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faithums · 9 months ago

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…cuddling with the jjk men ·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳

✎ synopsis: what positions do the jjk men cuddle in (+ my interpretations)

Inclu. gojo, nanami, megumi, choso, yuji, toji, geto

╰┈➤ gojo satoru

spontaneous embraces are his go to, you never know what he is going to say or do next. but he is always found in the classic spooning position. god knows what he would do without it.

As you lay comfortably in bed, the feeling of warmth of the blankets enveloped you, you sense Gojo’s presence drawing near, his captivating aura filling the room with a heavy tension as he stepped gently toward you. His touch is feather-light as he wraps his toned arms around you from behind, pulling you tight- leaving no room for air- into a soothing embrace.

You arch your back slightly, pressing into his torso and lower back, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His warmth seeps into your skin, creating a sense of security and tranquility. His breath against the nape of your neck sends shivers down your spine as he cupped the flesh of your thighs.

You intertwine your fingers with his, relishing in the simple yet profound connection between the two of you. In this moment there are no words required between the two of you; just silent understanding and subtle affection. It’s a moment of solace, where the world starts to fade away, along with the stress of it all- leaving only the comforting embrace of his presence.

You let out a sigh, a sigh to inform yourself how you can finally relax, knowing he is safe with you and, mostly, how you’re safe with him. He slowly begins to caress your hips, placing his chin into the slopes of your clavicle. You love him silently back by placing your hand atop of his (which is comically large on comparison) and tenderly trace the redness of his knuckles.

The silence as comforting, but all of a sudden this loud, jarring voice creeps up behind you, tainting your hearing: “If I slipped it in would it ruin the mood?” When Gojo tries to initiate anything sexual it all goes south hilariously.

A small wheeze left your lips: “Oh my god. Saturo, you’re unbelievable.” You love him and his stupid little comments, but sometimes this man cannot read the room.

“That’s not a no is it, love.” you could feel him smirk into the back of your neck, his hot breath making you fluster and choke on your words…

╰┈➤ kento nanami

a simple man, into the old time classics. like spooning or having your head on his lap whilst you two discussed the affairs of the fun filled days you’ve had. (p.s. this man is always the big spoon)

In the soft twilight glow, your head finds a gentle perch upon Nanami’s lap, a sanctuary of comfort admits the chaos of this curse ridden world. His relaxing presence blankets you like a protective cloak, shielding you from the tumultuous winds of life’s uncertainties.

As your fingers intertwine with his, it’s as though tune itself acquiesces, allowing this moment of intimacy to stretch into eternity (if only it could…). His touch, like the tender brush of a feather against your skin- despite his notorious ruthless nature- ignites a symphony of sensations that resonate deep with your soul.

With each stroke through your hair, Kento weaves threads of serenity and devotion, his fingers becoming the artisans of ataraxia in this shared sacred space. His heartbeat, a steady rhythm beneath your ear, acts as a comforting lullaby, guiding you into a state of peaceful surrender.

In this intimate cocoon, you’re both the architects and inhabitants of a world where love reigns supreme (despite the havoc which enfolds within your lives on a daily basis). Every whispered word, every gentle touch, is a testament to the profound bond that binds your sensitive hearts together, transcending the boundaries of time and space.

As you rest flush against his lap, enveloped in his warmth, you realise that this moment is not just a pause in time but a glimpse into your boundless futures- a testament to the enduring power of love to transform even the simplest of gestures into moments of sublime perfection.

“I love you Kento,” sleep configured your words to him, spilling your feelings to him for the millionth time, he must be getting fed up of it by now…

But no. He never does: “And I shall love and worship you for eternity, my darling.”

╰┈➤ megumi fushiguro

an affectionate lover when he needs to be. basking in the warmth of your embrace, relishing the moment, as he knows that this can’t last a life time, even though he wishes it could.

As the morning sun filters through the pristine curtains, it’s golden rays dance across the bare skin of you and Megumi, painting the room in a warm, honeyed glow. The gentle caress of sunlight kisses your intertwined forms; illuminating the delicate lines of your entangled limbs. His veiny, toned forearms (stained with an aureate hue) are meticulously wrapped around the flesh of your stomach, as his head rests flush against your chest.

Megumi’s strong, lanky hold you in a wholesome embrace as you cuddle together, radiating a sense of security and amenity. With each gentle touch, his fingers trace soothing patterns on your skin, a silent promise of protection and warmth. The contrast between the rough texture of his palms and the softness of your touch creates a sensation that feels both grounding and intimate, a tangible reminder of the bond you share.

You begin to play with your cute boyfriends fluffy, unruly black hair, eliciting a soft subtle groan of contentment from him, a sense of relaxation and desire washes over you both. Each onyx strand seems to have a mind of its own, curling around your fingers in a hypnotising dance. His groan carries a mixture of pleasure and relief, a testament to the blissful moment you share. With each gentle tug and caress, the tension of the outside world fades away, you become suddenly grateful of the serendipitous acts you both indulge in.

Megumi’s breath quickens, you feel the subtle shift in rhythm between your breathing patterns. The desynchronisation of the beats of your hearts made you less relaxed, the residue stress began to creep back over you.

“Can you match my breathing you’re stressing me out Fushiguro.” You whined, your voice strained with sleep.

“Mno.” He replied with a yawn which rippled against your warm chest, “its too much effort.”

“If you don’t I’ll send screenshots of our text messages to the group chat with Itadori, Kugisaki and Gojo in.” You chuckled to yourself through the ebony wisps of his hair.

“Okay. Fine.”

Even though he was getting sassier day-by-day, the hot smile on your skin was indicative of the inevitable submission of his heart beat would return to its original pace. Slowly transcending reality and entering a realm of bliss and freedom from the things that taint your very existence.

╰┈➤ choso kamo

someone who gets aroused by the little things in life, by cuddling. he’s too sweet, he doesn’t want to disrupt your rest. so he attempts at staying as still as he can before it goes noticed…

In the serene haven of your shared space, the soft glow of dimmed lights bathed the room, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls. As you and Choso recline on the cosy refuge of the velvety couch, your legs intertwined seamlessly- fitting together leg the final pieces to a ridiculously hard puzzle.

Your fingers seemed to have a subconscious and moved independently to delicately trace the strong, defined contoured of his face, mapping out the creases from where he’s recently laughed uncontrollably. His eyes, riddled with sleep, were trying their hardest to withstand the effects of slumber. His brown pools meet yours with a silent unwavering support. With each small caress you feel the rough texture of his skin beneath your fingertips- earning a soft groan from each touch. A tangible reminder of how much you adore each other.

His hair spills over his shoulders and down his broad back, it carries an air of untamed elegance, undeterred by his busy life. He cups your cheek, whispering sweet nothing into your ear about how have you permanently altered his life for the better.

As you lifelessly wrap your arms around him, you feel that the world you seem to reside in fades away, leaving only the two of you cocooned in an embrace that feels like coming home. His strong yet gentle arms encircle you, pulling you close so your bodies touch. Flush against his toned chest, you felt small beneath him, vulnerable- in a good way, your hands traced his collarbones, counting the beauty marks on his sternum, which made his own unique constellation.

As you held him close you noticed that he began to subtly shift in his demeanour. He seemed to become tense which is odd as his posture is usually composed, and you can feel the faint tremble of his muscles beneath your touch. His breath, once steady and calm, now comes in irregular busts, betraying the carnality brewing within him.

“Choso. Can you not be hard for once,” you laughed into the crook of his neck. Inhaling his scent, a blend of earthy musk and the faintest hint of spice.

“Sorry Baby,” he whined into your hair, ruffling it with his large hand, “can’t help it… you’re too perfect.” he squeezed the flesh of your ass in response. And smiled knowing he’s safe from judgement in your loving arms, despite the current predicament…

╰┈➤ yuji itadori

this man expects hugs etc of how he is with his personality, he gives 150% each day, and alls he wants in return is to cuddle. but when he shares an embrace with you it isn’t long until he’s fast. asleep.

Your head is slung over his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, scared he will let go. (Even though he would probably be thinking the same.) His pink hair, appears dark in the nights shine, with each rise and fall of his chest- his dreams catch up with him slowly but surely, a blanket of sleep falling and catching him.

The dust particles danced in the air as the moons iridescent rays highlighted them, you watched half lidded as they began their journey to perilously fall to the ground and be trapped forever. It was an interesting thought, but a thought at least.

Your leg was thrown over his, it had become limp as that too had been affected by the night, casting a paralysing spell upon you. You adjust yourself with a contented sigh, moving the leg, seeking even closer contact.

Yuji stirs slightly at the movement, but he doesn’t wake, instead, he instinctively pulls you closer, his arm encasing you protectively. His presence is comforting, and you revel in the feeling of safety and leave that being with him ultimately brings.

Wrapped in each other’s embrace, you drift off into a peaceful sleep, content in the knowledge that you are exactly where you belong- in Yuji’s arms.

It was peaceful, too peaceful. A bird cawed from afar, sending its voice ricocheting toward the open window above us. In response to this, Yuji inevitably flung himself forward, propelling you off his chest dramatically, his fight or flight activated.

“OW.” You shouted at him with a whisper, “Yuji what was that for!”

“Swear that was a curse…” He protested, a small blush creeping its way along his face, to catch him red handed for being too precautious.

“If that was a curse then I’m next in line to the throne of England.” You dismissed jokingly, and pulled him back onto the mattress, attempting to submit to sleep once more.

“It’s not my fault I’m a cautious sleeper! It was ever since that day-,” he rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah that was hilarious. When Nobara drew that penis on your face with permanent marker. Comedy gold.” You recited from memory with a laugh; for him to quickly ‘shush’ you as he says that can’t be disclosed out loud; because he thinks Sukuna will listen and take the piss out of him in-front of people in a future job interview or something. (Very unrealistic, but that’s Yuji.)

╰┈➤ toji fushiguro

he wants you to be on him, it’s rarely that he wants it the other way around, he enjoys watching your feeble attempt to climb on-top of him- thinks he’s funny. when he’s just a dick.

You were straddled across his lap, laying on his chest, enjoying the warmth emanating from his body as you cuddled together on the couch. The soft glow of the lamp nearby cast a gentle ambiance, enveloping the two of you in an adequate, snug atmosphere.

Toji’s arms (which were of ridiculous size by the way) were holding you tight, keeping you close as if he never wanted to let go. His fingers traced idle patterns down your bare back, sending shivers down your spine in the most delightful way. With your head rest of against his chest, you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a comforting lullaby that eased any worries from your mind.

Lost in the tranquility of the moment, you closed your eyes, savouring the feeling of being so close to him. But just as you were about to drift off into a euphoric slumber, you felt a slight shift beneath you.

Opening your eyes slightly, you saw Toji’s gaze fixated on something on the floor. Following his like of sight, you noticed a glimmer of metal- a coin (with the value of approximately £2) lying forgotten on the carpet.

Confusion flickered across Toji’s face for a moment, before he awkwardly adjusted his position, subtly manoeuvring his foot to nudge the coin closer toward him. It was a comical sight to say the least- the epitome of Toji’s resourcefulness even on the most intimate of moments.

Suppressing a laugh, you watched as he pitifully/finally managed to retrieve it (after what felt like hours of him kicking it further away for him then to scoot more off the couch, and for you to almost fall off it), his expression was a mixture of triumph and amusement.

“Did you just do all of that to end up with…,” you began, trying to stifle your laughter.

“Took me a second there. But moneys money babe. Gotta get it whilst ya’ can.” Toji replied with a grin, the small scar on his lips curling along with his mouth, he held the coin up to the light attractively, as if he’d won the biggest prize at a fair ground.

“I guess every little bit counts, huh old man?” You chuckled, shaking your head in amusement and denial with the fact a grown man spent 10 minutes kicking a coin around with his foot.

“Atta girl,” he said, pocketing the coin with a shrug. “Cant let em’ go to waist ey’,” he declared with a smirk into your hair.

“Guess not,” you sighed into his chest, and he turned his attention back toward you, surrounding you with his arms once more. And despite the brief interruption, you couldn’t help but feel even more enamoured with him, finding his attractiveness in the simplicity of your shared moments- coin and all.

╰┈➤ suguru geto

this may be out of character but i can just imagine geto enjoying the simplicity of a back to back cuddle. he knows you’re there and safe with him- that’s all he asks for. however on some occasions he will completely smother you.

You and Suguru lounged on the bed, with each others backs plush against one another, the feeling of his toned back against yours made you shiver. Suguru enjoyed the simplicity of being together, not much had to happen for him to fall in love with you again as of it was the first time.

Suguru let out a contented sigh, but then a mischievous glint danced in his eyes. “‘member when Gojo tried to make pancakes?”

You burst into laughter at the memory, “How could I forget that shitshow!”

Suguru chuckled, his laughter seeping through his body, making it clear to you as his back vibrated onto yours. “He was so confident, bragging about his secret recipe like an entitled child.”

“And then he proceeded to mix up salt and sugar,” you added, shaking your head. “Poor Itadori was choking for a solid minute, on those stupid pancakes- I’ll still argue to him that they looked like boobs, with how he deliberately placed those blueberries…”

Suguru laughed heartily, moving his arm back so he could knead the plush of your inner thigh, it earned a little squeal from yourself. “And don’t forget the time when he attempted to bake a cake for Nanami’s birthday…”

“The fact that goon forgot the flour. And how he put 100 candles on the cake- I swear Nanami was about to kill him.” You exclaimed, doubling with the giddy feeling, “at the end, the cake was a dense, sugary brick.”

Suguru smiled contently, thinking about the memories which brought him joy as he drew small patterns into your thighs, up-to to your ass. “Not as dense as him.”

Just then, you felt Suguru’s grip tighten around you, his laughter subsiding. “You know you mean the world to me.” He stated. “Life with you is what makes living in this unsanitary shithole so enjoyable.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

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azullumi · 2 years ago

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hello! i'm really in love with the way you write scara so i was wondering if you can write headcanons about him having a romantic relationship with the reader who is soft, nice, and gentle, especially to him, and at first, scara just refuses to accept that someone like them is inlove with them. thank you!

summary — wanderer when he’s finally treated right after years of misery and loneliness.

pairing — wanderer/gender-neutral reader

tags — fluff, him and a soft s/o sounds so sweet; headcanons

word count — 661

a/n — i hope this is what you were looking for, anon! knowing that you love the way i write scara makes me happy, thank you :))

This feeling felt so unfamiliar to him despite experiencing it many times because love never felt so soft. The love he knew was completely different from this. The love that he knew was violence and cruelty. The love that he was familiar with was abandonment and loneliness. This love was nothing compared to the love that he knew of.

Oh, darling, you're so sweet and tender to him and he just feels like a being who has never sinned in his entire life. Have you not seen the blood on his hands or you just refuse to do so?

Having someone as gentle and delicate as you loving someone like him who has such a great contrast with your personality with his roughness and sharp tongue was definitely something he will never expect and has a hard time accepting. I mean, if you were a bad person who has a horrible personality, has a mean way of talking, and everything, then you’ll just find someone who has a complete opposite of your personality being in love with you, how will that make you feel?

You deserve someone better, not someone like him. You’re not supposed to be with him, he knows that. He understands and knows that but he also wants you, he also loves you, maybe not in a way that you do to him but he loves you and doesn’t want to let you go. It took him quite some time to realize that and now he’s working on his feelings and making himself better just for you.

However, he's having a hard time as he’s unsure on what he should do. He knows that he should treat you gently but how? He just doesn’t know what to do and he’s afraid that he might end up hurting you, just the thought of it fills him up with anxiety. People can break so easily and what if you'll shatter at just the slightest of cruelty?

The beginning of your relationship was filled with anxiety, uncertainty, and fear. He just refuses to accept that things are happening in this kind of way. Maybe, at first, he'll push you away and has himself closed which he hasn't realized might have hurt you until later on your relationship to which he apologized for.

What should he do? What can he do? A lot of questions are always running through his head and his thoughts feel like mud on clear waters, slowly staining his judgment and mind. He’ll seek guidance and advice from people that he knows— it's probably just Nahida though.

It is then that he'll realize that the path he's threading is a long one and that he's not alone in it. Realizing that you're in it and you're with him throughout this whole journey has helped in putting his mind at ease and relieving his anxiety. To have someone like you love someone like him felt like salvation in his soul, what do you even see in him that he doesn't notice?

Being with you taught him multiple things, lessons that he has learned and will forever cherish. Gentleness slowly weaves its way to his soul and binds his scars and wounds to him with just your delicate touch on his skin. Your lips tasted just like forgiveness and kindness has touched every inch of his body.

You're someone that he has never expected, someone that he will never think that he'll end up with but it's not like he regrets it.

Such tender and docile feeling of love was something that he never thought he'll be acquainted with but here he is and although he doesn't say it, he wants you to know that it was your gentleness that comforted him.

Patience is all that he needs, after all, he's still working on his feelings and trying to become a better person— not in personality but just as a better lover, someone who's deserving of your love and affection.

— navigation | masterlist

#genshin impact wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer scaramouche #wanderer genshin #wanderer headcanons #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin x you #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche headers #azul.writes

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differentpostrebel · 2 months ago

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Lost and Found: A Pirate's Promise

This gif! cause Sanji was ready for war!

Chapter 27: Falling into Doflamingo's Web

A/N: And we are back at it again with another chapter!! Also even though I did say like in 5 chapters we hitting a whole new arc… yeahhhh we aint done just yet… (heheh). Thank you guys so much for liking, following, commenting, and interacting!. We got lots of POVs, From Law, Our favorite lovesick cook Sanji, Zoro, and more!. Imma start making a masterlist and have it pinned on my profile so that way, every chapter will be on it!. But without further ado, let the adventure begin!

WordCount: 5.6K

Sanji x Reader, Sanji x Y/N, One piece X Reader.

Law POV…

I dodged Doflamingo’s attacks, weaving through the barrage of deadly strings that cut through the air with terrifying precision. “Just a little more!” I thought, my breath ragged as I narrowly avoided another sharp strike. But in an instant, the strings closed in on me, wrapping around my limbs and slamming me against a tree with brutal force. My sword clattered to the ground, and my body strained against the pressure, the sharp wires biting into my skin.

Doflamingo loomed closer, a twisted grin on his face. “Why don’t you just hand over Caesar’s heart?” he sneered.

I smirked, despite the pain. “Is it really Caesar you want?” I asked, my voice dripping with mockery. “Or are you just scared Kaido’s going to kill you when you can’t produce SMILEs anymore?”

Doflamingo’s grin faltered, replaced by a flash of anger. The strings tightened around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. He unleashed another wave of razor-sharp threads, aimed right at me.

“Room! Shambles!” I called out, swapping places just in time to evade the attack. My heart pounded as I landed a few feet away. “2.5 seconds… and I would’ve been sliced to bits,” I thought, my body aching from the narrow escape.

I tried to retreat, to get some distance between us, but Doflamingo’s strings lashed out once more, catching my leg and yanking me back. In a flash, he was on top of me, his knee pressing into my chest, pinning me to the ground. My vision blurred, the weight of his strength crushing me.

“You’re mine now,” Doflamingo hissed, his voice low and menacing. His fingers curled, ready to finish me off.

But then, the weight shifted, and I felt the sudden presence of another force. A sword—heavy and deliberate—pressed down, not from Doflamingo, but from above.

“Fujitora… why did you save him!?” Doflamingo snarled, his voice filled with fury.

The gravity around me intensified, pushing me deeper into the ground, every bone in my body screaming under the strain. “Ahhh!” I groaned, unable to move.

“I have my orders,” Fujitora said calmly, standing above me, his sword still raised. “I didn’t come here to kill him. My objective is to apprehend him.”

The crushing force kept me immobilized, my breaths shallow and labored. I felt my heart pound in my chest, but even that felt distant, muffled under the pressure.

Doflamingo’s cold laughter filled the air. “Now, about Caesar’s heart…” he said with a sinister smile, reaching down and snatching the small, fragile organ from my side.

Sanji POV…

I stood with Kinemon, watching the commotion at the Coliseum unfold. My mind raced, trying to figure out how we could sneak in and warn Luffy before things spiraled even further out of control. I gritted my teeth, frustration building. There’s no easy way in with all these Marines crawling around.

Just then, I heard a familiar voice that grated on my nerves instantly.

“Hey! What the hell are you guys doing here?” came the all-too-recognizable tone of Mosshead.

