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joocomics · 2 months ago

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begging

day 7 — formal wear w/ gunil ⌞⌗ kinktober ⌝

𓂃⠀𓈒 brat tamer!gunil x fem!reader

genre: smut — mdni! wc: 1.4k

contains: established relationship, bratty!reader, spanking, degradation kink, strength kink, cussing, pet names, name calling (brat/slut once or twice), restraints, edging kink

[ kinktober masterlist | general masterlist ]

“Have you thought about what movie you want to watch tonight?” Gunil asks from the other side of the bedroom.

His hand is loosening up his tie, but his eyes don’t leave you out of sight as you’re stomping around. The usual excitement you have on your face when you’re here for the weekend is nowhere to be found. There’s only bitterness.

You don’t glance in his direction when you answer that you’re not in the mood to watch a movie, and it was better that you didn’t, because you were only going to complicate things for yourself. You were going to see his naked upper body exposed by the white unbuttoned shirt and distract yourself from being mad at him. Your desire would’ve only grown stronger at the sight and that would’ve frustrated you further, because you’re obviously not having sex tonight.

He barely paid attention to you in the car, he wouldn’t start now.

You tell him you’re going to bed after you shower and grab your towel.

“It’s still not even ten pm.” Gunil sighs as you walk past him without acknowledging his words, or presence even, and barge in the shower.

You feel his eyes on you the entire time as you get ready for bed.

You rarely bring any pajamas, because you prefer to wear his clothes when you’re here, and now he’s watching you go through his wardrobe. You're taking more time than you need just to force him to trace every single curve of your body that’s only in a pair of panties for as long as possible.

“What's bothering you, sweetheart?” He asks behind you.

“Oh, now you want to pay attention to me?” You huff and pull a black t-shirt before turning to face him.

Gunil raises a brow at your confrontation. He cannot have more of this attitude today.

“Is this about what happened in the car?”

You remain silent while picking your words. Your one foot is tapping at the floor while your arms stay crossed as the seconds pass.

Gunil takes a deep breath before speaking up first.

“You know I don't like being distracted while I'm on the road!” His jaw tenses as he tries to figure out why you can't understand this. “Are you seriously upset, because I didn't let you suck me off while I was driving? Where's this spoiled attitude coming from?!”

You decide to erase the distance between the two of you so you sit next to him on the bed with a sigh. You're just now noticing that he still hasn't changed from the suit he had to wear today for a work event - the black dress pants are still on his body, the shirt is still hanging loose, open, exposing his toned stomach.

“I just missed you, baby.” You put both arms around his shoulders, breathing in his cologne. Your pouty lips are close to his ear as you speak with a guilty tone that hopefully will ease his nerves. “Haven't seen you in days, I couldn't wait to have you back in my arms. I'm surprised how you can even deny me when I'm this needy. Most guys would be on cloud nine.”

When he tilts his head you're inches apart. Without realising, you swallow, so turned on by his serious gaze, as you wait for him to finally kiss you. The moment of anticipation only grows longer until his lips slightly curl up in a smirk as he moves a hand behind your back and positions you over his knees.

You've been in this pose before and you know what it means.

Your cheeks automatically flush with excitement, and you're thankful Gunil can't see your face and tease you for it.

You squeal from the sudden swift way he balanced you on his thighs and how quickly the first slap landed on your ass. He didn't even gave you time to prepare or expect it.

He spanks you again. Then again one more time.

“Baby,” you whine, kicking your feet in the air. “Why?”

“And you have the audacity to ask.” Gunil smacks you again; this time on the other cheek while staring down at your underwear. “Why? You really want to hear how fuckin' spoiled you sound right now?”

You've gotten familiar with how his punishments work.

The slaps go from light, but firm, to hard, coming from a bigger distance. Even if he tries to smack you lightly it still wouldn't feel like a soft slap, because of how heavy his hands are. Most of the time he can't tell how much strength he's actually putting into his touch, but that's exactly what turns you on.

“Tell me,” you mumble quietly.

Several new slaps fall onto your cheeks. Each stronger than the previous one. You start to feel the bittersweet stinging on your skin more clearer now, but it's still nothing compared to how it's going to feel later.

“Tsk,” Gunil squeezes your flesh before hitting it again - this one makes you whimper louder and the erotic sound shoots a pleasant thrill through his body, “I should make your punishments longer.” His right palm roams over one of your bare cheeks; his nails are teasing the area of skin that's turning warmer with each slap. “Do you really believe other guys would want a girl who needs to be taught how to behave all the time, huh? Who won't stop running her filthy mouth?”

You hear a muffling noise above you - a quick sliding of fabric against another clothing. You gasp softly once Gunil gets a hold of your wrists and ties them together with what must be his fancy black tie. He hasn't done this before. The unexpected act forces you to answer faster.

“No...”

Gunil's attractive laugh rings in the silence, and you try to imagine how hot he looks in this dominant state, with your body dressed only in a pair of underwear, placed on his lap.

“I don't think so too,” he replies and his voice comes out more gruff sounding than a moment before, sending goosebumps over your naked skin where underneath there’s a burning delight flowing.

Soon enough, your ass is all heated up and Gunil's fingers decide to touch you elsewhere for a change. Not to give you what you want, but out of curiosity, and because the view of your punished ass which makes him weak in any state, but especially this one, doubles his desire to pull your panties to the side.

You mewl weakly on the instant at the nice feeling of his hand finally appearing between your burning cheeks.

“I knew you'd be wet, but not this much, fuck—” The tips of his fingers slide through your folds and easily get covered in your arousal. If he wants to push them inside you, he wouldn't need to use any amount of force, they would slip in right away. “You're one filthy girl.”

“Ah, baby, please—”

Your moisture fuels his body with the sweet familiar rush, and he sighs, suppressing the need to buck up his hips. The way your eager voice starts to plead at him as he spreads your cheeks to see how you clench around nothing makes it even harder to resist you.

“Please, I'll be good, please touch me.”

“Stay still.” He commands and approves of the way your feet freeze. “I hear you begging, but I didn't hear you apologise.” His strong hand slaps you out of nowhere, pulling yet another whimper out of your lips. “You behave like a true horny slut.”

“I'm so sorry, please!” Your brows drawn in together as you focus on the movements of his firm fingers gliding so softly, barely pressing against your slippery folds. “I'll be a good girl from now on, p-promise, I won't bother you when you drive anymore.”

Your figure vividly squirms on Gunil's lap as he guides them closer in the direction of your clit then all the way back only to smack you several times again, right on top of the reddish marks of his palm.

“I'll buy a toy and next time you act up I'll use that instead of my fingers, remember this.”

You cry out at the thought of some vibrator replacing his experienced touch.

“I'll take anything you give me, but no toys, please, baby!” You beg as your heart begins to jump harder the longer he keeps brushing his fingers against your dripping entrance. You need them inside as soon as possible, but you know how strong his patience can be when he has you in his control like this. The more you tell him to please you, the longer he will drag on this punishment. “I need you... just you.”

“Then you shouldn't have brought up those other guys, sweetie.”

He spits roughly onto your exposed slick folds, then fixes your stained panties.

And slaps again.

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise for any mistakes i’ve might missed

#kinktober #kinktober 2024 #— writing: xdinary heroes #xdinary heroes smut #xdh smut #gunil smut #gunil hard thoughts #gunil x reader #xdinary heroes x reader #xdh x reader

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h0nology · 2 years ago

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The Metkayina Way

Neteyam x Metkayina!Reader

warnings: fluff, mentions of mating, reader and neteyam are aged up, implied smut i think, not proofread, i think i’m missing something lmk if i did thx

nga yawne lu oer = i love you

yawne = love

You didn’t wake up in your usual spot the next morning, not in the arms of the one you cared so deeply about, except you woke up in your hammock, surrounded by your sleeping family. Surely Neteyam would understand why you didn’t meet him last night, you hoped that he didn’t even bother leaving his pod.

You got up from your hammock, grabbing your spear, knife and other necessities that you needed for the day. You haven’t been training the group the past couple days, with all that was going on. So today that will change, considering war is coming, you wanted everybody prepared. You wanted everybody at their best. This wasn’t your first rodeo, you’ve fought before, plenty of times but this one seems different. Bigger. The thought of it made you anxious, it always did. But you had to remain focused, you had a job to do, and that was to protect your people, your family. You don’t know what you would do if something happened to your siblings, if anything you’d want it to be them mourning you. It is your job to protect them.

You slipped out of your pod, greeting members of your clan as you walked down on the beach. You placed your weapons down in the sand then sat down beside them in a meditation pose, whispering your daily prayers, adding in to keep your clan safe during this time. The fact that you didn’t know when it was coming is what made you so anxious. Is this the dream? Was this it? This great war is what has been consuming your mind. Your thoughts were interrupted by the water splashing next to you, Neteyam taking the spot next to you.

“Morning, my beautiful girl. How are you?” Neteyam grabs your hand, you looked over at him, his eyes tired as he sleepily smiled at you, “Nete, did you get any sleep?” You were concerned.

“Not as much as I get when your in my arms.” He tells you, “But I am fine, how are you?”

You sigh, not wanting to worry him about what was coming but you wanted him to be prepared.

“They are looking for your father, Nete. War is coming and I do not know when, but I want us to be prepared. I cannot lose them, any of them.” You tell him, “I cannot lose you.”

“You won’t, my love. I will always be here.” He squeezes your hand, “We will fight and protect them together.”

You shot him a sad smile, you don’t know what you would do with yourself if you fail any of them.

His hand meets your cheek, rubbing his thumb over it, “My beautiful girl, we will be okay. I promise.”

He brought you into a hug, holding onto you tight. You wish you could freeze the moment and stay like this forever. But you had a long day of training ahead of you.

“Go, get your siblings.” You pull out the hug, “And keep what I told you between us, please? For now.”

“I cannot keep such thing from my father.” Neteyam shakes his head, “He knows, Nete. They are keeping it from us, well, you guys.” You told him.

“Why did they tell you?” He asked, “My father told me, he tells me everything.” You mockingly say.

Neteyam jokingly shakes his head at you before he walks off to go get his siblings, you doing the same. You approached your pod, walking in to see your family eating breakfast.

“Training today, please see me when you are finished.” You blankly say, going to walk out again, “Are you going to eat, sister?” Tsireya asked you.

“Not hungry.”

You went to pick up your weapons and headed over to your usual training area, sharpening your knife as you waited for the group.

“Sister.” Tsireya’s voice approached you, “Tsireya.” You continue sharpening your knife.

“I am sorry, but you know I had no choice.” She sits down next to me, “I know.” You hated to admit out loud, you put your knife down and looked at her.

“So why have you not spoken to me?” She asked you, “I have a million things on my mind, Tsireya. I am sorry, and I am not mad at you.”

“Good, I have missed you sister.” She giggles, “So, I overheard you and father talking last night.”

Your heart sunk, you know how Tsireya is, how paranoid and scared she gets. The last thing you needed was for her to be panicking over this.

“Tsi—”

“When will they announce the courtship?”

“What?” Was all you could say, “When will they announce that you two are to be mated? The Olo’eyktan’s daughter and Toruk Makto’s son, what a powerful couple.” She gushes.

You shush her, smiling in the process, “You must not tell anyone, Neteyam does not even know yet. I want to surprise him.”

“I am sure his parents told him already.”

“They have not.” You shake head, “Why wait to tell him? Why not now?” She asked.

“I just want to wait until his mind is clear, we have a lot going on today. Plus, I am a bit nervous and I want it to be special.” You shrug.

“I cannot wait to hear what you have planned!” She was so into you and Neteyam’s relationship, maybe it’s because this is the first boy you’ve ever shown interest in.

“Ok, enough, help me set up for today’s training.” You pull yourself to your feet, “Target practice.”

She nods, eager to help you set up, you were eager yourself. Target practice was your favorite, being able to throw your spear and knife every and which way, it excited you. You two set up on the beach, the others joining you just as you finished up.

“Tuk, how about you join the kids over there for today? You all will be having so much more fun than us.” You suggested, hoping she’d just go.

“Sure!” She smiles, waving at the group before she skipped over to the group of kids who welcomed her with open arms.

“Today, we will practice with the knife and spear. Target practice. It is important that you are skilled and know how to use one of these.” You held up your knife, “The first task is simple, hit your target.”

The group had lined up in front of the targets, you watching as some hit and some missed. You’d do this for days until it’s mastered, by all of them.

“A knife is not going to work well for this.” Neteyam says to you as you approached him, “We need something that we use from a distance.”

“What do you suggest?” You knew what worked best for you, but anything that would help the group is acceptable.

“I will be right back.” Neteyam hands you the knife before running in direction of his pod.

As you waited for the boy to return, you watched over the group, watching who did what and how. You walked over to Kiri, who was failing miserably.

“Kiri.” You approached her, “I cannot do this.” She sunk her shoulders, defeated.

“Never say you cannot, Kiri. You just need more practice.” You tell her, “Here, let me show you how it is done.”

She hands you the knife and steps out of your way, you locked eyes with the target and pinched the handle of the knife, one swift motion and then knife was bullseye in the target.

“Impressive, but I cannot do that.” Kiri says, “Kiri!” You slightly scolded the girl, “Do you want to use my spear?”

“No, I’d rather stick with this.”

You laugh at the girl as Neteyam approached you with a bow in his hand, you scrunched your face up, not familiar with the weapon.

“I will show you.” Neteyam assures, walking past you.

“Continue to practice, Kiri. Ao’nung and Tsireya–” You look in between the two to see Tsireya giving her full blown attention to Lo’ak and Lo’ak only, “Ao’nung and Rotxo will help you.”

“Great, my two favorite people.” She says, full of sarcasm.

You turned on your heel and caught up with Neteyam, grabbing some things out his hand so he wouldn’t struggle as much. You two walked down the beach, a little secluded from the rest of the group.

“Alright, pretty girl, show me what you got.” He hands me the bow, “Nete. I do not—” You started.

“Just try, and I will correct you.”

You took a deep breath, trying the best to your advantage to do this right. You brought the arrow up, focusing on the target ahead of you, and surprisingly you didn’t miss but your aim was terrible.

“It was not terrible, but it was not the best either.” Neteyam laughs, “Do not laugh!” You bring the bow down.

“It’s okay.” His laughter simmers down, “Let me help you:”

Neteyam stood behind you, slowly pressing his body against yours as he positioned you to have a better aim. You couldn’t even focus though, not when he was this close to you. His breath down your neck as he instructed you on what to do, his hands on your elbow and waist for some reason. He knew what he was doing, there was no reason for his hand to be on your waist. He just liked seeing you all flustered underneath his touch.

“Take a deep breathe and shoot.” He says into your ear.

You do as he says, shooting the arrow right in the center of the target.

“Good job.” His hand trails up from your waist to the curve of your stomach and around your back as he walks on the opposite side of you.

“Stop.” You swish your tail towards him, “What?” His chuckle was low.

“I cannot focus with you acting like that.” You admit to him, “Come on, it is your turn.” You put down his bow and pick up your spear, handing it to him.

“Acting like what?” He smirks at you, taking the spear from your hand, “Neteyam, focus!” You looked up at him.

He didn’t even hesitate throwing your spear, it landing right on the target.

“Acting like what?” He repeated, walking over to you, wrapping his hand around your waist, “That! Stop, we have to focus, Neteyam.” You looked up at him while your bodies were inches apart.

“The only thing we need to focus on is protecting them. My love, we are the most skilled out of this whole group.” He tells you.

“Right, so we should be helping them.” You wiggle out his grip, “Stop acting so deprived of me, you see me everyday.” You smirked, walking away from him and back to the group, him following behind you.

You worked with the group for hours, teaching them new ways and even letting them show you some things they have learned on their own. You half the group out to get fish while the rest of you sat and prepped the rest of dinner, eclipse was soon and you weren’t the type to send people back home on a empty stomach.

“Sister, when are you going to tell him?” Tsireya whispered, “Tell who what?” Lo’ak asked.

You looked at her, then at him and back to her, you could just tell she was eager to tell somebody.

“Go ahead.”

“They are going to be mates!” She cheered, “Really?” Lo’ak slightly smiles, “I’m surprised they are letting you, after what Tsireya told me—”

“She seems to tell you everything.” You glance at her and she mouths a sorry.

“Why don’t you tell him? I’m sure he is going to be happy to hear.”

“She is nervous, Lo’ak. Can you believe it?” Tsireya giggled, “Nervous? For what? You have nothing to be nervous about, the skxawng is in love with you.” Lo’ak tells you.

You looked over at Neteyam who was standing in the water with Kiri, talking to her as he pointed the arrow down in the water, disregarding how you had taught him to catch the fish.

“In love?” You ask Lo’ak, “Why do you sound so surprised? You are all he talks about.” The boy tells you.

You couldn’t help but blush at the comment, looking down at the sand with a smile on your face. You looked over at Neteyam once again before bringing yourself to your feet, walking over towards him and Kiri.

“May I steal your brother?” You asked her, “Be my guest.” She takes the fish from Neteyam.

You grabbed Neteyam’s hand and pulled him further into the water, calling for an Ilu in the process. You hopped on, him climbing on behind you and placing his hands on your waist. You two rode underwater for a while until you reached where you were going, returning to the surface and slowly riding through.

“What is this?” The boy was in awe with the place.

“A sacred place, the Cove of the Ancestors.”

You slowly made your way through, letting Neteyam take in every bit of it. You looked at him, he smiling like a child looking at every single thing around him.

“This is our spirit tree, come.” You place your hand out for him to grab it and he gladly did, diving down into the water with you.

You two swam down to the beautiful tree, you still look at in in awe after your a hundredth time seeing it.

“It is beautiful.” You signed to Neteyam.

“It is, Kiri and Tuk would love to see this.” You were impressed that the boy knew how to sign names.

You called for the Ilu once again and the both of you got on, this time Neteyam was the one guiding the Ilu through the water as your head rested on his back.

“You do not even know where you are going.” You say when you two reach the surface again, “So tell me.” He replied.

“Go over to that mountain.” You pointed and he guided the Ilu over the rocks that led up to the mountain.

Once the both of you reached the mountain, Neteyam hopped off the Ilu and quickly helped you off as well, climbing up on the rocks.

“Is this another one of your spots?” Neteyam asked as he followed behind you, “No..” You trail off.

“So why did you bring me here?”

You reached what you were looking for before stopping and turning to look at him, trying to think of the words to say to. Neteyam was concerned, walking up to you, placing his hand on your cheek, stroking it with his thumb.

“Talk to me, pretty girl.”

“Ma yawne…” You locked your eyes with his, “I cannot wait to spend eternity with you. Nga yawne lu oer, my sweet, idiot boy.” You just blurted out, it not coming out as smooth as you wanted it to.

