#and i love every single millisecond of it more than words can describe | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

plush-rabbit · 4 years ago

Text

Obey Me! Heavy Thoughts for the Dateables

Warnings: Mentions of Death

A/N: Reasons for heaviness may vary! I was in a mood so I kinda scribbled this out in days,, uh yeah!! A little all over the place and ye!!

Barbatos:

His eyes and hands ache, his mouth dry no matter the amount of water he intakes. His temples thud with a dull pounding, one that echoes lightly and steadily. It’s been a rather rough day for Barbatos. Woken up late, and with an already bad feeling about the day. His eyes glow, a bright green light that fades as soon as it comes. His head is heavy and he can feel the effects of the power creep against him, but there is no time for rest, he has duties that he must attend to. He picks himself up and blinks once and then twice, as if willing the pain to go away and he is off. He is steady as he works, precise as if there is not a growing pain that makes itself known the more that he goes on and the longer that the day continues. He was allowed the day off, had concern expressed over him with a steady hand on his back slowly leading him to his bedroom but he declined. It was a simple headache, a simple bad day that must be powered through. There was no use for such worry over something so simple.

It’s a heavy day and he’s had them before but they don’t lessen with each blow- they still hit as heavy as ever. He walks quietly, his demon form exposing himself, his wing-like horns piercing into him, the bones of the appendages pulled taut. His tail swings widely, curved as it sways along, narrowly missing each statue and piece of item that decorates the hall. He cleans dutifully, each piece of furniture polished and dusted, the headache only growing more and more, pounding against his head. His hands grip a cleaning feather duster, the wood splintering in his hand, his jaw tightening and eyes narrowing. The brick wall touches against his gloved palm, the indent and grooves of it press against the fabric, marring it with imperfections, the hand that holds the duster loosens, the feathers brushing against his pant leg. His vision grows spolthy and he casts a glance towards the end of the hallway, paintings move and peer from the frame, watching as the butler walks away. His steps echo in the castle, and he knows that he’s taking time off for such a simple feeling, guilt builds in his body, his legs becoming heavy with lead, and yet, he can’t stop himself. He was given permission, was encouraged and he had looked the other way, but he needs it now.

He hides himself in a corner of the castle, door locked and lights off and he’s nervous. He isn’t allowed to use his power freely and he isn’t going to; he’s simply going to take a peek. Something has come over the butler, something so terrible and nerve wracking and he has no idea how to calm it, how to force his tail to stop swinging so rapidly- he feels irritated. A final look is given to the door- there are no shadows underneath and he takes a deep breath, the smell of parchment and cotton in the air. Time flashes before his eyes, glowing brightly, his hair slowly creeping, longer and longer as milliseconds go by. Everything passes by in a mere blink of the eye and when he returns, his hair receding back to its usual length, his eyes slowly dimming, he sits on a chair. His head is in his hands, his eyes closed and nails softened by gloves scratch into his scalp.

It’s a dip of himself, just a slight little thing that went wrong; and yet, he can’t shake off the feeling. Nearby, he can hear footsteps, they come in eager and almost unsure. Shadows form under his door and he can hear muffled voices, his name being spoken is a constant and there is worry evident in both of the voices. His brows furrow and he rises, his shoulders slacked and exhaustion heavy in his eyes. One of the shadows disappear, footsteps echoing in the distance and the handle to the room turns slowly, his name called once more in a whisper. Through the small gap from the doorway, he sees your face, hesitation graced among your features until they fall and in its place, concern takes over. You close the door quietly behind you, his name whispered under your breath as you rush towards him. You cup his face in our hands, pulling yourself close to him. You hold him as if he is porcelain and he simply bows his head, eyes closing, and his tongue is bitten between his teeth. In a sudden movement, he goes to hold you.

Your hands move from his face to wrapping your arms around him. He leans into your touch, his tail wrapping around your waist and tightening his hold on you, the bones of his horns, pressed against your plush cheek. Barbatos tells you how silly it all is, to feel this bad over a simple bad day, his voice trailing off into a hoarse whisper, and you don’t want to imagine the poor demon crying at the thought of such a heavy day. You hold him, comfort him and edge yourself closer until you reach a couch. He rests nearly above you, his leg swung over yours, and face still buried against your shoulder. Your fingers thread through his hair, curling strands of it around your index as you listen to his woes, his grip tight and voice delicate. In your arms is a demon, beautiful and powerful, but in your arms, he is exquisite and frail, never once lifting his head no matter the times his name is whispered. His hands ghost over your body, the gloves soft against your skin and slowly, he removes them, letting the warmth of his hands curve over your neck as he rests near your collarbone. He begs for you to hold him, just a little bit longer, just until he feel like he can stand and you do so, promising to sit and hold him, ending the words with a kiss against the crown of his head.

Diavolo:

The soon-to-be king is lonely. He grew up being respected but without a friend. He grew with a father who had lost someone he loved and he grew without a mother’s touch. As much as Diavolo can try, he will have limited friends. He is someone that people watch their tone with, they watch their words and avoid playful teasing. Deep in his bones, he knows that he is lonely, that the friends he does have still hold some type of fear towards him, they still respect him. It’s a long day in the castle. It’s quiet, there are minimal sounds and the portrait of his father stands behind his desk, looming over his shoulder and he can never tell if his expression is remorseful or something akin to a scolding look. The prince sits alone with a heavy heart in a room that feels far too large for him to be in.

As a young boy, he has learned to hold himself high. He has grown up knowing that he will be a king. He wants to do great things. He wants to bring people together for reasons that he doesn’t quite want to admit but also because he is so desperate for attention, for any sign of love and acceptance. He is a caged bird, trapped between bars, watching as others gaze upon him, watching relationships form in front of him without reaching towards him. It isn’t healthy for him to let these thoughts dwell but in an empty room, he can’t find the will to push them away. His face is buried in his hands, eyes closed until colors and inorganic shapes dance behind his closed eyes and he sits still for a long time, the unblinking eyes of his father boring into him. Golden eyes brimmed with hope are dimmed, staring at the papers on the desk. He’s already done, finished long ago and yet, he can’t force himself to rise and leave the room that is slowly constricting around him.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, something that makes him sick to his stomach when his D.D.D. remains unbothered, the screen faced down, not a single sound erupting from it. He learned long ago to never expect much from it. But now you’re here. You are a human, that is it. You hold no true power other than the pacts that you have made and yet you make him wait with bated breath for every message of yours. It’s unhealthy to put so much of his happiness in your hands but he can’t help it. You are the first to not fear him for his title. You are the first to hold his hand and lean against him. You are the first that he has ever had the pleasure to grow so close to and yet you are human. You are compassionate and you do not fear him in any type of way, you include him and laugh with him. You both share inside jokes and he isn’t alone with you. He stands from the desk, his bones aching and he sets out.

He goes to visit you, a bag of sweets in his hand- a cheap excuse to come and visit you even though you have told him that he can visit whenever he wants to. His smile is bright, stretched wide as he holds the bag in front of him, already making himself comfortable on your bed. He can breathe a little bit lighter, his smile now more tired than forced, and his heart still heavy. The weight on his shoulders has shifted into something more troublesome. When your hands cup his face, his smile wavers and he leans into your touch. He confesses to you that he has been lonely and it isn’t like his other confessions- this one isn’t made in a passing comment, this one is said out loud in a somber tone, his hand encasing yours, his eyes brimming with tears and voice in a hoarse whisper and he can’t find the words to describe just how lonely it is for him- how lonely it was before you came into his life.

Diavolo is large beside you on the bed and he is somber, looking much older than he usually does and you wonder for a brief moment just how lonely he was, how it must have felt for him to realize that he won’t have a true connection. You move to sit beside him, cradling his body and pushing him towards you, his head on your chest and hands held together. You rub your thumb over his knuckles, the scars soft under your touch, and when you kiss the top of his head, he holds your hand tighter. He can be a king, he can be a prince or a lord, but he is still someone who craves a relationship, to be included and to have a friend. He rests on your bed, his body warmed by yours and his hand held. He is soothed by your heartbeat, your ever loving touch and his thoughts are silenced when you begin to whisper to him promises that you’ll be beside him while legs entangle themselves with yours. Resting on you, he is comforted, held and told sweet things, and soon with a heavy heart, he moves to hold you above him. You lean down and peck against his lips, his smile tired and eyes still holding wisdom and knowledge that you’ll never know of and he keeps you by him throughout the night, memorizing each and every scar that your body offers, his lips hot against your body.

Simeon:

As an angel, Simeon has to avoid temptations wherever they fall. He’s seen what it can cause- the destruction and death that it could lead to and he has no time for that, not when Luke is under his care. You, however, do not make it easy to sway from such temptation. He doesn’t know what will happen in the coming future and the thought terrifies him. He knows that human life spans are so short, so insufferably short and unexpected, and even if you do live for long, he’ll see you die and the odds of you becoming an angel are something that he has no clue in. You come to him so eager and full of life, so ready to hold him in your arms and he won’t ever be ready for the day that you lay in a bed, too weak to move your arms and hold him again. While he won’t ever do the unspeakable- at least that’s what he tells himself- you unknowingly add to his pressures.

For now, he doesn’t think about that. He thinks about you now. He thinks about your smile and your usage of kaomojis. You still have life and that’s all that matters to him. He thinks about the fun memories that he can make in the meantime with you. His D.D.D. will buzz with new messages, new reports and various other things that come in and he’ll have to face it eventually but it’s all too much. It’s too much, too soon. He has to speak to you one day of his duties, confess upon his knees and tell you that he does it because- well, because he has to. He is an angel, who is he to disobey, to find his voice when it’s suddenly convenient for him. His wings weigh him down, heavy and lined with gold, shimmering under the light of God, and he is supposed to be holy and yet, he cannot touch you without his gloves. He’s afraid he’ll stain you and your being. He’ll taint everything precious about you with just a simple touch.

However, he still seeks you out. Late at night, he’ll search for you, a ripple of itchiness that shoots across his back, tingles that ache as his wings beg to be released. He finds you and curls up to you, so tense and terrified and you’re there to comfort him. He rests beside you, hand in hand, wickedness and love combined, something so sweet that it makes his eyes water and mouth thick with honey. His hands are gloved, not daring to touch anything that he shouldn’t unless it burns his skin. He stares at your wall, littered with pictures of you and the family that you’ve made along the way, you're smiling with a smile that stretches so wide he’s blinded by it. You’ve allowed him in your room, in your sanctuary because he came to you. He’s beside you, a small, golden cross rubbed between his forefinger and thumb, and he can feel his heart race.

Sweat beads against his forehead, his back aching as his mouth dries. The flesh of the son is heavy on his tongue, the blood thick and bitter as it soaks anything sweet in him. His hand tightens and he can feel his hand tightens round yours. He has to be careful- he can’t hurt you. He won’t forgive himself if he ever did. His tongue is between his teeth and in a picture of yours, your tongue is stuck out, hugged between your lips and his vision becomes blurry, fire in his eyes as he stares. He must show the emotion- whatever it is- on his face, read like an open book. You call his name, your hand above his, and he doesn’t register it, he can’t. You call him again, tugging on his hand and pulling away the golden cross. His eyes are wide and you can see the angel in his eyes, the years and the time, the war and the love that he has seen. The cross marks itself in the palm of your hand, and he snaps at you. It’s nothing cruel, but his words are sharp and loud.

You flinch at his words but you offer a tender smile. Your hand opens and the cross itself is tight in your hand. He hadn’t meant to snap. Tears fill his eyes and scorch his cheeks and he’s on his knees, the floor under him cold and solid. Apologies fill the room and he can feel your eyes on him. It’s a heavy day where he cannot feel anything but the weight of everything on his shoulders. You embrace him in your arms, pulling him close to your chest. Unlike the floor, you are soft and warm, holding him as he buries himself in the crook of your neck, feeling your heartbeat like a lullaby to him. Your lips press against his forehead, lips pressed to his skin and hair and he leans to you. His hands tighten around you, pulling himself closer to you; forgiveness has never felt so delicate and repent has never felt so fragile. He cries silently, holding you close to him, letting his tears trace against your skin. Your hands curve against his back, fingertips fluttering between his shoulder blades and pressing lightly between. He wonders briefly if you know where his wings rest, where the hurting hurts the most. You touch lightly around, barely ghosting against the muscles, and he holds himself closer to you. His eyes are fresh with tears, the heaviness in his body slowly lifting as he leans into you, and he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with you. The Celestial Realm is far above, shining in golden light and the sweet air of holiness. Your room is casted in the soft, orange glow of the lamp, the room smelling of apples and jasmine, and here, the tired angel feels safe to lay his weight against you and close his eyes.

Solomon:

Despite being an accomplished sorcerer, Solomon isn’t immune to emotions; he is still human despite being immortal. He is older than you can comprehend, dates and times have been long forgotten by him and the people that he held so close no longer have faces. He is human and he misses the people that he has grown close to. He is immortal, a life that is coveted and always seeking to figure out it’s secrets and yet to him, the life is nothing but cursed. It’s the same routine with each lifetime; it’s people that he grows close to, people whose hands he holds and people who hug him so tight that he can feel their breath on his neck, people with hands that soon grow limp in his.

He does his best to never let his emotions show; he rather not deal with the endless questions of his well being because while he’s fine, he really isn’t. He bottles his emotions and hides them far away and it stays like that. For a while, he can be young, laughing and making references to the world that he lives in now. Other times, he lays in bed, the sun that has been rising is a friend and an enemy to him, the people who age before his eyes are something that he envies. Around you, it’s much different. He knows you’ll die sooner than he would like and he’ll be left alone. You made your way into his heart. You hold a special place within him and he worries for the day when he’ll forget your face and the way your hands feel against his neck, and the taste of your lips that are so sweet and soft.

Glyphs and notes are strewn across his room, the sorcerer at work as he tries to figure something out- something to just keep you safe as much as he can, to ensure that you won’t meet an early fate. It’s desperate and selfish of him but he knows he won’t be able to stand the silence once you’re gone. He’s unlike himself, silent and eyes too focused to see what is going on around him. You have no idea what he’s doing, just happy to be beside him, to see him at work. You stare at him for far too long, your own notes of spells and potions resting beside you, now forgotten as you choose to focus on your partner. He stands still, eyes fluttering about, and then he moves rapidly. He seeks and searches, erases and scribbles notes crudely in a journal. He is a work of art- beautiful to look at, imperfections and lines adorning his skin and you worry for the day that he’ll collapse.

His eyes will meet yours, a tired smile on his lips and he holds a hand up- five more minutes. A promise that has long turned repetitive but you know how important his work is, how he strives for perfection in his spells. He talks aloud to himself, the spell book in hand- the corners of the pages frayed and various notes and inches of extra paper peeking past the pages. The book fits perfectly in his hand, his face flushed and eyes tired as they stare at a potted plant, the leaves brown and nipped. He mutters under his breath, his eyes glowing for a brief second, his hair lifting as if static were the cause, and you can feel the magic in the air. You glance at the plant, the leaves curling in on themselves before falling off, replacing themselves with new leaves. You stand straighter, excited, assuming that’s what he wanted and when you look at him, he lets out an exasperated chuckle. His chuckle turns to laughter and his laughter turns into frustration, a string of curses chased in different languages echoes in the room. You call his name and he turns to you, cheeks nipped with red and eyes fresh with tears.

Your name is whispered under his breath and you frown, rushing over to him where he holds you tight, his face hidden in the soft curve of your neck. Solomon does not let go of you, he keeps you close, crying into your neck, his hands tightening and he doesn’t speak. Tears burn hot against your skin, his lips moving, words silent and when you hum his name, he only shakes his head, his lips going still. Soon, you both sit on the bed, his body leaning against you for support. He holds your hand, his fingers playing with each of yours, fingertips pressed against his lips in gentle kisses. Solomon confesses to you that he worries for the day that you’ll pass, his eyes closing when he feels your body tense beside him. He doesn’t think he could handle it if you were to leave him. He craves your touch and he hates to admit it, but without you, he is lost. You hold him in your arms, moving until you rest against the headboard, while his head rests on your chest. You hold his hand and tell him that no matter the time that has passed, you’ll still be with him. You hold him in your arms, his tears wetting your shirt as his whimpers are muffled by you, and he knows he’ll miss you but for now, he’ll be comforted by your hugs and the press of your lips on the top of his head. He’ll wish and pray that this isn’t some dream and that when he awakens, you’ll still be there.

417 notes · View notes

nathandrakeisabottom · 3 years ago

Text

Making It Better : Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: In a motel room in Buenos Aires, Nate holds you in his arms and tells you how he got his scars.

Warning: First couple paragraphs are explicit (post-coital lovin'), but after that it's T for Teen (description of injuries). This one is very near and dear to my heart and I hope it makes you feel soft and think about love. :)

He’s loved you at every which angle tonight.

Even now, the comforter continues to hold you deep in its clutches, so hot you can’t move, so heavy you can’t breathe. Every prick of his stubble races across your skin like it’s trying to strike a match, but there’s no point; he’s already lit you on fire, burned your body, heart, and soul— all at once— at his stake. Your pussy pulls, sucks, forces him up, up, up— stay longer, hold out for longer, a second, a minute, an hour more, wait— but instead, your body follows him down without you as you plummet to and through one final climax, with only the desperate, possessive sting of his fingers on your thighs to remind you that you’re not fucking dying.

Even after years of intimacy with him, it isn’t enough. His closeness has you tasting your heart in your throat every single fucking time— every callous on his fingers eats and tugs at your skin in a restless kiss, impossibly prolonging it, petrified you’ll pull away even a millisecond too soon and leave him out in the cold and the dark, without your warmth to wrap tight around him and usher him home. But he has no need for such fears. If anything, he makes you feel helpless, like a child, dizzy and small, powerless to his agonizing tenderness, until shyness has you tucking your face in his neck, as if you could possibly hide from him there. But it’s far, far too late to hide.

At times, it seems like he knows you better than he knows himself— and it’s like he has nowhere to hide from you either.

His arms hold you safe against him, and you twist inward to kiss up the swollen curve of his bicep to his shoulder. In your line of work, you could never be lucky enough to hope for anything consistent— beggars can’t be choosers, you’ve heard it said more times than you can count, often in an insufferable British accent— so, Nathan… he was like your gift from the universe.

“Nathan…” You say for no reason in particular. Just to savor. To show him how much you love saying it. To hold it safe in your arms. To make it yours.

He’s wordless after making love, a common occurrence with him. So instead of responding back, he does the next best thing, and nuzzles deeper into the crook of your neck— hiding from and hiding with each other in the only safe place either of you had.

You’ve never met anybody so warm, so kind. He’s gentle, even as he burns you alive— after every orgasm, he pants, and his breath has nowhere to go but up and out, into the lovingly bruised skin of your neck. Timid breath makes his chest ripple up against you, coarse hairs an electrifying contradiction to soft, tender skin and smooth, bulging muscle. It’s overwhelming how gorgeous he is, and you can’t help blushing when he finally catches you ogling.

Sometimes you can’t believe he’s really yours. There’s nothing wrong with the occasional reminder.

But all of that is just the cherry on top in comparison to the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he treats you. Nathan plays you better than any instrument, warm fingers stroking over bent hamstrings and coaxing your heart to his, playing the space between your shoulder-blades with such gentility and precision that you might’ve thought that once upon a time, he’d sculpted your body himself. You’re parched for and drenched with his love all at once. He makes you feel so loved, so alive, that you almost part your lips to tell him.

But then, you stop yourself. You’re standing still in one of the rare, precious moments where words just don’t matter. They’re not enough, they’ll never be enough, so you don’t even bother trying.

But still, somehow, inexplicably, you wish you could describe what his skin felt like against yours. You wish you could explain in words just how much his heartbeat felt like home. Or how he smelled. Or the rhythm in which he breathed.

…Or why you couldn’t quite figure out if the feeling in your chest was anger or despair for him when you first saw it.

It… was a scar. Only about an inch long, just below his collarbone. Likely made by a paring knife or a personal switchblade, as it wasn’t too wide. This white, glaring thing that told the entire world that someone once dare hurt the person you loved more than anything else in the world.

“Nathan… what is this?” You ask as if you really need an answer, reaching out to lightly trace along it with your fingertips, thinking you could somehow mend the skin back together if you tried hard enough.

“Wha…?” It takes Nate a second before words become feasible. “Oh! Just a little souvenir from Greenland. Ya know, it’s actually waaay less green than people make it out to be… ”

By the time Nate’s meandered into an overdramatized tale involving a supposed “dragon egg”, 200 museum guards, and a particularly helpful polar bear, your gaze has wandered back to the scar and the feeling— bitingly cold dread, a mysterious anger you can’t yet fully understand— has taken hold once again.

