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traiaadd156 · 1 month ago

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No, but reverse AU damian??

damian as a yandere

Dead dove do not eat!!!!

Warnings!; stock home syndrome, cnc, AGED UP DAMIAN!, cscnc, kidnapping, being held captive, chaining, p n v, fingering, voyeurism, drugging, being manipulative, blood. Pls comment if I missed anything(⁠^⁠^⁠), college au, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT I REPEAT!!, somnophilia, dacryphilia, reader wasnt able to escape, happy ever after(?), damian being a stalker etc. long ahh fanfic, fem!reader, violence(duhh ) spanking, virginity taking, straitjacket and light bondage, sadist damian(?) on going!(Probly two more stories)

It was never meant to be this painful. You felt your head pounding against skull whilst everything around felt like a haze, a thin sweat covering your forehead with how hard your trying to regain some bit of clarity to whatever the hell is happening.

All you remembered was your classmate; Damian. You and him were supposed to be doing a project at his place, at first you're rather nervous to come in your rather casual attire since everything about him was pristine and opulent to a suffocating degree.

But thankfully enough it wasn't the wayne manor, rather another house. It wasn't a mansion but it was still more than enough than your college budget could afford; a two story house, it looked well kept yet its old fashioned american architecture could say otherwise, but it was nice like the well trimmed garden.

You had walked the gravel to his front patio, it crunching every step till you finally walked up the wooden steps to his door.

A soft breath is let out of you, before ringing the door bell. Waiting whilst you looked around, his neighbours were rather quiet, probably asleep at this time but the hour was an early evening... Brushing it off when he finally opened the door, he greeted with a curt nod and a slight smile before letting you in.

It was all fine, the project and power point went on well without him butting in and saying something was wrong with your analogy or what not when adding something into the presentations power point; he was oddly cooperative, a soft hum left your lips pleased seeing how his laptops lock screen was of his animals and dog(titus).

"I didnt know you had a cow." Musing when he came back with a chilled canned latte of coffee, he handed you one.

"thats titus, great dane." He said cooly, it was oddly endearing whilst you finally finished the power point.

"thanks, I never privy you for a dog person." Not helping to jab since he didnt look like a person who'd enjoy anything at all. Opening the can as its satisfying crackle sounded when opening the tab, drinking the stimulant concoction. At least he knew your sweet tooth.

"well I do like animals, not just dogs. I also have a cow."

That made you chuckle a bit lowly, trying not to spit out your own drink. It wasnt out of mockery but by how oddly sweet and out of character it is for him, or what you believed so.

"well you might as well make a whole farm with the collection of animals you have."

He smiled, at that. Not because it was some witty remark that amused him even if it did. It was the way that anesthetic worked wonders, and how easily you seem to ease in and pass out onto his floor.

Thats what is happening right now, he was carrying you somewhere. Your limp body being carried like it was the most precious thing on earth, he could smell your shampoo and perfume from how close you were whilst he carried you to your room.

Well not your actual room, but a room he built for you underground, where no one would even think to look. He was much more clever than to leave out any evidence that you were even in the house in the first place.

He knew you didnt have any roommates, he knew your hobbies, where you live, and multiple routes to that shabby apartment you lived in.

It angered him.

Not at you but at the things he could have done if he just acted sooner.

But he wanted to wait, to see if you were the one. He doesnt need to think twice anymore.

It felt like a dream when he layed you onto your new bed and room, how peaceful you looked when asleep. And how easy it was to strap that heavy metal chain on your ankle to prevent you from escaping, or even moving properly with how thick it was.

Damian wasnt an idiot.

He knew he shouldnt be in a very loud area filled with people and with his budget he practically could rent out the whole block of his neighbour hood if he wanted. Which he did.

No witnesses, only him driving to an unmarked place where not even his father or the other robins would go, somewhere far from the irky muck of gotham.

His hand gently caressed your unconscious face, sliding his knuckles against the softness of your skin, him crouching to get a better look at your face when he did so.

He couldnt leave you alone.

Well, not where he doesnt know where you are.

You were so gullible, he seemingly made it easy to look harmless and scrawny. A personality he created all for you .

Soft smiles here and there, his handsome face and rich background made it impossible for anyone to suspect.

Just like how easily he lied.

But it was all for you.

He wasnt going to let you go, not when you're already in his snare.

He sighed mentally scolding you for how easy you were to target, you werent air headed... Well sometimes you were, but it was always in the comfort of other people.

His hand glided over the appliances he bought for this room; the bed, the closet filled with the clothes he thought you'd like, soon going out of the room.

He made sure it was perfect.

He made sure you could never fight back. So he wouldnt have to hurt you.

That thought crossed his mind many times but he made sure. He needed you to be hopeless, it would be much easier to break you then, but time would just go by and then he'll finally have his answer.

When you finally woke up the first thing was to panic, the pink walls and the soft glow of the orange lamp beside you. Practically jumping out of the bed but when you stood nausea hit you like a truck, the bitter acidic taste on your tongue and throat before stumbling back down onto the bed.

Something heavy and cold weighing on your ankle.

"what the fuck." Muttering tugging on the chain, the door was closed and unlocked but by how long this chain is you could only walk around this stupid room and to the bathroom.

Your first instinct was to scream, and so you did. For thirty minutes straight before giving up, and so right now your trying to pry off the lamp stuck to that night stand which ALSO was stuck to the ground.

It was obvious who ever the hell kidnapped you thought it through and it made you so irritated and at the same time scared.

Because what could they possibly want from you? You were rich thats for sure so what do they want??

Hours seem to pass before the door opened, and you were shocked to see no one else but damian holding a tray of food.

Your shock soon turned into anger as you screamed, to why he kidnapped you and why the hell you were chained in this creepy kiddish room.

But he didnt answer. "Answer me you psycho!"

That made his jaw clenched before putting down the food tray onto the desk on the foot of the bed. "Please, calm down beloved—" he tried to assure, keeping his tone calm and level headed which obviously you didnt fucking buy.

"NO I WONT CALM DOWN! And stop calling me that you weirdo, let me out!"

He knew you'd act like this, like everyone else but he didnt budge. "You are never leaving this place alright? Whether you like it or not."

He announced leaving no room for argument before he left, you just sat there on your bed angry tears from the throbbing of your head and how powerless you felt. But there is one thing he could never do is let you give up, not when you had a life ahead.

You weren't stupid enough to throw the food away, and eating with caution since he last drugged you made you pass out and made you stuck here in the first place.

The desk seemed heavy and clean, made of some fancy wood you know. The food wasnt much to die for; just oatmeal and some fruit with water and half of a ham sandwich he probably bought from subway.

Begrudgingly eating as you wondered, even if your body felt like it was too weak to even stand without falling into the floor.

How long were you out for?

Days felt like years, realizing his pattern. Usually he comes whenever he thinks your asleep or occupied but you stubbornly keep ignoring him or beg to be let free. Even hitting and scratching more than once which he quickly shut down.

His punishments werent kind either, he would force you in a straitjacket to avoid you from moving, even letting you stay in there for days and only some minutes where he'd let you out just to go in the restroom.

But whenever you were in the straitjacket he'd let you roam outside the room, you realized how there was no windows or doors leading out meaning it must be an underground system where he is holding you in.

Lony eeri dim halls that seem to stretch and some open areas that were supposed to mimic a house or whatever he is trying. The vents were always too small and too high for you to crawl out off.

The loneliness hit you like a truck which seemingly was just the first month of you being kept here, some nights you'd just sob into your pillow or not eat as much as you did which he oddly was quick to notice.

Some foods you used to like no longer interested you which he also stopped buying, he could see the soft hope and light in your eyes grew to fade. Yet he never comments, he always speaks to you as if this was the most normal thing, he keeps giving nicknames that sometimes you didnt even understand. It made you cringe half the time "beloved" or "habibti" or some other arabic endearment.

You had started to draw as a hobby, to keep you from going insane with how your practically stuck here having to put up with his stupid rules and his stupid face. He only gave you oil pastels to avoid you from making a weapon to hurt him or yourself.

But he knew the best to do for you, right? He knew you were awake whenever you pretended to sleep, letting him hold your face if he wanted, to just stare at the only time you ever seem to be at peace.

It seemed as the weeks went by you caught yourself always looking at the doors, usually the places he'd enter. But there is no way your actually expecting him to come in, he kept coming back later than some days.

Its as if you were starting to actually miss him, but there is no way... He was the one who made you feel like a doll; meant to be looked at and touched and nothing more than that. And he sometimes stick your poor drawing onto the fridge like your child which infuriated you.

But there was one incident you never forgot, when you tried to gouge out his eye balls with your finger.

Now your bound and over his lap. In his dark gravely voice he spoke; "your counting all of these, and if you make one mistake were going through it ten fold."

His heavy hand then struck down, counting the first hit. "One–" managing to choke out as his leg caught your flailing legs as you, he knew you werent going to be let off easily and out of his own sick desire he is stretching this punishment to hold along more.

With every strike you seem to lose a part of your dignity and pride, 17. It was all he was going too count, but why that number? It felt like a terribly odd number and one you knew you'd loose yourself too.

Even after he finished, he noticed the slickness between your thighs. "Just as I thought, but dont fret.. Im sure you'd enjoy the next punishment." Your body was limp on his thigh, your legs slightly trembled when his rough hand gently squeezed your reddened rear. This was humiliating, its as if he really wanted to break you.

Now you were blind folded and finally in that straitjacket again as much as you dreaded, laid out in a surgical table as your feet and body were also bound as you cussed and yelled at him.

Soon a heavy slap came to your thigh from a belt, choking on your own breath as hot angry tears started to fall as you tried to do the latter— to convince him that you didnt want to be hurt; not when you couldnt see, it only terrified you even more.

"please- damian, I didnt mean too. I just wanna go home!" Pleading falling into deaf ears as another blow hit, right as your hip making you jump.

"No, I don't think its right. You tried to kill me, and now your going to face the consequences of your actions." He states, his eyes calculating and dark watching your half bear form as you squirmed, the slickness that shined between your thighs was enough to make him swallow his own desire.

The rough pads of his thumb finding your clit making you yelp, rough tight circles went into a slow pace but deliberate enough you'd choke in your own words. "Ng—! Wait damian please- stop–!"

It was great, how powerless you were, and those soft noises you made he wanted to hear more. He could see you clenching on nothing as you mockingly chuckled darkly whilst continuing his ministration.

A soft noise that sounded like a choked mewl let out from your throat as you plead to stop died down, your trembling body arching painfully as you still were crying, he was hoping it was out of pleasure than anything. "Whats wrong? Cat got your tongue?" He continued to rub tight harsh circles on your clit, the slick dripping down to your inner thighs which he collected with his index before going in.

A soft gasp letting out from you. "You're drenched, and here this was supposed to be your punishment. Maybe I am being too lenient with you." He hissed with desire dripping from his tone, his hands soon exited out, the friction you wanted gone, a whimper coming out of you much to his sick amusement. "Dont worry, your such a fucking slut for seemingly enjoying this." But before you could say anything he shifted away.

"well I guess I should start, you arent leaving this room until its morning." He soon stuck a vibrator taped to your clit before he set it to the middle setting, to your already raw and spent clit, it was a harsh yet overstimulating feeling of pleasure and pain that ripped into you. "Mhph— damian–! Dami please!" You didnt even know what your asking for as your mind went blank, the sudden prod of his digits going into you as your legs strained under the bindings. "Too much!" You whined out as his fingers made a come here motion, your tightness squeezing his digits since your fingers were never that big as his. It made your head throw back at the cool metal beneath you whilst he hummed, satisfied with your reaction. Thats it, he wanted you to feel it, to feel him inside but he cant rush. Not yet...

He wanted to make your first time with him special.

He didnt comfort you, at the searing stretch that deliciously went in. Lewd squealing wet noises coming out from the slickness of your puffy pussy, clenching like it was trying to push him out before his movements grew bolder.

Every mewl whimper and whine he seemed to relish in, he was a bit happy you seemed to be taking pleasure in it. Or the way your body was responsive to him. It stroked his pride and ego, to how he could make you feel like this. It was a delight he couldn't help but enjoy, every noise you make, the way your walls clench around his fingers and he could see your toes curl whenever it hit that special spot inside you.

He could finally feel you.

He could feel how close you were, the way your body halted its tremor and seemingly trying to concentrate on how the tips of his fingers rammed into your cervix, a soft muffled whimper with your bottom lip being bitten as a strangled cry let out.

That was good, he thought watching you fall apart to his fingers alone. He ignored the throb of his own dick in his slacks, he didnt want to admit his desire not yet.

"poor girl, so pathetic and too horny to think of anything else." He coaxed softly, kissing your temple before withdrawing his fingers. The played with the sticky substance in his fingers before out of his own need he put his digits into his mouth. A groan of satisfaction letting out of his chest. "So fucking good." He cursed, eyes rolling back when he closed them, you tasted so sweet and tangy on his tongue, it felt like oozing caramel on his fingers. His tongue working licking and swallowing every bit of you, groaning at the taste. He finally got what he always dreamt of, every wet dream he got now here played out into the table, he could see how your limbs turned to jelly laying limply.

"so beautiful, as always.." he muttered lowly to himself, before you could even come down from your own high his plan did need to break you thoroughly.

Taking the vibrator off your twitching clit, he could see your nipples poking out in relief as you sighed, probably feeling tired. "Were not done yet." He said yet again.

"didnt I say were going to be stuck here all night?"

You couldnt even think properly as he shoved in that vibrator, and another egg shaped vibrator , and another till you practically were filled to the brim. A soft whimper letting out whenever he opened each single one of them.

He had all night, it was a weekend after all and maybe you didnt know that, a sick evil grin on that stupidly handsome face, a sick perversion he has been hiding for everyone except you. Since you were the enigma of it. The drive to what he has become now, or what he would like to say.

Time skip

Finally the alarm from his phone rang; finally it was the early morning 5;30, he sighed as he looked at his screen for a moment then back at your wet broken figure, when the last vibrator finally was at low battery, a strangled relieved mewl finally let out from you as he walked over.

He saw the mess you made, your juices dripping out of the table and your tired teary eyes looked glossy when he took off the blind fold from your eyes. "Are you still there?" He had the gall to ask, looking back at him dumbly when he started to unbuckle your straitjacket and the binds from your leg. Sex filled the air like an intoxicating fume, but it wasnt unpleasant, his own arousal as hazed as your vission.

Finally you were behaving, not fussing and no back talk or trying to claw his eyes. He carried you out of that room as he walked, your arms around him while he carried you to his bathroom where he had a bathtub that oddly fitted both of you. He already began to strip as the warm water filled when he opened the knobs, sitting on the toilet as you leaned back, exhausted and trembling, slick still sticky between your plush thighs.

He hummed softly whilst scrubbing your hair, he watched as your back slumped on his stomach. The scent of his shampoo on your head as he was rather quiet, you looked down at the waters whilst scrubbing your body with the wash cloth he gave.

"what made you call me beloved?"

Suddenly asking stunning him for a bit, its the first thing you asked after being so quiet for so long. "Nothing, I just found it befitting." He said before adding, explaining further why;

"its what my parents use to talk to each other, specifically my mother."

That was actually sort of cute, that he would copy his parents way of showing love, you wondered if its also because he kidnapped you.

"thats cute.." muttering whilst soon washing your face with the warm water.

Your body ached as he carried you out of there after drying you, uncharacteristically cooperative, he was wondering if your planning another escape. "Do you want to go out?"

He finally asked watching you put on deodorant that he'd bought(since he bought everything you used to mascara, soaps and even deodorant since maybe its because you liked not having anything different)

"really?" Finally after the many months of trying to make you happy, a glimmer shined in your eyes, glossy and something real.

"yeah."

"but only in the garden."

Ehh, thats close enough, to finally feel the sun on your skin again and see something other than steel and bleak colors. It made you finally smile softly.

Standing up off the bed as you walked following him, not caring if you didnt have shoes on since as long as you were out.

Both going to a tunnel he never let you out, walking a long path of stares exhausting you for a bit before opening the outside. An inside of an abandoned warehouse greeted you, old cars piled here and there but you didnt mind as you stared in awe finally seeing something different.

Following him to the outside, he opened the rusty old door slightly before exiting. It wasnt that much of an eye candy but there was over grown weeds and grass but none the less you were delighted, after putting on slipper you ran around the space of grass, sometimes crouching to pick up some flowers or weeds you found interesting, collecting them with your left hand.

He watched from a distance, leaning on the abandoned structure of the warehouse. He knew it was pointless to run away since you were no longer in gotham, he had it specifically located in the middle of nowhere yet there was still a way back to the city where he could go sometimes.

Finally you came back, messy even after you showered before carrying back the mess of weeds and flowers with you. "You arent getting that back in the house." He warned, begrudgingly having to give up the flowers and leaving them on the head of a car. "Fine, but Im taking this one."

Putting the small flower on your hand before walking back inside to the bunker like place he called 'home'

2 weeks later

For a few days you had been calm, unproblematic and surprisingly clingy to him. Well you craved human interaction and he was the only person you even get to see in real life, now you two were on the couch, watching a movie about something you didnt care as you were on top of him cuddling much to his delight that he didnt show.

"Im leaving for the city for a few weeks, and I cant visit you.." he finally broke the comfortable silence, his words slightly confusing you. Why is he leaving you here? Alone? Is he even sure about this? Maybe it was just your paranoia taking over. "Really? And why cant you visit me?"

Not helping to prod as he didnt look you in the eye when speaking. "Just work related things, the fridge has 5 months of food and meat. Make sure to eat the fruits before they rot, and you still have a good amount of chocolate too. But dont eat them all in one sitting."

Since the last time you got kitchen banned was because you ate a weeks whole of chocolate bars you really liked, besides the time you tried to stab him with a plastic knife(which obviously didnt work)

"Im not gonna eat it all in one sitting." Well that was an obvious lie, but whatever your mind wants to believe its fine..

You stared at him, is he serious? You dont know if you could handle not even being able to see or even contact him since there is nothing but a smart TV you didnt know how to use. Because he was rich and of course he had to do that—.

