#so i settled for hinting at it in an abstract way | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thegnomelord · 6 months

Note

sof and cute hcs of eldritch reader trying to learn how to people (and maybe some raunchy ones about learning how human "mating" works) hhhhnnnngggh

Imagine Learning To Be Human

CW: SFW and NSFW First TF141 with SFW, then NSFW headcannons, sexting, masturbation, sex toys, morning after (no sex), sexual nudity, nonsexual nudity, implied poly141. GN reader, 500-900 words for each blurb, so somewhere around 5.5k words. Imma be quiet for the next week or so as I prepare for an exam so I'm feeding ya'll :Dd

Imagine SOAP— It's safe to say you're not the best with expressing what you think, especially not in this hollowed out corpse a tiny fraction of your consciousness inhabits. The more you try, the less human your attempts come out, only remembering that humans don't bend that way or don't do something after you've done it. You find yourself gravitating to Soap because he is the opposite of you, so open and responsive like an open book.

Imagine; observing Soap as he tries to piece together the fragments of a bomb, muttering curses under his breath as if the object had just called football 'soccer'. He's so concentrated he forgets the rest of the world exists, oblivious to you sitting across from him. But that's not a problem as it gives you a chance to watch and try to mimic what his face does; the slight hint of teeth as he nibbles on his lip, the furrow of his brows, the tenseness of his jaw pulling on his throat muscles…

You try to mimic every emotion he goes through as he tries and fails and succeeds and fails again to fit the pieces together like a jigsaw, but the hardest one to do is that smile of his. For some reason you just can't get it right, lips pulling back too far, teeth too much on display and brows too furrowed so you end up looking like an old savage.

Then as if to spite you, Soap looks up at you and immediately snorts. "What're yea doin' there Bonnie?" He coughingly laughs as your facial features return to your statue like state.

"Trying to look like you." You huff; at least you can do that correctly.

"Oh, look strapping don't I?" He snorts, doing what Ghost calls 'fishing for compliments' (though you're unsure how one can fish for abstract ideas).

"No more than the rest." You shrug and see him roll his eyes, though the corners of his lips are still quirked up, a hint of teeth on display and vestiges of dimples framing his mouth. "How do I do that?" You ask and motion to his face.

"Do what? Smile?" You snorts, already beckoning you over like you're a dog. "It's easy."

You lean across the table, tilting your head to indicate confusion but leaving your face a blank canvas. It takes all of your presence of mind not to give an earth shattering purr when his hands cup your jaw, distant stars quivering as his blunt nails scratch at your throat for a blissful second.

"Here," His thumbs settle at both corners of your lips, putting gentle pressure until he pushes the flesh back and up in a way that's natural to the skin suit but not you. "There yea go." He grins and pulls his thumbs away after a few moments, grinning when you hold the expression.

"Now yea're as dashing as me." He chuckles and you two must look like utter buffoons just grinning at one another; you wouldn't have it any other way.

Imagine GAZ — You're not exactly alive, technically you're the antithesis to life and existence, so to you, simple rules like eating or sleeping are no more than chalk guidelines after a rainstorm. Gaz doesn't subscribe to this idea, he's always trying to get you to indulge in these human comforts and you always allow him, even if it does include eating more things in a week than most of your kin have consumed in a millennia, if that.

Imagine; wandering the halls on a lazy Sunday morning, no drills to run or missions to prep for, and being drawn to the communal kitchen by the sound of boiling water and banding pans. You find Gaz cooking breakfast for the boys; he's the only one who can cook (according to him) seeing as Price seasons his food with hope, Ghost burns everything into coal and Soap's not allowed into the kitchen after he'd tried to make tea in the microwave (which Gaz had later asked you to exorcise).

"Mornin'." Kyle yawns and smiles at you, dressed in shorts and one of your 'lost' shirts. You do your best to replicate his expression. "Help me, yeah?" He asks and nods his head at what he's cooking.

Your expression falls back to neutral. "You'll need to show me how." You admit as you get next to him.

"Not a problem," He chuckles as he shifts behind you, pressing his chest flush with your back with his hands hovering over yours. You feel his warmth when he rests his head on your shoulder, his hands firm and steady as he shows you how to chop tomatoes and sausages, how to hold the knife correctly and pulling your fingers back when the blade draws too close to the flesh, talking you through it until you can do it on your own.

After that he leaves you to your task as he almost dances around the kitchen, stirring a pot here then putting the kettle on there and so many more little things while you remain where you are because you, by nature, are slow; to adapt, to age, to change.

But you do it for him.

"Those look great." He grins when you're done and then herds you in front of the cooking pans, and you're a little apprehensive about the bubbling oil when he dumps what you'd cut up into the pan. But his warmth is at your back again, steady hands guiding you on how to cook the food without burning your skin and leaving you to it when you catch on.

Then you feel a tug on your shirt, his presence once again next to you, but this time he's holding a piece of sausage on the end of a fork, a hand beneath it so it doesn't drop, "Hey, taste this for me."

You contemplate arguing you can't actually taste food the same way he does, but he gives you a look that has you letting him feed you. Though it tastes no different from everything else, from his hand it may as well be sweeter than ambrosia.

"Tastes good." The way he brightens up at your words makes the food only taste sweeter.

Imagine GHOST —You and him are similar in some ways, you both prefer to stick to what you know, who you know. It's harder for you to contain what you are inside your flesh body when there is so much life around you that every additional heartbeat pulls at the edge of your cold existence. So you stick to close to the people who's warmth has grown so familiar it's indistinguishable from the burning starts making up your real body.

Imagine; attending a celebration held by both TF141 and Los Vaqueros after a mission gone well, loud music and lewd lyrics blaring in your ears as men drink like teenagers at their first frat party. You're in a more secluded part of the bar next to Ghost, both of you nursing drinks while you watch the rest act like fools.

You're a little confused when you see Gaz and Soap move in a strange way, grinding against one another and pressed so close you'd think they're trying to mate, their hands roaming the other's body so roughly you're surprised no pieces of clothing come flying your way.

"Got a free show for my drink." Ghost chuckles next to you.

"What are they doing?" You finally ask when you can't contain your curiosity.

"Dancing." He answers and swallows the last inch of booze in his cup, setting it down on the bar. "For fun." He adds, already expecting the line of questioning, as if that's supposed to make you understand.

"They just look like they're trying to mate." You point out, receiving a long sigh in return.

"How 'bout I just show you." Before you can say anything he nicks the cup of untouched alcohol in your hand and swallows it all down in one go, putting the empty cup next to his before grabbing you by the arm and pulling you outside through the back entrance. You go along with him, but you're confused when you catch Soap's eyes and he wolf whistles at the two of you.

The world outside is calmer than the busy bar, the air much colder; closer to what you are. You turn to him once he lets you go, tilting your head and furrowing your brow to convey confusion. "So…what do I do?"

"Just follow my lead." A gravely chuckle escapes Simon as he closes the distance between you two, his rough hands settling on your waist as he begins to slowly rock both of your bodies along with the music, though his movements are more contained than what you'd seen, a steady push and pull compelling you to follow him.

"Why is this different than what Soap and Gaz were doing?" You ask, clutching his shoulders in return, your forehead almost resting on his chest as you look at your feet so you don't step on his toes.

You feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles, "They set a low bar." He rumbles and his hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up so you two lock eyes, the intensity in his brown irises drowning out the sounds of the bar. "Eyes on me."

You nod. Your eyes stay firmly on him as you sway together to a tune he hums, finding a common ground in the way your cold and his heat mixes together. Above you millions of your eyes peer down at him, for as vast as you are, for this moment your attention is on him.

Imagine PRICE — He can tell how tired you are, not physically but mentally; having to communicate and understand people without the use of a mental link, when even the most complex ideas can be conveyed easily, was starting to fray the edges of your control over your human body. He decided to do something about it.

Imagine; Price taking you and the boys fishing to a remote cabin next to a lake. Knowing you don't sleep he pulls you out by the lake at the ass crack of dawn, having you watch as he sits down on the dock, his pants pulled up to his knees so he can dip his feet in the water while he sets up the fishing rods.

"What are we doing?" You ask but follow his example and sit next to him, the cool water of the lake similar enough to the cold abyss your true body resides to calm your nerves, though you're unsure of what to do when he gives you the fishing rod.

"Fishing." He says as he shows you how to cast out the line. "You look like you need it."

You don't argue with him and just try focusing on fishing, letting him teach you how to watch the line to see when something takes the bait and when to reel it in. You’re unsuccessful your first few attempts, and you have half the mind to just jump in and wrangle the fish in the lake with liquid abyss, but he stops you.

"Catching isn't the point." He says as he smokes his cigar while he takes an old boot off your hook. "It's about relaxing, the fish are just a bonus."

You let out a low sound that vibrates the water, but you settle next to him and cast out the line again. You don’t know how long you sit there next to him, your sides touching with the fishing rod sitting loosely in your hands. After some time you manage to yank out your first fish, and you certainly don't gloat when you pull a few more fish out of the lake while he only pulls out seaweed, but the look of pride in his eyes makes it even better.

Any prospects of catching any more fish are dashed when Gaz and Soap wake up and take running jumps into the lake, scaring all the fish with their splashing. "Like school boys." Price remarks as Ghost comes up to you both, offering beers as he sits down on your other side.

"Summer vacation, captain." Ghost says and slips into the water, and you realize this is calming; in the way you haven't felt before, doing something familiar like watching Soap and Gaz trying to dunk each other in the water but feeling like you’re right there with them, laughing alongside them when Ghost scares the shit out of them by lunging out of the water.

“See sweetheart? ‘S not hard.” Price hums, adjusting his hat though his shoulders are already reddened from sunburns. He offers you his cigar and you accept it, breathing in the nicotine and smoke despite not having lungs or a circulatory system to be affected by it, before you give it back. “Taking it easy is good for you.”

You nod your head, content to sit next to him until something tugs on the line of your forgotten fishing rod and you scramble to reel it in. You give a small grunt as whatever is on the hook struggles, "Yank on it." Price tells you and you do, nearly toppling on your back when you finally win the tug of war. You blink as you look at what you've caught.

A Speedo.

"Well would you look at that." Price chuckles.

Judging by the way Johnny's suddenly bare assed and throwing obscenities in Gaelic your way, you assume that it's his.

“Caught a big one there.” Ghost notes, not yet laughing but his shoulders shake with silent laughter as he slaps Soap's cheeks (of his rear).

He yelps, confident enough to be naked in front of all of you, but not shameless enough to where his cheeks (on his face) don't redden from the way Gaz cackles and wheezes with laughter so loudly he nearly drowns. You give Johnny back his trunks before he can drown Gaz but, maybe you should fish any more.

NSFW:

Imagine SOAP— If anyone ever asks Soap why he would ever send a dick pick to an ancient god, he'll blame anything and everything; on being stood up, on loving himself a little less, on mixing up the numbers, in being black out drunk…

Imagine; him being stone cold sober when the thought invades his mind and he spends the next hour trying to take a good picture: in front of the mirror, on the bed, no clothes, some clothes, the list of positions goes on. He doesn't want to come across like he's compensating by just holding his dick in his hand like some cunt; as silly as it is, he wants the picture to actually tempt you, to make you feel something, though the question of if you even can doesn't cross his mind. He ends up with a picture of him on the bed, the tip of his hard cock peeking out from beneath the band of his boxers.

He won’t admit he holds his breath when he sends the suggestive picture to you alongside a ;) , watching the text bubble appear and disappear multiple times before you just leave him on seen. He deflates and has half the mind to delete the picture and chuck his phone to the other end of his bed but he’s stopped when he gets a message from Price.

‘My office. Now.’

Turns out you were with Price when you saw that photo and without a second thought had shown him it and asked what it meant. Granted Price had seen more than just his dick, but he was less than happy about Johnny sending you unsolicited dick pics.

You quiz Soap for nearly an hour, stone faced and unbothered while he gets redder with every question (what can you send, what not to send, how much to send, etc.) and he gets the impression that's how his ma' felt when she gave him and his sisters 'the talk'. “So, yeah.” He clears his throat, whole face feeling hot. “Don’t do it ‘lest yea’r asked or yea like ‘em.”

Thankfully Price finally lets you go when you’re satisfied with his answers and Soap can’t scamper fast enough out of his office with his whole face in flames.

He deletes the photo soon after but you've already burned it into your memory where it will outlast the stars, and the idea to reciprocate festers in your ageless mind like rot until you find yourself in front of your mirror after a shower. You play with the phone for a long time, snapping a few blurry close up shots of your face while you attempt to change it from the front to the back facing camera.

It takes even longer to figure out what to send as Soap wasn't that clear with his answers. Your siblings give you pointers, and first you attempt to take a picture of your most private part — bones snap as your rib cage splits open into a maw, vines full of eyes wrapping around your ribs like ivy as tendrils of darkness unwind just enough for the anti-light of your very essence sucks up all the light in the room — but the mirror cracks and your phone just shuts off with a pitiful whimper.

After fixing the mirror you end up doing what you do best; you mimic one of the statues you'd seen the Greeks make, the towel wrapped just along the V where your thighs connect to your pelvis, exposed from the waist up with your skin still wet. Your body isn't as demure as the muses that sculptor had used, but you hope Soap will appreciate it as you snap a few more photos and send them to Johnny with the same ;) he'd sent you.

Soap nearly chokes on his spit when he gets the photo, all the blood in his brain flooding south as his eyes rake over every exposed inch of skin, every curve and every dip in the muscles making him drool and cock harden and he's racing to your room before you even have the time to turn your phone off.

Imagine GAZ — For all of your pitfalls and misunderstandings he likes the little hints of inhumanity in your speech, in your mannerisms, in knowing you could be anywhere and anytime but you choose to be next to him. He couldn't imagine himself being enamored with an ant, yet you hang on his every word like he's revealing secrets you don't know, making him feel special; he feels so bad when his thoughts of you stop being innocent.

Imagine; He tries to keep things respectful, but his imagination runs wild when you do the simplest things. Bend down to tie your shoe? He's checking out your arse from the corner of his eyes. Stand behind him? He's suppressing a shiver just imagining your body draped over his in post-coital bliss. Check his skin for injuries? Gaz has to bite his lip to keep from begging you to touch all of him, to explore his body. Work out? Kyle's lucky if he doesn't start drooling imagining going over and licking the sweat off your skin, of feeling your muscles tense beneath his tongue while you continue to work out with him between your legs.

When he can't think of you without popping a boner he ends up having to compromise before the shame eats him whole. He goes on a random porn site; he usually prefers just using his imagination but when his mind keeps circling back to you he has no other option, and his conscience gnaws on him when he ends up finding a porn star with similar features to yours. It's not wrong if he's wanking off to a different person, right?

Heat's already burning in his stomach when he slouches in his chair, his back to his room and one earbud in his ear. Shame continues to eat at him when he's both delighted and disheartened by the fact the porn star sounds nothing like you, that his bones don't shiver like they do when you talk.

He keeps the volume low and instead focuses on rubbing and squeezing his cock the way the porn star does to a second actor, and he can't help imagining what you'd sound like; high pitched and whiny? Husky and low? Completely silent or animalistic? The idea of pulling sounds of pleasure out of your throat has him leaking. His head lolls back and he moans as he squeezes the base of his cock, his eyes open just enough to blur the fine details on the porn star's face so you two become indistinguishable.

His heart stops when you burst through his door, a random question leaving your lips before your ears pick up the moans and slick sounds coming from his direction. You're next to him in an instant, looming over his chair and caging him in with your eyes stuck to the screen. "What are you watching?"

"Get out!" He yelps and tries to push you away but it's like trying to move a mountain.

"Why does that human look like my vessel?" You persist, "And why are you watching humans mating when you told me it's wrong?" You tilt your head, luckily not seeing his hand on his hard cock, the porn reflecting in the blacks of your eyes.