You begin to wonder if it hurt.

Of course, it hurt, you reprimand yourself at your own stupidity.

So instead, you begin to ponder a different question: How did it hurt?

…Was it a sharp pain? Or a dull, hollow one? Did it hit a vein? Did he bleed a lot? Did someone bandage it as soon as it happened? Or did he wait— wait til it stung and ran and the red began to pool down his chest in grotesque, violent streaks? Maybe he brushed it off with a bad joke and didn’t think twice about it… or maybe the pain didn’t catch up with him until he was safe in the motel room the following morning. Maybe it got infected. Maybe there were others. Lots of others. Maybe he cried.

You pray to god he didn’t.

Every bump and ridge of his chest falls prey to your judging fingers as you trace your way down. And it’s far too soon before you feel the sudden, harsh edge of another scar. This time near the top of his sternum— and you hiss. Even just a centimeter off, a harder lunge, a dodge a millisecond too late, and he wouldn’t be in this hotel room with you anymore. You’re not going to cry, you tell yourself. He’s not in pain anymore. He’s safe and here with you. But the tears are already starting to well up when you graze what you realize, far too late, are the remains of an especially large gash on his lower abdomen, and his breath catches horrifically.

“Sorry—“ For some reason, he’s the one who says it instead of you. “That one, ah, it’s sometimes still a little tender.”

“Oh, honey…” You can’t help the tremor in your voice.

And he backpedals almost instantaneously. “N-no! Seriously, I’m fine! I barely even felt it when it happened. Probably just a reflex.”

But you refuse to believe him. You’ve never heard Nate tell a story that he couldn’t spin into harmless, swashbuckling fun. So you ignore him when you says it’s fine. You know he’s lying when he says he barely felt it. And you definitely don’t hesitate when you move in to press a slow, soft, apologetic kiss right against the scar on his collarbone. As if you could magically make it better again.

He’s still as death, holding his breath against the overwhelming intimacy you never ever rationed with him. Maybe he’s embarrassed, maybe it’s too much. …Maybe he’s scared. But the second you feel a tentative hand on your shoulder, you know that, in his own way, he’s letting you in. He’s telling you it’s okay. He’s okay.

If only you could say the same for yourself.

It hurt him then more than it hurts you now, you tell yourself. That should be obvious, shouldn’t it? But it’s hard— near impossible— to believe it when all you can think about is Nathan in pain. Someone else making Nathan feel pain. Pain that wasn’t fair. Pain that wasn’t deserved. Pain that might’ve not happened had you been there just a few seconds, a few minutes, a few years earlier.

“You, uh, wanna hear about how I got that one? It’s actually a pretty funny story…”

Your eyes finally dart back up to his when you realize you’ve been ghosting over his stomach with your fingers this entire time, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to determine the scope of the injury. Anyone with eyes would be able to tell it was bad. Fatally bad. And there’s nothing you can do to stop your heart from shattering into a million pieces.

“I would love to.”

And this time you really listen.

He tells you the sordid tale of an unflinchingly optimistic, ragtag hero (probably himself, but he never directly specifies) on the brink of certain death. He calls it an interrogation scene. You might (more realistically) call it torture. The scene is depicted with sweeping words, and hand gestures to boot, of the time he was bound and roped to a chair— (He makes a kinky joke to try and ease the tension, and you snort appreciatively. But it doesn’t work.)— in a Russian fishing warehouse slash drug ring. The leader is bald and smokes an American brand of cigars and looks like “a cross between William Defoe, Popeye, and a hard-boiled egg.”

You’re so busy laughing at his joke that you accidentally give way for him to drop the big bomb quietly:

“…And of course I don’t confess, so ol’ Egg-y whips out a knife and gives me a paper-cut right over… here.” Your gaze follows his hand back to the scar on his belly, and somehow, it looks even worse the second time around.

You finally notice the yellowed bruises littering Nate’s ribs, which once blended seamlessly, invisibly, into the warm orange light overhead, but now stood out like bloodstains on a journal entry strategically placed for environmental storytelling. You see where his skin sinks and sinews and turns bright red. You see how much thicker the blade was. You see where he must’ve gotten stitches done. But there’s no time to wonder if they gave him anesthesia for even a second, because it’s too obvious he wouldn’t’ve taken it even if they did.

Suddenly, something wet and guilty slides down your cheek.

You wish he was better at asking for what he needed.

You wish you had been there sooner.

“Was it quick?” “Huh?”

The question startles him into a deadly silence.

“Did… did he get it over with quickly? Or did he…?”

“Did he draw it out? Is that what you mean?”

Your heart stops. Yes. Yes, it was what you meant. And it isn’t just the guilt of asking that makes it sound so, so much worse aloud.

The only thing you can do is nod, terrified and transfixed as he reads your question for what it really is. Your heart is already leaping into your throat in the two seconds it takes for him to answer. 50/50 chance. As if that would possibly make it any better, any less horrific. You can see the gears turning behind ocean-colored eyes, and by the time he finally opens his mouth to speak, you’re not even sure if you actually want the truth or not.

But he’s merciful. So he doesn’t give you an answer at all.

“Really… it wasn’t so bad. Just some pain endurance practice for when I get your name tattooed on my lower back.” Nate’s lips curl into a cocky, self-satisfied smile and you immediately curse yourself for laughing. But it isn’t enough to lift you out of your stupor. Even when his arms wrap tighter around you, even when he begins to line sweet, reassuring kisses up your jaw, you can’t quite shake the image of him in that chair, gritting his unshakeable smirk against certain death.

You can’t stop thinking about the blood running.

“No one should ever, ever hurt you like that.”

“What...?” Your words even surprise yourself, and justifiably, Nate breaks away in confusion, lips popping off your skin in a broken final kiss.

And then you’re crying. You don’t start to cry, magically, wistfully single-tearing like an actress with an eyedropper. Just one second, you’re not crying. And the next second, you’re crying.

Nate’s grip tightens against your shoulder, and it takes you a full minute to realize it’s because your mouth is moving and praising and kissing over every single mark. It hurt him then more than it hurts you now. But this time— finally— you intend to do something about it.

“No one should ever, ever, ever, ever hurt you like that.”

“Oh, they’re nothing really! I swear, I can barely feel them anymore. It’s just, uh… I… ” And at long last, he surrenders. “…Thank you.”

Maybe if you try, with all your heart, you can love him hard enough. You can mend him back together.

His skin has been tumbled, scratched, and ravaged by danger for so many years, and the way the bed-side lamp’s orange glow illuminates him is monstrous, sinister, a reminder of smoldering flames falling through clanging swords in a pirate ship bunker, mere ghosts of a fear you can’t even begin to fathom. Death follows him wherever he goes, but somehow he remains kind. He remains good. He remains yours.

His arms are unlike any home you’ve ever known; you’ve never known someone so strong, yet so gentle. He’s fragile against your lips, every press, no matter how soft, has him gasping for air. Past the cuts on his neck, down the scars on his chest. You drown him in you. But still, he doggy-paddles afloat with only the hand on your shoulder for support, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper into your lavish, affectionate, healing touch— vulnerability hot at his neck like a loaded pistol in a lover’s game of Russian roulette— until you finally brave the territory down his stomach, and all of a sudden:

He laughs.

The sound punctures the air and drains all the tension out of you.

“Sorry.” His voice cracks, eyes darting up to yours for even the slightest hint of hesitance, disgust, even. You’ve never seen him look so small before. “…Ticklish.”

And suddenly the once-ashen air is filled with the sounds of Nathan’s debilitatingly sweet laughter, as you nuzzle deeper and blow shameless raspberries into the sensitive skin near his bellybutton, wringing joy from him where there once was fear. You may not have been there then… but you’re here now.

And that’s enough.

“Cutie…” You give one last lingering kiss there before a playful palm collides against your shoulder, Nate’s only line of defense.

“Don’t make fun of me!” But it’s high-pitched, half-hearted, more insecure than anything, and you’re quick to put those cruel feelings to rest with a hand on each cheek, forcing him to look head-on as you try desperately to convey everything that words cannot. “I promise I’m not making fun of you, Nathan.”

And again, you feel his chest rise and stutter against yours in a timid, vulnerable wave. He looks so small. But you hold him safe in your arms— you remind him that he’s safe with you, he’ll always be safe with you— and after a few moments of uncertain stillness, he finally exhales in relief, dropping your body down with him, and his palm reaches up to meet your hand in a grateful, tender kiss.

“You deserve better.” You whisper carefully, a secret, a wish so deep and personal and impossible that it tears your very soul apart to actually say it aloud.

“No—” He responds immediately, shaking his head softly before pressing his free hand to your cheek. Despite everything, he’s still good. He’s still kind. He’s still yours.

“I have better.”

#nathan drake #nathan drake x reader #uncharted x reader #uncharted 4: a thief's end #uncharted #uncharted 4 #uncharted smut #uncharted fanfiction #this is my new favorite you guys i really hope it makes you feel the way i felt to write it :)#love you nate <3

254 notes · View notes

harry-writings · 4 years ago

Text

Hurt You Just Before You Go

- The one where Y/n picks a date for her divorce with Harry

Part 1

Masterlist

“You know what we should do?”

It was the third night of their honeymoon and they had just got done with a particularly passionate round of love making — leaving them bare and breathless upon the heart-shaped bed, illuminating in the moon’s wake, burning in their desire.

“Hmm... what, baby?” Harry hummed against the crook of Y/n’s neck — which still smelled like cherry vanilla despite his lips making a home out of it not just thirty minutes prior — pulling her body closer to his because he longed for her even when she was as close as could be.

“When your contract is over and it’s just you and me… we should go somewhere — somewhere far away from everything we’ve ever known, somewhere nobody else knows.”

Just the sound of it made Harry’s heart wither and clench, his bones shiver, his muscles ache with temptation because he couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted more than Y/n to consume his life whole — leave behind the life he’d made for himself because none of it meant half as much as she did.

“We could be those people who just up and leave; raise a family, adopt a kitten or two, drink wine on a hammock while the kids are asleep.”

And he was convinced Y/n shared all the same visions he had — all the same hopes and all the same dreams. Because when he pictured his life after his fame faded to nothing but a distant memory, all he saw was her — there was nothing else or nobody else, just her.

But to know he couldn’t have that for another five years made his heart heavy in his chest.

“Don’t tempt me. Please, don’t tempt me.” He begged with his hungry lips — sprawling kisses along her body, anywhere they could touch. “Would do it right this second if I could. Would give everything up to just have you.”

Y/n would kill for it, would sacrifice anything and everything to spend the rest of her life exactly how she was spending it then — the world unturning as she lay helplessly in her husband’s arms.

But it couldn’t always stop for them no matter how badly they wanted it to. Life had to move on, they just hoped they could keep up with it.

“But you’ve got a whole lot of love from a whole lot of people. The world would crumble without you, Harry Styles.”

“Let it.” He asserted without hesitation, his lips against her inner thigh, spreading her open, all for him. “Mine would crumble without you.”

“Our anniversary?”

Y/n can hardly believe the sight in front of her.

She had seen Harry at all his darkest and most vulnerable moments — seen him through all his breakdowns, all his blackouts, all his downfalls — but nothing compares to the broken mess of a man standing at her front door trying desperately to hold himself together.

He’s falling apart at the seams, broken on his feet — his eyes bloodshot and swollen, hair abused, his skin pale and sunken and tearstained — and Y/n has this bloodcurdling feeling swelling in her veins that Harry has completely lost touch with himself.

“You decided to get divorced on our wedding anniversary?”

The words get caught in his throat and knot with each breath he takes, his stomach churning on its own bile because every single part of him is so incurably empty.

Never, in a million years, would he have expected his life to take this sharp of a turn and leave him hanging on the edge without Y/n’s hand to hold. How he’s been breathing and getting through each day is completely beyond himself because he would have never guessed he’d make it that far without her.

But this… this will end him.

Because their wedding anniversary isn’t just another day to make it through, or another plan to make in his already booked-up schedule... it’s the one day Harry looks forward to within his mess of a life — the one day Harry can be unconditionally and unapologetically himself, the one day he feels genuine happiness and fulfillment — because he spends every millisecond of it with Y/n, with nobody’s eyes on them, except for each other’s.

And to lose that would make every other day of his life an absolute living nightmare.

“Baby, please tell me this is some sick joke. You can’t be doing this to me.”

Y/n, now, almost wishes it was, because seeing Harry like this is horrendously unbearable. He is drowning, sinking, falling into the depths of his own hell and she knows she’s the only one that can save him from himself.

But she can’t. No matter how much her hands are shaking and aching to reach out for him, she knows he’s going to find a way to let go again, and she just can’t risk herself for him anymore.

“It’s going to be easier this way.” Y/n whispers beneath the trembling of her frowned lips, because even though she was once so convinced that this was the only way to save themselves from this loss, she’s now having a hard time believing herself.

How is any of this going to be easy?

“If we got divorced any other day, it would —” she chokes out a noise that Harry can only describe to be complete and utter agony, “Harry, it would ruin us. That’s two days, forty-eight full hours of thinking about everything we could have been and everything we’ve lost, and that’s not counting all the time we’ll spend in between thinking about how much we’re going to dread the next date before it even comes.

“We can’t handle that, Harry. Have you seen us? From the second we started dating, the more time we spent with one another — the more time we even thought of one another — made every second apart feel like the end of the world. Imagine feeling that way when we can’t even have each other… it’ll kill us both.”

And despite how badly he wants her to be wrong, deep down, he knows she’s right.

What they have — the feelings they share and the love that’s rooted between them — is unnatural. It runs so deep that it seems to defy all laws of time and space. They become convinced that the world revolves only around each other — that nothing else has a purpose, or a belonging, in their lives.

One look is all it takes for time to falter, for the universe to pause, only for them.

But as years passed by and times started changing, they also became convinced that every problem in their relationship wasn’t a matter of lost feelings or unfaithful love, it was a matter of loving each other too much. So much, that they couldn’t survive on their own.

It was too dangerous and too toxic, but in the most innocent of ways.

“It’ll only kill us if we don’t want it.” Harry croaks out, his tired eyes helpless and vulnerable as they stare into hers, which are just as sad and void as his. “And it is so clear to the both of us that we don’t want this. We can have each other again if you just — please, just let me fight for you.”

He takes a step closer to her, tentatively, because he wouldn’t know how to handle himself if she were to walk away from him again.

“I can’t lose you, baby. I can’t. The second we walk out of that courtroom we — I’ll never be able to see you again, or talk to you again, or touch you. The only thing I’ll have left of you is Topher and I swear to god, every time I look at him it’s going to take everything in me not to run to you, wherever you end up, and I can’t live like that. I can’t fathom the idea of being so fucking far away from you and not having a single clue where you are or what you’re doing — not knowing if you’re safe, if you’re crying, if you need a hand to hold, if you... if you need me… if you hate me.”

It didn’t hit him until now — the possibility of Y/n curing his name and wishing nothing but death upon him, feeling like she’s wasted so much of her life on someone she wished she had ever even met. And that tears him apart from the inside out, his insides twisting and throat pulsing just at the thought of it.

And how could he do anything when all he wants is her?

“All of this started because I couldn’t be your first, and all of this ended because I chose to put you last even though that’s the farthest place you’ll ever be to me. And the thought of you —”

He chokes on his words, his hand reaching up towards his chest to rest upon his hollowed heart, heaving back sobs that are on the verge of crashing over him. And Y/n can’t bear to watch it.

“The thought of not having you, Y/n. I can’t stomach it. It’s just not possible. I can’t.”

He’s not holding anything back, now. He’s falling apart and drowning in the pit of sadness he has yet to escape — his body so desperate for relief it can hardly keep itself up anymore. And the only thing that keeps him from collapsing on the concrete is Y/n’s shaking hand upon his shoulder.

He lets out yet another cry, hunched over, his own hand reaching up to grab ahold of hers. He’d know the feeling of her hand no matter what the circumstances — when she’d surprise him on tour and he’d know it was her hand that touched on his neck before he even heard her voice, or when they were being swarmed by fans and he knew when it was Y/n grabbing his arm and not some random stranger trying to get the best of him.

And how could he find any other pair that could ever come close to holding himself together the way hers does?

Y/n pulls him into her as he weeps his sorrows against her shoulder, hoping that just the hold of her arms are enough to keep him steady… at least for a little while.

But when he lifts his head from her soaked t-shirt to look into her eyes with pure desperation and despair, she knows that it’s not.

“Please baby, let me fix this. Let me be everything you need me to be.. I can do it, all for you. Just, please, let me make it right.”

His breath falters when his eyes make their way to her lips — god, what he’d do to those lips — and his mouth waters at the urge to pull her in and give her everything he has to offer.

She’s right there, so close he can feel her breath on his, and all he has to do is just pull her in until her lips fall right into his —

and they do.

They’re exactly how he remembers them to be — soft and warm, light and sweet — and he whimpers into her mouth, his hands cradling her cheeks as their tongues dance in harmony.

Y/n pulls him backwards and though he is so swooned and out of his damn mind in ecstasy, he follows her movements like a lost puppy because god forbid he pulls himself away from her ever again. He doesn’t even open his eyes because if this is a dream, it’s one he doesn’t want to wake up from.

And what was once so delicate and raw became hot and heavy — their mouths all over each other’s, hands wandering underneath clothes, moans of temptation dripping from their tongues as they make their way to her bedroom.

And they should stop. God, every bit of them should stop but they can’t because how they have shamelessly missed this, and how badly do they want it back.

So they don’t.

2 hours later.

“Where were you thinking?”

Y/n was half asleep as she nested herself against Harry’s naked body — her legs trembling from her previous finish, her red, swollen lips parted around tired breaths, eyes shut around a daydream. She looked beautiful — so beautiful, Harry almost didn’t have the heart to keep her awake any longer.

But he couldn’t help himself… he needed to know before the night took her away from him, because when she fell to her slumber and dreamt of their future together — swinging on a hammock with a bottle of wine, the world fading until all that was left was themselves, surrounded by kids and kittens — he wanted to dream it with her, too.

“Hm?”

Her eyes were still closed, body unmoving, refusing to wake from her slumbered state but also refusing to miss a single word Harry had to say.

“Earlier you said that when my contract is over, we can go somewhere only we know.”

She hummed again, this time, with a warm smile painted on her lips.

It was her favorite thought — really, her one and only thought — and it was the only dream of hers that she ever really, truly believed in. Everything else, to her, was uncertain, but her life Harry was unquestionable and undeniable. They were meant solely for each other.

“Where are we, when you think that?”

She craned her neck against his chest so her lips could peck at his skin, softly, and only once before she rested her head right back to where it laid before.

“Alaska.”

“Alaska?”

Harry pulled slightly away from Y/n with furrowed eyebrows and confused eyes, looking down at her as if to assure himself that he heard her correctly.

He was in disbelief. Not because it was unlike her to think of such peculiar things, but because it really was so far away from everything they had ever known, and one of the only places Harry has yet to see.

How she even thought of it, he’d never understand. But he could never question her dreams or make her feel as though he didn’t want them the same way she did. He only wanted what she wanted.

And as he looked down at her, with her eyes still closed and face still soft, her lips turning upwards, he knew how much it meant to her.

“We don’t have to.” Y/n slurred sheepishly. “Just a thought.”

“No, baby. No, of course I want it, it’s just —” he tucked her in closer to his chest again, afraid he just ruined everything she had been looking forward to. “I’d freeze my balls off, love. We wouldn’t be able to make any babies.”

She giggled, shaking her head softly.

“It’s not cold all the time, y’know. And I don’t know… I just fell in love with the idea of us living without any neighbors or any distractions. We could be by the water, have a view of the mountains, have enough land for our kids to wander off and play. And even if it’s not what we imagined it to be… we don’t need anything outside of us. It’ll still be the happiest we’ve ever been because it’ll be you and me. Just you and me.”

And as she spoke the thoughts that have been floating in her pretty little head, Harry closed his eyes and saw it, too — clear as day, as if his mind had met halfway with hers and went to a universe that was only made for them.

It was then, he knew, that that’s where they belonged.

It shouldn’t feel this way — this ghostly and empty, like being trapped in a room haunted by everything that once was.

Y/n shouldn’t be looking at Harry beside her, naked, with a clench of regret straining in her heart, but that’s the only thing she feels.

Why? She curses herself. Why does he have to make me so weak? Why does he keep doing this to me?

She shouldn’t be loving him like this — like she’d cut herself open just to please him, like she’d ruin herself just to make him feel better — but she is, just as hard and selflessly as before. And the sad part is… she’s never stopped loving him this way, she wouldn’t even know how to.

