#been a while since I stretched my poetry muscles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

12thhouse-sun · 3 months ago

Text

Writing Interview Tag Game!

Thanks for the tag @pouroverpaloma!

When did you start writing?

I’ve always been a highly creative person, visual art my usual and longest-standing vice, but writing I’ve always been interested in. At 15 years old I tried to write a book (didn’t finish it). I forget what the word count was but it was a high fantasy Percy Jackson-esque. I tried working on the worldbuilding for a book in college and afterwards but nothing concretely got…written. Not plot just worldbuilding lmao. That project has since turned into my D&D homebrew world that I have yet to subject to any players.

I’ve done some short creative writing here and there, a spoken word-style poem a few years ago and I took part in Escapril 2020. Otherwise, I have not been writing creatively in quite some time. I majored in engineering in college so there weren’t a lot of opportunities for me to stretch those creative muscles. The writing I’ve done for my GalexTav fics are my first big dive into writing since high school.

I would journal as a therapeutic device but I’m only ever to keep up with it when I’m in crisis as it’s very effective at emptying my brain but it’s not necessarily good writing, it’s often train of thought and very emotional.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I read mainly fantasy and I write fantasy so there isn’t a lot of difference there. Maybe when I start branching out with my writing I’ll have an actual answer but for now, no!

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I haven’t had anyone compare my work but there’s lots of little things I see in the fic authors I read that I certainly feel strongly about but have yet to attempt to emulate. I want to be funny like goldenhearts (@yourworsttotebag). I want to go to poetry land like i88 (ao3). I wish I could figure out how to write 10K plus chapters every chapter like @linnetagain. I see so many little things in everything that I read that makes me want to try and be better.

I’m also still trying to figure out my own style. It’s been so long since I’ve tried to write anything longform that I am still exploring what my voice even sounds like. Even the first few chapters for you’re at the top of my lungs I wrote just a few months ago I cringe at when I read now. I’m in a high growth stage at the moment and I feel like I haven’t really settled into anything yet. But I’m in the midst of it and maybe if any of you who’ve read my fics notice anything please tell me lol I would appreciate the insight.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have a few lmao. So I’m currently at work (if you’re my bosses, this is a joke I’m not at work rn) where I have two screens and as of today a fancy new click clack keyboard. Job-provided desk chair that’s okay and surrounded by work-related things.

My office at home is much cozier. I have a blanket on my lap and around my shoulders, at least two drinks within arm’s reach (usually a water and an Olipop) and a fresh bag of Nutella biscuits waiting to be devoured. I also have a click clack keyboard there and I’ll put on my big gaming headphones to blast music as I write.

I don’t like writing on my phone. If I do, it’s to quickly get down a rough idea while it’s still in my head but I can't do it for a long period of time as typing longform on my phone like that stresses me out. (Those who write entire fics in their notes app, I salute you.)

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Reading other fics! Anything that gets me thinking of new ways to put the pookies into new situations. Great example is @yourworsttotebag (goldenhearts on AO3) just started posting a Parallel Universe fic where the Gales from two different universes get swapped. It got me thinking of how that would work with Gale and my Tav, and how that would go if my Tav was the one who got swapped. I’m not going to write this fic, but it’s fun to think about! It gets me thinking outside of my usual settings and it helps me think of situations and conversations that might end up applying to what I’m actually writing.

I'm also constantly listening to music and while I'm horrible at being able to hear lyrics and therefore have a hard time linking song meaning to a scene or plot point, the flow and energy of a song can give me ideas just by themselves.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

I don’t think I’ve written enough variety to have developed anything. I actually went back and skimmed through my writing, posted or otherwise, with this lens to try and identify anything but other than the usual stuff you’d expect out of a Galefic I’ve got nothing.

What is your reason for writing?

Brain got too full of my Tav and Gale and I needed to drain it lmao. Now it’s just a constant flood. I’m also just enjoying it! I mention earlier that I’m usually a visual artist but the art block and imposter syndrome has been very bad. Writing fic has been freeing and has allowed me to create freely without judgment. (Or, well, the minimum amount of judgment required to even post something lmao).