He smiles back, cuffing both of your cheeks now, “Nga yawne lu oer, my beautiful girl. Ever since I laid eyes on you, I knew I wanted you to be mine, forever.”

“Now I will be, we will be each others, like you said.” Your smile grew, “We are to be mated, Nete.”

The boys eyes lit up, looking deeply in yours as he tried to process what you had just said. Has Ewya answered his prayers? Has he heard you correctly?

“But your parents–” He shakes his head, confused.

“They know that I will not change my mind, it is already set on you, Neteyam. I waited for a reason, I waited for you.”

Neteyam went to crash his lips against yours, but stopped himself, his lips brushing over your skin, “Can I kiss you?”

You wanted to, you really did. Your body yearned for his, it wanted nothing but to be bonded with his, together as one.

“Not yet, Nete. But this is where we will go when it is that time.”

He pulled away from you, lips brushing over your skin once again before pulling away completely. His hands dropped to your waist, pulling you into him, his head rested on yours as yours laid on his chest.

“We should get back.”

“Can we just stay here a little longer? Please?” He pleaded lowly, “They will worry about us.” You replied.

“Let them.”

tags: @afro-hispwriter @mashiromochi @neteyamforlife @fanboyluvr @pandoramyst @y2unagiz @thel0v3hashira143 @amortencjja

#neteyam fanfiction #avatar fanfiction #neteyam #neteyam x reader #ao’nung #avatar #lo’ak x tsireya #metkayina #metkayina reader #neteyam x metkayina!reader #neteyam fic

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heliads · 10 months ago

Note

Hey! I gotta request something for our girl Clove. So could you do a Clove Kentwell x district 2 reader where they have been close friends since they were young and shared feelings for eachother but were scared to mess it but one day for some reason (ex: family invites them back or smth) has to move back to the capitol. The 2 lose contact and years later meet again in the lobby of the tribute building at night finally catching up on what has happened in their life. Perhaps also finally confessing to each other! I hope I've sent this in in time! Take your time!

'it's been a while ' - clove kentwell

masterlist

After years of living there, the Capitol is just as gaudy and useless as ever. The sheer quantity of ostentatiousness increases exponentially with the annual arrival of the Hunter Games, to the point where it’s damn near unlivable. Then again, when has it ever been somewhere you’d want to stay?

If you had it your way, you would have stayed in District Two forever. If you had it your way, you never would have come to the Capitol at all, not even as a tribute to become its latest Victor. District Two takes great pride in training its children to become winners in the Hunger Games, but you never fell for the whole spectacle. The only thing you had ever wanted was simply to be home, and then that was taken from you.

All your life, you were District. Your parents had ties to the Capitol, you knew that, but they had direct orders from President Snow that they were to maintain the strength of the district government by remaining there. You had assumed that you would go your whole life without ever leaving Two, and then their orders changed all of a sudden and you were gone. Back to the Capitol, although you had never been there as long as you were alive. Away from home.

That was a couple of years ago. It is expected that one would still nurse faint pangs for home, but over the months, everyone seems to assume that your passions would transfer over to such a remarkable place to spend your days. The Capitol is rich in many things, to be sure. The food is sublime, the houses are magnificent, the dresses sparkle.

Still, what it gains in material wealth, it lacks in substance and in soul. What you see as you look around you every day is a garish facade. Everyone here is dripping with wealth, but the only thing they cannot buy is true spirit. If anyone had a heart in the Capitol, they’ve long since sold it off to buy more gems and shoes. Nothing here is worth living for.

And, with the Hunger Games drawing ever near again, you’re painfully reminded of the emptiness of your current life once again. It is pure privilege that you could live here, secure in the knowledge that you’ll have enough food and clothes and shelter to keep you more than comfortable, yet you’d throw it all away if you could just be back in the one place where you actually felt alive.

You walk listlessly in the back corners of someone else’s mansion. Your family has been invited to an opening gala celebrating the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games. You’re decked out in the latest fashions, although your clothes are noticeably subdued compared to everyone else. Although it might bother your parents to no end, you can’t convince yourself to adopt the endless frivolity of the other Capitol residents. Not when you would be sickened whenever you looked at yourself in the mirror.

Apparently all sorts of important people to the Hunger Games are here tonight, Gamemakers and past Victors alike. It seems as if half the Capitol has been brought to this particular event, whether by their choice or otherwise. The main parties are happening a few floors up, with plenty of screens displaying the opening interviews of the latest round of tributes, but you just can’t force yourself to watch. Why get wrapped up in the stories of twenty-four new children when all but one are about to die?

Instead, you slink around below, where the lights are dim and you don’t have to worry about being seen. Your parents will be busy upstairs, where they’ll be too lost in the bubbling crowds to find you. Tomorrow, if they question you about where you were, you can lie and say you were up there with the rest. With these crushing throngs of partygoers, they would have absolutely no idea if you were telling the truth or not.

You’re not the only one down here, either. Although the significant majority of the Capitol is very interested in the results of the Games, there are a couple of people here and there who cannot stand the idea. Haymitch Abernathy, the District Twelve mentor, will spend most of his time upstairs wining and dining potential sponsors, but on occasion he cannot stomach the eager discussion of his own district’s children as lambs to a slaughter and he hides down here to catch his breath and sneak a sharp mouthful or five from a flask at his hip.

Other Victors occasionally dip down the stairs when they’re sure they will not be found. They all have the same look in their eyes, and respond with the same flinching terror when they hear a loud bang like the cannons that announce dead tributes in the Games. This whole thing is a horrific show, and you can’t bear it any more than the others. Although you may be a Capitol citizen now, in your heart you will always be District. Your oldest friends were the ones sent in to die.

In fact, last year someone closer than a friend entered into the Games. Sometimes, as a child, you’re fortunate enough to have a best friend, someone who means the world to you because you mean the world to them. You’re past friendship bracelets and always remembering each other’s birthdays. This person is everything to you. The idea of forgetting them is impossible. Whoever you are, there will always be some part of you made up of them, all the insignificant habits and odd pronunciations you picked up from them.

This person is your world, and then you leave them for the Capitol. The day you had to tell Clove Kentwell that you were leaving District Two might have been the worst of your life, except for the day you left the district behind entirely. Although you had limited notice of when you were leaving, you still dreaded the hour in which you would have to inform your best friend that the most inseparable pair in all of Panem was about to be split up for good.

It is hard telling your best friend that you’re never going to see her again. It is harder still when she’s stopped being just a friend in your mind. Your feelings for Clove have changed over time, shifting from emotion to emotion without your approval, but in the end, you know for certain that you love her. You’re also fairly certain that Clove loves you back, but neither of you ever said a word about it to each other.

After all, how could you? The chances that either of you would be reaped for the Hunger Games were quite high, as was the expectation that you would volunteer. And even if you weren’t sent into the Games, the risk of confessing when the other didn’t feel the same way was catastrophic. You could destroy the friendship forever, and worse, still have to live so close together. The remnants of the glorious thing you once had would hang about you forever, choking you out whenever you dared to think about it. All of your days would be spent grieving Clove even while she still walked your streets and passed by your house, and then you would grow up and apart and the whole thing would be lost forever.

It was too terrible a fate to bear for both of you, and so you never said a word about it. You regret that sometimes, especially after you moved, but there’s nothing more to be done about it now. You are here, Clove is there, and never shall the two paths cross again.

That’s what you had thought, at least, and then last year you had been at a party celebrating the beginning of the seventy-third annual Hunger Games, and Caesar Flickerman had announced the two tributes from District Two, and one of them was Clove. You remember that night perfectly, how you spent the entirety of that evening frozen in place, unable to move a muscle while the rest of the party around you danced and cheered and placed bets. Your best friend was going into the Arena, and there was nothing you could do to save her.

You never saw Clove while she was in the Games, for better or for worse. Random strangers weren’t allowed to see the tributes, and since you live in the Capitol and Clove is from Two, that’s what you would always be: strangers. Even though you knew everything about her, from the way she laughed to the exact balance of the syllables of your name in her mouth. Strangers, that’s what you were. Forever separate, never to meet again.

The course of the Hunger Games was immensely difficult. Each day you spent obsessing over the footage, trying to make out if she was injured or hungry or dead. Each night, you had to be all but dragged away from the monitors, so addicted were you to watching your girl. Even after they took you away, you could hardly sleep a wink. In the mornings, you rose early and ran to the live recordings of the Games, torn to pieces by the thought that she might have died while you were away.

In the end, though, Clove was victorious, and you watched from afar as she was paraded around and all but worshiped by the adoring Capitol and District Two. No amount of words can adequately describe the relief you felt when you knew that Clove would survive, although it was shadowed by the knowledge that even as Victor– especially as Victor– Clove would never be able to escape the hold of the Capitol.

You’ve seen many Victors come and go. They’re paraded to and from the Capitol whenever the Hunger Games are so much as mentioned, brought up every time so they can give their takes on the latest round of tributes or the design of the Arena or merely an update on what they’ve been doing since their latest publicized appearance. Once the Capitol tires of them, they’ll be allowed to return to their Districts for a couple of months before the TV cameras are sent out again to catch a glimpse of a Victor in its natural habitat.

She’s here now, probably, with some of the other Mentors or forced to mingle at any of the dozens of events happening across the Capitol. The thought turns your stomach. The on camera bits had been Clove’s least favorite part of being a Career, you’ve known that since you were a child. Clove dreamed of volunteering for the Hunger Games just like any other good District Two girl, but she’d told you fervently that she despised the interviews and all the acting fluff.

You’d been able to see that for yourself, too, while Clove was involved in the seventy-third Games. Although it may not have been apparent to any other onlooker, the advantage of the years you’ve spent by her side is that you know exactly when Clove is uncomfortable or unhappy, and she was just that while being grilled by Caesar Flickerman. Her mentor had trained her properly, and her impeccable demeanor never shifted, but you could see the tightness in her hands, the strain in her eyes. Clove didn’t want to be there any more than you wanted to be watching her.

A champagne bottle pops somewhere upstairs, causing the ceiling to rattle with a chorus of shouts. You’ll probably have to go up there sooner rather than later, or you really will be in trouble for skipping. To clear your head, you push open the doors to the house, letting the cool air wash over you. Just one lap around the mansion, then you’ll entertain the rest. You just need this one last moment of peace if you have any hope of survival.

You’re not expecting to see anyone else out here, but halfway through your circuit, a shadow crosses your path. You move out of the way automatically, not wanting to bother or be noticed by anyone from the Capitol, but you’ve hardly started moving again when a soft, careful voice says,

“Y/N?”

Instantly, you freeze in place. It’s been a long time since you last saw Clove Kentwell in person, but you’d know her voice anywhere, that precise cadence of syllables, each and every inflection like a feather-light touch upon her words.

You turn around slowly, and there she is, taller than you remember but no less stunning. Her eyes are more guarded than they used to be, but maybe that’s what you deserve for going away for so long and leaving her with a gaping hole in her armor.

“Clove?” You ask in return.

Hesitantly, you drift closer. You’re waiting for her to step back or leave, maybe, anything befitting someone you no longer quite now, but she doesn’t go. She doesn’t get closer, either, no delighted embraces for a long-absent best friend, but Clove’s never quite been that type anyway.

“It’s been a long time,” you say, when it becomes apparent that she’s waiting for you to do something.

Her brow twists. “Hasn’t it?”

The question is daring. After all, it is your fault that so much time has passed since the two of you crossed paths. You were the one who left, she was the one who stayed. It is perfectly reasonable for Clove to have nursed a grudge all this time.

“I didn’t want to go,” you remind her. “Trust me. I begged my family to let me stay, but they wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

“I do trust you,” Clove says softly. “I always have.”

The words twist in your heart like a knife. You’re not sure what to say to that, not sure even that you can say anything to it, not without losing yourself, so you briskly change the subject. “I saw you in the Games. You did well.”

Clove scoffs. “There were a couple of sloppy kills. I could have done better.”

This makes you laugh. It’s just like Clove to have won the Hunger Games and still have pointers for herself on what she could have done better. “You had an excellent showing, Clove, and you know that.”

Clove arches a brow. “You saw my Games?”

“Every minute,” you admit. “I couldn’t look away. I was scared that if I did, you’d die. I’ve lost a lot of you, Clove Kentwell. I didn’t want to lose your last moments, too.”

She’s quiet for a while, and it occurs to you that you might have overstepped. Ducking your head, you mumble something about heading back inside, and move to brush past her. Clove catches at your arm before you can go. Her grip is as steady as always, radiating quiet strength without having to hurt you. She’s never hurt you. Not in all those years of training and playing around has she harmed so much as a hair on your head.

“Wait,” she says suddenly. “Don’t go yet. You– you haven’t told me what happened to you yet.”

You frown. “What?”

Clove shakes her head slightly, her dark curls catching in the moonlight. “You saw how I’ve been in the Games last year, but I don’t know what you’ve been doing. It’s been years. Don’t you know how many times I’ve thought about you? Wondered what you were doing? If you were making friends you liked more than me?”

“Never,” you pledge immediately. “I’ve talked to people here, but none of them could come close to you. They don’t get me, not like you do. Everyone here is cold and insincere. Sure, they’ll pretend to tolerate me so they can get to my family’s money, but they don’t actually like me. Not like you did.”

Clove’s voice comes quietly in the dark. “No one could like you like I did.”

Your eyes dart up to her. “Clove–”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’ve done enough running. I wanted to tell you when I knew you were moving, but you were gone too fast. I don’t know if I’m going to get another chance so I have to take this one while I have it. I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you for years.”

A firework goes off overhead, the remnants of someone else’s late night party. It feels as if the red matter between your ribs has been tossed up there in the sky, made glittery and meteoric so everyone can see and delight in the cascade of bright emotions rippling through your heart. It is one thing to imagine that Clove might have feelings for you, to assume that you enough of her mind to decide what she thought of you, but it is an entirely different matter to hear her confirm it after all this time.

“I love you too,” you say in a sudden rush.

The corner of Clove’s mouth pulls up into a victorious smirk, so familiar an expression that you can remember a hundred other times you’ve seen this exact impression, heard her voice tinged by triumph in this same way. “I knew that, obviously. I just wanted to make sure you know I loved you first, that’s all.”

You laugh. It’s a giddy sound. You don’t think you’ve laughed for real since you arrived at the Capitol, and your voice is a little hoarse from disuse, but it gets easier in moments. Everything is easier around Clove, it always has been. “You loved me first? I didn’t realize it was a contest.”

She snorts. “Everything is a contest, Y/N. We’re Careers.”

Your delighted mood slips away from you once you remember where you are, what you’ve become since you saw her last. “Am I? I’m not in Two anymore.”

Clove’s dark brows narrow. “Of course you are. You grew up with me, you think I don’t know who you are? You’re one of us, Y/N. You’re part of me, and you always will be.”

A soft, tentative smile starts to slip back onto your face. “Always, huh?”

It’s dark, hard to see Clove’s expression, but you swear you can still sense the heated flush as it creeps onto her cheeks. “Always.”

The voices from inside the house are starting to grow more insistent. “We should probably go back inside,” you say reluctantly.

In a perfect world, you would stay outside forever, talking happily with Clove while the fireworks flared overhead. Then again, in a perfect world, you never would have left District Two at all. However, when Clove takes your hand, and you walk side by side back into the house, you start to think that maybe you’ll have some semblance of your perfect world after all, one in which even the distance can’t stop you and Clove from being together. Victors are always in the Capitol, after all. Your paths will cross again, and this time, you will have nothing to fear. Not even separation.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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plumoh · 1 year ago

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lay down your burdens

Rating: G

Wordcount: 2642

Summary: “What I’m trying to say is that… you look more bothered about your arm when you’re wielding my weapons. Specifically the Binding Blade, so maybe don’t force yourself to use it…?” / Roy asks Diamant about his scar.

Note: AO3 link. You know how Diamant had a fire magic accident when he was younger and Roy has a flaming sword? yeah.

Engaging with Diamant, as opposed to other warriors, feels natural—Roy is extending himself to become Diamant’s sword and armor, protecting him while also making him stronger to take care of their enemies in one sweep. Each Emblem has different assets, which aren’t suited to everyone’s fighting style; while Roy is more than happy to provide assistance and protection to Princess Ivy, he knows that he isn’t the most compatible with her. Alcryst says that he benefits greatly from the power Roy is lending him, but there is still something not quite right when they’re engaged, even if he’s the second prince of the kingdom that has watched over Roy’s ring for generations.

This feeling of wrongness is an oddity that is shared among many of the Emblems, even Marth, who has arguably been around far longer than any of them. Engaging with someone develops a bond that cannot be replicated easily with the next person who decides to use the ring’s power. But an unbreakable bond is just as dangerous as a weak bond—some stories tell the tale of warriors and Emblems who lost themselves when their partner fell in battle.

Roy knows that. Some tools are only meant to be tools, but the human nature is to love. He can’t think of anyone deliberately trying to avoid becoming friends with the person they’re engaged with. It is also difficult to fight in an army without caring about the people that constitute it. For an Emblem, ignoring their warrior’s feelings and resolve is a tall task; they become one.

Which is why Roy is keenly aware of Diamant’s heart hammering against his ribcage like it wants a way out whenever he brings out the Binding Blade to set a part of the battlefield ablaze. Roy wouldn’t call it nausea, but it’s a near thing—Diamant is doing his best to remain calm and to direct his attack at the exact location it is needed, but the effort that is required looks far too taxing to be healthy.

“The path is secured!”

Diamant wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and grimaces when the metal of his gauntlet scrapes his skin. There’s only the slightest frown on his face when he looks at his gauntlet and sees that no blood was drawn. He sighs, takes a slow breath, and readjusts his grip on the Binding Blade. His fingers are firm around the sword, but the uneasiness never leaves. Roy should make Diamant disengage for him to regain his composure, but they’re in the middle of the battlefield and a new wave of enemies is rushing them.

So Roy keeps quiet and watches, as Diamant calls forth the fire of the Binding Blade while flinching away from it.

Roy, since he can’t exactly fidget when he’s incorporeal and not touching ground, hovers. Micaiah waves her staff and the bright green light closes most of the cuts on Diamant’s arms and face. She smiles at him and floats away to heal the next person. Diamant lets out a sigh, stares at his left arm for a moment, then pulls down his sleeve.

“What happened to your arm?” Roy asks before he changes his mind.

He’s seen the dark mark running across Diamant’s skin. On hot days, he’s seen the way Diamant purposely rolls up the sleeve of his left forearm just enough to avoid exposing the mark, while the right sleeve goes all the way to his elbow. This is a scar that Diamant isn’t proud of.

Diamant glances at Roy, his face not showing any kind of surprise, though his eyes shine with a glint of resignation—and Roy frowns at the sight.