“It’s on the net it’s different! People upload it for others' pleasure and-” He sputters and cuts himself off when he registers your words, freezing in place and that accidentally gets him to squeeze the head of his cock.

Your pupils widen like a cat’s when you hear the little moan escape his chest, your head automatically dropping down to see where his other hand is. "Oh,” is what comes out of your mouth when you see his hard weeping cock. “Can I?” You ask, making an odd motion with your head.

He thinks you're asking to leave and nods. "Yeah-" Gaz wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, his cheeks burning red like he's a lobster in a pot. “-can you pl-please leave-”

He wheezes when your cold hand suddenly wraps around his cock, your hold firm and just at the edge of pain but still making him throb. A few more eyes spread across your skin to see him while you watch the video still playing on his computer, giving his cock a small pump and shaking the stars with your purr when he moans.

"What are-" He neck nearly snaps to look at you, a shiver raking his body and another moan escaping him as you squeeze the head of his cock, your skin like ice yet it makes him burn with arousal.

"Watch." You order and turn his head with your free hand so his eyes are back on the screen. You don't know why he's watching a fake 'you' mate when he could just ask you, but you know one thing; the person on the screen is competition, and by the way you roughly stroke his cock until he's whining and leaking like a tap, Gaz can tell— you don't like competition.

Imagine PRICE — He never imagined he'd need to have 'the talk' with a god; sure, you may understand how sex works, but you're hopeless in understanding the nuances of it all. If someone doesn't directly say 'let's fuck' you assume any touches from them, even groping, is just them being friendly. It makes his blood boil, seeing you be taken advantage of like that.

Imagine; You're in the bar with the boys and Price is a couple of drinks in when he sees being felt up by a stranger and you're oblivious to his advances. A green eyed monster nips at Price's heels and he doesn't notice when he puts himself next to you, 'accidentally' shoving the other guy back with just his bulk. His presence, his demeanor, and the few harsh words spoken in a clipped tone has the other guy scampering off.

He doesn't remember much after that, only the way you'd looked at him — with the intensity of a ravenous void, like he was a bright star you wanted to devour.

What wakes him isn't his clock, but the rays of sunlight gently streaming through the curtains. He groans as he registers the awful ache behind his eyes before he even has a chance to open them. He feels his bed shift and his eyes snap open automatically, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees you laying on your side as you stare at him.

"Jesus!" He jumps up, nearly topples over from the sudden vertigo but your steady hand on his shoulder keeps him upright, making him realize he's nude.

"He's not here." You shrug and as you sit up his sheets pool around your waist, making him realize you're naked from the waist up, though he doesn't want to think if you're naked naked. His fists clench when his eyes roam over your exposed body against his will, settling on the various hickeys decorating your shoulders and neck.

His heart sinks. "What…what happened last night?" He asks and doesn't want to know the answer, his stomach churns with shame.

"Oh, uh, you got drunk, I got you home, you started kissing and biting me." You say, tracing the numerous hickeys and indents of his teeth across your human form like they're medals. "Then you pulled me into your bed and wouldn't let me go. Then you passed out." You say as if nothing's wrong, and even if no sex happened it's little consolidation to the fact he took advantage of you.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He asks as he takes a shaky breath, shoulders hunched up around his ears and eyes downcast, bile burning in his stomach.

"Why would I?" You tilt your head and shift positions to face him fully, the sheets falling away to reveal you are naked naked. "I may not understand you fully, but I would have stopped you if you did something I didn't want."

Price hates himself for how he can't tear his eyes away from your body. "But you let me." He insists and tries to get you to see reason, to be as angry and disgusted with him as he is with himself.

“Yes.” You are growing annoyed as well, silently cursing the frailty of the human mind; things would be easier to explain if you could just use mental communication… “You are less than insects to my kin.” You sigh and move to straddle him before he can get away, pinning him under you. “You are a sun to me.”

Even calling him a sun doesn’t do him justice; suns die out like firecrackers when your immeasurable body passes over them, when you devour them, him, you want to keep, to protect, to wrap in your cold abyss until he’s warm and safe.

He sucks in a breath, the gears in his head turning as he tries to understand. “What?-”

“Can I touch you?” You ask, your hands respectfully on your thighs as if you’re not pinning him in place with your weight. There’s a dark intelligence in your eyes, the same ravenous void staring at him behind the black of your eyes. You are not a child, you are a god.

"Why?" He sucks in a sharp breath as he breathes in your smell, the scent of dying stars and burn ozone tickling his lungs. "You don't have to." He says weakly, because what would anyone, god or not, want with him?

"You left marks on me, I want to do the same." The way you say it makes him think of godhood; not the bleak madness you are, but the type humanity romanticizes. Your lips part as if you're thinking of marking him, bits of oblivion staring back at him from the darkness of your throat when he looks too closely at your mouth.

He submits so fast. "C'mere then," He pulls you close by your head, kissing you like he's trying to steal your ichor, his body burning hot when your hands grip him tight enough to leave moon shaped bruises in his skin — the first of many you intend to give him, until you've marked him as yours and yours alone.

Imagine GHOST — Ghost prefers to show you rather than spend hours trying to explain things to you, he's more stricter with you when you try to do things you're told not to, both for your and everyone's safety. You never do quite learn.

Imagine; Ghost recently confiscated your phone when you tried to see what humans thought about you, or what they imagined you and your kin to be, on a website called 'Rule34'. Ghost had snatched the phone out of your hands before you could even click the link. After a week he gave you the go ahead to take it back, but got called to run a drill so just said to go find it.

Now, you've been told not to go rooting around other people's belongings, but while searching for your phone you'd fallen back into your old habit and snooped around until you found a small box in the bottom of his dresser. Thinking nothing of it you opened it and found…something. A lot of somethings; handcuffs, rope, weird egg shaped thing, a weird tube with a hole in it that squished like a stress toy but had a cunt molded at one end, but what drew your attention — was the dismembered black cock in the middle of the box.

You and all of your kin scratched your collective heads over the thing you now held in your hand, you'd been under the impression humans didn't carry around body parts anymore so you were stumped why Ghost had a dismembered dick and balls in his dresser. Besides the pitch black color and flat base it looked so realistic and the way it flopped when you turned it in your hand made you feel the same way humans did when seeing you.

So you got up and wen to ask Ghost about it, the thing held out in your hand when you found him with the rest of the boys. "Ghost, why do you a have body part in your closet?"

Your question made them all turn to look at you, Ghost made a strange sound like a strangled dog while Gaz and Soap fell over laughing and Price shielded his eyes with the rim of his hat.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He snarls and before you know it he’s stomping over to you and dragging you by the front of your clothes, “What I tell you about snooping?”

“I couldn’t find my phone,” You try to argue but don’t struggle and just let him drag you somewhere like you're a kitten until you find yourself in his room with the door firmly locked behind him.

"Right." His tone makes it sound like he doesn't believe you, his rough hand pushes you down on his bed and he yanks the thing from your hold. “You want to know what this is for?” He asks and holds the the cock with the head pointed at you like a knife.

You nod your head and try to rise up but he pushes you back down, you're not even sure where he gets the handcuffs from but there's cold steel around your wrists before you can notice it. It's his order to "Sit and watch." that actually keeps you down, and you see the corners of his eyes shift to denote a smirk. "Do what you're good at."

You don't blink as you watch him disrobe until he's only wearing his mask, and your surprise is obvious when he sticks the thing on the floor and it stays up right. "This," He growls and sinks to his knees on the floor, a towel under him, "Is a fuckin' dildo." He reaches over and takes a small tube, squirting viscous liquid on his fingers. "You don't ever take it out of my room. Got it."

He leaves no room to argue and you rapidly nod your head. You find yourself breathless as you watch him reach behind himself and you don’t even notice how a bit of your oblivion leaks from your pores and spreads across the ground like spiderwebs, eyes blooming in the small pools all around him so you can see the way he roughly pushes a finger into himself, your hands clenching as his rim flutters around his large fingers.

"What is it for?" You find your voice, the sound ringing like the inside of a dead star the longer you watch him roughly stretch himself, pushing two then three fingers into his ass.

"Fun," He chuckles and feels so powerful when your eyes have all but turned black with hunger you've yet to notice. "It's a toy, for adults." He pulls his fingers out and squirts more liquid on the dildo, before sinking down on the toy in one fluid move that leaves him hissing at the stretch, his rim fluttering around the thick base.

Something about the way the toy is of a similar color to your real body has you wriggling beneath your human skin, the air vibrating as you groan and try to reach out to him, wanting to cover him in your body and have all of him feel all of you.

"No." Just one word has you sitting back on the bed like a dog, a pitiful sound rumbling across the void as you can do nothing but watch. "This is what you get for snooping." He's so smug with the way he has such control over you without even touching you, his thick thighs tensing as he slowly bounces on the dildo, "Now watch. Maybe if you're good I'll let you touch me."

You'll do whatever he says so long as you get to feel him.

770 notes · View notes

futureman · 2 months

Text

here in the garden [prologue]

pairing: peeta mellark x f!reader

summary: nearly a week into your unique alliance, you and peeta take a quiet bath after a colorful training session. 8 days remain until the games.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, catching fire era, older victor!reader (4 years), aged-up peeta, secret relationship, platonic!katniss/peeta, sneaking around, fluff, smut, grinding, brief accidental piv, mentions of virginity

word count: 2.5k

series masterlist | a/n: a little taste before we rewind to day 1

Today, it’s shades of green.

Some deep and dark like shadowed leaves in a forest, and others bright and mixed with yellow to mimic sun-spotted blades of grass. It takes a decent amount of scrubbing to remove, and by the time you're finished, Peeta's arms are rosy red to match the flush spreading across his chest.

Paint swirls on the water's surface like an abstract portrait. It's as beautiful staining the walls of the porcelain tub you're bathing in as it was on his skin and just as fleeting.

If it weren't for the sweet boy beneath you, you'd allow that thought to linger. You'd dwell on the shortness of life and lament the brief time you have together before your short lives end. But for so many reasons you never expected to find in this hopeless place, you don't.

Instead, you pretend what you’ve found with Peeta is real and hold it close. You sneak around and find quiet moments away from prying Capitol eyes, seeking solace in private suites and fancy bathrooms just like this.

Here, you're not tributes in the 75th Hunger Games. He's not a star-crossed lover from District 12, and you're not breaking up a relationship that was never real to begin with. There's no one else here to convince. It's just you and Peeta.

For over a week, it's been just you and Peeta, falling asleep in each other's arms and stealing slow kisses in the dark. And though your time is dwindling, he still moves cautiously and with intention. Even now, settled between your legs in this bathtub, he's waiting for permission he was already granted.

He looks up at you, heavy-lidded and content, and you know what he's about to ask. It's been a while since he felt the need to, but today is different.

"Can I touch you?" he asks softly, his hands frozen in place on either side of your waist. He's nervous.

This is the first time he's seeing you naked. Bare skin on bare skin where there's only ever been layers of fabric between you. His cheeks are dusted pink, and you know it's not just the heat and steam in the air.

"Of course. Always," you reply, smiling as you lean in to kiss him. But you hesitate, too. "Can I?"

"Always," he breathes out.

Peeta's the one to close the gap, and his kiss is soft but firm. His lips move deliberately against yours with a hint of that tempered hunger you see in his eyes whenever he looks at you. He coaxes your mouth open eagerly, and when his tongue meets yours, he lets out a sigh of relief and finally allows himself to explore your body.

It's so much more intense than you expected. His hands begin to roam your exposed skin, newfound territory for him to map and memorize, and leave a trail of blazing fire in their wake. Settling under your breasts, he teases the undersides until you're whining into his mouth and swallows the sound proudly.

Because he earned it. He spent the last week acquainting himself with your pleasure, guiding you across his lap or thigh until you came apart in his arms. Discovering where to suck and stroke to make you so wet, you soaked right through your underwear and into his.

Your clothes always stayed on as an extra precaution to avoid getting caught, but you have a sneaking suspicion that wasn't the only reason. Something in his eyes and the careful way he handled you seemed too cautious, maybe even a little shy. But it's obvious now that something's shifted. He needs more. You both do.

He smiles against your lips, cataloging your reaction as he shifts higher and above the water's surface to swipe over your nipples. They're already pebbling from the cooling air temperature, so he tweaks one and swallows that moan, too.

But this time, it's not enough to muffle the sound, and it echoes a little too loudly for the precarious situation you're in. Still toying with a sensitive bud, he pulls away and fixes you with a stern, yet tender look. His lips are distractingly kiss-swollen as he speaks, and you're torn between feeling thoroughly chastised and unbearably turned on.

"Hey, we have to be quiet, okay?" he gently hushes you, kissing your cheek, then the shell of your ear apologetically. "You sound so pretty and I don't want you to stop, but it's too risky."

"But you feel so good," you murmur, cupping his cheeks to bring his lips back to yours. He gives in briefly before parting to rest his forehead on yours.

"I know," he mumbles, nosing into your cheek. "But we can't draw attention to ourselves right now. It's just until we get back to my floor. Be patient."

You pout without meaning to and it makes you feel like a petulant child. "I suck at that and you know it. Let's just go now," you sulk. It's an unfortunate new habit you picked up from one of your stylists, and Peeta entertains it. Usually.

He raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the dirt and ash still sprinkled across your forearms and caked under your fingernails. Earlier at the training center, you chose to practice fire starting while he picked camouflage, and now it's coming back to bite you in the ass.

"I don't know whose bed you think you're getting into like that, but it sure isn't mine," he jokes, but you can tell he's dead serious. Eyeing him mischievously, you run your fingers along the bath water and swipe a green line across his cheek.

"Mm, then maybe I should see what Johanna's up to tonight. I bet she likes it a little dirty," you tease him, and he rolls his eyes.

"Hilarious," he deadpans, but the subtle quirk of his lips betrays him. He knows as well as you do that she'd probably take you up on the offer, but tonight, like all the others, you're his. If only you could come to an agreement.

"Okay well, we're clearly at an impasse, so unless you can think of a really great plan to soundproof this bathroom—," you inch forward to tease his cock between your folds, and he sucks in a harsh breath. "—we'll have to sit through an entire bath like this."

"Kiss me," he blurts out, tightening his grasp on your waist to hold you in place. "Whenever it—," you cut him off with a tempting swivel of your hips, and he clenches his jaw, unable to stop himself from bucking into you. "—whenever it feels like that, just kiss me. I'll keep you quiet."

You eye him dubiously. If that didn't work before, what makes him think it'll be any more effective now? Before you can question him, he leans forward and kisses you so deeply, it makes you dizzy.

"Do you trust me?" he asks softly as he cups your cheek, and you nod. Of course, you do. What you don't trust are the paper-thin walls of this bathroom and the Capitolites walking the halls, just waiting to rip all of this away. But him? With your life.

He gives you another lingering kiss in gratitude before replacing his mouth with his thumb, gently swiping across your bottom lip. "It doesn't have to be here," he tells you.

His thumb unexpectedly slips into your mouth and gently presses down on your tongue, encouraging you to suck. You both bite back a moan when you comply without hesitation, and his cock jerks violently against your thigh, but you force yourself to ignore it—for now.

"You can kiss me here," he continues breathily, ducking down to trail open-mouthed kisses along the underside of your jaw, then moves lower to dip his tongue into the hollow of your throat. "And here."

He pulls his thumb free and returns to teasing your nipple, circling the bud tenderly as he continues his path downward. The longer he persists, the more it becomes clear how badly he wants this. How badly he wants you. And he's so convincing, you're starting to believe his solution might actually work.

"I've been waiting to get you alone all day," he mumbles into your skin, and the longing in his voice makes your heart ache. "Please don't make me wait anymore."

Your breath hitches as he nips at your collarbone, leaving a faint mark he knows will fade by morning. But the thought of being marked as Peeta's, even for a short while, solidifies your decision.

