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writertothemaximum · 4 years

Text

Pairing: Tobio Kageyama x Reader

Summary: Kageyama gets really pent up and gets super nervous trying to ask you to finger him.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings/Content: nsfw/smut, Kageyama bottoming, dominant reader, anal fingering, non-gendered reader, extremely fluffy, contains cuddles

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867611

It was lunch on a fine day in the middle of fall and you sat down at your classroom table, ready to eat your meal for the afternoon. Kageyama sat across from you, looking somehow more irritated than usual. It was actually quite challenging to figure out when he was bothered by something or just you know, being himself. Only with Kageyama exposure in high quantities would anyone be able to crack the code that is his resting bitchface. After six months of dating, you were one of the rare few who had grown to understand it.

Simply put, crossed legs, a distinct lack of a milkbox, and a lack of will to eat the bento you oh-so-kindly prepared for him this morning meant something was on his mind.

You unwrapped the cloth covering the lunchbox, firmly opened up the lid, snagged your chopsticks, and picked up a big piece of chicken katsu. Flinging it around in the air like imitating an airplane for a child who didn’t want to eat their vegetables, you brought it to Kageyama’s face. “Tobio, say ‘ahhh’,” you said, your voice almost stern.

He poked around, finally making eye contact. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth, “Ahhh—”

The katsu landed safely on his tongue. He took a second to pull the thing out as you slipped the chopsticks out from his lips and he started to chew.

“How is it?” you asked.

He seemed a little bit more pleasant.

“Good,” he said, nodding.

“Good, good,” you said, nodding back, a proud smile slapped across your face.

There was a little snicker from the seat next to you.

“Baby-baby Kageyama getting fed his lunch like a little baby,” Hinata said, snidely. You know he did it just to piss Kageyama off. It always worked. It wasn’t even ever a good one. At least Tsukishima came up with clever insults.

“Shut up, dumbass!” he snapped back at him, looking back at you patiently for another bite. His irritation was back, though, and he stared at you as if his mind only had the capacity for getting you to feed him another bite. Also volleyball. Probably.

“Hey, Hinata-kun, do you want a bite?” you asked, turning your attention to your right.

Hinata’s eyes lit up.

“Of course!” he said, shooting over to you with his mouth wide open.

The look on Kageyama’s face was one of the most precious things in the entire world. He looked hurt, almost, as if offering someone else the bento he didn’t even want to eat was not only detrimental to his well-being but his entire soul. His whole face dripped down in shock and mortification, as if asking why you would do something so cruel to him.

Taking another piece of katsu, you sprung your chopsticks into the air, whipping them around like an airplane mid-flight, sound effects, and all. The tip of the rounded wood swung by Hinata’s mouth, just as Kageyama’s lips parted, ever so slightly.

You rammed the thing into Kageyama’s mouth.

Chopsticks still poking out of his lips, he stood up and pumped both fists into the air proudly, congratulating his victory.

Hinata’s fist smacked lightly on the top of his head.

“Bakegama, you’re the boyfriend, if you didn’t win I’d be concerned,” he said, almost chuckling.

Kageyama sat back down, taking the chopsticks out of his mouth, accepting a pyrrhic victory. Hinata reached over and grabbed a piece of katsu with his fingers and flicked it into his mouth. Kageyama grabbed the box and held it close to his body.

“Hey! That’s my lunch, you idiot!” he shouted at him.

Hinata pouted, mouth still full of flavorful chicken. “What, I was offered it, anyways.”

You laughed at the duo, the bickering so pointless they might as well been having any other ordinary conversation. It was like this every day, but that also meant there was a mundanity to it all. A wonderful sort of peace to the regularity of things. It was really pleasant, you hoped things would stay like this for a long time.

…

In the evening of that same day, you got a text from Kageyama asking if he could come over. A part of you was tempted to say no to see his reaction, but you said yes, as you weren’t really doing anything. It was past dinner and his night practice, anyways, so your parents wouldn’t get too much into your business. And plus, you still wanted to know what was bothering him.

So that’s how you ended up sitting on your bed, flipping through English vocab flashcards, a boy practically twice your size cradled in your lap. He seemed somehow grumpier than normal, if that were at all possible. He clearly wasn’t studying with you, his focus seemed almost completely centered around frowning and ruminating on, well…something.

He really liked to sit with you holding him like this. He told you it felt really comfortable and warm and he wasn’t really sure why he liked it so much. Whenever he came over, especially if he was tired (especially if he lost a match), he’d sit right there on your lap, snuggling in, getting all warm and cozy. He was the little spoon and he indulged in every second of it.

If that Shiratorizawa guy you met was a ‘guess monster’ Kageyama most certainly was a ‘cuddle monster’.

“It’s distracting.”

“What is?” you asked in response, flicking by the word for ‘arbitrary’.

“That,” he reiterated, not really answering anything.

“Tobio, what is that?” you said, emphasizing the word in the same way he did.

Was the English practice bothering him? You knew he was especially bad in that subject, maybe seeing you look over it made him anxious. You had a test tomorrow so you wanted to make sure you were ready, but it was unlike Kageyama to be petty over something like that. He was usually petty over…dumber things.

Kageyama shuffled in your lap, moving his hand down to his groin, adjusting his underwear. There was a soft pat as the elastic moved back into place. He just tucked an erection in his waistband, right? That’s what that was, right?

You snapped the rubber band around your flashcards and with a groan, chucked them across the room, aiming for your backpack, not quite making it.

You grabbed the boy in your arms and flipped the world around, landing his back firmly against the bed. Pinning him down and grabbing his wrists firmly with your fists, you squinted your eyes, as if to appraise this body of his. Your focus led down his T-shirt and to the hem of his shirt, which you grabbed firmly and dragged up his chest.

Yeah, he was hard, alright. The poor thing was poking out the top of his gym shorts.

“Tobio, what was that?” you said again, words pronounced and sharp.

He looked so overwhelmed like this, it was a good look on him, trying to form words with a stuffed brow and puckered lips.

“I-I uh…” he mumbled out, his head rolling to the side.

You frowned.

“What is it? Come on, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” you said, deciding on a laugh. “Plus, if you’re honest, it’ll help us deal with your little uh, ‘problem’.”

Yeah, whatever it was it was going to be a sex thing. He was still so timid about that kind of stuff, it was really cute. You never pushed him into anything, so he’d make requests every now and then, and it was really funny to see him open up about what he liked. Almost as if you’d hate him for some stupid reason like having natural urges like any other human being would.

He finally mustered up the courage to look you in the eye, his lips puffed out and expression meek and lacking confidence.

“...Can you finger me?”

You blinked a couple times, finally realizing what he had asked.

“You mean like, up your ass?”

He got irritated, easily pushing you back up, detaching himself from being pinned to the bed.

“Yeah! Like up my ass!” He shouted, not really concerned with how his tone of voice sounded. Then, it only came out as mumbles, “It’s not like I’ve been thinking about it for the past week or anything…”

Oh god, he was a giant idiot. Not subtle, Kageyama.

You started chuckling—hard to contain, really.

“Of course I’ll do it. What, did you think I’d laugh at you or something?” you asked.

Kageyama’s face turned sharp red.

“No.”

That was a yes. That was definitely a yes.

Well, you knew by now that Kageyama liked being on the receiving ends of things. A part of you wondered if he’d become a pillow-princess if you spoiled him too much.

“Alright, alright, get back down, let’s get you nice and comfy, shall we?” you said, waving your hands in the air for him to turn around. Reluctantly, he shifted his whole body weight, pulling his knees in and getting on all fours, face firmly against the pillow. A part of you wanted to grab his hair and force his neck up for air, but it wouldn’t be worth it at this point, considering you hadn’t even touched him. You’d get a better reaction if you did it later.

You bent around to the nightstand, fishing around for the stuff you’d need.

“Tobio, do you want me to use a condom, or are just my fingers fine?”

“Just fingers,” you heard, muffled by the pillow. It almost sounded like he was biting it. It was cute to see him preparing himself mentally for this. He seemed really eager and that was endearing.

Nails trimmed? Check. Lube? Check. One Kageyama with a huge ass waving in the air waiting for your fingers to fuck the shit out of him? Check.

Okay, okay, all good to go here.

You pulled yourself back onto the bed and flicked open the bottle’s cap, squirting out a little just to make sure you had enough. Snapping the thing shut again, you set your eyes back on sweet ass.

He was so cute on his hands and knees like this. It gave you a really good view of his calves and thighs, too. After years of jumping, years of running, they really developed into something that could only be described as perfect as a marble statue. When you wrapped your palms around them, you could feel the meat and bone, no trace of fat, each ligament and muscle tissue finely defined. He twitched slightly, muscles tensing as your fingers wrapped around the tissue.

Taking your other hand, you outstretched your index finger and poked hard on his ass, aiming for the spot where his asshole should be. It pushed the fabric into him, rubbing him through thick cloth aimlessly. It wasn’t a direct touch, it wasn’t close. You were just teasing him, suggesting that you were going to stick it up there, that you were really going to put it in him.

Kageyama got so antsy as you ground your finger into his ass. He shifted his hips, rubbing his dick against the waistband, absolutely desperate for some form of friction aside from this half-assed prodding at his shorts.

“Aren’t you gonna uh, like…Do something? Stop poking me….”

Ah, he was really cute when he got desperate, wasn’t he?

You slapped your hands on the sides of his hips and pulled the waistband of the gym shorts and his underwear in a slow motion, riding them gently down. When they got to his knees, you saw his dick spring out, still as hard and irritated as earlier. You arched his leg up in the air to pull the shorts off and flung them across the room, probably to settle near the flashcards on the ground.

There really was a different way asses looked when the guy really worked out. It wasn’t round and bubbly like how one might expect when you describe a great ass, but it retained all the springiness of tightly packed skin. It was clefted in a way, a little angular, a little flat, a little shaped like two rounded squares. It was so easy to wrap your hands around, to let your thumbs sink into the smooth skin, to feel each movement as he adjusted his knees to the pressure of his body weight on the bed.

He was shivering a little bit, as if the stress was lowering his body temperature, as if being nervous made his brain fire out shots of chills trying to understand that this was happening, that this was actually happening, and that he was lying here on your bed like this. You put a hand at the bottom of his tailbone, stabilizing him. You leaned in, using your other hand to gently rub his inner thigh, relaxing him, trailing soft kisses down the line of your thumb as it crossed his smooth skin.

Feeling his breathing slow down and the shaking slow, you leaned back up and grabbed the bottle, squirting a big glob of lube onto your fingers, running down to your palm. You used your other hand to get a firm grip on his ass, spreading one of his cheeks, leaving the small outline of a little hole, all shriveled up tight and twitching ever so slightly. You moved your hand toward him and as the tip of your finger traced the hairs on his asscrack, making him feel the echoes of the chills from before.

You could hear him muttering into the pillow, his face still planted into the thing, his hands clutching it tightly, as if it was the only thing keeping him bound to this world.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it won’t hurt, I promise,” you said, making sure your words were gentle and comforting.

He started to calm again and you let your free hand run down the end of his back, slowly trickling up through the shirt to his spine, the soft tickle hopefully distracting the feeling of your finger up pressing on him.

It almost felt like the world was splitting when you let your first finger glide inside. You let your other hand grip on the middle of his back, supporting him, moving your finger further in, surrounded by heat and a warm grip.

“Mmmmngnh…” you heard him grumble into the pillow. A part of you wanted to see his expressions, but the other part of you knew that it was better like this. After all, it was his first time with anything inside, it was a little bit of a vulnerable position to be in.

“Is it in yet?” you heard from him more clearly, his head tilted to the side. Sweat covered his forehead, the thin strands of his bangs sticking to his skin.

“Hmm, only about halfway,” you said.

“Tch,” he responded with, face planted right back into soft cushion.

You couldn’t stop the soft smile on your lips, knowing that Kageyama was trying to act strong for you. He was trying to show that he could take it, even if it was really sensitive, even if it was embarrassing that he could possibly like something like this, even if he could never admit that it felt good to have a part of you inside him.

You pushed the rest of the finger in, feeling his groaning flush through the bed, humming slightly into the blankets. He took your first finger so well, all the way to the knuckle now. He squeezed a couple times around you, probably trying to get used to the sensation, even if relatively, one finger wasn’t very much.