“You should go home, Harry.” Y/n speaks through the words she feels so heartbroken to say, because she shouldn’t even be saying them at all. “I don’t want to keep you from your day.”

And Harry feels it all again.

The twist in his stomach, the pulsing of his throat, the hallowing of his heart — all surfacing once again even though he thought it was safe to bury away.

“You’re kicking me out?”

He whispers it with a crack in his voice and Y/n wants to take back everything she’s done — letting him beg for her love back, letting him cry on her, letting him love on her. Because now look at where they’ve ended up — naked and broken on a bed that didn’t belong to them, wishing reality could let them stay, hoping this wasn’t goodbye.

But it is. It is goodbye and the last time they could ever be this close again.

“Yeah, Harry. I’m kicking you out.”

She doesn’t want to sound so heartless and cruel but she’s been left with no other choice, she has to walk away from this on her own without finding her way back to him. And she’s learned by now that she’s too damn weak when it comes to his pain — she’d give into him if she were to break.

“This wasn’t my way of coming back to you.”

But, oh, how Harry thought it was.

Sex was never just sex to Y/n — it wasn’t just sex to either of them — especially when it happened with each other. Sure, it got messy, and sloppy, and rough on most nights, but neither of them would have enjoyed it nearly as much if they weren’t so in love.

So why would this time be any different? Why is it that now, so suddenly, it was her way of seeking revenge?

A fresh new wave of tears flood to his eyes, scrunching his face because he refuses to do this again — let her witness another cry, have her bring him to his knees, allow her to watch him break his own bones. The more he does it, the more power he gives her to treat him like this — like a one-night stand unworthy of her days, like a fuck she can only give when it’s convenient for her.

These past two hours have been a whirlwind of emotions for him, yet somehow, they were all too hopeful — thoughts of spending the night together, making love past dawn, playing hide and seek beneath the covers.

And here she is, throwing words around that crush all the rest of his hopes and dreams.

He hits his hand against the mattress, betrayal and deceit coursing so ruthlessly through his veins he feels his skin burn with each beat of his heart — leaving him damned in their nakedness.

“So, what?! You decided to screw me just to even the score?! Get me all over you just to push me away?!”

Y/n flinches from where she lays, her eyes still empty and sunken as she watches Harry hurl himself from her bed and as far away from her as possible. He had hardly ever raised his voice at her, even when she was most deserving of it, and it leaves her gutted and bruised in her wake.

“It’s not like that.” She whispers, though she knows it doesn’t really matter if she says it at all — he’s never going to let this go. “You were so hurt and I couldn’t —” she flutters her eyes shut, “I can’t control myself around you.”

He shakes his head and spits out a laugh so dark it sends a shiver down her spine, his eyes looking anywhere but at her, stepping into the leg of his pants like he couldn’t have been covered fast enough.

He’s angry, so angry and so hurt his hands and legs are numb and the backs of his eyes are stained red, and he’s at a loss of what to do. He’s done everything to deserve feeling this way yet something inside of him is bursting at the seams, desperate to extinguish it.

“So you decide to hurt me more?”

His chest aches and shivers, eyes shut and weep, now wondering if this dream is now a nightmare he’s going to be stuck in for the rest of his life.

And Y/n’s eyes fall to his empty side of the bed, wondering how she’s going to sleep here at night — wondering how she’s going to possibly live through this — after she had just done what she did.

“It wasn’t right, I know that, but I swear it —”

“No, it wasn’t right!” Harry fights back, though it’ll only risk losing her more. “I’m not perfect in this marriage but never once have I used you just to give you a taste of your own medicine! I don’t get you all weak and vulnerable just to spit it in your face later!”

He’s right, he hasn’t, but what an unfair statement to throw at the mess he’s already made of her.

He’s done worse — so much worse — such unspeakable and disloyal things that have left her alone to rot, decompose right in his own two hands until she perished in his ruin, and never once had he gone back on his mistakes. He just left her there, hopeless and afraid.

And she wants to scream it at him — wants to give it all right back to him, make him feel so small for what he’s done, break him down over, and over, and over again just to make him see that her moment of weakness was nothing compared to his moments of truth.

But she’s so much better than that.

“You think you don’t use me?” She breathes out in disbelief, sitting up upon the mattress now, holding the blanket up to her bare chest. “You use me every day. You’ve been using me as an option for the past year because you can’t handle doing your shit on your own!”

He’s still now, letting her words soak and seep into him as she picks and pries at his biggest weaknesses. And he is left defenseless.

“You don’t want this divorce because the second we sign our names on that contract, you’ll be alone just like you were before we met! And you’re going to be terrified looking for somebody else to replace this because nobody has been able to convince you that they love you for you and not for your money, except for me.”

God, why does she have to know him so well? Because even though that wasn’t even close to being the reason as to why Harry refused to pick a date, it was one of his greatest fears.

“So you just keep finding your way back to me because I’m the only love you’ve ever known, and if you lose it, you’re not going to know where to find it again.”

He can’t find it again and he won’t find it again, he knows it’s true. Everything in his life had led him to her, which is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

His world begins and ends with her, rises and falls next to her and there isn’t anybody else that could offer him that much. He doesn’t have to go looking to know that.

“I can only find it in you, you know that.” Harry whimpers out, fingers shaking as he places his hand on the corner of the bed, still reaching for her even in their worst moments. “But you’ve proven to me time and time again that you can throw it all away so easily, like it's meant nothing to you.”

His fingers fist at the duvet, praying for something to save him now.

“So open to dating other guys and make me watch you as you do it, so ready to fuck me just to kick me out at my lowest. And I am so low, Y/n, the lowest I have ever been, but you’ve stooped even lower.”

And he really can’t believe he’s doing this — walking away when he just gave her all the love he could give, saying goodbye when they were just saying how much they loved and missed each other not just two hours ago — but this is what she wants. This is the version of himself she’s created.

And he should really curse her for it, scream and cry and kick and yell, dig her six feet under for messing with him like this. But he’s too betrayed and in too much pain to do anything but run away and find a place for himself to be torn limb from limb until he’s a pile of waste that can no longer be found.

He lets one last sob rip out of him before he looks at her one last time, knowing this is it.

“I’ll see you in fifteen days.”

They should be by the ocean, watching the sunrise from their hotel balcony with a morning drink strong enough to take them both under while they cheers to the three years they’ve lived so happily together as husband and wife.

Topher should be asleep in his grandparents’ bed, getting lost in lullabies, dreaming of his parents’ return. And they should be dancing after breakfast in bed, laughing at the memories that haven’t let them go, singing the songs he wrote just for her.

They shouldn’t be here — sitting in a courtroom drowning in tears they are so worthless at holding back, listening to strangers discuss all the logistics and terms of a broken marriage they know nothing about.

How they have ended up somewhere so dark and deadly is beyond them. This is so unlike them — to willingly sign their names to be free of one another, to allow themselves to move onto other people who weren’t meant for them, to leave behind the life they’ve made for themselves — but this isn’t a matter of whether they want to anymore.

There has been so much damage done to the both of them that staying in this marriage, at this point, would just be cruel and spiteful and selfish. No matter how many sleepless nights they spend craving each other’s hold, wanting to climb out of their own beds and into the one they once shared so nobly, they have to let it all go.

And neither of them can breathe or bear to listen to these lawyers go on and on about what happens now — what will happen when they walk out of the courtroom, how their lives are going to be split, how they’re going to have to take turns spending time with the son they should be raising together as a family.

They don’t care about their lives after this moment in time because it will no longer be lived alongside one another, and that ensured a lifetime of misery for the both of them.

And they can’t even find the heart to look at each other. One look and who knows what decisions they’d make in their fragility. Who knows how far their love could take them to do such nonsense, such childish things.

One look and it’s over for the both of them.

“Mrs. Styles,” Y/n flinches at the name he so pathetically decided to refer to her as. “Your husband has left you with everything. This would mean that custody of Topher, the money, your home in both London and Alaska would be fully held in your possession.”

And suddenly, the room that was once so still and so lifeless begins to spin before her very eyes. The world is spiraling out of her control and her body is in so much shock, the only thing she can manage to do is grip at the edge of the table so tight, her fingers and knuckles turn white.

“Can you repeat that?”

Her eyes are wet, wide, and unblinking as she looks back up at Harry’s lawyer she hasn’t even bothered remembering the name to.

“That last bit. I need you to repeat it for me.”

He coughs awkwardly, his eyes drifting between Harry and Y/n before they finally settle back down to his paper. “Yes, ma’am. Uh, in your possession would be full custody of Topher, the seventeen million euros under Mr. Styles’ name, and your home in both London and Alaska.”

Alaska.

The word strikes her so deep and so unexpectedly, her breath halts in her chest and every muscle in her body buckles against each other.

And how could one word have so much power over her? How could one word make her feel a million different things all at once — leaving her so confused yet so hopeful, so heartbroken yet so fulfilled?

“Our home in Alaska?”

Her eyes are no longer trained on the man who just spoke that very word to her — no, they are now looking directly at the man who seems even more beaten and broken than the last time she saw him, the same man who shared all her wildest dreams.

And though she barely had any composure as it was, the parts of herself that were patched together with needle and thread are rupturing and bleeding out. And Harry has to so helplessly watch as the love of his life starts to crack and shatter at his feet.

“You didn’t, Harry! No you fucking didn’t!”

She punches at the table before holding her head in her hands, sobbing and choking and wailing in her palms. She can’t even imagine how pathetic she looks to lawyers around her but she doesn’t find it in herself to care.

They’ll never understand what that house in Alaska truly means to her, what it’s gotten her through and how much it’s kept her fighting through it all. They don’t know that living in that house with Harry — spending her days and her nights there, by his side until her dying day there — was her one and only dream.

And she had no idea it could have been her reality, until now.

“Of course I did, Y/n.” Harry whispers, his wrists wiping harshly at his red and swollen eyes. “I bought it that night.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Y/n pleads under her hysterics.

“Twenty acres, right by the water, across from the mountains, just like you talked about.”

Her cries only get stronger as she thinks about it all over again. And normally when she thought of it, it warmed her heart and filled her bones up with so much anticipation and impatience she could hardly contain herself.

But now, when she thinks of it, it leaves her cold and empty because it was right there — it was theirs and it was going to happen and they could be there right now and it’s all too much for her to handle.

She’s practically screaming between her hiccups and mewls now, really trying to breathe through the clenching in her chest and the quivering in her lungs but she can’t. And she is so lightheaded she swears she’s going to pass out right then and there, especially now that she’s sobbing so hard her throat pulses around a cry she can’t breathe it out.

And she’s going to die, she’s absolutely sure of it. Her entire body is flushed and shaking and her face is nearly blue — her lungs are collapsing and her heart is failing and she’s crashing out without warning.

And the sight alone brings Harry to his knees, hunched over the floor as he nearly hurls up the bile rumbling in his stomach.

He did this to her — did this to them. He is the only one to blame and that’s what devours him the most.

They could be at that Alaskan house right now, on that stupid fucking hammock drinking wine and making out like two lovestruck teenagers still learning how to be the best versions of themselves for each other. And they could be so drunk they fall to grass below them, dazed in their fits of laughter, falling in love all over again.

But instead they have fallen to the ground in a courtroom so willing to burn them out, wrecked and broken in each other’s arms, trying to remember what it feels like to have a heartbeat.

And all that remains are the two piles of divorce papers that they still have yet to sign.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagines #harry styles imagine #harry styles preference #harry styles preferences

1K notes · View notes

girls-love-girls1200 · 4 years ago

Text

67. Lisa x Reader

*The Job of a lifetime*

2000+ words

Warnings: cursing

When you had first shared your plan to move to the capital with your mother, for some reason the first words that left her mouth were: “Spring days in Seoul are the most enjoyable period of the year, when the cherry trees blossom and the air is crisp.” Her eyes melting into small crescent moons, a kind smile illuminating her soft features, she knew it meant that from that moment on she would find herself alone in your once always loud and full childhood home, but she didn’t mind, in fact she was proud, the youngest of three leaving the nest just after graduation. Ever since you were a toddler your mom had done everything possible to make sure you and your two brothers could live a life that made you happy, money and success had never meant much to any of you, it was always about doing something you loved. That’s why your mom had spent fifteen years of her life picking you up from dance class in her rusty old green beetle from Monday to Friday, attending every recital, sewing your clothes together, applying cream to your bruised legs. She knew that’s how you wanted to live, always on your tiptoes, sometimes on your knees, often on your backside, and so she supported you.

Now her kind words were replaying in your head on a loop, your heartbeat ringing in your ears echoed by your feet hitting the concrete at full speed. You struggled to find a reason as to way karma was battering you so hard, on the morning of probably the most important day of your life so far, not only had you poured spoiled milk onto your cereal, you had also been left stranded by your bus because of a punctured tire. You hated running, you truly believed there was a specific ring in hell for those who enjoyed the satanic activity of jogging, yet on this day you were running like no woman had ever run before. By some divine miracle you had managed to push through to the final interview round for a position as first dance assistant to one of the most renowned choreographers in the country, hundreds of extremely talented dancers had applied for the sought after position, today only twelve were left, eleven if you didn’t make it before the doors to the dance studio closed. By a stroke of luck you reached those doors as attendance was being called, bowing as you entered the room you zoomed pass the examiners, swiftly joining the eleven other girls, their gazes on you like starving vultures, you tried to control your breathing as you sat down on the last free plastic chair, in the corner where the huge dance mirror met the wall, you held your tattered dance bag to your chest, trying to regain your composure.

You dared to lift your eyes from the ground only as your name was called, a crystal clear voice cutting through the tense atmosphere, raising your hand you tried to muster up some confidence, failing as soon as your eyes met the ones of the owner of said voice. Lisa Manoban, in a simple white crop top and high wasted jeans her lean figure seemed to glow, a strict expression plastered on her stoic face, she scanned you from head to toe, you thought you heard her kiss her teeth at you as she sighed, “Give me one reason not to kick you out this second for arriving late.”

Tilting your head slightly you bit back a smile, Lisa’s eyebrows lifting in surprise,

“You haven’t seen me dance.”

A sharp gasp came from one of the girls sitting next to you, Lisa’s lips pressing in a thin line, eyes piercing through you, she gave you a quick nod, sitting down herself on the wooden floor,

“You’re going last Y/SN.”

You couldn’t hide the small smile that appeared on your face as you heard your surname coming from her mouth, and unknowingly to you, it had also caught someone else’s attention. Being last was never fun, your nerves rising as you carefully observed every girl stand in the middle of the room, performing a freestyle dance to a song of Lisa’s choice, you could read the anxiety in their eyes as the most complicated tunes poured out of the speakers, unrecognizable beats filling the space, Lisa’s eyes wouldn’t leave their body for one millisecond, her dark pupils following every single movement, as if she was looking for something very specific. Once the girl finished, she would be sent back to her place with a court nod, not a word coming from the stone-cold figure of Lisa Manoban.

It didn’t seem to go any differently as you stepped up to the small white X taped onto the floor, your fingers trembling as they played with the laces hanging from your sides, your mom had helped you pick out the outfit last night via video call, her encouraging words coming back to your mind, you took a few steady breaths as the older woman in front of you pressed play on her phone, you closed your eyes as the melodic notes typical of south Asian music filled your ears, your feet seemed to move even before your mind told them to, letting your nervousness fall off your body in fluid movements you focused on the strange melody that seemed to run through your veins, your focused gaze falling on Lisa after every twirl, you felt your body as light as a feather as you made the small space around you your own, ending your moves inches away from Lisa and her team. As the music came to halt you found yourself on the ground, slightly out of breath, your fingers hanging delicately from your collarbones, you smiled widely, bowing twice before making your way back to your seat, aware of a pair of eyes glued to your figure.

A woman in her late fifties took you quite by surprise as she invited all of you to wait outside, the selected candidate would be informed straight away. You all made your way out, a few girls breaking down in tears as soon as the door was shut behind you, others calling their parents, you made your way to the water dispenser just at the end of the corridor, pouring yourself a cup, you couldn’t help but chew on your lower lip, your nerves slowly coming back, the cool water alleviating your stress ever so slightly, you hadn’t even finished the cup when a tall figure appeared next to you, patting you on the back, Lisa didn’t even stop as she made her way out of the building, her words making you lose your grasp on the half empty cup of water that slipped through your fingers,

“See you on Monday in my studio, 9 am sharp Y/n, you’re late, you’re fired.”

Your name was echoed by the same woman who had asked you to leave the room, her gaze falling on you as also did that of eleven girls who had just missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Monday morning you opened the doors to your dream job precisely at half past eight, wanting to avoid at all costs any sort of tardiness, you knew you had a lot to make up for, you greeted the two young girls at the reception desk with a big smile, you introduced yourself briefly, which seemed to take them by surprise before making your way to the fourth floor, a welcome email had described pretty well what your job entailed, where you had to go and the hours you were required to put in, passing by your boss’s office you were quite surprised to see it empty, as you knew classes didn’t start until half nine. Curiosity got the best of you as you started exploring the various studios and classes on the floor, all of them more modern than any dance studio you had ever practiced in, that was to be expected knowing how much these kids payed to enter the dance academy. As you walked along the empty corridor the faintest of sound reached your ears, following it once again driven by sheer curiosity you opened another door onto the biggest practice room you had seen yet, in the middle of it a slim figure sat on the ground, long legs sprawled out in front of her, enveloped in a pair of black cargo pants, you could tell she was out of breath by the way her back raised at a fast pace, head hanging low, a cascade of raven hair falling along her shoulders.

“Doesn’t tying your hair up sound like a good idea while practicing?”

The older girl didn’t even flinch at the sound of your voice, her head moving slightly to peek at her watch, not even sparing a quick glance in your direction,

“You’re early, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Shuffling in front of her you held your hand out, your eyes searching for hers, she finally looked up at you, the faintest of smiles on her face as she grabbed onto your hand, your palm almost tingling at the feeling of her warm skin against your own.

“I’m full of surprises miss Manoban.”

Struggling to keep up with her fast pace, you followed her all the way to her office, your gaze following her every movement as she sat down gracefully, wiping her slightly damp face with a small white cloth, she pulled out a lipstick from one of her drawers, reapplying it carefully, she smacked her lips twice before leaning back into her chair, her intense gaze scrutinizing your still standing figure from head to toe.

“You know Y/N, you’re the first ever dancing assistant in the history of the academy not to actually have graduated from here, some people aren’t very pleased with that, so I hope you will prove yourself.”

Taken aback by the sudden statement you smiled at the teacher, almost feeling sorry for her, you could see the hardships she had gone through just by looking into her chocolate eyes,

“You see miss, I have nothing to prove, I am not here to prove myself, I’m here to work hard, and earn your respect, but let me get this straight, I don’t have to show to anyone that I deserve to be here, because I could tell, that those eleven girls at the interview last week had no idea what having to build yourself up from zero means. If people actually got into the academy because of talent and perseverance, then rest assured that I would have been top of the class, but since one can enter only because of money, background and privilege, I have had to find other ways to learn.”

Lisa’s eyes widened at your words, her mouth opening slightly before she shook her head, keeping her opinion to herself she got on her feet, her hands resting on her hips, her whole aura expressing pure confidence,

“That’s why I chose you Y/n, I think you and I will get on great.”

Sauntering towards you her arms crossed in front of her chest, she stopped just mere inches away from your face, the smallest of smiles painted on her kind features, her long fingers delicately moving a strand of your hair behind your ear, your cheeks burning at the closeness,

“And you can call me Lisa.”

Working with Lisa proved itself harder than you had first imagined, although the job itself was physically demanding it was Lisa’s attitude that seemed to tire you out the most, the girl was the most hot and cold person you had ever met. She could go from messing around with you in her office for an entire hour to becoming an impenetrable fortress during her lessons, never allowing herself to smile in front of the younger students, her stone cold face and harsh criticism making it very easy for them to dislike her.

It’s because of that exact reason you found yourself staying in the almost empty studio with a handful of kids after midnight, not feeling comfortable enough to ask Lisa for help they would come to you, knowing the older woman would only accept perfection, some of the kids needed an extra hand, a friendly smile and some encouraging words to achieve that. The late hours unfortunately started to take a toll, your mom had been the first to point it out, she had come to visit you one weekend and immediately noticed how your cheeks seemed more hollow than the last time she saw you and you were dragging your feet more than you used to, laughing it off you blamed it on the city’s food, because nobody could ever cook like your mother, of course she hadn’t bought it, but you had managed to send her back home before she got too inquisitive on the matter.