"You'll keep me quiet?"

"Yeah, I'll keep you quiet," he agrees breathlessly, meeting your gaze.

"And I can be as loud as I want later?"

His hazel eyes darken enough to make you shiver in his warm embrace. He nods slowly, and there's a glimmer of promise in the darkness.

"You're going to be the death of me, Peeta Mellark," you whisper.

His expression falters. The statement is more dire than either of you are ready to accept. Or maybe you, at least, already have.

"God, I hope not," he replies too honestly.

God, you hope so.

Before that thought can fester, you lurch forward and crush his body into yours, choosing to savor this moment instead. Soon enough, you're lost in how incredible he feels against your lips and chest, heavy and searing hot against your core.

The frantic, needy way his body responds to yours is intoxicating. He kisses you with renewed fervor, gasping softly into your mouth every time you rock into him, caressing and squeezing all of the places he knows you like.

You're already starting to quake in his arms, and it only worsens when he shifts your hips higher to reach where you want him most. Without breaking your increasingly heated kiss, he slides his hands under your ass and positions you so every slide between your folds allows the head of his cock to nudge your clit.

The first thrust sends a jolt straight up your spine. Something loud and desperate threatens to escape you, so you quickly bury your face in the crook of his neck to kiss him like he told you to. But in your panic, you bite him.

It sends Peeta reeling. To his credit, he manages to grit his teeth through the shock, turning his head to groan as quietly as he can into your hair, but the rest of his body isn't as easy to control. His heart rate kicks up, strong enough to feel it pulsing in his cock, and the careful self-restraint he tried so hard to maintain begins to crumble. And that sends you reeling.

No one's ever made you feel like this before. Wet and needy, ravenous with a hunger only he can sate. It's hard to believe he's even real, that you didn't dream him up to cope with your terrible fate.

How is he so perfect? Every part of him, from the thick fingers tensed to their limits at your sides to the flushed-pink apples of his cheeks—he's the most beautiful person you've ever seen.

If you had more time to overthink, you'd probably feel insecure being touched so intimately by a boy like Peeta. But you don't. You just feel lucky.

He's been rock hard from the moment your training gear hit the floor, and now he's grinding into your heat like it's all he's thought about for days. He makes you feel wanted. That's a new feeling, too.

Soft whimpers pass his lips, displacing the steam in the air, and you lean in to capture them in a kiss. Threading your fingers through his hair, you tug him closer, hoping to convey everything you're too afraid to say out loud.

Your tongue tangles with his, and it means you're grateful. Your blunt nails scratch lightly against his scalp, and it means you don't want to let him go. You grind onto him harder, willing him to understand.

His hips stutter in response, but as he whines into your mouth, you realize his movements are getting less and less coordinated. Colorful water torrents over the lip of the tub and crashes onto the floor, giving your mosaic an entirely new canvas.

Matching his erratic pace, you inch up his thighs for more friction, but the new angle throws him off. On his next thrust, he accidentally snags on your entrance, and the head of his cock slips inside you.

Stars burst behind your eyelids. With your last remaining shred of lucidity, you hope his lips are enough to muffle your startled moan because you couldn't have stopped it even if you'd tried.

He jerks back, letting out something guttural before he frantically readjusts, almost like he's trying to avoid letting it happen again. Except, now you know what it feels like to be stretched around him and you want more.

"Peeta," you murmur to get his attention. His eyes meet yours, glassy and unfocused. "I want you to fuck me."

It takes a second to sink in, but when it does, his back goes ramrod straight, and not for the reasons you'd hoped for. He doesn't bury himself inside you like you so desperately wanted. Instead, a barrier is raised, and he looks more conflicted than you think you've ever seen him. You wait for him to explain, fighting not to feel hurt and utterly rejected.

"I haven't—," he starts, then stops, thinking better of it. He shakes his head, still panting as he struggles to collect his thoughts, but curiosity is already beginning to eat away at you. You can't help but wonder what he was about to say and why he chose to keep it from you. When he tries again, his voice is softer, imploring.

"I don't want us to have sex for the first time in a bathroom. You deserve a bed," he says gently, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. "To not be covered in dirt and paint."

The sentiment is sweet and earnest enough to relieve some of your apprehension, but something still feels off. He's not being completely honest with you, and you both know it. But you also know he'll tell you when he's ready, so you don't push him.

After a long moment, he continues, but his words are tinged with sadness and something else you can't quite define.

"We don't...," he hesitates again, and you lean into his touch, letting the warmth of his fingers soothe you. It seems to relax him, too. "We don't have a lot of time left. If this is one of the last good things I'll ever get to experience, I want it to be meaningful. No sneaking around, no worrying about getting caught. Just you and me, making the most of the rest of our lives."

Just you and Peeta.

You feel incredibly lucky again. You don't deserve a boy like Peeta Mellark, but you kiss him anyway, deeply and unhurriedly just like he asked. Because he's right.

Because he's been nothing but kind and generous in the six short days you've known him, and you only have eight short days left. Despite the ticking clock, you haven't felt peace like this since your childhood in 11 before it was stolen away from you.

Peeta gives you that. So, you'll give him this.

He deserves it.

thanks for reading! chapter one coming soon <3 divider by @saradika-graphics

#peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x you #peeta mellark imagine #peeta mellark smut #peeta mellark fluff #peeta mellark #the hunger games imagine #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson

213 notes · View notes

callsignfate · 5 months

Text

Risk is my middle name

Day Nine of Writemas/Birthday posts!

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here

If you want to see more posts like this go here Reader wears glasses/contacts

TW: None? Let me know if I've missed any!

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

"Damn it!" You hissed as your last pair of contacts had dried out. You looked at them in disbelief before moving to find your glasses. Usually, the world was an uncomfortable blur; your terrible eyesight made people standing even two feet away appear blurry and their faces unreadable.

Valeria, who had perfect eyesight, watched you walk around, moving your hands over the objects on your nightstand and dresser, pulling them mere inches away from your face before putting them back down. An amused smile played on her lips, your mind so focused on finding your glasses that you had forgotten Valeria was still in the room, lounging in bed.

"What are you looking for?" she questioned with an amused tone. A small, startled scream escaped your lips before you turned and squinted your eyes to try to see Valeria clearly.

"What in God's name—have you been in here the whole time?" you questioned immediately as Valeria's laugh echoed into the room. "Yep, just enjoying the show," Valeria replied, her laughter continuing. "You're like a detective investigating a crime scene without your glasses. Or trying to decode some ancient script. It's cute."

You scowled, the effort of squinting making the expression comical. "This is not cute. This is a serious situation. I can't see anything."

Valeria sat up, her laughter subsiding but a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Well, maybe you should've taken better care of your last pair of contacts. What's your plan now, Sherlock?"

You huffed, knowing you looked ridiculous. "I guess I'll have to go to the optometrist and get a new set. But right now, I need you to guide me. Help me find my glasses, Val, Please." you hummed out before you made your way back to the bed.

"You broke your last pair when you fell, remember?" Valeria added.

"Oh, right," you muttered, mentally facepalming. "Well, that complicates things. I might need a walking stick instead of glasses."

"Okay, blind detective, what's the plan now?" Valeria asked, settling in next to you.

"I guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow to get new contacts," you replied, a hint of frustration in your voice.

Valeria patted your back reassuringly. "Don't worry, we'll figure it out. In the meantime, you can enjoy the world of artistic blur. Who knows, you might discover a hidden talent for abstract art."

You chuckled, appreciating Valeria's lighthearted approach to the situation. "Maybe I'll start a new movement: Impressionistic Living."

Valeria grinned. "I can't wait to see your masterpiece." "You might be witnessing the birth of a genius," you huffed dramatically, gesturing toward the blurry surroundings.

Valeria pointed her blurry arm at random objects from the room. "Describe this masterpiece to me. What do you see?"

You squinted in the general direction of her hand. "It's a... uh, blob of colors.. Definitely represents the complexities of life."

Valeria burst into laughter. "I think you're onto something. Abstract art enthusiasts would pay a fortune for that description."

"I can't even see your expression's Val, you're a blurry blob, a hot blurry blob, but a blob." You sighed now even more annoyed with yourself.

Valeria playfully pouted. "Well, as long as I'm a hot blurry blob, I guess that's acceptable."

You sighed again, dramatically. "Imagine all the details I'm missing right now. Your fabulous hair, your radiant smile, and, most importantly, your evil plotting expression."

Valeria chuckled. "Ah, the evil plotting expression is a fan favorite. Too bad you're missing out."

You mimicked a gasp. "Maybe this is all part of your grand plan. Sabotaging my vision for world domination."

"Lean closer so I can." You pouted as you tried to release you eyes from squinting, the headache from the squinting, that wasn't helping, already forming.

Valeria leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Yes, my grand plan is to make you utterly dependent on me. Step one: sabotage your vision. Step two: rule the world together. It's foolproof, really."

You groaned, "I knew falling for you was a risky move."

Valeria chuckled, her breath warm on your face. "Risk is my middle name." "I knew it." You playfully mumbled before she leaned in and left a gentle kiss on your lips.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here

If you want to see more posts like this go here

#valeria cod #val #valeria x reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #mw2 valeria x reader #valeria garza x fem!reader #valeria garza x you #valeria mw2 #valeria garza cod

152 notes · View notes

septnanis · 1 year

Text

“That’s funny,” Sora says. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since Destiny Islands, before the Mark, before all this.

Riku looks at him. “What’s funny?”

“Your eyes,” Sora says, moving closer to him.

It aches a little, because Riku knows for sure now after what happened on the beach. When Riku saw Kairi try to hide the fruit behind her back, he knew it was over. He excused himself and Kairi let him.

“They’re a different color,” Sora says and points at Riku’s eye. “They used to be blue right?”

Like the water on a clear day, his mother had always said. Blue with a hint of green. Sora has given him pretty stones when they were little the exact same color. They still sit under his bed.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Riku says. “What color are they? Red? Purple?” He almost jokingly says yellow but it catches in his throat.

“Green!” Sora says. “They’re darker than they used to be. That’s kinda weird.”

“You’re kinda weird,” Riku replies with a smirk.

His fingers twitch. He’ll look later.

—-

Later feels like a different life.

The dust has barely settled after Sora disappeared off the Paopu tree. Riku keeps up the smiles until everyone has left. Kairi won’t even look at him.

Shame and failure. He doesn’t blame her.

Later feels like a different life so when Mickey insists he go with him to Castle Disney, it doesn’t occur to him to say no.

Minnie is kindness itself, steering him to a room that she leaves him to without urging him to speak.

He takes his clothes off and folds them neatly, showers and finds clothes that fit him perfectly in their place. The blatant show of the castle’s magic makes him smile.

Finally, he turns to the mirror.

And there they are. No longer blue like the water on a clear day. They don’t look like the stones underneath Riku’s bed.

His eyes are green. A dusty green, like the roots of grass. Like the leaves on a tree at nighttime.

Darkness takes physiological shape first by yellow eyes. He knows that better than anyone. He’d spent his year alone terrified he’d look in the mirror and see them turned.

But green?

Riku puts his hands over his eyes.

“I’m not afraid of the darkness,” he whispers and lifts his hands.

The color of his eyes remains the same.

—-

“It’s been awhile,” Naminé says. She’s up to her elbows in paint.

“Yeah…” Riku says. No one really knows what went on during that year of unfortunate cooperation, except for Lea. “How have you been?”

Her smile is pretty and enigmatic, and Riku doesn’t really smile back. The walls are lined with paintings, from abstract to the same childish doodles she made with her magic.

The little portrait that hangs seperatelty that should be him but isn’t looks at him with bright turquoise eyes.

“Fine,” Naminé says. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to help you with finding Sora.”

Riku shakes his head. “I’m grateful for anything you do,” he says and means it. “It’s because of Sora isn’t it? Your magic?”

Naminé smiles a little wider. “How long have you been wondering that?”

He thinks about lying and changes his mind. “Took me awhile but it just made sense,” Riku says. “Sora smells like magic. Powerful magic.”

She dips her fingers into a jar of blue paint and brushes her fingers over the canvas in front of her. “It’s true,” Naminé says. “More than he knows.”

“Knows?” Riku asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“That’s right,” she says and beckons him over. “But that’s not why you’re here.” Riku joins her with a crease in his brow and watches her dip her fingers into another jar of paint - yellow.

“I may not be able to sense it the way you can,” Naminé says. Her tone is genuine kindness but there’s an underlying feeling of danger. “But I sense things. Light…” she points at the blue on the canvas.

“And darkness,” she rubs the yellow paint over the blue. Gently moving back and forth until the color start to change. “On and on we go, until one day we’re something else. Something new, made up of everything we’ve ever been.”

And there it is. Dusty green, grass on a misty day, not blue like he had as a child, not yellow as he should have had when he fell from grace.

Riku reaches out and touches the canvas. The color stains his fingertips.

—-

“I never know if this is considered really late,” Sora says, ambling into their bathroom at four in the morning. “Or really early. Can’t sleep?”

Riku nods. It was a nightmare but he’s old hat at those, so he decided to splash some water on his face to shake himself out of it.

“Had a bad dream,” Riku explains as he watches Sora hoist himself onto their bathroom counter. “The Graveyard.”

“The storm?” Sora asks.

Riku knows what he means by that even if he has no actual recollection of what happened. “You leaving. By yourself.”

Sora looks immediately apologetic and puts his hand on Riku’s jaw. “Sorry…”

“You’re not apologising for something that happened almost twenty years ago,” Riku says, moving to stand between Sora’s legs, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“If it makes you sad, I will,” Sora says.

He puts his other hand on Riku’s face, runs his fingers over his cheeks and his jaw, his calluses catching minutely on the barely there stubble on Riku’s face.

Riku leans down and kisses him, soft and slow. Deepens it when Sora moves his hands from Riku’s face to cup his neck and jaw. When he pulls away, Sora doesn’t let go.

“Ahh,” Sora sighs. “So pretty.”

“What’s that?”

“Your eyes,” Sora says. “They’re so pretty and green. Green and pretty.” He chuckles because he’s clearly sleepy.

Riku smirks and lays his forehead on Sora’s. “You’re an enormous sap,” he says. “They used to be blue.”

Sora opens his own eyes wide and stares into Riku’s. The angle is odd but Riku can see how blue Sora’s eyes are.

Sora leans back as if to admire him.

“I like them better this way,” Sora says.

Riku blinks. He catches his eyes, blue and yellow equals green, in the mirror.

He looks at Sora.

“So do I,” he says.

#soriku #kh fic

127 notes · View notes

thedevillionaire · 1 year

Text

blessings in disguise

Little domestic vacation moment for the festive season? Apparently so. Cerberus and Kia, their holiday cabin in the woods, and his impeccable timing for this sort of thing.

---

It certainly isn’t the first sign, but it is without doubt the definitive one.

He pauses at the cabin’s front door longer than expected amid snow flurries windwhipped wild, the fall still light but steadily increasing, and crushes the latest sneeze as best he can into something approaching submission.

“HXTchu!”

Desperate times and desperate measures, as it were. And as Kia well knows, it never works.

She watches anticipant as the clear resurgence of need possesses him, the chill in the air spiking alongside an insistent, cresting compulsion he can do nothing about. Nothing, that is, save emphatic surrender.

“hh… hhuh-TSCHH-uu! Ahh-HEHTSCHuu!”

“Bless you, hon,” she offers again.

Cerberus, with a murmured thank you and sharp sniffle, gives the briefest shake of his head, apologetic, both irritated at and contemptuous of himself in defeat. He glances back at his bonded, sighs and sniffles again. “Forgive me,” he says, disappointment palpable.

This was not what he’d had in mind for the week’s vacation at all.

---

And the several hours that have passed since then have brought nothing but consolidation; a settling-in of symptomatic certainties that no amount of willpower can deny.