Planning on thrusting your one finger into him a couple times, you moved your other hand to grab onto his thigh to make sure he wouldn’t thrash about the place. When you first started to pull out, you felt him clench around you, as if he couldn't bear with the thought of you leaving his ass. It was so slippery now, though, your finger accidentally popped out.

Kageyama gave a little groan like he was disappointed.

Holding back a snide comment, you just pushed right back into him, sliding in with little resistance this time. His torso leaned forward with your motion, as if his entire body was jelly against your pushes. After getting into a short rhythm with the one finger, you felt Kageyama start to get used to the sensation, pushing his hips back against you with each push. You were pretty sure you hadn’t found his prostate yet, but he seemed to just enjoy the feeling of having it inside, so that was good enough for you for now.

Gripping his thigh tighter to signal to him you were slowing down your pace, you bent your middle finger and pushed it into him, spreading him further. With the spark of greater tension, every hair on Kageyama’s back began to stand, pressure building inside of him, everything standing on edge. You pushed in and sweet sounds poured back, muffled and hoarse through the thick fabric. You pushed in deep, knuckles straining against the edge of his asshole, fingers pushing downwards, pressing gently against the inside of his belly.

“Haaaaargh,” you heard from him, lifting his head off the pillow for a breathy gasp of air.

You looked down and noticed that his dick had started dripping. It did feel like you were touching something a little harder in there. You poked again, rubbing your two fingers up and down like you were beckoning him to come over to you.

“Hnnnnnnng,” he moaned, this time the pitch riding low as it faded out. You could feel it as the pleasure swept through him like a wave, crashing hoarsely and crudely outside of his body and through his groin.

Yeah, that was definitely his prostate.

“How does that feel?” You asked.

“Goooood…” he mumbled.

You scissored your fingers apart to get a better look at his asshole, now red and twitching, shuddering with the rest of his body, taking in every sensation, every rubbing motion of his insides. His dick just felt so hot and tingly, he wanted to touch it, he wanted to reach down and start jacking himself off as you prodded around inside of him. His hand, torn and calloused from hours of work, finally moved down and he started to touch himself. Even with only a couple of strokes, you could feel him starting to come. That wouldn’t be fun. You hadn’t had your fill yet.

You pulled your fingers out and grabbed him strongly on the shoulder, flipping his entire body around, slamming him onto his back. He faced you now, pretty blue eyes with a confused look, concerned, almost frightened at the look you were giving him. It had been too hot with his face against the pillow, sweat was dripping down his forehead, his hair clinging tightly in bunches to his skin.

With great force, you slammed your hand down on his mouth. Covering his lips, you felt him thrash around, almost trying to get you off him, never for a second earnestly meaning to. He started whining, the vibrations of his throat reverberating through your hand and coming off as garbled garbage.

“You’re being too loud, you need to quiet down.”

You put your other hand by his ass and pushed three fingers in. If it wasn’t for your hand, he would have never been able to contain the moan. You pushed up, seeing his eyes go wide and roll back, feeling everything all the way up his spine into the very fiber of his body. His moans came out gagged, hoarse, and choked, begging for air. His saliva caked your fingers, unable to keep it all in, unable to force his mouth closed, unable to stop the sounds from coming out.

Kageyama started clutching his asshole around your fingers, desperately trying to get any sensation of friction as he could. His fingers were wrapped firmly around your shoulders, holding on for dear life, trying to stabilize himself in any way he could so his mind wouldn’t go crazy, so his mind wouldn’t get consumed by all these feelings going up his ass.

He moved a hand off your shoulder and started to touch himself, this time with less restraint. He seemed so desperate for any kind of attention there, any kind of feeling that would draw him over the edge, any tingling that would tip him into that wonderful feeling.

It wasn’t long before you felt his muscles start to clench. Before everything started to tense up and his mouth to start lolling against your hand, dragging his tongue aimlessly across your fingers. He came, sucking your fingers inside his ass as deep as he could, milking them for that sweet release as far as he could take it.

For a moment, everything seemed still. He started to relax around you and there was a sore tension around your fingers as you pulled them out of him. You took your hand off his mouth and he rolled away from you, covered in sweat and a lovely trail of semen up his shirt.

He really looked like he was going to fall asleep, but he was more just catching his breath.

“So…” you started, still kneeling in front of him. “How was it?”

He almost pouted.

“Could you hold me?” he asked.

“Of course,” you said, smiling.

You rolled onto the bed, trying not to get too much of the stickiness of the lube on your hands on the bed, but realizing that you’d probably have to wash everything anyways. You slipped your arm under his torso, his body weight sinking deeply into the mattress. You wrapped both arms around him tightly, resting your head against his neck, cradling him like a little spoon. He pulled his knees up to his chest, lying comfortably. You relaxed like that for what seemed like minutes, just feeling the body heat on your face slowly dissipate into a graceful warmth.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader smut #kageyama x reader #sub!kageyama #dom!reader #kageyama tobio #w2tmfics

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unlockthelore · 4 years

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Chivalry

For so long, Kairi had been the one who was protected, but now she had to protect the ones who tried their hardest for her.

Part of the Beyond the Horizon series on Ao3. For more updates, follow the beyond the horizon tag on this blog.

Returning to the island where they played as children was difficult on Riku. As much as he tried to hide his inner struggles, they were there, plain as day in Kairi’s eyes. She could tell how he tried not to approach the Secret Place or the furthermost treehouse with its open terrace where the palm trees shaded enough for a nice nap. Walks along a sandy shore with the surf’s chilled foamy waters rolling over their feet were harder when they looked back and found only two sets of footprints instead of three. She didn’t pretend not to notice when Riku squeezed her hand or lingered on the bent paopu tree long past sunset.

A space always left between them for the one who couldn’t be there with them.

For now, she reminded herself. Just for now.

--------------------------

“Need another pin.”

Riku’s voice roused her from her thoughts just as the waves crashed against the pier’s wooden posts. A spray of water misting against the soles of her feet as they swung back and forth over the damp wooden boards. Kairi tipped her head to one side then glanced toward the calloused palm hovering in her periphery. The scrapes and bruises unable to be healed by healing magic blended into peach tanned skin, but afternoons spent tracing them with her nails reminded her of where they were. She shuffled slightly, a throbbing ache in her lower back from sitting in one position for so long. Her fingers dipped into the small cup of bobby pins left beside an assortment of colorful hair clips beneath the pom of her moogle backpack. Two plucked out and set in Riku’s palm. Sunlight catching on the glossy black surface until his fingers curled around them and a light kiss was pressed to the top of her head.

“Thank you.”

Kairi smiled to herself, one of her knees pulled to her chest as she leant back against him. His fingers working into her hair with the start of another braid somewhere at the right side of her head. “So you’re going on another world tour after this?” She asked, resting her hand against his thigh, the checkered pattern of his board shorts plucked between her fingertips.

It took a moment longer for him to reply. Always so serious with his work, a distracted hum was his only response for a moment. “Yeah…” He murmured, and she felt him tie off the braid after snapping on a rubber band. “Part of being a Keyblade Master is making sure no one has so much as a hurt toe, I guess.”

“Riku,” she scolded gently.

Although, she could understand his discontent with the task. Masters were charged with the world’s affairs, but in Kairi’s opinion, it seemed too big of a job for one person. Or two, in Aqua and Riku’s case. More than that, she knew what he wanted to do with the access he was given to traversing the worlds but someone had to be there to help. Perhaps they were following Sora’s example by trying to do more for others instead of putting themselves first.

She frowned and curled her fingers around Riku’s knee, squeezing gently. “It has been awhile though, and it would be nice to see everyone again.”

The likelihood of new information cropping up was minuscule but they could take comfort in knowing their friends hadn’t given up. Just as they hadn’t. Riku’s thigh tensed beneath her elbow and his hands stilled in her hair. She could tell he was considering her words or at least the implication set behind them. A light ruffle to the back of her head before he started to gather her hair up in a ponytail.

“Just so long as you don’t disappear into the castle for hours,” he said with a playful scolding tone. “I swear, Ienzo will talk to you forever about science if you let him.”

Kairi smiled, keeping her head stilled as he continued combing his fingers through her hair. “He’s just really passionate about what he does!” She clapped her hands together, fingertips pressing and palms barely touching. “Besides, it’s nice to hear it.”

To be included, if she were honest. So often were things done without her involvement or knowledge. Left out. Left behind. She was sick and tired of being the odd one out who wasn’t expected to do anything. If everyone she loved was going to fight then so was she. Even if it did mean going through lectures and notes Ienzo meticulously prepared, far too eager to share his knowledge with someone else.

After a few moments of idle humming and his hands working through her hair, Kairi bounced and pressed her empty hand to her thigh. “Are we done?” She tried to keep the impatience out of her voice but she desperately wanted to see his work. Growing out their hair again had been a mutual decision for the time being.

The unspoken condition not having to be said when they thought back to their journey before the last. Sora lamenting that he was the only one who hadn’t grown between the three of them. When in her eyes, he was one of the two that had changed the most.

Her bangs were swept to one side in answer, Riku’s lilting hum coming with the soft click of a hair clip. Rough palms gently cupped her cheeks and tipped her head back to where his lips were waiting to brush a kiss against her forehead. It was featherlight and fleeting, ending before she could really enjoy it, but a pleasant touch all the same. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips pulled back in a smile, fingers curled over his own to squeeze.

“Are we done?”

“Mmm…” Sharp shadows cast by the fading afternoon sun darkened Riku’s blue-green eyes, half-lidded as his gaze flicked about her face lingering somewhere above her eyes. “Yep.”

Kairi grinned and brushed his hands away, twisting to kneel between his thighs, her arms thrown around his neck in a tight hug. “Thanks Riku.”

“Welcome,” he murmured. His breath ghosted across her bare shoulder, sending shivers down her spine that had little to do with the water dribbling along her toes. Gentle pressure from his hand flattened against her back in the barest show of affection.

Kairi sighed. Her mouth tucked against the curve of his jaw as she held him close and listened to the waves. One day, she wished, one day Riku would be able to accept the love they had to give him. As a friend and hopefully something else. She pulled back enough to hold him by the shoulders, ignoring a faint flutter in her chest when he looked up at her from beneath silver-white eyelashes.

“How about we go tomorrow?”

Surprise flickered across Riku’s features, and Kairi could understand why. Abrupt departures were something they tried to avoid when finding a new normal. But normal was far off for either of them. “Fine by me,” he said after a brief pause, a small smile quirked at the corners of his lips. “Little late today anyway. Your grandpa will kick my ass if you disappear without telling him.”

Kairi stifled a giggle behind a closed fist drawn to her mouth while her other hand thumped against Riku’s shoulder scoldingly. While she could recall the mayor’s stricken face when she returned to the main land, it was his weeping in private that’d made her reluctant to leave so soon.

“He’s been letting up just a little with letting me go more, but I still should tell him.”

The hand against her lower back hovered somewhere near her hip with the other joining it to keep her steady. Riku shifted backward to make room for her to clamor up onto the pier, the items spilled out of their shared backpack stored away.

“Lucky you,” she heard Riku say as he tried to free the moogle’s pom from the pack’s zipper. Her reflection in her gummiphone’s camera smiling and observing the three braids, clip and high ponytail he’d done with interest.

Once their pack was closed and hiked up on Riku’s shoulder, he held his hand out to her and Kairi took it with a light squeeze. She hooked her fingers in the opening of her sneakers and carried them at her side as they walked down the pier. Riku strolling down the steps one by one while Kairi hopped two by two. Their uneven pace dragged him forward a bit and only after he nudged her shoulder did she decide to slow down. Moisture along the soles of her feet made the sand cling between her toes, a soft krrch as she rubbed them together, enjoying the grit and slight sink of her heels in the sun warmed shores.

It only made sense for her to walk in the surf, she pointed out to Riku as she tugged him over. Glistening waters washed over her feet and barely touched the soles of his sandals although he made sure to gripe about it every time it came close. Their talks ranged from his mother’s experiments with the Keyblade out of sheer engineering delight, and their respective guardians’ reactions to learning there were other worlds outside of their own. While her grandfather seemed to accept it well enough, Riku’s mother was infinitely curious.

