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hollandsmushroom · 4 years ago

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Broken Rules and Ruined Lace

Pairing:Tom Holland x Reader AU:No Word Count:3,134 A/n:Um, this is just pure filth pretty much, its slightly edited so I hope it is good but I am not sure…I think everything I write is shit so um, feedback is greatly appreciated. Warnings: Smut Masturbation, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Slight Degradation, Cum Play, Cum, Dom!Tom, Smut, Oral(F receiving), unprotected sex, orgasm control, orgasm denial, spanking(one mention). I think that is everything if not I am sorry.

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It’s not that you wanted to break Tom’s rule, you didn’t want to be his brat, you really wanted to be his good girl. But as soon as you woke up you knew that you were fighting a losing battle and all you could do was try and hold off the inevitable.

You remember when Tom set the rule, both of you laying in bed, your had rested on his sweaty chest as you stared up at his flushed face, entranced by the movement of his lips, they were still wet with your arousal and his spit, the slickness catching the minimal rays of light in the shadowed room causing the thing yet plump flesh to glisten, distracting you from his words.

“Y/n?” he gave your head a light tug, forcing your eyes to meet his “Are ya listening to me?” His accent was thick and words were stern.

“No, sorry”

“I was saying you can’t touch yourself without permission” he growled, mashing his mouth to yours teeth hitting each other with the pressure of the open mouthed kiss. “So no more of what you did today, you hear me?” he asked, breathing heavily from the intensity of the kiss, his eyes looking deep into yours searching for recognition, you gave it to him in the form of a nod and a quiet “Yes, Tommy” before curling even further into him.

As you recalled what that night you knew you should be focusing on the assertiveness he used when speaking to you but all you could think about was how his lips felt on yours. On days like these his words never left your mind, but today you were more focused on remembering your cum on his lips. You knew that you needed permission but you didn’t want to bother with asking him if you could get off without him. Deep down you knew the excuse of not wanting to bother him was simply that, an excuse because you knew what his answer would be and it would be so much easier to disobey if he didn’t know that you had been thinking about it already, if he didn’t know to check if you had broken, if he didn’t remind you of the consequences.

When you had woken up Tom was already gone, you knew that he had press for Spider-Man No Way Home which was premiering tonight, your cunt on the other hand, had a mind of its own. As soon as you had fully awoken you felt a heat in your core, a fire that was waiting to be stoked, one that the clenching of your thighs in an attempt to alleviate the desire only worsened. A small whimper passing your lips as your thighs pressed your labia together, applying pressure to your swollen clit. You tried to ignore it, hauling your ass out of bed and to the kitchen, fixing yourself a nice cup of tea, sipping slowly as you tried to focus on anything else. The burn of the hot liquid on your tongue or how the marble counter was digging into your lower back, even Tessa’s cold nose nuzzling your calf, but nothing was working.

Deciding to put off making a choice until after breakfast, you fixed yourself something to eat. Focusing on the food in front of you as you did your best not to burn anything. Your brain was a debate, divided and arguing over the pros and cons. The pros were simply that you would get off, that the burning itch of ecstasy would go away, the cons well out weighed them, Tom’s punishment should have been threat enough but the state you were in was something past rationality. You surprised yourself by your decision that you were gonna do it. Eyes looking at the clock on the oven, the digital flash of numbers alerting you that Tom would be home in a couple hours, enough time for you to have your fun and not get caught.

You felt a little bad about disobeying Tom, but as soon as your hypersensitive skin met your sheets, and the pads of your fingers touched your clit, all guilt evaporated from you. Your mind was on him the whole time, how his fingers felt in you and on you. Pinching your nipples between your thumb and pointer finger, rolling the nub gently as you rubbed your clit furiously. Your body had been ready to go since you woke up, your orgasm building mere minutes after you began, your fingers covered in your slickness, you wished they could be cleaned by Tom’s tongue. You wanted it to be his fingers or better yet his cock that grazed over your g-spot making you dive into the pool of ecstasy that overflowed in your lower belly. You came down from your high, eyes falling upon the large blotch of liquid that squirted from your core, tainting your pure grey sheets, you assured yourself that it would dry before Tom got home not finding it in you to change the bed sheets.

You felt much more calm, your body feeling less like it was vibrating in a high speed desire ridden anxiety, it felt like you could breath and like you weren’t about to explode. You looked at the clock, knowing that you needed to get ready and you still had just over enough time to get yourself to the state that was presentable to the world. Making your way to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping in, scrubbing your hands clean, trying to rid them of your strong scent.

Tom came home from the press junket an hour later, already ready for the event, having had to be all put together since this morning for press. You heard him, his footsteps sounding on the hardwood floor followed loudly by Tessa’s claws clicking as she ran up to him, his voice was tired and beautiful, sounding like home and calling to you.

“Love, you here?”

“Up here Tommy” you shouted in response, continuing to apply your final bits of makeup to be prepared for the evening, specifically the red carpet. Tom followed the sweet notes of your voice, wanting nothing more than to hold you in his arms, to ground himself from all the insanity that was the countless interviews. Tom found his plans changing when he saw something on the covers of your shared bed, his eyes catching on some patches of dampness on the grey duvet cover, they were mostly dry but still altering the color of the sheet a shade darker than it would normally be. His eyebrows raised up his forehead he went to check it was, making sure that Tessa hadn’t peed on the bed again. As soon as got near the spots a familiar scent hit him, arguably his favorite smell, one that almost always made his cock harden, the only exception being when he was already fucked out. It was the smell of your arousal, your cum to be more specific.

He was confused, you hadn’t had sex in a couple of days so why would your cum be on the sheets, unless you broke his rule. He felt a fury boil inside of him, mindlessly drawing him to where you stood in front of the mirror preparing yourself for the premier of his movie tonight.

“Hi Tommy!” you spoke excitedly as you could, your focus on the spooly in your hand applying mascara to your lashes. Without a word his hand wrapped around your wrist pulling your dominant hand to his face.

“Tom what the fuck” you exclaimed, angry that he had interupted you and almost ruined your face of make up but that anger melted quickly, realizing what he was doing as he unfurled your pointer and middle finger from around the mascara wand, bringing them to his nose as he glared at you.

The scent was faint on his nose, not as noticeable as it had been on the bed sheets but yet it was still present, hidden under multiple bouts of hand washing trying to rinse your disobedience down the drain with your lavender scented hand soap but clearly you hadn’t be thorough enough, the faintest hint still present.

“Tom, I-”

“No talking” he bit at you, your mouth shutting immediately as you nodded at his words. He pushed his body against yours, the imprint of his dick showing through his trousers before it pressed against you. His lips burn the skin on your neck before scratching his teeth over the juncture of your shoulder and your collar bone, biting down hard, making you hiss at the pain. “You broke the rule, I should have expected that you being the little fucking brat that you are” he chastized, his fingers bunching up the edges of your dress, hiking it up until the ruffled silk sat above the round of yoru ass, you barely clothed core visible to Tom’s hungry eyes as he knelt infront of you, fingers slipping inbetween your thighs and forcing them apart, a wave of yoru arousal hitting his nose. “You smell so sweet, I would love to devour your pretty little cunt but that’s only for good girls’’ he leans in and bites your mons, the lace barely protecting you from the blunt of his teeth.

The lace scrunched up beneath his teeth as he tugged it farther from your burning skin, pulling them downwards as he exposed your core, mouth watering as he saw your wetness connect to the crotch of your panties to your cunt. He had to remind himself that he couldn’t that you didn’t deserve it, that he was angry with you, but god did you look fucking delicious.

“Im gonna fuck you so hard, your legs are gonna shake the whole way down the red carpet, you’re gonna need me there to hold you up, even though you don’t need me cause you got off on your own” Tom spat, undoing his belt buckle.

“I do need you” you whimpered, the cold on your core nearing pain, all the blood rushing between your thighs increasing your sensitivity, the contrast of the chilled atmosphere on your burning skin already too much for you to handle.

“What did I say about talking, pretty girl” his often soothing voice coming out as a snarl. Taking the base of his cock he ran his tip through your folds, coming downwards over your clit before stopping at your entrance, thrusting into you without any warning, fully entering you with the first thrust. Tom watched as you bit your lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood.

“Good girl, stay quiet” he ordered as he started to thrust, the impetus of his hips making his balls slap against your taint, a jolt rolling up your spine as you felt every inch of him pulsing inside of you.

You wanted to scream, to whine, to moan, but all you could do was bite your lip as the pleasure started to overtake your body, every inch of your body being set aflame as Tom continued his thrusts. Tears were pricking your eyes as his hand gripped into your yielding and supple flesh, you felt your orgasm building, and you knew that Tom was too, his tip twitching against your walls, but just as you were about to unravel he pulled out, grabbing his cock and sliding his hand up and down it, thick white spools of cum shooting out, and landing on your panties, tainting the french lingerie that Tom had bought you on a romantic get away not long before. You were less worried about the lace, more about the intensified burning between your thighs that you now knew wasn’t being satisfied or eased anytime soon.

“It’s time to go,” Tom informed, pulling back from you leaving you standing there, your face portraying nothing but shock, eyes flitting between the cum that tainted your red lace panties and Tom’s smirking face. He tugged your panties back up your legs, soothing the lace over your core and spreading the cum across your folds before planting a kiss on your lips. “Come on” he tugged your wrist and led you down stairs to head to the event.

At the red carpet you felt his cum cooling on your folds and slipping between them, spreading around with every single step you took, you felt it seeping through your lace, smearing on your thighs and making them sticky. It was all you could think about the whole evening, how it continued to spread and absorb into your soft skin, it felt too much, and he wasn’t even touching you. Tom could tell how much it was affecting you, occasionally rubbing his hand up your thigh and gathering a little on his fingers, sneakily placing them in his mouth and sucking them clean. When you arrived home, you were a mess, your thighs sticking with his cum but slipping with your own arousal. It was enough to make you cum just thinking about it, and you were pretty sure you could if given the chance, but you weren’t. As soon as you reached the solace of your bedroom Tom spoke up, really the first time since before the event.

“Let’s get ready for bed” he suggested, causing a frown to overtake your face, but not wanting to make things worse you gave a curt nod and headed to the bathroom, grabbing one of Tom’s shirts on the way in there. You stripped yourself of your constraining dress, slipping on the loose fabric, and involuntary sigh escaping your lips at the feeling of freedom. You had already finished your nightly routine when Tom came in, you were right about to sit down and clean yourself up when he caught you by the waist.

“Nuh uh, don’t clean yourself up yet” he whispered, breath hot on your neck making goosebumps spread wherever his breath touched. “Go lay on the bed and wait for me” he ordered, placing a soft kiss beneath your ear. Spinning you in the direction of the door, and laying a slap on your ass, watching it jiggle as you walked away.

You laid down on the bed, you were stuck on thinking about what was about to happen, having been nearly positive that you already got your punishment for your disobedience. Tom sensed your confusion as soon as he walked into the room, standing at the end of the bed for a moment, watching you as you watched him, his eyes eager as they caught your pussy peeking out from beneath the hem of your shirt.

“I’m gonna make you cum with my tongue” was all he said before he was on you kissing his way down your body, lifting up the oversized shirt that now covered your body, nothing underneath it. The soft cotton bunching up much like your dress had earlier in the evening.

“Look at this cunt, so fucking gorgeous” Tom groaned, looking at how his cum still covered the lips of your pussy. “I love seeing my cum on you” his tongue flicked out and licked some of the arousal that was leaking from your entrance, the mixture of his spunk and your slick delicious on his taste buds.

“Tommy I want you in me” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

“Nuh uh baby girl, I’m letting you cum on my tongue, you don’t get to be greedy, “ he growled, softly sinking his teeth into your clit. “You can moan, you can touch me, but you will only cum when I tell you too” you nodded your head eagerly, at the point where you would have agreed to anything just to have him touch you properly. He said nothing else, no words, no noise, simply licking over the closed lips of your pussy, enjoying the taste, if he hadn’t drained his cock earlier he knew that he would have been hard, and he was actually happy he wasn’t, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hold out from fucking you to completion if he was.

“Taste so fucking good, baby” he slipped his tongue between your lips, licking over the folds and vallies that lined the inside of your vulva.

“Tom T-t-Tom you feel so- fuck good” you moaned, threading yoru fingers in his hair as you tried to pull him closer to you trying to smear your cunt across his face, but he fought back, he was gonna make you cum, but in his own time. Finally after multiple minutes of kitten licks and light kisses between your folds he fully delved into your cunt. Licking a heated spitty stripe from entrance to clit. He pulled back and spat on your clit, rubbing his nose against it as his tongue slipped into your cunt, licking the inside of nudging that one spot deep inside of you as his nose bumped into your clit. He continued this action over and over again, the thrust of his tongue increasing the pressure on your clit.

“Tommy, I-I-I’m gonna cum” you whimpered, your legs trying to clamp around his head but his hands held them in place.

“Cum on baby, cum on my face” he spoke into your cunt as he sped up his movements, letting pushing you over the edge, and you fell, your back arching off the sheets as your body tensed, toes curling into the duvet as your breath was pulled from you lips, a silent scream on your mouth. He held you through your orgasm, only tearing away from your pussy when he was sure he had milked you of everything that you had. Licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he watched you, your eyes were clenched shut as you tried to catch your breath. Your high, leaving you so blissed out that you didn’t realize Tom had left and come back until a cool wet towel soothed your burning core, a sigh escaping your lips.

Throwing the towel into the hamper he crawled into bed next to you, pulling you into him. His touch still burned your skin, the need to unravel around him still not having been satiated. He seemed to sense your tension, rubbing his hand down your back and breaking the thick silence in the air.

“You’ll get what you want tomorrow morning, love, I promise, but don’t you dare think of getting off while I’m asleep,” he hummed, kissing your temple before turning off the light. You wanted to whine, to complain and be a brat but you knew that would just get you even farther from cumming around Tom’s pretty cock, so you maintained your peaceful silence, eyes fluttering shut just thinking of what you were gonna get the next morning.

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ryoskuna · 4 years ago

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⭑ favor fire | joker (fire force).

pairing: joker x fem!reader

notes: I love the concept of the holy sol’s shadow, so uh, former assassin!reader but also fire soldier!reader, there’s some past history between joker and reader, and there’s mentions of friends to enemies between joker and reader very briefly. this came from a request of a word + character, in this instance the word was degradation + joker. also, I’m super shocked that there isn’t more joker stuff on tumblr? also,the title comes from the robert frost poem: fire and ice. there’s also some allusions to through the fic,

warnings: this is smut, baby. filth. degradation, some mild choking, kissing, biting, teasing with joker’s ignition ability, unprotected sex (please wrap it before you tap it, guys), mentions of a western style waterfall shower head, vague mentions of death, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, some slightly sadistic joker (it is in his personality after all), mentions of exhibitionism/voyeurism, denial play, begging, dry humping, marking, creampie(?), and some body worship.

word count: 5,148 words.

⭑

summary: joker doesn’t account for seeing the wild card he never planned to encounter again after he left the holy sol’s shadow — you, no longer an assassin for the holy sol’s shadow, but a fire soldier standing amongst the ranks and allies of company 8.So, he pays you a visit when you’re alone in your apartment.

⭑

You thought you were past getting caught. Past being snuck up on, and more importantly, past the shock of the way you looked in a fire soldier’s uniform instead of that of the Holy Sol’s Shadow. When you defected eight years ago, it took three years for you to shake of their training, of the way they made you feel worthless — nothing more than a killing machine. No more of that corrupt white that was secretly stained with so much red. But no matter how long you showered, it seemed like you couldn’t scrub all that red off. All that crimson that you could feel, long after you had freshened up in your shower.

For the first time in what seemed like weeks (maybe even months), you were at home, showering. Your apartment wasn’t too far from the cathedral, but after the trip to the Nether, you felt uneasy in what had become your home. It was just five minutes away from Fire Company 8, but the distance didn’t do anything to ease the guilt you felt at having seen Shinra so crippled and broken. He was one of your own, one of the team — and inevitably, the family Obi had built out of Company 8, especially since it wasn’t shackled to anything— not the church, not Haijima Industries, not the Tokyo army, and not even to the Fire Defense Agency. To see him like that made your chest hurt, and reflect on the loss of someone you had tried to forget.

Five-two. His desertion of the Holy Sol’s Shadow was unthought of, but not surprising. You remembered the way the captain treated him, tore him down, and took the only thing he had to remember of his past. You remembered the way the flames tried to eat him and then spit him out as a spear, a weapon to built to destroy, as if that were all he was good for. As if that were all you were good for. And for the longest time, that was all you thought you were good for. But you knew better now. The Holy Sol’s Shadow had taken you when you were young, just four years old, killed your family to ensure you wouldn’t be missed. They only took orphans. They didn’t need anyone to come after you all, looking for a lost child. You were not meant to be missed.

You weren’t like the others though. You felt grievance when you killed an infernal or even a human being that threatened the church. No matter how much you tried, your consciousness ate at you and at the pit of your stomach like a hungry fire, never to be satiated. Finally, you couldn’t take it, there had to be a better way… you wanted to save lives, not take them. You couldn’t take any more of the way the infernals’ fire felt around your hand when striking their cores, and you couldn’t take anymore of the way that you felt when watching the light fade from a human’s eyes. It was too much.

Your fingers work through your hair as you push it into a towel after shutting off the water spilling from the ceiling of your shower stall, shaking water from your ankle. Your bare feet pad on the floor, eyes looking around before pushing your finger against your lip in thought. The hairs on your arms rose with goosebumps, and you froze in place. Your fingers push a towel around your chest, before you swallow, growing tense.

Something was wrong. As you slowly pull open your bathroom door, grabbing what you could use for a weapon (a metal bookend), your eyes land on the open window, letting a gust of air in as well as the smell of food from a few street vendors. Something smells like melting or burning sugar, and fresh fruit. But even closer is the smell of smoke, heavy and oddly sweet too. You step over to the window, but that isn’t the source of the smell of smoke. No, the smell of smoke is coming from your home. You juggle the thought of being caught naked versus changing and being potentially attacked — and you think you rather be caught naked with the upper hand than be clothed and caught off-guard.

You could call out to them, but that’s stupid. It wasn’t like they’d tell you, “I’m an intruder and I’m in your kitchen! Want a sandwich?” You’re quick enough to slide on a black pair of panties, a bra, and the pair of leggings you set out on your bed before soundlessly walking over to the doorway where the smell of smoke strengthens. Walking down the hall with your bookend in hand, you freeze when you see the figure standing in between your dining room and kitchen, picking up a trinket laying on the table. You squint and raise the bookend, before the figure revolves around and the sight of his purple eyes causes you to hesitate.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he remarks, putting out his cigarette in the palm of his hand before closing his hand into a fist, surrendering the cigarette to the ashes he created.

You would know those eyes— well, eye, anywhere. It’s too unique to be mistaken for anyone else. That sneaky smile that promises trouble and danger forms on his lips, but there’s a darkness that lurks in it, and you are all too familiar with it. “Five-two,” you breathe out, and as his name falls from your lips (the only name you knew him as), you think of nights spent whispering in the dark as children, whispering about the mysteries of your world and the truth — how the truth was the only tangible thing to be pursued. And like an idol, oh how you listened to him. How you looked up at him like his word was gospel, like his words were the only thing that mattered. And like a follower, eager to prove your worth, you patched him up after every beating from the captain. But he still has that look in his eyes, the one that put people in categories of predator and prey, and from the way he tilts his head, looking at you… well, he hasn’t decided which one you are yet.

He gestures wordlessly without a finger to put the bookend down before he sighs. “Three-eight, put the bookend down,” he orders when you hesitate, but at the usage of your title, you set it on the counter. “And Five-two isn’t my name. Not anymore.” He corrects in the same breath, and he looks at you with a tilt of his head as if to ask if you even remembered your own name. Of course you did. You whispered it to yourself in your sleep, practiced carving it in wood under your bed on the frame while in the custody of the Shadows. You never felt like three-eight, even though you felt like it more so when you were with Five-two.

You part your lips to ask what is he doing here, or what does he want from you, but he beats you to the punch as he moves closer to you and begins to circle you like a predator. So, you do the same — the two of you doing an untouching waltz, a tango, a dance for two. Between two partners with too much history and too many unanswered questions. “I saw you with Company 8. First it was at the Rookie Games,” he grins, turning a card in between his fingers. You realize it’s his ignition ability, a card made of fire, that dances in between his fingers. “Then I got word you were in the Nether. So, I followed you today. Wanted to see what you were up to — but I was surprised to see you as a Fire Soldier, especially after being a Sha—”

“I was never meant to be a Shadow. That wasn’t my choice. Just like it wasn’t yours,” you sharply remind him, catching the card he throws before compressing it in your hands, smothering the fire before it could even touch your hand. In turn, it’s replaced by the sharp pop that comes from your fingers playing with lightning, dancing across your fingertips, pulsing like a heartbeat. “Now, what do you want?” Your voice is sharp and stern, unyielding and annoyed at having your time wasted as you speak.

“Kusakabe. Where is he — how is he?”

Your eyes narrow in suspension as you clench your jaw. “If you think I’m going to tell you where Shinra is so you can kill him, you’re mistaken, Five-two.”

Before you can realize it or even stop it, your hand playing with lightning is pressed to the wall, and you, yourself is pushed against the wall, his hand on your chest below your neck, his eyes growing dark. “I told you that wasn’t my name anymore.”

“You never told me what else to call you,” you remind him matter-of-factly, before he lets your hand go where it falls back to your side.

“Joker,” he breathes out, looking away from you as he shuffles in place, loosening his grip on you, but only slightly. “Call me Joker, y/n.” And the way his name falls from his lips is so quiet, you almost thought you hallucinated it. Hearing it from his mouth sends a strange feeling into your stomach, both with familiarity and fondness as if he had never left you. It’s almost too much and makes you want to squirm away from him, but instead, you just look into his eye. And all you see is the sixteen year old boy you loved, who left you and who you watched the Shadows destroy to remind him that they could touch everything he cared about. That they could destroy everything he cared about.

And it burns him. He wonders if you two could have survived had he brought you with him, instead of leaving you in the hands of the Shadows. He wonders if you would have even left with him. But seeing you, here, with the orange jumpsuit of the Fire Force laying on the chair of yours closest to the front door of your apartment, part of him thinks you would have. He regrets leaving you there, but his decision to leave had been an impulsive one, unplanned. And it had gone all downhill after he had left. You were out of the Shadows’ reach, for now, that much he knew, and he could see. He doesn’t mean to touch you softly on your face, and you don’t mean to lean into his palm, but you do, and that’s a language all of it’s own. He had done it in you all’s youth to promise he was always there, to remind you he would never leave you — that if you didn’t have any comfort, you had him.

You want to swat his hand away because you knew that was untrue, he had left you alone to fend for yourself for four years after he had left; he had left you alone to ruin. But, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him for it, and you couldn’t bring yourself to curse his name or pull away — because even though he was on the outside, he had gone through hell of his own. You remember the way the Shadows came back after killing the family that had taken him in. The Shadows had corrupted him, burned him, scorned him, and left him to the harshness of the world to suffer. You could see it in his eye, and you could see the way he longed to ask you for more as his lips give a wobble when he hesitates to ask the question that’s on his mind. He doesn’t want to speak for the fear of bringing everything down with you, but in place of words, tension grows, especially when he grows closer to you, and lets his hat drop to the floor at your feet.

“You left me,” you mumble, and his eyes meet yours again, with sadness before he shakes his head.

“I know.” He makes a tsk noise with his tongue before he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

He opens his mouth to ask what you mean, but instead, you pull his face forward with your hands, and your lips press to his. The kiss is hot, hungry, demanding; and somehow forgiving, as if being a representation of a trial by fire. It floods you with heat — or maybe that’s your ignition ability dancing around in your body, humming and begging to be released. Or thanking you for being fed, being reunited with the fire it learned how to dance with first. Joker feels it too, his hands moving to hold your hips and root you in place against him. A low growl rumbles in his chest as if to demand more, and he can taste both the sweet mint of your toothpaste and the underlying metallic feeling from your ignition ability. Likewise, you can taste the smoke from his mouth, and you practically inhale it into your lungs, begging it to consume you. Begging him to consume you.

His cautious touches aren’t enough, and you tug on the front of his waistcoat to pull him closer as he reinforces your place against the wall, pulling away for air, and to see the haze in your eyes. They were right to say fire was desire, or in desire laid fire — the sentiment was the same regardless of how you read it. His thumb reaches up to brush over your cheek, his thumb following the line of your jaw down to your lips, which practically beg him to kiss them again. So he does — but this time, he tugs on your lips with his teeth, growling more as your fingers curl into the hair behind his ears. His tongue parts in between your lips, and dances with yours, working it to submission with ease before he pulls away to leave you gasping for air.

“I thought Fire Soldiers didn’t play with devils. I thought it was too sacrilegious,” he breathes out coolly, eyeing your flustered face.

“Good thing I’m not religious, and if the sentiment bothers me, I guess I’ll ask our sister to pray for my forgiveness.” You reply, needy for more as you claw at his waistcoat. “Now finish what you started.”

“Oh, I will. I just needed your permission.”

“Permission granted.”

Joker chuckles as he moves to kiss the side of your neck at the exposed skin, humming as he lets his fingers trace the muscles of your back. “Is this what you meant by you didn’t want an apology?”

“Actions speak… louder… hgn,” You groan as he sucks on the delicate skin on your neck, his fingers tracing the skin around your waist. “than words.”

He hums some kind of acknowledgement of the sentiment before you feel grabbing your hands and pulling you down the hall to your bedroom (and his point of entry), before he shuts the door with the heel of his shoe. He pushes you onto your bed where you fall back and lay, your chest rising and falling with dark, curious eyes, longing for more. When he looks at you, he sees the love you promised to give him, that you willingly gave him as a child, and that was what made him hold onto the Shadows so long. It was you, and your love that acted like a form of righteousness so much so that it was holy. He may have stopped believing in Sol, but he believed in you, and now he was believing in you again. He was believing in you like your love was religion, and he needed to beg for forgiveness. He could do that later, but he knew he was on a time limit as you’d soon go back to Company 8 and you would belong to the Fire Force again.

His fingers unbutton his waistcoat, pulling his scarf off but leaving the bandana over his eye, as if you hadn’t seen the wound a hundred times before. As if you hadn’t dreamed of it, when you dreamed of him and thought of a better life for you and him — although those were the dreams of a child. Dreams in stereo, that played on repeat. He thinks of the last time he had touched another human, that wasn’t with murderous intent, or in a fight — something about the tension making his blood raise, in the same way it was pulsing in his ears right now, but it was all for you.

And he needed more of it. There’s a hum coming from him as his hands dance with fire on his fingertips, but you can’t feel it — it doesn’t burn, it’s more of a tickle as it licks at you, greeting you back into its grasp. His fire is home — remembering you and the way you reached out to touch all 52 cards of his when you were young, and in the same way, how he would watch how the lightning you made danced to the changing beats of your heart, pulsing and whispering I love you when you could never say the words where others would hear. But he knew, and you knew, as you all had come up with your own language filled with gestures and touches only meant for the two of you to see. His shoes tumble against the floor as he kicks them aside, making his way over to you and his gaze is hungry now.