Not that any more denying was being done.His “It’s nothing” dismissals of yesterday have been thoroughly abandoned, and it’s become undeniably clear that neither the not-really-dusty-enough state of the cabin nor the infrequent, scattered groves of silver birch in the dense woodlands are to blame, no matter how wishful his thinking.

So now as evening falls and she’s bringing him another honeyed lemon tea, the steam curling vivid against the frostnipped windows, he’s all blanketwrapped bucolic gorgeousness, the depleted tissue box in his lap and the deepening hint of redness to his nose notwithstanding. And he’s actually wearing the cable knit sweater, as he’d promised her he would in a distracted moment of if you really wish it, love, I suppose so – in a true classic richest cream, no less, and good goddamn if it doesn’t work, ebony hair in contrast, emerald eyes in complement – embodying lord of the countryside retreat so beautifully it almost feels like this is the way things always are. She could lose herself in reverie for a small eternity, maybe already has; the refined grandeur of his usual aesthetic turned to the cosy, the commonplace, so different to his norm yet somehow so suited.

So different, that is, except for one thing: the vibrant hearthblaze crackles and roars, softwarm and familiar, its radiant heat, his essence reflected in every one of its dancing flames.

He sniffles as she sets the teacup on the side table, thanks her tiredly through settling congestion. Kia’s heart softens with a gentle smile and she starts to say something but she’s quickly pulled back from the abstract, her focus sharpened as his falls away and he turns from her in haste, sneezing heavily, unstoppably.

“HhhAAHTSSSCHuu! AHHETSCHUU!” An attempt at apology is hijacked by another hitch of breath, rapidly abandoned to an itch that will not back down, and conquering need. “Hh-h… hhh… huhh-TSSCHH-uuh!”

She strokes his arm, adjusts the set of the blanket. “Bless you, sweetheart.”

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, rueful bitterness unmissable, and sighs again, Mindsending a thanks, love as he accepts the tissues she passes him. “I’m so sorry. The timing of this is just…utterly ridiculous, truly.”

Kia frowns in confusion. “No, what do you mean? Babe, no, the timing’s perfect!”

He looks at her as if she might have lost her mind.

She laughs, not unkindly, and curls an arm around him, runs her fingers through his hair. “Think about it. You have organised, actual time off. Which you, like, never do. For a week. A week! It’s just us, nobody’s going to visit or ask for stuff or whatever, there’s no pressures, it’s just us in this beautiful little place, and it’s all warm and private and there’s no official shit to be done, and we’re here in the middle of all these amazing trees and stuff, and I know you feel like shit but it’s okay, babe, really, it’s not that bad and I promise you will be the most spoilt you have ever been, alright, and it’s fine. Better than fine. It’s perfect. Hmm? Perfect.”

Cerberus chuckles softly, quietly touched and delighted in equal measure. “You’re some kind of genius, darkling, I’m sure of it,” he murmurs.

“You know it.” Kia grins, and Mindsends a teasing :Maybe I’ll even finally beat you at chess.:

“Now, now. I’ve not lost all my senses.”Cerberus, with a sly smile, resettles to rest his head against Kia’s shoulder as she gasps, laughs in faux incredulity, and delivers a light slap for his impudence.

He smiles again, and concedes with a brief nod as he sniffles and reaches for another tissue. “Well, either way, love, I had hoped to spend this time doing something other than sneezing.”

“Oh…” She nestles closer to him, touches her lips to his neck, drops her voice to a purr. “I might just have some ideas about that.”

---

#so apparently i can't complete any of the wips i've had in (very slow) progress for literally months now #but one day of christmas/my mum's birthday activity results in a spontaneous minific lol of course it does #i may do a longer fic set in the cabin sometime #finally got him in the damn sweater after all 😅#cerberus and kia #cerbia #my OCs #supernatural soap opera #cerberus #snz fic #snzfic

77 notes · View notes

nyktomorphia · 3 months

Text

(I've started the worse habit of taking pictures of sketches and getting partway through explaining them and then forgetting it's still in Drafts)

The reason I was sketching fantasy camels a while back, by the way, was... okay, let me back up

In the NieR games there's a labyrinthine desert city called Façade, inhabited by the Masked People. Façade is governed under a long list of esoteric rules that outsiders find frustrating, but the Masked People are all pretty content with it, and there are indications that every rule originally had a really good reason it was created no matter how pointless it seems now.

This would just be a Neat Thing sitting in the back of my brain... if not for the fact that in Sunless Sea there's an island called Visage, inhabited by descendants from Amarna who now live by a complex system of esoteric social norms dictated by the kind of animal mask you wear.

To my knowledge there's no direct influence between them, which catches my imagination further. "Cities of masks and rules" is so distinct it feels like an otherworldly fantasy archetype, a trope that only caught on in another timeline the way elves and dwarves did in ours. (A friend pointed out it has a certain hint of orientalism - veiled courtiers whispering in desert palaces - though a rather abstract kind.) But exploring strange human cultures is part of what I like doing with Cosmodesy, and the seeds of my own version finally clicked into place.

The Mawlayani say that the city of Mazhar was founded centuries ago by their ancestors, former slaves lost in the desert on the verge of death who discovered a hidden oasis. They took this as a sign and settled there, giving their thanks to Sarab, a trickster god of secrets and illusions. Some centuries later, changes in trade turned Mazhar into a convenient stop for merchant caravans. The city has flourished to the limits of the aquifer below, and water supply has been carefully managed ever since overuse led to a nearly disastrous drought. To merchants, however, the problem is invisible, and it is counted as merely another of the Mawlayani's many eccentricities.

The statue in Sarab's temple is famously faceless, signifying the god's infinite appearances. The desert buries its blessings in the shifting sand, and the sun hides them among countless tricks of the light. For the same reason, the scarves worn to prevent sunstroke became the Mawlayani custom of concealing their faces in public at all times, which by the era of Mazhar's prosperity evolved into personalised masks. Traditional Mawlayani masks rarely resemble an actual face, with historical examples ranging from elaborate floral embroidery to minimalistic shapes framing the eyeholes. Symmetric calligraphy is a popular modern style.

I have no idea if Mazhar is in any of my existing worlds or if it's its own thing. Probably Takiwa if any of them.

#artists on tumblr #my art #fantasy art #character art #concept art #pencil sketch #cosmodesy #panhumanity #worldbuilding #thinking out loud

10 notes · View notes

aweisz · 3 months

Text

i wanted to write a thing, so i did. how different ghouls die.

cw for (obviously) death, some non-graphic body horror (i think?), earth being a somewhat toxic mother. no specific ghouls die, everything is abstract.

a ghoul's life is typically longer than a human's, when it doesn't end in an unnatural way. few ghouls live long enough for nature to take its toll, but if they do, it is its own kind of beauty.

when a fire ghoul's life nears the end, they run progressively hotter and brighter, until their body can't handle the flames inside it. the skin chars and cracks, revealing the liquid fire that all their existence gave them life, but now is threatening to consume them whole. and when it does, the ghoul doesn't go out with a bang; they slowly get worse while their body sizzles and burns away.

water ghouls succumb to their element in a different, but no less beautiful, way. their skin becoming translucent, thinner; their insides watery. they tend to spend the last weeks of their existence in the depths of the nearest lake, engulfed by water and slowly dissolving in it, until nothing is left of their bodies.

some call the deaths of quintessence ghouls poetic. "returning to the stars they came from," they say. from a certain point of view, they are right, of course; how else could you describe something you have no understanding of? if you ask a quintessence ghoul though, you will get a completely different picture. all-encompassing fear of what will inevitably happen to them is the most common answer. when something heavy settles in your chest that you can't get rid of however hard you try; when you start to hear whispers that grow into voices that grow into screams, all beckoning you to join them, to look behind the veil of this plane of existence; when parts of your body vanish with gushes of smoke; what can you feel except fear for what will come? and when the last piece of you goes out with the same smoke, ascending to the sky, maybe a new star will light. poetic.

air ghouls don't feel the same fear as some other ghouls, what they feel is more like contentment, a kind of satisfaction that can't be understood by any other. when their time comes, they find it harder and harder to stay close to the ground, to walk among others. the sky calls to them, and one day they can't resist its call, going up and up and up, never to be seen again.

the earth doesn't call to her ghouls, she welcomes them back, a loving mother to her stray children. she gives them signs, hints of sort, that she awaits them — moss starts growing on their horns, vines cling to their fingers, tugging gently, asking them to return where they truly belong. in theory, an earth ghoul could resist their mother, reject her signs, get as far from her as possible just to live a little longer; she doesn't like that. if she decided that her child has to return, then they will. the earth will open under the ghoul's feet and swallow them whole, not giving them the option to run away anymore. and she will punish them for it, making them wish they followed her suggestions when they were still that — suggestions.

#im not a writer but i write sometimes #nameless ghouls #the band ghost

6 notes · View notes

the-final-sif · 2 years

Text

//convict childcare AU

Tubbo found himself tracing the patterns in the grain of the wood with his eyes. It wasn't exactly thrilling stuff, but it was something to do.

Behind him, Michael was asleep on the bed. The two of them had played together earlier, and now the toddler was down for a nap. Usually, Tubbo would've left once Michael fell asleep, but Dream's lungs had been acting up with a particularly nasty cough. As much as the man insisted he was fine, he'd also almost died too many times for anyone to be willing to take the risk. So, since everyone else was out, Tubbo was tasked with staying in earshot in case something went wrong.

It wasn't anywhere near as bad as Tubbo thought it'd be. Michael was more willing to play under Dream's supervision, and Tubbo was hoping the extra time might help them bond further. Dream himself spent most of his time resting or watching the window. Sometimes he'd speak, mostly when Michael wanted to show him something, but other then that, things were calm.

When Michael settled down for his nap, Dream had picked up the revive book he'd been making slow progress on for the past few weeks, and Tubbo had taken the hint and turned to face the wall. He was still shocked (and pleased) that Dream was willing to work on it with him in the room at all. The man was still shy about anything to do with the revive book, and Tubbo tried not to push.

Curiosity was prickling at Tubbo, but he kept himself facing the wall. He didn't even ask how far along Dream was in the book! Even though Tubbo wanted Ranboo back, he was very aware that Dream's hands were still a struggle. Phil wasn't happy with Dream writing anything at all, but the two had agreed that slow progress was a fair compromise.

Speaking of Ranboo, his ghost had been hanging around the day before. It seemed to be avoiding Dream himself, but had no problem being in the area. None of them had mentioned that Dream was writing a revive book for him. They'd been worried it might run off.

Actually, wait, what if Dream told it? Dream hadn't met Ghostboo yet, so he wouldn't know to lie! That could be a disaster.

"Don't tell Ghostboo."

Tubbo said it, and then almost instantly realized his words made no fucking sense out of context.

"Uh, that's- Don't tell him about the book. Uh, he's been like, avoiding you I think. But if Ghostboo does come in here, then don't tell him. He's- he's weird."

Keeping his voice flat was hard, and it was only getting harder as Tubbo found more words spilling out.

"I dunno why, but like, he's really insistent that he's happier being dead. So we haven't told him. About the revival. His ghost is really weird in general. I don't- I'm not a fan."

He would've kept rambling, but Dream cut him off.

"It's not real."

What.

"What?"

"The ghosts. They aren't... It's not a person. It's a trick. It's a bad imitation of the person left behind to try to convince you not to revive them. They'll try different things, but it's all for the same goal. Try to ignore it until I've got this finished."

Dream words were confident and clinical. Like he was stating the obvious.

And- well- It wasn't like Tubbo thought he was lying. What he was saying made sense, in an abstract way.

"Why- How do you know that?"

It was kind of a stupid question. Silence ticked by, and since Tubbo was still facing the wall, he had no idea what Dream was thinking.

"I found out when I got the book."

That wasn't the whole truth, and they both knew it. Tubbo itched with the desire to learn more, he wanted to know, to understand. He almost couldn't restrain himself.

But Tubbo was trying. He'd figured out pretty quickly that Dream took poorly to being pressed for answers. So he nodded, and kept his questions to himself for the moment.

Silence again. It wasn't quite comfortable, but it was tolerable. There was the very faint and slow scratch of pen against paper offsetting it all.

Dream spoke after a few minutes.

"Is Niki going to be back soon? She was.... Meeting Ponk? Right?"

"Punz, actually. Uh, I think she'll be back in a few days? She was going to stop and catch up on a few things before coming back. I can ask Phil though. He'll know. Do you need to ask her something?"

There was a frustrated pause, and Tubbo knew it wasn't directed at him. Dream had some issues with keeping things straight these days. He wouldn't talk about what caused it, but it showed in the little details that slipped past him.

"Not exactly, it's not urgent, but... I'm almost done. Should only be a few more days. I'll need to be the one to burn it, but anyone can kill the ghost. I figured she'd be okay with doing it. Probably shouldn't be you or Techno at the very least. Someone will need to be at the prison to get Ranboo too."

Oh. Oh!

Tubbo couldn't contained himself. He whipped around in his excitement- thankful it seemed Dream had already closed the book. He flew out of his chair- he needed to move and think- Ranboo was going to be back!

"Really?!" Pointless, Dream wouldn't lie about this. "She wouldn't mind- I could do it, but I want to be there. When he's back. We can go ahead of time, maybe find where he actually died. Connor might know, maybe. I swear when we broke in the first time Techno found some bloodstains, so we might even know where he was!"

Brain racing, Tubbo starting making plans out loud. Everything he'd been praying for since he first saw that death message so many months ago.

Dream let him ramble without interrupting. One of his hands just moved to pet Michael's head when the toddler snuffled in his sleep. Oops. Tubbo quieted down, not wanting to wake Michael. One thing hadn't still changed, the boy still got extremely grouchy if he didn't get his afternoon nap. Nobody wanted that.

Soon enough, Ranboo would be back. He'd be home. Things weren't going to be like they were before, but they would be okay again. Different, but okay. Finally.

#c!tubbo #c!dream #michael_beloved #michael beloved #dsmp #dream smp #convict childcare au #sif speaks #sif answers #my headcanons #sif writes #anyways #this exists because Tubbo deserves something nice in one of my aus #and also because I wanted to discuss my hc that ghosts are Lies

181 notes · View notes

sugar-petals · 2 years

Text

Tarot Reading: Yoongi's Album Forecast + Reputation

⎡★ NOTE ⎦➝ back after a long time with an interesting question that i received via ask. this is part present-day setting, part predictive as far as the cards allow for it. 🔮

tarot/astro m.list | ao3 tarot reading compilation

☼ the request:

"Hi! I don't know if you're doing requests rn but could we get a tarot reading on how the public/gp in his country see yoongi? And I'm stealing this idea off another blog-they do something like an image vs self (how they want to be seen vs how they are seen) Or just any hints on his solo album? Thank you so much! Enjoy your day/evening!" (by @overgrawnfawn)

SPREAD:

INFO - the deck used is the golden art noveau tarot by giulia f. massaglia.

I. HOW DOES THE PUBLIC PERCEIVE YOONGI?

THE HIGH PRIESTESS — Currently, he maintains an elusive position that isn’t seen through by the general public. Although wise and ready to give deep emotional counsel, much like the Moon card, the introverted High Priestess is an archetype who does not give away her secrets very easily. The same applies to how Yoongi is perceived these days. "Ace up one's sleeve" is a phrase that comes to mind. Yoongi being shrouded in artistic mystery is nothing new, nor is the fact that he has significant access to his own songwriting archives. The card showcases an aloof figure that holds divine scripture, which may indicate Yoongi's stakes and existing material of music production. The public perceives him as someone who collects his own lyrics until there is enough for a whole book that he can later abstract from.