Like mother, like son.

“My mom’s been worried every time I talk about a new world. Chip and Dale gave her a gummiphone to ease her worry, and they’ve been talking non-stop about prototypes and who knows what else.”

Kairi giggled. “Little victories, Riku.”

He shot her a look of mock annoyance. “Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you? Let me sulk a bit, will ya?”

As they crossed beneath the bridge connecting the island to the smaller one a bit further from its shores, Kairi pretended to think it over. Shade provided by the wood was filtered with glimmers of light between the cracks and openings. It’d been awhile since Sora’s dad came to patch the bridge up. She could hardly imagine what it would be like a few years from now. Rolling her eyes up to the small streaks of sunlight, she hummed then shook her head.

“Nope!” She swung their hands back and forth, smiling despite his withering stare. “Not allowed.”

Riku sighed heavily, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say, princess.”

Princess.

Kairi swallowed. She hardly thought of the title much in the recent year or two. Not like when she’d been pulled from their island the first time. Her heart vied after because it was that of a princesses’. Seeing all of those empty faces, vacant eyes, Sora’s pain to strive and get her back but all he saw was a shell. She wasn’t truly inside. She was part of him. The princess who needed saving was right by his side all along but unable to do a thing.

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” She asked, trying to keep the mood jovial but the bitter thought soured her tone.

Riku’s half-jesting smile fell, a single brow raised as they slowed to a stop half-way beneath the bridge. “Why would I?”

“Because I’m not really a princess,” she said. Not at all. Even from the world she truly came from, there was nothing about her that was princess-like. Only a little girl who enjoyed flowers and her grandmother’s stories.

“What? You mean like the ones in fairy tales?”

Something in her snapped at the mention of fairy tales. Her grandmother’s face, weathered with age but sincere with greyed eyes and a chipper smile. “Yes,” she huffed. Riku snorted and shook his head. Kairi frowned. Just what was he not understanding? “I’m not a princess.”

She squeezed his hand and the last of the humor drained out of him as he stared down at her, his eyes seeming to glow in the weak light.

“Okay, and what is a princess to you?”

Her mouth fell open and for a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. Her grandmother described princesses in one way or another with all of the stories of young women scattered across time in different worlds.

“Someone that’s meant to be royalty,” Kairi started, ticking off the traits on her fingers. “Calming, kind, gentle, loving, caring.”

With it laid out before her, she had to attest that she wasn’t any of those things. Hardly calming with the amount of trouble that stirred with her mere presence. Kind was an overstatement. She was nice when she wanted to be and otherwise, if someone really deserved it then she’d let them have it. Gentle, absolutely not. Loving, her gaze flicked to Riku and his thoughtful expression then the image of Sora in her mind.

Caring? If she cared, then neither of them would be like —

“Wanna know what a princess is like to me?” Riku interjected, cutting off the poisonous thoughts and dragging her back to reality. His eyes were glowing in the darkness and seemed to only render her silent as all she could do was muster a nod. “Someone like you.”

With how resolutely he spoke the words, she couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Transfixed on his face and the stern set of his jaw as he held her hand a bit tighter.

“So what if you weren’t meant to be royalty. Half the people who are don’t deserve it anyway,” he seemed to consider something then shrugged half-heartedly. “Sans the king and queen that is.”

Kairi tried not to laugh as Riku mumbled and fumbled with his words. It was sincere and she felt the biting souring thoughts begin to drift backward. Not out of mind but further from the centre of it.

“People have to want to follow you and listen to you. You think Donald and Goofy would’ve chased after Mickey for so long if they didn’t at least like him?”

She had to give him a point on that one. King Mickey, despite all of his faults, was fairly likable if not a little cute. Donald was a bit of a livewire while Goofy could be a bit lazy now and again. For both of them to run around the worlds with Sora in search of their lost king, he had to be something.

Still, that changed little in what she thought. Her fingers pressed against his own, their palms warm and a bit clammy. “Who would want to listen to me?”

Her voice rarely reached. When Sora needed encouragement, when he was at his lowest and felt abandoned by all those around him, she could barely summon a word to help him out. But she could hear him calling to her all the time from where she slept. Assuring her that he would come and rescue her, that he missed her, that they would all be together again. Riku did the same but his words were harsher. He assured he would protect her, that he wouldn’t let anything else harm her, that they’d go elsewhere — all three of them — just like they said.

They were all blinded and unable to hear.

And all she wanted was for them to listen to what she had to say.

Riku tugged her close by the hand, her toes catching in the sand as she fell into the solid warmth of his chest. His hand pressed to her back as he held her close.

“Me. Right now.… Hear me out?”

Kairi curled her fingers in the back of his tank top and pressed her forehead to his chest, nodding slowly. Riku felt sturdy and firm, solid with enough softness that she could be sure he wasn’t made out of stone. His fingers brushed against the swell of her ponytail and she hugged him tighter around his middle.

“You’re kind, you’re caring…” He snorted and flicked the ends of her hair, sending them sweeping against her shoulders with a light tickle that made a giggle bubble up in her throat. “And very stubborn.”

Kairi huffed, patting his back lightly. “So are you.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind being a princess,” Riku said in a snobbish tone. Kairi biting back laughter by burying her face against his chest. His own chuckles felt as vibrations beneath her cheek. “Let me finish.”

She nodded slowly and brought her other hand around his middle, her sneakers knocking together as she hooked her hands by her pinkies. Riku’s hand settled against the top of her head and smoothed down her hair. The distant crash of waves, trickling frorm the makeshift waterfall near the little cove they called their Secret Place. Even the gentle creaking of the wood as it groaned beneath a salty breeze rolled in from the ocean. It all reminded her so much of home.

“You’re kind but you don’t let people walk over you. You know your worth, what you put your time into you’re passionate about. And you do your best to help. That’s why people listen to you. You’re always trying, we can rely on you. Remember when we found Chocolina as kids? You calmed her down because you’re you. That’s your power, Kairi.”

She buried her face against his chest. It was difficult to stop herself from doing it. With all of what he said, she couldn’t help but try to find some alternative. When they needed her most — her voice couldn’t reach them, but she was trying now. That meant something, didn’t it? Sora’s infectious cheer, all of his positive-thinking, it might have been rubbing off on them for awhile now. As much as she wanted to be upset with herself, she wanted to take this chance even more.

Riku’s hand settled against her shoulder, strong and unyielding, but gentle as he pulled back from her. His blue-green eyes softened, fingers curling beneath her chin to tilt her head up. Concern stole his smile and his thumb swiped under her eye, smearing a tear against her skin. She sniffed and offered him a smile as her hand came up to cup the back of his own.

“So what if you’re not one of the ones in the story. I never was really into the damsel in distress type anyway.”

Kairi covered her mouth hurriedly, a snort that was definitely unprincess-like left them both sputtering in laughter. Riku leant down and his forehead pressed to hers as they laughed and smiled. If a few tears slipped past then neither of them mentioned it. Only wiping it away with the crooks of fingers and a reassuring glance. Her hand slipped into Riku’s again and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

“But if it bothers you, I’ll stop calling you that,” he promised, and she knew that he meant it.

The walk from beneath the bridge was slower and as they approached the other side of the sands, Kairi glanced up at him.

“Riku?”

He gave a soft hum, his head turned the other way, eyes focused on the ramshackle doorway which led to the other part of the island. She wondered what he was thinking. Would it have been the race he had with Sora? Or when they were finally putting the last touches on their raft.

“… Be my prince?”

His hold on her hand tightened considerably and absently, Kairi had to wonder if he was holding back his real strength all the time. His head whipped around and in the scarlet sunrays, she could see the faint touch of pink in his cheeks. “What?”

She tipped her head to one side, feigning innocence with a small smile. “Too much?”

“W- I mean…” Riku sputtered, and Kairi tried her best not to laugh. It wasn’t often that she saw him at a loss for words or this shy. He lifted a hand, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m not really the prince type, Kairi.”

“Of course you are,” she insisted, feeling just a bit of payback was in order along with honesty. “You’re kind and patient, and you always come to the rescue when you’re needed. Besides, I feel safe around you.”

With each trait listed off, Riku seemed to grow more and more shy. She wanted to pull him into another hug and assure him that it was true. All of the words she was speaking, the meaning behind them, they were absolutely true. Riku always thought the worst of himself and although she knew he was changing to begin with — this wasn’t what she wanted.

He didn’t deserve to suffer for his mistakes forever.

“If you’re really set on having a prince, save that spot for Sora.”

Kairi’s eyes widened as the name fell from Riku’s lips. He didn’t shy away from speaking about Sora in matters of finding him or the deeds he committed for the sake of the worlds. But on their own, in times when it was only them, he seemed to dance around speaking his name as if he was unworthy of saying it. His hand fell from the back of his neck, hanging loosely at his side as he gazed northward past the broken fence partly submerged where it hung off from the shores and dipped into the ocean.

Kairi followed his line of sight and for a second, she could imagine Sora hopping along the posts while they urged him to be careful. His sunny grin wet when he accidentally slipped and fell into the water, splashing about in surprise. Riku ran after him without hesitation and Kairi returned to the treehouses to grab a few of the sheets to help them dry off after. She squeezed his fingers again as the memory faded along with Sora’s laughter.

“Then what are you?” She asked, turning her gaze back to Riku. He surprised her, constantly. Always deflecting positive affirmations to someone else. She knew that he didn’t mean to. That he was trying to stay within the lines that he’d set and not stray from them. Time would help them both but she wasn’t sure what all was needed. How far did they have to go before they could be together without feeling guilty again.

Riku shrugged, sheepish but receptive as he glanced toward her. A pride in his eyes that reminded her of the boy who proclaimed they’d leave their home world with a simple call of ‘Let’s go’.

“The knight who keeps you both safe.”

Kairi shook her head, tugging lightly on their hands. “We keep each other safe, Riku,” she chided gently, tipping her head skyward. “And we’ll save our prince and then…”

“Happily ever after.”

Kairi looked to him in surprise, the vague amusement showing in his eyes as he laced their fingers together then turned his gaze skyward.

“Yeah,” she echoed back as she stared at him numbly, then turned her gaze upward once more. “Happily ever after…”

#kingdom hearts #sorikai #rikai #riku #kairi #fanfiction #my fanfiction #sora

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squeeneyart · 4 years

Text

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 9

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger

Filing systems are discussed.

Someone has been poking around.

“These locks haven’t been replaced in years,” Sasha mumbled. She was on her knees, gently poking and prodding the old padlock that secured the storage house’s back door. “Should be easy work, but it may take some time to avoid breaking it.” Unrolling a bag, Martin could see thin, metal tools with different heads and lengths.

Jon and Martin kept themselves pressed low against the wall. Every once in a while, Jon would check his phone for any warnings from Tim, careful to keep the light covered with his hand. Martin kept his eyes and ears trained on the woods nearby.

It was largely useless, as Martin couldn’t see shit. There was security to that, in a ‘he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him’ sort of way. The others hadn’t been concerned about things like night vision goggles or cameras. Something about wealthy families being tightfisted and how Martin’s salary was a miracle. In the dark they would be secure, unless a bear chose to join the party.

With every second that ticked by, tension grew in Martin’s stomach. The tiny clicks of Sasha’s instruments were an alarm in his ears with nothing to cover them. His eyes wouldn’t adjust in the thick dark surrounding them, and eventually he screwed his eyes shut to stop his vision from shifting and swirling.

“Ha!” Sasha said, setting the lock beside her and stowing away her tools. “Okay, careful now.” With a gentle pressure, she turned the handle and pushed open the door. The three waited, listening for any disturbances in the darkness of the storage house. When nothing happened, Sasha motioned for the others to follow inside.

“All right,” Jon said, his voice low. “Based on the outside, we should head to that side area. The far door should go into that room connecting to the front entrance.”

“Should? Didn’t you check this place out before?” Martin asked, his voice jumping up a register.

“Of course we did! But as mentioned previously, getting inside was-”

Sasha said with gritted teeth, “We can go over our planning abilities later. We need to get moving!”

Martin continued forward but added quietly, “Wow, very reassuring.”