“What… that’s—” Kinemon shouted in surprise. “It’s Sir Zoro! Hey, over here!”

“Subtlety, Kinemon!” I groaned, delivering a swift kick to his side to shut him up. "Do you want the Marines to find us?"

Zoro approached us from the shadows of the alley, his usual look of nonchalance plastered on his face. As much as I hated to admit it, I was relieved to see him. But there was something more pressing. Desperation clawed at my insides as I stepped closer to him.

“Zoro, have you seen Y/N by any chance?!” I asked, my voice laced with urgency. Every second without word from her was twisting my gut into tighter knots.

Zoro furrowed his brow and scratched his head. “No, actually I haven’t. But I did hear someone telling me to wait a couple minutes ago.”

I froze for a second, the words hanging in the air. Then, without thinking, I lunged toward him. “YOU IDIOT! That was her!” I yelled, grabbing him by the collar. “She’s in even more danger now, and you couldn’t even stop for two seconds to check?!”

Zoro glared, shoving me back. “How was I supposed to know it was her, dart-brow? I’m not some psychic who can read minds. Besides, I was busy trying to figure out where you wandered off to!”

“Oh yeah? Well maybe if you actually had a sense of direction for once in your life, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” I shot back, my irritation with him rising as it always did.

Zoro’s eye twitched. “You wanna go, love-cook? 'Cause I’ve got time to deal with you!”

“Deal with me? You can’t even deal with finding your way down a straight road!” I snapped, our bickering escalating by the second.

Kinemon sighed in the background, shaking his head at our usual back-and-forth. “Perhaps now is not the time for this—”

Zoro cut him off. “Look, I’m not here to fight you. I’m heading back to the Sunny. It’s under attack by one of Doflamingo’s executives.”

My heart dropped, and my annoyance with Zoro quickly shifted to concern. “What? Damn it! I knew something wasn’t right! Nami and the others are in trouble!” I clenched my fists, turning towards Zoro. “Alright, I’m coming with you!”

Just as I was about to take off, Kinemon stepped in front of me. “Wait, Sir Sanji! We have vital information that we must bestow upon Sir Luffy! We cannot abandon our mission.”

Before I could respond, a familiar voice echoed from the shadows. “There you are.”

I whirled around, and my heart skipped a beat. “Violet, my sweet!” I exclaimed, practically floating over to her. I swooped in and grabbed her hands, swooning as I gazed into her eyes.

“Sanji, this isn’t—” Violet began, but I was too far gone.

“This is fate, destiny bringing us together again in this moment of chaos!” I declared, still holding her hands like we were in some romantic drama.

Zoro groaned, glaring at me. “That kind of crap is going to get you killed, idiot. Snap out of it!” he growled, but I waved him off, completely ignoring his rant.

“Zoro, you wouldn’t understand the complexities of love,” I said, still fixated on Violet’s eyes. “In a world as chaotic as ours, love is a shining beacon of hope and—”

“Shut up, dart-brow!” Zoro barked, his patience wearing thin. “We don’t have time for your romantic delusions! The Sunny’s under attack!”

But I paid him no mind, too engrossed in Violet’s presence. Just as I was about to pull her into a dramatic embrace, Zoro muttered something that snapped me out of it.

“Well, I guess that favor Y/N owes me is finally getting cashed in tonight,” Zoro said with a smirk. “Since you’re not lovesick for her anymore, that’s one less competition I have to deal with.”

I froze mid-swoon, releasing Violet’s hands and spinning on my heel to face Zoro, my eyes blazing with fury. “What did you just say?!”

Zoro’s smirk widened. “You heard me. Now that you’re all wrapped up in your latest fling, maybe I’ll finally have some peace without you hovering over Y/N like some lost puppy.”

My temper flared. “As if Y/N would ever fall for someone like you, you brainless swordsman! She has taste and refinement, something you severely lack!”

Zoro’s smirk turned into a full grin. “Oh yeah? Then why is she always hanging around me, huh? Maybe she prefers a real man who doesn’t get distracted by every pretty face that walks by.”

I clenched my fists, my face turning red with anger. “She does not! Y/N deserves someone with class and elegance, not some brute who can’t even find his way to the nearest tavern!”

Zoro crossed his arms, clearly enjoying how riled up I was getting. “Keep telling yourself that, love-cook. But when she realizes you’re too busy swooning over every girl in Dressrosa, don’t come crying to me.”

“Why you—” I lunged at him, ready to knock that stupid grin off his face.

Before I could get any closer, Violet’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Listen, Black Leg!” she said sharply, stepping between us. “Your ship has been hijacked by my colleague Giolla, and they’re making their way to Greenbit right now.” She looked at me with a mix of urgency and empathy. “If you don’t act fast, you might lose everything you’ve been fighting for.”

Laws POV…

Doflamingo’s laughter echoed through the forest as Fujitora’s gravity technique kept me pinned to the ground, each second more suffocating than the last. I could barely move, my breathing labored and strained.

Doflamingo’s mocking voice cut through the haze of pain. “You know, Law, all this time you’ve been fighting against something far greater than you realize.”

I forced myself to focus despite the crushing weight. “What are you talking about?” I managed to croak out.

Doflamingo’s grin widened. “The World Government, Law. The 20 kingdoms that formed the foundation of this world, the Celestial Dragons—those who hold absolute power. The agreements made to keep this twisted system in place. It’s all part of the grand design.”

I struggled to piece together his words through the pain. “All this time you were a...” I began, my voice labored.

Doflamingo’s laughter grew louder as he continued to toy with Caesar’s heart, dropping it and catching it with cruel precision

Sanji POV…

I stood at the crossroads of my decisions, torn between rescuing Nami and continuing my search for Y/N. The weight of my choices was heavy, but the thought of Y/N still missing gnawed at me. "Y/N, where are you, my sweet?" I muttered under my breath.

Flashback to 10 minutes earlier…

“Listen, mosshead, butt out of this decision!” I snapped at Zoro. “I’m looking for Y/N and also saving Nami and the others, got it?”

Zoro crossed his arms, glaring at me. “Idiot! How the hell are you going to be in two places at once? You can’t just split yourself in half!”

“Listen, I’ll head to the Colosseum, tell Luffy what’s going on, and then I’ll be the one in search of Y/N, got it?” Zoro shot back, his frustration evident.

“Alright, alright!” I relented, rubbing my temples in frustration. “I’ll go rescue Nami, and you find Y/N. Deal?”

Zoro nodded, a hint of relief on his face. “Deal. Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed while you’re at it.”

“Same to you,” I shot back, a smirk on my face despite the tension. “Don’t mess up and make me come rescue you too.”

End of flashback..

Here I was, riding the toy stallion with Violet. It still pained me to make the decision to split up, but if Y/N was anywhere close by, Zoro and Kinemon would be the first to find you. I tried to focus on the task at hand, though my heart ached with worry.

“Now, Violet, I told you to wait at the harbor, you naughty girl,” I said, fawning.

“I would, but the place is covered with Marines,” Violet replied, as we sped through the streets. “You and your friends may want to rethink your rendezvous point. I counted four battleships total, which means there are about 3,000 Marines scattered around.”

“And you managed to find that out in such a short amount of time?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s one of my abilities,” Violet said with a laugh. “Clairvoyance.”

“Clairvoyance, huh? That’s impressive,” I said, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. Violet assured me not to worry about her safety, but then she suddenly tensed, her gaze distant.

“I should be able to see your ship, but it’s simply not there,” Violet said, her tone turning serious.

“Wait, like it disappeared?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“It’s bad. It seems your ship emerged by now… where? And your ship was struck by lightning!” Violet said, her concern evident.

“Struck by lightning? Then Nami must be safe!” I said, relief washing over me as I made my way toward where the ship should be.

Law POV…

Doflamingo continued to taunt as Fujitora’s gravity powers kept me pinned to the ground. Each breath was labored, and the crushing weight felt like it was suffocating me.

“Damn that power,” I thought. “I’m completely immobilized.”

“There’s no way you’re a Celestial Dragon!” I managed to heave out, my voice strained.

“That’s me, well, that was me at least,” Doflamingo sneered. “But not anymore. Not many can say they’ve lived a checkered life as I have.” His taunts were infuriating, each word dripping with arrogance.

“Who cares, stop rambling, bastard!” I gasped, trying to push through the crushing weight.

“Sorry, Law,” Doflamingo said with a mocking tone. “Believe me, I would like nothing more than to knock back a few drinks and tell you all about my life story. But I don’t have time for all that. The Straw Hats are in Dressrosa, and I need to address that. And while I’m at it, I need to get my hands on that princess. It makes me most excited thinking about it.”

His words stung, and I could barely keep my eyes open as the pain intensified. The thought of you and the others in danger fueled my resolve. I had to find a way out of this, no matter what.

Fujitora’s head tilted slightly, his attention shifting. “I heard a thunderclap. I may be blind, but I’ve always had a keen sense for weather,” he remarked, his voice calm but focused.

From the bushes, Caesar emerged, desperate and frantic. “Joker! What are you doing?! Give me my heart back! I want it back now!” he whined, his usual panic setting in.

Doflamingo glanced at the heart in his hand, an amused grin spreading across his face. I struggled under the weight of Fujitora’s gravity power, each breath coming harder than the last.

“No good… I never said whose heart it was,” I managed to say between gasps of air. The words caught Doflamingo’s attention, and his grin widened.

Without a second thought, he crushed the heart, testing my claim. Caesar let out a dramatic wail, collapsing to the ground as if the very life had been squeezed out of him. But when nothing serious happened, and the realization struck that the heart didn’t belong to Caesar after all, Doflamingo’s amusement vanished. It was a marine soldier’s heart.

Taking the moment of confusion, I made my move. “Room!” I summoned my ability, the familiar blue dome surrounding us. “Shambles!” In an instant, I swapped myself out with a log, grabbing Caesar by the scruff and making a run for it.

“Joker, help me!!” Caesar shrieked, flailing in my grasp as we made our escape.

“You’ve got a lot of energy left, Law,” Doflamingo called out, already chasing us down with terrifying speed. Each time he attacked, I would switch the trajectory with an object, barely staying ahead of him.

We were heading toward the bridge, the path narrowing with every step. In the distance, I heard the panicked cries of the Straw Hat crew.

“Idiots! Keep your mouths shut!” I barked at them, knowing their noise would only draw more attention.

“So that’s your plan,” Doflamingo cackled, his eyes locked on the Thousand Sunny. “You think you can escape me by hiding behind your little pirate friends?”

“Doflamingo, wait! This doesn’t involve them!” I shouted, desperation creeping into my voice.

“Too late, Law!” Doflamingo’s laughter echoed through the air as he closed in. “Besides, I’m here to collect what’s mine.” His gaze fixed on the Sunny, and I could feel the threat looming over them.

I gritted my teeth. I had to stop him, no matter the cost.

Sanji POV…

"Hey! You made my crewmates cry! You're going down!" I yelled as I launched myself into the sky with my Skywalk, my leg igniting with Diable Jambe. I aimed straight for Doflamingo, landing a burning kick right to his side.

"Sanji's here!" I heard Nami, Chopper, Brook, and Momo shout in relief. But Doflamingo simply laughed.

"This should be fun," he said with a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with malice. "So, you're with the Straw Hats… Black Leg Sanji."

He moved so fast, I barely saw it coming. "Penta-Chromatic Strings!" Doflamingo shouted, and I felt the sharp pain as his strings sliced into me, knocking me out of the air.

"Sanji's hit!" Brook cried. "How? I didn’t even see him move!" Chopper added, panic in his voice.

I grunted in pain as I was falling from the sky clutching my side. "You don't have the strength to protect anyone," Doflamingo mocked, his laughter cutting through the pain. "Sanji!" Nami yelled, her voice filled with worry.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, forcing the pain away. "Don't you dare turn your back on me… or my Diable Jambe!" I snarled, my left leg igniting in flames once again. "Poele a Friere: Spectre!" I unleashed a barrage of fiery kicks at Doflamingo.

"Let's go, Sanji!" Nami cheered. "Kick his butt!" Chopper added.

But then, I felt it—the sudden stop, my body freezing mid-attack. "What… I can't move! What the hell is wrong with me?!" My limbs wouldn't respond, as if they were bound by invisible chains.

Doflamingo laughed again, his voice filled with sadistic pleasure. "You’re no match for me, Black Leg."

I could see the crew in the distance, watching, their faces filled with fear. "What the hell are you guys waiting around for?! Use the Coup de Burst and get out of here!" I yelled, desperate for them to escape.

"We're not leaving you!" Nami shouted back, defiant.

But Doflamingo wasn't done. A flaming whip formed in his hand. "Overheat!" he called, launching the attack at me. I braced myself, but my body wouldn't respond.

"Shambles!" A voice from my left—Law. In an instant, I was teleported away from the strike, landing safely back on the ship with everyone else.

"There's been a slight change of plans. To the ship!" Law ordered, already assessing the situation. My left arm throbbed with pain, but I clutched it, trying to hide it from Chopper’s worried gaze.

"Sanji!" Nami shouted, running toward me.

"Oh… hey, Nami," I said, forcing a grin, but the pain and exhaustion were starting to catch up.

"Doflamingo is heading back!" Chopper cried out, his panic rising again.

"Great," I muttered under my breath, trying to regain my focus. Then Law turned to me, his voice low and urgent. "Sanji… what about the factory?"

"We found out where it is, but Franky says it's going to be tougher to infiltrate than we thought," I replied, my tone serious.

"And… Y/N?" Law's voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of his words hit hard.

I looked down at the deck, my chest tightening. "No, I couldn’t find her… Zoro's looking for her now." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it.

"Wait, Sanji… what do you mean find Y/N?" Chopper asked, his concern growing. I could see the worry in their eyes.

"I lost her," I confessed, my voice strained. "I’ve searched everywhere, but she’s nowhere in Dressrosa. I don’t know where she is…"

"Hmph, the young princess is missing, huh?" Caesar chimed in, a smug grin on his face. "Maybe Doflamingo’s men already captured her."

I clenched my fist, anger boiling in my veins. "If they’ve touched her…" But I didn’t finish the sentence. There was no time for that now. I had to believe Zoro would find her. I had to believe she was still safe.

"We still need more time!" Law said, clutching something in his hand—a heart.

"Is that… my heart?!" Caesar wailed in panic.

"I'm afraid this is mine," Law responded coldly. "Yours? I've had that hidden this whole time." He held Caesar's heart firmly, showing no signs of letting it go.

"Listen, you guys need to head to Zou," Law continued, his tone sharp. "There are only two tasks left—destroy the factory and find out where Y/N is."

"Wait a minute!" Nami interrupted, her voice full of fire. "Hold on! We’re not going anywhere yet! If you think we’re going to set sail without our captain, you're nuts! We take orders from Luffy, NOT you!" she declared, standing her ground.

Just then, a massive explosion rocked the ship as we were hit with a cannonball from a nearby Navy ship. "Not good," I muttered, glancing at the damage. Things were escalating fast.

"Hold up, Law," I said, turning to him. "I realize we need to get out of here now and keep Caesar safe, but the operation with Caesar was just a waypoint. Our shared goal was to take down Kaido, wasn’t it? Why are you getting so hung up on Doflamingo?"

Law’s face darkened, but before he could answer, Nami shouted, "Time to go! Everyone ready?"

"Listen, Nami, you need to get to a clear sky!" Law called out. "Doflamingo possesses the String-String Fruit. He uses the clouds to get around."

"That explains it!" I said, realizing how Doflamingo had been moving so quickly.

Law then placed his blade against Giolla’s throat, using her as leverage. "One wrong move from Doflamingo, and she’s done," he warned, eyes cold.

With no other option, and knowing the clock was ticking, we initiated the Coup de Burst. The Sunny rocketed away from Greenbit, leaving the chaos behind us for now.

Zoro POV…

We made it to the Coliseum, but there was still no sign of Y/N. Frustration bubbled up as I muttered, "Damn it, Y/N, where the hell did you go?"

"Do you have any ideas on how to get in? It’s all locked up," Kinemon asked, his voice low but urgent.

"No, but I could slash the bars down," I replied without thinking.

"We're trying to avoid exposure!" Kinemon snapped, clearly annoyed.

"Okay, so I can slash it quietly?" I offered with a smirk.

"That’s no help at all!" Kinemon shot back, his patience wearing thin.

Just then, we spotted someone passing by the bars of the Coliseum. "Hey! You!" I yelled, trying to get his attention. The guy froze, looking like a deer in headlights, then started freaking out.

"Hey, don’t leave yet! There’s something important I need to ask you!" I called out, but he just continued freaking out and cheering wildly.

"You sure this is a Coliseum and not a mental institution?" Kinemon muttered.

I rolled my eyes. "Hey! I’m talking to you! Second floor, over here!" I kept shouting.

"Tears of joy shall flow to the end of time!" the guy screamed, completely ignoring me.

"Look, I don’t know who you are, but is there a way into the Coliseum? All the entrances I’ve found are closed up!" I shouted again, growing more irritated.

"I’m so glad I became a pirate! I can die happy!" the guy yelled, tears streaming down his face.

"What the..." I muttered, trying to process the madness.

Kinemon sighed. "Wait a moment, he said he knows Sir Luffy?" he asked, clearly confused. "How could he tell with our brilliant disguises?"

"Yeah, I know..." I muttered, wondering the same thing.

Just then, my transponder snail rang. I grabbed it quickly. "Hello?!" I barked.

"Now, Roronoa, there's no need to yell," came the familiar voice, making my heart stop.

"Where the hell are you, Y/N?! We've been looking for you!" I yelled into the transponder.

"Me?! I was yelling for you to wait!" she snapped back, clearly annoyed.

"Listen, that’s not the point," Y/N continued. "Doflamingo's men have been chasing me block after block. I had to change out of my disguise. Doflamingo has something planned for me, along with all of us and the rest of Dressrosa. That’s why I can't be anywhere near you guys yet."

"Where are you?!" I demanded, clenching my fists.

"Don't worry, I'm safe for now. I'll call again in a few minutes, Zoro. Please stay safe," she said, her tone softening at the end.

"Wait, don’t—!" I started, but the call ended.

I stared at the transponder snail, frustration building. "At least we know she's safe, Sir Zoro," Kinemon said, trying to ease the tension.

"Yeah, but we still need to find her. She could say she's safe, but that doesn't mean she's out of danger," I replied, my mind racing. "We need to talk to Luffy, tell him everything, and figure out where Y/N is before it's too late."

Y/N POV…

"You got in contact with your crew?" Sabo asked as I handed back the transponder snail.

"Yeah, I reached Zoro," I replied, wiping my brow. "Told him I'd call back in a few minutes to explain the plan I have. Too bad that thug passed out from fear though... but we've still got two more left to make the call to Doflamingo." I smirked, glancing at the remaining thugs.

"And what's your plan?" Sabo asked, stepping closer with a curious yet cautious look in his eyes.

"Simple," I said, crossing my arms confidently. "We get one of these fools to call Doflamingo and tell him they’ve caught me. Lure him to the front of the Coliseum, kick his ass, make him chase me, let him think he's cornered me—only to have me lead him straight to the palace where we shut the whole operation down." I grinned, like I'd just outlined the most brilliant plan in the world.

Sabo stared at me, clearly skeptical. "Listen, Y/N, I'm all for kicking ass and taking down Doflamingo... but I don’t want anything to happen to you," he said, his voice growing serious as he placed his hands gently on my hips. "I just got you back, and I'm not about to risk losing you again."

His voice cracked, and I felt the weight of his words as tears began to fall from his eyes onto my chest. He was trembling, and I could feel the grief beneath his tough exterior.

"I already lost one brother... I can’t..." he said, choking on his tears.

The depth of his pain hit me hard. I stared at him in shock.

"You were Ace's brother?" I asked, the shock of the revelation settling in.

Sabo nodded, his hands still holding me tightly. "And since you're Luffy's brother... that means you lost Ace too," I whispered, the weight of it all hitting me.

Sabo’s expression darkened, his eyes filled with guilt and sorrow. "When I found out... I lost it," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "I crashed. I... should have been there for him. I should have been there for Luffy."

"When did you find out?" I asked gently, placing a hand on his cheek and wiping away his tears.

"The day you were knocked out by King, and he caught us," Sabo replied, his body trembling. "When John and I went to treat your injuries, I went to an office and… saw the newspaper."