As an overall tenor, his reputation is good, part-neutral, and comes from a stance of calm respect that keeps its due distance since he is an acclaimed idol and soloist. People aren’t losing their marbles like they would with The Tower or The Chariot, they know Yoongi is deliberate and delivers on the long run. The priestess has a position of authority in the tarot after all, she has the keys to the lock without needing to say a word. Yoongi seen as an ultimate dark horse by fans and non-kpop audiences is a no-brainer, as is the traditional interpretation of the card representing a knowing silence and not-yet disclosure of one's stance. As bias, as stan goes the saying, people are patiently waiting for Yoongi to drop his verses. The overall feeling is: Generating interest by being reserved.

II. DISCREPANCY OF HOW HE WANTS TO BE SEEN VS HOW HE IS SEEN?

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES — Yoongi perceives himself as being in the middle of the battlefield of money, work and perseverance, doing business left and right to keep going somewhere. That card is pretty much in line with what we heard about him expanding his ventures and sphere of influence in Daegu. The knight is someone who has an image of being “on the go”. From Yoongi’s perspective, he works just as much as he did during debut times. It’s all a constant line of effort that’s goal-directed, he constantly caters to urgencies that have to be tackled. He’s in a good state of mind, it’s stable, he’s recovered psychologically from feeling apathetic. Yoongi is productive in his hobbies and studio work in a way that makes him feel okay, I’m going somewhere. The way he wants to come across is ever-racing forward, and pentacles are always about personal belongings, so this is a step-by-step approach in the material world he’s undertaking. He’s busier than ever, going from one place to another by car all the time to meet and work with others.

KING OF PENTACLES — In fact, Yoongi has a much more established position than he believes. It’s clear to everyone but him that he has matured in the industry, that he amassed resources, fame, entrepreneurship, and competence as a performer. He’s much further down the path than the knight: A king can sit and settle to enjoy his wealth, right. Yoongi doesn’t feel like that even if people see him as a senior to look up to. He’s too addicted to the hustle and the game that the knight exemplifies rather than standing still and handling big money from his throne position in peace. The managerial King of Pentacles is a master realist and broker, there’s already been success for him and he’s aged. It’s in stark contrast to the young Knight of Pentacles who is still in the midst of it all working hard for years and years. Yoongi would refuse to call himself rich and famous at the end of his financial journey, but still immersed in daily routine for his own king (= the company) as a knight running errands would do. In essence, he does not perceive his own status or doesn’t want it to be his defining element. This also isn’t a new insight given his nature, Yoongi is more comfortable chasing opportunities rather than resting.

III. SOLO ALBUM FORECAST

the deck gave me three different topics:

TEN OF CUPS — A card utterly opposite compared to Yoongi’s past concepts. Cups always show one’s inner lover and soft side. The previous cards eschewed relationships entirely. There was work and finance and societal standing, and being discreet but wise like a mysterious priestess. The Ten of Cups shows an alternative side of Yoongi’s approach to Agust D, the famously rugged and tormented figure always surrounded by fire and chaos. This album will talk about the idea of a blissful family, be that personal or in relation to Bangtan as OT7. Yoongi will ask himself where he will fit in and find his happiness, or show a version of him as a father figure or a kid looking up to his parents. This is one of the happiest and sweetest cards of the tarot, so the pleasant and interpersonal side of life is coming in here. This is a retrospective album that discloses the upbeat rural part of his childhood or makes a stand on BTS as a found family.

The topic of marriage and the conservative/traditional nuclear family could be discussed. „Happy ending“ is a theme, although paired with the other two cards, Yoongi also positions himself outside the process or feels wary about it. Or, he first had that joy and fell into loneliness. It’s not a perfect picture he will paint, but there will be more wholesomeness and the light side. Still, it’s not as dark, violent and martial as Daechwita which was a King of Swords era. The new era could have a romantic fluff element more than ever. A harmonious relation to BTS will be emphasized and he feels stable in their position, or the peak days of OT7 promotions will be a central thought here. It could also refer to Yoongi’s rap colleagues and that he is proud of having strong alliances in the music industry. This album might be the HYBE family coming together so to speak, we can anticipate several collabs. Since there’s dancing on the card, we could get a choreography, too.

THE HERMIT — An unsurprising major arcana representative. The isolated Hermit is Yoongi’s personal essence: Alone, but definitely enjoying his solitude for the knowledge and dissolving of ego it brings. And, of course, the mental maturity he’s always exhibited, earning him a reputation of being the uncle or grandpa in the group, which the bearded Hermit pretty much reflects in a positive and elevated light. Yoongi will talk about being by himself and what he learned from self-reflection, there will be imagery of wandering around, a lamp lighting the dark, maybe a cloak (hanbok?) and staff or hood that he conceals himself with literally or metaphorically. It’s a huge difference to mainstream pop music and rap that talks about love, assets, and power. This card strikes a different chord since it’s pretty much the Gandalf of the tarot deck.

It’s all about lonesome spirituality and musings about humanity this time. There could also be an element of travel, walking in mountains and the snow. Grey is a predominant color in this concept. Because: Grey is neutral and free of any rousing to the eye. The Hermit is free from highs and lows and ordinary life, he’s in his mind to find out who he is. Yes, Yoongi is not done introspecting and looking for identity. Since the other card in the spread are from the minor arcana, this is the main talking point. He continues to be a philosopher on his own life rather than branching out to huge trends in society. This album doesn’t have a heavy political slant but remains spiritual in nature. His character of being a loner and Agust D portraying an outcast will solidify. The aesthetics will be tamer and more cloudy. Winter is a big theme for the Hermit, it’s either the season when his album drops or the general visual of it. The number 9 or 10 reoccurs in the spread, it will have significance (e.g. 9 tracks, a 9-minute MV, 9 weeks in the top 10 charts, etc).

NINE OF WANDS — A more familiar pose when we look back on his previous concepts. The Nine of Wands shows a farmer (the likelier option, see Agust D) or craftsman with a bandaged head hiding on his field between a forest of woods as if there was sprouting bamboo. Where there’s red and blue and grey clothing on the other cards, we get a strong red-orange with green here, attracting attention despite the person hiding. The farmer is on the fence and paranoid of an encroaching action. The meaning of the card goes toward „waiting in angst“ or self-defense from injury. A topic of severity and danger is nothing new in the universe of Agust D, so the album will talk about recurring topics of stress, coping, fear, protecting oneself especially.

I have a feeling this has to do with Yoongi’s growing fame with people getting in his zone congruently, but we also have to see the three cards in relation to each other. It could be paranoia of loneliness, or being terrified of the happy ending in a family. Since the Nine of Wands is last in the spread, this is Yoongi’s final stance on the topics he discusses: He’s actually terrified and needs to continue to endure. Even if he dreams of concluding or is comfortable being by himself like the Hermit, there’s immense fatigue. The card imagery also reminds me of Yoongi dressed in Daechwita, rags, and the black hair of the anti-emperor self. The spirit of anti-authority is still here, but this time, not attacking but waiting in one’s lair not wanting to be bothered.

read it on ao3

⇢ disclaimer ♡ this is subjective interpretation; no guarantee for precision and things aren’t definite. divination relies on perspective, believing in tarot is a choice. the reading is for entertainment purposes only, all portrayals are fictive/speculative.

#bts tarot #tarot #yoongi tarot #bts tarot reading #kpop tarot #bts #bangtan #yoongi #agust d

54 notes · View notes

sassy-author · 2 years

Text

closure [johnnyxoc]

genre: slice-of-life / adulthood / angst / best-friends-to-strangers-to-acquaintances word count: 3.7k+

Being best friends seemed to have been written in their destiny. Johnny and Soyeon shared a mutual understanding that no one could fathom.

Yet, things change. People change. More often than not, feelings get in the way.

Unspoken feelings, careers to build and fear. Abstract themes but blend them together and you get all the more reasons for it all.

Follow the story of Johnny and Soyeon, a best-friend cliché that highlights the importance of timing with adulthood, career, friendship, pride and love.

First Love. A concept that may seem childish and futile to some but crucial and life-changing to others. Some experience it as young as at the age of 10, others even at the age of 55. No two people experience love in the same way and that is the beauty of life. However, first loves are known to be unsuccessful; in general, foolish, hasty, and clumsy which leads to break-ups and heartaches, yet one knows no better personal growth than from this experience. The kind of love that will hurt deeply and for a long time but also the special type of feeling that leaves you thankful and matured.

Soyeon exited the building hurriedly as her eyes darted to her watch. Her hasty steps and alert eyes spelled out that she was needed somewhere. After eyeing left and right, she sighed deeply before dialing a number she knew by heart. Only one beep was enough for him to answer on the other end of the line with a tone way too sweet to her liking.

“Where you at?” she asked immediately, to which he nervously chuckled.

“I’m stuck at work.”

“You-”

“Don’t yell.” Taeyong whined, “I sent someone to pick you up, I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Who-” Beep. Beep. Beep.

Soyeon cursed under her breath as she eyed her phone begrudgingly. She usually would not mind waiting but Taeyong had been so adamant that morning about how she should not make him wait on her that the irony of their situation infuriated her. Crossing her arms to her chest, she patiently waited; Taeyong had most probably sent Ten, so he shouldn’t be far off since his office building was only three blocks away.

Being on the lookout for Ten’s Mercedes, Soyeon paid no attention to the Audi that swiftly halted a metre away from her. A shiver ran down her spine as the sweet fall breeze swept by, drawing a tight smile to her face.

“I haven’t seen this smile in a while.”

Soyeon recognized this voice immediately which made her jolly expression drop. Turning on her stance to face the culprit, her pupils only dilated in recognition of the young man standing right in front of her. He had a tight smirk to his lips whilst his hands were both lodged at the safety of the side pockets of his pants. The opened collar of his dress shirt indicated that a tie used to secure the attire barely a few minutes ago. He was dashing. As always.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well why don’t you tell me yourself.”

“Stop playing, Johnny Suh.” She deadpanned in fluent English; clearly affected by his presence.

He smiled tightly before inching forward to take her in a loose and friendly hug. Though Soyeon would have loved to push him away, she would never be able to; her arms patted his back twice as he took it as a hint to let go.

“Taeyong sent me. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I’m going to kill the guy.” She muttered under her breath; not so discretely might I add.

Johnny kept a keen gaze upon her figure until she finally met his pupils. He offered his signature smirk before simply saying; “Get in.”

Traffic was abnormally fluid, but they still had around twenty more minutes before reaching destination. Their annual graduate reunion was being held at a fancy Gangnam hotel. There was a peaceful silence that settled between them. While the air was nowhere near awkward, there definitely was an elephant in the room; an unspoken tension that threatened to break the sweetness of this tranquility at any time yet, neither seemed particular bothered by same.

Reaching for the music player, Soyeon instinctively searched for Petit Biscuit through Johnny’s saved playlists. It took her barely 3 seconds to find it since it was one of his own most recent hits and she quietly pressed play, letting the soft beats fill the silence with ease. Johnny shook his head with a knowing smile to his lips. This situation was way too familiar, way too convenient, way too nostalgic. But he knew best than to mention it, at least not for now; they still had a whole evening to spend together with their friends; it was not exactly the perfect time to dampen the mood. Yet, Johnny was in the presence of Soyeon, his own personal sunshine. Sunshine who remained hidden within his own clouds for the past year, he of course, had to still edge on the topic.

“Are you that uncomfortable in my presence Yeon?” he asked, a hint of sincerity at the edge of his tone but he kept such a nonchalant expression that Soyeon had a hard time discerning the true meaning behind his words. Whatever it was, she did not let herself ponder for too long either.

“Of course, I am uncomfortable.” She retorted as they reached a red light. Johnny took this as a chance to finally send her a cautious look within the silence that was filled with nothing but Petit Biscuit and their rhythmic breaths.

Soyeon shared a glance to his figure. How could someone still look this stunning after a full eight hours of work was beyond her, but he did. How could someone whom you wished to hate still tug at your heartstrings with a simple gaze, she didn’t know either, but he did. Within seconds, they both erupted in a hearty laugh before Johnny tentatively reached out and shuffled her hair.

The sudden burst of laughter was a simple “We’ll be fine” kind of moment. From this point onward, small talk entailed with generic questions about work and life in general but they both cautiously strained away from any invasive questions that could turn towards any romance prospects that they might each have. After all, a year could do wonders to a wounded heart.

As soon as Soyeon appeared through the main entrance, Taeyong got up from his seat and ran towards Seulgi, as a failed attempt to hide behind her. But the petite woman could only do so much, and well, Taeyong would not be able to hide forever either since Soyeon’s designated seat was right next to his. Soyeon rolled her eyes at her friend, wasting no time in tearing his ear upwards as she pulled him along her side until they were both back to their seats.

Taeyong had a small pout to his lips but in all honesty, Soyeon’s revenge was not nearly as harsh as what he thought it would be. Leaning closer, she simply whispered:

“This is not over Lee.” With the sweetest smile to her lips which frayed a shiver of fear down Taeyong’s spine. He carefully gulped, sending his friend a nervous smile while Johnny carefully observed the exchange with a small tug to his heart.

Soyeon and Taeyong had always been close, in fact, Taeyong was second in line to being her best friend. They both never shied away from the fact that they crushed on each other for approximately a month when they had first met either. But it all boiled down to a simple physical attraction that subsided as soon as they got to know each other on a more meaningful level. The biggest bubble burst was their clashing personalities and lifestyles, these could never allow them beyond the friend status. Soon enough Soyeon became Taeyong’s wingman, and three years later, got him to settle in his longest romantic relationship yet with Seulgi, his sweetheart, as he’d always refer.

Johnny knew that. He was there through the whole courting process. He was the one who initially had the honour of being Soyeon’s best friend and to this day, he so happened to still be Taeyong’s best friend as well. Naturally he knew their history, he was there through the whole sequence, but he could not help the green monster that tugged at his heart; the envy that he could not hide because now, Taeyong was Soyeon’s closest illustration of a best friend and not him, not anymore. And he had only himself to blame.

Taking his seat across Soyeon, she gave him a tight smile. A smile that did not reach her ears, that did not make her eyes sparkle, but he could sense that it was genuine and well, that was enough comfort for now.

Between new promotions, new jobs, overbearing bosses and annoying colleagues, the conversation at their table was lively and all over the place. Donghyuk and Mark were busy arguing over kimchi fried rice again, Seulgi had excused herself to the bathroom with Karina and Doyoung was showing Johnny and Ten some promotional video or whatever. So, Taeyong took this advantage to lean closer to Soyeon.

“How was the ride?” But tipsy Taeyong is not exactly subtle nor quiet. Johnny inadvertly heard the question and carefully eyed Soyeon who briefly met his gaze, before simply shrugging.

“It was fine.”

“It was fine” he repeated on an overly high-pitched voice “… come on give me more dets!”

“We had basic conversation, that’s it.” She continued, taking a quick swig from the remnants of Taeyong’s beer.

As if on cue, Ten, or better said, a very tipsy Ten, judged it great to reminisce.

“I always hoped that you two would end up together.” Ten sighed, cheeks rosy, while pointing towards Johnny and Soyeon.

“So did I.” Soyeon whispered softly, moreso for herself to hear before sending a small grin to Ten. “Well things don’t always work out the way we’d hoped for honey.” She continued as she handed Ten a chicken wing to keep his mouth shut.

The whole gang could only giggle at the small exchange, relieved that Soyeon did not falter under Ten’s drunken honesty. Johnny on the other hand, paled.

Several drinks later, half of their table was snoozing while holding their soju bottles, while the other half was still competing to the alcohol death, that is, Doyoung and the girls. Soyeon tapped out with a last shot, finally feeling the buzz kick in.

Slowly getting up from her chair, she sneakily grabbed Taeyong’s spare coat to wrap around herself as she headed for a quick breather. Ten was about to follow her, just to keep her company but he quickly chose otherwise as he noticed a very tipsy Johnny struggle to get up and follow her quietly.