“Sorry, if you don’t want to answer that’s totally fine,” Roy says. “The… bruise caught my attention a few times before and I got curious.”

He didn’t mean to be so blunt in his question, but if he waited any longer, he would never ask.

“I suppose it’d be impossible to hide anything from an Emblem who has lived with us for so long,” Diamant says, smiling.

Roy’s lips tug upwards at Diamant’s casual tone, but his stomach twists into knots. Even if Brodia’s royal family has protected Roy’s ring for decades, Roy doesn’t personally know them. He recognizes them through their aura, he can sense the purpose that runs deep in their blood, but he has started to get to know them only these past few months.

Getting to know someone and fully trusting them takes a long time. However, Roy won’t deny that a special bond is keeping them together, like they are truly destined to fight alongside each other.

“You know that as an Emblem, I can feel what you are feeling when you use my ring,” Roy tells Diamant. “So. It seems that you’re not entirely comfortable. Uh.”

Roy falters, bringing up a hand to rub the back of his neck. Now that he’s actually broached the subject, the words are failing him and he thinks that it might not have been the wisest decision. Diamant clearly doesn’t want people to notice the scar on his arm for some reason, and Roy, even as his partner in battle, can’t just demand an explanation.

The knots in his stomach transform into a heavy weight as he realizes that even though their bond is steady and strong, if Diamant is always on the verge of passing out when he’s using the Binding Blade, then maybe they’re not that compatible after all.

“What I’m trying to say is that… you look more bothered about your arm when you’re wielding my weapons. Specifically the Binding Blade, so maybe don’t force yourself to use it…?”

"Roy.” Diamant lifts up a hand and that effectively makes Roy stop rambling. “You don’t have to worry so much. I’m not angry or upset you asked that question.”

Diamant cradles his arm closer to his torso, like he is trying to protect it a little while longer. That doesn’t make Roy feel any better.

“I think I’m simply self-conscious about this injury,” Diamant continues. “I’ve had it for a long time now, but it is evidence that I’m not as flawless as people think me to be.”

“Is that… truly a bad thing?” Roy asks, frowning.

Diamant sighs. “I suppose not. But most days, it is difficult to remember that those close to me won’t think any less of me because of one injury that I sustained years ago.”

Diamant tries too hard to act and stand like the formidable, unwavering prince who does nothing but train to protect his kingdom. These are qualities that befit princes, without a doubt, but the pressure he’s putting on himself is going to crush him one day. Roy would know.

When Roy looks at Diamant, he sees a friend before a prince, but people have often told him that his dislike for rank doesn’t necessarily reflect well on everyone—some nobles think him impertinent, commoners find him out of touch with reality. He and Diamant aren’t as close as he’d like them to be; sharing a similar status is clearly not synonymous with sharing the same values and priorities. Roy isn’t sure how his words would help Diamant, a man who has built around himself a barrier of forced self-confidence.

“I know soldiers who are proud to show off their scars,” Roy offers instead.

“A lot of warriors in Brodia are the same,” Diamant answers. “I’m not ashamed of my scar, but every day I am reminded of my weakness.”

“You’re not weak.” Roy’s reply flies out of his mouth before he can even think it.

Diamant casts him a small smile, certainly to show he appreciates the comment but he’s not believing it yet. He extends his arm, then slowly unclasps hi armbrace one belt at a time before rolling up the sleeve of his shirt.

The scar is no bigger than the width of a small dagger, located right in the middle of Diamant’s forearm. The passing of time made it dark red, almost brown. It’s obvious healers concentrated their efforts on treating it, but the attack must have been of incredible force if it left such a mark even years later.

Roy glances at Diamant, looks at the scar, then at Diamant again. He’s seen this kind of mark before, during his battles against dragons.

“Did someone burn you?”

“No, not exactly,” Diamant says, looking down at his arm, and Roy feels a weight lift off his chest. “It was an accident. When I was younger, I was training with fire magic and got careless.” Diamant looks back at Roy. “Ever since I got that injury, I’ve been afraid of magic, and specifically of fire magic. It sounds kind of silly when I tell you that, right?”

“From the looks of it, it was a very powerful spell. Dragon fire leaves similar marks if it’s not treated properly, and getting injured is never a good memory.”

It was hard at first to understand how dragon magic worked and how to efficiently heal the burns, which resulted in many soldiers going home with scars. Roy wishes that they could have done more for these soldiers.

“Is that why you’re hiding the scar? The memory of the accident must have been terrible.”

“It’s not entirely because of the memory itself. I’m… truly afraid of fire magic. I’m not exaggerating when I say this is my weakness.”

A hot wave of determination overwhelms Roy in a snap, and he takes a step forward, gesturing wildly at Diamant’s arm.

“You can’t say that, Diamant. You say you’re afraid of magic but you’re still fighting in the war and holding your own against mages! I’m not calling that weak.”

He’s spent so long being attuned to Diamant’s feelings during battle—his desire to protect, his quick thinking when in a tough spot, his ability to always summon the right weapon at the right moment. Roy remembers most of his past wielders, who were always invigorated with the knowledge of being able to use a fire-based sword. Just like Diamant, they were all courageous and headstrong in their own way; they all went to the front lines with the reassurance they were accompanied by an Emblem.

This is Roy’s role. He’s an Emblem giving strength to his wielders and turning the tide of a battle, but he is first and foremost a support for these warriors.

“If anything, if you’re always afraid when you’re using the Binding Blade but still succeed in winning a battle, then you’re one of the bravest people I’ve met.”

Diamant is staring at him with disbelief, mouth hanging open. It’s not fitting of a prince at all. If Roy still had a corporeal body, he’d be shaking Diamant’s shoulders with both hands and try to physically shove those words into his skull. Roy himself has been called stubborn and blind to his own behavior, and without the help of his companions, he’d still be an awkward ball of nerves unable to stand his ground.

“I hope you know how much strength it takes to fight while scared,” Roy finishes in a low voice.

Just as it suddenly overtook him, the burst of energy vanishes right as the last word leaves Roy’s lips.

Silence falls between them, stretching long enough for it to become uneasy. But Roy doesn’t regret his words nor does he wish this conversation turned out differently. He crosses his arms over his chest, attempting to hide his urge to fidget under that tense atmosphere. Even after a year of working on his body language, controlling his nervous habits remains the most difficulty task.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Diamant lowers his arm and directs his eyes at the scar instead. His face doesn’t betray much; he seems to have retreated into his own mind.

“That injury will most likely never properly heal,” Diamant remarks, pensive. “I’ll bear it all my life.”

“It is most likely, yes,” Roy replies, thinking about the scars that Dieck and Garret can’t hide and have accepted as part of themselves.

“I try to be the perfect prince that Brodia needs. I’ve always thought that if people saw this scar, they would think I wasn’t worthy of the title of heir because I had a clear disadvantage against mages. Brodia is a kingdom of hardened warriors, after all.”

Then Diamant lifts his eyes, and something much more appeased settles on his face.

“But no warrior is infallible.”

Roy grins. “That’s right. And no heir is alone in their journey to become the ruler they want to be. Asking for help isn’t a weakness either.”

“I suppose an Emblem would know that better than anyone else.”

“The others also faced similar struggles, talking to them would be very insightful. I learned a lot from them.”

Even before getting acquainted with a younger Aunt Lyn, Roy befriended Marth and Ike; two heroes whose legends apparently crossed time and dimensions. They might not have led the same kind of campaign or lived the same experiences, but from one general to another, they had many pointers and ideas to exchange—and Roy is always eager to learn more about battle tactics. He’s had longer discussions about doing what is right and how to rebuild a nation with Lucina, though. And Micaiah knows a thing or two about different peoples learning to coexist.

Diamant nods, and he rolls his sleeve back down to cover his arm.

“I’ll probably talk to Alcryst first, if the opportunity arises. He’s always saying he’s weaker than me and is nowhere near my level. He’s wrong, of course.”

Alcryst could also use a pep talk, Roy thinks.

“Alcryst will be surprised to learn his brother isn’t as indestructible as he imagines, but not in a bad way,” Roy says, then pauses. Backtracks immediately. “I mean, it’s not good you’re not indestructible! But you’re not a superhuman, that’s what I want to say!”

“I know what you mean,” Diamant laughs.

There’s no doubt Diamant never imagined that Brodia’s precious ring would house someone who still stumbles over his words. Roy groans.

“You see, I might have been the general of my country’s army, but I can’t even hold a conversation without making a fool of myself.”

“Well, I’d say the majority of the conversations I’ve had with you were reasonable,” Diamant indicates with a hint of teasing.

“Speaking in clear sentences is still something I’m working on…”

“Then let’s do our best, shall we? You’re working on your speech, I’m working on my fear of fire magic. We can achieve our respective goal together.”

It’s always reassuring, in a way, to see that rulers weren’t born perfect—all of them had to struggle and to work hard to erase as many of their visible flaws as possible, without stripping themselves of their humanity.

Roy lifts a hand and summons the Binding Blade in a flash of light. Diamant blinks at it.

“I’ll teach you how to protect yourself from the fire of the sword and how to face fire attacks,” Roy says. “It won’t be as thorough a training as the ones you’re used to, but I hope it will help.”

The corner of Diamant’s lips curls upwards. He extends his hand, palm up, and Roy deposits the Binding Blade on it. The sword takes on brighter colors upon the contact.

“I’d be honored to have you as a teacher, Roy.”

“And in exchange you can give me some tips about speaking with absolute confidence.”

“That sounds like a honest deal.”

Maybe Roy read it all wrong. He’s not incompatible with Diamant; they both have abilities they need to improve on, and what one lacks, the other can cover it. It is only natural to accept help and kindness from comrades and friends.

#fire emblem engage #fe engage #diamant (fire emblem)#roy (fire emblem)#i love them. a lot.#they have so many similarities and this is giving me So Many Thoughts #but the thing that makes me go insane the most is how they're both trying so hard to meet expectations ugh #ughh!!!!

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sayruq · 3 years ago

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Favourite Snape quote(s)?

The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.

He is such a nerd. Here he is finally given a chance to prove why he has always deserved the DADA post and he is trying to impress his students the way he never bothers to in potions. His style of teaching DADA is different from the way he teaches potions. Snape is so good at potions that it frustrates him to the point of anger if any of the students don't understand the lesson immediately. However he has such a low opinion of previous DADA professors that he is more forgiving and condescending.

“That is just as well, Potter,” said Snape coldly, “because you are neither special nor important, and it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.”

“No — that’s your job, isn’t it?” Harry shot at him. He had not meant to say it; it had burst out of him in temper. For a long moment they stared at each other, Harry convinced he had gone too far.

But there was a curious, almost satisfied expression on Snape’s face when he answered. “Yes, Potter,” he said, his eyes glinting. “That is my job.”

Snape never hopes for people to throw a parade for him just because he is Dumbledore's man now (he just really wants Dumbledore's approval) but he always takes satisfaction in his work. It's his most consistent trait- how much he enjoys being knowledgeable and useful. It's why in every fight with Sirius in OOTP, Snape brings up Sirius' uselessness in the war. Being useful and needed means a lot to Snape.

“Well, it may have escaped your notice, but life isn’t fair.”

One of my favorite details in the books is that Snape assumes that Harry is James 2.0 and not just in appearance. He thinks Harry is a pampered prince. Sometimes when he is talking about Harry, you get the sense that he is really talking about James.

Anyway Snape is a wound dweller but the reason he picks at his wound years after they've been inflicted is because he can't move on. He lives in the castle he was bullied in, he is trying to avenge his friend who he accidentally doomed to die, he is going undercover as a Death Eater, he is regularly interacting with his bullies, he lives in his parents' house. Everything he did and everything that happened to him as a teenager remains a strong presence in his life. He can't move past it, he just can't.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Iconic.

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord! Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words — they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!”

This speech is all projection from Snape. He wears his heart on his sleeve, he can't control his emotions, he wallows in sad memories and gets provoked easily. The funny thing is Snape still became an expert in Occlumency and he still tricks Voldemort. Even after he died he was still fooling Voldemort.

Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. Ghosts are transparent.

He is so funny.

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s eyes, I am sure?”

"DON’T!” bellowed Snape. “Gone… dead…”

“Is this remorse, Severus?”

“I wish… I wish I were dead…”

“And what use would that be to anyone?” said Dumbledore coldly.

HP stans are too busy claiming that Snape was a spy for nearly 2 decades after Lily's death because he wanted to fuck a woman who's now nothing more than a skeleton that they miss scenes like these. "And what use would that be to anyone?" Ooof.

There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, ‘Very well. Very well. But never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear… especially Potter’s son… I want your word!’

‘My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?’ Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. ‘If you insist …’

Then Harry found out and he chose to honor Snape. Luckily for Snape, he was too dead to live through the humiliation of people knowing that he cared.

‘Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?’ ‘Lately, only those whom I could not save,’ said Snape.

I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter —

I feel like these quotes summarise who Snape was at the end of his life better than any other. He went from begging Dumbledore for Lily's life (no, he didn't want James and Harry dead so he can shag Lily, you weirdos) to this. Throughout the books, we get scenes of Snape helping people, whether it's through his extensive magical knowledge or through his spy work or him saving people. He didn't want to admit it and he didn't want people to know but I do think he wanted to help people just like Harry though Snape chastised Harry for being reckless.

#severus snape #pro snape #sansakatara

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years ago

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Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 5

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language Warnings: None Summary: Local soulmates finally reach the "friends" in "enemies to friends to lovers". A little softness goes a long way. Nice, mostly gentle chapter to make up for the previous one's angsty ending. Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!, 3: Haunt Me Dearly, 4: Portraits For Ghosts

5: Heart Of The Matter

“This is embarrassing,” you mumble, refusing to look Cassandra in the eyes. Softly, she runs her fingers over your chest, spreading the medicinal salve. There’s an unspoken judgement in her expression. Minor movements are no less painful than major ones, so you try to sit still, as much as you’d rather be with anyone else. “Can you hurry up, at least? I don’t care if it takes longer to heal in the long run, I just want to get out of here,” you snap. For a split second you think Cassandra’s going to hit you in response, with the way she looks at you, and you involuntarily flinch. But the hit never comes, merely a sharp sigh.

“If you didn’t want to get treated, you shouldn’t have started a fight- especially not such a pointless one,” she says, continuing to rub in the medicine and evidence alike. At this, you shrink into yourself, hating the harsh sting of truth. Yeah, you think, she’s got me there. Victory is a fast fading feeling, dearly missed in the wake of the growing shame in your chest. Why had you given in to your impulses? Why had you broken the only peace you had known in weeks? It’s a thought that snags on the corners of your mind, weighing down your cognition, leaving you unpleasantly distracted from the present. “Almost done. Then you can go sulk in private, somewhere you can’t bother me, alright?”

Nodding, you accept your fate with what little grace remains. What more could you even do? Ask her to stay by your side? Hardly. But as soon as the last bandage fits into place, and her gentle yet calloused hands smooth the last edge, a whisper of an ache springs into your heart. It’s not a yearning for Cassandra specifically, merely a reminder of your unwilling loneliness. When the door closes behind her, you stare down at your hands, wishing to hold some meaning within them. Maybe I can find Daphne around here somewhere, you think. Then you slowly rise to your feet. Better to sit with a kind stranger than a harsh familiar face.

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That night, you find yourself cautiously approaching Cassandra’s room, feeling like a death row inmate on their way to the executioner. Every step is begrudging, and you almost can’t bring yourself to open the door. But you manage, in the end, stepping in with your eyes downcast. No voice, grumpy or otherwise, greets you. One glance tells you that your soulmate is already asleep, and you mentally thank all the gods you can name. It doesn’t take long to get ready for bed. It does take a minute to slide under the covers, careful not to wake Cassandra. This time you don’t move closer to her, or wrap your arm around her waist, too… exhausted to try anything along those lines.

When you dream, it is of an ever familiar room, shrouded in darkness, stained with the blood of hundreds. Someone’s laughing- a woman, maybe several. Down here, someone is always laughing. You try to laugh with them. It’s a lie, a small deception, that lets you pull your thoughts away from your misery. But they don’t appreciate it when you join their cacophony chorus. Their cackling shifts into screaming, bitter lungs sending waves of ear-splitting sound. Over and over, it gets louder, unbearably so, and closer, closer all the time. Just a few cells away. Just a few more fucking seconds and they’ll be right on top of you. This is a dream you’ve faced down before, yet the ending is unknown. They always get louder, always barrel down the path, towards you, howling endlessly.

They never reach you. No, they’re always coming, always so fucking close. Never in your sight. Never digging claws into your chest. But the anxiety does not fade- you are tipping back in a chair, never falling, never able to find your balance.

When you wake up, it’s with a flinch, teary eyes snapping open. A hand rests on your cheek, brushes away the stains. Whispered words drift through the air, too hushed to be understood, daring to lull you into a relaxed state. It’s Cassandra, of course. Even in your tired state, you know this, know that she’s trying. What you don’t know is whether or not she’s awake enough to process what she’s doing. After all, you hardly are, and her touch is the gentlest thing you’ve ever felt. But you do not get to enjoy it for terribly long. Soon enough your vision fades, the embrace of slumber overtaking you once more.

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For a few days, there is relative peace. Meals are delivered to Cassandra’s room, where you mostly dine on your own, though she occasionally joins you, even if you do not speak. Every evening she ensures your wounds are treated, often handling it herself. When she does, you do your best not to meet her gaze, for you cannot stand the traces of affection you see there. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to taunt her the way you had done the first day. The way she’s changed her behavior, adapting to your trauma’s revelation, haunts you to no end.

“Drink this,” she says one day, before bed, holding out a steaming mug. Of course you don’t take it, of course you stare at her with an eyebrow raised. Acceptance was never an option. “It’s just tea. Bela says it might help. With nightmares. Not-” she paused to frown, unsure if she even wanted to finish the sentence- “that it helped me. But you’ve been… tolerable, lately, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.” Then she’s reaching out again, expectantly. Blushing ever so slightly, you finally take the mug, giving her a quick nod before taking a sip. There’s a hint of sugar, just enough to make things interesting.

“Thanks,” you murmur, after swallowing the lump in your throat. Already Cassandra is turning away, focusing on getting ready for bed. You want to say more, to actually hold a conversation with her for the first time in days, but your mouth feels oddly dry. So you just sip your tea in silence. Of course, you think, I’m only ever improvising a monologue, or tripping over my own tongue, as if it were a resting place for my chattering teeth. At least the beverage wasn’t as bitter as your thoughts. By the time you’ve finished your drink, Cassandra is in bed, watching you with an unreadable expression. “Need something? Or just waiting for the poison in my drink to kick in?” You ask, surprising yourself.