"Sabo..." I whispered, my heart aching for him.

"I should have been there... I should have been by his side. Luffy needed me, Ace needed me, and I wasn’t there for either of them." His voice cracked again, the pain of regret clear in every word.

I pulled him closer, feeling his pain radiating through me. "You can't blame yourself... you didn’t know," I whispered softly. "And now, you're here. You’re fighting for Luffy, and for everything Ace stood for."

Tears continued to stream down his face as he rested his forehead against mine. "I can’t lose anyone else, Y/N. Not you, not Luffy," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close, letting him feel the safety of the embrace. "You’ve been through so much, Sabo. And even with all that, you were there for me."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes full of emotion. “But that's the thing, Y/N," he said, his voice rough with raw emotion. "You’re not just another person I’m protecting. You’re a part of my world. I’ve lost so much, I can’t... I won’t lose you too."

He exhaled deeply, his grip on my shoulders tightening as if grounding himself. “That’s why I have to go to that Colosseum," he said, determination flaring in his eyes. "To win the Flame-Flame Fruit. So I can carry Ace’s legacy and protect those who are important to me. If I have that power... I can make sure no one I care about gets hurt again."

I was about to respond when I heard groaning from one of the thugs. Giving Sabo a knowing look, I released the hug and made my way toward him. "Good morning there," I smirked. "Now, are you going to pass out like your buddy here, or are you going to follow directions?"

The man nodded frantically. "Good," I smirked, grabbing his transponder snail. "Now make the call."

We waited until Doflamingo picked up. His voice oozed malice. "Hello. This better be important, as I am dealing with an important matter."

"Sir, we got her... We got the girl, young master!" the thug said.

Doflamingo laughed. "I knew she couldn’t run forever. Now tell me, is she tied up nice and snug?"

It took everything in me not to snap back. "Yeah, she is. She’s tied up. Meet us at the Colosseum at the front, so you can take her."

"Splendid work you did. I’ll see you soon," Doflamingo said before ending the call.

I clenched my right hand, crouching in front of the thug. "Good job!" I said, landing a punch to his cheek and sending him flying into the wall. "Now what?" Sabo asked.

"Now, I call Zoro again." I grabbed Sabo's transponder snail and dialed Zoro. "Hello?! Y/N?!" Zoro's voice came through urgently.

"Y/N?! Where have you been?!" Luffy's voice followed, almost grinning through the call.

"Hey, captain. How’s it going? I was checking on your fight. I wish I was there to kick some ass too!" I said.

"Same here, Y/N," Zoro said.

"Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is I’m safe, but Doflamingo has had me tracked since I got here. He’s even got three men chasing me block after block," I explained.

"Where are you?!" Luffy demanded.

"Don’t worry, Luffy. I’m safe. I’m with... someone very special," I whispered that last part, hoping he wouldn’t pry. "I have a plan, but I want to ask your permission first."

"What is it?" Luffy asked.

"I’m going to have to get Doflamingo to take me to his palace," I said.

"WAIT, AS IN KIDNAPPED?!" Zoro’s voice cracked with disbelief.

"Yes, as in kidnapped. I need to get him away from the Colosseum and into the palace where I can hopefully shut things down. There’s more to the plan, but I can’t say much right now. I’ll see you guys in the palace."

Zoro's frustration was palpable. "This is a terrible idea! We can't just let you get captured!"

"I know it sounds risky, Zoro, but it's the only way to draw Doflamingo out and get him where we need him. If I stay hidden, he’ll just keep searching for me. This way, I can use the opportunity to get to the palace and stop him from causing more chaos," I tried to reason.

“This is insane!” Zoro snapped. “You’re not just walking into a trap—you’re running into it! How many things can go wrong here, Y/N? Do we need to pull out the list? You’re going up against a warlord who is psychotic, you could get thrown in a dungeon, or worse! And we won’t even know where you are!”

“I know the risks, Zoro. But it’s the only way to distract him long enough for us to make our move.” I said

Luffy, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly chimed in. “Y/N, this is risky, even for you...”

“I know,” she answered, her voice steady. “But I can do this. If I can get him off the streets and into the palace, it’ll give us the upper hand. You just need to trust me.”

“Trust you?” I scoffed, rubbing the back of my neck in frustration. “I trust you, but this plan is reckless even by your standards! Do you even know what you're up against?”

“Zoro, I’ll be fine. Just make sure you guys get to the palace. I’ll be waiting.” I laughed as I continued speaking to Zoro over the transponder snail.

"Trust me, Zoro. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was the best option. I need to be where I can make the most impact, and right now, that’s in the palace. The plan is risky, but it's our best shot at stopping Doflamingo and getting back to safety."

Luffy cut in before Zoro could respond further. "Okay, Y/N, but I need you to be careful. We’ll be there just as soon as I figure out a way out of this Colosseum!"

“I’ll be fine,” I said, my voice lighter now, trying to ease the tension. “I trust you guys to back me up.”

Zoro is not fully convinced. “This is still a terrible idea... If anything happens to you, I’m coming to drag your reckless ass out of there myself.”

I laughed trying to ease the tension. “I know you will, Zoro. But you won’t have to. Just be ready when it’s time.”

I ended the call and turned back to Sabo. “Okay, that’s phase one of the plan. Phase two will be when Luffy gets to the palace. You need to get to the Colosseum,” I said, giving his arm a playful shove.

Sabo’s eyes lit up with a roguish smile. “You know, a bit of encouragement would go a long way. How about a good luck kiss?”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smile. “Focus on the plan, Sabo. We got things to do.”

He leaned in closer, his smile widening. “Oh, come on. Just one kiss for luck?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re incorrigible. Just make sure you don’t get yourself into trouble. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Sabo gave me a lingering look before nodding. “You’ve got it. I’ll be careful. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook for that kiss.”

I watched him go, a mixture of worry and affection in my heart.

I continued to run, my feet pounding against the cobblestones as the towering walls of the Colosseum loomed in the distance. The sound of distant battles and the chaotic energy of Dressrosa filled the air, but I focused only on reaching my destination.

Finally, I arrived, stopping just outside the Colosseum. I caught my breath, glancing around to make sure I wasn’t being followed. "Alright," I muttered to myself, scanning the area. "Now, I wait."

From my vantage point, I could see Zoro and Kin’emon standing near the entrance, talking to Luffy, who was behind the bars. Their conversation seemed tense, as Luffy’s impatience was written all over his face. I narrowed my eyes, watching carefully, making sure no one else had eyes on them.

This was it—the moment before everything would change. I just hoped I could intervene at the right time

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how-serene · 4 months ago

Note

❛ what are you doing out here by yourself? ❜ with abner please

Some Nights

Pairing - Abner Krill x Neutral!Reader

Summary - All things seemed to lead back to her.

Word Count - 690

Warnings - Angst

A/N - it's been weeks since I've written anything so I'm a lil rusty, I apologize.

He watched the cat.

Its chubby, matted gray body weaved around the dented garbage cans lining the deserted street. Despite the empty sidewalks, the city was never a quiet beast. There was always a faint humming of people and commotion just above the surface.

Always awake and dreaming.

Abner sighed, leaning against the balcony railing. Just a few doors down, the vague words to a soft rock song spilled through an open window. He could hear various forms of chatter, as voices overlapped one another, creating a singular buzz of noise.

It was nearing 2 a.m.

He imagined a cluster of people, picking off the labels on beer bottles and talking to each other. Gossiping about their day jobs, and insolent co-workers. About the price of groceries, and overdue bills. Later in the night, when the liquid rush wore off, they would all fall into a hush as they departed one by one with slurred goodbye’s and extended hugs. Then finally, the music would begin to make sense, as the outside sound surrounding ceased. And he would be left with nothing but the vocalist to speak to him.

Abner felt your arms curl around his waist, the edges of a thin white sheet clutched in between your fingers. Warmth emanated from your skin, as your bare chest pressed against his back.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?"

Your breath fanned against his shoulder, lips grazing over the freckles and blemishes that adorned his body.

“Just needed some air.”

You nodded, faintly tracing the width of his shoulders with your lips. He shuddered, a chill rushing down his spine just from the contact you provided.

“Are you cold?”

He shook his head, securing his fingers around your wrist when he felt you retreating.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, leaning back against you.

Why was he out here, really? He should be in bed, dozing off with your head in the crook of his neck. You should be wrapped up in his arms, tight and warm as the still night eventually spilled into a still morning. He sighed, grasping onto the cold balcony rail. Truth is, the nights were the hardest for him to get through. All dreams, a sweet imaginary haven meant for escape, lead back to her. Her hard, piercing stares and the sounds of her heavy footfalls continued to haunt the dusty corners of his mind. Some nights, when he was hunched over the bathroom sink, head dizzy with the faint still images of a nightmare long passed, his own reflection warped into her. As if she were still buried inside of him, a reminder that his flesh was never his own. Abner was almost tempted to peel his face back during those moments, if only to see if it were true.

If a son could truly never part from his mother. Would she be waiting there, beneath the stretched torn flesh?

Abner focused on the cat again. One of its fat paws was gently prodding at a gated front door, belonging to one of the many townhouses lining the street. Its yowls echoed off the empty paved streets, a desperate plea that slowly pulled at the threads of Abner’s heart. Whether the owners were asleep, or simply not home, its calls went unanswered.

“Poor creature,’ he muttered, frowning at the sight.

“Its owners will show up soon,’ you said, squeezing your arms around him.

He hummed, watching as the cat curled up against the edge of the door. Waiting patiently, perhaps forever, to go home.

The once blaring music, finally fell to a muffled hum as the partygoers gave their farewells.

Your chin was nestled in between his shoulder blades, as the tip of your nose brushed against his cheek.

Of course you were there, at the end of all the noise. Always slowly reaching out, trying to bring him back to his fuzzy version of reality. One where he could try and be happy, or at least become loose acquaintances with it. Abner entangled his fingers with yours, his grip unrelenting.

He wondered why this couldn’t be enough, to simply fix it.

But what would?

#david dastmalchian #abner krill #abner krill x reader #the suicide squad #angst

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skylarstark4826 · 1 year ago

Text

Spider sat in one corner of the Sully marui weaving a basket, his smaller hands making quick work of tying sturdy knots out of material new to him.

In the other sat Neytiri, skinning fish after fish and placing them on hooks, quick and efficient with her blade.

The hut stayed utterly silent aside from sounds of their labour, yet it barely felt awkward. After all, both inhabitants were focusing for a reason. The chores were a distraction.

A distraction from the horrid disaster they’ve been through.

Strangely enough, since loosing the oldest Sully and arranging a funeral, both of them avoided talking about him; even in passing. It caused too much pain, like rubbing salt into a bleeding gash, but while Neytiri knew such agony well, to Spider it was all new. He escaped any thoughts about Neteyam because he was afraid he’d break down again, like he did the night of the funeral, when the emotional whiplash fully caught up to him and he broke, emitting barely-human noises as Kiri wept, holding him. He’d never been this vulnerable, never cried to the point where there were no tears left, and hoped to Eywa that he wouldn’t have to repeat the process, although witnessing Ms.Sully break down twice this week didn’t give him much hope. But could he blame her?

No. Not in a million years. The utter shock of witnessing a loved one’s eyes loose light is a horror Spider wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

His work slowed.

Is this how Neytiri felt when she lost her father? Her sister? Half of her clan? His pain from loosing ‘Teyam felt gut-wrenching, so he couldn’t even begin to imagine how badly it burned Ms.Sully’s soul to have so much taken from her. Truth be told, he felt horrible for resenting her back in the forest. He only ever saw his own part of the story.

As he wandered deeper into his thoughts, so did the matriarch; except she had a bad habit of quickening her pace whenever she could not find focus on the present. She couldn’t let her children or husband know, but she was holding on by a thread. No amount of crying and screaming and throwing objects into the sand could quench her agony, despite Norm saying that it’d be healthy for her to let it out. No matter how much she let it out, there was too much still left, and it grew like a mold as soon as she’d stop screaming. Maybe she was well past the point of "letting it out" years ago, though she certainly tried many times.

She looked at Spider.

Yes, she tried hard to let it out indeed…and this boy became her accidental target. He came under the line of fire because through his veins coursed the blood of a demon, and she recalled herself justifying that behaviour more than once by telling her beloved that said boy walked on a slippery slope, bound to repeat the mistakes of his ancestors.

And yet, there he sat. After enduring months of captivity and torture, as he’d told them when Tonowari organised a council to hear our whatever information he had gathered, he was still loyal.

He witnessed villages burn, had to beg the demon, *cry* for him to spare the people, and it eluded Neytiri how or why the monster listened. She didn’t want to put the puzzle together just yet, trying to erase the incident on the ship out of her memory. Eywa knows, Kiri hasn’t looked at her the same since.

“Ack!” She hissed when the knife inevitably drove into her finger, causing a bleeding. She then sees Spider react on pure instinct, fetching a bandage-like cloth and sitting next to the woman as he treated her injury. He was good at it, that much she was aware of, as she saw him treat a deep wound once. A human ally pilot bled once, but Socorro never lost his cool and swiftly bandaged it.

She wondered how often he had to treat himself, to get this precise with his movements. She also wondered why she let him touch her, but the last seven days have been a complete mess, and neither of the two had strength to be passive-aggressively avoidant of each other. There were bigger sorrows to mope over.

***

The crowd of Metkayina, as well as Tau’nui, roared in frustration at the council. They wanted action, and they wanted it now. The death of many of their loved ones, including the tulkun, has angered them beyond belief, but the leaders had to quieten the crowd so Spider could share what he had gathered about their enemy. He knew he was looked at side-ways, because contrary to how he felt on the inside, blue stripes didn’t make him taller, no matter how much paint he applied to his skin.

Neytiri grew frustrated as well. The crowd’s fury had been understandable, but their restlessness only stalled them. She looked at the teenager to see if he’d be brave enough to do something about it, since not even Tonowari and Ronal could calm their storm. And he did.

Grabbing the tube filled with a yellow liquid from the mat in the centre, Spider stood in front of the big fire and raised it to the sky. The crowd went quiet, their attention now consumed by the strange device.

“Listen to me, reef people!” He exclaimed, mustering all the confidence he had. “This! This is why they’re killing your spirit siblings!” His voice shook when he remembered the death of a mother and her child.

“What is it!?” He heard the crowd demanding.

“It’s a liquid stored in the minds of every tulkun! They hunt for it because-” He couldn’t believe he was about to say it. “Because it grants sky people immortality!”

Reef Na’vi gasped in utter shock, and even Jake couldn’t keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

“What…what are you saying, child?” Ronal dared to ask, her eyes filled with horror.

“This…this fluid stops humans from ageing! It makes them live forever!” He locked eyes with her.

“But…that is impossible, all energy—”

“They found a way to break that rule. And they break it by killing the tulkun and pulling this out of their heads.” Socorro pointed to where his brain is, his own eyes watering.

The Metkayina and Tau’nui were silent now, processing this new information.

Neytiri felt even more furious than before, but by no means surprised. Sky people cruelty was new to the sea Na’vi, but not her. Not her clan.

Not new to Spider either, she thought, looking at him, and how bravely he held up in the face of a resentful mob.

Yes.

He was indeed quite brave.

***

Water, as beautifully as it sparkled, had never been Neytiri’s strong suit. She could swim just fine, could even fish to an extent, but riding an ilu was still quite difficult for her to grasp, even more when it came to the skimwing. Now that the war was upon them, she had no excuse to stall on learning, so Ronal took time out of her day to offer help. She guided the animal towards her, and ‘Tiri couldn’t help but feel warmth in her chest at its friendly clicks. About ten metres away, Spider sat on the woven pier and helped Jake carve wooden stakes for the nets. Socorro kept stealing glances, wondering how Ms.Sully would do.

Tsaheylu went smoothly but Neytiri shivered, as if cold water was dumped on her. She heard a familiar chuckle and whipped her head, seeing Spider quickly turn his down and pretending to work. She huffed, and listened to Tsahik’s instructions, slowly got on the creature’s back. However, the animal must’ve felt her lack of confidence, as it chirped and bolted away, dropping Neytiri into the water.

Spider tried, honest to the great mother, to hold it in, but the image of such a serious, graceful figure emerging from beneath the waves with the widest eyes was just too amusing. He let out a laugh, before biting his lip and hunching again. Jake looked at him like he just signed his death warrant, and Socorro couldn’t agree more.

He didn’t see the smirk Neytiri failed to suppress, or her slowly wagging tail as she approached the ilu again, and whispered something into their ear.

He did however, definitely feel the harsh tug on his loincloth, which sent him tumbling into the water with a high-pitched screech. Once under the surface, he locked eyes with the clicking ilu and playfully shoved its face, swimming back up when the most incredible sound graces his ears.

Neytiri laughed. It was short-lived, but she laughed, and laughed in his presence. Seeing a smile on her worn out face felt like a breath of fresh air and Socorro couldn’t help but chuckle in return, grinning.

Oh how good it felt, to have the weight of the world pulled off their shoulders, if just for a single moment.

***

Neytiri was at it again; overworking herself because she steadily lost focus on the current task while the eclipse had long since passed. She was expected home hours ago, and the family, deeply scared for their mother’s wellbeing, went looking for her around the village.

Jake and Spider split to search on the shoreline, going opposite directions and soon enough, Socorro witnessed a familiar silhouette resting against the rocks. It was none other than ‘Tiri, with a half-weaved net in her arms.

The blonde couldn’t help but appreciate that distinct, Omatikaya handiwork; he learned weaving from her after all, but his wonder turned to confusion when he caught the warrior twitching in her sleep. Looking up, Spider met her shut eyes and a forming scowl. It’d be better to wake Neytiri before she falls deeper into whatever nightmare she was seeing.

But as soon as Socorro’s hand touched hers, she pounced on him akin to a vengeful thanator. In a way, she was.

“Hey hey HEY!!” Spider yelled, as ‘Tiri felt for the blade strapped to her vest and unsheathed it. “Neytiri STOP!! IT’S ME!!”

In a fit of rage, Neytiri hissed at him, and on reflex, the blonde hissed right back. That seemed to do the trick, as it snapped the warrior out of her delusion, and she breathed heavily, looking him in the eyes.

After what felt like an eternally long moment, she leapt away, realising what she’d done. “What do you want!?”

“…It’s-it’s eclipse. Everyone has been looking for you…” Spider breathed.

Neytiri turned, eyeing the darkening sky, before giving the blonde a slow nod and collecting the net she’d weaved.

“Let us go.” She looked back at him, waiting for Spider to follow.

***

This night proceeded quietly, like so many others these past weeks, but Tshaka could not sleep. It has been roughly a month, but her scar bled still, as fresh as ever. Keeping her son out of her thoughts as to not breakdown completely has been an exhausting task.

She needed some air, and slowly, as to not disturb her family, slipped out of the warm hut, shivering at the chill. It was then she caught a distant sound of sobbing.

In said distance, on a pier, sat a familiar tiny figure, with knees up to his chin, and shaking shoulders. ‘Tiri couldn’t help her gasp as she approached, akin to a predator trying not to spook its prey. Was Spider really crying? He hadn’t done that since the funeral. She guessed that he’d been putting on a front, but never considered how heavy the burden of grief would weight on someone who experienced it for the first time.

Thinking of her child, she let out a tear.

It never got easier, but one’s very first loss always stings the most.

“Spider.”

She spoke barely above a whisper, but Socorro still lurched, as if burned, before quickly lifting his mask and wiping away the salt on his cheeks.

“W-what is it?” He croaked, his voice shaking.

It’s only then Neytiri realised that she didn’t actually think it through. Her deep-rooted maternal instinct pulled her towards a broken child, but knowing their history, she had no idea how to provide comfort to him specifically.

So instead, she sat next to him, looking at the glowing ocean.

“I cannot sleep.”

The Na’vi avoided making eye contact with Socorro as to not make him feel further embarrassed, but still noticed him nodding, while hiding most of his face.

“…Neither can I.”

‘Tiri nodded in acknowledgement, and they stayed silent for a little more. Listening to the waves swirl gently against pier’s columns, as well as watching peculiar creatures swim below.

“…How…how do-how do you do it?” The boy then asked, sheepishly turning to the woman next to him.

“Do what?”

“Keep going. After everything…” New tears gathered in his eyes. “I feel like a part of me has been ripped away. Is this how it felt when…?”