Soyeon found solace on a wooden bench right in front of the resto bar they were at. Taking in a breath of fresh air, she calmly let her eyelids come to a close, recounting a few funny moments of the night in her head.

Hearing footsteps approach, she was too tired to even react. So, until the new presence took a seat next to her, gently bumping his frame against hers.

“You okay there?” Johnny asked, half-lidded eyes and clearly tipsy grin.

Soyeon laughed at his goofy demeanour. “Shouldn’t I be the one to ask that?”

Johnny frowned at her teasing before laughing with her. He could never fool her.

“You’re still a light-weight Johnny Suh.”

“You still go out for fresh air between your 3rd and 4th bottle of Soju Lee Soyeon.”

Soyeon looked at Johnny softly, offering him a genuine smile, large from ear to ear. But he saw it, he immediately noticed the nostalgia that filled her pupils. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the person himself, but before she could even comprehend it, tears welled her eyes as memories flooded her mind. Nothing bad. Only the good ones. All the times she would be with Johnny, just like now, small banter, comfortable silence, and unspoken feelings as clear as source water.

“I’m sorry Yeon.” Johnny was the first to break the silence, turning away from their stare-off contest, holding back his own tears.

“I am sorry too.” Soyeon whispered, loud enough for both of them to hear.

Without hesitation, Johnny reached out to grab Soyeon’s hand in his. Only for the comfort. They both needed it. The reassurance that times had changed but the essence of their duo was still there somewhere.

The next day.

The constant buzzing of one’s phone is not exactly the best alarm to wake up to, yet, Soyeon was greeted by none other than that. Groaning lazily as she reached for it, she could only be even more annoyed by the culprit.

Taeyong’s wit seemed to have left his body that Saturday morning as he was spamming her inbox with cute messages, probably trying to make up for the previous night’s clearly premeditated coup. Amongst the dozens of notifications from the morning evil, there was one from Ten as well, apologising for his dense remark for which she was not even bothered by but also, a message from Johnny.

Text from: Johnny Suh Up for brunch?

Sighing, as an unconscious smile graced her lips, she could feel her heart flutter at the mere recollection of the previous night’s drunken episode. Nothing besides apologies had been exchanged yet, her spirits could not help themselves but be hopeful. This was Suh Youngho, Johnny, her best friend up until a year ago. The good entente between them was still there, maybe they could resume wherever the blurred line at which they had left things would allow.

Meeting him at where was once their go-to spot, Soyeon easily spotted the 6ft gentleman, seated at the far back, close enough to the open kitchen and bar area, in order to take in the morning freshly brewed coffee aroma but also far enough from the entrance to prevent any distraction from their surroundings. Their table.

Brunch turned out to be simple coffee, both couldn’t stomach anything but the dark beverage since remnants of the previous night’s booze still haunted their systems.

“Respectfully, you look like shit.” Johnny said, his whisker smile showing before a painful groan escaped his lips as Soyeon gave him a well-deserved jab to the shoulder.

“Respectfully, I wasn’t the one to tap out after barely finishing a single bottle of soju, peach soju at that, not even soju at its pure sanctity.”

“Oh, shut up drunkard.”

They both laughed before falling into casual conversation. Johnny had the most to say since he had missed last year’s reunion.

“Doyoung and Joy are still karaoke maniacs. Imagine if Taeil was there to compete.” He exclaimed, taking a quiet sip from his coffee.

“Oh please, consider yourself lucky; you are forced to hear the marathon only once a year; I on the other hand, do not benefit from this luxury.”

“Perks of being on the move for work.” Soyeon smiled at his remark, only slightly less. Sensing the shift in mood, Johnny cleared his throat. “I really am sorry Yeon.”

Maintaining soft eye-contact with him, she nodded. “I am sorry too Johnny.”

“I know.” You could see that he was looking for words and so was she. So much was left unsaid. After all, they had never fought, there never was a particular incident that shifted their dynamics. At some point, they simply, stopped maintaining their friendship and that was it.

“It’s funny you know” Johnny continued, “People asked me, what happened between us, but I was never really able to give them an answer.”

“That’s because, nothing happened.” Soyeon remarked with a bittersweet smile.

“Exactly. I just- I guess I did not know what to do anymore.”

“I struggled too.” Soyeon admitted, her tone showing great emotion. “I always wondered if I did something wrong. You confessed and I needed time. I confessed and you needed time. But then you changed.”

“It just felt too good to be true, and then the timing was never right. I got new opportunities with work, and I guess- I guess burying myself in work is the choice I inevitably made.” Johnny concluded, regret apparent on his face but the smile Soyeon showed told him that it was okay.

“I know, and I am proud of you. I always knew that you would reach the stars. The only thing that left a bitter taste in my mouth was that... the last time you went MIA, you promised me that you would be more upfront about needing your space. But you ignored my messages, if I invited you over, you’d say that you’d come and then never show up. I called you saying I was dropping by, but you were never home, and then suddenly you were somewhere in Japan on business for months, without even saying goodbye.”

“That’s the thing, I really wanted to tell you everything, that I was confused, but-“

“But you ran away from us.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t want to run away, I just, I didn’t know if you were being sincere. After all, you confessed only after I got closer to Irene.”

The arguments were becoming more poignant but both of them remained calm, this was not even a fight, more of an honest conversation, long overdue.

“I never felt threatened by Irene on a romantic level. I was only scared to lose my best friend. Your friendship with her is not what prompted me to confess. I knew of my feelings for a while, I just never found the right time until they grew so much that it became impossible to hide it all.”

“But why would you want to hide your feelings, it’s not like they weren’t reciprocated!”

They both laughed at the irony.

“I know, but I was still scared. I did not want to lose our friendship – what if things did not work out between us.”

Johnny looked at her dearly, simply nodding, because he knew, that all she ever wanted, was for him to stay by her side. She never asked for anything but his friendship. But he could not do that then and even now. He was due in Singapore the very next day. This conversation could lead to somewhere, but the circumstances prevented him from spreading the hope that she obviously held from the sparkle that shone in her eyes despite the heavy conversation they just had.

“Thank you.” He said, “For agreeing to talk things out and settle it all.” The sentence came out much more nonchalantly that he had wished for, and you could see the pain in Soyeon’s now watering eyes, but she smiled nonetheless.

‘He must have a reason.’ She thought; he had to have a reason for bringing the topic up, and then leaving her high and dry.

“Thank you too, for giving me a chance to speak my mind as well.”

Three years later.

“Oolong fresh tea to-go for Soyeon.” The barista announced on a sing-song pitch. Soyeon hurried to grab her order, thanking the barista with as big of a smile that she could show for a Monday morning.

“Soyeon is that you?” Turning around, surprised, there, in flesh, Johnny Suh stood before her, looking as dapper as ever.

A hint of recognition dilated her pupils before she smiled, clearly not expecting to meet him at the local café; last time she had heard from him, or better said about him from Taeyong, he was successful in California after the completion of his initiatives on a huge cross-border acquisition.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He announced, reaching for a friendly hug which she returned warmly.

“I did not know that you were back in Seoul.” She stated, still in disbelief, following Johnny as he naturally guided them both to an empty table.

Scratching the back of his nape with a bashful smile, “Came back last week.” Looking at her with what could only be defined as adoration, he added, “For good this time.”

Soyeon was not dumb, she immediately understood the weight of his words. He was finally back. Johnny Suh was finally in the same place as her, and this time, he would not be leaving. But she could not dwell on it, not anymore.

“So, tell me, how was California?”

“It was great, but extremely tiring. You’d think that I would be more comfortable to be this close to Chicago, but I missed Seoul more than planned.”

“That’s so unlike the Johnny Suh that I knew.” Soyeon teased, settling in to have her to-go order in-house in the end.

“Really?” Johnny laughed, before getting comfortable as well, showing nothing but complete attention to her. “And how exactly was the Johnny Suh that you knew?”

Soyeon did not even need to think about it as she started, “Well for starters, I would never see him grab coffee this early when he’d really rather make his own at home.”

“Touché. But you know America changes you. What else?”

“I don’t know, you used to always fuss about wanting to see the World and explo-”

Soyeon’s sentence got interrupted mid-way as her phone started ringing. Johnny threw an inadvertent look at her phone, not trying to pry, but really accidentally and the name that showed up was enough to take his breath away.

Jaehyun <3

“Hey babe, yes, I’m alright. Nope I’m still at the café, actually you will never guess who I met here. Johnny.”

Soyeon’s conversation was light, but Johnny immediately noticed the sparkle in her eyes, the smile that found her lips as she listened to Jaehyun. A minute later, the phone call was cut, and she pursues.

“Sorry about that, Jaehyun says hi by the way.”

Johnny smiled. He could only do that much. Of course, he would say hi. From what he had heard, Jaehyun was a great guy. Taeyong would not shut up about him and how well he integrated their tight-knit entourage.

“What was I telling you again?”

“You were telling me about my want to travel…” Johnny said, with as much calmness as he could.

“Ah yes, you always wanted to explore. It is so unlike you to settle back here.”

“Just wanted to find a sense of home again.” He stated. a bittersweet smile to his lips as he sipped on his Americano. ‘Home is where the heart is.’ He thought, looking at her with nothing but fondness once again. She looked so happy.

Their conversation continued, two old friends catching up. He did his best to keep it going as long as it could, after all, it had been so long since he last felt so enthused. Alas, nothing could follow through. They were only, two old friends catching up. With a promise to meet again but no concrete plans ever made. At the end of the day, that was all it could ever be. The beautiful diamond band that laced her left ring finger was a clear enough reminder. He was too late. ‘The timing was never right, and that’s okay,’ he thought.

THE END.

#nct #nct 127 #nct u #seo johnny #suh johnny #nct johnny #johnny fanfic #nct fanfic #nct fanfiction #scenarios #nct imagines #slice of life #adulthood #angst #bestfriend au

5 notes · View notes

writerfromtheshore · 2 years

Text

Some notes on Hauntings

With the release of “Within the Reach” I wanted to post some of my notes on the subject. Just because I enjoy this open talking about thought processes of writing that I have been seeing.

There were some clear tropes that I wanted to write about— from ghost ships to mysterious corpses to demon hunting and sea monsters, and I felt as if the first few chapters really hit on them. However, it definitely became harder to think about taking stuff a step further and writing something sincere as I got further into the series. Did it show? Whereas I had sets that had no stories written about them in the beginning, later I felt like the later parts of the series were more about abstract concepts. It definitely felt hard to get sincere and write something easy and relatable.

More directly about “Within the Reach”, there was a LOT that I wanted to pack into it. Sea Monsters. Sea Shanties. Ga-Koro and the endless ocean at night. The more I thought about it, the more came to mind.

First off, sea shanties. After Wellerman started trending on Tik Tok, and watching Pirates of the Caribbean movies, I was obsessed and had to incorporate them into this. What would they sing about though? What were the genres of shanties? (Despite my research, no matter what discussions I read, it always came back to the last one being “What do you do with a drunken sailor” Ha!)

Second and more importantly, there are a number of possible families of creatures that could have roamed in the oceans around Ga-Koro. Rahi from the Matoran universe. Animals natural to Aqua Magna. Modified sea life that the Great Beings tampered with prior to the Shattering. Pit Mutations of all of the above. When you think about it, the waters beyond Ga-Koro and the shores of the island of Mata Nui were honestly loaded with creatures. (side note: I did not consider pirates because I have another story I want to develop outside of Hauntings with that idea. I wanted to keep this series as close to canon as I could, and the implications of Pirates could send the story in a different direction than what I want)

I settled with Rahi because of discussions on here that I read about Makuta Teridax and Rahi: The original purpose of Rahi was to keep Matoran workers from going to places in the robot that they were not supposed to. I came to the conclusion in which that included away from the robot. If there Matoran that were functional to the running of the robot— workers in Metru Nui, workers that may even have potential and programming to be Toa, even— the Makuta would in doing his duty want to keep those Matoran from leaving the robot. Should he not do that? Well, that is the oarfish’s duty: to keep Matoran from venturing out and away from the robot.

Thirdly, the whole concept of “the Reach” became a bit of a pain in the butt after a while. The island of Mata Nui is supposed to cover the robot’s face. The Reach however… ahhhh maybe a picture below will explain it better ;)

I had this conundrum after a while of “the Reach” being so far from the island and how it would affect the story: Did I want a Moby Dick story where it was very far out to sea, or more of a Jaws-esque vibe closer to shore? I ended up going for Jaws and closer to shore because it just flowed that way.

Going off of above, the Reach and the oarfish do come together to feed into a piece that I am planning on republishing. Oarfish, according to research I did, are creatures that only come up after earthquakes. I’ve peppered some hints into other Hauntings such as “Vakama discovers seasons” but it does all add up to something. It is a fun endgame, and I think it will end this era of my writing nicely.

“Within the Reach of a Sea Monster” is probably going to be the last Haunting for the series that I am going to write. I do have one more idea. However, the real events of the last year and a half of my life (mainly teaching and learning how to swim competitively) has definitely taken a toll on me and definitely made this last chapter drag out. I feel like the idea of Hauntings has been met, that I have largely done what I wanted to do. The series definitely helped me figure out some emotions, and now that I have worked through those in this volume, I can close this collection having completed my mission.

BUT with all being said, this has been some of the best work I feel I have written. I can definitely say that my writing portfolio would not be what it is without these pieces. I feel like a much better writer for having written it. The structure and craft of my writing feels so much better defined and clearer to explain. It is something I feel like I can say adds to the overall discussion about Bionicle and those early years. Hauntings has been an extremely rewarding piece of work, from writing it to seeing all of the comments everyone has given on here, BZP and AO3.

#Mata Nui Hauntings #fanfiction #reflection #creative writing #personal #bionicle

5 notes · View notes

existentialmagazine · 2 years

Text

Review: Brother Swan’s newest single ‘When’s the Last Time’ reminisces on the past with both a warmth and a longing

California based indie-rock band Brother Swan may only just be getting started with only three singles out to date, but they already have a number of shows under their belt, a tour on the way and a new single leading up to something big. Taking inspiration from the likes of LCD Soundsystem, Alex G, the Beach Boys, and David Bowie, this trio have a sound that comes together to form something modern yet incredibly unique. With all of their releases releasing throughout this year, 2022, Brother Swan are fresh to the music scene but nothing they’ve put out would ever make you think they’d just stepped foot into releasing, and their latest single only further adds greatness to their growing discography.

Jumping in with an eclectic mix of sounds, ‘When's the Last Time’ commences with an acoustic undertone that lays similarities to folk whilst reigning alternative rock stylings at its core. With 70s and 80s inspired verses, shining e-bow guitars vibrantly colour the soundscape in violin-like pangs, settling beside rhythm guitars, a steady bassline and an addictive beat that urges you to sway along at every turn. Atop this gorgeous, often unseen blend of sounds, their vocalist delivers a spoken-sung performance carrying hints of emotion in every hoarsely sung line and downbeat spoken offering. As the chorus adds harmonised vocals in the backing, there’s an added magic to ‘When's the Last Time’ , leaving the narrative feeling a little softer and sweeter despite all nods towards melancholia littered in the verses. An exciting electric guitar riff adds yet another of interest as the track closes out, pulling together this abstract soundscape and leaving you wondering how Brother Swan are still yet to be widely known when they’re providing listening experiences that capture a nostalgia with such ease.