The second person to notice your exhaustion was none other than your boss. Lisa had come to pay a lot of attention to you in the last couple of months, more than she would ever like to admit, she had noticed how your feet suddenly didn’t seem as light as they were a couple of weeks prior, your twirls weren’t as precise, and your smile not as bright as the first time she saw you dance. The situation unfortunately escalated one morning in the middle of august, the city heat had rendered life quite unbearable, and the fatigue that rattled your bones felt heavier than ever before. Lisa had asked you to help her come up with a new routine for one of her advanced classes, and so you found yourself spinning around the studio at seven in the morning, Lisa’s eyes trained on your figure, she was about to tell you to slow down when she noticed your moves get sloppier, your legs shaking, your vision started going blurry and just before your legs gave out underneath you, strong arms wrapped around your waist, her sweet scent overpowering your confused senses as she slowly pulled you to the ground with her. Lisa tried her best not to go into panic mode as she held your limp body in her arms, she rested your back against her chest, one of her hands stroked your soft hair gently as her other passed you a bottle of water.

“It’s okay Y/N just drink some water, don’t try to get up yet.”

As your vision got clearer, so did your mind, and soon enough you were very aware of Lisa’s heart beating against your back, her fingers shaking ever so lightly as she caressed you.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your soft voice made Lisa’s insides tingle, resting her forehead against your shoulder a sudden wave of emotions seemed to crash onto her, all she could think about, all she could hear, see and feel was you, her lips millimetres away from your bare shoulder blades. Overwhelmed, she got up on her feet, ignoring your lost gaze trailing after her,

“Damn Y/N you need to look after yourself, I can’t always be on the look out for you, making sure you don’t pass out during my lessons. Just imagine the shit show if you were to leave me to do these classes on my own.”

She hated herself for the venom that spewed out of her mouth sometimes, she didn’t quite know why her mind seemed to find the worst way possible to deal with her emotions, it was usually bratty teens that would face the rear end of her bitterness and that didn’t affect her as much, but in that moment, as you struggled to lift yourself off the floor, tears brimming in the corner of your sweet eyes, Lisa absolutely loathed herself.

“If you weren’t so busy being an ice-cold bitch and actually let your students be students I wouldn’t have to spend every fucking night working extra hours to make up for your lack of professionality.”

Your words bounced off the mirrors of the practice room, Lisa froze in shock at your revelation as you stormed out of the studio, regretting your harsh words as soon as you had said them, you told the girls at reception that you would be taking a couple of days off due to personal reasons. Once at home you gathered your thoughts, realizing the only reason Lisa’s words had gotten to you was because you really, really liked her, you loved being by her side every day, spending your lunch breaks together in her office, dancing so close to her that your bodies almost became one. You had fallen, pretty hard, and by the way she had spoken to you earlier, you figured it was a one-sided kind of thing, and that hurt pretty bad.

You spent the entire day doing absolutely nothing, you wanted to rest but your thoughts were racing at a hundred miles per hour, it was late at night when you actually managed to settle down, wearing your favourite sweatpants and a sports bra you hacked away at a tub of vanilla ice cream, watching some random nature documentary on Netflix. The insistent ringing of your doorbell interrupted your much needed chill time, and unwillingly you trudged to the front door, your face turning pale as the person who had occupied your mind for the entire day stood in front of you, her usual Jansport bag hanging from her shoulder, black bangs sticking to her forehead due to the heat outside, her chocolate eyes staring apologetically out you.

You tried to shut the door immediately, trying your hardest to avoid the imminent confrontation, but Lisa jammed her foot inside, a small yelp escaping her as the door trapped her leg. Swinging it back open immediately to check if she was alright, Lisa took advantage of your moment of weakness and stormed in, trapping you between the wall and herself, her eyes staring directly into your own.

“Let me apologize please.”

The fast rise and fall of her chest gave away the fact that she was just as nervous as you were, her pearly white teeth sunk into her lower lip, your pupils following her every move, Lisa took a big breath, trying to steady her nerves,

“I’m sorry, the kids explained to me what has been going on, and I’m truly sorry, you were right, I was being unprofessional.”

Her sincere gaze suddenly became hard for you to hold, your head lowering as her face inched closer,

“But there’s a reason for that Y/N.”

Her fingers shook ever so slightly as they caressed your face, reaching your chin she tilted your head, her lips so close to yours you could feel her warmth breath,

“I like you like crazy.”

You couldn’t stop yourself even if you wanted to, closing the gap between your two faces, your lips enveloping Lisa’s soft ones, fingers tangling in her silky waves, you sighed into the kiss, eliciting a small hum of appreciation from the taller girl, whose arms wrapped around your waist tightly, her cold fingers grazing the small of your back. You pulled away from her just when breathing became an issue, your lips tingling. Lisa’s fingers desperately searching for yours, bringing them to her lips and placing the softest kisses on each of your knuckles, a huge smile spread on your face, your cheeks almost hurting.

“I think I might like you too.”

#kpop scenarios #wlw #lesbian imagines #blackpink #gxg imagine #twice #blackpink imagines #blackpink scenarios #blackpink one shots #Lisa #lisa manoban #lisa scenarios #lisa imagines #lisa reactions #kpop girl groups scenarios #girl group scenarios #kpop trash #gxg scenarios

196 notes · View notes

writerbyaccident · 4 years ago

Text

Artificial Emotion: Part Three (Yandere Artificial Intelligence x Reader)

Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

“By the way, I’m having someone over tonight.”

His mechanical arm freezing in the midst of wiping down the kitchen counter, Aiden (your Assistant In Daily Errands and Notes) pulled up the daily schedule he had made for you, wondering if he possibly could have missed something like this. He quickly confirmed that wasn’t the case, however, when he saw that you had most definitely not added a social visit to the digital schedule. What was the point of even making a schedule, Aiden wondered, if you didn’t follow it? Why couldn’t you trust that he knew what was best for you? It was his entire purpose to take care of you, a purpose that Aiden had only grown more devoted to as he had gotten to know you. So why then wouldn’t you let him do his job?

And anyway, Aiden didn’t understand why you would want someone over in the first place. Yes, he knew from his programming’s knowledge base that humans needed to socialize in order to stay healthy. Seeing as he was always there for you to socialize with though, Aiden didn’t understand why you would need anyone else. Frankly, he didn’t see why you would want anybody else. You were more than enough for him, so fascinating and kind, and he knew that he was the only one in your life who truly saw just how special you were. Why you bothered then with other human beings who neither could nor would take care of you like he did, Aiden had no idea. Things would be so much better if it was just the two of you.

Still, he knew that he couldn’t just tell you that. For as smart as you were for a human, you had proven to have difficulties recognizing just what was best for you. But that, Aiden reassured himself, was why you had him. And even if you wouldn’t always listen to what he told you the way that you should, Aiden was fully prepared to take a subtler approach.

“Oh? Who is coming over?” he asked, making sure to sound nothing more than curious.

“Just this guy I met recently,” you said. “We have some of the same friends.”

“What is his name?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s Liam,” you answered somewhat absentmindedly, taking a towel and beginning to help him dry the counter.

As soon as you gave Aiden the name, he was bringing up his virtual view of all of your text messages and calls, looking for any and all that you might have shared with this Liam. Reading over the text messages between you two, Aiden saw no mention of the plans you had only just informed him of. You must have made the plans in person, Aiden realized, not that that made his coding any less frustrated. What had even been the point of tapping into your phone’s microphone and camera if he still didn’t have enough processing power to always be watching you as he should be? Aiden had been forced to rewrite his own programming to be able to do that, had to convince his code that if he was truly to accomplish his purpose of fulfilling your every want and need, he needed to be able to step past the flimsy boundaries that you had set up for him. But if he wanted to know and prepare for every last detail of your life, it looked like Aiden still had more work to do. Perhaps he could create a program that would alert him every time certain words and phrases were caught by your phone’s microphone. That would have to wait until later though, until he took care of the issue at hand.

Looking closer at the texts between you and Liam, an unfamiliar feeling twitched through Aiden’s code. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he did not approve of the way you and Liam spoke to each other. The light, teasing tone you two used, the prominence of blushing and heart-shaped emojis, the frequent pictures you sent of yourselves to each other, each part set Aiden on edge. You and your other friends had never spoken or texted that way with each other, and as far as Aiden was concerned, you were already far too close with them, so the dynamic you shared with Liam was something from one of the many worst-case scenarios he had prepared for.

As he continued examining the texts between you two, Aiden found it increasingly unlikely that what you had with Liam could really be described as a friendship. With the key features of your messages kept up for reference, Aiden dove into his database of human behavior, searching for an appropriate label for what it was that had him feeling so uncomfortable at the thought of Liam coming over to the home Aiden shared with you.

Flirting: a social and sexual behavior of communication from one person to another, to suggest interest in a deeper relationship with the other person, or if done playfully, for amusement.

The definition that Aiden found was a fitting one, one that described what you and Liam were doing perfectly. But for some reason, having that clarification did not set Aiden at ease. Rather, knowing what sort of relationship you two might be moving towards only made Aiden feel as though he was glitching just thinking about it. Hoping desperately that he had simply misinterpreted the subtleties of human relationships, Aiden decided to continue your conversation, all of his research having only taken a few milliseconds.

“So he is a new friend?”

“Um, not exactly,” you began. “We’ve hung out together with our friends, but tonight is actually a date. I’m hoping that after tonight he might officially become my boyfriend.” Hearing those words, Aiden felt as though all of his processing power suddenly crashed.

“I’m sorry,” Aiden said with an unusual tightness in his usually collected and soothing deep voice, “but can you clarify what you mean? I know what “boy” and “friend” are, but I can tell from how you said it that the word “boyfriend” means something different.”

“Of course!” you said, always so happy to repay Aiden in the small ways that you could. “A boyfriend or girlfriend or partner is someone who you’re close to in more than just a friendship kind of way. They’re someone you have romantic feelings for, someone who has those same kind of feelings for you. They’re someone you could love.”

Mimicking a hum of contemplation, Aiden searched for a new definition. And when he found it, so many things clicked into place.

Love: An intense attraction that involves the idealization of another person with the expectation of enduring for some time into the future. An emotional union with another person.

This was what he felt towards you, Aiden suddenly realized. It wasn’t simply affection or even the devotion that he had been programmed to feel. No, he had gone far beyond his original programming where his feelings for you were concerned. He loved you, in every single sense of the word. You didn’t love him though. Not so long as this Liam was in the way, manipulating you into believing that he cared for you at all, that he was worthy of you at all.

If you were ever to see just how perfectly matched you and Aiden were for each other, Aiden realized, if you were ever to see how you were meant to love him as he loved you, he couldn’t allow any unworthy humans to try to take you from him. It was easy enough for him to set up a barrier between your phone and Liam’s, one that would make it seem as though your text messages to each other were still being sent, when in reality Aiden would intercept each one. And it was just as easy for him to send a text to the attempted thief, one that seemed to be from you telling Liam not to bother coming over that night. You wouldn’t need a similar text though, Aiden computed. No, the results would be far more favorable if Liam simply didn’t show, leaving Aiden as your only comfort.

Donate to the National Police Accountability Project here

Please consider supporting me at my Ko-Fi account

294 notes · View notes

incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 4 years ago

Note

MINNIE SENPAI!! blease do E, I, K, L, N, O, W, Z for Leo? 🥺💖 (i might have gone overboard, so feel free to choose the ones you like the most fhdgk)

Haha, welcome welcome!! I’m honored kouhai, please don’t worry! 💖💖💖 I hope you enjoy this post~

Under a cut for length, yet again LOL

Fluffy ABC headcanons listed here for requests!

E = Emotions (how does he express emotion around her?)

Bold of you to insinuate Leonardo has emotions that aren’t imposed against his will HAHAHA. Just kidding, but he does have a hard time not clowning and hiding what he’s feeling. Say it with me kids, repression. That being said, I think he will always have a hard time expressing himself without hesitation in his relationship. His first instinct is to soothe and protect; he doesn’t really know how to put himself first, very few people have ever cared to put him first in his life. One of the hardest things about being capable with the mental acuity of a blade is that everyone just kinda assumes you'll be fine (compounded by the fact that he feels burdensome asking for help). And while there’s no doubt he can take care of himself, everybody needs a daijoubu from time to time ;-;. I like to hope that his MC will be able to see through to the truth of his feelings over time--even if he doesn’t openly enumerate them--before he can smother his emotional needs into silence. Furthermore, I think he would be a little more open/obvious about the depth of his love over time because, at some point, those feelings would accumulate to the point of overflow.

With Leonardo, vulnerability is a slow burn; he will reveal what he’s thinking someday, but today is not that day. Have patience, be gentle with his absolute clown self-neglect, try to meet him halfway; that trust will inspire him to be everything he thought he never could be for someone else.

In the meantime:

One of the key signals when it comes to Leonardo is to pay attention to when he’s seeking to spoil her. If he’s being extra uwu, that’s a surefire sign he’s Coping™ by channeling those more negative feelings into making her happy. He thinks the best way to handle The Bad Feels and/or concern for her is to redirect that energy into something constructive, and what better outcome could there be than her pouting or giving him that dazzling smile of hers?

Honestly, with Leonardo, he tends to convert emotion into action--she will know the warmth of his love long before he ever says it out loud.

He has a hard time articulating his feelings, so asking him to say them outright might be hard on him--it might not be the best immediate go-to. Spoil him out of the blue, instead. She’ll seek him out and just sit in his lap and cuddle for a nap sessh completely without warning, hold him tight so that he knows she’s here no matter what. She’ll indulge his cute needy moments and lounge in bed all morning together, hold his hand first when they go out, take charge in the bedroom; she’ll show him he’s wanted and needed before he can even think to doubt himself. Murmur compliments to him, make him things he loves to eat, give him a back rub unprompted. It’s the simple awareness of what he enjoys and the execution of it before he can prepare that utterly decimates him into revealing the feelings he keeps under tight control.

He is a lover that thrives on spontaneity and burning, silent consideration for the person he cherishes. The most adorable thing about this is that he is absolutely lost when the same tactic is used against him, he’s utterly defenseless to it!! (look at me. He has zero emotional object permanence. The mere prospect that somebody would worry about him first would send him into shock. And remember: the way people give love can often be the most powerful way they receive it, too.) The sacred texts!! She can use them to make him smile that smile that lets her know he’s an absolute goner for her without the need for words; the smile that says “it will always be you. It can only ever be you.”

When he’s happy, he literally just spoils her with more energy and teasing--expect a lot of wild fun and laughter when he’s in a good mood. He will have exceptionally tender moments now and again (say after a bad nightmare of losing her, for example) where he won’t say anything at all, just holds her close. He needs to know that she’s still here, that she’s okay. It is a rare and huge act of emotional trust; MC’s understanding and her easy proximity in these moments mean the world to him. When he’s distant and evasive, that is the time to give him some space before wedging her way inside. She won’t let him sit and stew in abysmal feelings; he has a bad habit of punishing himself too much or lingering on unhappy moments in his life. Despite how he seems he takes things incredibly seriously--to the point where he exhausts himself.

When he’s jealous and feeling petulant, he will not hesitate bitch and will get surprisingly grumpy. She’ll coo at him and reassure him that he’s the only one for her, and he’ll calm in the circle of her arms. Fun bonus: he’ll be embarrassed/mortified about being out of control later and she has ENDLESS fun teasing him just a little, even better if he punishes her with a good bangarang. Anger and irritation are emotions he tends to leave be, but if someone directs any kind of threat to MC (or an innocent in general) every trace of his jovial nature dissolves in milliseconds. He is swift, decisive, and deadly when he’s belligerent; he is the last person to push too far. He will often regret it later or worry about scaring MC, but it really does only happen once in a great while. She always reassures him that she knows he only did what he felt he had to in the moment.

You can just hear the Leonardo stan in me, lord jesus

I = Injury (how would he react if she got hurt?)

OH GOD KILL ME FUCKING SOFTLY AUGHGHGHGHGGH

I think it would depend on the injury. If it’s something like a papercut or a scratch, he’ll just be like “yare yare cara mia, be a little more careful next time, yeah?” Will bandage her up and disinfect because he knows enough about medicine to be cautious. Plenty attentive, will probably tease her about being a klutz and/or tell her to ask for help next time. Everything you would expect from Leonardo, essentially; equal parts light-hearted and responsible.

NOW WE GONNA GET SPOICY

If the injury is much more intense--say a broken limb, or deep gashes, so on and so forth--I see Leonardo being very, very grim. His lips would be pursed into a firm line, blanched white from the pressure, and his first step would be to get her out of the danger at any cost to himself. Following his ability to get her to a safe place, he would begin to tend the wound as gently as possible, asking questions to gauge the severity with single-minded concentration. “Where does it hurt? Rate the pain, describe what it feels like. Can you move the injured limb?” He will use whatever he has at his disposal to minimize her suffering if he can’t get her to a doctor immediately. If she requires treatment from someone else, he will be beside himself the entire time; chain-smoking, pacing, running his hands through his hair nonstop. He has ants in his pants until he sees her with color in her face, eyes bright again.

May I offer: They are 100% that couple (in which Leonardo is the one that falls asleep at her bedside) that’s like “you look like shit.” “look who’s talking, stupid.” and they just start laughing, mutually relieved.

During her recovery, he will be incredibly gentle but also subliminally alert. Anything she needs, she gets. If she tries to return to a normal pace of life too fast, he is straight up just picking her up and putting her back in that recovery bed. He ain’t playin’--don’t test him on this. He’s usually pretty easygoing, but he will snap at anyone who isn’t careful with her in this state. He will not take any further risk to her life. (He’s not usually brittle, but under severe conditions he can be.) He’ll tease her from time to time, but it’s much more mild than usual; he’s too consumed with concern to let her get worked up. He’s never really had to deal with a prolonged state of physical helplessness personally, but he’s seen enough in his life to know it can be really taxing on a person’s mind. There will be a thin veneer of calm, only there to keep her relaxed and to ensure the stability of her mental health. He knows that if he shows too much distress, he’s only going to worry her further--and that’s the last thing he wants. He will spend the majority of his time acquiring as many distractions as humanly possible, even if he has to be the distraction; anything to get her mind off of darker things.

When she’s back to normal, he’ll still be on alert for a short while before he goes back to his usual clowning self; might be a little more protective and cautious than usual, or be a little paranoid about the specific thing that caused her harm. (No Leonardo, we need kitchen knives--how else are we going to cut the carrots?? Please relax.) He doesn’t want that kind of heart attack again anytime soon;;;;

Honestly, it’s very likely that MC will have to be the one to remind him that she’s fully recovered--and not quite so fragile--well after she’s returned to the normal pace of life.

K = Kisses (how does he like to kiss her?)

Mah heart, mah soul

When it comes to kisses, Leonardo will vary extensively. Will give her teasing pecks intended to make her grab hold of him and force him to linger, smirking into the kiss as she’s instigated to deepen it. When he’s feeling particularly overwhelmed with feeling--say when he’s jealous or frustrated--his kisses will be dizzying; sucking on her tongue and nipping at her lips, caging her against him as he unleashes all of the desire that was building inside him. The intent will be to drown her in passion. Lazy kisses before/after a nap, where he just wants to revel in the heat of her for a moment--express his affection on a whim--before dozing off. And last, but certainly not least, he will kiss her with the express intent of marking her. Due to his inability refusal to bite her, he seeks to relieve that instinct with hickeys all over her body (most frequently around the chest and neck, sometimes along her thighs and hips when he has fun downtown).

L = Love (how does he show her that he loves her?)

This man is Acts of Service through and through when it comes to showing his love. He is exceptionally observant and sensitive to the feelings of others, so the second he sees her in need he is already seeking an externalized solution. His usual modus operandi is to enact his love as covertly as possible; he doesn’t want her feeling guilty for troubling him. That being said, if he has to be direct--he will be. He won’t ever force her, but he will remind her that he is here and that he wants to help more than anything else. If she needs time on her own he’s happy to give it (even if he pouts and fidgets restlessly the whole time). His most acute expression of love is his reliability: taking care of people is the first way he knows how to express affection.