“…Yes. It feels like that all of the time.”

The blonde’s eyes widened, another tear escaping down his face. “Then how?”

Neytiri looked back at the ocean, trying to gather her thoughts and give him a hopeful response, but in truth, she had none. Every tragedy was a storm that destroyed her, and then, after a while, she just wouldn’t be crumbling as much.

“…I do not know. I guess…” She sighed. “All you can do is wait.”

“It’s torture.”

“Yes.”

“I want to see him again.”

Neytiri’s heart skipped a beat. “I know.”

“It feels like the world has ended, and everyone’s just pretending like nothing happened.”

That sentence brought new tears to Neytiri’s eyes. Socorro oddly hit the arrow on that one. It really did feel like a silent apocalypse at times; like everything after Neteyam’s death was an afterlife, a ghost remaining of the world that had once existed.

But she felt that way before. The world had died before, one too many times, and yet here she still was, pushing on. It is thanks to her family that she once more found happiness and saw how her life could yet be full of love and purpose.

“…The sun, Socorro. Look to the sun.”

“What..?..”

Neytiri clenched the weaved floorboards of the pier. “The pain is agonising, and the tragedy may seem endless, but the sun will always rise. No matter what happens here on Eywa’eveng, it’ll greet us the very next morning.”

Spider looked up at Polemius; a giant orb with swirly patterns, gracing Pandorian sky.

“The sun will always rise.” Neytiri said, carefully, ever so carefully, moving her hand towards his, wanting to take the pain she is so aware of away from a boy so young. “Nor is the night starless.” She spoke, their fingers barely touching.

***

Curiously, Neytiri slept like a newborn after the conversation they had. Waking up with the morning rays, she saw that the marui had been emptied of all her family members, but she’d been tucked into a blanket. She’ll have to cook something big tonight, to reward her children and husband for working so hard to help Awa’atlu prepare for the future battle with sky people.

However, next to her lay a holo-pad. A human techno device used by Jake to contact their friends at high camp, and sometimes bythe Sully siblings to take photos. Tiredly, she picked up her head and stared at the screen. One of the icons was glowing, and she knew it meant that someone left a message. She pressed on it, expecting barely-comprehensible science gibberish written by Norm or Max.

Instead, it was a message written directly on this device. Neytiri read into the letters, her mind still foggy.

Her heart sank into the ground.

Her face went pale.

She leapt to a stance immediately, running as fast as she could through the village, a hundred emotions fighting to be felt, and a single question screaming to be answered.

Why?

The eclipse was not yet fully over when the warrior reached rocky cliffs on the edge of the island. Spider stood there, on the tallest edge, as still as a statue.

“WHY THE HELL DID YOU SAVE HIM!?” Neytiri screamed on top of her lungs, a human word escaping her in the state of panic.

Socorro turned to her, his face once more stained with tears, but his expression stone-serious. “I did it because….because he loves me, in his own horrible, fucked up way. He cared, and when push came to shove, he chose me over everything else!” He yelled to be heard over the crashing waves. “No one has ever done that for me before and, fuck!” He couldn’t keep up the front for long. “I love him too! I wish I didn’t! I swear I hate that I do! He’s a fucking monster and I regret my choices! But back there, I couldn’t stop myself!” He sobbed. “I was just…I didn’t want to be abandoned again.”

Neytiri glared at him, frantic, a small part of her wanting, truly wanting to understand, but getting overshadowed by anger and fear.

“Foolish boy! Do you understand what will happen?! He will come back for us! For your siblings!!”

Spider shook his head, breathing rapidly. “No, no, he doesn’t care for them. He only threatened you because he knew it would set off Jake. He wanted to bait him into a fight. It was his only goal all along.”

‘Tiri hissed, furious. “What is the meaning of all this? Why come here, to the outskirts, to say it!? Are you too much of a coward to face your sins head on!?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Off-handedly, the woman noticed that Socorro wasn’t armed.

“After yesterday, I made up my mind. I can’t make things right, nothing will make it right…but this nightmare can end with me.”

It took a moment for Neytiri to process what the boy had meant, but when it hit her, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

Spider didn’t run out here because he’s a coward.

He ran out here to help Neytiri get rid of the evidence.

“You…you want me to kill you.”

“Don’t you?”

Did she?

Neytiri was angry, and grieving, and afraid, and broken what felt like way beyond repair after the tragedies she’d faced.

She hated Spider for whom he saved.

She hated what he represented so much.

She…

…

She didn’t want him to die, she realised, tearing up in frustration at herself. She recalled when he was a baby fitting into the palm of her hand, when he followed her like a little shadow and eager to prove himself, when he played with her children, when he gave Tuktirey one of her first necklaces, when he saved his siblings from the sky people who pursued them out of hell’s gate a year ago, when he went through torture at the hands of RDA, that cause him phantom pains, just to keep Omatikaya and their family safe.

For so long, when meeting eyes with the child before her, she only saw Quaritch. A creature that would inevitablt morph into his exact copy.

But now, when it felt like she had gotten all the proof of it in the world, she looked at him…

And only saw Spider.

Spider, the human Omatikaya from the forest, and no one else. Miles’s shadow was gone, no longer veiling the blonde away from her.

Neytiri wanted to pluck her eyes out in anger. Why, out of all moments, did she have to see him now? Why did the great mother tortue her so?

She sighed shakily. “I do not what a child’s blood in my hands. I am not him.”

Spider’s eyes widened, as he stared at her in shock, before eventually frowning and nodding. “Right. I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t…fuck, I don’t know why I thought you would.”

Why did he?

Neytiri hated him, he knew that. They even had an argument once, a short but dramatic one, when the RDA had just returned to Pandora. He’d been so frustrated at the way she saw him, that he’d exploded on her in return that night, saying that Kiri, Lo’ak and Tuk were all the family he had because of her war.

He regretted those words every day.

It was another reason to get rid of him. Truthfully, Neytiri had every justification to go through with his murder. Spider wasn’t even a creature of Eywa, so could it really that big of a deal?

But, of course it was.

Neytiri is not a monster out to get him, though it seems like Socorro had come to believe it at some point because of her sheer resentment.

And then Neteyam died, and everything made sense. Honestly, Socorro had been surprised she didn’t actually attempt anything herself. Truly, Tsahaka was a warrior stronger than any other he’d ever met. An ideal Na’vi.

He only wished he could have understood her sooner.

But now he did.

“I get it. I…”

And he still needed to make up for his sins.

“It’s time I act like one of the people for once.”

And with those words, Spider’s exopack flew down the cliff, disappearing into the foam below.

Neytiri’s heart stilled as she watched the blonde choke in slow-motion, before her instincts took over and she leapt into action.

Spider’s limp form in her arms, she ran back to Awa’atlu, counting down the seconds with her every stride.

Sky people only had four minutes to live after loosing air.

Awa’atlu resided way further.

She wouldn’t make it.

But Socorro was not any other human, was he?

Neytiri held onto that thought like a life-line as she pushed Metkayina out of her way. Had Spider always been so small? So fragile?

She almost missed the entrance when reaching her home, slipping on the weavings, but regained her footing quickly and dropped Spider off on her pallet, rummaging through technical equipment Spellman had brought two weeks ago for the blonde specifically.

Somewhere here, it had to be here!

There.

She pulled out a brand new mask, setting a charged battery into the slot before picking up her child and fixing the visor over his face, pressing a button that would start filtrating air.

For a gruelling moment, there had been nothing but silence, and Neytiri’s heart kept sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

It’s been six minutes.

But then, there was a deep, loud inhale, punctuated by frantic coughing and shaking. Neytiri held the blonde as he gulped for air like a fish out of water.

A moment or two, Spider had been completely disoriented, frantically looking around him, when his eyes paused, staring into Neytiri’s bright yellow ones, almost glowing in the light of the sun.

Socorro looked heartbroken, on the verge of tears the longer the warrior held him. “Why…why did you do it!?”

In response to his panic, Neytiri snapped out of her initial stupor. “I saved your life you ungrateful boy!” She snapped back, yet holding him only tighter.

“Wha-no! You were supposed-I should have-” He stumbled over his words, distressed. “I should have died!” He sobbed, trying wearily to push Neytiri away, but his strength was no match for hers. “Let GO!” He cried. “…please.”

“True warriors do not go out like this.” She hissed.

“I’m not a warrior. Never passed the iknimaya remember!?” He blabbered, still pushing against Neytiri’s shoulders. “Ending it all was the most honorable thing I could do!”

“No!” She grabbed him by the bicep, forcing him to look up at her. “The honourable thing would be to own up to one’s mistake!”

“It was not a mistake! Don’t you get it?! I CHOSE him in that ocean. I s…” He whimpered, loosing his will to fight back. “He saw me. And I saw him. You can’t own up to that kind of shit.”

Neytiri’s hold on Spider’s bicep tightened, as she searched for something to say; something that would discourage him from trying that kind of blasphemy again, when a crucial memory surfaced in her mind.

“My mother. The Tsahik…” She began. “She saved a spy once. A spy of the sky people. A spy that helped your father destroy our hometree. That man chose to help our enemy…but he owned up to his choices, and eventually redeemed himself.”

“…but I can’t become rider of the last shadow.”

“No, you cannot, but it isn’t why I chose him. He made a commitment of loyalty, and showed us all that he was ready to fight, whether forgiven or not. You’ve made a commitment of loyalty a long time ago. I should have seen it sooner…should have seen you.” She spoke, and it felt like a puzzle piece missing from her damaged soul had finally been put into place.

Spider gasped, his heart skipping a beat.

“Maybe if I did…the demon wouldn’t be alive.”

“What!? No! That-it wasn’t your responsibility!”

“It had to be someone’s, and I was the closest thing you ever gotten to a mother. That fact alone should have…cleared my mind.”

Socorro wanted to protest, wanted to take the guilt off Neytiri’s shoulders…but had no idea what to say to make it better. Perhaps a small, dark part of him didn’t want to, revelling in the newfound validation he’d never felt before.

“I apologise if I made you feel like death was your best chance at redemption.”

It was Spider’s turn to ho into Neytiri’s shoulder. “No! No it wasn’t you! I just-I brought so much pain already, I thought it’d be best if I stop being a burden.” Spider croaked.

“You’re no burden. Never were.” ‘Tiri responded without missing a beat.

Socorro met eyes with Neytiri once more.

She looked back, not a shred of malice behind her gaze. Hate still raged in her heart.…but the love for this strange child, whom she knew practically since he was born, who put his life on the line for the people, was stronger.

He fit perfectly into her embrace.

“…Never?”

“Never.”

And the world, as these two knew it, shattered. This time however, it felt perfectly fine.

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slothquisitor · 3 months ago

Text

Invisible String: Chapter One

A Baldur's Gate III Modern AU.

Chapter Summary: Brand new to Baldur's Gate, without friends or family but with a dream job as an archivist at Baldur's Gate University (that barely pays anything), Liv is introduced by a friend of a friend to Astarion whose social media career seems to be stalling and is therefore willing to rent out his spare bedroom to her.

The roommates mostly avoid one another, and in a burst of loneliness, Liv joins the new app everyone in Baldur's Gate is talking about: The Weave. Who knows, maybe she really will meet someone and fall in love...

Read on AO3.

___________________________________________________________

The music is no longer blaring and the lights are no longer strobing, but they might as well be for the way they continue to echo through Astarion’s mind. He sits at the cleanest of the empty tables in the Elfsong and nurses an end of shift drink. It feels nice to have a solid span of five minutes without anyone needing a damn thing from him, so he finally decides to check his notifications on his smartphone.

He doesn’t get far.

“Fangs!” Karlach yells as she approaches. How the red-skinned tiefling manages to have this much energy after working a full shift should almost certainly be studied. “Third time working this week. Everything alright?”

He glances quickly at the notifications waiting for him, but he sets his phone down with a sigh and puts on the same smile he’s worn most of the evening. “But of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

Karlach sets down her own glass of cider and angles her broad body sideways into the booth he’s claimed. Their fellow employees are beginning to clean up the ravages of the evening in the old bar turned club. With the overhead lights on and the music no longer shaking the space, the room looks rather ordinary and a little dingy. He hates it here.

Karlach doesn’t. She works here full-time, happy to be a bouncer or the life of the party at the bar, she’s equally at home doing either. He only picks up the odd night or two on the weekends when money is tight. He works hospitality for the VIP guests, smiling and pretending he doesn’t hate their guts. But lately, money has been tighter than usual. So to the Elfsong he trudges.

“Just don’t usually see you working here so much. Not unless you need a new computer or camera or something.”

He sighs. “If you must know, Chirper is taking a much larger cut from creator funds than ever. So…despite my content doing just as well as it has in the past…there’s less cash flow.”

Karlach nods and takes a deep drink. “You know, I told you to get a smaller apartment so that you wouldn’t be in this position.”

He had purchased his very fabulous, very spacious apartment with the first of his suddenly insane income when he’d started going viral for his roastings of men with terrible fashion sense on Chirper. Now he has a whole consulting business remotely helping men dress less terribly, but the bulk of his income still comes from his merciless Chirper threads making fun of men in power with terrible sense of style. He loves that apartment for all it represents: freedom, security, and ownership. Those things just don’t come very cheap these days and neither does his mortgage.

“I’ve got it handled, Karlach.”

“You hate spending your nights here,” she replies.

And she isn’t entirely wrong. Karlach loves the press of people, the attention, but she doesn’t have to take shit from anyone and people still love her. He spends his evenings here smiling and mediating and generally hating himself from dusk until the bar closes a few hours before dawn. It’s his choice to be here, but sometimes when a certain song comes on or he catches just a whiff of the right mix of booze and perfume he’s trapped all over again in a very different club. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of other marketable skills though, so the pay here is good when needs it.

“It’s fine, really.”

“Have you ever considered getting a roommate?”

He tilts his head at her in disdain. “A roommate, really? That’s your solution?”

“Oh come on, it’s not the worst solution. Consistent income every month would give you more freedom, you’d spend fewer nights here.”

“I just need to figure out how to make the side things more profitable. Or get more sponsorships or whatever. It’s just that so many of them want me to wear their clothes and have personal content. Which doesn’t really work for me,” he says.

Karlach is one of the few people in the city that knows exactly what he is. Who knows what he was before all this and still doesn’t shrink away, doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s grateful, of course, even if he still can’t quite fathom what she’s getting out of the arrangement.

“They still wanting you to show your face?” she asks.

Objectively, he has a very good face. He’d love to show it off on social media, but a truly charming byproduct of his condition is his inability to do that. Oh, he’s tried all sorts of things, but the outcome is always the same: a blurred smudge where his face should be.

He nods. “I keep telling them that my anonymity is part of my charm, but everyone wants ‘get ready with mes’ and peeks into the ‘real life’ behind the influencer. I miss when the internet preferred everyone at arm’s length.”

“I don’t,” Karlach scoffs. “Look, I only bring up the roommate thing because my friend Gale told me to keep a lookout for a friend of his who needs a place and you have an entire extra room and bathroom you don’t use.”

That is not true, he uses the closet in that bedroom regularly. “Gale who works at the library?” Astarion tries to remember. Karlach has lots of friends, and it would probably be good of him to pay more attention when she talks about them.

“Yeah. Guess she’s a new archivist or something. If she’s anything like Gale, she’d be steady and dependable. And unlikely to be prone to throwing large parties.”

There’s a slew of reasons why getting a roommate is a terrible idea, but on the other hand…it would be nice to have money coming in through no labor of his own. “I’ll think about it.”

“Well, let me know, and I��ll pass your info along.”

His phone buzzes on the table; he sips at his drink rather than turning it over to see exactly what it is.

Karlach glances at it meaningfully. “Is it the Weave?”

He shrugs and grins. “Probably.”

“I still don’t understand how you manage to get so many matches on there. I’ve matched with exactly two people in the last month, the first one ghosted me and the second was great until they started asking for feet pics.”

“Mystra favors me, what can I say?”

“I’m not sure how an AI algorithm for love matching is favoring you over me. You’re not even looking for anything serious. How many people have you met up with from it? I’m betting six or seven.”

His smile turns feline. “Darling, wouldn’t you like to know?”

He hasn’t actually met up with anyone from the app at all. He likes the anonymity, of chatting with someone without having to worry about being himself. He likes having someone’s undivided attention, especially when he can control exactly when he gets it. He enjoys having someone to constantly talk to, to ask about his day, the possibility of building something. But there’s always a point that he cuts it off. It’s easier, cleaner that way. Besides, he rather prefers to be the one to cut things off before it can get too far or too insistent about meeting in person.

He knows that makes him broken. And he’d rather not admit that to anyone, so letting them believe the lie is far, far easier.

Karlach sighs. “Maybe I need to go try out some new coffee shops or something. Then maybe Mystra will match me with some new people.”

The whole draw of the app is that it tracks your location and finds others in your life who also use the app, and then matches you with them, anonymously of course. There’s something romantic about the idea that maybe you’ve already met the person you’re conversing with through the app. But all you get is their screen name and pronouns. The rest of it is up to you.

“Trying to game it? Let me see your profile, maybe I can help.”

Karlach hands over her phone, and the first thing he looks at is her username: HotCliveMama34. “Well there’s your problem,” he says as he hands the phone back.

“What?”

“You’re matching with people who think you’re a mother!”

Karlach looks offended. “I am a mother.”

“Your dog doesn’t count…besides are you sure he’s a dog? He looked more like a bear in the last picture you posted.”

“Clive is my child. My favorite, best, most wonderful child. If someone can’t handle me at my Mama K, they don’t deserve me otherwise.”

Astarion shrugs. “Fair enough.” He envies her confidence that who she is should be enough for anyone. That it’s someone else’s problem and not hers if they don’t love her just the way she is.

“I should go, it’s getting late,” he says, draining his glass and standing up.

She offers him a wave and a smile. “Later, Fangs.”

As he walks away he checks his notifications at last.

KissMeQuick: I haven’t ever told anyone this before, but it’s really easy talking to you.

RomanceJunkie: hey hope work is good, wyd after?

Mystra, new match alert: HeartacheHero.

Every last one is a Weave notification, nothing real at all.

***

Most people have a compulsion towards preservation. It’s why they keep report cards with high grades and hang up their children’s art on fridges. They’re constantly keeping or looking for mementos, magnets from every place they’ve traveled or pictures snapped in front of buildings and structures. Liv Vires has always been interested in what people keep and what they don’t and how to ensure knowledge isn’t lost. But for someone whose entire career is focused on preservation, she has managed to cut herself loose from almost every vestige of her old life in the span of one short month.

She has to race to keep up with Lae’zel as she strides with a singular purpose through the university campus and toward the large, domed library building. Students and the handful of seemingly ever-present tourists instinctively shift to make way for her, and Liv simply follows in her wake. Baldur’s Gate University sprawls in the oldest part of the city, with hundreds of years of history contained in its old stone architecture. It's not just a place of learning; it is also a pilgrimage of sorts.

This job is still new enough that every morning Liv cannot help but gaze up at the collection of spires and towers that make up the inner campus of BGU, still a little in awe that this is where she gets to work each day. Liv had left Cormyr in a hurry, in the type of impulsivity borne of nothing but desperation. Her relationship with her family had always been strained, but then the Laughably-Awful-That-We’re-Not-Thinking-About had happened and broken everything irrevocably. And honestly? It had been a relief in some ways to finally have a legitimate reason for cutting off her family completely. But it didn’t leave her feeling any less unmoored. And suddenly, Cormyr had felt too damn small. Her family knew too much of her life, her friends. She’d needed a change so radical, so all-encompassing that it wouldn't leave any space for her family. And so far, she hasn’t once looked back.

Liv feels lucky for the new job, the new city, the new life. But it is still somewhat overwhelming. When she finally catches up with Lae’zel, she gestures to the bookstore on the corner, the one with the coffee shop on the second floor. “I was going to go grab some coffee, you want something?”

Lae’zel looks rather annoyed, but Liv can’t tell if it’s at the question or if that’s just how Lae’zel generally is. Lae’zel has been generous enough to let her stay at her small, rather spartan apartment, and Liv is just trying to not be too much of an inconvenience until she finds her own place. “Tchk, I do not need coffee, but go if you must.”