“Finally remembered how your mouth works, hmm?” Cassandra teases. Again you’re blushing, having expected her to be more annoyed than amused.

“I never forgot. I simply, you know, uh… figured that you needed a break, after my last demonstration,” you counter, remembering the way your vocal chords had complained, and the way her arm had felt around your throat. It’s not the direction you meant to take the conversation in, but she doesn’t seem to mind. If anything… she’s blushing. For a moment you’re confused, then you finally recall the ‘incident’ in the tub. Oh fuck, you think, that’s worse. Maybe. Probably? What should I say? In the end, the words leave your mouth in a rush, as they were prone to do. “Based on how red your cheeks are, I’m going to assume you don’t need another reminder. Let’s just get some rest now, yeah?” Next thing you know, there’s a pillow flying towards your face.

Still, it’s better than nothing, and the impact serves only to make you smile wider. When you climb into bed, you find yourself face-to-face with Cassandra. She’s never laid like this with you before. It’s unexpected, even more so when she shifts forward, less than an inch away from your face. Understandably, you end up blushing more than you’d like to admit.

“What was that about red cheeks?” She asks, voice low and breathy, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. Before you can think of the ‘smart’ thing to do, impulse kicks in, making you go in for a quick kiss. It’s supposed to be a joke, a counter to her teasing. But she leans into it. She kisses back. Both of you are blushing hard when she pulls away, a few moments later. You’re trying to stutter out a response, clever or otherwise, and she’s rolling her eyes, rolling onto her other side, putting her back to you. Words fail you. In the end, you are forced to try to sleep, regardless of what just happened. When you dream, there are no nightmares this time. Just a warmth you had thought forgotten.

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More days pass, with your tongue slowly loosening up, fueled by playful banter with Cassandra. Neither of you dares to mention the kiss. Nor do you ever speak for too long, as if knowing that your mind still resisted peace. Most evenings are still filled with nightmares, all mimicking your trauma, and you are left to wonder if the tea had even worked that first night, or if something else had helped. In the hopes of more success you drink a mug every day before bed. Admittedly, Cassandra does bring it to you, meaning that forgoing it would require turning her down. That was… harder to do, these days.

When she asks you to join her for lunch, you don’t hesitate to agree. But as you’re waiting in her room, casually reclining on her bed with a book in your hands, a distant scream echoes through the castle. Instantly you’re panicking, wondering who was in trouble. It reminds you so much of the dungeon that you can’t move. Was one of the servants being punished? Had someone merely forgotten to close the door to the basement, and you were hearing the same cries that caused your nightmares? Even though the screaming does not last for long, it renders you helpless, shaking in every bone. It’s not until the door opens that you can think again.

“Change of plans,” Cassandra announces, stepping into the room. There’s a worried expression on her face, and her voice tells you she’s distracted. When she sees the state you’re in, however, she’s quick to sit next to you. “Hey, you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s Daniela that does. She- her soulmate-... it’s bad. That’s all we know. One second she was fine, the next she’s howling in pain, and there’s a huge scar on her back. We’re going to have a ‘family lunch’, per mother’s insistence, in case it helps Dani think about literally anything other than what just happened.” With that, one of her hands moves to your own, giving a reassuring squeeze. To her surprise, you’re quick to return the gesture.

“I can come with,” you blurt out. Then she’s raising an eyebrow at you, wondering why the hell you’d ever offer to spend time with her family. The family that had imprisoned you. And, of course, intended to drain you of blood, or dine on your flesh. Even you weren’t a hundred percent sure. “This has got to be hard for her. I… I knew someone who went through something similar. Strange as it is, I want to show my support. If you’ll allow me, that is.” There’s neither a pleading tone nor a hint of anger in your voice. But Cassandra still hesitates, eying you, clearly questioning your motive.

“Alright, fine,” she says, after a deep sigh. “If you do anything to make her feel worse, I can’t- and won’t- stop my family from killing you, blood bond be damned. They’ll make it painless, for my sake, but that’s the only kindness you’ll get. Got it?” You nod, giving her hand another squeeze. “Good. Now let’s get going, I don’t want to make Dani wait.”

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It’s quiet. Awkward, even. Daniela is clearly still shaken up from her experience, with red eyes, makeup staining her cheeks. No one seems to have the slightest clue of what to say to her. Even you are silent, unable to find a good opportunity to lend your advice or sympathies. Which makes it all the more painful when you find Daniela watching you, eyes narrowed, a tremble to her lower lip. Both Cassandra and Bela seem to notice, pausing their eating to wait with bated breath. Part of you swears you can hear their thoughts of please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, for the love of everything good in this world. So, naturally, Daniela does in fact say something. But it’s not directed at you- rather your soulmate.

“Did you really have to bring them? Huh? Felt like pouring salt in my wounds?” Her throat is obviously sore from crying, or screaming, likely both. This certainly wasn’t how you wanted your first meeting with her (or her mother) to go. So you summon the best of your courage, replying before Cassandra even opens her mouth.

“I asked to come. I wanted to show my support,” you reply. There’s a pause, with Daniela glaring at you, before she speaks slowly and with unveiled rage.

“Don’t make me laugh. You really thought I’d want to see my sister’s soulmate right now? Alive and well? God, you’re perfect for her, absolutely clueless,” she growls, smacking her fist against the table. Things have gone from bad to worse, but you don’t give up, deciding to take a risk as best as you could. After all, Cassandra had made it clear that your life was on the line.

“Tell me, was the pain bad enough that you passed out?” You ask, ignoring the way your soulmate kicks your feet. She’s desperate for you to shut up, especially now that Daniela’s too angry to even respond. “Are you still in pain now? Answer the question and I’ll either explain, or let you use my bones as toothpicks.”

“Fuck you!” Daniela cries, rising to her feet. Instantly her sisters are standing as well, though it’s unclear what ‘side’ either of them are on. For now, their mother remains sitting, staring at you intensely. When you refuse to back down, the tension in the room flickers, fading a tad. “The pain lasted ten minutes. It’s stopped. They’re…”

“They’re not dead, then. Reason to celebrate, yes?” You suggest, raising your glass before taking a long drink from it. Everyone is eying you with visible confusion. “When I was younger, I was with my best friend during the worst hours of her life. She had met her soulmate at age twelve, three years prior. We had just been… hanging out. Talking. The next thing I knew she was screaming like her blood had turned to acid, sobbing her eyes out. Then she blacked out. By the time she came to, we were at the hospital, and we ran into her soulmate’s family. She asked them what was wrong, why she was in so much pain. I, uh, I think you can guess the answer. Not the specifics, yeah, but the general gist of it. It took twenty four hours for the physical pain to stop. According to the doctors, that’s pretty average. So your soulmate isn’t dead. Chances are you haven’t even met them yet, and someday you’ll see that scar on their back, and you’ll know. I know that this doesn’t make everything okay, but I hope it helps. At least a little.” When Daniela finally brings herself to reply, having sunk back into her seat, it’s with a soft voice, hardly more than a whisper.

“It does. Thank you.”

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Later, you’re walking back to Cassandra’s room when she suddenly pushes you against a wall, staring at you with fear in her eyes.

“What you said earlier. About your friend. Was that true?” You’re nodding, quickly, desperate to get her to release you. But she doesn’t. Instead she’s looking at you with concern, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. “Goddamnit, you better not ever fucking die on me then, alright? Promise me. Right now!” A thousand thoughts go through your mind, a thousand jabs or otherwise cruel remarks, but when you speak, it’s with a hushed reverence you cannot describe.

“Same to you. I know you’re practically immortal, but I don’t fucking care. Don’t die on me. Don’t- just don’t. I promise, but you better fucking mean it too, alright?” You say, openly crying, ignoring the way Cassandra’s expression softens at your words. As soon as you’re done speaking she lets you go with a nod, turning back to the hallway, already walking towards her room. You’re not entirely sure what just happened… but you know you’re glad it did.

#cassandra x reader #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #cassandra dimitrescu #resident evil: village #re8 village #last chap wasn't as well received #hope this one does better #queuemander shepard #bumped this in the queue cuz I'm proud of it

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aquilaofarkham · 3 years ago

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title: the little death rating: T+ word count: 2,409 summary: Two years after his fight with Death, Trevor’s injuries start catching up to him while Alucard realizes that humans are more fragile than he thought.

For @trevorsmellmont ❤️ Thank you so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity.

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.”

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician.

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

“I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough.

But the day will come. And it will be Alucard’s own little death.

#castlevania #castlevania spoilers #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #sypha belnades #greta danesti #trephacard #trevorcard #my writing #*cvfic

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silenceofthecookies · 4 years ago

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Hi Cookie! Congrats on 700!! Can I maybe ask for Class 1A (10 people od your choice) and the way they cheer up a crush/friend/partner when they're having a bad day? Thank you many times! ♡ *leaves a complimentary forehead smooch*

*Sits happily on her bed after the forehead smooch* Of course you can my dear ❤ enjoy!

Eijirou Kirishima

Eijirou's main way of trying to cheer you up is basically hyping you up. He'll tell you how amazing he thinks you are, how amazing your skills are (even if you don't think so yourself) and just how much he's happy that you're friends (or more).

He'll also suggest doing things he knows you enjoy. He'll ask about that show you're so passionate about, or about that book you've been reading. He'll suggest going to your favourite restaurant, or another place you like to hang out at. Anything he knows you enjoy, in hopes of cheering you up.

If it's something he can help with or something he can change, he definitely will, however he does know his limitations. He's not the brightest bulb around, and no matter his good intentions, he knows there are things he just can't help you with. He tries his very best though.

He'll also check up on you regularly throughout the day, not by asking ‘hey, are you ok?’ but simply by popping in every now and again, making a little conversation or sending you a little message, just to let you know he cares.

Katsuki Bakugou

Katsuki is more silent on your bad days. He tones his yelling down the moment he notices (which is pretty fast, this man is more perceptive than most people think), and only yells to tell other people to pipe it down. If people ask him why, he'll make up some stupid excuse like him having a headache.

He'll take you somewhere calm and comfortable and talk to you about it. Katsuki gives pretty damn good advice, and his voice is pretty calming once he stops yelling. His main concern is making sure that you know it´s just a bad day, that better days will come, and that you can count on him should you need him.

He´ll do tiny things throughout your day to help you out. You´ve brought a heavy bag? He'll carry it. Dropped your pen? He's picking it up. Feeling a little peckish? He'll drop a snack with you. Anyone bothering you? Not for long. He's got your back.

If you need any help at all, just ask him and Katsuki will make it happen. He won't even complain about it. As long as it helps you feel better, he'll do it.

Fumikage Tokoyami

Fumikage is a silent but very perceptive person. He will notice you are down, but he will wait for you to come to him to speak about it. After all, sometimes people need to be not be happy, to let other emotions out. He's afraid that by talking to you about it, he'll force you to pretend everything is fine, and that's the last thing he wants.

He will pay a little extra attention to the tiny things he can do, things he'd usually do too. Get you a drink when he's getting one. Put on a movie or music that you like. Put a hand on your shoulder or waist, or take hold of your hand, depending on what kind of relationship you have. Anything to subtly let you know that you're safe with him, and that he's there for you.

Fumikage has wisdom beyond his years and though his advice comes out very poetic with lots of metaphors, it's really good advice. He has the ability to stay calm and not stress out, no matter what you tell him or what you ask him advice on.

Though it mostly ends with him encouraging you doing things you enjoy and going to bed on time.

Momo, Izuku, Denki, Shoto, Mina, Kyoko and Tsuyu under the cut!

Momo Yaoyorozu

Momo has amazing problem-solving skills and if there's a problem that can be solved that's causing you to have a bad day, she's the best person to go to. She'll come up with the perfect solution which will give you at least some peace of mind.

If there's no solution to your bad day, she's still a great person to go to for comfort. Momo can will stay calm and remind you of the positive things without invalidating your own feelings.

If it's cold, she will 100% make you the softest fleece blanket on the spot to wrap you in, in your favourite colour. The she'll get you hot cocoa with marshmallows, or any other hot drink you enjoy having. If it's hot, she's getting you your favourite frozen treat.

Her behaviour throughout the day will not change too much unless you ask her to, but she will be showing through the little things that she's there for you and that if you need anything at all, you need but ask.

Izuku Midoriya

Bad days are familiar to Izuku, however, everyone deals with them differently so he's a little nervous to ask you about it. Should he even ask you about it? What if you don't want to be asked about it? What if asking about and maybe talking about it only makes it worse?

A few panicked thoughts later, Izuku will ask you if there's anything he can do to help you feel better. Whatever you say he can do, if it's within his power, he'll do so immediately.

He's a great distraction in case you need one. With all of his trivia knowledge about heroes, he can talk with you about your favourite heroes and maybe even tell you things you didn't know about them yet.

Izuku gives the absolute best hugs. He's also not afraid to hold your hand if that's what makes you feel better, even in public. Opinions of others be damned, all that matters is that you're as comfortable as you can be on this shitty day.

Izuku always has some snacks with him in case he gets held up somewhere (if there's one thing school taught him, it's that you should always expect the unexpected) and he'll offer them to you on impulse on bad days.

Denki Kaminari

Denki will try to make you laugh no matter what. It doesn't matter if it has to be at his own expense, as long as he can crack even a little smile and distract you from whatever is weighing your day down, he'll be happy.

Expect a lot of clownery and stupid jokes. Maybe even an imitation of how he gets when he's used too much electricity. Maybe he'll even use the electricity to actually be like that for a while, though he'd prefer not to because he knows he can be a bit of a burden when he gets like that.

Also lots of hugs if you're comfortable with that! He'll also surprise you by tickling your sides or your neck to make you laugh. He will be visibly disappointed if you're not ticklish.

Denki will try to make the best of your day still, by suggesting things like going to the movies, having a movie night in at home, or doing pretty much anything else he knows you like. It doesn't even matter if he doesn't like it himself, as long as your day looks a little brighter.

Shoto Todoroki

Shoto is, quite honestly, at a loss when you're having a bad day. He's had them too, they suck, but aside from distracting you and maybe pulling your thoughts away from whatever is making it bad, he has no idea what to do. No idea of what he should do.

So he tries to do the only thing he can think of: distracting you. He'll become a lot more talkative, talking about pretty much anything you can think of, and urging you to join him. If possible, he'll take you outside to go do something. Maybe even play a boardgame or a videogame. Anything he can think of is fair game.

He won't ask you what's wrong, because he's not quite sure what kind of reaction he should give you. If you talk to him about it anyway though, he'll listen to your every word. If there's something he can do, he will do so in a heartbeat. If not, he'll give you a hug, hoping that the proximity will convey the things that his words cannot.

Mina Ashido

HYPE GIRL HYPE GIRL HYPE GIRL

Mina's always a positive person, and when you're having a bad day, this doesn't change a single bit. She will keep smiling, knowing her smile and her positivity are contagious, hoping that they will remind you that things can always get worse, and that better times are always coming.

She will tone it down a little if you want to talk about it, but her positive attitude will remain. No matter why you're having a bad day, she'll try to help you see the positive in the situation and reminds you that everything happens for a reason, and that for anything bad that happens to you, something equally good will happen too.

Mina's a very cuddly person and will cling to you all day if you let her, hugging you, sitting next to you, sitting on your lap, having you sit in her lap,… anything to keep you close and to give you some affection, hoping that you realize that you're not alone, that you've got an ally in her and that you can always count on her, even on the bad days.

Kyoka Jirou

Kyoka asks if you're alright the moment she notices you're down. If you don't want to talk about it, she'll leave it at that, though she will keep an eye on you throughout the day. If you do want to talk about it, she'll be all ears.

Kyoka is not the best at giving advice, often doubting her own words, so she'll just listen, tell you your feelings are valid, and that it'll get better at some point for sure. She'll say with reassuring hand on your shoulder and a soft smile.

Something that always helps her on a bad day is music, and she will encourage you to try the same. Listen to music you like, and music you feel like listening to at that point. You want to listen to sad music and cry for an hour straight? Good, then those emotions needed to come out. You want to listen to something happy and up-beat to distract you from what you're feeling? Also good. Whatever you need, Kyoka will encourage. She'll also recommend you songs based on what you listen to, giving you some songs that fit what you're going through right now, hoping they'll cheer you up at least a little.

Tsuyu Asui

Tsuyu cares deeply about all of her friends and when she sees once having a bad day, she wants to do everything she can to help them feel better, even if that's not always possible. It frustrates her to feel that way, but she'll quickly push those frustrations away to focus on you instead, to do whatever she can for you.

She won't start doing anything on her own. Every person has their own way of wanting to be treated on a bad day, and even every bad day needs a different treatment, so she believes. So she'll ask you if you're alright, and if there's anything at all she can do to help you. If she can, there are no limits to what she will do. Nothing is too much effort when it comes to the people she cares about.

She will be watching you like a hawk all day, trying to find little things she can do or say to cheer you up, or trying to keep certain people away from you if needed.

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kichous · 4 years ago

Text

✧･ﾟ:* our proper distance

summary. if sukuna notices the life growing within you, separated only by your flesh as he lays his head in your lap, he says nothing. series. history lesson. bonus scene ! pairing. ryomen sukuna x f!reader. warnings. mentions of miscarriages. childbirth. word count. 2922.

You spend every day waiting for the other shoe to drop. You had already asked much of him in keeping this liaison secret. That he was willing to compromise for you was a miracle in and of itself. You do not mistake his generosity for kindness. You are well aware that your safety and well-being relies on his good will.

You have been Ryomen Sukuna’s mistress for four years. You have been his lover for roughly half of your sons’ lifetimes, and you have shouldered this secret alone for four years out of fear for their safety. And although the King of Curses, whose power has only grown since he bested your father in combat, is known to sorcerers as cruel and greedy, he cares in some way for the lives of your children. He would not hold his tongue otherwise.

Twins are a bad omen because of Sukuna, after all.

For someone whose followers regularly burn your families’ crests, Sukuna goes to greater lengths than he needs to in order to protect you. You’re still amazed that he even wants to defend you at all. He is not exactly wanting for bedmates — and you have to admit that despite the inhumanity of his form, he is still just as handsome as he was when he bore the name Shun. You do not dare to believe that you are someone special to him. You do not dare to hope.

He comes to you under the cover of night, and you learn to recognize his silhouette in front of the screen door when the moon is at its highest. You light a lantern by your door when your husband is with his other wives, though Sukuna still comes even when it isn’t there. Some nights he is content to lounge with you. His predisposition to getting his hair stroked is exceedingly feline.

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t lay with you. Such intimacy was how your relationship started, after all. From your first time in the fields beyond your father’s walls, to when he presses you into the futon in your husband’s home, Sukuna is no stranger to any inch, any measure of your body. You have come to know his as well, tracking every change with every moon. You are certain you are more familiar with him than he is with you, however, as you have never seen fit to tell them about the children.

