#and imagine this becoming like a private indulgent thing he doesn’t tell anyone about | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

Text

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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tryingmyves · 3 years ago

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Girl All the Bad Guys Want

okay i won’t lie, i remembered this song exists and i could not get the idea of a badboy!iida out of my head

this is a bit self indulgent because i was definitely that girl in hs lmaoooo

anyhow hopefully y’all like it too

PAIRING: Iida x Y/N

cw: badboy!iida

✨ tagging the iida army: @coleluuviida + @saturnity + @peachiileaf ✨

You have a reputation at UA, mostly with the male students. It isn’t something you put effort into maintaining or even something you cultivated on purpose, but you’ve gained some notoriety amongst your peers. At first glance, you don’t seem too different from your female classmates. You certainly don’t feel superior or disparate from them, but you’ve also never quite felt like you belonged with them. You don’t excel at being soft and demure, and you refuse to shrink yourself down in order to make others more comfortable in your presence. You spit in the face of all the things typically expected of a lady. And frankly, you’re more than a bit awkward when you hangout with the girls from your class. They always invite you to their sleepovers and shopping trips, and try to engage you in their conversations, but you’re always worried about saying the wrong thing or accidentally offending them. You’re never really able to add anything of value when they talk about the boys in your class - a recurring subject. Mina knows everything about everyone in class; she loves to gossip. It’s like her horns serve as antennae and pick up on all the juiciest secrets. She is always interrogating the other girls about their crushes but you just never really felt that way about anyone. Honestly, you find the conversations about who likes who to be a bit boring. You typically end up hanging out with Bakugo, Kirishima, and the rest of that squad. Boys are just easier to be around. They don’t get offended at your crass comments and your sometimes gruff disposition looks outright friendly next to Bakugo.

Your undeniably attractive appearance, unquestionable skill with your quirk, and nonchalant attitude have landed you in the sights of several of your fellow UA students. You are the embodiment of do no harm, but take no shit and something about you is intoxicating. Mina frequently jokes with you about how the entirety of the Bakusquad is duking it out to see who gets to ask you out first. You roll your eyes at her, convinced she’s imagining things. But in reality you’re just clueless. As cliché as it is, you really are the girl all the bad guys want. Too bad you didn’t want them back.

What you didn’t expect with your tough exterior, competitive nature, and tendency to slack off on class work is that class rep, Tenya Iida, would want you too. God, not even he expected it but he had fallen hard. You frustrate him. You’re just as smart as Yaomomo or Todoroki, but you skate by in class. You don’t outwardly disrespect authority, but you won’t blindly accept orders just because someone says so. He thinks the rap metal music you listen to while training is abrasive and doesn’t understand why all your favorite artists sound like they’re mad at their fathers. He finally gave up on lecturing you on the fact that the fishnets you wear with your uniform are not regulation and he was still wrestling with how he felt about learning you were one of the students caught at a dorm party with alcohol a few weeks ago. More than anything he hates that you’ve so effortlessly got him pining for you and you haven’t even noticed. Iida loves the rules! Order, structure, regulation - these are the things that Iida covets, so why was he craving the taste of your lips on his?

He is tired of silently lusting after you, and decides he’s going to try actively pursuing you instead. Tenya thinks that you like “bad boys” so as foreign as the concept is to him, he concludes he’s going to have to take on that persona. He starts off simply, making a playlist of songs he’s heard you blaring from your dorm. He eases himself into your music, starting with Linkin Park and Korn, before adding Incubus, Machine Head, and even some ICP to the mix. He’s hesitant at first… the music just sounds so hostile and aggressive to him. But soon he finds himself relishing the fierce energy the songs give him. Tenya gets why you train to this sort of music, his workouts becoming more intense than ever. They end in his chest heaving and his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His muscular calves throb vigorously after every run and he feels powerful. It gives him a new found confidence that he strategically channels into his interactions with you. For class today, Aizawa simply instructs you all to pair off and spar. You’re about to ask Sero to partner with you when he approaches.

“Y/N. You’re with me.” Tenya doesn’t ask, he’s telling you you’re his partner.

A small sound of surprise leaves your throat at his unexpected forcefulness, but you don’t question it. You just nod, giving a small shrug to Sero before following the class rep to a vacant spot of the training gym.

You look over your challenger, rolling your head on your shoulders a few times to loosen up. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you. You asked for this,” you smirk, bringing your fists up in a defensive stance.

Before you can even blink, Tenya has closed the 10 foot gap between you, sweeping a long leg beneath yours in a circular motion, knocking you off your feet. You land with a thud on your back and the air in your lungs is forced out with a nmph.

“Just try to keep up, Y/N.”

Oh, it’s on. Previously you found Iida’s flustered demeanor around you endearing. But this new, assertive, almost cocky disposition is irresistible. His momentum propels him in a circle while he stays anchored in place on his massive left thigh. As he finishes turning through the motion he reaches forward hoping to pin your arms to the ground, but you’re just getting started. You plant the palms of your hands on either side of your face and kick up from the ground with a boost from your quirk. The added flow of air thrusts your legs up and over your head so you are now standing once more. You are sure that the soles of your shoes connect with Iida’s face during your arch through the air.

“It’s not going to be that easy, specs,” you taunt. Now it’s your turn.

You launch yourself at Tenya, closing the small gap between the pair of you in an instant. He extends a locked arm to block your approach but you simply dip your head, gliding underneath and down the length of his limb until you are just one step behind him. You pivot on your right foot as you swing your left arm across your body. Your open palm lands just between Tenya’s shoulder blades, your natural momentum accompanied by a gale force wind. The impact knocks him off his feet and sends him toppling forward. Tenya’s speed is unmatched and his large frame is covered in tone muscle, but with the addition of the very air around you, your strikes are ferocious. Your air quirk aids in your mobility, but you’ve used it to master hand to hand combat. You dominate in tight quarters, so you just need to keep Tenya close. He’s already returned to his feet, calculating his next move. The moment ‘s hesitation creating an opening for your right shin to collide with his side. Tenya growls through gritted teeth in response to the blow and the feral vibrations send shivers down your spine. Instead of recoiling from your attack Tenya’s hands clamp onto your shoulders like vices. His brows are furrowed in smug determination, and he practically sneers “Recipro Burst!”

You are propelled backwards rapidly, the gym surrounding you flashing by in a blur, the only thing you're able to see clearly is the dark glint in Tenya’s eyes and the zealous grin on his lips. You try to activate your quirk to counter his momentum, but it’s futile, he is pushing you backwards so quickly you can’t manipulate any of the air whizzing past you. Your back is suddenly pinned to the back wall of the gym, Tenya’s large hands holding your slender wrists to the concrete wall. He places a muscular thigh between your legs so his left knee is pressed to the wall as well - he has you completely immobilized. Both of your chests are heaving, your faces no more than three inches from one another. You don’t know what possesses you but you smash your lips to his, desperate to close the miniscule gap between you.

Tenya’s body stiffens in shock for a moment before he opens his mouth, snaking his tongue past your lips. You wrench your hands from his grip, placing one on the back of his neck and tangling the other in the mess of his navy hair. You didn’t expect the class rep to be such an amazing kisser, but when he catches your bottom lip between his teeth you can’t contain the soft moan that escapes you. Tenya swallows your noises and begins to pull away. Your lips hungrily follow after him, but you’re stopped when one of his calloused hands rests on your neck with just enough force to hold you in place.

“Such public displays of desire are unbecoming of future heroes, Y/N. Come to my room this evening and we can finish this privately.” And with that, Tenya separates himself from you completely, already settling into a stance that signals he is ready to continue sparring.

#tenya iida #tenya x reader #tenya x y/n #iida x reader #iida x y/n #iida simps come and get y'all juice #my hero academia #mha #bnha #boku no hero #boku no hero academia #badboy!au #badboy!iida #by ves #mha imagines #bnha imagines #fan fic writing #fan fic blog

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marvelslut16 · 4 years ago

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I trust you

Prompt number: 31 “I trust you”

Fandom: Marvel

Paring: Bucky Barnes x reader

Part two to Trust me for once.

Rating: T

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Swearing. Mentions blood, violence, and death. A lil angst.

A/N: I just want to write for Bucky for the rest of fictober, someone stop me please. I don’t know why I love this fic so much, but I do. Maybe it’s my lack of sleep messing with me lmao. I passed 500 followers and I can’t possibly begin to explain how much that means to me and how much I love each and every one of you! When I started my Tumblr last year to write some shitty self indulgent fanfics I never thought anyone would ever read them. I never imagined having 500 people following my shitty blog.

In the week and a half since Hydra had captured you, Bucky has been spiraling. When he got to the quinjet and turned to look for you, his heart fell into the pit of his stomach when he couldn’t find you. Everything you had said to him in the warehouse started to make more sense, you phrashed things a specific way; ‘so long as it gets you out of here safely.’ He knew you weren’t coming, but he still made Steve keep the quinjet there and wait until it was almost too late and the team was under attack again.

Back at the compound Bucky spends all of his time in his room or down in the gym punching- and breaking- one of the many punching bags, throwing his knives at targets, and working on his shooting. He isn’t sleeping and he isn’t eating, he won’t even talk to Steve when the super soldier tries to get him to talk- whether it be about what happened in the warehouse or anything in general.

Steve, Sam, and Tony are exhausting every resource they have to find you, Hydra had moved you to another location as soon as the quinjet was out of sight of the base. On the rare occasion Bucky isn’t in the gym or his room, he's hovering over the shoulders of the three men hoping he’ll see something they missed. He doesn’t, and only succeeds in annoying aforementioned men with his brooding stares and silence.

Bucky has nightmares on a daily basis again, something that his time in Wakanda with Shuri and T’Challa had gotten rid of. The only difference this time is he doesn’t see himself. He sees everything he went through, all the tourture he endured and the innocent bloodshed, but instead of him you’re in his shoes. He watches you get your brain turned into mush in the damn chair. He watches you forgetting everyone- forgetting him- and then going after the Avengers because you don’t know any better. He can never wake up from the nightmares, he’s stuck in them until he watches you die or you kill him.

Twelve days after you’re taken, Bucky's down in the gym, sitting on a chair because the memories of you in the warehouse are consuming him. You saying that he hates you and to just trust you for once are playing on repeat. How could you think he doesn't trust you?

“I trust you!” he screams into the empty gym, wishing he’d told you so in the warehouse, hurling the knife that was resting in his hand into the wall across from him. He goes to run his hands through his long strands of hair, forgetting he had cut most of it off, something you would refer to as pulling a Britney. He has no idea what that even means, but you say it everytime you or Nat impulsively cut your hair super short. Instead he pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to push the memories away. “I could never hate you.”

Steve enters the gym quietly, observing his best friend for a few minutes. He’s never seen him this bad before, not even when he was consumed by guilt when he realized all of the innocent lives that were lost by his hands. Steve was aware that Bucky has had feelings for you since he saw you, immediately becoming infatuated with your beauty. His feelings continued to grow when he learned your humor, sarcasm, intelligence, and saw your skill in battle. Steve knew Bucky was intimidated and nervous, not as skilled with the women like he was seventy years ago and that’s why he didn’t talk to you, but Steve never realized that Bucky cared this much.

“Hey Buck,” Steve finally speaks, causing Bucky to stand up and pretend he wasn’t just having a breakdown. “We’ve got something.”

Bucky doesn’t verbally respond, instead he brushes past Steve and walks out of the gym. Steve quickly leads the way to the lab, filling Bucky in on the new development. Hydra is streaming a live feed of you chained to a chair right to every computer and television screen in the compound. When the two get to the lab, packed with the rest of the Avengers huddling around the same screen, Bucky see’s you for the first time in twelve days. The first time you aren’t a figment of his imagination. You’re bruised and bloody: split lip with dried blood on your chin; dried blood on your forehead from where you must have wiped the blood from the cut on your eyebrow so it didn’t drip into your eyes before you were chained to the chair; you’re left eye black, blue, and bruised; your skin has a yellow hue and your cheeks are hollow from malnutrition.

Bucky wants to scream, he wants to put a fist through a wall, and he wants to kill whoever laid a hand on you. The Avengers watch quietly as he squeezes through the gaps in the group's huddle so he can be by the screen. By you. You aren’t staring at the camera, instead staring straight in front of you, where he imagines Hydra agents are standing.

“You don’t want another Winter Soldier,” your voice is the exact opposite of your appearance, it’s still so strong and determined. “You want the Winter Soldier. You wanted us to intercept the messages and show up at the base, it was an ambush.”

“Very good, Ms. (Y/L/N),” a man speaks off screen, he has a thick Russian accent, but Bucky doesn’t recognize it. “The only problem was that you seemed to figure it out that day, and ruined our plans.”

“Oops?” your sarcasm garners another slap, the ring on the man's hand causing a gash on your cheekbone. “It’s been what, over a week? How long are you gonna keep me?”

“Until Soldat switches places with you,” you let out a loud bark of a laugh that echoes off the walls in the small room.

“Bucky, your Soldat, he won’t sacrifice himself for me,” you laugh at the man interrogating you.

“We learned of his affections for you-” you cut him off with another laugh.

“You need to fire whoever told you that,” you can’t stop laughing at the absurdity that came out of the Hydra agents mouth. And you don’t care if he becomes angry and annoyed with you, you’re gonna get killed no matter what. Your eyes quickly flick to the camera set up on your left, the one the Hydra agents thought you hadn’t seen, before continuing knowing the Avengers had to be seeing all of this. “The only affection Bucky has for me is hatred. He hates me, there’s no way he’d switch places for little old me. You should have captured literally anyone else if you wanted him to be upset. He can’t stand me! We can’t even hold a simple conversation, and he always leaves the room when I’m in it. We were only paired up on this mission because of a fluke accident. Face it, you fucked up. I’m worthless to your Soldat.”

“That’s not true!” Bucky feels like he’s yelling it at the screen, but his protest is only a whisper. The rest of the team watches him with sad eyes, he’s looking at you so longingly. Trying to will you to understand how he feels about you through the screen. As if on cue, you glance at the camera again, giving it a sd smile, accepting your fate. A loud ping comes from one of the computers in the lab, but Bucky keeps eye contact with you, even though he knows you can’t see. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until his flesh hand is pressed against the television.

“We’ve got a location!” Tony yells, already calling for his suit.

“Then you’re worthless to me!” the hydra agent growls, stopping the team in their tracks who were on their way to change.

“No,” Bucky pleads, when he hears the safety of a gun clicking off.

“Any last words for your precious Avengers?” the man asks you, gesturing to the camera, he hadn’t noticed you’d already seen it.

“I’d say tell my family I love them,” you’re openly talking to the camera now. “But I don’t have any. So thank you for being the family I never had, and the family I always wanted. I love every single one of you.”

A tear slips from your non swollen eye, a matching one rolling down Bucky’s cheek. The screen goes black, a gun goes off, and then the feed cuts completely. “No!” he screams, going to punch a hole in the television, but his fist goes right through due to it being Stark technology.

“Where are you going?” Steve calls as Bucky heads to exit to the lab, no one else moving, too shocked to register everything that just happened.

“Let’s go kill those bastards,” is his gruff response, heading towards the hanger with the Quinjet since he’s already dressed in his tactical gear from his time in the gym.

Steve and Tony are the first ones dressed and ready to go, but the latter hangs back so Steve can talk to his best friend privately. Steve doesn’t say anything when he sits beside the brunette, he doesn’t know where to begin.

“(Y/N) died thinking I hated her Stevie,” Bucky’s voice breaks. “I kept my distance cause I didn’t want to hurt her. And then I saw her with Sam and I was jealous so I started to ignore her more. I pushed her away because I was scared and jealous. And now she’ll never know that I love her.”

A shot rings through the small room you’re stuck in, the bullet lodging into the wall beside your head. You glance at the camera, finding the red light off. Your team, your family thinks you're dead. That was his damn plan, he knows they’ll come to avenge you.

“Sit tight,” he smirks, the barrel of his gun coming into contact with your skull, effectively knocking you out.

Your head is heavy and pounding in pain when you finally come to. Outside the door you can hear screams and guns going off at rapid speed. You cringe away from the sound when someone uses their body to break open the door to your room. The sound of familiar footsteps clomping towards you causes you to perk up, it’s Bucky. You can’t open your eyes or even move your head towards the sound to alert him that you’re okay, but you hear a whispered “thank god,” when he hears your steady heartbeat. From the crunching sound you can tell Bucky used his vibranium hand to crush the handcuffs keeping you attached to the chair.

He picks you up bridal style, holding you close to his warm chest. You involuntarily cuddle into the warmth, causing Bucky to smile lovingly down at you. “I’ve got you now,” he whispers, hand caressing your cheek, careful not to put pressure on your many cuts.

When you wake up again, you're in the familiar sterile medbay at the compound. A heavy weight is on your hand, looking over you notice it’s Bucky's hands clutching yours, his head tipped back on the seat he’s in.

“He hasn’t left your side,” Sam smirks at the scene from the doorway, holding a falcon stuffed animal. You playfully roll your eyes at the gift, but reach for it with your free hand. Bucky starts to stir, so Sam gives you a kiss on the forehead and heads for the door again. “Tinman’s whipped.”

The first thing you notice when you glance at Bucky again is his hair. He cut it all off when you were gone. As much as you loved his luscious locks and thought he was hot with them, he’s undeniably sexy with the short hairstyle. “You cut your hair,” Bucky immediately wakes up the rest of the way at your voice, ocean blue eyes staring into yours. “It looks good on you.”

“You could have died,” his voice exasperated. “And the first thing you mention is my hair. I’ve been worried sick, (Y/N)!”

“I was fine,” you roll your eyes, trying not to think of just how close to death you came. “I’m fine now.”

“Next mission I get to call the shots,” he grumbles. “I’m not having the woman I love almost die for me again.”

“I love you too Buck,” you ignore the fact that he didn’t mean for you to hear his confession. “Why else would I be willing to die for you?”