You lay back and watch as he pulls the buttons loose on his shirt before pulling it off and adding it to the growing pile on the floor. You can see the silvery scars on his body in various places and as he leans down to kiss you, your fingers trace them, apologetic as the ambiance from the open window fills your bedroom. He looks as the daylight goes over your skin, turning you into something even more beautiful. His ear goes over your chest as he hears your heartbeat, breathing fire and circulating it through your body.

Time is not your friend, and you know it as you rest a hand on his cheek. “If we’re going to do this, you need to hurry. I’ve got to get back to—”

“I know,” He exhales as he shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He’d be poetic later, at a more appropriate time. So, he kisses you again with the same fervent way he kissed you before, this time, his hands palming over your breasts, little mewls leaving your lips as he slides his hands under your bra, plucks at your nipples, feeling them harden under his fingers. He can feel you squirm under him while you feel that fire build in your belly, spreading through you. He’s on a power trip, a power high, and you’re simply reinforcing it.

You need more, need him to stroke it more and make it grow, and he plans on doing exactly that. His hips are rolling into yours through your clothes, your legs over on his thighs as he kneels in between your legs. As he kisses you, you’re hellbent on letting it consume you, and you’re just as desperate, rutting against him as he he pulls away, whispering against your lips. “You need it so bad, huh?” He grins as you whimper, desperate for touch. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been this intimate with anyone, and he’s working you like a harp, with delicate plucks and strokes, playing you to his own accord. You whine, as his hands tug your leggings down your legs and toss them to the floor, and he can see the growing wet spot on your panties, a smirk on his lips. “You don’t have to tell me,” he adds. “Your body tells me enough, little princess. Or do you prefer to be called my little slut, my wild card?”

You whine at the nickname, processing him pushing your bra up to expose your nipples to him before he’s pulling the right one into his lips and sucking ruthlessly, his tongue lapping at it, only to restart the cycle. He does show some mercy by putting his knee in between your legs, letting you grind down on it, much to his amusement. His lips let go of your nipple as he chuckles darkly, his purple eye blazing with mischief and excitement. “Ah yeah! There’s my dirty baby,” he grins, “Yeah, so desperate. So needy, didn’t want anyone else to touch her. Only I can touch her,” he remarks and you repeat his words.

“Only you!”

His knee isn’t enough, but it’ll get you off for now, while you change the angle of your core coming down on his knee, changing your pace to get more friction that causes gasps to leave your lips. You’re so close, so close at the way you rock your hips, getting friction across your clit just like you need, your wetness soaking into his pants. His lips are kissing a trail down your chest and stomach, above your navel, and as he reaches the top of your core, he kisses it through the fabric, before pulling his knee away.

“I hope my baby didn’t think I’d just let her cum from my knee,” he chuckles, his thumb dragging your bottom lip down as you suckle on his thumb before he pulls it away. “Now don’t move,” he warns, and all you see is a flash of a card — the Queen of Hearts — before it cuts through your panties, and he pulls them from your body, tossing the remains to the floor. He brings the card to his lips as he blows it out, and then tilts his head to look at your expression. Your eyes slowly open to look at him as you try to catch your breath and his thumb brushes over your pulsing clit, having felt the way your cunt pulsed for him on his knee. “Such a needy little thing, and all this over me?” He teases, parting your thighs more with his hands before he goes eyelevel with your cunt, blowing his breath out and watches you shudder. His lips suck and his tongue licks at your throbbing bud, humming at your taste.

You whine and croon at the attention, your hips bucking and he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you down as he lets his tongue glide up and down your cunt. “Such a sweet little cunt on my pretty little baby,” he hums before he sucks on your outer lips, then lets his tongue go back to flick your clit before he decides to add one finger, slowly pushing into you, letting his finger thrust in and out before he adds another, curling his fingers in a come-hither motion before returning his attention to sucking on your clit, and letting his thumb circle the bundle of nerves.

You moan his name, hips arching again, and you’re close to unraveling underneath him as you babble, “I’m—”

“Go ahead,” he murmurs in between your legs. “Come for me, baby. I want to drink you up.” He gives a nip and a bite at the inside of your thigh before his tongue becomes merciless with determination to let you cum, his tongue spelling out his name over your throbbing nerves, and when you finally fall apart with a sweet moan of his name, he smirks against you before licking up your release. He pulls away once he’s gotten his fill, his chin coated in your release, and grins at you. He pulls his fingers out of you, and they’re coated in your juices, but he’ll get to those.

“Did you want a taste, dirty girl?” He asked, and when you beckon, he leans down and kisses you, getting your release on on your chin that he wipes away with his thumb before licking his fingers clean. With one orgasm for you, he can concentrate on the bulge in his pants, aching and throbbing — begging for release as he unbuttons his pants and takes them off. You can see the outline of his hard cock in his boxers, and you reach to palm it before he smacks your hand. “No,” he scolds, before chuckles. “Let me do this, dirty girl. Or are you too out of it to understand?” He chuckles as he looks into your eyes.

“Need you, please,” You beg, and he stands up to slowly slide his boxers off before pressing his finger to his lip.

“You’ve got to be a good girl. You don’t want those people on the street to hear you getting fucked like a needy little brat. But, make sure I hear how good I make you feel with my cock in that pretty little cunt. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you nod, and you watch as his boxers free his cock which slaps against his abdomen, already leaking with pre from the tip, and he takes his hand, stroking his cock and pushing the pre-cum around it. Your eyes look at it, and look at him, all together — standing before him in the nude, holding his cock.

“Good little whore,” Joker sighs as he kisses the inside of your thigh before biting down on the skin and leaving a matching mark to the previous one. “And another rule. You don’t cum until I let you.”

You process his words, but your head is already thinking, spinning and reeling at how you’re going to try and not cum just by him putting it in. You need it, you need him, your hole clenching around nothing as he hovers over you, pulling your legs over his shoulder. He lets his tip drag through your cunt, coating it in your sweet juices. Then, he lets it slap over your cunt, patting it as you whimper and groan and he chuckles.

“Here we go, needy slut,” he hums as he kisses your neck before pushing the tip in. You bit into your lip as you can feel him slowly splitting you open, but it feels so good you can’t think — your walls already pulsing around him, trying to hungrily suck him in faster than he’s willing to give. “Look at me,” he demands, and your eyes part to see him sinking into you, more and more, your groans getting louder before he bottoms into you all at once.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Such a tight little cunt, and I can’t wait to fill you up with my cum. Gonna be so good.”

“Please,” you beg, even though you’re not exactly sure what you’re begging for.

But it’s like Joker knows, and he’s willing to oblige. He begins to slowly thrust into you, with full thrusts to fill you each time. And the way you croon and mewl and wrap your arms around him encourages him to speed up, although it’s taking a lot of his control for him not to fuck you into next week. He does push your legs back into a mating press, his face hovering over yours as he looks into your eyes, watching your face scrunch up into an expression of sheer bliss.

“Yeah, feels good when I fuck your pretty little cunt? Your tight little cunt? Is this mine? Tell me, little slut.”

“Yeah, yeah, nghh,” you pant, your nails digging into his shoulders as he works up to a quicker pace, and presses his hand right over your lower stomach, which makes a cry of pleasure leave you. You can feel that fire in your belly return, especially as he strokes that spot in the midst of your gummy walls which suck him in, and he loves it — the way your cunt clings to him like a vice, refusing to let him go. He can feel the way you tighten, and he knows you’re getting closer.

“God, you take my cock so well, but I can’t hear you, baby,” Joker reminds you as he taps your cheek, stopping only to your dismay, causing you to whine. “I told you I’d stop if you I couldn’t hear you. So, now you’ve got to beg for me to let you cum. So, beg.” His eye is dark and his gaze is vicious. There’s no way he was letting you off easy, not with that look in his eye.

“Please, please, Joker, let me cum,” You start. “I want to come around your cock, I want to, please, please, please.” Your pleading sounds like a broken record as you repeat words over and over again, so he starts back with slow thrusts again before his other hand wraps around your neck, leaving you gasping for air.

“Want to see my pretty little slut cream all over my cock so I can cum in you, fuck my cum into you and watch it leak out,” he groans, closing his eyes as his pace becomes more erratic. His hand that’s on your lower stomach begins to rub at your clit, specifically his thumb going in circles, as his thrusts continue to hit that sweet spot inside of you, and you shudder around him, pulsing and massaging his cock before you unravel with a loud cry of his name — open window be damned. His eyes open, although half-lidded, and watch you come around his cock, your release coating his cock, and he grins, humping you through your orgasm as you begin to whine as he prolongs it and overstimulates you.

He doesn’t care, chasing his own high, and you clench around him, and with a few more thrusts, he’s cumming inside of you, groaning as he can see the mix of your cum around his cock. He pants to catch his breath, and then slowly pulls out, watching as his cum seeps out of you, leaking onto your bed before he then lets his thumb trace your jaw.

“You did so good, y/n.” He smiles as he kisses your forehead. “My wild card.” He murmurs, pulling away to put his clothes back on. “I’ll see you around, Fire Soldier.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s clothed and gone, and you’re left half-dressed on your bed, his cum still leaking from you and unspoken words on your lips. But he had to leave, or else he’d forget his mission, and he’d stay, even though he couldn’t offer you anything.

And that felt like ice in his veins, but even he knew ice could consume you just as good as fire. However, he knew desire and his pursuit of the truth would ruin him. He wouldn’t bring you into that too.

#fire force smut #fire force imagines #fire force fanfiction #fire force hcs #joker x reader #five-two x reader #enn enn no shouboutai #joker fire force #fire force x reader #joker/52

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wordsablaze · 4 years ago

Text

13/13 - goat string of fate

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

A/N: what we've all been waiting for... undeniable red string of fate, but with goats for eskel's sake ;) @alllthequeenshorses @eskel-loves-lilbleater

previous chapter

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier’s heart breaks.

He knows that Geralt isn’t lying because the words don’t show up on his skin and he knows that Geralt isn’t just saying that for the sake of it because his pulse is as steady as ever under his wrist and he knows that Geralt isn’t thinking with a clouded mind because he can’t feel any intense emotions at the back of his mind.

The only logical conclusion to make is that Geralt really means it.

“See you round,” he says, even though he’s not sure he will.

It’s nowhere near the first time he’s had his heart broken but somehow this time hurts so much more than every other time, probably something to do with the fact that he’s leaving his very soulmate behind as he walks away with blurred vision and wobbly steps.

He doesn’t walk very far, though; he just can’t bring himself to.

There is a building on fire.

And there is a witcher trying to help.

Nobody asked him to help and yet he runs into the building because he can hear the panicked heartbeats of four humans inside.

He hands over a frightened child to their mother and runs back in.

He hands over a man to his grateful sister and runs back in.

He hands over a crying girl to her father and runs back in.

There’s one more racing heartbeat inside the building but he can’t find it, it doesn’t belong to anyone he can see, and even though he tries his best because he can’t let anyone die - he just can’t - he has no choice but to leave when the roof caves in and smoke fills the air.

It’s only once he can breathe again that he realises the heartbeat has followed him out.

The last person wasn’t in the fire after all; they’re under his skin.

Jaskier doesn’t get the rest of the story from the others in the end.

He wants to - he’s a bard so of course he wants to - but he knows that his own story having just found such a bitter end means that he won’t do the dragon hunt any justice so he leaves its tale to the dwarves.

He’s tired and he kind of wants to cry and he doesn’t know which way he’s meant to go so he doesn’t even try to subtly follow the others back down the mountain. Instead, he walks and walks and walks and hopes he doesn’t fall to his death.

And he doesn’t. But he does stumble over nothing in particular and end up rolling over himself until he hits a tree, gasping for breath and curling around his lute because he doesn’t have any other source of comfort.

The last thought he manages before he drifts off - read: passes out - is that he’s incredibly glad his lute hasn't broken the same way his heart has.

There is a funeral.

And there is a witcher trying to mourn.

But there is something giddy in the back of his throat and something bright behind his eyes and something exciting at his fingertips and he cannot focus his emotions.

There is a fight.

And there is a witcher trying to concentrate.

But there is a puzzle in his lungs and a question on the tip of his tongue and a mystery in his every bone and he cannot tell if he knows what move to make next.

There is a festival.

And there is a witcher watching quietly.

But there is a heavy grief in his stomach and a heavy doubt inside his mind and a heavy pain within his blood and he has no idea why his body is telling him to be upset.

Jaskier wakes to the taste of oranges.

For some reason, it just makes him want to cry.

“We are not dying on some godsforsaken mountain,” Jaskier mutters to his lute but also to himself because if he is to die, it will not be at the hands of heartbreak.

A lot easier said than done, though, because he ends up lost. Horribly lost. So lost that he wonders if someone had moved him while he was sleeping because there’s no way he could end up so clueless when he’d been pretty close to their original path the day before.

And he’s not unfit but he must have bruised himself more than he can tell while tumbling because he doesn’t get further than the duration of half a dozen ballads before both his muscles and his lungs force him to stop and rest in danger of retiring altogether.

Still, he keeps going. He can’t find anything edible but he hangs onto the taste of oranges from his stolen dream as he pushes forwards, begrudgingly thanking Destiny for giving him at least that from his soulmate.

There is a town with a contract.

And there is a witcher who almost regrets accepting it.

The monster is easy enough to defeat, nothing that takes more than a day. No, the monster isn’t the reason he chooses to disappear for almost a month afterwards - that would be the mirror.

Or more specifically, what he sees in the mirror: one of his eyes is the wrong colour.

He thinks he’s delirious at first but one potion and two hours’ worth of meditating later, his eyes are still inexplicably mismatched.

His left eye is the colour of the sky. The colour of the ocean. The colour of a privilege that he was never allowed to have. And he’s read just about enough poetry to know how that means he has a soulmate out there somewhere.

All that does is drown him in a blue hue of guilt.

Jaskier has just started playing his third song on the lute when something crashes into his legs.

He yelps, springing to his feet and almost tripping over whatever it is that’d crashed into him, which turns out to be a goat. A goat, of all things.

“Right, well, if you could not do that whole attacking thing again, that’d be great. You have rather pointy horns,” Jaskier huffs, settling on the rock once again.

To its credit, the goat seems to listen, munching on grass instead of stepping on his toes as Jaskier starts playing again. Confused but not entirely against the company, he continues singing about whatever comes to mind until the sky begins to darken and the air turns cold.

He sighs, putting the lute away and gently reaching out to stroke the goat, smiling when it doesn’t just headbutt him and bleats happily before settling in his lap. “At least you seem to want to stick around,” he mumbles.

Too tired to find anywhere more sheltered, Jaskier pulls his doublet tighter around himself and hugs his new best friend as tightly as he dares. For a moment, the goat lifts its head and stares at him and he fears he’s about to have his eye poked out, but then it just burps and settles again.

This time, he falls asleep laughing.

There is a hearth.

And there is a witcher sat beside three other witchers.

And despite the warmth of the fire and the warmth of his family, he is cold.

He is colder than he ever is, colder than when he is submerged underwater during a fight or when he is caught unawares in a storm or when he is kicked out of a tavern because he brings down the mood.

There is no explanation for why he is cold because he is home and he is safe and he should be warm but for some reason, he is not.

He is rarely warm.

And if he is warm, he doesn’t understand why.

There is no explanation for why he is warm when passing ruins he’s never seen before or when camping in the middle of nowhere just to be away from people or when being told the last copy of the book he’d been looking for was just sold to someone else.

Eventually, he gets used to the confusion, pulls on a cloak, and moves on.

Jaskier is probably losing a few of his marbles.

With nothing better to do, he follows the goat as it travels along a seemingly random path to find nothing in particular, stopping every so often to munch on something or the other.

“I can’t believe I’m following a goat,” he mutters to himself as he brushes grass off his arms, “and it’s not even a cute little baby- what’s a baby goat called? Hmm, I should really know that… Or should I? It’s not like I’ve met any farmers lately. Or anyone, for who am I meant to meet atop a mountain? Well, a goat, apparently.”

Said goat bleats at him as if asking him to hurry up.

“Yes yes, I’m hurrying. Some of us don’t eat grass, you know? Oh, but how would you know when all you can think about is the next patch of moss you’re going to eat? Is that what life is to be, travelling from patch to patch and-? Hey, that could be a wonderful name. I dub thee Patchy, my dearest goat friend,” Jaskier declares, grinning.

Patchy bleats again and headbutts his shin but it’s okay because it doesn’t hurt in the slightest and he only wobbles a little bit.

“I’m taking that as your approval!”

There is a woman.

And there is a witcher lying in bed next to her.

They are both tired and not quite awake and she is gently running her nails along his arms because she has never seen anyone with so many scars.

He is waiting for her to fall asleep but she sits up and frowns, pointing out the words that have appeared on his skin: but I didn’t take any honey.

She must be able to tell he’s just as confused as she is because she gives him a funny look but doesn’t pry, though he leaves in the dead of night while she’s still asleep to avoid any chances of her asking questions.

But the words keep appearing and he ends up with plenty of his own questions anyway.

When he’s mending his armour: it doesn’t even hurt anymore; when he’s hunting: I love you more than I love getting drunk; when he’s brushing his horse: I assure you I have a perfectly good explanation; when he’s buying new gloves: I’m afraid I don’t know you; when he’s stitching up a wound: of course I was given permission to be here.

And on and on and on.

He wonders if this person is even human at times because they seem to lie more in a week than he even talks in a month.

Jaskier is exhausted.

“Hey, Patchy, it’s been lovely to know you but I think the time has come to part ways because I simply cannot take another step,” he mutters, leaning against the closest tree and sliding to the floor.

Patchy leaps into his lap with an oddly angry bleat.

Jaskier shrugs, ripping up a bit of grass and letting her eat it off his hand before sighing. “I fear it is indeed my fate to perish here. Perhaps life does grant blessings after all, hmm?”

His stomach rumbles and Patchy seems to take offence, startling and jerking sideways, the goat’s horns catching on his sleeve and causing a panic that leads to a large tear in his doublet and a mercifully smaller tear in his skin.

Still, he winces, pressing a hand onto the cut and half-heartedly glaring at Patchy. “Really? You’re lucky the material is red anyway, you menace.”

He regrets his words when the goat stands, spins on the spot, and makes a strange noise before sprinting away. Somehow, that abrupt departure stings far more than his actual injury.

There is an ocean.

And there is a witcher who has never been to the coast for a good reason, and still hasn’t.

He doesn’t belong in this scene, he’s borrowing it from someone else without even knowing how, but he can’t look away from the waves as they brush over the sand and over his toes before retreating once more.

There is a cane.

And there is a witcher who has never suffered this kind of punishment, and still hasn’t.

Although the injuries are not his and the crime - if it even exists - has nothing to do with him, he can’t escape the burning pain and the sharp throbbing as someone makes sure the wood meets its mark, again and again.

There is a cat.

And there is a witcher who has never been able to see one up close, and still hasn’t.

He’s not the one touching the tiny ball of fluff that curls up in his palms, he seems to be experiencing someone else’s amazement, but the feeling of soft fur and quiet purring stays with him for no less than a week.

Jaskier is ready to give up.

He truly has no idea where he is or how he’s meant to get back to flat land. The berries he’d found in the morning have done very little to provide him with energy and he’s about to declare himself as food for the wolves or something when he hears bleating.

“Patchy!”

And it is.

The goat barrels into him hard enough to knock him over but he’s too busy trying to hug his horned friend to care. He’s also too busy hugging his horned friend to notice that he’s being watched. That is, until someone clears their throat.

He freezes, looking up.

There’s a very long moment in which his heart drops about a mile into his stomach as he catches sight of a wolf medallion but then he sees the amber eyes and the spiked armour and the hesitant smile and his lungs remember how to work once again.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Jaskier says, grinning.

The witcher frowns at that, glancing over him in clear concern. Before he can reply, Jaskier looks away to tug his sleeve out of Patchy’s mouth and winces as he pulls on the not quite scab that had developed over the goat-inflicted wound.

“Oh, is he yours?” the witcher asks after a minute, and gods is his voice deep enough to sink into forever.

Jaskier blinks, pulling himself back to the matter at hand before he spirals into a daydream and shaking his head. “I didn’t even know he was a he, to be honest. Thank you for that, by the way, at least I can sing him a more accurate song of gratitude now.”

The witcher chuckles and steps to the side, revealing another, smaller goat that immediately bounds over and settles on his leg; Jaskier has never been so innocently afraid to accidentally move in his life.

“She’s called Lil Bleater,” the witcher says, promptly cursing when said goat starts nibbling on the sleeve Jaskier had just saved from being eaten by Patchy.

“It’s not like I was planning on wearing this doublet again anyway,” Jaskier says, but he still feels incredibly guilty for letting such fine tailoring end up as food for a pair of goats.

Eskel has never been so confused.

He feels like he recognises this stranger from somewhere but he can’t place it, the knowledge is almost like smoke slipping between his fingers before he can grasp it properly.

“It looks like it’s seen better days anyway,” he says, immediately regretting it when the other man blinks at him.

But then he laughs - perhaps the nicest laugh Eskel has ever had the pleasure of hearing - and holds out a hand, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Eskel leans forwards to shake his hand but Lil Bleater chooses that moment to get up and charge at him so he steps back and picks her up instead, offering the man an apologetic look.

“Not to worry, my hand will live a little longer without the honour of yours in it. I’m Jaskier, and you have my eternal gratitude for appearing out of nowhere when I was about a day away from forgetting what other people’s voices sound like,” the man says sincerely.

“Jaskier?” Eskel echoes.

He knows Geralt has mentioned this bard in the past and he’d have to be living under a rock not to know of him at all, what with the songs that are sung his way whenever he ventures into more populated towns, but he can’t fathom why someone so famous would be spending his time with a mountain goat.

Jaskier grins up at him. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me! I wish I could say the same but I don’t believe we’ve met before?”

Eskel shakes his head. “I, uh, I don’t do… crowds.”

“You and every other witcher, it seems,” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to insult anyone. If anything, he seems almost sad.

“The crowds seem more like your style, bardling. What are you doing up here?”

The bard opens his mouth to say something before closing it again, then sighs. “I got lost and ended up following a goat until I got even more lost?”

Eskel chuckles, then puts Lil Bleater back on the ground before leaning down and offering Jaskier his hand because it feels odd to continue the conversation while he’s still sitting down. This time, the goats don’t get in the way and he manages to pull them both upright.

Jaskier gets about five seconds of being upright before he keels over.

Everything hurts.

The world blurs around him.

His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.

Everything really hurts.

There’s something under his skin.

His body is on fire.

Everything hurts so very much and he has no idea what’s happening and the sky has disappeared altogether and there’s water rushing past his ears and he’s in so much pain and he’s going to die without even having learnt this gorgeous witcher’s name and he can’t feel his hands at all and it’s way too dark and-

“Breathe, Jaskier!”

He already is.

Or maybe he’s not.

He unclenches his jaw and gasps desperately.

“That’s it, just breathe, you’re okay.”

But he’s not.

Or maybe he will be.

He groans and reluctantly peels open his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” the witcher murmurs, and he has; his arms are practically cradled around Jaskier and the two of them are kneeling in a tangle of limbs on the ground.

Jaskier exhales.

“You’re not going to die, I promise. And my name’s Eskel,” the witcher whispers, at which point Jaskier mortifyingly realises he must have been panicking out loud.

Slowly, Jaskier uncurls his limbs.

He stretches his fingers out from where they’d been squeezed into fists and waits for a moment before accepting that whatever the blinding pain had been is over before looking up, intending to thank Eskel.

But Eskel gasps before he can say anything.

And Jaskier immediately panics again, wondering what could possibly be wrong. He doesn’t need to ask though, because Eskel lifts a hand to ever so lightly tracing his finger down the right side of Jaskier’s face and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he can see.

“No no no no no,” Jaskier breathes frantically, “this cannot be happening.”

He pulls himself out of Eskel’s arms and shakes his head but his gaze lands on his hands as he uses them to balance and his breath hitches. Without wasting a second, he shrugs off his doublet and rolls his sleeves up, eyes widening at the sight of silvery scars he’s never earned, silvery scars he’d once had and once lost.

“No, I- I already know my- Geralt was- is- no, no, no no no no, wait. Wait. This can’t be right, it can’t- it- you can’t- I mean, we can’t be- nope, no no...” Jaskier’s words can’t seem to form themselves properly as he struggles to breathe.

Eskel has no idea what’s happening.

Except he does.

There’s only really one explanation for why the marks that had suddenly revealed themselves on Jaskier’s skin are an exact copy of his own scars, there’s only really one explanation for why the colour of Jaskier’s eyes had seemed so familiar, and there’s only really explanation for why he feels like someone has cast igni inside his heart.

Unfortunately, Jaskier doesn’t seem to like that one explanation.

He waits, though. He waits until Jaskier remembers how to inhale and exhale properly before offering the bard a small smile. “I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly, Jaskier looks confused at that. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I don’t blame you for preferring, uh, Geralt. Or anyone else, for that matter. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with me either.”

Even more surprisingly, Jaskier shuffles closer and punches his arm with a surprising amount of strength, his confusion having been entirely replaced by anger. “I don’t know what in Melitele’s name you think you mean by that but I demand that you stop… thinking it. I’m not- I- I just thought- I’ve spent years, so many years, thinking that I knew and I- I don’t know… I can’t-”

He cuts himself off, his chin wobbling, and Eskel has the inexplicable urge to hug him.

So he does.

Jaskier stiffens for half a second before he seems to forget that he has bones and all but melts into the embrace, burying his head into the crook of Eskel’s neck and throwing his arms around him as if his life depends on it.

Eskel has never felt so pleasantly warm in his life.

He wraps his arms around Jaskier in return and pulls him close, pretending that he can’t hear the sobs the bard is trying so hard to stifle and marvelling at the fact that he gets to hold his soulmate in his arms at all.

His soulmate.

He’d never thought he’d actually get to meet them.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles eventually.

Eskel pulls back only enough to frown, brushing the tears away from under Jaskier’s eyes before tilting his head to the left. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Jaskier feels like a fool.

He leans into Eskel’s soft touch for a moment before cupping the witcher’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry I never looked for you. I’m sorry I didn’t realise I was wrong. I’m sorry I almost just insulted you. I’m sorry for wasting so much time. I’m just so, so sorry.”

Eskel shrugs. “You didn’t know and I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. I… I knew and I didn’t try so perhaps I ought to be the one apologising to you.”

But Jaskier did know.

To some extent, at least.

He’s known for long enough that not everything was adding up and he’d ignored it, he’d done nothing about it because he’d been terrified of losing Geralt, of losing his soulmate, of losing a life he’s loved, and it turns out he’s been losing everything he didn’t even know he could have had instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles again, letting his forehead fall against Eskel’s as he closes his eyes.

“How does getting to the nearest inn sound?” Eskel offers.

Jaskier laughs and meets Eskel’s eyes, nodding. “Sounds like a plan I can’t argue with.”

“We’ll start with getting you to a proper bed and then go from there.”

He tries to resist that, he really does, but Jaskier simply cannot stop himself from smirking and raising an eyebrow. “Straight to bed, darling? Aren’t you even going to buy me a drink first?”

The endearingly sheepish look on Eskel’s face is almost worth all the pain.

“Though you really should buy me a drink first, for one reason or the other; I am a little dizzy still,” Jaskier mutters, having forgotten all about that because of the unprecedented pain.

Eskel curses.

