hands on him.

“Have you been working out?”

The question was so out of place in the situation that Chanyeol couldn’t rein in his laughter before it came bubbling from his chest in several loud, contagious eruptions.

“A little…” his lips curled into that familiar, boyish grin, “wanna see?”

Asking proved pointless as he sat up before you could conjure up an intelligible response and took hold of the bottom of his hoodie. In one soft motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside without a care. You couldn’t help but gawk like a fool at the sight you were left with.

“W–wow.” You coughed out, blinking rapidly as you absorbed the expanse of the tanned, toned body on top of you. ‘A little’ had been an understatement. The last time you saw him shirtless, you can’t quite seem to recall there being such a defined six pack… or such impressive biceps… fuck.

“Wanna feel?”

His large hand was already wrapped around your wrist before the question escaped his lips, though this time he actually waited for your verbal approval before proceeding. Was it really the best idea to be feeling up your shirtless best friend after he’d just propositioned you? Probably not. Were you going to do it anyway? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Allowing him to guide your palm to his impressive pectorals, you almost moaned at the feeling of the hard, warm skin beneath your greedy fingertips. “Not bad, huh?” He asked, smug smirk twirling at the corners of his lips.

“In a word.” You offered mildly, far too absorbed in tracing the defined ridges of his abs to come up with one of your usual smart ass responses. The faintest of gasps fluttered from his lips as you caressed over a particularly sensitive area, and you didn’t miss the goosebumps that rose across his sun kissed skin— nor the pressure of something hard suddenly nudging up against your hip.

Swallowing thickly, you tipped your head up, making the deadly mistake of meeting his eyes. They were dark, darker than you’d ever seen them, and hooded, pretty eyelashes fluttering across his flushed cheeks with every lazy blink. Something dangerous yet tempting swirled within them, and you found yourself too overwhelmed to hold his intense gaze for much longer, quickly diverting your attention elsewhere.

But, just your luck, your eyes happened to land directly on the second most dangerous feature on his face— his lips. They were a dark, lovely shade of pink and deliciously swollen from the relentless assault of his teeth. The unexpected urge to tip you chin up and kiss him crashed over you with all the strength of a tsunami, heat flooding down between your thighs. Instinctively, you tried to close them, but the shape of his body prevented you from doing such. Unfortunately for your sanity, the pressure of your legs squeezing around his hips gave Chanyeol a different idea all together, a whole new way of absolutely wrecking you.

You almost— scratch that, you quite literally choked on air when he suddenly rolled his hips down, grinding against you. It was more experimental than anything else, testing the waters, seeing just how far you’d let him go. When you showed no signs of pushing him away and telling him to go fuck himself, he did it again, and this time, you really did moan out loud. Chanyeol shuddered at the sound, positively delighted that he’d been the one to pull such a delicate, sexy noise from you.

Encouraged and invigorated with newfound determination, he set a steady, confident rhythm with his hips, rolling them into yours in hard, deliberate, fluid motions.

“Let me make you feel good, y/n.”

A shiver wracked your body, and you found yourself utterly helpless against the deep rasping bass of (what you liked to identify as) his sex voice. It was at least an octave deeper than his regular voice, with a deliberate yet natural hoarseness that shot straight to your core. And no being on earth was immune to it, including you.

“Okay. Fuck, okay,” you caved, breathing heavy and uneven just from that juvenile dry humping alone, “but this is seriously the last time, Chanyeol. We can’t keep doing shit like t–this.”

A triumphant grin twisted onto his rose petal lips, “that’s alright. Just this once is all I need.”

Contrarily, you feared this little indiscretion would make you crave him all the more.

You sighed softly as his head fell into the juncture of your neck, painting hot, open mouthed kisses across the vulnerable skin. “No marks.” You huffed lightly when he resorted to sucking and nipping, and you could feel the pout that downturned the corners of his lips, but he made no objections nonetheless. A trembling breath flooded out of your chest as he descended your body, pushing up the loose fabric of your t-shirt to press searing kisses across your belly, all the way down to the elastic of your leggings. He glanced up at you, and somehow the angle made him look more attractive than he already was.

“Don’t be nervous.”

You shot him a lopsided grin, “who’s nervous?”

He didn’t look convinced, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin of your hips. “If you don’t want to do this, that’s completely alright, just tell me and I’ll—”

“Don’t stop.” Chanyeol’s eyes widened at the sudden interruption, staring up at you with all the excitement and hope of a puppy getting a treat dangled in front of his nose. Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you allowed your thighs to relax, falling open before him. “Please… don’t stop.”

He literally whined, though it quickly pitched into a rough, heavy groan somewhere deep in his chest. Long fingers slipped beneath the tight elastic of your leggings, making quick work of tugging them down the length of your legs. The air was cold against your bare skin, prickling goosebumps shooting up across your freshly shaved and lotion lathed legs (you silently thanked yourself for making yesterday one of your monthly self care days). The chill of the air was warded away by the warm press of his hands against the flesh of your thighs, grip tight enough to bruise.

“Fuck.” You hissed as he feathered his mouth over your clothed pussy, the heat of his breath rippling through your core in tiny shockwaves. Something dangerous glinted in his hooded eyes, and you let out a shaky moan when he flicked his tongue experimentally. The thin grey cotton darkened with a mixture of his saliva and your arousal, and he moaned quietly when your faint flavor hit his taste buds.

“Baby,” he purred softly, rolling his thumb over your clit and prodding the tip of his tongue where he estimated your entrance was. Your head tipped back against the cushion, mouth opening in a silent gasp. One of your hands reached down to weave through his thick black locks, while the other grabbed hold of the armrest behind your head. “Can I take them off?”

“Yes.” You breathed, removing your hand from his hair to brace it against the couch as you lifted your hips, allowing him to pull the black cotton down your legs. He tossed them aside haphazardly, a low groan rumbling in his throat at the sight of your bare core, wet and exposed in front of him. The first time you’d done this, it had been too dark and he’d been too drunk to really appreciate you. So, he’d take his time now. Really take his time.

“You’re so pretty.”

Warmth blossomed beneath your cheeks and you scoffed softly, trying your best to act like the compliment hadn’t made your heart flutter. He dragged his index slowly through your arousal, mouth falling open with a breath of amazement as he admired the glistening wetness that coated it. Chills rolled down your spine, an almost embarrassingly desperate whine resonating in your throat.

“Chan.” The urgency in your voice made him smile, and he looked up at you with eyes sparkling with mischief. You could only watch helplessly as he dragged his finger away from you, and slipped it between his lips, humming in delight.

Fuck. He was definitely trying to kill you.

Luckily for you, that one little taste proved to not be anywhere near enough for his insatiable appetite and, without warning, he pressed his face in close and began lapping eagerly at your pussy. Your mouth gaped, hips bucking up uncontrollably as his nose ground into your clit, his hot tongue licking hungrily at your entrance. Pleasure ignited in your veins like a wildfire, explosive and untamable and all consuming. It stretched through every part of your body, setting your skin ablaze in the wake of his touch.

“Oh my god, Chan—” he groaned against you in response, hooded eyes fluttering blissfully as he lost himself in the taste of your cunt. He was eating you out like his life depended on it, fierce and unrelenting, the sound of it wet and messy. You were moaning his name, thigh tightening spastically around his head, but his strong, calloused hands kept them apart, forcing them open so he could have his way. You almost lost it completely when he wrapped his lips around your clit and started sucking.

Strangely enough, you found that without the intoxication of alcohol in your system, everything he did had that much of a more intense effect on you. It was like every touch, every sensation was amplified by your mere sobriety; the heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the eagerness of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers. You felt all of it, every one of your senses going into overdrive.

And god it was so much. And yet, you still wanted more.

“Y– your fingers, Chan, your fingers, please—” you panted, brows knitting as you felt that familiar tightening in your gut. He quickly obeyed, sinking his long middle finger inside of you with such ease you almost felt embarrassed. But there was no room for such emotions when you were so enthralled in the hot rush of pleasure bursting like the most brilliant of firecrackers in your veins.

A second finger was swift to join the first, stretching you out so deliciously that your toes curled. With his free hand, he tugged at your knee, bringing it up to rest over his shoulder. The new angle forced your hips off of the plush cushion below, his skilled fingers burying themselves deeper, pillowy lips sucking harder. It was over the second his digits curled, stroking up against that perfect little spot that had white hot electricity crackling in your blood.

Your orgasm hit you hard and fast. It was hot and overwhelming, the persistent, eager pressure of his mouth and hands drawing it out as long as it could possibly go. He dragged it out until you were limp and trembling beneath him, moaning and whining out broken fragments of his name, too lost in the bliss inducing thralls of your high to feel even the slightest hint of shame.

His ministrations seemed to grow even fiercer through your orgasm, his ravenous moans increasing in volume right alongside yours. He only pulled away when he knew you wouldn’t be able to withstand anymore, resorting to pressing soothing kisses and murmuring breathless praises against the soft, trembling skin of your thighs.

“Fuck you, Chanyeol.” You laughed breathlessly, tossing an arm over your eyes.

“Fuck me? Fuck you, I almost busted in my pants when you came. That was so fucking hot.” He groaned, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he crawled back on top of you, caging your head between his arms. You chuckled, warmth spreading through your cheeks. A sweet smile upturned the corners of his mouth. “Did it help?”

The question was less than a breath against your lips, so soft you had to strain your ears to hear it. You swallowed, gaze momentarily dropping to his mouth before returning to his eyes, only to find that they’d honed in on your lips.

“It helped. You helped.”

He inhaled shakily, tongue slipping out to trace the seam of his bottom lip. “Can I help a little more?” He asked, and you felt his bangs feather over your forehead as his head lowered. Hot breath rushed over your mouth. Instead of answering, you reached up and cupped his face, pulling him into a kiss. It was short, shy, sweet. Such a stark contrast to the fierce hunger he’d displayed going down on you not two minutes ago that you couldn’t help the giggles of amusement that came bubbling from your chest. He broke away from you with a bashful smile, gently resting his forehead against yours.

“You suck.” He mumbled, pouting childishly.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one that’s done any sucking.” You teased.

“Who am I to argue with the facts?” He sighed dramatically, feigning defeat.

You laughed loudly, an obnoxious cackle that had to be one of the most unattractive sounds you’d ever made, but it was abruptly cut off when he reattached his mouth to yours. You hummed contently, carding your fingers through the short hairs on the back of his neck. The taste of you lingered on his tongue, and he painted the inside of your mouth with it. Warmth spread through your chest, your heart picking up speed as you melted into his kiss, melted into the warmth that the presence of his body provided you with.

“I lied.”

Your eyes blinked open, surprised by the sudden admission. “Huh?”

The look on his face stirred to life a strange, but vaguely familiar emotion in the depth of your chest. A crimson blush darkened his cheeks and his gaze shied away from yours. For a moment, you were reminded of the little, goofy looking boy that shyly handed you a heart shaped box of caramel chocolates on Valentine’s Day all the way back when you were thirteen. He had the same big sweet eyes, the same crimson cheeks, the same large pink tipped ears.

“I said that just this once is enough...” he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing as he nibbled nervously on the corner of his lip, “but it isn’t. It isn’t enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He cupped the side of your face, thumb tracing the line of your lip. “I want you. I- I want to be more to you— to be more to you than just a friend.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, offering him a sly smirk. “Are you… confessing to me, Park Chanyeol?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

He smiled down at you bashfully. “If you say yes.”

“Hmm…” you squinted your eyes and pursed your lips as if you needed to think it over. But you had a feeling that a moment like this was long past due, so you resisted the urge to draw it out and torture him, opting to give him a more straight forward answer to put his racing heart at ease. “Yes.”

“Thank god.” He groaned happily, smooshing your face between his massive palms and tugging you into a deep, but playful kiss that made your skin tingle. You giggled noisily against his lips, draping your arms over his neck to keep him close. “Does this mean I get to eat you out like that whenever I want?”

“Oh, without a doubt,” you snickered as he pumped his fist, hissing out an eager ‘yes’. You grabbed his chin between your thumb and forefinger, drawing his attention back to you. “And next time...” you tipped your head up to nip at the sensitive lobe of his ear, letting a downright wicked grin curl across your lips, “I’ll gladly return to favor.”

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shatouto · 3 years

Note

I.Raised as sith Anakin au asdfghjkl I actually cried at some parts when obiwan was treating his injuries. T-T “I always looked at you like this… should I not?” …. My poor (criminal) child has a lot to learn. I wanna go down the angst road but I’ll never find my way back so let me just go the opposite direction because I feel like ani will short circuit everytime obiwan shows him any positive reaction/emotion that he can’t recognize...

aaaAAHH thank you SO MUCH for these asks, i am so so so happy that you like this super self-indulgent au (at least on my side). writing a very needie babie woobie ex-sith anakin is one of my biggest guilty pleasures, so i am always super grateful when people join in. i LOVE anakin and ahsoka bonding with that sibling rivalry. im not super good with ahsoka so i’ll probably leave that to @obiwanobi; for the time being i will go feral over the idea of anakin not knowing how to read ;;O;;

lost lonely loth-wolf

It’s not just boredom that scratches at Anakin’s bones from the inside; it’s idleness. Under Darth Sidious’s care (for want of a better word), he must always make himself useful, be it training or killing. No waking moment should be wasted; he should spend every of them on bettering himself in combat and commanding. He must always convince his Master not to doubt his worth, lest he be cast back into slavery again. Idleness is but the short-lived quiet before storm.

Having nothing to do makes his old scars ache.

It borders on astonishing him how the Jedi can afford themselves so many luxuries. Music halls, corridor murals, gardens, so many gardens. Not that he has seen all of them; he only saw glimpses from under his hood, whenever Obi-Wan takes him by the hand and walks him through the Temple to get to the hangar, for their nightly trips in the park. He’s no stranger odious displays of wealth, but the Temple is not odious, and that is hardly wealth. Everything looks simple and… soothing, somehow. The Jedi seems not wealthy, but rich.

The thing they are the richest with, is books. Loads and loads of them, along with datatapes and datacards. Anakin hasn’t been to the Archives, but he has heard the apprentice (Ahsoka, she has a name) talking about it. There are datatapes in Obi-Wan’s quarters as well. Obi-Wan can often be found poring over his datapad with one of those tapes plugged in, quiet and serene and glowing at the edges, backlit by the late orange sun. There’s always a lock of hair falling over his forehead. Anakin can’t recall how many times he has had to stop himself from reaching over to brush it back in place.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice stirs him out of his reverie. Their eyes meet, and Obi-Wan smiles a little. Anakin’s face heats up, which he promptly ignores. “What are you looking at?”

You, the true answer. Obi-Wan did tell him not to stare, though, so Anakin shrugs and drops his gaze to the glowing device on Obi-Wan’s lap. Obi-Wan, in turn, rests a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You can read anything on those shelves, you know.” He gestures towards the bookcase in the living room. “They’re all my favorite novels. The bottom shelf is younglings’ stories, and I still enjoy them greatly. Ahsoka leaves her comics lying around often, in which case you are perfectly in the right to read them as well. Force knows how many times I have told her to tidy—”

“I hate reading.”

Silence shatters upon them. Anakin scowls deeply, biting the inside of his cheeks. Books are written to corrupt you with lies. The majority of them are but garbage. There’s no need to busy yourself with those things, no need to wade through messy pages of drivels composed by Force-blind loudmouths, when your Master can dispense true wisdom to you. Your Master has great plans for you, so great that you needn’t burden your mind with trivia. So Anakin doesn’t read.

Nobody ever taught him to.

Obi-Wan gives a dismayed little “Oh.” Anakin rises to his feet and escapes to the fresher, as reluctant as he is to leave his warmed seat.

He shouldn’t have said that. At least not in that harsh manner. Night after night Anakin can’t sleep without seeing Obi-Wan’s face: his upturned brows, his downturned lips, his eyes wide in surprise. They never truly speak of it again, because that is how Obi-Wan is: if Anakin refuses something, Obi-Wan will simply let him be.

Obi-Wan leaves on a mission once more. Day after day Anakin passes by the bookcase in the living room, eyes sweeping over the datapads, fingers itching to pull one out - just to look at the pictures if there are any. He could now, right? There are no eyes looking over his shoulders anymore. No Master to sneer at him, call him a silly boy, and order him to go to meditate in the Sphere.

It takes Anakin another day to make up his mind. He picks a nice moment into the evening, after he has had his one meal of the day (the way he eats when he is alone), and crouches before the bookcase. He could have taken one of Ahsoka’s comics, but his eyes keep getting drawn towards the bottom shelf. Younglings’ stories, Obi-Wan said.

Anakin plucks out a datatape with a lilac casing, and takes the datapad left free for use on the other end of the shelf. He settles on the couch, something like excitement brewing in his belly as he plugs the tape into the datapad. The screen lights up in its familiar cyan glow. The cover page is a beautifully drawn illustration of a Loth-wolf under a great tree. He taps through the pages until he reaches the other illustrations. The Loth-wolf is depicted in various sceneries: in its den, between the trees, atop a boulder, under the starlight, and there never seems to be any other being around, beast or sentient. It feels wrong to him, so he keeps tapping to go through the pages. There has to be at least a scene where the Loth-wolf is with its pack, doesn’t it?

The main door slides open, and Anakin almost drops the datapad. He snaps his gaze up to find Obi-Wan staring back at him. Whatever expression Obi-Wan is wearing, Anakin can’t afford to study it for so long. He rises to his feet, fumbling to unplug the datatape from the device with just one hand and the Force.

“Oh, is this The Lonely Lost Loth-wolf?” Obi-Wan says with utter delight, his hand gently covering Anakin’s. “I hope you’ve been enjoying it, Anakin. This is one of my most-read books yet.”

“I…” Anakin struggles. He’s hot in the face and tongue-tied and his eyes flit over their nearly entwined hands in the bluish light from the screen. He dreads the moment Obi-Wan asks, I thought you didn’t like to read? - something he’s bound to do. Mockingly, maybe. The truth perches on the tip of Anakin’s tongue; what would Obi-Wan think of him if he says it? Even younglings a quarter of his age know how to read.

But Obi-Wan asks no such thing.

“What a strange coincidence; I’ve been meaning to reread this story,” the Jedi Master tells him with a gentle smile. “I would be loath to fight you for the datatape, though. I think we’ve had enough of fighting for a lifetime.” Humor twinkles in his eyes, and Anakin blinks, stumped. “So how about we share this?”

“Uh… Yes?” Anakin lets go of the datapad, now that Obi-Wan has a hold on it. “How?”

“Well, I would like to read to you, if that’s alright with you.” Obi-Wan squeezes his hand lightly. “I do prefer to take it from the beginning - it’s been a while since I read this last - unless you…”

“No,” Anakin says immediately. “I—Yes. Yes, I… want to hear it from the beginning.”

Obi-Wan changes into something soft, and insists Anakin settle in bed for comfort, just for the night. (To be truthful, Anakin would settle in bed with him every night if he could bring himself to.) It’s reminiscent of his first night here, only with a lot less blood and a lot more tenderness.

There was a time when Lothal was made of forests. There were more beasts than men, and among the beasts, the wolves were the strongest, wisest, most respected of them all. There were two Loth-wolf clans: the blue-eyed, and the golden-eyed. They did not always like each other. On the night the first daughter of the blue-eyed clan was born, the golden-eyed wolves hatched a plan…

Obi-Wan’s voice pours like velvet, smooth and warm with the occasional sparkles in his melodic lilts. Anakin’s eyes droop; he strains to open them as the kidnapped Loth-wolf princess begins her journey to travel back from the swamp land, to find her family and restore peace in the realm. At some point, he finds great, pooling-blue eyes looking down at him, and ashen fur with markings like the stars. A calloused hand runs through his hair.