He shoots out of his seat, eyes wide as he stares down at you. You push up to a sitting position, moving to the side of the bed, motioning for Bucky to lay beside you. He seems to debate with himself about whether he should or not, before finally laying down and gently pulling you into his arms. You crane your neck up to look into his eyes, he leans down and your lips meet timidly at first. It quickly turns into a slow loving kiss, the two of you wanting to prolong for as long as you can. You reach a hand up, caressing his face before slipping it through his now short locks.

Permanent tags: @crimson-knuckled-queen @rexorangecouny @mrs-malfoy-always

#bucky barnes x reader #fictober20 #day 13 of fictober #bucky barnes #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #marvel fanfiction

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englass · 3 years ago

Note

How about #7 for the dark prompts?

Sure thing, Anon! Thank you for sending it in!

Have to say, this is such a dramatic prompt that I was going to have some fun with it and not take it too seriously, but... well, that didn't exactly happen...

7. “If they so much as think about you, I will personally see to it that the last thing they ever think, see and know about again is my hand through their chest.”

- - -

Sometimes you question what you were doing with your life. When you were younger you had so many ideas, so many dreams about what you would grow up to be and do; both occupation and personal development wise. Maybe you’d be a librarian, a personal assistant perhaps. Perhaps you’d no longer be so reticent, be more honest and forthright with what you wanted maybe. You can’t say exactly what you thought you’d grow up to do and be like, but what you can say is that romance had been a far, far off idea in the vague outline of your future. Something you only thought about in passing, as a bittersweet indulgence to your secretly romantic heart.

Love seemed like such an inexplicable thing, inconceivable despite the evidence displayed in those around you. For whatever reason you just couldn't see yourself with someone, couldn’t comprehend such an equally desirable and yet dangerous emotion being something that you would ever experience, let alone actually come to possess. The idea of it was all so frightening; so complex and intricate in the way that the unknown typically appears to be.

Maybe, in some strange backwards way, that was why John was such a comfort to you: so complex, intricate and unknown to you as he was.

At first it had been nothing more than an unexpected friendship. It had been hard to believe that such a successful and attractive man would ever be interested in getting to know little, introverted you, even in a purely friendly manner. It had set your foolishly hopeful heart into a childish frenzy at the time, one you’d constantly had to settle and aggressively force down in fear of hurting your sensitive self. The heart is such a fragile thing after all, and you are intimately self-aware of the fragility of your own.

It had been difficult, painful in the way that a yearning heart always is, but you had gotten by; contented yourself with a friendship that sometimes appeared to hint too close at something more, but that you knew never would be. Or, at least, you never thought it would be. John's rather sudden confession during (what you had thought to be) a casual dinner had completely thrown you off guard, completely spun your world on its axis in a way that you couldn’t tell if it was the best or worst thing to ever happen to you.

Ultimately you settled on the former; it was definitely the best thing to have happened to you, despite your many fears and reservations over it all. Fortune had certainly shown favour in gifting him to you and (hopefully) you to him. John had been nothing but supportive and patient during this new experience with him, and it never failed to make your cheeks flush with a bashful heat every time he whispered private assurances and sweetened comforts against your skin.

Yes, life has definitely turned out differently than what your younger self would have ever thought possible.

Sometimes, however, you find yourself questioning what you were doing in this sort of life.

At his core John is a sweetheart, as much of a romantic as you are in his own flavorful way. He’d never once taken a tone with you, never once made you feel lesser than despite your own parasitic insecurities insisting otherwise. John was beautifully unique, and you had no doubt in your mind that there would never be another man like him.

“If they so much as think about you, I will personally see to it that the last thing they ever think, see and know about again is my hand through their chest... ”

And that included his almost disturbing degree of overprotectiveness over you.

Hesitantly you shake your head, placing a cautious hand on John’s arm as he glares menacingly at the… what are they, a guard? You’re really not sure how to describe the people that follow John and his siblings. It’s all very out of your depth, and for your own peace of mind you think it may be best to keep it that way. The less you know the better.

“John, I really don’t think they meant anything by it,” you offer softly, trying to meet his eyes. “They only came in to talk to you. Besides, it sounded urgent. You know they wouldn’t come in like that if it wasn’t.”

John had made it clear a few times already what would happen if anyone came into the ranch without express permission. He used to be a lot more subtle about issuing his threats at the start of your relationship, but not so much any more. In some ways it’s nice that he feels comfortable enough with you to not hide any part of himself, regardless of how dark those parts may be. In other ways you wonder what it is that you are doing with your life -- what have you gotten yourself involved in…

A heavy and drawn out sigh escapes from John, expression softening as he finally turns to look at you; a small and almost guilty smile dispelling his previously murderous scowl. Raising a hand he gently brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers, caressing the quickly redden skin with a fondness that you can feel as much as you can see in the expansive azure of his eyes.

“I suppose you have a point,” he drawls with a teasing lilt, his smile turning charming as his hand smoothes out to cradle your jaw. “I just can’t stand the idea of any of them seeing you; they’re not worthy of such a vision.”

Right… you think anxiously, feebly reminding yourself, overprotective.

“I know,” not completely, but you do know it eases him to hear you say it all the same. “You don’t have to be so harsh with them though. I’m sure they mean no harm.”

John frowns at that, shaking his head. “You don’t know them like I do, sweetling.”

“I don’t,” you agree, “but they listen to you, right? Surely that counts for something?”

The way he watches you makes you squirm, makes you momentarily doubt your safety and the intentions of the faceless men and women around you, but you try not to physically react to him. Only daring to meet his intent gaze with a meek one of your own. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to relent in his silent scrutinising of you, offering a gentle smile and a long press of his lips to your forehead.

“I’ll consider what you’ve said, darling.”

That’s about as much as you can ask of him, you guess. It’s a bit disappointing, with how dismissive his words sound, but you know how John can be. Especially when it comes to you; and how pos-- protective he is of you. You try not to let it bother you too much though. Your life is already so much more different than you ever imagined it to be, and you’re not too sure how you’d take it if you started looking too deeply into things; if you started questioning things too much. You don’t know what’s becoming of your life -- oh god help you, but what you do know…

Is that it is hued in red.

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wallgirl · 3 years ago

Text

The Little Nereid Part 4

4400 words, part four of a nine part fanfiction (it just keeps changing tbh)

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

---

It was nearly noon the next day when a gentle rap sounded on Dynamene's bedroom door.

"Dynamene, are you awake?" Actaea's hesitant voice came through the door. "You haven't been out all day. Are you feeling okay?"

Dynamene turned over from where she had wrapped herself up in her blankets. Her eyes felt like sandpaper after all the crying she had done the night before. "Everything's okay, Actaea. I just don't feel so well. I think I'm going to stay in bed today." She didn't have the energy to force herself to sound happier than she felt.

"Okay. The rest of us are going to go seaing this afternoon. If you're feeling better, you should come with. I'll let you rest now."

Dynamene's gloomy expression didn't change. "Okay. Thank you, Actaea."

Actaea's footsteps disappeared away from the other side of the door, and Dynamene buried her face back into her pillow.

After everything that she had heard last night, she couldn't bring herself to leave her room. She couldn't bear the thought of being out in the palace, pretending that everything was fine to her sisters, and chancing the possibility of having to face him. Here in her room, she could indulge in her misery without anyone else having to know. She sighed and sat up reluctantly, untangling herself from her bedding. With slow steps she crossed over to the window and drew the curtain back.

It was another day of fine weather; Hera's prediction had been right. The sun was shining as clearly as ever, and the birds and the ocean were following the normal routine; birds circling the beach for a meal, and the waves ebbing and flowing to the beat of the ocean's heart.

Dynamene pulled the curtain back over and wandered aimlessly to her boudoir, staring at her shadowed reflection. She looked every inch as miserable as she felt, and that just made her more upset.

What right did she have, honestly, to be so upset, especially after eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for her ears? She had done this to herself. She had taken the risk, knowing that whatever words that Poseidon and Hera exchanged could hurt her feelings, and now she was dealing with the repercussions.

As far as Poseidon's views on his connection with the Nereids... It wasn't like they were unexpected either. Dynamene had lived in his palace for a thousand years. Never once had they had a true conversation, or anything more than him giving orders and her acknowledging his demands. He was cold. He was unfeeling. He was a god so far removed from the feelings of other beings, even those of other deities and supernatural beings, that no one else dared to approach him. She was starting to realize that maybe they had the right idea in staying away.

Why had someone as despicable as him been on her mind so much in the first place?

"What are you doing to yourself?" She asked her reflection in disappointment. "You're not a child anymore. You can't just keep sulking in your room, especially when you've brought your misery on yourself. You're going to worry your family." She sighed and returned to her bed, burying herself back under the covers. She would get some more sleep, then she would take a warm bath and face the world again. Everything would be fine. It would just take a little time.

Meanwhile, Actaea had returned to the room where the other sisters were setting up for lunch, and where Ianeira was waiting with a troubled expression.

"Is she alright?" Ianeira asked as Actaea approached.

"To be quite honest, I'm not sure," Actaea sighed. "She sounded completely lifeless when I spoke to her. She said she wasn't feeling well, but we all know that's a lie. She's been acting strange since her birthday."

"More specifically, once we received word that Hera was visiting." Ianeira took a moment to ponder. "Do you think Lady Hera might've said something privately to her last night?"

"What cause would she have had to speak to her? They're barely acquainted. She gave Dynamene her blessing in front of all the rest of us with no problem. And as far as I know, Dyna has done nothing to provoke Lady Hera's ire."

"Maybe it's far-fetched, but... What about Lord Poseidon? You remember how she ran from his rooms; that look in her eyes. Do you think..." Ianeira's words halted, and she gave a sharp inhale of realization. Her eyes snapped up to meet her sister's. "Actaea..."

Actaea gave her a knowing look and leaned closer. "I'll tell you this in confidence," she said lowly. "She was worried about the subjects that Hera might broach with Poseidon when she came. I'll give you one guess as to why."

Ianeira exhaled deeply. "I've been blind."

"Oh, come now. It's only become more noticeable this past decade or so, dearest older sister," Actaea sighed impatiently. "Dynamene isn't a child anymore, after all."

"I know. It's just..." Ianeira pursed her lips. "Perhaps I didn't want to believe it. I guess I wanted to believe that it was just a healthy sense of fear making her act the way she's been."

"That may have been the case in the past, but it seems things are changing rapidly."

"He wouldn't. We know he wouldn't."

"I'm sure Dynamene knows that as well. That doesn't often sway the heart, unfortunately. We'll have to keep an eye on things; all of us."

"I agree," Ianeira nodded somberly. "For Dynamene's sake."

"For Dynamene's sake."

They exchanged a meaningful look once more before joining the rest of their sisters at the table.

It was many hours later that Dynamene finally woke up. Stretching slowly, she looked over at the curtain-covered window. No more sunlight was filtering through; the room was nearly completely dark. It seemed she had managed to sleep the rest of the day away.

She stood on the cold marble floor, giving one last stretch and a rousing shake of her head before crossing to her dresser for clean clothes. Her sisters had almost certainly left and returned from their seaing excursion by now. Dynamene squinted at the clock on her boudoir. It was well past the afternoon now; the last of the sunset was probably fading over the horizon.

Clad in fresh robes, she left her room and quietly made her way through the palace towards the kitchens. She could hear her sisters conversing and enjoying their free time in various rooms as she passed, but she crept by as best she could without notice. She was feeling more like herself now, but she still wasn't ready to be bombarded with the questions her sisters would undoubtedly have.

After fetching an apple from the pantry, she emerged from the palace and made her way down to the beach. A gentle ocean breeze brushed the stray hairs back from her face, and she smiled lightly at the scent of the seawater. No matter her troubles, she would always be able to count on the ocean to wash them away.

She chose a spot next to a group of tide pools to sit, tucking her peplos beneath her and gazing out at the vast, black ocean. She imagined her worries being washed away by each drag of the waves, pulling them from the sand and casting them out into the unknown.

"Dynamene, Dynamene," soft voices came, and she looked down at the tide pools. A few fish that had been trapped within were swimming about in tidy circles. "What troubles you?"

Dynamene smiled sadly. "Nothing, little friends. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Never. We're always glad for the company of a Nereid," they answered, their scales shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

Dynamene watched them warmly. All Nereids, as spirits of the sea, had the ability to communicate with sea life. In return, the sea life held them in high regards, considering them protectors and ambassadors of the ocean and all within. "You know," she ventured, drawing her knees up to her chest. "The gods of Olympus are mysterious, even to those who've known them for a millennia. Do you think that, maybe, they're just so far removed from other beings that it's impossible to form a connection with one?"

"The gods of Olympus are proud to a fault," a minnow responded. "They justify their actions with empty motives, chasing pleasure and recognition just as any mortal."

"You see, the gods have the same minds as mortals, but they trick themselves into thinking that their supernatural gifts have made them entirely different beings," a tiny crab added, crawling out of the pool to rest upon her foot. "They are just as infallible as humans, and in many ways much more destructive, especially to themselves."

"Mm," Dynamene hummed thoughtfully. "Thinking back now on all my experiences with the gods... Your words strike me as true, friends." She considered the waves for several moments. "You're right. I guess even with their power... They are just people with faults like anyone else." She lifted her hand, guiding a little stream of water from the ocean to the tide pool. "Thank you for your insights. Here you are; you can return to the ocean now."

The sea life that had been confined to the tide pool took advantage of the stream to return to the sea, their little voices thanking her many times over.

Dynamene sighed and leaned back on her arms, taking a few minutes to absorb the wise words the animals had shared with her. It all made sense; so much so that she began to wonder if, deep down, she hadn't had the same suspicions about the gods all along. Of course, in a position like hers, as a servant to one of the top three, such thoughts could be perilous to acknowledge. Keeping them tucked away to herself was the safe choice.

A strange shift in the air made her start. She quickly righted herself and turned around, feeling a presence approaching.

From the base of the stairs approached a familiar figure, a sight that she found her heart both leaping at and shirking from.

Poseidon was walking towards her, the moonlight casting a white glow on the side of his body not shadowed by the rocky bluffs. The points of his trident caught the moonlight on their sharp edges. His expression was somber.

No; as he came closer and Dynamene could make his face out more clearly, she saw it was one of anger. Him seeking her out at this hour with such an expression quickly made it clear as to why he was here; he must have found her out.

She scrambled to her feet and backed away towards the ocean, the cold water lapping at her feet. "Lord Poseidon," she ventured in a small voice hardly audible over the waves. "I didn't expect to see you out here so late..."

He halted ten feet from her. The breeze from the waves caught the white wrap that flowed from his waist, its waving fabric juxtaposed against the sharp silhouette of his body. His hair was lightly tousled from the wind as well, that stray lock of hair that had always captured her attention blown back from his face.

Now she was seeing him as he was. A beautiful, terrible, apathetic man with no warmth to spare nor kindness to show. His beauty was as empty as his soul, and in that moment, she hated him for it.

Her resentment lit an indignant fire in her veins that gave her a surge of courage. She hated him enough that she did not fear him, and she met his gaze full-on, her back straightening, hands loose at her sides.

"It seems you have overstepped the boundaries that servants under a god should observe," he said. In the shadows, his eyes were dark and cold, reminding Dynamene of an obsidian pendant Thoe had once fawned over.

"Eavesdropping is treason," he stated simply. "A betrayal of the faith a master should be able to have in his servant."

"I have, my lord. I give you no pretenses, nor excuses," Dynamene responded, her gaze falling slightly.

"It is," Dynamene whispered. She looked back up at Poseidon. No matter how she felt about him in the moment, she couldn't ignore the twinge of guilt that she still felt at having broken the trust he'd had in her.

Wait, trust? Faith?

What did he know of such things?

"I will heartily accept any punishment you dole to me, Lord Poseidon," she said softly, eyes still searching his face. "But I wonder if you could shed some light on a lowly sea-nymph like me."

His expression changed slightly at that. He remained silent, though, and Dynamene took it as permission to continue.

"You see, I have to wonder... Did you really have faith in me, in the truest sense of the word?" She whispered, clasping her hands to her chest.

These words seemed to have rather blindsided Poseidon, because he blinked. Something told her that this was not something he'd ever considered. Before this moment, he'd never had to. Then his brow furrowed; not in anger, necessarily, but in concentration. No matter what answer he gave, it would be wrong. He could not say yes; if that were the case, he would not hold meetings with his siblings in privacy. He could not say no; he had let his guard down and allowed the possibility of someone eavesdropping to become a reality.

"Because I've always had faith in you, Lord Poseidon," Dynamene continued, her knuckles white from how hard she was clutching her hands together. She could hardly get the words out. "I have always trusted you, and believed in you. I would blindly follow you to the ends of the Earth and jump off if I thought you wanted it; If I thought you expected it. I am a fallible being, just a sea-nymph. I could never reach the standards that I know you hold your fellow gods to. But I'd like to think that, maybe, in some point over the millennia I have served you..." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Maybe, though I've now broken your trust, you had some faith in me, even as your lowly sea-nymph servant."

She prepared to be smited. One blow of his trident was all it would take to end her life, and she was braced for it. An ineffective servant was one Poseidon had no need of. Her fate was inevitable, and she apologized silently to her sisters. I'm sorry I failed you.

But the moments went by, and still Dynamene's heart continued to beat.

Once a minute had nearly passed, she slowly opened her eyes.

Poseidon was no longer looking at her, but at the ocean. The trident had vanished from his grip. His expression had returned to one of indifference, but there was something turning in his eyes. She knew he was deep in thought, but about what, she had no idea.

"The ocean," he began rather slowly. "It is the driving force of all life. As a Nereid, you know this."

She blinked at him in amazement.

"I am the master of it. No one knows the water, or the life within it, as well as I do. This is the way it has been, and this is the way it will always be." His gaze slowly shifted back to her. "Everything that happens concerning the ocean, from the ebb of the tide to the respiration of the fish... I feel it all." He turned to face her head-on once more. "Come here."

She cautiously stepped forward, captivated by his words despite herself. She had no idea what to expect next.

He continued to look down at her. "You Nereids are part of the ocean. The personification of the water's soul. As such, I can feel your presence as well."

Dynamene's heart skipped a beat. Was this how he knew that she had been listening in on his conversation with Hera?