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any, really. But especially if a commenter calls something out in a chapter they particularly enjoyed or related to that really gets me going. I’ll scream at any comment someone leaves even if it’s a “chapter kudos” or whatever. Seeing Hit # going up is gratifying in that I know that people are here and reading it but a comment really solidifies that a real person is here and enjoying it. Never be too scared to leave a comment. If I feel anything in any fic I read I try to comment because I know how much it makes my day as an author so I try to be that person for authors as well.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I hope they’re enjoying what I’m reading! I hope that the readers that are subscribed to me and my fics get just as excited when they see an AO3 email about one of my fics come through like it does when my faves update. That’s the dream.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I like my action and combat scenes, but I rarely write them. I have posted one I think and I have one in a WIP that won’t be posted until the whole thing’s done. But that unposted WIP chapter and then Chapter 4 of you’re at the top of my lungs are some of my favorite things I’ve written.

A lot of these questions have made me realize how little feedback I get as a writer and maybe I need to find a writing group or something.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I honestly feel like it’s awkward and stilted. I find I have to try hard to make it all flow. I think that’s the years of having to write engineering reports coming through, being straight and to the point and all that. I usually feel like my writing is good and I am able to get across whatever point I’m trying to make but I would love to be more flowery and go to poetry land more often. I want to get across big feelings and big ideas and have it feel visceral and not like I’m just throwing words on a page.

Tagging @waterdeep-weavemoss, @dr-demi-bee, and @crimson-and-lavender

#last light writes #tag game #lastlight-inn

6 notes · View notes

anthonysstupiddailyblog · 9 months ago

Text

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (726): Wed 13th Mar 2024

Off to Newcastle for the first time in three weeks for an appointment with the chiropractor. My neck has been okay as of late which I can only put down to the extra stretches I've been doing and the fact that I've been going running a lot which must be strengthening the muscles in my back. Maybe the reason why my back and neck has been so uncomfortable since my operation is because I have not worked it enough and I've allowed it to become too mollycoddled. Right after my operation what I should have done is hired a group of six Vietnamese children to whack my neck with kendo sticks for an hour a day in order to get my neck back into fighting shape. I know a lot of people are critical of alternative medicine but this technique has been more or less approved and recommended by doctors. Every now and again the discomfort is almost completely ameliorated and I'm tempted to give Jiu Jitsu a go to test the theory but there's always the risk that I might do some more damage so I might just leave it a few more months and wait for the chiropractor to tell me when she thinks it's sade to go back. I’d hoped to read some more of Gather Yourselves Together on the way to Newcastle but the cunt of a train was delayed so by the time I got on the next one there were twice as many people on it and I couldn’t get a seat. Now you may ask why I didn't just read while standing up and the reason is because I'm not a beatnik taking part in a poetry slam in the mid seventies that's why. While I was waiting for my hot chocolate I was joined in the queue by an absolute vision, a stunner, an ginger goddess of a woman. She was so beautiful it made me annoyed that I would never ever be able to pluck up the courage to ask her out in this universe or any of the other alternative universes (not even univers 67284 where I look like Brad Pitt…though to be fair everyone in that universe looks like Brad Pitt, including this hot lass). My appointment with the chiropractor was nice as always. Even though I've been coming here for about six months it still give me a little shock when she actually does the clicking because I can never quite pinpoint when she's going to do it. I wonder whether anyone has ever tried playing their spine as a musical instrument. If Beck can play a trash can on stage I see no reason why I can't alter my spine so that each vertebrae makes a different note and learn to play it like it's a guitar or a keyboard. It will probably cripple me but at least I'll be able to get my 24 hour nurse to cross "Learn a musical instrument" off my bucket list.

0 notes

sukirichi · 4 years ago

Text

total opposites

You and Toge swap bodies after encountering a fairytale curse, and similar to its origin, it also takes a fairytale method to break it.

REQUEST. body swap au + best friends to lovers

CONTENT/WARNINGS. slight crack fic, some cursing, implications of nsfw but nothing explicit, just Toge being a not-so closet pervert, usual best friend bickering, reader is fem bodied, unedited story (I should stop saying this, everyone knows I don’t edit my stuff)

NOTES. I enjoyed writing this, tysm for the request anon, this was really cute! definitely this is shooting up in one of my fav works ever (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

You stretched your arms overhead, feeling great after sleeping in. It wasn’t common of you to sleep this late, but you and Toge had gone stargazing the night before. A smile made its way to your face as you reminisced him reciting rice ball ingredients, signing that he was telling poetry to ‘match the mood’ until you’d both fallen asleep on the soft blanket atop a hill.