From both of his companions, he earned a resounding “Shut up” that would’ve hurt if it weren’t for their perfectly matching inflections.

Keeping their torches off, they let the wall lead them to the entryway. Through it, a few windows to their left were just visible by the small amount of light that periodically entered with the turning of the lighthouse beam. With this small illumination, Martin could make out the edges of large shelving units.

Sasha and Jon set themselves to work, taking thick blankets out of their packs and hanging them over the window frames. “Don’t worry, we tested these with our phone lights.” Sasha said, covering the last window. She hesitated, then added, “Well, probably best not to point your torch directly at them, but otherwise they should be fine.”

With their torches (mostly) safe to use, Martin could now see the room in full. Tall bookshelves sat in several rows facing the entryway. In the nearby corner was a small set of drawers. The wall was lined with filing cabinets, and all the way in the back right corner sat a small number of wooden crates.

Martin pointed in the direction of the crates. “I’ll check those out, unless either of you want crowbar duty?” In response, Jon slipped between the bookshelves. Sasha smiled and waved her tools toward the cabinets. He sighed. “Right. My fault for volunteering.”

Before heading over, Martin went to the drawers up front and found some nails of different sizes, perfect for covering his tracks. Pushing them into the wood with a crowbar would be slow going, but it was better than risking the pounding of a hammer in the middle of the night.

Sasha swore as he walked by. “Some of these are locked. It’ll take some time if I try to open them all.”

“Do what you can with the unlocked ones for now. I’ll look for some sort of catalogue,” Jon said, and Martin heard what he judged to be the most academic sniffle. “If these people bother with a proper filing system.”

Sasha snickered. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the Lukases have thrown everything around willy-nilly just to vex you.”

“And yet it would still be better than our own archive. If you ask me, Elias prefers the mess of it, as if it helps us any for him to know where everything is.”

“God, you’re bringing this up now.”

On his way to the crates, Martin peeked at Jon who was scowling at the shelves. “So, what, you just have to ask him where anything is? What happens if you can’t reach him?”

Jon grimaced. “You spend several hours getting stabbed with the edges of old, misfiled reports on haunted petunias.”

Sasha laughed, and Martin continued to the back corner, accepting that he must’ve missed some inside joke. Bending over the first crate, Martin braced himself on the side of its lid and checked for labels. All he found was a small series of letters and numbers.

“Fuck.” He straightened and went for the bookshelves, walking back and forth along them to scan for anything obvious. What would a file directory look like? A bound book? A file folder?

After a couple of frustrating minutes, he heard from the other side, “Try looking for a binder. Easy to remove and change organizational data. I haven’t found anything on my end yet.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Martin replied, his face burning. “Not exactly familiar with this sort of thing.”

With new direction, he located a low shelf with several binders, and tucked between two dusty tomes was his target: page after page of a coded file system with labels and descriptions, split into different storage types. He let the others know, and Sasha looked through them until she found something of interest in the cabinets.

Flipping through the pages, Martin located the proper entry and walked back over to the crates.

It was some personal belongings of an N. Lukas, some long dead relative. Nothing jumped out as important, so he dismissed it and went to the other crates. He had to climb on one to get a proper look at the one sitting on top of it. Checking the entry, he huffed out a small sound of curiosity and slid the crowbar out of his bag.

“Found something?” Jon said, peeking from behind the shelf.

“Yeah, I think so. Time to learn about my predecessor.”

With as little sound as he could muster, Martin slid the crowbar under the wood and used his weight as leverage. It was difficult from where he stood on the other crate, but eventually there was a sharp crack. Everyone froze, but after a moment of nothing they returned to work. Carefully pushing the top, Martin peered inside.

The contents were sparse considering the size of the crate. A sturdy leather jacket was neatly folded in a corner. A stack of documents in a file folder were held together with a red rubber band. Finally, in a small plastic bag, he could see a worn wallet and a mobile phone.

“There we go.” Opening the bag, he took the phone to examine. Dead, of course. He turned it over to check the charging port. “Does anyone have a charger for this? It uses one of the older universal ones.”

“Check in my bag. I’ve almost got this,” Sasha said, hands still busy with their lockpicking.

Digging through the pack, Martin found the charger and plugged it into a nearby outlet. It would be a few minutes before Martin could learn its usability, so he started flipping through the banded-together papers. There were some school transcripts, job and school applications, and other documents that felt strange for a family to be holding onto, but Martin couldn’t judge sentimentality.

Tucked in the back of the file was a newspaper clipping from the date of Evan’s death. It was as Martin had heard before: cause of death was an “unspecified congenital heart problem”; died on his way home from work; found by his mother on the day of; vague mention of a nameless fiancée.

He checked the phone again, which seemed to be charging at a slow but steady rate. Another crate would have to do in the meantime. With its lightweight cargo, Martin managed to move it to the floor and check the one underneath. Nothing of interest, same with the one stacked on top in the corner. He enlisted Jon in lifting it up off the one below, then checked for the latter’s entry in the book.

“Oh thank goodness,” Martin breathed, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders. “It has to be in here.” Removing the lid, he found himself staring at a treasure trove of what the entry had referred to as Peter’s “personal collection”, a vague term for a disorganized mess.

The items varied wildly, thrown across each other with no care or preservation. Some of them were, to Martin’s untrained eye, seemingly precious artifacts belonging on display in a museum, not rotting away in an old crate in the middle of nowhere. Many were books bound in different styles. He tried to be gentle with the older ones as he looked across the covers and set them aside one-by-one. If any of these items were lost in a bet like Simon’s, the person involved must still be kicking themselves.

He almost missed it. In the corner of a book, Simon’s neat, tiny signature was etched into the leather. The urge to open it made Martin’s hands tingle. He took off his scarf and wrapped it around the sketchbook, placing it carefully inside his bag. Curiosity had pushed him far enough that night. Whatever might’ve been going on with that book, Simon was threatening enough for Martin to use extra caution.

Using his crowbar, he lightly tapped a nail into the already-made hole. It wouldn’t be strong under scrutiny with the splintered wood, but from the outside, it looked good as new.

A small hum came from between the shelves. “Anything interesting?” Martin asked.

Jon coughed. “Possibly. Information on some of the industries the Lukas family are involved in. The list is… extensive. I think they might’ve also destroyed the local fishing economy, but that’s just conjecture on my part.”

Sasha sighed from the cabinets. “I’ve found a little on the lighthouse, but nothing on its origins. I can’t even find where the Lukas family would’ve purchased it from. However-” She waved a sheet of paper. “Turns out, Simon Fairchild made an attempt at a joint ownership of the place years ago. Rejected, of course, but I wonder what he wanted from it, besides another nice view.” She took a quick photo of it and replaced it in its file.

Martin enlisted in Jon’s help once more to re-cover the crate of Peter’s collection with the other crate. As they finished, the phone beeped from the floor, and the two swung around at the noise. “Okay, okay,” Martin jogged over and swiped at the screen. “Shit, of course.”

While it hadn’t been wiped completely, all email, phone, and text messages had been erased, along with any photos or videos. No record of Evan’s days at the lighthouse, or why he had come back in the first place. Shaking off the disappointment, Martin looked through Evan’s contacts.

His many, many contacts.

Sure, he had been a popular guy in school, but he’d spread himself out in the years away from the little town. It took all of Martin’s will not to scroll quickly through the myriad of names. With the sheer number, it seemed Evan had resorted to leaving notes on them. To avoid mixing people up? Most likely, considering he had at least four Daves listed.

Evan had kept track of a lot of people. Many had clearly been his friends from his little notes about them. Where he met them, or who he knew them through, or little things that Martin could only assume were inscrutable inside jokes.

The mere thought of talking to Evan had sent a younger Martin running. The intimidation factor had been so strong in the moment. It felt stupid now, and Martin sat for a moment to take in the volume of people who hadn’t let something like fear stop them from talking to a genuinely nice person.

It was no time to regret dumb social decisions from his teen years. He continued scrolling until a contact jumped out at him. Cheesy little hearts trailed after the name.

Naomi Herne.

He looked up at Sasha, who was thumbing through the binder. “Sasha, could you check something for me? A name, Naomi Herne. I think it might be Evan’s mystery fiancée.” He noted down her number along with Evan’s just in case.

“Sure thing,” Sasha said.

Martin finished scrolling and failed to find any other pertinent names. The fact they hadn’t been erased felt odd, but when no explanation came to him, he turned the phone off and placed it back inside the plastic bag. Along with the stack of documents, he dropped the bag back into the crate, sealed it shut and climbed back down to the floor.

From behind him, he could hear Jon back between the shelves, mumbling to himself. His phone camera’s flash reflected off the finished wood of the bookshelves. Martin was about to ask Jon about his findings, but Sasha made a noise of recognition.

She focused on an entry, then walked over to one of the cabinets. “Huh. Guess not everything is locked.” She sifted through the folders and slid one out to browse its contents. It was heftier than Martin had expected.

Sasha’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Ms. Herne was very busy.”

“What?” Martin walked across the room to read over her shoulder. Sasha’s current focus was… a restraining order?

“What the hell?” Sasha said. She flipped through some more papers. “There’s… there’s location info. Looks like they’ve been keeping tabs on her. And here, some kind of documentation of her movements in town months back.”

The wheels turned in Martin’s head. “They didn’t want her in town. Maybe she-”

There was a small thump from the bookshelves, and Jon ran toward the windows. “We need to go. Now!” Jon hissed, pulling down a hanging blanket.

“Shit.” Sasha looked at Naomi’s file and placed it in the drawer, shutting it tight. The three of them grabbed the blankets and stuffed them into their bags, and through the window, Martin could see the smallest hint of light near the street. Sasha slipped toward the exit. “Quick, out the back door!”

Doing their best without light, the three snuck down the hall and out from where they had come. Martin heard the door across the hall being opened just as they slipped outside. Jon was quick to slap on the padlock, and the three bolted into the dark wood.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Martin gasped, refusing to look behind him. He heard footsteps close by, and from near his shoulder he could hear Jon’s hoarse, quiet breath. “If we go this way, I-I think I can keep us off the road.”

“As long as they didn’t see the blankets get torn down, there won’t be any other signs we were there,” Jon said, managing to get a bit ahead of Martin despite his shorter stature.

“You’d better be right. Sasha, was there another meeting point?” Martin asked.

No one answered, and Martin’s blood went cold. The only steps around him were Jon’s. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Should we go back?”

Jon hesitated, then said through his own panting, “If something happened, w-we can’t stop now. It’s possible she ran in another direction. Going back wouldn’t be of any help. We need- we need somewhere to wait and hide. Once we have that, I-I’ll text Tim something innocuous in case something happened outside.”

Martin felt sweat running down his neck under his many layers of clothing. From where they were, he charted a course in his head. “Okay. I think I know a way to avoid town altogether.”

Using the distant beacon of the lighthouse as a reference point, the two ran through the forest. Every once in a while Martin would make a sharp turn, causing Jon to stumble after him. Trees jumped into their path, slowing the pace considerably, and after a few minutes the ground began to dip downward.

There was no running on the slope without risk, and Martin slowed them both down to stop and listen for the sound of pursuers. As they waited in silence, holding back gasps for air, Martin could feel tiny scratches on his cheeks from branches that had caught him unawares. The only sounds were the screeching of insects and the beating of his own heart.

“Okay. No more running, but keep moving down,” Martin said, willing the blood in his ears to be still.

The sun still had some time before properly rising, but exhaustion slapped Martin in the face as he stood on his front porch, fiddling with his keys.

“...You really think this is a good idea?” Jon said, straining to keep his voice low while still maintaining an appropriate level of incredulity. A yawn crept in at the end, lessening the effect.

Martin shushed him, unlocking the front door. “They have no reason to look down here. The woods are thick, and the path I took us through is weird enough that we could’ve gone in any direction. If anyone ever was following us.”

Jon grumbled and checked his phone again. He had texted Tim once they touched the stone-covered beach with no response, and grew visibly more worried with each passing minute.

“You all have plans for this sort of thing, right?” Martin asked, one hand on the door. “Covered your bases?”