"Even in this, your humanoid form, seawater flows through your body." He reached out and took her hand, and Dynamene immediately tensed up from the unexpected contact. She could feel that strange electricity coursing through her veins once more. "Every time your heart beats, I can sense it." His fingers lingered on her wrist, and she could feel her pulse pressing against his skin. His hand was large, much bigger than hers, but the fingers were rather long and graceful, and she could feel faint calluses from wielding his trident on his palm.

For the first time since she'd met him, he seemed like a real flesh-and-blood being.

Dynamene stared at him in shock. Then came a jarring and humiliating realization. Every time her heart had pounded in his presence, all the times her heart had skipped a beat from his gaze, and that moment when he had handed her the bracelet and she thought she might faint... He knew them all. Now it made sense, the way he'd stared at her after gifting her her present. He could hear her heart beating fast in excitement.

He could hear her feelings for him.

She was so embarrassed. How could she have been so foolish as to think she could ever hide the way he made her felt? It had to have been written all over her face as well. She felt her face prickling with humiliation, and she looked down at the pebbles washed ashore by the waves. Maybe she really was still a child after all.

Poseidon released her hand and said nothing. They remained standing there, unmoving, as Dynamene slowly forced herself to gather her wits and say something, anything. A sudden question came to mind.

"Then..." She said, swallowing the crack in her voice. "You're a being of the ocean to some extent too, right? If you're so deeply entwined with it... How come I can't... hear your presence? Is it because seawater doesn't run through your veins as well?"

"You can, if you have enough power and practice. As a Nereid, you should be able to." This time, he held out his own hand.

Dynamene stared at it hesitantly before reaching out and gently grasping it. The moonlight turned the backs of their hands, one big, one small, the same pale hue. Poseidon closed his eyes, and she followed suit.

For a moment, she felt nothing. She concentrated, searching for something in the darkness...

Then she found it. A steady beat, just like any other man's, strong and constant. And along with his heartbeat was something more. No... much more. The more she focused, the more she sensed. She could feel the rumbling of the ocean's currents and see all the sea life flickering by. She felt the heat from the thermal vents deep down on the ocean floor, and smelled the algae and seaweed that had washed up on shore. It was as if he was a conductor for all the energy in the ocean, and their physical connection was wiring it through to her.

The man she'd thought was completely empty was teeming with life force, not just that of his own, but of that of every being in the ocean.

Shocked, she opened her eyes. He slowly opened his as well, staring at her. "That is but a fraction of what I can sense. It's only this strong from a certain distance, but that's all that's necessary. Nothing around me escapes my notice."

The knowledge of all this was a lot for Dynamene to take in. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for something to help her absorb and make sense of all this. Was this what he was really thinking about during all those moments that he seemed to be staring off into space? No wonder he was prone to leaving suddenly and without explanation. Since he could sense what was going on nearby in his watery realm, he knew when there was conflict before anyone else at the palace did.

"All this means you must've been able to tell I was there while you were speaking to Lady Hera," Dynamene whispered, staring down at their clasped hands. "But I... I don't understand. Why didn't you make it known then, that you knew I was listening?"

Poseidon didn't respond, instead scrutinizing her face. As much as she knew that she should release his hand, she couldn't bear to let go just yet.

"There was no need to cause a scene." His gaze had shifted back to the ocean. "My bull-headed sister is troublesome enough without dealing with her rage at an errant servant."

Dynamene's face turned pink with embarrassment, but she had to concede that much to him. It was true. "Then... I have to thank you," she whispered. He looked back into her eyes once more, and she found herself drinking in the sight of those beautiful eyes. It was true that they were dark and cold and distant, but now she had begun to see something else within them. Now, it was as if he was truly seeing her. No longer was he looking through her, like a meaningless ghost. His eyes were fixed on her own, acknowledging her and listening to what she had to say. And the more she stared, the deeper she found herself falling into them, as if they were an ocean in themselves.

Falling, sinking, further and further...

"If Hera had known that I was there, I'm sure she wouldn't have been nearly as forgiving," Dynamene murmured, trying to break free of the spell he'd unknowingly cast on her. "And I'm guessing you haven't told her at all, as I'm still standing here and not dead or turned into some hideous creature."

"Telling her would do no good. I don't desire anymore damage done to my palace. The balcony was enough," he said flatly. "And I know you and the rest of the Nereids are no fools. You know why my sister visits."

Dynamene's heart fell once more at the mention of Hera's motives. "Yes, I must say we have figured it out," she mumbled.

"Tell me this. If you know why Hera comes, and what we talk about, why did you feel the need to listen in?" He inquired. His eyes drilled into her.

Her gaze fell back to the ground, and her blush deepened. As if you don't know... Then again, perhaps you truly don't. But... Please don't make me say it.

"Dynamene!" A familiar voice called out, echoing from high above the rocky bluffs.

She jumped and quickly turned towards the source of the voice, letting go of Poseidon's hand. "Actaea? She must have gone to check on me and realized I was missing..."

"You've been out here long enough," Poseidon responded. "It's getting late; return to the palace now."

Dynamene looked back at him, with his moon-bleached hair drifting about his eyes, and was reluctant to follow his words. Of course this would happen just as she had finally seen through the impenetrable wall he always kept up. She wanted to stay, even if just a moment longer. She wanted to talk to him and continue to get to know him. She wanted to keep learning just what went on in that closed mind of his. She wanted to keep listening to the calm, stoic cadence of his voice. She wanted to take his strong hand once more and feel his heartbeat, just as he could feel hers. No, she wanted to step closer and bridge the gap between them, pressing herself to his chest and listening to his heartbeat as close as she could get.

She wanted to stay here forever, just the two of them on the beach in the calm, black night, her looking at him and he, at long last, finally looking back at her.

Her feelings had for him had returned, but now they felt different. No longer did the sensations that they caused scare her. Now she just wanted more, more than she could take in. She wanted to feel this connection to him always.

"Dynamene! Are you down there?" Actaea's voice had gotten closer now; she must be descending the steps to the beach.

Poseidon turned away to look out at the vast darkness of the ocean and sky. Without quite knowing why, or what she expected to come of it, Dynamene reached quickly for his hand one last time. She saw his gaze flicker towards the movement...

But she couldn't bring herself to complete the gesture, and she drew her hand back just as quickly as she had reached out. Before she could bring herself to regret her withdrawal, she turned back towards the stairs and began the careful ascent over rock and sand towards them.

"Dynamene! There you are." Actaea emerged from the valley with a lantern in one hand, relief all over her face. "I went to check on you before bed, and you weren't there. I was afraid you'd..."

"No, no, I'm just fine, Actaea," Dynamene answered quickly, putting her hands on her sister's shoulders. "I was just taking in the night air. I'm feeling a lot better now, so you don't need to worry. I think I just needed some time to decompress for a bit."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," Actaea sighed, embracing her younger sister. "We've all been concerned for you. If a night stroll on the beach is what you needed to feel better, then you're free to stroll as late as you want."

"Actually, I was just about to turn in for the night anyways. It is getting late," Dynamene continued rather shyly, remembering Poseidon's order. "Should we go back together?"

"That sounds fabulous," Actaea smiled, smoothing back Dynamene's bangs. "After you."

Dynamene returned her smile with the same old brightness that she'd recently lost, before continuing back up the stairs.

Actaea stared after her for a second before setting down the lantern and turning back to dismount the last few stairs to the beach.

Poseidon's figure hadn't moved as he continued to watch the waves roll in and out. Actaea's face stiffened, but she remained still and silent. She continued to watch the god for a moment, thoughts churning, before taking back up the lantern and following her youngest sister's lead back to the palace.

---

Author’s notes: This chapter definitely took me the longest of any thus far. I ended up rewriting some paragraphs because I found myself going off track from my original vision. I had a “wait, wtf are you writing here” moment, which I guess was ultimately necessary to get myself back on track.

So Poseidon isn’t such an empty person after all? maybe Man, all it takes is a hint of brooding vulnerability and the teenage girls come running lol I don’t mean to slander Dynamene, she’s just a girl having her first love and not knowing what to do about it. Things aren’t much easier when your first love is fuCKING POSEIDON

Anyways, how old is Dynamene? Good question. Nereids age at a rate of about 145 years being equivalent to 1 human year. Dynamene was the equivalent of about a nine year old when she came with her sisters to the palace. She’s close to 16 in human years now, so she was probably born around 2300 years prior to this fanfiction. Imagine living that long and still not being full-grown 😭😭😭

Dynamene’s oldest sister, Ianeira, is physiologically equivalent to a human 25 year old, so she would be about 3600 years old. Talk about an age gap between siblings!

#record of ragnarok #poseidon x oc #record of ragnarok poseidon #poseidon #shuumatsu no valkyrie #fanfiction

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secret-engima · 4 years ago

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

Hmmmm finally up for rambling this ask so buckle up!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-He goes away.

-He keeps coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-“Are they not the same thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years ago

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Good as Gold pt. 6

[part five] | [part seven] [prostitute!Jaskier masterpost]

More and more often, when Geralt finds himself thinking about returning to town, he thinks about Hagge. And less and less often, he finds himself thinking about sex. He thinks about Jaskier, yes, more than he should, but it's rarely with lust - that's a whole other thing. Sometimes he'll lie awake all night the day before he leaves for town, imagining Jaskier's hands on him, his body pressed close, or, when he's really let his guard down, the soft sound of his breath as Jaskier rests next to him. It's a dangerous game, and one he never lets himself indulge in when he's close enough to act on the urges, but while he’s out in the wilderness it’s fine. So long as he keeps his thoughts to himself and never considers them when he's in town, it doesn't matter.

Because he knows the difference between a man who shows interest in him and a whore who's paid to do it. And Jaskier fits nicely into the latter category, even if he is calm and patient and soft. Geralt isn't under any misconceptions, in fact, he tries very hard to remember the truth of this arrangement every time he finds himself wanting. But it doesn't stop him from pretending, on occasion, that Jaskier isn't getting fucked by the whole population of Hagge and then some. Because thinking about that sparks feelings in his gut that he's not ready to acknowledge.

But he thinks about it a little as he makes his way east, justifying it as a lack of physical contact with anyone else. And it's not like it's a problem anyway; he doesn't have to see Jaskier with anyone else and barely even notices the evidence of his other interactions. So it doesn't matter whether or not he likes Jaskier seeing other customers because it will never affect him.

When he arrives at the brothel, he's stopped short of going upstairs and wonders for a moment if they're finally done with him. Wonders if Jaskier has had his fill of a Witcher and the madam can finally have her way and shoo him back out into the city streets. But she looks much too disappointed to see him for that to be the case, so Geralt waits patiently when he's told to.

Jaskier appears at the top of the stairs a moment later, dressed only in a pair of cropped trousers that fit far too well not to be tailored. But Geralt's thoughts are torn from his clothing as soon as Jaskier slides up to him, that same charming smile on his lips.

"What's all this about?" Geralt asks and Jaskier just shrugs.

"Anise and I switched rooms for the day," he says, taking Geralt's hand and leading him toward the staircase, "her room is smaller and she's entertaining multiple guests this afternoon."

"An orgy? Do you ever do that?" Geralt asks and Jaskier laughs lightly.

"Yes, an orgy. And no, not anymore." Geralt is silent for a moment and Jaskier stops on the landing, turning to face him. "Do you like that idea? Sharing me with someone?" Geralt's skin crawls at the thought of it, but he tries not to let it show.

"Can't think of anyone I'd want to share you with."

"Good." Jaskier’s lips curl at the corners and he moves again, leading Geralt further down the hall. He turns the corner and pushes open a door into a bright but significantly smaller room. "I used to," he says unprompted, "when I first started there wasn't much I wouldn't do. Eager to please, you know. But I prefer to see people one on one now."

Geralt ignores the sharp feeling that spikes at the idea of Jaskier and multiple other people, stuffs it down where he doesn't have to acknowledge it. "How did you get started, anyway?"

"Hmm." Jaskier shuts the door behind them, gently guiding Geralt into a chair while he busies himself in a cabinet. "I left home when I was young - too young - because they didn't support my dreams of becoming a bard. The most famous bard the Continent has ever seen," he adds wistfully, almost to himself. "I was horny all the time anyway - got myself into a fair bit of trouble with it, too - until someone suggested I try whoring. Looking back, I'm certain she meant I should visit whores, but I've been here ever since."

"Now," he adds, turning back to Geralt. He climbs up into the chair, straddling Geralt's thighs and winding his arms around his neck. "Enough about me, what can I do for you?" he slips his fingertips into the hairs at the back of Geralt's neck, twisting them around his fingers.

Geralt hums thoughtfully, tipping his head as Jaskier's mouth closes around the side of his neck, the tip of his tongue tracing lines in his skin. Geralt runs his hands down Jaskier's back, pushing his trousers down over his ass and out of his way. He wants to keep him just like this today, even if it means fucking him in his clothes because the way Jaskier shifts in his lap is already getting him hard and he's pretty sure it's intentional.

Geralt slides his hands down, fingers slipping between his cheeks and Jaskier moans at the first brush against his hole. Encouraged, Geralt pushes, further, finding him surprisingly slick and open already.

"No plug today?" he asks and Jaskier hums.

"Didn't need it. There were others."

The answer isn't quite vague enough to keep Geralt's breath from catching and he pushes Jaskier off his lap, rising with him. It’s unintentional and he’s not sure which one of them is more shocked about it.

As it turns out, he really doesn't like the idea of anyone else fucking Jaskier. His blood rushes in his ears and even when Jaskier touches his arm, he can't push through the red hot feeling of wrong flooding through him.

Fuck. This is bad. He's not supposed to care what whores do with their time - private or otherwise. He's not supposed to care that he's not the first person Jaskier's had today or that he won't be the last. But something in him seethes with the knowledge that another man - men - have touched him. Hours ago, minutes ago, it doesn't matter because he can smell them. Usually, Jaskier is fresh and clean when he arrives, but today he stinks like sex and spend and Geralt's blood boils.

He's not jealous. He doesn't get jealous, least of all over a whore from Hagge, but something swells within him, hot and possessive and if he were a lesser man, it would consume him. It's not the first time he's felt like this, but this is so much more powerful than before.

"Geralt?"

Something in him breaks at that and he pulls Jaskier against him, burying his face in his neck and nipping at his collar bone. Jaskier lets out a shaky breath as he winds his arms around Geralt's neck, fingers pushing up into his hair. "Oh," he breathes, "fuck, Geralt."

The soft brush of his fingers tells Geralt he hasn't pushed too far and he extracts himself from Jaskier's hold, walking him back toward the dresser. When Jaskier looks up at him, wide-eyed and obviously aroused, Geralt grips his hips and turns him around, pushing him against the dresser. He presses him down, bending him over so Jaskier's balanced on his elbows, his ass pressed out enticingly.

Geralt shoves his trousers down and presses up against him, running one hand up Jaskier's chest.

"I like it when you take control," Jaskier huffs and when Geralt's hand slips downward, he curls around Jaskier's cock, already thick and eager.

"Fuck," Geralt growls, pressing his hips forward to press his own cock between Jaskier's cheeks. Jaskier's still slick, but it won't be enough and Geralt releases his hold on him, fumbling blindly for the oil. Jaskier is quicker, pressing the vial into his hand without hesitation, hips rolling back against Geralt's cock.

Geralt pulls back just enough to give himself space. He opens the bottle with his teeth, dropping the cork on the floor as he spills oil over the length of his cock and his fingers. Shoving the bottle back onto the dresser, he pushes two fingers into Jaskier, testing his readiness and he wasn't wrong. Jaskier's still loose, slick with oil and someone else's come and Geralt burns with the need to fuck it out of him.

Jaskier is surprisingly silent as Geralt fucks into him with his fingers, but as soon as he pulls out and replaces them with his cock, he lets out a low moan and pushes himself up to his hands. Geralt takes advantage of the position, fitting his hands around Jaskier's hips and nipping at the skin between his shoulder blades. He'll leave marks like this, he knows, and something in the back of his mind tells him he shouldn't, but Jaskier isn't stopping him and the adrenaline running through his veins makes it difficult to listen to reason.

Geralt fucks him hard, spurred on by the bruises blooming in his skin and the stuttered moans that spill from Jaskier's lips. He thinks about who was here before him, wonders if they fucked him like this, if they took him to bed and touched him gently or if they took what they wanted and left him. He's not sure which idea seems more detestable to him and he pushes them from his mind, slipping one hand from Jaskier's hip to the dresser, steadying himself.

Jaskier groans and fucks back onto him, squeezing around him as Geralt shoves himself deep, rutting into him blindly. He can barely think straight, the whole of his mind taken up by lust and rage and the feel of Jaskier's skin under his hands, the tight heat wrapped around his cock.

He comes hard, shuddering as he growls into Jaskier's shoulder. His heart is beating too quickly, his breath uneven and as the rush of his orgasm wanes and his mind settles, Geralt panics.

In an instant, he evaluates his surroundings. Jaskier is panting heavily but seems unharmed and his scent tells Geralt he was nothing if not a willing partner, but it doesn't ease the guilt that creeps under his skin, pushing out any of the lingering gratification from his orgasm.

"Did you come?" he asks and Jaskier nods weakly.

"Yeah. Fuck." His voice shakes, heavy with pleasure, but Geralt can't focus on anything but the marks on his shoulders, spreading clear across the span of them, dark and blotchy.

He wrenches himself away from Jaskier, tugging his trousers up over his softening cock and without a word, rushes out of the room.

#prostitute!jaskier #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #rex writes #good as gold

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tamakiamajikistentacles · 4 years ago

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Rhythm Section {Poly BakuJiro}

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Again, something different that I tried but still the self-indulgent train keeps a-rollin’ choo choo ya’ll

Class A’s contribution to the culture festival in their first year had become the stuff of legend at UA. By the time the next culture festival was approaching, they were all but told that they would be putting on another concert for their second-year program. Another hit song by Jiro and great routine by Mina might’ve been even more successful than the first depending on who was asked.