"promise to come straight back." Not helping to plead, but you tried to make it sound as demanding and as annoying as you could to hide your concern.

"I will beloved, I promise."

And the next day he left early in the morning, he didn't even wake you up, only a note stuck on the fridge with a strawberry magnet reading; 'dont eat all the chocolates'

Oh course he'd write that, a soft huff leaving your nose before continuing to read; 'and the other rooms are opened for you.'

The other room? Oh, yes you nearly forgot about that one since he was worried you'll keep rampaging and destroying things like that poor rice cooker.

The days went by and you had explored every nock and crack in the whole underground labyrinth of a house; there was a library, a gym, a sauna, and a locked metal door that reeked of rott you didn't open. If he was so calm about kidnapping you, killing and torture wouldnt be beneath him either.

You sighed sitting on his bed reading a book you took out of the library waiting for his return, this felt normal, and you miss him.

A whiff of his pillow as you nuzzled laying on the side, missing him already would feel like a shame. It made you seem needy but you'd never admit that to his face since it would only stroke his ego if you did tell...

Your eye lids grew heavy like the small bit of doubt in your stomach.

Is he coming home?

Its cold when you're the only one warming the bed, what an asshole.

#damian al ghul #damian al ghul x reader #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #fypシ #tumblr fyp #damian wayne x reader yandere smut #dc fanfic #fypage #fyp #fypppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp #yandere damian al ghul #yandere damian wayne #yandere fluff #damian wayne x reader yandere #mindfuck #traiaadd156 #Spotify

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slowd1ving · 3 months ago

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hi! I’m not sure if this is too vague, but can I request kwak jichang fluff? like him just being so insanely in love with you (It can be nsfw or sfw i don’t care really)

thank you! feel free to ignore this <333

EASY LOVERS.・゜゜KWAK JICHANG

The recipe for the taste of summer includes a spoonful of homemade honey, the sound of cicadas through a broken bathroom window, and the enamored gaze of a lover. title taken from the song by piero piccioni (highly recommended as an accompaniment to this). fun fact whenever I write regional fics like this I've got google maps open on one tab and a fact page open on another lmao pairing: kwak jichang x gn reader warnings: none wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It’s quiet.

Folks from the city tend to murmur this as they drive from bustling Dajeon, winding down to South Chungcheong. As their clean little sedans whirr across the rougher asphalt, it’s hard not to notice the grey, towering giants of the metropolis being replaced by their children: round granaries that sit and watch the rare traffic, blocky huts that overlook sprawling blue waves of the sea, and dainty little shops that are far removed from the luxurious stores where night never truly falls.

Or perhaps, it’s the other way round. The tall children bow down to their predecessors; caustic summer roads give way to fragrant peppermint fields, vast swathes of tobacco, and cloth-covered ginseng.

But ultimately, they’re right. At least, partially. It’s quiet: a yawning elder that glances at the boisterous child in the distance with its ever-twinkling night lights. The sea carries hushed susurrations in its rolling waves. The reeds whisper meaningless secrets in the breeze. Even the very gossip seems to trickle in, like particularly viscous honey: cheerfully recounted over homemade maesil-ju and the faint sound of cicadas in the distance.

That’s not to say these city folk are completely right. There are things one learns to keep an ear out for. Everyday life. The sound left behind by a particularly thorough footstep. The grating rust on the gate that perpetually needs oiling. The steady drip of bathwater, representing an equally quiet sort of care.

Summer leaves its residuals on your lips—not metaphorically, of course, but rather through the spoonful of freshly harvested honey that has been presented for your careful inspection. It’s a rather unconventional examination: a jar sits on the tiled stand beside the bathtub, while the quality inspector in question drapes themself over the edge of the cold porcelain while soaking in the warmth sluiced over their body by quite the anxious man.

“How is it?” he asks carefully, as though it’s not melting on your tongue. The sweet flavour pooling on your tongue almost washes away the rougher burrs of your accent: thoughts as mellifluous as this honey are about to spill from your lips.

“D’you even need to ask?” The spoon perches on the closed lid of the jar, while you perch your head into your elbows. His hands work the suds meticulously into your scalp, and you allow yourself a moment of rest: eyes closed, tension melting away completely. Jichang Kwak is surprisingly skilled at gestures like these, but perhaps it’s not really a surprise either. Those hands of his have been honed into precise weapons, therefore it only makes sense they are just as precise elsewhere. “It’s perfect, just like it is every year.”

Well. Not every year—such as when he first came here, fresh-faced, irate, and all too keen on calling this place quiet. City-folk get like that, before the winds mold them: softening the very clay of their mettle into something far more malleable, far more sensitive to the endless orchestra that plays here. There was no honey the first year, nor the second. By the third, the neighbour who purchased the house on top of the hill made his first batch—a bitter thing that belied the strawberry crop his bees had found.

“Are you sure?” he presses, like he always does. With you, the sharp edges of his face melt into something far too soft to be one of the Kings—and you can see it now, in the slight waver of his lips as he waits for the guillotine to swing down. It’s been years since the mellowing process has begun with him, but there is still some of that brasher spirit in him that seeks perfection.

“‘Course.” He painstakingly planted the wildflowers near the hives to ensure the sweetest nectar, didn’t he? Shedding a meticulously ironed suit, donning a matching pair of thick gloves and exchanging the blade of his hands for the blade of shears—a sight for sore eyes, more soothing than any balm.

He cannot hide his face, not when his hands are still carefully foaming the suds around your ears; thus, your eyes are graced with the sight of his small smile and cheeks that dapple ever-so-slightly pink. It’s not a polite smile, like the one he uses when escorting old folk or when greeting people—but rather, a fleeting little thing just for you. Course. A mere word, rendering him into this.

In other words, he is defenseless right now: a mere skeleton of the barricades he’s worn all these years.

Breaching them is far too easy. Warmth has been sapped from your clammy fingers, and thus he flinches slightly as you press one palm, then another, against his unexpecting face. He’s rendered immobile—still, barely breathing. Quiet. Uncomplaining, as your fingertips trace the planes of his face: gently adjusting his glasses so they rest amongst the mussed black of his hair, so your image blurs in the late afternoon light streaming in through the cracked-open window.

He knows what you’re about to do. At least, he thinks. Wipe some foam on his cheek, pinch and prod at the flesh that feels more human than carved jade, just hold him like this—he’s prepared for those possibilities.

“Have you tried it?”

He blinks in surprise, and his gaze flickers momentarily to the jar lodged firmly on the blue tiles. “No.”

“Good.” He doesn’t quite know what that means—the cheery intonation behind the word would send any lesser man to their graves, yet for once the look in your eyes is genuinely cheerful.

It tastes of overwhelming sweetness. Unlike the bitter sensation of cigarettes, the lingering, cloying feeling of honey washes over his mouth. He can’t tell if it’s good or bad honey—can’t distinguish all the notes you seem to pick out effortlessly, like magic. He thinks it tastes great—in his humble opinion—but then again, you are always his favourite flavour.

It’s a particular skill, he thinks. If his hands weren’t tightly bound by the cage of lather and practised routine, they would have gone slack and hit the sides of the tub. Well, he would have thought this if he could think at all at this moment.

All he can comprehend is the sensation of your mouth pressed against his: cold from the water, greedily devouring him as you manoeuvre him to your liking, all for you. In honey, he lacks particular discernment, but in you, he can taste every note—each bloom captured in the sweet nectar, the brand of coffee you sipped on earlier, the very cake you sampled that morning. Each shade that makes up your palate, he drinks in with his own kind of avarice.

His shirt plasters to his collarbone uncomfortably, but it makes him all the more aware of your hands roaming the expanse of his chest and shoulders: something he has unfortunately (fortunately) grown addicted to.

There’s foam on your skin now, dappled along the flesh, and likely staining even his rolled up sleeves now. Freed from their entrapment, his hands cannot help but explore themselves, cupping soaked muscle and dermis.

Something writhes within, rearing its ugly head as he carves himself into you—tracing your fragile throat with his heated mouth, creating patterns on your spine between sluicing you with water, and etching flowers that will darken come evening across your body. He’s rather good at gardening, if he says so himself.

It’s quiet.

He’s learnt to adapt to life that slows down here, creating his own noise. The splash of water. Each sharp intake of your breath. The sound of damp skin against drenched fabric. It’s a form of music in itself, far more saccharine than the endless buzz of the city he was exiled from.

It’s quiet.

That is a lie. It’s never quiet.

#slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #x reader #lookism #lookism x reader #x gender neutral reader #lookism x gender neutral reader #jichang kwak #kwak jichang #jichang kwak x reader #fluff #anon request #ask slowd1ving

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Unrequited.

Pairings: Arlecchino x Reader x Furina (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.1k.

TW: Reader Doesn't Have A Gender But Everyone Here Is A Melodramatic Lesbian. Live Dove: Tender and Sweet.

[Part Two]

Arlecchino has never struggled to find her way to you.

She would have, if she needed to. That was something she prided herself on: her perseverance when it came to all things, her determination when it came to her pursuits – romantic or otherwise. When she was in Snezhnaya, she dreamed each night of crossing oceans and climbing mountains and tearing apart the Tsaritsa and all of her many soldiers with her own monstrous hands if only to win the chance of finding her way back to your side, and when she was in Fontaine, there was nothing – not her duties as a Harbinger, not the fate of her nation, and only very rarely her beloved children – that could keep her away from you. Fortunately (more so for the rest of Teyvat than for her), she never had to go through so much effort.

No matter how distant she might’ve been, you were always exactly where she'd left you: at the right hand of Lady Furina, Protector and God of Fontaine, or as Arlecchino had come to think of her, the only person you would ever cross oceans to be with.

Also, coincidentally, the only person thick-skulled enough not to pay you a second glance.

She found you watching your dearly beloved from your usually crow’s nest; a balcony that overlooked the rest of the venue, your eyes cast downward towards the ballroom and a sickeningly tender smile painted across your lips. As Arlecchino neared you, she could see what you were so transfixed by and weather the wave of nausea that accompanied the sight of Lady Furina holding court with a handful of Fontaine’s elite, her hands moving excitedly as she recited some practiced monologue Arlecchino could only be thankful she was too far to hear. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips as she came to stand beside you, extending a flute of champagne which you gladly accepted. She had invited you back to her manor when she first discovered your fondness for such fine things, practically begged you to sample the finest wines and bourbons in her vast collection, but you only shook your had and told her that Furina would need your held reviewing case files for her next trial, grinning like an idiot all the while. If she hadn’t been so endeared by your smile, she might’ve hated you for how thoughtlessly you dismissed her.

“The orchestra is half-way decent, tonight.” She rested a hand on the crook of your arm, let her head lilt to the side. “Care to join me for a dance?”

Your love-struck smile widened. “No, thank you. I’m saving my first for her.” A quick nod towards Furina, one of her boots now propped on a chair provided by one of her audience members. “She’s been working on her waltz, lately – she only stepped on my feet twice while we were practicing this afternoon.”

You said it as if Furina had plucked the moon from the sky and gifted it to you on a silver chain. Arlecchino couldn’t help but scoff. “I have no idea what you see in her. She would starve to death if you weren’t there to remind her to eat.” You sighed wistfully and she took a generous sip from her own drink before going on. “She’s a poor excuse for an entertainer, let alone an archon. If it wasn’t for that judge of hers, she’d have a revolution on her hands in a matter of hours.”

“You’re only saying that because you don’t know her. She might not have Monsieur Neuvillette’s resolution, but she’s not trying to be Monsieur Neuvillette.” For the first time since the start of your conversation, you looked towards Arlecchino and she could’ve sworn the rest of the ballroom ceased to exist. If she’d been a weaker woman, she would’ve fallen to one knee and presented the ring she kept in her breast pocket when she knew she would see you, would’ve drawn her sword and pleaded with you to drive it through her heart, but your attention turned back to your archon and the temptation faded back into more of a wishful fancy than a possible reality. “She’s wonderful, and brilliant, and she makes me laugh. Whenever I picture myself happy, I picture myself with her. I love her.” She’d heard you say it a thousand times before, and yet, her heart seemed to break in an entirely new way every time those words – coated in such a saccharine affection – trickled off of your tongue. She was glad she was not a weaker woman, upon further thought; if she was, you would’ve done her in months ago. “She’s everything to me.”

She couldn’t help herself. As delicate as she tried to be with you, there would always be a part of her that couldn’t help but twist the knife. “Doesn’t it hurt?” And then, when you hummed for clarification, “Loving someone so incapable of loving you back?”

You let out a breath of a laugh, the noise like windchimes and wedding bells. “I don’t know, Lord Arlecchino.” You glanced over your shoulder. “Does it?”

Ah, there it was.

Despite everything, she’d fallen for a sadist after all.

She let the corner of her mouth curl upward. “More than I could ever say.”

This time, your laugh was more throaty, more full-hearted. “What a sorry sight we must make, too pining romantics mourning lost love at a party.” Your tone dipped into something more genuine, albeit still playful. “My first dance is taken, but would it be too much of an insult to offer you my second?”

She moved to speak, to tell you that you could dig your heel into her foot and spit in her face and she would still be able to thank you sincerely for sparing her so much of your attention, but a melodical voice called your name and instantly, you were stolen away by a head of white hair and two mismatched eyes emerging at the top of the nearest staircase, still glowing with the zeal of a performer post-applause. Furina latched onto you with all she was worth; arms wrapping around your own as she pressed herself into your side. “Evidently, you have forgotten your duties to your goddess,” Furina started properly, her little speech already rehearsed to perfection. “Must I remind you that I am always to be the center of your attention?”

“Never, my lady.” And, in an instant, Arlecchino was gone to you, nothing more than a momentary distraction you would not be returning to for as long as Furina held you in her spotlight. “In fact, I believe you still owe me a dance.”

The reminder was unnecessary. Furina was already pulling you back down to the ballroom floor, already spouting off something about how cruel it would be of her to deny such an earnest request from her most faithful servant, about how foolish you are for believing her memory would be so fallible as to forget even the most trivial of promises. With a ragged breath, Arlecchino took up your post, watching dutifully as you were pulled into (what could be called by the most generous of onlookers) a terribly mangled waltz. It was proof of Furina’s fortune that she’d found the only person in Teyvat with the fortitude and patience to be so hopelessly in love with her.

It was proof to your fortune that, even when faced with the wrath of gods, Arlecchino was not one to give up so easily.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin #furina x reader #furina x you #focalors x reader #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #it's not wednesday BUT #woman loving wednesday #on monday ig

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inevitably-johnlocked · 1 month ago

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Hello! Do you have any fic about musician/orchestra AU? Or any fic that involves classical music, seeing that Sherlock plays the violin. Thank youu💕

Hi Nonny!!

Oh gosh I have so many music themed fics! I have some lists you will enjoy but also decided to just make a general Music list for you, and tag-searched ONLY music and hoped it mostly deals with the theme of music for the entirety of the fic (like as the main plot) rather than just a snippet of a violin or whatever!

That and I needed a list this weekend, LOL. If you guys have more, please add them!

ALL KINDS OF MUSIC FICS

See also:

Sherlock’s Violin

Sherlock’s Violin Pt 2

John Plays an Instrument

Song Fics (MFLs)

Moulin Rouge AU

BOOKMARKS

No Strings Attached by Elster (G, 2,714 w., 1 Ch. || Magical Realism || Fairy Tales, Love Confessions, Fae/Faeries) – To save John from being spirited away Under the Hill, Sherlock challenges the fairy queen to a fiddle contest.

Extraordinary by genesius (G, 2,860 w., 1 Ch. || Marriage Proposal, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Established Relationship, Morse Code, Fluff, One Shot) – Sherlock's deduced that John's going to Italy to buy him a violin. Even the greatest detective alive makes a few mistakes.

Until the End of the World by SarahCat1717 (G, 3,049 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, First Kiss, Pining Sherlock, Oblivious John, Drunkenness) – Taking place in Season 3, John listens to an old favourite song and sorts through his memories and feelings about Sherlock and Mary.

Jukebox by standbygo (T, 3,990 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Singing/Music, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Humour, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss) – After the music halls of Sherlock's mind palace get damaged by accident, John learns that Sherlock never forgets a song. Even the ones he'd rather forget. But the random singalong brings some unexpected benefits.

No Good Without You by textsandscones (T, 4,021 w., 1 Ch. || Case Fic, Sherlock’s Violin, Dancing / Busking, Soppy Fluff) – A diverting new case surrounding musicians and stolen instruments captures Sherlock's attention, the consequences of which lead both detective and doctor to see one another in a different light. Part 1 of Prompt Fills

Living Musical by VeeTheRee (G, 4,149 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Hobbies, Summer, Song Fic, POV Sherlock, Painting, Play Fighting, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Love Declarations, Hair Petting, Promise of Forever) – A one-shot of John and Sherlock being domestic during summer. There is paint, fluff, and music from Imagine Dragons, namely from the album 'Speak To Me', specific song in this one-shot is 'Living Musical'. Part 1 of the Happy Fluffy Johnlock Time series

Obsession, Appassionato by shinychimera, Yeomanrand (E, 4,249 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive Sherlock, First Time, Jealous Sherlock, Music / Sherlock’s Violin, Present Tense, Frottage) – John is late, and he hasn’t called, and Sherlock works himself into a state. Part 1 of Love and Ysaye

proper procedure Series by paxlux (T, 6,147+ w. across 2 works || Series WIP || Post-TGG, First Kiss, Sherlock’s Violin, Fluff) – He lies back in bed and listens to the notes and pictures them gathering around Sherlock’s feet like water. He feels like there's a stone in his chest, maybe an albatross around his neck.

Made of Music Series by SosoHolmesWatson (T, 6,464+ w. across 2 works || Series WiP || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, First Kiss, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Cuddling, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – For the past years, John and Sherlock have lived at Baker Street again, raising Rosie together--as friends and nothing more. Ever since the little girl has watched her first Disney movie, she is obsessed with princesses. When John comes home one day, he finds his friend and his daughter in the middle of a reenactment of her current favourite.