“See you in a few,” Liv replies, hurrying away. She still hasn’t quite figured out Lae’zel’s moods or tone or what any of it means. She hates her reliance on other people right now, and all the ways that Lae’zel doesn’t quite allow her to pay her back. She had jumped on a train and left Cormyr like a thief in the night with nothing but the job offer in hand. She was grateful for Gale, who had remembered her from their shared undergrad in Waterdeep, and had recommended her for the archivist position and then promptly promised to help her with the move to a new, unfamiliar city.

It wasn’t that she hated her librarian job at Cormyr’s public library, but she’s an archive conservator. Archivists and librarians are not the same thing, and while they’re both small, interconnected worlds. Liv was sort of tired of wearing a bunch of different hats. This job not only got her away from her family but is exactly the type of work she’d always dreamed of. It would be perfect if she could just find a fucking apartment of her own though…or a roommate where she doesn’t have to sleep on the couch.

She’s been frequenting this particular coffee shop within this bookstore enough in the last two weeks that the baristas recognize her, and it’s nice to start feeling like she’s becoming part of a place. She grabs her coffee and heads into the library, flashing her work badge to get around the tourists eagerly vying for a view of the old convocation house and its fancy ceilings. She makes her way up the long, steep staircase in the old building before finally arriving on the floor of the archives, where she follows the snaking path of books to her small cubicle.

These days most of the archival work happens digitally, so they all have their own desks and only work with the rare books in specialized ‘clean rooms’. She’d be more annoyed, but it means that she gets to bring in her coffee.

“Ah, good morning,” Gale greets her, leaning on the corner part of her cubicle wall. He dresses the exact same way he did nearly ten years ago all thick sweaters and sports coats. He wears the years well though, the only hint of passing time is his longer hair with peeks of gray at the temple and a slight crinkling around his eyes.

“Morning,” she smiles. “How are you?” She finds it hard to believe that she’d once thought him arrogant during their studies in Waterdeep. It’s only been a few weeks since they reconnected, but Gale has turned out to be her most steadfast friend through the upheaval of her life.

“I’m doing wonderfully, and I have some rather good news for you.”

“I love good news in the morning.”

“A friend of mine knows someone in need of a roommate,” Gale grins.

“Thank the gods,” she says, and then promptly lowers her voice. “I think Lae’zel is getting very annoyed having me around.”

“It’s a small space, it’s to be expected,” Gale says with a bit of a wince. Gale had also offered to allow her to stay with him, but she has a mild allergy to cats. The allergy doesn’t stop her from spending a few hours in his place, properly medicated of course, but it would be impossible to live there for any length of time.

“Who is this friend?”

“It’s a friend of a friend, but Karlach wouldn’t send me his information unless she believed it would work out. His name is Astarion. I’ll text you his info. I’ve never met him, but Karlach says he’s some sort of fashion consultant, and sometimes works hospitality at a nightclub?”

“In my price range?” Liv asks. That’s been the biggest hurdle of this whole move. Archivists are highly specialized so naturally they make hardly any money. Unfortunately, finding a place that’s affordable and isn’t student housing has been an absolute nightmare. And while she could live next to a bunch of rowdy undergrads, she’d really love to not do that in her thirties.

“Yes, and much nicer than any of the places you’ve been looking at. Karlach says it has its own room and bathroom.”

“Damn. I’d live with almost anyone if it means that kind of privacy. I’ll shoot him a text. Thank you.”

Gale shrugs. “What am I here for? Oh, did you see that we got that Karsus manuscript yesterday evening? I’ve been dying to get my hands on it. Want to help me with the page scanning?”

“Hell yeah. I’ve got some requisition requests to respond to first, and I’m hoping I’ve got a lead on an earlier copy of the Baldur’s Gate charter. So give me an hour?”

“It’s a plan.” As he walks away, he texts her Astarion Ancunin’s contact information and she promptly sits and spends far too long crafting an introductory text.

Liv: Hi there this is Liv Vires, Gale Dekarios gave me your contact information. I hear you’re looking for a roommate?

She rereads the text at least three times after sending it, hoping that it sounds friendly enough before giving up on staring at it in hopes of a reply. There is no immediate reply anyway, but then ten minutes later her phone buzzes.

Astarion: Hello. That depends entirely on how ugly the furniture is that you propose to bring in.

Oh good, he’s got a sense of humor. What a relief. She stares at his reply while she thinks through her response.

Liv: In that case, I’ve got great news: I don’t have any furniture at the moment. I suppose we could negotiate your input on future purchases. Otherwise, I’ll just promise to do my best not to clash with the curtains.

Astarion: If we keep my input on the table, then I suppose I do have a room available. I assume you’d like some pictures of the place?

Liv: We can certainly negotiate. And sure, I’d love to see the place.

A few moments later she receives several pictures of a very nice apartment. It’s a hells of an upgrade compared to the rundown and downright falling apart places she’s been looking at. Something tells her that this is too good to be true, but the more she looks at the immaculately clean kitchen, the living room with large windows, and the empty and waiting bedroom it becomes very hard to care. But she can’t shake a sinking feeling in her stomach: there’s no way she can afford this.

Liv: Your place looks amazing, but I’m worried that our friends may have misunderstood what I can actually afford. I can’t go over two grand.

Astarion: That’s what I was told. This is a little bit different since I own the apartment, your contribution helps me afford my mortgage in the capitalistic hellscape we inhabit.

That actually makes a lot more sense, and she immediately relaxes. She looks back through the pictures again, trying to get a better sense of it. The bedroom is already semi-furnished with a bed and nightstand and the closet looks rather large. The Liv she was before, the one who hadn’t left Cormyr or her family would be more meticulous about this whole thing. She would ask more questions and track down backup options for her backup options. But it was impulse that got her to Baldur’s Gate, and it’s worked out so far. So, she’s determined not to overthink this one too much either. Besides, the more she texts with Astarion, the better she feels about the whole thing.

***

Two days after making initial contact, swapping social information, and ironing out a rental agreement he shamelessly stole from the internet, Astarion’s new roommate arrives at his door. This whole thing has only been a mild inconvenience so far, so he’s hopeful it will actually work out for the best. The most annoying part was that he had been using the closet in what will now be her bedroom as his second closet, so finding space for those clothes in his own room had required a fair bit of creativity. Otherwise, she seems exceedingly normal, nice, and boring as all hells. Karlach says that’s a good thing.

He’s spent the past two days stalking Liv’s social media in an effort to figure out who she actually is. He hasn’t learned much. Her most recent post is from almost two years ago posing at the beach with a woman he can only assume is her sister since they share the same dark hair and green eyes. Otherwise, she’s proven to be an enigma.

But Liv hasn’t arrived alone. When he opens the door he is greeted by her and a small, terrifying githyanki woman dressed in a smart pantsuit and holding a box. “Oh, hello there,” he says, stepping aside at the door.

“Nice to actually meet you,” Liv says brightly. “This is my friend Lae’zel, she came along to help me with my things.” If he’s not what she expected from their brief text exchanges, there’s not a hint of it in her expression.

“I’m here to ensure you pass the vibe check,” Lae’zel says without a hint of a smile and strides inside.

Liv for her part turns a rather shocking shade of pink. She’s also dressed as formally as Lae’zel, wearing a deep purple blazer that’s tailored so well he doesn’t even have a critique of it. Perhaps they’ve both come to move her in straight from work.

“Vibe check?” He raises a brow in her direction.

She attempts a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Well, I am moving in with a person I’ve only just met, so I guess you can’t be too careful.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry, I already hid the bodies and had the carpets cleaned of all the blood of my enemies.”

“How thoughtful.”

She’s only carrying one large suitcase and a backpack. Lae’zel had a bag in addition to the box she carried, but still, it’s a rather sparse amount of stuff for moving. “Where are the rest of your things?”

Liv gives him a confused look. “This is all I’ve got. I told you I didn’t have any furniture.”

Sure, but still. She had said she’d moved here recently, somewhat in a hurry to accept a new job. He just didn’t realize exactly what that might mean. He follows her as she steps into the apartment properly. “This is the kitchen, obviously.”

Lae’zel stands in the living room, eyes sweeping over the large windows covered by thick enchanted curtains. Enough to let the light in, but also offering protection from the sun for him.

“Are these enchanted?” Lae’zel asks bluntly.

“Of course, my furniture is expensive, and I won’t have it damaged by the sun’s rays. The curtains are set to open at night, part of the enchantment.” The lie is somewhat less believable than he’d like since he’d bought the apartment fully furnished and hasn’t bothered to change a thing about the generic decor. Including the couches that though nice, are not exactly the pinnacle of luxury.

Liv and Lae’zel exchange a disbelieving glance. He’d decided rather abruptly that he was not sharing the fact he is a vampire with Liv. Karlach had encouraged him to be honest, but no matter how much Karlach trusts Gale, Liv is a stranger.

“That seems excessive,” Lae’zel replies.

Liv jumps in looking somewhat awkwardly between him and her friend. “Well, best to protect your investment. I guess that means eating on the couch is out?”

He stares at her for a moment before he finally catches her meaning. “Oh, yes. Obviously.” He steps around them both. “Your room is this way.”

The apartment is rather open concept. The living room and kitchen are connected, the two bedrooms sit opposite each other flanking the kitchen area. Her room is the smaller of the two, but not by much. It’s sparsely furnished, the same as it was when he moved in. A bed and a dresser with a nightstand and nothing else.

Liv surveys the room, the emptiness of it. He’s not sure what she’s seeing, but she smiles. “It’s perfect.”

She seems like someone who smiles a lot and who has a perpetually sunny disposition. He finds it annoying, but he really doesn’t want to find someone else now that he’s gone through all the work of getting her here. “It’s an empty room, but it’s yours. Assuming I pass the vibe check, of course.”

Lae’zel glares at him, he thinks. It might just be the way she looks at everyone. Hard to tell. “It’s questionable at best.”

“A glowing review!”

Liv seems to be stifling a laugh as she steps between them. “I think we’re good, assuming I have also passed the vibe check?”

He’s surprised by the question, by the deference to him. As if his comfort also mattered. “Of course.” He holds out the key. “I’ve got a work call, so I’ll get out of your way.” He has nothing of the sort, but he’s done standing here awkwardly with these two.

“I’ll see you later,” she says with a grin, hand closing around the key. He pulls away immediately, avoiding touching her.

It’s an effort to keep smiling. “It’ll be unavoidable now, darling.” And then he strides away to the relative safety of his room.

#astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #bg3 fanfiction #modern au #astarion x liv #invisible string #is the title a taylor swift reference #maybe #slothquistiorwrites #did i make a fake app landing page for this #also maybe #unhinged behavior honestly #i'm having a great time

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simonlynch · 10 months ago

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wc: 1095

"He takes as much as they give, fingers weaving into his hair, where dark turns to lavender to violet. He is in his own head again. They are there too."

re: semi sequel to that other late night fic

It wasn't unfamiliar, being here like this. Entangled in a mass of limbs and sheets and crumpled blankets.

Their grip on him tightens. A shuddered breath he doesn't need escapes him. The threaded connection between their minds flickers with anticipation. It's alive and well, but dull with the apathetic, distant numbness that accompanies some hours of these nights.

Pointed nails release their waist, snapping quickly to his own flesh as the sting of discomforting pain sears his skin, in little thin waves. This agony is not his own. He feels it anyways. He is not used to this.

Their voice is hollow, quiet as they murmur apologies. He grumbles. Pale eyes fall, he sees the way they anxiously tug at their own skin. Their hands trace still healing scars. He follows, as gentle as a creature can be. It tears at his mind. The pain subsides.

They take him back into their arms. He presses his head roughly to their chest, desperate to hear their heartbeat. He feels his own demonic warmth surge through their veins. They feel their pulse echo through him, too.

He takes as much as they give, fingers weaving into his hair, where dark turns to lavender to violet. He is in his own head again. They are there too.

It will pass, they reassure. He doesn't believe them. His claws brush at their wounds. A sob escapes them. Not for their own pity, but the way he so carefully inspects them. Wanting to understand. Needing to. For their sake. For his. He wants to get better. Like them.

He is quiet, for once. Gentle. As much as a creature like him can be. He feels them staring. He twitches.

He still can't stand it. It's hard to be perceived, when you have spent so long invisible. It makes him uncomfortable.

Frightens him.

No, he bats their suggestion away, not frightens. Upsets. Confuses. He doesn't understand. He is trying. He wants to get better.

But touch, touch he enjoys. They hold him closer. Their voice at the back of his consciousness dotes. Their hands run the length of him that they can reach. He curls closer to them.

Aching turns to longing. He presses impossibly closer. Furls around them.

Most every part of them is familiar to him and his mind now. He is a part of them, and likewise they are a part of him. It was a hard acceptance grasping the full weight of such decisions, but one he has since settled into.

He looks up at them. They caress his cheek, lean down and kiss him. He chases the feeling. They offer it willingly again, and again. Like they do every bit of themselves, over and over.

A shadow of doubt disseminates over his mind, but a distant, faint light chases it away. But maybe it’s that flame that's cast it to begin with, he wonders. No, not him. They wonder. He shakes his head.

They are more than that to him. But the seed has been sown, and he still indulges it. Maybe he takes too much, asks too much of them. It's hard not to, when all you have known is transactional relationships, where your worth is proportional to how much you are willing to take in order to receive. And he is so desperate for anything, a beggar poor and pleading and some kind of wild, feral animal confused and unacclimated; Maybe that's why when he's hit and degraded and his nose is shoved in shit and then told it's for love he still comes crawling back. Not that he's ever been loyal, it's just all he knows, and it's more than nothing and it's why at the slightest sign of attention he snarls and snaps and bares his teeth figuratively or not, and when affection is bestowed on him in times like these he wriggles and shrinks away, because despite that deep, deep yearning for something softer he bites the hand that feeds. Because that's what he's been told he's worth, and that's what he's been told is love. It's what he knows. It's what he's always known.

It comes easier now, after so long. To accept the gentle beckon of Reagan. Still, like a trained dog the imprint of habit is hard to shake and on occasion he can't help but sneer and spat at the supposed softness offered to him. But it's simply Reagan's nature, much like his own, to keep coming back. To lick his wounds for him and to keep trying again, and little by little he crawls himself closer and maybe it's because they like the way he is, rough around the edges and a little mean and a little stupid, and they want to keep him anyways. The relax he feels in his mind as he toys with the idea tells him that's the case.

He will never be so delicate as them, that he knows for certain, but it doesn't mean that maybe he can't try to be. It is just hard, when you're less than human -- not quite inhuman anymore, he's reminded by them -- to see things the way humans do. He finds it silly to try. But they know this, too. And they don't expect him to.

But that's the thing. They never expect anything from him that he can't give. And he's so used to taking, he isn't sure what he has to give, and he isn't sure how they know what he does have to give, and how they never expect him to be something he isn't, something so unlike himself. He's disgusting, and confused and harsh, he ruins most things accidentally and he's loud and brash and a laundry list of other negatives, though it's hard really to blame the fire for burning the things it touches when it did not strike the match. He can't help it. But the way their arms feel around him, caging him in not in the way he would feel normally, trapped and helpless and desperate to get out -- he almost feels the growl crawl its way out of his throat at the thought -- it's comfort and safety. It's taming and protective to himself and everyone and everything around his wild hellfire. He just worries they might burn themselves in the process of wrangling him one of these days.

Nothing they haven't felt before. They reassure him this. Nothing they can't heal from. They have enough scars to prove it. He touches them again at their consent.

Maybe when it's all finished, they could heal together.

#.writing #.bj #.bedbugs

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rionas-path · 7 months ago

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Chapter 14

A Funeral Fit for a Tsar

CXXXIV. The chirping of the daybreak’s voices stirred her from her sleep. She stretched her arms. Then cracked her joints; then leaped off from her bed. Step followed step unto the cobbled porch. Her mind: cast on, thread, Weaving the forthcoming day’s events. One couldn’t help but weep At the laborious yet vital task ahead of her. It had now been a quarter-moon since the event insecure And still no trace of the goddess. To Ríona this silent sweep Was a sensation unknown. No; solitude was the phrase sweet.

CXXXV. Indeed, the girl revelled in it, and always found more work That had to be completed. At last, her stay’s main task was to give The Tsar a sepulchre; his rites, to wistfully relive The last night of his life before his spirit did embark Towards the eternal pastures and Our Lady Raven’s side. Befitting of a kin-in-kind, this ritual time did bide. Though not quite sure of his tribal root, she did see a clan mark That belonged to Rhuykë-folk and would perform the work of their hierarch.

CXXXVI. With a whirling of her digits, she harnessed the flow’s vastness Which streamed about this valley betwixt the Guardians and the lake Of Frozen Plains, gathering twigs, sticks and firewood to make A grand pyre. Without a heartbeat wasted, she would progress Down to the ground floor, as the timber swelled, amassed, accrued Afore the keep. Stepping outside, the lake sang its pure etude, Greeting her with the early morning song of great faithfulness. Thus, she collected the empty vessel and began the process.

CXXXVII. In the absence of prying eyes, she expressed her command On the flow so openly that each task seemed effortless. Flicking her wrist yet again, she flipped a boulder measureless In weight, setting it flat, then laying down the vessel grand Upon it. She stripped his body of its mortal garments And cleaned off the divine blood without magick’s assistance, As tradition dictated: the vessel clean without a crimson strand. Repulsion must not invade her mind, this task she need withstand.

CXXXVIII. Meticulously, she cleansed the Tsar’s brittle, bark-like skin. His hollow hallowed eyes shone brightly even in his passing, Putting to full display his long lost youth and the amassing Of the rings in form of wrinkles, marking what his life has been. The corruptive scarring imbued by flow, long had ceased to glow, Leaving his gaunt, haggard body in the state of peace bestowed. Finished with the cleansing, she kneeled down before her kind’s kin, Commencing the burial: this long awaited rite to begin.

CXXXIX. She touched down with her left hand, digging her fingers into the soil, Then held it within her palm, blowing on it with a message For the other side: “Dear ones! I come before thee to ask for passage Of my kin-in-kind. I, Kaitríonne Eleanoir, give his turmoil An end, grant passage to this heroic vessel, once beloved! I beseech the Tribe Mothers and the shepherding godhead!” She stood as still as possible, awaiting the flow’s recoil, And slowly spirits wandered near, paying homage to her toil.

CXL. In the grasp of uncertainty, she stumbled through her words: “I… give to thee the Tsar, the demigod of Rhüyke-folk, The hero of the Dark Days! As such, his triumphs I evoke: He saved mortaldom from the Wicrow, from the dreaded birds! I beg thee, Tribe Mothers, though he is not of Mockwiran blood, Grant him the passage to the Endless Pastures, the holy mud, For I don’t know where those who held him dear and true – his herds, His flock reside!” With those remarks, she wished for just rewards.

CXLI. A lithe clap began to echo through the valley, resonating. Remembering her teachings, she knew she could not turn away, Open her eyes; make any errant twitch despite the sway Of wicked compulsion, which kept beckoning, beckoning. A graceful, innocent and meagre, yet somewhat brazen voice Reverberated within her mind: “A wealthy choice Of words… for a madman, such as he? Hailing and venerating! ‘Tis a venturous approach; stupid, yet so fascinating!”

CXLII. “To ask for such a charitable yet unspeakable thing, While not adorned in colours of a shaman… amusing!” The voice belonged to a little girl, yet there was no confusing, Ríona knew full well the lass was the acting regent-king: Sky Pervuia – the most powerful living divine. To her luck, the goddess’ mind was distinct, often genuine, A refusal to toy with people-folk, rarely communicating With mortals; rather taking the dying souls under her wing.

CXLIII. Thus, spirits of one’s forebearers sought for the Grim Margrave On behalf of the deceased; through the words of the shaman, And yet despite such staunch truths, this rite disturbed the regimen Of the goddess, calling forth her ever silent, curious rave. Nevertheless, where she sensed honest respect from the heart, She approached the entity equally, willing to start With dialogue peacefully, and now before her stood a brave And daring soul, which did not want to be a destiny’s slave.

#riona's path #fantasy #dark fantasy #poetry #epic poetry #poem #epic poem #literature #writing

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suometar · 6 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @kallisto-k last week and since I always get their tags on Thursday, I decided to jump directly to next Wednesday :D

I've worked on four wips over the last week (out of seven in total lol) but two of them I'm writing with a friend so you'll get snippets of the two of my own!

Also enjoy the rare view into one wip I've worked more on and then another one that's literally just first words on a paper at the moment XD

WIP #1: Shutter love

The preparation routine, close to meditation, was interrupted by someone walking into the studio. Steve raised his gaze from the screen and a smile spread across his face when he saw Billy.