Third year was the same but not as much of a surprise—A Band would be taking the stage for the final time as UA students. As expected it was spectacular, cheers and compliments raising up from the audience before them while they stood in awe at the reaction.

Well, she stood in awe at something different. She was in awe at the sight of Bakugo and Jiro, both sweaty but energized from the performance and looking amazing. Handsome, pretty, beautiful, attractive… all of the above on both accounts really. That night had been the one that made her realize that she had two crushes.

She was okay with crushing on both a guy and a girl—she’d known about that aspect of herself for a while but hadn’t shared it with anyone quite yet—but did it have to be on the two people in the class who were effortlessly cool in everything they did? It was like they were both trying to kill her at every turn.

Studying with Jiro? She’s twirling one earphone jack around her finger mindlessly and biting her lower lip as she concentrates on the material in front of her. The wide neck of her ripped tshirt slips down her shoulder slightly to reveal smooth skin that she just knows is as soft as it looks.

Training with Bakugo? The muscles in his arms are flexing as they practice traditional hand to hand and the smirk on his face is wild. When they finish and he lifts his tank top to wipe sweat from his face she can see every ridge of abs and has to move away before he lifts it higher and makes her stop breathing.

It was difficult having crushes on the two hottest people in the class and having zero chance with either. No one knew she liked girls (did Jiro even like girls?) and stepping in the way of becoming Number One seemed like a death sentence.

“This is hard,” she groaned, dropping her face into her arms at one of the common room tables.

Jiro laughed. “Music theory can be, even if you’re a musician. I only know it because of my parents.”

“Do you think the greats struggled with it too?” she asked as she raised her head to look at her. “Like was Jimmy Page as done with this as I am right now?”

“Ohh someone knows her classic rock icons,” she teased.

“He was just the first name that came to mind! I should’ve said Bonham instead.”

“What, you’re not into guitarists?”

“I mean I don’t think I’m not into them?” she replied. “I just prefer the rhythm section, that’s all.”

Jiro raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Well yeah, they’re generally hotter. Bonham is case in point.”

“Any other data points to back that up?” she asked curiously.

“There’s a lot but think Fall Out Boy, All Time Low, Zeppelin like I mentioned…” she trailed off as she locked eyes with the girl across from her.

Was this—was this an opening? Could she even…?

“And, you know,” she finally continued, “A Band.”

A smirk took over her lips and she tapped her pen against her notebook as she looked over her, the smirk growing every passing second.

“I think Kaminari would be a little sad to hear that,” she mused.

She shrugged. “Kaminari’s not exactly who I’m trying to impress.”

Jiro dropped her pen and crossed her arms on the table, leaning forward with interest sparkling in her eyes. She was grinning and looked like someone who couldn’t believe the luck they’d had. And the fact that she’d done that to her? Incredible.

A hand landed on Jiro’s shoulder making her jump, and when she whirled around in her chair she saw an annoyed Bakugo. His scowl deepened when Jiro tried to smile at him and from across the table she could see the muscle in his jaw jump.

“We need to talk,” he ground out through clenched teeth, squeezing her shoulder in warning. Then he let go and stomped towards the hallway to the elevators.

“Uh, sorry,” Jiro said with a blush as she began gathering her things. “I shouldn’t keep him waiting and knowing him it’s gonna be awhile. Sorry to cut this short, but can I text you later?”

“Oh, yeah, totally! I hope everything goes okay with Bakugo.”

She gave a weak smile as she stood, lifting two fingers in a wave before she went towards the elevators.

Watching her go made her frown as she too began grabbing her materials to head to her room. That was quite possibly the bravest she had ever been when talking to a crush and of course it had to be interrupted. It was likely for a good reason if it was Bakugo doing the interrupting but still.

‘At least she’ll text me later,’ she thought.

With a sigh she clutched her textbook and notes to her chest and started toward the elevators. But as she neared the corner she could make out a conversation that made her pause.

“…said I was sorry!” Jiro whispered. “She’s the one who—”

“Oh sure, blame her!” Bakugo snapped in a low voice.

Were they talking about her? Were they—was this a couple’s argument? Was she getting between them by essentially telling Jiro she was trying to impress her?

Her two crushes getting together and her inadvertently driving a wedge between them was the absolute worst-case scenario she could imagine. She was ready to faint.

“She brought it up, okay? I didn’t say ‘hey, who do you think are the hottest members of our class band? It’s totally me and Bakugo, right?’, she just said it and then it got flirty! Doesn’t it at least help to know she thinks we’re attractive?”

"That’s not—I thought we agreed that we would both be cool and not lay it on so damn thick? What happened to seeing who she likes more? You just took a fifty-meter head start and now I don't even know if she likes guys!" Bakugo hissed.

“I like both.”

They had both turned to look at her, surprised at her sudden appearance and declaration. Beneath that there was something else that she couldn’t quite place—hope?

“I… I like guys and girls. I’m bi,” she said for the first time out loud. Then, with a bite to her lip, she added, “And more specifically, I like the both of you.”

“Damn,” Jiro mumbled as Bakugo looked off to the side.

She had no idea what she was doing and was internally panicking. What was she supposed to say now? Should she say anything? Yeah, yeah she should. She had to.

“I do like you both,” she repeated softly, “but I also know you two are close. Don’t… don’t make it a competition. I don’t want to choose because you’re both amazing.”

Bakugo looked up at her, his eyes calculating. “Then don’t.”

Jiro went wide-eyed but covered it as she turned to her. “Maybe we should all talk privately. This isn’t something the class needs to hear.”

She nodded, following behind them as they made their way into the elevator.

As they stepped out on the third floor she could feel something shift between the three of them. With each step down the hall it got warmer, and she wondered if she was the only one who felt it. Bakugo’s clenched jaw and Jiro’s constant glances between them both made her think that no, it wasn’t.

It was only after they were all standing in Jiro’s room that Bakugo began to speak, his voice not as harsh as it usually was.

“You don’t need to choose,” he said again. “I like you and so does she. You like me and you like her. She and I get along just fine.”

“So by not choosing you mean…?

“I mean you can have both of us. Or neither of us. If you don’t want competition it’s an all or nothing type deal.”

She looked between him and Jiro. “You two have talked about this? And you’re both okay with it being all or nothing?”

“Yeah we uh, we’re good. Not like he and I haven’t done everything already, you know?” Jiro chuckled nervously, pulling her sleeves down over her hands.

“Okay,” she replied. “Then I’m all in.”

“Oh thank fuck, I wanna kiss you so bad,” Jiro sighed, starting towards her.

Bakugo grabbed the back of her cardigan and yanked her back to his side, glaring at her when she squirmed to try and make him let go.

“Keep your fuckin’ legs closed for five minutes,” he snapped, dropping his hand from the fabric.

She bit her lip, not sure what was going to happen now that the decision had been made. Plus she was a little disappointed; she wanted to kiss Jiro too.

“Listen, we gotta get some shit straight first alright?” Bakugo said. “This ain’t exactly the norm, so if we gotta start small, we do. First thing’s first, do you want us both at the same time or are we workin’ up to that?”

That had been the shift: sexual tension. And yeah, she definitely wasn’t the only one who felt it judging by the subtle tensing of Jiro’s thighs and the not at all subtle outline in Bakugo’s pants.

“Same time is what I want. I’ve… never done it with two people before and I’ve never been with another girl but I want you. Both of you.”

He nodded. “You been tested? You on anything?”

“Work study tests us all for literally everything imaginable each month so yeah, three weeks ago and I’m good,” she said, her skin hot. “I’m on the pill but I would really prefer you use a condom too.”

“Same,” Jiro offered with a smile. “On both accounts.”

“Tested last week and I’m good too,” Bakugo said. “Hard no’s for this first time?”

“Grabbing is the only thing that happens to my ass and if anyone hits me they’re losing whatever limb made contact.”

“No problem,” he shrugged.

Jiro laughed. “I think that tonight we keep it tame, yeah?”

With a smirk on his face Bakugo stepped out of his slippers and came towards her, laying a hand on her waist before stepping around her and pressing himself against her back. “Tame as a threesome can be.”

She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and she shivered, closing her eyes for just a moment. When she opened them, Jiro was in front of her.

Smiling, she brought her hands up to cup her face and kissed her. Lips pressed against the side of her neck too and she realized that stepping around that corner on the first floor was the best decision she could’ve made. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t be enjoying the two sets of hands slowly roaming her body or the two tongues that were sliding past her lips and tracing a reddening mark on her jaw.

Her shirt was gently pushed up and bunched around her stomach as large, warm palms slid across her skin and tried pulling her slightly away from Jiro, but her grip on her hips held her steady enough to not break the kiss. The hands dragged up to cup her ribs just below her bra and Bakugo rolled his hips into her from behind, making her gasp into her kiss with Jiro.

She smiled, eyes half lidded as her fingertips brushed against her cheek. “We’re gonna make you feel so good.”

“Wanna make you two feel good too,” she murmured, feeling the bites to her neck pause.

“Y’already are, just let us have our fun,” he mumbled before pushing her top up over her head and dropping it to the side. He pulled his own shirt off quickly and let his hands roam the newly bared skin of her back.

Shakily, she reached forward to tug at the hem of Jiro’s cardigan, receiving a smile and an easy shrug to remove it. A moment later the undershirt followed and she pulled her into a kiss again as the hands at her back lightly snapped the band of her bra.

She jumped, breaking the kiss. “Bakugo!”

“Tch, pretty sure we can go for given names now, right Kyoka?”

“Katsuki’s right,” she giggled, kissing her once more.

She felt overwhelmed in the best way. She was on a first name basis with both of her crushes and was between the two of them, holding Kyoka close and kissing her with everything she had while Katsuki ground himself against her and unclipped her bra.

With more gentleness than she expected, he guided the straps down her arms and lightly tugged her arms from around Kyoka so the loosened fabric could fall to the side. Kyoka took that time to step back to undo and shed her own which allowed Katsuki to spin her around to face him for the first time. He smirked, fingers gliding up her sides until he was able to cup her chest in large palms.

She cradled his jaw and brought him forward to press her lips against his, surprised at the lack of roughness she’d expected when he kissed back. Was it testing the waters or savoring the first taste? She was willing to bet both.

Cool hands smoothed over her back and slow, careful kisses trailed down her spine. The drag of lips against the curve of her lower back made her shiver and the nudge of fingertips just below her waistband made her heart race even more. Fabric slid down her legs to leave her completely bare and she felt her face heat up, self-conscious of being the only one, until a moment later she heard the soft sound of clothing hitting the floor behind her and felt bare skin against her back.

Breaking apart from Katsuki to breathe she leaned forward to press open mouthed kisses to his collarbone, the definition like he had been chiseled from stone. Her hands fell to his hips and hooked her fingers into his sweats and underwear, tugging them down to pool at his feet. She traced over the ridges of muscle across his stomach as she continued kissing up his neck, careful not to leave marks where his costume couldn’t cover.

She felt Kyoka rest her chin on her shoulder, then a brush against her arm and a twist of muscle beneath her lips. When she glanced up she saw her kissing Katsuki, one hand on his cheek to keep him turned towards her. One hand dropped from her chest and moved behind her, knuckles at her back and a soft gasp coming from Kyoka making it obvious where it had gone.

Then the hand still on her chest slowly slid down her body before settling between her legs and the hand at her back returned to her hip. Cooler hands would around her to cup her chest, a shudder running through her at the temperature but her fingers traced down the sculped stomach in front of her.

Two fingers pressed into her as she wrapped her hand around Katsuki, a soft gasp escaping her and a low groan coming from him. Kyoka’s light laughter followed and she began pressing kisses across her shoulders, mouth free from Katsuki’s head tipping back as more groans were drawn out from the slow stokes.

She bit her lip as the fingers between her legs curled perfectly and his thumb drew firm circles on her clit.

“Good with his fingers, right?” Kyoka whispered.

She could only nod with a whimper as she felt her thighs tense. Her strokes grew faster and she rocked her hips forward slightly to chase the feeling, her back arching at the two pairs of hands treating her so well.

She whined loudly as the fingers between her legs withdrew and the solid warmth disappeared from in front of her, but she couldn’t dwell on it as she was turned around once again and pressed against Kyoka. Their lips found one another’s easily and she felt those cool hands on her cheeks, her own fingertips tracing the soft skin of the curves of her chest and stomach. Even with inexperienced nerves tingling in the back of her mind she ventured lower to the apex of pale of thighs and reveled in the pleased hum into her mouth. Knowing what she liked for herself she rubbed familiar patterns and curled her fingers just so to keep the noises flowing, swallowing them proudly as they grew louder.

“I like how you sound,” she murmured breathily as they broke apart and dark hair tickled her chest as Kyoka rested her forehead against her shoulder with a gasp.

“And I like the view,” Katsuki chuckled from behind her, the crinkling of foil lost to the low timbre.

Hands came around to cup her chest from behind once again and those lips were back on her neck, the rhythm of her fingers stuttering slightly at the sensations.

“Let… let me show you what I’m good at,” Kyoka panted, kissing her cheek before pulling back. Their eyes stayed locked as she kneeled down, her palms gently widening her stance to make room between her thighs, and it was only at the first brush of her tongue on her clit did she close her eyes.

Her fingers dropped to thread through the dark hair that was just as silky as she’d always imagined, tightening slightly as fingertips trailed closer to where her lips and tongue were working her closer to cumming faster than she could comprehend. The teeth scraping against her neck and jaw gave just the right amount of pain to combine with that pleasure and her legs started to shake from the effort of standing.

Katsuki noticed immediately, the mark he’d been working on abandoned as he ordered, “Bed, Kyoka.”

The hum of agreement between her thighs nearly sent her over the edge right then, but the promise of experiencing even more was too alluring to succumb to it so soon and she let herself be guided to the bed on weak legs by her two partners. It was a bit difficult for the three of them to lie together in the small dorm bed but they managed to arrange themselves well enough to be comfortable and continue.

She was one more kissing Kyoka as they laid on their sides facing one another and Katsuki’s chest was pressed against her back, smooth latex brushing against the back of her thigh. Familiar rough hands parted her thighs, lifting one leg slightly, and she felt him move against her to position himself before rolling his hips forward.

A soft moan escaped her as her hand trailed down the soft skin in front of her, the fullness she felt something she wanted to share at least somewhat with Kyoka. She traced her tongue along her bottom lip as she pressed two fingers into her and began to draw firm circles on her clit, her pattern hesitant and uneven as Katsuki started to move. It took a few moments for them to sink into a rhythm that suited all of them but once they did it felt like everything had fallen into place.

Deep groans vibrated against her shoulders as he mouthed more bites along her back, the sting of his teeth and the soft pinches to her nipples from Kyoka giving her more sensations than she could comprehend. She had to break the kiss to rest her head against her collarbone, panting breaths making her chest heave and muscles clench as their newfound rhythm amongst the three of them sped up.

“That’s it,” Katsuki mumbled, his fingers ghosting over her hip to find a place on her clit.

One hand left her chest and a whisper of, “Katsuki,” over her shoulder let her know exactly what happened next when he shifted higher and so did Kyoka, her chest now directly in front of her. She took advantage, curling her fingers just so and laving her tongue over her left nipple; her free hand came up to knead and pinch her right.

Katsuki dutifully swallowed her moans but the trio each silently hoped that the rest of the class were still in the common room because there was no possible way for them to hold back the gratified sounds. As their rhythm grew steadily faster and the muscles coiled even tighter the louder they were surely becoming.

It was Kyoka who came first, tossing her head back and cupping the back of her neck to keep her to her chest, her hips rocking into her hand as she rode out the pleasure with breathy moans.

“Fuck!” Katsuki grunted, his fingers adding more pressure to her clit to bring her over the edge just before he himself toppled over, the tightness around him almost unbearable with how amazing it felt as he ground his hips into hers as they came.

The three of them collapsed into one another breathing heavily and weakly clinging to each other, willing their heartbeats to slow and their pleasure to linger. Easy kisses were shared between them and fingertips traced sweat-damp skin as they laid together for a few peaceful moments.

Kyoka nudged both her and Katsuki. “We gotta clean up.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, getting to his feet and helping them both up and into Kyoka’s bathroom.

Within ten minutes they were semi-dressed and piled back in the bed with Kyoka spooning her and her head on Katsuki’s chest. Fingers tangled in hair and lips pressed to exposed skin let that bliss continue in a sweet way as they laid with one another.

She giggled, thinking back to hours before in the common room when she wasn’t sure what was going to happen in regard to her crushes yet here she was cuddled between them after what was most definitely the most pleasurable night of her life.

“Oi, the hell you laughin’ at?”

“Yeah, no secrets between boyfriends and girlfriends,” Kyoka teased.

She smiled. “Just thinking about how this morning I had crushes on the two hottest people in the class and now I’m dating them.”

“Weird how that shit works out sometimes but I can’t complain when I got the two hottest girls in the class,” Katsuki smirked.

“I’m with you, babe,” Kyoka said with a kiss to her cheek. “I’m just excited I got the drummer and the groupie.”

Damn, she was lucky.

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! So yeah I love rhythm section members irl and no I’ve never written a threesome before, why do you ask?

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ceescedasticity · 4 years ago

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Ficlet: 5 Children of Jin Guangshan Who Never Came To Carp Tower (+1 Who Will Probably Be Talked Into It Eventually)

This is missing all its italics, thanks loads tumblr, and will go up on AO3 after I give it a while longer to decide if I hate it.

(1)

Her mother was a rogue cultivator who met the Jin heir at a crowd hunt and accepted an invitation to have a few drinks with his party. She hadn't intended to do any more than that, but, well, probably the wine, right? No point dwelling on it. She left town quickly and avoided Jin sect in the future.

She realized she was pregnant in plenty of time to do something about it, but thought it over and decided against it in the end. Instead she saved up her money carefully, and sought out a sworn sister she'd wanted to see again anyway. She didn't say who the baby's father was, only that he wasn't going to be a factor. When they settle down in a river town (one with a negligent local sect and enough water ghouls to be grateful for resident cultivators), they claim she was widowed. There's gossip, but no one ever presses the issue.