Swallowing hard, Jon said, “Y-yes. I’m sure Tim and Sasha are fine. They’re resourceful people.” He checked his phone one more time, then stuffed the phone in his pocket. “I have full confidence in them.”

Tim had been right. Jon was a terrible actor, avoiding eye contact and letting his voice falter when he should’ve kept strong. Of course Jon was worried about his friends.

Martin cleared his throat. “Good. I’m sure we’ll hear from them soon. If we managed to escape, there’s no way Sasha got caught.”

It took a moment, but Jon took in a deep breath and nodded. “Right. We’ll hear from them soon.”

Martin ushered him inside and toward the stairs. “Mum is a heavy sleeper, but still, be quiet please. We’re heading to the attic. She can't get up the stairs on her own, so there's no risk of her finding you.”

They walked up the steps and kept a slow pace across the upstairs hall. Martin pulled a rope at the end, releasing a ladder he just barely caught and set against the ground. Jon crawled up and into the small space.

“I’ll be right back,” Martin whispered. “Gonna stuff some things back where they’re supposed to be.” He left to replace his supplies into their proper drawers and boxes.

After most of his things were put away, he took the sketchbook, still wrapped in a scarf, and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand, underneath his small notebook of poetry. He would have to figure out a good delivery method another time, when he wasn’t exhausted and filled with dread.

Before returning to the attic, he checked his own phone. He had also received Tim’s warning text, a simple “Time to go!”. It didn’t look like a message sent under duress. If Sasha had gotten into trouble, Tiim would’ve been around to help, and vice versa. Chances were they had all made it out okay, and the other two were being careful on their way back to their hotel.

Martin climbed up the ladder to the attic. “Any news?” he asked, pulling the ladder up behind him.

From the other side of the room, Jon faced away from him and knelt in the corner. “They’re fine. She took a different route and met up with Tim. They’re at the hotel now.” There was a tremor in his voice.

Martin’s heart squeezed in his chest, and he shut the small trap door. “That’s good. Are you doing okay? I know it got bad at the end there, and-”

Jon stood and turned. His face was contorted with confusion and fury, and clasped in his grip was the limp, dusty skin of a seal.

Every muscle tensed in Martin’s body as all but the thing in Jon’s hands faded from sight. Martin barely choked out, “Why-”

“You’re going to explain what this is doing here. Now.”

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au

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trashwrites · 5 years

Text

PAST IS PROLOGUE: CH. 5

Everything Has to Get Worse, Right?

–

Ch.1 | Ch.2 | Ch.3| Ch.4| Ch5

–

Past is Prologue, Ch. 5

Outlast; Eventual Miles/Waylon; SFW

Warnings for: Mental Illness, Anxiety Attacks, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse, Trauma, Light Violence.

Somewhere beneath layers of panic, paranoia, and mistrust, Waylon felt something hard to name spiderweb inside him like, like a cracking windshield.

Waylon sat very still, staring down where Miles had fallen against him. He draped his arms loosely around Miles’ shoulders- normal Miles, familiar Miles- while a trickle of blood stained from his nose into the arm of Waylon’s shirt.

He eyed the baseball bat he’d abandoned and let out a long, deep sigh while he tried to remember his therapist’s breathing exercised.

The idea of meditation seemed a little weak for the given situation, but Waylon would manage. As long as Miles looked like himself, he could use it to keep himself together.

Miles groaned and started to stir by the time Waylon had gotten to the part where he was supposed to imagine being a warm stone under the hot desert sun.

“Mornin,” Miles croaked. He attempted to lift himself up, then rested against Waylon once again.

Waylon’s whole body tensed up like a rubber band pulled too tight before he sucked in another breath, and let it out gently through his nostrils. The feeling of another human being held against him was, as most things were these days, too much- both an icy pang of apprehension and the warm creep of reluctant comfort.

He didn’t want to be feeling it, even if it made him feel awake again.

It had been a long, long time since anyone else had touched Waylon, outside of Gluskin and the endless parade of doctors. Even his own wife- back when he could call her his wife- had kept him at arm’s length. His whole experience had narrowed down to one word: clinical.

Somewhere beneath layers of panic, paranoia, and mistrust, Waylon felt something hard to name spiderweb inside him like, like a cracking windshield.

He hugged Miles closer; it felt safe, and comforting, and if the gesture wasn’t exactly welcome well…he was sure Miles would forgive him for the indiscretion. There was no telling the next time he’d experience safe human contact and in that moment, he wanted to remember what it felt like. To be alive. To be apart of someone else’s life, even briefly.

Blood trickled down Miles’ face as he looked up at Waylon, which called Waylon’s brief sense of safety back into question.

“I think it’s actually past noon,” Waylon said.

He scrubbed the heel of his palm against the blood tracked down Miles’ nose and chin with a wan smile. It did wonders to take the sickly edge from the man’s face.

Miles’ arms shook as he leveraged himself up and swung into an upright sitting position. Waylon ignored the pang of disappointment as he followed suit, one hand against Miles’ arm, just in case he swooned again.

“Sorry,” Miles said.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not exactly true, is it? Thanks anyway.”

“How do you feel?”

Miles eyes were heavily lidded. “Not great.”

Waylon punched the TV remote on to fill the silence; some quiet program about art and museums droning in the background. Miles winced as sunlight dappled across the living room in an arc, which prompted Waylon to jump up and yank the blinds closed.

“Thanks.”

“You need something?” Waylon ventured.

“Nah. M’fine.”

Waylon worried his lip between his teeth and went to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water that he held out to Miles like a peace offering.

Miles took it from him with a squint. “Kinda thought you’d start screaming again.”

“Think I got it all out of my system for now.”

“I’m not-“ Miles started, staring at the glass guiltily, “I don’t mean to sound like you don’t have a good reason to be-“

“It’s okay, Miles. Really.”

“Is it? Can’t believe you’re not having any second thoughts about sitting here right next to the big-bad-boogeyman Walrider.”

Waylon picked at his fingernails. “You’re not the Walrider.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Does it hurt?”

The question rushed out of Waylon as if he’d been holding it in for a while.

Miles jerked to attention. “What?”

“Changing like that, I mean.”

“Not…no? Not really.”

“‘Cause it looks like it hurts.”

“It doesn’t. Not at first, anyway,” Miles said, and pressed his thumb to his temple as if to demonstrate where it hurt.

“M’sorry.”

Miles grinned. “Now that’s more like it.”

Waylon smiled despite himself and pushed at Miles’ arm chidingly.

The smile fell from Miles’ face. “It’s like…an instinct, you know?”

“Huh?”

“Changing…it’s like an instinct.” Miles spread his hands out and inspected them as if he were afraid they’d start changing again without warning. He probably just wanted something to look at other than Waylon.

"You just…fade out. You’re still there, but something is else is piloting you. Watching from behind your own eyes.”

Waylon shuddered at the familiarity of the description. He reached out and placed his hand on Miles’ shoulder after a great deal of internal effort.

Miles exhaled and leaned against him.

“Well, I haven’t done anything too awful, at least. I think.”

Waylon’s eyes flicked away. “I really don’t want to be contradicting you right now, and you might not even remember but…you did almost tear a man in half. Just like, yesterday.”

“Oh. Yeah. You know, I had forgotten about that for a sec there.”

“So…why didn’t you?”

“What, tear the guy in half?”

“Yeah.”

“You were screaming,” Miles said simply.

“So? Why should that stop you?”

Miles’ mouth worked silently for a moment. “So, I- I dunno man! None of this makes any goddamn sense! Everything stopped making sense the moment I got shot by a firing squad and didn’t die.”

“Well, what do you remember?”

Miles grimaced. “A knife, blood, the sound of screaming and then…not much else.”

Waylon blanched. “Christ. Was it me? Was that my fault?”

“No- I mean, maybe? It’s not anyone’s fault! I just- fuck it,” Miles groaned. “I’m not doing this right now! This does not have to be unpacked.”

He stood suddenly, swaying on his feet. Waylon jumped up and reached out to steady him and tugged him back onto the couch.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

Miles dropped his head into his hands. “I just want some whiskey.”

Waylon hated how defeated Miles looked in that moment, shrunken inside himself. He hated how defeated he felt even more, even as he crept off to the kitchen to pour a glass of whiskey.

He stared at the liquid for a long time, watching it refract the dingy kitchen through the glass while he silently hated himself for doing it. Hated Miles for asking him to do it. It felt like guilt was coating his skin like grease, or dirt, sinking into his skin where he could never wash it off.

He wondered how many different times he could show up and ruin Miles Upshur’s life. He wanted to hurl the entire bottle against the wall. Instead, he handed it to Miles without looking at him.

Miles took the glass, watching Waylon curiously as he drank deep and slammed the glass onto the coffee table hard enough for whiskey to slosh out. His voice, when it came, was sharp.

“What?”

Waylon took a step back and stared at the floor. “You…you shouldn’t drink this much.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Well,” Miles said flatly, “I’m very fucking sorry for wounding your delicate sensibilities. If you want, I will go and do this somewhere you won’t have to see.”

Waylon’s eyes stung faster than he could process the feeling of rejection. He swallowed the feeling down and balled his hands into fists; he was tired of crying every time Miles got to him, and tired of making it everyone else’s problem.

He wanted to scream, but instead his voice came out small and unfamiliar.

"Do whatever you want.”

Miles drained the glass in one impressive swig and slammed it onto the table, empty. “I intend to.”

“Fine, then. I’m going out. I’ll be back.”

“You’re going outside? Alone?”

If Waylon hadn’t know any better, he would have thought Miles looked a little guilty. Then again, Waylon’s worst quality might have been his penchant for wishful thinking.

“Is that okay?” Waylon said sharply.

Miles expression closed off and he stared into his empty glass. “Whatever. Just don’t like…fuckin’ die out there.”

The tension between the two of them at the mere mention of Death was palpable. For a second Waylon would have sworn they’d had simultaneous visions of that man in the alley, the knife in his fist.

The desire to stay, to avoid the entire looming world outside Miles’ apartment welled up in him like nausea.

Until he watched Miles get up, unsteady and tilting on weak legs, to grab the whole bottle of whiskey and bring it to his lips. Waylon grabbed the door handle before he could lose his nerve a second time.

Miles waved a hand without even looking up.

Waylon winced at the way the door slammed behind him.

#outlast #outlast: whistleblower #Miles Upshur #waylon park #miles/waylon #the walrider #violence #alcohol #alcoholism #ptsd #mental illness #m/m #slash #fanfic #littlewrites

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austennerdita2533 · 7 years

Text

Day 6: Canon-ish

A/N: This is the first part of an intended 4-shot. Basically, my idea is to craft some kind of Klaroline kiss/moment for each season of the year while also showing the two of them at various points (and emotional states) in their relationship. I started thinking about how Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall all have a different look or feel about them, and I thought it would be fun to play with that thematically/symbolically. Plus, it’d give me an excuse to play with seasonal imagery.

Anyway, this part is Winter. It’s canon until Liz’s death and Caroline’s grappling with the loss. I’ve also ignored all things Stefan and Caroline. (Loss. Angst. Hurt and Comfort.)

This gave me loads of trouble, so if it’s terrible I apologize but I couldn’t bear to edit it any longer haha. Enjoy. :)

(FF.net)

xx Ashlee Bree

A Kiss For All Seasons

Part 1: Fold Into Me, Shivering

Winter’s kiss wisps across her forehead at a time of shivering delirium and despair.

She’s gone.

It’s not a dream because each breath in tastes metallic and rough, because each breath out rattles and hisses like a dented whiffle ball which has sunk beneath sediment and drowned in the shallowest of streams. It’s real life. It’s real loss, too. And real loss throbs.

It breaks—tearing, cracking, pulling, shattering, rupturing, wrenching a person into angles so painful or contradictory, that life itself feels distorted. It plunges emotions into a vise that’s so unbearable and inescapable at times, it almost feels impossible to still be alive let alone be expected to stand.

Or talk.

Or move.

Or think.

Or cry without wiping at eyes and waiting to find blood puddled on fingertips instead of tears.

At times, grief even makes it difficult to exist.