You don’t remember how you made it back to your room, but figured that Toge had carried you back home before the sun rose. Making a mental note to thank your best friend later, you yawned as you padded out to your room, hands rubbing in circles at your stomach.

Hopefully breakfast would be amazing today.

The door next to you opened, revealing your younger classmate, and you frowned, because wasn’t Kugisaki your next door neighbour? Well, whatever, he, Yuuji, and Kugisaki might’ve taken advantage of the rare, peaceful weekend that they probably had a movie marathon the night before.

“Morning, Megumi!” you greeted, coughing a bit when you sounded off, throat a little horse and itchy. At the sound of your voice, Megumi stilled in his tracks, eyes wide at you. His comical expression had you barking in laughter, shooting finger guns his way as you wiggled your eyebrows. “Ey, be a good dog and bark for me, will you?”

Semi-visible sonic waves drifted like waves after one another out your mouth. Megumi scowled before he froze the next second, ears perked up and backside wagging in replacement of a tail. “Woof woof!”

“What the hell?” you reeled back in slight disgust, your underclassman’s cheeks burning red. Then, your lips grazed against a soft cloth, making you look down.

You blinked back once. Twice. You were definitely...built different today. Curiously, you tugged at the zipper peaking out from your black collar, the familiar zhoop sound of the zipper burned into your memory after hearing your best friend do it countless times before.

In front of you, Megumi screeched – the most noise he’d made ever since you met him – his jaw dropped open while you – or rather Toge stood at the end of the hallway, his hands squeezing at your breasts that were still under last night’s pyjamas. You blinked back once. Then twice, steam pouring from your nose when Toge, in your body, pointed at his body.

“Oh, oh!” your scream bounced off the hallways hard enough that Panda slammed his door open, about to tell everyone to shut up when your voice let out a high-pitched scream.

“What are you doing in my body?!”

Looking down at where Toge was pointing, you were greeted by the sight of his dark uniform and sock clad feet, your chest replaced with hard muscles instead of the soft flesh. You turned to Toge with a stupefied look that mirrored his, both of you falling on the ground with fists pounding on the hardwood floor.

“I’m a fucking girl!” he cried out, whether out of happiness or frustration, it was hard to tell.

Meanwhile, you zipped his collar back up, tugging at his off-white hair as you forced yourself to remember his limited vocabulary. “BONITO FLAKES!”

Now you understood Toge’s frustration of being a cursed speech user.

“Bonito Flakes” definitely did not hold the same fury as “FUCK” did.

“You and I need to set down some boundaries,” you signed to him, brows pulled together. Toge seemed to be enjoying this sudden body swap a lot more than you did since he hadn’t stopped posing in the mirror the moment you pushed him back to your room, locking it shut to get some privacy. “You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to shower, do you understand?”

Toge scowled at your words, sassy as ever with his hands placed on his hips, buttocks jutted out. You hated, absolutely hated that he used your body this way because this time you couldn’t even laugh – not when seeing your body felt this awkward.

“You would really rather me stink?”

“You can’t undress too! Ever! Or if you will, your eyes better be closed. No peeking too!”

“Y/N, you and I grew up together. I’ve already seen everything,” he rolled his eyes, earning him a hard slap from the arm. Considering he was a lot more muscular than you were, your hit came a lot harder. “Ow!” he protested, rubbing the sore spot that ached, only to laugh at the sounds emitting from his lips. “Wow, I have to admit that this is really fun though. I’m actually talking,” he announced, “Hey, say salmon for me.”

“Bonito flakes!” you shook your head, “The moment Principal Yaga is back, we’re going to talk to him, okay? I don’t want to be stuck in your body any longer!”

“Please, you’re lucky you get to feel me up,” he winked at you, taking your (his) hands to flatten it on his stomach. “Come on, come on, feel my abs!” Whack. “Would you please stop slapping me? Your body is a lot more delicate than mine and my hands are – stop slapping me!”

Feeling bad for your friend and not wanting to abuse your body too much, you raised your hands in surrender with a roll of your eyes. “I can’t take you seriously with that voice. You’re too cute.”

“Complimenting ourselves now, aren’t we?” he scoffed, “Well, whatever, you are cute, especially when you’re angry. Such a shame I can’t see you do that right now because my handsome face is looking back at me.”