Back to the Start by slashscribe (M, 14,088 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Violin, Pining Idiots, Fluff, Domestics) – Sherlock hasn't played the violin since John's wedding (which is long since over), and when John returns to 221B, Sherlock relearns the violin as he and John relearn each other. Post S3 fic with an obscene amount of pining, idiocy, and attempts to pawn off tea duties.

Sonatina in G Minor by SilentAuror (E, 22,574 w., 1 Ch. || Post S3, Case Fic, POV Sherlock, Angst, UST, Sherlock’s Violin, Romance) – John has come back to Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn't understand the strange tension between them, even after he begins teaching John to play the violin at John's request.

Sunday Evening 6 p.m. by Silvergirl (E, 30,712 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF / TEH Divergence, Grief / Mourning / Stages of Grief, Mutual Pining, Dreams, Reunion, Love Confessions, First Kiss / Time, Alternating First Person POV, Smart John, BAMF Boys, Emotional Love Making, Song Fic, Referenced Suicide, First Kiss / Time, Touching, Sleepy Sherlock, Blow Job, Villain Mary) – Six months after Sherlock jumped, he learns that John is dedicating songs to him on a requests-only radio programme. Is John just working through grief? Or is he—communicating? Fixes the hell out of S3 by pre-empting it altogether. Remember, as TAB told us, John is Pretty Damn Smart.

The Baker Street Nativity Verse Series by SwissMiss (E, 109,655 w. across 3 works || Nativity! Fusion || Teacher Sherlock, Assistant John, UST, Trust Issues, Kids, Music, Anal Fingering Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Kissing, Swearing, Slow Burn, Pining, Shopping, Siblings, Friendship) – Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Includes main story, DVD extras, and 24-part Advent calendar drabbles.

MARKED FOR LATER

Every Song Reminds Me of You by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (G, 1,157 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Humour, John's an Idiot, Posh Sherlock) – Music hath charms to help John acknowledge his feelings for Sherlock.

Wings at the Speed of Sound by Dee_Laundry (T, 2,052 w., 1 Ch. || Canon Divergence, Love Songs) – “Have you ever noticed,” Anderson said one day while they were processing a robbery turned homicide, “that Sherlock Holmes likes the shittiest music?”

Three Sad Thoughts, Danced by Fluffbyday_Smutbynight (T, 2,788 w., 1 Ch. || Slow Dancing, Music, Double Entendre, First Kiss, UST, Mentioned Mary, POV John) – John is learning waltz, but Sherlock has something different on his mind. Slow dancing is a slippery slope.

Hope is sweet by Lock_John_Silver (T, 2,977 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Valentine’s Day, Developing Relationship, Pet Names, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Classical Music, Idiots in Love, Endearments, POV Sherlock) - Sherlock wants to be more than John’s best friend. Has wanted it for ages, truth be told. So, when Molly comes up with an idea, that to some extent involves three year old Rosie, Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.

Stringplay by PrettyArbitrary (E, 3,219 w, 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Violin, Kink, Music, Stringplay) – John secretly plays fiddle. Sherlock and his violin seduce him into a threesome.

The Guy In 221B by fiveainley_ohmy (T, 3,970 w., 1 Ch. || Neighbours AU || Music, Classic Rock, Sherlock’s Violin, Singing, Flirting, Fluff, Shy Sherlock, Making Out) – ...likes to play his violin on his balcony. John is enchanted. One night while Sherlock is practicing his music, the downstairs neighbor starts to sing along. And he sounds good.

In Search Of A Word: A Symphony Of First Times by howtoquityou (T, 8,020 w., 1 Ch. || Symphony AU || Concertmaster Sherlock, Emotional Infidelity, Sarah/John then Johnlock, Classical Music, Infidelity) – There is a new concertmaster at the London Symphony, and John Watson is starting to fall a little bit in love with both the music and the man making it.

Suite for Violin and Clarinet by AwkwardAnnie (G, 9,165 w., 6 Ch. || Hidden Talents, John Plays the Clarinet, Fluff, Music) – John finds a clarinet in a charity shop and discovers that some things are better said with music. Eventual Sherlock/John.

A Very Sherlock Musical by flawedamythyst (T, 11,980 w., 1 Ch. || Musical AU || No S3 Compliant {more tags to be added after reading}) – So, you know how musicals are set in a world where people just burst into song every five minutes, and everyone around them automatically knows to join in with the tune and choreography? This fic is set in that world. John finds it extremely frustrating that Sherlock won't sing their theme song with him.

Lepidoptera by Saki101 (E, 17,967 w., 1 Ch. || Midsummer Night's Dream Crossover || Wings, Mythical Creatures/Beings, Dreams / Nightmares, Magical Realism, Sherlock's Violin, Fae Beings, Dreams vs Reality, Blood Drinking, Musical Instruments, Sex Magic, Blood Magic, John Plays Clarinet, Dark Fairytale) – Mike introduces John to Mrs Hudson, who has a room to let. Sherlock resides in Regent's Park when he's in London. It's only a short flight to Baker Street.

Sequelae of the Stradivarius by Ragazza_Guasto (E, 19,909 w., 6 Ch. || Sherlock’s Violin, Pavlovian Response, Masturbation, Fantasizing, Male Prostitutes, Fluff and Angst, Bisexual John, Virgin Sherlock, Pining, 5 and One) – John has taken to masturbating when Sherlock is playing the violin because he’s usually in the Mind Palace and sufficiently distracted. But now he’s having a Pavlovian response to violin music. Boners. Inappropriate boners. Or: Five times John and Sherlock enjoyed violin music separately and one time it brought them together. Part 1 of the Bows and Badges series

The Golden Cottage by AlessNox (T, 20,201 w., 10 Ch. || Post S3, Injury, Cabin, Composing, Sherlock's Violin, Love, Friendship, Hope, Platonic Life Partners, Music) – In a golden cottage deep in the English countryside a man comes to visit and to ask what went wrong with a friendship that once seemed so bright.

WHISPER TO ME by chrysanthemumsies (T, 20,598 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Fluff, Parentlock, Mutual Pining, Music, Sherlock Plays Guitar, Love Confessions, Light Angst, Romance, First Kiss) - Following the events of S4, Sherlock and John try and fit back into their old life as carefully as they can, all while their feelings threaten to bubble to the surface. Or: Sherlock picks up playing the guitar. John falls more and more in love with every passing day.

At the Marriage of Night and Day by Fyliwion (M, 24,600 w., 5 Ch. || Celtic Mythology / Folklore AU || Case Fic, Violence, Oral / Anal Sex, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Accidental Fae Enthrallment, Heavy Petting, Depression, Homophobia, Fiddle Contest, Dubious Consent, Magical Realism, Magical Music, Teenlock, Fae/Changeling Sherlock) – Mycroft knew the day it happened...

Music for John by ampersand_ch (E, 25,187 w., 14 Ch. || Friends to Lovers, Classical Music, Diary/Journal, Sherlock's Violin, First Time, Musical Creation, Romantic Friendship) – Sherlock can't sleep and seeks comfort in his violin. And as he spends night after night immersed in music, it becomes clear to him what's causing his insomnia.

The Sky is Full of Fiddles by agirlsname (T, 25,659 w., 6 Ch. || 1895 Teenlock || Romantic Fluff, Bed Sharing, Swedish Folk Music, Dancing, Sherlock’s Violin, Poetry, Skinny Dipping, Summer Love, First Kiss, Proposals, POV John, Gay Surprise) – It's 1895 in the heart of Swedish folk music and dance. During certain weekends, boys are allowed to visit girls at night, wooing them with fantastical poems. If a girl lets a boy into her room they can share a bed all night, fully clothed, to talk and eat caramels together. John is seventeen and looking for a girl to marry like everyone else. He's very surprised when another boy suddenly stands outside his door, wanting to share his bed…

Out and Loud by paradigmfinch (M, 28,233 w., 8 Ch. || Popstar AU || Dancer/Ballet Sherlock / Singer John, Fluff, Falling in Love, Mutual Pining, Jealousy) – John Watson is a 22 year old pop star who's about to come crashing out of the closet. Sherlock Holmes is a reluctant fanboy auditioning to dance in his next music video. Part 1 of Out and Loud

The Cavern by elwinglyre (M, 28,323 w., 12 Ch. || The Beatles / 1960s Rockstar AU || Only One Bed, Mutual Pining, Rock and Roll History, Erotic Dreams, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Homophobia, Heavy Petting, Kissing, Inspired by Music, POV Third Person Alternating) – Sherlock is not into making magic. He doesn’t believe in it. He does, however, believe in making rock and roll history. His best chance is to join John Watson’s band, the Magic Makers. They begin at the Cavern. There he learns to believe in more than magic with a little help from his friends. AU is set in Liverpool during the early 60s—when homosexuality is a crime.

Ride On by Silvergirl (M, 34,342 w., 9 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || TEH Divergence, Reunion, First Kiss / Time, Mutual Pining, Alternating POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Music, Original Characters, Happy Ending) – After the disastrous reveal at the Landmark, John tells Sherlock there can be no excuse for what he’s done, and no forgiveness. Sherlock leaves London and starts a new life, and not even the British Government knows where. It’s up to John to track him down and make things right, with a trip around the world and a clue only John would recognize.

Caesura by emilycare (M, 36,608 w., 10 Ch. || Five and One, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Friends to Lovers, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Soft Sherlock, Gay Sherlock, Bisexual John) – The violin is a retreat that eases the quiet of Sherlock Holmes' solitude. It also speaks for him when he cannot bridge the gaps his defenses create. Moments when music helps Sherlock reach out or let others in, like his stalwart flatmate and, in time, the doctor's daughter. Five times Sherlock Holmes played the violin, and one time he did not.

The Silence Between the Notes by J_Baillier (M, 44,197 w., 17 Ch. || 1830s Historical AU || Classical Music, Mystery, Social Issues, Family Loss, Travel, Vienna, Physical Disability, Depression, Mourning, Loneliness, Career Troubles, Soldier John, Composer Sherlock) – Lieutenant John Watson's days in London are painted in shades of grey after losing both his military career and his family. Could an unexpected request to travel to Vienna to track down the errant son of a wealthy family break the monotony?

You Teach Me and I'll Teach You by Burning_Up_A_Sun (E, 61,165 w., 15 Ch. || Teacher AU || Coming Out, Blow Jobs, Shower Sex, Bed Sharing, Christmas, Rimming, Homophobia, Beach Sex) – Dr. John Watson, with his recent PhD in music education, takes a job at Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School, where he meets the most obnoxious, irritating, fascinating, handsome gifted History teacher. With no where to live, John accepts Sherlock Holmes' offer of sharing a house on Baker Street. But will a Southern community accept two male teachers in a relationship or will they be forced to quit? Part 1 of the Adult Education series

Show Me Your Flaws by holmesian_love (NR, 62,054 w., 14 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || Angst with Happy Ending, Alternate First Meeting, Developing Relationship, Musician Sherlock, Friendship) – John Watson is lost in the world. Back from Afghanistan as an invalided soldier, with no purpose in life, he takes up a suggestion from an old friend and tries a bit of a life change. Only now, he finds himself stuck in a new, tedious situation with no money or friends. That is, until a dark, talented stranger crosses his path and suddenly life doesn’t seem quite so boring anymore. But how can John begin to win over someone like that, when he feels so flawed? And how can he capture the attention of the dashing man who keeps disappearing…

Sehnenfäden by holmesian_love and Strange_johnlock (M, 67,879 w., 22 Ch. || Violinist Sherlock AU || Idiots in Love, Alternate First Meeting, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humour, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, First Time, Nature, Music, Seclusion, Angst with Happy Ending, Non-Explicit Sex) – William Sherlock Holmes is a world-renowned violinist, uncompromising with his principles and his punishing schedule, pushed to breaking point by his manager. John Watson is a lost, retired army-doctor, returned to London with nowhere to live. Both men end up in situations which lead them to a secluded German village in the mountains, escaping from the unforgiving world around them. A chance encounter brings them together, sharing a friendship and understanding neither of them have found before. Will they be able to find a way to express their true feelings for one another, to find the path to be together, despite Sherlock’s chaotic lifestyle?

Pull the Stars from the Sky Universe by roane (E, 77,721 w. across 7 works || Punk / Rock Band AU || PTSD, Drug Addiction, Humour, First Kiss/Time, PWP, Oral Sex, Anal, Rimming) – It’s the fall of 2000, and to help him out after his military career has ended due to injury, John Watson’s sister Harriet gets him a job as US tour manager for rising star of the industrial scene and enfant terrible, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock’s not long out of rehab and there are plenty of doubts as to whether he’s serious about recovery. Plus, the music industry is shaking in its boots over the Napster mess. All John has to do is keep the money coming in and make sure his star doesn't screw things up. After the army, that should be easy, right?

This Is Your Song by agirlsname (E, 79,990 w., 19 Ch. || Moulin Rouge Fusion || Prostitute Sherlock, Poet John, Acting, Singing, Dancing, Writing, Poetry, Musical, Song Fic, Heavy Angst, Unreliable Narrator, Sherlock is French, Love at First Sight, UST, First Kiss/Time, Frottage, Coming in Pants, Anal Sex, Switchlock, Clothed Sex, Crossdressing, Secret Relationship, Forbidden Love, Jealousy, Terminal Illnesses, Grief/Mourning, Breakup/Makeup Sex, Past Drug Use, Attempted Rape, Canon-Typical Violence)– When John Watson is invalided home from the army in 1895, he moves to Paris to rediscover his writing and find a new meaning in life. His old friend Stamford invites him into a group of artist friends, and suddenly John finds himself auditioning to write a show for the famous brothel across the street. There, he meets the most beautiful man he’s ever seen - Sherlock, the star of the Moulin Rouge. But Sherlock is already promised to the investor of the show, the rich Duke Moriarty.

A Case of Identity – The Musical by shamelessmash (E, 83,147 w., 15 Ch. || 1950s Hollywood AU || Musicals, Case Fic, Undercover, Minor Character Death, Angst, Humour, Actor Sherlock, Writer/Director John, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Romance, Dancing, Happy Ending) – A mysterious death on set causes chaos in Stamford productions latest movie. With the premiere date left unchanged, they must find a new lead actor and reshoot an entire movie in two months. Sherlock Holmes goes undercover as a lead actor in a Musical: a juggling act to solve a murder while singing, dancing and charming his way through 1950s Hollywood. The last thing he expected was to fall in love with the screenwriter along the way. Or as I like to call it: the case where Sherlock finally gets to dance.

noise complaint by simplyclockwork (E, 85,324 w., 28 Ch. || Younger Characters AU / Alternate First Meeting || Uncertain Sherlock, Strangers to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Night Clubs, Case Fic, Fluff, Humour, Past Substance Abuse, Gay Club, Mild Angst, Introspection, Family Issues, Meddling Mycroft Controlling Mycroft, Bed Sharing, Family Angst, Acceptance, Falling in Love, Queerness, Community) – One loud upstairs neighbour and three days of non-stop party music lead Sherlock to an unexpected meeting.

To the Sticking Place by blueink3 (E, 121,973 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Musical Theatre AU || Showmance, Friends to Lovers, Bickering, UST / RST, Fluff, Virgin Sherlock, BAMF John, New York City / Broadway) – Renowned Shakespearean actor Sherlock Holmes has finally burned all of his bridges in the theatre industry save for his constant director, Greg Lestrade. John Watson has made a name for himself in the musical theatre circuit, but age and injury are working against him. Can they reinvent themselves for an all-male Macbeth without killing one another? Part 1 of the Screw Your Courage series

Bel Canto by bendingsignpost (T, 127,481 w., 16 Ch. || Phantom of the Opera AU || Secret Identity, Sherlock’s Violin, Operas, Aristocracy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Disguise, Inheritance, Genderqueer Character, Classical Music, Singing) – After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement.

Failing Upward by elwinglyre (E, 204,847 w., 40 Ch. || Parallel Universes || Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Magical Realism, Science Fiction, Supernatural Sex, Non-Con Unwanted Frottage, Memory Loss, First Time, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Johnn, Friends to Lovers, First Person POV John) – When John Watson, a young med student who supports himself as a florist-by-day and musician-by-night, finds he is heir to supernatural powers that others would kill to possess, John’s life transforms into a mixture of comedy and terror. As he fights to understand what’s real and what’s imagined, he travels from one alternate universe to another. Along the way he finds the key was there all along: his brilliant best friend, Sherlock Holmes, the man who becomes the touchstone for all that John is and ever will be. Set in current day cities and countryside of Michigan, this story blends romance, magical realism and science fiction with humor. Part 1 of the Failing Upward Universe series

Guitar Man Series by 221b_hound (E, 421,327 w. across 114 works, Various Fandoms || Assorted Fandoms, Musicians / Music, Undercover, Rock Band / For a Case, John Was in a Band Guitar, Doctor John, Comfort, Angst, TRF / Post-TRF) – Before joining the army, John played guitar and was part of a short-lived band that nonetheless gained a small but devoted cult following. Cue this fact being outed (maybe during a case) and Sherlock listening to all their old tracks and becoming a John!groupie.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

While the Music Lasts by gunandviolin (E, 44,645+ w., 6/? Ch. || WiP || Orchestra AU || Slow Burn, Jealous John, Angst with Happy Ending, Classical Music, Sexual Tension) – John Watson, a weary veteran of the professional orchestra circuit, settles into his new position as principal clarinetist for the London Symphony, hoping that he's left his worries behind in the States. However, his sudden acquaintance with the brilliant solo violinist Sherlock Holmes and the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of his predecessor prove that John's troubles are far from over.

The Cold Song Series by Eldritchhorrors (E, 72,586+ w. across 7 works || Series WiP || BDSM Themes, Psychological Drama, Music/Violin, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Anal, Character Studies) – This is how broken people fall in love...

Dissonance by CarmillaCarmine (E, 76,624+ w., 14/? Ch. || WIP || Punk Band AU || Pining, Bi/Gay Panic, Best Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Swimming, Music, Doctor Watson, Drug References, First Time, Blow/Hand Jobs) – Straight from military service, living a life devoid of purpose, John meets a man who reawakens his passion for music.