Before Jaskier can even process the emotional whiplash, Eskel has lifted him to his feet and turned around, dropping to one knee. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier blinks. “Are you asking me to… climb on your back?”

Eskel turns to look at him with half a smile. “I really don’t think you’re capable of walking more than a mile more without collapsing, Jaskier.”

Well, that’s probably true. He grabs his lute and swings that onto his own back before looping his arms around Eskel’s neck, his legs locking around the witcher’s waist as he stands up effortlessly.

Eskel smiles as Jaskier settles on his back as if he were born to do so.

Which, quite possibly, he sort of was.

He smells like the comfort Eskel gets from when the dreams he borrows are good ones and it feels impossible that he gets to experience it in person. But it’s very much not impossible because Jaskier is a steady weight around his waist and on his shoulder and against his neck.

It’s a little overwhelming.

“So you’re the one who was dreaming of a succubus then?” Jaskier asks out of the blue.

Eskel stops walking for a second, narrowly avoids accidentally kicking Lil Bleater, and clears his throat. “Dreaming? No. No, that’s not quite how we spent the night.”

There’s a moment of silence before Jaskier laughs brightly. Eskel can feel the way his shoulders shake with the force of his amusement and it’s almost a miracle that neither of them overbalance.

“You’ll have to elaborate on that at some point, it’s going to make a great song!”

“You want to write songs about the succubi I’ve met?” Eskel asks, confused. Surely the bard could have asked Geralt about them over the years, it’s not like witchers can afford to designate who takes care of which creatures or anything.

But Jaskier snorts, pokes Eskel’s cheek, and shakes his head. “No, I- I want to write songs about… about my soulmate.”

That feels like a confession and Eskel is honoured to have received it. He hums in acknowledgement and gently squeezes one of Jaskier’s legs. “Not to worry, we have all the time in the world.”

“We do?” Jaskier asks.

Shuffling the bard’s weight a little bit, Eskel lifts his right hand so Jaskier can see his wrist and more specifically, the ouroboros etched into it. He hears Jaskier gasp before there are gentle fingers around his arm that almost make him shiver, a warm finger tracing the symbol over and over until Eskel hears quiet sniffling.

It takes a while for Jaskier to exhale softly and give Eskel’s hand back to him, after which he goes back to supporting his weight more evenly. He has plenty of his own questions but he figures it’s best to leave them for later, when they’ve both recovered from the shock.

The town comes into view sooner than expected, or perhaps Eskel had just been unknowingly pushing himself to walk faster because he can feel the way Jaskier’s grip has slowly relaxed to the point where he’s practically just draped over him like a very strange sort of cloak.

As much as he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier, he has to when they get to the stables. Both goats are more than happy to be secured near Scorpion, who huffs at Jaskier just hard enough to send him stumbling into Eskel’s side with a small yelp.

“I’ve got you,” Eskel chuckles.

Jaskier grins.

“That you have,” he agrees, “but have you got a room?”

Nodding, Eskel leads them both back to the inn. But instead of going up the stairs, he guides Jaskier to the table in the corner. “Stay here, I’m going to get some food.”

Jaskier blinks, used to this scenario playing out the other way around. Eskel is gone before he can even think of replying so he just yawns and waits, shuffling over when the witcher returns because if he doesn’t lean against someone, he’s probably going to fall into his meal.

Eskel pauses for a second before sliding into the seat beside him, placing two bowls of stew in front of them. “I know you’re tired but you really should eat.”

“How ever will I repay such kindness?” Jaskier mumbles before following Eskel’s instructions.

Jaskier is immensely grateful that Eskel doesn’t mind being leaned on because almost counterintuitively, eating only makes him want to fall asleep even more. By the time they’re both finished, he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Almost there,” Eskel says, at which point he realises they’re now halfway up the stairs.

Yawning again, Jaskier keeps a tight hold of Eskel’s arm as they get to his room, thrown off when they stop by the door instead of somewhere more suitable for sleeping. “What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

Eskel places the lute Jaskier apparently hadn’t been strong enough to carry himself down before gesturing around vaguely. “I didn’t know anyone would be staying with me so…”

Jaskier laughs, throwing his head back. He has no idea what compels him to do so but he cups Eskel’s confused face in his hands and places a soft kiss on his nose. “Eskel, darling, you are literally my soulmate. I think we’ll be alright sharing a bed.”

He can actually feel the way Eskel smiles under his hands and can’t help grinning back, but then his knees decide to buckle for no apparent reason - aside from the general exhaustion and probably clumsy bruises, of course - and Eskel is once again the only thing keeping him upright.

He’s not entirely sure what the sequence of events is after that but he doesn’t care to puzzle over it because he ends up with his head on an actual pillow and Eskel’s arms around him and he’s never felt so comfortable and safe and content in his life.

“Don’t leave without me,” Jaskier mumbles even as he can feel himself drifting off, only slightly embarrassed at being so obvious about it.

Eskel hums quietly and brushes the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek before moving his hair away from his forehead, smiling softly as their eyes meet. “I would never even think of it,” he promises.

And somehow, despite everything else in his life that’s somehow gone wrong and fallen apart and proven that perhaps he shouldn’t be so blindly trusting of what he thinks may be the truth even if he has plenty of reasons to believe otherwise, Jaskier can't bring himself to doubt the witcher’s words even in the slightest.

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Eskel has always been his destiny.

i apologise if this finale was a little messy because i was indecisive and couldn't choose just one pov but i am so hyped to have finished !!! i hope this ending was worth all the chaos <3

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier

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secret-engima · 4 years ago

Note

I concur. The last option is the best. Maybe a few headcanons or snippets on how Angeal got roped into being a Braincell again? (Bonus if he originally refuses the call because *cough* Genesis *cough* but still ends up bundling up Ardyn and giving him some calming tea while in complete denial)

Hmmmm finally up for rambling this ask so buckle up!

-Angeal has no desire to be anyone special. He has had a good childhood this time around, with two loving parents and no scientific experimentation whatsoever. His father is one of the gardeners for the Oracles themselves and Angeal is perfectly content to follow in those footsteps once his father retires. He hopes for a peaceful life and carefully hides his lingering guilt and trauma from another life under the mental carpet, and refuses to admit he still dreams of the people he failed (Sephiroth who he abandoned, Genesis who he couldn’t save, his mother who committed suicide because of her guilt at what he’d become, his son apprentice Zack whom he forced to kill him).

-He is befriended by the young Princess, who smiles at him and is content to talk for hours about the flowers and plants he helps maintain. She follows him around sometimes, both asking for advice and giving it impulsively, and even though she is just a child, she has an impressive green thumb and an even more impressive kind heart. He knows that everyone says the Princess is ... odd. And she is. She is too old for her skin sometimes, too wise and too silly by turns in the way only someone who has seen it all and come out the other side can be.

-Privately, Angeal thinks she might be like him. Someone who remembers another life. But he never asks. He never admits. It doesn’t matter anyway. They are both content in their respective new lives, there is no need to drag up ghosts.

-Then one day Fenestala Manor ... burns. A lot of people are killed. A lot more are terrified and grieving and angry. There are whispers of rebellion, of defiance, but none dare when the late Oracle’s children are within Niflheim’s grasp.

-Angeal (who now wears the name Theseus like a suit he refuses to admit doesn’t fit right) keeps his head down and makes no moves to step out of line. He played hero once and he became the monster instead. He will not make that mistake a second time. He does, however, try to make his garden a sanctuary for the poor Princess. He can’t imagine how she must feel, to lose her mother so young, to be held captive by her mother’s killers, to have a brother who rages and cries and pulls bitterly away because he cannot see that his sister is grieving, just in a different way.

-Then the Chancellor of Niflheim visits for the first time, and Angeal only knows because he spots the Princess leading the bemused, sharp-tongued man around the garden, smiling and gentle and welcoming, like she is speaking to an old friend and not one of the leaders of the nation holding her hostage. Angeal keeps his head down, but the Princess trusts him and seems to think he makes fine company for a princess and an enemy politician, and she drags him over to talk about the flower crown she is making their guest.

-The Chancellor smiles and verbally cuts open Angeal in only the most veiled, politest ways. It’s almost impressive, if it didn’t remind him too much of Genesis. So Angeal pretends to not notice and hopes the man goes away and never comes back.

-He goes away.

-He keeps coming back.

-And Angeal keeps finding them in his garden, the Princess and her dangerous, half-mad guest (and Angeal knows madness, he has seen it in faces of friends and mirrors alike, he knows what the Chancellor hides behind his flowery words and indulgent smiles it is not anything nice), and he keeps getting dragged into the conversation, and somewhere along the way he notices that it’s almost always raining on the days the Chancellor visits. A pleasant, faint sort of rain that is almost as nice to be out in as sunshine. If it’s not raining before he arrives, it is within the hour he appears, and it always leaves within the hour the Chancellor does. And that the rain itself whispers against his skin like magic, like the faintest, most persistent of cure spells that Angeal hasn’t felt since he woke up as Theseus.

-Its a coincidence until it’s not. It’s happenstance until Angeal spots the glimmers of something quieter and saner appearing in the man with each visit and flower crown and long, rainy day conversation with the young Oracle.

-It’s not his problem until he stumbles on the man in question vomiting his guts out behind the gardening shed while the Princess has briefly been called away by nervous servants who make up any excuse to keep her away from the Chancellor she seems set on befriending.

-And Angeal has no desire to take another self-destructive, sharp-tongued, venom-fanged, art-loving, idiot redhead under his wing, but he likes to think he isn’t a horrible person in this life, so he gently rescues the man’s hat before it can fall into the smoking black (???) bile and gently steers the man to the nearby plastic chair Angeal sits on when maintaining his tools. He steps into the shed and comes back out with the thermos of tea he was saving for his own lunch and gently pushes the cup into the man’s hands while gold eyes stare at him and toy with his murder (Angeal has seen this powerful man in a moment of weakness, if Angeal disappears in the next two weeks, he won’t die surprised).

-“You should drink,” Angeal tells him softly, “It will help your stomach settle.”

-“Oh will it now.” Ardyn Izunia drawls even as he takes a slow sip of the herbal blend and makes the tiniest face at the taste. They stay in silence for a while, with the Chancellor recovering his breath on the chair and Angeal debating what to do with the patch of very dead ground where black bile was moments ago and healthy grass had been long before that. In the end he covers it with a piece of old tarp and decides to brave the potential radioactive spot later. Once the man who apparently had that stuff inside him has calmed down and hopefully left.

-“You’re taking this very calmly,” Izunia drawls, and Angeal can feel the barbs on the other man’s tongue, waiting to be unleashed at the slightest provocation.

-“You’re hardly the first man to get an upset stomach,” Angeal deflects calmly, “It’s perfectly normal.”

-A scoff that is startled enough to count as a genuine laugh, “Normal, he says.”

-Angeal ignores the question in there and instead turns around to look thoughtfully at the Chancellor. Without his hat to hide his face and his venomous smiles to discourage scrutiny the man looks ... exhausted. Rung dry. And very, very thin. Like he hasn’t eaten a good meal (or anything at all) in days.

-A workaholic maybe? Or something worse. The Princess is an Oracle after all, her duty will be to heal the sick of the otherwise incurable. It isn’t that much of a jump to say she could sense that Ardyn Izunia was sick and was trying to help even while untrained. Either way it’s not his problem. He’s just a gardener. He has no business interacting with this man beyond the times the Princess insists he does.

-He keeps telling himself that as he disappears back into his shed and comes out with another thermos, this one of soup (it’s a good thing it’s chilly weather, otherwise he would have brought a sandwich and that might be too hard for this man to stomach). He offers a cup of still warm soup to the Chancellor, who stares at it like he doesn’t remember what it is. Angeal keeps holding it out until the man takes it from him, “...You have no idea what is going on do you,” Izunia rasps as he sips almost experimentally on the soup.

-Angeal shrugs, “No. But you look like you could use a sit down, some tea, and some food, and my mother would kill me herself if I refused to share what I had with someone who might need it more.”

-A sneer and a flicker of something furious in gold eyes, “Pity then.”

-Angeal turns back from where he had been about to wander off and resume gardening, because he knows that tone and he knows where it leads and it hurts too much to walk away (this lifetime), “No.” He snaps and the Chancellor blinks in surprise at Angeal’s sudden fire. Angeal picks up the tools he needs for the next hour and says more quietly, “Kindness.”

-“Are they not the same thing?”

-Angeal thinks of a blinding smile from a boy in another life who didn’t know the darkness of the world and made it better in the process, of the Princess who welcomes a leader of the enemy into her home and gives him flowers like he is a long-lost friend. He thinks of another redhead who once said something very similar before the end. He dares to meet golden eyes again, “No,” he tells the Chancellor, “they aren’t. But you’re a smart man. I think you knew that already.”

-Ardyn Izunia stares at him and is, for once, speechless. Angeal turns and hurries away before he can give in to the urge to grab a spare picnic blanket out of the shed and drape it on the man’s shoulders.

-That man is dangerous. He is broken and mad and feral and good at hiding all those things which makes him even more dangerous than he otherwise would be. Angeal cannot (will not) get attached. Not again. He won’t fall into that trap. He isn’t a good friend for anyone, let alone a good moral compass or shoulder to cry on. He’ll just make things worse. He knows that.

-Yet somehow that doesn’t stop him from packing a thermos of soup whenever it starts to lightly rain, and passing out cups of it when the Princess and the Chancellor inevitably wander into his corner of the gardens.

-(And maybe, weeks later, Ardyn Izunia corners Angeal where the Princess cannot see and stares at him for a long time. Maybe Izunia’s face shifts and pales as black blood weeps from his eyes and mouth until he looks not like a man but like a ghoul from a nightmare. Maybe he smiles like a predator looking for a kill and asks “Theseus” if he is frightened. If he is horrified.)

-(Maybe Ardyn is left stunned when the simple gardener looks him in the eye and with painful, gentle honesty says no.)

-(”Why not? I am a monster. You should be afraid.” Ardyn growls, his Scourge on display, his monstrous nature bared for this strange, mild-mannered man to see. And he is stunned when the gardener gently touches his pale, purple-veined hands and guides him down to a familiar plastic chair, as he disappears into the shed and comes back with a familiar thermos of soup and presses the cup into his hands.)

-(He is left speechless when this gardener, this human, this mortal, foolish man, finally answers his question, “This,” the gardener taps one of Ardyn’s deathly pale hands, “doesn’t make you any more or less human, or more or less a monster than me.”)

-(“Then what does?” Ardyn asks in a whisper, not sure if he is curious or insulted or ... desperate.)

-(The gardener just smiles, and in the expression there is something unnervingly old and sad and knowing for someone who has not lived two thousand years and not seen his own humanity crumble before his eyes, “You’re a smart man, Chancellor” he hums, “you tell me.”)

-(And Ardyn finds that he is, once again, speechless.)

#SE asks #dreamer-under-the-moon asks #Secret Engima Rambles #Clouds and Moonlit Skies verse #long post #i have many feelings about angeal in this verse apparently

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checkurwindow · 4 years ago

Text

denial

Book: Open Heart

Warnings: Implied sex

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Ethan x F!MC

Word count: 1900+

Author’s Note: I’ve kind of written a sequel for this fic and you can find it here! Check out my masterlist while you’re here too!

He knew she was special from the moment he met her. He could see the determination in her eyes, the hope that there was still some good left in the world. She was the only slither of light left in his world, the star guiding him through the darkness.

He was hesitant. He thought that if he told her it would ruin their relationship, or whatever it was that they were, but most importantly it would risk their lives. He had a good career, nobody would bat an eye about him, but he knew that if they came out to the world there’d be whispers about her, and he couldn’t be the one who ruined her career.

But one day, he was watching her. He watched her give her all to save a patient's life and he thought to himself, “I can’t be the one to throw away the love of my life either.”

So he told her. Sure, he was a blubbering mess but he told her what he really felt, how much he cared for her, how much he loved her. That was all it took. Just like that, they were together. They were happy.

She doesn’t think about the times she looked at him and knew right then and there he was the love of her life

“Of course you’re great with kids too,” she rolled her eyes.

He let go of the now 3-year-old little Ethan Hudson’s hand. The two of them had taken their rare day off from work to spend some time with little Ethan, or as she liked to call him, Tad, short for tadpole, the nickname Delores used to call him.

“And that’s a problem?” He raised an eyebrow at her as little Ethan ran off towards the playground in the middle of the park.

“Yeah, now I can’t find anything you aren’t good at,” Ethan’s lips curled up into a small but visible smirk, “do you know exactly how frustrating that is?”

“Oh, I know all about it,” he wrapped his arms around her waist, “I have to deal with that every second I’m around you.”

She threw her head back and laughed, “that was very smooth.”

“I learned from the very best,” he replied as his smirk widened into a grin.

They sat down on a bench in peaceful silence as they watched little Ethan play on the playground with the other kids. He had gotten into some sort of argument with another toddler around his age. They’d been fighting over a sandcastle mould which was really one of them using it and the other snatching it up when no one was watching.

The sun was shining directly over them and it was starting to feel warmer by the second.

“We should take little Ethan to go get ice cream,” she said to him as they watched him wipe sweat off his forehead. She started to get up when he pulled her back down.

“I can’t let you tell him. He already likes you better than me and I refuse to end up just being ‘Ethan’s aunt’s boyfriend,’” he said with playful disgust lacing the last few words.

She teased, “can you really blame him?”

“No, I suppose I can’t,” he said as he stood up and took her hand, leading her to where little Ethan was, “you’re just too perfect like that, Rookie.”

She didn’t think of him anymore

If it weren’t for the cool air or the streams of morning light passing through the ever so slightly opened window, she would have thought of the situation as less of a fairytale dream and more of what it really was—a slow-moving nightmare that would haunt her endlessly

Her heart beat in sync with his breathing as she stared aimlessly at the wall to her side while he slept. Afraid that he’ll leave all too soon, she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing when she felt him stir in bed, meaning that he’d be waking up any second now.

She felt him peel his arm off her side as he sat up in bed, probably looking around at the mess they’d made last night. Her brain told her over and over again to open her eyes, do something, say something, anything to him, but she decided that maybe it was best if he just left right then and there. She didn’t want to put herself through any more pain than she had already been through and knew she’d undoubtedly face soon enough.

Light kisses were trailed down her neck as she felt his weight shift. Why did he do that? Why did he decide to remind her of their anger-fuelled relapse last night that ended with her in his arms, not wanting to be there but not willing to let go?

She felt warm drops of his tears fall onto the base of her neck as he left the last pepper of kisses. It was like he wanted to leave her with something to accompany the scars on her heart that he had caused.

She felt the weight being lifted off her as she felt him leave the bed. She tried to keep her eyes shut as she heard his feet shuffle across the hardwood floor of her bedroom.

But alas, her breaking point was when she heard his belt being picked up off the floor, along with his tie and the rest of his clothes that were strewn across the room, long forgotten in the haze that was the night before.

“Don’t leave me,” she croaked out just as he finished tying the laces of his shoes, “please, Ethan. I’m begging you,” she pleaded desperately.

He looked at her sadly, maybe contemplating whether he wanted to stay or not, if he could bring himself to ruin her, if he wanted to be remembered in her eyes as the man who crushed her heart without a sense of guilt.

He stepped closer to her, standing at the edge of the bed. She looked up at him expectantly but he simply shook his head lightly. Cupping her face with his hands, he leaned down, bringing his lips to meet hers as he kissed her with all the emotions he could muster.

He stepped away, giving her one final longing look, “I’m sorry,” he looked down to his feet, “you have no idea how sorry I am,” his hoarse voice made tears well up at the sides of her eyes, threatening to fall at any given moment.

She couldn’t pull her eyes off him as he walked away no matter how much she wanted to. As the sound of the front door closing echoed through the silent hallway of her apartment, she stared ahead emotionlessly. She looked to her empty bed, the open wound that would never quite heal fully, if at all.

She didn’t cry. She would have welcomed the tears with open arms right then but they just refused to fall, to roll down her face and stain the blankets that once wrapped around the man she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with.

At that point, anything would be better than the dreadful feeling of emptiness that was stuck at the back of her throat, clawing at her emotions that left when he did.

There was no longer even the slightest trace of Ethan in the entirety of her apartment, no memories of last night's events present except the one that replayed in her mind over and over again.

She doesn’t think about the words she wished could be taken back.

“We’ve all made mistakes, Rookie,” the enchanting nickname she used to love was being twisted against her, and she hated it.

“Don’t compare us, Ethan. I’m nothing like you,” she spat the words out as if they were venom.

“It takes two people to destroy a relationship,” his volume raised a few levels.

“Well, when things get hard I don’t run off to the Amazon for the second time!”

The words struck Ethan like a knife. How did she know he applied to go back? He laughed at himself internally, of course she knew. Everyone was in awe of her, someone would’ve let it slip eventually.

Everything finally made sense, the guilt that had been building up for weeks now finally reached a breaking point when he saw the hurt look on her face.

Any anger he previously had disappeared as she turned away from him, not wanting him to see just how broken she was, how broken he made her. Something in her wanted him to yell at her, to tell her that she was wrong. She knew the truth, but she wanted him to lie to her one last time. It could’ve been good, it would’ve been better.

The denial she wished so hard for never came.

“Will you ever forgive me?” He asked nervously.

She scoffed at his words, “Of course I want to forgive you, you have no idea how much I want to forgive you,” her voice softened, “but I’m scared that if I forgive you, you’ll come back and hurt me deeper than you already have,” she told the truth, then decided that she absolutely hated telling the truth.

He let out a defeated and shaky sigh, “so we’re over then,” he leaned against the counter. She didn’t know it, but if he hadn’t leaned against the counter, he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have collapsed.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are,” she tried to hide the tears that slipped down her cheeks but he noticed them, he always did. It broke him inside to know that he was the cause of her pain and her tears, and it hurt more to know that there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“Then I suppose this is goodbye.”

She doesn’t love him, not anymore.

If she had a dollar every time she repeated that same stupid lie to herself, maybe she’d be able to move out of the apartment that, even after so many nights, still felt like him. Maybe she’d even have enough money to move out of the godforsaken city that reminded her of him at every turn,

Even with him being thousands of miles away from her, she still couldn’t escape him. Occasionally, she’d hear the interns admiring everything about Ethan Freaking Ramsey. Just like that, all the tape, glue, and bandages that she tried to patch her heart together with fell apart and she was left to dwell on all the good times they once had.

She told herself that she’d get better. That one day she wouldn’t fall apart at the mere mention of his name. Who knows, maybe one day when he gets back she’d actually be able to hold an entire conversation with him.

Ethan wasn’t a mess like she was, even though she hoped he would be. From what she’d heard, he seemed to be handling the break-up well. The knowledge that he was fine when she wasn’t was another stab in the heart.

Maybe it was all a ruse, she’d hoped that he was putting up a front and was keeping his true feelings at bay with them, just like he had done to her.

But maybe those same friends told him that she was doing fine as well. On all accounts, she looked like she was doing fine. It was only when she locked herself away in her Ethan-free apartment that she could really be honest with herself.

If tissues filled her room, who would know? She was the only one who had to face the unmade bedsheets and piles of unfolded laundry. If anyone asked, she kept her room spotless.

And if she really asked herself, she didn’t love him anymore, she had gotten over him and was ready to go on and venture into the next chapter of her life.

But even she knew those were all lies.

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teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 5 years ago

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selfish

pairing: harry styles x reader

warnings: allusions drug abuse, arguments, cursing, smut, angst, talk of depression

word count: 4.3k

synopsis: the aftermath of a break up

authors note: hello! okay, so, i just want to put a disclaimer about the way that i describe harry in this. i want to go on record, stating that this is purely a work of fiction. i don’t think this is how harry truly is as a person, nor does it reflect his views and actions toward mental illness. i am in no way romantisizing any behavior like this. also, this fic is kind of heavy, with depictions of depression (which are based on personal experiences; everyone deals with it differently) and angst so keep that in mind... i think that’s all! i hope you enjoy! thanks xx

—

The one thing Y/N is worried about is sleeping alone.

Coming back, after staying with her mother for two weeks, to find their once shared home completely stripped of anything to remind her of him is one thing, but the fact that she has to sleep in their bed, knowing full well he isn’t going to be coming in late after a long day at the studio, knowing that he isn’t going to be there to kiss that spot between her shoulder blades before he falls asleep, knowing that he isn’t going to be mumbling sweet nothings to her in the dead of night, knowing that he isn’t going to be there when she wakes up. He’s never going to be there again, not to hold, to kiss, or to make love to.

The thought of sleeping alone brings her close to breaking down and calling him.

But she can’t.

Isn’t it odd how, when you’re in the reflection period of the break up you focus mostly on the good parts of the relationship? Maybe it’s because you’re unconsciously trying to lift your spirits; perhaps it’s because your heart has been through a lot with a separation, and thinking of all the good memories is a coping mechanism, or maybe you’re trying to convince yourself that you made a mistake, even though you’re sure you didn’t.

Y/N doesn’t dwell too much on the months of loneliness she felt. She can’t seem to recall that she basically slept alone during the months leading up to their separation, with Harry staying out late, and even when they were in bed together, they slept on opposite sides, backs facing each other.

Instead, she remembers the nights where he was needy, desperate for any sort of contact with her, whining when she would move away in the slightest. She easily remembers the mornings where he snuggled close to her chest, his nose dangerously close to her cleavage and hands drifting across her skin. She remembers the beaming grin on his face when they woke up in a beach cabana in Jamaica, the sunlight seeping through the rippling blinds, the breeze warm and calm. She remembers the day she came back from a hard day at work, and he was there, with his arms open. That night, he wiped her stress-tears with his thumbs, and he told her that everything would be alright. She thinks about their first date, their first kiss, and so on.

Her heart wants to blame Harry for the downfall of their relationship. Surely, they would still be together if only he communicated more with her, if only he noticed anything. She could make millions of excuses. Her heart wants to blame him, but her head knows that they were both at fault.

They started distancing themselves after their three-year anniversary. It just sort of happened. They had been living together for a year. They had been way past the honeymoon stage, and they were comfortable with each other. They didn’t need to constantly talk or be close to one another anymore. This was normal for a three-year relationship; it was just a little slump, but as the months drew on, it got worse. They rarely talked; it was like living with family rather than a lover. He was distant, secretive almost. She knew that he wasn’t really hiding anything from her, he’d been cheated too many times to do the same to her, but it was as if he wasn’t comfortable being open with her anymore.

Slowly, Y/N felt herself falling into a hole that she didn’t know she could crawl out of. When she noticed herself withdrawing, it was with simple things, like not wanting to go out anymore, whereas that’s all he ever wanted to do, and then she barely had the energy to go to work, let alone out in public to socialize. She could always see the frustration in his eyes whenever she would tell him she would rather just stay in when he offered to take her out with him.

Soon, he just stopped asking.

He would come home late to find that she didn’t move at all, and he would crawl in bed, silence heavy between the two of them. Sometimes he would ask if she had eaten anything, and she would lie. He would be gone by the time she woke, busy with his high-demanding job before the sun even came up. She would find the bed empty and cold, and the day would start all over again.

The thing about Harry is that he doesn’t really understand what it feels like. He’s never had trouble with negative thoughts. He would never understand how much guilt she felt for not being the same person as she was when they met. He doesn’t know the sinking feeling in her stomach when he forgets to kiss her forehead in the morning, and how her mind runs wild with self-doubt. He’s never known how it feels to blame yourself for everything that goes wrong.