Or, rather, the children that never came to be.

Over the years, there have been ten. Each one, you have hidden from the King of Curses. Your husband is not subject to such deceit. If anything, your infertility works in your favor. He does not come to see you as often anymore, unhappy as he is with the fact that you’ve yet to bear him any heirs besides Michimaru and Takechiyo. It gives you more time to spend with your sons — and more time with Sukuna, who does not seem particularly bothered that you have not granted him children either, despite the many times you have been together.

You wonder if you mistake his satisfaction for indifference. Perhaps he does not want the hindrance of children in his grand ambitions. He is not the most fatherly of men — although, thinking about it, you suppose you do not know any good fathers in the first place.

Sukuna’s warmongering is the last thing you would wish to subject a child to, and your sons are already afraid enough of him as it is. Your family does a good job at spreading fear and panic where Sukuna is concerned. You haven’t yet told the boys that they had already met him when he was just a man.

Regardless of his intentions, there was never anything to truly fear, as none of his seed ever took — that is, until this last moon.

You were so certain that it was impossible, that perhaps someone had cursed you. You had proved fertile enough not long after your marriage. It was strange to think that you would bear twins and nothing more. Spending the better part of your life valued only for your womb, your failure to produce more children was met with plenty of speculation, both by yourself and your immediate family. Sukuna, conversely, asked nothing of you but your company. You took solace in that fact, pitiable as it may seem.

And so, when he comes to you on a new moon, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he steps into your quarters, you are at a loss. He notices it too, as he remarks that you look like a trembling doe. It’s not the most flattering creature to be compared to, but you smile indulgently at him nonetheless. When you gesture for him to sit with you, he lays his head in your lap as always.

It is routine — you start by combing his hair away from his face, your hand tracing the familiar curve of his skull as you rub soothing circles into his scalp with the pads of your fingers. Sukuna’s eyes flutter shut at your motion, and your other hand wraps around his face to stroke his jaw. You could almost swear that he starts to purr, though you’re certain he would put you to death for ever suggesting it. At this angle, he is worryingly close to your unborn child. He says nothing to indicate that he knows of its presence.

“You look tired,” you murmur. “I could have Kinu bring us some tea, if you like.”

Sukuna lifts a hand. “Don’t bother. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” He exhales as you massage his temples. “Yes, just like that.”

“I insist.” He’s horrible to deal with when he’s cranky and you’re not in the mood. When you do not let him bruise your wrists, your hips, or your thighs, he turns to cutting words instead. He hasn’t shown any signs of displeasure yet, but you know that he is nothing if not unpredictable. It never hurts to be proactive. “Whatever you want.”

“Fine,” hums Sukuna, one of his lower eyes cracking open. “Fennel.”

Thoughtlessly, your smile drops. He notices, as the other three eyes are suddenly peering at you with suspicion.

Your servants don’t know of Sukuna — at least, that is what you are content to believe. If they have any idea that you have a lover, they say nothing to your husband and they say nothing to you. You do not want to know of their suspicions, of the knowledge that they may hold over you. You cannot spend every day looking over your shoulder from those you spend nearly every waking moment with.

But of your current predicament, they know every detail. Everything to do with your monthly blood, with the miscarriages, to the morning sickness, they’ve cleaned it all. And in doing so, you like to believe that they feel some loyalty to you. It helps you sleep at night. And because they know of the happenings of your body, they know that asking for fennel tea is asking for more blood to clean from your sheets. Infinitely more difficult than vomit, you suspect.

“Do you take issue with my choice?”

You blink, remembering yourself. Shaking your head, you try to move back, only to be pinned by the weight of Sukuna’s torso. You could shove him off, but that wouldn’t end well for anyone. “It’s fine, I just… remembered that we have run out of fennel tea, that is all.” You smile at him, and you notice through your mirror that it is too wan to seem genuine. Your heart sinks as the skepticism remains in his gaze.

“You are distressed,” Sukuna says plainly. “What have you done?”

You furrow your brows. What have you done to me? you wish to ask. You do not. “Nothing,” you hiss instead. Your scandalized tone amuses him; you can tell by the curve of his lips. He’s going to push you more. You place a hand over his mouth before he can, then yelp as he swipes his tongue across your palm. You wipe it on his kimono. “You’re disgusting. Who knows what I’ve touched?”

“It better not have been anything foul or I’ll sever these pretty hands myself.” Sukuna says the words so sweetly, they leave his lips like a song.

You run your fingers through his hair again in reply, and he chuckles.

“All right, I suppose I’ll spare you for now.” He tilts his chin up to meet you halfway when you lean down and kiss him, nibbling on your lower lip. He chases after you when you part, and he wraps a hand around the back of your head to pull you in again. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“I think I should be the one saying that about you.”

Sukuna relaxes in your lap once again, contentment flitting across his face. “That was a valiant effort at sidestepping my question, and for that, I shall reward you with leniency.”

There’s always some sense of serenity around him, even in the midst of carnage and peace alike. Like he belongs in this world, a curse that will never, ever, leave. He is tranquil in the midst of the chaos he sows — a figure of balance. That is how the commoners who champion him refer to the Two-Faced Spectre. You envy his level of self-satisfaction. Were that all the world felt as confident and assured as Sukuna, there would be a great deal less bloodshed, you think.

Rather — knowing mortals as they are, there would be infinitely more. But Sukuna would like that, you suppose.

He interrupts your contemplation by taking your hand and sliding it over his hair again. “Did I say that you could stop?”

No. He most certainly did not. With a weary chuckle, you appease him, and he takes your other hand to press a kiss into your palm. The two of you settle in silence until the candles wind down, and when they no longer provide adequate light, you lean over to blow them out and invite Sukuna to lay with you. He reads in your expression that your only intention is to sleep, and without protest, he climbs into the futon alongside you. He takes up most of it, though you are used to that.

Sukuna lies on one side. Given the excessive amount of limbs, you doubt that the position is very comfortable. He was steps and a couple of drinks away from conjuring himself a tail, though, so you suppose that most of the reason that Sukuna doesn’t sleep is because of the discomfort. Nevertheless, he likes to hold you when you sleep, his arms like a cage. As you settle into his embrace, you find that it is tighter than usual. You fold your hands over your stomach, pressing your back into his chest.

One of his hands rests on your shoulder, while his other arm on the same side winds around your waist. He lays that hand on top of yours. Though he isn’t pressing very hard, you feel every point of his nails like the tip of a blade against your belly. You roll over so that the pin-pricks are against the flesh of your back. As you tilt your head up to meet his gaze, you’re marveled by how… familial the embrace is.

Mother and father on either side, and the child sleeping soundly in the middle. It is a fool’s dream to ever think it could become a reality. But the thought still lingers in your mind — what if?

Would he run away with you? Abandon everything he’s ever worked for to raise your child (children, possibly) in obscurity. A fisherman like his father, who abandoned him as a child to be taken in by your family, ostensibly to give him a better life. You’d be a… gods, what could you do? Weave, perhaps? Something useful, at least. To show that you were not the spoiled little girl he always made you out to be.

And would your child be a sorcerer? Would they be a simpleton, like you, or would they be as powerful and fearsome as their father? Would ambition consume them, just as it had the man you loved?

Alas, you are a fool to even dream it. The four-armed could-be fisherman traces a finger along your neck, a brow arched.

“Is my face truly so mesmerizing?” he whispers, eyes sparkling. The mirth dissipates when you don’t react, and he instead leans away from you and props himself up on his lower elbow. He watches you not as one would a lover, but the way a hunter stalks its prey — like he’s waiting for any misstep he could leap upon. “All right, come out with it.”

“What?” The word doesn’t sound convincing, even to yourself. Your failure at duplicity causes both disappointment and disdain to war upon Sukuna’s face. Quickly, you lift your hands to appease him. “I’ve just been feeling a little tired these days is all. I’ve already sent for a healer, surely they can figure out what’s wrong with me.”

“Is there any better healer in the province than yourself?” he scoffs. You are not sure whether to be flattered by the praise, spoken with venom, or not. “If there were anyone with a greater grasp on reverse cursed technique they may very well be a god.”

You stroke his jaw tenderly with the backs of your fingers, rubbing a thumb across his cheek. “Not every malady can be healed by my power,” you remind him. To be fair, you did actually call for a second opinion. You could simply be suffering through some foodborne illness — but you know your body best, and you know now that there is something dwelling within it. You have called for a midwife, just to make sure. “I will be fine.”

“I don’t like seeing you upset.” Sukuna’s lips form a scowl. “Tell me what to do to make it stop.”

His words give you pause, an incredulous laugh nearly bubbling out of you. You subdue yourself, but the wonder is still there. You tuck yourself into him to hide your mirth.

Is this the closest you’ll ever get to genuine romance from him? You know that you can never tell him anything. And while you’d think yourself a monster if he was anyone else, you know the child will be safer if they had never known of Sukuna at all.

How on earth would you tell the child their father was a beast? You could lie to them, pretend that your husband was the one that sired them. You could never tell them at all, and leave it until their adulthood before they found the truth. Then you would be no better than the family you tried to escape.

You had always thought yourself a decent mother, fair and loving. But a child of Sukuna could never know a world of peace, and with how irrevocably you have become intertwined with him, you could not give the child the peaceful, happy life it deserved.

Your brother’s wife has a sister in Mino. Perhaps she will raise your baby as her own.

“There’s nothing you can do,” you murmur into the side of his neck. You can feel a rumbling in his throat, a low growl in reply. When you stroke his back, he stills. There is virtually no space between you, and you can feel the mouth on his stomach shift against your midsection. Instinctively, you slide a hand over yourself as a barrier.

He doesn’t seem to notice the defensive gesture, and for that, you are thankful. Sukuna never sleeps when he is with you, only laying in a facsimile of it in his stillness and steadiness while you actively slumber. He is always gone in the morning when you wake, but if you are (un)lucky, you can still catch his scent on you. As you lean back to rub noses with him, you find him staring at you intently. Eyes like piercing daggers, you have no doubt he has watched you like this many nights before.

“Nothing at all.” It is not a question. It is said with malice, with suspicion.

Your little fantasy of a life with him seems ever further away. A fool’s delusion.

This man does not love you — he loves how much he can control you. He loves that you sit prettily in the palm of his hand, that you give him everything without protest. He loves that he always leaves you wanting for more. He loves that you lie for him, that you live a double life only for him. He loves the feeling of turning you against his greatest enemies, even if that was never true.

He loves that he is one of the only reasons you are ever happy. He loves that you are afraid of his moods, and that you do all that you can to please him. He loves that do as he asks in all respects but one. He loves that you are so small against him, so frail. He loves you most when you are at your weakest. He loves only as a monster loves.

You cannot — you will not ever allow him to sink his claws into this child.

You press a gentle kiss to Sukuna’s lips, a false promise. “Nothing at all.”

#ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #history lesson bonus.#history lesson tag.#jjk fic.#i think my writing says something about how much i fucking love sleeping and napping #considering how often the couples end up in bed

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bored-storyteller · 4 years ago

Note

uh I love your storys about Uta ^^. You write him so good and in character . Could you maybe write a story about him were him and the reader ( human) meeting at an auction like reader was captured and meets Uta there . But maybe they escape the auction house and meet Uta sometime after this again. I`m sorry I love Uta angst and fluff .

Dear anon. I'll tell you, your request inspired me a lot (that's why I did it right away), but I must confess that I'm not really satisfied with the result and I'm sorry (I rewrote it three times). I have to thank my poor summary skills for this defeat, I don't think I managed to really give you what you asked me. Feel free to send me clarifications or a further request for me to remedy!

43- Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x human!reader

“The bird of ill omen and the broken toy”

You are in front of his eyes, huddled in a corner of the cold and dark container. On your knees, tied up, you are the condemned to death ready to face the gallows, or rather you are a delicious dish wrapped in its most beautiful dress to entice the spectators.

"Oh, look here ... what a delightful creature."

You are not the main article, you are not the rare object, yet your smell has brought him there. Uta is not a glutton, but he couldn't resist the temptation to peek at whoever was carrying such an inviting fragrance.

"This is really a shame ..." his voice is sweet, calm, yet ironic and cruel. Yes, it's a shame that he has to give you to some miserly ghoul.

Uta doesn’t usually prefer a certain type of food, he is not delicate or picky, nor does he have problems eating even his similar ones. But he has to admit that while those bright eyes of yours, shining with tears and desperation, look at him, he really would like to be able to eat them. Yes, it is rare for someone to stimulate his appetite in this way, customers really have to thank him for his self-control.

You are so small in his shadow, and even if you tremble, even if you smell of fear, he sees no hope in your eyes.

You know you have no escape. As little as you may be when it comes to ghouls, you know you can't save yourself. You heard them talk.

You would rather die now than continue that torture.

He feels it, and oh, how tempted he is to grant your wish.

He leans over you, he wants to see you well, he wants to hear you. The demonic beak of his mask brushes against you, rubs against your temple like the muzzle of a mother cuddling his cub, or the muzzle of a lion that is playing with his prey.

Maybe, if he had met you in another situation ... maybe ...

No. He doesn't necessarily have to devour you. Nothing is ever said with Uta, even he knows it, he knows himself. Who knows what would have happened if you had met somewhere else. Who knows who you were, elsewhere.

In conclusion, you were both unlucky: you cannot survive, and he cannot be the one to eat you. You have something in common.

"Uta!"

Roma's voice makes its way, muffled by the metal container in which you are locked up - like a ready meal -

"I'm coming!" It's time for him to go on stage, for you it's time for the final bow.

He doesn't tell you anything anymore, he doesn't need to. He will say goodbye to you that same evening, but he feels a little happy that you are among the last items to be exhibited.

He still gives you a look, you, little shaking puppet, sweet broken toy. Who can fix you anymore?

After that, he leaves you behind, abandoned in the cold darkness of your last hours in solitude, as he plunges into the cold light of demons, ready to entertain his fellow men with his affable ways. What a crazy world you are both in.

. . .

Locked in your cold prison, if you could you would cover your ears in a desperate attempt to get away from the announcements and screams, but it's impossible for you. So you wait, trembling in your shell of panic, not knowing what to do. If only you had at least a vain hope, a false chance. If only you could save yourself, for some reason, any reason then yeah, oh, how dear life would be to you thereafter. But you can't even think now.

And you don't even realize that the noises change. The cries of the victims become the cries of the executioners, and the applause becomes breathless footsteps in search of a safe place. But you don't know it, or at least not until they get closer, more distressed. They are probably running away. But who can save you? Who knows you are there? Who can remember you?

And in fact, no one stops, no one frees you, and the footsteps and the screams brush against you and pass you, without bothering to kill or save you. At least you think so.

But as soon as the silence comes, the creaking of the doors opening makes you lift your face, towards the light.

He is there again, and you wonder if that Bird of ill Omen is not your hallucination. With that bizarre suit, that hateful mask, and those ancient letters around his neck that seem ready to strangle him.

He doesn't talk to you. He is simply looking at you, you feel him looking at you, behind that deadly beak. In the silence that surrounds you, whether it is a real silence or created by mutual presence, he suddenly occupies your every thought in those few seconds of eternity. Maybe it's the touch of death that wanders your mind, but suddenly unusual questions arise in you. Who knows who he is, what he does. What does he like and what not ... does he live in the alleys of the city, or maybe, instead, without that mask he pretends to be someone?

He came to take you and devour you. But it almost seems like a strange barrier is keeping him away from you.

And while you are suspended in this limbo of cold resignation, as he came he disappears, and with his disappearance he takes away from you that sad calm that had enveloped you.

The panic returns as someone approaches.

Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Clean eyes, a clean face, no mask is looking at you agitated. You don't know how to answer, you don't even know if what you are seeing is true.

“I'm a human, I'm a CCG investigator. Don't worry, it's okay, we'll get you out of here. "

Without your being fully aware of it, you find yourself in warm, safe arms that take you away from hell behind you. You didn't even realize you were crying.

. . .

He recognized your smell right away.

Even if it's been some time since his meeting with you, it's hard to forget something that has affected him so much, especially if it is something that has particularly touched his sensitivity over that of others.

And it's not that Uta is then easily surprised, he is ready to expect anything from that crazy world, yet you manage to upset him without even knowing that he is there.

You are smiling. And that's not the fact, but at the same time it is. You are smiling sweetly, sincerely. Your eyes are clear and bright, and you are listening to someone talking to you about their petty problems without batting an eye.

That night, that night he met you, he came back to eat you. He was not a ghoul who got lost in gluttony, but given the situation he had a particular interest in the statement "carpe diem".

He hadn't, in the end. In the end he just looked at you. It would have been easy to swallow you, but he had left you there. He had told himself that he hadn't made it in time, but who knows what was really going through his head at that moment.

It doesn't matter anymore, however. What's a broken toy like you doing so quietly exposed? How can you smile at people like that, when surely the world around you has crumbled into millions of little bits?

You make him angry, you know? Humans like you, whom the world keeps getting back on their feet despite everything, provoke anger in him.

And you are there, a few steps away from him, and you do not realize that the one who had the task of trampling your life is watching you.

And no matter how much anger he may feel inside of him, he can't help but look at you, as you speak comfortable words to someone, while you give your attention as if you have no problem.

"Uta?" Renji's voice, intent on looking at him from behind the coffee shop counter, makes him look away from you.

"Nh? Ah… ”His gaze falls on his now coffee-stained lap. The stain is almost invisible on the black sweater, but it is damp and warm.

"Don't laugh ... can you give me a towel please?"

"I'm not laughing." Yet Uta could swear that in the serious voice of his trusted friend a note of amusement is audible even to those who do not know him.

Carefully he puts the cup back on the saucer, making sure not to do any further damage.

This then. When was he ever so distracted for a human?

But when he instinctively looks for you, after all that nice little theater, you're not there anymore. The table you occupied is empty.

Only one object remained abandoned on the shiny surface. A book lies alone, the bookmark sticking out in the middle.

It is placed on the side where you sat. Did you leave in such a hurry that you left it there?

It is not that he has a real reason to do it, yet, while he is about to leave :Re, with all the tranquility that characterizes him, he picks up that literary volume in his hands, hiding it inside his jacket. Even that printed paper is imbued with your smell by now.

. . .

You talk to books, apparently. The edges of the pages are filled with thoughts written in pencil. They are all yours, it almost seems like you use the books as your diary, but there is nothing so personal about you. They are just… points of view. The world told by you, depending on the inspiration that the phrases in the book give you.

"It must be difficult to live in a world where you can talk to your food about your favorite book."

When Uta's eyes had settled on that particular phrase, he had closed. For someone else it might have been a stupid phrase, probably, but for him it was like a punch in the stomach.