After someone dies, especially if you loved that person, the world begins to clutter in a way it never did before: it pinches in at the sides so all the noise can spill in unheard, unseen, clouding your mind and chest with smog that refuses to lift so you can breathe easy again. Everything becomes drenched in the blacks and purples and blues of a bruise, too, until there’s nothing left for us to do but crash to our knees. Until all we can do is shrink inside our gloomy new reality and burn our lung’s raw with missing.

In Caroline’s case, icicles splinter across her chest whenever she blinks against the harsh whites of morning to relive the tragedy all over again.

Mommy.

Instead of Liz’s death providing her with comfort or relief now that she’s no longer suffering, the unfair and untimely permanence of loss hollows her out until she’s raw—numb—freezing. The air around her tastes as toxic and as gritty lead. The din of life, which was once so variable and mellifluous and exhilarating to her ears, rings like television static in her head now. Blurring one minute of monotonous agony into the next without end. More than that, the rising sun in the distance (the same one that used to stream vivid, happy yellows through her window every morning), is far too weak or indirect to do anything besides snake across her moistened cheeks with it pale rays before it leaves her cold and dejected again.

Caroline’s parentless now. Alone. She’s still loved by a few friends, of course, but she feels so incredibly, unbelievably, disconnected from them all.

She’s more or less invisible. A ghost.

None of them see me. None of them know what I need.

She’s a ghost girl stuck in this endless life on her own: more hollow than haunted, more sorry and solitary than surviving. She’s an undead warrior on the outside, perhaps, but she’s all but a living, feeling woman shriveling into pieces of nothing within.

“Please don’t leave me,” her body trembles, the words scraping and shrieking inside her own mind as pain paralyzes them in place so they can’t slip down, so they can’t vault out from her throat. “I need you, Mommy, I still need you…”

But Liz is no longer there to answer. She has taken her last breath, has spoken her last goodbye.

There’s no one here who cares for Caroline unconditionally now…no one else who listens. There’s no one around to hold her hand, to kiss away her nightmares, to kill her insecurities so she can fulfill her dreams. There’s no one left who loves her in ‘alls’ instead of ‘somes’—no one.

How could leave me like this, Mommy? How?

Eyes dark-circled with sorrow and exhaustion, Caroline lies curled on one side of her mother’s bed with her knees hugged to her middle. She never stirs; she never sleeps. She stares out the paned window at a February sunrise obscured by indigo snowflakes that drip from the clouds like sleeted tears that the winter needs to cry. Fresh powder bleaches the ground and builds mounds so high they touch the trees, bending branches until they snap like broken rubber bands, burying all sounds of life beneath it except for the squawk of a nearby crow.

In places where the sky meets the horizon, bleak plums, grays, navies, and ivories scratch the edges of Caroline’s vision and almost make her long for blindness. The world outside as stark and as bone-chilling as the nightmare gnawing her apart on the inside:

Mom died, Mom’s DEAD.

But she can’t be gone, she…no! Mom? Mommy, where are you?

Mommy I—please stay. I need you to stay, okay? I’m not ready to live in a world without you. I—not yet.

It’s too soon, it’s too soon!

Mom?

MOMMY!!!?

Shadows scuttle along the walls. The floors. The furniture. Speckling her room like pox of rotting melancholy, they seem to grow larger and more formidable with each tick of the clock on the wall, their black edges curving into sharp spindly fingers that slice at entering streaks of light like a sword; their trunks expanding to root into corners as if they refuse to timber away.

Caroline, however, makes neither a move to halt their proliferation in her room nor to purge them from the space. Instead, she watches with blinking apathy as one detaches from the doorjamb at the far end of the room like a silky talon and crawls closer. It almost glides across the floor.

How will the shadow consume her, she wonders? With a bite? With a few nibbles? Or will it gulp her down whole and damn her to its full belly of despair, plummeting her into a pit of darkness with no end?

She watches as the shadow drifts forward with a slow yet assured grace. Its movements are cautious. Soundless except for the stray floorboard which creaks when it edges along the foot of the bed and crosses into streaks of daylight, exchanging shadow for skin, swapping an ‘it’ for a ‘him,’ as a man stoops to kneel beside her head.

This isn’t just any man, though.

Oh, no.

But one with eyes that are rimmed in lightning yellow. One who smells of cedar and cognac and cologne. Tastes of oranges dipped in rust. Touches with hands made of calloused buttercups. And snaps necks for sport.

He’s someone who charms a crowd with dimples and drawled threats before he strikes swiftly, and completely. He’s a wolf who’s determined to paint away his personal miseries with other’s blood. This is a man who often stars in Caroline’s dreams, and his face is one she not only recognizes, but knows—

Intimately.

“Kl-Klaus? Is that…is that really you?” she croaks uncertainly.

“It is.”

Dizzy, disbelieving, greens and blonds and brown leathers all swirl together in front of her, so she rubs at her puffy eyes then squints harder at the blurred shape of him. Her next words come out more froggy and weak than questioning.

“You came back. You’re—here,” Caroline says with a puff of breath. “You’re back in…back in Mystic Falls?”

“I am.”

“But I didn’t call or—no…no texts were sent?” He nods in confirmation of this, which puzzles her further. “You couldn’t have known that she—and the funeral? No way could you have been there because I, because I never…”

“Wait a minute,” her brows pinch, heavy lids lifting slowly to his face, “did you…did you break into the house?”

Klaus compresses his lips together, shrugs at her sheepishly. Caroline responds to this by smashing her face into her pillow with a groan and an agitated ‘un-freaking-believable.’ Then, in one swift movement, she throws the blankets over top of her and rolls over flat. Onto her back.

“Don’t be angry with me, love.”

She snorts. Pulls the covers higher.

“I realize my relationship with my family is dysfunctional at best,” he tries cautiously, his voice dipping low, “but I do have experience in parental loss. I know what it’s like. How it feels. The way it cuts you and—” she crosses her arms, holds her breath “—burns.”

Caroline cringes and squeezes her arms tight like she’s holding herself together.

“I only worried on your behalf because I know how deeply you cared for the sheriff, so I trailed you home…lingering outside in case you bolted with no reference to your humanity because I didn’t want you to do anything rash you’d regret later. I just, I wanted to keep you safe and protected. To…help you avoid any extra pain.”

"It wasn’t until you screamed that I couldn’t—it didn’t seem right to—not when you sounded so—how could I not look in?”

He pauses for a moment. Clears his throat, cracks his knuckles.

“Anyway, I thought you might be in want a friend,” he offers placatingly, pressing his palms flat against the sheets so he can lean forward a bit and hover above her. “Someone to be a shoulder. A punching bag. A hand for you to squeeze. Whatever…” his voice wobbles uncomfortably, “whatever it is you need.”

“And what if what I need is for you to, you know,” she swallows hard, “get the hell out?”

“Then I’ll go, Caroline.”

She tuts but it lacks bite. “Go where? Back outside to hide behind more snow until I snap?”

Resigned, almost as if he’d expected this kind of reaction, he draws back with a small hiss like he’s been stung, “No,” he answers cooly, his words heavy and flat, “I’ll do as you bid and head home. To Louisiana.”

The air between them becomes stagnant. Oppressive all of a sudden.

“You mean you’ll leave me here?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” she asks.

“If that’s what you wish,” he sighs, “then yes.”

“Oh.”

Time seems to slow here, silence stretching and growing like a beanstalk weed between their two bodies. Klaus plucks at a mattress spring with his thumb, its notes sharp and discordant underneath her back as he stands to pivot on his heels, readying himself to glide back into the shadows from whence he came. Leaving her alone in Mystic Falls again, setting her free like he promised two years ago.

Caroline hears him shrug his arms into his jacket with a grunt. Or maybe it’s a growl? A humph? Regardless of the noise he makes, there seems to be a sluggish dereliction to his movements. A hesitancy to proceed. And it’s probably because he’s preparing himself for the long trek through miles upon miles of snow that’ll weigh him down like ice before he reaches New Orleans. All of that slush waiting to seep in, hoping to blacken his toes…

He’s more than likely dreading the sound of orange embers crunching into snowy ashes beneath his feet as he retreats from her warm hearth and stomps out through the door again. He probably loathes the idea of submerging himself into a frigid morning all because she’s almost commanded him to go. Leave.

To go off on his own and freeze like me.

At the thought, a fresh chill kisses the back of Caroline’s neck. It momentarily anesthetizes her lungs and she cannot breathe; she cannot think. She cannot feel anything except the frostbite which pricks down low, too low, and buries itself somewhere below skin deep.

The whole world shifts inside her own head again as arctic wind gusts across a few remaining fragments of coziness: of old memories tinged pink with brandy smiles or marshmallow’d cheeks, of scarved hopes for the future knitted in bright, pretty patterns, of rich caroled dreams hummed sweetly into ears with full-bodied meaning, of soft painter’s hands which curled over top of stupid fears or desires like mittens to ease her shuddering, warming her to the bone. All of them slipping away on a sled she’s about to let crash straight through the North Pole so they may never resurface again.

Except how could she bear it? How could she survive the barrenness without them, all the cruelty? How could she find the strength to keep breathing after she lets one final sliver of warmth slip away because she’s bitter and hurting and broken? Where would her optimistic flames entomb themselves? In permafrost? In tundra? In icebergs crowding the sea?

Deep-down, Caroline knows that one biting word from her would silence Klaus for good. One more dismissive statement is all it would take to send him back to New Orleans where he belongs, thereby freeing her up to mope in this room forever. There’d be no more judgment to combat from him, no more concern. But to what end?

So her mouth can match the blue which has settled in around her heart since her mom passed away? So she can shudder harder at the falling flakes of grey and white which accumulate outside her window and aim to bury her beneath centuries of unrelenting snow? So life’s color can leak and harshen until it’s nothing more than a dead block of ice for her to kick?

As if winter isn’t teeth-chattering enough already!

Licking her lips, Caroline exhales before she slides the blanket down the bridge of nose enough to peek up at him. She rakes over his consternated expression. She watches when his body stiffens and squares in preparation of her next words. It’s as if he’s waiting for a dismissal to scythe through the air and lash him up.

“Okay, and what if—” she gulps, her voice dry and a little muffled. “What if I say I don’t want to be alone in this room right now? What then?”

Klaus’ eyes widen, hope spilling into their depths. But only for a second. A scratch of his chin followed by one, two, blinks and it sinks back into his pupils like an illusion. Like it was never there.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t. You won’t be, if that’s what you desire,” he says simply.

“And if I cry?”

He shrugs. “Then you cry.”

“I think I’m out of tissues.”

“You can use my clean sleeve then. I’m sure it’ll do just fine,” he offers drily.

She quirks an eyebrow. Shoots him a dubious look.

“What? I’m not allergic to tears, Caroline, for Christ’s sake.” He rolls his eyes. Wanders closer again. “Not immune to them either, unfortunately, if that’s what troubles you,” he adds under his breath.

Dragging a desk chair behind him, he erects it near her bedside table with a flick of his wrist. And sits.

“But you’re allergic to me, is that it?”

When he opens his mouth to respond only to slam it shut, puzzled, she gestures nonchalantly and says, “You can sit next to me on the bed, Klaus. There’s more than enough room for two, you know. It’s not like I think you have cooties or anything.”

Scooting over and up, she pats the open area with her hand. He doesn’t move.

“Well, come on then!” she tries again, less sarcastically this time. “Take off your shoes so you can climb in here. It’s drafty.”

After a few more seconds of gawking silence, Caroline, feeling both tired and fed up, rolls her eyes before she launches herself onto her knees to grab him by the hand, forcibly tugging him down onto the sheets beside her—shoes be damned!

They crash back against the pillows intertwined: Klaus’ arm braced ‘round her shoulders to cushion the fall; her nose scraping the lapels of his jacket. Her chin bangs against his clavicle and they tumble into the headboard cuddling. It’s an accident, of course, but one that feels comfortable. Oddly natural, too. And instead of shrugging him off or pushing him back so she can erect an elaborate pillow fort between them like she ordinarily would, she veers from expectation and tradition by throwing the blanket over his legs.

Next, she curls into the crook of his neck. Rests a hand in the center of his chest. Exhales. And thaws against his side as she listens to the rush of his ancient heartbeat, feeling it thrum through her own bones like this lullaby:

‘Hold me close; hold me tight; and everything else will be alright,’

Klaus initially tenses at the intimate contact. Afraid to move a muscle in case she changes her mind or wants to pull away, probably.