He doesn’t know how much of a burden she feels like because she couldn’t seem to make him happy anymore or how much it breaks her heart to feel him slipping through her fingers, and she’s just stuck, frozen with fear and anxiety and dread, wondering what she’s doing wrong, but that’s the thing. She knows exactly why things aren’t as good as they used to be. She’s fully aware that if she just put in a little more effort, they could be happy again, but when it comes down to it, she can never find the energy to do it. It’s a vicious cycle, and it’s so difficult to get past it.

Y/N went to her doctor before it got to the point of no return. She started taking her old medication, and she slowly felt like her old self again, getting out and appreciating things more and more. However, as she was starting to get back to her normal self, she noticed how much of a strain their relationship was in. She thought that if she got back to normal, everything would be fine. She tried her hardest to spend more time with him and get back to the way things were before, but he just pulled further and further away.

This was happening for months, but neither had the courage to say anything. Perhaps it was because they didn’t want to be alone. They didn’t want to go through the pain of a break up. They didn’t want to learn how to live without each other because they were together for three years. They were both so used to just having each other there that they didn’t want to consider the possibility of the other not being there.

When she finally admitted to herself that their relationship needed to end, it felt like a weight was put on her shoulders.

Despite everything, despite all the good memories, the time they spent together, and the warm love they once shared, the break up was for the best, really. At least, that’s what Y/N thought. Even though it was a long time coming, the break up was still less than amicable. Harry, on the other hand, was in denial, insisting they were fine. It was just a rough patch, and they could move past it; they had survived a lot worse.

She almost believed him.

But when she asked him to give her a reason to stay, to tell her to not give up on the past three years, he just looked at her with teary eyes, at a loss for words.

She wanted to hear him say, “I love you.”

If only he said those simple words, she would have stayed, and now, instead of being alone, wallowing in self-pity, and dreaming of what could have been, she would be with him, talking through their problems. He would promise to make more time for her, and she would tell him all about her poor state of mental health. He would apologize for putting her through any pain, for turning a blind eye when she was in need. She would beg him to forgive her for being less understanding, for jumping to conclusions and making decisions without communicating with him first. They would cry together, mourning the first chapter of their lives that was filled with domestic bliss and innocence, but they would also be filled with hope for the future and stronger than ever.

And maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

If only he said, “I love you.”

But he didn’t; his silence was answer enough. He couldn’t give her a reason to stay, so she didn’t. She nodded, tears finally spilling out.

“I’m—” Harry choked on his words, reaching helplessly for her. She hugged him one last time, cupping his cheek, and he dipped down, pressing their foreheads together. At this point, they were both exhausted. They fought, yelled, cursed each other, but when the dust finally settled, they were left devastated, left with absolutely nothing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered, broken and defeated. He let out a breath, lips quivering.

She knew what he was going to say.

I’m sorry.

She understood; she really did. She knew how painful it was to face your problems and to find yourself just stuck, unable to do anything or say anything to right your wrong, but she can’t really blame him. When you fall out of love, there is just no changing that, and it was selfish of her to expect his feelings to go back to what they used to be. He isn’t accustomed to change, so she understood how difficult it was for him to let go, to just discard their relationship, and move on like nothing ever happened.

Even though she understood, she had to walk away.

What’s the point of loving someone who doesn’t love you back?

Before she left, he kissed her, maybe it was for old time’s sake or maybe it was his last ditch effort to convince her to stay, and she almost did. She almost broke down and collapsed into his arms, relieved to feel safe and loved once again.

But she couldn’t.

She left that night with the bags that she had packed over a month ago, and told him that she would be back in two weeks to, hopefully, find an empty house.

—

Harry doesn't quite remember how he ended up in the dingy bathroom of an underground bar in downtown L.A. with a girl between his legs.

Then again, he can’t remember much of anything nowadays.

The night, hell, the past two weeks, has been blurred with tears, flashing lights, and lots of drugs and tequila.

He doesn't know the girl’s name, how they met, or even what she looks like, but he can’t bring himself to care. He lazily pulls her hair up into his fist, the strands stringy and dull. His grip is loose, just enough to hold it together so it didn’t get in her eyes. He leans his head against the brick wall, his knees weak.

He loses himself, his drug addled mind wandering. The buzzing of the lights above the sink pairs well with the bass coming from outside. The brick walls of the bathroom are graffitied with luminescent paint, which glows painfully bright in the black light. The faces and letters melt off the walls, dripping onto the floor and leaving a puddle, but the original shapes still remain. The tattoos on his arms move and shift; some fall to the floor, slithering toward the puddle from the paint on the walls. He grins, eyes rolling into the back of his head as the cloud of euphoria grows stronger, numbing his fingers. He flexes them, nearly laughing aloud at the tickling feeling that spreads through them.

He hasn’t binged this much in years, and he can feel it.

When he and Y/N first started dating, he stopped. Not necessarily because she forced him or even told him to, but he just didn’t want to anymore. Then, they broke up, and Harry has never been good with coping.

Feeling anything is better than feeling nothing at all.

"Harry," the girl moans, pressing her lips to his hip bone. The unfamiliar voice knocks him out of his stupor, eyes flickering open to see the girl staring up at him, alluring and dazed. He swallows, blinking slowly to come back to reality. Y/N never called him that. It was always H or Haz, never Harry. He can’t seem to quell the dismay that settles in his stomach, wishing he could get lost in his head again.

Maybe this time, he’ll be able to see Y/N.

He blinks slowly, focusing on her touch on his abdomen. It tingles, like when your leg falls asleep, and spreads down to his feet. It’s almost painful.

Feeling anything is better than feeling nothing at all.

“C’mere, baby,” he slurs, tucking his thumb beneath her chin. She smiles, biting her lip gently. She hooks her fingers in the belt loops of his pants, and she stumbles when she stands, tripping over her high heels. He barely catches her before she could fall, fingers digging into her waist. She’s thin; he can feel the divots of her ribs as she breathes deeply. Y/N always felt soft and warm. He would kiss and massage the little pooch hanging off her stomach and hips. It was always something she felt insecure about, but he always tried his best to make sure she knew that he loved it. The girl nestles into his neck, kissing and biting at the skin.

“Such a nice cock,” she moans, stroking him slowly. “What can you do with it?” He grins, tracing his fingers over the side of her neck. She has a tattoo of a butterfly there, with fancy script looping all the way up to her ear. He can’t make out what it says. He licks his lips, baring his teeth as the tips of his fingers dig into her skin. Her heart races. He leans in close to her ear.

“Bend over f’me, lovie, by the sink.” The pet name slips out before he can stop it, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. She smiles, smooth cheeks lifting with life beneath hollow eyes. Her makeup is flaking off. He thinks her eyes are bleeding for a second.

She leans against the sink, her back facing him, arching, compliant and vulnerable for him. Harry pulls one of her knees up onto the counter, the dark red dress bunching up to her hips. He traces the stitching of her leather dress, pulling her panties to the side. He traces the head of his cock over her slit.

“Fuck me, please,” she moans, her hips bucking against him. When he bottoms out, he closes his eyes, savoring the warmth swallowing him. He breathes out deeply as the room spins and closes his eyes, trying to focus on her tight walls, squeezing and milking him. When he feels stable again, he opens his eyes, bright colors flooding his vision. He thrusts his hips roughly against hers, and a groan bubbles in his chest.

The girl rests her cheek on her arms, glancing up at him with big eyes. They’re Y/N’s eyes, he realizes, filled with warmth and love and security. Y/N smiles from beneath him, teeth nibbling on her swollen lips, teasing him. Her nose crinkles suddenly as he hits that spot inside, and a gasp of pleasure slips through her lips, shallow and weak, breaking slightly at the end, but her serene features, content grin, and glimmering eyes show him nothing less than bliss.

It makes him falter, seeing Y/N for the first time in weeks. He’s barely been able to even think about her without breaking down, let alone look at pictures of her, so seeing her beneath him, panting and moaning like all those other times they made love, makes a sob grow in his chest. He leans closer, making her whine, and nestles his nose into her hair, grinding himself deeper into her. Her free hand moves to the back of his neck, fingers carding through his wet hair. He inhales her scent, an odd mix of vanilla and salt.

Her hand moves, trailing down to his on her hips, desperately clutching onto his fingers, their pinkies interlocking. That was something Y/N always did; somehow, she would always find a way to hold his hand. She told him that it kept her grounded, kept her from going off into a headspace, and reminded her that he was real.

That’s how he knows it’s her.

Tears burn his eyes, and his arm circles her middle, clutching onto any skin he can, eager to feel her. His fingers dig into her stomach, pressing until he can feel himself through her skin. A wave of relief washes through him, and he thinks he’s going to collapse, knees feeble. He rests his forehead against the crown of her head, and she turns slightly to kiss the curve of his jaw.

“Missed you so much, babylove,” he murmurs into her hair, the heat from his breath making her shiver.

“Faster,” she whimpers, backing into him. His fingers trace the skin of her neck, thumb and forefinger massaging just beneath her jawline. He can feel her heartbeat pick up.

“Feels so good, Y/N,” he moans, grinding his hips deeper into her. “D’ya like that, lovie? Such a dirty girl f’me.”

“Yes,” the girl whines, voice broken and weak. “Harry, ‘m gonna come.”

He blinks, once, twice, three times. There’s a ringing in his ears, muffling the sounds of her moans and the music thundering in the bar. He pushes himself from her and looks up, hands resting on the counter.

The mirror above him is grimy; despite that, he can still barely recognize the person staring back at him. Red blotchy rings paint the outside of his eyelids and beneath them are dark purple circles, stretching down to the tops of his cheekbones, making him look gaunt and hollow. His hair, greasy and tousled, slips down onto his forehead. Stubble coats his jaw and trails all the way down to the better part of his neck, which is marred with deep love bites.

Looking at the sorry state he’s in makes him nearly stumble back, but he feels his world stop for a second when he remembers that this girl isn’t Y/N.

That’s all it takes for his world to come crashing down.

”This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”

Harry never really understood how easy it is to break something down after building it up so far. It takes just one drop of water to break a weak dam.

Like the dam, Harry’s walls came tumbling down.

The weight of the situation finally settles on him, and he feels like he can’t breathe. His chest tightens painfully as visions of the woman he loves pass before him. He remembers the first time he ever saw her, how she pulled him in with her smile, and when she spoke and laughed with him, he was a goner.

A coldness fills his veins, dread passing through him. He took her for granted, and he has to pay the price. He will never be with her ever again. He will never be able to hold her one last time. He isn’t going to marry her or grow old with her.

He lost the love of his life.

He just let her walk away.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, stumbling back to the opposite wall. His knees give out, and his back harshly hits the brick. He struggles to button his pants in front of this stranger, who is trying to also cover her modesty, tugging at her dress shakily. A sob wracks through him before he can stop. Clutching onto his mouth, he finally breaks. Guilt and pain sink into his stomach. His heart beats faster as he struggles to catch his breath, lips trembling. His nails dig into his arms as he cradles himself, knees tucked close to his chest. Blood drips through his fingers.

Feeling anything is better than feeling nothing at all.

“Are you okay?” The girl asks, kneeling in front of him. Her dress is pulled back down, but he can see remnants of himself on her skin, her thighs quivering and the skin of her neck wet from his kisses. Sweat on her hairline makes flyaways cling to her forehead. She wipes them away and reaches for his arm, eyes filled with concern.

He shakes his head and inches away from her, his shoulders digging deeper into the painted wall, all while pitifully wiping the wetness from his cheeks; his skin is dry though, no tears actually escaped. His heart races, feeling the pressure in his head build. All he wants to do is cry, but nothing will come out.

“I’m—” He begins, but the words get caught in his throat.

I’m sorry.

Memories of that night come crawling back, festering and pushing deeper into his mind until it feels like his head is going to burst. Y/N looked so sad, so weak, so empty. Her shoulders sagged, and her eyes, once radiant and optimistic, were hollow, void of any light.

When Y/N asked him to give her a reason to stay, he had millions of them, but when he looked at her, beaten down and tired, he couldn’t say any of those things. He couldn’t say any of them. He couldn’t say how much he loved her, how he knew that she was going to be the woman he married, how much she meant to him, even if he hadn’t shown it as often. He wanted to tell her to not give up on them because he didn’t know what to do without her; she was his rock and his safety net.

He couldn’t say any reasons because he was just being selfish. When she was so clearly broken, nearly deteriorating before his very eyes, he couldn’t make her stay.

So he let her go. He let her walk away, and when he kissed her for the last time, he felt all the pain she did over the past few months. He hated the fact that he was the cause of it.

It was for the best, for her.

Then, why does it hurt so much?

—

By two in the morning, Y/N is no closer to falling asleep than she was hours ago.

She started in their bedroom, sinking into the down comforter that Harry insisted they get, even though it got too hot for her liking. Now, it’s always cold, no matter what she does.

What makes it worse is the fact that it doesn’t smell like him anymore. There was no warmth or comfort left in that bare room. She tosses and turns for hours, trying not to think of the memories the two shared in that room, trying not to think of the paintings that were no longer there, trying not to think of the fact that he’s not going to be there. It’s not just one thing that makes her miss him. It’s a bunch of little things, like how his shoes aren’t thrown about at the door, piling up until she trips on a pair. Hell, she almost started crying when she saw that there was only one toothbrush in the holder instead of two.

It was for the best.

Y/N moved to the couch at around midnight, but it didn't help either.

She has honestly given up on trying to sleep. With a mug of coffee in hand, she settles onto the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. She contemplates getting a cat. It’s an impulsive act, really, but anything is better than the loneliness. She knows that she won’t end up getting one, but it’s nice to think about coming home to someone who missed you. She knows that the heartache will pass, but for right now, she’s left with doubt and sorrow.

An infomercial plays in the background, lighting the room. It’s bright, but the burning behind her eyes is from exhaustion. Sleep refuses to take her, mind filled with thoughts of Harry.

It’ll get easier, she tells herself. Sure, it’s tough, now, but soon, she’ll be able to sleep on the couch without thinking of the times they spent bingeing shows. Then, she’ll be able to sleep in their bed and not think of him snuggling into her, nose pressed into her neck, or waking in the morning to find him between her legs, or even how Harry had the terrible habit of talking in his sleep. She’ll be able to shower without thinking of the times when Harry would accidentally turn the lights off. She’ll be able to cook in the kitchen and clean the house on Saturday mornings and lay in the hammock on the back porch without thinking of him.

It’ll get easier, but for now, it’s just painful.

Y/N sighs, resting her chin on the pillow, which she has gathered in her arms, bundled and clutched tightly to her chest. Her thumb mindlessly caresses the velvet as fatigue gets the better of her. Just as she’s nodding off, her phone rings.

—

part two

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #ellie writes #ellie writes angst #ellie writes smut #not my gif #credit to owner

387 notes · View notes

tikoy · 4 years ago

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Kinktober Day 17

Day 17:

Series: FGO

Diarmuid ua Duibne x unnamed female master

First person POV

Warnings: Sex

Rating: Explicit

On a Rayshift, Diarmuid gets injured so he reluctantly asks you for a mana transfer.

Rain poured heavily all through the night. Winds howled against the walls, sending occasional groans and rattles all through the dilapidated building. I twisted and turned, trying in vain to fall asleep. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept racing. It had been hours since I’d turned in, but I’d just lain awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Thoughts of the earlier battle kept running through my head. Flashes of brightly emblazoned fur, enormous tusks, and glowing eyes seemed burned on the backs of my eyelids. I could still smell the fetid breath of the demon boar as it charged. We’d managed to scrape by, but my servants paid the price. I bit my lip.

Injuries were expected. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen blood spilled, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But it had been months since my servants had gotten more than bruises or scrapes. We’d been doing so well. Guilt still sat heavy in my gut even after I’d patched them up as best I could. I’d hesitated for a second, and that was all it took. A second of indecision and paralysis that everyone else had been punished for. I turned and pressed my face into the pillow. It was pointless and counter-productive, but I’d wished that I’d gotten injured as well, to help lessen the guilt.

After a few more minutes of wallowing in guilt, I gave up and got out of bed. I made my way to the makeshift kitchen, hoping that a drink of water would help. The wooden floorboards creaked and groaned, but the storm outside was much louder. I felt my way through the dimly-lit halls and stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t fall through the holes in the woodwork. I arrived unscathed, but I wasn’t alone. A familiar dark-tressed knight stood vigil, staring out towards the barred wooden doors. At the sound of my approach, he turned.

“Master, is something the matter?”

Even in the low light, he was beautiful. His cheekbones were sharp, and his jaw strongly defined. His amber eyes sparkled in what little light it caught. For a moment, I stood transfixed, my purpose forgotten. A flash of lightning snapped me back to my senses. I cleared my throat and gave a sheepish smile.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping that a drink of water would help.”

“Ah, then let me-“

“No! It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re still standing guard. I can do it myself,” I insisted, walking towards the sink before he could move.

As I held a relatively clean glass under the faucet, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He’d turned back towards the door, his two spears at the ready. There was a certain stiffness to his shoulders, and his grip seemed too harsh. A tension had hung between us ever since I’d given him chocolates earlier this year. It wasn’t as if it affected his ability or the dynamics between us during battle, but outside of combat we could hardly speak to one another. I always got tongue-tied whenever I addressed him, blundering through even the most mundane of small talk. He’d reply politely and calmly, making my awkwardness even more glaringly obvious. No matter how politely he replied however, I always got the sense that he was trying to pull away. It hurt, and I didn’t even have the right to be hurt.

Regret and guilt were a horrible combination in my gut. The valentine chocolates had seemed a great idea at the time. But all I got from that momentary glee was self-inflicted disappointment. I’d found myself turning towards him more frequently, and a flutter in my chest whenever I heard his voice. It was embarrassing. I was a grown woman. A crush shouldn’t affect me to this degree! Especially considering what I’d been tasked with doing. To be distracted by such trite matters was unthinkable. Unforgivable.

“Master, your cup overflows.”

I flinched, jerked back to reality by the sound of his voice. Water had been running over my skin now, the cold rendering it numb. Hastily, I turned off the tap and brought the glass to my lips. I drank, doing my best not to choke under his scrutiny. He’d left his post by the door and stood next to me, staring silently. His spears had vanished. While I had no doubt that he’d still be able to effectively deal with threats anywhere within the room, it was highly uncharacteristic for him to approach. When I’d finished drinking, I turned to him, an apology already upon my lips-

“It seems you have plenty of things on your mind, Master” he stated. “May I know what troubles you?”

-only to be tongue-tied once more.

“I-I… uh… the battle earlier.” I caught his split-second flinch. “I’m so sorry I hesitated and got you all injured…”

“It is a small matter. Nobody died and we managed a win. I remains a success,” he replied, waving the matter off easily as if he hadn’t gotten gored at the side earlier.

I frowned at him and stepped closer to prod at his chest. “You really shouldn’t be letting me get away with these things so easily, you know! Even if I’m the master, you’re still need to point out my mistakes so I learn from them.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “But it seems as if you’ve already learned your lesson however. Calling attention to your mistake again would be akin to tearing open a freshly lanced wound. It serves no purpose.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t harbor even the least amount of resentment over it. I mean, even Cu and Hans flicked me on the forehead for it earlier.”

“You wish to be flicked on the forehead?”

“Argh! No I mean- uhh don’t you want even the teensiest bit of revenge for it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…”

“Well, what I’m saying is that you get a free pass to do anything to me. Just this once because I messed up… I mean anything outside of outright killing or significantly injuring me!” I rambled

“Hm.”

Something flickered across his expression. He stepped closer, close enough that I felt his breath fan my face. His eyes seemed strangely intent. His hand clasped mine gently. My knees felt weak. I could hardly breathe.

A soft thud sounded in the hall, followed by a series of curses. We jumped apart, panicked. As I tried to calm my beating heart, Hans stepped out of the shadows of the hall, rubbing his head, his eyes clenched shut.

“Hans, are you okay?” I asked, doing my best to not seem flustered.

“Eh? Master, you’re awake?” he called out, squinting into the dimly-lit room. “Just had a bit of a stumble in the dark. I’m fine.”

“If you are unwell, I can keep watch for this next shift as well,” Diarmuid offered.

“Bah! Do not coddle me. I am not the type of writer that pries apart two lovers engaged in a late night tryst!”

My cheeks flared as I stammered out my denial. Diarmuid was equally as adamant, though significantly less flustered. Yet the author paid no heed to our words, merely ushering us out into the hallway. Resigned, we walked through the hall silently. Gone was the friendly air we’d managed to wrangle earlier. All we had left was our usual tense silence, now heavier with questions regarding what happened before Hans interrupted. I bit my lip. I didn’t dare hope.

We reached my door, but he didn’t depart immediately. He lingered, frowning at the ground. After a few more moments, he sighed and gave a low bow.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming of a knight.”

“I-It’s fine!” I stammered out. “I was the one who put you on the spot. It’s my fault.”

He firmly shook his head. “No. I am at fault. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of a lady’s offer t-to-“ He cleared his throat. “The fault is completely mine, I assure you, my lady.”

The title sent my heart fluttering once more. I bit my lip, doing my best to stamp down the glee of him addressing me as his. “Diarmuid,” I called out, “what were you planning to do earlier?”

He glanced to the side. “I wanted to ask for a bit of mana.”

“Ah! Um! Yes! Okay! N-no need to be ashamed of that!” I assured him. “I-I mean that’s normal!”

My hands trembled in a mix of nervousness and giddiness. It wasn’t an unusual request, but he’d never asked anything like that before. He seemed content enough with the supply that Chaldea gave. I tried to open the door, but my hands shook too much to turn the knob. As I struggled, his hands drifted towards mine and engulfed them.

“It’s not,” he muttered, keeping his gaze averted. “May we speak further of these matters inside your room?”

He held fast to my hand as we went inside my room. When the door shut, he closed his eyes and squeezed my hand.

“I… have affections for you, Master. It is unbecoming, especially since I had intended to ask mana from you.”

Glee shot through me like a firework, setting everything ablaze. My skin tingled. My chest seemed too tight, too filled with joy. I was quickly losing the battle to keep a smile from my face. It was getting difficult to form coherent thought.

“I don’t follow…” I wheezed. “W-why would that be a bad thing?”

He frowned. “My wish had only been to serve loyally and fight for a Master who wouldn’t betray me. And so far in my stay in Chaldea, I’d managed to get that. I greatly respect you, Master, and still wholeheartedly pledge my being to your cause. But-“ he broke off, biting his lip, “these feelings ruin matters.”

He let go and buried his face in his hands. “I had done my best to keep away from such matters, yet now my ruin comes by my own hand… Perhaps this is revenge for all the suffering I’d caused before.”

“Diarmuid, it’s fine. This… this doesn’t have to change things-“

He growled. His hands fell to the sides, clenched in tight fists. “It has already changed everything! I cannot stand to be alone with you. When we speak, I struggle to keep myself distant, to keep myself from pursuing the conversation further. Even now as I loathe these feelings, my arms still long to hold you.”

He sighed and leaned against a wall. Anguish colored his expression. His breathing was ragged. His eyes bore into mine, pleading for answers that I could not give. Everything was bittersweet. I slowly made my way over, careful not to startle. Ever so gently, I wrapped my arms around his frame and pulled him to a hug. I kept my hold on him until his breathing relaxed, until the tension eased from his body. I knew not how long we stayed holding each other, only that it settled a comforting warmth over my chest.

He pulled away just enough for me to see his expression. He looked much calmer now, though his mouth still dipped downward. “I apologize for my earlier behavior, Master. I am… unused to these types of feelings.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it too much. I… actually have something to tell you as well.” I bit my lip. “I uh… have affections for you too…”

Panic seeped into his expression. “I’m sorry. I can’t control the love spo-“

“What?! No! No! I mean, if this was entirely because of that geas, don’t you think I’d be more aggressive? And that I would have pursued you much earlier?”

He furrowed his brows, still unconvinced. Nevertheless, he dropped the matter and just continued to hold me close. He played with the ends of my hair. I traced patterns onto his back. Even through the fabric, I could feel where the bandages bunched up on his torso. Idly, I pressed a kiss against his chest in apology. He shuddered and lightly tugged at my hair.

“Do you still want that mana transfer?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “A small amount would be sufficient…”

I reached up to press a kiss against his lips. I trembled as I kissed him, leaving touches as delicate as spun sugar. There were no fireworks this time, just tiny little pinpricks of glee as our lips moved. I pulled away, breathless. His amber eyes were half-lidded. He leaned closer and whispered a desperate “more” against my lips. I left a hundred butterfly kisses on his cheeks. When I’d run out, he cradled my chin. “More,” came the breathless plea. He slanted his mouth over mine, licking at my bottom lip until I opened my mouth. His tongue dove in, exploring every nook and cranny as if committing it to memory. When my chest burned for oxygen, he pressed his lips against my neck. “More.”

I led him to my bed as we kissed. He sat down and pulled me to his lap. I left tiny rosebuds on his collarbones. I tugged my shirt up half-way before I prompted, “More?” “More.” He helped ease off my shirt, and ran his fingers down the newly-exposed flesh. He grasped my breasts almost reverently, rubbing and squeezing as if afraid of breaking me. I sighed and arced my back, enjoying the gentle affection. Desire built up inside me. As he continued, he started to buck his hips. His arousal stood at full mast. I reached down and stroked, squeezing a drawn out groan from him. He pressed his face on my shoulder and hissed. “More?” “…More.”

I got out of his lap. I pulled at his tights until they dissolved under my touch. His arousal was flushed and curved. I knelt in between his legs and pressed a kiss against the base.

“More?” I asked, gazing up at him imploringly.

“More,” he choked.

I took as much as I could of him into my mouth. What I couldn’t fit, I stroked with my hands. I hummed around him as I sucked, drinking in his shudders and twitches. I bobbed my head faster and faster, doing my best to keep my gag reflex suppressed. He groaned out my name and grabbed my head. I glanced up to see him biting his lip fiercely, eyes grown dark with lust. His face and neck were flushed. I pulled away for a moment. “More?” “M-more…”

I pressed my breasts around his arousal and started stroking. He hissed, threw his head back, and swore. His entire body trembled. From time to time, I’d take the tip into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it. It left him keening and crying out my name. It was addicting to see him come nearly undone at my mercy. As the pace increased, so too did the volume of his cries. His hips started bucking faster. His body trembled and tensed. He gripped my hair tighter. He came in bursts, coating my face and breasts with his cum. He leaned down as he recovered, as if watching for my reaction. He wiped away as much he could from my face, doing his best even as he trembled.

“Are you alright, Master? Do you require assistance?”

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” I wheezed.

I climbed back onto the bed and lay down beside him. Our hands were clasped as we both tried to recover our breath. I closed my eyes. Exhaustion hit and it was slowly dragging me down to sleep. I twitched and struggled, fighting back to stay awake. I felt Diarmuid shift beside me. Soft lips pressed against mine in a chaste kiss.

“Going to sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head. “N-no. I’m… I’m just resting my eyes…”

“More?”

“M-more…”

I felt him tug my shorts and underwear off. My legs were nudged apart. A few kisses and nips were planted along my inner thighs. A warm mouth descended on my core. I jerked and opened my eyes. He watched me as he ate me out. His tongue lapped at me eagerly, occasionally brushing against my clit. I hissed and bucked, but his hands kept me firmly in place. He pulled his mouth away soon after, and replaced it with his fingers. He slowly eased one finger in, eagerly drinking in my reactions as I squirmed.