Welcome Home by itsalwaysyou_jw (M, 81,358+ w., 25/32 Ch. || WiP || WWII / Post-WWII Historical AU || Fluff and Angst, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, POV John, Mutual Pining, Dev. Rel., Past Viclock, Nice Victor, First Kiss, Romance, PTSD John, Grief/Mourning, Implied / Referenced Drug Use) – In 1938, John Watson was at the peak of his music career, performing original jazz tunes in the hottest clubs to adoring crowds. But now the year is 1945 and Captain John Watson has just returned home from the war. Attempting to cope with the horrors he saw in the Solomon Islands, he struggles to get even a weekday slot performing at the jazz clubs. When he hears a radio announcement for a song-writing competition, he knows this is the opportunity he has been waiting for. He only needs to put a band together that can help him win the grand prize. But first, he needs to face his survivor's guilt to honour his best friend's dying wish: he must find Victor Trevor's spouse- someone named Sherlock Holmes- and deliver a message.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #music fics #orchestra fics #sherlock's violin fics #long post

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heylittleriotact · 7 months ago

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*banging pots and pans* Come get your angst! Delicious, heart wrenching Emmrook angst!

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓊𝓃𝒹

adjective

1. near death

2. stagnant; without force or vitality

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s.

A study of Emmrich's perspective after Rook goes missing: we get to bear witness to a scruffy, smelly, devastated man up to his neck in self-loathing, as well as the spirits that help him.

Contains heavy Act 3 spoilers - proceed at your own risk!

Full under the cut or on ao3

Day 0:

It was extremely unorthodox thinking - there was no evidence or theory supporting any circumstance where it might work: without a body on this side of the Veil to serve as a ballast, it was wishful thinking at best, but he had to try. Not trying meant accepting, and he refused to accept that she was gone - lost forever to the Dread Wolf’s prison. Not with their exchange from the night before being what it was…

That couldn’t be the end.

He excused himself curtly from the others upon their arrival back at the Lighthouse, expertly sidestepping any inquiries after his own wellbeing that followed him doggedly until they were silenced by the laboratory door slamming shut behind him. Might he have come off as callous? Perhaps. Did he care? Not presently. The time for contrition would come later.

Questions lingered about the specifics of what had happened, but it was easy enough to infer by the fact that Solas walked free and Amina had seemingly vanished from existence, she had been made to take his place in the prison he’d been trapped in. Solas had been able to survive there in that pocket of the Fade, so that meant that Amina could too… for a time at least, if not indefinitely.

He was going to get her out.

But first…

He stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it… then slowly letting it go in a measured, disciplined exhalation that helped to slow his racing heart as he forced his body back into a state of calm: no mean feat when one comprehended the heaviness of the air as it pressed in around him, the tragic gravity of his task weighing on him.

He lifted his hands, felt the comforting susurrations of the Veil playing over, through, between his fingers as he trailed them through seemingly empty space: a lonely conductor at the podium, leading an invisible orchestra… the melancholy composer of a poignant dirge.

Threads unravelled with the morose, introspective swell of a cello’s baleful hum, and the vast mystery of Beyond sang to him, a faceless, nebulous chorus of voices, ageless and legion. Some were joyful, others despondent, but they all maintained a pristine harmony that would cause even the most cruel and unfeeling of souls to take pause for the sheer perfection of their sound.

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. Forced strength into his craven voice. Focused on the familiar verdant light that filtered through his eyelids.

“Hear me, Amina - with my voice I am calling you!” He sent the words beyond the Veil, where no one may ever hear them again. “I set this beacon for you now: a beacon that will guide you home. Follow my voice. Follow me home: we are waiting for you…. I am waiting for you.”

With a gesture of his hand that would look very complicated to anyone observing, he tethered the invisible line he had cast into the Fade to the only body in the room: his. Traditionally this particular spell was called upon to guide wayward spirits back to their hosts, or in rare cases, draw the spirit of a dying person back from the Fade before it was too late to resuscitate them. That anchor point in the world of the living was vital for the magic to work, but since Amina left behind no body, Emmrich could only live in hope that her spirit was as tightly bound to him as he suspected his was to her.

It was likely folly: what affection could survive his cowardice? His preening ignorance? His vainglorious proclivity for driving something away as transcendentally pure as love itself?

But he had to try: at the very least she could live to despise him for the rest of her days.

The green light faded as his hands stilled and the notes of the symphony resolved. Silence returned so harshly it physically hurt. He opened his eyes and clasped his hands together as he so often did.

“I need you, dear…”

Perhaps she would hear that too.

Day 2:

He was awake well into the early morning hours communing with the dead, listening through the Veil for a whisper, a rumour - any rumblings amongst the spirits that would avail him of his darkest thoughts: even confirmation that she was alive would be enough.

The spirits were indeed talkative, but not a single one seemed aware of the presence of a mortal woman in their realm.

He wept for the first time that morning as her absence in its totality hit him all at once - the first of many times that tears would be shed in the coming days as he curled around her scent-heavy pillow on the settee in her room.

The couch which ordinarily felt rather cramped when they both shared it now seemed devastatingly wide and empty without her tangled up in him, giggling softly as she slotted her thigh between his and slipped a hand up the back of his shirt to shock him with the coldness of it against his skin.

Gone. She was gone, and it was entirely his doing…

Day 4:

It had taken precisely eight words to destroy everything, as Johanna’s remains were so eager to point out before he had her temporarily removed to a quiet alcove elsewhere in the Lighthouse. It was an astute observation, and he couldn’t find it within himself to offer a rebuttal to her further assessment that he was a ridiculous gloating twat with a truly awe-inspiring gift for cataclysmically fucking things up for every single poor soul that happened to cross paths with him.

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning.

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. To her, it was part of a treasured natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality… he loathed it.

He dragged his hands through his greasy hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome.A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in this state, he wiped it away.

His eyes itched and felt swollen - he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know they were bloodshot from long hours of focusing on print, missed sleep, and periodic bouts of pain and regret that would descend upon him like some great, vicious bird of wrath. It ravaged him with its talons and plucked at his insides with its wicked beak, discarding his guts methodically as it rooted around inside of him for its favored meats: his liver and his kidneys - bloody and succulent. His heart was left untouched by the cruel raptor… it wanted him to feel everything, and he welcomed its agonizing ministrations as he toiled endlessly, trying to find a way to fix his mistake.

It was his mistake after all.

“It wasn’t your fault!” Neve had insisted the first time he dared to speak the truth aloud.

A thoughtful sentiment, but worthless when held up to the light: he had instructed Amina to seize the dagger from Ghilan’nain’s corpse, and she obeyed without question because she trusted him implicitly.

He had been told after the collapse that the death of his parents wasn’t his fault either - as if that was of any real comfort to a traumatized child, newly orphaned and numb with grief.

Of course it wasn’t his fault - even as a young boy he knew the catastrophic failure of the building wasn’t his doing, but people said ignorant things when they didn’t know what else to say. Things that took root in the heart of a young man, replacing his grief over the years with a solemn and defiant indignance: ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ ‘it was the Maker’s will,’ ‘they’re in a better place now,’ ‘at least they didn’t suffer…’

Why would the benevolent and loving Maker will that a small child should be made to grow up without the love and protection of his Mother and Father? What divine goodness was there in stripping him of that and forcing him to carry the burden of their fates for the rest of his life?

Did people really put any thought to the shallow platitudes they babbled to fill space and tidily rationalize that which is utterly and completely irrational? Or was it merely a performance to give the one who offered them some measure of absolution - a sense that they’ve done the ‘right’ and ‘helpful’ thing in such a circumstance, when in fact they’ve unknowingly heaped another layer of despair on top of an already smothering, lonely mound of it?

Dizzying, petulant questions he had pondered for years… bitter, angry little things that buzzed around his head like grave-flies: when one died, three more seemed to take its place.

A small, dark part of him - a squirming, fanged thing with gnashing teeth and a tongue like a wooden switch had been sorely tempted to enlighten Neve to the futility of her words… perhaps subject her to what would come across as an overly curt and somewhat sardonic lecture on what one might instead choose to say to a bereaved person that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of spitting in a wound and rubbing salt in it. He might have made her cry, and he would have felt shameful for it later, but in the moment he would have taken what glee he could find in the seed of misery he planted in the world.

Instead he stuffed that wicked, bristling, fanged shade of himself away and reminded himself that Neve was grieving too… as were the rest of them. Not only was Rook gone, but Harding had bravely given her life to defeat Ghilan’nain. Bellara had been captured by the enemy, her fate unknown…

The Lighthouse had taken on the solemn stillness of a mourning parlor, and he should have been the most understanding and compassionate among them of their shared sorrow. He should have been helping them: shepherding them ably through the tribulations and challenging waves of emotion they would grapple with over the days and weeks to come like he was solemnly sworn to do, but he couldn’t… not when his every thought was occupied by her and the sheer, unrelenting compulsion to right this wrong: he was responsible for her being caught in Solas’ trap - it fell to him to get her out.

Her hips swayed with her familiar feminine gait as she strolled away from him in a memory, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot… she was breathtakingly radiant in the morning.

He never got to tell her that every morning he got to spend with her - disheveled, heavy-eyed, and often in a state of partial undress - was more precious than life itself to him. He never got to tell her how much he admired her maturity and well-organized mind, because the truth of it was that despite his enviable list of accomplishments and considerable years of experience, Amina possessed an enterprising bravery he knew could not be learned from a book.

Before the day ended he called through the Veil to her again, and as it had each time, the echo of his words came back empty.

“Oh darling…” He said to the absolute silence of the laboratory. “I’m so sorry.”

Just like Neve, he knew she’d tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Day 7:

He had been immersed in the dagger: the act of shaping the raw shard of lyrium into something deliberate and precise. It hung in the air, rotating slowly as he manipulated the Veil around it, giving the material form and purpose. Solas’s dagger was the key to the prison, and he had reclaimed it when he freed himself. Rather than wasting valuable time trying to get it back, it had been communally decided that attempting to duplicate it would be a wiser course of action. Letting Amina go - abandoning her to her fate - was no more of an option for their companions than it was for Emmrich.

He had thrown himself into the work - it gave him purpose and an outlet for the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when his hands and mind stilled for too long.

It was momentum. A direction.

“Pondering, planning, praying–”

Emmrich nearly leapt out of his skeleton - the shard of lyrium clattered to the workbench. He put out his hand to keep it from bouncing over the edge and shattering on the floor.

“Never a man of faith - but what else is there to turn to when reason has fled? ‘Please keep her safe.’ Words whispered through a curtain of song: ‘Darling, come home.’”

He took a breath and turned around, finding himself face to face with a spectral woman with ragged, dirty hair and a tattered, stained gown. Her translucent, faintly glowing form was in an advanced state of decomposition: her tongue dangled morbidly from her mouth, attached by the smallest scrap of connective tissue. Her skin was mottled and discoloured and sagged tenuously from the outline of her skull. He could see all of her teeth - not due to a smile or a snarl, but because her lips had dehydrated and withered away.

A rather unusual form for a spirit of this variety to take, he decided. It was a blessing she decided to manifest here in the laboratory and not Taash’s room - she would have given them quite a fright.

But was he truly so wretched that he had drawn Yearning to this place?

The spirit seemed to pick up on his moment of self-pity and it stiffened slightly, smoothing its decayed hands over the skirt of its ruined dress as it tossed what remained of its hair testily.

“At least there exists one Watcher who can identify me correctly.” Her voice was an autumn breeze, sharp and stinging.

He examined her closer, lifted a hand and felt her aura tingle against the bare skin of his palm. “Oh, my apologies,” he pulled the hand back and twined his fingers together in front of himself. “Devotion. I’m humbled by your presence given the circumstances. It couldn’t be that you’ve heard anything in the rippling currents of the Fade?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt but not unkind - the spirit did not dally with unnecessary semantics. “The Lost Watcher is hidden from all but the oldest and most sensitive of us, but she is a being of unique substance and did a great service and kindness unto me once - as she has done for many before me.”

Though the sting that came with confirmation that she was deeply, deeply hidden in the Fade hurt, he couldn’t help but be warmed with a sense of pride by the reminder that his Amina was a champion for spirits like Devotion and had spent her life aiding such beings… a fact that was clearly known amongst spiritkind.

Glowing green eyes landed on the rough likeness of the dagger on the workbench. “I have heard of you, Professor Volkarin. The others whisper of you even in the deepest halls of the Necropolis as I soothe their loneliness and seek to mend that which has broken them. I would not have found them if not for her.”

He’d heard rumours months earlier of a spirit that had manifested in the deepest, most rarely travelled corridors of the Necropolis. Despite its lesser classification it allegedly sought out the maligned and tormented and cared for them stalwartly with a dedication that was nothing short of admirable. If Amina had been the one responsible for it manifesting in the Necropolis in the first place…

Another thing added to the ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask about - there were so many stories he wanted to hear… but he wanted to hear them from her.

“I will remain here with you, Corpse Whisperer while you toil to reunite with your beloved. I cannot do much, but I can keep the likes of Sorrow and Diffidence at bay, for they are drawn to your labours as I was. Work, Watcher… and I will keep you safe.”

Day 11:

Was she even still alive? The thought burst into his mind unbidden, taking immediate precedence over the words he was half trying to read. Had she languished away by now, her mortal body incapable of sustaining itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? Beyond the need for obvious necessities like food and water, what horrors lurked in that place as retribution for the sins of the gods? Could she defend herself indefinitely? And if she had died, were those final moments peaceful: the welcoming of the sunset at the end of a long day? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest grains of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I have yet to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe and alive in his arms?

Did he even deserve her back after how he’d treated her?

Devotion was a welcome companion and had been a tremendous balm to his soul with its presence alone, but as hours drained away and days seemingly raced past, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the mounting odds that there may not be a favourable outcome to this problem.

He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages upon pages of notes, figures, and calculations before him, decently lengthy stubble rasping against his palm. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. That’s what he told himself at least - the truth was that he couldn’t bear to look himself in the mirror for the guilt he carried.

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners wanted to break that naive innocence.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood as he called her age and maturity into question, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and his carefully crafted palisade of goodwill that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it.

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. Shortly after she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she strutted through the door one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another.

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself. He ought to take his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more.

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had gotten him this far in life.

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead of hurling insults at her.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.”

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?”

Emmrich flinched at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long? His eyes flicked over to Devotion standing by the door only a few feet from Davrin - it seemed that she was invisible to everyone but himself.

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the complete absence of vitality behind it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now?

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you want to call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone: Amina was the one that usually ventured out with them. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I’m nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.”

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for two days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood.

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.”

There was truth in the warden’s words that echoed his own thoughts, but Emmrich struggled to feel inspired by them.

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely, but she would have recovered in time…

He bid Davrin farewell and paced over to the workbench, sitting into his hip and wrinkling his nose slightly. He stared at the softly glowing twin of the dagger bound to Amina’s fate. It would not be arrogant to say that it was an impressive fake. He’d never handled the original personally, but he’d watched Amina fidget with it enough that he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked a single seemingly insignificant detail - he was willing to bet that it was identical right down to the weight.

A shame that a pretty fake was all it would ever be.

Their plan to duplicate Solas’ dagger had screeched to a gutting halt when it became clear that there existed no means to enchant the dagger such that it would function the same as the original - not without accessing the unique aural resonances of the Fade that remained a mystery to anyone who didn’t happen to be an ancient elf. His theory was that Solas and the evanuris’ connection to the Fade was fundamentally different on a physiological level than that of a modern mortal. Whether that was a byproduct of their spiritual origin, or the result of them manifesting physically millennia earlier, he couldn’t rightly say… all that mattered was that unless he found a way to transform himself into an ancient elf, the dagger would remain as useless as Neve’s platitudes...

It was a petty, childish fantasy to stare at the dagger and imagine what it would look like buried up to the hilt in Solas’ eye socket, but when he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness and despair, it helped keep him going.

Few could guess by looking at him, but he was a creature driven by quiet anger: injustices and wrongs, big and small, collected and deliberately curated; claimed with the same detached fascination one might feel when they spot an interesting stone on a riverbank and slip it into their pocket.

As he amassed success and wealth and renown, he remembered those who had done wrong to himself and others, and he learned how to smile easily at them with warmth and kindness in his eyes as he shook their hands. He even learned to forgive some of them.

But he never, ever forgot what they were capable of, and he never ever let himself be fooled into believing that they were good and decent people.

This ire for a spirit was unusual for him, but impossible to let go of: had Solas known? Had he any idea what Amina meant to him? That she was a beloved person, and so much more than the piece on the chessboard that she was named for? Certainly as a spirit Solas would struggle with the seemingly static, immutable nature of people, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him from falling in love with the Inquisitor, had it? He was not so bound to his spiritual nature that the concept of love was beyond him.

The fact that Solas was originally a spirit and Emmrich was sworn to protect his kind did not excuse him of the fact that he betrayed Amina… perhaps even killed her.

Her. Amina. Rook. The woman he’d known for such a short time, and whom he could no longer imagine life without. He needed her back - was that so hard for Wisdom to comprehend? Life without her was as much a shallow mockery as the dagger he’d crafted.

He had waited so long for her - all but resigned himself to a life empty of the companionship and love that he craved with a desperation that had hollowed him out over the years, etching unwritten sonnets and love notes into his ribs until he was certain those words would die with him: an epitaph on the monument of his bones. He would take them to his grave where they would desiccate and become dust with him - imbibed and consumed slowly by uncaring, unfeeling time.

He could have spent their last night together reading those words to her: letting her peel away his flesh and muscle so she could split open his chest and bear sacred witness to every secret hope and abandoned dream. He should have breathed them directly into her lungs between long, hungry kisses that would serve as his confession that the that his sacrosanct duty as a Mourn Watcher was little more than a facade now, for he no longer belonged to the living and the dead: he belonged to her, body and soul… with what life dwelled in his breast and what eternity his soul could endure.

But he had done none of those things, and he could almost hear the Dread Wolf laughing at what his hesitation had cost him.