“I won’t hesitate to choke you, my friend.”

“You wouldn’t. You adore your body too much,” contrary to his words, Toge pulled a defensive stance. You threw a pillow at him, to which he easily dodged, clutching at the hem of your pyjamas afterwards. “Speaking of bodies, I really need to pee.”

“Hold it!”

“Are you insane? I’m not holding it, you’re going to kill us both!”

“Fine, I’ll take you to the rest room then,” you tugged at the hood of your shirt, pushing him inside the communal female restroom. Toge stood in the middle shock still, evidently flustered at the stalls and lack of urinals. You flicked a finger on his forehead, finger pointed to a stall. “Go pee. That’s my body – I need to make sure you’re not going to do anything weird with it.”

“I thought you trusted me, friend. Why would you think I’d touch you that way?”

You gave him an ‘are you serious?’ look. “You jack off every fucking night, Toge. I can hear you even from the next hallway. Plus, you’re a horny teenage male, who’s to say you wouldn’t be curious and try to see what female masturbation feels like?”

His eyes lit up at the idea, fist coming down to bounce at the palm of his hand as he nodded. “That’s actually a good idea—”

“Don’t you even dare.”

“What?!” you and Toge both exclaimed. He faced you with utter horror written on his face and you gasped, slapping both palms over your lips.

“It is true,” Principal Yaga affirmed with a grim look on his face. He’d recently got back to fetch your troublesome Gojo-Sensei who’d been caught starting a ruckus in Roponggi while women flocked around him, leading to your principal to haul his ass back to the school grounds. “Some curses are manifested through daily objects, and sometimes even through nature. That shooting star you saw was an example of that.”

“But is kissing really necessary?” Toge queried with a wary gaze sent your way.

“It’s a fairytale curse. It can only be broken through a true love’s kiss.”

“But sir, Toge and I have never dated anyone before. How can we miraculously fall in love with someone to break this curse overnight?”

“It doesn’t have to happen overnight. Sometimes, a simple crush will do,” Principal Yaga sighed, scratching his bald head with his face pulled deep in thought. “Y/N, you have a crush on Gojo-Sensei right? I’m going to kill him if he actually kisses you – and knowing that damn brat he might if you ask him – but I think a kiss on the cheek will suffice. For now, you both just have to...broaden your relationships. Maybe go out on dates.”

“I don’t mind that. In fact, I’m going to have the time of my life,” Toge cheered, his mood dampening once he saw you stiffen. “But my body is...”

Knowing full well that he’d get insecure over his lack of speech again, you glared at him hard enough that your best friend straightened up, lips puckered out in a pout as if you hadn’t just caught him talking badly about himself again when you’ve told him countless times he was perfectly fine the way he was.

It made you sigh, feeling slightly bad that until now he still couldn’t see himself the way you saw him – not that you’d ever vocalize this; Toge would never shut up (in the best way he could) if he had the slightest idea what went inside your head.

“You’re lucky you have a pretty face. Otherwise, it’s going to be impossible for anyone to like you,” you teased instead, somewhat flustered at your indirect compliment.

Toge merely scoffed at you, his gaze burning and hard, contrasting the teasing little shit grin he wore. “Oh, please, if I wasn’t the cursed speech user, I would’ve banged—”

“Kids!” Principal Yaga threw his dolls at you hard, the both of you clutching at your heads in pain. How were those dolls as heavy as rocks? “Take your bickering back to your rooms please. No more of this mess and noise. It’s late.”

You frowned at the old man, face pleading as you signed, “Principal Yaga, can’t we really do anything else? Aren’t there any techniques to undo this?”

You and Toge knew that combination so well – pitch black eyes, jaw clenched, lips pursed and palms interlaced under his chin – one that meant his words were final and irrevocable. None of you could argue or suggest more solutions the moment the words left his lips like an ultimate decree. “The technique is the kiss. Now leave.”

You and Toge tried, you both really did.

But following Principal Yaga’s suggestion of dating others had turned out to be a complete fail – even with your normal body and Toge’s physical charisma.

It simply didn’t work; not when Megumi ran away from you every time you tried to get him to kiss you with your arms wide open, and Toge wasn’t helping either by pushing Gojo-Sensei away from you every time the cheeky eyed teacher announced his willingness to help.