“You look so beautiful, Master,” he crooned. “It’s just one finger but you’re reacting so much.”

I bit my lip to keep my voice back but he started thrusting the finger in even faster. I hissed and kicked at his shoulder as he increased the pace. After a few minutes, he added in a second finger. He began to spread them apart and rub more firmly against my walls. After he stroked a particular spot, I tensed and bucked into the air. A big spark of pleasure ran through me, leaving me breathless. He started rubbing more insistently at that spot. I shuddered as the sparks slowly built a raging flame.

“My lovely debauched Master! Moaning out my name while I pleasure you… making such delightful little noises with that pretty voice of yours…”

I clenched tighter around his fingers. To hear the usually polite knight flatter me in such a bawdy way gave me a heady rush. I whimpered as he took his fingers out and gave a cursory lick, tasting my essence. As he continued to pleasure me, his other hand stroked his growing arousal. At regular intervals, he kept increasing the fingers until we were all the way to five. I was near delirious at this point, desperate for release. I reached my arms towards him, beckoning him closer.

“Diarmuid,” I begged, “fuck me…”

He smiled sweetly, as if I’d merely asked him to hold my hand. He lined his arousal up with my entrance and gently pushed it in. I squeaked and shuddered, holding close to him as he reached the hilt. Diarmuid was a gentle lover, letting me feel every glorious centimeter of his length as he ran it through me. He kissed my cheeks as I cried out. He kept at a slow gentle pace until I begged him to fuck me faster. He put my legs over his shoulders and set a faster pace. The angle made sure that he kept on hitting that spot consistently. He kept cooing and praising me whenever I clenched tightly around him. He peppered kisses down my neck as he whispered words of adoration. I scratched his back with my nails and hissed out his name. The fire inside me was now a conflagration, ready to burst out my skin. I clenched tighter around him, begging for release.

We came one after another, each crying out one another’s name. He kept moving even as he came, stuffing me full of his seed. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, holding on until morning light came. I knew not what we were to one another. It was no longer just a bond of a Master and her Servant. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t that brilliant or completed yet. It wasn’t friendship nor simple infatuation. Whatever it was, it felt warm and comforting, a refuge.

Thank you for the suggestion nonny! I’m sorry I went with female for this prompt because it was t*tfucking.

I have many thoughts about Diarmuid.

He’d probably have a LOT of reservation and hesitation before getting into any sort of romantic entanglements willingly. While I don’t doubt that he could probably still be attracted to people, I feel like he’d be the type to ignore it as much as he could. He’d even be more wary of people claiming they like him because a) the love spot geas, b) how people being attracted to him led to his downfall.

Initially when I began this fic, I went in with the idea that well as far as falling in love goes he’d probably be the least hesitant if it was with the lord/lady he was serving, right? NAH. That love and adoration is going to color his loyalty and service. He’s not used to that so it probably really makes him nervous. Add to that the complication that is mana transfer. It is a physical thing, sure, and if you’re really determined it’s just going to remain that way. But if attraction is added to the mix, it introduces a whole host of problems. The question of “am I asking for a mana transfer because I do need mana or is because I want physical affection?” comes up a lot and is probably the one Diarmuid is primarily concerned with. (Tried to squeeze this into the fic but it was getting long and I was getting tired sorry)

I did my best to do justice to his character, tweaking and prodding at circumstances to make it still feel like this is still him willingly entering into something sexual with his master. Let me know which parts you thought needed more improvement! Thank you!!

Accepting suggestions!

#Kinktober 2020 #Kinktober 2020 Day 17 #Fate #Fate Grand Order #Diarmuid #diarmuid ua duibhne #FGO #non SFW #tikoy writes #Fate Zero #It's nearly 7 am I haven't slept yet #I'm sorry about the typos will look them over later #Many many feelings about diarmuid

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a-shakespearean-in-paris · 5 years ago

Text

Only Lovers

Leon and Ada, from the Resident Evil series, sometime in the future. This is explicit and NSFW. Smut ahead Also on A03

She wakes before him. Despite their deeds last night, it seems too intimate to chance a peek at his sleeping form. She’s always taken chances. Why should this one be different? So she takes the chance.

When she gazes at him, she’s both astonished and left breathless. He’s a different person asleep. Younger looking. She’s more nervous looking at him sleeping than she is standing in front of him naked. He’s stunning. If he weren’t working the government, he’d be living in the Renaissance as an artist’s model. He’d be Michelangelo’s choice for David.

She’s made it this far, so she decides that a delicate finger to trace his cheek won’t do any harm. He doesn’t stir. She grows bolder, traces his lips. Last night, they were reverent against her fevered body, even as she was the one that directed their furtive scene. Her personal style is to be in control, and in his mad desire to please, in his mad want of her, he didn’t try to push her down on the bed when her thighs were on both sides of him and take control, like perhaps another man would. Instead he succumbed to her, and watched with reverence as she moved above. When he did rise, it was only to wrap his arms around her and hold her. Then began the rain of kisses, everywhere he could touch. She even let him kiss the corner of her mouth, as if they were lovers forever and not at this one moment, not enemies on opposite sides who had burned for each other for years and were just now letting themselves blow off some steam. Fucking was so much like fighting. There was sweat, passion, no sense of beginning or end. Just the now. She revealed in the urgent now last night.

Then he kissed her on the mouth, and she could have cried. For a few moments, when his lips grazed her cupid’s bow and tongue gently sought entrance inside, there was no question they were making love, and not extending their outside-of-the-bedroom and outside-the-moment line between antagonism and allies. For those moments there was no more blurred lines. They were only lovers.

As he sleeps, she allows herself to indulge in that tenderness that was only brief during their night together. She reminds herself she intended to leave before he wakes, but she’s caught between sensibilities and wanting to partake in her personal version of the female gaze. It reminds her when they first met, and he took that bullet for her after only knowing her for a few hours. After patching him up, she wasted precious moments looking at him. Even then she knew him to be about a couple of years younger than she was, and so much more idealistic. Even that’s not changed now, even after everything, even after all he’s seen. She doesn’t know if she should pity him or wish she could take some of that idealism for herself. She only knows she’s always been compelled to draw out the moment, where he’s asleep and she’s awake, and he’s her own Adonis.

When Adonis stirs, she draws her hand away. He stretches and she prepares herself for the inevitable: I should go, this should never have happened in the first place. Yet when she closes her eyes, as if that’ll prepare her for the hurt that she shouldn’t be bothered by anyway, she feels only the warmth of his hand, cupping her cheek.

“I know you’re awake,” he mutters.

She opens her eyes, stirring with want. Naked underneath the bed sheets, the slight sun that pours through the small crack between the curtains outlines his form, the strength of his arms and broad shoulders, and brings out the golden tinges in his hair that rests somewhere between brown and blonde. She chuckles to herself, ruffling the already mussed hair. She’s never met a man so attached to one haircut.

He asks how long she’s been awake and she answers truthfully: about ten minutes.

“You didn’t leave.”

“I thought about it,” she admits

“What made you stay?”

She grips the hand that still cups her cheek. Her answer is true, the truest thing she’s ever said.

“You.”

She doesn’t protest when he breaks the distance between them. He’s needy in his kisses and she hungrily gives back, chastising herself for thinking that the brief kisses she allowed last night were enough. They didn’t even kiss before they tore their clothes off each other. It was all business, all until they were on top of each other on the mattress, their neutral ground, and bare for the first time in all senses of the word. It was madness, it was bliss to make their own rules. It became instinct to accept his kiss when his arms wrapped around her, instinct to kiss him when his fingers against her clit brought her over the edge. The third was also instinct. It was after he came, spilling on his taut stomach. She couldn’t deny him a kiss then, not when he muttered I love you.

It was just instinct, she told herself. They were making love, it was natural to say. So she kissed him back, neither a denial or I love you too, but an affirmative of some sorts that she’s still not sure was a good idea. Though, the whole thing wasn’t a good idea. They ran anyway, straight to their hotel room, straight to their bad idea. It was the best bad idea she ever had, only beat by her second, to stay with him the morning.

In the morning light, she kisses him back and lets him blanket his body over hers. It’s foreign for her to have the strength of a man against her body, but it’s only a small surprise it’s Leon. From the moment they met, and her thoughts turned salacious, he struck her as a man who’d let himself surrender. She knew the type: someone always in control, someone who cherished the few moments of surrender where he could just be wanted and needed. Last night, he gladly followed her lead and her wants.

Yet more surprising than his taking initiative now is her own surrender. She not only lets him sink and meld onto her body, but she encourages—with one hand gripping his back, and he other fisting into his hair. She moans when his arousal brushes against her thighs.

“Come on,” she goads as he gently kisses both her shoulders and collar, and the space between her breasts. “Leon…”

His head dips down low, sinks between her thighs. It astounds her that he can push aside his own want to do this—something she’s never asked for or thought about really—but she’s quick to silence herself when his lips brush against her inner thighs. Don’t tease, she wants to order, just touch me, taste me, but she steals a glance. His blue eyes peek at her, and words aren’t needed any longer. Just him, and whatever he wants to do, whatever he wants.

He wants to make her feel good. A gentle finger circles around her clit and she throws her head against the pillow. Thighs twist around him, as if to lock him there, fingers knot the bed sheets and knot his tangled hair as his tongue laps around her clit. She needs more pressure, more of him, and he answers that silent plea. He slides a finger in, out, in, out, almost as good as cock. Her orgasm is sudden and all-consuming, and as he sighs against her skin, she thinks as though his name escaping from her lips is all he needs to sustain himself. A pilgrim for so long, he finally found his place of worship.

Her arms beckon him. They kiss wildly, madly, deeply. They entangle limbs, exchange sighs, share the same strangled breath as he slides inside her. It’s not just the feel of him that wraps her in ecstasy, but the warmth of him everywhere, and each new kiss that makes up for the too few last night. This is how it’s supposed to be, the two of them, bereft of the confines of their duties…Leon and Ada, and the two of them, finding a moment of still in the madness, to look into each other’s eyes, her hands cupping his stubbled cheeks, thumbs tracing the prominent cheekbones.

He says it again, I love you. She can’t deny now it wasn’t instinct, driven by the nature of their act. It was his instinct to declare what had become intrinsic to his being. Unintentionally when they first met, she caught him, and she hadn’t let go. He’s loyal to her, and she had been quietly loyal to him. Waiting for a moment like last night.

She really is so cruel.

Last night she had been possessed. They had been possessed. It explained his I love you and her kiss after. This though, this I love you is no phantom declaration in the night. It’s realer in the morning. Nights are for secrets. Morning is where they must come to face what they’ve done. This has been their morning, not running and hiding, but falling into each other’s arms as Ada and Leon. They are what they are in the dim light that spills from the curtains, and they make their own calls and a new set of rules that are neither secretive nor hidden.

He just wants her to say it back. I love you.

Her response isn’t the words, but a kiss she hopes conveys not I love you too, but how much of a figurehead he’s been in her life, how much she’s truly thought about him over the years. He shudders. He’s close. She keeps him against her body, digs her nails into his back before he can pull away, mumbles against fevered kisses she wants all of him, everything he has.

He gives. She shudders as he comes, and instead of being wracked with guilt or shame, she implores her body to sink into his, implores the world to blur until only their room—their bed, until they’re only lovers. He can’t hear her thoughts—she’s about to tell him to stay as he is, but he rises, sits at the edge of the bed, his back toward her. She still sees stars and yet he’s not there with her. She’s left behind.

She turns toward him. Her nails left small red marks on his skin. She rises, kisses where she pressed too hard.

His sudden indifference takes her aback. It stings. It’s her own act she’s done many a time, she shouldn’t feel as she does when he takes part in her game, but he acts as though they only fucked and not made love.

“I should go,” he mutters, piercing the arrow deeper. It’s infuriating.

He stands, and it strikes her to say that he has no problem offering a show as he looks for his clothes. Naked, the sunlight contouring the defined strength of his arms, he has a certain sense of ease that he wouldn’t have had things went as they agreed, and they were just a side distraction, a rendezvous meant to blow off whatever it was that they had been carrying for years. He would have been nervous, quick. He’s anything but.

She rids herself of the sheets to rise. She grabs his hand before he can pick up his discarded shirt. “Don’t leave like this,” she orders.

He rises to his full height. “I didn’t expect…I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

But he doesn’t look into her eyes. She suspects he’s not entirely sorry.

She challenges. Her hand slides against his abdomen, his slim hip, pressing their bodies closer. “Why?” she asks. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Are her words the spell that possesses him again? Or is it her? It doesn’t matter. Once again, they’re kissing like made, grasping flesh, falling onto the bed. If it’s a spell she’s enchanted herself as well as he. Naked, sprawled against the sheets, in love with his want for her, she’s aware that when the trance breaks, she’s going to have to tell him it’s not Ada he loves, but this version of Ada that’s been living in a famine without him, pining for him, needing him, that she does untoward things like stay when she should have left. All for his arms, for his kiss. For her arms to hold him. She makes the rules, that they’re only lovers. They act like lovers do.

An eternity and a moment later, he lays with his head on her lap, her fingers idly twisting the ringlets. He says something about a shower, and she thinks when he finally does rise, she’ll join him—scrub his back for him and have the favor returned. And then, after…

They’ll find each other again. They always do. They’ll be enemies, surely, but not when they take their quarrels back to the bedroom. Then, like now, they’ll find that gap of time to be only lovers.

She laughs to herself. One moment, they told each other last night. And this is it. They were fools. They’re still fools. Happy, sated, blissful fools. And lovers.

And yet, it’d be cruel not to tell him, to let him live in an illusion.

“You don’t love me,” she whispers. “you love the me you think about when you’re lonely.”

“Not lonely now.”

He glances at her with a mischievous, knowing look. “Neither am I,” she tells him, and she even plays the part, tells him she loves him too. They’re only lovers now, after all.

“You didn’t have to say that,” he says. “I know what’s true.”

“Then what’s true?”

He rises, faces her. He cups her cheek, caresses her face. He follows with a gentle kiss.

“Now,” he whispers. “Us.”

Backstory: I played RE4 years ago when I was super young, and Leon and Ada were one of my first ships. playing Re2 Remake recently reignited the old feels so I wanted to write something. Thanks for reading!

#aeon #leon x ada #leon kennedy x ada wong #re2 #re4 #resident evil fic #also on a03 but since tumblr is a butt about links here's an unlined fic #*unlinked version #finally finished #shakes writes

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littlesliceofmarvel · 6 years ago

Text

I’m Sorry | Part 2

Request/Synopsis: Reader dies during the events of Civil War.

Warnings: Swearing, detailed mentions of death and gore, ENDGAME SPOILERS!!!! Big Ol’ Endgame Spoilers below the cut!

Pairings: Avengers x Reader

A/N: So, after many people have asked, part 2 is finally here! I don’t remember all of the dialogue from the movie, so if there are some mistakes there, just ignore them! Also, the italics are flashbacks. Gif isn’t mine! Enjoy! xx

Also, Tumblr is being weird right now so the flashback scene isn’t all in italics, I don’t understand. I’m tryna fix that.

Part One

“Tony, I don’t want to fight you,” Y/N faced the man in the suit, his weapons lowered when she came to face him. She hated the fact that the Accords had separated the team, leading them to turn on each other, to turn on family.

“I don’t want to either, but until Rogers turns Barnes over, I have to do what I can to make you guys give in,” he said with regret, his heart breaking at the sight of the girl in front of him, bloodied, bruised and slightly decayed.

“You kill me later on, you know, it’s your fault,” Y/N spoke as the patches of blood started to spread on her body, the skin slowly peeling off of her face to reveal the bones in her skull, her legs giving in under her as she collapsed to the ground, reaching out towards Tony who could no nothing but break down, seeing her fall apart in front of him, his body threatening to crumble at the sight of her, blaming him for her death.

He knew there was nothing he could do now, he had this nightmare over and over again every night. So did most of the team. Y/N’s lifeless body haunted their dreams, each of them feeling the guilt build on their shoulders more and more every morning after she taunted their sleep. They knew that Y/N wouldn’t blame any of them for her death, that she would want them to move on and be happy, live their lives and save the world, but they couldn’t help it.

She was gone, she had disappeared from their lives, taking her bright spirit with her. For the first couple of weeks, the denial had set in, and they would wait around the table during meals, hoping she’d skip out of her room and laugh at them for falling for one of her many pranks. But she never did. She wasn’t going to.

And that hit them harder than they could have ever prepared for.

SEVEN YEARS LATER

Going back in time seemed like an almost impossible task if you thought about it. To go back in time would be to mess up your present, your future. This had crossed their minds, of course, Tony almost dropping out of the adventure completely to ensure the safety of his wife and new daughter.

But they did it. They went back, collected the Infinity Stones, and made it back to build an Infinity Gauntlet, props to Tony. They lost Natasha in the process, having sacrificed herself for the soul stone to save the universe. Clint was devastated, feeling as if she had deserved to live so much more than he did, but it was too late. She had asked him to promise her something, that if it was possible, bring back those that we had lost before her, those who didn’t deserve the death they were given. Of course, she meant those who had been wiped out in the snap, that was their mission, but the two of them knew she also meant Y/N.

“It’s her birthday,” Steve broke the silence in the room as they looked through a box of pictures, wanting to frame some around the tower of Y/N and her smiling face, brightening a room immediately.

“Remember... before it happened, she wanted sushi,” Wanda said, a small smile on her face as she looked down at a picture of her, Y/N and Natasha, the three of them bruised and bloody, sitting in the medical lab while getting treated for injuries, but each of them giving the camera a thumbs up. A classic.

“We should celebrate with sushi, then, for her birthday,” Tony said quietly, Natasha nodding from beside him as she looked over his shoulder to see another picture of Y/N, this time of her passed out on the couch, her legs flung over the back as Sam and Bucky held sharpies to her face, drawing ‘tattoos’ on her skin, big smiles on their faces as Y/N slept soundly, not noticing what was going on.

“It’s been eight months, she’d be pissed as us for still moping about her, you know that, right?” Clint asked, chuckling slightly, his head in his hands as he looked down towards the table before looking back up to face the rest of the team, all nodding slowly.

“Oh, she’d be furious,” Natasha grinned, picking up another picture out of the box, smiling down at it, realizing Clint was right. Y/N would be pissed at the team for sitting around in their sweat pants, looking through pictures of her months after her death, guilt still swirling heavily around each of them.

They wanted to move on, they knew that they should, but they couldn’t. If she had died any other way, they would have. If it were Thanos, Loki, Ultron, any other bad guy, they would have been able to move on by now, but it was their fault. They let their own problems get in the way, and she paid the price with her life. There was no turning back from that.

Clint broke the news to the team, telling them that Natasha sacrificed her soul for the sake of the universe, and if anything, they were so much more determined to make things right because of that. If they failed, they would have failed her, she would have sacrificed herself for their failure. They were distraught at having lost one of their best people, a wonderful soul and an important member of their ever-growing family, but they had to do this. Now or never.

“I’m going to have to be the one to do it, I hope you realize,” Bruce spoke, approaching the gauntlet, his voice filled with determination as he approached it.

“No, why does it have to be you?” Clint asked, crossing his arms to look at Bruce’s figure, approaching the gauntlet himself.

“The radiation’s mostly Gamma, I’m the only one who can handle that,” Bruce stated as if it were obvious, looking around the room, no one really volunteering to do it in the first place. They had seen the effect that the snap had on Thanos, nearly killing the guy, so they knew that anyone who’d snap it next would deal with the same fate.

Bruce approached the gauntlet, his mind racing over all of the possibilities that could happen to him once he put it on, but they all didn’t matter. He was going to do this, whether he survived or not. He slid his hand into it, the power of the stones completely taking over his body as he collapsed on the ground, the rest of the team approaching him to make sure he was alright. Bruce nodded, letting the pain settle down as the power coursed through his veins, igniting everything inside of him.

“Ok,” Steve looked over a small scan of the gauntlet before turning back to Bruce, “Just bring everyone back. That easy.”

Clint uncrossed his arms, looking to Steve, “Nat... uh, had a request, actually.” He ignored the crack in his voice as he mentioned her, the realization that she’s gone not completely settling in yet.

“What was it?” Tony looked up from the machine he was using to close off the room, large barriers crashing down around them to prevent chaos once the snap had been done. The sound vibrated throughout the building, but no one took their attention off of the conversation.

“She, uh, asked if there was any way we could bring back people who didn’t die because of the snap, people who were innocent,” Clint finished, looking down to the ground before looking back to the team, each of them understanding what he meant.

“Y/N.” Tony nodded slowly, looking to Bruce, “Do you think you can try?”

Bruce nodded, eyes wide, “Yes.”

Steve, Scott, Clint, Tony, Rocket, Thor, Rhodey, and Bruce looked between each other, each of them feeling an immediate weight on their chest. Rocket had never met her, but being around the team for the last five years made him feel like he knew her.

“Is there any way to bring Nat back?” Bruce asked, breaking the silence that over took the room, everyone trying to think of ways to make this possible.

“I don’t think so,” Clint said, looking back down to the ground as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “Her soul is what’s going to power that stone for us to use. Try it, of course, but I don’t think we should get out hopes up.” He knew what he was saying was true, but part of him wished that it wasn’t.

Unfortunately, everyone had already got their hopes up to see the two ladies again. They understood that the chance of seeing Natasha again was much smaller, but the hope was there for her anyways.

Bruce nodded, lifting his hand as if to signal he was ready. Steve lifted his shield, Tony and Rhodey covered themselves with their suits, and the rest of the team got themselves secure and safe, out of the way of the snap. Bruce closed his eyes, not letting his emotions get the best of him as he focused on what he wanted. When he was ready, he snapped his fingers, a gust of wind blowing across the room as everyone took cover.

Seconds passed, and no one dared to speak. Tony lifted the barriers in the room and Scott approached a window, looking outside to see birds chirping, settling themselves into a tree. Clint felt his heart drop when he looked over to his vibrating phone, a call from his wife signalling that their plan had worked.

“Guys, I think it worked,” Scott said almost too quietly, but it broke through the dead silence in the room.

“Um, what’s going on?” A small voice from the room next door made their eyes widen, a familiar soft voice enough to make seven years of emotions come barreling through. Tony felt his heart drop, running over to the sound of the voice and his eyes landed on Y/N, standing next to a window, looking down at her body in complete confusion.

She could feel all of the atoms in her skin forming once again, it was as if she was being re born. She could feel her blood, the pumping sensation of her veins feeling all too real. Her head was pounding as she looked around, seeing the familiar faces of the people she called family looking back to her.

“Y/N...” Steve whispered, not being able to look away from the girl, who looked as if she hadn’t aged a day since her death. Technically, she hadn’t, but the rest of them were so sleep-deprived and devastated that they seemed to have aged 20 years.

“What’s going on?” Y/N asked, eyes wide as she faced the team with shaky hands, “We were... in Berlin, I was asking for sushi...” To her, it was seconds after her death, it hadn’t felt like nearly a decade had passed.

“Oh, we’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Tony looked to Steve who nodded, bracing themselves for what was to come.

#avengers imagine #avengers imagines #steve rogers imagine #tony stark imagine #clint barton imagine #thor imagine #scott lang imagine #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #captain america imagine #iron man imagine #hawkeye imagine #avengers preference #avengers preferences

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enchanters-books · 5 years ago

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Sneak Peek at Enchanters: Surge!

Hi, all! I know it’s been awhile and this post was something I wanted to do back in December but wasn’t able to.

So here’s a sneak peek at Surge! The final version may be a bit different of course but I hope you enjoy it, particularly if you like reading about Elisa or Ithmeera.

Please note there are spoilers and if you haven’t read Conduit yet, you probably shouldn’t read further.

Elisa squinted as she peered out at Gurdinfield’s countryside, the rolling hills disappearing into flat plains. Farther out, patches of forest dotted the Southlands. She knew on a happier morning the tall grasses would have been glowing a brilliant orange from the typically beautiful sunrise. But the greenish-grey skies streaked with the occasional bolt of lightning looming overhead reminded her that these times were anything but happy.

A harsh wind ruffled her copper hair, which had become a greasy tangle of curls since leaving Azgadar. Despite the bit of warmth instilled in the breeze, she shivered. The days had been growing colder and every gust of wind since the cataclysm made the threat of Damea’s very life source being drained away a bitter reality.

“Anything?”

Elisa turned to meet the inquisitive green eyes belonging to none other than Ithmeera Cadar, empress of the Azgadaran Empire. “No. Not yet.”

“Yet?” Ithmeera tilted her head. “You think they still hunt us?”

“Petra knows you escaped. She’s going to keep sending her thugs after us until she has your head. So yes,” Elisa said, “I believe they still hunt us. Almost certain of it.”

Ithmeera bit her lip. Desperation crept into her voice. “Those ‘thugs’ are still Legionnaires. My Legionnaires.”

Elisa returned her gaze to the horizon, scanning everything before her just in case she missed something. She was not in the mood for Ithmeera’s denial this morning. “Yes well, your Legionnaires have attacked us once already since we left Azgadar. Whatever Petra told them was obviously more than enough to convince them to betray you and form this New Legion. Cowards,” she spat. But when Ithmeera did not respond, guilt at her own abrasiveness set in. “Come on.” She gave a pointed tilt of her head signaling that they continue on their path to the City of Towers, where their ally Queen Lydia, her husband Jacob, and Ithmeera’s son Marco were hopefully safe from the chaos that had torn through Damea in the preceding weeks.

“We’ve been on this path for days,” Ithmeera said, drawing her dark green cloak tighter as she trudged behind Elisa in the dirt. “How much farther before we reach my son?”

Elisa’s tone softened. “Marco is safe, I promise you.” She turned around. “This would be a faster journey had we taken the main road but that will only make it easier for Petra’s men to find you.”

“Find me? What makes you think they aren’t looking for you, too?”

Elisa smirked. “Oh, they’ll just kill me. Probably leave my body in some field and take you back to Azgadar.” When she saw the horrified look on Ithmeera’s face she sighed at her tactless words. “We’ll be fine as long as we stay off the main road. Probably.” She began walking again, with Ithmeera close behind her. “Fimen’s Hope is a few days away. We should be safe there.”

“I have seen the town on maps. We won’t be attacked there?” Ithmeera asked as they reached the summit of another hill.

“I helped defend it not long ago,” Elisa explained. “There’s a small outpost of Gurdinfield soldiers there now. They will help us.”

“Well then, I hope your outstanding reputation with Queen Lydia has reached the ears of these soldiers.”

Elisa bit back a snap to Ithmeera’s backhanded remark. In truth, the empress’s occasional comments about her service to Gurdinfield were getting tiring and while she had not been welcomed back into the empire’s service with open arms, Elisa half-hoped that Ithmeera at the very least saw her as a Legionnaire again. Perhaps even that is too much to hope for.

Instead she opted for a more neutral response. “You and me both.”