The stars blink at him, and Anakin smiles as he drifts into the softest darkness.

#ask #prompt #blueara #raised as sith anakin #always a sith anakin #obikin #oh god my baby #this is such pure fluff

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heisnameless · 4 years

Text

Good For You

Adam Sackler x Dom!Reader

Warnings: Smut. Bondage, edging, overstimulation. Thigh riding. Use of sex toys. Hint of fluff. Little bit of aftercare here.

Summary: I can’t stop thinking about sub!Adam after watching S1, so baby’s getting tied to the bed and edged.

Word count: 1,586

“You can’t just leave me here!” Adam spat through gritted teeth, jerking on the ties that bound his wrists to the bed. You stood at the very foot of the bed, watching and knowing that if he so desired, he could get himself free from those ties and get a hold of you, get his own revenge from what you were doing to him.

Instead, he had allowed you to spend the last two and a half hours bringing him to the brink of an orgasm only to halt it at the last minute. It brought tears to his eyes to watch you as you dressed. You hadn’t came, no, but you’d touched yourself in front of himself just to torture him further. Just to watch the way his cock jumped at the thought of burying so deep into your cunt.

He wore a vibrating cock ring on its lowest setting. His length was red, tip swollen as pre-cum pooled at the top, and dribbled onto his stomach as his hips thrust into nothing. His lips were bitten raw as he pouts, watching as you dress, coming forward to kiss him. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to close up the shop real quick. Be good and I’ll let you cum when I get back.”

He gives a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl as he leans up to kiss you back, hands clenching and unclenching as he aches to touch you. You reach out to pat his cheek before dragging your fingers down, along his body, along his torso, and towards his cock.

“Don’t.” He grunts before you do and brush your fingers around the head of his cock, making him throw his head back. Adam makes a choking noise in the back of his throat as you take your hands back and finish adjusting your blouse. Grabbing your purse, you blow him a kiss and then slip out the door. To be fair, there was no shop to close up since it had closed thirty minutes ago. You just needed an excuse to leave him on edge longer than you already had.

You pace the living room of his apartment for all of ten minutes after opening and closing the door, just as long as you’d told him you’d take. Finally, you make your way back to him, finding him shivering as he lays back in bed with his eyes closed. He’s leaking onto his stomach and his balls have turned a slight shade of purple now along with the tip.

“If I don’t fucking cum, I swear to god--” He cuts off when you give him a sharp look, arms folding across your chest to make sure he knows that in this moment, you have full and total control. His bottom lip pops out as he pouts before his mouth falls open. “Baby, please, please. I need to cum, please, it hurts so fucking bad. Feel like I’m about to have a bunch of little swimmers so far up my ass I can’t see straight.”

You have to stifle your laughter as you pull your blouse over your head before working your jeans down your legs. You hadn’t bothered with putting any undergarments back on when you went to leave again, knowing you would be coming back to take care of him. Immediately, you’re climbing up the bed, turning off the vibrator, and slowly pulling it off as he gasps. Leaning down, you kiss his stomach, run your tongue through the little puddle of pre-cum before you remove your hands from him, and move up his body.

“If I take these off, do you promise to keep your hands to yourself?” Carefully, you brush your fingers along his wrists, noticing how they’d grown red from where the fabric had dug in, making you frown. He doesn’t notice though; instead, he buries his face between your tits, resting his forehead against your chest. Removing one hand from his wrist, you bring it to his jaw, lifting his head to meet his eye as you look down. “I asked a question, sweet boy.”

His eyes are half-hooded as he leans into your touch before he nods, clearing his throat before he vocalizes his answer. “I won’t touch, promise. Scout’s honor and whatever else bullshit.”

Leaning down, you kiss him quickly before releasing his jaw and returning your attention to his wrists, carefully undoing them. His lips are on your sternum, placing sloppy kisses here and there before his tongue finds your nipple. You gasp and shift your hips against his cock, making him grind up against you, but you have to focus on undoing his wrists from the restraints. As you bring his wrists down one by one, you press a kiss to the inside of each one before they come to rest on the bed beside him, staying there.

“You’re doing so good, sweet boy.” You murmur as you work your way back down his body as he kisses his way up your chest, hips shifting as he silently begs again to just let him cum, to just fuck him, anything. But you bypass his cock and settle yourself onto his thigh, sighing as you feel the way the muscle digs into your clit when you shift just right. He gives a shaky breath as he watches you, fingers twitching slightly because he wants to touch, but he knows he can’t. He said he wouldn’t.

“Baby, you’re so fucking soaked, need to be inside you. Need to fuck you, please, wanna feel that sweet pussy of yours squeezing me so fucking good. Ah, fuck! Please.” There are tears in the corners of his eyes as he begs, his fingertips digging into the sides of his thighs as his nostrils flare for a brief moment. You proceed to rock your hips against his thigh and he watches, teeth grinding before you run a finger along the shaft of his cock.

“You need me?” You tease, finger swiping through pre-cum to smear it along his length before you close your fist around him and slowly stroke him. “You get me after you cum.”

His face seems to light up at the promise of release, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips as he thrusts up into your palm, making his thigh grind into your clit. Your fist twists slightly at the base of him, giving a long stroke that makes him give a deep moan. Your own hips continue to rock against his, feeling his hand coming to rest against your thigh. Earlier, you might have chided him for this, but this time, you let him help your hips move.

His fingertips are digging into your thigh enough to leave bruises, his cock jumping in your hand as his chest heaves, body falling back against the pillows. His orgasm is so close he can taste it and this once, you let him have it. Adam’s body curls slightly, soft gasps leaving his lips as you continue to stroke him as he paints his stomach and chest with his cum. He looks so perfect when he cums, lips parted as he enters a stage of pure bliss in his mind.

You hardly give him any reaction time before you’re shifting from his thigh, rising to lower yourself onto him as he winces slightly, lips downturned while his eyes flutter open. His hand moves from your thigh to your waist as you lift and fall, making his toes curl. “Baby, fuck, I don’t.. don’t know if I can take much more.”

Dipping to kiss him, you roll your hips slowly, making him tense up as his eyes close, chasing after the feel of your lips as you withdraw from him. You bring a hand up, finger brushing his lips “But you’re doing so good, sweet boy, letting me use you, edge you all afternoon. You’ve been so pretty tied up for me.”

“I just want to be good.” His voice breaks slightly as he feels you clench around him, eyes opening so he can watch the way your slick coats his cock when it slides in and out of your cunt. Your fingers find their way to your clit as you ride him, slowing teasing the bundle of nerves as you moan. His hand settles at the base of your back, holding you against him now despite the sticky mess as he lazily thrusts up into you, making you moan as you let your head fall back just a little.

You grind down against both him and your fingers, clit finding the stimulation you need to cum as you feel his body slack against the bed. One hand digs into the skin of his shoulder, pulling him close as you rock your hips back against him, riding out your own high before slowly pulling yourself off of him and tucking against his side with a gentle sigh. His body is still shivering from the intensity of his climax or maybe it was the overstimulation.

“You do know,” he begins slowly, voice slightly scratchy as he shifts to pull you against his chest, “that I’m going to get you back for that, right? My dick’s gonna be sore for a week.”

You smile contently at the question, reaching to the bedside table to where a bottle of water sat that you had retrieved for him hours ago when the two of you began. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, sweet boy.”

#adam sackler #adam sackler x reader #adam sackler x reader smut #adam sackler x reader fluff #adam sackler/reader smut #adam sackler/reader #adam sackler x you #hbo girls #adam driver #adam driver fanfiction #adam sackler smut #adam sackler fluff

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wrathandgreed · 3 years

Note

Hi! Hope you're having a good day.

For your ask game may I ask 🎨& ⚡?

Okay, so Tumblr ate my first response when I was alt-tabbing between this and Docs. Thanks, Tumblr! But thank you for the prompt, @evierena !

🎨 - Show us a WIP

From “Horn Maintenance” (short fic, fluff, Asmo x reader)

“Hey!” You boop him on the nose with the flat end of the file. “Let me work here.”

A great sigh. “But darling, you’re right here in front of me, and you’re cute enough to nibble on!”

You almost give in. But you want to see if you can bring Other Asmo back. So you settle yourself down in his lap and give him a kiss - not one of passion, but one of gentleness. Then you kiss the tip of his nose and smile right into his eyes. “Azzy, just let me just be affectionate for awhile. Let me take care of you a little.”

“Affec -“ For the briefest of moments, Asmo looks confused and it makes you really sad. You wonder if anyone’s ever asked to ‘take care of him’ without it being a sexual reference. You give him another kiss simply because you can’t stand seeing that look on his face. And then, without looking at him again, you turn back to his horn splinter and get to work.

From “The Seven Brothers Detective Agency” ( I did some googling into the “hard boiled detective” genre, and it’s fascinating. Apparently, in the early 1900s, it’s not that there was a lot of police corruption, it’s that the basic job of the police was enforcing things FOR the mob and/or politicians (basically the same thing back then). In the 1920’s, thanks to Prohibition, the mob began having so much money and power on their own that they didn’t need the cops anymore, and the alliance began to fracture. Enter, now, stories about this schism - people wanted justice, and they wanted stories about people to defend them from organized crime - AND from the cops (again, basically the same thing). So we wind up with the noir detective, usually a cop who disagreed with corruption, and is now jaded and cynical about their fall from the organization. Usually also dealing with shell-shock from WWI. )

(These are currently more like notes than full-on HCs)

Lucifer (The Boss)

Son of Old Money

Served in the Great War, very much against his father’s wishes. Men of their status do not sit in trenches and eat canned muck and get shot by German snipers.

Almost died more than once, saw some Major Shit.

Had a lot of trouble adjusting when he came home. Beds were too soft, everything glittered and sparkled and was too wide-open.

Also too boring. He spent two years facing life and death, and sitting back at his father’s desk with a cigar felt too simple.

So he decided to become a policeman. One of the **good** ones. He truly wanted to make a difference.

The day he enrolled, his father disowned him. Lucifer still had money left to him by his mother, but everything from his old man, including controlling interest in the company, was given to….someone else.

And for the first time, Lucifer felt free.

Rose in the ranks, thanks to charisma and intelligence.

Knew about the corruption, refused to participate, but felt he was too junior still to do anything about it.

By the time he was a senior detective, he’d gotten used to it. He wasn’t tempted by bribes himself, since he had more money than he would ever need.

If he was actually going to help people, he needed to stay on the force. To stay on the force, he had to turn a blind eye.

At least until the murder.

A young Black singer, the daughter of one of his father’s servants.

He’d grown up with her, their servant’s kids were as much his siblings as his actual sister.

This girl was younger than him by a few years, but her voice had been heavenly.

She sang in speakeasies, throaty voice singing the blues.

And now she was dead - brutalized and strangled for telling a rich white kid “no”.

The bastard was caught with blood quite literally on his hands. He fucking confessed.

But the boy’s father was a major contributor of the Chief’s - so her death was ruled an unsolved homicide.

Enraged, Lucifer did what he swore he would never do - he fought the system.

And lost.

And those who supported him - whatever their reasons - were kicked out of the force right alongside him.

So, with too much money on his hands, too much grief in his heart, and too many junior officers looking to him for leadership, Lucifer starts the Seven Brothers Detective Agency.

He saw his juniors - his friends, his **brothers** - and realized that, for most of them, they hadn’t just lost a job, they’d lost a reason to get up in the morning. So he gave them one.

He’ll never admit that he needed a reason to get up even more than they did.

At this point, he’s low key a functioning alcoholic.

He uses big-money cases in order to fund helping the disenfranchised.

Will always help people in real trouble, even if they can’t pay at all.

He spends most of his time on paperwork in the office, and occasionally bailing his juniors out of jail.

Or paying off their mob debts.

Kind of the same thing, anyway.

When he does go out into the field, though, he’s formidable.

He seems to have this otherworldly charm, and people find themselves talking to him, telling him things they maybe shouldn’t.

He’s an expert at questioning someone around in circles until they don’t even know what they’re saying.

He’s also an expert at asking such direct questions that people become uncomfortable. You can learn a lot from someone’s discomfort.

⚡️ - Biggest fear

What really scares me is uncertainty and insecurity. I grew up pretty poor. Not like super poverty, but the type of poor where you start working off the books at 11 and you eat dinner at your grandparents house for a few weeks because your own parents can’t afford groceries because something happened that sucked up available funds. Also, my mom was sick most of my childhood, so I wound up being her caretaker and between that and the whole getting-a-job-at-11 thing, I didn’t really have a childhood or teenage-hood. I’m a lot older now, and I’m in a pretty secure financial place, but I’m still desperately afraid of that one accident or emergency that will send me back into eating at other people’s houses or having to borrow money from my parents to afford to fix my car.

I’ve also got some of my mom’s conditions - plus a few mental illnesses - so part of my fear of uncertainty is what’s going to happen to me in the future. By the time she was my age, my mom was going blind and suffering mini-strokes. I’ve managed to avoid all of that, but for how long? We survive on my salary, so if I become unable to work, we’re screwed. Not to mention I can only be as healthy as I am because my job provides top-tier health insurance. What happens if I lose it? I’m not having children, so how will I be looked after if I actually live to be old?

So, short answer, I guess, is just “the future” - I’m always afraid of things taking a sharp downturn, because my childhood was nothing BUT thinking things were fine and then everything exploding in your face.

#ask game #obey me WIP #w&g stuff #thanks!

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unlockthelore · 4 years

Text

Ritual of Habit [ Yōkai AU ]

“When is taking a life justified,” Rin asks. “How much life can be taken before the meaning of it is lost?” From the fic Feathers in the Wind on Ao3. For more updates, follow the feathers in the wind tag on this blog. If you’re looking for Yōkai AU, search the yokai au tag.

Fireflies drifted aimlessly over the pond’s rippling surface, their yellowish-green twinkling like stars across the crystalline depths as they meandered through the humid summer night. A splash spurred them to flee as Rin pulled her hands from the cool waters, rubbing them together from fingertip to wrist then back.

Guilt sloshed inside her heart as she stared at her fingertips then curled them into fists, holding them to her nose. Beneath the hyssop and primrose, a musty rancid scent churned the emptied contents of her stomach.

“What did you do, Rin?”

Barely a whisper on the wind, Rin’s lips parted and naught a sound but a sigh passed them. She bowed her head and settled her hands in her lap while soft footsteps sifted through tall grass. Vibrant red skirts shifted in the corner of her eye, wrinkling as a young woman knelt beside her, setting aside the wicker basket filled with pinked ripe peaches. The desire to take one and take to the skies was swallowed beneath the thick putrid taste on Rin’s tongue.

Her gaze returned to the now-still waters and a twisting pull stole air from her lungs til they burned. Rain dampened her cheeks. Breath rattling in searing lungs as a touch jostled her into an embrace. White sleeves, pristine and unmarred, clouded Rin’s vision as the woman held her to her chest.

Slowly, she allowed her eyes to close and in the back of her eyelids, she saw naught but blood and dust.

Rin sat silently, listening to the wheel’s creaking turn and her blade’s gentle humming. A drizzle had begun to fall, a distant clap of thunder rumbling through the skies, cracking the veil of grey drifting overhead. She rocked backward to a soundless song and parted her lips to welcome a few drops of rain to her dried tongue. Around laid the bodies of men and animals, beasts of burden ridden into glorious battle and laid low without a second thought. Their screams echoing into the atmosphere as they watched helplessly while their comrades rode on. Her eyes shuttered almost disappointedly as the wet clomping of hooves across sodden earth came to a halt a few paces before her perch.

“Speak true, girl,” a stern voice ordered with an undercurrent of trepidation hardening yet shaking his words. “Do ye fight on behalf of Inu no Taishō?”

Rain cooled between her toes squelched as she curled them, rocking forward with her hands resting upon her knees. Almost lazily, her gaze drifted to the two men on horseback staring down at her unsurely. One, stern-faced, young, and angered, eyes deadened coal and reflective in their contempt. While the other, hooded and resigned, stared down at her pleadingly though the words would not leave his sewn downturned lips.

Sympathy thudded deep within her heart for them. While neither were inherently evil, the acts they wished to commit on the other side of the field where the Western Lord’s troops were retreating, would not come to pass.

Without a word, Rin nodded and the stern-faced man balked while the other averted his gaze. Horses brayed as one of the men dismounted, the other clumsily following after, but Rin didn’t raise her gaze to meet either of them as they approached. A dirtied calloused hand seized the front of her kimono and yanked her up to her toes, blade clattering to the mud.

“Have ye gone mad?” The stern-faced man spat into her face, his yellowed teeth and barley-thick breath singing her nose hairs. “Bewitched?!”

For a long moment, Rin said nothing. She knew what it must have seemed to them. Wings tucked away and left alone, she resembled a human girl but the eyes could not be fooled. Lifting her gaze to meet those contemptuous eyes, she saw the flicker of recognition before his hand released her with a backward shove. She did not fall. Taking one a half-step backward, regaining her footing on the cart’s wooden railing.

Drizzling rain began to fall in earnest, sleets becoming a steady downpour muddling blood and dirt. The stern-faced soldier moved to draw his sword, the blade clattering clumsily in its sheath only to be stayed as his companion grasped his wrist.

Pleadingly, he stood between Rin and the grieved soldier. “My lord, she’s only a girl. Please let her be.”

“That is no child,” the stern-faced soldier snarled, yanking his hand free of his companion’s grasp.

Before they could continue, Rin sighed. “He is right.”

All movement stilled. The hooded-eyed soldier looking back to her, stricken and aggrieved. She wondered for a moment how many battles had he seen. How many children did he plead for? Were they spared or did they paint ghostly images in the back of his eyelids? Despite the heavy armor he wore, polished and sluiced with the rain, and his weathered skin marred with scars — his expression was young and broken at the implication.

Her admittance would be her death, and she pitied him.

“You came to fight on this soil for your fathers, brothers, sisters, and mothers slain by your enemies,” Rin said, inhaling deeply as the thick humidity began to deepen with the weight of her power. Hammering rains drenched them, distant confusion in calls for retreat or advance, while the pair before her looked on. One with his intention secured while the other yet wavered.

Still, if they decided to fight, Rin would stay her course.

She promised.

“Nothing will return them to life,” she said sympathetically. Thunder roared over her head and the earth trembled in response. “Do not waste yours.”

Wind howled and Rin’s blood pulsed as it rushed through her ears. Both soldiers stared, uncertainty in their eyes, but the elder turned away from his younger counterpart to stand before her. He knelt to the mud and scooped up the blade. Its sheath drenched from torrential rains, pressed into Rin’s waiting palms as he rose to his feet, his eyes meeting hers for a second before he towered over her once again.

“Michikatsu!” The younger cried out but the elder raised his hand, silencing him.

As he lowered it, the rains died and the winds calmed, distressed noises eased into ones of curiosity and concern. “… What is your name?” The elder soldier — Michikatsu, Rin reminded herself — asked in a gentle tone. The younger looked on in surprise as the elder removed his helmet, letting it rest in the crook of his hip.

Recognizing respect, she bowed her head curtly. “They call me Rin.”

His lips pulled to one side. “But is that your name?” He asked, stately and poised despite the rivulets of water and mud spraying across his garbs. “A demoness such as yourself must have many.”

Rin’s eyes softened and the sympathy she felt for him was unmatched. “It is the only one you may know.”

Something akin to understanding emerged in the elder’s weathered features and he closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly.

“I see.” Painstakingly slow, he raised his helmet and slipped it onto his head, speaking as he secured the fastenings. “Know that I do not agree with my lord. But…”

The mawkish call of indignance from the young soldier fell on deaf ears. Rin, giving the entirety of her attention onto the elder, even as scouts began to gallop toward their position.