Succumbing to the temptation of reminiscing and wondering what could’ve been, the lyricism of ‘When's the Last Time’ opens up as their singer Chris finds himself lost inside his memories. Yearning for a certain someone to return as someone else, perhaps who he romanticised them to be or just the person they used to be, ‘When's the Last Time’ simply aches for that someone to return - a feeling many will find stirring as they listen through. As edges of self-awareness seep through the edges, there’s a clear battle between heart and head knowing that allowing yourself to welcome in the past can only cause further damage, yet it looks so inviting to venture through and long for just one more time. As poignant lines fill the bedding of this comforting yet resonant single, moments such as the opening verses ‘to be drunk on a memory’ leave you to ponder on the past and how you may find yourself both buzzing and hitting rock bottom when turning the pages of your buried past. Interestingly, the resonant ‘I want to feel it all’ leaves you to feel welcomed by a warmth and familiarity, despite the agony that reminiscing can bring upon you, feeling it all to its fullest means to grieve the love lost and the happiness that no longer stems from those days whilst appreciating them for what they were. Somewhere between nostalgically heartbroken and softly soothing, ‘When's the Last Time’ has it all, and it doesn’t fall short of providing you with a relatable place to feel and deal with your own troubles too.

Check out ‘When's the Last Time’ for yourself here if Brother Swan’s poignant lyricism and calming soundscape is something you want to lose yourself in!

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Rafael Hernandez

#music #singlereview #brotherswan

0 notes

shig-a-shig-ah · 2 years

Note

Can I request something where reader is the one creeping on/ sexuality harassing Shigaraki? Reciprocated or not, it would be so fun to make him blush.

Started out trying to write a slightly silly sexual harassment scenario, wound up at some straight noncon stuff instead. He blushes, at least.

» pairing: shigaraki tomura x gn!reader » contains: noncon, over the clothes handjob. 18+, minors DNI. » words: 1.1k

"You know I've wanted this since the day we met."

"Me too. Oh, God, don't stop."

You can feel Spinner squirming awkwardly to your left as the scene plays out on-screen, while to your right Magne and Compress are both leaning towards the television, wholly focused and seemingly unbothered by Toga protesting in annoyance from her seat on the floor. It's not because the film Sako picked for the League's movie night is racier than anyone expected; it's Twice she's squealing at, as he exclaims about audience ratings and tries to cover her eyes.

None of them notice Shigaraki fidgeting on the overturned crate he's been using as a seat, but you do. From the corner of your eye you can see him shifting uncomfortably, tugging at the edge of his hoodie as his lip twitches with irritation. Then he's standing abruptly, grumbling an excuse about snacks and vanishing into the makeshift kitchen before anyone else can do more than send a cursory glance his way.

Your gaze lingers in the direction he's disappeared, though, teeth working at your lower lip. The movie might be racier than many, but it's not downright pornographic—twenty-seconds of full frontal nudity at best before it had dissolved into a montage of lips and hands and abstract body parts overlaid by heavy breathing and lustful murmuring—but there's also something all too tempting about the fact that even that was enough to have Shigaraki squirming like a school boy.

After another second you simply can't help yourself. You rise to follow.

You find Shigaraki leaning against the counter in the rundown space that passes for a kitchen, eyes fixed exasperatedly on the ceiling and jaw set in annoyance. He tenses when you enter, fingers lifting to drag over his throat.

"What are you doing?" The hand not scratching at his neck is shoved in the pocket of his sweatshirt and it pulls the material a little tauter as he asks the question, a small but obvious effort to cover his crotch. If you'd had any doubts about why he'd risen so suddenly, that movement is enough to dispel them.

You glance around until your eyes settle on the case of water on the shelf directly above Shigaraki's head, and then you smirk. "I was thirsty."

Before he can respond, you're taking several steps forward and closing the distance between the two of you, rising to your tiptoes and extending your arm to reach for a bottle, doing your best to act as though the sudden invasion of his personal space is entirely incidental. His eyes widen as your chest presses lightly into his and your hips brush his own, and even as you drop your heels and start to lean away, plastic bottle crunching slightly beneath your fingers, you purposefully let your hips rub a little more firmly against his groin, and the faint bulge you can feel there.

Shigaraki sucks in a sharp, involuntary hiss of breath, and you raise an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Are you okay, boss?"

"I'm fine," he snaps. "Now leave me alone already."

"Are you sure? You seem a little worked up about something."

His eyes narrow at your teasing, knowing tone, but a second later he's looking away, a hint of color rising on his cheeks as he shifts his weight on his feet. "Shut up."

"Come on now, don't be like that," you faux-pout, and then you're running your free hand down his chest and taking no small amount of satisfaction in the way his posture stiffens. "It's kind of cute."

More than kind of cute, if you're being honest. His jaw is clenched, cords in his neck straining even as the pink flush in his face starts to creep down his throat, spreading down beneath the collar of his shirt.

"Don't fucking—" He's cut off when your hand drags even lower to grope at his clothed arousal, tantalizingly thick and rock hard beneath your fingers, and then his protest is replaced by a sharp, stuttering exhale. His face scrunches into a grimace when you start to massage that straining erection. "Knock it"—he lets out a choked sound when your hand squeezes a little tighter—"knock it off."

You don't. His hips are bucking into your hands even as he utters those words, and that movement only worsens when you start to stroke him over his clothes despite the protests, relishing the way his length twitches every time you squeeze a little tighter at his tip. You'd be lying if you said that obvious ambivalence didn't have heat sparking in your center—there's something all too tantalizing about seeing your normally formidable leader so flustered and uncertain.

That satisfaction only increases when he lets out a whimper, hands gripping at the edge of the counter, middle fingers shakily raised.

"Fuck, I said stop, I don't—" He's interrupted when you start to work your hand a little faster, his breath coming in fits and starts, his face twisted in an obvious effort to fight back the way he's responding to your meager touch. Every whine that claws up from his throat has him wincing and his eyes are boring into you so harshly that you might be scared if he wasn't clearly using every ounce of energy just to maintain some poor semblance of composure.

"It's okay, boss," you coo. "You like it, right? Just relax."

He shakes his head a little, pale locks bouncing, but he's rutting erratically into your palm now, the small sounds slipping past his lips growing louder as he grows closer to coming, and you let out a giggle.

"If you're not careful the others are going to hear you," you taunt, speeding up your movements.

Shigaraki chokes out a swear, biting at his cracked lip as he tries to suppress those noises, and then two seconds later one of his hands is lifting and he's sinking his teeth into his fist instead, muffling a long, low groan as his cock spasms and a sticky warmth seeps through his sweats.

He slumps back against the counter almost at once, head hanging and reddened face contorted into a stunned grimace. You're not bothered by that, or by the way he's glaring dangerously at you—you're already wiping your damp, tacky palm on the sleeve of his hoodie and pulling away, heading back out to join the others without so much as a single glance back at your rattled leader.

Taglist: @tohoeroki-hime @kiwiimochi @simultaneously-sick-and-calm @sasuke-wants-tea @fgkween @nonobadcat @tirzamisu @httptamaki @toughbook @xxjesshuxx @lawfulrhi @doomsthotstash @kazutorasgoodboy @evilmortytrapremix @sunasb3tch @shigarakis-dominatrix @tomurastrashpanda @kinjuutsu @handvillain @nao-chii @get-shiggy-with-it

#shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki fanfic #shigaraki ficlet #shigaraki drabble #shigaraki smut #bnha reader insert #tw: noncon #nsft #ghuleh.writes

515 notes · View notes

thisissirius · 3 years

Note

i know that you're soft eddie drabbles queen, so do you have any thoughts on that absolutely sweetest and softest smile Eddie has when Buck comes to the hospital?

(or is just high lmao)

i got you, adina:))))

hypertense

eddie/buck, post season 4 emotions

Eddie is high.

Okay like.... 75% high. Maybe 90% high. The drugs are really fucking good and he can barely feel anything at all. Which is weird when his hand is supposed to be in Ana’s. It’s like her fingers aren’t there. Or maybe it’s his fingers.

Fingers is a really stupid word. Why are they called fingers?

“Eddie,” Ana says.

Eddie blinks.

“I called Buck. I’m not sure how long it’ll be before he gets here.”

Buck. Buuuuck. Why is he called Buck Buckley? Evan is a nice name. Soft. Soft like Buck’s sweater. That pink one. God, Eddie wishes Buck was here.

“S’he okay?”

Are you supposed to slur when you’re not drunk? He’s only high. The good kind of high not LSD high where he’s tripping colours and spreading out like oil on the surface of water and woah—

Eddie closes his eyes. Get a grip, Diaz. A grip. Did he ever have a grip? His fingers aren’t gripping anything. Maybe Ana’s fingers aren’t real.

“Eddie,” Ana says, squeezing his hand.

Oh, he actually can feel her fingers. Okay. Also the blankets on his legs. The weight against his torso, the tightness in his shoulder muscles. It’s all abstract, though. Like one of those paintings Buck showed Chris and the two of them tried to recreate. Coloured blocks shoved together in a bajillion ways. Eddie feels like a block. Doesn’t quite fit or feel right.

Except.

There’s the sound of footsteps and then the doors opening and—

Eddie can feel the smile on his face, because Buck. “Hey, Buck.”

“Hey,” Buck says, breathes, smiling his own dopey grin. He looks—well. Like a Buck shaped relief. Is that a thing? “I’m really glad you’re alright.”

Humming, Eddie tugs his hand out of Ana’s, waving it at Buck. Ana and Buck share a look. It’s weird, heavy. Is a look heavy? Eddie’s not sure. He thinks about a look falling from a building and that’s just really fucking weird. Shaking his head, he focuses back to find Buck sitting next to his bed, Ana gone. He frowns. “Did she fall?”

Buck snorts. “Fall where?”

“Like the look. Heavy looks fall, Buck.”

“Uh-huh.” Buck’s smiling and Eddie knows that look. It’s all soft and squishy. He looks at Chris like that sometimes. Alllll the time. “How are you feeling?”

Eddie thinks about it. “Like I’m not real. I could fall through the bed.” Ignoring the soft laugh from Buck, Eddie raises his hand a little from the bed, wiggles his fingers. “Why do you think they’re called fingers? Fingers.”

“I’ll look it up,” Buck says softly.

“Kay,” Eddie says. He wiggles his fingers again and Buck takes the hint, wraps their hands up and Eddie feels settled. “Your fingers are great.”

Buck squeezes his hand gently. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Missed you.” Eddie sees the way Bucks breath catches. Which is also dumb like what does a breath catch? Fish? It’s not like there’s spikes sticking out of Buck’s throat that the air is trapped on.

“I missed you too,” Buck says quietly.

“I missed me too.” Eddie makes a face. “Can you do that? Miss yourself?”

Buck’s smile is still soft, still everything. Buck is always so much, and Eddie loves him. “Those drugs are really good, huh?”

“So good,” the words come out long. Eddie turns his head, wants the last thing he sees to be Buck. “M’tired. But you shouldn’t leave.”

“I’ll be here,” Buck promises. He’s still smiling but he also looks sad.

Eddie doesn’t want him to be sad. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Yeah.” Buck leans in. “Sleep, Eddie. Hopefully you won’t feel so high next time.”

“Or maybe I’ll have sunk through to the floor,” Eddie points out: it’s a real fear. What’s to stop the bed melting away?

Buck rolls his eyes. He’s always doing that. One day they’ll roll right out of his—okay that’s gross. “Eddie?”

Eddie blinks. “Sorry, your eyes rolled out of your head.”

Staring, Buck opens his mouth, closes it. “Okay.” He makes the word long too. Okaaaaay. Eddie’s not okay. He doesn’t think Buck’s okay. But together? Maybe they can be. Or just OK if they can’t be okay. “I promise I won’t let you fall through the bed?”

“I’m falling through the bed?”

“Hey, no, lie down,” Buck says, but he sounds like he’s laughing. Which is good because he doesn’t look as sad when he’s laughing. “I’ll protect you from whatever might happen when you’re sleeping.”

“Duh,” Eddie says. He sinks into the mattress, eyes closing. He can feel his fingers in Buck’s, can hear Buck’s breathing, smell so many things he’s not sure he can identify. “Always do.”

“Not always.”

It’s quiet. So quiet Eddie doesn’t think he’s supposed to hear it. He always does, though, when it’s Buck.

“Always,” Eddie says. “But especially when I’m floating away.”

A pause. Then, “especially then.”

Eddie’s glad Buck finally understands. “Don’t forget about the fingers.”

“I won’t forget about the fingers, Eddie,” is the last thing Eddie hears before he slips into sleep.

The last thing he feels is Buck’s hand in his hair. It’s nice.

Tethers him and keeps him from going too far: from himself, from the world.

From Buck.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #buddie #god what is this #it’s a mess #you deserve better adina #I’m sorry #911 spoilers

638 notes · View notes

robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Polyphonic

Chapter 3 ao3 (alt: tumblr pt 1, pt 2)

Lan Qiren wanted to speak to Wei Wuxian about everything they needed to do, but it would have to wait: the moment they arrived, they were immediately swept up into the political mess that Jin Zixun’s ill-fated ambush had caused.

Jin Guangshan was there in the blink of an eye, despite normally taking his time in seeing anyone, and Lan Qiren didn’t like the way he started making excuses for his nephew’s behavior from the very start. It was to a certain degree understandable, as everyone would first incline towards defending their family, but the haste with which Jin Guangshan sought to sweep it all under the rug was disconcerting, and Lan Qiren thought it was almost suggestive of some level of premeditation. Even more distasteful, however, was how he sought to twist the entire event into being yet another reason Wei Wuxian ought to surrender the Stygian Tiger Seal to the Jin sect: for his own good, of course, in order to avoid being made into a target on account of the disdain of the cultivation world –

“Sect Leader Jin, your words are in poor taste,” Lan Qiren said sharply.

He could hear Jiang Cheng, who ought to be defending Wei Wuxian and was trying his stuttering best to do so, starting to waver; the boy had a pleasant rippling melody by nature, forced into a fierce allegro by his parents’ endless disputes and his later tragedies, and the weak foundation meant that he was too easily buffeted by uncertainty and doubt, as Jin Guangshan undoubtedly knew.

“Let us not speak in abstraction,” he continued. “It was your sect, your nephew, who launched this particular ambush. You ought to be making a formal apology to Wei Wuxian and thinking of reparations to repair the injury to your sect’s reputation, not acting like a thief complaining to the magistrate that his victim failed to hand over his property quickly enough to prevent violence!”

Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed in irritation, though he fought to keep the expression off his face as if it could disguise the swell of bitter rotten music that accompanied him wherever he went. “Teacher Lan,” he said, striving for composed and charming but mostly coming off as stiff and wooden. “Come now, I must be misunderstanding you. Surely you are not accusing me of being a thief.”

Historically, as Jin Guangshan well knew, this was when Lan Qiren backed down, mindful of his position as interim sect leader – his sect granted him much of the responsibility but not the full measure of power that typically accorded with the title, and he was conscious, always, that his role was to ensure there was something preserved for his nephews to inherit.

Perhaps Jin Guangshan had forgotten that Lan Qiren was no longer interim sect leader.

“I am describing the facts as I see them,” he said icily, straightening his back and levelling his best teacher’s glare, refined by years of troublesome students. “And they are this: by the agreement of the cultivation world and through his own powers, Wei Wuxian was inviolate and unbothered as long as he remained in the Burial Mounds. Despite this, he willingly chose to emerge in response to an invitation issued by your sect, only to be attacked by your sect – and when he comes to you for justice, rather than grant it to him, you suggest that he hand over his most prized possession to prevent any similar attacks in the future. Unfamiliarity may require me to consult my sect’s texts to be sure, Sect Leader Jin, but only to determine if I should be calling it extortion, blackmail, or outright thievery!”

“Teacher Lan!” one of the smaller sect leaders gasped, even as Jin Guangshan went utterly florid with rage. “You’re not suggesting that Jin-gongzi was involved in the ambush!”

Lan Qiren had been Jin Zixuan’s teacher and knew him well – he had been a shy, introverted boy whose awkwardness came off as aloofness, and would never have done anything like this. Even less so would Lan Qiren suspect such a thing of the man who had been steadied by war and responsibility into an adult with a firm moral foundation.

“No,” he said, and met Jin Guangshan’s eyes directly. “I believe Jin-gongzi’s invitation to have been wholly sincere.”