When she doesn’t, he relaxes. One hand drops atop the one of hers already on his chest while the other fingers silky tresses near her ear, plucking them strand by strand so they fall back against her sweatshirt with a sweet tap tap. His mouth also teases the crown of her head. It hovers close enough for her to feel each tickle of his breath against her skin, but remains far enough away that she misses the softness of his lips.

Sliding down lower onto the mattress, he kicks his shoes off onto the floor, lets a foot hook around her ankle, then folds her tighter into the furnace of his arms.

“I must say,” he murmurs against her hair, “a literal pillow is the last thing I expected to be for you today.”

“It’s only because I’m cold. February sucks and I miss my mom, okay? Don’t read too much into it.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

“Oh, shut up, will you? I can hear your smirk from here,” Caroline huffs into his shirt.

“Ah, sweet, sweet proximity.” Klaus sighs contentedly. “It’s half the battle, truth be told.”

“Ugh! You’re so exhausting.”

“I don’t see why,” he answers wryly, “it’s not as if I’m complaining.”

“No, but I know what you’re thinking.”

“Perhaps you do,” he hums in that assured, taunting way of his, “but you can’t fault me for being more than willing to comfort you given the chance.” His fingers draw soothing circles on her back. “So, if body heat is what you need from me right now, then fine—take every last ounce of mine and zip yourself up in it. Wrap it around you like a duvet, because it’s all yours.”

“Suuure,” Caroline drawls sleepily. She yawns. “Until I accidentally elbow you in the nose once I fall asleep, you mean.”

“No. I’m here and I won’t leave you. Not even if you make me bleed,” Klaus says, all pretense gone.

“Oh, you and your ridiculous promises. I swear!”

He responds to this with a low chuckle. It soon flattens into something more weighted and measured when he draws her in to deposit a sweet, earnest kiss across her forehead.

“Ridiculous or not, sweetheart, the promises I make to you I do and will keep. You can count on that,” he adds in a whisper. “You can count on me.”

Emotion clogs her throat at this; stings the corners of her eyes.

It’s right at that moment, with Klaus’ firm and unshakable finality, and his body spooned around her, that Caroline feels a ring of fire spring to life around her heart, thawing her all the way through with hope and waking her up to one devastatingly beautiful enormity: he’s the one person left who’s always wanted to be there for her. And he isn’t going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a hundred more lifetimes.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see about that, won’t we?” she shivers, cuddling closer and melding into his warmth.

“Don’t worry, love. Time is on our side.” She feels Klaus’ lips tug upward in smile. They sweep across her forehead again in kiss, but this time, they deliver promise as well as comfort, “We will.”

Thanks for reading. xx

#klaroline #klarolineauweek #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #half agony half hope #ashlee bree's writing endeavors

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what-even-is-thiss · 7 years

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Fic, Fake Smiles, 2

Hello naughty children, its sequel time. I got a lot of people showing interest in a sequel to this fic right here, and it was an interesting thing in the first place, so here we are. And do you all know how much I love horrifying imagery yet? Well, you should. Get ready. Roman’s writing some angst. And be aware; this is not necessarily in line with the first fic’s concept. It is just meant to be a sequel to it.

Tip Jar

Warnings: Non consensual changes to behavior and body, claustrophobic situation. 2,671 words.

Abstract: Roman angered the wrong personality trait.

Its time for a time out. Clear the room. He’s coming.

Here’s the thing about shape-shifting nobody ever talks about. Your size can change too. Your height. Your width. Especially if you’re part of a mind. Then there’s really no limitation.

Roman stirred and begun to wake slowly. This… didn’t feel like his bed. Not even close. He woke up in a mild panic and opened his eyes. Smooth, frosty glass all around him. He looked down. Still in sweats and a white tank top. He was stuck in something glass in his pajamas.

He stood up and surveyed the situation. It was a cylinder. On top there was metal that was screwed onto it. The glass next to it was tinted reddish in the shape of almost a… skirt?

Was he trapped in a jam jar? Sweet Hercules, he was trapped in a jam jar. Hm. Maybe that means the glass isn’t really frosted. If he had been sleeping in here all night, then…

He walked to the edge and touched it. Nothing unspeakable happened. It was just foggy glass. He moved his hand and wiped the fog away to form a little window to look out of.

Wall. Or a cabinet. It was wood.

He went to the other side and wiped away some of the fog there. More wood. He tried another part. There was a water glass. What appeared to be a giant water glass. He made a line all along the the jar at eye level. This was a cabinet. A nearly empty one with some water glasses and a few empty jam jars. Why was he here?

Roman thought about his castle and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He tried to will his regal clothes back. Nothing happened. He tried to shape-shift into someone stronger to try to break the glass. Still, nothing happened. He was stuck, in a jam jar, in his pajamas. Great.

He sat on the side in a huff. The jar was just barely too small for him to lie down in. If he lay down his head and part of his shoulders or his legs would have to be on the wall of the jar, but it wasn’t small enough for him to comfortably position himself against the sides either. All he could really do if he wanted to lie down was curl up into the fetal position, and he did not like doing that.

He considered turning the jar on its side and rolling out, but then he would have to crawl. And how high up was this cabinet?

After an indeterminate time,(time was an illusion in here, seeing as it was always dark) he decided to try it. Roman stood near a wall and jumped at the other side of the jar. Nothing happened.

“I am becoming quite pissed at the lack of movement here,” Prince mumbled to himself.

After a few more attempts to knock the jar over or break it, he gave up and sat down on the floor, holding his head in his hands.

Anxiety. This had to be Anxiety. Roman knew he shouldn’t have listened to Patton. Now Anxiety was back to his old self and free to carry out his revenge. It wasn’t like Anxiety had been completely someone else. Roman had just put a spell on him that would make him act like he would if he was a happy person. Interests and opinions didn’t change. Aesthetic didn’t change. Roman had even thought Anxiety had a nice smile when he was like that. Almost as good as his own. It had been warm and inviting, like the kind he saw Thomas wear when he was editing the parts of videos where he was playing Anxiety. Warm and playful, with a sparkle in the eye. It could almost make you feel warm inside.

But now that smile was limited to Thomas when he donned the makeup and oversized hoodie. Actual Anxiety hardly ever smiled, and if he did it was evil, or sad, or in slightly dark amusement. Even when he smiled at jokes or pranks Roman saw something darker there. Something sinister that chilled him to the bone.

He hugged his knees and fought back tears. Being stuck here was beginning to take a toll on him, and he had no idea how long he had been there. He would almost prefer Anxiety’s usual methods of revenge or symbolic bs. Breaking and bruising, panic, and being barred from speaking were all preferable to this. Being small and stuck with no chance of escape or awareness of the passage of time. Nothing but the fog from his own breath and a few empty water glasses to keep him company.

This was his torture. No escape. No movement. No change. Nothing to keep him occupied or inspire him. It was nearly unbearable.

He screamed. He couldn’t take it. He began pounding on the glass as he began to ugly cry in hysterical sobs. He was surprised at how suddenly he snapped, but he couldn’t take it anymore. The frustration and claustrophobic space were too much. It was too much.

“Anyone! God, please. Make it stop! Anxiety! Stop this! Stop! Stop. Stop. Stuh…”

He fell to his knees and leaned his torso on the foggy glass, wiping away the fog left there and smearing it with his tears, snot, and oily hands. He knelt there crying until he became too tired to keep going and he was all cried out. His head hurt now and his face felt flushed. The drying saltwater on his face stung and made him feel stiff. Sleep gave little rest.

He was awoken by a blinding light, followed by a jolt to the side. The jar was being moved. He attempted to stand and face the issue like a hero should, but the movement of the jar wouldn’t let him. It was still hard to see. His eyes were adjusting from the extreme dimness of the cupboard.

He heard a snap like a rubber band being removed from something, followed by a grinding noise as the metal lid above him twisted off. A pair of fingers reached in and he tried to fight them off but they found their way around his torso.

Roman thrashed and yelled. “Come on, Anxiety! Let me go full sized so I can fight you like a… Morality?”

Patton gently placed Roman on the counter next to the cookie jar. He placed the rubber band and cloth that had been on top of the jar in a drawer and the jar and its lid in the dishwasher. Then he looked down at Roman. Looked down at him with sharp daggers in his eyes.

Nothing in all the realms of the universe can make one feel smaller than the disappointed gaze of a benevolent parent, and Roman was currently four inches tall.

Roman stayed silent. His own eyes were looking down at him with a disappointed gaze and he wasn’t exactly sure why. After a minute or so, which felt to the prince as if it were an eternity, Patton spoke.

“I’m going to put you back to normal, and you’re not going away. Do you understand?” Patton said.

Roman stared in disbelief at the angry father in front of him. He said nothing.

“I said, do you understand? Answer me, Roman,” Patton said.

Roman swallowed and nodded. Patton moved his hand up and Prince was sitting on the counter, normally sized and fully clothed.

“Do you know why I put you in that jar, Roman?” Patton asked.

“You were the one that did that to me? I was lost in there! I was being tortured within an inch of my life!” Roman exclaimed.

Patton shook his head disapprovingly. “That’s just the problem, Roman. You don’t know what you did wrong. Well, its my job to know right from wrong. Were you under the impression I was just comic relief?”

This last statement was followed by a cold smile that was rarely seen from Patton. It was serious. It was deadly. It was the smile he gave just before someone was put in their place. When bigots were struck down. When friends were hurt and then avenged. When it was decided that someone would not be forgiven for what they had done. It was rare, it was cold, and it was absolutely terrifying.

Roman swallowed. “Fine. What have I done?”

“You hurt Anxiety. I know more about feelings than you do. What have Anxiety and I been trying to tell you and Logan for years? You can’t think through everything. Did you honestly think that hurting Anxiety would help us in any way?”

Roman jumped off the counter and got as close to Patton’s face as he dared.

“Listen up, you pretend parent, I did not harm him in the slightest. I simply altered his personality slightly. It was an attempt to alter the entire personality and it failed. Nothing about Thomas changed so you can leave it alone already,” Roman said in the angry serious tone he normally reserved for Anxiety, or in rare occasions Logan.

“Do not take that tone with me, Princey. I know Anxiety was trapped. More trapped than you were in that jar. More tortured. More closed in. I know about feelings and emotions. I am feelings and emotions. So would it kill his highness to listen to his feelings for two minutes?”

Roman took a step back. Patton’s eyes were slowly filling with tears. He blinked them away and closed his eyes tight.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, You just, really hurt him. You did. And now I hurt you almost as much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,”

The tears fell quietly, but Patton fell slowly to his knees anyways.

“I’m sorry, Princey. I’m sorry,”

Roman was used to seeing Patton cry, but somehow this time was different. There was something desperate about this. Something almost hopeless. Morality was always extremely open. He was the heart. He never repressed any emotions on his own. Never pretended to feel something. Sure, he might say he’s feeling bad with a smile on his face, but he will tell you when he’s feeling bad. This was just as genuine as anything else, and that was the terrifying part.

Roman got to his knees on the kitchen floor and touched Patton’s shoulder.

“Patton? Morality? What do you need me to do? What do you need?”

“Apologize to Anxiety. You need to mean it,” Patton said, not looking the prince in the eyes. “You have to mean it,”

Roman punched the wall in his bedroom, making a splintery hole. He quickly willed it fixed and then went back to pacing.

Apologize to Anxiety? Why? Why? Anxiety is the antagonist. Anxiety is the one that causes the most problems. Avoidance of social events, worrying constantly about problems that aren’t there, stopping Thomas from doing fun things even when they are possible. Why should he feel any remorse for what he did?

“What are you so stressed about?” Came a voice.

Roman jumped and drew his sword. Anxiety looked unfazed. He sat there on the headboard of Roman’s large gilded bed eating an apple. He seemed almost bored.

“What are you doing here?” Roman asked suspiciously.

“My job,” Anxiety said through a mouthful of apple.