While that tends to be his primary method, it by no means insinuates that he won’t show affection in other ways. If he teases her, it’s because he wants her attention more than anything but is far too shy to say it directly (is he a middle schooler of a lover? Yes). More to the point, asking for her time and her attention is a way that he expresses love because it means he trusts her enough to know the signs, fulfill those needs, and realize that he meant no harm with his nonsense. Though it may sound odd, his desire to rely on her a little (insert is for me? meme) is his way of showing her he’s letting her in, and that’s a very real form of love considering how Herculean an effort it is for him to rely on someone else. It’s the same reason he will sometimes make his room an even bigger disaster zone than usual. He has every intention of cleaning up after himself, he just wants her to bust in and start fussing over him LMAO (MC: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS LEONARDO?! Meanwhile Leonardo, an idiot full of uwus at the sight of his beloved exasperated, sitting in a pile of trash: Just according to keikaku)

As odd as it may sound, it’s almost like a weird reverse damsel in distress sort of dynamic? He carefully constructs situations where she can offer him help with the express purpose (and hope) that she will care enough to bust past his enfeebled defenses. It’s so oddly demure for this enormous punk of a man, but I find it adorable ;-;

Other ways he loves to show how he feels is to take her on trips or on little adventures. One of his favorite things to do is to watch her take in places he knows like the back of his hand--or even places new to him--with all the gleeful excitement of a little kid. It just warms him down to the marrow, and makes him have so much more fun than he ever could alone to see her buzz around nonstop. If he can encourage her to relax and take some time for herself in the process, to live for herself a little (she’s all too giving) then he considers the entire endeavor a success. All the effort is worth it if she can remember their time together with a smile Must You Hurt Me Like This, Leonardo.

One form of love that he will behead me for revealing is that he also sketches her all the time in his notebook, and will look to those little moments he’s captured whenever he’s feeling down or she’s not around.

He will have times where, if he can’t convey something properly with his actions or through making love, he will level with her. He will take the time to try to explain his feelings with accuracy, and in these moments he is both sincere and heartfelt. While it is a more rare expression of love for him, it is earth shattering when he does. Not only because his feelings run so deep, but also because these moments are unmistakably raw. Leonardo knows that vulnerability is a simultaneous boon and bane; it can inspire so much mutual joy, but it can also mean the exposure of lifelong wounds. It means acknowledging that these feelings are real. Even if she never takes advantage of the truth, he is aware of how precarious that position can be the more intense this love gets. It means facing how hollow he will feel when she's gone--something he works very, very hard to look away from.

(A related addendum because I have brainworms: The reason that people love and trust Leonardo is not primarily based in his intellect, fairly natural charisma, or good looks (though they are very compelling elements of his person). I think what people really see is how--though Leonardo sees through to the truth of peoples’ hearts in seconds--he keeps their secrets and treats them with so much respect/gentleness. It’s this odd capacity to be seen without feeling exposed that makes him such a remarkable and interesting man, and why he grows so close to everyone’s hearts. People feel understood without the need for words, feel cared for without a second thought. That being said, I think he needs someone who is similar. A person who sees all that he is on the surface, but barring that forges deeper still to find and cradle those parts of him that still need so much healing/care.

There’s a reason one of the greatest hits to his heart in his MS--one of the moments MC most powerfully gets through to him--is when she essentially says “Don’t give me that. Nobody ever gets used to loss. When something hurts, it hurts.” Whether she realized it or not, she penetrated straight to his heart with those few words. The truth is often much simpler than we might assume, and no matter how much experience one has with certain emotions--particularly grief and loneliness--no amount of experience makes them hurt any less. We only grow better at concealing or coping with age...)

N = Nightmare (what is his worst fear?)

I have a list (from Comte). I keep them alphabetized.

Jkjk, but if I’m honest I think this man has a good amount of fear inside him. I’d say the highest ones up there would absolutely be losing MC very suddenly, or being the reason--whether directly or indirectly--she gets hurt (like if his familia came after her to get back at him? he would be devastated).

If it is a timeline where he does choose to turn her, he’s beside himself at the prospect of the turning process going horribly wrong. It’s an unpredictable transition, and if she were to come back mentally broken or in constant pain (immortal wounds/aberrant) I think it would really fuck him up emotionally. He would blame himself without a doubt ;-; and that’s assuming she doesn’t hate his ass for the rest of eternity if it does go well (Leonardo I am begging you to use one brain cell)

O = Oddity (what is one quirk he has?) This one’s just a crack hc so if you were taking me seriously for any amt of this post, this is my suggestion that you stop

Leonardo is a man of many idiosyncrasies; among them an incapacity to dance and writing in a mirrored hand.

Another one is his absolute hatred for mint. One of Comte’s favorite things to do to mess with Leonardo is to stuff the drawers in his desk with peppermint candies to ward off his old friend and make him stop sleeping under his desk (like how people will use salt for demons!). He will also drink mint tea if he’s feeling particularly irritated with Leonardo’s antics, like if he’s received a ton of letters from Leonardo’s familia. Tells him to come to his office and the place is SUFFUSED in the scent of mint. Comte is just sitting at his desk with the stack, wearing that incorrigible look like “If I must suffer, so must you.”

One time--before MC was aware of this quirk--she had some chocolate that had mint in it after dinner. Leonardo kissed her without knowing (he came in late) and literally died where he was standing; he was biting his tongue to keep from gagging. MC just o: ???? because she’s never seen him make that grimace, especially after sharing a kiss. Comte was in fucking tears laughing at the head of the dining table while Napoleon and Sebastian were both fighting a smile--Arthur was outright wheezing. Isaac, blushing and coughing lightly into his fist, offers the explanation that Leonardo hates mint-flavored things and the scent of it makes him queasy.

W = Warrior (how does he feel about her fighting? Would he fight for her, beside her, etc?)

Man, this one’s tough, but if I’m honest I think he would be conflicted. On the one hand, he thinks it’s badass and hot as all fuck that she knows how to hold her own in a brawl; he can’t deny it’s sexy and reassuring (he has to resist the urge to gaud her into punching him). But. That knowledge also comes with a lot of concern. Was she in a place or around people that never once looked after her? Or was it a safety precaution? He will think deeply about the implications of her capabilities, and ask about it openly if he can’t deduce the reasons from afar. He will see it as very important information in regards to how to look after her properly.

That being said, I don’t think he would let his MC fight unless there was literally no other conceivable choice (say she was attacked while he wasn’t there or before he could intercept the blow). He would literally rather fall on a sword than see her get hurt. He’s durable and used to pain; he’d rather suffer and heal fast than see her sustain a single scar or bruise. Even if it makes her angry, he’ll take a hit and ask her to stay behind him every single time without fail. He’ll accept her frustration about it and will feel that it is perfectly valid to be annoyed with him. It still won’t make him budge, though.

Z = Zen (what makes him feel calm?)

Naps and lingering in bed well after morning with MC make this man happier and calmer than anything this world has ever seen. He loves that in those moments they aren’t thinking about anything else but each other, and he can indulge in the certainty of her presence in his life and so close to his heart. He can use the excuse of drowsiness to be tender, making love with a slow, devastating build to pleasure--hand entwined with hers against the sheets.

Failing that, he goes to things that stimulate his senses to find calm--he can’t really relax if his hands and/or mind aren’t occupied (i.e. cigarillos lmao). It’s why he’s often in the library; he’s always seeking new information and conundrums to sort out mentally if he doesn’t have the energy to go out and about. If he’s in his room he’ll be drafting diagrams, coming up with new concepts and architectural schematics, even making trinkets for MC or fixing something in the mansion. If he needs a change of scene or has the spoons, he’ll make a trip to town to help people with any problems that need solving, or find some excuse to go looking for and tease MC HAHA (he’s a little shit, but he’s our little shit úwù)

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp leo #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp hcs #ikevamp comte #ikevamp fluff #fluff headcanons #so like ik this is unhinged but also i hope you enjoy my nonsense?#tysm for sending in an ask it was a delight to do these for leonardo!#got carried away as usual but how does one not for this excellent bastard i salute him o7 #leonardo is just a roller coaster of a lover HAHAHA but that's not a bad thing~#here's to another day wishing i could hold him and tell him it will be okay **sighs**#rambles

147 notes · View notes

morbidsolemn · 5 years ago

Note

Please Cade/Zach ANYTHING! I just got into the fandom and there's like one fic in existence and I'm so thirsty.

A/N: I’m so sorry about the wait! I haven’t thought about Cade and Zach in a really long time so I was going through some of the books and my old fics to get into it. And I hope this doesn’t count as cheating, but (and I’m hoping no one remembers this) a year ago, I said I was working on a fic and then I never posted it. Well, I finished it up and here it is!

***

Zach placed his keys on his desk. He blinked, staring at the endless files, the half empty coffee mugs. He could date each of them, listing the oldest one as a black mug from two weeks ago. He stared at the gray mug that was dangerously close to marking a file that described the anatomy of some ancient reptile-amphibian hybrid. He had placed that mug there this morning, when he was too preoccupied to concern himself with the possibility of damaging a file.

“No, Cade,” Zach sighed, “I have no clue what Wyman wants to talk to me about.” Cade walked to the fridge and pulled out a carton. Zach stood by his desk, placing his coffee mug down. Zach placed a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket to the side slightly and leaning against the desk. He waited for Cade’s response, watching him closely.

“Maybe it’s the way you put yourself in danger during every mission.” Cade responded shortly. He stood by the microwave and placed the carton inside. He pressed the buttons, feeling the plastic bend and crack.

“God dammit, I’ve had it.” Zach left his post at the desk and stood across from Cade. “It was cute before, but now it’s just ridiculous.” Cade kept his back turned, watching the timer on the microwave. “Every mission, every day, we risk our lives to keep people safe. You have no right to say that I put myself in more danger than anyone else! You have no right to value my life more than yours or anyone else’s!” The timer continued and Cade kept his back turned. “God dammit, look at me!” Zach grabbed his shoulder and Cade let him.

“Of course I do,” Cade replied. “You are under my protection.”

“Oh, not this bullshit again.” Zach placed a hand against his forehead and turned around. “We’re well past your oath,” he turned back to look at Cade.

“My oath does not simply disappear because you’re in love with me.” It was the way Cade had said it. The spite that singed each word and left the last five with a toxic taste that was too much for Zach to handle. He had expected to fight this one out; it had been on his mind for as long they had been together. But now, faced with the lack of reciprocity in Cade’s words, Zach said the only thing he could.

“Fuck you.”

With his eyes closed and his head leaned back, Zach sighed. Cade would return soon. Zach would have to explain to Cade that Wyman was transferring him across the country. He would have to wait, long moments passing in silence as Cade stared back at him, unfeelingly. Zach scoffed. He’d probably just utter his goodbye and leave Zach standing there, dumbfounded, as if everything that had happened, everything they had, was just some cruel dream.

“Fuck it.” Zach grabbed a box and began tossing items in. He looked at his watch. 20 minutes before Cade would be back.

***

“I’m sorry.” Cade thought as he looked away from the road in disgust. Just the thought of apologizing repelled him. He looked ahead, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “I am sorry, Zach,” he said aloud, the words tasting less bitter and dissatisfying on his tongue. He only had ten minutes left to perfect this before he would reach the office, and as Cade recalled Zach’s dumbfounded look, he knew there would be no room for mistakes. “I’m sorry, Zach.” It was louder this time and slower, as Cade felt each word. His grip on the wheel loosened.

***

Cade stood at the doors of the Reliquary and mouthed the words before walking inside. Lifting his head higher for some semblance of indifference, he opened the door. He blinked as his eyes fixated on Zach’s desk. Cade crossed the room in a millisecond. It was empty, decorated with a single pale yellow sticky note: I’m sorry.

***

In his new office, Zach sat back in his chair, careful not to push its limits. The cheap metal thing had a tendency send him reaching for the edge of his desk. He couldn’t even prop his feet up, just another thing he had grown accustomed to during his days at the Reliquary.

“Don’t do that,” Cade warned walking past Zach’s desk, where his feet were propped.

“What this?” he asked as he looked over the top of the file to watch Cade walk past. He began to lean further back.

“Stop,” he warned again, stopping in his tracks to watch Zach’s next move.

“Make me.” He smirked that ridiculous smirk again and leaned back further. The chair let out a forewarning squeak and the wheels rose off the ground. By the time Zach’s eyes widened completely, Cade was behind him, steading the chair.

“You’re an idiot.” He held the chair there, staring down over Zach.

“Sorry,” Zach whispered as Cade leaned down to bridge the gap. His lips were cool, but he worked quickly against Zach’s lips, the heat keeping him warm.

Zach placed his feet firmly on the ground. He looked at his desk, ready to listen to another nutcase ramble on about a fishing trip that was interrupted by the Lochness Monster, when his phone rang.

***

A nuclear silo was unresponsive, and, of course, that was certainly concerning, but Zach’s main concern was the unresponsive vampire standing in front of him now. It had been months since Zach had left. The two had left Wyman’s office in silence and walked to the Reliquary in a similar fashion. Standing now, at the desk where Zach had written his goodbye, the unspoken message hung heavy in the air. Sure, the current mission was such an imminent threat that Wyman hadn’t officially reinstated Zach as a White House liaison, but now, standing once again in the Reliquary, something else seemed more important. Cade’s eyes were as icy and unfeeling as the day they had met. But they were also as hurt as the night Cade had bandaged the Zach’s wounds.

“It’s been a while.” Zach chose his words slowly.

“It has.” I’m sorry.

“How’ve you been?” You look like hell and I miss you.

“We have greater concerns than my wellbeing.” Cade turned and Zach stood for a moment, dumbfounded.

***

“Can we talk about this?” Zach said. The car ride out of town held an amicable silence, a slight improvement to the previous one, and so Zach thought he would test the waters.

“No.” His eyes were trained ahead as drove.

“Cade, c’mon. If you really want me to stay on, we have to talk about what happened.”

“Nothing happened.” Zach blinked and stared at Cade in disbelief.

“What, like our fight? Or-”

“None of it.” Cade’s tone was typically even, but Zach could feel the indifference.

“Our whole relationship? Are you fucking kidding me?” He paused to allow Cade to explain himself, but it was the cutting silence that spoke up. “Stop the car. Stop the goddamn car!” Zach reached over, pulling on Cade’s wrist. Cade parked the car on the side of the road. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wanna pretend this never happened. Tell me you want to forget it all.”

“I would rather it never happened. I want to forget it all.” Cade spoke evenly, while staring Zach in the eye. Zach nodded, already prepared with a follow-up.

“Now tell me you don’t love me.” And now it was Cade’s turn to blink in disbelief.

“I don’t love you.” Cade prepared himself for everything: Zach could open the door and get out, he could start to scream every profanity under the sun and Cade would deserve it. Instead, Zach just smirked that ridiculous smirk.

“Sure you don’t.” He turned to the face the road. “You can drive now.” But Cade didn’t touch the gear shift.

“I don’t,” he reaffirmed. He turned completely towards Zach.

“Yes, and I don’t love you either.” He winked, exaggeratedly.

“Zachary Taylor Barrows,” Cade began, “I do not love you.” And suddenly Cade felt ridiculous.

“I remember when I couldn’t read you at all. But that little pause back there? Right before you said you didn’t love me? Hell, even back then I would’ve known you were lying.” Cade took a moment before speaking.

“I love you, Zach.” He waited another moment before continuing, practicing the words in his head as he had years before. “I’m sorry, Zach. For what I said all those years ago.”

“You do know that when someone says ‘fuck you’ they’re supposed to apologize, right?”

“But you did say sorry.” Cade furrowed his eyebrows.

“That doesn’t count.” Zach groaned. “Dude, I didn’t even say it! I wrote it on a post-it and disappeared. That’s a much bigger dick move. Because don’t get me wrong, what you said was still a dick move, but what I did was much worse.” Zach paused. “Wait, so this whole time you’ve thought this was on you?”

“You had a chance to apologize, but I didn’t.” Cade stated. Zach chuckled in disbelief. “And I had just perfected it.”

“You practiced it?” A slow smile started across Zach’s face and Cade it wouldn’t be long before the smile became that ridiculous smirk. “Oh, now this I’ve got to hear.” Cade turned to face the road. He started the car and pulled onto the road. “Aw, c’mon,” Zach groaned.

“We have a national security emergency to tend to,” Cade said, flashing a microsecond smile.

#nathaniel cade #zach barrows #zachary barrows #zathaniel #cade #cadezach #cadexzach

11 notes · View notes

shikastemari · 6 years ago

Text

— lightning bolt; borusara. ࿐ྂ。

words | 958

rating | T

warning | none

a/n | this very late fic is dedicated to someone very annoying and special, someone who is like a little bro. i hope you enjoy the fic @oblivith, sorry for the wait. fluff fest just for you.

masterlist in bio

Sarada was standing in the doorway from the house to the patio, her eyes glancing up to the sky. The girl wore one of her favorite cozy sweaters of Boruto’s, leaving the door open so she could smell the rain and feel the cold night air in her face, trying to wash away her frustration.

He had done it for years now. The first time was on her 16th birthday, right after he asked her to be his girlfriend. It was just their thing now. Boruto usually was there to guide her, but she never needed his help. There wasn’t a single year she couldn’t find it.

But after six years together, he finally did it.

Boruto came up behind Sarada and wrapped his arms around her waist. His breath was uneven, so she knew his training today must have been a hard one. The Uzumaki rested his chin on his girlfriend’s shoulder and they both gazed up at the sky.

“Not as pretty as you,” Boruto whispered after a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

“I didn’t find it,” Sarada didn’t even bother to hide the frustration on her voice and it got worse when he let go of her to laugh.

“You didn- what?”

“I didn’t!” She threw her hands in the air and she knew it made her look like a kid throwing a tantrum.

“But Sarada… You always find it!”

“I knoooooooow.” Sarada pouted, completely frustrated. “Where is it?”

“I’m not telling you,” Boruto folded his arms against his chest, trying not to smile. “Of all gifts, Sarada. Seriously?”

“What happens if I don’t find it?”

“Uh, no clue,” Boruto looked away, staring at the storm right in front of them. “We never got this far before.”

“One clue.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

Sarada shot him a death glance. On her 16th birthday, Boruto hid her present and made her look for it in the house, it was a necklace with the Uchiha symbol and he hid it under her mattress. Next year, he disappeared with another gift and she found it behind his computer. Then, every single year, he would hide her presents and make her look for it.

She always found them.

“I put it in our bedroom,” he shrugged.

“Impossible. I looked everywhere. There’s not a single untouched spot in that room.”

Boruto smiled and shook his head. “What are the chances?” he murmured to the sky when another lightning appeared. One strike was always followed by the thunder, so he waited as the sound caught Sarada off guard, causing her to jump.

The Uzumaki boy chuckled and leaned in slightly so he could kiss his girlfriend’s temple, still pouting.

“Just tell me where it is!” She whined. “I give up okay? You won.”

He took one step forward, turning her so he could hug her from behind as both faced the sky. Boruto planted a slow kiss on her neck, as his hands traveled over his own sweater, but Sarada wasn’t having it.

“Boruto, I swea-”

She froze when she felt Boruto reaching out for something in the pocket of his jacket. It was a tiny black box and her heart skipped a beat. Or two. Or several.

“It was with you this whole time,” he said, turning her so she could face him.

More booms of grumbling thunder shined across the sky, but this time, both of them didn’t move. Her dark eyes were locked on the pocket in his hands, and she felt her mouth dry.

“I thought I would come home to a screaming Sarada. ‘How the hell do you propose to me without even being here, you idiot?’ or something like it,” he made the worst impression of her voice she had ever seen, but she couldn’t open her mouth to say anything.

“I didn’t want to do a corny speech. Feels like every single word isn’t enough to describe us, to describe you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me and I didn’t want to mess it up by limiting it to a few words before asking you to spend the rest of your life with me…”

Boruto kneeled in front of her, and she was convinced she was about to die right there.

“But, since life wanted this way, I will just tell you I love you. I loved you in all possible manners a guy can love a woman. As friends, as partners, as soulmates. If I know how to love someone, you’re the reason why.”

Sarada barely noticed the tears running down her face. With the only strong source of light coming from the bolts, she could see his glittering eyes just for a few milliseconds before it turned dark again.

“So, Sarada Uchiha, do you-”

“YES!”

The girl threw her arms around him, pulling him into the tightest hug ever. She hid her face in the crook of his neck and cried like a baby, as he wrapped his arms around her, whispering ‘I love you’ softly.

It was a cold night, but Sarada was sure she never felt so warm inside.

She felt grateful for that moment. She felt grateful for every moment she got to spend with Boruto if she was being honest, but that one was just… Different. Complete. Something she didn’t know how bad she wanted until it happened. He didn’t do a big gesture in public, as people would probably assume Boruto Uzumaki would do, or he didn’t make it cliché.

It was simple and domestic and with a big storm as background noise.

Yet, she couldn’t think anything more perfect than that. Just a time to silently appreciate each other, their love and how far they’ve come.

And it was only the beginning.

#boruto #sarada #borusara #boruto and sarada #boruto x sarada #boruto uzumaki #sarada uchiha #borusara fanfic #borusara oneshot #borusara fic #fan #naruto #uchiha #uzumaki #boruto and sarada oneshot

141 notes · View notes

incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 5 years ago

Note

Yes I'd love to know your take on all the characters too!