Eventually, you and your best friend had retired in his room, the scent of him coated all over his pillows and his shirt that you wore. That felt comforting, at least, and you buried yourself in the crook of your body’s neck, bodies tangled with one another.

Who knew dating could be so tiring?

A wave of irritation flashed over you from today’s events, knowing full well that this could’ve been avoided long ago. Scowling, you cuddled Toge closer, lightly flicking your fingers on your body’s chest. “This is your damn fault, Toge.”

“You were the one who asked me to stargaze with you.”

“You don’t always have to say no to everything I ask of you, you know.”

“You’re really dumber than I thought if you think I could easily say no to you,” he snorted above you, his chin resting atop your head. “I don’t have a lot of weakness because I’m a strong sorcerer—” another flick, a harsher one this time around. “Okay, okay, I’m just kidding! But I mean it though – you’re my best friend and my weakness. Of course I’d do anything to make you happy, even if it’s something as stupid as stargazing.”

“Hey!” you made a sound of protest in your throat, looking back at him with a frown. “It wasn’t stupid, it was romantic.”

Hell yeah, it was romantic indeed – your heart still skipped a beat every time you remembered Toge’s starry eyes matching the night sky’s beauty, the words salmon and mustard leaf surprisingly sexy every time it came from him. It was stupid – so fucking stupid – that you groaned into his chest to hide your flushed face.

“Yeah, I suppose it was.”

The room fell silent, your syncopated breathing soothing during this stressful times. Taking advantage of your voice, Toge began to hum, singing the songs you both had always listened to in the privacy of your room during lazy days. It brought a smile to your face as you clutched to him tighter, heart pounding in your chest as you gazed up at him, tapping his chin to get his attention. “Toge, can I say something weird?”

“Please, nothing you say surprises me anymore. Shoot.”

Your mouth began to dry as you cleared your throat in an attempt to hide your awkwardness, gaze pointedly averted from his prying ones. “You and I...we’ve known each other for a long time and we love each other. As best friends, of course.”

“Sheesh, friendzone much?”

“Would you please shut up and listen to me seriously for once?” you huffed, making him snicker, but nodded at you anyway to continue. “As I was saying – why don’t we kiss? It could be true love’s kiss.”

Toge didn’t speak for a good minute, the pregnant pause filling in the gap filled with tension. You taped his cheek, waving his hand in front of his eyes when he dazed out. When his gaze focussed back on you, Toge was surprisingly calm – although beneath that composed exterior, his mind had simply short-circuited. “If this is your way to get to make out with me, I’m going to sock you in the face.”

“Toge, I’m serious! Let’s kiss!”

“I don’t want to!” he shook his head indignantly, hiding his face by hugging you close to his chest instead.

“Why not? Don’t you want to swap back to your original body? Both of us haven’t showered in two days and I’m sick of the way you smell. You’re lucky I love you though, otherwise I’m going to cry. Come on, Toge, what’s holding you back?” you tried to fight back from his grip, but he’d surprised you both when he only squeezed you tighter, both your erratic heart rates matching the other.

“I said no.”

“Toge, it’s just a damn kiss, what’re you so afraid of?”

“I’m afraid that if we don’t swap back, then that means you don’t love me the way I love you!” he finally admitted, breathing hard before continuing. “Principal Yaga said it must be a kiss between lovers and not just platonic friends okay?” you attempted to scramble away from his arms again, and this time he let you, though he’d closed his eyes, cheek squished on the pillows as he murmured, “I don’t want you to reject me... even though I messed up already.”

“Wait,” you snapped your fingers to make him open his eyes, hesitant as you signed, “You...you love me that way?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because my face is staring back at me and it’s fucking awkward – I wanted to see your face when I confessed!” he sat up with a frustrated groan, childishly kicking off the sheets of the bed as he clutched his head in his hands. “I had everything planned, okay? Nobara and Yuuji helped me think of everything because Megumi is shit when it comes to love. Listen, I was going to ask you on a candlelit date and then maybe kiss the life out of you – if you feel the same way—”

“Kiss me.” The body he possessed a victim of his own powers, Toge was left with no choice but to grab your face before his mouth pressed against yours, fingers entangled into the other’s hair. You were smiling into the kiss the whole time, barely able to recognize when Toge had shifted your bodies until you were under him, his hands running down your sides lovingly the whole time.