Her daughter grows up with two mothers who love her, learning cultivation from both of them, never quite accepted as one of their own by the neighbors but nevertheless treated with respect as one of the only people who can do anything about the damn water ghouls. She wants to leave town when she grows up anyway, tired of being strange. Her mothers convince her to wait a little longer — until they've gotten her a proper sword of her own — then until she's eighteen — then until there's not a war going on—

But finally they send her off with the best of wishes, and advice not to drink in public and if possible avoid Lanling.

She lives as a rogue cultivator for a few years, but eventually joins the (still-underpopulated) Jiang sect as an outer disciple, and does very well there. She visits her mothers once or twice a year, and hunts water ghouls for old time's sake. The town which considered her strange is now proud that she's a disciple of a Great Sect, which could be annoying but usually she manages to laugh about it.

She never finds out who her father was. Sometimes she wonders — but never for very long.

(2)

His mother was a landowner's second wife, beaten and cast out for faithlessness hours after the Jin party left. No one asked if it had been consensual; no one much cared.

Very often during the first year she thought she was going to die — sometimes she thought she would rather die than drop even lower to survive — but she never did. Every morning she wondered what would kill her today, every night she wondered if she would never wake up, but it just kept not happening. For some reason she wanted to live. She learned to beg, she found a city, she met prostitutes who took it for granted she was one of them and didn't correct them — she just kept living.

It wasn't for the sake of the child. The child hadn't ruined her life — its father had done that all on his own — but it wasn't something she wanted.

Labor was excruciating, and when it was over and the women the other prostitutes called Older Sister offered her the baby to hold, she threw her arms over her face and begged her to take it away.

Older Sister asked once more, to be sure, and then carried the baby to the temple outside of town, set it down outside the door, knocked, and ran. She had never personally verified that the monks took care of foundlings, but they were said to rear up their fosterlings kindly, and it was easier on the conscience than leaving unwanted infants in ditches.

The boy is raised firmly but kindly — and entirely secularly; some in the temple do practice cultivation, but no one expects random foundlings to be able to join them and rubbing the difference in their faces would be unacceptably rude. He's taught to read and write, and if sometimes he still wonders what it would be like to fly on a sword he doesn't wonder what it would be like to fight monsters — at least he doesn't wonder past the age of thirteen or so.

He doesn't have a vocation, but that's all right. The temple helps him find a job as a clerk. He makes generous offerings.

It's hard to exercise proper filial piety when you have no idea who either of your parents are, just that you were abandoned. All he could do on the relevant holidays was thank them for giving him life, and thank them for leaving him somewhere safe, and give the rest of his attention to his fosterers.

(His mother never regrets abandoning him — she couldn't have built up a functional career as a prostitute with an infant in tow, and she still doesn't want anything of that man's — but she is… glad, a few years later, to learn he was taken in at the temple. She doesn't wish him ill. Just — far away from her.)

(3)

Her mother was a mundane noblewoman who visited Carp Tower — beautiful, bitter, and bored. Her husband, twice her age, tried to keep pace with cultivators in drinking and passed out early. She thought a suave, handsome cultivator might be more entertaining than the usual. She was mostly disappointed in the results. Her husband never suspects any infidelity. He can't imagine anyone would be so brazen as to have relations with his wife when he's in the same building.

If the child had been a boy, she might have felt a little guilty about passing it off as her husband's, but a girl would just be married off anyway — it didn't really matter. So the nobleman has a daughter.

She grows up in a luxurious but narrow world, reading everything she can get her hands on for a glimpse outside. Her mother is seldom demonstratively affectionate, but is deeply invested in her welfare and indulges her desire for books. She's beloved in the household — enough so that when it occurs to the oldest children of her father's second wife that she really looks nothing like either of her parents, they refrain from making open accusations for her sake.

She marries a man she's never met before. But he's kind, and doesn't object to her ever-expanding library, and comes to rely on her for the bookkeeping.

By that time she has her own suspicions, about who her father is — who her father is not, more — but that's hardly something she can bring up.

(4)

His mother was a maid at a rural inn. The innkeeper did attempt to explain to Jin-zongzhu that this was not that kind of establishment, but Jin-zongzhu ordered him to send up his prettiest maid regardless, and raised the price he was offering, and the man crumpled.

He did feel bad enough about it the next day to give her maybe a quarter of the money.

She took that money, and the wages she was due, and the "tip" Jin-zongzhu tossed at her, and went back to the farm she was born on. It had been a successful, if small, farm until one of the battles of the Sunshot Campaign happened basically on top of it. Her father had been killed along with most of their livestock. The whole point of her work at the inn had been to contribute money to rebuild, and, well. Money was money.

Her sister-in-law was a shrewd bargainer, and Jin-zongzhu's stupid trinkets got them two pigs. The guilt money from the innkeeper put them over the edge to afford an ox. By the time they realized she was pregnant, they were secure enough that it wasn't a catastrophe.

The farm was out of the way enough that they didn't have much trouble turning her son into her nephew, and that was that.

He grows up working hard but still notably prettier than either of his parents — maybe even prettier than his aunt, who he's heard what passed for a local beauty at his age and who certainly didn't have any trouble finding suitors when she finally decided to marry after his grandmother died — but it mostly just means he gets more attention when he goes to the local villages for festivals or markets. He's a good boy, credit to his family, responsible with his little sisters and his cousins. He's got a mundane future, but a bright one.

Of course he knows who his father is? He's lived with him all his life.

(5)

His mother was a disciple of a minor sect, who might have been flattered and awed when the Chief Cultivator pulled her into his guest room, and was definitely pressured not to say anything indicating otherwise. They don't need trouble with Jin Sect. They won't make trouble with Jin Sect. Will they.

She was terrified she'd be thrown out when she told a senior sister she was pregnant, but instead there was a quick, quiet marriage to another disciple. On their wedding night she admitted she was pregnant; he admitted he'd been caught with another boy. The marriage was always a bit of a sham but the cultivation partnership turned real quickly. They worked well together, and built up a good joint reputation together, and three years later left together. (They weren't entirely ungrateful — many people in similar situations had been treated far worse — but the hurt lingered.) Their destination was another minor sect, one closer to where his parents lived, so the move could be explained away as filial devotion, saving face all around.

There's talk, sometimes, because they don't try very hard to hide the fact they seldom share a bed. It's usually brushed aside as probably a cultivational thing.

Their son grows up a promising young disciple. He doesn't have many close friends, has trouble really opening up to people, but he's always polite and hard-working and keeps his temper, and he's not bad at calming other people down, too, so he's liked enough. His parents are a little strange but they love him and love each other.

When he's thirteen the Jin Guangyao scandal becomes the talk of the cultivation world. His parents take a break from fussing over his half-dozen senior martial siblings still recovering from their imprisonment in the Burial Mounds to have a private conference, and that evening they pull him aside.

She never wanted to tell him this, she says. And maybe she should wait, but she might lose her nerve, and contrary to what she thought it seems like this is something he needs to know—

She cries. He cries. His father (definitely his father) cries.

He understands why they told him finally — they don't want him to end up like poor Lady Qin Su — but he wishes it wasn't necessary. He was happier not knowing. But if his mother can be all right after what happened to her, he can be all right after finding out about it, so he puts the knowledge away in a box and gets on with his life.

(+1)

Her mother was a prostitute who tried to be careful, who always tried to be careful, but nothing works all the time, and she got unlucky.

It was several weeks before she realized she'd been unlucky. By that time, Lanling was in full mourning for the sect leader and chief cultivator.

This was probably, she realized, probably the last bastard Jin Guangshan ever sired. Even the brothel proprietor agreed that had enough novelty value to make a pregnancy worthwhile.

It was suggested that, perhaps, she could go to the new sect leader. Everyone knew Jin Guangyao's background. Surely he would be welcoming.

She thought about what she'd seen of him, of the look in his eyes when he looked at the prostitutes, and found she wasn't sure at all.

She did not go to Carp Tower.

It turned out some non-cultivators would in fact pay money to listen to a woman tell salacious supposedly true stories about life in Carp Tower. (This was legitimate! She was the mother of Jin Guangshan's last bastard!) In fact, some of them would pay pretty well. Some of them paid quite well. She finished her pregnancy with less debt than she started. She spent the next few years saving carefully, and finally packed herself and her daughter off to a city.

A big city; a mediocre city. A city without much cultivator traffic, though of course they knew about cultivators there.

She got a job in an only somewhat disreputable teahouse, telling stories — some but not all of them dirty, some but not all of them supposedly true (and fewer of them actually true), some but not all of them using the names of real people (who would hopefully not be visiting such a large and mediocre city where they had no authority). …The teahouse proprietor turns out to be deeply involved in at least one information network, but that's not really her problem.

Her daughter grows up surrounded by musicians, entertainers, more than a few spies, and the nobility all the rest are feeding on. She learns reading, writing, coding and decoding, how to use a scandal to your advantage, five different musical instruments (although pipa is the only one she can be said to be good at), and poetry. Some of her poems are considered praiseworthy, although she's never quite sure if that's because they're actually good or because the pavilion could benefit from having a young, precocious, pretty, inherently scandalous poetess around. Hopefully it's both.

They more or less retired the 'Jin Guangshan's Last Bastard' gimmick when she was six or so, but then news arrives that the Jin Sect has done something even more mortifying, so it's back. She feels a little bad about it honestly. It sounds like the new sect leader isn't much older than her, and she still feels like she's in over her head just understanding what's going on in the teahouse.

Her nephew, isn't that a funny thought.

Her mother never has anything good to say about the cultivational world and she can't blame her, but this world can get tiring, too.

It doesn't matter, though. That family rejects bastards who are much less scandalous than her. She's sort of interested in that world, but not enough to try to push in when she's not wanted. It's fine.

(And somewhere not too terribly far away and yet in a different world, Ouyang Zizhen picks up a poetry booklet featuring a writer with the strangest pen name…)

#other fic #more random mdzs thoughts #give jin ling an aunt #wait actually i GAVE him an aunt in (1) just neither of them know it

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roselovesa · 3 years ago

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have you seen CHOI HYEJIN ? i heard SHE is a FLORIST at THE GREEN MEADOW. they’re 21 years old and they’ve been living in san verto for one year. they tend to be BENEVOLENT & MAGNANIMOUS, but rumor has it they can also be CAPRICIOUS & FINICKY.

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://STATISTICS.

name: choi hyejin

age: twenty - one

sign: pisces sun / libra moon ( click )

sexuality: bisexual

gender: cis woman ( she/her/hers )

occupation: florist , pianist, & composer

alignment: chaotic neutral

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://BIOGRAPHY

* note: minho’s little sister !! <33

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙽𝙴 - 𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚕, 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚊.

born as the youngest child of a nurse & a teacher, hyejin’s childhood was nothing out of the ordinary. her love for music had always been apparent — her mother noticing early on that, whenever her daughter was throwing a hissy fit, all she had to do was play some classical music in order to get her to calm down

hence, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that her father decided to teach her how to play the piano at the age of 6. & by the age of 9 she was labeled a child prodigy. hyejin would often participate in competitions, attend music camps, & play in front of anyone who was willing to listen. her talent was undeniable, truly

in the years to follow she would pick up other instruments here & there ( violin, guitar, french horn ), but nothing seemed to stick as much as piano did. hyejin would also dabble in writing her own music, often with the help of her father

& if there’s one thing hyejin learned it’s that practice makes perfect. by the age of 11 she managed to become an extremely valuable asset for her school’s yearly musicals as she composed about 60% of the songs performed <33

she went viral on social media a few times as well, her youtube channel accumulating about 1.6M views by her 4th upload. she would frequently get interviewed around that time as well, with professionals often commenting on hyejin’s bright future

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝚆𝙾 - 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚄𝚂𝙰.

her brother getting injured on tv was a catalyst of change. hyejin convinced her parents to let her move to new york in order to take care of him, being well aware her life had considerably dulled the moment he decided to leave a few years prior

the move went smoothly, & with opportunities lining up in front of her, she decided to get a bachelor’s degree in music composition, her accomplishments allowing her to attend one of the most prestige universities in the city

it’s there where she fell in love with a guy who she deemed to be a mentor of sorts ; always pushing her to do better & achieve unattainable perfection. it had been so easy for hyejin to trust him with her work, with him appearing to be the more experienced & wiser of the two. he was a child of a famous musician after all, mastering the arts of sweet talking unassuming girls with a whole lot of empty promises

so when their uni announced a proposal of a student being able to apply for an internship that would skyrocket their careers right into stardom, hyejin was well aware this was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed. her boyfriend mentioned how he wouldn’t apply, seeing his father could offer him a job easily, but mentioned how she should send her work to him so he could look it over & help her out

😬

“ hey babe, i’m sorry to tell you this but the piece you sent me just isn’t that good… i can’t quite put my finger on it, but the composition is just wrong. it’s okay, though, you’re only a freshman & still have a lot to learn, we’ll work on it together. but maybe forget about the internship for now ? i’m sure with some improvement my father will manage to get you an even better job… anyways, love you, talk to you soon ”

crestfallen & humiliated, hyejin accepted the fact that it would be simply too embarrassing to submit the sheets of music she’d written. it was two weeks later that her boyfriend abruptly ghosted her, only for her to find out he’d gotten the internship by applying with the composed music she sent him. he denied any claims of stealing, & when hyejin told her professor about the situation he basically wrote it off as well

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴: 𝚜𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘, 𝚄𝚂𝙰.

in the next few months it felt like her life had crumbled down around her, hyejin’s future career appearing grim. minho & her decided to move to san verto in order to find peace, a fresh start waiting for them there

she took up multiple side jobs to get her music out there again, while also trying to push past the writer’s block she experienced due to stress. on week days she would give rich kids piano lessons after uni & bloom under the praises their parents would give her skills. on the weekends she would play at a 5 star restaurant, hoping the right people would discover her there

having lost the comfort music once gave her, hyejin decided to take up a job as a florist & keeps herself busy tending to flowers. it isn’t her ideal career plan, but at least she’s moving forward with her life

throughout the years she kept uploading videos of her playing piano on youtube, each video getting about 900k views on average. it allows her to be fairly recognizable on her own accord, although most of her fame comes from being associated with her brother. she’s starting to climb in popularity, though, spending some of her time to focus on crafting a stronger social media presence

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://PERSONALITY.

🦋 𝙰𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚈 - 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊

click me !

empathic, romantic, impressionable, & imaginative - hyejin tends to see the world through a rose colored glass ; the harsh realities of life often making her want to indulge in escapism. overall a generous and kind person

can’t handle pressure well, ultimately she’s a perfectionist. hyejin has a specific vision of how she wants her life to play out, & if anything interferes with that she might feel devastated & defeated. however, she’s quick to get back on her feet & continue pursuing what she was working on

obsessed with fairytale romances, used to read countless of young adult novels hoping she’d experience love like that. hyejin easily tends to romanticize & idealize the people she’s fond of, thinking they can do no wrong in her eyes & putting them on a pedestal *coughs* minho :(

despite all of that she has a great intuition, hypersensitive to her environment. she’s often aware of other people’s emotions, meaning when someone or something’s off she usually able to identify such things immediately

would prefer to avoid conflict at all cost as well, she doesn’t enjoy being faced with consequences of her own actions

at first glance she can appear rather stand-offish as well, not really the type to walk up to someone & handle small talk in an eloquent way. she’s shy & an introvert, the type to hide behind her mother whenever someone addressed her when she was younger. hyejin is only able to come out of her shell around people she knows she can trust

channels all of her feelings into her art !!

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://WANTED CONNECTIONS.

💌 𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙲 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

current flings

will they / won’t they

friends with benefits ( one-sided, purely platonic, etc… )

unrequited love type of thing ( either hyejin or your muse )

fake dating au

exes on bad terms

exes on good terms

enemies to friends ( ? ) to lovers / flings ( ? ) to exes ( ? ) ( we can do this however you see fit ! )

one of them caught feelings ( thinking they had something special ) & suddenly the other ghosted, perhaps leaving behind a bruised ego )

💌 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙾��𝙸𝙲 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

best friend

good influence

bad influence

childhood friends

protective type of friendship ( can go either way ! )

confidants

someone ( preferably an artist ) hyejin looks up to

friends who hang out purely because it’s good for their public image

secret type of friendship where being seen together in public would damage their image, aka them meeting up in private !

were set up on a blind date together, hit it off in a platonic way & became really good friends <33

only hang out because of mutual friends

💌 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙴𝙾𝚄𝚂 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

hyejin’s muse aka whenever she sees them she gets inspired to write a song or two <3

blackmailing type of plots

general dislike for each other, they simply do not vibe

someone hyejin teaches how to play piano

rivalry, they see each other as competition

have shared secret where both of them are/were involved in a situation, & promised secrecy to each other

@foolsstarters

#foolsintro #🥺#also if you see any spelling errors .. no you didnt

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dearophelia · 3 years ago

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self indulgent grey’s spy!au

so i’m watching madam secretary again and it’s reminding me of the grey’s spy au i was frantically texting @evil-redhead about last year

(first of all, and i did the research to learn that this isn’t actually possible, but it’s fic so who cares: please imagine with me addison as elizabeth’s surgeon general. thank you and goodnight)

second of all, and this is just copy/pasted from text messages with some very light editing:

-one-

The kill order comes in over encrypted text just after 2:30am Kaliningrad local time. Addison knows the logic: take him out and the whole supply chain through the Baltics collapses. She also knows the reality: taking out gun runners in former Soviet states is like playing whack-a-mole with a baby hammer. Eventually someone in the Company will figure that out and change tactics. In the meantime, she has orders.

She speaks flawless Russian with zero accent, which helps when she steers the arms dealer out of the party and up to his private suite. She pretends she’s from the same village as his grandmother, tells stories about a local borscht variant. He compliments her tits and her legs and everything else he can see. What he doesn’t see is the way she twists around her ring and flicks open a hidden compartment with her thumb while she’s pouring the vodka.

Addison watches as he eagerly takes the shot and then turns an interesting shade of purple. He’s dead within ninety seconds.

She takes a shot of clean vodka, wraps up in her black trenchcoat, and slips out the back entrance into the night.