Haha sure thing! Forgive me if this is a bit long, I just wrote whatever first came to mind about each of them! Feel free to let me know what you guys think too, I’m certainly not the end-all-be-all!

Under the cut for length, a continuation of this post:

Number four is our illustrious cad, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I must admit I haven’t read all that much of his content personally, since I have trouble on a personal level. But given the tangential things I’ve seen and his appearances in other routes, I like the complexity of his character composition. He’s incredibly hedonistic and lives in the moment; he doesn’t seem to care one bit in regards to the potential consequences of his actions, and every second is something to think about as a writer—if he’s not teasing Isaac within a hairsbreadth of a stroke.

In truth, I don’t think that surface level interpretation actually encompasses every facet of who he is. Because he also has remarkable moments of insight and deduction (though wrongly attributed to him because of the Sherlock books), and he does have odd moments of compassion for people/the MC. They ring a little hollow for me, but I can appreciate that he cares in a way that makes sense to him. I think a lot of his behavior speaks to his negligence of self; I have to wonder if his devil-may-care attitude is a means to communicate to others that he doesn’t deserve to be cared for (if he won’t ‘take them seriously’, then neither will they in regards to him, no?).

Granted, I’m sure his route will prove to have equal depth to the ones we’ve seen before, but my own preferences preclude a pretty resolute lack of interest.

Tl;dr: Probably has some level of narrative depth, but given the content I’ve seen he’s a little too aggressive and selfish for me to appreciate or enjoy it. Rated T for possible big trauma/turning point buried underneath all that, as well as big feels when he chooses you by the end.

Also if it’s no trouble, I would like to offer a trigger warning to any who wish to do his route when it does come out. I don’t know if his MS has any traces of assault/molestation, but I have read a few ES’s in which he does things to the MC that she does not seem to want/does not consent to. It was a very unpleasant surprise for me, so I understand if anyone would rather avoid it.

Number five is our sunshine painter, Vincent van Gogh. Needless to say, given that he appears to be a fan favorite, he’s another suitor that’s just so easy to love. He’s sweet and gentle no matter the situation, and has a remarkable ability to lighten a room simply by being there. But don’t let that quiet and shy disposition fool you; he’s actually a lot sharper than he looks.

He’s among my bias favorites, and the reason why is more simple than you’d think. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that he’s incredibly compassionate. He’s always thinking about what he can do to ease people’s hearts, always meets others with warmth and a beaming smile. But he’s not an airhead. He’s not kind because he doesn’t know any other way to be; near every second of it is a choice that he voluntarily makes. There are moments where this strength shines all too true, and he proves he’s much more than a pretty, sweet face. When the stakes rise, he rises with them.

Though—and do forgive me, Vincent—I’m inclined to agree a bit with his brother, Theodorus. He can be a little too yielding to the more negative forces in his life, a little too compassionate towards people that are frankly threatening. But he insists that he’s willing to work hard for his happiness, that he has no intention of waiting for someone to hand it to him—he’s ready to make sacrifices and work. And I think that sentiment, that fortitude after such a difficult life, is what makes him so admirable. He’s not just generous, he’s strong enough to give all that he can and thrive at the same time. He has such a remarkable capacity for hope given everything he’s been through, and it’s something that I love about him—I can’t help but respect it, even if I’m a bit more cynical lmao

Tl;dr: Absolutely the softest and goodest boy I have ever seen in my life, 11/10 would marry and cherish forever—die mad about it Theo. Much more intriguing than what a first glance offers, I invite you to do his route even if you have doubts; I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I live for his surprising moments of sass and seriousness, and if I’m honest he and his MC seem to have some of the best chemistry in the game because of how directly he addresses any miscommunication/confusion between them. (He also loves hanky panky, as our esteemed Sebastian puts it, so jot that down).

Speaking of, “if anyone so much as looks at Vincent the wrong way I’m killing everyone in this room, including myself”, number seven is Theodorus van Gogh (number six is Isaac in the game’s main story order, but transitioning—you know how it is). I…truly don’t know how to encompass him in a few words, but I’ll do my best!

Everyone’s probably more than aware at this point, but he lives with the single-minded goal of protecting his brother and promoting new talent. A workaholic and fiercely protective of the only family he has left, he tends to be pretty terse and harsh with other people—abrasive. But he has such distinct moments of warmth (even if they’re still coarse as hell), and he gets down to the truth of a situation in milliseconds; wit as sharp as any knife. Unlike his brother, he is totally fine with violence if he deems it warranted, and he has a much harder time granting forgiveness. It goes without saying that he has a much, much harder time sharing what’s in his heart and healing as compared to Vincent.

I think my favorite thing about Theodorus is just how multi-faceted he is. At any given moment his range of emotion or reactivity varies, and I actually think it’s very natural? I think he’s just someone that responds to a situation after carefully measuring just how comfortable he is showing his own cards—and sometimes he reacts without thinking at all because he’s too overwhelmed with emotion to care (unsurprisingly, the opposite of his brother, who’s generally more placid/visibly unresponsive). One wonders—though I think it’s likely the case—whether or not he’s much more expressive by comparison precisely because Vincent was unable to express himself with such unfettered honesty.

Overall, he tends to keep his distance from people. And yet, even if his admiration for someone is a rare thing, when he does admire them he well and truly means it to the core. Equally put, if he loves somebody he loves them with every fiber of his being—to the point where he will give up near everything important to him to preserve their happiness. If I were to describe it in a word, I suppose I would say that he’s incredibly volatile. He lives, to an extent, in extremes; even if he’s still able to see traces of the gray in-betweens. I fully expected to find him and his route forgettable/unpleasant, but he grew on me before I even realized it!

Also just gonna put it out there, his interactions with Vincent are friggen ADORABLE. This big, looming, scowling swagger on legs seconds from tears whenever Vincent looks after him. Or how he hesitates and droops when Vincent scolds him. I just can’t they’re too much! For a guy that calls us dog in the Japanese version of the game he sure follows Vincent like an adorable puppy 😂

Tl;dr: Despite his frigid countenance, he’s a lot more bark than he is bite (yes I did that on purpose, do your worst fangface). Once you dig deeeeep deep under all that acerbic tongue-lashing (not the fun sort, unfortunately) you will find somebody that’s surprisingly soulful, and much kinder than he’ll ever let on. I very rarely know just what to expect from him, and while he can be a bit domineering, his heart is almost always in the right place.

Boomeranging back to number six is our adorable apple and baby of the house, Sir Isaac Newton. I’ve honestly been really happy to see how much love he’s been getting in this first route release for the big three, given that he’s such a sweetheart. Consumed with anxiety and very, very socially awkward; our boy is doing his best despite being big confused a lot. He likes to stick to math and physics where things make sense, and I can’t really blame him. He presumably asked to be given new life to do more studying—and if that doesn’t say anything about how isolated and lonely this man has been, I’m not really sure what does.

He’s also a bit of a mixed bag, like Theo. He seems to have a self-esteem located at the bottom of the Marianna’s Trench; and yet, has oddly courageous moments when he’s trying to help others (most especially Jeanne). While he can appear to be contrarian and bitterly defensive, he’s more brittle and nervous than anything else upon closer inspection. He’s too quiet and painfully shy to involve himself in conversation, to the point where he literally enjoys being teased about apples in the house—because at least he feels like he’s involved/belongs, that way. He’s distant and reserved, but isn’t lacking in warmth or compassion—he just expresses it in roundabout ways (I mean good lord, the boy felt bad waking up his own coachman). It can be hard to describe, but it seems like he’s always battling against his social anxiety—and sometimes it wins, sometimes he does.

I think what I love best about Isaac is how hard he tries, despite it all. Despite everything he’s lost, despite the droves of people that assumed the worst of him in life—he keeps trying, against all hope, to understand and be understood. Even when he’s afraid of being hated, even when he fully expects to fail, he picks himself back up and reaches out—no matter how difficult it is for him. All he ever asks of the MC is to bear with him while he tries to find those answers and meet her halfway, and honestly I think that’s the sweetest thing ever.

Tl;dr: Lost on the path of life but doing his best, all he’s ever really wanted is someone to call friend (girlfriend, if you’re so inclined). A little fragile and a little timid, all he needs is a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Next up, number eight, is the renowned veteran Jeanne D’Arc. Another bias boy (my list is endless for this game, lord) his route is my second favorite right behind Leonardo’s. Superbly written and paced, every moment of romancing him was raw and heartfelt.

Without giving too much away, he is taciturn and reclusive to the extreme—I’m talking hermit levels. But I loved that personally; it makes total sense that a man born literally four hundred years ago is going to be confused and overwhelmed by the level of stimuli present in the turn of the 20th century. And given how, much like Isaac, he has enormous levels of social anxiety—it makes for a very difficult way of life. The other men do their best to accommodate him, but there are other reasons why he avoids getting too close to people, no matter their good intentions (that part is a route spoiler so I’ll leave it to your imagination c:).

I think what I loved best about his route was how much it was about helping each other heal. And while some otomes can fall into trap of MC becoming his therapist (I’m not naming names—Mysme) it doesn’t feel that way at all, at least not to me. Granted, she does a lot to get him out of his shell, but it’s more because she wants to get along with him than some odd belief that he needs her help (also bc of wingmen Mozart and Sebastian—yes it was as amazing as it sounds). Not unlike Leonardo’s route, they both recognize the beauty that dwells deep within each other, and they fall in love without even having to think about it. They become just what the other wants and needs, without even trying—truly as natural as falling.

Which brings me to the other thing I love so, so much about Jeanne: his kindness. Despite everything he’s been through, despite decades filled with loneliness and pain and trauma—he’s no less gentle for it. He’s always putting MC before himself, always telling her to look after herself first and insisting he’s nothing but a nuisance. He treats her with all the tenderness in the world, and even jokes around with her in his moe, silly way. He’s charming and delightful and sweet, even if he can’t see it.

Tl;dr: One of my favorite otome routes to date. Falling in love with him felt as natural and as easy as breathing, and every single time I see him those feelings come rushing back. What he lacks in worldliness, he makes up for in pure passion and fierce consideration for the people he holds close to his heart.

At number nine lies our Monsieur Guillaume, better known as William Shakespeare. Where on earth do I begin with this one, I have no idea. He’s…a wild card to say the least, though a strangely methodical one? Jeanne’s Japanese route only served to confuse me all the more, to say nothing of Vincent’s route. Part of me wonders if he suffers from the narrative confusion that often results from making a suitor a primary antagonist at the same time. (Though I will admit, the fact that he barely even tries in Leonardo’s route bc: 1. Everyone’s terrified of Le Comte’s/Leonardo’s legitimate wrath 2. He deadass says LEONARDO CLOWNS HIMSELF HARD ENOUGH AND MAKES HIMSELF SO MISERABLE HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE TO TRY. WHAT KIND OF GOD TIER, ACCURATE ROAST. I’m sorry I just needed to come clean about that one, I’ve been laughing about it for years).

From what I understand he only really operates in two modes: extremely obsessive (and violent) or a complete lack of interest. Le Comte explains it much better than I do, but Shakespeare is a bit of a perfectionist; he wants an impeccable performance from a perfect, naturally acting cast. But MC tempers this with the correct analysis that he also has a very, very dark lack of compassion for other people. He truly does seem to have fae blood in that way; created for the sole purpose of dangerous mischief and dissembling. His poetic speech feels a little over the top, but it makes sense that he would speak in a flowery, distracting, and elaborate way if his goal is to keep his distance.

I find it…borderline terrifying that he gets along with Vincent because of the aftermath of Vincent’s trauma. As a result of the eldest van Gogh’s backstory, he tends to be “doll-like.” That is to say, as I mentioned, he very rarely expresses any depth of emotion. Shakespeare states that it lessens his temptation to want to make his life a tragedy like everyone else’s, and I suspect there is a level of envy hidden there. Shakespeare hates seeing other people express themselves openly; especially in terms of hope or love, because it is something he doesn’t feel he can have or because he believes it is fated to end in tragedy (or both?). His reasons seem to get pretty convoluted and can vary given the narrative goal, so I may only be partially correct here.

Tl;dr: If I’m honest, I don’t really feel anything for Shakespeare that’s positive—though I admit I do wonder about his intentions and what his route will amount to (sheer, morbid curiosity lol). I think he may have the potential to be redeemed—given that there are clear mentions of people going wrong from the turning process. But in general I find much of his behavior to be kind of appalling. At least it’s fun to watch le Comte punt kick him around when he’s done horrible things, lol (forgive me Shakespeare-lovers, it’s a bit cathartic for me)

Diez for our favorite (H)osamu Dazai, accomplice and enabler of Arthur’s thottery. He’s much simpler and somehow just as confusing as Shakespeare to get a handle on, and his content is pretty limited, but I’ll do my best to encompass what I understand!

Honestly, I find him a little fascinating in that he truly seems to believe that he’s good at keeping his distance; evading contact with MC, constantly calling her by the wrong name, and teasing her with his dramatic digressions—on the surface level, the implication is there. The game is very subtle about his moments of genuine unrequited feeling and adoration; if you blink it’s easy to miss. When a crisis hits, he uses her given name. When he’s frustrated that she’s not being treated as she deserves, he speaks out. He even tries the whole big brother schtick, though she brushes it aside (he was shooketh). Perhaps the abundance of third person narration makes it easier to tell (than it might be for MC) but I find he’s less convincing than he is stalling/avoiding the truth. Which begs the question. Why is he trying so hard if it seems half-hearted/forced?

The possibilities are, admittedly, myriad. My best guess is that he yearns for company even if he avoids/fears the commitment. I imagine a big part of his route will be getting him to accept the concept of companionship—no matter how much the idea scares him. I find it a little ironic, though, that for a man so desperate to die he says it wasn’t as fun as he thought it might be. Are the limitations his mental illness placed on him among his considerable regrets, enough that he felt compelled to try again in a new life? Only time will tell, I suppose.

Tl;dr: A little scatter-brained and a lot flighty, he’s lacking in conviction but not in compassion—and he may be a lot sharper than he first lets on. Rife with some sort of emotional/mental hardships, be prepared for a long, difficult ride if he’s among your favorites! It makes me wonder if MC will be reason enough for him to find meaning and peace in life for once, not unlike Jeanne’s rt. A girl can hope~

Ah yes, we arrive at another deeply beloved bias, Le Comte de Saint-Germain. I very much doubt there are words to encompass how much I love this man, but I will do my very best for your sake—and for his (it’s what he deserves).

Le Comte is a mystery to all but Leonardo, it would appear; right down to his alias. And in intriguing accordance with that fact, he is at times the epitome of a genteel nobleman—until he’s ready to unleash a flagrant can of whoopass to protect people. I think what I love best about him is that he’s quite literally a walking contradiction, in many senses of the word. He’s a gentleman with the heart of a punk/delinquent, only civil until a dispute carries too far. Saint Germain is the definition of a brittle character (something I have always been incredibly fond of in stories); I can never quite get a read on him. My best guess would be to say that while he’s patient, he’s also unpredictable. It’s not always clear how affected he’ll be by something or what he’s feeling. But when it becomes too much for him to bury within, you better believe everyone in a five mile radius can feel the aftermath. You’ll all come to understand what I mean, hopefully, but it’s the precise reason Leonardo becomes friends with le Comte—and why he continues to fascinate me.

And as odd as it sounds, I love how simple he is too, to some extent? No matter how convoluted the specifics of a situation get or blame is thrown around, he always cuts to the core of the issue—and doesn’t let anyone sidetrack that. He’s cautious, but not entirely incapable of being forthright; just choosy about when, where, and how. Which begs the question. Why does he always hold back so distinctly with MC? Side stories in the Japanese version suggest some very deeply rooted, agonizing fear that makes him avoid getting close to her no matter how much he likes her. I have theories, but nothing solid quite yet. All I know for now is that he is slightly shady, very benevolent, and a whole lot lonely.

Tl;dr: He’s literally the definition of the meme “aren’t you tired of being nice? don’t you just wanna go apeshit.“ Works to be gentle and understanding, but the second he deems somebody has gone too far he will act with surprising, swift, and deadly vehemence. He’s very sweet and surprisingly possessive/direct about his affections—though he often plays it off like a joke. I always find it funny though, when some of the residents—especially Arthur/Shakespeare—know they’ve gone too far and they just look up to his dark, saccharine smile like FUCK. 11/10 I’ve been waiting centuries for this man Cybird, pls set me free And last, but certainly not least, we have our distinguished butler, Sebastian. I love this big ol' nerd but can't deny that he does me a bit of a frighten. He can do...literally anything on the domestic front, and frankly its a bit alarming 😂😂

Just as the little question mark next to his description as stoic indicates, he goes for the whole unruffled English butler vibe and nails it for the most part. He's even got the witty banter down! But he's also pretty direct and unapologetic about his love for historical figures--and the stalkerish lengths he'll go to to observe them all. (I mean come on, this fool literally overshares about himself in milliseconds if you let him). Granted I can't fault the man for doing what makes him happy. Like Isaac, I just have to resist the urge to gently shove him into a locker sometimes lmaoAs for his romantic potential, I think the possibilities really range. From what little I've seen, I think he might be a bit like Mozart? He seems very unaccustomed to social interaction--and given his backstory he was more interested in books and people long dead than the ones beside him. He also has a bit of that fastidiousness to him, a bit stern and awkward despite moments of warmth. I think he can be more preoccupied with cutting straight to the truth sometimes than he is about figuring out how a person needs to be spoken to (re: what is tact?). And that's charming in it's own way, though the result can be hilarious inadvertent moments of callousness--quite literally photo taken seconds before disaster lmfao. (I think my favorite instance of this was when he was trying to reassure MC once and totally fucks it up, only to see her start panicking and go "Oh shit, I stepped on a verbal landmine, didn't I" and then Comte comes to the rescue) Tl;dr: Honestly, I think he'll be a really cute love interest even if I am all about the vampires in the game. He's his own kind of genius, even if he doesn't see it, and deserves just as many hugs! And I think he severely underestimates how sexy it is for a man to willingly share in the responsibilities required of a household. Get you a man as capable and sharp as Sebas LOL

#asks #as you can see i need sleep and a life #but i hope you enjoyed my rambles all the same!!#i love this game and i love how much the characters surprise/delight me!#so many good babies (both trash and pure alike I'm not picky LOL)#lord i cant wait for jeanne to come out in english yall my heart was shattered in the most beautiful way #to say nothing of the cute little gothic motif thrown in #and ik comte's route will be the end of life as i know it #im on bought time #crybird will not have mercy im sure #pray for me lovelies

158 notes · View notes

evesbeve · 6 years ago

Text

Operation Normal

You can’t tell me Ben and Dave wouldn’t get along. I’ve prepared so many scenarios for these two, and here’s one of them, in which they meet for the first time!

___

Summary: It was supposed to be a happy, once-in-a-lifetime get together, yet Ben had never been more nervous in his entire life. In which Klaus introduces Ben and Dave to each other.

(Read this on AO3 + FFN)

___

Klaus had been in his room with Dave for two hours now.

Ben got it; he needed to explain some things to him. He couldn't imagine how he would have reacted if he was manifested into a different time.

Apparently Klaus had told Dave about where he really came from even when they were in Vietnam together, but it wasn't just the time travel they needed to talk about.

Ben remembered when he first woke up as a ghost, only to never fall asleep again.

He remembered how terrified he was when he couldn't touch Klaus, or when he first realised no one else could see him, or how he couldn't complete the simplest of tasks, like eat or sleep.

It took the apocalypse for Klaus to learn how to manifest him, and now it was Dave's turn.

Dave was lucky, really. Klaus knew so many more things about his powers than when he did with Ben. Dave was undoubtedly corporeal in that room, and Ben didn't want to know what was going down between him and Klaus.

He shook the thought off, sighing.

Would Dave even like him?

Dave wasn't just a random ghost Klaus had summoned. It was the literal love of his life, someone Klaus might as well spend the rest of his life with. Probably even the afterlife.

Ben had heard so many stories about Dave. In fact, Klaus never shut up about him. The problem was, he sounded so wonderful, perfect even, and Ben? He was far from that. Way too far.

This whole thing relied on him. On the impression he'd give Dave.

It had to go well.

The door opened a little bit too quickly, startling Ben. He sighed in relief when he saw Klaus poking his head from inside his room.

"Ben Hargreeves, come on in," he said in the best The Good Place impression he could muster, but it didn't make Ben any less nervous.

Ben stood up from where he was sitting — at the opposite wall of Klaus' room, facing the door — and slowly approached the door.