“On behalf of all those who’d fallen to that creature’s rise, I stand here now. So I ask you…” His sword drew with purpose, a slick ringing echoing in Rin’s ears as the tip of his blade rested square between her eyes. At the end of its length, she saw Michiktasu’s eyes. Resignation and defeat, but determination as his lord looked on from behind and the number of soldiers stood ready to wage war.

“Rin, will you die for that creature?”

Stoic as those words were, they were drenched in a silent plea. One Rin could not answer. Michikatsu made his decision and she had made hers.

“No.”

The air crackled and smoldered around her as her hair lifted on arcs of energy drifting from her small frame in waves of blinding white. Her eyes closed for half a second and when they opened, she could see the fear and apprehension in theirs.

“I do not plan to die on this day.”

When she dared to open her eyes, the comforting hold had become a vice-like grip. One that may have been painful if not for the nature of her being. And yet, that was the issue. Her being is what drove those pitiful humans to their end. Loyalty, friendship, determination in the barest sense of the word — is what ended their lives.

Rin trembled and braced herself against the woman’s sides, easing away from her comforting embrace. Velvety hands, pleasant to the touch, leave her pliant as they tip her head upward to meet a pair of ink-colored eyes belonging to a fair-skinned woman. Her raven-black hair sweeping thick tendrils down her shoulders and back, gentle rounded features twisted with reticent thought. Beneath the silvery moonlight, the woman seemed to glow.

Ethereal and never-ending, ironic considering her being.

A pained tremor cracked as the woman brushed her fingertips along the underside of Rin’s eyes. An aroma of spider lilies incensed the air as her palms cradled the curve of Rin’s cheeks.

“Speak to me, little one…”

Mirthless laughter spat out from Rin’s lips. Sound harsh and grating to her ears, and along the worn lining of her throat. Yet, if it bothered the woman, she said not. There was little to be angered over. Their lives were over, the battle won.

Toga had returned home to his son. She’d seen to it herself.

And yet…

“Midoriko,” Rin prefaced, staring into her eyes. She couldn’t help but notice, although the face and presence were naught the same, those eyes reminded her of Michikatsu’s. She tore her gaze away, guilt cinching her chest. “… When is war justified?”

The priestess’s eyes widened and for a brief second, Rin felt remorse. She hadn’t meant to come into Midoriko’s garden with such heady conversation. However, she couldn’t seem to ease the question from mind. After a moment which felt like an eternity, Midoriko’s expression smoothed into one of serenity and she shifted her gaze to the pond before them. Rin following suit, catching sight of their reflections in the still waters.

“War is often waged between those with conflicting ideals,” Midoriko started, holding out one of her hands, a firefly drifting to set upon her finger. Its light casting shadows over her palm. “Or in need of protecting what is theirs from those who wish to take it.”

Rin’s brow furrowed as she heard crickets chirping and glanced off to the smattering of huts in the distance. Lanterns weaving in and out of the trees.

“Is there no way past it?” She asked, rising to her feet as she stepped behind Midoriko, furthering herself from the distant line of the forest. The clearing in which they sat together, while a favorite of hers, was not only known to them. In a bid to keep their talk quiet, Rin lowered her voice but she couldn’t ignore the swell of curiosity and anxiousness burning at her lungs.

Midoriko allowed her with her eyes, concern downturning her lips, her mouth opening but the swell of emotions poured out of Rin before she could stop them.

“When is taking a life justified?” Rin asked hurriedly, Midoriko’s mouth snapping shut, eyes widened. “How much life can be taken before the meaning of it is lost? And to whom…” She regretted her words as Midoriko rose to her feet. “Does one answer to when they no longer feel that remorse?”

Her arms beginning to tremble as she took a half-step backward, staring down at her hands. Clear though her fingertips were, pristine and free of blemish, she could still remember the feeling. Red coating and outlined in the creases of her fingertips, streaked across her palms and smeared against her wrists.

She knew why she drew her blade. And unperturbed by the respect shown, by the look in their eyes, she swung it again and again without mercy.

Til naught else remained.

Warm hands enveloped her own and jostled her forward. “Rin,” Midoriko snapped, voice firm as the grip she had on Rin’s hands. “This— The pain you feel… It is a symbol of remorse.”

Rin shuddered, swallowing the lump in her throat, allowing Midoriko to squeeze her hands in spite of the fear of red smearing across the priestess’ own.

Undisturbed, Midoriko held her and smiled, kneeling in the grass. “A way to know that you yet live, and feel for all you’ve done.. Even if you do not wish to undo it, it still proves that you are good.” She nodded once, slowly releasing Rin’s hands and reaching out to pull her into an embrace. Her nose settled against Midoriko’s shoulder as she held her tightly.

“Because only those who are mindful of their action seek repentance.”

#inuyasha fandom #rin #midoriko #fanfiction #my fanfiction #feathers in the wind #yokai au

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 5 years

Text

Invisible

A/N: So, I may have cheated on the prompt a little bit here. There’s no grand underlying reason for the smooch in question, no holiday or celebration, no circumstances, no threats, no expectation. It comes out of the blue, but is there really no reason? Debatable. Hope you can forgive the cheating. This is a one shot, not connected to anything previously written (which is DIFFICULT for me so that’s why this ended up being so lengthy) 18 Kisses down, 2 more Billy smooches to go plus a bonus one!! Happy friday everyone!

Word count: 3,764

Prompt from: @something-tofightfor (thank you for your unending patience as I took way too long with this one!!)

[[MORE]]

Billy matched your stride step for step, his hand clamped tightly around yours to ensure that you wouldn’t get seperated. When a girl scout troop stopped short in front of you to take a group photo, he pulled you close to his side and steered you around them. When a pamphlet was thrust into your face by an energetic man selling tickets to some attraction or another, he barked a “Not interested,” over his shoulder, tugging you along before the paper even came close to you.

“Billy, we’re not in a rush,” your free arm crossed your body, fingers finding the crook of his elbow and giving a light squeeze.

“Yeah, I know, just tryin’ to get there.” He tried not to let the agitation that he felt from being in such a crowded area seep into his tone.

You laughed, pressing your arm closer to his, turning your face to kiss his bicep through his shirt sleeve. “You don’t even know where we’re going, though.”

He turned, looking down at you from behind his sunglasses. You were wearing that sideways smile that always sparked a twinkle of mischief in your eyes and a rush of heat in his chest. I don’t deserve her. But even as he had the thought, he felt his own lips twitch upwards. “No, I don’t. But I know we don’t need whatever that guy’s sellin’.”

“No, we don’t.” You squeezed his hand and rested your cheek against his arm, your other hand falling from his elbow to swing freely at your side again. You sighed and he felt his lips twitch even more, knowing that it was the sensation of the sun on your skin that had pulled that sweet sound from you. You’d just stepped out of the shade of a colorful awning, the light bathing your bare arms and shoulders, your face tilted up and your eyes shut, absorbing the warmth like a sunflower. “Mmm that feels so nice,” you purred.

“Mmhmm,” he responded, stopping at the corner behind the group of people waiting for the signal to change.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t wear that sweatshirt?” You stepped in front of him, hands running up and down his forearms.

The signal transformed, the red DON’T disappearing, reading only WALK in bright white lettering. “Mmhmm.” he answered again, grabbing for your hand and proceeding to cross the street.

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

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

You’d been digging in your bag for your keys, waiting eagerly by the front door for him when Billy had come out of the bedroom wearing the sweatshirt in question. The sleeves were pushed up and straining against his muscled arms, hands in his pockets, the hood pulled over his head. Whatever you were planning, you were excited about it, but when you saw him your forehead wrinkled up and you tilted your head to the side. “Billy…” adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag, you took a step closer to him. He swallowed, eyes angled towards the ground. You reached up, right hand slipping under the material of his hood.

Billy shifted his weight and raised his own hand to match yours, wrapping his fingers around your wrist in a less than halfhearted attempt to stop you. He brought his eyes up to yours, finally locking with them, and what he saw there made him loosen his grip. I can’t stop her, she…Your eyes were clear and fixed on his, full of patience and a silent request for his trust. There wasn’t a soul on Earth that he trusted more, himself included. Dropping his hand, fingers grazing your wrist bone and the skin on the underside of your forearm, he kept his eyes on you as you grasped the edge of the gray fabric and pulled the hood down slowly. As you did, your fingers raked through his hair. It was growing long again, and you knew how much he loved it when you grabbed it and tugged or dragged your nails over his scalp. An almost imperceptible groan came from the back of his throat as he gripped your hip and you smiled softly at him. “It’s too hot for this,” you placed your hand on his chest, sliding it over his soft tee and under the opened zipper. “It’s 95 degrees. You’ll cook.” Dropping your right hand to his chest, you slid that one beneath the sweatshirt as well, removing it from his shoulders.

“Yeah, I know…” he mumbled, helping you yank the sleeves from his arms, face still downturned. You gave a good pull and came away with the well worn hoodie in your hands, tossing it over the back of the couch.

“Hey,” you bent slightly and tilted your head so that you could meet his eyes. “It’s okay, Billy.” Eyes scanning his face, he watched you raise your hand to slowly bring it to his cheek, the tips of your fingers tracing the ridges of one of the jagged scars that cut through the skin there. He closed his eyes as your touch roved over his jaw and up to his ear. The nerve endings there were damaged, some beyond repair. For the most part, the heavily scarred portions of his face were numb to your touch or to the gentle brush of your lips. But he still felt it in his bloodstream, in the way it raised goosebumps on his arms and forced him to take a breath. She doesn’t care about them…

But I do. “Yeah...I know, I just…” he shrugged. I just hate the constant reminder of my fuckin’ mistakes… I hate that she has to…

You turned away, grabbing a shopping bag that had been sitting on the bench by the front door. “Here,” you rifled through it, double checking the items inside before handing it over to him with a shrug of your own.

“What’s this?” He eyed you suspiciously before opening the bag and peering inside. He pulled the largest item out first- a black fitted baseball cap, the brim already slightly broken in. He imagined you squeezing and folding it to get the curve just right, your tongue poking out from between your lips like it did when you were concentrating on something you cared about. Another dive into the bag turned up a pair of sunglasses, large enough to obscure most of his face, especially when paired with the hat. He shook his head, staring at the items in his hands. She… she did this...she knows how I…

It had been a year since Billy’s name had been cleared- since the nearly endless court proceedings had culminated in the ruling that he’d been manipulated and turned into an assassin, a trigger man to clean up after some high powered government and military officials- and far longer than that since the night that nearly killed him. In all that time, he’d barely ventured out of your apartment, and never in the daylight. People are gonna stare at me. They’re gonna stare at the fuckin’ freak, then they’re gonna stare at her… That was his reasoning for hiding, for withdrawing from the second chance he’d been given at life. He knew you didn’t care about the scars. It blew his mind, but he knew it as fact, knew it as clearly and as fully as he knew that you were it for him. But he knew that other people cared. Other people cared, and they would make assumptions about him...about you. At night he felt less visible, less seen and more comfortable. But he knew that you loved the sunlight, loved the feel of it on your skin, and so he’d agreed to go out and do something with you in the day, even letting you choose the activity. He was uneasy about it, but the way your eyes sparkled, tears pooling before they slipped down to your smile when he’d told you; the way you’d thrown your arms around him and laughed, it made him sure that it was worth whatever discomfort he’d be in. I’d do anything for her. Anything she wanted.

“I knew you’d want to…” you bit your bottom lip and shrugged again, indicating the sweatshirt. “So I thought this might make you feel better about…” you sighed and stepped closer to him, placing your hand on his chest again, over the heart that beat solely for you. “Even though I don’t think you have to-”

He cut you off with a kiss. It was just a quick one, just to the corner of your lips, just enough to turn them up into a smile. “It’s perfect...you...you’re perfect. Thank you…” Bag still in his hand, he realized there was one more item inside, but you reached in before he could. “What’s that?”

You brandished a small tube and took the empty bag from him, laying it back on the bench where it had been. “Sunscreen.” You popped it open and squeezed some onto your hands before rubbing it into your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose. “My friend Nadia?” He watched you squeeze a little more onto your fingers and rub it into your forehead. “She works for a dermatologist. She told me this one’s good for sensitive skin.” Sensitive skin. That was what you said when you were trying not to talk about the raised and rippled lines that crossed his face. You finished working the lotion into your skin, rubbing your hands together to absorb any residual. “You should use some, too.”

Billy cleared his throat as you extended the tube to him. “Nah, I mean… I’m…” He held up the hat and glasses. “You got me covered pretty damn well.”

You combed through his hair, fixing some of the strands that were sticking up from having the hood on. “Never hurts to have extra protection from the sun, Billy, and you haven’t really been in the sun in a while, so you might burn and then-”

He sighed. “Okay, gimme the thing.” You smiled and handed it over, taking the hat and shades from him so that he could use both hands. She’s too fuckin’ good to me… too fuckin’ good for me. When he opened his eyes after rubbing the sunblock hastily over his face, he was met with you modeling his new glasses. “Those look good on you.” Everything looks good on you.

“They’re gonna look better on you.” You raised them up and rested them on your head. “You missed a spot…” Your tongue appeared at the corner of your mouth, right where he’d kissed you, right where he imagined it poking out while you broke in the hat’s brim, and his heart flipped. Your thumb came up to the most pronounced of his scars, the bullet wound that tore through his cheek, and swiped some excess sunscreen that had gathered around the pitted edges, smoothing it out over his nose. “There.” You tapped the tip of his nose as you finished. “You ready?” Like it was nothing, like you hadn’t just shown him how well you knew him and how much you loved him, you dug your keys out of your bag and opened the front door.

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

“Nah, you were right, too hot for that sweatshirt.” He tapped the arm of his sunglasses. “This is much better.” The two of you had finished crossing the street, and he continued walking until he felt you tug on his hand.

“This way,” you indicated the direction with a tilt of your head.

That way? But that’s…

“Come on, Billy, trust me.”

He nodded and let you lead him towards the park. Walking in the streets was one thing. People so busy with getting from A to B that anything in between was just a nuisance. But in the park things slowed down. People looked up from the pavement, noticed details that they didn’t have time for on the street. You passed by two entrances, choosing the third and pulling him out of the steady stream of bodies and into the greenest spot in the city. “Where are we…”

“You’ll see.” You squeezed his hand, another request for trust, and he responded with a squeeze of his own.

Less confident and sure now that there was more space and an easier pace, he let you take the lead, fidgeting with his hat, yanking on the brim, trying to disappear. He saw you notice out of the corner of your eye, but you didn’t say anything, only leaned closer to him, pressing more of your arm against his, making it more known that you were there with him. You pointed out dogs and street performers, told stories about you and your siblings and the fun you’d had in the park growing up, changed the topic to what you should do for dinner later, and then back to another dog that had stolen your attention. Before long you stopped walking, and turned to face him. “Okay, we’re here.”

You watched his reaction as he stared at Loeb Boathouse, at its iconic green roof and walls of windows. “You wanna…” He turned to you. “You wanna rent a boat?”

You nodded. “I do. Come on.” He let you pull him over to the attendant, ducking his face down as you dealt with the rental and collected the oars, thanking the young man who’d helped you.

“Thought you’d just wanna… I dunno, take a walk or,” he sniffed. “Or somethin’.” You were close behind the attendant who was pulling one of the rowboats over for you to use, both hands occupied with the wooden oars. His went to his hat, one gripping the curved bill, the other palming the top to shove it further down on his head.

“Nope, wanna try something new, Billy,” you looked over your shoulder at him, smile throwing more light that the summer sun. You turned back to where the attendant had successfully secured one of the small vessels in Central Park’s fleet, stowing the oars inside the boat before turning back and reaching your hand out to him. He took it instantly, feeling less self conscious the moment his fingers closed around yours. “Help me in?”

He moved closer, his other hand cupping your elbow to help keep you steady as you stepped one foot and then the other into the boat. It rocked gently beneath your feet and you let out a small ‘Oh!’ that sounded more like a laugh than anything. “I gotchya,” he assured you, feeling an involuntary smile shaping as you lowered yourself to the seat with his assistance. He climbed in carefully, taking the seat across from you, his knees on the outside of yours, your hand dropping to the right one. People on the street had their phones and their music to enclose them in their own little world. Billy had your hand on his knee to do the same.

He rowed out and away from the shore, awkwardly at first, but getting the rhythm down in just a few strokes. “Sorry, never done this before,” he explained.

“Me either, you’re doing better than I would,” you laughed. You were out in the middle of the lake now, a few other boaters scattered nearby, but far enough away from the sidewalks and the boat ramp so that it was quieter- as quiet as it gets in Central Park on a Saturday afternoon in July. “Hey,” your hand came back to his knee, and he stilled the oars, resting them in their holders. “You know why I wanted to come here? Do this?”

Billy shook his head. “No, but I have a feelin’ you’re about to tell me.”

“Look around, Billy.” You leaned in and pointed to the other boats. “Look, everyone’s in their own little world. Look over there,” you indicated a couple not so different from the two of you, engrossed entirely in one another. They could have been anywhere. Lake Michigan, Loch Ness, the Pacific Ocean- all they saw was one another. “Or them,” you switched directions, pointing out a young family, two small kids chattering away at their parents, laughing at ducks and throwing the feed that was supposed to be for the birds at one another. “Now look at me,” you whispered. He turned his head and was met with your eyes. You’d taken your sunglasses off, irises bright in the glimmer of sunlight bouncing off of the water, and he was hit hard with the way you were always there; always there with him and for him. “No one’s here but us, Billy.” You reached for his glasses and he balked slightly, but you didn’t drop your hand. “It’s just us,” you said again, fingers making contact with the rim of his glasses. “Just me and you.” You pulled them off, folding them and sticking them in your bag, keeping your eyes on him. “Everyone else is invisible.”

He swallowed and immediately looked down at the boat’s floor, at your sandaled feet between his boots. But I’m not… I'm not invisible...people can see…

Your hand came up from his knee to his face, tilting it back up. “Billy,” he could feel the sincerity in your voice as you said his name, making it sound too good to belong to him. “Don’t hide from me, please. Don’t…” Your fingers traced around the top of his ear before coming back down to graze his jaw. “You know I don’t care about your scars, right? You know when I look at you, I don’t even see them.”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what you say.” But how?

“It’s what I mean, Billy. When I look at you?” You shook your head. “I see you, Billy. Just you.” Your fingers came back up towards his ear, slowly slipping under his hat.

He sucked in a breath, heart pounding. She really… she doesn’t… she wants to… He fought the instinct to stop you, gripping the oars tightly to keep his hands from clamping down over his hat. You slowly removed it, the bright sunlight hitting his face, warming his skin.

“That’s better,” you smiled, setting his hat down on top of your bag before brushing your fingers through his hair like you had when you took down his hood back in the apartment. “Hey, you.”

He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, shifting his eyes around the lake. That other young couple was still lost in each other, the family still preoccupied by the ducks. She’s right, no one’s lookin’. “Hey,” he answered quietly as your hand came back around to his cheek. He caught it, keeping it there, leaning into your palm. Feels better than the sun.

“This okay?” you asked, thumb sweeping under his eye.

“Yeah,” he closed his fingers around your hand and pulled it down to kiss your palm. No one’s ever cared this much about me. No one’s ever… He pulled your hand into his lap, turning it in his grasp to run his fingers along the creases in your palm. “Yeah, this is okay.” He reached with his other hand for the back of your neck, careful not to disrupt the boat too much. His tongue came out to wet his lips as he leaned in closer, the sudden need to kiss you eclipsing every thought, every sound, everything. He closed the distance, covering your mouth with his own, delighting in the slight whimper you let out as he made contact. The hand behind your neck moved up into your hair, curving around your head to change the angle so that he could deepen the kiss, open it up and fill it with everything he was feeling. Your free hand found its way to his chest, the light pressure pumping even more warmth into his heart.