Pulling away to get some air, you opened your eyes, unsurprised when Toge laid above you, his strong arms planted beside your head.

Both of you were breathing hard from the passionate kiss filled with so much sexual tension and longing, your tongue darting out to swipe at his taste on your lips. The laughter that bubbled out of you was pure, wholesome and swollen like your heart. “I love you too, idiot.”

“Salmon!” Toge peppered your cheeks with kisses, pulling out more gleeful laughter from you, his playful and loving attacks more of a gift than a punishment. Once you’d recovered from your happiness – although really, who could recover after that? – Toge unzipped his collar, his smile nothing but wicked when he commanded, “Kiss me again.”

2K notes · View notes

vetrenar · 3 years ago

Text

I don't know what's with this sudden burst of writing enthusiasm, but... Well. I guess just just the time to put some my headcanones/ideas in actual words.

Especially with "Visions of V" finale, and thereof the acute lack of content for poor fans.

And I mentioned "Visions of V" for a reason. Because... let me introduce you!

Before the busy season, make sure to take a vacation

Or: while chilling among ruins of Redgrave, V comes across a much needed retrospective. And, as a (annoying) bonus - unexpected visitors.

(Slight "Visions of V" spoilers)

People who complain about the bad taste of food have definitely never eaten an empusa meat.

Tough texture that no frying time can eliminate. The stench that proudly takes its place between the toilet pit and the certain legendary demon hunter's shop. A sour taste that evokes thoughts either of rotten meat or acid. Particles of chitin, creaking on the teeth.

Raised on classical literature and poetry, he used to believe that he has a fairly extensive vocabulary. However, even after two weeks of acquaintance with this dish, V straggles to find appropriate words to describe its taste.

The man sitting by the fire stretched out his arms in front of him. Thin, almost devoid of muscles, covered with thin swirls of tattoos. Not at all like those that his memory used to consider "his". And yet, paradoxical as it may sound, both variants are "him".

He knows that his familiars (at least, Griffon for sure, with Shadow following his lead) prefer to see "him" and "Vergil" as separate persons. However, he himself isn’t so sure. The memories that resides in his head belong to him. The white-haired idiot with poor taste in… probably everything… is his twin, and not someone else's. The behavior... it is more complicated, but most of the changes are due either to the masquerade started in order to maintain incognito, or an objective assessment of the limitations caused by the weakness of his body. In general, looking inside on himself - as far as his consciousness, teetering on the verge of instability, allows - he does not see much difference from what Vergil saw. Oh, Vergil would said that he saw something very different – something powerful – but, the truth is, he didn’t. He never did.

The name "V" he had chosen for himself seemed to specifically indicate his separation from the original. A part of the whole, something new that has become the separate piece. A detached, despicable fragment that was thrown to the side of the road like a dirty cloak.

To some extent, this way of thinking is much easier. To see yourself as the "innocent part". To shift all blame and mistakes on the crippled original and start from anew… Contemplating this, the man raised his head and looked at empty, abandoned buildings around him.

Yes. It would be extremely convenient to pretend that the cause of this devastation is someone else.

But, as everything has always been in his damned life, a convenient way is never the option for him.

Some sentimental fool would probably call "him" the good side and "Urizen" - the bad side. Something soppy about an angel and a demon on each shoulder. But if the man who spends the night at the outskirts of apocalyptic city knows anything about himself, it is that he isn’t the "good" person. Even now, looking at the result of his own (?) handiwork, he can't bring himself to really feel guilty as much as one probably should. His own terrible past desensitized him to the suffering of others a long time ago. What little "commendable" deeds he has done since parting were due not to a sudden awakening of nobility, but to a morbid curiosity, desire to understand himself and the source of power that allowed his stupid, annoying twin to outrun him.

Vergil never cared about "good" and "bad", "right" and "wrong". His world was defined by "power" and "weakness", with the former to be sought and the latter to be rejected. And it was a real shock for him when it turned out that the pathetic "weakness" that he considered his human half to be contained all his memories, fears, habits, thoughts, personality, sense of humor, style - in other words, everything that really was "him".

Everything but power. Power and pride can only belong to the strong ones.