He doesn't know if you wrote it before or after the accident, but in any case that simple sentence arouses a mixture of emotions that he doesn't really know where to place. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't understand what it meant to be a ghoul in that world, but on the other hand, the utopia in which Renji seems so hoping could be made up of people like you. If only he believed it, Uta could like that world, as long as there was a place in that world for someone like him.

“Excuse me, did you happen to find a book yesterday? I'm afraid I left it here by mistake. " Your cordial voice betrays a note of alarmism as you speak to the young girl. Your hands grip the counter as if it were a rock of salvation, but your feet are ready to run elsewhere, to look somewhere else in case it isn't there.

"Oh ... no, I'm sorry, I haven't seen any books." Touka's voice is sorry, an apologetic tone hovers between her words.

"Oh, damn ... sorry, thanks anyway!" Your words are so hasty, so quick that he doesn't have time to interrupt them.

The bell rings and the door closes with a click.

"You have it, don't you?" Renji never misses anything - or almost -.

"Yeah, it’s better that I give it back to them before they run all over Tokyo on foot."

"How long have you been so thoughtful?"

Uta allows himself to take a last look at the silver-haired ghoul from over his sunglasses, as he prepares to leave the cafe: "I'm always thoughtful."

. . .

The snow has just started to fall. It is light and silent, the parks of the metropolis have not yet begun to turn white.

You would gladly stay and watch the show from the heat of your home, if it weren't for that damn book you forgot somewhere. Oh, you love your books, but they're so good at hiding. You were convinced you left it in the coffee shop!

"Excuse me…"

A cordial voice caresses your eardrums. It's so warm and peaceful, yet a chill shiver stops the blood in your veins.

Turning around, you meet a man dressed in black. He is strange, but it doesn't surprise you, there are a lot of strange people in such a big city, even people who wear sunglasses on a snowy day.

You had already seen him in the cafe, but you didn't dwell on him. Not because he doesn't get your attention, just… it was an instinct.

“I think you were looking for this. I found it yesterday by chance. "

Clear and tapered fingers hand you your much-desired book. On fair skin, intertwining dark patterns form inexplicable designs, at least for you, but you're sure they have a lot to say, don't they?

Slowly you reach out your hand, and hesitantly touch the cover, to resume what you were looking for.

The night of the accident did not disappear. You are scared. You are afraid of death, but even more of pain, of imprisonment. You are afraid of fear itself. However, you are also afraid of not living, of wasting, of losing.

You are in a limbo that does not let you escape, and you can not help but continue your life, savoring every second, waiting for the Bird of ill Omen to come and get you.

So you push back the mistrust again, and a grateful and kind smile goes to the one who helped you, without asking for explanations.

"Thank you very much." Your voice reaches his pierced ears with such unexpected sweetness.

"It was a pleasure." His smile, decorated with the piercing, is barely hinted at, but delicate - reassuring? -

And for endless moments you look at each other, in silence, without speaking and without thinking. And then, as if nothing had happened, the dances between prey and predator begin.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

. . .

Your eyes look at him shiny, frightened. You are still in a cage, imprisoned by a body that will soon be ready to consume you.

Uta wonders if you really never anticipated this. All the times you've crossed paths, have you really ever been in doubt? Every time you looked at him, every time you smiled at him or laughed at his words, did you never guess the truth? No, maybe you've always known it from the start, broken toys never work too well.

The mask of that evening, like a macabre mockery - both for him and for you - is leaning on the work table, not far from you, looking at you placidly. It’s a coincidence that he pulled it out just in the morning.

Suddenly the images of that day come back between you two, like a dream. The incomprehensible to you tattoo on his neck has a creepy look overwhelmed by the shadows that the soft lights create on the ghoul.

Fear invades you, like a script. Yet, while the Bird of ill Omen looms over you, trapping you in the corner of the room with his arms, your terror is different from what he had already seen in you. Today it is almost more visible, less controlled, as you tremble beneath him.

Maybe it's the surprise of being caught in a trap by someone who – perhaps- you had slowly begun to love – despite everything-, or maybe, simply, inside you a little hope still survives.

Uta's head bends, and the tip of his nose brushes your neck, smelling the coveted perfume that had so attracted him.

If you're so scared, how did you smile all that time? How did you keep going? How did you keep loving that world?

Beside his mask, as a warning of future torment, your dear book lies silent, ready to say goodbye. You lent it to him last time, he asked you for it.

Your smell is as strong, sweet, delicious as ever - so why is his stomach closing up? -

His jaws open, and as delicate as cruel they enclose your fragile neck. In them, the accelerated beats of your heart, still alive, make him tremble.

One bite and you will be nothing but dead flesh, and he hesitates.

He had to kill you before it was too late, right? Uta should know himself well enough, he had to understand right away what was happening inside him.

A sigh, and then his lips pull away, his saliva stops wetting you. He is not hungry, he has already eaten.

He is still upon you, but now he is only looking at you, with his eyes of blood and darkness. You, like a frightened puppy, remain shaking in a corner for a few moments, lost in his pupils. And then, like a crazy lightning bolt, you run away, as you have always run away. You slip under his arms, and as fast as you can you reach the door of the shop.

Uta watches you go, swallows bitter air, and then bows his head, surrendered.

What will happen now? Will you shut up in fear? Will you tell anyone? Only time will tell.

He slowly gets up, his hands caressing each other's tattooed arms, in a distracted gesture of protection, as he approaches the table. His fingers touch it, and then squeeze it, while he looks at the book that is left alone again, without your eyes on it.

And then, suddenly, as if he had woken up from a dream, he notices something: your smell has not vanished.

Turning his view, he sees you. You are still there, or maybe you are back there.

Now it is you who are on the side of the light, and he is in the corner of the cage. The Bird of ill Omen has become the broken toy, left alone among his masks.

"What's up?" No matter the crack inside, Uta always looks so mature, peaceful, even after he has threatened to kill you.

You take a step towards him, but your outstretched arm continues to secure yourself to the door jamb. If you left he wouldn't follow you, you know that right?

"I ... I think I'm crazy, Uta ..." You too realize how much your behavior is against logic, how foolish it is to remain - to search - in your nightmare. But on the other hand, humans ... no, people, when they are desperate, lose the light of reason, and do wrong things. Things the world says are wrong. That world, which claims to be the only one, when it is nothing more than a facade, a corner of something much larger.

"Yes, I think so too." He really thinks so. You have to be crazy to still be there, at least as crazy as he is. "Why are you still here?"

You shrug your shoulders, hugging yourself more out of shyness than out of fear - yeah, you're no longer afraid, it's as if you've run out of batteries.

"I ... as long as I'm alive I can choose, right?" It came out of your lips so naturally that you didn't even realize it was you who uttered that sentence, yet it's a truth so deep, so intense that it has guided you from that damn night to this day.

"And what are you choosing?"

Your eyes cast a fleeting glance outside, at the glimmer of the city, and without hesitation you gently accompany the door to close, imprisoning you. Imprisoning both of you.

Maybe it's a prison, but this time it's really your choice. You are with that Bird of ill Omen, but you are not tied up, you are not thrown to the ground in a cold corner. You are with him, surrounded by works of art that stare at you impassively, but it was you who decided it.

"I choose not to ignore anymore ..." Your fingers intertwine with each other, you play with them as if you need to keep them busy as you approach him. He is waiting for you. "I want to understand."

"How can you understand?" He would like to tell you, but he doesn't say a word, because not even he can understand you. What kind of mask would suit you? Who knows, yet he has learned enough about you that he should be able to think of at least one. But no, you are always there, hoping for something, believing that after all, living is worthwhile.

So he stays there, even when you lean against him. Not a contact, but a fusion. Stomach against stomach, lungs against lungs, heart against heart. Your hands cling to his arms only to hold him closer, and as he looks at your closed eyes he knows you're listening to him. You're trying to feel his every breath, every twitch of him. You want to get inside him, and he lets you do it - isn't that what he wanted too?

The predator and the prey united in a single entity for an eternal instant.

It's all so against the moral and social rules, but what do you care now? You already know he could kill you. And in that world that goes round and round without stopping, a black writing in an ancient language that also goes around a greedy neck could be your starting point for putting the pieces back together. Maybe it's a disease, maybe it's madness, but deep down, why not? Why not go a little further? Better to die than to be afraid to live, right?

"How much confidence ..."

His voice further softened by his whisper makes your previously closed eyelids lift. His nocturnal eyes look at you slightly narrowed, a slight upward crease caresses his lips without even knowing it. It is difficult for Uta to do something without being aware of it.

He is very beautiful. Beautiful and awful.

"Can't I?"

The world out there, the crazy little world is gone.

"Well, why not ... you are my food, after all."

#tokyo ghoul #uta tokyo ghoul #uta x human reader #uta x reader #tokyo ghoul uta #tokyo ghoul oneshot #tokyo ghoul fanfiction #tokyo ghoul x reader #reqest

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ladyfogg · 4 years ago

Text

Heal My Wounds - Part 1

Heal My Wounds - Part 1 of 3

Fic Summary: After you meet the infamous Kit Walker, you realize that he cannot possibly be guilty of everything they say he is. Determined to treat him with kindness and compassion, you end up falling hard for the handsome man with gorgeous dark eyes. But you both are playing a dangerous game and you must decide just how far you’re willing to go to save the man you love. Part 2. AHS Masterlist.

Fic Rating: 18+

Fic Song: War by Poets of the Fall

Pairing: Kit Walker/Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut, Slow Burn, tw: mental illness, tw: asylum setting, tw: violence

A/N: I ended up finishing this a lot quicker than I thought I was going to. Enjoy! For @tatestripedsweater and @kitwalker02.

You’ve seen many things during your time at Briarcliff. Being a nurse, you deal with truly awful alignments, either self-inflicted or acquired under “mysterious” circumstances. This usually means that a guard roughed the patient up or Dr. Arden can’t be bothered to treat them himself. You learn to expect the worst, not in the patient but in what they are afflicted with. In truth, your heart goes out to every one of them. Regardless of what sent them to Briarcliff, it is always your mission to treat them with the respect and dignity they deserve.

Which is why, when you hear that the infamous Bloody Face, aka Kit Walker, has been transferred to the asylum, you try not to be concerned. You knew all about Bloody Face and what he’s done and when they arrested Kit, you aren’t ashamed to admit that your first thought was, “Good riddance!” However, you force yourself to change your tune once you learn you’ll be treating him at some point. Plenty of dangerous people had come and gone through Briarcliff’s doors. You aren’t going to treat him any differently than you would the other patients.

No matter how dangerous he is.

It isn’t long before you find yourself face-to-face with him. He is there less than a day before he’s brought in to see you, his lip and his nose a bloody mess, the red a stark contrast to his pale skin. His appearance surprises you even though it shouldn’t. You read the papers; you’ve seen his face. Yet, in person, he’s so handsome it takes your breath away and you need a moment to compose yourself.

“What happened?” you ask Kit as the guard forces him to sit on the bed. He is bound with cuffs and chains, an overkill if you ever saw one.

“He got into a scrape with another inmate,” the guard says in a gruff voice. “Bloody Face here got the worst of it.”

“They’re called patients, not inmates,” you correct him with a glare. “And I wasn’t asking you, I was asking Mr. Walker. That is his name, that's what he will be called while he’s under my care.”

The guard, whose name you think is Hardy, looks taken aback by your words. He is a new one who hasn’t had to deal with you yet. While many of the female staff are nuns, you are not. You are there purely for medical purposes, not religious ones. Therefore, you have no reason to force politeness to the guards. After all, why should you? They never show you any. The sooner Hardy learns you will not tolerate his bullshit, the better.

You have been talked to by Sister Jude several times regarding your attitude but since you are appointed by the state, there is nothing more she can do. Eventually, the both of you came to a mutual understanding. In fact, you suspect she admires your non-nonsense attitude as it most often gets results. If there is a patient in your infirmary, you can call the shots. Of course, the male guards don’t like that, but they can get fucked.

When you turn back at Kit, he has a surprised look on his face.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you ask.

“Just my face,” he answers. “And my hands.”

You glance down and see his bruises and bloody knuckles. Clearly, he defended himself but given the fact that the other patient hasn’t been brought it, you assume Kit got the worst of it. You go about collecting what you need to disinfect his wounds.

To Hardy, you say, “Remove his chains.”

“No can do. Not for this one.”

“His knuckles are bleeding, and I need to examine his hands to make sure nothing is broken or fractured. Remove his chains.”

There is an intense stare-off between you and the guard before he relents and unbinds Kit. Once his restraints are gone, you wave Hardy off. “You may step outside.”

“Now hold on a minute! This man—”

“Has rights. He deserves the same privacy as every other patient. Besides, I won’t have you getting in my way while I patch him up. You can step outside and wait. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

Hardy snorts, annoyed and done with arguing. “Fine by me. Don’t complain if you get killed.”

“I won’t, considering if that happens, I won’t be able to. Or are you not aware how death works?”

With a sneer, he stalks away, and you heard him mutter, “Stupid bitch.” under his breath.

“Smart bitch actually,” you call after him. “And shut the door on your way out, please.” It slams behind him and you return your attention to your patient.

Kit looks at you with awe. “Forgive me for saying so, doc. But you’re one tough broad.”

You laugh, pulling a chair over so you can sit in front of Kit. “I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse. And you have to be though, especially in this place. The gentle don’t last long. Now, let’s take a look at those hands.”

Kit extends his hands, and you take them in your own, examining his wounded knuckles. After moving each finger and his wrists, you determine there was nothing broken or fractured so you set about cleaning the scrapes. Kit watches you the entire time. Even though you don’t look up from your work, you can feel his eyes on you.

“I think you’re the only person in this place who’s not afraid of me,” he says after a stretch of silence. “This is the first time I’ve been treated like a person since this whole thing started.”

“Should I be afraid of you, Mr. Walker?” you glance up and are immediately taken in by the soft expression on his face.

“Call me Kit,” he says. “And I never hurt anybody. All the things they say I did are lies. I have no idea what happened to those girls and I have no idea what happened to Alma other than they took her.”

You consider his words for a moment and pull away, letting his hands fall to his lap. The bloody towel you hold is tossed onto your tray of supplies before you sit back and cross your arms. “Alright then, Kit. Tell me why I should believe you.”

Kit doesn’t seem to know what to say at first. You’ve dealt with numerous patients who swear up and down they didn’t do what they were accused of. Most of them had. Because of that, you are pretty damn good at reading people because even the best liar has a tell. An eye twitch, a knee bounce, a lip bite…anything. You trained yourself to look for these things because, in your line of work, it means the difference between life or death.

The man in front of you doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything. More to the point, you don’t feel scared of him. You aren’t made of stone; you feel fear just like everyone else. You are simply better at masking it. However, that violent vibe you’ve learned to sense doesn’t radiate from Kit and as you look into his deep brown eyes, all you see is fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. They all pass one after another on a loop.

“I don’t have a reason,” Kit finally says after a long pause. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe me either. But you showed me kindness no one else has and I’m grateful. Really.”

“I think this place wouldn’t be half as bad as those colleagues of mine showed a little kindness too.” You go back to work, cleaning his hands. “This is going to sting a bit.”

Kit flinches as you pour alcohol over his cuts. Carefully, you clean them some more before you are sure they won’t get infected. Once that’s done, you wrap them in bandages.

“There, good as new. Just try to keep those bandages dry for a bit. You can take them off tomorrow to let the cuts breathe. Let me make sure your nose isn't broken.”

Kit remain still as you gently cup his face, turning his head left to right in order to take stock of his injuries. Being so close, you realize how handsome he truly is. That jawline is to die for, and his dark curls looks so soft, you want to run your fingers through them. Once that thought entered your brain, you scold yourself. He is your patient and is in the asylum to see if he is fit to stand trial for murder. Thinking about him in any way other than professional is a dangerous game. And very stupid.

“That bad huh?” Kit asks with a slight smirk.

It isn’t a malicious one by any means. In fact, it’s almost hesitant. Like he is afraid to be so comfortable joking with you. You don’t blame him considering what he has gone through. You offer him a smile in return.

“Just a split lip and it doesn’t look like your nose is broken. It’s not even swollen. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

You grab a fresh towel and dip it in warm water before gingerly cleaning the blood from his face. But before you can get far, Kit reaches up to stop you. Instinctively you freeze, worried that you may have hurt him. Maybe his nose is worse off than you originally thought?

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

Kit shakes his head. “No, I’m just…” He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say next. “I’m sorry but I just...why aren’t you scared of me?"

“You really want me to be, don’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not. I’m just…” He stops when he sees you holding back a smile. “You’re messing with me.”

You shrug and go back to your work. “A little,” you admit. “But to answer your question, I’m not scared of you because I believe you. I don’t think you killed or even hurt anyone. I just don’t sense that sort of evil in you. As for what you claim to have witnessed, that I don’t know about. But I do know crazy, Kit Walker. And you’re not it.”

It is like the remaining tension leaves his body and Kit slumps against you, a few tears running down his cheeks. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight hug, letting him rest his weary head on your shoulder. The warmth of him is invigorating and you savor the feeling. It’s been a long time since you’ve been touched in any way. Long work hours make your social life non-existent and you carefully keep your distance with your patients.

Except Kit, it seems. You don’t know why your well-constructed walls are crumbling under the weight of one interaction with one man.

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” he says, his voice muffled by your uniform. “No one will listen. No one believes…”

“I’m listening. But first, sit back before you get blood all over me.”

With a weak laugh, Kit pulls away. He wipes the tears with the back of his hand which you’re grateful for because you were about two seconds away from gently brushing them away. Pulling yourself together, you continue to clean his face while he tells you his story. It’s definitely strange. The idea of being abducted and probed was one you’d rather not think about.

But you don’t just listen to his words, you watch his expression, pay attention to the tone of his voice and his body language. Even though you’ve heard some of it through the papers, it’s different hearing it from him directly. Once he’s done, you’re even more certain he didn’t kill anyone. No one who talks about their missing wife that softly and heart felt could possibly be a vicious serial killer.

It’s his eyes that give him away. There’s so much emotion and depth, you can’t help but believe him. You wish you can explain it, but some things are beyond explanation.

“You sure I’m not crazy?” Kit asks when you don’t respond to him right away.

“After that story, you’re absolutely batshit.”

He chuckles when he realizes you aren’t serious. You pull your hand away, finally done getting rid of all the blood, but he stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist. “Thank you for listening. I could tell you weren’t judging when I spoke, and I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

“It’s not my place to judge. Only heal.” You sit back, breaking all contact with him, hoping it’ll clear your spinning head. “There. Now you’re just as handsome as you were before. Do me a favor and at least try not to get majorly hurt again for the rest of the day?”

“He started it.”