Before he met you, Billy had known his fair share of women. He’d known them intimately; knew how to pull sighs and moans from their lips, knew how to keep them coming back for more, knew how to make them want him. But none of them had truly known him, nor did he want them to. But you knew him. You saw him, saw through the clouds of doubt and insecurity, saw who he was beneath all the bullshit, and you didn’t flinch away. You only came closer, only showed him that you were there, that you were always there. His eyebrows knit together, the lids of his closed eyes shuddering under the weight of the way he felt about you, and he tried to say it all with his lips on yours, with the slow, easy way that his tongue curved around your own, with the gentle but firm way that he held you still, locked in that kiss. He knew you’d need to take a breath soon, but if it were up to him he’d never break away.

He did, more reluctant than he’d been to let you take his hat and glasses, teeth closing lightly over your bottom lip before completely pulling away. A breath tumbled out from the depths of your lungs, changing into a tingling laugh and taking the form of a smile on your face. “Billy…” you bit your bottom lip, where his teeth had just been. “What was…”

“Nothin’. That was nothin.” He leaned in again, pressing another quick kiss to your still plump lips. It was nothing...and everything. “Today is perfect. Thank you… for bringin’ me here and…” he narrowed his eyes, keeping them glued to yours. “Thank you for seein’ me… for makin’ me feel like more than…” he indicated his scars, though even to him they mattered less now. “Just… just thank you.”

You leaned forward to rub your nose against his. “Anytime, Russo.”

Yeah. Anytime. Any place. Nothing else matters. Everyone else is invisible.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @thebbtongue @lexxierave @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices @songforhema @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @breanime @luminex3

#billy russo #billy russo x you #billy russo x reader #billy smooches #kiss prompts #kiss requests #a kiss in a vehicle #(A BOAT)#for no reason #(OR ALL THE REASONS)#i hope you like this #enjoy the face touching #and the boat smooching #happy friday!

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let-me-love-you-loki · 6 years

Text

Hounds of Justice--Ch. 6

Chapter 6

Roman swept the car up to the door of the hotel, slipped to a stop as smoothly as possible. I heard the rhythmic swing of keys in the ignition, the dinging of the door. They spoke in whispers, shut doors with quietness.

“Don’t wake her up,” Seth murmured. His hands cradled the back of my head, lowering me to the seat. My heart rose to my throat, threatening to give me away. Rough fingers mixed with a gentle touch.

A whir of sound, rustle of fabric and leather. Rubber luggage wheels against concrete. The quiet strain of a backpack strap.

Open your eyes, I thought. Open your eyes and act like you heard nothing. Wipe the words from memory, go on as before.

“Let me do it,” the gruff voice, powerful. Roman. I sensed his shadow falling over me, protecting me from what I shouldn’t know.

There was a gathering of limbs, the inaudible grunts of carefulness and worry. I left the forgiving seat for the unyielding wall of muscle and bone. Roman cradled me gently, holding me against his chest. The smooth gait, gentle steps. The walk of a father with his child asleep in his arms.

The pressure changed as we entered the front doors of the hotel. Cool, stale air washed over my skin. Open your eyes. Wake up. You look like a fool.

I shuffled, moved just enough to signal wakefulness. My throat closed. I sucked in a deep breath, the shock through my ribs enough to bring me to full consciousness. A flutter of lashes, a sleepy-time grunt of a child.

“Where are we?” I asked, my voice a fluffy whisper.

“The hotel,” Roman replied. “We didn’t want to wake you.”

I fussed enough to be set on my feet. Dizziness swept through me. I gripped the edge of the front desk to stop myself from swaying. The weight of the air changed, closed and warmed as bodies circled around me. There was a hand on the small of my back, steadying, waiting.

The desk clerk checked us in, handed over keys and credit cards. I felt eyes racing over my being, the strangeness of being watched. I glanced over my shoulder, caught Dean watching me directly, Seth watching under his brows. My heart skipped into my toes.

“You’re on the sixth floor, dollface, with us” Dean said, leaning a little against my shoulder. His arm went around me, settled his palm on my upper arm. “Some real sleep will do you a hell of a lot of good.”

I gave in, let him guide me to the elevator. The others piled in, looking anywhere but at me. Dean stayed close, hovering. Roman’s shadow stood like a barrier between me and the world. Seth stared at the wall, his gaze settling on my reflection in the polished steel. His eyes were dark, almost black in the high gloss silver.

“Where’s Renee tonight?” I asked quietly, suddenly afraid of breaking the silence.

Dean smiled, shook his head. “She’s already heading to a new city. We’re three to a room tonight.”

I nodded, cowed into silence once again. The elevator dinged, doors slid open with a vacuum swish. My knees threatened to give way. I couldn’t force my feet to take steps.

“Go easy,” Seth said, his body flexing, turning its bulk toward me. He looked so much like a great wall, a mass of tall and dark and olive that looked inviting and terrifying all at once. His face was hollowed, the deep chocolate black of his eyes flicking over me in waves.

One step. Another. An arc of pain shot from my hip, up through my side, sank into my spine, constricting my chest. It was a shot, a bullet through my flesh, fire burning and blistering.

I let out a gasp of pain. My knees gave way. The carpet rushed upward, promising pain.

“Llane!”

Solidness hooked around my hips, a head of soft hair tucked beneath my arm. I cried out, tears forming as the sudden snap back lashed through my spine.

“Up you go,” Seth rasped, curling an arm beneath my knees. Gravity had no meaning. Everything was light and smelled of laundry soap and shampoo. I curled into the scent, felt soft fabric slide over hard muscle.

A hand slipped up, snatched onto a collar, the harsh metal of a zipper. Warm skin brushed my knuckles. Something kindled inside me, a pale light burning with rising flame. Every aching breath brushed oxygen over the flame.

I wondered what it meant. How it would grow.

Dean and Roman passed by, walking in front like guards. Seth curled me a little closer, lifted me high against his chest, lessening the jostle that came with each step. I glanced up, unshed tears blurring my vision. His outline was fuzzy. The overhead lights wrapped around his dark hair like a halo. He was so unnervingly close.

I blinked, trying to force clarity and focus. He came into view. Dark eyes watched me with care, a shuttered worry reflected in them. His mouth was downturned, uncertainty in the thin line of his lips hidden behind beard and moustache.

“You good?” he queried, voice thick with something I couldn’t name. He whispered, as if he didn’t want the others to hear.

My head tilted, settled against the curve of his collarbone, cushioned by the thickness of flesh and sinew beneath. There was something beneath the soap and shampoo. A richer scent that threw gasoline on the flame settled against my spine.

“I am now.” The voice that came from me was deep, threaded with a sense of the unknown. A whisper of the shadow of a promise that bespoke desire.

The corner of his mouth lifted, a gentle smile brightening his face. It was painful, the beauty of it. My fingers itched, wanted to brush against the curve of his lips.

Instead, they tightened on his collar. A denial of an urge burning through me like venom.

Cologne. Ink. The nervous energy that was Dean. “This is you, dollface,” he grunted. I could feel him staring between the two of us.

The room was small, a Queen-sized bed in crisp white sheets dominated the space. The lights were low, casting shadows. It was too close with the three of them. Their bulk was heavy, massive, took up more space than they should.

Dean put my suitcase on a little stool against the wall. He leaned my backpack against the side of the bed. He looked as if he wanted to bounce, shake off the buzz that drove him. Roman wasn’t far behind, appearing from the bathroom with a glass of water.

Seth’s steps were slow, his arms solid and tender as he dropped to a knee on the edge of the bed. Roman piled up pillows, placed the water at the bedside. The moments passed, dragging along like molasses as the arms beneath my limbs edged carefully away.

It was an absence, like the crash that comes after the spill of adrenaline into the blood. A physical ache.

Roman hovered by the end of the bed, arms crossed, his face worn with exhaustion and worry. His eyes were hooded, giving nothing away. “We’ll head out. Our room is three down on the left. You need anything, call.”

His tone brooked little argument. I nodded, glanced to my bag, reached for it and thought better of it as pain lashed through my ribs.

My faint gasp of pain turned Seth’s pallor white. He snatched at my bag, lifting it in one fist. The color came back, going pink along the cheeks as he held my backpack between us, letting me rummage and gather the things I needed.

Phone. Charger. A book. The zippered case of my Switch.

Seth’s eyes followed each item, glued greedily to the game system for a moment.

“I’m good,” I swore with a halfway smile. “I’ve got everything I need.”

For a moment, Seth looked ready to disagree. He smiled, a twitching thing that came and went in the blink of an eye. His head dipped in acquiescence. Firm, sure fingers curled around the back of my skull. The warmth of his breath soaked into my skin, the velvet of his lips against my forehead.

“I’ll be awake for a while. If you need anything… anything… let me know,” he insisted.

I hoped my eyes said more than my words would allow. Is this puppy eyed? Is this how it smells and sounds and looks and feels? My heart skipped a beat, tugged my bruised ribs out of place for just a moment.

Seth lingered nearby, not quite separating, not quite staying. A limbo sort of place.

At the end of the bed, Roman tugged off my shoes and squeezed my feet in a gesture of affection. He smiled, but it seemed sad. Dean held out a fist, bumped it against my own, leaned over to give me a playful headbutt.

“G’night, dollface,” he said, stepping away. As he passed by, he wrapped his fist in the back of Seth’s jacket, drawing him to the door.

I felt the dark caress of Seth’s eyes long after the door shut behind the three of them.

#hounds of justice #seth rollins #seth rollins fanfiction #dean ambrose #roman reigns #wwe #wwe fanfiction #multi-chapter

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stephanieritaclark · 5 years

Text

February 1-3 Make-Up Post

Try this again because tumblr decided not ro work for me today.

I have three more daily warm-ups to make up:

February 1, 2019 - Premium (from here)

“Welcome to Andrews Robotics!” sang a rather creepy robot, one that was meant to resemble a girl but was clearly not fully functional, considering her eyes were too wide and made her look like an axe murderer.

I raised an eyebrow at it, but I otherwise kept walking without acknowledging the creepy thing.

The store was divided into several sections, but I headed toward the "premium utility” section. It was different from what I knew to expect from the regular utility section, where I could find machines that looked vaguely human but were more caricatures of us. The premium section was full of robots that were supposed to look human.

The premium robots varied in level of AI, and some were not as useful as the most expensive machines.

My heart pounded in my chest as I went further and further into the section, and the prices of the machines rose higher and higher. Human-like robots sat deactivated on a shelf. Their faces were pointed toward the floor, and their arms were straight at their sides. Each of them wore the same generic blue and black uniform.

It was at the very back of the store where I stopped.

There was a another creepy, girl-like robot standing behind a counter, but what I was looking for stood beside that counter. It had long dark hair pulled into a tail, and its downturned eyes were a soft brown color. As I approached it, I realized that was just as short as I was.

Unlike the sales robot, this machine looked identity to a young girl that was somewhere around my age. There was no uncanny valley here. It looked human, and it could pass as one if I never told anyone about it.

I confirmed my purchase with the creepy robot, and she handed me the key code that would activate Just to make sure it worked correctly, I removed the skin on the back of my machine’s neck, activated it, and punched in the key code. It took a few moments, but the machine activated.

It lifted its head and turned its warm gaze toward me. There was a small smile on its face.

“Hello, sister,” it said.

The voice was identical to the girl I had modeled the robot after.

Tears blurred my vision. There was a tightness in my chest as I wondered if I was doing something wrong, but that did not slow the smile that spread on my face.

I grabbed its hand, and it gave mine a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s go back home,” I said.

It nodded, and we left the store hand in hand.

I can’t help but feel like I didn’t do this right, but I suppose I’m the only one here to tell me that. Haha WTH else was I going to do with it, anyway? I couldn’t think of anything.

Also, movie reference. I expect no one to get it, if they come across this.

February 2, 2019 - Funeral (from here)

It was less than what she deserved, but it was all that I could give her.

With help from Ian, our mutual comrade and good friend, I built a pyre for her, and we rested her body upon—me lifting the top off her body and Ian taking the lower. Part of me wanted to scoop up the sand that had soaked up the blood, but I had a feeling she would have scolded me for that, telling me that was pointless, stupid.

Even though her body had been ripped in two, she looked calm. He had heard once that people alway had the same things to say at funerals, and “They look they’re sleeping” was one of them. It was true now. She must have felt so much agony at the end, but she just looked peaceful, like a part of her had been waiting a long time for this.

I touched her face. She was already cold to the touch, but it was the blood smears on her face that made my stomach clench. A sob escaped me, but I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth in an attempt to hold back any further sounds.

She had always told me not to cry for her at her funeral. It had been her duty to protect me, and it would be an honor to die for me. That was what she had always said to me, even if I had never believed I was worthy of it.

I was just some kid. Whether king or prince, I had done too little to be deserving of either title, yet this woman had dedicated her life to protecting me as if there was nothing else in this world she would rather be doing.

I felt Ian’s presence beside me before I felt his hand clap on my shoulder. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

I refused to turn and look at him because that would have made it even more difficult to hold myself together. Instead I searched through my pockets to find my lighter. As soon as I pulled it out of my pocket, I flicked it open, and I watched the flame dance for a moment before I looked back at the girl on the funeral pyre.

“I’m sorry, Emilia,” I said. “You deserved better than this.”

She would have been so pissed at me for saying that, but as I lowered the lighter to the funeral pyre, I realized the truth was the only thing i had left to offer her.

February 3, 2019 - Proxy (from here)

“I come here in place of Mr. Stewart. He’s a very busy man. I hope you understand.”

Those were the last words he remembered being spoken.

It had been a woman, but she had been rather tall, six feet tall at least, and muscular. She was no mere substitute for a business woman, he was sure that of that, but the details of what had happened after that were fuzzy.

Still, it was obvious what had happened to him. There was something covering his face—a hood that he feared would suffocate him—and something bound his hands behind him. He was sitting on something, a chair, most likely, and his ankles had been tied to the bottom of it.

“Are you awake, Mr. Price?”

It was that woman’s voice again.

Price heard footsteps approaching him. They were slow but heavy, like she was making sure that he heard her walking toward him.

“It’s all right to speak,” she said. “We don’t mean you any further harm.”

There was a loud cackle from somebody somewhere, and then there was a loud smacking sound, followed by someone shushing.

The hood was lifted from Price’s face, and that large woman was standing in front of him, bending forward at the waist as she took a good look at his face. There was a smirk on her lips.

“There were are, Mr. Price. Now we can get to negotiating, can’t we?”

Price tried to speak, but pain overwhelmed his throat, causing him to cough instead.

“What are we negotiating?” the woman said. “I bet that was what you were going to ask.”

The woman flicked hair over her shoulder as she straightened. She was wearing the same dress suit she had been wearing when they had met.

“You made a deal with Mr. Stewart, remember? He pulled through on his side, but it seems you’ve been unable to do the same. The deadline’s up, but he’s too busy to come and deal with you himself. He sent me instead. I’m here to negotiate new terms with you.”

People started shouting. There was no much noise that it was impossible to hear what any individual was saying. He craned his neck and looked about the room. They were in a warehouse of sorts, but it was full of people. Most of them were wearing masks, but the few who weren’t had weapons somewhere on their person.

Except for the woman, who was grinning at him.

“What shall we do with you, Mr. Price?”

Price had never felt so sick to his stomach so quickly.

Thank you for reading!

You can also find me on Twitter and Pillowfort. I have original fantasy novels you can find on Tapas, Wattpad, and Goodreads, and you can find special previews on my personal website.

#writing #amwriting #creative writing #writers #flash fic #short story #writeblr #flash fiction #daily writing prompts #daily writing #daily prompt #daily post #writing practice #writing prompt