There’s a pay phone four blocks down. She calls her handler and leaves a message about the museum being closed tomorrow, code for mission complete. She checks out of the hotel and is on the next flight to Helsinki away from here.

-two-

Addison likes Mark Sloan, she does. He’s a good asset and a great fuck and she doesn’t at all mind that their schedules sync up in Helsinki more often than she syncs up with anyone else anywhere else. Helsinki’s a good place to lay low for a few days, even easier when she’s hardly getting out of bed.

But he’s DIA and she doesn’t trust defense guys farther than she can throw them. Goes out of her way to avoid them, usually. But Mark’s good company, great fun, and nothing they do in this hotel room ever happened the moment one of them leave. So she’ll let the DOD thing go as long as it doesn’t interfere with her own work.

He’s making breakfast and trying to tell her a joke he overheard. This never ends well, but she indulges him. It falls apart in the translation – “You’d find this hilarious if you heard it in the original Czech,” he proclaims, setting a plate of eggs in front of her.

Addison eyes him over a forkful. “Since I don’t speak Czech, your odds aren’t looking good, Sloan.”

Mark’s still telling his joke and she smiles as the sun rises over their tiny hotel room.

36 hours and then she’s off to Paris and meeting a DGSE contact she can hardly stand. Then, armed with that information, back to former Soviet listening posts. Maybe this one will be inland.

-three-

Addison takes the right hook like a champ, luring the goon into a false sense of security. She drops down, grabs a broom from the floor, and lets the guy have one last laugh at the pretty girl with the stick before she comes whirling in and knocks him flat on his ass inside five seconds. Another goon runs out of the shadows and she cracks him across the skull so hard he actually skids across the floor.

“Impressive,” her contact says in dripping French. He sips his tea.

“The file?” she holds out her hand. No one does intelligence theatrics like the French. Not even the Russians.

With an irritated sigh, the DGSE agent drops a USB drive into her hand. “It self-destructs after 24 hours. Would not recommend keeping it in your suitcase.”

Addison gives him a tight smile and returns to her hotel room.

Derek, this time.

(Mark is Scandinavia and the former Soviet states. Derek is Western Europe. Alex is usually somewhere in Central Asia and Jake is in the Mediterranean.)

She waves off his concern about the shiner blooming over her eye and slides the drive into her laptop. “Order room service,” she tells him as she pulls her shirt off, changing out of bloodied and ripped clothes while waiting for the drive to load.

It’s not his fault he hovers. He’s an embassy doctor, bouncing around Western Europe for the State Department. Last time he got into a fight was probably high school. Last time he had to do anything classified on his own was probably never.

He orders – including red wine and extra ice, which she’s sure makes the kitchen worker on the other end say a few choice things about Americans – and her laptop chirps ready.

Volgograd this time. Not a weapons dealer. A physicist. A nuclear physicist. “Oh boy,” she says to herself.

She books a hotel in Volgograd and then places a same-day Amazon delivery for post-its, a portable printer, tape, and other supplies. She and Elizabeth call it the conspiracy theory order, though she skips the red string.

While Derek’s setting out dinner (and sets a bag of ice intentionally – and somewhat aggressively – in her direction), she sends a secure text to Alex.

gonna be in vgrad for a minute. you nearby?

Dinner’s over before she gets a response.

yep. even have some intel for you.

Addison puts her phone away and turns to Derek. “I’m fine,” she says, gesturing to the cuts and bruises.

“I know.” Still, he wraps his arms around her in a gentle hug. “I worry.”

She hugs him back. They haven’t been married in a long time. “I know.”

He gently maneuvers her to the couch and opens his bag. Addison went to med school too – though the CIA scooped her up during her residency – and a few of the cuts need butterfly closures for a couple days. She lets him work.

“How are Meredith and the kids?”

-four-

“Lox and two chives,” Addison orders at the counter, as she has the last ten days. “And the bathroom key, please.”

The cashier slips her a key. She pays and disappears down the hallway with the bathrooms, but opens the supply closet instead. Past shelves of paper towels and cups and cocaine (not her problem, not today), she pauses at the second door. The handprint scanner flashes blue then green at her palm. The door unlocks.

Bright lights overhead, several whiteboards shoved up against the walls, photographs and maps taped up everywhere. The single desk in the middle of the room is covered in folders labeled TOP SECRET, most of them open. Alex puts a cup of coffee into her hand. She finishes half of it before she even takes her coat off.

Spy work isn’t all glamorous. It’s mostly sitting in dark dank rooms filled with boxes of moth-eaten paper, trying to connect two dots. Alex is a good partner for it though. The fact that he’s CIA too doesn’t hurt – she doesn’t have to play the alphabet agency paranoia game with him.

Hours pass. Another day, another half step closer. The bagel shop closes and they slip out the back by the dumpsters.

“You want to grab a drink?” she asks as she has every night.

“We could skip drinks,” he suggests.

She looks at him in the flickering parking lot light. Normally he says yes, they get drinks and dinner, talk shop, part ways at her hotel.

A small smile graces her lips. Addison doesn’t need to be a spy to pick up Alex’s meaning.

Volgograd is fucking boring. And she and Mark have an exclusive-when-we’re-in-the-same-city agreement, not exclusive-everywhere.

The smile shifts into a smirk. “Yeah.”

-five-

This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea. This might be the worst idea she’s ever had. And yet.

Flicking her eyes up to the rearview mirror, she gets a read on the car following her. Scratch that – cars. Plural.

She slams on the accelerator and calls Elizabeth.

“I need a favor,” she says as soon as Elizabeth’s picked up the phone. Addison hears several small children laughing in the background.

“On it,” Elizabeth says, once she’s heard the situation and the favor. “Give me ten minutes.”

Sure. She’ll keep leading a high-speed car chase through Southern Turkey and try not to accidentally make a left into Syria. She can keep this up for ten minutes. Why not.

She has the final piece in a USB drive hidden in her shoe, but this extremely stupid idea only becomes worth it if she – or, she supposes, her shoe – can get back to the agency. Which is where Elizabeth comes in. Addison’s nowhere near Ankara and the embassy, driving into Syria is an even worse idea (and she’d run out of gas long before hitting Damascus anyway), and so she needs an exit. Now.

Seven minutes and Elizabeth calls back about an airfield fifteen miles away. A Blackhawk will be waiting there for her, but she has to clear a couple layers of airfield security first.

Addison looks back up in the mirror. Three cars now and she thinks she sees the silhouette of someone hanging out the window with a gun. She’s going to have to have a discussion with Derek about suitable conversations he has with his current wife about his ex-wife the CIA agent and international spy. It’s not Meredith’s fault; GRU’s been tailing Derek since they were the KGB. Addison makes a mental note to remind State about that, maybe have someone sweep his house for bugs on a more regular basis.

But that’s a later problem. A much later problem. The more imminent problem is that she’s being shot at and still has seven miles before the airfield. “Can I just drive through security?” Addison asks, making an abrupt right down a skinny unlit street.

“Sure,” Elizabeth says. “It’s our airfield, do what you want.”

“Not the first time I’ve destroyed US government property.”

Elizabeth snorts. “Call me if you need anything else.”

The call drops as another round of gunfire shoots past.

“You’re really bad at this,” she mutters at the car behind her. They haven’t even managed to blow out the back window yet, not that she’s complaining.

By the time she hits the airfield, they’ve shattered the back window, blown several holes in the trunk, and they hit one of her back wheels just as she slams through the first security gate.

The second gate guards are a little more prepared and already have the gate lifted. They drop spike strips behind her to trap her pursuers. She jumps out of the car to the sound of many tires being violently punctured and the sound of angry Russians being thrown out of their cars and onto the ground.

The Blackhawk lifts off into the dead of night. Addison runs her fingers through her hair and texts her handler that she’s on her way back to Istanbul. She’ll hand off the intel to people who get paid a whole lot more than she does and move on to a new case.

Maybe South America, this time. Let some heat die down before bringing her back to Europe.

Once it’s all settled and she’s in her state-sponsored room, showered and sitting in a fluffy bathrobe, she checks her messages. One from her brother, about Thanksgiving logistics. One from Elizabeth, making sure she made it out okay.

And one from Mark.

Case is taking me to Venezuela. Gonna be a while, Red.

Addison grins. Her new orders came in just before dinner. Turns out there’s some worrisome news in her area of expertise coming out of the South America desk and the Company’s shipping her off to Caracas.

Maybe not. My flight leaves in a couple days. Buy me a margarita?

#grey's hellspiral #s:words #s:2021 #i mean technically it was 2020 but i'm posting it in 2021 yfeel

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denerims-archive · 4 years ago

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otp tag

Tagged by @solasan and @mcousland + definitely someone else who knows the activity page is garbage.

Tagging: whoever wants to! i’m kinda late with this and i think everyone’s been tagged but if you haven’t do this and say i tagged you!

DISAGREEMENTS.

who is more likely to raise their voice?

Naomi. I can’t see Nate ever raising his voice at her out of anger. Maybe out of worry but never anger.

who threatens to leave but never actually does?

Naomi. Better to leave than get left.

who actually keeps their word and leaves?

God, neither of them. I can see maybe Naomi telling Nate she needs to go drive around and cool down but none of them would just outright leave. Naomi might be stubborn about her feelings but she knows that Nate is someone important to her.

who trashes the house?

During an argument? Yikes neither of them. Especially Nate. He’s very conscious of how he positions himself in an argument cause he’s So Big and a vampire compared to Naomi who is very short and human. Day to day? Naomi lmao. She just leaves a trail of mess in the morning.

do either of them get physical?

God no! Naomi has to convince him to spar with her and that usually ends with Nate catching her in his arms and kissing her until she’s out of breath from laughing and has to tap out.

how often do they argue/disagree?

Not often early on but the more feelings get involved the more they have disagreements with things like how much Naomi puts herself in danger. Naomi also pushes Nate away a little out of fear when they start getting so close. Whenever Nate mentions Rebecca/tries to mend their relationship whatever his intentions it always results in a fight and a silent treatment from Naomi. Nate also gets super pissed when she doesn’t tell him things which is a hard habit to break for her.

who is the first to apologize?

Naomi usually. She’s the one who usually gets the angriest/has the most vitriol when she’s angry so once she cools down she feels absolutely awful. Apologizing with Nate is always so easy with him too and he apologizes in return and is so soft in discussing the issue after everything has simmered down.

SEX.

who is on top? who is on bottom?

Uh...Nate is usually the more dominant person but obviously very gentle and servicing in it. He’s the person who gently directs Naomi, slows her down, makes her enjoy it which is So Much. That’s when they have time of course. When Naomi wants a quickie she’s normally the one in charge but that’s pretty rare because Nate can’t seem to grasp the quickie concept. Naomi really likes to be on top and Nate really likes to watch her ride him soooooooo...

any kinks?

Dirty talk!! Specifically Nate! His is...A+. Nothing degrading because he’d never do that for Naomi even if she wanted and honestly I don’t think it’s very healthy for Naomi to get into that since she has History with some of those words and indulging in them would be not good for her. But Nate loves sweet nothings, praising her, asking her if she likes what he’s doing/likes doing what she’s doing/etc. Naomi has also unlocked Nate’s kink of his hands being tied during sex either to each other or to the bed frame. They also really love uhhh when Nate comes inside her and all of the dirty talk that comes with that. Naomi likes to be spanked occasionally - never choked or hit beyond that - and Nate’s not really into it but he indulges her because he loves her. Nipple play, lingerie, blindfolds, etc. UH Nate is a major tease so denial/teasing too which Naomi is happy to return.

who has the strangest desires?

Naomi probably lmao! She’s more kinky than Nate is.

who’s dominant in bed?

Nate normally but they switch it up sometimes.

is head ever in the equation?

Absolutely! Nate is the best at oral in UB and I said what I said. Naomi also really enjoys it because Nate is so loud and moany when she does it. Also he holds her hair back which is sweet.

if so, who is better at performing it?

I gotta give it to Nate.

ever had sex in public?

Nooooo. Most “public” is fooling around in various Warehouse rooms. They’ve definitely had sex like...in a private area where Nate’s pulled her but nah.

who moans the most?

Natey! Naomi takes a bit of work to get going but when she does she’s very enthusiastic but on average it’s Nate.

who leaves the most marks?

Naomi would be if they didn’t heal in like minutes which makes her very sad. Nate only leaves marks on her thighs.

who is the more experienced of the two?

I’m not sure about Nate’s entire experience but Naomi’s got a lot of experience so it’s most likely going to be her.

do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’?

MAKE LOVE BABY! But it’s not slow and tender all the time, they’re super passionate and needy when they smash so it’s just up in the air. But the two of them always come from a place of love when having sex sniff. Esp Nate. Naomi sometimes is like I need to not think for a bit/destress.

how long do they usually last?

I feel like Nate’s got some Stamina! Naomi’s usually the one that has to tap out but they can go pretty long like 45min? Obviously on and off not just...straight penetration the whole time.

rough or soft?

Soft! Like I said, they’re very passionate and needy and very desperate to be close to each other but they never really get rough. The roughest I can see them getting is Nate getting a bit enthusiastic esp after being apart or not getting time alone for awhile and going pretty hard? But nothing rough beyond that.

is protection used?

Yes. Naomi’s on the pill but she forgets sometimes...more than she should it just kinda slips her mind. They use condoms but not enough and honestly with Naomi begging him to come inside her every other day it’s a wonder they haven’t had an accident.

does it ever get boring?

Nah! I don’t think so. Maybe it becomes a bit quicker and more routine - they know what gets each other off - when they get married and become parents and get busy but they mix it up once in awhile when they can!

where is the strangest place they’d have sex?

Back of Naomi’s car (they’re eventually successful) and the Warehouse library I guess?

FAMILY.

do they plan on having children / do they have children?

Yes absolutely! Naomi thought it wasn’t ever really in the cards for her but she met Nate and was like Oh I’m GOING to have his babies. Nate has always really wanted kids and he can’t imagine having them with anyone but Naomi anymore.

if so, how many children do they want/have?

They have four! Alice is the first and the two of them are so incredibly excited. Holden is born about three years after Alice - the two of them kind of wanted to settle into parenting before they added another kid to the pile lmao. Their third - Watson - is a surprise! A pleasant surprise but a surprise nonetheless. Naomi’s pregnant with him about a year after Holden is born and then two years after Holden their little baby Josephine is born!

AFFECTION.

who likes to cuddle?

Naomi!! She loves to cuddle him all the time especially when they’re reading/she’s doing work on her laptop/etc. She’s so comfortable and relaxed when they cuddle it’s very sweet. She feels super safe with him.

who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places?

NATE. He’s the worst and so smooth about it and just looks at Naomi’s exasperation with the warmest, sweetest smile of bemusement.

who struggles to keep their hands to themself?

Nate! Not just in naughty~ terms but just in general he’s so touchy. It takes a bit for Naomi to get used to it but she really loves it because she’s so starved for it. It just makes her AHEM blush when it’s in front of other people which she hates! (the blushing pls Nate give her another kiss in front of everyone)

how long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable?

God, forever. As long as Naomi can play on her phone/read a book and Nate can read too. They loooove cuddling it’s disgusting. Sometimes they gotta shift though if Nate’s arm goes asleep or smth.

what is their favourite non-sexual activity?

Reading together! Cooking together! Nate loves binge-watching shows with Naomi because he gets so invested and he loves Naomi’s shows she introduces him too. They binge a ton of shows for date nights. They also love to go on walks together and possibly even some hikes.

where is their favourite place to cuddle?

Bed! Or anywhere really in Naomi’s place. They’re alone and they can just be themselves and are all safe and warm. Nate and Naomi really love having a place of their own esp Naomi.

SLEEPING.

who snores?

Nate softly snores sometimes!

if both do, who snores the loudest?

Naomi probably only snores when she’s drunk and it’s LOUD.

do they share a bed or sleep separately?

They eventually share a bed (BED SHARING WHEN). Naomi is an insomniac but she sleeps really well with Nate. They help soothe away each other’s nightmares and hold each other.

if they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?

Cozy together at first but as their relationship progresses they lay what’s comfortable to them but the thing is they always have to be touching even a little bit. They’ll lay back to back and Nate will have his hand behind him on her hip or smth like that.

what do they wear to bed?

Well, we know Nate loves some silky matching pajamas!! (Naomi loves them too) Naomi typically sleeps in sleep shorts and a t-shirt or just a t-shirt and underwear. Naomi won’t sleep in Nate’s t-shirt but she’ll grab them if she’s getting up to go start tea in the morning.

are either of them insomniacs?

Naomi is! She used to take pills for it back when she was first getting over her mental health issues but she stopped taking them because she didn’t like the way they made her feel. Nate just doesn’t sleep as much as normal humans do.

can sleeping pills be found by the bedside?

I’m not sure if Naomi would ever go back on them tbh.

do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side?

Nate wants to hold Naomi ALL the time so he’s like a little octopus. She gets in bed and he’s pulling her close. Like I said, later they lay side by side in a way that’s comfy for each other but they always have to be touching. Sometimes, one of them will wake up and reach out just to make sure the other’s still there.

who wakes up with bed hair?

NATEY! It’s very cute and Naomi idly smooths it over, runs her fingers through it and then messes it up again when they’re waking up and still in bed. One time, Rebecca came to drop something off for Naomi early one morning and Nate came out with bed hair in his pajamas from her bedroom since he didn’t know she was there and that was the most awkward experience of Naomi’s life.

who wakes up first?

Naomi during the weekdays/days she has to work and Nate on the days neither of them have to work! Whoever’s up puts the kettle on and gets the mail/newspaper, waters the plants, etc.

who prepares breakfast in bed for the other?

Nate!! It’s his Thing and he definitely did it the first time they slept together. Naomi teased him about it but kissed him and told him that she loved it and it was very sweet of him. She’s never had someone make her breakfast in bed before so Nate tries to do it as often as he can.

what is their favourite sleeping position?

Nate on his back with Naomi curled into his side is their default! Spooning is also a thing and they flip-flop who spoons who. Sometimes they shift during the night and it changes. When Naomi cuts her hair in Book 3 it makes it 10x easier since Nate isn’t choking on her hair lmao.

do they set an alarm each night?