***

Late into the evening, the pair sat around a small campfire hidden in one of the clustered patches of trees. Their meager supplies, including Elisa’s dagger and two old swords they had found at her house in Sadford, had been cast to the side of the fire, along with an almost empty cooking pot. Although the sky remained a muted green, Elisa could spot a few stars as she gazed up beyond the rising plumes of smoke from the fire. The typical scurrying of small nocturnal animals running over fallen twigs and call of birds from the trees were something Elisa was used to hearing at night out here. But tonight, there was only the crackling of the fire to keep them company. Whether the animals had migrated somewhere else or something darker was at work due to the cataclysm, Elisa couldn’t tell. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. An eeriness hung in the air—Elisa was no poet but if she had to pick one word to describe the savanna tonight, “dying” would have fit perfectly.

“I will never get used to this.” Ithmeera’s voice broke their prolonged silence. After the sun went down, Ithmeera began to struggle to keep up with Elisa which was a subtle suggestion that they needed to stop and rest for the night before carrying on to Fimen’s Hope in the morning.

A chilled breeze swept through the trees, disrupting the steady flames and causing Elisa to tuck her knees in before wrapping her arms around them. She looked back at Ithmeera, watching as the shadows from the flames danced upon her soft features. “To what?”

Ithmeera gestured around them. “This. Sleeping out here in the wilderness. Being away from the city…and Marco.” She looked away, her lower lip quivering.

“I told you he’s—”

“I know what you said. You’ve been saying that since we left Azgadar.” The terseness in Ithmeera’s voice gave way to the sadness that settled over them night after night since their escape.

Elisa shrugged. “Because it’s true.”

“You don’t know that.”

All right. Elisa climbed to her feet and walked the few steps over to the pile of blades in the dirt. Ithmeera watched her with curious eyes. “Take one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Elisa commanded, surprising herself at her own boldness. “I’m tired of you moping like this every single night. We will get to Marco soon but we can’t do that if Petra’s men find us first.”

Ithmeera stood up and dusted off the long dark brown dress she’d acquired in Sadford. “Isn’t it a bodyguard’s job to protect her charge?” she asked.

“I don’t recall being reinstated as such,” Elisa said dryly, noting Ithmeera’s lack of response. She picked up both swords and tested the weight of the one in her right hand before offering it to Ithmeera. “Besides, I can hold off one, maybe two assassins. I can’t protect you from ten men.”

Ithmeera appeared uneasy as she looked at the sword before grasping the hilt, shifting her weight on her feet slightly as she adjusted to the heaviness of the weapon. “I haven’t used one of these in years, Elisa.”

Elisa let a smile escape. “No time better than the present to get back into it.” She held up her sword. “Come on, then.”

Ithmeera glanced at her before looking at her own blade and then back at her. Nervousness entered her tone. “What if I hurt you?”

That got a deep laugh out of Elisa. “You won’t. Come on. By the time you swing that sword Petra’s men will already be here.”

Ithmeera rolled her eyes and gave a hesitant swing at Elisa, who stepped back with ease, avoiding the blade entirely.

Elisa let the blade fall to her side. “That was rather pathetic.”

“‘Pathetic?’” Ithmeera’s eyebrows went up. “Is that how you speak to all the monarchs you serve or am I the exception?” She rolled her shoulders back. “It’s been a while since I held a sword is all. I’m out of practice and…and I didn’t want to hurt you on accident.”

Elisa leveled with her. “Your Majesty, Kye was more aggressive than you during our sparring. Surely you recall some of your Legionnaire training.”

“That was Erik’s interest, not mine,” Ithmeera admitted. “I skipped more lessons than I attended.” She shook her head and raised her sword again. “All right, all right. Again, then.”

She surprised Elisa when she lunged forward, such that Elisa had to actually block to avoid having her hand cut by the blade, the clang of metal on metal cutting into the quietness of the campsite. She pushed back and parried, hoping Ithmeera would defend herself and was impressed yet again when Ithmeera actually blocked her attack. She grinned, deciding to go for one more attack, and took a step forward. Unfortunately, Ithmeera’s reaction was to step back and as she did so, her boot caught on one of the piles of twigs on the ground and she slipped before falling backwards—arms flailing as the sword fell from her hand.

Elisa reacted immediately. Her hand shot out to grab Ithmeera’s and caught it, just keeping her from hitting the ground. “Footwork.”

Ithmeera gazed up at her, breathless—the shock apparent on her face from the quick turn of events. “One of the lessons I skipped, apparently.” She allowed Elisa to help her to her feet and looked down to where her sword had fallen. “I suppose we can add ‘terrible swordswoman’ to the list of reasons behind the Legion’s mutiny against me,” she added with a heavy sigh.

Elisa’s lips tightened as she picked up the sword and set it down along with her own near their supplies. Ithmeera had been blaming herself for Petra and the New Legion’s actions since their escape and Elisa always felt she never knew the right thing to say. “You did well enough considering how long it’s been since you held a sword.”

Ithmeera gave her a dismissive wave as she went to prepare her bed for the night. “I don’t need you to try to make me feel better, Elisa.” She arranged the blankets so that they looked mostly comfortable before covering herself with the heavier ones. “I’m going to sleep. You may have the first watch. Good night.”

Elisa waited until Ithmeera rolled to face away from her before shaking her head in dismay. She had mostly tried to keep Ithmeera’s spirits up during their journey, she really had. What can you say to a woman who has lost her kingdom in a day and whose son is far away in another kingdom to make her feel better? And it didn’t help that Ithmeera found every opportunity to passive-aggressively remind Elisa of her service to Diana after she had fled Azgadar.

She thought, perhaps in naivety, that after returning Erik’s sword and rescuing Ithmeera when Petra attacked that maybe, just maybe Ithmeera would reinstate her status as a Legionnaire—perhaps even reinstate her as a Royal Guard, even though she had been acting in that capacity ever since they escaped Azgadar together. There had been a few lighthearted moments between them on their journey to the City of Towers so far, even some jokes exchanged, but nothing to indicate that Ithmeera had truly forgiven her for leaving, serving Diana and helping the Guardians, and killing Erik. I am a fool.

She considering arranging her own blankets to get comfortable but reconsidered when she realized she was already tired and did not want to accidentally fall asleep. Instead she retook her seat by the fire, her thoughts migrating to Andrea and Kye. She hoped they were all right and that Andrea had recovered from whatever injuries she had sustained from the cataclysm. But even if she had, Elisa wondered how they were going to fix this.

One day at a time. Just get to Fimen’s Hope. She grabbed a blanket anyway and threw it around her shoulders before focusing on keeping watch as she tried to not to let the silence get to her.

#enchanters #enchanters-books #surge #preview #ff fantasy #wlw fantasy #wlw fic #kf bradshaw #enchanters spoilers

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facemypast · 5 years ago

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They celebrated one new century after another, after another. Eventually even Rogers got a little tired of throwing parties for the new year. He was more content to stay at home, and even the admission of that got him to laugh. He hadn’t quit, but the burden of knowledge that rested on his shoulders was weighing him down. He was slowing down and he couldn’t live in denial about that any longer.

With a lot of instruction he pulled himself off the front lines. The war wasn’t over, but war never was. There were new generations of wolves to take his place, and he’d seen enough shit to train them well. All the training in the world couldn’t stop death from taking some of their ranks. Some of those guys were like kids to him, and he was just thankful Connor had stepped away from the fight; turned to medicine. Kid wasn’t even blood but Rogers swore time and time again, he had a little bit of Sarah in him.

It all started with a cough, a single rasp that was nothing to be worried about. New moons made him more susceptible to coming down with something, but the virus in his blood had kept him safe from most things. He’d only been sick a handful of times since he had gotten the serum. Hell, Rogers didn’t even notice it happens more than a few times until Bucky mentioned something about it. He didn’t really like the idea of going to the doctor, but as the days went on he relented.

Some time away from work and a few more holistic remedies had patched him back together. Everything went back to normal. Rogers lamented from time to time about how the gold was gone in his hair, how the ‘kids these days’ didn’t appreciate the things from the eras they had conquered. It wasn’t until months later that the cough came back; only this time it was when he had shifted. The hack was unforgiving, and loud enough that even the sanctuary’s walls couldn’t muffle it. As soon as the phase was clear, he didn’t even have to be chastised to go seek help.

Rogers turned to his work, a new spring in his step to finish the upteenth remodel on the kitchen. “This time it’s gonna be perfect,” he’d mutter over his plans, moving a bit more slowly than before but with added purpose. The cough stuck around though and eventually, he’d get winded. He couldn’t run like he used to, seemingly endless out between the trees. He’d end up walking back; chest heaving and with tired eyes. Eventually he put the habit to rest, opting to just watch Connor bolt about instead with the grandkids and listening to the lot of them laugh. Rogers always squeezed Bucky’s hand a little bit tighter then.

Months turned to years; shifting became harder for him. The pain in his joints would linger far beyond the typical change. He found his control would slip. He used to be able to trust himself around Bucky during full moons; making sure that he could have access to the sanctuary. The vampires presence was often soothing, but now there was an unsteady edge in the wolf’s stance when Bucky came down stairs. Sometimes Rogers had difficulty recalling that the vampire was home, just as much as the walls he had built centuries ago. Eventually he insisted he spend that week alone, but neither one wanted to talk about why. It was an unspoken understanding; it was safer that way.

The rasping got worse, eventually landing him with some time in the hospital. “Nothin to sorry about, not the ICU,” he’d manage through the soft hissing of the cannula lodged in his nose. “How do kids even deal with septum piercings anyhow?” He shouldn’t have cracked the joke, shouldn’t have laughed... But he got to go home a few days later, muttering about medications, exercise restrictions and the like. Eventuality, Bucky wouldn’t even have needed his keen senses to hear the lingering wheeze in the wolf’s chest.

Until that sound was absent; leaving the house empty and hollow. The wolf had snuck off just after dawn, vampires might not need to sleep - but even they needed some down time. There was a note in the kitchen, a habit that hadn’t occurred since he stopped his morning jogs through the woods.

“Went for a run, I love you - Rogers.”

There was a lump of white fur in the forest, curled up in peaceful repose. The wolf’s head tilted to one side, in a manner that was just a little too relaxed. That’s where his husband would find him, between the trees; at the end of the line.

@battlesthatmatter

Immortality was a strange thing. The passing decades meant hardly anything to Bucky anymore. Year and year he remained the same- perhaps a little paler, eyes a little more lined, but at almost 500 years old he still looked to be in his mid-thirties. Even Connor seemed to never change, still youthful and bright. The only way he could even still track the years was by the changes in his husband. A little slower, a little whiter, a little more tired. Still Rogers, just as stubborn and big-hearted as every, but changed. Every time Bucky thought about it his heart, long dead but filled with love for his family, fractured a little more.

He instead threw himself into the war effort, doing his best to take care of those under their command. The battles dragged on, they gained ground and then lost it. Every break in the fighting felt like heaven, nothing to do but lounge around their house, maybe babysit some grand and great-grand kids. Convincing Rogers himself to step down had taken literal years, but Bucky could breathe just a bit easier with his husband out of the line of fire. With both Conner and Rogers safely tucked away Bucky could selfishly admit that the fighting was infinitely less terrifying.

The first wheeze was a little worrisome, but it was to be expected, Bucky figured. It was almost nostalgic, the slight wheeze accompanying the rustling of paper shooting Bucky straight back to 1940. But after days of no improvement, Bucky wheedled and pushed and argued until Rogers finally went. The mood was lighter once the sickness relented, the wolf obviously happy once again. The amount of gray in both his hair and his fur served as a cruel reminder to Bucky, and at nights he held his husband a little tighter.

The second time had Bucky clenching his jaw with worry at every hacking cough from the basement. He’d never heard Steve sound like this, not since he had arms as thin as tree branches. Growls and coughs filled the house for days, no amount of water or rest helping. Luckily once the tense week had ended Rogers hadn’t even tried to argue. Good- the vampire would have thrown him over his shoulder himself if he’d tried to.

Watching with fond exasperation as Rogers eagerly bounced back, training and renovating and running (as best he still could), Bucky tried to put it out of his mind. Conner even did his own little check-ups, much to the annoyance of his Pa. And when the runs got shorter, the walks more tiresome, and Rogers finally stuck to resting... Bucky would simply squeeze his hand back just as hard, feeling the own ache in his chest at what his husband was missing. Running through the woods had been the best amusement, stress relief, and exercise all combined; Bucky absolutely hated seeing his husband looking so forlorn.

The thing about immortality is that when people try to sell it, they don’t mention all of the others who aren’t immortal. Bucky was filled with both guilt and sorrow as Rogers got stiffer, and even grayer, joints aching almost constantly. The vampire rubbed his shoulders and arms and used his hands as ice packs when needed. No one knew exactly what the course of this would be; it wasn’t like there were a lot of experts Bucky could ask. He made sure never to let Steve see him crumble, never letting out those tear-less, frustratingly-dry sobs where the wolf could hear him. It felt like they were drowning in an hourglass.

Rogers not trusting him while in wolf form was perhaps the biggest hurt. For all of the centuries they’d been together Bucky had been both proud and honored to be allowed near Rogers during his shift, knowing how deep that trust went and what it meant for a wolf to love a vampire so much. The first time it happened Bucky had a sick moment of reversed deja vu: how many times would their memories fail each other? Every full moon after that was torture for Bucky. Not only was it a whole week away from his lover, but the fact that Rogers was confused could only mean that... well, it wasn’t good. And there was nothing Bucky could do about it. With Rogers locked away and Conner off with his own pack, Bucky drifted alone through the house, feeling like a true vampire straight out of the old books.

The third time Rogers came down with lung issues, Bucky just about had a panic attack. Each new problem felt like more crystals shifting to the bottom of the hourglass. He never left his husband’s side at the hospital, grinning wanly at his jokes and staring at his own shaking hands while Rogers slept. Even after release Rogers didn’t seem to be getting better, medications and bed rest aside. His lungs sounded truly old, and his heart... Bucky swore it sounded worn down. The vampire spent his nights wrapped around Rogers as if he could protect the wolf from time itself.

When he ‘woke up’ one morning to find that Rogers hadn’t returned to bed, a plummeting feeling stole his breath. Thrusting shaky fingers through his hair Bucky hesitantly went into the kitchen. He was both eager and terrified for what he might find. Blackie lay on the rug by the island, barely glancing up at Bucky with a whine. Upon finding the note the vampire was shaking so badly he could hardly read it. Went on a run. Rogers hadn’t been able to run in months. I love you. The wolf usually just signed his notes with a little heart, or maybe a doodle if he had time.

Bucky stumbled out the door, running into the forest calling his husband’s name. No answer, not even birdsong or the rustling of smaller animals. With each passing moment Bucky could practically feel everything left inside of him breaking, fracturing into that much dust. Breath he didn’t need rasped in and out of his throat, his eyes burned with tears he couldn’t shed, he didn’t feel the branches catching at his clothes.

It only took a couple minutes to find Rogers. The world narrowed down to a pinpoint, ringing in his ears filling the silence instead. Coat now completely white with age, the wolf was curled around himself, looking for all the world like he was simply sleeping. But Bucky couldn’t hear a heartbeat nor the telltale wheeze of aged lungs. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground next to Rogers. Threading trembling fingers through soft fur Bucky felt hollowed out by heartbreak. The damn bastard hadn’t even told him to his face, had just left a note, thought he could go off alone to--

Harsh sobs overtook Bucky’s lungs as he bowed his head, unable to hold on to the false anger, unable to feel anything but piercing grief. It wasn’t a surprise. He’d known this day was coming for decades; hell, centuries. But he wasn’t prepared for it. Didn’t think anyone could be. Almost mechanically he laid down on the forest floor next to his husband, muffling his cries in that familiar beloved fur. It didn’t seem real, none of it did. This couldn’t be Rogers, so still and quiet and cold. Bucky wasn’t sure he could ever bear to leave this spot again; maybe just wait until the sun pierced the leaves and lay out, eventually burning to death alongside his wolf.

Only the eventual thought of Conner and the rest of his family got him up off the ground, knocked some sense into him. It was two hours later that he finally stood up and gently carried Rogers back to the Farm. It was another three before he could work up the nerve to call Conner, the sound of their son’s gut-wrenching sobs setting him off yet again. It was four days later that they held the funeral, their family- Conner’s pack, vampires and wolves they’d fought with, Asgardians, the Avengers’ sixth and seventh generation kids- gathered at the Farm all together. A short and simple service, with plenty of good food and music. Just what Rogers would have wanted.

Bucky stayed outside long after everyone left, staring at the spot they’d laid Rogers to rest, Blackie by his side where he’d been glued for the past five days. For the first time in centuries Bucky felt cold. He heard Conner come up behind him and wordlessly hugged him close. Grief weighed heavy upon them, but things would be alright. Eventually. For now Bucky couldn’t bear to go back into their house, sleep in their bed, go through their things. It would take time. But... he had plenty of that.

The line’s ended for you pal, but don’t worry. I’ll find my way back to you eventually.

#★≡【verѕe│ѕweeт αѕ cнerry wιɴe】#★≡【ιɴ ѕpιтe oғ oυr ιмperғecтιoɴѕ│вυcĸy/roɢerѕ|вαттleѕтнαтмαттer】#death tw #[[everyone look at how mEAN ADI IS]]#long post #[[fuCK this is the closest ive come to crying like a baby on this hellsite]]#submission

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nam-nam-joon · 6 years ago

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blinding lights

Pairing: namjoon x reader

Genre: angst

Wordcount: 8.6k+

Warnings: this work can contain consensual kisses/smooches but no sexual contact of any kind

Summary: why didn’t he lock the door?

"Joonie? Joonie, c'mon, what's taking so long? We'll end up-"

The door swung open and revealed his silhouette.

Vaguely you registered he was on the phone, one arm lifted with the device pressed against his ear - the other in the pocket of the black suit pants.

In any other moment you would have admired the way the city skyline was dotted with lights in its vast darkness, would have run your gaze over the dips of Namjoon's shoulders, the way the lights from overhead shone on his skin and illuminated his hair.

But not like this.

Not when he, for the first time, wasn't wearing a shirt - wasn't covering up.

The ink was so colourful. A cherry blossom tree, rooting somewhere below the fabric around his hips, growing over his right side, shedding its blossom down his right arm. A dragon's tail winding over the ribs on his other side, the animal only partially visible as it wrapped around his muscles. Symbols, characters, more pictures littered his skin, filled every spot and patch of it, until they abruptly broke off about 3/4 down his arms, and in a generous circle around the base of his neck.

They were beautiful.

Your legs felt very heavy as your mouth ran dry and you could no longer swallow. The wish to sit down crossed your mind, but moving was impossible.

Frozen by the door, the knob still in your hand, you were paralyzed.

His head turned, and his gaze found yours.

"-I'll call you back." Was all he spoke into his phone before lowering it from his ear.

You caught the surprise flitting across his features, fractures of a second before guilt replaced it. He was quick to smooth it out, replaced it with something alike to indifference, just more careful.

"_______? Wha- What are you doing...?"

Finally your eyes could let go of his shoulders, his chest as he turned towards you, let go of the warm, brown eyes that had looked at you so lovingly only hours ago.

You pressed your eyes shut, but the image of the coloured skin stuck to the back of them like glue.

"_______-" He had come closer, was halfway across the space separating you before you willed your eyelids back up.

Your lower lip quivered as the shock wore off and a myriad other emotions flooded into the vacuum that was left behind. Biting down on it helped keep the twitching at bay.

There were too many feelings to focus on just one, but when Namjoon reached out with his right hand, the one that held your fingers in it just yesterday, you recoiled.

Your hand left the doorknob like it was piping hot. With both arms pressed against your chest you took a step back, and if you'd have worn the pair of elegant heels matching your dress already, you'd surely have stumbled.

This way, however, you peered up into the face that had suddenly lost all of the gentle kindness you'd gotten to know him with - it was but a mask to you now, now that you knew what he wore under his shirts.

There were no words as you silently stood across each other, Namjoon trying his best to keep still and not scare you off, and you still not able to fully regain sense over your legs.

You drew a long, shaking breath.

Possible scenarios of what was to happen now flashed before your eyes, were gone the instant they'd appeared.

You swallowed, but it was still dry.

There wasn't the question of how, as the silence stretched between you and the time ticked by on the clock in the living room down.

The tears that had welled up at first dried without being shed as you drew another breath.

"Namjoon." Your voice cracked during the last syllable of his name as you spoke it. Bore a glimpse of what swirled inside you.

The hurt, anger, the fear, the helplessness in the situation you had been thrown into - but stronger than that the disbelief, the utter denial of what was right in front of you.

He couldn't be.

Kim Namjoon, the clumsy guy who tripped over thin air and couldn't go a day without accidentally damaging something. The man with the kind eyes and the radiant, dimpled smile, that could brighten up a cloudy day easily.

The same Kim Namjoon that would attempt to cook you breakfast in bed, and end up with the eggs a little overdone and the bacon a little underdone, but still so proud, beaming from ear to ear.

A million moments shared between just you and him flickered through the back of your mind as you held eye contact with him, licked over your lips to moisten them. Every little touch you had shared over the past year, every hug, every kiss, every message and every call.

There was an ache in the middle of your chest, between your heart and your spine, nestled deeply among your lungs as the reality of everything washed over you once more.

Briefly you wondered if he really had never taken his shirt off around you - had never worn something short sleeved, never pushed his sleeves up... but he hadn't, even as you tried to go back through all the accumulated pictures your mind had archieved.

So this was why, you thought glumly to yourself.

When he breathed in his chest moved, the galaxy painted in swirls and stars over his heart shifted and you could still not stop looking at his face.

Lips still pressed together you shook your head slowly.

His name still lingered in the air between you, having won an entirely different ring to it.

"_______, I-"

"Don't. I don't... want to hear it." Your voice was colder than expected, and it almost felt good to see him blink in surprise. Would have felt good; but you weren't feeling anything anymore, were numb.

It was like you were watching through the eyes of someone else, this was happening to someone else and not you. How could it - to <i>you</i>, a painfully average person, to you, with a little life of their own that had crossed paths with a brown haired ball of fuzzy love and gentle touches, of wise words and deep talks named Kim Namjoon.

None of it had been real it dawned on you.

If he was-

People like him didn't fall for people like you. People like him used people like you, for whatever they pleased. Never had you expected to be exploited like this.

Things settled within you, quicker than expected, and you straightened up.

"Are you going to kill me?" It felt like the next, logical question to ask, and still you felt the void surrounding your heart at the possible outcomes, even though there was the familiar churn of excitement in your stomach as well. Not the good, fluttering kind, the more painful, twisting one.

At once Namjoon's carefully constructed facade fell. He let it fall, you knew - it wasn't like you weren't standing opposites a mastermind that was well able to control and show his emotions as he pleased. The thought, the knowledge was sickening.

"I- No, no, I, I would- You know I'd never hurt you, I never did, I-I could never- There is, not an ounce within me that would-"

"Shut up." Your voice oozed of the disbelief his stammered words invoked in you. "Be honest with me, Namjoon. If that even is your name. After all this time you wasted with me, pretended to be, lied to me. The least-" You had to swallow down a sob that tightened your throat. "The least you can do is be fucking honest with me this one goddamn time."

His eyes alternated between yours, but his expression didn't change again. It was bordering despair now, the distress and still present guilt mixing into it.

"I swear, I am. I never- I never lied to you, about anything. Not myself, not my," He hesiatated briefly. "My work. My feelings."

His voice died down with the last word he spoke, but it didn't reach you. The emotions behind his words seemed hollow and fleeting like clouds of smoke.

You tilted your head while your face scrunched up in a bizarre mix of grinning and still threatening tears.

"Are you serious? You have the audacity to claim you never lied to me? Looking like that?!"

"I- I didn't lie, and you didn't really ask and I-"

You laughed, humourless and without tone.

"I never asked? Really? Now I'm the one to blame, yeah?"

His eyebrows crinkled in discomfort and his lips were a straight line as he hung his head.

"I'm, I'm sorry. I didn't- I knew you wouldn't, I didn't want to- I knew you would react badly, that's why I didn't tell you, I kept trying to stay away from you and to keep you away, too, at first, but then I- we- and then this happened and suddenly it was like there was nothing I could have done, like I was powerless, and you- you, I began to love you- No, no, listen I did! I do! But with every day, ever week we spend together, passed, I couldn't-"

He took a breath and looked away, but the sight of his eyes glossing over invoked no reaction within you.

"Why be with me? What benefit could I have brought you?"

"What?" He looked back to you, the back of his hand pressed to his lips, blinking the wetness from his eyes.

"There is no way someone like you would stoop so low for someone like me, I knew it. I knew it then, and I know it now - so quit playing games and avoiding it. You had the job to get with me, didn't you? I have no idea for what reason. -But god how shameless you used all my weaknesses to get even closer to me. You knew I would do anything at the prospect of someone like you, who would accept me as I am, no questions asked. God I was so dumb, so ignorant for even beginning to think to have a chance with you. To finally have found someone to-" You broke off, and angrily wiped away two stray tears that had escaped your eyes.

Namjoon was doing the same, more or less, just that his were pouring out more frequently.

"Go on. Tell me why."

"You think I used you? For... for something? As a stepladder, for a prize hanging somewhere higher? What do you not understand about me, having wanted to keep our distances at first, and when I failed I-"

"I! Trusted you!" You suddenly yelled, heaving with breaths afterwards. Namjoon fell quiet at you outburst, and even his tears subsided.

"I trusted you." You repeated, calmer, but also more heartbroken this time. "I told you everything about me - you know every little bit of shit about me, what I did, what I think, what I feel. To think I told my deepest secrets to- to a member of the-"

His eyes flared and he stepped closer, suddenly towering over you.

"Don't." He pleaded, his eyes soft and swimming despite his looming posture.

You swallowed again and stared up into his face, feeling fearless for the moment.

The anger and hurt tipped into disgust as you recalled every bit of gritty gossip you'd revealed about yourself to him, in long nights of talking and soft, warm touches of fingers on skin, lying in the darkness on the bed or on the couch, cuddling.

The way his hands had ran over your hands, your arms, and suddenly you shuddered with the feeling of being dirty. That his touches had left traces that now burned themselves into your very being, leaving you scarred and marked.

"You are disgusting. For having the nerve to- Whatever this was." You gesticulated between you. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your money, your wealth, whatever. Fuck you for taking me stargazing that one time, and fuck you for all your hugs and kisses. Don't! Fucking touch me!"

He had reached out again, only to draw back as the bile came forth through your words.

"Don't ever touch me again. Ever. To have the audacity to- When my grandparents were killed because-"

A deep intake of air, a shake of your head.

"Fuck you, Kim Namjoon. For pretending to be this loving, caring guy I would have spend the rest of my days with. For being perfect, and everything I ever wanted in a queerplatonic partner."

There were more words on your tongue you wanted to say, that you loved him so much and wanted nothing more than to be held by him again, hear him saying it would be okay, that tomorrow was another day and you'd just have to live through the rest of today to get there. But you couldn't, and the longer you kept them inside the more they crumpled, left an ashen taste in your mouth as you swallowed them the next time there was enough spit to wash them down.

The feeling of being covered in soot remained, your skin itching, wanting to be scratched bloody until the memory of his fingertips causing goosebumps on your arms would go away.

You took a step back, staring into his eyes. There was no way of telling where he had his closest gun, if he'd go to the length of messing up his apartment - with the beautiful view of the city, that he had said he'd gotten from his family.

At the time you'd thought he had meant his wealthy mother, or father, maybe. Now you were certain he had meant the family that he had in his ring of crime and death.

You shook your head again, taking another step back.