All he could do now was keep working… keep trying. Keep thinking.

Day 15:

In his dream, he found himself in the vast center of nebulous nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls. Nothing with which to orientate himself - up, down - such things appeared not to exist here.

The only other thing occupying it aside from himself was a faintly shimmering golden haze. It stretched into eternity in all directions. Endless. Incomprehensible.

He might have been gripped with terror at the idea of being alone in a place as strange as this, but he knew better than that: he was most certainly not alone. Of course he was terrified, but more awestruck than anything: if this was what he suspected it to be, this was a very, very rare encounter.

“To what do I owe this great honour?” He spoke into the golden eternity.

Two small suns burst into existence before him. They glowed with white hot fire, but radiated only a gentle warmth that permeated every cell of his being. Slowly the miniature stars rotated around each other, and a voice spoke that he perceived not with his ears, but with his soul, the agelessness and sheer power of it driving the breath from his lungs.

“One who has been drawn to this place many a time as I wander to and fro. Were you aware that it was once a refuge for the newly liberated?”

Its voice almost hurt - it felt like it was vibrating through him at such a frequency that it might rip him apart. Not its fault… it was a trait that likely came with being older than measurable time…

“I was aware,” he responded collegially. “It makes sense that such souls would attract Hope.”

The orbs of light circled each other slowly… passed through one another in a smooth, hypnotizing motion.

“Verily,” it said. “It stood empty and still for a long time, but still I would visit now and again, if only to revisit the memory of that which dwelled here once.”

“And now?”

“A lone spirit called to me without knowing it. By the time I returned, it was gone. I found you in this place instead.”

The lone spirit it spoke of could only be Solas…

“It’s as plain as anything that you are most certainly not Wisdom. There’s a sort of… desperate imprudence about you that gives it away.” The suns stilled for a moment, shivered, and resumed their languid orbit. “So what are you?”

Did Hope just insult him? How unexpected…

“Only a man of little importance on a journey of great urgency.” He felt emboldened, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the spirit’s existence alone that made him feel such a way. “Perhaps you could be of assistance with the matter in question?”

The suns flared slightly, streaks of streaming colour sparking over its surface. His surroundings went slightly rigid, the auric mist prickling his skin. “You carry brittle echoes of death within your spirit. There is bone dust in your lungs. The scent of corpses lingers inside your nose though there are none nearby.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, but remained in place.

“You shepherd the living and the dead towards purpose and convalesce unsettled entities all while fearing your own demise. Despite this you willingly relinquished your only chance to live on in perpetuity - why?”

The immensity of Hope was overwhelming. The fact that a spirit of this magnitude existed was remarkable on its own - the fact that he was conversing with it… unimaginable. But it had asked him a question, and he knew that the manner of his answer was of utmost importance if he was to obtain the aid of this being.

“Because with her I am less afraid to face that fear. It may always hold sway in my heart, but with her beside me, I have hope that all of my days won’t be dark.”

The orbs of light rose and fell… trembled faintly as though excited…

“Fascinating,” it breathed and its air caressed him like a triumphant spring breeze, smelling of honeysuckle and luscious young grass. “I feel the pull of the one that you speak of: she is palpable.”

He was glad to know he and Hope were of the same mind in that respect.

“The prison she is trapped in is designed specifically to keep me - and others like me - from penetrating its walls, but despair not - you are close to finding the one you seek: there is a ripple in the firmament that you may exploit - a fold in a place of significance to her… a crack.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped - that could be almost anywhere, and even with a network of eluvians at their disposal…

“The beacon you have set for her is strong and although she cannot hear you, her spirit is joined with yours: look for her in the same place where the initial spark of curious infatuation between you quickened and became flame.”

He looked down at his hand slightly obscured by the actuality of Hope, and turned his mind to the puzzle: was there a single defining moment? Was it a culmination of weeks of stolen glances, shy smiles, and utterly fabricated excuses to find themselves in each other’s proximity once again - innocent and coincidental?

Yes - there had been a lot of that: dancing around one another politely, both undeniably smitten but neither willing to set aside the consummate professionalism that their vocation burdened them with.

It could have gone on forever. They might have passed like ships in the night for all their efforts if it weren’t for that one evening that seemed like so many other evenings until it wasn’t: a night of research and reading - both of them hunkered down in the library well past midnight when everyone else had retired.

The comfortable silence that dwelled between the soft husk of a page being turned every now and then. The easy conversation that flowed between them as they discussed matters ephemeral. Their knees almost brushed more than a few times on that uncomfortable couch. Amina, smothered a yawn here and there; Emmrich glanced up at her every time.

“What?” She’d ask, a confused little smirk on her divine lips.

“Nothing,” he’d answer.

He suggested she get some rest: he could continue reading - it was more important that she slept.

A defiant shrug and a polite refusal - but she did tuck her legs under herself and rest some of her weight against him - nothing familiar… just her shoulder against his.

Shortly after, he asked for her take on Orlok’s Theory of Asomatous Transitory Regression, and he thought she was taking time to consider her response, but when she remained silent for far longer than he knew was typical for her, he chanced a look down to find her sleeping soundly, her head on his shoulder and her book still spread open on her knees. He thought to rouse her - send her to her room where she’d at least be able to stretch out properly, but something held him back and he found himself gently slipping the book from her hands and setting it aside. Felt himself readjusting his right arm slowly - carefully - so it was around her, and he could share his warmth with her in the drafty space.

His heart had leapt into his throat, and apologies and placations lined up on his tongue a few minutes later when she made a soft noise from behind her curtain of hair and shifted, lifting her head enough so he could see slivers of green under heavy lids.

His lungs ceased working.

But instead of lurching away from him, blushing furiously and stammering her own stream of awkward, rushed excuses, Amina just blinked… once… twice… smiled groggily… shuffled down the couch some, rested her head on his thigh and fell back asleep, her hand on his knee.

He read until the morning - the same book three times cover to cover, in fact - because he didn’t dare move her - didn’t dare be responsible for ending that moment because whatever he had glimpsed in her sleep-filled eyes when she looked at him was a kind of magic he had never seen before.

Everything about it felt like home.

Even when he plucked up the courage to softly capture a strand of raven hair between his trembling fingers… even as he guided it away from her face as she slumbered, even as his touch lingered and he stroked down the silken length of it, his heart thundered.

That was it. That was when everything had changed for him - and for her.

“The library,” he croaked, throat tight. “It was in the library. I– I need to go. I need to go there now!” Tears filled his eyes as hope flooded him for the first time in days. A broken laugh burst from his lips and he clutched at his hair, aware that he looked like a madman. “Thank you!” He wept.

The orbs flickered again - rather like twinkling eyes - and then blinked out of existence.

“Live well, creature, and of all things that you may choose to abandon in the days to come, may hope be the last of them.”

He woke on the too-large settee to the cool green light of an aquarium that made no sense. He scrambled to his feet, flipped his hair out of his face, and bolted for the door.

Muffled voices… all familiar - one in particular. His voice.

Then his shape - his outline - a shape she would know anywhere.

A hand - a beautiful, soul-shatteringly, heart-achingly artful hand that was capable of healing and holding… destroying, creating, and calming; teasing and caressing - and everything else in between.

She heard herself sob as she seized that hand with her own and felt muscles and tendons reflexively tense in surprise for a fleeting instant before slender fingers clenched around her wrist in an unexpectedly bruising grip that wrung a clipped scream from her. Her feet left the ground as she was dragged into the bright light, and she was falling forward, up, down, and in directions that didn’t exist all at once.

Then something solid. Something warm and firm. The feeling of well-worn wool and meticulously cared for linen against her face… a familiar scent, though it was more rustic than usual…

The excruciating pain in her wrist persisted as her eyes struggled to adjust and she looked up. She blinked… once… twice…

“Emmrich?”

He had a decent start on a beard for one - that was new - and his hair was messier and dirtier than she’d ever seen it. The dark circles under his eyes were a particularly haunting shade of aubergine, and his sclera were dull and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked terrible…

“Where’s Varric?” She demanded hotly, panic rising in her chest as she tried to step back so she could get a better look at him - he wouldn’t let her, and she already knew the answer to her futile question. The grip on her wrist tightened and so did her throat as her mind raced to try to comprehend the situation. The grief she felt in Solas’ prison at the revelation of Varric’s death was rapidly being replaced with incandescent rage directed at the Dread Wolf: she was going to destroy him - spirit or not, he had gone too far… “Emmrich!” She yanked her wrist free and let out a cry of surprise as he toppled forward into her arms, a disheveled, weeping mess that took them to the ground. She managed to keep them both upright and Emmrich caged her in an embrace that took her breath away.

“I’m sorry, darling - I love you - I’m s-so very sorry…” He half-sobbed into her ear as he stroked her hair. His voice was so ragged... She felt tears splashing against her, wet and abundant, and her own joined them: confusion and anger and joy converged on her in a baffling wave - she couldn’t house all of this. And Emmrich…

How long have I been gone?

She managed to pull far enough away from him so she could cup his scruffy jaw in her hands and meet his gaze - his haunted, hollow gaze.

“It’s all right now,” she soothed, summoning up enough calm for both of them - she was beyond furious, but he was despondent, and like any experienced Watcher she knew she needed to meet him on his level - manage herself for the time being.

She softly traced her thumb down the familiar plane of his cheek and he leaned into her touch, his hand covering hers. “I love you too… I’m here and I’m safe, and I’m–” her voice trembled and broke. “Oh Emmrich… I’m sorry too.” If what she was beginning to suspect was true - if she had been lost to that place of regret for much longer than a few hours - it meant that Emmrich had been sitting on that argument for days at least, judging by the looks of him - her promise that they would talk about it at home a dangling thread that would remain forever untied if she never returned…

She pressed her lips to his and he sighed into her, some of the tension finally leaving him. “You found me…” she murmured against his skin. “You got me out. Of course you did.” Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him properly - deeply.

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing the state I had left things in.” He rested his forehead against hers and twirled a strand of her hair around a finger as they sat on the floor, both aware of their audience of companions - both utterly unconcerned about their presence. “Will you forgive me?”

“If you’ll forgive me,” she offered: she carried her own regrets about that argument… though evidently not as long as he had.

His mouth curved into a smile for the first time and he chuckled weakly. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest Amina.” His eyes continued to sweep over her as he took her in, mapping every line and angle of her, committing it to memory as if it would ensure she could never be taken from him again.

“You really love me, huh?”

“I have for some time, and I’m afraid that rather than embracing that fact with the deference owed to it, I acted like a cowardly fool. If I had only–”

She silenced him with another kiss, his mouth opening as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. Her fingers stroked through the coarse, straight hair that covered his jaw and she realized with a jolt somewhere around her midsection that she rather liked it. She made a mental note to discuss the future of the beard with him later on, but for now…

“No academic theories right now, Professor…” she whispered. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to take a minute and just… come to terms with everything. With Varric, Harding, and Bellara; with how long she’d been gone… what the hell she was going to do next. What she was going to do to Solas when she got her violent, creative little Reaper hands on him…

“Humour an old man,” he smirked tiredley.

“I’ll consider humouring him in the bath.”

“You’re no basket of roses either, dear.”

“Regret bringing me back yet?”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the back of it, his eyes locked on hers - as red and puffy as they were, the love that dwelled within them was unmistakable, and Amina knew they would never be parted in this life again.

“Never.”

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overnowsfcb · 2 years ago

Text

worth it for once; pedri

summary: sometimes the show must not go on. what happens when the curtains fall?

warnings: angst, smut (dom!pedri, pool sex, hickey, blow job (v), masturbation and self-masturbation (p), pet names) mature language, abuse of alcohol, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional distress. if any of these topics makes you uncomfortable, i advise against reading this story.

word count: 5.9k

note: hi! first of all i wanted to thank everyone who interacted with 'halfway out the door', you don't even know how much it means to me that people can read my stories. i knew i said i would do some fluff, but i feel like im not good at it. i cant seem to let the reader be happy can i? (this fic is so long i feel like i got a bit carried away)

p.s.: this is my first time ever writing smut, im sorry if its too bad. also! 'halfway out the door' has ninety percent of possibility to have a second part.

p.s. 2: the party ended an hour ago and he still there. another thing that i wanted to say is that FOR ME 'slut!' is not a love song so that is my reason for this, i take my interpretation of the song and write it down — venus 🫂💐🫧

The sun's rays slipped through the white curtain covering the partially open window, letting in the morning breeze. You nestled in the sheets, still drowsy, but as you did, you snapped wide awake, realizing once again that Pedri wasn't by your side.

You turned over, hoping it was a dream, but the only remnants of him in the room were his lingering scent and memories of the night before, replaying in your mind.

The way he touched you, tracing each of the invisible scars left by your previous lovers who sought only their own pleasure, using you to their liking without paying attention to your desires.

He was different. His kisses felt like a religious experience, filling you with an ever-growing sense of fulfillment. Nothing wrapped around you more securely than the feeling of having him inside of you, merging under the lustful gaze of the moon that welcomed you on a tailor-made altar, adorned with soft sheets and sensations that turned into a celestial orchestra.

And although the next day, perhaps his flaws became evident, your infatuation took you beyond, closing the curtain of the stage within your mind; you didn't have to be displeased or critical when admiring a work of art, right?

When the strength left from the previous night was regained under pressure, and your mind returned to the frosty present, you sat up in bed, feeling your head heavy, needing to blink several times to clear the blurriness that clouded your eyes due to sleep.

Your feet rested on the wooden floor. You didn’t want to face another day with the pain of the mandatory conviction your heart held towards your mind, aiming it with a gun if it tried to move from there.

You sighed with closed eyes and gathered your clothes scattered around the room. When you finished dressing, you approached the window and inhaled a breath of air to refresh your thoughts.

You left your room; the squeak of the door echoed through the house, signaling to Elena that you had already woken up. You couldn't lie; you were afraid to face her.

She, your best friend since you desperately looked for someone to share an apartment with after the owners of your previous apartment unjustly left you out in the cold.

She, who warmly welcomed you full of empathy and commiseration, helped you deal with the storm by receiving you in a studio apartment with an air mattress. She became the person you adored most in the whole world and never lacked frankness in her words.

Both of you moved forward together; now, you succeeded in modeling, and you could search for something much more comfortable living now in a pent-house, but always side by side.

You arrived at the spacious kitchen connected to the dining room and were met with an exquisite aroma, akin to the dishes she professionally prepared. You tied your hair in a ponytail and moved the chair to sit facing the counter.

Crossed fingers and your chin resting on your hands, you noticed she expected your presence when she twisted her torso, leaving a plate with toast and homemade raspberry jam on the marble counter in front of you.

You waited a moment to grab one of the perfectly made toasts and spread the jam in the toast; you felt the tension in the air. You knew of her disapproving stance regarding your situation with Pedri, and you knew she was preparing the usual sermon.

"Want to say something about it?" It was as if she had read your mind; turning her back, you sat up straighter on the stool, your distressed chest making your heart pump more blood than usual.

"No," you replied dryly, as you took a bite of toast.

"Alright, then it'll be up to me." You felt fear travel up your spine to the buzzing in your head and a high-pitched tone ringing in your ears.

You tried to breathe normally, but it was impossible. Her actions guided your eyes; she put the angel food cake in the oven and turned around, sitting on the stool in front of you, looking at you incredulously.

"He left at seven in the morning. When was the last time he stayed the following morning with you? I know you don't want to hear this, and I understand that you're into him. But don't let that blind you from what's really happening here. You're too intelligent for this, too good for someone who treats you like an option." Her words were always harsh, and she never hesitated to tell you the bleak truth without flinching. But it wasn't what you needed now, and her words were insignificant in front of the formidable figure that Pedri occupied in your mind.

There were very few people who dared to challenge your perspective, and Elena was brave enough to do it, even though her attempts always ended in defeats.

And defeats consisted in your denial, where you decided to take off your glasses after seeing what was there. You knew it existed and acknowledged it deep down, but hearing someone throw out statements so lightly without knowing him in the homely intimacy where he could unfold without prejudices, was something only you could discover.

The 'Open Sesame' didn't work with all tones, and not everyone acquired the privilege of opening such a treasure. So, you assumed it was envy.

"Maybe it’s a mess, maybe it’s complicated, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth a damn!" Your voice began to rise in volume the more anger you vented at her, who was innocent of it all. You noticed her furrowed brow, her attempts to help, every time she threw you a lifeline, you chose to ignore it, believing you could swim the remaining yards to shore alone.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, trying to find a balance, but your aggressiveness seemed to have reached its peak.

"I’ll sort it out myself, alright?" You exhaled, continuing your defense. "So just back off, Ele. I’m sick of needing your approval for everything. I’ll make my choices, even if they’re not in your rulebook." You spoke with a passive-aggressive tone. "You think you know him? You have no clue, none whatsoever." You got up from your seat, giving the countertop a light tap, and shook your head indignantly.

"I just want what's best for you, y/n," She whispered, looking you in the eyes with honesty. You headed towards the door disappearing from her sight.

You knew that she wanted to protect you like she did from the very first moment.

Despite being your age, she showed herself to be more mature than you. You were like her baby chick, and she had the instinct to keep you under her wings, but she had to admit that you had to learn defense by yourself.

And sometimes you need to fail to build your path.

There was no better remedy in your routine than drowning yourself in work to stop thinking about all the dilemmas surrounding your life. At least for a few hours.

Growing within the fashion industry was difficult without contacts; if you wanted to achieve something, you had to consider the hurdles you might carry in your backpack. But your resilience and pride prevented anyone else, terrified of having a future of subordination, from winning.

Today's meetings were about agreements for your brand, a dream that grew with you from your mom reading you bedtime stories to the present day.

You had put so much effort and creativity into your project that, regardless of what happened externally, your priority would always be there. No affair or argument could steer you away from that.

All your distractions due to logical thoughts vanished upon arriving at your apartment. You turned on the lights; Elena had left you a message informing you that she would stay at her boyfriend's house for the night.