Yep! Naomi sets one on her phone. Naomi pats him and tells him to turn it off sometimes and honestly that makes sure she gets up because Nate spends like ten minutes trying to turn the alarm off.

who has nightmares?

Both. Naomi’s are more often but Nate’s are more intense and really bad on the rare occasion they happen.

can a television be found in their bedroom?

Nope. I think for Nate that would be a hard no. Naomi reads when she goes to bed instead of watching TV because it helps her fall asleep so I can’t see her really wanting one either.

who has ridiculous dreams?

Nate seems like he’d have weird dreams and loves telling them to Naomi over breakfast. I feel like they love jokingly analyzing each other’s dreams too even if they don’t actually believe in that stuff. Naomi looks up those dream meaning sites on her phone and very seriously tells Nate is prognosis is not good.

who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?

Nate. Even not sprawled out he takes up so much of their bed dgdskjgg. Luckily, Naomi’s pretty compact so it doesn’t affect her much. His legs will tangle up with hers though while he sleeps or he splays them out.

who makes the bed?

Nate! Naomi just lets him do it because she’s learned whenever she protests him doing stuff for her he insists he loves her and just wants to make things easier on her. Naomi rolls her eyes, Nate gives her a kiss and continues doing what he’s doing. It’s just best not to argue.

what time is bed time?

They get into bed EARLY if they can cause they’re Old People (™), Naomi usually doesn’t fall asleep for hours and sits there reading/working on her laptop/etc. Nate will usually fall asleep first and Naomi follows after at around 11/12.

any routines/rituals before bed?

I guess reading together before bed counts? Nate always kisses Naomi’s forehead or cheek before he goes to bed and tells her he loves her. It’s to the point where smth happens where Nate doesn’t get to kiss her before bed and Naomi’s like….:( wait smth’s not right.

who’s the grumpiest when they wake up?

NAOMI. Nate is a sunshiney morning person and she loves him but that’s the one time she wants to strangle him.

WORK.

who is the busiest?

It depends what’s going on! So much of their work depends on other factors that are out of their control but Naomi is busy most of the time. Nate has more free time than she does and that’s why he likes to help out around her apartment/their house more to carry his share of the load!

who rakes in the highest income?

I assume...Nate might make more since Naomi is new to the Agency?

are any of them unemployed?

Nope!

who takes the most sick days?

Sick days? Water those? Naomi is such a workaholic she’s that dickhead who comes into work sick and gets everyone else sick. Nate has to force her to stay in bed when she’s sick and has even called the station to let them know she’s not coming in (Douglas can hear Naomi telling him to give her the phone in the background before he hands up dlkgjsdkg)

what are their jobs?

Naomi is an Agency Liason and Detective. Nate is an Agent of the Agency!

who sucks up to their boss?

Naomi has 0 patience for sucking up anymore. She used to when she was younger but she’s disillusioned with the Captain and Adam and her don’t get along/disagree on a lot of stuff. She really needs to respect you for her to suck up to you.

who is more likely to turn up late to work?

Neither of them really? Maybe Naomi is slightly more likely to. Naomi loves to try and get Nate to stay in bed just a little bit longer and sometimes those efforts lead to the two of them forgetting they actually have jobs to go to.

who stresses the most?

Both! They both hide it really well too but they’ve both caught onto the signs of them being stressed. Naomi starts smoking a lot and Nate can smell it on her. Nate is a bit more reserved than he normally is and has little tics that Naomi catches on.

do they enjoy or despise their careers/occupations?

Naomi likes it because it challenges her but I don’t think she likes a lot of the bureaucracy and paperwork of either being a detective or agent. She also likes the idea of following in her father’s footsteps and that’s why she joined the force. She originally was going to be a social worker but kinda went the easier path after her bad years. It made her feel connected to her father which she really needed. I think Nate really likes his job! Naomi’s distrust of the Agency might cause a little friction.

are they financially stable?

Naomi isn’t at first just because she’s denied her mother’s financial help for a long time but they eventually are very financially stable together. They’re both good at planning and money...besides Nate’s expensive tastes.

HOME.

who does the washing?

Naomi! She usually just throws a load in when she’s done with a shower or heading to work. Nate folds and puts them away though!

who takes out the trash?

Naomi! She usually takes it on her way out.

who does the ironing?

Nate! He’s very good at it and can do some mean pleats. Naomi hates ironing things so he’s happy to do it.

who does the cooking?

Nate! Like I said he’s a great cook and loves to cook for Naomi. It’s mostly him but they love to cook together. Naomi will occasionally try and make dinner for the two of them but rarely.

who is more likely to burn the house down just trying?

Naomi! She’d forget about it or smth.

who is messier?

Naomi! She leaves shit everywhere and never has time/patience/motivation to clean up. It admittedly drives Nate a little nuts.

who leaves the toilet roll empty?

Neither.

who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor?

Naomi! Specifically in the bathroom because she comes home and just wants to shower some days especially being out on patrol with Bravo. Just shucks off her clothes and goes. They both pick them up when they have a second or remember.

who forgets to flush the toilet?

Uh…..neither lmao.

who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere?

NAOMI. She gets very pissy too and it’s usually somewhere that’s obvious and Nate’s like “...honey?”.

who answers the telephone?

Naomi! She doesn’t have a landline and Nate can’t use his cellphone so she even answers his phone for him.

who mows the lawn?

Nate! He loves doing like...Stereotypical Husband/Dad stuff. (Note: he is very bad at repairing things, that’s Naomi’s job)

who does the vacuuming?

It depends on who has time! Usually Nate.

who does the groceries?

Naomi! They like doing it together though especially when they have a special recipe they’re cooking up that night.

who takes the longest to shower?

Nate. Naomi takes pretty quick showers. Naomi tends to sneak into his showers and makes him take a loooot longer.

who spends the most time in the bathroom?

Both of them take a long time tbh. About the same time normally. Naomi maybe takes a little longer if she’s putting special effort into her hair/makeup for the day.

MISCELLANEOUS.

is money a problem?

Early on for Naomi maybe a little (not terribly so) but later on when they’re together no their combined salaries make them pretty stable.

how many cars do they own?

Just one originally - Naomi’s shitty little baby car. They trade it in eventually for just a regular nice car and when Naomi gets pregnant they buy a second car that’s a Suburban to cram all their kids in.

what’s their song?

Tiny Dancer by Elton John (don’t ask I hear it and I think of them), Beautiful by Bazzi, Love You Like That by Dagny, Without Fear by Dermot Kennedy

do they live in the city or in the country?

Small town, I guess!

do they own their home or do they rent?

Naomi rents an apartment and I think the Agency owns the Warehouse? When the two of them get married, Nate buys a house in Wayhaven for them to fix up! It’s very cute and has a big yard.

do they enjoy their surroundings?

Naomi....hates Wayhaven to say the least. Gossip hound neighbors, uncooperative mayor, bad memories, her stupid ex...she just wants to move anywhere but she’s so attached to this town. Nate really loves Wayhaven and weirdly helps Naomi see the beauty in her town again?

what do they do when they’re away from each other?

God, miss each other so much. Naomi less so, she’s used to being pretty independent but ofc she still misses him. She can at least get shit done. Nate is the worst because he’s mooning over her on a mission and the rest of UB complains about it. Makes one of the others call Naomi on his cell every night so they can Facetime. Naomi flashes him her tits. Nate is okay with this one piece of technology. Though one time Naomi does try to get freaky and Nate very loudly goes “HEY ADAM’S HERE! SAY HI TO ADAM!” Adam: :|

where did they first meet?

Abandoned warehouse in Book 1, babey! She shoots her future husband’s best friend in the shoulder. It takes awhile for those two to like each other obviously.

who spends the most money when out shopping?

NATE. Bougie king. Naomi teases him about it too but she also gets the benefit of his obnoxious thread count sheets, giant bath and him smelling faintly of expensive cologne and body wash all the time. So, Naomi quit complaining.

who’s more likely to flash their assets?

Dkgjsg Naomi does this all the time because it’s too entertaining not to. If it’s when other people are around she’s sending him Signals or doing stuff like that Nate gets all flustered and leans his chin on his hand and tries to cover up the little smirk he has. Raises his eyebrows at her and gets That Look.

any mental issues?

Well, Nate clearly has some kind of PTSD due to his fear of storms/other very obvious factors. Naomi has pretty severe depression and honestly probably a little touch of BPD. She also has some anxiety (not as bad as the depression) but enough that she bites her nails down and has to paint them/get fake ones so she doesn’t ruin her teeth.

who finds it amusing when the other trips over?

Nate usually just catches Naomi and has a little smile that she jokingly glares at him for. Naomi tries...so hard not to laugh but Nate is...so not graceful some times. Like a baby giraffe. He legs too long for he gotdam bodee.

who’s terrified of bugs?

Naomi! DISGOSTHANG.

who kills the spiders around the house?

Nate! But he usually gets a cup and a piece of paper and takes it outside. Naomi usually loves that he’s gentle but also will die if he comes close with that thing. He’s always like, “See, it just wants to go back outside.” And Naomi’s got the most unamused face while she’s standing on the couch sdgsjkg.

do they have any fears for their future?

Uh...yeah definitely. Besides the normal ya know, being kidnapped/murdered for her blood, Naomi is...terrified that Nate will come to his senses and leave her. She has horrible fears of abandonment and not being worthy. She’s just...always waiting for the shoe to drop. Nate is also terrified for her safety but also worried a lot for her mental state the more he learns about her past. He loves her and supports her and wants to stay with her for...eternity if she lets that happen. Of course, that’s also a fear that Naomi might not want to live forever and see all her family and friends die. That it might exacerbate her already lonely, heartbroken, abandoned nature. That he’ll doom her to a life she doesn’t want just because she loves him. Ha ha...anyways.

their favourite place?

They of course both love the Warehouse but they love Naomi’s apartment because it’s just them and they get some privacy. Just a detective and her vampire...playin house.

who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner?

Nate! He cooks for Naomi so much! She offhandedly told him once that she doesn’t usually have time to cook with how busy she is (also...the Depression) so he’s always surprising her when she comes home. It’s very special when he buys all the ingredients and they cook together because Naomi likes to cook it’s just such an effort! Good date nights for them is cooking a new recipe tbh.

who pays the bills?

Nate tries to pay them all but Naomi splits them.

who’s the tallest?

Natey! He teases Naomi about it sometimes. They’ve got a foot height difference.

who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other?

Naomi! She loves sneaking into the shower with Nate not even just for some naughty times but she loves bathing with Nate. He’ll wash her hair for her and she’ll do the same for him. It’s about….the caregiving.

who wanders around in their underwear?

Naomi! But I’m fixated on Nate getting comfortable at her place enough to wander around in his boxers.

who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio?

Naomi!!!!! Nate just sits there and stares at her and lets her sing to him because he’s a big puppy who’s in love.

what do they tease each other about?

Nate’s teasing is so gentle and has no real weight to it. Like teasing Naomi about being such a workaholic and trying to get her to bed. Naomi calls Nate really goofy as hell pet names that are purposefully cringey but shh Nate secretly likes any pet name Naomi calls him. They typically are just pretty flirty teasing esp poking each other when they’re trying to focus on smth or they’ll be reading in the library and Naomi will catch his eyes and wiggle her eyebrows. Nate’ll counter back with something like “You know I can’t concentrate with you looking at me like that.” Naomi also gets a little flirty and competitive when it comes to games or any kind of challenge which makes Nate SWEAT.

who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?

Well, we all know Nate is the best dressed member of Bravo and Naomi is usually pretty well-dressed if somewhat minimalistic and plain. I don’t think either of them really would unless Naomi was in a slump and clearly like...not practicing self care and Nate noticed. Nate just doesn’t seem like a Judgy person unless it’s a symptom of smth else.

who crushed first?

Natey! Naomi was close behind though it didn’t really hit her for a while.

any alcohol or substance related problems?

Naomi used to rely a lot on alcohol in her teenage years/college days so she’s pretty aware of that dependence and doesn’t really get drunk very much. She also smokes - though she tries to hide it like she’s a teenager still living in her mother’s house lmao. I can’t see Nate having any kind of those problems esp with vampire metabolism.

who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?

Naomi! When she does drink it’s usually a night out with Tina and Nate is very sweet about. Makes her drink a glass of water and take an aspirin (much to her displeasure) before getting her in bed.

who swears the most?

Naomi, obviously lmao. Usually when she’s exasperated. It’s normally when she’s Tired of Shit and not an angry thing really? I don’t see her cursing when she fights with someone either.

#oh my god it's DOOOONE #this was so fun but SO LONG #i did it in gdocs and it's like #19 pages #emily got tagged #ship: blueberry muffins #nate/naomi brainrot #they invented love

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lalainajanes · 5 years ago

Note

Surprise + 1. “OH you’re jealous!” + KC

Called Out

Caroline’s got her back pressed to a brick wall, barely aware of the people passing in front of her. It’s not like her – she’d touched down in New York City three days ago and has been hungrily absorbing every new sight and sound. At the moment, she’s having a pretty intense personal crisis.

She and Klaus have been chasing down separate leads for the last few hours. When she’d walked into the restaurant they’d planned to meet in, found him leaning against the bar, in full flirt mode, the punch of jealousy she’d felt had her flight instincts kicking into high gear.

Practicality had kept her from going too far. Klaus is doing her a favor; she needs to know what he’s found out today. She just needs a minute (or twelve) to collect herself. A drink might help, but that would mean going back inside.

When someone pauses in front of her, Caroline keeps her head tipped up. She’s hoping they’ll move along (she can’t be polite to a good samaritan right now, will totally eat a creep). A vaguely familiar voice exclaims, “Hey, I know you. Long way from Mystic Falls, aren’t you, darling?”

She jerks in surprise when she spots Kol Mikaelson in front of her. Without thinking, Caroline reaches out and pokes his chest. He’s warm and solid under what’s probably an exorbitantly expensive t-shirt. She knows ghosts are a thing; she hadn’t known Kol wasn’t one of them.

Kol traps her hand, keeps it pressed to his chest with a smirk, “Why Miss Forbes, that’s awfully forward of you. Nik’ll fly into quite a tantrum if we steal away. Sounds fun.”

“How are you not dead?” Caroline asks, ignoring the rest of Kol’s speech. Klaus has told her a few stories over the years in which Kol appears. Caroline’s gotten the impression that Kol enjoys the sound of his own voice a little too much.

He releases her, rocks back on his heels. “Did my brother fail to mention that little feat? It happened ages ago, not long after he left your sad little town.”

Caroline’s mouth falls open, and a quick flash of anger pushes the jealousy aside. She’d thought she and Klaus had become friends in the years since she’d first made a trip to New Orleans. That time she’d needed his help, but she’d gone back (and had met up with Klaus in other locations) dozens of times since. Maybe she’d misconstrued things if he hadn’t bothered to mention something as significant as the resurrection of a member of his family.

“He’s given me free rein since. I’ve been traveling, and unbothered save for the odd check-in and reminder not to make myself conspicuous. It’s been bliss.”

“Huh,” Caroline says. Not exactly eloquent, but she’s processing.

“I only had to agree not to remove Elena Gilbert’s pretty head from her shoulders. Nik thought it would upset you.”

Kol’s casual revelations are so not helping Caroline’s emotional turmoil. “Um, obviously.”

He makes a noise of disgust. “She’s the worst doppelganger.”

“Katherine smothered me with a pillow so. Hard disagree.”

Kol opens his mouth – probably to argue – and Caroline has no desire to get sucked into an argument that’s sure to be ridiculous. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs, long and exaggerated, “Nik commanded my presence. Coaxing witches into helping with impossible situations is a bit of a specialty of mine.”

It’s impossible to miss the lewd undertone. Caroline wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” Kol’s eyes sharpen, his head tipping to the side as he glances from her to the door. “Why are you skulking out here? Nik’s inside, according to his last message. Feigning off the advances of a witch we can’t currently piss off.”

“Ha, didn’t look like feigning to me,” Caroline mutters. Wishes she hadn’t immediately after because her bitterness had been palpable. Kol’s impressively self-absorbed, but he’s not an idiot.

“Ohhh,” he drawls, the syllable drawn out and dripping with glee. “You’re jealous.”

Caroline bites back a denial – she’s sure it will only encourage Kol.

“Nik will be tickled when I tell him. It’s a bit pathetic how he’s jumped to help you with your problems over the years. But it’s paid off and far sooner than he’d anticipated.”

Caroline doesn’t have the will power to swallow her offense. “Excuse me, I’ve asked Klaus for exactly three favors. In fourteen years.”

And yeah, maybe they’d been kind of big. But the problems hadn’t really even been hers. Klaus had helped her and Bonnie break the spell Kai had placed on Elena. He’d called off the calls for the doppelganger to be brought to him, allowing Elena and Damon to have a sickeningly perfect white picket fence life.

And now he’s helping her find a way for Bonnie to be immortal and keep her magic.

“That’s approximately three more favors than he’s granted anyone else. He’s only ever helpful when he’s got something to gain.”

“Maybe he’s growing as a person.”

Kol laughs at that. Loudly. Several people on the street look over in interest. He shakes his head, “You’re adorably optimistic.”

“Two of my best qualities.”

She’s also not a coward.

Caroline pushes off from the wall, smooths her hands over her dress. She’d bought it today, and it’s freaking fantastic – blue and clingy, tiny straps and a low back. She’d privately wondered about Klaus’ reaction to the dress in the fitting room, might have drifted off into an idle fantasy about how easily it could be torn away.

Kol’s watching her, amused. “Do you not want him to know about the jealousy then?”

She’s fairly certain Klaus will be able to tell – he’s always been annoyingly good at reading her, even when he’d barely known her, and she’d done her damndest to hide from him.

Caroline practices a smile. She hopes it’ll at least fool whatever contacts they’re trying to cajole tonight. “I’m sure we’ll discuss it later.”

“I’m glad I’m staying at a different hotel. Something tells me you’ll get loud.”

Caroline ignores the innuendo. “Let’s go in.”

“Ladies first.”