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zacekova · 6 years

Text

Home Isn’t A Place - Prologue

AO3 | 3k | Thulaz | Arranged Marriage AU

Summary: Daibazaal and Marmora are at war, a battle for land and resources that has stood at a stalemate for years with no end in sight. But then, the Galra Emperor comes forward with a request to negotiate a treaty. He wishes for their nations to be at peace and proposes a marriage of their two peoples to help encourage the bonds of friendship. Commander Thace, a trusted and valuable military leader of the Empire, and the cousin of Marmora’s Premier, General Ulaz, will suit just fine.

~~~

“Get down!” Ulaz yanked on the back of the soldier’s collar and dragged him to the ground. There was a blast of shrapnel and heat as he curled over the man’s head and closed his eyes. The energy sent a shiver down the back of his neck, standing the fine hairs on end and carrying the heavy, pungent stench of concentrated quintessence. The spell’s energy started to die, the sour smell coagulating in the rivers of mud and icy slush squelching beneath his boots and leaving behind the tang of damp earth and sweat. Ulaz straightened, gaze flitting over the soldier with concern. “Are you injured?” The soldier shook his head and offered a weary smile. “I’m unharmed. Thank you.” Ulaz nodded and turned back to the field. Through the settling dust, he could see a couple of druids lurking among the boulders and jagged tree stumps that littered the plain. The foot soldiers seemed to be staying in their trenches, hiding behind earthen barriers and letting the magic users do all the work. They’d done the same for weeks, now, like they’d lost all previous ambition for victory.

Perhaps there was still a bit of chaos from the change in leadership; perhaps the new Emperor was simply biding his time.

The former Emperor’s abdication had caught everyone by surprise. He’d spent the entirety of his reign carrying on the Galran tradition of war and conquest with ruthless enthusiasm, his massive army descending like a plague of locusts on every land they bordered without mercy, only to relinquish the throne with no fanfare less than a month ago. Whatever his reasons, the rumors and speculation had not reached Marmora yet and in the quiet that followed the official news even the Empire had begun to reveal a weariness over all the fighting.

A bolt of violet lightning shattered the quiet and Ulaz jolted, ducking down into the trench and covering his head. Bits of earth rained down around him, pinging against his armor, followed by a wave of silence ringing over the desolate field. Ulaz rose cautiously, peering over the lip of the trench and blinking in surprise. The druids were creeping across the charred and barren battlefield, climbing back into their holes without a backward glance.

The sun had hardly passed its peak and they were already done for the day? The strangeness of it put his senses on alert - no matter how weary the Empire appeared, they’d never failed to continue the farce of attempting until at least sunset. Ulaz’s gaze narrowed and he stood vigilant at the frontlines for another hour, watching and waiting for another attack.

It stayed quiet. No one appeared over the edge of the trenches and no magic arced across the field and, eventually, Ulaz heaved a sigh and straightened, sheathing his blade over his back. If the fighting picked up again someone would inform him. He turned away from the battlefield and made his way through the trenches, hunting for any injured soldiers who may not have made their way to the infirmary yet. There were a half-a-dozen men with minor scrapes and burns that he stopped to treat, raiding the pack on his belt for salves and bandages and leaving them with instructions to stop by the medical tent in the morning for further healing if they needed it. Half-way back to the tents he spotted a pair of men hobbling across the uneven ground, one of them with his arm slung over the other’s shoulder and an obvious limp slowing them down. Ulaz jogged over and slipped under his other arm, scanning for wounds. “What happened?” The injured man’s companion - Retav, Ulaz thought - shook his head, lips tugging in a wry smile. “He leaped down into the trench like a moron and twisted his ankle. I told him to stop being so theatrical about it.” The other grunted, brow pinched in discomfort and concentrating on moving his feet. “Yeah, yeah.” Ulaz bit back a smile and silently helped him to the infirmary. He lowered the injured man onto a cot and sent his hovering companion off with a clap on the shoulder. “He’ll be stuck here for a day, at least, until his ankle is healed enough to walk with a crutch. Head back to your duties, we’ll take care of him from here.” As soon as Retav had gone, Ulaz turned back to the patient and set about tending to the aching, inflamed joint with gentle, steady hands. “Thanks, Doc,” the man said as Ulaz worked, lying back with a grunt. Ulaz shook his head. “I’m not a doctor, but you are welcome.”

“No?” the soldier asked, eyebrow quirked in surprise. “Well, you’re in here so much I just figured you were in charge of the infirmary because of your training. Sir.”

Ulaz winced internally but kept his expression neutral. “My training is insufficient for such a title but, regardless, I consider it my duty to help out when I have the time.” He finished tying off the bandage - patting the soldier on his thigh in farewell - and straightened, taking a look around the infirmary. There were enough occupied beds that he let himself be drawn into making the rounds - checking vitals, dressing wounds, massaging aching joints and muscles, and hunting down extra blankets.

Most of the patients were bedridden from the cold - mild illness and frostbite - but there were few people like the man he’d brought in earlier with minor injuries from fighting or training, as well as a couple from boredom-induced antics. As much as the war had been draining, it was also incredibly monotonous and there were thousands of men crammed together with little to do between battles. It was inevitable that some of them would end up doing something stupid as a means of cheap entertainment.

It was easy to get swept up in the work, to let everything else drift away as he focused on taking care of people. Ulaz’s entire world narrowed down to the infirmary - there was always another patient, always another need - and everything outside of the medical tent was like misty dreams, forgotten the moment you open your eyes. He was bent over someone’s arm checking a poultice when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Antok gazing down at him, eyes swimming with gentle reprimand, and Ulaz looked around the room. The shadows in the corners had darkened, seeping across the floor and into the air, and the tent was dim with scattered lamplight. Through the open entrance the sky had turned black, not even a trace of light left outside aside from the torches and campfires, and, as if to emphasize how much time had passed, Ulaz’s stomach growled.

He groaned, running a hand down his face as the heaviness of his tired limbs set in; he’d lost track of time again. “Just... let me finish this row of patients?” he asked. Antok frowned, the right side of his mouth matching the permanent downturn of the left. “Kolivan hasn’t seen you since the fighting started this morning,” he said. He’s worried about you, he didn’t add, but Ulaz heard it anyway. He bit back a sigh, nodding; he should have known better than to get distracted without checking in first, both as a commander and as a friend. He waved Antok off with a promise to be quick and turned to clean up the scattered contents of his medical kit, taking it back to the appropriate shelf and scribbling a list of notes on the patients he’d treated for the nurses to look over. Antok was waiting for him just outside the tent, arms crossed and hood raised against the cold, the thick length of his braid hanging over his chest. He tossed Ulaz a stale loaf and walked off toward the command sector without a second glance. Ulaz fumbled with the bread and rushed to catch up with Antok’s steady, lumbering strides, chewing and swallowing a couple of bites before speaking. “It was harder to convince him to leave than you knew I would be, wasn’t it?” Antok grunted and kept his gaze stubbornly forward, refusing to either confirm or deny. Ulaz’s lips quirked in a smile. Kolivan’s own stubborn refusal to openly show concern for anyone had been a source of constant frustration to Antok for decades. The more he worried the harder his already stony countenance became, and yet he remained incapable of voicing his fears. Ulaz had learned a long time ago to quit trying to get him to change but Antok kept hoping.

They walked the rest of the way in silence as Ulaz ate his mediocre supper and Antok pretended he wasn’t pouting. Most of the men had started to retire for the night, dousing torches and turning the fires over to protect the glowing embers. Dull murmurs emanated from inside the tents as the soldiers readied for sleep, layering the ground beneath their bedrolls with heated rocks and lying back-to-back for warmth. The sky was clear, shimmering with stars, and Ulaz inhaled deeply, lungs burning from the crisp, cold air, and letting the quiet settle his lingering unease over the druid’s retreat earlier in the day. All the officers’ tents were in the center of the camp, a giant network like a spoked wheel with Kolivan’s “office” as the central hub. A web of covered passages branched off from it in a half-moon to the other command tents and the officers’ quarters. The flaps were closed and the lights off in all but one of them, a soft glow coming through the walls of Kolivan’s complex. Antok lifted the entrance flap and they both ducked inside, letting the heavy canvas fall back into place behind them.

As Ulaz had expected, Kolivan was hunched over his desk with red eyes and tangled hair, surrounded by stacks of paper. He lifted his head when they came close, some of the tension in his shoulders draining away when he caught sight of Ulaz. “There you are,” he said, standing and making his way around the desk. He grabbed Ulaz’s shoulder with a firm grip, the wrinkling around his eyes speaking of worry despite his stern tone. “You didn’t come find me after the battle.” Ulaz clasped Kolivan’s wrist and nodded. “I had to carry an injured soldier to the infirmary. I should have sent a message but I got distracted.” Antok snorted. “Not surprising.” Kolivan’s lips twitched but his gaze and his frown stayed on Ulaz. “I understand, but please try not to forget again.” Ulaz nodded, guilt settling heavily in his gut. It wasn’t the first time it’d happened and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was hard to remember that there were people worried about him when he was surrounded by the sick and injured. “You know I always do.” Kolivan pulled him into a hug, pressing his cheek against Ulaz’s temple and sighing. “I know.” Ulaz wrapped his arms around Kolivan’s back, letting the warmth ease some of the ache in his bones. “You should go to sleep,” he said, a low murmur that even Antok wouldn’t be able to hear. “Stop making your husband hunt me down for help.” Kolivan cuffed him on the back of the head. “You’re one to talk.”

Ulaz grinned and ducked away, heading toward the entrance to his tent and snagging a spare lamp on his way out. “It’s rather late, I believe, and we all need to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Kolivan shook his head, obviously fighting back a smile, but nodded in agreement. “Yes. I’m a bit uneasy about how abruptly the fighting ended this morning. We should be rested and prepared for whatever may come tomorrow.”

Antok wrapped his arm around Kolivan’s waist, directing him toward their own tent and waving to Ulaz. “Agreed. Which means no more paperwork for you.”

Kolivan grumbled something inaudible but complied, dousing the remaining lamps around his desk. “Goodnight, Ulaz.” “Goodnight,” Ulaz said, watching the two of them disappear through the entrance to their bedroom before disappearing behind the flap to his own chambers. The channel between the tents was cold, but his aid must have left a fire going in the stove before he went to sleep because the bedroom was pleasantly warm when he slipped inside, even after he started shedding his armor. Ulaz snagged a rag and gave the inky, opaque metal a quick polish before changing into his nightclothes and dousing the lamp.

He slid into bed, the pebble of apprehension sitting in his belly shrinking as exhaustion took over and he closed his eyes against the glow of the fire. There was nothing more he could do about it tonight; he’d let tomorrow worry about itself for awhile.

Thace skimmed through the report in his hand, trying to absorb as much of it as he could. When he’d finished, he looked up and nodded, passing the paper back to his assistant. “Bring this to Commander Sendak and make a copy for the captain of the druids, whoever that is now. And when you find out, send word back to me; I needed to know yesterday.” Gradek nodded. “I believe they spent the last few evenings deliberating the decision, Commander.” Thace grunted, scanning over the next report in the sheaf. “I know. It seems they’re incapable of finishing anything in a timely manner without Lady Honerva’s supervision.” He shuffled through a few papers and glanced around the field. “Where are Commanders Janka and Raht?” Gradek shifted his feet, expression pinched. “Commander Janka has been busy with orders from the Emperor; inventory, I believe. Commander Raht died this morning.” Thace looked up, raising a brow in surprise. “There was barely any fighting today,” he said, baffled. Gradek’s mouth twisted in a grimace and he shook his head. “Forgive me, Commander, I don’t know anything else about it. I was told the generals know more and will be giving the details to the Emperor in their evening reports.” Which meant he would be briefed come morning, but all Raht’s work would pile up until it could be reassigned.

Thace nodded, biting back a sigh, and turned back to the reports, breezing through the last of them before returning the whole sheaf to Gradek. “Put the two on top on my desk for my signature later. The rest need to go to Janka.” Gradek nodded, slipping the papers into his waterproof case. “Yes sir. Also, the Emperor wants to speak to you as soon as you have the time.” There was no urgency to his tone but the glance he shot Thace’s way had a spark of curiosity. That Thace had known the Emperor for a long time - was even quite friendly with him - was relatively common knowledge, but Gradek had been respectful enough to never ask why despite how curious he’d always, rather obviously, been about it.

“Do you know what he’s summoning me for?” Thace asked. It was unlikely he was in trouble for anything, but aside from Raht’s death nothing of note had happened in days. Gradek shook his head, straightening. “No sir, I was only told to pass along the message from General Axca’s aide.” “Understood,” Thace said. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Gradek gave a quick salute and strode off, files held tightly under his arm. Thace watched him disappear into the crowd of soldiers milling around the back of the front lines, rambunctious and noisy from their extra hours of free time.

The command to ceasefire for the day had trickled down around noon, raising more than a few brows in surprise, but no one had felt a need to complain; the officers were tired, too. Apparently the order hadn’t come soon enough, though, not for Raht. He hadn’t exactly been a great Commander, but his loss still meant extra work for the rest of them, at least until the Emperor decided on his replacement. “As if there isn’t enough to do already,” Thace muttered, scraping a hand down his face. He took a quick glance around, double checking that there were no messengers coming his way or immediate concerns to deal with, and turned to head toward the back of the camp. It was almost a quarter-mile just to the first row of tents and another half to the far side of the plain, a decent walk on a normal day and tedious when you’d already crossed it multiple times. The one advantage to it was they could afford to spread out, the tents in neat, ordered lines but far enough apart to not be knocking elbows all day. The command pavilion looked nearly deserted, guarded only by one of the Emperor’s generals. Her grin was all teeth when Thace approached and she followed him inside the tent’s low entrance. The Emperor was leaning back against his desk, arms crossed and talking with the other generals. His face was impassive, calm, but tension lingered in his shoulders; he’d only been in command a few weeks but the weight of it was already beginning to show. Thace thumped his fist over his chest in salute. “Emperor Lotor, you summoned me.” Lotor looked over and waved for him to stand at ease. “Yes, thank you for your promptness, Commander. I wanted to get your opinion on a few things.” Thace nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” It had been a few years, but it wasn’t an odd request; Lotor had always seemed to value his perspective and had never been ashamed to ask for it. “How was the battle today?” Lotor asked. Thace shifted into a more comfortable stance, arms crossed over his chest and running through the mental list he’d been compiling for his daily report. “No ground was gained but none was lost, either.” No different than any other day for the last five years. “We lost about half-a-dozen of our own men and estimate perhaps a third of that number of Marmorans killed, but one of our own losses was Commander Raht.”

He paused, waiting for the Emperor’s unsurprised nod of understanding before continuing. “The Druids seem to be functioning adequately in battle despite lacking a proper leader, still, and the supply chain is running smoothly but slowly. Our back-stock is emptying rapidly; even with a full rotation of the men out hunting and reduced rations we’re going to be using up all the supplies from each delivery before the next one arrives in the near future.”

“How long?”

Thace shrugged. “A month?”

Lotor’s brow pinched. “How are the soldiers dealing with the extra shifts?” Thace bit back the sigh rising in his chest but couldn’t stop his shoulders from sinking. “It... could be better. Many of them are weary of the stalemate. For some of them that means rising bloodlust with no appropriate outlet, but I’m more concerned about general morale. They’re not getting enough food and rest.“ Lotor nodded. “I thought as much.” He bowed his head, breath leaving in a gusty sigh. “We cannot continue like this. As vast as the Empire is, it cannot withstand the strain from such a prolonged war. And we cannot afford to waste our time pounding against what amounts to an impenetrable fortress with our bare fists.” “Why are we fighting Marmora anyway?” Ezor asked, kicking her heels against the crate she was perched on. “It seems like a pretty insignificant country compared to most of the Empire’s other neighbors.” “Luxite,” Axca said, arms folded across her chest. “It’s only ever been found in Marmora territory.” “Exactly,” Lotor nodded. “It’s a rare metal, extremely durable and light. My mother and her scientists were desperate to get their hands on it but Marmora was stingy in their trade proposals and unwilling to compromise. At least, that is the tale according to my father, but I’m inclined to believe there’s a bit more to the story. Regardless, we have been fighting for years and made no progress. I would rather we pull back and take whatever deal they may still be willing to offer and let that be the end of it. End this useless war.” “So, what’s the plan?” Zethrid asked. Lotor’s gaze turned toward Thace - measuring, considering; heavy in a way that made Thace’s gut twist. “We offer a deal they would be foolish to reject,” he said, voice ringing with determination. Well. This should be interesting.

#HIAP #thulaz #fic tag #voltron #arranged marriage au #historical fantasy au #full list of relevant tags on AO3 #see link at the top #i told someone i get this out by the end of summer #i consider september the official end of summer so...#tada!!#somehow i made it

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theshopislocal · 3 years

Text

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter seven

Dean remembers this place.

He’d only been here once before, some fifty odd years ago, but it’s etched into his memory so clearly, it might’ve been yesterday.

It’s a little different than the last time he was here. The forest is new - if it could even be called a forest; Dean’s counted twenty-three charred, spindly trees. They provide a sparse canopy, shrouding the old barn in speckled half-light. The facade is mostly unchanged, though the red paint is a little more chipped, the foundation brickwork more weathered than he recalls. And of course, the weather is mild, warm and bright, with none of the storm clouds Sam had mentioned.

The last time Dean was here, there’d been heavy wind and soaring sparks. Lightning.

Dean blows out a breath and cranes his head over his shoulder, peering at Baby where she’s parked at the dead end.

The road through the pass had been tortuous, winding across the mountain in steep slopes and sharp turns. Dean had ridden the clutch hard, one hand on the wheel, the other patting the dash - soothing Baby as she climbed the jagged hills. The descent had been slow and smooth; foot gentling the brake, he’d soared down the mountainside, and the vista rose before him like a sunrise.

Sam had undersold it. It wasn’t just miles of hayfields, it was a seemingly endless expanse of yellow and gold, trembling under the wind. In Heaven’s perfect visibility, there was no skyline at all - just the ever-reaching stretch of dry pastures, tapering off into the sky a thousand miles out.

And in the distance, Dean had spotted the old barn in the little forest - a tiny black scar on the gilded plain.

As he’d approached, the highway had run rougher, the smooth black pavement giving way to dusty gravel. He’d sped along the dirt road a little faster than he rightfully should have, and he’d smoothed his hands over Baby’s steering column, promising her a tuneup when they got home.

The road had ended in a quaint little cul-de-sac, maybe ten yards from the barn. Dean had parked at the dead end, idling. He’d passed a short while with his hands clenched on the wheel, eyes squinted at the barn doors, arguing with the voices in his head - all of which sounded infinitely more reasonable than he himself.

All I could think about was chasin’ that storm... Personally, I’d just knock on their door... Got everything you thought you wanted... You’ll know it when you find it... If you’re looking for rain—

Dean had learned pretty quickly that any road in Heaven would take him to the main highway. And the main highway ends here, running afield a stone’s throw from the little forest, with its half-burnt trees and familiar old barn.

All roads lead—

Dean turns back to the towering doors. Before he can think better of it, he presses his weight against one side, nudging it ajar. It creaks something awful, and Dean winces at the sound, halting his movement.

There’s a short, pointed silence, and then a familiar noise from somewhere inside - a soft, airy flutter.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hands balling into fists.

Dean is a great many things, very few of them virtuous, but let it never be said he’s a coward. He presses his arm against the door and sidesteps through the narrow opening.

It’s dark and musty inside. The air hangs thick and humid, dust clouds swirling in the flickering light shafts. Dean squints then blinks hard, eyes falling to an illuminated spot on the ground.

The first thing he sees is spray paint.

White symbols litter the floor - some he recognizes, some he doesn’t, some he’d painted himself. His eyes catch on a sigil on the wall - a septagram done in dripping black paint. He remembers the feel of the brush in his hand, the drag of the bristles across the dry-rotted wall, the clench of his fingers around the grip as he painted the seven lines, awaiting the arrival of the next Big Bad.

His left arm had tingled at the bicep, hot and cold at the same time, buzzing along his nervous system like a shock. For an instant, he’d felt a constriction across his chest, a heavy weight at his back, as if someone were clutching him, holding him. Carrying him.

There’s a shifting movement at the far end of the room, and Dean’s eyes snap to it. The man standing there - no, not a man, something else, something else - makes a slow volte face.