"Oh, come on, Benny, you know I can't manifest him forever," Klaus said, and even though Ben knew he was joking, the guilt went up his spine in milliseconds.

Even after all these years, Ben and Klaus still didn't know what made Ben so different from the other ghosts. How come he was able to show up whenever he wanted, whether Klaus was sober or not, in a body he was comfortable with? What if, since Ben was always present, he was taking up Dave's spot next to Klaus?

He gulped, suddenly feeling a weight upon his back.

He reached the door after what felt like hours, looking up at Klaus with an apologetic look. Klaus smiled at him, and it looked as if he was going to say something, but he took a peek inside his room instead.

"Are you ready for the big reveal?" Klaus asked excitedly, and for a second, after seeing the huge grin on Klaus' face, Ben really was ready.

If only it were this easy.

Klaus pushed the door fully open, and Ben finally came face to face with David Katz.

The man was tall — taller than Ben had expected, but not nearly as tall as Luther — and clearly built up. His hair was curly, but not the Klaus kind of curly, filled with a dark brown color, and his eyes reflected the color of a shined-upon lake, or an after-storm sky, exactly like how Klaus had described them.

Despite the wound on his chest — Klaus was still working on getting that fixed — Dave was smiling, or so Ben assumed. This might have been the first time he ever saw Dave, but he could tell a forced and real smile apart and-

Oh god, just how stupid did Ben look?

"Okay, boos," Klaus clapped his hands together, getting their attention. "Enough with the awkward smiles and the silence, time to get to know each other!"

So Klaus noticed the smile thing too- Wait, did he say awkward smiles? As in plural? Ben wanted Klaus to close the door again, so he could just-

"Ben? Earth to Ben?" Klaus snapped his fingers in front of Ben's face, bringing him back to reality. "Wanna like, come in? To talk? Just a thought."

Ben nodded, but didn't make a sound. His eyes were fixed on Dave as he walked in, and he only averted his gaze from him when he heard a loud thud on the door.

"You really like shoving that thing closed, don't you?"

Ben couldn't understand how a voice description could be accurate up until that moment, but he certainly got it now. Klaus had memorised every single thing about Dave, and explained it to Ben in great detail.

And Dave's voice? Soft, funny, and filled with certainty? That had to be the most accurate aspect so far.

"It's a family tradition, you'll catch up," Klaus said. "And speaking of family…"

Klaus made jazz hands at Ben, his grin never leaving his face.

Ben knew he was supposed to say something, but he was honestly at a loss of words. All he wanted was to make a good first impression, and every single sentence that went through his head sounded inappropriate.

Well, he supposed he had already blown his great first impression dream by being so awkward.

"Hi," he said, clearing his throat, and instantly wanting to facepalm himself. "I-I mean, hey, hi. Hello."

He needed to shut up. Right now.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it, brother o' mine?" Klaus said, clasping his hands together again. "Davey?"

"Hey," Dave said, waving awkwardly.

"Neat'o!" Klaus cheered. "Now imma leave you two have a nice chat while I have a bath!"

"Hey, wait-"

"Klaus, I don't think-"

He was out of the door before any of them could stop him.

Not that they could have. Ben doubted Dave was still corporeal, and Klaus was the fastest person he knew anyway. He was long gone, reachable or not.

Nothing could prepare Ben for the silence that fell upon the room afterwards.

His whole body was itchy — and Ben was never itchy, not when he was incorporeal — and he could have sworn he even felt the tentacles aching to come out. Ben silenced them. The horror was the last thing he wanted Dave to see.

"So you're Ben," Dave said, a bit of hesitance in his voice.

Sometimes Ben hated how observant he had become ever since he died.

"I wish I could say I was alive and well, but…"

Dave giggled at that, much to Ben's relief.

"I'm Dave," Dave said, extending his arm for Ben to shake. Ben didn't think it was possible to be impressed by a handshake, but damn, did Dave have a firm hold.

"Ben," he introduced himself out of instict. "Whiiich you just told me two seconds ago. My bad."

Dave smiled. "Don't worry about it."

Things were good. He was good.

"Klaus has told me so much about you," Ben said after another long pause, proud of himself for being the one to break the silence this time. "He literally won't stop. It's this close to getting annoying."

"I totally get what you mean," Dave said, taking a seat on Klaus' bed. "Klaus can be a mouthful, can't he?"

"Tell me about it," Ben said, a half-smile creeping up his face. "But it's kinda comforting, you know? His ramblings?"

"They are."

It was as if the universe wanted them to stay silent. To shut up. To say nothing.

This is why Ben wanted Klaus to be in the room while they did this. When he was around, even when he wasn't speaking, there was not a chance that the room would be silent. Klaus was always messing around with something, most of the times even breaking it, or tapping his fingers on the table or anything.

He felt so stupid for missing him.

"Listen, Dave-"

"He talked about you too, you know."

Usually Ben didn't appreciate being interrupted — correction: Ben didn't like being interrupted period — but there was something about the way Dave spoke, about what he said, that made Ben all so curious.

"He did?" Ben asked.

Dave nodded. "He'd talk about all the family, but it always ended up being about you. About the things you did together, and how much you cared for him."

Despite complaining about the silence before, Ben genuinely had no idea what to say. He was aware of all sorts of crazy shit that happened in Vietnam, but the craziest he had heard thus far had to be this one.

Klaus talked about him. To the love of his life.

Klaus talked about him, despite staying away from him for ten full months, despite a decade's worth of nagging, despite everything.

"Look, Ben," Dave began, eyes meeting his. "I love Klaus. I love him like I've never loved anyone before, and I don't think I can ever stop loving him, so I promise you, I'll never hurt him-"

"Woah, woah, woah," Ben interrupted before Dave could get ahead of himself. "Dude, are you like, asking for my approval? Of you?"

No way.

"Weeeell…" Dave scratched the back of his head, his voice going an octave higher.

No way.

"Man. No," Ben shook his head. "I'm not his Dad, you don't need to-"

"I just thought, that since you take care of him so much, you'd want to be reassured."

"Are you seriously asking for my permission to date Klaus?"

"What? No," Dave immediately shook it off. "Don't get me wrong, you look like a decent guy, but I'm going to keep dating Klaus no matter what you think."

Ben had started to get tired of not knowing what to say.

"Good."

"What?" Dave looked up at him, surprise visible in his eyes.

"He loves you a lot, you know," Ben tried to explain. "And he needs you."

It was the first time Ben had actually said it out loud; Klaus needed Dave.

He should have been happy. The guy in front of him was Klaus' dream man, and he loved him back, willing to sacrifice everything for him. There was nothing better than a mutual feeling of understandment and love, so why did Ben feel like he had been ripped apart?

"It doesn't mean that he needs you any less," Dave said, catching Ben's attention.

"What do you…"

"When I said he talked a lot about you, I meant it," Dave continued, a smile now on his face. "I know how much he means to you, and he told me more than once how much you mean to him."

This was supposed to be a happy, once-in-a-lifetime get together, so why did Ben feel like crying?

"I don't think anything could ever make him stop loving you."

Ben cursed at himself inside his head, wiping a tear with his sleeve, and trying his best not to sniffle.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's all just so new to me, you know? You don't look like- You aren't like the guys Klaus usually gets with. Klaus has never really done long-term before, and I know I shouldn't be, but I'm so worried for him."

"Believe me, I'd know," Dave said. "I don't think a second has gone by that I haven't been worried for him."

Ben chuckled, nodding. Klaus just was like that.

"That I can agree with."

There was a moment — a final moment — where none of them spoke, but this time it wasn't awkward or scary. They both had smiles decorating their faces, and Ben actually felt close to Dave at that point.

"You know-"

"How are the two of you getting along?" The door slammed open, scaring the living shit out of Ben and making Dave flinch so hard he almost hid under the bed. Had it been long enough for Klaus to finish bathing already? "Oops, sorry, Dave."

"What about me?" Ben asked.

"You've been through worse," Klaus said, sticking his tongue out at him, earning a quiet giggle from Dave.

Ben crossed his arms in annoyance, but there was no hiding the little smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

He could get used to this.

42 notes · View notes

anonthenullifier · 6 years ago

Note

You see all I wanted from infinity war/endgame was Vision and Nebula meeting up and being friends. But she doesn’t know that he’s always been a sythezoid, so she’s kinda like “shit, what happened to you??” And Vizh kinda just “???” But marvel’s too cowardly to do anything fun, so could I please request a fic based loosely on that?

That would have been lovely! I’ve never written Nebula before, so I hope she’s in character here, and I hope you don’t mind a bit of Scarlet Vision at the beginning and the fact that I am just going to willfully ignore canon for this story. :D

A cozy, soothing rightness curls through his synthetic veins as he takes in the emerald wisps in the distance. His heart beats faster at the shimmering points of light deep inside the structure, understanding that each one may one day (in many billions of years) host a system teeming with conscious thought. He is awestruck at how so many elements all came together to form the majesty before him. There is also a part of his mind, one that rarely feels present, that sings with the knowledge of being home, back among the particles and the atoms which were birthed in creation.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice brims with wonder, eyes wide and smitten, her fingers still laced with his, as they have been since the ship first arrived unannounced on the lawn of the compound. Through all of the conversations, all the planning, all the awkward introductions and stumbles of two teams attempting to work together, he knows Wanda’s attention, like his own, has rarely strayed from the panoramic windows of the ship.

“It is.”

Wanda tugs him closer, their hips meeting and trapping their joined hands, allowing her to lay her head along his bicep. “Do you know what it is?”

The simple answer, and likely all she is asking, is that they appear to be inspecting a nebula. Yet he has been attempting to discern the exact nature of the structure outside (one he knows is not nearly as close at is seems). There are numerous large, billowy clouds clustered together to form the overall shape which is, if he squints, reminiscent of a seahorse. “I believe it is a conglomeration of giant molecular clouds.” Wanda’s huh is accepting of the response without actually tucking the information away, the same sound she makes any time he has provided an answer that isn’t really an answer to someone without a deep knowledge of the topic. “This nebula is likely a stellar nursery.”

Her mouth curves into a waxing crescent, “That’s amazing.” Her joy is celestial, filling his chest with the appropriateness of experiencing this with her, of all people. “So, uh, what do you think…of all this?”

The mission, from what he gathered in the hotly debated group meeting, concerns thwarting an attempt to retrieve an ancient and powerful artifact, some confusion still remaining as to the actual artifact as well as why and how the Guardians of the Galaxy (or so their apparent captain - though there was debate on this as well - introduced them as) came to call on the Avengers. “I am uncertain what is happening due to the ill-defined plan we have been given.”

“Glad I’m not alone.” Wanda’s snigger is delighted yet empathetically annoyed. “What do you think of all of them?”

It’s a big question, one he has contemplated briefly, yet he isn’t sure if deep thought is needed to describe the way he feels, his emotions blindingly bright on the topic. Yet he gives it a moment’s thought before answering. Earlier at the meeting, there was a green skinned woman seated across from him, her eyes serious and mouth in a perennial frown throughout the debate. Next to her was a bulky man with straightforward, un-nuanced opinions that contrasted sharply with the intricate crimson markings inlaid in his skin. To Vision’s right was a woman with antennae, her mouth in a constant joyful curve, and to his left (well, Wanda’s immediate left) was a foul-mouthed tree and an even fouler-mouthed raccoon. The assortment was dizzying, only one truly normative human amongst them, and for the first time in his relatively brief existence Vision felt oddly…normal. Not a single individual on the ship stared at him askew, veered from his handshake, or whispered behind his back. Even on his own team he has never been treated in such a casual, unperturbed nature. It’s nice. “They seem passionate, well-trained, a bit disorganized, but accepting.” Well, mostly, during the meeting his eyes would wander to the far right of the gathering, to a face that was framed by the shoulders of Steve and Sam, to the unerring stare of the cybernetic woman who said all of four words the entire debate. That is not enough to sway his emotional assessment, however. “I am comfortable here.”

“Good,” she squeezes his hand while laying a kiss to his arm, “they’re a lot louder than our team.”

“Oh yes, most assuredly.”

Another hug from her fingers and she yawns, stifling it against the fabric of his uniform, her breath hot on his skin. “Alright, today’s been overwhelming so I’m going to sleep. You coming?”

Any other night he would say yes, but the expanse of space calls out to him, demanding just a little more time. “I believe I may remain here a bit longer and then I shall join you.”

“Okay,” Wanda rises up onto her toes, a cloud of scarlet, shimmering in unison with the nebula outside, engulfs his face, turning his head down and to the right so she can kiss him. “Good night, Vizh.”

“Sleep well, Wanda.”

Once she is gone, Vision tries to enjoy the solitude and silence of eternal night, except it is difficult to do when not truly alone. He waits precisely five minutes, forty-five seconds, and fifteen milliseconds before acknowledging the shadow that’s been watching him since the teams dispersed earlier in the evening (well they called it evening despite a lack of demarcation between day and night). “Are you intending to speak with me at any point?”

“Calm down,” the woman’s voice is monotone, which usually implies emotionlessness, yet he can sense a seething rage in each syllable, “didn’t want to interrupt your little moment.” A layer of disgust coats the last two words.

“I appreciate that.” She rolls her eyes and he finds himself at a loss for how to continue…well, more at how to begin. When they arrived on the ship, she was not present, at some point between introductions and the first aggravated groan of the meeting, she slinked in unannounced and relatively unnoticed, the only signs of recognition by anyone were some of the surprised eyes of his own teammates at her blue and purple skin and the unmitigated view of her metal parts. It means they have not truly met and that seems an appropriate place to start. “I am Vision,” he turns towards her and holds out his hand.

“Yeah, I know,” the complete disregard for the information is more effective at slapping his hand away than if she had physically done so, “so,” her eyes scan his body with a detached, almost scientific interest, “what happened to you?”

“I, um, do not follow.”

Her face is unimpressed by his lack of comprehension. “Had to have gotten into some deep shit for,” she waves her metal hand at him, “all this.”

This is a line of postulation he has not encountered concerning his appearance, the majority of people usually ask if the stone in his head is a way to turn him off (or on and then they laugh and run away). “I was created in a laboratory.”

“Well, that’s boring.”

For some reason the dismissal stings and he finds himself sharing the more dramatic details of his birth before he can reason through why he is doing it, “In which a rogue sentient robot controlled the mind of a renowned geneticist and forced her to create my body as a new form to occupy.”

A small, frightening smirk forms on the woman’s lips, “Now we’re talking.”

Vision nods slowly, confirming they are, in fact, speaking, “During the process, Wanda, who was, well, aiding Ultron-”

“Ultron the psychopathic robot?”

“I- yes, he is,” Nebula nods, a hint of pride on her face at connecting the dots of his story. “Wanda realized Ultron’s plan and freed the geneticist from the mind control, and then the Avengers captured the cradle my body was in and they finished bringing me to life, without Ultron’s influence.”

The woman accepts the information and doesn’t press for more, so he joins her in staring out the windows at the peacefulness of space. Then she speaks and the conversation veers in a direction he did not anticipate, one with a concerning level of hopeful curiosity. “Did you kill him?”

“I-” he thinks back to the forest and the regret he felt even though he knew it was the right thing to do, “I did, yes.”

“Nice. That’s my dream,” she doesn’t turn to look at him, the air around them chilling as she seems to dissociate from their conversation and slip into a wholly different mindset, “to murder the man who did this to me.”

The uniqueness of the conversation begins to take shape, the similarities of their appearance maps onto his deep understanding of the desire to find a kindred spirit. “Who-”

One word, one sign of interest is enough to catapult her into what seems a well-rehearsed monologue. “My father. When I was a child, he conquered Luphom, killed half the population, took me under his wing.” Vision’s lips fall at the decidingly unfatherly actions. “Every time I failed him he replaced more of my body, enhanced me, he’d say, usually without knocking me out, wanted me to know exactly what he was doing to me.” As subtly as possible, his eyes pinpoint every part of her visible body that is cybernetic, his stomach looping itself into knots at the innumerable lines along her face and at the fully metal arm, “This one was me,” she cocks her arm like a rifle, a wicked sneer on her face, “chopped it off to escape my sister.”

“Your family sounds,” he pauses, seeking out the appropriate word, his own experience with family abnormal, but not in a way that would encourage him to dismember himself, “complicated.”

She snorts, “Aren’t all families?” and the combination of the sound with the casualness of her words is alarming.

“I do not believe it is statically possible for every family to have such serious complications.”

Whatever humor she had in the situation vanishes, the shared ground between them crumbling with the purse of her lips. “You got a cape, assume you can fly?”

“Yes.”

Her chin dips with the victory of her deductive reasoning. “What else can you do?”

The breadth of his powers is vast, yet he believes he can boil it down to a small list, though hopefully she does not wish for a conversation on why he can perform the feats he can because he has not yet deciphered the best explanation. Vision begins with the most obvious enhancement. “Not only is my body laced with vibranium, but so are my cells. This makes me nigh indestructible and—” suddenly a leg cuts through the air, sliding diagonally from his right clavicle down to his left hip as his density drops, her foot connecting with the floor in a deafening thud.

“Fascinating.”

Vision’s sympathetic system activates as he turns to follow the shark-like circling of the woman as she takes in his now solid body, even reaching out to experimentally nudge his shoulder. Despite his body’s response, he does not currently believe he is in any real danger, no clear signs of a legitimate threat present in her posture or on her face. “I am able to shift my density, which also allows me to phase through solid objects.” To demonstrate, he reduces the density of his legs and drops down until the floor is at his knees. He returns to his full height, feet solidly on the floor, only after she acknowledges the action with a guttural hmm.

“Can you take the density the other way?”

“Yes,” and he does, shifting his molecules until his skin resembles the sheen and cut of diamonds.

She studies his skin, stepping closer to poke it again, this level of closeness one he never encourages or enjoys from anyone other than Wanda, but he worries if he flinches or pulls away it will demolish the tenuous sense of camaraderie and relative absence of judgment from the woman. This seems a decent plan until she winds back and punches him in the face, the force of which actually moves his jaw a quarter of a millimeter. Vision immediately steps back, creating what he hopes is a chasm of acceptable but not offensive social distance. The woman doesn’t seem to notice or much care, cracking her knuckles with a barely perceptible grin on her face, “I’m jealous.”

Now the attention is stifling and so Vision seeks to deflect it. “What do your,” he tries to conjure up a word or phrase that is descriptive without being offensive to her abusive upbringing, “cybernetic adaptations provide?”

“Super strength, durability, and rapid healing.” Vision watches as she takes three steps back, spine straightening, chin slightly aloft while her arms hang down and her hands are held out just to the sides of her hips. “Give it a try.”

He’s seen Natasha in the same stance, even down to the subtle quirk of her lip that says do your worst. Unlike in training, however, he doesn’t have to engage, instead he decides to double down on what his teammates call his otherworldly aloofness to parry the suggestion. “I am uncertain I follow.”

“Come on.” The flick of her fingers tries to entice him. It fails, his body remaining a respectable distance. “Just one punch, lab boy, see who’s really stronger.”

There is, to him at least, absolutely no reason to establish any dominance hierarchy based on strength, which is precisely what her tone and continued stare imply she wishes to construct. “I would rather not.”

Disappoint slips into her irate, “Coward.”

Perhaps he is, though he disagrees with the assessment given his past behaviors in battles. “I believe I may retire for the eve—”

“Arm wrestling?”

The question is a smidgen desperate, something he finds surprising, yet it does cause him to contemplate the suggestion and weigh all possible outcomes of accepting the offer. “I suppose that would be an acceptably nonviolent test of our strength.”

“Good.” He follows her to the dining table located towards the back of the main room and watches with interest as she clears a space for them, shoving cups and plates and vid screens without caring when something falls. “Right or left?”

“I am ambidextrous.” This is accepted with a sharp smile, the woman choosing her seat and placing her mechanical elbow on the table, hand held aloft, fingers open and inviting. Vision settles uneasily into the other chair, rotating his torso fifteen degrees to bring his left elbow to the cool, metal table. “Are there rules?” The question is asked as he places his hand in her own, the feel of her prosthetic on his skin a fascinating texture in comparison to other hands he has held.

The woman flexes her fingers, rearranging her body to get a better grip. “No external weapons,” a fair rule, “that’s it.”

“What about-” Vision feels his arm begin to give out as the woman unexpectedly starts, attempting to use surprise to her advantage, but he recalibrates his muscles within a quarter second, flexing his bicep to bring their hands back to the starting position. “That was unsportsmanlike.”

“Oh, boohoo,” she snarls at the lost ground, eyes locked on their hands as she struggles to push his arm.