“Hi! Welcome! I’m Robin, we talked on the phone,” Robin greeted Billy, walking to him, and showing where he could leave his coat and his cloth bag to wait for the shoot to begin.

“Happy to be here,” Billy replied with a smile.

Steve took in the sight of Billy and Robin greeting each other. A shaft of sunlight streaming through the high windows caught the edges of Billy’s blond hair, igniting golden halos to dance around his head.

As if feeling Steve’s gaze, Billy looked up and their eyes locked. Time stretched thin, gossamer and fragile between them. The gaze was an electric thread, unspooling from from whatever it had been gathered into the other night, weaving through the space, drawing them together despite the distance.

Steve broke the spell first and walked towards Billy, each step measured and sure, but his pulse thrummed beneath his skin, betraying an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. There was something about this young model, something that beckoned like the promise of an undiscovered country.

“Hi! Nice to see you again,” Steve said, extending his hand and feeling the spark ignited in him in the party a few nights ago rekindling at the touch.

“Yeah, you too,” Billy replied, taking Steve’s hand and shaking it with firm confidence. A handshake of someone who knew their worth but didn’t make too much out of it.

The handshake lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary and so they stood there, the handshake evolving into a recognition of the energy that was sparking between them.

Then the world rushed back in, and Steve rushed to remind him he knew nothing about Billy and definitely not if he was free or even interested in men.

“It’s an honor to get to work with you, Mr. Harrington,” Billy continued, his lips curving into a smile that reached his eyes. The sincerity in his tone matched the grip of his hand—earnest and eager.

“Please, call me Steve,” Steve said, releasing Billy's hand reluctantly. “And the pleasure is all mine."

::::::::::

WIP #2: Get out of my dreams, get into my car

“Uh…no. I’m not angry about…anything,” Steve replied.

“Good. Because you don’t have to worry about that. Moving away, I mean. I’m not planning on moving in with anyone soon.”

“Oh. Wait. You’re not?”

“Should I be?”

“But…Was the date horrible?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was nice.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Planning to see them again?” Steve asked quietly after a moment, staring at his coffee mug.

Billy shrugged. “Maybe.”

Steve just nodded.

Billy could feel the tips of his ears burning when he tried to find words for the second thing he wanted to talk about. “Um…That wasn’t all I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Uh…” Billy took a deep sigh. Better just to spit it out. “The red panties…” He felt his face burning. “They’re, uh…they’re mine. I, uh…I—I like to wear them. Sometimes. It’s a secret and…no one has known until now. I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”

::::::::::

No pressure tags: @destroya2005 @disdaidal @medusapelagia and everyone else who wants to participate!

#wip wednesday #suometar writes #harringrove

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leohtttbriar · 10 months ago

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Arwen wove her hair into a tight braid. It fell, a heavy rope, against her back. She picked up her leather arm bindings and began to tie up her sleeves in a neat laced pattern, until no loose fabric hung and her forearms were bare. She turned her wrists, freely. Then she walked to the middle of the room, stood still, and looked up.

The empty frame of the loom was a window, of sorts, but Arwen kept her gaze from drifting into fantasy. The lines glowed in the sunlight. She put her hands on her hips and considered the space.

The sylvan weavers in Lothlórien has begun most of their projects in this way. They called it the planting—to stand before the loom, after the fibers had been spun, and to remember that the weaver and the loom are not the same, but stand apart.

Her grandmother had forced this lesson on Arwen in much the same way Arwen imagined she had forced herself through punishing ice: without apology.

Objects are not the given, niny’Arwen. She had said, her hair pouring over her shoulder as she guided Arwen’s hands away from the spun-wool. They are as they are.

Arwen, who had been eager to begin the labors of weaving, found herself cut in half by this. Niny’Arwen, Galadriel always called her, ever since her mother had passed the boundaries of the undying shores. My Arwen, she said, but the slanted smile upon her face suggested something else: my noble one, perhaps, or, my lady—like she was saying the word, not the name.

Her grandfather would watch them together, sometimes, discomfort bleeding from the way his gaze fell. My lady. For Galadriel to name her thus, in the borders of Galadriel’s land and power, was not proper and Arwen shrunk from it. As Celeborn appeared to, as well. Yet they could not correct her. No one corrected one who saw so the deep.

Objects are not the given, she would say, also, when looking up at the stars and sang to Elbereth. She is more than the light that we praise. And Arwen would wonder what object she herself might be, in the eyes of the wise, and what strength such a thing might eventually possess and perform.

In her father’s home, Arwen performed in such a manner that her grandmother would have no reason to object. But she could not perform as she ought.

She had spun the silver and mithril herself. She had gathered the ores and smelted the stone and lay out the metals in the forge’s fire and strung them along the spinning-wheel until they appeared as but a thread of light. And this day she would begin the last of her maiden-work. Before the end. The morning was bright, the summer remained warm despite the autumn sun gathering closer to itself. In the frame of the loom she began to see into the picture she meant to weave: she saw one of Telperion’s children take root in the stone floor and bloom across the standard she was meant to make; white petals fell on the gentle breeze, scattering across her bare feet; silver light enmeshed with the gold, an ancient light yet burning, a coveted light for all; it lit up the morning velvet of they sky, as well as the brown skin of her hands as she reached out to hold it. As so many of her people had so longed and fought to do since the Trees’ light was watered and sung.

She wondered at her ability to resist closing her fist, even as the light surrendered to her palm.

Arwen blinked. The room was as it ever was. The loom stood tall. She began her work.

#my fic #arwen undomiel #tolkien

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paradoxolotl · 2 years ago

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Hello Para my love ❤️ for the fic writing ask game - 5, 7, 28 and 37 :)

Hello Crow my wonder!

5. Share one of your strengths.

Wow you had to hit me with the hard one right out of the gate, didn’t you? I’m going to say generating ideas. Not just for plots (I think we all know I can make one of those out of too little), but for little things too. Trying to solve a wrinkle or hole, and my brain can usually spit out ideas until one sticks.

7. Share a snippet from one of your favourite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Carefully, a slow tender creep across the space of cotton and weave, Andrew slid his leg over Neil’s hip, the mattress dipping under his weight.

I don’t know how to describe the bubbly happy happy I get when I look at this. I could only write this one line, but I like the flow of the words, the quiet of it. It’s what I wanted it to be, and how can I not be proud of that?

28. Share three of your favourite fic writers and why you like them so much.

Ignore me frantically shoving all of my fan behaviour behind closed doors. We’re going to pretend I don’t absolutely hyperventilate over some emails or notifications, alright? And I’m not ready to reveal my levels of adoration for strangers so luckily I’m blessed to have many talented friends to get through first!

You. You you you you @fortheloveofexy. How could I not say you? I don’t often feel much when reading, mostly a flicker of silver fish below the surface. And then you hit me with things that I know, I know if I look down, I’ll see a creature of the deep staring back at me. Maybe it’s the tenderness you weave through it, those ever hopeful threads I cling to. I come back every time.

@major816 I mean…how do I even begin. Words burrowing under skin and should probably be sharp enough to cut but don’t. Every slice is heavy beyond surface and no one can be thrown away because they have muscle.

@jingerhead HOW DOES YOUR BRAIN FIT SO MANY WONDERFUL WORLDS IN IT? You make me want to read about characters I’ve never looked at before, how dare you. Not afraid to say I’m a little obsessed with you.

37. Talk about your current WIPs.

Screaming. Sobbing. In the distance: sirens.

Glad to report Inked still exists, despite it all

#ask para #para's fics #writer asks

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sasorikigai · 10 months ago

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Hands caress over the commanders chest, carefully touching the scars and flesh, the singer humming as she leans ever so to press a kiss against his shoulder. There's a sweet smile now, lips and hands exploring Hanzo's muscles and skin ever so softly. "Yer lookin' a little frustrated, darlin'. Maybe a little leisure can help." Liv @ Hanzo in modern verse 👀

Coddle Hanzo || @somniaxperdita|| always accepting!

💥 || Hanzo once feared his own gentleness; for he still thinks he is trying to teach himself how to be tender again. This is a challenging process, tearing the spines of steeled, calcified bones and separating his skin from its solitary shell. Perhaps his heart developed an ironclad exoskeleton; for it tried so hard to become bone that he forgot he was mortal flesh to begin with. Certain exhibition of tenderness is confessing of his truths; conjunction of self with all this vulnerability. Being tender, gentle, emotional, vulnerable, delicate, bare, and open isn't something he readily welcomes in his world.

For too long, underlying hatred and wrath towards the world had given him strength to go on when he thought he could relinquish everything; to maintain this formidable, yet fragile structure of his body, mind, and soul, as he tenaciously weaved the threads together, so that emptiness couldn't take over everything. He must have gone through thousands of hearts, as they were stored in boxes for the pain to be transformed into something else. But the pain, he intuits, it must be the one of the most pivotal things that keep me breathing.

No matter how many crude cuts and tears he'd endured, how many unknown red hands had wrenched his guts with claws and teeth, all this excruciating and horrible pain belongs to him and him alone. He may share certain pain with his camaraderie, but how they still burrow into his bones and becomes the definition of his kintsugi heart. Maybe it is the collection of his wounds giving off its own light, as red wilted rose has reblossomed as the heavy heart on chain-link fence briefly melts away.

"I often think if my pain was as deserved as I believed it to be, for it has always deserved a voice and it will not deny in that. I don't wish to devote my life to it, but it's unfortunate that I am unable to let go of it," a long sigh heaves through his broad chest, as Olivia's permeated warmth is reciprocated with his own, as lips seek closure upon the crown of her head. As long, gray brushstrokes drag across the sky, raining paint down onto the earth below, Hanzo stares into the colorful spots of urban tragedy, all over the canvas, as he continues to find a sort of comfort in his own pain.

How she becomes a gathered light, releasing him from himself. And as he sinks further into the mold of the couch, Hanzo's radiant delight manifests, breaching such sinking darkness. "I will continue to believe in the triumphs of love despite having witnessed in full view of its defeat. For love is the essence of live, and without it, everything in my life will lose its meaning." 💥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#somniaxperdita

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guyfieriii · 1 year ago

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There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone.

The horror theme sets up from the get go for me because I have an DEBILITATING fear of heights and this made my heart sink to my stomach.

It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss.

This prose is JUST gorgeous. It’s poetry woven in and I’m in love with it.

Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something.

SWEET CHRIST HOW???? DO?????? YOU?????? CONTINUE?????? TO?????? DO???? THIS????????

If I had to pick a way to describe your writing in this piece I’d say it’s pastel colouring on like the most horrific scene ever. It’s so picturesque, but these little burst-ins of “oh I am not in control, something is wrong” has me in a pit of doom and I love it.

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line.

GOD THE IMAGERY 😭😭😭

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Everything just clicked into place and I had to put my phone away for a minute. GOD, LEV.

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout.

Okay, you need to understand just how horrific this makes me feel as I read it because I’m the kind of person who always feels the deepest discomfort while experiencing deja-vu. Like the xerox machine in my brain is broken and I can’t remember why I’ve done a thing before. I end up obsessing over it for like the longest time. Thank you for doing what most horror films fail to do for me.

The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe.

I’m IN LOVE. I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS.

OH AND THIS TOO:

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

Kismet.

Horror.

Some cosmic merging of the two.

It's all—

Absurd.

TOO FUCKING RIGHT.

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth.

THIS LINE?????? HOLY SHIT!!

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his.

I’m basically copying down things in chunks because it’s all bloody GOLD. I am truly in awe of you, Lev.

Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle

Hahahahaha I am in so much pain but this is so good.

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands.

I had to read this over and over because THIS IS PURE BRILLIANCE!!

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner.

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe.

Who gave you the goddamn right to make me SOB LIKE THIS???

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

Yet another time I had to throw my phone across the room and sit still for a few.

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

FUCK ME! NOOOOOO 😭😭😭

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle.

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind.

I AM SOBBING AT HOW BEAUTIFUL THIS IMAGERY IS OH MY GOD.

(And so, it begins.)

Yes it does, because I’m reading the whole thing again.

I know I have been annoyingly repetitive but I truly lack the eloquence to really put to words about how your writing makes me feel. So I settle with unintelligible shrieking in all caps.

I’m ruined and will never recover, but I love this and you.

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops. This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time:

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March.

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness.

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters.

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you.

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university.

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles.

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is.

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle.

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't.

The most you've lost was a pet.

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated.

But it doesn't stop it.

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting.

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive.

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time.

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre.

They tell you it's Thursday, now.

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest.

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it?

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel.

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to.

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it?

And then you dream.

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort.

It makes you ache.

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss.

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something.

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again.

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now.

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice.

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me, ahh, miss? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street.

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick.

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip.

It's strange. Odd.

It's just a building. Just a tavern.

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life.

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant.

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets?

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable.

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money.

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now.

Now:

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many.

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away.

It doesn't.

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday.

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway.

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No.

You've never been here before.

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red.

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused.

It's silly.

Stupid.

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be.

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar.

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it.

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat.

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No.

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks.

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence.

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt.

This isn't that man.

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow.

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea.

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige.

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust.

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town.

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it.

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?"

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling.

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark.

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach.

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate.

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings.

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years.

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty.

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want."

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that.

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie.

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock.

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox.

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar.

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head.

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand.

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit.

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection.

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom.

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him.

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream.

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest.

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you.

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do.

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air.

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again.

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really.

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along.

It starts three days later.

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building.

Safe, you think.

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber.

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes.

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other.

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout.

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same.

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul.

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station.

A living phantom.

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery.

Each time, you run. And keep running.

And then once, you catch him.

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge.

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air.

No one joins him. He doesn't look back.

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm.

It's mesmerising.

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing.

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache.

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist.

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost.

And then you turn. Run.

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse.

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out.

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really.

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle.

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle.

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed.

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't.

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth.

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?"

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran.

"Aye, it does."

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two.

But it shouldn't. Can't.

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling.

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement.

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete.

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again.

It's too much. Intense. Hazel.

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum.

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?"

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern.

"No."

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near.

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend.

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?"

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes.

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no.

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you.

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh.

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole.

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone.

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie."

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea.

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away.

"I'll see you around."

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away.

"Are you ready to order?"

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun.

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds.

You order tea instead.

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give.

You stop, letting him finally catch up.

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt.

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it.

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads.

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home.

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands.

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe.

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away.

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead.

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world.

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel.

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself.

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue.

People don't just—

Know each other.

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap."

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way.

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone.

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops.

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?"

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that.

"I—"

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere."

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you.

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go.

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them.

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin.

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile.

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning.

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid.

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance.

Kismet.

Horror.

Some cosmic merging of the two.

It's all—

Absurd.

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend.

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time.

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth.

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun.

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down.

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land.

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time.

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady.

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark.

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot.

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?"

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll.

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too. (Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit.

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette.

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers.

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed.

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity.

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star.

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop.

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness.

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough.

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself.

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another.

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for.

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know.

He's kind. Charming.

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself.

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him.

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues.

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met.

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth.

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh.

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism.

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone.

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you.

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know.

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest.

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him.

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above.

Is it happiness, you wonder.

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth.

You see the past, the present.

And your future.

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future.

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current.

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails.

You pull away. He lets you go.

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise.

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse.

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue.

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon.

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below.

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus.

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again.

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony.

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm.

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs.

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate.

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down.

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone.

What can you say? What could you say?

Instead, you say nothing at all.

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away.

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead.

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead.

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze.

All black, black, black.

No sounds escape.

"Sure, bonnie."

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him.

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun.

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever.

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space.

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air.

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs.

Belongs, but doesn't want to be.

You think of Johnny.

And you weep.

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him.

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back.

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands.

You don't dance, and you don't dream.

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost.

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't.

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for.

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick.

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet.

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish.

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises.

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says:

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him.

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss.

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner.

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe.

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces.

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight.

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you."

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, Bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged.

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone.

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie." The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him.

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain.

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses.

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite.

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone.

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are.

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea.

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache.

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal.

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you.

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull.

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won.

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty.

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood.

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break.

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound.

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse.

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real.

But it is.

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty.

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage.

You chase the sound.

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes.

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles.

You don't scream when you sink.

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him.

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret.

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him.

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle.

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go.

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours.

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings.

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once.

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval.

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented.

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun.

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep.

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth.

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me."

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew.

"I love you, Johnny."

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks.

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me, ahh, miss? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out.

But it catches. Clear. Low.

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket.

"Sorry?"

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk.

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush.

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills.

"Alright?"

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine.

Your breath catches.

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one.

And then—

Oh, God.

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn.

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile.

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

714 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 2 years ago

Text

you’ll always be my white rabbit

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut, carnival AU

notes: aaaah he’s finally here!!! happy belated halloween everyone!! i hope you all enjoy carnival attendant!dabi and, as always, please heed the warnings below! | title credit: bad habits by delaney jane

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, dangerous sex, public sex, minimal prep, dubcon, drugs, reader has long hair, overstimulation, degradation/dumbification, praise, marking, fingering, size difference/size kink, dacryphilia

words: 8.8k

synopsis:

Because despite the fact that you’re in the middle of an empty carnival and on a moving ride, there is something distinctly intimate about the entire encounter, found in the way his hands hold you close, palms curled protectively around your waist, fingertips signing his name, staking his claim, in blossoms of blues and purples into your flesh as they grip you tightly; in the way his forehead stays pressed flush to yours irregardless of the vicious motions of the boat, kisses messy and inept as teeth clack and click and chip against each other, wild giggles and half-baked sobs sucked from one throat into another; in the way his eyes glitter with the lights of the midway, sapphire amplified by fuchsia and crimson, neons that bleed into his irises and tint them violet and periwinkle.

The sky is still a deep blue when you arrive, twined with wispy strands of candy floss clouds, suspended in the atmosphere and wavering subtly with the gentle breeze.

The wind carries the scent of buttersalt popcorn and hard candy on its back, weaving its way through the small carnival—all the game stalls and the rusting rides and the grumbling food trucks—and you breathe in deeply, letting the smell settle in your lungs.

“Hey, let’s go!” Your best friend threads her arm through your own and begins leading you towards the small ticket booth, jutting up from a grassy knoll like a crooked golden tooth.

It’s nearly night by the time the two of you end up in line for the ferris wheel—by far the longest line for any ride here—the last halo of weak coral light bleeding into violet-tinged onyx.

You can’t quite understand why the queue for this particular ride is as busy as it is, gazing up at the rickety structure with a scrunched nose. It isn’t all that impressive; a measly sixty-seven feet tall, with white spokes and silver booths dangling precariously between them, paint chipping and dirty, hinges tarnished with flakes of rust.

“God,” your friend grimaces, front teeth nibbling at the thin skin of her bottom lip, eyes glued to the ride attendant. “I hope he doesn’t do that to us.”

Curiously, you follow her glare, finding a man with inky tufts and low-slung charcoal jeans at the base of the ride, one hand wrapped around the safety bar of the current cart docked at the loading platform, the other clamping inconspicuously over the back of the seat before he flips the whole thing backwards, swift and sudden, the surprised squeals and shrieks of his patrons eliciting a loud, harsh, sadistic laugh from deep in his chest, notes of his amusement floating above the crowd.

“You should consider it a compliment if he does,” a girl behind you says. “He does it to all the pretty girls.”

The notion makes you snort a little—some compliment, scaring the Goddamn life out of your customers entirely without their permission—but it does nothing to soothe the wrinkles of worry written into your best friend’s forehead.

The moon has emerged when you make it to the front of the line, pale rays competing with the colourful glow of the midway, irregular clusters of stars embroidering the velvet night rendered dull in comparison to the twinkling neon lightbulbs encrusting the rides.

It is only when you’re on the platform, sitting down in the tottering seat, that you realize exactly why the line for this particular ride is the longest.

Smirking down at you with lidded sapphire eyes glinting in the flashing cabochon lights, he is breathtakingly gorgeous.