In hindsight, it made awfully a lot of sense. Demons, in their masses, have neither cognitive abilities nor bright personalities. With the exception of the highest ranks, they are hivemind, driven by simple instincts and a thirst for blood. It is only logical that the demonic part, separated from the whole, will be little more than a lump of power, pride and hatred (if anything was to be surprised, it was that Urizen had the brains to claim a warm place among the growing Qliphoth’s roots). But Vergil, aiming Yamato at his chest, was not inclined to analyze. His dying, delirious mind craved power, and convinced itself that whatever is important in him would remain with the "powerful" part. And, as a result, all that he achieved was to cut off out himself... well, himself.

Miscalculation of the decade. He would say "of all his life", but he is not sure that jumping into Hell wounded and after a night of desperate fighting does not still hold the first place.

The man who called himself "V" chuckled.

Time... is another thing he doesn't want to think about, and cannot stop to. And it's not even about the deadline set by the fruit, and not the inevitably expiring time given to his fragile body. Or, not only about them. While rummaging through the remains of yet another abandoned store in an attempt to find something edible (demon meat, while earned him several reputation points with the Griffon, was hardly suitable for a healthy diet. And this weak, human body wanted to eat "healthy" food), he accidentally stumbled upon a calendar. After that, he stood for a long time, looking at the date and trying to understand.

He knew it had been a long time. The lines of age on Dante's face were proof enough (although the idiot undoubtedly added a dozen years with his unshaven stubble and unkempt look). His own shaky estimation of lost time fluctuated between "infinity" and "eternity."

No, not infinity. "Only" twenty-three years. He was nineteen when he took the step into the demon world. The world in which he spent more than half of his life, some of the years in which were completely erased from his memory, and the other contained nothing but pain, humiliation and darkness.

With this, no surprise that the appearance of his "human" half looked a little over twenty years old.

"Hey, Shakespeare! Why so upset? Is the delicacy not to your taste? Well, send me or kitty to scout around! I'm sure we'll be able to find a can of some human food. The sight of you trying to open it with your skinny hands will be worth it, ha ha ha!"

V shifted his gaze to the ruined bench in front of him, on which the demonic bird landed.

"Unless you find me a canned chicken." he deadpanned. The pinprick achieved the desired effect, and Griffon visibly changed his face. Then there was a purr from behind V, in which a note of mockery clearly slipped through.

His familiars. Surprisingly faithful companions for those who were nothing more than incarnate nightmares. On the other hand, in one form or another, they haunted Virgil all his life, longer than there was a place for anyone else in it.

"For your information, I'm still stronger than an average human." V said, addressing Griffon. The annoying bird just bulged its eyes at him:

"Really? With these macaroni instead of arms? No offense, poet, but you don't look like someone who can lift anything heavier than your book."

"Well, I can lift you somehow."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"The truth. " V shrugged. "Besides, my body is definitely more resilient than that of human should be."

Yes. Although over the past time, V has been forced to begrudgingly familiarize himself with human weaknesses and limitations (oh, the joys of finding food in a post-apocalyptic city. And don't even mention the use of facilities...), these obstacles were not as crippling as it was supposed for a human of his complexion and physical condition. Of course, his previous body would not have noticed these inconveniences (until it started to fall apart by itself, and any fall could be his last…), but he didn’t think than the ordinary human could walk away after falling from such heights or even bathing in an ice-cold fountain water as easy as he could. Part of the credit for this, of course, should have been given to his familiars (and isn't it the greatest irony that the things that previously pushed him over the edge are now keeping him safe?), but they couldn't protect him from exactly everything. Probably, the remains of demonic powers supporting his fragile body gave him some durability.

A relieving and frightening thought. Relieving - because he still had (albeit meager) strength, allowing him to push forward. Frightening - because sooner or later this source is bound to dry up, and then...

The shudder that ran through V's human body was not unlike the one that, along with the fever, wrecked Vergil’s in the last days of his existence as a whole being.

Two weeks. He only needs to hold out for two weeks and it will all be over.

"Hey, Shakespeare, don't go napping! Or have you decided to eat coals? Well, could say so - I would fry this filth with a nice lightning bolt, and no one would have to bother with a fire!"

V blinked. Griffon was right - the already unappetizing empusa meat began to blacken and smoke. Before it became completely inedible, V plucked it from a makeshift skewer, tore off the first piece with his teeth and swallowed it, grimacing.

Disgusting. And yet the another proof of the action of his demonic powers. He doubted that an ordinary human would be able to eat even a portion of otherworldly meat without getting indigestion.