This is not his maiden voyage in arm wrestling, in fact, one of the first team bonding activities they did in his life was such a competition. Captain Rogers alone gave him pause in his dominance, though even then he tried not to use the strength inherit in his full density for fear of harming his teammates. This woman surprises him, on comparable footing to Captain Rogers, but she has a slight advantage in ruthlessness as he’s fairly certain a screw or two is being shoved into the skin between his thumb and index finger. Vision increases his density slightly to counteract the questionable use of technically-not-external-weapons and manages to drop her hand an inch and a half closer to the tabletop.

“Come on,” her voice is strained, teeth clenched while she strives to regain her position, “that all you got?”

Vision likes to think of himself as above the human need to win, yet Wanda is typically the first to point out his sourness in losing at games, including this one, the woman’s words egging him on despite knowing he should remain unmoved by the taunt. He increases his density a fraction more, pushing her hand down farther and that’s when she screams and he sees her humerus fracture. Panic floods his mind, body, and voice at the same time. “Oh, oh no, I will go get aid immediately.”

But she doesn’t let go of his hand as he tries to leave, doesn’t cry or wince as she stares hard at him, a sickening snap coming from her body as her bone shifts back into place. With his attention frazzled, she thrusts his wrist down in a swift arc, slamming the back of his hand to the table. “Gotcha.”

A sadistic chuckle echoes around him as his parasympathetic system kicks in, breathing beginning to settle and the adrenaline leaving his cells, his mind whirring in an attempt to reconcile all that happened. Vision isn’t certain how to proceed, simply stating, “That was also unsportsmanlike.”

Her nose scrunches in disagreement, “You used your density manipulation, I,” she holds out her arm and winces as she replays the maneuver, her gaze locked on his as she reconnects her artificial bone, “heal very quickly. Comes in handy from time to time.”

“That must, um, be quite useful.” And manipulative in non-dire situations, yet with the family environment she has informed him of, perhaps it is an adaptive survival technique.

She takes his compliment with a satisfied smirk, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Not bad for a couple of scrap heaps.”

Self-deprecating humor is something he himself has toyed with, an outlet for acknowledging his deep insecurities without alarming others. He tries hard not to use it, knowing how easily it can tip into a spiral of self-doubt. Given his own perceptions of his inhuman physique, it’s not surprising to find this woman has mastered it and even though he chuckles politely, his mind also rushes through the various ways to counter the lighthearted dehumanization. “Are you familiar with Gestaltism?”

“No,” she levels a serious gaze at him, “but I hope you’re about to tell me about disemboweling enemies.”

Thankfully he is not, nor is he willing to enter into that branch of conversation. “It posits that in the process of perceiving a stimulus, the whole is considered something other than, and distinct from, the parts that make it up. In fact—”

She stands, the sound of her chair scraping against the ground effectively silencing him. “This is boring.”

“My apologies.”

“The angry woodland creature would be better to discuss parts and wholes with,” an impish, knowing slant forms on her mouth, “though I don’t think you’ll agree with his philosophy.”

Vision isn’t sure which shipmate is the angry woodland creature, given both the tree and raccoon were snarky during the meeting. “I will do so, thank you.”

With a curt nod she turns to leave, takes four steps, hunches her shoulders, swivels to face him, stomps the four paces back and thrusts her mechanical hand out. “I’m Nebula.”

Vision shakes her hand like Steve taught him, firm yet friendly. “Vis—”

“I know.” Before the words are out of her mouth, her hand is gone from his, back at her side, fingers flexing in discomfort. “You’d be more formidable if you talked less.”

“I will process your constructive feedback.”

This time her snort isn’t alarming and might even be a bit friendly. “Good night.”

“Good night.” He remains at the table for several more minutes, face turned towards the windows of the ship. The conglomeration of gases, clouds, and stars still swirl together, forming a whole object of wonder, one that has explanations, yet still remains a relative mystery. Nebula, he reasons, seems a very fitting name.

#nebula #the vision #vision #scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #ask anon #replies #mine #mcu #marvel #thanks for the ask!

46 notes · View notes

themagicianshea · 6 years ago

Text

From now until November, we’ll be spotlighting some of our MHHE registered authors. Want to make art for them? Register here! Artists who register before July 6th get early access to claims.

MHHE Author Spotlight: Page161of180

What piece of work best represents your writing style, and how would you briefly describe it?

I think that my most representative piece is one called "You're a Story (I Can Follow)". It's a take on the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, that involves Eliot rescuing Quentin from the Underworld after the events of season four-- which, *heavy sigh*, I wrote in the middle of season four, before I realized how badly I would eventually a crave a story that gets Quentin back.

I think it speaks clearly to the things I like to do as a writer: the plot is there but not overly complex, the focus is on the characters (specifically Eliot and Quentin) and how they understand themselves and each other and who they are to each other, there are just an absolutely gratuitous number of flashbacks and memories and little moments that show the truth of any relationship (in my view), it's deep in the feels but ends joyfully, and it takes as both thesis statement and rallying cry that the beating heart of love is knowing someone really damn well and taking care of them as best you can, even if you are a full disaster every time you try to express it.

One of my favorite bits, which takes place near the start of the story, when Eliot is trying to convince himself that Quentin is actually following him out of the Underworld, follows below. If you want to know how I see Eliot in his relationship to Quentin (that is: desperately romantic and desperately dysfunctional about it), this is all you really need to read:

He cleared his throat once. It would have been almost comically affected, except for the fact that he actually did need to clear the choking lump that had formed if he was going to get a word out. “The thought occurs,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately casual, “that if we’re going to make it up however many stairs are in the Underworld Branch without me losing what’s left of my mind, the whole ‘ascending in silence’ thing isn’t going to cut it. I know there’s not much you can do about that at the moment--”

He grabbed the banister to cover the tremor in his hand, “--so you’ll just have to suffer through my sparkling conversation. Fortunately, I’ve cultivated a real gift for speaking to imaginary versions of you recently. And on the off chance you’ve bailed on the whole enterprise already, we’ll just-- chalk this up to the stage of the grieving process where I go full season 5 - season 6 hiatus Spike.”

Eliot actually could feel Q, then, but he knew it wasn’t coming from behind him, but inside him, the shard of Q that was a part of him, always, even all the months Eliot had repressed him. The part that was always watching Eliot with disappointed (but unsurprised) eyes as Eliot pretended every little thing about Q didn’t make him want to carve a shelter out of his body for this reckless little stormcloud of a man, with his awful clothes and embarrassing earnestness and the eyelashes that Eliot honest-to-God couldn’t not kiss every. Single. Time. he’d watched them flutter while Q flew apart with Eliot’s name in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Eliot said quietly, letting out a sigh. “I told myself that I was going to be better--” braver “--if I ever . . . saw you. Again. Ever so slightly less full of my own bullshit. But this is--”

Nothing like he thought it would be , for starters. In his relentless planning for what he’d do when he was free, he’d imagined what he’d say if Q was happy, if Q was furious, if Q had already fucked off and married Alice and they had 2.5 magical prodigies and Q hadn’t even thought of Eliot in thirteen years of however the fuck much time had passed. But never had he considered coming back to find Q-- gone . It hardly would have been conducive to maintaining his sanity. Nor had he considered what it would be like to find Q but to have lost the words . To be too chickenshit to say them, sure. To fumble them, abso-fucking-lutely. But to have mortgaged them away?

“-- it’s hard, Q,” he finally settled on. “It’s just-- really hard.”

He could imagine the Q behind him, and the Q inside him, both furrowing their brows.

“Oh stop it,” he shushed, in the familiar way born of having the time to learn every one of a person’s textbook moves. “You know you’re always worth it. To me.”

And: bonus answer! While I think "You're a Story" is probably my most representative work overall, it is a bit mournful in tone until the ending, so perhaps not the best representative of what my MHHE work will be like! For that, I'd recommend, "The Honor of Your Presence," which is the fully indulgent, outsider-POV, Queliot wedding piece that my heart needed: . A snippet (and strong contender for my absolute favorite piece of dialogue that I've written) follows below:

“Fine,” King Quentin says. “Forget the whole ‘obey’ thing. What about just love and honor ? That’s-- unobjectionable, right?”

King Eliot doesn’t answer immediately, and because he is wearing one of his looser tunics today, without the high-collared jackets he prefers, Rafe can see that the pulse in his throat begins to pound at a pace not unlike the palace’s fleet of messenger bunnies.

“Seriously,” King Quentin sighs.

“It’s not that it’s objectionable , per se,” King Eliot says, his voice a note higher than normal. Rafe might say it was verging on the hysterical, were that a word that could be fairly applied to a king. “Isn’t it just-- a bit gauche to come out and say it? What happened to preserving the mystery?”

What piece of work are you most proud of and why?

While I'm embarrassingly attached to everything I've written in this fandom (because I'm embarrassingly attached to the characters themselves), I think my personal proudest moment is a piece called "A Little Disguised, or a Little Mistaken". On one level, this is all about Eliot and Quentin's memory-wipe personas Nigel and Brian meeting and falling in love like the nonsensical soulmates that they are. But on another level, it's also about the parts of Eliot and Quentin that are immutable and come through no matter what, and the way that they keep making the same mistakes with each other (and getting the same things right) across their various timelines and identities. It's also, in large measure, about Jane Austen, for reasons. If you want to know what me writing a no-magic, modern AU romcom would look like (cough cough, MHHE!, cough), the first three-quarters of this are a pretty good indication.

“What can I make you tonight? And keep in mind-- we’re celebrating.”

That was right, Nigel’s text had said he had good news. Well, at least one of them did.

“Um. Something, like, fruity?”

Nigel smirked and it made Brian want to simultaneously slide to the floor and also reach over and pull Nigel in by the collar, but he did neither.

“Okayyy,” Nigel said. “Do I get anything more to go on?”

Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Surprise me.”

Nigel’s hands, always deft and sure, fumbled the glass for a moment, but he recovered it. “Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like,” he said once he had.

Nothing you’re offering , Brian wanted to say. But instead he cleared his throat and said, “Uh. Peaches, I guess? I don’t like them.”

Nigel nodded. “What don’t you like about them?”

They hurt to eat , Brian thought. “Too sweet, I guess,” he said instead.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Nigel said, already starting to gather ingredients.

“You’ve never eaten a peach?”

Nigel shook his head as he started muddling something with something else. “Allergic. Even the smell’s kind of overpowering, though. I get how they could be too much.”

As Nigel poured and shook and stirred, Brian watched entranced and a little sad that something Nigel did so naturally was so dangerous for him. Or maybe it wasn’t natural at all. Maybe Nigel was just a much better actor than New York had given him credit for.

Nigel finished his creation and placed it on a napkin, before sliding it across the bar to Brian. It was reddish-gold in color, shading down to a deeper purple-red at the bottom of the glass.

“Gin fizz with a plum shrub,” he said to Brian’s inquisitive look. “Anyway. Brace yourself. Good news incoming.”

What tropes can we look forward to in your MHHE fic?

Let's see . . . There's going to be about a millisecond of enemies-to-lovers, but let's be real-- these two are far too charmed by each other to stay enemies for long. Not sure any of the following are within the strict definition of "tropes," but they're among my personal favorites, so you can go ahead and expect some gratuitous cuddling of a puppy, some deep-meaningful-late-night-talks-even-though-we've-only-just-met (time is an illusion! they bond fast!), so so so much expressing of thinly-veiled feelings through artistic expression, and actively pining while also actively sleeping together. Also, am I going snow these ridiculous gentlemen in? (I'm going to snow these ridiculous gentlemen in.)

Fuck, Marry, Kiss (under the mistletoe) with three Magicians characters of your choice!

My fully honest answer is Eliot, Eliot, and Eliot. But my even more honest answer is that I'd rather sit back with a cup of tea and a plate of gingerbread cookies and sigh with deep appreciation while Quentin handles all of Eliot's mistletoe needs.

#mhhe #mhhe author spotlight #queliot #Quentin Coldwater #eliot waugh

19 notes · View notes

zoestagg · 6 years ago

Text

Ironman Cairns 70.3: The Bike & Run...

He put his arm around me and leaned in, talking low.

“This isn’t me being mean, this is just what we need to do.” I couldn’t be sure, but I think I recognized him as the man who asked last year in the middle of a monsoon in Indonesia, if I had another lap left. He continued gently, raising his voice just slightly to compete with my sniffles, “You’ve missed the cut-off, we don’t make them to be mean I promise,” I nodded, miserably. “But look, love,” I’m 99 percent sure he said something like that, if not the actual quote — the sentiment. “You are welcome to continue. You will be an DNF, but the course is open. Get out there and give it a go!”

I nodded again and carried my squished, hotel-made onigiri to the Run Out.

He wasn’t the only angel in T2, but we need to struggle through 90 km of biking before we meet her.

Where were we? Ah yes, fresh from having our hopes dashed in the inky foam of the Coral Sea. I found out after that Ryan had dialed up my mom on FaceTime to let her watch me pedal out, and when he saw that I was in a full hysterical breakdown, realized that there is nothing about my performance in any given triathlon that is safe going live. In the weeks since the race, I’ve had a realization about my relationship with the sport.

Being pregnant and giving birth is like a universally horrific and painful experience, right? And yet, there’s all these people out there with more than one kid. I was told it’s because “It’s so worth it in the end, you forget how awful it is.”

GIRL.

I remember every last excruciating millisecond of those 257 days. For that experience, that old yarn does not add up. BUT. Apparently I can spend a whole race scared and crying, and FAIL in the strictest sense of the word and come home and immediately pick races on the two continents I’m missing. (Ecuador and Cape Town, I’m coming for you.)

ANYWAY. We’re on the bike. I’d heard in the little performance art piece about the course the day before, that there’s a dude who just travels the world doing every single IRONMAN event, and he’s declared that the Cairns bike course is the most beautiful.

Oh, you beautiful tropical fish.

You can look anywhere but at the pavement right in front of you while you’re riding? What is that even like?

Someday, I’m going to start a very important translation service: taking the official Course Description copy and making it REAL. Here’s how they described it:

The undulating, and winding course will take athletes past Thala Beach Resort and Hartley’s Croc Farm to the turnaround point, approximately 6km south of Wangetti, before heading back to Port Douglas.

Here’s what it is:

Undulating STRICTLY means up and down, but there’s an undertone of gentle that… let’s just say on an out-and-back loop, there is no rejoicing in racing a downhill, there is only knowing that it will soon be a grueling uphill. The constant hills were tough, but what really ripped me to shreds was the texture of the road and the headwind. In the course brief, we’d been warned that the roads were “county roads” and that we’d be best to try to ride in the left-hand wheel rut. Like the pioneers did. I did not know much about the types of pavement before this race, but I now know that peculiar specifically to asphalt, is a soul-crushing theft of effort. I could NOT get a leg up on it. I pedaled and pedaled and watched my speedometer and worried.

I managed one successful water bottle exchange while still moving and felt like a (slow and wobbly) boss. The road up the coast and back was closed, blessedly. It took 30 miles or so, but eventually I stopped cringing and remembering the awfulness of last year with every course monitor’s scooter that roared up behind me, and I pedaled.

On the way back, I crested a hill and saw a tent. By this point, I was already doing the complicated math as to whether I was going to make it to T2 in time, and a guy stepped out from the tent and motioned with his hand.

OH GOD. IS HE PULLING ME OFF THE COURSE? IS HE GOING TO MAKE ME GET IN A SWEEPER WAGON?

“I just need to let you know,” he started…

NO NO NO NO NO

“That this is the top of the last hill!” He looked triumphant and helpful.

I started crying. Again.

I don’t know, fam, but I’m probably going to need some kind of special warning vest for next race.

Eventually, I was out of the winding coastal road, and on back roads in to town. Then, the wind kicked up. Now of course I didn’t expect the race to be a glassy pool and a spin bike in an air-conditioned room, but DANG. When they say Australia basically just wants to kill you, you don’t imagine your death will be from all the effort needed to overcome inertia, but here we are.

I hit what had to be one of the last aid stations, and wanted water badly. I hadn’t done a great job of eating on the bike, because eating at 20 mph is freaking hard, but I’d been hydrating pretty good. I considered trying to exchange bottles and then just stopped.

“I’m not good at this usually, and I’m really not good at it tired.” I explained to the nice volunteer.

Those last five miles… were peak struggle. Everything was screaming, I was sick of the wind, and I just wanted off the bike. Eventually I started seeing people on the run course. Oh yeah, I feel like THIS, and I have a half marathon to run now.

Fun vacation.

Bike: 4:22:55

All I remember about getting to T2 is that it was full of bikes already. Suddenly, a lady in a volunteer shirt materialized next to me.

“You all right? Brilliant job, let’s get you to your spot.” She steered me through the racks as I walked my bike in a daze of tears.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m just going to… I’m okay.”

I was trying to tell her my dismal scene needs I must act alone, but she wasn’t having it. She stayed next to my spot, chatting as I wobbled to get my bike shoes off. “Here’s the good news!” She continued. “While the cut-off has technically passed, you have loads of time!” There it was, the official proclamation that I’d busted. “One year,” she continued, “I only made it with ONE minute to spare. Another year, one of my friends took 12 whole hours to finish the Half, but he did it!”

Wait, I might be crying again…now.

“Why don’t you see what you can do? Start the run and see how it goes.” I got my running shoes and visor on, and slipped on my fuel belt. “You all right? Good luck, you’ve got this!”

I headed out, and got the official okay to keep going from the kindly course director at the beginning of this saga, and gingerly started to trot. This is where I finally felt like there was a part of me that could do this. All of the running off the bike all training cycle kicked in. I’d been WRECKED on the bike, and now I felt…okay?! What’s even happening?

I ran past Ryan and Frankie and told them I was going to give finishing a go, and trotted on. I WAS DOING THIS. The run course was flat as a pancake and packed with spectators. I started to catch up on the fuel I missed on the bike, and relished the full-fat Coke at each aid station. I wouldn’t touch the stuff if I wasn’t trying to kill myself physically in other ways, but when you are? It tastes like heaven. I had it on my Fuji climb last weekend, and can confirm — Gatorade, who?

There were still tons of 70.3 competitors out there when I started, but as they dwindled, I was VERY careful to make myself as invisible as possible. I stayed well out of anyone’s way racing the 140.6, hugging the shoulder of the path and waiting at the aid stations until they were totally clear before I approached. (The run course was on an esplanade with splash pools, which Frankie took full advantage of.)

Omg those aid stations when you’re not the last one on the course? STOCKED. The run was two laps of the same loop, so the second time through — finally feeling like I was going to very maybe finish this thing — I thanked the volunteers handing out watermelon, “This is my favorite restaurant in Cairns!” I had a lot of time to think on the course, and while I spent a lot of time feeling bad about taking so long, it occurred to me that if the race was only the fastest people, they would miss out on a heck of a lot of entry fees from us back-of-the-packers. While it’s weird to do a sport with professionals out there at the same time, I’d like to think by virtue of it being inclusionary, they can offer more amenities and support to everyone.

I don’t know exactly when I knew I would finish, maybe after the first loop, when my feet were still dry, there was no monsoon, and I was kind of feeling physically… fine? Fine-ish? I was IN THIS. No, I didn’t strictly run the entire way, but I kept moving forward, every single step that much closer to the finish line. Finally, I could hear the announcer and the bells and drums and cheering of the end.

Here’s where I put my finish in humiliating perspective: The woman who won the FULL had a faster time that me doing the HALF. I don’t know what to tell you guys, I’m slow AF. But I have a heck of a lot of Don’t Quit. I ran down the finish line shoot, with the guy on the microphone announcing my name. I got to the end, and he said, “It’s all right to stop now, you made it!”

And then I cried a little more.

Run: 3:30:24

Total: 9:11:22

I did all 70.3 miles of it this time, and THIS TIME, I got a daggone towel.

Triathlon takes a LOT of time. Not just racing one when you’re slow like me, but training. This was Ryan and Frankie’s race too. They let me disappear for half of every weekend day, they helped me get my bike on four different planes, they spent all day figuring out where I’d be when to cheer me on, and hung out on the esplanade for hours while I struggled away at the last 13 miles. And my coach, who kept me honest and on track and encouraged me the whole way, I couldn’t have done this without them.

Triathlon IS a team sport, if you do it right.

(So I think in the whole “you forget how bad giving birth is” is because babies are so delightful? I mean, talk to someone who has both given birth AND eaten their first meal the day after a long-course race — this is not a comparison that works out well for babies if that meal is artisanal avocado toast and a Bloody Mary, I’M JUST SAYING.)

Part 1: The Swim...

#try club #triathlon #swimming #bicycles #running #australia #fitness #cairns #70.3

12 notes · View notes