A rusted metal light overhead flickers on, and the shadow recedes.

Dean sucks in a breath, throat constricting, and he nearly chokes on air. He gapes for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a damned fish, before he finally gets his tongue to cooperate.

“Hey, Cas,” he whispers, and fuck, it’s been so damn long since he last said those words. They feel dusty, cobwebbed in his mouth.

Cas - oh god, Cas - steps forward until his toes just cross the penumbra. He looks—

Dean’s throat goes tight again, his lungs compressing around his quick beating heart. Apropos of nothing, it occurs to him that his heart shouldn’t beat at all; he’s dead, after all.

He doesn’t feel dead right now.

Cas looks precisely as he had the day — I know how you see yourself — he died. The day he was taken by darkness, drained away — knowing you has changed me — for daring to feel, for allowing himself to have, for seeing and wanting and taking his own happin—

“Hello, Dean.”

Fuck.

Dean stares, and Cas stares back. Dean’s not sure what expression he’s wearing; his whole damn face has gone numb, though he feels little beads of flop sweat forming at his hairline.

Cas, for his part, is staring placidly at Dean, gaze leveled somewhere around Dean’s nose. His eyes shine a deep limpid blue, pink-rimmed with pronounced bags underneath. He looks tired and a little grumpy, hair mussed and trench coat rumpled. His tie is loose, the skinny end dangling free of the keeper loop.

For the first time in forty years, the recursive whisper in Dean’s head is his own: It’s Cas, it’s Cas, it’s Cas, it’s C—

Dean swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “How ya doin’, bud?”

It’s a ridiculous question, somehow loaded and stupid at the same time. He’s not seen Cas in forty - forty - years. That’s as long as Dean’s human life. As long as he spent in the Pit. And ancient, eldritch, and celestial though Cas may be, Dean thinks that forty years rebuilding Heaven - forty years of radio silence - must be more than a blip on his radar.

“I am well,” Cas says flatly, and okay, so maybe Dean’s wrong. “Thank you.” Cas tips his head forward, eyes falling to the ground. “How are you?”

How... how is he?

Dean supposes he should’ve expected that; it’s not like it isn’t the first question everyone asks. Not like he didn’t just ask Cas himself.

I am well.

Something cold and hard forms in his stomach, and Dean shakes his head, eyes wide and unblinking, stuck to Cas’ like glue. “I’m good,” lie. “Yeah, I’m- I’m real good,” fucking lie. “You, uh...”

I am well.

Forty years, nearly half a damn century, and the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, and eaten alive by the Void, and spit back out again, and not a peep, not a word, not a goddamn whisper, save the ones in Dean’s stupid heart that shouldn’t beat anyway and he’s- Cas is—

Cas is well.

Something rises inside Dean, cresting in his throat like a tidal wave, and he speaks shortly, sharply, before he can think better of it. “Where the hell you been, man?”

Cas’ eyes flutter shut, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “My work with- with the Arch is...” he trails off on a deep sigh, before glancing toward Dean’s face with arched eyebrows and hooded eyes, “...strenuous. Time-consuming.”

Dean huffs a brittle laugh and finally looks away. His eyes find the septagram again, and he grits his teeth. “That’s, uh,” another dry laugh, “that’s why I haven’t seen you in, what... forty years?”

He sees Cas bow his head in his peripheral vision. “Time is—”

“Different here, yeah,” Dean snorts.

He’s heard that one a few times, but it never quite rings true. They’d said the same thing about Hell, too; but Dean had felt every torturous second there, remembers them all in high-def technicolor, just as he remembers every bleak, desperate moment of his human life, just as he remembers the endless drive across Heaven, waiting for Sam to meet him at the bridge, sitting on his bench at the end of the pier, casting his line and never catching anything—

“I’ve been busy,” Cas grumbles, shoulders hunching.

Dean feels a broad, bitter smile crack his face like a fault line. “Busy,” he repeats, choking out a laugh.

Cas’ jaw goes taut, chin dropping to his chest. “Dean—”

“Busy?” Dean says again. His voice cracks a little, and he swallows hard, face warming in shame - or perhaps anger. Dean’s never been real good at telling one from the other.

Castiel steps further into the weak lamplight, all squared shoulders and downturned lips. “Jack has put a great deal of faith in me,” he grunts out, voice pitched just above a growl. “I have responsibilities, Dean.”

Dean’s head bounces in a nod, jittery with upset. He makes a broad gesture with shaking hands. “And you couldn’t have told me that sometime in the last—”

“I’m telling you now.”

Cas’ voice is low and flat, but bold, unyielding, with an almost imperceptible vein of irritation. He sounds much as he did when Dean first met him: driven and no-nonsense, all righteous fury and unshakable faith. Inhuman.

I dragged you out of Hell, he’d said - stood too close, eyes too blue. I can throw you back in.

“Ya know,” Dean says in a harsh whisper, “you don’t seem real happy to see me.”

Cas’ eyes fall closed at that, shoulders sagging low. His spine forms a desolate curve, and he finally meets Dean’s eye.

In the half-light, the hills and valleys of his face are shadowed, his eyes a murky ocean blue. He’s got that look he gets sometimes: sad but... bigger. Moved and helpless - like he’s watching a Greek tragedy unfold in real time.

And perhaps he is.

His lips part, dry and sticking together at the sides. “I am,” he breathes out, “happy to see you. Dean.”

Dean holds his gaze, and holds, and holds. His stomach still feels heavy, his chest hollow, temples throbbing with his erratic pulse, the ever-present headache a sharp point in the center of his forehead.

Just as his eyes start to sting - his vision going hazy at the edges - there’s a soft, tinkling sound from the other end of the barn. Wind chimes, Dean thinks. Corinthian bells.

Cas looks over his shoulder in the vague direction of the noise. Dean tracks his gaze to the two long work tables at the rear, cluttered with various odds and ends. He spots a mortar and pestle, a few little glass vials strewn haphazardly about, a couple candles, and a short stack of books. He recognizes the binding - the same as the ones in the Library.

The chimes play again, muted and strangely echo-less in the space, though Dean can’t see anything that could be producing the sound. More weird Heaven magic, he figures.

Cas turns back toward Dean, blank-faced and eyes downcast. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he murmurs, stepping backwards out of the pool of light. His shoulders shift strangely, spine going ramrod straight. It’s a familiar motion, though it takes Dean a minute to place why. It must be something close to fifty years since he last saw it - a weird little twitch, like something’s pulling at Cas from behind, like he’s counterbalancing a weight on his back—

Oh.

Realization dawns, and Dean’s jaw goes slack.

Cas got his wings back.

Cas can fly.

No sooner has Dean thought it than the arching stretch of a shadow blooms across the barn walls. It’s been years - decades - since Dean last saw them, and even then, they’d been painted in ash on the wet dirt, misshapen and sparsely feathered. But these - these are something else entirely.

Their shadow seems to fill the whole barn, distorting at the corners of the room where their sheer size forces the silhouette to bend. The feathers are pristine, all the peaks and divots at uniform intervals, their tips spanning clear across the side walls.

They’re huge and imposing, magnificent and a little terrifying. Awesome, Dean thinks, more literally than ever before.

The air catches in Dean’s throat, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. “Cas,” he croaks.

Cas’ shoulders rise, and the winged shadows along with them. He hunches forward, knees bending slightly. Ready for takeoff.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, glancing off to the side.

Dean gets the sense he’s apologizing for more than just his imminent departure - and no, no, that isn’t why Dean’s here. He doesn’t want an apology; he’s not even angry - just a little bruised, and, really, when isn’t he? He can’t think of a single moment in his life - or his afterlife, for that matter - where nothing hurt, where nothing stung, where the ache in his chest didn’t prod at him with cold, blunt fingers.

He extends a hand toward Cas’ retreating figure, mouth tripping over his name, and the light overhead flickers out. He spares barely an instant to glance at it, and when he turns back, Cas is gone.

Cas is... gone.

Dean’s hand hangs in the air, callused fingertips reaching toward nothing. Without the lamplight, or the feathered shadows, or the humming, electric presence of an angel - of Cas - the barn is dark and just cold enough to draw Dean’s shoulders up.

His eyes squint, trying in vain to adjust to the darkness, and a headache pokes at the back of his skull. He’s sure his heart is still needlessly beating, but he doesn’t feel it anymore.

chapter six | chapter eight

table of contents

#corinth rains #destiel #deancas #fanfiction #post-canon #slow burn #dean-centric #chapter wc: ~2.4k

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orgel-ontae · 6 years

Text

wrote a little thing for my wonderful, beautiful, incredible, and perfect gf @myfortae as a christmas present. it has a focus on jonghyun but it’s pretty soft so if you wanna read it you can, if not that’s fine. enjoy your holidays, guys!

monachopsis

Jonghyun was so pretty when they were sleeping.

There had been many times that Taemin would wake up in the middle of the night, with the stars shining through the gap where the curtains didn’t quite meet and the whir of Jonghyun’s laptop on the desk across the room. They always forgot to turn it off, and it’s white-blue glow made Taemin’s eyes sting when they first opened that night. But after that, after his eyes had adjusted and he could see again, he was greeted with the most beautiful sight of them all. Jonghyun.

Their face was brightly illuminated in the darkness, shining like the moon was glowing directly above them, onto their body. Taemin could feel his lips twitching into a grin. There was such an oddly satisfying feeling that brewed in his chest as he watched Jonghyun sleep. Their eyelids fluttered delicately with every one of Taemin’s breaths that fanned over their face; their pouting lips were still pink with kisses from just before they had gone to sleep, parted in a gentle snore. Usually, Taemin would find that sort of thing annoying, but with Jonghyun… God, Taemin couldn’t imagine anything more calming and lovable.

Taemin let his fingers come to stroke across Jonghyun’s cheek, curling across their warm cheekbone where the heat of their breath was trapped in the blanket pulled tight over their head. Jonghyun always got so cold at night, Taemin never minded letting them take the most of the duvet. Their eyelids fluttered as Taemin’s hand brushed over their temple, then up to tangle in their hair. Ever sensitive to those sorts of touches, Jonghyun let out a little moan, a puff of hot air mixed with a pretty whine that made Taemin’s heart melt. He chuckled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Jonghyun’s parted lips. They were too pretty to let the opportunity pass by. Jonghyun whined again, shifting over and furrowing their eyebrows at Taemin’s heavy hand across their face.

“Nmh…” The little noise came from deep in Jonghyun’s throat, a sleep-filled noise shot through with annoyance and something like adoration. Taemin snorted, gently so as not to disturb Jonghyun too much. Even in the deepness of their slumber, Jonghyun was utterly the cutest. But, to be fair, sleep was never too deep with Jonghyun. Taemin could see in the flicker of their pupils against the thin backs of their eyelids, darting back and forth endlessly as they watched their way through their dreams. Jonghyun made another low noise, this time starting to yawn. They stretched their hand up to start brushing their thumb over their plump lower lip. It was a common, sleepy gesture that Jonghyun often made when they were newly-awoken, sleepily-needy, and affectionate. Their eyes didn’t flutter open, but their eyebrows stitched closer together and they grunted.

“Cute noises, baby,” Taemin teased, voice soft and playful, drenched in sweetness. Jonghyun’s body twitched, curling in on itself.

“Nuh, Taemi…” came Jonghyun’s slurred, thick reply. He chuckled again, tightening his grip just slightly on Jonghyun’s hair, just enough for them to feel. A whimper slid from beneath the blankets, followed closely by a shy whining, “Taeminnie!” Jonghyun complained again, surely hiding a pout behind their stroking hand, brushing their thumb more forcefully over their lip. Taemin laughed, pulling Jonghyun a tiny bit closer by their hair and leaning in himself.

“What, Jonghyunnie?” he asked, overly-saccharine and teasing, slowly untangling his hand from where it was buried in Jonghyun’s fading pink locks, black and ice-blue in the semi darkness. He brought his hand down again to run across Jonghyun’s prominent cheeks, and their eyes fluttered shut, nuzzling up into Taemin’s careful touch.

“Not fair, Taeminnie…” they whined, words still merged with sleepiness. Taemin’s heart, if it was possible, became even warmer, filled to the brim with affection for his dozy partner. They were so endlessly adorable, hooded eyes looking up at him with a dark, hazed attraction that usually would be sensual, but in the nightlight, holding each other under the flickering light of stars and the whirring laptop and the eyes of the moon, it was loving. Trusting. Jonghyun’s eyes held all the love that they could muster within them, an expression Taemin could only ever hope to match in repeated words and caring touches and the promise of a bond that was unbreakable.

“I think it’s fair, Jonghyunnie…” he whispered back, the quiet that had surrounded them suddenly crowding with the sound of Taemin’s voice. Jonghyun stopped running their finger over their mouth, tracing the familiar shape of their lips, to pout hugely at Taemin. He was about to let out yet another adoring chuckle, but it became a gasp as he felt the sheets around him tug from his body and curl around Jonghyun instead.

“Leave then,” was Jonghyun’s muffled response. Their grip on the sheets was tight; Taemin tried to tug them back but all he earned was a playful yelp of: “No, Taeminnie. Banished. Out, out, out.” At that, Jonghyun began to peddle their legs desperately, so their cool feet kicked against Taemin’s bare calves. Taemin laughed despite himself and the cold, rolling over and over until he was lay flat against the edge of the bed.

“You can’t banish me, Jonghyunnie, this is my bed,” he said, amusement clear in his voice, head lolling to the side to face Jonghyun again. Their glittering eyes, downturned and half-closed with sleep peeped out of a hole in the duvet fort they had dug themself into. “Cute, Jonghyunnie…” slipped from his lips before he could even hold it back and Jonghyun whined again so loudly that it cracked the peace of the night in half, leaving Taemin bare in his mirth, open in the wakefulness of the too-early morning.

“No, Taeminnie. Not fair. You’re banished.” Taemin laughed again, helplessly, before he slowly stretched, dragging his cold body out of bed and into the even colder air of the morning. The bedroom was much, much icier than the bed, where Jonghyun’s warmth was trapped within the sheets even with no blanket, and Taemin stumbled towards his wardrobe, filled evenly with as many of Jonghyun’s clothes as there were of his own, to put on a thermal or something. His legs still trembled with the cold as he pulled on a shirt, but he didn’t mind. He could feel Jonghyun’s eyes following him as he flowed around the room. Once he was done getting changed, and sliding his cold, cold feet into Jonghyun’s slightly too small, fuzzy slippers, he came to sit on the edge of the bed again. Jonghyun ducked their head back under the sheets, but Taemin knew he had all of their attention anyway. In the nicest kind of way, he sort of knew he always did.

“Can I make it up to you, pretty boy?” he asked, hand reaching out to run over the lump of Jonghyun’s form. He couldn’t quite tell what it was he was touching- a shoulder, maybe?- but Jonghyun was sensitive everywhere, so it was no surprise that wherever it was that they were touched they shuddered with their whole body and whined again. Maybe it was the petname that helped with that. Jonghyun loved those. “Can I give my prettiest baby something so you’ll let me come back to bed?” he continued, palm stroking down flat along Jonghyun’s body, down to what he thought was Jonghyun’s hip, though the blankets inflated the part hugely whatever it was, and he started to rub little circles into where the skin would be. Jonghyun keened, high and loud, shuffling closer to Taemin, and Taemin was sure now that he could just slip back into bed and Jonghyun wouldn’t care as long as his hands were on them. He wanted to do something for Jonghyun anyway, another little gesture that would maybe show Jonghyun how much Taemin matched the love he saw in their eyes, could never match in his own.

So, ignoring Jonghyun’s grabbing hands that shot out from beneath the covers to grab at Taemin as he got up again, Taemin slipped out of the bedroom with a quiet hum of “be right back, baby”. He slipped out of his bedroom- their bedroom- into the somehow even colder hallway and then down into the little kitchen so he could cook Jonghyun up some breakfast. It was nothing difficult, just a hot chocolate (the minty flavour Jonghyun had bought impulsively because it was festive despite neither of them really liking mint or hot chocolate too much) and some pancakes Taemin cut sloppily into the shape of hearts (which he may or may not have done simply to eat some of the cuttings). He drenched the pancakes in syrup and strawberries and cherries and some of the strawberry sauce he found in the cupboard that was meant for ice-cream, then he drenched the hot chocolate in whipped cream and marshmallows and the strawberry sauce so they would match. He placed them both on a tray, barely avoiding a disastrous spill, and slowly carrying it back to the bedroom. For all Taemin’s grace, he didn’t trust himself not to ruin his little gift for Jonghyun. He managed to make him way back to the edge of the bed, and he sat down beside Jonghyun.

They didn’t react, and Taemin wondered whether they were sleeping again, but then he noticed the way the sheets shifted a little every now and then as Jonghyun wiggled for attention. So, they were mad at him. Taemin chuckled, placing his hand onto Jonghyun’s waist again and applying just enough pressure onto it to make Jonghyun squirm. They did. Rolling over to face Taemin, Jonghyun peeked out from beneath the sheets again, eyes trained on the tray in Taemin’s lap. They glanced up at him then down at the train again, obviously questioning, and for a moment Taemin wanted to tease and settle into bed to pretend to eat it himself. However, before he could even begin to move, Jonghyun’s face poked out from inside the bundle and they smiled shyly at Taemin.

“What’s that?” they wondered, lips still curled stubbornly into a pout, but it was much more curious and intrigued and hungry than it had been before.

“Breakfast,” Taemin replied sweetly, placing the tray between them, “Breakfast for you, Jonghyunnie. Good morning.” Jonghyun’s eyes widened, pout wobbling on their lips to almost a smile. Taemin pulled at their waist again, gesturing for Jonghyun to get up. They did, sitting up with a little care so that they wouldn’t disturb the breakfast tray beside them. Once they were sat up and Taemin was snuggled up beside them, Jonghyun held their mouth open ready for Taemin to feed them. He did so obediently, fingers low on the fork as he fed Jonghyun some of the soaked pancake so his fingers would brush against their syrup-sticky lips as he fed them. They hummed delightedly at the taste, turning those pretty, loving eyes onto Taemin again.

It wasn’t particularly Taemin’s style but he couldn’t help melting.

“I love you too, Jonghyunnie,” he smiled in reply, though really, there was no need for the words to be said at all.

#my writing #gf tag #myfortae #food cw #jongtae #here you go baby #i know its super bad but i wanted to give you something bc you write such beautiful things for me #and i love everything you do for me baby #i love love love you #i hope this is us someday #but better

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drabblemeister · 7 years

Text

a Study in Red {ch2}

Read me on Ao3! Look at the art collabed with this story! Author: Ladelle Comments: Holy bananas, I was not expecting to have so many people enjoy this story. Thank you so much for the notes and feedback on Chapter 1, and for all of the amazing comments left on Ao3. I still haven’t decided on a posting schedule; I’m working on the last chapters now and I need to make sure I can come back and add a few details here and there if I need to, for flow. Tumblr Chapters: One | Two Chapter 2:

The next two days were indistinct blurs.

Tim half-remembered the corporate brunch, from which Bruce had made him promise to take leftovers home. He’d nearly missed the subway stop for college and had stumbled in late to an afternoon lab; he hadn’t trusted himself to do anything that took too much precision, and his partners had gladly agreed to mix chemicals in his stead.

Dinner consisted of coffee and the college café’s last bagel, and Dick had dropped by to give Tim a lift to Wayne Manor, where a Family Meeting™ told them to stop running into each other on patrol; and, in a direct attack to the dark circles under Tim’s eyes and his very loud and grousing stomach, Damian had dropped a box of protein bars into his lap.

“Charitable giving,” he’d said with a scoff.

Tim had countered with, “One day you’ll be old enough to file it on a tax return.”

Afterwards, Dick had given him a ride home and in a very serious, very Nightwing tone had told him, “No patrol tonight, got it?”

Tim itched at the idea that he’d been given an order and rebelled by spending four hours catching up on school assignments. Like most nights he dedicated to homework, he ended up asleep at his coffee table, the alarm on his phone eventually beeping him into a panic-stricken awareness; and, as usual, he awoke with a sheet of loose-leaf paper clinging to his cheek.

Classes the next day were a blur, and all Tim really noticed was that he hadn’t heard from Jason. Partly, he wondered if Jason had decided to wing the exam on his own, and Tim couldn’t help but feel disappointed; it was odd, but Jason was a mystery to him, and Tim, more than anything, enjoyed puzzles.

For the second night in a row, he received a message telling him to stay home; he’d stumbled through a two hour intern tour at Wayne Manor with a jittery sense of excitement that only compounded espresso shots could inspire, and he supposed that someone somewhere in the building had passed the message upward.

On some levels, he supposed it made sense that Timothy Drake-Wayne, heir to a corporate empire, shouldn’t look like the living dead – but since when did anyone in college look like they were thriving?

Since he had plenty to work on, Tim simply formed a line of energy drinks and worked his way through, staying wide-eyed through the midnight hours reading chapter after chapter about the repercussions of economic downturn. The time finally arrived when his eyes simply couldn’t stay open; he barely managed to push himself up from the table and stumble into his bedroom, where he collapsed onto a bed that was half-blankets, half-laundry.

Sometime later, in a very hazy dream, he imagined his bedroom window opening to let huge kernels of corn through; with sharp, popping sounds they exploded to form popcorn – so loud that he found himself shooting awake, heart pounding when he caught a shadow dancing idly on the floor beyond the foot of his bed.

“What the hell –” the person said, and it took a good span of seconds for Tim to wake up enough to pair the voice with Jason – and to realize that he’d come in through the window and effectively landed on spare bubble wrap that Tim had attempted to wedge in the corner. “You’re fucking Red Robin and your security is packing material?”