“Everyone always starts things here. And given your current situation, it’s best to keep your head down as much as possible.”

“What’s the point? They’ve already made up their minds about me being guilty,” Kit says bitterly as you roll your tray over to the sink. He sees a pack of cigarettes on your desk and nods towards them. “Mind if I have one?”

You wave for him to go ahead as you clean up. “I wish I had words of encouragement for you. I wish I could say it will all work out. But unless they catch the real Bloody Face, your choices are either here or the electric chair.”

Kit pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights the end. “I have to see the state-appointed shrink. My last hope is to convince some head doctor that I’m not crazy.”

Your heart goes out to him. His situation really is a double-edged sword. If he proves he isn’t crazy, then they are sure to send him to trial and his death. If he keeps spouting off about strangers abducting him and his wife, then they will keep him at Briarcliff. Either way, he loses. It isn’t fair.

“Stick to your story,” you tell him. “If it’s really the truth and that’s really what you know happened, then stick to it. I mean, it’ll probably get you confined here for life. But at least you’ll be alive.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

You don’t get to respond. The door bursts open and Sister Jude strolls in with Hardy right behind her. You wonder how long he waited outside before running to tattle on you.

“Why is this patient not restrained?” she asks in that stern voice of hers.

“I needed to clean his hands and couldn’t very well do that when they were bound,” you say. “He’s all set now.”

“In the future, I would appreciate it if you would leave the door open. No young woman should be alone with this one,” Sister Jude says, motioning to Kit. “Not until he’s been properly medicated.”

“He deserves just as much privacy as any of us do when being medically treated.”

“Not here. Not under my roof,” Sister Jude counters. “I like you, girl, but don’t push me on this. Kit Walker may have the looks of an angel but he’s far from it.”

“She didn’t do nothing wrong,” Kit says angrily.

Sister Jude motions for Hardy to grab Kit. Anger courses through your veins when you see how he is manhandled. “Hey, be careful! I don’t want to have to treat a dislocated shoulder,” you say.

Kit sends you a grateful smile which Sister Jude unfortunately notices. She steps up to him and in a low voice says, “Quit your leering! You don’t fool me, Kit Walker. You can keep spouting that innocent act all you’d like but I know there’s darkness in your soul.”

Kit’s body tenses and you see him clench his fists in anger. The nun yanks his cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on your desk.

What a bitch.

As he is led away, Kit dares to look back at you and you see the glimmer of another smile before he is gone. The empty room suddenly seems more so without him there. It’s strange how comfortable you feel around him, especially considering the circumstances. After cleaning up the remnants of his cigarette, you sit back at your desk. But focusing is not in the cards for you. The rest of the day, you find yourself constantly sidetracked by the handsome brown-haired man with the deep brown eyes. So much so that you get angry with yourself.

You are hardly ever swayed by just a pretty face. Then again, there’s more to Kit than that. Although, it certainly helps. The way he stood up for you even when he was in trouble spoke volumes about who he is a person. You don’t think there is a selfish bone in that man’s body.

The next day during meds, you don’t see him in the Day Room with the others. It suddenly occurs to you that after the fight the day before, he probably was thrown in solitary. You hate solitary being used for any of your patients but the thought of Kit in a small dark room, bound and alone makes your heart break in your chest. All you can do is hope he’ll be out of there soon.

At least three days pass before you see him again, mostly because you spend most of that time in the infirmary rather than in the common areas. It’s early morning and you are enjoying a rare moment of silence when the door opens, and Kit is led in. He’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead, which has already begun to bruise and swell.

“What happened?” you demand as you leap to your feet.

The guard, a brute named Dixon who you can’t stand, forces Kit onto one of the beds. “He slipped and fell.”

You doubt it. Your eyes slide over to look at Kit, who gives you a subtle shake of his head. “Oh really?” you ask Dixon, narrowing your eyes in distrust. “This seems like a pretty big bump just to happen from a slip.”

“Just treat him so I can get him back with the others,” Dixon orders.

“He hit his head. I’m going to have to keep him here for a few hours to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Fine.” Dixon shoves Kit until he was laying on the bed. When he reaches for the restraints, Kit fights back.

“No! Let me go!” Kit struggles against him.

“Those aren’t necessary,” you declare, crossing the room to try to stop Dixon.

But the guard isn’t having any of it. The next thing you know, he pushes you away, hard enough that you trip over your feet and fall right on your ass.

“You son of a bitch!” Kit exclaims. He leaps up and punches Dixon square in the jaw.

What happens next is a flurry of blows and swears as the men fight each other. Knowing this can only end poorly for Kit, you manage to get back up before prying the two apart. “Enough!” you snap. “No fighting in my infirmary!”

Dixon is practically snarling as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me, Bloody Face. If I had my way, you’d be in the furnace by now.”

Kit makes a move to go at him, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Mr. Walker, lay down so Dixon can bind you. If you don’t, I know the right injection that’ll make you so tired, you’ll wake up next week.”

Kit’s eyebrows knit together as he looks at you with concern. You throw him a subtle wink. Breathing heavily, he sits back on the bed and allows Dixon to restrain him. Even though it pains you to do so, you help to keep up appearances. But you don’t tighten them as much as you should. Kit’s jaw is clenched as he watches Dixon’s movements, as if he’s waiting for him to attack again.

Once Kit is secured, you reach into your pocket. Unbeknownst to the guards, you carry around a sharpened scalpel for your own protection and the second Dixon lets his guard down, you press it to his neck, making him halt his movements.

“Listen here, you sick fuck,” you growl. “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll shove this so far into your neck you’ll have to take your meals through a tube. Are we clear?”

Dixon sneers and takes a step back. “Whatever you say, woman. Call us when this psycho is ready to go back to his cell. And I’d be careful who you threaten. You wouldn’t want to end up like one of your patients, now would you?”

His threats send a chill down your spine, but you keep your hand steady, the scalpel still pointed at him as he backs away. It’s not until he’s out the door that you cross the room so you can lock it behind him.

“Are you alright?” Kit asks the moment it’s clear the two of you are alone.

You cross the room, pocketing the sharp instrument as you go. “I’m fine, Kit. Don’t worry about me.” As quick as you can, you undo his bindings. “Sorry about this. I fucking hate using bindings, but it was the only way to get Dixon to leave. He’s got a nasty streak in him; I’d stay clear if I were you. Are you okay? What happened to your head?”

“That asshole smashed my face into the wall,” he says as he sits up, rubbing his wrists. “He caught me wandering out of the Day Room.”

“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” you ask, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down?”

“I just needed some peace and quiet. On my own terms and not in a dark dirty cell. Besides, others wander. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because the others aren’t wanted for murder. They mean to make an example out of you, Kit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You sigh and head to the icebox in the corner of the room. As you put together an icepack for him, you say, “These guards will look for any excuse to get rough. And they especially have it out for you. You have to be careful.”

“I hate this. I hate all of it. I feel like I’m going crazy. My head is so cloudy, and I can barely feel anything.”

“Those are the meds. Meant to keep you docile.” You carry the ice pack over to him along with supplies to fix up his head wound. “And suppress other impulses.”

“It’s inhumane, that’s what it is.” Kit barely makes a face as you clean the cut and dress it. “How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even feel like me? I think I’m slipping, doc.”

“I told you, I’m not a doctor.”

“Well, what should I call you then? You never gave me your name.”

You tell him your name and press the icepack to the bump on his head, “Here, hold this. Your nose is bleeding…again.”

Kit does as he’s told. After a moment, he says your name. It’s soft and beautiful coming from his lips and you can barely focus long enough to hear his question. “Can I confess something to you?”

“I’m no priest or nun.” You start to dab at his nose with a damp towel.

“It’s not that kind of confession. I wasn’t just wandering for the sake of wandering. I was trying to come see you.”

You pause, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes flickering up to meet his. “Why?”

“I feel safe here.”

You go back to your work. “I’m glad you do, but I don’t want you to get yourself hurt just to see me.”

“I didn’t know that asshole was gonna beat the shit out of me just for wandering.”

“Say you have cramps.”

Kit raises his eyebrow. “What?”

“If you want to see me…I mean, come to the infirmary, tell a guard or one of my assistants that you have cramps or a stomachache. It’s something most people don’t question since stomach stuff is really common, ‘specially around here. It usually comes with vomiting or diarrhea and no one wants to deal with that.”

Kit smiles. “Good to know.”

You finish cleaning him up and add, “But don’t overuse the excuse. Otherwise, if something is really bothering you, they won’t listen.”

“Understood. Do you really think I have a concussion?”

“No. Your eyes are clear and you’re not slurring your words. I figured it would at least give you a little reprieve from everything out there.”

Kit’s smile widens. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Although, I will have to at least keep your feet bound. That way if the guard comes back, I can quickly bind your hands before they enter. The lock will only temporarily slow them down since they have keys.”

“Hey, if it means spending time here with you instead of out there with everyone else who thinks I’m a vicious murderer, I’ll take it.”

Once you have him settled in the bed, you give him a cigarette before going about your daily routine. It is nice having Kit there. Occasionally, you talk as he smokes, but for the most part, the both of you enjoy each other’s company. He asks you about yourself, minor things, nothing too personal or probing, which you appreciate. You feel like he’s also trying to keep some distance between you, understanding your position and what a friendship with him could mean.

A few hours later, when you hear footsteps coming your way, you quickly bind Kit’s hands.

It takes a second for the door to be unlocked but then it opens and Dixon enters just as you’re pretending to check Kit’s bandages. “Walker here needs to see the shrink,” he says gruffly, crossing the room towards you.

“I was just about to call you.” Your lie is so effortless it even impresses you. “He doesn’t have a concussion. You can take him.”

Dixon is rough as he unbinds Kit and yanks him off the bed. To his credit, Kit doesn’t fight back or resist, understanding the stupid rules he needs to follow if he’s going to get anywhere in this place. Once he’s gone, you start to wrap up for the day, finishing any last minute tasks before getting ready to go home. As you’re straightening up your desk, your eyes catch the medication logbook, and an idea strikes you.

Sitting down, you flip through the pages, taking a look at the medications that are prescribed to each patient. At the bottom of the list is Kit’s name and, with a quick flick of your pencil, you manage to subtly cut his doses in half. It’s not much. You wish you can outright stop giving him the meds but that’s impossible. Hopefully, this way he’ll start to feel like himself.

You expect to be worried or guilty for what you’ve done. But honestly, you don’t. It feels right. Far too many patients have lost themselves in Briarcliff and you’re determined not to let Kit be one of them.

---

Kit’s world is not even recognizable anymore. One day he’s home with his beautiful wife, the next, she’s gone, and the police are accusing him of murder. He sees those damn creatures every time he closes his eyes, hears that loud noise echoing in his ears. If it’s not that he’s hearing, it’s the screams of the other patients.

When he saw you for the first time, heard you snap at the guard for mistreating him, he thought he was still dreaming. You have to be a dream. Nothing that good or sweet can possibly exist in this place. The way you look at him makes him feel seen for the first time in months.

He can’t get you out of his mind. After that initial visit, all he could think about was your warm embrace and the concern in your eyes.

To have someone care enough to worry about him meant everything. Especially during such a dark time. Trying to sneak away to see you had been a stupid idea but one he thought was worth the risk. He needed to know if he would have the same feelings each time, the same security and comfort. Do you really believe him or are you just a great actress?

The second time, you’re just as kind and generous as the first, and Kit knows that he is in trouble. A different kind of trouble than he already is in. This one is emotionally based and has the potential to end very badly.

Kit knew himself well enough to recognize the signs that he is falling for someone. You have only known each other a short while but already he can’t get you out of his mind.

The day following his first appointment with Dr. Thredson, he sees you in the Day Room and has to stop himself from immediately going over. It’s clear you’re busy, making the rounds and checking in on the other patients. Kit watches from a distance, smoking a cigarette as he leans against the back wall. Your kindness extends to everyone you come in contact with. He watches with admiration as you sit patiently with Pepper, checking on the small scrapes and abrasions she has.

You smile and his breath gets caught in his throat. Fuck you’re gorgeous.

Curiously, Kit watches as you slip something into Pepper’s hands before moving on to someone else. It turns out to be a small chocolate, which Pepper immediately devours before going back to her book. Kit smiles.

You catch each other’s eyes across the room just then. It’s a charged moment, like nothing in the world matters but the two of you. He makes a move to walk towards you, unable to help himself anymore. But then meds are called, and the moment is lost. Kit stubs out his cigarette and gets behind Lana as everyone lines up for their medications.

“This is bullshit,” Lana mutters under her breath. “Not all of us need medication. I don’t like that they force it on us. Makes my head all foggy.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Kit asks, echoing your sentiment from the day before. “Keep us under control.”

“I have a point. One I’d like to shove right up their asses.”

Kit snorts at Lana’s blunt phrasing. At first, she had been weary of him but now the two have developed a mutual understanding. Neither one of them belongs there and it’s better to support each other than fight. The line moves and Kit watches you join your assistant to make the medication process go faster.

When it’s his turn, you hand him his cup and briefly, his hands touches yours. It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots through your fingertips and into his, coursing through his veins at such a speed it makes his head spin. On the outside however, he remains calm, bringing the cup up to his lips to knock back his meds. Except, he notices they look slightly different than the days before. His eyes briefly dart to yours and there’s a subtle change in your expression. Your eye closes just enough to seem like a wink without fully being one.

Kit downs the meds with less hesitation than before.

Sadly, he can’t talk to you after that. Once meds are distributed, you go back to the infirmary and he’s left alone once more. Briefly he considers faking a stomachache to see you again, but your warning is still ringing in his ears. The fact that you offered him the excuse was risky on your part. He doesn’t want to get you in trouble by overstaying his welcome in the infirmary. Even though he is curious about the medication change, he lets it go.

It’s not until he’s in his room that night that he realizes he’s feeling clear-headed. Usually, once lights out comes around, the meds have him so loopy he rolls over and goes to sleep. Or at least tries. This time, however, he feels more like himself. Of course, that also means he’s more aware of the dark and the loud screams, but once they subside, he’s left with silence and his own thoughts.

She must have lowered my meds or something. She’s fucking amazing.

Kit smiles, curling onto his side as he allows himself to think about you without worry or fear. Again and again your meetings replay in his mind and when he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the scent of your laundry detergent and perfume. The way your soft hands gently held his made him flex his fingers instinctively. Those lips of yours…he’d given anything to kiss them.

Kit’s eyes fly open when he feels his cock swell. It’s been so long since he’s felt any kind of sexual desire even before being medication. It’s a wonderful change of pace, however now he has a slight problem. Kit feels ashamed of himself for thinking of you sexually. All you’ve done is show him kindness and he’s thinking about doing all sorts of things to you. With a frustrated sigh, he rolls onto his stomach and tries to ignore it.

This turns out to be a bad idea. The pressure of his body against the hard mattress causes wonderful friction and Kit finds himself pressing his hips down for some semblance of relief.

Fuck it, he thinks, shoving his hand in his pants. I need this right now. I need her.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this himself. It takes a second to find the right angle and rhythm. He stays on his stomach, arching his back just enough to give his hand room as he jerks himself off. Burying his face in his pillow, he bites down to stifle his moans as he pictures you in your nurse’s uniform. The way it hugs your frame suddenly assaults his vision. When you had leaned over him to check his head, he had caught just the barest hint of cleavage. Then, he had purposefully closed his eyes to be respectful.

Now, it’s all he focuses on, thinking about how he’d love to run his tongue across your salty flesh while his hands cupped your tits. He’d bury his nose in your skin and inhale your scent before kissing and sucking every bit of you he could reach.

Would you moan his name? He bets you would, and he bets it would sound fucking fantastic.

Kit grips himself tighter, speeding up his movements as he keeps the fantasy going in his mind. Suddenly, the angle is too constricting, and he rolls onto his back, biting his bottom lip as he hand brings him closer to coming.

He pictures it being your hand. Pictures him laying in that hospital bed, you leaning over him and jerking him off as you watch his face. He thinks of you telling him to come for you and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he explodes, coming all over his own hand as he quietly moans your name.

Sweating and panting, Kit lays there in his bed, heart racing and head spinning. He uses his blanket to clean himself up, tossing it onto the floor before curling into a ball. He expects the shame or guilt to hit him any moment, but he can’t find it in himself to feel either. All he feels is aching in his heart for the real thing.

The next morning, when they open the cells, he remains in bed. Once he hears the guard come closer, Kit begins to moan in agony, clutching his stomach.

Thankfully, Hardy is the one who check on him. Ever since you told him off, he’s been mostly tolerable to Kit. At least to his face.

“What’s wrong?” the guard asks.

“My stomach,” Kit moans. “I think…I think I ate something bad.” When Hardy kicks Kit’s soiled blanket aside, he adds, “Wouldn’t touch that if I were you. I felt real sick last night.”

Hardy wrinkles his nose and gestures for Kit to get up. “Come on. I’m taking you to the nurse.”

Laying on the theatrics, Kit forces himself up, still hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

You’re sitting at your desk when he enters. The morning light is filtering in through the barred windows and it catches you ever so slightly. Enough to almost make Kit forget he’s supposed to be in great pain. When you see him, your face grows concerned.

“This one is moaning about a stomachache,” Hardy says. “Where do you want him?”

To his dismay, Kit notices you’re not alone today. There’s a patient asleep in one of the other beds. You’re out of your chair in a second, pressing one of those soft hands to his forehead.

“He’s burning up.” Your ability to lie so smoothly makes Kit admire you even more. “Here, let’s get him on this bed right here.”

Hardy and you help Kit onto one of the beds in the corner of the room, one that’s hidden behind a divider. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” you say, tucking Kit in. “It’s probably just food poisoning. I’ve told the cook a million times they need to store the food better.”

“Think he needs to be tied down?” Hardy asks.

“No, of course not. Have you ever dealt with a patient who’s tied down and soiling themselves? My job is hard enough as it is. I won’t be dealing with that today.”

Kit makes retching noises if for no other reason than to see Hardy grow pale and uncomfortable.

“Oh, you better go before he starts up,” you urge, shooing the guard away.

Kit keeps up the act until he hears the door close and you turn to him, giving him a wide smile. “Wow, bravo. Great work, Kit.”

He smiles, sitting up. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a shot as an actor when this is all over.”

You chuckle and glance over at your other patient to make sure he’s still sleeping before sitting on the chair by Kit’s bed. “How are you really feeling this morning?”

“Better, actually. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“Well…it did seem overkill to have you on such high doses of medication when you aren’t mentally unstable. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you off them completely.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Kit says, reaching out to lay his hand over yours. “If anything, I’m sorry for you having to take that risk. I don’t want you to get in trouble, or worse, because of me.”