“Explain,” Roman said, pointing his katana at Anxiety’s face,

Anxiety swallowed his apple and rolled his eyes. “You’re distressed. I’m here to make it worse. That’s what I do. Though I sense you’re upset about more than just all of Thomas’ friends being out of town. They’re totally abandoning him, by the way. Its probably your fault. You always did make us a little too eccentric,”

A thought passed Roman’s mind. He fought with himself about it for a second and then asked Anxiety the question.

“Do you actually bother us just for the sake of making things worse?”

“Nope. Its all justified,” Anxiety said bluntly. “Thomas really is that much of an idiot and we need to make sure his friends, family, and fans don’t realize that and suddenly abandon him. Or, us if you’re talking about the fandom maybe,”

“I think i preferred when you were being vague,” Prince said, sheathing his sword.

“So what’s your damage?” Anxiety said, taking another bite of the apple.

Every nerve in Roman’s imaginary form yelled at him to snap back with an insult and push Anxiety aside. He thought of Patton. Thought of those daggers in his eyes. That cold stare. The sobbing on the floor. The fog on the glass.

“What was it like when I put that spell on you?” Roman asked.

Anxiety froze mid-chew. His mouth was full and his jaw was raised under a closed mouth. After realizing he had frozen he swallowed hard and looked at Princey in disbelief.

“Why do you care?” He asked.

Roman looked at the area to the right of Anxiety rather than directly at him.

“Patton put me in a time-out today,” Roman said.

“Yikes. What was it for you?”

“A jar. A jam jar in a dark cupboard,” Prince said.

“He usually just doesn’t let me leave my hallways,” Anxiety said, taking another bite.

“Wait. He has done this before?”

Anxiety moved the bite of apple to the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t show when he talked.

“Rarely, and usually to me. He just makes me get lost in the nightmare hallways,” He swallowed. “I don’t like being in there for more than I’ve got to. Its not the worst thing ever though. Its just mildly irritating. Not like what you did to me,”

“Then what did I do to you?’

“You put me in Hell, Princey. I was in Hell. You have any idea what its like acting happy when you don’t wanna?”

He gently threw the apple core at Roman and it bounced off his shoulder. Roman noted there was no hostility in the gesture. If anything, it was playful, like siblings blowing straw wrappers at each other in a fast food restaurant. The lack of hostility and mockery Anxiety was showing today cut him to the core. There was something extremely unnatural about it. Somehow it was just as terrifying as Patton’s cold anger.

“No answer, huh?” Anxiety said. “Well, then I’d better stop messing around and do my job,”

There was the evil smile. Right on cue.

Anxiety seemingly vanished, but the room grew darker. He shouldn’t have told the emo idiot about his time-out. He really shouldn’t have done that.

How does it feel when you don’t get to choose? Not good, huh?

The words echoed through his head as the bed grew further and further away. Soon, Roman was about the size of a mouse. His belt and sword hadn’t shrunk with him. He pushed the now heavy leather strap off of himself. This was not going to be fun.

The guilt he felt, the terror he felt, the failure that was his to own, all weighed on him far more than that leather belt. He sat down leaning against one of the feet of the bed.

You cause problems just like the rest of us.

“I was wrong that time, but I do not cause as many problems as you do,” Roman said to the air. “I am sorry, but I can’t believe I deserve this,”

You’re not perfect.

“But I am. I am perfect just the way I am,” Roman said. “Far more perfect than you,”

I think he meant he is sorry. I think he meant it.

“So you’re here too. Very well. The line blurs more often than one would think,”

Ideas still came. Everything stayed the same. Or perhaps a bit more anxious than normal. Mild creative block after being forced to act happy for a few days. Nobody can be happy all the time, No creative person can be creative every second of their life. Thomas Sanders is no exception to the rule. This last week had just been particularly hard.

#sanders sides #anxiety sanders #roman sanders #prince sanders #patton sanders #morality sanders #logic sanders #logan sanders #thomas sanders #thatsthat24 #mircheckthisout #fanfic #fan fic #fanfiction #fan fiction #roman wrote a thing

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kaiunkaiku · 7 years

Text

Literally my first actual sickfic ever wow. Also it’s six in the morning and I haven’t gone to sleep yet so please let me know if you find weird stuff so i can make corrections!

Yuri glances around him in the crowded room, searching for a familiar face. He doesn’t really care who, he’d take even Katsudon right now. He’d prefer Otabek, sure, but in the middle of unfamiliar reporters and photographers the only thing he needs is an excuse to get away without the reporters following him. Because they will follow him because this is Russia and the media loves him about as much as he hates it.

He sees Mila chatting with some dude with a microphone, Viktor on the other side of the room and the Swiss pervert flirting at a camera. There’s a young-looking female reporter eyeing Yuri like she’s gonna come talk to him any second and at least three more who, to him at least, look exactly like they’re preying on him. So he leans back against the wall and tries to ignore the fact that his palms are sweating and he feels like shit and he’s actually terrified that he’s going to puke in front of a roomful reporters. His heart is hammering against his ribs.

Yuri crosses his fingers inside of his pockets and prays that he can hold on until the end of the press conference and that no people will come to talk to him anymore. He’s already given three interviews with the same questions he’s been asked every single time since he made his senior debut and answered some odd ones from a few reporters asking random questions from every skater, coach and manager in the building. The variety of papers and magazines represented is ridiculous.

A tap on his shoulder startles him from his thoughts and he nearly jumps. Otabek is standing next to him with a concerned expression on his face and his finger above Yuri’s shoulder just about to tap again as Yuri turns his head.

“Are you okay?” Otabek asks after briefly greeting him with a curt nod. Yuri returns the gesture, just a small, sharp movement of his head which at this point, he notices, is starting to first of all hurt and second of all feel kind of dizzy.

“Peachy,” he grumbles as Otabek settles next to him against the wall, assuming approximately the same position. Yuri turns his gaze to the tips of his shoes while Otabek cranes his neck upwards and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

Yuri looks pale, even paler than usual from where Otabek is standing. He’s curling in on himself just a little bit, shoulders hunching along with his back. It’s a complete opposite of the way Yuri otherwise carries himself, back straight and shoulders in line, and the pallor of his skin worries Otabek. But there’s really nothing he can do if Yuri insists on being stubborn, so he just has to wait.

It takes a surprisingly short time for Yuri to give up, but maybe that’s just a testament to how bad he feels.

“I feel like shit,” Yuri whispers, still facing the floor.

“Look like it, too.” Yuri ignores this.

“They’re gonna follow me outside.” He states this almost like a fact, but there’s also a plea for Otabek to do something about it. He’s feeling worse by the minute, although he still doesn’t really want to admit it, and his stomach is really starting to hurt now. A soft belch bubbles up his throat and he does his best to stifle it, but Otabek notices anyway. He finally turns his eyes back to his friend.

Yuri’s light hair color doesn’t usually look very different from his fair, northern skin tone, but at this moment his skin is quickly going ashen and his hair looks, in contrast, nearly yellow. He swallows thickly and pales even further.

Otabek pushes himself up and nudges Yuri’s arm for him to do the same. It’s becoming increasingly clear that he needs to get the younger boy out of the room, the quicker the better. He secures his arm tightly on Yuri’s shoulder, giving him the slightest push forward but Yuri is, thankfully, moving on his own. On their way out of the door Otabek gives a look to a few reporters who look like they’re about to follow them, just like Yuri said.

Yuri is so grateful for Otabek getting him out of the room. He’s still hoping he’ll feel better when he gets somewhere where he can breathe better, but he’s quickly proven wrong as another burp bubbles up his throat and he tastes bile. He’s feeling more and more nauseous now, and the churning in his stomach is getting alarming. Thankfully Otabek is steering him right towards the bathroom.

By the time they reach the blessedly empty bathroom, Yuri has his hand in a fist pressing his lips and his legs are shaking. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking and he feels himself break out in cold sweat. His t-shirt is sticking to his back and shoulders under his jacket and Otabek’s hand is still on his shoulder, hot and pressuring. He’s hot and he’s freezing and he’s sweating and he wants it to stop.

Yuri feels his stomach turn and suddenly something is crawling up his throat. He shakes Otabek’s hand off his shoulder with all the quick desperation of a sick person and bolts for a open stall. His head is spinning, or maybe it’s the room and not his head and he’s actually fine and everything is because of his surroundings. It’s an almost comforting chain of thoughts he doesn’t get to end because he needs to open the toilet lid before he pukes all over it.

A belch turns into a retch and brings up strings of foul-tasting saliva. Strands of long, blonde hair hang around his face, limp and lifeless and very much in danger of getting covered in vomit because his hands are too busy clutching his turning rolling churning aching pit of a stomach to do anything about his hair. In his misery Yuri almost doesn’t notice as Otabek gently gathers his locks into a loose ponytail with a rubber band he probably just found from the bottom of his pocket.

Yuri retches again, still getting nothing but saliva, but then again it’s not like he’s had much to eat today anyway. Finally though, his stomach seems to decide on getting rid of its contents and Yuri heaves,this time bringing up a surge of undigested breakfast that both looks and smells so disgusting he gags again, bringing up another wave of vomit. Very little and mostly liquids and stomach acid that burns his throat, but his body is determined to keep turning itself inside out.

Otabek runs a soothing hand along Yuri’s spine as the younger skater continues dry heaving into the toilet bowl. Yuri is shaking like a leaf under his touch and Otabek might be getting a little worried about his friend. He says nothing, though, not until Yuri is finished.

“Are you done?” Otabek asks when the dry heaving finally ends. Yuri rests his head on the wall of the stall and gives a vague grunt that could mean literally anything, but he’s not moving back to the toilet bowl so Otabek reaches to flush. Then he pushes himself up and offers Yuri a hand.

“How about we get you cleaned up?”

Reluctantly, Yuri takes Otabek’s extended hand and raises to shaky legs. He doesn’t know how he manages to walk to the sink (with Otabek’s generous help, that’s how), but the water on his clammy face feels heavenly and getting rid of the disgusting taste in his mouth makes him a little less reluctant to speak, although his voice is rough and raspy.

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. He still doesn’t feel good, exactly; he’s cold, his head is swimming and his stomach still feels upset. He has no desire to go back.

“It’s nothing, really,” Otabek answers with a crooked smile. “Are you gonna be okay? Do you need anything?” he then asks, voice getting a concerned tone. Yuri doesn’t look much better than he did before. Otabek takes a step closer and puts his hand on Yuri’s forehead.

“Don’t feel too good,” Yuri murmurs, leaning into the touch. “Think I might’ve caught something.”

“I think you might be right. You’ve got a fever.”

“Figures.”

“Do you want me to go get someone? I think I saw your coach earlier.” They should get Yuri somewhere to rest, Otabek thinks, and Yakov is probably the best bet.

“I came with him. Could you?” Yuri raises his head to look at Otabek, and there’s something akin to relief in his eyes.

“Sure I could. Just hang on.”

Otabek disappears through the door and all Yuri can think about is how much he wants to go home. He wants to go home and see his grandpa, but they’re nowhere near Moscow. Yakov is the second best option, but right now, sick on the wrong side of Russia, he misses his grandpa more than anything.

He doesn’t know how long he waits, leaning on the sink and and staring at nothing with glassy eyes, until the door opens again and in walks Yakov with none other than Viktor Nikiforov in tow and followed by Otabek.

Yakov walks straight to Yuri and lifts his chin up, other hand going for his forehead first and then moving to his cheeks and neck to confirm the obvious fever. He frowns and sighs and shakes his head and Yuri is so past caring about what Yakov thinks. He’s starting to feel lightheaded on top of everything else and he just wants to go to sleep.

“Otabek here told me that you were sick,” Yakov starts, as if it wasn’t obvious already. “I didn’t expect it to be this bad, though. I’m gonna take you back to the hotel, okay?” Yuri barely nods in response. Then, belatedly, he realizes something and raises his head.

“What’s he doing here?” he asks, gesturing at Viktor. Talking is starting to feel like a chore. Thinking is starting to feel like a chore.

“I was worried!” Viktor pipes, voice way too cheerful for Yuri’s taste.

“And now you can stop being worried, he’s alive,” Yakov retorts. “Now, Yuri, let’s get you back to the hotel.”

#my writing #fanfiction #emeto #emetophilia #sickfic #vomiting #yuri plisetsky #yoi #and now i'm going to bed

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