Scars—pink and puckered, edges shimmering silver in the moon beams—cover his arms, climbing their way up his biceps, under his blue uniform shirt, and back out over his collarbone. They inch up his neck and over his cheeks, curved edges etching an everlasting smile across his face. They look soft, the puckered skin glowing in the light of the night, casting a sort of ethereal halo around his form.

“Ladies,” he greets with a noncommittal nod as he secures the lap bar across the bench and over your thighs.

“Please don’t flip us,” your friend blurts, eyes wide and desperate, hands gripping the safety bar so tightly her skin is stretched taut and tight over her knuckles.

“‘Course not,” he says with startling reassurance, though you can see the suppressed mischief playing with the corners of his lips, head bowed while rough hands tug halfheartedly at the frayed seatbelt across your hips.

“Oh, thank you, becau—”

A sharp scream cuts her off as the whole chair abruptly tilts backwards, entire carnival flipped upside down for a split second before it’s right side up again, the man snickering to himself at your friend’s overreaction.

She’s saying something, voice shrill with terror, but you can’t seem to hear her, hands frantically smoothing back down your wind-blown skirt, ears tuned into the frequency of the man’s dark, smooth voice.

He’s only a few inches from your face now, palms still latched tightly onto your seat, blue eyes bright with mirth.

“Pretty panties,” he smirks at you, eyes raking over your body before he tilts his head forward to whisper in your ear. “But they’d look a helluva lot prettier in my back pocket.”

And then you’re off, ride lurching forward as your tottering little chair climbs the spokes of the wheel, higher and higher and higher until you reach the very top, then descending backwards, lower and lower and lower just to repeat the whole cycle again.

You can’t pull your gaze from the ride attendant as your cart passes him by the first time, leaning nonchalantly against the operating booth as his tongue pokes absentmindedly at his cheek, that permanent lopsided smirk welded to his face, his unblinking stare steadily holding your own until it can’t anymore, until the ride carries you away again.

Your friend is still babbling on, but it all sounds muffled to your ears, nothing more than an indistinct jumble of complaints until she’s nudging your elbow, snapping you from your stupor.

“Huh?”

“I said, why is he looking at you like that?” her voice is full of disgust, face screwed up with something sour as she glowers at the ride attendant, who doesn’t bother to toss her a glance.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did he say to you?”

“What?”

“The guy! He whispered something in your ear before the ride started, didn’t he? What did he say?”

Heat seeps into your cheeks, slow and simmering, and you look down at your shoes, toes pointed inward, nearly overlapping.

“Nothing important,” you murmur, his smooth voice cascading through your mind like thick melted chocolate.

She doesn’t look like she believes you, but she doesn’t push any further either, receiving your answer with an indifferent shrug before returning back to prattling on about safety measures and respect and how the carnival will definitely hear about this incident.

You’re sure the carnival already knows about this guy’s behaviour, sure they don’t give a fuck if he’s been allowed to continue it, but you stay quiet, nodding along in an apathetic daze.

As the ride slows to a stop, you feel the unmistakable twinge of disappointment throbbing in the pit of your stomach, a vague sense of yearning sinking in your chest. It’s inexplicable, the sudden draw you feel towards this man—it’s magical, it’s magnetic; a moth to a light, an addict to a fix, a craving, voracious as it claws at your lungs—and you frown, lips molding into a pout, brain grasping for something, anything, to say to him, to soak up another ounce of his attention before he’s gone forever.

A calloused hand cuffs your wrist just as you’re about to step off the platform, fingers rough against your smooth skin, and you look back in surprise, a sweet little gasp hitching in your throat, unmistakable excitement glowing behind your ribs.

The man with the inky hair and the azure eyes says nothing as he stuffs a wad of worn tickets in your palm, gifting you a quick wink when you glance up at him in question, smirk grown into a grin.

Then he’s shuffling you forward, down the steps and off the platform as he welcomes the next round of guests onto the ride, the chain of tickets searing against your skin.

You’re unraveling them the moment you’re out of your best friend’s sight, breath bated and spine pressed against the back of the funhouse, eyes swallowing down the contents with starving curiosity.

The words U + ME TONIGHT glare up at you, written across the tickets in bright purple scrawl. Flipping the chain over, you find a time and location—11PM @ F. WHEEL—in the same messy handwriting; rushed, secret, just for you.

You and him, tonight. Eleven PM at the ferris wheel. You’ll be there.

✰ ✰ ✰

Murky golden lamplight filters through the dark autumn leaves, casting grotesque shadows on the candy-stained asphalt, constantly moving, shifting, changing as the wind jostles the branches.

Shivering a little, you tuck your hands beneath your arms, hugging your body tightly.

And you wait.

The carnival is vacant now, gusts whistling down the wide aisles, but the rides are still lit up, stationary and motionless, looming over you like massive metal monsters, laying in wait for their masters’ commands.

It all feels eerie, uncanny, like something is distinctly off, something you can’t quite find a word to describe, even as disquiet settles in your belly.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the wind-shivered leaves, curling in on themselves as they cling weakly to the branches and bark, desperate for one last moment of life before a gust sends them fluttering to their death.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

You don’t know a thing about this man, you don’t even know his name, yet here you are: desperate, waiting for him all alone, unprotected and unprepared.

All due to a hazy feeling; dreamy and whimsical, exhilarating and terrifying, a curiosity starved for more.

Something tingles at the base of your spine, pinpricks of ice climbing vertebrae by vertebrae, forcing another shiver to ripple through your flesh, your head turning just as a pair of hands grab your waist, a yelp cracking high in your throat.

“You came!” the man is saying as he spins you to face him, large hands still on your hips, all bright smiles and brilliant eyes.

“I did,” you breathe out, words slightly trembling.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all, gaze glistening with the thrill of it all. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Yeah, right. You really expect me to believe that?”

To your surprise, he laughs loudly, head nodding with a shrug of his shoulders. “Ah, what can I say? People look the prettiest when they’re scared.”

That’s an odd statement, you think, dimly aware of a soft chiming at the back of your mind—a warning of sorts, instantly silenced by his voice.

“C’mon!” he’s grabbing your hand, tugging you along behind him. “Lemme show you around.”

“So, uh, what’s your name?” you ask as you stroll, arms linked, towards the heart of the midway.

“Dabi,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “I already know yours.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” you snort with a smirk, expecting him to mutter some cliché term—angel or gorgeous or something of that kind—as his head drops, lips at your ear, sugary wisps of your birth name curling around the cartilage.

It sends a jolt of shock shooting through your veins—something electric, something tinged with terror—and you rip yourself away from him, breath coming in fast, uneven spurts out your nose.

He laughs again, echoes of his melody ringing out among the empty fairgrounds.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, residual notes of amusement sewn into his tone. “I heard your jumpy little friend say it earlier tonight, when she was tryna yank you off my ride. Remember?”

Did she say your name? You can’t recall, the moments after the Ferris Wheel ride nothing more than a whimsical blur, full of keenness, enraptured in his aura.

Skepticism shines in your narrowed eyes, body still leaning away from him. “Really?”

“How else would I know?” he gives you a halfhearted shrug, hands shoved in his pockets; easy, effortless, entirely disarming.

How else would he know? This is the only plausible answer, isn’t it?

“Dunno,” you say finally, mimicking his shrug as you begin walking again. “Guess I’m just not used to complete strangers knowing my name, that’s all.”

“Understandable,” he says through grinding molars, hinges of his strong jaw flexing with the motions.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a lollipop, swiftly tearing the whole wrapper from the treat in a singular gesture before shoving it in his mouth, candy clacking against his teeth.

Old fashioned carnival tunes crank through lofi speakers as you roam the fair, harmonies stuffed full of the pop and hiss of static bathing the grounds.

Dabi shows you around the place as if you didn’t spend a good chunk of your night here already, eyes sparkling with a special type of excitement, full of adoration and pride as he rambles on, words gaining speed the deeper into the midway you wander.

But you let him drag you through it all again anyway, nodding and cooing and giggling at the appropriate times, because it’s kinda cute, kinda sweet, how much he clearly loves this place with all of its worn booths and decrepit rides, speeches peppered with little known facts and personal anecdotes.

You’re in the heart of the carnival when you see it, little gasp of surprise cutting Dabi off mid-story—something about that one time he and his friend walked on the walls of the Gravitron while it was moving—feet slowing to a stop in front of a bright yellow stall, inadvertently pulling on Dabi’s hand.

On the highest shelf of the Ring Toss game sits a massive Tiffany blue stuffed lion, with fluffy navy fur and big glassy eyes and pointy felt teeth, grinning down at you.

“What?” Dabi asks, eyes following your gaze with mild interest. “You want one?

You look over at him, hand squeezing his. “Can you win me one?”

“Nah,” he waves a hand, dismissive. “Kei stopped teachin’ us how to beat the games ‘cause we were showin’ all the tricks to too many people and it was hurtin’ his business or whatever. But—”

He leans close, nose nearly bumping yours as his voice drops to a rasp, breath infused with sugar and notes of artificial cherry, so sweet you swear you can taste the sting of sugar on your tongue.

“—I can steal you one.”

His eyes glitter, a cheeky smile melded to his face, not waiting for your answer as he jumps over the booth’s counter with all the ease and grace of a cat, the buckles on his boots and the metal in his pocket jingling as his feet hit the floor.

He’s cradling the lion to his chest in fifteen seconds flat, having scaled the prize wall to yank it free from its hook, dislodging a few of the smaller stuffed animals in the process, boots smearing strokes of mud across the faces of fluffy pink bunnies.

“He’s gonna kill me for that,” Dabi says as he lands, as if it isn’t a big deal, voice void of the slightest hint of concern. “Anyway,” he turns toward you, offering the lion. “Here you are.”

“Thank yo—” you begin to say, reaching for the animal only to have Dabi swipe it away from your grasp, fast and sharp, a taunting little smirk on his face.

“Ah! But it’s gonna cost ya,” he smirks, eyes darkening as they search your face. “What? You thought I’d just give this away for free?” he snickers at your stupidity, and its mean, coated in a hard layer of condescension, humiliation pricking your eyes.

Behind him, a ride creaks under the weight of the wind, swaying menacingly with those harsh gusts.

“Wh-What’s the price?”

“A kiss, of course.”

A rush of relief floods your veins, breath held stagnant in your lungs exhaled in an airy little melody, his smile spreading at the sound.

“Gosh,” you giggle. “Could you be anymore cliché?”

“Hey,” he warns, suddenly serious. “I got no problem with upping the price, if that’s what your askin’ for.”

Desperate desire flares pathetically in your chest, clawing at your ribs, bubbling up your throat. “That’s alright,” you squeak quickly, swallowing past the urge. “A kiss will do just fine for now.”

“Suit yourself,” he’s saying as he crushes his lips to your own, a rough palm settling on your neck, holding you in place as a strong tongue pushes the shrunken lollipop into your mouth.

He tastes heady as his tongue drags across your own, depositing flavours of spicy nicotine and smoky hickory and sweet cherry. You suck on them, savour them, savour him, drawing his bottom lip into your mouth and catching it between your teeth, tongue laving over it in repetitive strokes.

It’s all so good, saliva thick and sticky and burning as you swallow it down, infused with little fizzing sparks that race down your throat to collect deep in the pit of your tummy, setting a small flickering flame ablaze. Dainty fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt and tug, vying for more, but then he’s pulling away with a teasing little chuckle, eyes sparking as his fingers curl around your wrist once again, giving a soft squeeze before he leads you away.

“My friend Jin runs this one,” he says as you reach the southwest corner of the carnival, tapping on the fence surrounding The Scrambler, head nodding at the ride in indication. “It was my favourite as a kid. I wanted to work it, but they stuck me with the good old Ferris Wheel instead.”

“Aw, but the Ferris Wheel’s a classic!”

“Sure,” he dismisses, rabid mind already latched onto something new, unfocused eyes fixing their blurry gaze on you again. “Did you have a favourite ride as a kid?”

“Of course,” you nod, a faint fondness tainting your smile. “The Carousel. That was always the ride I made my dad take me to first.”

“We got one of those,” he says as he pushes away from the barrier with enough force to leave it teetering. “Wanna see?”

The carousel is tiny, adorned with blue and gold lights and a mirror-panelled center, ivory horses, turned yellow and grey from years of use, skewered on poles of twisted gold. Dabi hops onto the platform and hoists you up, placing you on the nearest horse, sidesaddle.

He doesn’t take a horse for himself, opting instead to lean against one of the saddles, elbows perched on the curved edges as he stares at you. The giggle that bubbles up your throat at his penetrating gaze is girlish and uncontrollable, an automatic reaction to having all of his attention directed at you.

Something gnaws at the pit of your stomach, a sort of yearning that burrows deep in your flesh, starved for more of him.

“So. Where are you from?” you ask after a moment of silence, your feet dangling from your horse, swinging absentmindedly, toe colliding with the gilded pole.

“Take a guess,” he teases, the glint of a challenge in his eyes.

“Uh,” you hum to yourself, thinking for a moment, squinting a little as you do so. “Japan?”

“Ding-ding-ding!” he hollers. “What gave it away, huh? My name? My accent?”

“Your accent,” you respond. “It’s—I really like it.”

“Oh? Is that so?” His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise.

“Mhmm,” you nod quickly. “But—Wow. I mean, Japan? You sure are a long way from home.”

“I am.”

“What brings you overseas?” you ask, looking down at your stuffed lion as your fingers twist in its mane, nervous the question may be too invasive, too personal.

“Ran away to join the carnival.” he says simply with a single shoulder shrug.

“Sure you did,” you roll your eyes, but a smirk toys with the corners of your lips. “Hey, look, if it’s too personal—”

“You think I’m kidding, huh?” he taps out a cigarette, placing it between his teeth.

“Well, I mean—That’s such a famous trope, I didn’t think—”

“I’m telling ya the truth, y’know,” he speaks around the cigarette, filter sticking to his lips, dirty hands coming cup the flame of a silver Zippo. “Ran away when I was thirteen years old.”

“My gosh. Thirteen? That’s so young.”

Dabi hums, puffing out a cloud of thick, tangy smoke.

“Why?” You ask before you can stop the word from slithering off your tongue, curiosity swelling in your voice, clawing at your irises.

“That’s another story for another time,” he says lightly, though his eyes swirl with something dark and heavy, a secret that weights his soul, a collection of shattered memories that he drags with him everywhere, inescapable no matter how far or fast he runs. “Doesn’t really matter anymore, anyway. The point is, I’ve been here ever since.”

“Here? With the carnival, you mean?”

“Yep!” He pops the ‘p’ enthusiastically, eyes suddenly brilliant and shining with adoration again, any traces of melancholia instantly eradicated. “They took me in, y’know? They weren’t worried, they didn’t ask any questions—knew it was none o’their business, anyway—they just accepted me as I was: a homeless little foreign kid, looking for somewhere he could perfectly snap into place.”

“And that space ended up being Shigaraki Amusements.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s more of a home than I’ve ever known—a real home, a true home.” A wistful mist settles in his gaze, hazy and dreamy and full of love. “Us carnival people, we may look like a bunch’a mismatched puzzle pieces, but, in actuality, we fit together so snugly we might as well be airtight. No gaps, no empty spaces, no janky bits that don’t quite lock together…”

“That’s…” Beautiful, special, real. “That’s really magnificent,” you flounder, struggling to piece you feelings into words.

“We all have different stories, different reasons, and yet…” he trails off, reflecting. “Guess all that trauma and bullshit we each seem to lug around does help at least a lil, though,” he winks. “Hey,” he says suddenly, eyes focusing on something over your shoulder, glazed with want. “You wanna go take some pictures?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, yanking you from your horse with such force that your stuffed lion tumbles to the ground, a whine of protest sounding in your throat.

“Wait!” you cry, but Dabi doesn’t stop, deaf with determination as he all but drags you along behind him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s cramped in the little yellow photobooth, the seat so small that your legs tangle with Dabi’s—ankles twisted, knees hooked, thighs overlapping—as you wedge yourself in front of the flickering screen.

The pixels dances with static, the interface so basic it must’ve come from the 80s, colourful buttons prompting you with a bunch of selections, a disgruntled little sound falling from your lips as Dabi begins squirming, hands pawing at his pockets for what you’d assume to be money.

The surprise must show on your face when he pulls free a small baggie of white powder—the glinting edge of a razor blade peeking out from beneath the pile—because he laughs, shaking his head a little as he pours out a tiny mountain of snow white cocaine on the ledge in front of the screen.

“You want some?” he asks as he taps out three fat lines, already bent over his work, glancing at you through thick lashes and strands of ink.

“Oh, I—No. Thanks, though.”

“A good girl, huh?” he snorts the first line, fast and sharp, head thrown back and eyes squeezing shut for a millisecond before they snap open again, blazing stare turned on you. “I like that.”

A good girl?

Eyebrows pushing together, you look down at your hands in your lap, a little pout on your lips.

Is it really that obvious?

The question brands your tongue, sucked to cinders as you observe him, mesmerized.

He takes it like a fucking pro, inhaling the last two lines in such quick succession it almost looks as though he snorted them both at once.

Licking the tip of his finger, he drags it across the surface, gathering the excess before sticking it in his mouth. Scarred cheeks hollow as he sucks it clean, pulling it free from his lips in one slow motion, knuckles gleaming with spit.

“What?”

“Nothing, you’re just—you’re so cool.”

He flashes you another one of those dazzling smiles, all sharp teeth and red lips, stained cherry from the dye.

“Glad you think so, princess,” he says before he claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny booth, startling you slightly. “Alright! You wanna take some photos or what?”

Yes, your head is nodding, eyes wide and eager. Yes, you do.

“Let’s do two rounds,” Dabi says as he struggles to pull a worn leather wallet from one of his pockets. “So we each get to keep one full strip,” he explains before you can ask why, reading the question shimmering in your gaze.

You suppose that’s fair.

Dabi insists that you go first, allowing you to dictate the content of each shot, instructions called out rapid fire, sticky with giggles and heavy with grunts as you both hastily attempt to rearrange yourself for each shot, failing miserably every time.

“It’s still cute,” you say as you hold the strip between your fingers, a line of four photos displaying ridiculous faces, blurry from movement and cut off by the borders.

“Of course it is,” Dabi rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s you. Anything you do is gonna be cute, no matter how silly.”

Heat seeps into your cheeks at his words, his compliment somehow both sharp and sweet, little pinpricks buzzing across your skin. His voice is raw with honesty, entirely unaffected by his own candidness, the comment so blunt it’s almost offensive in tone, as if you’re stupid, as if you should know this already.

“But it’s my turn now, and there’s only one type of picture I want on my strip,” he continues, lips curling up into something sinister, a glint of wickedness in those gorgeous, gluttonous pupils.

You aren’t spared a moment to inquire as his thumb punches the START button, because then he’s surging forward, large hands enveloping your face, calloused fingertips hooking behind the hinges of your jaw as he drags you toward him.

A yelp rattles from your mouth into his as sharp teeth clack together, the edge of his incisors catching on your top lip and splitting it open. But he doesn’t let up, undeterred by your noise of pain, undeterred by the coppery taste of your blood saturating his tongue, and he sucks the wound into the heat of his mouth, eliciting another one of those beautiful little squeals from deep in your throat.

The first flash goes off just as your fingers knot in the inky tufts curling at the base of his skull, twining the strands around your knuckles before yanking harshly.

He laughs at the pain, a loud, warm sound that spills down your throat, liquid fire that ignites a blaze in your stomach, simmering low and dull.

The second flash goes off just as he shoves his tongue against your own, a domineering presence that overtakes your mouth as it laves over your smaller, weaker tongue, slick muscle pressed flat to slick muscle as they grind together.

Stringy spit, so interspersed it belongs to neither of you now, belongs to both of you now, clings to teeth and lips and chins, slippery as they slide together. Drool oozes from the corners of your mouths, so much that it’s obscene, dollops of it drizzling down your face to collect along your jaw, sticky and sweet.

The third flash goes off just as razor teeth slice into your collarbone, your features crinkling in pain-tinged ecstasy, a gasp of his name cracking in your throat, fading into little ghosts on your tongue.

You can feel his fingers creeping under your skirt, taking the hem with them as they climb up, up, up to reveal dainty pink lace, clinging to supple skin and soiled with arousal.

“These are in my way,” he growls into your skin, the only warning you’re given before he’s tearing through the frail material, ripping it from your body in one swift motion.