You look down at his hand and he immediately draws it back, worrying he may have crossed a line. There’s something in your expression that puts him on edge. He can see that you’re struggling, which only makes him feel worse. He berates himself for foolishly giving into his desires. Already things are tough, and the future is scarily uncertain. He’s on the hook for murder for fuck’s sake.

Before Kit can continue the self-deprecating spiral, you surprise him by carefully getting out of your seat and sitting next to him on the bed.

“Kit…” you say. “This friendship between us…I don’t know if it can continue.”

Kit’s heart sinks and he looks away from you, his gaze now fixated on the floor. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “It’s not safe being near me in any way. Honestly, it was stupid of me to come here like that. As much as I like spending time with you, I never want to put you in a compromising position. I’ve seen these guards and I know how they treat women. You’re in just as much danger here as I am.”

Your hand takes his, and he snaps his head up to look at you.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say. For the first time since you met a few days ago, he hears the slightest crack in your voice. “I’m worried because, if we continue this friendship, I know that for me, one day, it might not be enough.”

His heart speeds up at your confession. Kit can’t believe his ears. The fact that you are feeling even the slightest bit of the attraction to him that he’s been feeling for you is enough to give him the sliver of hope that’s been severely lacking over the last few weeks.

Kit hesitantly links his fingers with yours, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. When he says your name, his throat is dry, and he has to clear it before he can go on. “I have no right liking you as much as I do. I don’t believe in God, but I can’t help but think that you’re my damn guardian angel. Because of you, I’m actually starting to think that maybe there’s a way out of this. Or at the very least, staying here won’t be so bad so long as you’re here.”

Your gaze softens and you look away, trying to hide the tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. With his free hand, Kit reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. He can’t stop himself from cupping your cheek, needing to feel the warmth and softness against his palm. You shut your eyes, leaning into his touch, a shaky exhale escaping through your parted lips.

Your lips.

Kit’s eyes can’t look anywhere else. They look so inviting. He bets they’re just as soft as the rest of you, maybe even more so. Without even stopping to think what he’s doing, he starts to lean in, so slowly that you don’t seem to notice until you open your eyes to meet his. You pull your head back. Not abruptly or angrily, but enough where he gets the message to stop. Kit sighs with disappointment at the refusal. But a second later, you’re leaning in this time, at the same achingly slow pace he had been before.

Your lips brush and there’s a heated charge that soars between you, making you pause before you even properly get a kiss. Your eyes are wide as they meet his, searching for the same thing he’s looking for in yours: permission, acceptance, desire.

Kit closes the distance.

With one hand still cradling your face, he kisses you deeply, drawing your body as close to his as he dares. He feels you melt under his touch and it urges him to keep going, to keep kissing you, to deepen the kiss so he can savor the intense waves of desire washing over him.

You let him, opening your mouth so that his tongue can glide along yours.

It all becomes too intense for the both of you and you have to break the kiss, panting as your foreheads rest against one another’s.

“This is such a bad idea,” you say, the breathlessness of your voice making Kit’s cock twitch. “We have to be smart and we have to be careful. If we really can’t stay apart, then you have to listen to what I say and follow my instructions. Okay?”

“I can do that,” Kit says. He’d honestly agree to anything you say at that point. “Trust me, baby. I know the stakes.”

“Me too.” You take a deep breath and pull away, breaking all contact with him. It immediately leaves him cold and wanting more. “My assistants will be coming to collect the meds any moment. I need to go prepare.”

You reach out to cup his cheek and Kit holds your wrist, keeping your hand there for another moment so he could savor the contact. The way your eyes soften at him only makes him want to kiss you again. Instead, he settles for a peck on your palm before letting you fully pull away.

As you stand and collect yourself, you take a step towards the divider before you pause and look back at him. “No one can know, Kit. Not if you want to stay under my care. If anyone finds out there’s something between us, they’ll transfer me somewhere else and I won’t be able to protect you.”

The fact that you’re scared for him in this scenario and not yourself makes Kit want to throw you on the bed and ravish you. “I promise, I will find a way to clear my name,” he says. “Then once I’m out of here, I’ll take you away. Far away where this place can’t reach us.”

You smile and reach out to stroke his cheek again. “Easy there, Mr. Walker,” you tease, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb. “Keep talking like that and I may think you’re already falling for me.”

He watches you walk away, only one thought on his mind. Too late for that.

#kit walker #evan peters #ahs asylum #kit walker x reader #kit walker x you

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moonyswolfie · 4 years ago

Text

Seer

Remus Lupin x Potter!reader

Warnings: panic attack, angst, mentions of death

“Harry, mama loves you. Dada loves you.”

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off-“

“Sirius Black was – and remains to this day – Harry Potter’s godfather!”

“Not only did Black lead You-Know-Who to the Potters that night, but he also killed one of their friends, Peter Pettigrew.”

“The ones that love us never really leave us.”

“I can’t leave him!”

“Stay close to me.

Always.”

“The boy must die.”

“I don’t want your help!”

“I’m sorry, I never wanted any of you to die for me.”

“Nice one, James!”

“Avada Kedavra!”

The images were changing fast, too fast for you to piece them all together. You woke up with a scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, but you couldn’t open your eyes. You tried catching your breath, yet no intake of air seemed to be enough. When you opened your eyes, four boys were watching you with very worried expressions.

“Love, what’s wrong, what did you see?” Sirius asked, grabbing your hand gently and moving his thumb in small, soothing circles on the back of it. You couldn’t answer it though, as you were in the middle of a panic attack.

You felt Remus’ arm wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to him in an attempt to calm you. You buried your head in the crook of his neck while squeezing Sirius’ hand , trying to regulate your breathing enough to reassure your friends. You couldn’t, after all, tell them what you’ve seen. It was against the law and they knew it.

“N-nothing. I just- I’m sorry I woke you guys. Just a bad dream, s’all.” you said, voice still shaky from the visions.

“That was more than a bad dream, Y/N! You saw something, how bad was it?” James asked, losing his patience. He was worried, they all were.

You turned towards your twin brother, but you couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Deadly” you whispered.

You started having visions before you came to Hogwarts, and not all of them were bad. Back then you’d have very few and far away, but as you grew older, they came more often. You’d have them at all times of day, but most of them during the night, usually waking you (and your roommates) up.

Since you started dating Remus, you spent more nights in the boys’ dormitory and while they assured you that they weren’t bothered by you, just crazy worried, you still felt bad when you woke them in the middle of the night. Like now.

James sighed and raised from his kneeling position on the floor, kissing your forehead and going back to his bed, Sirius following quickly after he kissed the top of your head. You smiled at the gestures, they were the best brothers you could ever ask for.

The last to rise from the foot of the bed was Peter, who gave you a small smile that you didn’t return. You couldn’t, not after everything you’ve seen tonight.

It pained you, to keep quiet all these years, but you knew that sharing this knowledge would only make things worse. It was a warning that both Dumbledore and McGonagall gave you that night, when you slipped out of the boys’ dormitory and went to seek their wisdom.

“Miss Potter, what are you doing out of bed at this time of night?” McGonagall asked, rather surprised to find you knocking on her office door.

She took in your current state, the tears now dried on your cheeks, the hand you were constantly dragging through your hair and your eyes, showing your conflicted mind.

“I need your advice, Professor.” you never came to her before regarding your visions, despite her constantly assuring you that her door was always open. “I saw something, tonight, and I…I don’t know what to do. I know I can’t tell them, but how could I let it happen?”

You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head as if trying to get rid of the images that were plaguing your mind. McGonagall raised from her seat behind her desk and approached you, placing a hand gently on your shoulder.

“Come, dear, I believe this is a conversation that Professor Dumbledore should be a part of.”

You nodded and walked slowly towards the Headmaster’s office.

Yet watching it all unfold now, you couldn’t sit and do nothing.

“James, a word?” Sirius asked, dragging your brother out of the room.

You closed your eyes and took in a long breath of air, exhaling softly a moment later. You couldn’t. you shouldn’t. And yet…

You sprinted down the hall and pushed open the door of the small bedroom, interrupting James and Sirius mid-conversation. They both looked at you, confused expressions gracing their features.

“Don’t. Please, don’t make Peter the secret keeper.” you uttered between gulps of air.

James’ expression turned from confused to surprised, then slightly annoyed.

“Look, Y/N, I don’t know how you found out about this, but the decision has been made. I know you don’t like Wormtail all that much, but he is our friend.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, James! He isn’t your friend and he cannot be trusted!” you yelled.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sirius inquired.

“I...I can’t talk about it, you just have to trust me on this, please.” you tried again, to which your brother only rolled his eyes.

“It’s safer that way, Y/N. Voldemort expects us to make Sirius the secret keeper, which will cause the best distraction. He’ll never know who the real secret keeper is. It’s a sound plan, sister.”

“Then make me the secret keeper. Keep up your charade, tell everyone what you will, but choose me. You know I can be trusted.” you begged.

“No, we can’t risk your life like that.” Sirius said and his tone suggested the decision was final.

You had only one option left, consequences be damned.

“I had a vision, James. I saw it happening, I saw you dead, that’s how I know about your stupid plan.” you said, looking him straight in the eye.

James sighed and that’s when you knew. He didn’t believe you.

“Visions can change, you said so yourself.”

“Yes, if the person in cause changes their mind!” you retorted.

“Y/N, Sirius and I have a lot to discuss. Leave us, please.”

You left the room and closed the door behind you, almost knocking into your boyfriend on your way back to the living room. He took your hand and led you to the chamber the two of you shared.

“I take it he didn’t listen?” Remus asked, pulling you to his chest when he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks.

You shook your head and held onto him tight.

“Tell me what you saw, darling.” he whispered, kissing the crown of your head.

And you did. Remus listened to your every word and tried his best to fight back his tears when you told him of your friends’ deaths.

“He doesn’t believe me, Remus. He thinks the visions change all the time but they don’t.”

“I’ll talk to him later, try to convince him to change his mind.”

You nodded, but you knew he won’t succeed. Once your brother made up his mind, there was no changing it.

You nearly fainted when you heard the news. Dumbledore had sent an owl to yours and Remus’ house, bearing the news.

They survived. James, Lily and Harry, they were all alive and well.

James trusted you. He believed you. You didn’t know how Remus convinced him, but what you knew was that your brother was alive, that he and Lily would get to raise their beautiful son together and that Harry will grow up surrounded by love.

You were clutching the letter to your chest, stained with tears of relief, while your other hand was making soothing circles over your baby bump, when your husband joined you on the living room couch.

“My love, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” Remus asked, worry written all over his face. As your due date was nearing, the baby grew more restless, which worried him immensely.

“No, the baby’s fine, my dear. Here, Dumbledore sent news.” you handed him the letter.

You saw the relief taking over his handsome features as he read, and let out a small laugh. Then, he seemed to remember something.

“But what about the vision?”

“They can change only if the person changes their mind. I don’t know how you convinced James to reconsider, but thank you, Remus.”

“I didn’t, Y/N. He told me there was no going back when I spoke to him, that it was all done.”

A screech broke the sudden silence, as an owl entered through the kitchen window and delivered a letter into your lap. You opened up the envelope, smiling at the sight of James’ messy handwriting.

I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark, sister,

but I had too much to lose to risk sharing my plan.

I’ve always believed in you, my favourite fortune teller.

Your loving brother, James

You smiled at the nickname he used to call you when you were kids and your visions were still so new. It always bothered you back then, but you were happier than ever reading it now.

“I say we should pay them a visit soon, what do you think?” Remus asked, having read the small note over your shoulder.

“It’s settled then.” you agreed, leaning into him and placing a kiss to his lips.

#harry potter #fanfic #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #potter!reader #marauders #marauders era #marauders x reader #sirius black #james potter #remus x reader #angst #fluff

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hopetofantasy · 4 years ago

Text

Translated interview with Willem De Schryver

Also on my website: Behind wtFOCK - link in comments

The young stars of Streamz series 'Déjà-vu': 'You learn more on the internet than at school'

‘Déjà-vu’ is the name of the latest Flemish fiction series that’s rolling off the production line of ‘Streamz’. In addition to the traditional list of actors' names, Xenia Borremans (21) and Willem De Schryver (19) are featured as fresh blood in the credits. Two newcomers who shamelessly rival the established values.

Calling Willem De Schryver a newcomer is really failing the truth. He has more than 50,000 followers on Instagram and cannot cross the Ghent Korenmarkt without posing for a selfie. It’s the fault of ‘wtFOCK’, a youth series that mainly takes place online and is extremely popular with all those who saw the light of day after 2000. The chance that you’ve seen Xenia Borremans in action, is much smaller. Her only claim to fame for time being, is the horror short ‘De vijver’. And ofcourse, there’s her family name. Xenia is the only daughter of artist Michaël Borremans, but really wants to make a name for herself now.

How did you get into acting? Borremans: “Ever since I was a child, I wanted to act. There are piles of videos at home in which I try to recreate scenes from old films like ‘Some Like it Hot’. I also acted for ten years at ‘Kopergietery’ (children's theater company in Ghent). Acting was a dream, but I didn't dare to hope for that too much. There was always that little voice in the back of my mind that said, "You don’t only need talent but a lot of luck to make it." That was evident when I started to participate in castings. I often cried when I didn’t get a role.

I didn't dare to hope too much for ‘Déjà-vu’ either. Actually, I had no intention of auditioning at all. For fear of being rejected again. In the end, it’s my mom who pushed me to try. When they called me to say I had the part, it came as a complete surprise.”

De Schryver: “I can recognize myself in that story. I too was always performing plays at home. I did ‘Diction’ on Wednesday afternoons, but that wasn’t more than a hobby. When I no longer felt at home at school in secondary school, I took the step to go to the ‘Lemmensinstuut’ in Leuven. That was a revelation. Suddenly, I was allowed to be involved in theater day in, day out. I was happy to get up in the morning, when before, I often came home crying because I really didn't want to go to school anymore. It was obvious that after secondary school I would take the step to theater education at the ‘KASK’.” Borremans: “I also took the entrance exam at the ‘KASK’, but I wasn’t admitted. Maybe I'll try again next year. But maybe not. I’m not convinced that such an education is necessary. There are plenty of examples of actors and actresses who also made it without a diploma.” De Schryver: “In the classes I’m taking now, there isn’t only attention for acting, but also for making plays. I get building blocks to get started in the future. But, just like Xenia, I’m convinced that it can also be done without it.”

In ‘Déjà-vu’ you play the ideal son and the rebellious adolescent daughter, respectively. How deep did you have to dig for that role? De Schryver: “The role of Max is pretty close to my own personality, so that wasn’t too bad. I only had to practice playing hockey. (laughs) Although as far as I’m concerned, a role does not necessarily have to be written for me. For example, in ‘wtFOCK’ I play a bipolar, gay boy. That’s difficult and I had to do a lot of research for it. But when - like recently - you’re approached on the street by a boy who tells me that through my role he had learned to live with his own bipolarity, then the satisfaction is all the greater. ” Borremans: “I recognized myself super hard in Louise's character. I have done quite a lot of rebellion in my puberty years and just like Louise - who has a mother who makes a living as a radio host - I can be bothered too by the fact that one of my parents is famous.”

In what sense? Borremans: “I’m very proud of my dad, that's not the point. We have a very good relationship. He's my best friend. For real. But my family name isn’t always a gift. Many times in the past people have tried to contact me with the sole intention of getting closer to him. Even people I thought were friends, turned out to be solely interested in me because they were fans of my father's work. I also noticed that some teachers marked my grades more strictly just because I was ‘the daughter of’.” Did that influence you to choose acting and not, for example, drawing? Borremans: “I did drawing. In ‘Sint-Lucas’, just like my father. He did push me a bit in that direction. But I stopped when all the lessons suddenly had to be online due to corona. Dad thinks it's important to get a diploma. I attach less importance to that. I prefer to figure things out on my own. If you have the discipline to do self-study, then that’s in my opinion as valuable as any education. I’ve already learned a lot more on the internet than in school. My mom is part of that story, daddy still has some work to do in that aspect.”

You both had a supporting role on the set of ‘Déjà-vu’. How much pressure did it cause? De Schryver: “I did lie awake at night. Although it had a lot to do with the beginning of the shooting period, when I overslept. I cried when I arrived on the set. Such a gigantic production and it gets delayed, because a rookie like me, is late. In the end we hardly lost any time, but the nights after, I was wide awake in my bed waiting for the alarm to go off.” Borremans: “Willem arrived on the set, crying, but was professional enough to put himself in the shoes of Max a few minutes later. Pretty impressive.” De Schryver: “There really was no time to lose. The makeup artist just had about enough time to get rid of my red eyes, but that was it.” Borremans: “I’ve experienced something similar. During the shooting period, I met with a friend who turned out to have corona. Panic, of course. In the end, the shooting stopped for a week as a precaution. There were some tears then. You have a first major role and then something like that happens. Fortunately, it was handled very well on the set. Everyone came to tell me that it could’ve happened to them too.”

The corona crisis has been defining our lives for over a year now. How do you deal with this? De Schryver: “The first weeks, I didn't mind the lockdown. It gave me a chance to catch my breath. By the way, I still don't miss going out that much. Although that also has to do with ‘wtFOCK’. That show has a very fanatic fan base. And you notice. In any case, going out to a bar with friends was no longer possible without being approached or posing for selfies. When people have been drinking, a number of inhibitions also disappear. As soon as they recognize you, they’ll immediately hang onto you. It made me prefer to stay in the room even before the lockdown.” Borremans: “I’m now 21 years old. This may sound strange, but I’m kinda done with nightlife. Of course, I also want to be able to go out again and see people, but I notice that it’s more difficult for those who are younger. I get bored sometimes. But that also has its positive sides. It makes you do creative things. For example, I started to design and make clothes. Without the lockdown, that would’ve never occurred to me. I never read books either, now I do. Although, I would like for it to gradually return to normal. " De Schryver: “I mainly suffer from touch starvation. Actually hug people. I really miss that. But just like Xenia, I also think this is an interesting period. It makes you think. About yourself, about where you want to go in life.”

The Covid crisis also makes painfully clear how vulnerable creative professions are. Did that change your plans for the future? Borremans: “I was already looking for a plan B before this whole situation. Acting is and remains the big dream. But there are no guarantees. I’ll continue to go for it anyway, but I realize that I cannot assume that I’ll succeed in making acting my livelihood.” De Schryver: “We shouldn't be shy about that: the acting world is a tough world with a lot of competition. It’ll not be easy to make it and I know that there are still difficult moments to come. But I do not intend to suddenly follow other classes just to have something as a back-up. The corona crisis has made me realize even more how important acting is to me. I could never completely push it aside. This’s what I was made for. I just feel that.” Déjà-vu can be seen on Streamz. The series will be released on Play4 later this year.

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