Your home felt empty without her blasting music through the speakers and constant movements around the house. You cracked your neck, leaving your faux leather coat on the entryway rack. You lazily tossed your bag onto the couch, sitting beside it. You unbuckled your heels, freeing your feet.

A contained sigh escaped your nostrils, easing your chest a bit. You heard thousands of notifications coming from your bag. Worried, you unzipped it and searched for the phone, unsure of what was happening.

You glanced at the news headlines and the numerous social media posts where you were being tagged. You thought you had successfully escaped last time. The carefully revised alibi by both managers to divert media attention from your relationship had been futile.

But it seemed not entirely effective; without any evidence or concrete proof, just a blurry and deficient photo was enough for them to create a compelling scene for the public.

You clicked on a specific article; its name caught your attention, "The New Target of Love: The Boy in Her Chaos - Will He Survive?" You knew it wasn't the smartest decision you could make; the echoes of the voices of the people closest to you resonated in your ears. But you were alone and had nothing better to do at that moment.

The devil on your right shoulder encouraged and forced you to keep reading; with each sentence and word, your tear ducts were ready to expel the salty drops from your eyes.

You couldn't understand why journalists consistently targeted your romantic relationships instead of focusing on your professional endeavors, where you worked, and strived every day to show the world that you were more than just a pretty face. But in a sexist world, you had to accept without a murmur the things they wrote without any pity, driven by money and interactions.

Had you signed up for this life, or was it something gradually inserted into your brain about what it had to be?

You found yourself seated at your computer with a bottle of wine by your side, seemingly engrossed in reading each of the articles criticizing you and perpetuating a negative reputation of yourself.

You had poured a small amount of the burgundy liquid into your glass. Some sort of masochism consumed you, and without noticing, you began to pour more and more wine into the glass, your heart filling with misery, pausing at every clever word that defined your identity on the internet. Because all of the words seemed monotone.

Until the glass was no longer enough to swallow the bitter pill, you stared at the bottle, contemplating your next move. You shrugged and reached for the bottle with difficulty, your vision truly distorted, no longer having a sense of space.

You leaned back in the couch and took a long swig that burned your throat, feeling your heart rate rise.

You decided you had gone too far, abruptly leaving the computer on the table in front of you. When you tried to get up, you fell backward by inertia, unbalanced. That's when you realized you weren't even paying attention to the news but mindlessly scrolling your mouse.

The tears you had been holding back for over an hour and a half streamed down your cheeks immediately. Now, you couldn't turn back and felt trapped within your own uncontrollable body.

Gut-wrenching sobs made your body tremble, and at that moment, all you could think of was his touch, how every time you cried, he carefully wiped your cheeks and assured you that this too shall pass.

With tears and alcohol blurring your vision, it wasn't hard to find his number as you had it pinned in your messaging app. You opened his chat and immediately tapped the call icon.

You placed your phone to your ear, hearing the beeps from the other end, while your body, consumed by sorrow, couldn't help but continue shedding tears.

You perceived a noticeable change from silence to a clear indication that the call had been answered. You tried to stifle your crying by biting your lip, but it seemed this battle wouldn't let you emerge victorious.

"Love, are you crying?" You wanted to respond, but his voice only intensified your desire to cry; you longed to feel his warmth. You still didn't understand why you decided to go this far. "y/n, I'm worried. Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?" You tried to take a deep breath to provide an answer.

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and then placed it on your chest, trying to assist in the calming process. "It's so exhausting." These were the words that came out of your mouth as you exhaled.

He still didn't understand exactly what you were talking about, but you kept talking. "I think I can't be with you anymore." Your voice came out strained; you truly didn't want to say those words. You clung to the arm of the chair with one hand, squeezing it, waiting to hear the response on the other side.

"What?" He couldn't comprehend how he had woken up at two in the morning, and you were talking about cutting ties. "Love, listen to me. Why don't you go to sleep, and tomorrow, we spend the day at the country house?" On the other end of the line, he easily realized the moment he picked up that you were drunk.

"Okay." You affirmed with a nod, resting your head on the armrest, and lifting your feet to stretch out on the sofa. "I love you a lot." Your face contracted again, a sign that tears would return.

"You too." He replied, and you were the one who ended the call, slightly calmer about the reflections the articles had left and the incoherent thoughts that had arisen from them.

You left the phone by your side and curled up, hugging yourself, seeking warmth without the help of a blanket. You closed your eyes, praying that the world would change radically tomorrow, although you knew it was an unlikely hope. You never wished more than for whoever was in the sky to give you a new chance to love in the right way.

You needed to believe in someone; you needed assistance from the universe to not lose the hope that once brought you immense joy. But perhaps genuine love was like Santa Claus, and sooner or later, it would crumble like any other ingenious belief.

And like a shrewd child who receives his Christmas gifts with the same enthusiasm even after learning the hidden truth, you dipped your feet into the transparent chlorinated water.

He watched each of your movements attentively, leaning on one of the pool edges. You plunged, soaking your entire body, and swam towards his direction, resurfacing enveloped in laughter with him.

He embraced you, sharing some of his warmth to your cold body due to the sudden change in the water, and you placed your hands around his waist, looking up at him from his chest.

"I love you so much." You bit your lip, seeking an outlet for your love. He rested his hands on your cheeks and began planting short kisses that spread across your entire face.

"I love you more." He reciprocated, giving two gentle taps on your legs. You jumped, and he took you into his arms grabbing your ass.

Quickly, he changed his position, leaving your back resting on the cold pool wall. The chills went up through your spinal cord, fusing the temperature of the edge and its expression, which never went out of style to make you think that everything you needed was there, with him.

You ran his sculpted shoulders with your palms open, feeling his muscles and intertwined your fingers behind his neck, brushing his hair.

Your lips brushed, and you could feel the electricity that could arise from a simple and minimal contact.

He brought his face to you, holding you tight against the concrete.

It was undeniable the indissoluble bond tied by the threads that led you each time to the same situation, and the core of your life was nourished by its bond.

As your lips collided with fervor, eager to quell the fervent passion, you pulled him closer with your legs still entwined around his waist. Feeling his hardness against your core ignited arousal as he pressed himself firmly, and both of you gasped in the midst of the kiss at the electrifying contact.

Your lips didn't want to part, too hungry for each other's sweet taste. You caught his lower lip between your teeth, pulling it gently to invite your tongue into his mouth. It had become sloppy as you lightly tugged his hair, eliciting a groan.

His hand stealthily ascended, never parting from your lips, traveling from your ass to the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

His tender lips traced a pattern from your cheeks to your neck. You tilted your head back, offering more of your skin for his exploration.

Expertly, his fingers unraveled the straps of your bikini with a single pull, still nestled in your neck. As the air grazed your tightened nipples, your breath hitched when he took one between his fingers, fidgeting and further intensifying the sensation.

Your sensitive boobs elicited desperate whimpers as he continued grinding against you, creating a symphony of pleasure. The air thickened, and your bodies radiated heat.

His lips passionately suctioned a spot, causing your eyes to roll. You were well aware that he would leave a hickey there.

Moving from your neck, his lips trailed down to your collarbone. Frustration built as he skillfully teased the sides of your breasts, deliberately avoiding the attention where you craved it most.

"Pedri, please..." You gently tugged his strands, prompting him to lift his head. Counterfeit innocence gleamed in his pupils.

"What do you need, amor? Tell me, is there something I can do for you?" His gentle caress graced your cheek, and you melted into his simmering touch.

"Please..." He ceased grinding, his hand swiftly traversing to your neck, as your hand descended, grazing his abs.

"If only you could see this beautiful hickey right now," He whispered, tracing the mark and toying with you, his actions inviting your response as he often did.

It was exasperating; no matter how frequently you found yourself in such moments with him, articulating your desires remained a challenge.

"Just do something," you uttered, a touch of despondency in your voice, pouting with pleading eyes. Yet, he remained resolute.

"I just don't know what you want." He shook his head, gently placing a strand of hair behind your ear, mimicking your pout with a teasing tone.

"Alright... just please, babe, suck my tits," you replied with a hint of frustration. His corners lifted, forming a smile, having successfully achieved his goal.

"There she is, that's my good girl, aren't you?" You couldn't help but nod several times steadfastily, just wanting him to stop playing.

His face vanished from your sight as he covered one of your breasts with his mouth. A loud moan escaped your throat, a sound of satisfaction for him as he moved his tongue, savoring your skin. "Was it that difficult?" He gazed at you once more, and you sighed in irritation, prompting him to raise his eyebrows, questioning your actions.

"No." Your fingers traced his chest as he continued sucking with determination.

Moving lower, you reached the edge of the swim trunks' fabric. However, as you did, he pulled away with a frown. "Who said you could touch?" You mirrored his expression confused.

"Last night, you scared me a lot. Do you think it was funny for me? No, so you can't decide who's having fun, okay?" Your chest felt heavy, yet you found a strange allure in his dominant low voice, even though you wanted to object.

"I thought..." He wrapped his hand around your neck, pulling you back and shutting your mouth with his thumb. He watched as you sucked it, humming and biting his plump lips.

"You didn't think shit. Now, jump." He firmly gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly to the pool's edge. Seated, you patiently awaited his guidance, uncertainty accelerating your heartbeat.

Intense eye contact heightened the tension. His fingers delicately traced over your thighs, starting from the outer part, then gently grazing your clothed intimacy. He devoured you with his gaze.

"Lean back for me, baby." You did as he pleased leaning in your elbows.

He tapped on your thighs, a signal to lift your hips, and he removed the sole fabric covering your body and throwing it to your side. He took your legs and placing them over his shoulders. Spreading you open. A groan escaped him at the sight, reveling in your arousal.

"So wet, just for me," he murmured, running his fingers through your folds, collecting your juices and parting your lips to spread the liquids.

You pressed closer, yearning for more. "Just for you." Suddenly, a firm spank on your sensitive area made you shudder, and you gasped. "Behave," he commanded, throwing you a dominant look.

Circling your clit, he gradually increased the pace. Tilted back, moans escaped uncontrollably. Another spank followed, and you met his gaze. "Keep your eyes on me, princess. Watch as I pleasure you like no one else could."

His words wielded a powerful influence in every scenario. Returning to your pussy, he made his way to slip two fingers inside you easily as you were soaked by now. The reflex to close your eyes surfaced, but his commanding words echoed in your mind.

He initiated a rhythmic motion, penetrating and withdrawing, targeting your most sensitive depths, obscene wet sounds, thumb still teasing your bud. Overwhelmed by the intensity, you sought stability, bringing your index finger to your mouth, biting down to anchor yourself. "You can grab my hair, baby," he suggested, prompting a satisfying sigh as you obediently followed his directive.

As the synchronization of your movements intensified, he decided to elevate the pleasure further. His mouth joined the sensual dance, lasciviously spitting your core, eliciting a contented hum from you.

As his mouth drew near your clit, enveloping it ably, a scream escaped your lips, worthy of a scene of a pornographic film. His name slipped through your mouth, an inadvertent encouragement that fueled his tenacity to excel, delve deeper, move faster, and render you numb in ecstasy.

In the intimacy, he displayed a reflection of his approach on the field, always seeking ways to enhance and achieve peak performance, a relentless pursuit of reaching his full potential at what he knew he was one of the bests, even when he didn't want to admit it.

There was no sweeter melody than your filthy moans. His crotch throbbed aching, aware that just a few pumps would make him reach his climax. But he needed to focus on you first, even though he rolled his hips against the concrete, trying to calm down his needs.

He groaned, shutting his eyes and digging his tongue into your hole. Your legs entwined around his neck, the tight knot of pleasure building as you moved your hips in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue.

"Pedri, I'm..." You shouted, the words hanging in the air unfinished, as he entered both, fingers with tongue, increasing the pace with each successive motion.

He opened his eyes again, locking onto yours, brimming with passion beneath the sun. His nose brushing against your clit, combined with his bambi-like eyes in contrast to the authority he held over you, escalate the moment as you tightly grasped his hair, evoking the release of your juices.

He couldn't help but stop pressing against the wall and squeeze his shaft inescapably, captivated by the way you adhered to what he said, even if it meant he had to assert control with a firm hand, correcting your inclination to lean back a few times.

He loved how obedient you were and how your body reacted.

Your high-pitched sounds spurred him to slip his hand inside his swim trunks, almost moaning at the sensations created by his own touch and the enticing arch of your back. He found himself immersed in the sweet taste and intoxicating fragrance that surrounded him.

He went up and down with his hand on his dick fervently, trembling in sync with you. "Are you going to come, my love? Do it for me," his deep voice making you feel so close. You played with one of your hardened nipples between your fingers. You affirmed with the other hand on his hair, and he hummed against you in response. "Oh, my god." you mumbled.

His vibrations heightened your euphoria, and the combination of his tongue and fingers left you feeling overstimulated. As you screamed arching your back, you became undone, laying flat, straightening your arms at your side and shuddering as you felt him persisting in his ministrations.

Too blind to reach his own pleasure to think about anything else, he continued pounding his dick, gripping his tip as he parted his lips, releasing ecstatic sounds and feeling the reverberations across his body. Leaning against your abdomen, he sensed his shots filling his shorts as he lowered his pace.

You tenderly ran your fingers through his sweaty hair, both basking in the tranquility of the moment as his chest rose and fell. Minds empty.

"Come here, baby," you whispered. He propelled himself up from the water and leaned flat at your side.

As you lay down on the cold poolside with him, he placed his hand on your waist, burying his head in your neck. He rubbed his nose, sensing how your perfume delicately mixed with expelled pheromones, obtaining a small giggle from you.

You swung your leg over his waist, leaning your chest towards him, and stroked his wet hair.

"Thank you," you smiled with closed eyes, sighing. "It's just what I needed."

"I like hearing that," he said, pulling away from your neck to look into your eyes. You looked like a fallen angel with your smudged mascara, swollen lips, tired eyes, and blush spreading across your cheeks.

His gaze instinctively dropped to your neck, observing the love mark on your skin. Though in his mind, he still questioned if this was truly love.

Without delving too much into his thoughts, he gently pecked your lips.

"Pedri..." you sighed, coming down from the adrenaline rush. Sitting up, you supported yourself with your hands and looked at him, recalling internet articles and Elena's words.

"Already want to talk about that?" he asked, huddled up, absorbing the remaining sunlight.

"I'm going to shower," you said, rising from the ground, creating a space for anticipation, allowing him to process and reflect. You knew the house perfectly, having visited many times with the understanding that no one could see you and spend the entire day together.

But meaningful memories were scarce, and you clung to them, hoping that someday it could be more than the fear of being seen together, unable to go to a restaurant or travel together.

You entered the shower, letting the cold water make you reconsider your beliefs. You trusted that, for the first time, you had found something real, a gentleman who stood out in the world of ordinary men, wanting to keep you safe.

You also trusted that you would walk on nails and endure all the thorns of a rose just to be with him. But genuinely, love should be about facing painful situations to prove love for a person, or love should feel welcoming, a place where you would stay for eternity if it had to be so?

You analyzed it, the rain falling on you as you cleaned your body. You wouldn't stay with Pedri; he never felt like a place where you could unload all your baggage without fear.

After all, coming from past relationships, he was your sanctuary at first, stemming from more deficient and unstable experiences. You couldn't stop the solitary tear that escaped your eye.

Since the night you met, you should have realized that nothing good could come from something that was supposed to be just for a night. But you didn't want to listen.

You left the shower, unable to continue ruminating in your head without fainting in the attempt. The drops that weren't allowed to fall from your tear ducts were released by your hair.

You grabbed your clothes, still absorbed in your thoughts. When you finished dressing, you placed your hand on the doorknob. Behind it lay the definition of the future of this strange relationship, and the confrontation was something that terrified you.

You walked into the living room to find him seated, wrestling with his thoughts, head bowed, facing away. Approaching him, you crossed your arms in front of his neck and hugged him, taking in his freshly scented and the slight dampness of his hair. He looked at you wearily, unsure of what would happen, and you gave him a kiss on the cheek before sitting next to him on the gray sofa.

You took his hand with love; you couldn't deny that, despite everything, he had been the source of most of your joys in the last four months. You took a deep breath before letting it out and started speaking.

"Are you mine?" His hand tensed, and his brow furrowed. He didn't understand where such a sudden question came from.

"What?" He responded confused, almost pulling away from you.

"Are you mine or not?" You still hoped for a more certain answer.

"I don't understand where your question is coming from." His expression showed he had never really thought about something like that. At least, was there some kind of feeling for you in his heart? You wondered which person you had been with all this time.

"Just answer it." You let go of his hand; your voice carried a tone of desperation and anguish. You knew you wouldn't get anywhere, but you still needed to cling to the few hopes that remained.

"I don't understand what you mean by 'yours'; we never talked about..." He tried to make another excuse in front of your eyes. It felt as if he were treating you like a little girl, who would eventually leave the question unanswered once she got tired.

"I need to know where we stand! Do you want to be with me or not?" You no longer knew why you kept trying about something that wouldn't change. You stood up from the sofa, and he avoided looking at you.

"Why do you have to make it so complicated? We're just having fun." He shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head. That response could have been worse than a straightforward no.

"Having fun? Do you think I'm with you to have fun with how the media calls me a slut, Pedro?" You shook your head in disbelief, letting out a bitter, pained laugh. "Four months enduring your ambiguities while defending you in front of my friends, saying you needed time." Your voice faltered, recalling all the arguments you had faced, thinking that at some point, everything would change.

"I didn't think you felt that way." He detached himself from his actions, as if it were so simple. Still avoiding eye contact.

"You said you loved me! Did you ever feel genuine love for me?" Your heart tightened; all this couldn't be a big lie where you were the only one playing a game that was already resolved.

"I don't know." He whispered, unsure of how you would react to such an unsure yet determinant answer. Your eyes blurred with contained tears; you couldn't cry like this in front of him.

"You knew everything you were doing; you knew that I was yours, and you didn't care." You screamed, desperate for him to show some emotion, to show that something of everything you had experienced had a hint of reality.

"It wasn't like that." He replied in the same flat tone, this time looking at you and realizing the tears that were falling, while you were motionless, feeling the room spin around you, and your ears ringing again.