"_______, please- You can't, if you- If you leave, you cannot tell anyone. They will know. Don't ask me how, but they will find you if you so much as mutter a single word. Please, please-"

But you turned your back to him, walking retracing your steps to the bathroom you had left your day clothes in, unzipping the elegant, midnight blue evening dress he had picked out for you. You let it fall to the floor in front of the bathroom door, didn't bother closing it as you hurried to pull the grey hoodie over your once pristinely styled hair, not caring you were messing it up.

The pins with pearls at their end got halfway pulled out of your strands, tugging at your roots painfully but the pinpricks of discomfort were welcome as they bore through the veil of indifference that had fallen around you.

The socks on the pile of clothes had been a gift by him as well, one with cacti, the other with pomeranians. You left them with the underwear you had bought with his money.

He was still lingering by his bedroom door when you emerged from the bathroom again, but now a white t shirt that covered most of the ink sprawling over his skin.

His expression turned apologetic, eyes pleading, but you headed him no attention on your way to the door.

Glad to have come over in your converse and not the cute Dr. Martens that had been a gift by him to your promotion at work, you pulled them on, ignoring the way the rubber on the heel stuck to your skin where you had worn through the fabric covering it.

The jacket was yours, but the scarf wasn't, so you let it hanging, too, patting the pockets of your outerwear once to make sure you had your wallet, keys and phone.

In the doorframe, you were stopped by his hand on yours. Without thinking about it you ripped yours out of his grasp, cradling it to your chest as if it had been injured.

"Didn't you hear what I said. Don't. Touch me."

"_______, please..."

"No, Namjoon. We're done. Don't bother calling, or messaging, and I swear to god if you dare show up at my place or somehow contact my family, I swear-"

"I won't. I'd never, I would never..." But he didn't finish the sentence, and you didn't look back as you left.

It took you the whole ride home to your flat, and then some minutes sat in the dark before you could break down and cry.

All of your insecurities that had slowly faded over the time with Namjoon - almost two years on the dot - came crashing back down into your very heart. The feeling of betrayal overshadowed everything else, of having been used, held on a string until you could be dropped and kicked aside. Of sharing everything, everything with a person, and being so sorely disappointed, so royally screwed over.

When you dragged yourself into your flat, head already pounding with a fierce ache in rhythm to your heartbeat, eyes burning from where the makeup had run into them, you couldn't settle down.

Who knew who else had been in here, had possibly planted bugs - the thought of being listened in to, all around the clock, of not having one safe space, was terrifying.

They probably knew already anyway. His place probably had bugs, too. Who knew, really.

You didn't call in sick to work the next day.

The first hour seemed to last eternity; and the next one was twice as long. By the time the clock struck ten your focus had completely evaporated and even your usually dense Shift Supervisor picked up that something was off.

Jin, having noted the black clouds hanging over your head already but only giving glances, had tilted his head after your Supervisor had left again. You knew he wanted to ask, wanted to know, cheer you up again, but you simply shook your head and shortly afterwards clocked out.

The rest of the day you spend folding the cardboard boxes you had bought last week. Namjoon and you had started talking about moving in together; his place was more than big enough for two people and you were both adults. Two years together was an adequate time to join living spaces - and he had even hinted at a shared pet, even though it had been hard to imagine in the airy flat far above ground. In a surge of optimism you had went out and gotten the boxes, just in case.

Now you slowly combed out all the stuff that had wormed its way into your space over the past twenty four months.

It had either come directly from Namjoon or was indirectly linked to him; and you denied it being in your line of sight any longer.

Pictures, little things, his clothes and the stuff he had gifted you on multiple occasions.

You spend about an hour on the bathroom floor, sorting the rings from Tiffany and Pandora out from where they almost drowned out your own, old, off brand and in comparison dull ones.

There were necklaces too, but after feeling the thin, delicate metal in your fingers again your vision blurred and you curled in on yourself, leaned against the bathtub and silently crying.

The following days weren't much different, even though you pressed your lips together and pushed through the hours at work. You knew you could use the money, now that the plush, financial comfort being with Namjoon had granted had fallen away.

It wasn't like you had depended on him - you valued your own freedom too much for such a thing to happen - but he had still found ways to support you, even if not through blatantly giving you money.

After three weeks you finally managed to bring the small velvet bag you had stuffed all the jewelry into to a shop to get it appraised, waiting silently while the woman with the monocle studied every piece.

When she named first the individual and then the final sum, you were taken aback.

It was a lot, more than you had expected, more than you thought you could hope for. The woman said she'd take it all, with the exception of one pearl pendant that had small, metal leafs around it to make it look like a fruit or something similar.

You had already forgotten the reason why when you left the shop, a significant amount of cash in your pocket.

The homeless man at the corner took off his hat and thanked you graciously when you dropped a couple of notes with big numbers into his cup.

Deciding it'd be best to get rid of the money as soon as possible you visited an animal hospital, left a donation at the stand of the organization for children's rights, the one for animal's rights and gave the rest of it to the shelter for homeless people.

It took a weight off your shoulders that you hadn't realized had been there, and when the sun peeked through the icy grey November clouds, you reveled in their warmth.

Two months and you finally taped the box that had all of Namjoon's clothes and the toiletries that had taken residence in your cramped bathroom, shut, dropping it off at the front desk of the apartment complex he lived in.

Most of the other stuff he had left in your life - namely high quality clothing, and the occasional household device - you sold online on posh sites for second-hand luxury goods.

One by one the boxes cleared out, in neat, small packages, and you only kept what didn't feel like an intrusion into your wardrobe, fashion wise.

Jin knew, now, as well as you family, and other close friends. At least partly. To the question what had happened you had only said you'd found out Namjoon had been lying to you all this time - Jin had asked if he had cheated.

"Sort- kinda." You had replied, and Jin had wordlessly gotten up out of his chair and hugged you for a long time.

It was what everyone assumed when you made the vague statement that he had lied. That, or problems with gambling - or alcohol. Everyone came up with their own idea of what had happened, and you neither denied nor confirmed it. It was enough, for them.

It still stung whenever you thought of the real reason, and for four months you dreamt of stumbling through the door, only to find him in the dark room, stood in front of the windows, the light of a car outlining his body and the tattoos of shifting objects brightly coloured, like from blacklight.

The dream would continue to Namjoon flinching, turning his head, his eyes glowing like his tattoos, but before he could get a word out of his parted lips you'd wake up.

The imagery shifted, but it was almost always him behind the door, stood in the room, waiting for you to surprise him again and again.

More than once you wondered, asked yourself, why he had left the door unlocked in the first place. Why he hadn't put on his shirt and then taken the phone call - whatever it had been about. Why he had let you walk in on him.

At the same time you wondered what would have happened if you hadn't discovered him then and there. How long he would have played his little game of hiding in plain sight. If he had planned on telling you, or if he had just waited for the right moment to drop you.

You didn't know what he was doing; as he had said during your last talk, you had never asked. When he had mentioned commissioned work during the first dates you had assumed graphic design or something the like, not drugs, murder or kidnapping.

When he had come back with bruises on his face or lower arms he'd said he'd had a rough time at training, someone had landed a few mean punches, or made a joke about how clumsy he was.

When he had surprised you with something fancy or sparkly or priceless, you hadn't given it deeper meaning. Some people were rich, some people acquired their wealth from their family; some inherited it, some worked for it. Most weren't too keen on talking about it.

It wasn't like the money had been what had drawn you to Namjoon in the first place - it had been his dimpled smile, his thoughtful words, his charming jokes. The feeling he had given you, of being welcomed home after a long day out in the cold, of acceptance, unlimited cherishment.

You spend a lot of time reflecting on the past years of your life, slowly piecing together what had instantly shattered that night. The shards wore off around their corners over time, became round and smooth, and formed a new picture.

Seven months after, you didn't cry yourself to sleep anymore. And life went on.

You moved out of your own space, temporarily back in with your parents. The cozy flat that had been a safe haven the past four years of your life didn't feel like home anymore, and in lack of an immediate replacement you thought it best to go back to the house in the suburbs that would always have a place for you - even if your Mother had taken to store some of her crafting contents in the corners of what had formerly been your room.

The summer arrived blistering hot, but eventually gave way to a breeze smelling like snow, and you were still living with your parents.

It was harrowing, at times, but the housing market didn't smile upon you, and so you had to make due.

The anniversary of you breaking up was almost identical to the anniversary of you getting together. You thought about it when it rolled around, one week in advance. Then it was five days, three, one, and on the day it had happened, exactly one year ago, you woke up without feeling different.

During the day you forgot about it, and only when you lay awake and scrolled through social media that night did you suddenly realize the day had passed. The little clock in the corner of your display read 0:20.

Winter came, with flurry snow and wet streets. When the days started to stretch again it seemed like the first scent of spring also brought new life into you.

There was a lovely little flat, halfway between your parent's place and work, and the Landlady was a friendly one who thanked you for your deposit and made sure to tell you you could always come to her should any problem arise.

The snow thawed and you packed boxes again, ready to move out once more.

The memory of Namjoon still stung, but it was less like a knife twisted in your chest and more like a wasp's sting.

The doorbell rang on the day the moving truck was supposed to drop by and pick up your stuff, and fully expecting it you opened the front door.

The sight of two police officers irritated you greatly, although not more than the moving truck trying to squeeze its way past the cop's car and closer to the entrance of the house irritated one of the officer's.

"_______ _______?" The female asked, while her partner muttered something about clutz.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"Honey? What- Oh my. Did something happen?"

You mother came to the door, noticing your stiff posture and the two people outside immediately.

"My name is Officer Higgs, this is my partner Lucy. We just a few questions concerning the individual Kim Namjoon. I believe you two are familiar?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the air around you.

"Is he dead?"

You ignored the way your mother gasped in shock, pointedly not heading the churning feeling in your gut any attention.

The officers looked slightly taken aback by your reaction, which you hastened to smooth out.

"I, I mean- We were. I haven't seen or heard from him in almost two years now. That's all."

Even after your statement, the two officers didn't leave. Instead they exchanged a view before the male cop spoke up.

"This is a matter about Officer Kim Namjoon, specialist in undercover missions and infiltrating drug cartels. We'd like to come in, please."

Your mother had gotten very round, slightly scared eyes, and with a nod from you she led the police workers into the living room while you asked the men from the moving company to take a coffee break and be back in half an hour.

With slightly unsteady hands, your mother brought four glasses of water into the living room. Your boxes slightly obstructed her movements, but she squeezed through and set the glasses down on the table.

The officers politely thanked her but refused to pick their glasses up.

"Your... relationship with Officer Kim lasted... two years and three days?"

A queasy feeling spread in your stomach.

"Pretty much."

"How would you describe Officer Kim in three words?"

"Loyal, caring, clumsy. Why are you here? What is this about?"

The female cop lifted her hand to ease your questions.

"One more, I'm afraid. What caused you to break up?"

Annoyance bubbled up in your stomach.

"That's none of your business."

The gaze of the male cop hardened. "Please answer the question."

You looked from one to the other. Were they even real cops? Or just faces, dressed up, from the ring of criminals he'd been a part of?

"He cheated on her!" Your mother blurted out, directing the scrutinizing gazes of the officers from you to her. "Didn't he, dear?"

You kept silent and stared at the Officers, still trying to decide wether or not you could trust them.

If they were here, there was no point in evading the truth. They could shoot you down either way.

"I found out. I walked in on him being half-undressed, and saw the gang tattooes. We had an argument and I left. I ended it that night."

"Honey." Your mother said quietly, but you ignored her.

"He said the cartell would find out if I mentioned it to anyone, but to be honest, I could've done never talking about him again, so it wasn't exactly like I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I kept my reasons for our break up vague, and everyone assumed something else. You're telling me he wasn't an actual criminal? Or what? Did he end up playing for the other team, after all?"

The female officer leaned forward, completely brushing off your questions.

"You had never seen Officer Kim shirtless before?"

It was audible she didn't fully belief you.

Your view had briefly escaped the room for the birdfeeder outside after your attempt to understand Namjoon's involvement with all of this had fallen on deaf ears.

Now it came back to meet hers, but her eyes were focused on something on the clipboard she was carrying.

"It says here you were 'intimate' with each other, yet you claim to never have seen his skin. Does that mean you two... weren't having sex?"

The cold indifference of having to explain yourself against stereotypes flooded your stomach.

"Not all intimate relationship focus on or even include sex. Him and I had a queeplatonic relationship. I'm an aromantic asexual."

"Uh-hu." The female cop said, scribbling a note down. "So there was no deeper connections with Officer Kim? Anything else you'd like to add on his behalf?"

She looked up, and you stared at her unblinking.

"Are you insinuating that a relationship without intercourse is not to be considered as a deep connection?"

She didn't break eye contact but huffed out a small sigh.

"Please, Mx. _______, if we could-"

"No."

To your surprise your mother had spoken up once more, and now her face was keen.

"My child has said all they have to say, and we would like you to go now. No," She rose her voice as the female cop tried to intercept. "-further comment. Unless you have a warrant, please leave at once."

They left, and after the front door closed, your mother peered out the window to the side to make sure they really left.

Still gaping you watched her flick the blinds back in place after being satisfied with what she had seen, and coming up to you.

She took your hands.

"I'm sorry for not saying anything, Mom. I didn't-"

She shook her head, and you could see tears at the corners of her eyes.

"No, no you don't have to explain anything. It's okay, it's okay. I understand. Don't worry love, okay? You did what you had to do. I'm so proud."

She hugged her arms around your shoulders and you rested your head on her shoulders.

You had been subconsciously waiting for the call that came the next day's afternoon.

The room in your new flat was still stacked with boxes, but your bed had been squeezed into a corner and your couch had found a place just one room over.

The shelf was half-filled with books when your phone violently vibrated towards the corner of the box you had placed it on, seconds before blasting the generic ringtone you had never bothered to change.

You didn't know the number on the display.

"Hello, _______ speaking." You looked at the book you had last picked up, deciding on which shelf it should go.

"_______, it's me."

His deep voice filtered through the speaker into your ear, and you breathed in sharply.

Instead of acknowledging his identity, you kept quiet, waiting. The book in your hand forgotten.

"_______? Are you- Are you still there?"

"What do you want, Namjoon."

Shuffling from the other side. "I wanted- Higgs and Lucy came by your place and questioned you, didn't they? I thought, now that you knew..."

"Can we jump to the point where you tell me why the fuck you would call me even though I told you I never wanted to hear from you again?"

"I thought, now that you knew, we could talk things out. Have closure."

It was infuriating how calm he was about everything.

You stood up from the stack of boxes you had rested on and walked over to the window to look outside.

"Let me apologize in person, please. Just this one time and after that, I promise, I swear you won't ever have to see me again."

You were looking outside and yet weren't seeing a thing.

"Six pm. The diner on the corner of 5th and King."

"Thank you. Thank you. I'll see you there."

And with that he hung up, leaving you staring at the screen.

You debated not going. Just leaving him hanging, rubbing it into his face you gave a shit about him.

But of course you didn't.

The streetcar had had to make a detour and had you push open the doors of the diner 15 minutes late. It was almost empty, only three booths were in use.

You found his face peeking over the top of a booth in the back, away from the windows, closer to the toilets.

The warm air in the diner made your coat unnecessary even before you reached the table and slid on the bench.

He was in a navy blue t shirt that exposed the ends of the dragon's tail, as well as a waterfall and several cherry blossom petals, but you forced yourself to ignore them.

"So?" You hadn't even taken your coat off, even though it felt too warm and stuffy with it.

"Aren't you going to take off your jacket?"

His question was met with silence and a raised eyebrow.

"Okay, no." He looked into the cup of coffee, not even halt empty, before speaking again. "I thought you weren't going to show up."

It sounded small and defeated.

Your eyes wandered to the waitress who was drying glasses behind her counter, and over the assortment of pies for the day.

Tired of waiting, your eyes returned to Namjoon.

"Didn't you say you wanted to apologize or something?"

He swallowed, his hands clasped tightly around each other.

"I- Yeah-" He broke off, ran his finger over the top of the cup and licked his lips before speaking "I- God I can't even find the words right now."

He huffed out a laugh and stared at the ceiling for a moment.

"Um." He sighed, deeply. Then he leaned his arms on the table, supporting his weight, as he held your gaze.

"We're not supposed to have relationships in my field of work. It makes the job harder, more dangerous, and especially if someone from outside gets involved - it's even worse. I couldn't bring myself to tell you I was part of the cartell, and even less than that did I dare to tell you I was undercover. Maybe you had been set on to me by the cartell, find out what my real intentions were, I didn't know, and it was too dangerous to risk revealing anything. It wasn't until we had our first anniversary that I began to fully trust you weren't sent by the cartell. I'm sorry. You had the unfortunate luck of meeting me, in the middle of an assignment, and even if it had been under more favourful circumstances-" He broke off and shook his head while hanging it.

"All I want to say is... I never hated myself, my job, my life more than when I saw you walking away from me. I never hated myself so much than when you left. I also know there's nothing I could possibly do to redeem even an ounce of the pain I inflicted on you. I just. I wanted you to know that my feelings were never an act. Never. I love you. I did, then, and I still do. I respect your decision to stay away, and I promise I won't bother you ever again after you walk out of here. I'm just. I can't express in words how sorry I am."

He continued to look into the cooling, black liquid while you quietly observed him.

Namjoon took a breath and cleared his throat before glancing up at you.

"Say something?" He whispered, but there was nothing coming to your mind. "Anything."

"I. I need time to think about this."

And with that you rose and left, head devoid of any traffic.

You stopped on the next corner, taking deep breaths.

It was all too much.

There were unknown sounds wafting through the flat when you settled under your blanket, but it wasn't the only reason you were unable to fall asleep.

The revelations of the last days kept circling back to you, and with it the flood of memories that you'd grown to accept and then calmly put back on the shelf that was labelled with Namjoon's name and the timeframe you'd shared your lifes. That you had shared your life with him.

It all gave a new light on everything, of course. And yet you didn't fully understand how he thought meeting would have given closure - maybe for him, but for you it had stirred things you'd long since buried.

It wasn't closure, it was a reminder, of what may have been, and you couldn't find it in you if you wanted to go on, move past it. If the chance had been there and had been dropped, or if the story that you two had written and that had been cut off abruptly all those months ago could pick up somewhere later on.

You didn't know, and the uncertainty frightened you.

Five days later you met up again, in a new café that had opened just recently and that neither of you had been to before.

The peppermint tea smelled delicious when the Barista poured it into your cup for you, and you thanked them with a nod and smile before your eyes settled on the gaze that had quietly observed you since coming in at the same time earlier.

"I want to be honest with you." You said, weaving your fingers together around your cup. Namjoon nodded and took a sip of his coffee, fiddling with the grip of the cup.

"I don't know what to say to all this. You, doing.... what you did, do, I don't know. Is this undercover thing a once in a lifetime thing? Or is this like, a recurring thing? Either way," You continued before he could answer. "I'm not quite sure what to make of this-" You waved a hand between you. "Or... Yeah. What do you want? Why do you..."

But there were no more words, in that moment.

"To answer your question, for me, it was a once in a lifetime thing. I started infiltrating this particular ring when I was barely out of Highschool - good recruiting range for this business. The whole thing blew up shortly after we- parted ways, and I've been away for my own security since recently. I'll work as a consultant, now, until my service is done and then I'll have to see if I want to continue this kind of work or move on. And you don't have to say anything to it - you don't even have to acknowledge anything I said. I just, I wanted to. To make sure you knew... that you weren't the only one who suffered from our time together. That it ate me up inside I couldn't-"

He broke off, biting on his lower lip and looking to the side.

Then he sniffed, looking down into his cup, with his hands still clasped together, elbows propped up to either side of his coffee.

Instead of saying more he sighed quietly and lowered his hands until they mirrored yours, catching and holding your gaze for some time.

"I understand." You mumbled, eyebrows dropping and feeling the emotions welling up inside you.

Namjoon only looked at you out of deep, brown eyes, his mouth's corners tilting down in the slightest, unhappy frown. The way his dimples showed was a telltale sign for how upset he really was. Under his slightly furrowed eyebrows, you melted.

He kept quiet, not daring to move or even breathe much. The noise of the cafè became background noise, tuned out.

"Namjoon?" You asked, voice slightly off after not talking for a long time.

His shoulders drew up, the skin around his knuckles whitened - everything about his posture screamed he was ready for the impact.

"Please hug me."

He gaped at you, wide eyed and fingers having lost their tension.

For a moment you thought he wouldn't, given his stock-still posture glued to his chair.

But then he rose, towered above you like so many times before, and there was no sense of discomfort when he gently took your hands, tugged you into a stand, laid your wrists on his shoulders and drew his arms around your back.

He had to bend down to fit the junction of your neck and shoulder under his chin, pulled you close until your bodies met, until he was cradling you as close as he could.

His hands lay flat against both sides of your spine. You felt when his fingers curled, fisting into the fabric; felt when his grip tightened.

Felt how he shuddered as you drew your own arms close around his neck, one hand burying in his hair that looked so different without the million styling products and an invisible, millimeter thick coating of hairspray.

Vaguely you registered the cafè had gone very quiet as you continued to hold Namjoon, but you didn't pay attention to the onlookers.

Namjoon let go of the hug to cup your face into his hands, eyes running over every feature, taking in every detail, and for a second you thought he might kiss you.

His lips were parted for air because the tears that spilled out of his eyes were also blocking his nose, and when he went in for another hug, he didn't hold back.

He used all of his considerable strength to hold you close, and you were fighting tears yourself as the feeling of being reassured, being safe, washed over you once more.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. You shook your head silently, not having words to answer him.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, weeks later, laying on the other side of your bed in the light of the lamp on the bedside table, between grey cotton sheets and in a white shirt that had slipped up over his sweats and around his upper arms, exposing the coloured skin.

"I forgive you." You whispered back, pressing a kiss to the backside of his hand lying between you on your pillow. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed over the endless depth of his gaze, staring at you, unbelieving.

"I don't deserve you." He mumbled, eventually rolling over and on top of you, pressing his lips to your cheek in a long, sweet smooch.

You looked up at him when he sat back, admiring you laying in bed, the covers kicked off long ago thanks to the humid air that had wafted into the room preceding the thunderstorm that was raging outside.

Eventually you started to fidget under his gaze and followed his example, sliding your legs out from under him and sitting up.

Unlike him, you reached out with your hands and ran your fingers under the hem of his shirt, tugging it up until your touch caused goosebumps to race over his skin and he caught your wrists to stop you from going higher.

Your wordless protest was immediately shut up when he pulled the fabric over his head and dropped it off the bed, muscles - now that he didn't have to work out to maintain the pristine, groomed bad guy look, noticeably less defined.

It didn't stop you from staring at his chest, his arms, everything, in awe, and it also didn't stop you from reaching out and running your fingers over the lines in wonder.

No matter how often he stripped for you, no matter how often you caught glances of the pictures, they never failed to amaze you.

After your latest exploration came to an - admittedly - soon end, you rested your head against the skin over where you could feel his heartbeat pulsating deep in his chest.

With a sigh, you hugged your arms around his hips, leaning into his whole body with yours, until he ran a hand through your damp hair, picked it from where it was caught between your bodies.

"I swear I will never lie to you again."

You could feel the vibration of the words through your connection.

Seconds after his statement, you lifted your head.

"Yeah? Then what's in the box you've been hiding in the sock-drawer?"

His eyes went wide and he gasped. "Y-You... How long have you known?"

You chuckled at his expression and gave him a sheepish smile.

"I saw you put it back in there two days ago. What's in it?"

"You didn't look?"

"No. I figured you were eventually gonna talk about it - and maybe you were hiding it for your mom or something."

He huffed and his chest deflated.

Briefly he held you against him, before leaning back to meet your eyes.

"Do you wanna see?"

You bit your lip.

"It's not an engagement ring, right? You're not going to propose at 2am while there's rain pouring from above and we can't sleep because it's too hot?"

During your talking he had crept off the bed and towards the drawer, rifled through the socks until he came sauntering back over, something small in his large hand.

You shuffled over the mattress until you knelt at its edge and Namjoon sat down besides you, his body angled towards you and now both of his hands covered the little container. He looked up from his closed fingers, nervosity on his face.

Mild anxiety blossomed in your gut at the small, shy smile on his lips.

"Namjoon?"

"Don't worry, it's not. I know we're not in a position to- and especially without talking about it first. I would want to know you're okay with it, too, before ever doing something the like."

Your shoulders relaxed and you regarded the object hidden in his hands with new interest.

"So? What is it?"

He quietly revealed what he'd carried in his palms - and it wasn't a box.

You peered down on it for a moment before looking back up, momentarily speechless.

What you had thought to be a box was in fact smaller, rounder, orange; with a little stem at the top and a small green leaf.

In Namjoon's large palms lay a tiny orange, the size of a pingpong ball.

"Go on." He said softly, a fond look on his face as he held it out to you.

Careful, you picked it up and turned it in the air to look at it from every angle. There was a thin crack running around the belly of the little fake fruit and after another look, seeking approval of Namjoon, you pried the thing open.

His chin came to rest on his fist, with his elbow perched on one of his knees folded over the other, and he looked rather uncomfortable. The poorly concealed excitement outshone it all.

He had been right; The orange indeed did not bear a ring within it. Instead there were two small pearls in it, both with a silver stem and a leaf each. You recognized the design at once; it was the matching set of earrings for the necklace that you hadn't been able to sell all those months ago.

"I- I sold all the stuff you gifted me, how did you-"

He didn't seem surprised at your confession, merely huffed out a small laugh and continued to look at the jewelry.

"Yeah, I almost thought so. I came by this shop and saw the box and knew you'd love it, though, and then at the register they had a sale-rack and... I remembered giving you the necklace at one of our first dating-dates."

Stunned, you looked up at him before back down on the little things.

"It's the only thing the woman from the jewelry shop wouldn't take." You then said, voice low.

Namjoon laughed, a twinkle returning to his eyes.

"Yeah, because it's actually just plastic and fancy looking glass, but because the shop is great they manage to make it look really high-end."

A grin played around your lips.

"So that's how much I'm worth to you, huh? Cheap fake stuff that looks fancy to keep me happy, eh?"

He laughed and pulled you into a hug, letting himself fall back on the bed once you'd sat the small orange down. For a while you simply lay next to each other, listening to the thunderstorm slowly ebbing off, seeking each other's warmth as the cooled air wafted into the room, relieving the moist heat from before.

"I love you. Thank you." You whispered against the skin on his collarbones. His lips pressed a kiss into the top of your hair in response.

"They also had pears - but I thought you'd like the orange better."

"Did they also have squishy peaches?"

"No? I don't think so." There was a question mark at the end of his sentence and a confused giggle swung in his words.

"Mhm, thought so."

He pulled back slightly to stare at you. "...Why?"

You beamed up at him with thinly concealed glee, and, wiggling both your hands out from where they had been squished between your bodies, you cupped his cheeks, the pads of your thumbs resting over the spots where his dimples lay hidden.

"Because I have the squishiest peach right here already."

He rolled his eyes but didn't hide the silly, big grin that made his dimples appear under your fingers. "Oh shut up."