Caroline glares though she’s not actually annoyed, “So you can stare at my ass?”

“Isn’t that why you picked the dress?”

He may have a point. It’s petty - one of her worst qualities, Caroline’s made her peace with it – but maybe she can distract Klaus with a little jealousy of his own.

The crowd inside the bar is thicker than it had been earlier, and Kol sticks close behind her as they weave towards where Klaus now is. He’s commandeered the best booth in the place. Kol’s hand lands on her back, in a respectful place, surprisingly. “I’m going to go get a drink. Try not to be in a compromising position when I return, hmm?”

Klaus is alone, now. Caroline’s relieved, doesn’t bother to try to deny it, even internally.

Progress.

Klaus slips out when Caroline approaches, rests a hand on her hip while he brushes his mouth across her cheek. “Did you have a productive day, love?”

She loops her arms over his shoulder, keeps him close. Klaus goes rigid for a scant moment – she’s never hugged him before. “I did,” she murmurs. “I’ll tell you all about it. But first, I ran into your brother outside. Is there a reason you never mentioned you’d brought Kol back?”

Caroline pulls away so she can see his face, and Klaus is genuinely confused. “Did I not?”

“I would have remembered that.”

He lifts a shoulder, “I can’t imagine why it’s never come up. I should have thought it would be obvious – I wasn’t about to leave him dead when I had the means to bring him back.”

It’s such an arrogant statement, and so Klaus. She can’t even be annoyed. Of course he’d casually break the laws of life and death and not think it worth mentioning. He’s Klaus Mikaelson – most powerful being in the world.

A laugh bubbles out of her and she can’t resist hugging him again. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little ridiculous?”

“No one who lived,” Klaus says mildly.

“I guess I’m lucky you like me.” His eyes darken, and his mouth opens. Caroline brushes past him before he can respond.

They have business first. Caroline can see how the next few minutes will play out if Klaus were to refute that his regard for her is as simple as like. He’s got a gift for perfect tempting words. She’s always had trouble resisting the way he looks at her – like their alone even when there are a hundred other people nearby. Caroline’s about ninety-five percent of the way to admitting that her feelings are more significant too. She knows she’s got decisions to make. She remembers how freaking good Klaus can make her feel, even if the one time they’d indulged they’d been crunched for time and in a less than ideal location.

Without a quick subject change, they’ll end up providing Kol with blackmail fodder.

She snags his hand, keeps it even when they’ve slid into the booth. Klaus seems fine with how much she’s touching him, has taken it upon himself to return the favor. He brushes her hair back, his fingers lingering on the strap of her dress.

Caroline’s sure it’ll end up snapped by the end of the night, and she’s not mad about it.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #with bonus Kol

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veganbobabeech · 4 years ago

Text

“A Todoroki Thanksgiving” (Shouto Todoroki x Reader) (My Hero Academia Fanfiction)

By: VeganBobaBeech

Description: With your Thanksgiving plans called off, your new boyfriend Shouto Todoroki offers to have you spend the holiday with him and his siblings. The event seems to be going well, but things get complicated when Pro-Hero Endeavor (also Shouto’s father) shows up unexpectedly.

Note: I’ve been writing fanfiction for a while, but this is the first one that I have ever posted. I hope you enjoy it!

“I can’t believe I’m finally getting to see your house!” You remark to your new boyfriend Shouto as the two of you approach the front door. “It was really nice of your family to put this together.”

Shouto gives you a lopsided smile. “I know how important this is to you.” He replies. “I’m sorry you aren’t able to spend this Thanksgiving with your own family. I’m sure you must miss them”

You link your arm around his and smile up at him. “I’m just glad that I’ll get to spend it with you.” You say brightly.

It is true. Although you were initially a little disappointed to not be able to spend the holiday with your family, you were thrilled when Shouto invited you over to his house. This would be the first time you were meeting Shouto’s family; his brother and sister at least, as his father is away on a business trip and wasn’t expected to return until the weekend. A part of you wonders if the absence of his father contributed to Shouto’s willingness to have you over. Historically, Shouto always seemed extremely hesitant whenever you brought up the idea of wanting to meet his family; particularly his father. You have known for a while that Shouto and his dad don’t have the greatest relationship. Though, it seems to be a subject that Shouto doesn’t like talking about, so you try not to bring it up too much. Despite what you do know about the nature of their relationship, a part of you can’t help but worry that Shouto may feel embarrassed of you, or worried that his family wouldn’t like you. You do your best to push the thought out of your mind. After all, you are meeting his siblings today, so you want to be positive; plus, you want to make a good impression on them.

You take a deep breath and smile up at Shouto. He lowers his arm slightly to take your hand in his as he ushers you inside the house. The interior of the house is beautifully decorated and well kept, with a traditional style to match the exterior. You imagined the house would be nice, given that Shouto’s dad was one of the top heroes in the entire country; though despite the beauty, you can’t help but feel that there is a heavy, almost sad atmosphere about the place. However, before you can make a remark, a warm and savory scent fills your nose. You have no doubt that someone has been slaving in the kitchen for a long time.

“Mmm… Shouto, can you smell that?” You ask him. “It smells amazing.”

“Yeah,” He replies, nonchalantly, “My sister can be quite the cook.” He takes your hand and leads you through the house to the kitchen. The wonderful smell becomes more potent and you don’t hesitate to indulge your nostrils with a few audible sniffs. When you arrive at the kitchen, you see a girl with white and red hair, hyper focused on what seems like a dozen pots and pans. There is a young man with white hair standing in the corner helping her; though, noticeably less engaged.

The man is the first to notice you, and offers a friendly wave. “Hey, Shouto!” He calls from across the room.

This causes the girl to whip around, immediately. She smiles kindly and approaches you. “Hello!” She says warmly. “I’m Shouto’s sister, Fuyumi. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” You reply. “The food smells wonderful.”

“Thank you so much!” She says. “I really hope you’ll enjoy it.” Just then a timer goes off. “Oh shoot, it’s ready!” She remarks, running back to the stove.

The white haired man chuckles slightly and approaches you. “This is my brother Natsuo.” Shouto says, introducing him

“Hello!” You say. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Natsuo nods, “It’s nice to finally be meeting you too.”

“Okay, everyone!” Fuyumi announces, proudly. “Dinner is just about ready!” She turns to the boys. “Shouto, would you and Natsuo mind setting the table?”

Natsuo places his hand on Shouto’s shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. “Sure, we’d be glad to, Sis.” He smiles.

“I can help too!” You say enthusiastically. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Don’t be silly!” Fuyumi smiles. “You’re the guest, and I’m sure the boys can handle it. Besides, I wouldn’t mind some company in the kitchen.”

“Oh, okay, then.” You reply. “If that’s what would be best.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Shouto asks, taking your hand.

“I’ll be fine!” You smile up at him.

“Don’t worry, Shouto” Fuyumi adds. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

“Alright, then.” Shouto says, hesitantly. “Just call to me if you need anything.”

“I will.” You say, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “I promise.”

He nods, slowly letting go and proceeds to follow Natsuo out of the kitchen.

“I’m so glad Shouto found you.” Fuyumi says, once he is out of sight. “He seems to be a lot happier since meeting you.” You blush a bit. “How did you two meet again?” She asks, while lightly stirring some savory-smelling substance in a saucepan.

“We met at school.” You say.

“Oh, are you studying to become a hero as well?” Fuyumi asks. “To be honest, I don’t think I recall ever seeing you at any of the events.”

You shake your head. “Oh no, I’m just a general studies student.” You say. “Honestly, I think I may be one of the few who isn’t actively trying to get into the hero program.” You pause. “Though, I do really admire the hero students and I like going to the events. That’s actually how I first met Shouto; at the UA sports festival.” You smile a bit to yourself, recalling the memory. “It was during the lunch break, and I saw Shouto standing alone in the hallway. I wanted to go up to him and tell them that he had been doing a good job, but when I approached him, I realized that he seemed sad.” You pause again, wondering if you should really be sharing what you know about your boyfriend’s private feelings with someone else; even if Fuyumi was his sister.

“That’s not surprising.” Fuyumi says, sounding a bit sad herself. “Our father has always put so much pressure on Shouto when it comes to his hero training, and I’m sure that festival was no exception.”

“That’s what I thought!” You say, almost excitedly. “I told him that I was sure that he must be under a lot of pressure from other people; especially after I learned that his dad was one of the top pro heroes. I told him that I was sure he would make a great hero, because I could see that his heart was in it, and I said not to let anyone else’s expectations discourage him.” You smile again bittersweetly, thinking about how many times you’ve said those words to Shouto since then. “I honestly didn’t speak to him again for a while after that, but since then I…”

Just then, you are cut off by the sound of commotion coming from the other room.

“Shouto it’s fine.” You hear Natsuo say.

“It’s not fine! It has to be perfect for her!”

Fuyumi chuckles a bit to herself. “He really cares about you, you know.” She says. “Shouto has always been quite distant, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t express it to you much… but believe me, from a sister’s perspective, I can see how much he loves you.”

You blush, feeling a bit embarrassed since Shouto had never actually used those words with you. You had been wanting to tell him that you loved him, but you were worried that you might make him feel uncomfortable if he wasn’t ready to say it back.

Suddenly, Natsuo rushes into the kitchen, with Shouto following closely behind him.

“Table’s all ready, Sis!” Natsuo announces, proudly.

Fuyumi smiles. “Alright then, let’s eat everyone!”

The dinner begins relatively casually. Fuyumi and Natsuo make friendly small talk with you; you imagine they are trying their best not to embarrass Shouto. The food was turning out to be just as decadent as it had smelled when you first came into the house.

“I can’t eat another bite if I want to save room for dessert!” You announce. “Though it is delicious. Thank you so much for cooking, Fuyumi.”

She smiles “It was my pleasure! I suppose I ought to break out the desserts then.” She turns to Natsuo, giving him a look. “Natsuo… You wanna help me.”

“Sure.” He smiles, getting up rather quickly. For a second you wonder if you should help, but get the feeling that Fuyumi only wanted Natsuo to come. You weren’t sure if this was intended so the two of them could discuss what they thought of you or if they wanted to give you and Shouto a moment alone together, but either way you decide it’s best to stay put.

“You really liked the food okay?” Shouto slides his chair closer to yours and rests his hand comfortingly on your knee.

You nod. “Yeah, it was really good.” You say happily. “Fuyumi and Natsuo seem to be really kind. Do you usually get along with them?”

Shouto nods. “Yes, I get along with them. Though, we unfortunately never spent much time together when I was younger. My father was so obsessed with training me to be a powerful hero, that I wasn’t even allowed to play with them much.”

You shake your head. “That’s awful. He was really that strict? That must have been so difficult for you, especially as a child.”

Shouto sighs “It was.” He pauses for a second. “I never told you this, but… He’s the reason my mom ended up in the hospital.” He lifts his hand over the scar on his left eye. “It’s entirely his fault that my mom cracked the way she did.” You notice his voice beginning to break a bit, almost as if he’s about to start crying. He takes a deep breath calming himself, staring intently downward at nothing in particular. “I blame him for every bit of hurt that this family has gone through.” He then shifts his gaze to your eyes. “I’m sorry if this is a lot to put on you all at once. I know you’ve been wondering about these things, and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.” He takes your hand in his. “The truth is… You are so pure and precious to me, and… My father has a way of taking away things that make me happy. As hard as it is, I can handle the fact that he took away my happiness as a child. I can even handle the fact that he took my mother away from me, but…” He raises his hands to cup your face in them. “I… I could never handle it if he tried to take you away from me.”

You feel tears welling in your eyes, both from sadness on Shouto’s behalf and for having just heard how much you mean to him.

“Shouto, I…” You lean forward. You know Fuyumi and Natsuo could walk back in at any second, but you don’t care. You need to kiss him; to feel his lips on yours and let him know how much you care about him too.

“What the hell is this!?” Your lips have barely brushed against Shouto’s when you hear the booming voice. It is so loud that it makes you jump a bit. You turn to see a tall, robust, yet intimidating man staring down at you. From the flames emulating from his body, as well as the unmistakably recognizable hero suit, you know instantly that this man is the hero Endeavor… Shouto’s father. His arms are crossed, making his muscles appear even larger, as he scowls at the two of you with a look of pure rage in his eyes. Immediately Shouto stands up, putting a barrier between you and his father. You don’t try to stop him; in fact you cower a bit behind him at the sight of the terrifying man staring down at you. “Shouto.” Endeavor shifts his gaze to look at him. “Who is this girl?”

Shouto moves back even closer to you, shielding you even further. You clutch the back of his shirt. “That’s none of your damn business.” Shouto says coldly back to his father.

Endeavor scoffs. “You're being foolish. Frankly, I expected more from you.” He shakes his head. “You know you can’t have distractions like this, and I will do whatever I have to to keep you on the right path, if you refuse to obey my orders.”

Is he threatening you? The anxiety makes your heart race, and you clutch onto the back of Shouto’s shirt even harder, suddenly feeling Shouto’s body grow icey cold underneath the cloth. “Don’t you lay a finger on her, you bastard!”

“Dad!?” You hear Fuyumi enter the kitchen behind you. You turn to see that she is carrying what looks like a pie, with Natsuo closely behind her. “What’s going on here?”

“How long have you two known about this!?” Endeavor demands. You meet Fuyumi’s eyes for a split second, you are sure she can tell how frightened you are.

“Look Dad, we were just about to start dessert. Why don’t you sit down and have some too?” You can tell that Fuyumi is doing her best to diffuse the situation. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon, but we’d be happy to have you join us.” She sets the pie down on the table. “I can go get an extra plate for you if you like, and you can tell us about your trip.” She smiles nervously.

Endeavor slams his fist down on the table, making the dishes clatter loudly. You bury your face into Shouto’s shoulder. You feel tears welling in your eyes, but you try your absolute hardest to keep them down.

“Dad please!” Fuyumi pleads. “You’re scaring her. Please just sit down with us, and we can talk this out.”

“You should have known better than to encourage this.” Endeavor says, directing his attention mostly towards Fuyumi and Natsuo. “You know that Shouto can’t be having distractions, especially at such a pivotal point in his training. Don’t you want your brother to succeed?”

“Shouto deserves to be happy!” Natsuo chimes in. “You’ve said yourself that he’s been doing well, and if anything, she encourages him. Just leave them alone!”

“Natsuo--” Fuyumi interjects, seemingly still trying to calm everyone down.

“No, he needs to know that he can’t push it.” Natsuo continues, getting more heated. “Remember what happened to mom? You pushed too hard Dad, you can’t keep doing that!”

“You’re mother was--” Endeavor begins, but Natsuo quickly cuts him off again.

“What about him, then? Huh?” You can see that Natsuo nearly has tears in his eyes. “What’s your excuse for what happened to Touya!?”

Immediately, the atmosphere of the room shifts. Fuyumi gasps, and you can feel Shouto tense up a bit. Even Endeavor seems to be shaken at the mention of this “Touya” person.

“I’m going out for a bit.” Endeavor says. His voice is still quite booming, yet it seems to have softened a little. You can sense that he is attempting to hide a feeling of shame. “I expect this mess to be cleaned up by the time I return.” You can’t tell if he is referring to the dinner table or the situation; you in particular. You try not to think about it too much. “Shouto and I will talk when I get back.”

As soon as you hear the front door to the house close, you let out a big breath, and your emotions pour out with it. You feel relief that he is gone, yet you can’t seem to stop the tears from flowing out of your eyes. “I’m sorry.” You say feeling embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to cause all that.”

You feel Shouto’s warm arms wrap around your body, any trace of ice that you felt in his body a minute ago was now long gone. “It’s not your fault.” He said softly.

“Yeah” Fuyumi agrees. “Please don’t feel as if anything that just happened is your fault… Our dad is just…” She trails off a bit, seemingly searching for the right words. “He’s just like that sometimes.”

“All the time.” Natsuo says under his breath.

Fuyumi shoots him a look. “Anyway I hope he didn’t scare you too much. I know he can be quite intimidating.”

“I’m okay…” You say, attempting to crack a smile.

“Natsuo and I can clean up if you guys want to step away for a bit.” Fuyumi says. “He shouldn’t be back for at least a couple of hours if not more.”

Your heartbeats quickens just a bit at the thought of Endeavor returning. After all, you had been told that he wouldn’t even be there today… But logically, you know Fuyumi is probably right. Besides, you’re sure that it would probably be comforting to have a moment or two alone with Shouto before you leave. You nod a bit vigorously.

Shouto gently takes your hand, and you stand up. “My room is this way.” He says, pointing down the hall.

You follow Shouto down the dark hallway leading to his room. The room is very traditional, matching the rest of the house, and it is very clean and organized. There is a slightly sweet, musky aroma in the room. It is the same scent you smell when Shouto gets very close to you; it’s very comforting. You take in a few deep breaths of the sweet smell, attempting to slow your still racing heart.

Shouto slides the door closed, and abruptly throws his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. You wrap your arms around him and breath him in. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers softly in your ear. “I should never have brought you here.”

“No.” You say back to him. “Don’t be sorry… I’m glad that you brought me here.” You pull back just slightly to meet his eyes. “I’m so happy that I’m getting to learn more about the person that I…” You shift your gaze downwards, slightly embarrassed.

Shouto searches your face for a brief moment, before pulling you back into him. He gently puts a hand on the back of your head, stroking your hair slightly. “I love you too” He whispers. You try to hide it, but you can’t help but let out a slight gasp of surprise and slight awe. “Don’t worry about my father.” Shouto continues. “I promise I won’t ever let him touch you, or take you away from me.”

You pull back to look up at him again. “Shouto…” You are at a loss for words. Your heart feels like it is absolutely bursting with joy.

“Shh…” He breaths, tilting your chin slightly upwards. “Don’t speak, just…” He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.

You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling as though you never want to let go. You know his words were spoken with utter truth. He loves you, and you love him back. Despite Shouto’s father or any other challenges the two of you might face, in that moment you know that nothing could tear the two of you apart. You pull Shouto even tighter into you, knowing beyond any shadow of doubt that the two of you are meant to be together.

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