"It was exactly like that." You had been sincere from your first conversation, under that neon light on a private yacht. A party where you didn't want to be, he approached you for that simple reason; you were the only girl who hadn't looked at him.

And you had found someone whom you thought had the will and power to heal all your wounds. But you ended up dancing with shadows in glass, with something ephemeral that you thought could be eternal. While you ended up being one of the many prey in his history.

"I gave you everything, I told you about my past and how I needed someone to trust, and you ended up being like everyone else." You released a silent sob and headed towards the room, where you had left your backpack. You were supposed to spend a weekend together, and now everything was withered. Your feigned acts of believing that magic still existed were in vain.

"Where are you going?" You gasped, bumping into him in the door frame; he placed his hands on your shoulders, concerned.

"I called Elena; she'll come to pick me up." You hadn't even talked to your best friend when you sneaked away with Pedri at noon; she would do everything to stop you from leaving, and you preferred not to tell her. But she, without hesitation, as soon as you asked, was already on her way.

"We can try to fix it." You knew he was only offering the response your ears craved. But you weren't going to fall for his spells. This time, his method of still having your strings to manipulate you like a puppet wouldn't work.

"I won't be with someone who never cared about me." You walked to the door, lowering the latch, and turned around once more; he looked at you from a considerable distance. He wasn't going to try to stop you, and that was what hurt the most. "Good luck, Pedro."

You left the house, and the evening air enveloped you. You walked along the walkway made of rocks, each step feeling heavier than the last. Another relationship failing, another person disappointing and discarding you like a crumpled note, forgotten in the margins of a story that never reached its intended conclusion.

Your tears flowed freely down your cheeks now that you weren't facing him. You stood on the street, waiting for Elena to arrive. She had every right to tell you 'I told you so,' and she would be justified.

You saw her black car approaching from the end of the street, parking right in front of you. You hesitated for a moment to get in, embarrassed to ignore someone who only sought your happiness.

She rolled down the window, and your eyes locked inviting you in. Opening the door, she extended her arms, offering solace. Tears streamed down your face as you looked for refuge on her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Ele." You lifted your head, and she gently wiped away your tears. Shaking her head, she dismissed your apologies.

"I'll always be here by your side. You're the one who needs to learn, but I'll never leave you adrift, okay?" You pouted, and your tears continued to flow.

You both settled back into your seats, stealing glances at the house. A part of you lingered there, and a lump formed in your throat. You sensed that distancing yourself was the only thing that could save you from descending into delirium. Now, you must gather the fragments of your heart once more and rebuild it on your own.

Your eyes went directly to the hickey he had left. You wanted to rip that skin off, not wanting to have him in your memories in any way.

Leaning your head against the window, you wondered what could have been if fame hadn't been the haunting specter in your life. You guessed that you will never actually know.

#pedri x reader #pedri angst #pedri smut #pedri x you #pedri x y/n #football x reader #football imagine #football angst #football smut #pedri imagine

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little-fairy-forest · 1 year ago

Text

Stitches of love

-> bakugo x fem! Reader

-> domestic, fluff, romance, she / her

-> reader finds herself going crazy over what to get her mitsuki for motherday, little does she know she had a helping hand all along.

"Katsuki please just give me some ideas what to get her" y/n pleaded as she rests her head in her hands. The list infront of her started back as she scratches out all her ideas so far on what to get her mother in law for her birthday. Jewellery? No she had so much, a holiday? Seems like a large present for your first year as her official daughter in law, home made jam?–

"She'd love anythin' if you gave it to 'er" Katsuki grumbles as he sips his coffee staring at y/n. They both knew he was right, y/n could give mitsuki a lump of dirt and She'd be so greatful you'd swear it was a lump of gold. But if katsuki gave it to her? He'd never hear the end of how thoughtless it was...

"What are you getting her? Surely you've ran out of ideas aswell?" Y/n rubs her face in defeat as she realises she only has 3 days to find a present. The clock is ticking, especially since you have to buy it, wrap it, and pray its good enough.

"Got her and the old man tickets to that candle lit concert in Tokyo, gotta meal for them aswell before the show" katsuki says as it's the most obvious thing ever... because everyone can afford to get expensive tickets to a private showing of the Tokyo orchestra at candlelight. Y/n huffs as she moves herself away from the table, frustrated as her plans were coming to a dead-end. Katsuki shrugs as suggests they can share the present as that wouldn't be a problem, but for y/n , she wanted her own present for her own mother in law.

"Back to the drawing board"

2 days to go

The dim lights of the lamp cascade over y/n as she tries to pull out another knott that's found its way into the ball of yarn.

"Stupid thing, why are the strings so thin–"

"Why are you still awake?" Katsuki emerges from the kitchen, peeping his head into the living room to find his wife tangled in balls of yarn, frustrated at the pattern in front of her. Who know making a blanket was so difficult?

"I can't figure the pattern out, why is knitting so hard katsu! Why do people do this to relax"

"Cuz old hags have all the time in the world to do that stuff, now get your ass to bed"

The small half-arsed square that was meant to be a blanket falls flat into y/ns lap as she realises this was another failed attempt at a present for mitsuki. The blanket would've had to of been perfect, can't give a seamstress a rag and pass it off as a blanket made out of love. What symbol would that give?

"Stupid yarn"

1 day to go

The perfect way to a person's heart is through their stomach, is that how the saying goes? Doesn't matter! Either way you found yourself 3 cakes deep into perfecting this stupid old recipe. katuki claims " the old hags loves "... but why is it so hard to master the recipe?

Many hours into baking whatever is in the oven, because there's no way you can even call the lumpy mess a 'cake'. Katsuki takes over as he cannot let anything to be made in his kitchen be considered inedible. You watched as katsuki whipped around the kitchen, making dinner and cleaning up the mess you made. What are you going to do now? The deadline is near, and you've nothing to bring to the dinner tomorrow for mitsuki?

Great way to impress your mother in law

"Listen, she won't care if you've nothin in your hands sweets, trust" Katsuki says to distract you from your storming thoughts.

"I just don't know what to do babe, I've tried so many ideas. I don't have to give up but what choice do I have–"

"Quit your ramblin and go wash up before dinner," katsuki cuts your rambles with instructions. He knows it's best to distract you if you're having working thoughts.

You make your way to the bathroom to wash up before dinner. Your head is still flooded with last minute ideas of presents to give mistuki.

"Where's all the soap gone? Why doesn't katsuki refill the container when it's empty? Typical" you say, reaching into the press to grab and refill the soap dispenser. You make a quick note of things you need to get in the shops before you go to dinner tomorrow as you're almost out of some essentials.

As you rummage through the bathroom cabinet, your fingers brush against a small, inconspicuous box tucked behind some toiletries. Curiosity piqued, you retrieved it, your heart quickening as you read the label. With a mixture of trepidation and hope, you take a gamble with this last chance of a home made present.

Birthday dinner

Mistuki has been filling yous in on her latest fashion looks she has been in the process of designing since last spring. Masaru has just set down the tea post dinner as you've all settled into the sitting room to unwind after that very tasty dinner katsuki scrubbed up. Who knew your man was so kind?

"Here's your present ma..." katsuki sheeply hands over his gift knowing his mother will make a deal out of the concert he has gotten her tickets for. You watch as mistuki stumbles over with glee as she hugs? Katsuki and thanks him. You haven't seem them hug since you had gotten married!

Masaru thanks katsuki for getting him a ticket also, placing the present aside waiting for the two blonds to settle down.

" it's something small, hope we can all share this special present" you hint towards the box you hand over to mitsuki. Katsuki looks at you knowingly you done fucked up the blanket and the cake, so what did you get her?

Mistuki opens the box to find a tiny baby blanket you had hand knitted from the rags you started with, paired with a tiny test signaling your little life growing within.

Mistuki stumbles over the test, clarifying with you that what she is reading really is coming true!

"YOUR PREGNANT?!" She gleams as she jumps from her seat shuffling over to hug you. Katsuki looks at you with hope in his eyes, why hadn't you told him?!

"Yes , I hope this trumps katsuki present mistuki" you hug Mistuki back as masaru looks into the box reading the little note beside the blanket

"Cant wait to snuggle you in this blanket made out of love, sweat and tears,

Love, baby bakugo due 2X25"

Yep. You've finally outdone your husband in gift giving.

Now how will you out do Masarus birthday..

What did I just write...

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askaalaska-vdeppressed · 25 days ago

Text

Sweet Revenge Leads to Rotten Teeth: Chapter 3

Masterlist

The smell of fresh paint and drywall filled your sense as you moved from room to room. Even if you hadn’t been debriefed on the hotel, it would have been apparent that the building was new. Charlie glossed over most of the floor for residents, focusing on the amenities they had added. A pool and gym, extensive library, a craft room. It was a far cry from heaven, but it was certainly nice.

This might just be a pleasant mission after all.

As you moved forward you took notice of Alastor. His expression was mild, lips curling up gently, his eye unfocused. He looked rather bored. Thought this didn’t surprise you, you'd met his type many times. Arrogant and self-absorbed divas. They only care if it’s about them or could benefit them. Friendships are transactional, they live for themselves and no one else. They don’t apologize. If they are wronged, they don't believe in getting fair, they believe in getting even.

He’d honestly make a great archangel.

It was clear from their brief interaction earlier that Alastor and Lucifer did not get along. That also didn’t surprise you. Lucifer was the extract opposite, or at least he had been. Kind to a fault, and ready to help at a moment’s notice. Charlie resembled him not only in looks but in demeanor as well.

The memory drifted in. Back when you were giving all the little creatures their sound. Lucifer would rush to finish his work early so you wouldn’t have to be alone. He used to get so upset when the animals would struggle. A fawn tripping while learning to walk or a bee struggling to fly in the rain would send him into near tears.

That was the Lucifer that had been your best friend through thick and thin.

That was the Lucifer you had fallen in love with.

That was the Lucifer that had lied to you without an ounce of remorse.

That was the Lucifer that crushed you under his heel into the dirt.

Your breath hitched as you pulled yourself out of the memory. You hadn’t thought about it in a very long time, and you planned on keeping it that's way. With Lucifer roaming the halls that would be harder than usual, but you were sure you could manage.

You stopped outside another door, grateful for the distraction. Charlie bounced on the balls of her feet in excitement.

“I saved this for last; I think you'll really like it.” She smiled wide as she swung the door. "This is our conservatory.”

She flourished her arm outwards, displaying the room. It was more like an orchestra practice room with how large it was. Light warm wood floors and colorful pieces of acoustic foam lined the walls. Floor to ceiling windows allowed light to cascade in.

“I was hoping to start doing music therapy, so I made sure to stack as much as I could.” She began scampering about the room. Showing off all her instruments to you. You smiled and sighed as she moved about.

She’s more like her father than she’ll ever know.

“For percussion I didn’t really know what to grab so I stuck with drums and a xylophone.” Charlie said

“Glockenspiel” you corrected.

“Gesundheit” Alastor quipped next to you.

“What?” Charlie looked at you puzzled.

“That” You pointed toward the instrument in question “Is a glockenspiel, this” with a wave of your hand the percussion instrument appeared. “Is a xylophone. A very common mistake my dear.” You moved the instrument next to its look-a-like cousin. “There” you remarked.

“Well now we have both!” Charlie said that ever-present optimism still firmly in place. Alastor rolling his eyes at the interaction did not go unnoticed by you. What you saw as a valuable teaching moment, he clearly saw as a waste of his time.

Typical.

“That was all I really wanted to show you. Do you want me to get you set up in a room?” Charlie beamed up at you, far more relaxed than before.

“Actually, do you have an office, or head of operations? I would like to get a grasp on your redemption plan before I settle in.”

“Oh, uh yest I have an office.” She fidgeted with her hands briefly.

“Splendid” was your reply as you followed her a few floors down.

As Alastor, Charlie and yourself entered the office the only thing of note that you saw were childlike drawings and figures on a cork board. Rainbows and smiling faces shone on each page.

Charlie sat forcefully in the desk chair, spinning around before stopping herself to face you.

“Right” She started, confined kicking up in her “Let’s get started.”

You sat on the other side of the desk, manifesting a notebook, pen and laptop. You heard a growl coming from the other side of the room but didn’t bother to deign Alastor with a response. Pissing him off further.

“May I see your resident files please?” You began writing the date in your notebook, expecting Charlie to move and retrieve the information. When you noticed nothing in your periphery you looked up at her puzzled.

“Resident files?” She asked, hesitancy laced in her tone.

“Yes” you confirmed, “The files for your resident.” Charlie stiffened up, chewing on her lips and avoiding eye contact with you.

“Do you not have any information on your residents Miss Morningstar?” You asked. Snickers could be heard from the peanut gallery across the room, but you continued to deny him the attention he so clearly wanted.

“What kind of information are you looking for exactly?” She asked, still not making eye contact with you.

“Names, nicknames, contact information, room assignments, dietary restrictions, preferred therapy treatments, projected redemption timelines, sessions notes, special living accommodations.” You laid out the thing you could think of off the top of your head. Charlie just sat there and stared at you like she did outside.

“Anything?” You asked.

“I mean if they have one, I have their phone number saved on my cell.” She offered.

Alastor was cackling at this point, leaning against as wall holding himself. Clearly trying to contain his joy at the princess’ failings. Charlie shrunk in on herself, frown deep as she stared at the wood grain of her desktop.

“Alastor if you have nothing to contribute to this conversation you may go.” Your stated.

“What?” He asked, looking at you as he wiped tears of joy from his eyes.

“I said get out, Mr. ‘Radio Demon’"” you couldn't help but roll your eyes as you said his earlier given ‘title’. “You’re being dismissed.” You ordered.

Your stern tone and order sobered him up as he gave you an indignant look.

“I beg your pardon-”

“Go on then” you cut him off before he could finish.

“What?” He asked, his face a mixture of perturbed and confused.

You looked him up and down before gesturing at him with your hand, clarifying.

“Beg.”

You could see rage fill his eyes as he turned and stomped toward the door. A smile curved on your face; oh this wasn't over yet.

“Wait” you stopped him before he could exit.

He turned around; a smug smirk held on his face as he assumed you were calling him because you realized you actually needed him

“As if’ you thought.

“The Atwater Kent Model 9” you stated to him. Amusement filled you as you saw his eyes go from confused to horrified to enraged.

“What?” Charlie’s question almost startled you. You had forgotten she was there. You turned to her smiling as you explained.

“Fun fact Charlie, a majority of sound quality form a radio comes from the receiver, not the transmitter. That silly little filter of his is replicating Atwater Kent’s Model 9. A pretty middle of the road bread board radio if you ask me.” You could see him begin to distort in your side view. His anger now manifesting into a demonic form.

“Not as renowned as the RCA Radiola III, not as economical as the Crowley Pup. I mean even Atwater Kent thought so considering the Model 10 came out the same year and was bounds better. Not to mention the Model 12 the following year.”

Charlie began looking at you concerned. The shadows in the room shifting, the crack in of bone as Alastor's joints began popping and rearranging themselves.

“So I’m assuming the choice is... sentimental?” You finally turned to acknowledge him. Oh and what a sight you saw. He truly was doing his best to look monstrous. Antlers extended, teeth elongated, neck disproportionate to his body. If you were an unfortunate singer in his path, you would be quite frightened right now.”

But you are neither of those things.

“That was all. You may go now.” You stared at him, not breaking eye contact. As he made to lunge at you, you raised your hand. With a flick of your finger, like sending away an insect, Alastor was forced out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Silence hung in the air as you stretched your arms above your head, wings shifting subtly behind you. After a moment you put your hands on the desk and sat up.

“Alright then, I think your first task is clear, get started on making some resident files. If my timing is correct, it should only be about one in the afternoon, so you should still have plenty of time to work.” Your things misted away as you walked to the door. “Does that darling little girlfriend of yours know where I’ll be staying, or must I tract down that pesky deer from wherever he is sulking?”

Charlie blinked, shaking her head desperately trying to clear her mind and comprehend everything that had just happened. “Uhh yeah, Vaggie knows your room.”

“Perfect.” You opened the door, stopping mid-way. “If I may impart some wisdom?” You asked

“Go for it” Charlie replied.

“Knowing how to read people is a necessary skill for what you are endeavoring to do. If you can’t tell friend from foe, this ship will fill with water before you even think to get a bucket. Rule number one, everyone has a tell.” As you stood there, Charlie cleared her throat.

“Even you?”

You smirked “Precisely my girl, even me. Hopefully by the end of my time here you can tell me what it is.” With that you closed the door and headed back down to the foyer.

You weren't entirely sure if the room selection that you received was due to trying to make a good impression, or if this just was the standard suite, but regardless you were satisfied with your digs.

Magic swirled around as you molded the room to your liking. Exerting the space inside, making it far bigger than it appeared on the outside. Once you were satisfied you allowed yourself a moment to breath. Walking over to the reading nook you had installed by the window.

As you walked the plush carpet soothed the soles of your feet. Fluffy and bouncy in a way that as you walked across it, your feet left little impressions. As your arms raised above you to stretch your wings sprung out to follow suit. Sure you could hide them, and most likely would after today, but during such as tumultuous day; having their weight behind you was reassuring.

Amidst the pops and groans as you stretched, a whisper of rustling floated to your attention. No other being would have caught it, but sound was your essence. You gave everything its song, and nothing escaped your ears unless you let it. You swiftly turned and ground your heel into the head of the serpent that had been slithering through the carpet.

Lucifer emerged from the floor, palm soothing his head. “Was that really necessary?” He exclaimed indignantly.

“Really?” You questioned. “You’re the one who snuck into my room, and yet your the one complaining?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes in response. “Cut the crap Y/n. What are you doing here?”.

You rolled your eyes right back at him. “What’s the point of even sending a letter if no one reads it?” You snapped back.

“Why are you here? You specifically. It could have been any angel and yet the angel of music herself had to show up?” He questioned.