The fourth and final flash goes off just as two slim fingers plunge into you, the sudden intrusion forcing an airy whimper from your lips, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulder, piercing his skin through his t-shirt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, clouds of sugary air wafting across your damp skin, his forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet for me.”

A peculiar type of awe infuses his tone, and he peers up at you, cavernous pupils outlined by the thinnest ring of blue, shimmering in the dull yellow light. His digits curl without warning, almost vicious in their unexpected movement, two knuckles pressed tight against that plush spot buried deep inside you.

One gentle nudge has you whining out a distorted version of his name, full of fractures, edges of the broken letters catching in your throat.

And he smiles.

It’s nothing but a sharp curve upward of his mouth, teeth sealed behind his stretched lips, and something dark, something dangerous, glimmers in his eyes.

One hard shove has you crying out loudly, eyes snapped shut so tightly your entire face crinkles with the force, words barely discernible on your tongue now, nothing more than a mash of vague sounds that might’ve, once upon a time, been his name.

And he laughs, the melodic sound heavy and harsh in the air around you, notes of amusement threaded through diluted malice.

“So easy,” you hear him murmur to himself, voice rumbling in his chest. “So fucking expressive.”

He gives a few experimental pumps, knuckles rolling over that swelling spot with each plunge into you, unblinking eyes fixated on your face.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you?” he coos, nuzzling his face into you. “Because good girls get nice and wet when they’re supposed to. Christ,” his eyes drift to the apex of your thighs, a little lethargic in their movement, his arm turning a bit to reveal the slick collecting in his hand, staining the lines of his palm as crystalline dewdrops stream down his wrist. “You’re making such a fucking mess, baby.”

A mechanical hiss sounds suddenly, inhibiting you from replying, the machine spitting out Dabi’s photo strip a moment later.

With his fingers still buried in you, his free hand snatches the strip from the tray, eyes scanning it quickly.

“Fuck,” he nearly moans, shoving the strip toward you. “Look at yourself.”

Slowly, your gaze skims over each tiny photo, taking a moment to digest each one. It’s incredible; you’ve never seen yourself more beautiful. Pure primal ecstasy encrusts your features, face warped with pleasure and cheeks shining with sweat, each picture exuding passion, sensuality, authenticity.

“You look gorgeous, but oh, the real thing is so much better,” the hand between your thigh twists, knuckles grinding circles into your g-spot, and you mewl, eyes snapped shut, hips rolling into his palm.

It’s so good, and if he keeps this up you’re going to cum right here, right now, despite the fact that your aching clit hasn’t been paid a shred of attention, only granted a few teasing grazes of the heel of his hand.

Trembles skitter up your thighs, pleasure dousing the fire he had lit deep in the pit of your tummy, flames flaring, furling into a tightly concentrated coil, each stroke of his fingers twisting the blaze into a knot of sunshine.

Except then he’s ripping you from ecstasy’s grasp, untangling his body from yours and sliding out of the booth.

Lids fluttering, you stare at him dumbly, chest heaving and eyebrows drawn, slumped against the booth wall. A gentle breeze caresses your skin, chills erupting in its wake and you shiver, winding shaky arms around your torso.

With a tut of his tongue and a roll of his eyes, Dabi reaches into the booth, hand latching onto your elbow and yanking you out from the tiny booth, calling out an enthusiastic C’mon! as he throws you a breathtaking grin.

Still uncalibrated from the sudden whiplash of his actions, you stumble along with him, breath exhaled in short, uneven pants. Pretty pink lace, soaked and mangled, hangs haphazardly from his back pocket, bouncing against charcoal denim with each of his steps.

“Where are we going?” you rasp out, the toe of your shoe catching on the concrete in his haste.

“You’ll see,” he hums out in a little sigh, eyes bright with mischief, giving your hand an enthusiastic little tug.

He winds through the fairgrounds effortlessly—past the food trucks, between the game stalls, looped around the Starship 3000—finally coming to a stop at the base of a mediocre pirate ship raised on a faded blue platform, decorated with pieces of warped plywood painted with crashing whitecaps.

It’s one of those pendulum rides that swings to-and-fro, gaining speed with each whoosh past the axle until it reaches a maximum—crests, climaxes—before it gradually slows to a stop again. Dabi leads you up the steps, metal groaning beneath your feet, rubber soles whining against the pebbled surface.

“What are we…?”

A loud laugh catches in the thick atmosphere, heavy and suffocating and entirely different from the laughs that have come before it—lighthearted laughs that had rung with innocent amusement. The maliciousness infused in the melody slices through your cheeks, haunting whispers that caress your skin with icy fingers, that promise to know something you don’t.

“Sit down in the middle row,” he instructs as an answer to your question, jutting his chin at the stationary ride as he climbs behind the control booth.

Without moving, your eyes dart between Dabi and the ride, questions leaving your mouth slow and cautious, heart beginning to race. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” he shoots back, though that easygoing, liquified grin is still present on his lips, dopey with manufactured ecstasy.

Despite his seemingly carefree nature, chills crawl over your arms, blood turned frigid with inexplicable dread.

Something isn’t right.

“Oh, come on,” he goads at the incredulity molding your features, beginning to solidify, tight and tense. “You really think I’d do something to put you in danger?”

The question shimmers in the air, cushioned by silence, your tongue turned sluggish in your mouth, saliva collecting in pools at the back of your throat.

“Nah, princess,” he continues, though his voice quivers a little, struggling against the force of restrained irritation. His smile twitches, stretched abnormally large across his cheeks, so wide it looks as though it’s been carved into his face. “I would never.”

And although his tone is still perfectly playful and pleasant, something buried deep within his words glints, something hard and sharp that warns you best do what he says, something that assures you this isn’t a request, it’s an order.

“You can trust me, pinky promise. I just wanna show you a good time, okay?” he pauses, allowing his question to marinate into a soothing salve, softening your features, sincerity restoring some trust. “Now, sit down.”

Your body reacts immediately, automatically, prey instinctively responding to predator, and you slide into the middle booth, a sinful flicker of pride fluttering in your stomach as he purrs out that you’re such a good girl for him.

Dirtied fingers, nails uneven and framed with grime, crawl across the control panel, expertly flicking switches as they go, each one another razor ripping through the air before his palm slams down on a glowing green button, a tired beep responding in affirmation.

The ride creaks to life, rusted metal screeching as the motors whir and the boat begins to rock, slow and steady, back and forth, speed increasing incrementally with each repetition.

Dabi hops over the operating rail with ease, big black boots landing heavily against the platform, the entire floor trembling beneath his weight.

Then he’s bounding towards you, a twisted smile that’s all teeth plastered across his face, and launching himself onto the moving boat with practiced ease, slim body slinking almost gracefully into the middle row, slotted right up against yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you laugh, equal parts terrified and impressed, breath tangling in your throat. “You’re a total madman!”

He joins in on your laughter; loud, shrieking, inhuman, amplified by the roar of the wind, notes elevated with the gusts, carrying far across the midway. Large hands curl around your waist as he continues to snicker, yanking you into his lap with sudden strength, your thighs padding his hips.

The unexpected movement has a startled scream clawing at your chest, panicked eyes finding his instantly as he presses you close to his body, maniacal laughter still spilling from his lips, spoiled syrup encasing you in its sticky embrace.

“Dabi!” you squeal, voice high with terror. “Dabi!”

“Relax, I got you!” his fingers flex on your hips, accentuating his point. “Hold onto me!” he instructs, words twined with the whipping wind. Your body obeys, dainty fingers knotting in the jersey material of his shirt, skin stretched tight and taut across trembling knuckles.

And then he’s kissing you again, warm bubbles of glee spilling into your mouth, popping on your tongue before they buzz down your throat, sugary sweet and full of acid.

It burns, but they keep coming, and you keep swallowing them down, willingly, greedily, drowning in him from the inside out.

It’s already so much, throat raw as he keeps rushing down it, senses overwhelmed, senses overridden by it all—the rapidly accelerating sway of the boat, the calloused fingers bunching your skirt around your waist, the hard lump buried in rough denim, hot and throbbing as it grinds against your bare cunt—yet your soul’s starved for more, desperate and woozy and please, please, please!

Your fingers are already sore and stiff from being clenched so tightly, the muscles in your thighs already aching from tensing around his hips, a futile attempt to keep yourself from slipping off the ride, his bones digging into your plush flesh.

“This ride is set to last for five minutes and thirty seconds,” he breathes into your mouth as the boat climbs higher, forehead resting against your own. “Think you can be a perfect little girl for me and cum on my cock before it ends?”

“Uh-huh,” you’re nodding, motions vigorous, eyes glazed with desire as they search his face, vivid, voracious.

“Yeah?” he breathes, the tip of his nose nudging yours, gaze glittering as it sears into your soul. His eyes search your own for a moment, almost as if he’s confirming something unseen, unbeknownst to you, before he nods once, stare darting downward. “Then get my cock out.”

Delicate fingers wander to the heavy chrome buckle and pick viciously at the leather laced through it, clawing at the brass button of his jeans before shoving the waistband down just enough to free his cock while his hands keep a firm, secure grip on your waist, safe.

You don’t get to admire it, not even for a second—nothing more than a glimpse of a pretty pink tip and a glistening glaze of pre-cum—Dabi lifting your hips with one hand as the other wraps around the base of his shaft, holding it steady and lining it up with your cute little hole.

A hiss catches on your teeth as he shoves his cock into you, harsh and fast and sudden, features twisting in pain and fingers flexing tightly, nails piercing through the thin fabric outfitting his shoulders and gorging on his flesh.

“That’s it,” he soothes, though his voice is rough around the edges. “Be a good little whore for me, take my cock.”

It feels as though he’s ripping you in half as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug against your cervix, cunt struggling to accommodate his girth as delicate flesh tears itself open for him, keen and eager and oh-so-desperate.

“Shh, shh, baby,” he hums over your pathetic little whimpers, the term of endearment drenched in condescension, a mocking pout molded to his lips. “Aw, you’re doing good so far, c’mon, give me the ride of a lifetime, yeah? Make this a ride to remember.”

Fierce determination ignites behind your sternum, head nodding as you blink bleary tears from your gaze, desperate with the desire to please him, to prove yourself to him, to be the best he’s ever had.

The pace is merciless right from the start, imposed by the rapidly declining time limit, hips relentless in their pursuit as they rock hard and fast against his own.

He meets you with just as enthusiasm, grunts vibrating in his chest with each rut up into you, large hands gripping your flesh as he forces you to bounce on his lap, flame-hardened fingers kneading your ass, blunt nails marring soft flesh with purple-tinged indents.

For a moment, you’re lost in the sensationalized pain, time slowing as the seconds dribble on by, slow and thick like saccharine syrup, bouts of pain shooting through your gut with each slam against your cervix, pleasure chasing it high and fast with each drag of his cockhead against that spot, pussy fluttering desperately around his massive cock, repeatedly gorged with it.

But then the boat falls again, whooshing past the axel to swing high on the other side, gaining speed, gaining height, and a scream shatters in your throat, hips slowing to a sensual, stuttering grind.

Dabi laughs at your startled reaction, nuzzling your cheek with his own just before the boat falls backwards.

“Time’s ticking, baby,” he shouts over the bellowing threads of the wind, eyebrows lifting in enticement, strings of ink flying up from his face as the boat swooshes again.

And, truthfully, you want nothing more than to make him proud, to make this the best ride of his fucking life, want it so bad you can feel your own slick leaking all over your inner thighs and down your ass.

But it’s fucking terrifying, blocks of lead dropping in your stomach as the boat swings again, splashing acid up your throat, toxic and mixed with desperate desire.

Tears of fright, of frustration, shield your eyes, thick and gleaming as you hiccup on your words, smashed to shards in your throat. Your whole body trembles in his arms as thorns of ice claw up your spine, knuckles cracking as you readjust your grip on his shoulders.

Dabi’s hips are still moving, calloused fingers digging deep bruises into your skin as he forces you to keep riding him—galaxies in the shape of his fingerprints, full of swirling violets and dark navys that will take weeks to fade, blood vessels bursting under his grasp, signing his name into your body in the prettiest mini masterpieces.

“Look at you, huh? Acting as if you’re so scared,” he’s spitting, flecks of saliva smattering across your cheeks, sick little freckles that cool and dry with the next whoosh of the boat, his features curled in a sneer. “Acting as if you aren’t fucking loving this, you little bitch.”

A palm stings your flesh, stark and sudden, prickly warmth spreading through your ass at the impact. It forces a strangled squeal from your throat, and your eyes shut tightly, body cowering into his, a reflexive response.

“But that’s alright, sweetheart, you don’t have to tell me,” he continues, sharp glints of malice in his eyes, slashing through the artificial euphoria swirling in sapphire. “No, your precious lil pussy does that all on it’s own, ‘cause a whore’s cunt will always give away her true feelings.”

Embarrassment floods your cheeks, burning hot as it unfurls under your skin, hiccuping out pitiful little cries.

“Yeah, that’s right, princess. I can fucking feel the way that sweet cunt flutters and gushes all over my cock every time I do this,” he grunts as his hips push up with vigorous determination, hands keeping you still and pinned to his body, cockhead grinding into your favourite spot, holding the motion with the boat as it freezes in the air, suspended for only a moment before it’s dropping again, whirring past the axel to swing up, high and fast, on the other side.

You’re crying harder now, sobs that rip through your lungs and crack your ribs, fear burning in your throat, each ragged gasp of air another mouthful of nails scraping past the gummy walls of your throat.

But, oh God, it’s so fucking good, pain and terror only working to compound the pleasure, elevating your senses and you can’t stop: can’t stop weeping, can’t stop chasing it, can’t stop wanting so much more.

“Yeah,” he breathes, almost whining it out, head nodding with the timbre of the word. “Fucking cry harder for me, more, more. God, fuck,” his voice breaks on the curse, eyes rolling in his skull. “Little fucking crybaby, you look so fu-fucking pretty with those tears on your cheeks.” His tongue flattens against your face, dragging from your jaw to your bottom lashes, mopping up salt water and leaving behind a thick gleaming trail of saliva. “And all for me, huh? All because of me.”

He sounds almost proud of himself, chest heaving against your own as gluttonous pupils gobble down your expressions, gaze searching your face with such vigorous obsession it almost feels as though he’s attempting to swallow you whole, down those big black holes ringed with blue that devour everything they touch, and you’re suffocating, you’re suffocating.

“What if I let go of you, right now?” he questions with airy enthusiasm, sadism gleaming in those voracious eyes, the question a slap of reality, bringing you back. His fingers loosen a little, tapping with teasing, with warning, against your hips. “Do you think you’d fall to your death?”

He looks almost morbidly fascinated by the question, a sick haze misting his eyes, wondrous and full of awe.

“Wouldn’t that be something, huh?” he continues in that same faraway lilt, dreamy and floating on grotesque fantasies. “To die right after I stuff you full of my cum? You’d die happier than ever before, I bet…Should we give it a try?”

“No, Dabi!” you’re screaming, the protest high with panic and heavy with spit, clutching him so hard your nails break through his skin, stuffing themselves full of flesh and tissue, blood staining the lines of your nailbeds.

“Oh?” he blinks, pulling back a little, genuinely surprised. “Did I startle you, baby? Are you scared?”

“Please, please, please,” you’re sobbing as you smush your face into his neck, whole body clinging to his. “Please, don’t let me go! I’ll do anything, just—Don’t!”

“Alright, alright,” he’s saying, voice suddenly soft with pacification, like he’s soothing a child. “I won’t let you go. But if you don’t make me cum by the time this ride is over, I’m gonna make you do it all over again.”

Your ribs shiver beneath the erratic beating of your heart, your head nodding in jerky little movements as sticky affirmations spill from your lips.

Your hips begin moving again, uneven little bucks that are guided by his hands, hushed praises spilling from his lips, nearly drowned by the wind.

“That’s it, baby, yeah, just like that,” he encourages you, a hint of patronization garnishing his words. “Look at you, huh? Being such a brave little girl for me, fucking yourself on my cock.”

The metal safety bar, purposefully left up so he could fit you onto his lap with relative ease, grinds against the notches of your spine with every roll of your hips, uncontrollable whimpers streaming from your lips.

Strands of your hair whip around your cheeks with each rush of the boat, Dabi’s face so close that your locks embrace him, too, twirling around his neck and tangling in tufts of ink.

Your combined thrusts gain speed in tandem with the boat itself, each rock forward forcing you to accelerate, desperate to keep up with the ride’s pace, desperate to cum as its speed crests.

Your stomach swoops as the boat plunges downward again, gasp exhaled into Dabi’s mouth, his slick tongue curling greedily around the sound. Howling gusts mimic your cries, high and broken, taunting in the way they coil around your forms.

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this,” he breathes, stare shimmering with a sort of twisted admiration, looking at you in a way unlike anyone else ever has, with those azure flames licking at his monstrous pupils, a stare that makes you feel as if you’re drowning and floating all at once.

But he’s right, you do look gorgeous, the carnival lights glittering in the tears caught in your clumped lashes, rendered endless versions of themselves; gleaming trails of salt staining your smooth cheeks, hair crusted to your skin; chin and lips shining with translucent pink, slicked with spit and oozing blood, victims of his teeth.

Another hiccup stutters in your chest, whole body trembling in his arms, but you push yourself to keep fucking, to keep tugging those gorgeous sounds from deep within his chest, soft whiny moans and guttural grunts puffed out into your mouth, melting on your tongue.

Even flying through the wind, with the background rendered nothing more than an indistinct blur of dribbling colours, he is still so breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes bright with manufactured euphoria, pupils gaping and voracious for you, for your pleasure, devouring every single change in expression—the quirk of your bow, the crinkle of your forehead, the pucker of your chin—as his hair clings to his face, spikes of ink dripping with sweat, lips slicked sheen with your spit and licked ruby-red raw.

Sparks of adrenaline sprout in your veins with every rock of your hips, surging through your blood and leaving your body hypersensitive; overwhelmed by the harsh embrace of the wind, by his teeth on your flesh, scraping his essence into your skin and sealing it with his slow, sticky laves of his tongue, by each drag of his cock against that spot, starbursts of fire exploding in your tissues, tiny supernovae that disperse star stuff to collect in your gut, melting into one massive roiling ball of fire that wreathes tighter and tighter and tighter until it finally bursts, cunt clenching almost violently around his cock, his name a shattered scream on your tongue.

“Ah, f-fuck,” he gasps, hands guiding you to keep riding him. “You’re being so fuckin’ good for me. Yeah, yeah, that’s it, cum all over my cock like the good girl that you are.”

It’s so much, too much, and you can feel it gushing from your cunt, smearing across your inner thighs and dribbling down to soak the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, praises still falling from his lips, grip brutal as he forces your hips to keep moving, hard and fast, ass rubbed raw from the coarse denim clothing his thighs.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s nearly growling now, teeth clenched, jaw flexing, eyes blazing. “Fuckin’ take it.”

So you do, eager to be his good girl, quivers shooting through your body with each catch of your swollen clit on his slick pubic bone, sore cunt fucked raw and pulsing weakly, wrecked voice grating your throat.

Only three more drags of your hips and he’s cumming with a vicious snarl, pelvis jerking as his cock throbs, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream.

But he doesn’t stop, even as the boat begins to slow, still rutting against you pathetically, forcing tremors of pain-tinged pleasure through his veins as he chases residual flares.

And despite how unbelievably painful it is, you let him.

You let him, because he’s the best drug you’ve ever taken, the highest high you’ll ever reach, the most beautiful collection of art you’ve ever witnessed—a living, breathing painting; a walking, talking symphony; a constantly morphing storybook full of tall tales and folk myths, each glimmering with shards of truth—and he’ll be gone just as quickly as he appeared.

Because he’s like wisps of thick smoke curling through the night; soft, potent, entirely ungraspable, slipping through the cracks between your fingers, settling into the lines of your hands. He’s a shooting star flaring through the void sky, brilliant, beautiful, burnt out in an instant, never to occur again. He’s a singular spark from a sparkler, caught in your palm, singeing your skin with a blistering heat for a mere moment before it disappears, forever.

He’s gone by the next morning, the whole carnival and your stuffed lion gone with him, the only indication that he even existed at all stuffed securely in the pocket of your jacket; a strip of four pictures, colourless and grainy, full of ink and ivory.

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya smut #bnha smut #mha smut #tw:dubcon #tw drugs #tw dacryphilia #WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAH #pls enjoy!!!

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