For a moment, Lan Qiren thought Jin Guangshan was actually going to strike him, his aura lashing out violently like a clash of cymbals, discordant and biting, and he braced himself, but in the last moment etiquette prevailed and Jin Guangshan refrained, although his fists were clenched so tightly that his veins stood out from the backs of his hands.

That was when Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.

Lan Qiren silenced him with the muting spell before he could get out a single syllable.

Jiang Cheng sent him a thankful glance and cleared his throat. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “It requires a full investigation; we won’t be able to solve it all talking now. Both Wei Wuxian and Teacher Lan have traveled a long way – I have no doubt that they need some time to rest and refresh themselves.”

A convenient way to stop anyone from starting a fight, and implicitly excusing Lan Qiren’s rudeness as a mere symptom of exhaustion, resolving the whole thing without losing any more face for anyone. The Jiang sect’s boy was picking up this whole politics business quite well, the poor child.

“I concur,” Jin Guangshan said, recovering a little of his poise. “There are rooms ready for you both.”

Lan Qiren inclined his head as well. “An excellent idea,” he said, and then, because he could now, added, “We can discuss reparations for the ambush later.”

“And what about the curse?” Jin Zixun hissed, clearly done with holding his tongue the way everyone had been so obviously instructing him with their eyes. “Am I to simply suffer while that criminal walks free and unharmed?”

“When I said there would be an investigation, I meant it!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “I doubt your curse is so advanced that it can’t wait another day, and if it is, then you should have brought it up earlier!”

“Why you –“

“Sect Leader Jiang has spoken,” Jin Zixuan interrupted, his voice hard. “Zixun, don’t forget that you must also answer to me as to what you did to my guest in my name without my permission. I think it might benefit you to ‘rest and refresh’ as well. One of the servants can take you to see a doctor.”

Jin Guangshan seemed on the verge of objecting, but Jin Zixuan seemed not to get the hint, already turning his face away.

“In the meantime,” he said, saluting politely, “Sect Leader Jiang, Wei-gongzi, would you come with me? A-Li is waiting to see you both.”

Lan Qiren allowed himself to be whisked off in a different direction to settle down, which in all honesty he did need to do. He hadn’t flown such a distance in years, had been in better health when he’d done so, and he had been tired even before all this excitement; some rest would do wonders for him, even if it did make him feel a bit like he’d become a doddering old man or an invalid. Before he could settle down, though, he heard a sound approaching – a little uneven, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow – and despite the fact that Jin Guangyao had never been anything but polite to him, he felt his back tense up at the reminder of why he was here in the first place.

“Honored teacher,” Jin Guangyao said, smiling and saluting deeply – more than he should, really, given that Lan Qiren was neither a sect leader nor had ever been his teacher. “Welcome to Jinlin Tower. I regret that your arrival was marred by such unpleasantness, and hope that the remainder of your visit is calmer.”

It’s not Jin Guangyao’s fault that Lan Xichen likes him, Lan Qiren reminded himself. Your suspicions, and your family’s terrible luck at love, are your own burdens to bear. They should not be put onto others.

He nodded to Jin Guangyao.

“It would be good to see a peaceable resolution to today’s events,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate that you have come to check on me personally. It is truly going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Your nephew is my sworn brother, Teacher Lan. How could I fail to honor you as my elder?” Jin Guangyao said smoothly. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

“A bath before dinner would be nice. Has my nephew arrived yet?” Lan Qiren privately hoped that he hadn’t, and was relieved when Jin Guangyao shook his head, confirming it. “Let me know when he does.”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao said, and saluted again. “I’ll inform the servants; a bath will be made ready for you by afternoon.”

The moment Jin Guangyao left the room, Lan Qiren traced the pattern along the hem of his robes that shook off the dust of the road, returning them to being as clean and pristine as always – not a long-term solution to laundry, but very effective in the short-run, and one that he’d only refrained from doing earlier in order to drive home the point regarding how he had also been victimized by Jin Zixun’s ambush.

It was a profound relief to be clean again.

Once he could no longer hear Jin Guangyao’s familiar chords, he relaxed, which unfortunately these days meant coughing. He rubbed his chest when he was done, sighing, and settled down with his guqin to start playing a little, hoping to ease his nerves. Lan Xichen would be on his way already, he knew, and would probably move even faster once he got word regarding Lan Qiren’s presence. He’d made rather a lot of trouble for his nephew…

The door slammed open, and only years of experience with troublesome children, along with the warning echo of a song free and clear, full of shining righteousness, allowed Lan Qiren to remain unmoved by the cacophonous crash.

“So I have questions,” Wei Wuxian said. “Many, many questions, and I’m going to want answers to…uh, are you all right?”

Lan Qiren ignored Wei Wuxian’s rush, finishing the stanza he was playing and letting his hands still over the guqin. “Sit, and I will answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him and put up a talisman for privacy, like the ones they used to use during the war, before coming to sit across the table from Lan Qiren. He was frowning. “Honored Teacher Lan, your lips are red,” he said cautiously. “Were you coughing up blood just now?”

“An old injury from the war,” Lan Qiren said, unable to resist recalling the memory of Wen Xu’s wild smirk as he’d deliberately smashed his ribs into pieces, grinding his palm against Lan Qiren’s chest to force the broken pieces to pierce his lungs. Nie Mingjue had executed Wen Xu only a few months later, a matter that had greatly eased his nightmares…truly Lan Qiren had to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible; once Lan Xichen’s name was cleared, he could focus on trying to devise a solution to cleanse Nie Mingjue of the spiritual poison. “It can be aggravated by excess choler. Do not concern yourself about it.”

Wei Wuxian looked like he was concerning himself about it. “But you nearly –” Lan Qiren glared until he dropped the volume of his voice significantly. “You nearly got into a fight with dozens of cultivators back at the Qiongqi Path on my behalf! Wouldn’t that have aggravated it even worse than just getting angry?”

“Much worse,” Lan Qiren agreed peaceably. “My talents in battle are not especially notable, although better with the guqin than the sword. Regardless, the effort expended would almost certainly result in a severe backlash later.”

Wei Wuxian gaped at him. “Then why did you do it?”

“Was there an alternative?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened and closed a few more times.

“How are your shijie and shizi?” Lan Qiren asked when it appeared that Wei Wuxian was not going to force any words out of his mouth any time soon. He folded his hands together in an appropriate manner – he, at least, knew his etiquette, and would continue to model it in the hope that Wei Wuxian might one day catch a hint. “Well, I trust?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re great. Jin Ling is perfect, shijie is wonderful, the peacock doesn’t deserve either of them, though he’s gotten better, I guess,” Wei Wuxian said, then shook his head as if to clear it. “And I wouldn’t have been able to see either of them if not for you.”

Personally, Lan Qiren didn’t think one Jin Zixun and any number of his friends would actually be able to stop Wei Wuxian, preplanned ambush or no, so he just hummed noncommittally. “You said you had questions?”

“Yeah, and now I have even more,” Wei Wuxian grumbled, but he seemed to settle down a little. “Let’s start with the fact that you said you needed help on a musical issue, but that it is also somehow an attempted murder. What’s that about?”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “Serve tea,” he instructed Wei Wuxian, and waited until he was midway through the process – and thus not staring straight at Lan Qiren – to start talking. “I have reason to believe that Nie Mingjue has been poisoned with spiritual poison.”

Wei Wuxian nearly spilled the tea, but managed to stop himself in time. “Chifeng-zun? Impossible!” Then he frowned. “I’d heard his temper was getting far worse, of late. Just mentions of it in passing…you think it’s because of that?”

“It may be. The Nie sect is prone to encountering qi deviations; a spiritual poison, especially one that specifically targets choleric feelings such as irritation and rage, would be particularly insidious when aimed against them. Should he die, everyone might be inclined to assume that the cause was hereditary rather than external.”

“A perfect murder. What type of poison?” Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows went up. “Wait – you think – musical poison?”

“My sect is renowned for using musical cultivation as healing techniques,” Lan Qiren pointed out, not sure why it seemed to come as such a shock to Wei Wuxian. “Antidotes grow alongside poisons, and all that can heal can also hurt – anyway, isn’t what you do a type of musical cultivation as well?”

“Good point,” Wei Wuxian said ruefully. “All right, that makes sense. That definitely seems like a real problem…but why do you need my help?”

“My health is poor, and I do not know what such an investigation will require,” Lan Qiren said. “And I cannot ask anyone in my sect to assist me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the primary suspect,” Lan Qiren said heavily, “is Xichen.”

Wei Wuxian stared.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few long moments of blank gawping. “Please forgive me, honored teacher, but I think I misheard you. Are you saying that you think Zewu-jun is poisoning Chifeng-zun?”

“I hope dearly that he is not, of course,” Lan Qiren said. “In fact, part of the reason for my desire to investigate privately is to assist in clearing him of suspicion –”

“No, no, hold on, don’t move on just yet,” Wei Wuxian said, holding up his hands. “You think Zewu-jun – Lan Xichen! – might be capable of poisoning his sworn brother and, as far as I know, best friend? Your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“You really think he’s capable of something like that?”

“I have done my best to raise him to be the sort of man who would not be,” Lan Qiren said, and thought suddenly of his own brother – their father had treasured him, cared for him, valued him above all else. Would he have ever imagined that he would do what he had done and end up living out his life in seclusion, only to die pointlessly at the hands of the Wen sect? “And yet, who’s to say?”

“Uh, me? All the cultivation world? It’s Zewu-jun! He’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever met! You might as well suspect Lan Zhan – you don’t, do you?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said. He appreciated the righteous crescendo in Wei Wuxian’s voice, particularly when Lan Wangji was mentioned – unfortunate as it might be to find that Lan Wangji’s seemingly hopeless affection might actually be requited, since it remained a terrible idea – but it was a little inconvenient at the moment. “But equally I cannot burden him with the duty to suspect his brother. It would only hurt him.”

Wei Wuxian quieted down at that. “I can see that,” he said, grimacing. “But…why would you suspect Zewu-jun?”

“The evidence is – suggestive.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “To be clear, while I will of course value the truth above all else, I am not looking for evidence of Lan Xichen’s guilt. I am hoping to exculpate him.”

Wei Wuxian leaned forward, now frowning in earnest. “All right,” he said. “I still don’t really believe it, but other people might, and that’s bad enough. Even unfounded rumors can make for real trouble. Tell me what you know about it.”

“My nephew has been helping Nie Mingjue to ease the symptoms of his familial tendency towards qi deviations by playing him one of the strongest and most secret Lan sect healing songs,” Lan Qiren explained. “The spiritual poison I have observed in Nie Mingjue’s body is precisely a variation on that healing song – only instead of the pure version, which is designed to calm and heal disrupted qi, it is intermixed with another song that deliberately encourages spiritual turmoil.”

“All right. I suppose playing for Chifeng-zun gives Zewu-jun opportunity, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who could’ve applied the poison song.”

“The Song of Turmoil is a rare import, hidden away in one of sect’s forbidden books. Only very few people have access to that part of our collection.”

Wei Wuxian arched his eyebrows. “And yet you can immediately recognize it?”

“I enjoy studying obscure musical texts as an aid in composition,” Lan Qiren said, mild censure in his voice. “Would you dare claim you do not do the same?”

“…fine, fine, good point.” Wei Wuxian waved his hand. “Okay, fine…still, I’m not convinced. Even if the only source of the song is the Lan sect’s library, there was a lot of chaos these past few years. Someone else could have picked it up, couldn’t they?”

“It’s possible,” Lan Qiren admitted. “Unfortunately, the tune had the same starts and stops that are characteristic of Xichen’s playing.”

As a musical cultivator, even Wei Wuxian had to concede that the unique quirks of playing style were difficult, although not impossible, to replicate, and moreover that one would have to wonder why anyone else would bother doing so, especially in a spiritual poison they presumably hoped would go entirely undetected. He rubbed his forehead, clearly thinking it over. “So, wait, are you saying you heard this musical poison getting played? Were you affected by it? Why didn’t you interrupt in order to stop it or to find out who was responsible?”

Lan Qiren shook his head. “I did not hear the playing, only the effects.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t hear it get played, how do you know that the playing had Zewu-jun’s idiosyncratic characteristics?”

“I’m very familiar with how Xichen plays. How would I not notice it? Even if I only heard it intermixed with Nie Mingjue’s own base tone, the sound is distinctive enough to recognize.”

Wei Wuxian was staring at him, looking blank again. A moment later his brow furrowed as if he’d just had a thought that seemed strange to him. He said, “Honored teacher, a question. When I said I wasn’t the one who cast the curse on Jin Zixun, you said that the person who cast it played the guqin, not the flute. I’d been wondering…how did you know that?”

“The curse has the sound of a breaking guqin string, which does not accord with Jin Zixun’s own music,” Lan Qiren explained. “The person who cast it was moderately powerful and very well-trained, although this represents an overreach on their part. I think it is likely that they incurred a backlash due to the casting –”

“You just heard it?” Wei Wuxian interrupted. It was rather rude, but Lan Qiren supposed he’d signed up for that. “You just looked at him and heard the curse that had been placed on him?”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“You can hear what people’s spiritual energy sounds like?” Wei Wuxian was growing pale.

“Not spiritual energy directly,” Lan Qiren said, a little puzzled by what seemed like an outsized reaction. Not only was Wei Wuxian’s face pale, his fists clenched, but his song, normally so free and clear, had become suppressed, tense, tightly strung. “More in the nature of the sound of a person’s spirit itself. Your Ghost General, for instance; he has a very gentle melody, very soft, but the underlying base is harsh, jagged, thick with resentment, less playing than dying – he needs to learn to marry those two parts of his spirit together, or else he’ll have trouble finding peace. That’s why I offered to take him as a student.”

“What about me?” Wei Wuxian asked. He was almost vibrating with the need to know. “What about my music? Has it – changed?”

“It’s gotten a little more sober, which is not uncommon with tragedy,” Lan Qiren said, and felt as though he were on the edge of some terrible revelation. “But no, fundamentally you remain the same person you always were.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled, hard. A trill of relief.

“Something happened that made you think it would change,” Lan Qiren deduced, reaching up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. He watched as Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered one way, then another. “Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him.

“Are you unwilling to return to orthodox cultivation – or unable?”

There was a world of difference between the two: one was arrogance, relentless and unrestrained, looking down at the truths the cultivators of the world and their ancestors had worked so hard to unearth, the other merely a depressing practicality – who wouldn’t choose to cultivate something if the alternative was nothing at all?

And yet…how could it be?

And why would Wei Wuxian be so terrified of letting others discover it?

“That’s none of your business,” Wei Wuxian said, teeth set in a bitter smile that was more of a grimace than anything else. “I agreed to help you, Honored Teacher, but my business is my own.”

“But –”

“Another question,” Wei Wuxian said. “Different subject: I know you don’t lie, and earlier you said…what you said. So tell me, what Lan sect girl has her heart so set on me that you decided to come tell me in person that I wasn’t allowed marry her?”

Lan Qiren blinked. “I only meant to advise you that it was a poor match for you both; it was not meant as an insult to you,” he objected, a little offended. “If you and Wangji insist, I will not stand in your way.”

He shook his head and sighed a little, regretful; he would not pursue the matter Wei Wuxian was hiding any further. He wanted to help, curiosity itching at him, but Wei Wuxian was right – it was none of his business.

“As long as your reliance on demonic cultivation does not impede your assistance in my investigation, I will not bring it up again,” he concluded. “How do you propose we begin?”

“…Lan Zhan?”

Lan Qiren frowned. “I already explained to you why I do not wish to involve Wangji, and that I do not suspect him. Why would we start with him?”

“Not for the investigation,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, his face bright red. “About the – marriage!”

#mdzs #lan qiren #wei wuxian #jin guangshan #jin zixuan #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #polyphonic

204 notes · View notes