104 notes · View notes

nerdysakura · 6 years ago

Text

Dearest, Jonghyun, my moon, my star

I must have written this letter over a thousand times in my head. And now that I’m here, it’s still so hard for me and I’m afraid I won’t be able to put my feelings into words properly. I’m not sure how long it’ll be so bear with me. To be honest, it’s been a such a hard year, I’m surprised I made it. All I can say is that like what Kibum said when asked how SHINee stayed as a group as long as 10 years together, “We’ve endured.” That’s basically how it is. I’ve endured this year. And I’m sure I’ll endure the rest of the years in my life as I have been. The days seemed to pass by excruciatingly slow in the beginning and yet, here we are already a year later in the blink of an eye. There were days that were harder than others, of course. The pain and denial are still here. I’m sorry I’m still crying for you when such a long time has passed. How I wished every day you were still with us. I’m sorry for always being so selfish.

I’ve had time to look back this year; to see where I went wrong, I guess. The first thing that comes to mind is the “feeling”. I can’t pinpoint what the exact day or time was, but I’m sure it was days or maybe a week or two before you left. I remember opening the door to exit through the staff side one day at the end of my shift (it must’ve been an afternoon because the sun was still out) and I was consumed with what I can compare to a panic or anxiety attack. This “feeling” I don’t know how to describe it per se, but I felt like the world was going to come to an end. Literally what crossed my mind was “the world is going to end” and I was hyperventilating, this feeling almost knocked me off my feet I had to keep myself up with the wall. I was panicking, I was scared, I started crying for no reason other than this feeling that consumed me. And then I stopped. I took deep breathes and said, “No. This is not 2012. We’re in 2017. This is still my year (year of the Rooster like Taeminnie). We’re still alive. We’re okay. We’re fine. Everything will be okay.” I went down the list of those I cared about, my mom, my sisters, my brother, my friends, we were all fine. And my thoughts went to SHINee. We were still waiting for Onew but you had all promised to be back together as five and you were all doing solo work then but I had hope that for your 10th anniversary you’d all be back as five as promised, and I repeated that until I calmed down enough to continue walking to my car. As usual, I put K-Pop on for my commute home. I haven’t felt that surging feeling of the world ending before other than the anxiety before 2012, but I remember, when my pet bird Patches passed away when I was in high school, I felt something, a sense of peace pass through me, like a soul touching my own, as if she traveled to where I was in school to bid me farewell. And I called my mom during a break to my next class to ask how she was doing. She said she was fine and was resting; it wasn’t until when I got home that we found out she had passed in her sleep. As I looked back on that this year, I often wondered if when I had that feeling if that’s the exact moment you decided it was your time to go and made the preparations for it. I’m not saying I have this deep, profound connection to you or SHINee or anything like that, but it could be that my love for you and SHINee is so strong that when such a decision was made the weight of what it would feel to me was equivalent of the world coming to an end. The coincidence in timing...I can’t ignore it. I’m sure that’s what it was. And I wondered if I had taken that feeling seriously if I hadn’t dismissed it and consoled myself that everything was fine if what happened could have been avoided. I HAD that feeling, I should’ve acted on it. I’m sorry I failed you.

This year, I tried consoling myself yet again saying that there’s no way I could have known the implications of how true that feeling would come to pass. And maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t erase the guilt. I remember when the initial photos came out days after your INSPIRED concert, I wondered why you had such a look? You were looking out into the audience as if for the last time. Your eyes were twinkling as if to say you would miss seeing the pearlescent aqua ocean. You were trying to hide your tears from us, and I wondered why; you’ve never hidden them before. They were always tears of gratitude; after all, you were always sensitive and true with your feelings towards us even when you said in an interview you cry in front of others when you’re comfortable with that person, and we love and accept that about you. But this look was especially evident when you were in your white turtleneck and suit. I’m not sure why but I couldn’t bring myself to watch the videos other than the VCRs, maybe it was because of that look. You were cherishing each moment on that stage, you might have already known by then it would be your last time seeing us and wanted to take it all in one last time. Even in your upbeat songs where you were smiling and having fun, you were careful on stage and somewhat guarded, but I felt you were cherishing and savoring every moment. Even before this concert, “Our Season” was a such a sweet song but one I wasn’t able to listen to, and I wasn’t sure why. Ever since reading the lyrics after the album came out I felt like you were saying goodbye with that song, and the fact that it was the last song on Story Op.2 didn’t help either. That song was one of the few stages I had time to watch and to see you with that look on you had me crying and again, it was like you were saying goodbye and sorry to us. The words you wrote, the way you sang the lyrics to that song in those days left me uneasy and crying and I wasn’t sure of the reason why until days later. That week I was busy preparing for a convention that weekend so although I felt all that, I didn’t have time to process it completely. And that weekend as soon as I got home I would pass out and sleep right away. Still, that weekend was the most fun I had. I remember driving home on the last day telling my sister how inspired I was, I was excited about the Korean Language classes I was about to take, learning more K-Pop dances was my resolution for the new year starting from the beginning with SHINee’s Replay, and perform it in the dance cover contest. I was sure it was only a matter of time before they announced Jinki was innocent and dropped of all charges and we’d have an amazing 10th anniversary year together. But then Monday came and it felt like the world was going to end when I heard the news. My world came crumbling down. Winter has come again, you who said you resemble winter came back. Now it really has become “Our Season.” I’m sorry, I should’ve figured it out sooner.

The first song that came on shuffle when I decided I couldn’t let the happiness you brought me to disappear was Mono-Drama. It was the first song by you that I fully related to. The one in your first solo album I love the most since it’s a rare song to hear you in your lower register. At that time I was glad that was the first song that came up because it was a song I was taken aback by. Often growing up, I never had to courage to tell my crushes I like them, so like in Mono-Drama I would create scenarios in my head of what our relationship would be like. Those scenarios became stories I write of my favorite anime. I was amazed at how someone I love and admire completely could understand me with just one song? Have you made Mono-Drama’s too? Now though, I wondered if you were telling me I’ve been living in a Mono-Drama this whole time. Have I really been so disillusioned? I know the happiness you’ve given us wasn’t a lie. I never imagined being with any of SHINee. All I wished for was to meet you and say thank you. Be there for you, be a friends with you all and share your concerns. Is there more I could have done? Was there ever something I could have done? Even now I feel so helpless. There are countless ‘what ifs’ I’ll never have an answer to.

You were never one to hide from us. We respected the privacy you decided to keep to yourself. It’s hard for me to say but I have the same condition as you did. “ Seasonal Affective Disorder “ you called it. And when you explained what it was, it was like a light bulb when off. “Ah, so that’s what it is, I feel that too Jonghyunnie. We can get through this, I know it,” I said to myself when I found out. It comes in the same months as yours too. Through your radio show, I found we’re a lot alike. And of course, I found comfort in your words like so many others. It’s hard for me to express myself, I’m very introverted. And I never voice my concerns to my friends or family. I’m their “rock”, you see. I drive my mom and older sister to work and on errands, I help with the laundry and dishes and housework, I take on most of the bills and keep track of their due dates, I help my mom navigate the ever-growing technical advances, I’m the lending ear and the one who always has to be strong for them. I can’t let them see me crack or else they might lose that pillar of support I try to provide. It’s hard sometimes to show a happy face when the pressure is consuming you, right? When “End of a Day” first came out, I cried to that song for an hour before even reading the lyrics. I just felt your words, without knowing their meaning. And once I did I cried to it again. That song comforted me more than I can ever express. It came out during a time when I needed to hear those words the most. It was then that you taught me, it’s okay to cry sometime when things are hard. “Just take a nice long cry in front of a mirror,” you once said. And I’ve used that advice. You taught me it’s okay to feel frustrated and cry and not be okay all the time. To take a day or evening for myself and Just Chill to watch tv, a drama, read a book or listen to music; that it’s okay to put something off Until Tomorrow when I’m in a better state. That’s why I always dreamed of meeting you one day, preferably in a fan sign event and tell you in person, “Thank you. You’ve worked hard, too. Thank you so much.” I wanted to sing that song for you at the Korean Festival in my town this year but didn’t make it in. I’m sorry, I wish I could have given a tribute to you but I’m still lacking. I’m sorry I couldn’t say those words back to you in person.

This first half of the year has been especially hard. All of “You & I” was basically me during that time. The lyrics especially “My friends comforted me, So I don’t think I feel sad [...] I’m the only one hurting, I may look fine. I’m not easy, my feeling aren’t for decoration. There are countless stars in my heart. There’s one star that shines painfully. I don’t want to grab it, but I don’t want it to go out.” That song was one I found comfort in as well this year. It let me know that I’m not alone. There are a couple people I’m thankful to for helping me get through this year. First I’m so incredibly thankful to my two friends who stuck with me this entire year. I’d rather stay in my room like you, I’m not good in a social setting, but they brought me out to play games, play just dance, hang out, eat, vent, talk, comfort, really when I’ve been with them, I don’t think I felt sad. They kept me happy and smiling this year I’m so incredibly lucky to have them. They understood my feelings for you because they’re also fans of yours. It didn’t matter how much of a short while they were with you, we’ve been healing together. I wish I could do more and introduce them to more of SHINee but baby steps. We’re still hurting. I’ve never thought about leaving as you did as much as I did this year. And it’s been scary, to say the least, how many times I’ve considered it in the last twelve months. But I thought of the pain I’ve felt. I don’t want to put my loved ones through this. I don’t think I could move on if I did. Second, I’m so thankful to my sister especially. Even just seeing her at her desk, just having her alive with me kept me going. Honestly, if she left too I might just join her. She struggles with depression as you did so I’m always scared something will happen that will take her away from me. My world might literally crumble down if she left me too. Even if she’s always busy with projects, so we can’t always hang out, the fact that she’s here with me gives me the strength to keep going too. And of course, thirdly, you and SHINee mean so much to me. It must have been harder for your brothers who knew you so well but I’m incredibly thankful to the members this year. They gave us three amazing EPs, four beautiful title tracks to make one epic 10th-anniversary album (which I’m certain your vocals were in more than that one song). Taeminnie’s space filled Japanese full album and Key’s and Onew’s solo album have given me strength as the year wraps up just as The Story of Light did to get me through your 10th anniversary and your album Poet | Artist has at the beginning of the year. They didn’t have to come back, everyone would understand if they decided not to, but they decided met with us, heal with us, and cried with us. Truly our hearts were one this promotion period. Have you heard our voices well? We’ll continue to sing for you, so your voices reach you wherever you are. There’s still a long way to go but I won’t give up. For me, there are always countless reasons of why I need you. The five of you are my words, my sentences, my entire language. The page in the novel has yet to end. We’ll keep writing it together. I want to stay together until the end. I can’t thank SHINee enough for what they’ve done this year. Yes, we’re still hurting and mourning but we’re going through this time together. And I’m sure you’re supporting them just as much, if not more, from where you are now as you did here.

During one of your last insta-lives, you were searching for Korean Shawols to notice you. You were asking what to do to fight off your lethargy and depression. I and so many others knew of your Seasonal Affective Disorder, you weren’t hiding it from us, so I guess that’s why it’s been so hard trying to come out from this. I just wish I was able to help you then, but I, like so many international Shawols, don’t speak or understand Korean unless kind fans translate for us. I’ve been trying to learn before; Since my dream to meet you and SHINee and say “Thank you” I’ve slowly been trying to learn Korean for you. But I was too late in helping you. Every night I thought, “if only I understood what you were saying then, could I have said or done something to help? To still have you here with us? I had the feeling, I should’ve acted on it. If only I could express myself in Korean to you.” Which is why this year I’ve buckled down and found a Korean church that offers language classes. I’m moving on to level three hopefully next semester, but I’m still nowhere near where I want to be. I know a lot more now but I can’t always understand a full passage or when the teachers are talking to each other. Still, I promise to keep working hard to better communicate with the other members and you too, of course. Maybe next year I’ll write to you fully in Korean? You’ve struggled for so long. And even if there is nothing I could have done, I still wish there was. I miss you. There hasn’t been one day this year when I haven’t thought of you or missed you. I could see and hear where you’d be incorporated into the songs and choreography for The Story of Light. I know there are others who blame SM but I don’t. This was your decision. Your company supported you and trusted in you. You had the first solo album completely composed by the singer. They trusted you with writing for your group, for other artists, for yourself and expressing yourself in your music. They could have given you songs from other producers but no, they supported you and your music and gave you the freedom to express yourself through your solo career and as a radio DJ. I thought listening to your worries was enough since that’s all I could do. I wasn’t fluent enough in Korean to help you just yet, but I was wrong and awful to think that was enough, I’m sorry.

It was hard to listen to anything by you or with SHINee at first, I’ll admit, but when I was able to fully listen to SHINee again this year, I couldn’t feel sad, I just couldn’t. You’ve all brought such me incredible happiness with your music it’s like I’ve been conditioned to feel nothing but love and happiness when listening to you all. So that when the time came, those first initial feelings of what your songs made me feel came flooding back. I was surprised, I thought it’d be painful with the reality of not hearing you again sing all these songs and performing them together. But instead, the feeling when listening to you all together was of comfort and happiness just as it’s always been. I understand how hard it must’ve been for you to be in the spotlight for so long. But one thing I’m sure of is that you loved the stage, you loved your members, you loved Shawols, you loved writing, you loved composing, you loved music. And to not listen to SHINee or your work would be a dishonor to all the hard work you’ve put in over the years, the feelings you pouring into your songs, the hours of practice you put into before every performance. You are more than this day. SHINee is more than this day, and it’d be a shame to put all your work to waste. We can’t let you become a taboo subject. So I’ll keep supporting and loving 5HINee as I've always had throughout the years. You won’t be forgotten, I won’t allow it. To all Shawols, old and new, let’s continue as well, even if it’s hard, please keep listening to SHINee and Jonghyun.

Of course, I’m aware there are songs that are hard for me to listen to, for me too. Though Story Op.2 is one of my favorite albums by you I finally understand that story you were telling us then. It’s an album I can relate to the most so it’s sad and hard for me to listen to it fully now that I know the ending. I was confused by the lyrics in Fireplace when I first read them, and now it makes perfect sense. I’m sorry. I was too absorbed in how well I relate to you I couldn’t say the words you wanted to hear most in the time you needed to. That being said, the songs in that album both hurt and comfort me, I know I’m not alone, but for you, I’ll keep going. Thank you for all you gave us, the smiles, laughs, jokes, tears of joy, words of comfort, happiness, your kindness, the memes. Thank you for letting us hear your voice, for sharing your talent, for opening your heart, for letting us love you, the real you, for giving it your all on everything you did be it music, variety shows, performing with SHINee or as simply Jonghyun, for taking the time to reach out and connect with us through Blue Night or your social media. Thank you for being you. I don’t blame you for leaving, I find I blame myself more though I know you wouldn’t want me to. You’ve struggled a lot, and I wish there was more I could’ve done for you. I never noticed how little of the moon I actually see until this year. But whenever the moon appeared I would smile because it felt like you were up there, poking out from a cloud to say hello. I could feel you’re still here in my heart and always I would give you a thumbs up and said you did well. I wish I could have helped you as you did me. But that’s just me being selfish again. I’m sorry, I still can’t send you off with a smile. All I can do is apologize to you every night. Writing this has been hard. But know that I love you and miss you always. You’ve done enough. Thank you for working so hard. I hope you are in peace and are happy. You’ve done well. truly you did well. You are my pride.

With love,

Forever a Shawol

#SHINee #Jonghyun #KimJonghyun #181218 #I miss you #You did well #I love you

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disgrays-on · 7 years ago

Text

my little bird

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Older!Damian Wayne // Reader

A/N: This one is a bit of a doozy. This will be the last one I post in a while. I hope the length more than makes up for it, though!

It starts out like this:

“Hey, birdie.” You finally called out, pursing your lips as you watched Robin take down another goon with a satisfying punch to the face. “Need any help?”

You had been watching him from a nearby rooftop for the first few minutes after your arrival, low enough that you could drop down safely to step in if needed but high enough that you were far from the possibility of any stray weapons flying in your direction. You were sure that he had been well aware of your arrival, could have even asked for help earlier if he wanted to, but he seemed pretty happy to take all of them down on his own. You watched as his face contorted with different emotions at your nickname for him, not bothering to hide the grin that spread on your face when he settled for displeasure.

“No.” He grunted out, striking one last thug down before landing on both of his feet with the perfect agility that you’ve always known him for. You winced as his kick sent the thug crashing to the ground with a resounding thud, face first. He straightened himself up then, turning to where you were to give you a pointed look. “Don’t call me that.”

You rolled your eyes, jumping down and making your way to where he was. The nickname had slipped past your lips without you really noticing during a particularly slow patrol a while back. Damian had wrinkled his nose at it, lips twisting into a scowl and spitting out vehement refusals as you attempted to explain the name between bouts of laughter. Your saving grace had been the odd bond that you had forged with him, surprisingly sturdy through all the trials and hardships that the both of you have faced together in both your heroic and real identities. Otherwise, you were certain that there was no possible way that you could have escaped that conversation unscathed.

His denial had only lasted for about a week before you found him looking to you every time you called him by the name. His narrowed eyes and unimpressed frown - having been melted away by your persistence - was now replaced by a mixture of exasperation and resignation. This does not deter his automatic response of telling you not to call him that nor does it deter you from using it anytime you can.

“I see you are as helpful as ever.” He groused, dusting himself off.

You sighed loudly, “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Now that you weren’t so distracted by him, you finally noticed all of the thugs that he had bested, splayed out and out cold all around him. You would have been incredibly amazed and slightly terrified if you didn’t see something like this almost every other night. After a long time of being paired up to patrol together, this was something that you were almost used to. You made a face at the mess that the young hero had made because you had just signed yourself up for a clean up which was, quite arguably, the more sombre part of this whole vigilante deal.

(But when you are an arm’s length away from him, you don’t even bother to hide the fact that you’re checking him over to see if he had gotten hurt in the fight. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s allowing you the moment to do just that.)

When your conscience is satisfied, you elbowed him lightly and gesturing to the trail of unconscious men, “Now come, let’s finish up here so we can go elsewhere!”

He huffed but moved quickly.

After patrol, you usually preferred to head back home. Change out of your outfit, shower and settle into your comfy bed and sleep until responsibilities called on you to wake up. Other times, you like to find the nearest tallest building (and sometimes that meant one of his father’s buildings) and watch the sun as it rose past the horizon and illuminate the city. The view was always so breathtaking, a city waking up after a long night of rest, a new day and a new beginning. This night found you doing the same, waiting for the dark sky to brighten up from one of your favourite spots.

You hear him before you see him, light footsteps across the rooftop as he approached you. You didn’t know what that said about you, the fact that you knew how his footsteps sounded like. He stopped a distance away, and even without turning to face him, you could feel him questioning your actions.

“Waiting for the sun to rise.” You hummed, twisting from the scenery spread out before you to face him. He looked pensive at your words, furrowing his eyebrows as he contemplated them, so you grinned at him to appease whatever doubts that he had and it seemed to work. You patted the spot beside you, “Watch the sunrise with me, birdie.”

He grumbled something under his breath, something about his father expecting him to be home soon, but after a couple of minutes, moved to sit beside you. Both of you had your legs dangled over the edge, the back of your heels knocking against the building from time to time whilst basking in the comfortable silence.

“You did good today, by the way.” You turned to smile sweetly at him, resisting the urge to laugh when he turned his face away, the tiniest hints of a flush on his cheeks. Tonight’s patrol had been more than hectic, to say the least. A prison breakout meant that everyone had been called in to reel all the prisoners back in. You and Robin had rounded up all that the both of you could but it hadn’t been all that easy. It was safe to say that you were glad that it was over though.

“I suppose I could say the same for you.” He replied, nodding assuredly. Generous of him to say, you mused, but you made no move to refute his words. You didn’t feel like having another conversation where he somehow boosts your ego and morale despite all the harshness in his voice. You understood that this was his way of showing he cared for you. The both of you were good but together, the both of you were unstoppable.

“You and me, birdie.” You murmured quietly at the tentative sign of the sun rising, the deep inky sky slowly brightening up to a pale light blue, “They’ll remember us for centuries.”

He chuckled, short and sweet.

A few years pass effortlessly and there is a period of time where he runs around without a name, with only the reputation he gained and his family watching his back. This does not stop you from chirping his nickname every time you see him. You were at his side before this and you’re at his side now.

“Deep breaths.” He instructed, hands steadily working on your injury. You winced at his words, running over the circumstances that had led to this exact moment in your head.

You didn’t know what had come over you but a sudden burst of courage and adrenaline had you jumping in front of an incoming attack meant for Damian. At that moment, whatever panic or fear had been far outweighed by your overwhelming desire for him to remain (relatively) unharmed. The gods must have been looking out for you because you managed to escape with only a minor injury, requiring only simple stitches and a dressing. It hurt but at least neither you or Damian were dead, so you supposed it worked out well enough in the end.

Damian hadn’t been too pleased with what you had done, oh no, he was super pissed but you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel sorry. You didn’t want him hurt if you could have anything to say about it. Still, you could afford to complain just a little bit, even if it was internally. And this was how you found yourself sitting on one of the cots in the Cave, watching as he helped patch you up while enduring the painful cold silence of his. You could see him clenching and unclenching his jaw as he worked.

You sighed, breaking the silence, “I’m not going to apologise.”

“I don’t expect you to.” A curt reply as he finished the dressing up before straightening up. His eyes were warmer than you had expected them to be.

You offered him a small smile and he returned it with one of his own. “Then why are you upset, birdie?”

“Because you got hurt.” He answered simply, moving to put all the supplies away.

“And I keep telling you, it isn’t your fault.” You reiterated, wrapping a hand around his wrist and tugging him closer.

“It should have been me.” He mumbled, bitterly.

“I know. I get it and I appreciate the thought, Dami. But don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical of you?“ You tilted your head when he averted his gaze from you to the wall behind you. You resisted the urge to cup his cheek, to make him look at you, to look into his beautiful green eyes but you didn’t want him pulling away anytime soon. You just wanted to make him understand - whenever he got hurt, you got hurt too. “This is nothing compared to seeing you get hurt.”

A flicker of guilt crossed his face before it disappeared completely, no trace of it whatsoever.

“Then we’ll share the burden together.” He decided, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. His palm felt slightly cool against your warm skin, so pleasantly soothing that you can’t help but lean into his touch.

“Need assistance?” His familiar voice filled you with nothing but relief. You had lost sight of him when the fight broke out but you were glad that he was here now. The thought of him being alright is enough to fuel you with the strength to bring the next thug down with an extra forceful punch. You distantly recalled the night a few years back when the positions had been reversed. The memory brought a small smirk on your face. Young and in love. You supposed there was not much of a difference, then.

“No. You’re quite late to this party, I think.” You commented, quickly taking down the last one before turning to search for him. He looked good, if not a bit ruffled, a playful smirk on his face.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” You couldn’t help but snort at that one. His eyes roamed over your form when you joined him, and you let them, a small smile on your face ready to greet him.

“As helpful as ever, birdie.” You snickered, slotting into his side as if the two of you were always meant for each other.

“Come, we have elsewhere to be.”

The years pass by easily with plenty of ups and downs of their own and then there is a period of time where he runs around with a bat emblazoned on his chest and a huge target on his back. You don’t stop watching him and taking criminals down by his side. You don’t stop calling him birdie either, affection rolling off your tongue easier than breathing has ever been when he’s around.

The little bites become something like a norm. The sting of the small nips along your neck and afterwards, the comfort of the trail of tiny kisses over the same area; these were things that you’ve grown used to. You found yourself enjoying the attention he gave you in the comfort of your shared bedroom, his doting and loving were incredibly addictive. Almost always, he gave you what you wanted - what you needed - but other times, he found it amusing to drag it on for as long as he possibly could. And sometimes, he’s a little to rough with his ministrations and you have to whine a bit to get his attention.

“Birdie.” You yelped out after a particularly harsh bite, louder than you had intended for it to be. The two of you had been curled up in bed together when he had tugged you closer and pressed his lips against your skin. You had no intentions of letting it progress any further than just that and you had made it clear to him, but he seemed content enough to be where the both of you were. It was easy to get carried away then.

He pulled back almost instantly at your cry, a small frown appearing on his face. The worry slowly clouding his face was almost enough to make you giggle a bit but you restrained yourself in favour of tugging him closer to ease his concerns. You reassured, threading your fingers through his hair, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” He asked quietly.

“I’m alright,” You pulled back to press a quick kiss on his lips, “All good.”

“Do you want me to stop?” He questioned, green eyes filled with whatever worry was left that you couldn’t relieve. You didn’t mind his show of affection, in fact, you enjoyed it thoroughly. And you knew for a fact that he enjoyed it too. He wasn’t always one for enjoyable pastimes, but this seemed to pique his interest a lot. You wouldn’t be the one to deny him.

You hummed, “In a bit.”

“You’re too good to me.” He had said, and you laughed out then. You hoped he knew that you thought the same of him.

“If my family doesn’t arrive-”

“No.” You said for the umpteenth time that night.

“Why won’t you listen to what I have to say?” He gritted out, clearly frustrated. You would have felt guilty over the fact that you were riling him up more than necessary but he has been trying to say these words for the past few minutes now and you didn’t want to listen to any of it. If they didn’t seem so final, you would have. But you didn’t- He couldn’t. Losing him wasn’t an option.

“Why don’t you listen to what I have to say? I have done so much, we have done so much, for this to just end now. This is not the ending we deserve. We deserve more than this. So believe me when I say that I have no intentions of losing you now. Or ever, for that matter.” You snapped. He looked slightly taken aback and you had to take in a huge intake of air to calm yourself down. Your anger and frustration would do no one good. It was disgustingly humid in the small area that the both of you were trapped in and you could smell the familiar scent of blood, and it made your stomach twist even more knowing exactly whose it was.

“So please, just be quiet and let me help you.” You pleaded, voice quiet, as you pressed down gently on his wound. You hoped the despair that you felt at the moment was not visible on your face. Whatever hope of getting rescued that you had earlier in the hour after you realised that the both of you were trapped and that he was slowly bleeding out had long diminished after he released a single shaky breath. One single breath and you had been ready to quit. “You aren’t dying tonight, birdie. Believe me when I say that.”

He remained quiet and you weren’t sure whether it was from exhaustion due to all the fighting beforehand, from the injury that was making him paler and paler by the second or from annoyance at your misplaced optimism. You hoped that it was the annoyance more than anything else right now.

His hand moved up to clasp the one you had over the gash, and squeezed gently, a simple silent act of gratitude.

It ends a bit like this:

You’ve been at his bedside for the past few hours and you haven’t left since his brother pushed you to freshen up and make yourself more presentable after they found the both of you. Even then, you hadn’t left until he had assured you that he would well taken care of in your absence. You didn’t doubt that but you’ve always been quite the worrywart, especially when it came to him. Your only company seemed to be your worries, the sound of his breathing and the monitor with his (thankfully) steady heartbeat. Your stomach is gnawing at you to be filled with some food, but you can’t bear to be apart from him. Not when he’s like this.

When he wakes up, he smiles at you so tenderly but you end up crying in relief instead. This is perhaps one of the few times that you don’t meet a smile of his with one of your own. But you thought you deserved this at the least, you had been strong when he had been on the brink of death and you could only sit by and watch. You jab his arm lightly, because he was probably already in plenty of pain, and make him promise you, voice cracking, to never do that again, birdie. His lips twists into a small smile. He holds your hand in his, looking at it for a while and then asks you to be by his side forever.

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