Tim flopped back down onto his bed and felt around until he found a bundle of socks and tossed them half-heartedly in Jason’s direction. “Red Hood,” he stated, his voice groggy and deep. “Caught breaking and entering, stepping on bubble wrap.”

Jason tripped, falling halfway onto the end of Tim’s bed as he scrambled to find his way in the darkness; he stepped on something a bit more solid and said, “Uhh…” at the same time that Tim let out a whimper and murmured, “Did you break my box?”

“Maybe?” Jason asked. “Are you alive? I thought you didn’t sleep?”

“I need that box,” Tim whined, using all of his energy to push himself up. “And you’re right. I don’t. I’m crashing. There’s a light switch on the wall.”

“Crashing?” Jason echoed, and he moved in the darkness, a shadow against darker shadows, cursing as he stumbled over even more discarded junk scattered on the floor of Tim’s room.

When the lights came on, Tim scrunched his eyes closed.

“Oh. Wow,” Jason said, and Tim heard an energy can crunch beneath his foot. He was sure it was one of nearly a dozen that peppered his carpet, and he blinked his eyes open when warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and tugged him forward. “Come on, you need to eat something.”

Tim stumbled out of bed, too tired to care. Back when he’d had time to sleep, he’d been a night owl; waking definitely wasn’t his forte.

“Do you even have food?” Jason asked, and Tim stifled a yawn and attempted to stretch, drifting past his kitchen and to the living room, where his homework and tech projects lay scattered.

“I think I have brie?” he answered absently. “Oh, D gave me some protein bars…”

“Dick knows you live like this and he gave you protein bars?”

“No,” Tim mumbled, shaking his head. “No, no. I mean, Dick has been over, but the protein bars are from the other D. Little D. Did I just call him that? Ugh. Damian. The child.”

Pantry doors clamored and Tim heard his refrigerator open more than once, and as time ventured on, Tim slowly defeated the grog. By the time clarity gripped him, Jason was standing in front of him, holding out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His eyes, however, were drawn to the line of energy drinks Tim had situated for his study session.

“How many of those do you drink?”

Tim took the sandwich, nodding his head in thanks before saying, “Not enough, apparently. Okay, so what are we working on tonight?”

Drifting to the space between his coffee table and couch, Tim kicked away various items – blankets, cans, bags, wires, two tablets – and moved on to carefully closing his textbooks, saving his pages with color coded tears of post-it notes he’d stolen from the receptionist at WE. He welcomed Jason to join him on the couch with a gentle pat-pat on the cushion beside him, but Jason simply stared, as if he hadn’t decided whether or not Tim’s window had been a door to an alternate dimension.

“Well?” Tim queried.

“I’m sorry, I feel like I just walked into what will eventually need an intervention, and I’m trying to decide how I feel about it.”

“You feel like getting a GED,” Tim told him. Pat-pat.

Jason moved like a man thrust into unfamiliar territory, like his entire world had just been shaken, not stirred, and here he was trying to make sense of it. He stepped on something that snapped and immediately darted forward, sitting beside Tim, dipping the couch between them.

“Probably a pencil,” Tim murmured around a bite of sandwich, and when Jason looked back, he saw the cracked remains buried in carpet, in need of an excavation. “Also,” Tim added, “My apartment doesn’t need security. Would you rob it?”

Even though Jason remained quiet, as if politely contemplating the question, his eyes gave him away.

No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Well, uh,” Jason stated, and Tim watched as he let a backpack slide from his shoulders – it was interesting, seeing Jason with a backpack, looking like someone Tim might run into on campus. It brought back that feeling, the one that made him say stupid things before self-preservation slid in to stop him. “I guess we could finish the math section, since we were working on that the other night…”

Tim nodded before holding out his hand, marveling at what a difference light made when getting a good look at the workbook Jason was plowing through. It wasn’t old so much as it was abused; Tim decided he must have been staring at it a moment too long, because Jason moved to snatch it back.

A smothered, “Hey!” was forced from Tim’s lungs as he struggled to keep the book at bay, holding it as far away as he could – pulse racing as Jason nearly folded over him in an attempt to retrieve it.

A thousand thoughts bombarded Tim’s brain, things like: so this is what his aftershave smells like, and: oh, I didn’t realize his eyes had green in them. If Tim hadn’t been fully awake before, he definitely was now, and his sudden, stuttered silence had enough gravity to bring Jason’s gaze crashing to his own.

“Obviously, I couldn’t use my own name,” Jason stated, and Tim tried not to watch the way his mouth moved to form the words.

Instead, he kept his eyes glued to Jason’s and let out a blunt and very articulated, “What?”

The expression on Jason’s face came close to disbelief, though unamusement tugged the corners of his lips closer to a frown. When he sat back, Tim followed, eyes drifting to the book’s cover, where a name had been jotted in Sharpie.

“Peter…Jackson?” Tim raised an eyebrow, bringing the book back to his lap. “Is this, like, your GED alias?”

“Oh, like Alvin Draper was a winner,” Jason shot back, and Tim’s expression dissolved into pure, unadulterated judgment as he pointed a finger in Jason’s direction and tossed back, “Alvin Draper didn’t direct Lord of the Rings, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes went wide and his mouth parted, only to snap closed – only to fall open once again.

“That’s why it sounded so familiar….”

This time, Tim laughed outright. “Dear diary,” Tim joked, leaning forward in an effort to snag his phone from the table, which Jason deftly fought to avoid. “I’m so gonna post a tweet about this–”

“No. No you’re not –”

“GED. The one diploma to rule them all —”

“They’re our middle names!” Jason huffed, long-limbed enough to flatten a palm against Tim’s chest to keep him from being able to reach his phone. “Peter. Jackson,” he reiterated, before dropping his tone to its typical, steamrolled sarcasm. “But thank you so much for inviting me to your apartment without belittling me once.”

The whole idea caught Tim off guard. Why on earth would Jason choose their middles names? It was even more impressive, Tim thought, that Jason even knew his. Well, and that he’d use it for something.

Swallowing, he repeated, “Peter Jackson,” and the name sat between them for less than a second before Tim dissolved into laughter again, despite the fact he knew the truth behind it. “Jason, you have made my life.”

“Congrats on being easily pleased,” Jason offered with a sigh, and Tim smiled when his eyes chanced the Sharpie’d cover, just before he flipped open to where they’d left off before. He reached for an unopened energy drink and popped the tab, not at all bothered by the fact it was now room temperature.

“So,” he stated, feeling Jason’s gaze dance between him and the caffeinated beverage at his fingertips. “Where should we begin?”

***

The next morning didn’t arrive in that Jason had shown up around 1am and so Tim had already technically been awake. The sun certainly made an effort to climb a stack of clouds to reach his zenith, and the entire time, Tim danced to his same routines.

As usual, he was late to Wayne Enterprises, courtesy of a subway delay. Also a common occurrence, he impressed a room full of stockholders with a detailed report on the growth of the company with an emphasis on new projects scheduled to roll out over the remainder of the year.

Several people had questions; Tim always had an answer. Bruce arrived nearly fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to end and enamored the small crowd with his easygoing air of confidence, which many of the shareholders treated like sunlight, and basked.

It was the one day of the week that Tim didn’t have class, aside from weekends, which meant that it was the only chance he had to do the various things he needed daylight for, such as fix his bike.

His complex came with pricey little storage sheds, and he kept Little Red tucked away in an effort to keep her from being stolen. As tech savvie as he was, there was no way he could prevent her from disappearing if he simply threw a tarp over her and abandoned her to some garage.

So, on days like today, he wheeled her out and tinkered, constantly putting his mind to work. It felt good to be busy.

It was nearly dark when he decided to check his phone, not quite expecting so many texts. Most were updates, the typical ‘hope you’re doing okay’ type check-ins, and surprisingly, a message sat, unread, from Jason.

If tonight’s slow, you know where to find me.

“If tonight is slow,” he mocked, because this was Gotham and that was a rarity. Still, the invite had Tim looking at the time, remembering the night before and the content they’d reviewed - the moments that Jason had gotten certain answers correct and how success had painted a rare smile that lit the edges of his face.

It was such a simple thing, but it made Tim feel an unfamiliar warmth; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that type of accomplishment, and seeing the excitement in Jason’s eyes was enough to get a secondhand high. It made his pulse do silly things, like stumble.

I’ll let you know, he replied, because, with crime the way it was, that was the best he could do. Somehow though, Tim knew they’d both find time.

***

And they did, thus beginning the routine of Tim and Jason racing to complete patrols; a steadfast habit that soon turned into a competition to see who could beat who to the weather-vane topped warehouse. Though most of their study sessions were spent legs-dangling over the old, crumbling rooftop ledge, they once ended up sitting across from each other at a neon-lit diner in a darker part of town.

Tim had forgotten the feel of a full stomach and downed a milkshake just because he could. When Jason teased him about it, Tim stubbornly ordered a second, intent to relish the sugary rush that made his head feel light and coolness that had his skin prickling.

Napkins littered the space between them, peppered in scribbled notes. Drops of dewy soda spotted the table, trapped between smeared rings of condensation. Plates pushed aside, workbook center-table, Tim remembered lifting his eyes, just once, to catch Jason’s attention lingering on his face.

“What?” Tim had asked, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. “Ketchup?”

Jason’s expression hadn’t given anything away. He answered, “Ketchup.”

It wasn’t until later that evening that Tim realized his sleeve had come away completely clean.

With such a minimal amount of time standing between them and Jason’s exam, every spare bit of time seemed to count – from the nights they managed to flip through flashcards to Tim’s hectic, run-around-town days.

“I’ve got to go; I’m headed into a meeting,” Tim would say after talking Jason through the laws of thermodynamics, fingers tangled in the knot of a half-formed tie.

Halfway through another day, he might be fighting for a lecture hall chair, carefully listing out the order of operations for a particularly complex math problem.

“Class about to start?” Jason would ask.

Tim would reply, “Yeah, but you’ve got this. Try it again and we’ll touch base later.”

The days became quick rushes of midsummer haze, Tim darting here-and-there, only half awake but somehow brimming with energy. A visit to Wayne Manor earned him a care package from Alfred and at some point, his midterm grades posted. Tim had nearly forgotten he had been waiting for them.

With a life so fast-paced, Tim hadn’t noticed how normal it had become for he and Jason to text here and there. In fact, Jason probably knew more about his schedule than anyone else.

Still, it had not occurred to Tim, for instance, to text Jason to let him know he’d been shot (grazed, really) and was on bed rest (Alfred’s orders, Batman’s decree). It was the one night that studying got shoved to the backburner – Jason was across town, doing whatever for Roy’s birthday, and Tim was unequivocally down-for-the-count, not used to checking in with anyone.

It also had not occurred to him – even once – that Jason might come looking for him; that the Red Hood might brave Tim’s apartment one more time – that Tim might awaken from a deep and fantastical dream to the sound of panicked popping and a poison-laced, “Mother fucker!”

Of course, he also did not predict the following, crunching, snap.

“The box,” Tim whined.

“Dick told Roy who told me what happened – are you okay?” Jason asked, and his shuffling made it apparent he was attempting to untangle himself from sticky sheets of plastic. A step forward sent him through a tower of cans. “For the love of—“

Jason hit the light.

“My eyes,” Tim moaned, before trying to rollover, only a slurred groan bled from between his lips. “Ah, my arm…”

“Tim,” Jason stated, deadpan. “You’re bleeding.”

Tim blinked blearily, his head a cottony sort-of chaos. The room around him seemed floaty and he felt he weighed less than a penny. “What?” he asked, head lulling sideways until he saw the seeped-through bandages and his blood-blotted bedding. “Oh. That.”

Jason’s steps were easy to follow; he came close enough to the head of Tim’s bed to block out the light from Tim’s lamp. A shake-shake of pills followed, along with Jason’s question of, “These from B?”

“They’re for me,” Tim murmured, sleepily. “I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, we’ve covered that,” Jason replied, and then his fingers found Tim’s good arm and tugged him upright, forcing Tim’s legs to spill over the edge – Tim wobbled dizzily for a moment as Jason’s palm held him steady.

“You should be studying.” Tim’s words clung to each other, like one sweep of sound.

Jason let out a breath through his nose. “When’s the last time you changed these?”

Tim turned his head to watch Jason’s free hand fiddle with the ribbons of medical tape that kept patches of sterile pads pressed to his skin and felt vaguely offended. “One does not simply change their own bandages,” he stated loosely, but when Jason’s eyes flickered to his, showing more concern than anything else, Tim merely shrugged.

“Too tired,” he explained, because it was the truth. After taking pain meds the night before, he’d crashed, and this was as coherent as he’d been since.

“Yeah, well,” Jason didn’t look surprised, and his gaze drifted to the pills on Tim’s nightstand. “Are there stitches under here?” he asked, carefully peeling back tape.

“Yes,” Tim nodded, unintentionally dragging out the s.

“Was it deep?”

“Mmm,” Tim hummed, catching himself as he drifted sideways. “Yes.”

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Jason questioned, and Tim hadn’t realized he was staring at his bedroom door until Jason’s forefinger settled under his chin and guided him back.

“Bathroom,” Tim answered, somehow aware of each time his lungs filled to take in a breath. It was some sort of hyper awareness, but the kind that couldn’t quite stay focused on one thing in particular.

Jason stood up and left Tim to his own devices – which weren’t much, because the fog of exhaustion made his eyelids feel weighted with gold. Quietly, he slipped sideways, curling atop his good arm over the plush fabric of a fleece blanket.

It felt like hours before he was being pulled upright again, Jason’s hands much warmer than his tone, which sounded torn between concern and frustration.

“You gotta stay awake, Timbo,” he said.

“Mm,” Tim acknowledged, noncommittal. He felt Jason trace the jagged line of stitches with his finger and hissed when a damp cloth blotted the edges, gritting his teeth tiredly against a not entirely unfamiliar ache. After all, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Did you do these?” Jason asked, and Tim had to focus on the words to follow Jason’s train of thought.

“Th’stitches?” he asked, just before shaking his head. “Um. B. It’s gonna scar, ‘sn’t it.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement; Bruce’s first aid was quick and practical, if nothing else.

“You think after so many years this would look slightly less med-student,” Jason commented, apologizing when he prodded one particularly sore spot. “When did you get home this morning?”

Tim’s head lulled backwards and he stared at his popcorn ceiling in thought. “Mm…maybe two?”

The hypersensitivity returned, only this time it clung to how warm Jason was; he was so close that Tim felt heat coming off him in waves, which, he deduced, probably meant he had a fever.

“Is it infected?” Tim questioned.

“No,” Jason said, and the word spilled across Tim’s ear. He couldn’t help the goosebumps that erupted on his skin, didn’t want to help them, didn’t want to disturb the careful application of anti-bac cream on the sore flesh of his bicep. “You’ve been out all day though. When I’m done, let’s make something to eat.”

The idea was inviting.

At least until Tim dissected the words.

“All day?” he said. “No, no–” he murmured, and then he was trying to move, which brought Jason’s palm back to the soft cotton tee he was wearing. “I have a meeting. And a class. What time is it?”

Jason’s palm drew back just enough so that he had a finger pressed to Tim’s sternum, and his tone dipped low. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“Ah,” Jason made a buzzer-like noise and followed it with a shoosh . “You need to eat and you need to sleep.”

Tim grumbled but gave up arguing; his eyes slipped closed as he gave in to the rhythmic motion of Jason re-bandaging his arm, answering any of Jason’s lingering questions with small, tired yes ’s or no ’s.

The journey to the living room was a tiring trudge, and Jason abandoned him on the couch in order to scavenge the kitchen. Tim stared thoughtlessly at his phone, which he decided he must have left on the coffee table the night before.

Between opening and closing cabinet doors, Jason stated, “Congratulations on having the world’s tallest pile of dirty dishes, by the way,” and Tim grunted.

“I’m in between maid services,” he stated as the other returned with bits and pieces from the care package Alfred had put together. At the sight of sausage, cheese, and crackers, Tim thought he’d never been so hungry in his life.

“Don’t take any more of those pills,” Jason advised, and Tim wondered how desperate he must look, tearing chunks of smoked sausage from the link before jamming them between his lips. “I mean,” Jason added, “do you even feel anything?”

“Nothing,” Tim confirmed between bites.

“You’re sleep-eating.”

“Starving,” Tim hummed, making a grabby hand for a glass of water that Jason had brought for him. While he worked his way through the plate, Jason dragged out his workbook, which made Tim shake his head forlornly. “I can’t help you today.”

Jason snorted. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Just get some rest. I’ll stay until later.”

Tim passed forward a plate full of crumbs and tipped backwards, sagging into a corner crevasse of his couch. His arm ached and he felt buzzed, and he was definitely fighting a losing battle against sleep.

“Is this a dream?” he found himself asking, because really, he couldn’t be sure. Jason’s shoulders were less than an arm’s reach away, and all he could smell was that damn aftershave.

“Nope. But you probably won’t remember any of it, anyway.”

“Mmm...” Tim hummed, content. It was nice having Jason around. It felt good not to think. It felt good to feel good and for once, his heart rushed in a way that made him feel like he’d stumbled across some incredibly obvious thing that he’d somehow never quite completely acknowledged. With slow-dragged, sleepy vowels, he murmured, “Hey,” and then, “are you good at keeping secrets?”

Jason’s pencil paused mid-scribble. “What?” The word was tinged with humor, but also something else. Responsibility, probably, because Jason was, at heart, a good soul. “Uh, no. No I am not.”

“Oh,” Tim breathed out, disappointed. Then, “Because I think I like you.”

The words hung; Tim’s eyes had long fluttered closed, and so he only heard, distantly, Jason ask, “What?” too long after.

The exhaustion was real now, and Tim could feel the warm tug of sleep pulling him under. It was all he could do to breathe, “Shh,” against his pillow, and then, with a long sigh, “It’s a secret.”

Outside the window, the world hummed.

***

Consciousness was a fickle thing, a colorful ribbon that slipped between Tim’s fingers. The smallest fuzzy fragments were just beyond his grasp, memories that blurred together, lost to passing time.

When Tim woke, he was alone.

Had he imagined Jason? He suspected it was possible; the images that attempted to drag themselves from the depths were vague and simplistic – the curve of Jason’s neck from behind, the way Jason’s mouth moved as he read silently to himself, the temples of his glasses, sloped against his ear…

Tim frowned.

Glasses?

Since when did Jason wear glasses?

“Ugh,” Tim groaned just before dragging his hands down his face. On a scale of 1 to that time he’d tripped while waving hello to Superman, Jason Todd babysitting him landed a hard 7.

Also, Tim wasn’t even entirely sure he was in his apartment?

Looking around, it was…clean. Too clean. Gone were the cans scattered on his floor; stacked were the books he’d dropped here and there and never bothered to pick up. Weeks of smeared spills, wiped clean – and if Tim tilted his head at just the right angle, he could see that his mile-high stack of dirty dishes was no longer threatening to fall victim to physics.

It was unsettling; Tim didn’t really like people touching his things. It was a product of paranoia – having a secret identity had that effect. It felt awkward though, knowing Jason had picked up after him; Tim had no reason to feel embarrassed but he did, and as his mind skittered through all the possible projects Jason could have busied himself with, he felt his heart do a little lurch.

He wouldn’t have… gone through anything, would he?

Tim wasn’t sure. He was up in an instant though, wandering down the hallway that led to his room, fingertips brushing the wall just in case he needed balance. He hated the feel of after-medicine grog, where the world felt foreign and his thoughts seemed to stumble.

The first thing he noticed was that his bed was stripped; he vaguely remembered blood on his comforter. The second was that this room apparently had carpet. It was beige.

Tim’s eyes darted, searching. They found what they sought – a box at the end of his bed, crumpled, he assumed, because Jason had stepped on it again. Other than that, it seemed untouched; Tim dropped to a crouch and examined it, breathing a soft sigh of relief. For a moment he was tempted to open it.

He decided not to.

After all, even if it was damaged - well, it didn’t matter. Tim tucked it under his bed frame, thinking it might fair better with shelter, and took a deep breath.

He had to keep it safe.

Shortly after, Tim hunted down his phone, not entirely surprised to see a slew of texts. Bruce telling him not to come in; Dick making sure he was alive. A message from Tiffany, his assistant, said that his meetings had been rescheduled for today and the next, along with a succinct, I’ve got everything handled.

With a sigh, Tim sent a message to Jason, more out of habit than anything else.

So. About last night.

He waited a moment, resisting the urge to ask what exactly happened before Jason had a chance to reply. After all, it was the perfect opening for Jason to be Jason and turn the whole ordeal into a joke – which is why it caught Tim by surprise when a message came through that read, simply:

Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?

Tim frowned. His apartment wasn’t that bad.

I’ll cook, Jason added.

...unless Jason had found something sentient in the fridge, which wasn’t an impossibility. How long ago had be bought the brie?

Sure, Tim texted, not willing to ask. He added: also I refuse to feel embarrassed about all this.

Jason shot back: Good.

Tim blinked. Then he shrugged.

Nothing much must have happened at all.

#jaytim #ladelle writes #a study in red

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miss-noo-na · 7 years

Text

The Boy King (Chapter 2)