You closed your eyes and sighed. You had been so close to finally relaxing for once.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I am bound to follow explicitly given orders like all angel folk are. Why am I here? The boys above me said it had to be me and poof here I am. Trust, that I don’t want to be down here just as much as you don’t want me down here.” You spoke firmly. The conversation was grating. You hadn’t spoken to Lucifer in years and the first real conversation you have with him is being accused and accosted in your quarters.

Lucifer stiffened up, still trying to appear in control and angry. “I just find it curious that after all these years it’s only after Lilith is gone that you show up.”

The mention of his wife sent a pang through your chest, but you couldn’t dwell on it now. “Oh is she gone? I hadn’t noticed. I have a sound scape to run and armies to lead. I don’t keep tabs on you Luci.”

Hurt seemed to dwell on his face for a moment before he shook it off. “Don’t call me that”

You hadn’t even realized that the old nickname had slipped out.

“If that was all you came here for you may go.” You crossed your arms, praying that was the end of it.

“What are your intentions with my daughter?” Lucifer asked, his faced darkening.

You scoffed. “Again, the letter. I am here to help Charlie get this place fully functional. Something you clearly haven’t done considering the rainbowed state of her office.”

“How dare you.” Lucifer started walking toward you.

“How dare I what? Tell you the truth?” He stopped. “I’m here to help your daughter, equip her to actually redeem sinners and go home. All Hell does is remind me of the depravity of humanity.” You turned from him. You couldn’t let him the truth of it all behind your eyes. That the depravity of humans didn’t bother you. What did was being reminded of what you lost, what could have been.

You sat in the window nook, looking out over the city. “Here’s my offer. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, if you do your best to stay out of mine. When we must collaborate we will be civil.” You turned to see him over your shoulder. “For Charlie.”

Lucifer sighed. “For Charlie”.

As the door closed behind him, you let your head fall to the windowsill. Your mind was far too chaotic now to relax. Emotional turmoil raced within out, bouncing about your skull. Leaning back you summoned a lap harp, content to play out your sorrows into the air for an audience of none.

Taglist <):D

@sirens-and-moonflowers @diffidentphantom @sugarcubepop @preciousbabypeter @yourmom132 @himikoquack

#alastor x reader #alaska writes #hazbin hotel alastor #past lucifer x reader #hazbin alastor #hey you read the tags!#So I moved to a new position at work #Hence the delay #my apologies for that #I did waaaaayyy to much research for this btw

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petorahs · 6 months ago

Note

I would love to hear your thoughts about Sunday. (Please rant about him)

free reign to rant about my favorite character.... omg. I hope you know what you've just unleashed

first of all look at him. he is like a cat.

now where to begin...

I know what kinds of characters I like so I knew immediately that I was in for it when I first saw Sunday, "the most handsome man on Penacony!" with Robin in tow, who was his sister. for reference, characters with siblings almost always end up having my heart. for example Ayato is my favorite character in genshin, Arlecchino following close second. my affection for Aventurine rose drastically the moment I learnt he had a sister. found family Stellaron hunters makes my heart melt. I will always love sibling dynamics, characters who put their families first.

then his interaction with Aventurine happened. his questions were so very clearly a projection, not an interrogation. "Do you love your family more than yourself?" he was so clearly grieving. this is where Sunday starts to set apart from Ayato in my head. Sunday was more emotional and fraying at the seams than we ever saw Ayato throughout the story. he was a grieving brother who barely hides it. and... "Do you wish to destroy this world?". this is where Sunday starts to clearly set apart from Aventurine. Sunday would rather remake the world than destroy it.

and then. 2.2 - In Our Time happened. this is where I knew that he would become my obsession for months and months and months to come. it's where we saw his kindness, his bleeding heart, his pessimism on full display. his love for humanity - but never for himself. his evangelical themes, his Maruki persona 5-esque plan, his own grand orchestra, he himself being orchestrated like a puppet on strings. his Luciferic fall from grace.

...and being caught instead😭

this was so poignant i almost cried. idk like everything clicked here. s*icidal characters being caught (not saved) but held is so important to me. the light in their eyes dimming and the framing of the scene reminded me of how Scaramouche fell. and like how Aventurine held Kakavasha's hands.

PLUSSS sibling characters growing apart the older they get. Robin and Sunday arent that close in the present, that much is clear. they even fought before this. BUT SHE STILL CAUGHT HIM I JUST-- 😭 LIKE FUCK BRO I DIDNT EVEN THINK PENACONY AS A WHOLE WAS GOOD AT THE TIME NOR WAS I EVEN PLAYING HSR AT ALL I ONLY STARTED DURING JUNE 2024 but this still got me. it ended me. it just had everything i ever loved every theme i found dear and personal

also my favorite writing choice they did for Penacony was continuously mentioning Robin and Sunday's "paradise of our dreams" and the "promise" they made and how diametrically opposed they are despite both pursuing that vow, but... we only properly learn what it is at the end 😭

i. just cried at this i think. its such a simple wish but things went so far than Trustful Boy and Guileless Girl could have ever thought.

so that's the journey. ultimately i just came to the conclusion that this guy is just too cute for his own good and he wants the best for people he's never ever selfish or mean 😭 he's as loving as Elysia hi3 i think and his 7 rest days philosophy is just so cute of him.

he truly truly TRULY advocates for resting rather than having to work 9-5's, he would tell you to eat the extra dessert and to sleep in a little. HOWEVER. he would not extend this same leniency to himself. that is the duality and complexity of Sunday. (like look at this)

HE DOESNT RELY ON GODS!!! faithful church boy that he is, he denounced both Xipe AND Ena while still honoring THEM and he makes such good philosophical points and its just crazy that the trailblazers didnt really want to listen to him bc he was cooking. and regardless, he takes his fall with grace. GRACE!! he WANTED to be proven wrong he's just so reasonable and i love his faith and devotion and care and and and

as a kid he dissed the teacher that said little Robin's singing was bad. and then he ate an eggtart out of spite. THE LITTLE BIRDIE HAD SUCH AN ATTITUDE!! and he has piercings in his wings and metal choir in his boss theme of course he's a little alt.

i adore this side of him:

he just. needs to know that he's deserving of all the love in the world he desires for everyone else. i hope he doesnt put himself on such punishingly high standards anymore. i hope he learns more from Aventurine and takes more chances. i hope he gets his :3 smile back on his model.

i am so ill for this man.

also i think this message i sent to my friend after I saw Sunday's animations explains how i feel at all times. I got nothing to hide. (I'm sorry women) (NSFW text warning)

#ok that last one couldve been omitted but i couldnt think of a funnier way to end it so #anyway #i also like the faustian references in his/misha/penacony's stuff <3333 very nice #he has so many references in gen but i like him as is :]#those are all easter eggs #fascinating ones #sunday #aishi.docx #anon #ans #thank you for the ask!#and for. uh. reading till the end. if u did.#i went off and this lowkey barely scratches the surface i think

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redheadsramblings · 2 months ago

Text

WIP It's A Day!!

Look the brain gremlins and the muse joined forces and made me about 100% stupider, so I was banging my head against HARBAR and getting nowhere

So I had nothing to post or share because again IT. WAS. NOT.WORKING!

But then a very smart man who I love with my whole body and soul (no not Emmrich this one isn't pixels) said "Why don't you work on something else?"

Remember what I said about the gremlins and the muse making me 100% stupider. Yeah, fucking obvious, right? Nope, I needed it pointed out to me.

So to the lovely and wonderful @thequeenofwinter @andthekitchensinkao3 @serstolas @sunny374940 @sofiemystique and @starfleetteddybear who tagged me, thank you for the tag and your patience, and so I present to you my newest WIP with the placeholder title of

Vorgoth gets a Crypt Baby

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

The wind howled, driving sand and fog across the chasm, but the figure on the bridge gave no notice of it or indeed anything beyond the vague sense they were trying to pinpoint in the surrounding depths. If they were given to such mortal concerns as breathing, they'd be sighing and possibly grinding their teeth if they had such appendages with which to do so. Vorgoth was not given much to displays of emotion, and if they ever were, there was no one living who remembered if they did. Even they would admit that they didn't remember if they ever had.

They knew they were old, but not how old. It simply did not matter to them to recollect such a thing, if it was a thing that could even be recollected. Age was a mortal concern, really. They were old and that was all that mattered. Though not the oldest that served, they knew that. They were just the one who was among the mortals the most, at least publicly. And what they served was far older than any of them. Even they could not say truly what they served. They just knew that they served.

The youngest ones were always the most curious. And while Vorgoth would always make time to answer their bright questions, they sometimes wished that the young ones could be content with the answers given rather than badgering them to tell more. They knew it drove their mortal companions mad with the desire to know, but some things they could not share. Not would not. Could not. It was not needed for them to know. And as such it was not needed for those bright mortal lights to know.

They were thankful that young Myrna was content with the answers they gave. Oh, not to say they did not ask for clarification or more details, but she accepted when they could not tell them more. They found her most soothing to converse with of an evening. And the gentle, shy and bright thing that was growing between them that while not utterly new to them, the feel of it was new. They wondered if Myrna felt it too, or if it was still too new. Time would tell, and they would enjoy their company whatever came of it.

Now if only they could find whatever it was that drew them down this deep. Nothing living ever came here, so when they'd felt a stirring of their duty, charge and some unidentifiable pull, it drew them to journey down here. Myrna had been concerned and wanted to accompany them, but she'd been dissuaded eventually. For which they were thankful. It was not safe for mortals, there were dark things locked down here, and they in turn drew the darker denizens of the Necropolis and the Fade to congregate. They had no such concerns, for nothing down here was imbecilic enough to try them and if they were, well they would not make that mistake again.

Where was it? What was it? They could feel it but not find it. Like trying to pluck a singular note from an entire orchestra. They knew it was there but they. Could. Not. Find. It! They did not know what drove them but driven they were. Almost as if they did not find it, something precious and irreplaceable would be lost forever, and that thought gave a name to the feeling they hadn't even realised was present. Fear. There's and something else's. Something old and ancient yet also new, bright and flickering just out of reach. Like the small blue Wisp floating just out of reach.

Vorgoth felt their mind screech to a halt at that thought. A Wisp? Here? Such a creature would not, no could not be here but there it was. Glowing soft and blue and swirling before them, chittering away at them.

"Follow! Follow! Hurry! Hurry hurry! Follow! Show you! Hurry! Follow!"

Once it knew it had their attention, it shot forward, glowing as brightly as it could so they would not lose it in the gloom. They followed with no need to care what mortals may see, they were able to glide close behind the small creature as it weaved and bobbed through the landscape. Leading them to what was the newer section of what was still ancient by mortal keeping. They remembered when mortals came to honour their dead here, but time and fate had marched onwards, and now there was only the forgotten and profane here. Though here it was only the forgotten tombs.

As they drew closer to the graves, a new noise came in over the wind and the chittering of the small Wisp. A tiny, thin and high wailing. It seemed to contain all the world's sorrow and hopes in one. Vorgoth was seized deep in their very being by that cry, and it drove them faster onward, followed closely by the Wisp. A small group of undead were gathered outside an ancient tomb. As Vorgoth drew closer, barely registering the name "Ingellvar" carved into the stone lintel above the door, a new cry sounded from the crypt.

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No tags because while I have somewhat soothed the gremlins they're still having a rager in my brain so if you see this tag you're it 😁

#dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #rowan rook ingellvar #tag you're it #vorgoth #mourn watch #rook #papa vorgoth #my wips #wip #wip wednesday #work in progress #wip game #Vorgoth Gets A Crypt Baby

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lyfrasilly-edda · 6 months ago

Note

Time didn’t mean anything, when it came to the Bifrost.

Time didn’t mean anything, and Lyf was floating in empty space, the last bit of a million dreams left in their chest.

Their oxygen tank beeped again. It’d been doing that a lot, recently. Running out of air, probably. There wasn’t anything they could do about it, though, so they let it keep on beeping.

The timeline was stable, they thought. The timeline was stable. There was no more bits of extra timelines floating about, no more empty tomorrows or wasted yesterdays. Just the gentle, ceaseless present, bearing down on them.

(IGYB moment :))

Marius was going to hate this.

That was the only thought in Lyf’s mind as they pressed their hands on the wall and let out a sigh. The portals were… experimental, to say the least. Lyf knew they worked, at least, for travelling small distances. They would make their form more unstable, or stick them in a wall, or make them start throwing up, but they did work.

Going to another dimension was not a small distance.

It was risky, and if Marius was in the room he’d probably be threatening to wrap them up in duct tape to keep them from getting hurt right about now, but… there was a world that needed their help. A version of themself in danger, and a Marius who was mourning them. Not a vague danger, like the versions who were escaping the Bifrost, no. They might be dead at this point.

The Bifrost was Lyf’s domain, though. It wouldn’t kill them. The outer gods wanted them to live, for whatever reason, might as well use their life for something useful.

They took a deep breath in, and tore through the paper thin threads binding reality in place.

The first feeling was falling, and they squeezed their eyes shut on instinct. It was sharper than the normal portals: a sign something was different. Hesitantly, they opened their eyes, blinking and adjusting to the world around them.

It was somewhere between a lightshow and the darkness of space. Roiling, constant, ever-changing colors, yet somehow peaceful and still. Maybe it was the calming music, singing far away, an orchestra familiar to them, though the song it sang was different. It was a familiar sight to them, at this point. They saw it every time they broke through reality. Whether it was their reality they were breaking through, or someone else's, was the real question though.

They scanned the colors, looking for the hint of something that wasn’t the chaos. Something real, or real in a different way. They took a steady breath in, feeling the hints of panic creeping on them, making their hands shake slightly. “Hello?”

#rainbow rambles #asks #answerings asks #groundhog gay

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tennessoui · 1 year ago

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for the microstory challenge!!! 2 - this was a mistake

"So," Obi-Wan says, pressing a hesitant hand over his bleeding brow and wincing. "I think we are both in agreement that this was a mistake."

Anakin scowls and turns his head on the cot so that he's facing away from his master, pure petulance radiating from him. "It was romantic."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, but even he can tell that he sounds terribly fond. "We're both in the Halls of Healing, dear one. Twenty minutes into our first romantic outing as a couple, you suffered an allergic reaction to cocavet seeds and hit your head on the table of the restaurant as you fell, causing a minor fire and major panic--primarily from the orchestra you paid to serenade us at the table. Then I crashed the speeder trying to get you back to the Temple before you asphyxiated in the passenger seat. If this is your idea of romance, I'm not entirely certain either of us--or Coruscant--will survive our relationship. Let alone a second date.

Anakin scowls harder, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks so downtrodden and young that Obi-Wan has to sigh and lean forward, patting his blanket covered thigh with his blood-free hand.

"There, there," he says. "Perhaps our talents lay in romantic evenings inside the temple. Hm?"

Anakin turns to look at him at least, face scrunching up. "Like in the Room of a Thousand Fountains?" he asks, looking intrigued.

"No," Obi-Wan says quickly, though he bites his tongue before he remind his former padawan that the Room of a Thousand Fountains is a sacred Jedi place. Not a place for Jedi to chase after teenage fantasies. That would just distract them both from his very real point he is trying to make. Primarily, "I meant somewhere more private, dear one."

Anakin's eyebrows pinch together.

"Our quarters, perhaps."

"Oh! Oh," Anakin says in quick succession. Honestly, Obi-Wan would be worried about a concussion making his padawan slower on the uptake than usual, but he was (regrettably) present for much of Anakin's relationship with Padmé Amidala. He understands that love makes Anakin rather stupid.

"Oh," Obi-Wan agrees, patting his leg and standing as the healer on duty calls his name and beckons him towards an examination room. "I will leave you to work out the kinks in that arrangement."

He is treated to a particularly lovely image of his padawan turning scarlet for a moment over nothing more than a bit of wordplay.

"Master," Anakin says once Obi-Wan has taken several steps away from him. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked. Anakin's eyes are wide and earnest, but there's a hint of a curl to his lips, something more devious beneath his mask. "Don't worry, Master, you're not out of a job yet."

Obi-Wan stops, narrows his eyes in consideration as he weighs what is obviously a trap versus the joy he gets from bantering with Anakin, before turning around to face him completely. "I'm sorry?"

The smile lingering around Anakin's mouth breaks out into a full out grin. "You take my breath away better than any cocavet seed ever could."

"I liked it a lot more when your throat was too swollen to talk," Obi-Wan decides, and Anakin barks out a laugh in response.

"Oh," the healer says some minutes later. "Your face is rather warm, Master Kenobi. Have you been affected by an allergic reaction as well?"

Obi-Wan does not give into the urge to put his face in his hands, but it is a rather close call. After all, he's definitely been affected by something.

[prompt from this list of microfic prompts]

#asks #obikin #microfics #im still calling these microfics even though they have NOT been 3-5 sentences lmao #shorter than anything else ive ever managed to write tho #it's the idiots being idiots thing #it's fun #and these are really easy to write in between packing and criminal minds episodes #both of which have taken over my life btw #packing especially #not that these tags are at all relevant to this microfic

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cowgurrrl · 2 years ago

Text

It Ain't Me Babe

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️

Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]

Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??

Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.

Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester.

"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her.

You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text.

You awake?

You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work.

"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background.

"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"

"I'm staring at my waking nightmare."

"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?"

"I'm a hack."

"You're an artist."

"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."

"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk.

"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."

"Hey, some of us like that shithole."

"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years."

"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."

"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.

"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."

"Sounds reasonable."

"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.

"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school."

"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed.

The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine.

The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.

"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz.

"I think so. Are you gonna play music?"

"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.

Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.

"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says.

"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.

"How'd you like the club?" You ask.

"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."

"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."

"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least.

"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me."

"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing."

"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need.

"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head.

"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.

"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "

"What's in Boston for your sister?"

"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."

"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums.

"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little.

"Do you miss her?"

"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."

"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic.

He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look.

"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off.

"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say.

"How'd she do today?"

"Really good. I think she fits right in."

"She make some friends?"

"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease.

"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."

"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night."

"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."

"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?

"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."

"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again.

"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket.

"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information.

"It's for emergency purposes only."

"What d'you consider an emergency?"

"Mr. Miller-"

"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back.

"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."

"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window.

"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.

"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.

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