Prologue / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10

Title: The Boy King

Genre: Royal AU

Rating: PG.

Note: Sorry for the delay! Hope you guys enjoy, and I’ll be more regular on this now.

You kept quiet after that night the King had made his feelings about you known. He didn’t want nor need a confidant, so you weren’t going to waste anymore time trying to be one. You only spoke when spoken to, and carried out your duties as requested with a slight bow, not even meeting his eyes.

He didn’t notice the shift at first, as it was so subtle, and he was distracted by other matters. However, over time, he seemed to take note of it.

When he would usually ignored your presence in the room, you now occasionally caught him peering at you from the corner of his eye, examining you, like you had some sort of ulterior motive he couldn’t quite place. After you’d learned of the former king’s true demise, it wasn’t unusual to think the boy King would be a bit paranoid.

He was never able to pin anything on you, though, and you could tell it was driving him crazy. This only brought you amusement, which was welcomed in your otherwise mundane days.

“Is there anything else you request of me?” You asked as you stood, finished with all your duties for that day. It was early evening now, and the King simply stared at you, like he was trying to come up with something more for you to do.

“Sit down.”

You hesitated, trying to keep yourself from making a face at him, and did as you were told.

“Do you like your position here?” He asked, cocking his head to one side. You studied his face, his eyes drawing narrow but looking merely inquisitive.

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap and cast your eyes away.

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” He pressed.

“I appreciate having my own quarters; I am well taken care of. I could not ask for more.” You explained, though your tone was flat. You were telling him what you supposed he wanted to hear, and he could tell.

“I apologize for my behavior the other night; I did not mean to be cross with you.”

You blinked at him, surprised to hear an apology of all things, and one that sounded quite sincere.

“I am under a copious amount of scrutiny and as a result I am not quite myself. In fact, I have not felt anything like myself since my father died.”

His eyes downturned as he said this and you saw him as he really was; young, scared, and still deeply in mourning.

“That is understandable,” You nodded slowly. “You have taken on an abundance of responsibility in a very short amount of time, all while losing someone beloved to you. “

He almost seemed surprised at your words, and his face softened.

“No one else can see that. I’m starting to believe I am not yet fit to be a King.”

There was a twinge of sadness to his tone that tugged at your heartstrings and his apparent immaturity and cruelty was now somewhat comprehensible, though not completely excusable.

Your silence only worried him and he tried to meet your eyes.

“You are free to be honest with me.” He said his voice gentle and it sent a streak through your body.

You chose your words carefully, not wanting to be as reckless as you were the first time you shared your thoughts with him.

“I can’t even imagine what the manner of your father’s death has you thinking,” you began, “however, you cannot tear this kingdom apart in search of the answers. More people will suffer.”

His eyes glistened as he hung off your words, and you almost couldn’t get them out, like all the air had been sucked out of the room and you were frozen in his gaze. He continued to stare after you’d finished, and you swallowed hard. You didn’t understand the things he made you feel, how no matter how much you tried to stay angry at him or even just ignore him, you found yourself drawn to him. You’d met plenty of men living within the castle walls, young to old, poor to royal, and he was unlike all of them.

“You know, I’ve never been very far outside these walls before.” He said, glancing around. “I admit, I know very little about living life. This might be my biggest downfall as King.”

You shrugged one of your shoulders. “So you go out, see your people, converse with them, understand how they live, work, love.”

You coughed after the last word.

“By that I mean, you have so much to learn; if you don’t mind me saying so.”

He shook his head, fighting off a smile.

“I don’t mind, you are right. Do you think you could help me with that?”

You almost choked on air.

“If you request it of me.”

“Only if you want to.”

You hadn’t been given many choices in life, and it took you a long moment to think about it.

“I would be happy to.”

You didn’t exactly know what this entailed, helping the King understand life as a commoner. It was too dangerous for him to go traipsing about in the open, but there must be ways to open his eyes, you know you could think of some if you tried.

He allowed himself to smile and it was a sight that caused your stomach to swirl, and you had to look away.

“You may leave, I will call for you in the morning.”

Something about the way he worded that made you nervous, and you fluttered out of the room before he could see it.

You slept peacefully for the first time in ages, and in the morning you were ready to start your duties when you were pulled away from them. The King had other things in mind, and he quickly began to explain them to you in a rushed breath.

“I want to be amongst them” he said, rambling a bit, talking out his idea. You thought he was mad.

“Surely we cannot take you into the village” you shook your head hard. “They’ve all seen what you look like.”

He tapped his fingers on his chin like he was thinking; you looked him over and fought back a laugh.

“Especially not the way you’re dressed.”

He looked down at himself, realizing you were right. Those fine satins and velvets that draped his body so perfectly, tailored down to every curve of him, embroidered by hand, most of it by you. You felt your face getting hot and looked away.

Luckily, this gave you an idea, and you stood and left the room momentarily. You came back a second later with a cloak-like piece of dusty brown fabric. The gardeners and groundskeepers wore them when it was cold out.

“If I may?” You said as you approached him, and he nodded his head. You tossed the cloak over his shoulders and pulled it closed, covering his garb. It just might work.

“Of course, we’ll have to do this,” You said as you reached up and pulled the hood up over his head.

“The cloak itself is not enough? Am I really that recognizable?” He asked.

“It’s your eyes” You said without thinking, then cleared your throat. “They’re very…um…”

“Ah, I see.” He said, buying whatever point you were trying to make, saving you from embarrassing yourself further and you were thankful.

“It will be busy today, which is ideal; people will be too preoccupied to notice anything unusual.” You explained, adjusting some of the cloak. He nodded along, putting total trust in you.

“What should I call you?” You asked then, and he didn’t follow.

“I mean, “Your Highness” won’t go over well in the village,” You said with a chuckle.

“Oh,” He paused. “Jooheon is fine.”

You pursed your lips and angled your head at the unfamiliar name. “How did you come up with that?”

“It’s my name.”

You felt your hands begin to shake suddenly and let out a weak “oh” sound. You don’t know why, but receiving the confidential bit of information made you feel funny.

“Well then, lead the way.” He urged, and you did just that.

Sometime later you found yourself in the village, unsure of how you even got him this far. You had to lie to the castle guards that he was a mute groundskeeper accompanying you to the market, and they bought your earnest explanation. Jooheon complimented your acting abilities.

As you guessed, it was bustling with street vendors and day labor. It smelled like everything all at once, good and bad. You were used to it, but when you glanced back at Jooheon his nose crinkled and his head snapped from side to side, overwhelmed by the sights and sounds.

“Are you doing alright, Your-…Jooheon.”

“I’m fine, it’s …” he sucked in a breath “it’s very different.”

You didn’t know exactly what it was different than, probably everything he’s ever known.

Just then he shouldered a large man carrying a sack, to which the man gave him a hearty shove. Jooheon stumbled back into a nearby wall and only barely caught himself on it.

“Oi, get off!” The man shouted, and you could see the bewildered expression on Jooheon’s face as he pushed himself back up. You slipped between the two men and glared at the large one.

“Be mindful of where you walk, you crooked-nose knave.” You spat at him in a most unladylike way.

The big man waved a hand and lumbered away.

You turned back to Jooheon, and he looked like he was fine, but you couldn’t decipher the look on his face. He seemed surprised by your outburst, but not in any negative way.

“You have to keep your wits about you,” you said, glancing around, “people look out for themselves, and not much else.”

You kept on, and he followed closer behind you. It felt strange, like you were the one in charge and he held a kind of anxious energy, seeking your guidance in every interaction and instance. Although what you encountered there in the heart of the village was normal to you, you knew he was experiencing many of these things for the first time, and it was plain all over his obscured face; the butchering, the beggars, the fights, the screaming children, the lewd women in doorways. He didn’t really know what to make of any of it, and you could sense he was becoming exhausted by it.

“Are you ready to go back?” You whispered to him, and he only nodded.

He was quiet all the way back to the castle, and a couple times you thought about speaking but left it. He was processing.

When you got back to his quarters he finally removed the hood, and something caught your attention.

“What’s this?” You asked, turning him toward you. On instinct, you cupped the side of his head and examined a red gash over his eyebrow, the blood mostly tacky now. It wasn’t deep, it probably wouldn’t scar, but it still concerned you. He must have scraped it when he was pushed into the wall.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You asked, moving across the room to gather a piece of loose fabric from your sewing pile. You dipped it into the bed-side basin of water and returned to aid him.

“Ah, I hadn’t noticed.” He said absently, and you realized you underestimated just how much the experience affected him.

You dabbed the spot over his eye and tsk’d at him, trying to lighten the mood. “I bet this is the first time you’ve ever bled.”

“I had a nosebleed as a child once, but other than that you are correct. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to do anything that could get me injured.”

“Why am I not surprised?” You laughed, but Jooheon went silent again, lost in thought as you now pressed the fabric down and held it there for a moment.

“Is it always so…noisy?” He asked, and you nodded. “Usually.”

“And the beggars, are there many?”

“What do you consider many?” You asked and he sighed.

“Even one is too many.”

His face only became more sullen the more he thought about it, and you wondered if this was a good idea.

“For the most part, people are happy.” You tried to explain. “Our kingdom is wonderful, compared to so many others. Your father is the reason for that.”

“And now he’s gone, and you’re all left with me.” Jooheon said in a voice getting fainter by the second.

“Which means now is not the time to feel sorry for yourself.” You nodded firmly, finally pulling the fabric away and discarding of it. “You have to be the best King you can be, and that does not include closing our borders and raising our taxes.”

You bit your tongue, afraid to turn back to him and see his reaction.

“You’re right.”

“I am?” You asked, turning around.

Jooheon sat down in his chair, shoulders slack and head mostly down.

“I can’t treat all of my people like criminals because of one snake.”

You felt light at his words, relieved even. He understood now.

“But I am more determined than ever to figure out who did this.”

“In the mean time,” You said, trying to change the subject. “Maybe you should take a rest?” You offered, knowing the day out for him was probably emotionally and physically taxing.

He stood. “I think I will.”

He strolled across the room toward you and you took a step back when he came a little closer than you were used to.

“You should rest, too.”

His tone was unusually gentle and it left you both aroused and suspicious, a mixture that churned in your stomach. You managed to laugh a little, too.

“No offense, Your Highness, but I’m a handmaiden, I don’t get to rest.” You explained, turning away from him again and hoisting a laundry basket from the floor up onto your hip. You were just about to leave the room when you felt a tug from behind, then the basket leaving your arms and being dropped back down onto the floor. You turned to face him once more, ready to be defiant.

“And I’m the King, and I’m insisting that you go and rest. I’ll have someone else cover your chores for this afternoon.”

You swallowed your words, any desire to contest him flying out the window at his firm yet caring insistence.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” You bowed slightly, and he cringed.

“I don’t like that.” He said, waving his hand. “Not from you.”

Something like a blush might have been creeping up your neck and you knew you had to get out of his room if he kept talking to you like that. What was he on about with all this kindness?

“Then what do you like?...I mean…what do you…prefer?” You strained through your words.

“Keep calling me Jooheon.”

If it were possible for you to feel any weaker, you did in that moment, and struggled to keep eye contact.

“Have a nice rest….Jooheon.”

You were out of the room before he could return the sentiment, and spent all of your supposed “rest” face down in your linens with your mind racing. You couldn’t begin to explain the feelings that sprung out from inside when he looked at you a certain way, or insisting on using his birth-given name, something only his wife should have the privilege of. That thought alone created all sorts of far-fetched scenarios, ones you knew you shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of, but you didn’t entirely mind them, either.

#jooheon scenarios #monsta x scenarios #lee jooheon #monsta x #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfiction #royal au #kpop #korean pop #fanfiction

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animarosa · 7 years

Note

Ryder/Jaal: 19. “You’re beautiful/handsome, and I’m not the only one that thinks that.” Your pick on who is getting the compliment.

Note: As always, thanks for the prompt! I enjoy writing these two ~

Summary: After overhearing angaran women speak of their attraction to Jaal, Sara Ariadne begins having feelings of inadequacy regarding her relationship with the Resistance lieutenant.

Sara tapped her fingers to the rhythm of the song she was listening to, though she wasn’t paying much attention to it. With a sigh, she kept staring at the terminal screen, her current report half-finished. It seemed her mind was set on distracting her with the conversation she overheard earlier from a group of gossiping angaran ladies. Well, not gossiping, but sharing their admiration for Jaal. Or rather, their obvious attraction to him…and what a waste it was that he’d fallen for an ‘alien’. Sara was only thankful she had been wearing her hoodie over her head, hiding the embarrassment in her features when she hurried away earlier.

She knew better than to let something so insignificant bother her but the conversation resurfaced feelings of inadequacy in her. It was obvious she and Jaal were genetically incompatible and, while they hadn’t yet talked about having a family in the future, she thought she was robbing him of the opportunity to have a big angaran family of his own flesh and blood.

With a stifled groan and quick ruffling of her own hair, she chastised herself and tried to distract herself by singing along to the tune blaring from her speakers instead.

“Southern skies, have you ever noticed southern skies…Southern skies, it’s precious beauty…” she sang and hummed softly, fingers finally tapping the keyboard to the beat of the song as she continued her report.

Of course, this was the moment she would be interrupted by the one person she had been thinking about not a moment ago. Jaal casually walked into her room, smiling widely when he caught her singing and moving her shoulders slightly side to side in tune. Ever the sucker for procrastinating, Sara didn’t protest when Jaal stood before her and held out his hand. Her singing was only briefly interrupted by a giggle as she took his hand.

Pulling her to her feet, Jaal danced as best he could to the song, mostly following her lead. They danced, held each other close, and laughed when they tripped over each other until the song ended and it was followed by a faster, upbeat tune.

“I don’t think I can dance to that one,” Jaal chuckled, leaning down to her level and pressing his forehead to hers softly.

“If Drack can dance to it, so can you,” Sara laughed and snorted.

For a moment she was still, enjoying his closeness, her hands resting idly on his shoulders, reveling in his large hands on her hips, pulling her close. As she looked into his beautiful eyes, the thoughts she had been trying to block out came back to the front of her mind. It showed in her features, brow shifting with concern, lips downturning, because Jaal quickly pulled back slightly to look to her with worry.

“My darling, what’s wrong?” he asked in earnest, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks gently.

Sara bit her lower lip, avoiding his gaze momentarily when she took his hands in hers. Pulling them down in front of her chest, she gave them a firm squeeze when she asked, “Jaal…Are you…really, really happy with me? Do you feel there’s anything...missing?”

“Ari,” he used her nickname, his eyes widening in shock as if he’d been slapped across the face. “Of course! How could I not be? Have I…” his gaze shifted, as if searching his thoughts, brow furrowing with worry. “Have I not shown it enough? Is there something about your culture that I am missing? I could-”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong!” she hurriedly reassured him, suddenly feeling guilty for distressing him like this.

Tilting his head slightly, worry dissipating mildly, he inquired, “Then why do you ask me this my dearest?”

“Oh Jaal…It’s just…You’re handsome, wonderful—” she smiled softly, enamoured by the way his cheeks and cowl flushed a darker shade of purple. Just as her smile came, it was gone, gaze downcast as she bit on her lower lip anxiously. “—and I’m not the only one that thinks that,” Sara went on and took a deep breath. “I heard some angaran ladies speaking about you…I bet you have more admirers and–Point I’m trying to make, Jaal, is…well, I’m not angaran, obviously, I’m an alien and–” Releasing his hands, she made a vague gesture at nothing in particular, mostly she waved her hands all around herself. “I’ll never be able to give you what an angaran woman can, and…well–”

“Ariadne, darling, please,” Jaal was quick to interrupt her then, starting to understand where this uncertainty stemmed from. “I love you for who you are, your differences from my species included.” Offering one of his gentle, warm smiles, he took her hands in his again, lifting them to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

“But…But we’re not biologically compatible,” she tried to argue, mostly giving into her self-doubt. Yet, how could she let these doubts emerge when he praised her on a daily basis like this? “I know we haven’t talked about this much but…Doesn’t this concern you just a bit? I know how important families are to your people, I just feel…like I’m robbing you of your own…biological children…I feel selfish, I love you so, so much and…” Sara stumbled over her own words, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Instead she opted to just slump forward against his chest and buried her face in his rofjinn, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“My darling, my dearest, owner of my heart.” Soothingly he drew an arm around her shoulders, bringing his other hand to caress her hair, lightly tracing the copper brown roots down to the fading blue-lilac hair dye. “Let me ask you the same then. Does it concern you?”

“I…No,” she admitted, resting her chin against his chest and stared up at his loving gaze. Of course, she hadn’t considered that this implied she wouldn’t have biological children with him either. “Even if it’s only ever just the two of us, I’d be just as immensely happy as I am with you now,” a smile tugged at the corners of her lips once more, unable to contain herself at the thought of spending the rest of her life with Jaal.

“There is your answer,” Jaal grinned widely at that, leaning his head down to kiss her forehead. “And if we ever wanted a family, there are other ways. My people value families, Ariadne, but that doesn’t mean it’s limited to biological children.”

“I should have probablyasked you sooner,” she laughed. Standing on her toes, she pressed a quick chaste kiss to his chin. “Sorry, I just…let bad thoughts get to me sometimes, love.”

“Worry not. I am glad we talked about it though, thank you for sharing your worries with me, darling,” he declared. Gently grasping the back of her head, fingers threaded through her soft hair, he tugged her towards him as he leaned down meeting her lips in a soft, langid kiss.

Sara hummed happily against his lips, bringing her hands up around his neck, fingers softly tracing the grooves between his crests. The groan she elicited from him had her heart fluttering when he deepened the kiss in turn, his rougher tongue tracing her lower lip before she allowed him access into her mouth, meeting him halfway with her softer one. The familiar tingling of his bioelectricity was quickly egging her on, goosebumps running all over her skin. Just as she was really starting to get into it, sucking in his lower lip and lightly nipping, he pulled back gently, staring at her through hooded eyes as a whimper escaped her from the loss of contact.

Clearing his throat, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when he said, “Now…if I saw correctly, I believe I interrupted you writing a report.”

“Oh no, I was singing,” Sara was quick to reply, any excuse to keep him close to her, to keep going, anything but going back to her duty.

“While writing a report,” Jaal didn’t miss a beat as he gently pulled her arms from around his waist, kissing them once again. Just like that, he began pulling her back to her desk.

“Jaaaaaal,” she whined, pulling back herself, trying to get out of his grip. “I’ll do it later, just-”

“Sara, you should finish it,” he insisted, refusing to let go, the terminal screen with the unfinished report staring (menacingly) at her from behind him.

“Don’t you want to kiss me a lot instead?” she asked with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. “Come on, you kissed me first! You can’t tease me like that!

“Take it as a promise for later my temptress,” he did his best to wink as she taught him. “Besides…You always complain when you leave reports for the last minute, so…”

“Sara, I agree with Jaal. You should finish that report,” SAM spoke then, his orb flaring on her desk. “Lest you risk procrastinating on it so much that you regret it later.”

Sara stopped protesting then, pouting petulantly and leering at both Jaal and SAM. Giving up her fight, she allowed Jaal to pull her back to her chair, on which she unceremoniously flopped down on, rolling back until she hit the edge of her desk. “…I hate both of you…”

“I love you my darling,” Jaal chuckled, quite used to her idioms by now, knowing she didn’t literally hate him, it was just playful banter. Except she was annoyed. “If you finish your report soon…well, I’ll go take a shower first and I’ll come back to check on you. It’ll be up to you how soon I get to deliver further on that kiss we started on,” Jaal chuckled and kissed her cheek before stepping away.

Waving at her from the door and winking (again!), he left only when she waved back, her pout unrelenting. Now she was really regretting showing him about winking suggestively.

#nerdyholler #mass effect #jaal ama darav #jaal #ryder #rydaal #my writing;#me:a fanfiction #otp: heartlines;

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