So he must eat to maintain the strength of his human body, but doing so consumes demonic powers? A disturbing thought. Maybe he should really be looking for some non-perishable human food instead of, as Griffon says, "playing the crazy drama queen edge lord." To talk about right motivation...

After finishing his meal, V went to the fountain and began to wash off the dirt and grime left from the battles. Absentmindedly, he lifted his head and looked at the sun approaching its zenith. Somehow, in the heat of the fighting, day and night had switched places. Perhaps he will sleep for a couple of hours, and then stay awake again until the evening to straighten out the daily routine. Perhaps he won't. Not that they had any kind of schedule to stick to.

Most of the dirt was washed away relatively easily, but there were still black crescents under the nails. With an exasperated snort, he stretched out his hand for a flacon lying on a stone slab, on which "liquid soap" was written in bright letters. Griffon brought it not so long ago. He also brought a washcloth, and a pack of napkins, and a little yellow rubber duck, and a pack of tablets for... a dishwasher machine? (what is this thing and how should it look like?) and many other things that caught the eye of the obnoxious bird. Seeing a pile of household goods piled on the ground, V could only facepalm and mutter that after one more example of such antics, he would officially change his familiar’s name to "Magpie".

For the time being, however, the punishment was kept at bay - to a considerable extent because the items Griffon brought were… useful. As much as V grimaced at the junk that was slowly starting to clutter up the spot next to the fountain they'd chosen as their base, he couldn't deny that many of these things made his life much easier. Another side of humanity, which he previously denied. Vergil, even before his fall into hell, tried not to get attached to things and hardly had more than the clothes on his back. Dante - if a visit to his lair, erroneously called a "shop", meant anything - made it his life goal to keep with him every object that found its way into his life, from empty pizza boxes to dried demonic heads on the walls.

Moron.

When the cleanliness of his body finally began to meet his standards, V turned his attention to his clothes and clicked his tongue. The bizarre black cloak, taken from the unfortunate marginal, has seen better days even before Griffon's claws, and now its condition has become even worse. Two weeks of washing in cold water and drying with the "tug of war between demonic bird and panther" methodic took their toll on him. The faux leather has become frayed and stained. In the creases, small cracks appeared on its surface, and, when touched, left particles of a glossy substance on his fingers.

How much time was left before such cracks would run across his own skin? How long can it last after that before crumbling to dust?

V shuddered and hurriedly splashed a handful of water on his clothes, washing off the dust and making the cracks indistinguishable on the wet material.

After that, it was finally time to rest. The nearby cafe had a summer terrace, and V settled into one of the porch chairs with a book in his hands. He wasn't sure he could really sleep, but the summer sun was so inviting that he couldn't resist. Shadow, supporting his idea, lied down at his feet, like a real cat basking in the sun. Griffon, muttering something unintelligible, flew off to the side and sat down on the nearest tree, either keeping watch or, too, deciding to take a nap.

It was... nice. Leafing through the old, familiar to the last letter, pages, V felt his tired mind slowly calm down, and the annoying thoughts gnawing at him gradually fade away. In his life, both before and after the separation, there was little room for such quiet pauses. Vergil equally despised these "moments of weakness" and craved them more than anything else. Perhaps there could be more of them if he had more power. Or maybe, if he had allowed himself to slow down just a little on his incessant pursuit of power... who knows?

Sliding his eyes over the familiar lines, V felt his eyelids gradually become heavier, and the pauses between blinks became longer. He might still be able to go sleep for a little. Only, Griffon better not to get one of his bright ideas and try to play the mother hen again. As a preventive measure, V placed an open book on his face and leaned back, breathing a sigh of relief.

So quiet...

And then, from somewhere afar, came a mad roar, and a crack, and an indignant cackling of Griffon. V hastily pulled the book aside, and, stunned, watched how something large, four-wheeled and approximately rectangular in shape, fell from the roof (?) of the nearest building, momentarily hovered in mid-air, and landed in the middle of the square.

His first thought was that he had managed to fall asleep after all and his dreaming mind plays tricks on him. The second was that among the demons living on the ruins of Redgrave city appeared the new kind that prefers to use cars as their shells. And then he noticed the glowing blue neon sign "Devil May Cry" on the side of the van, and his thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

And then the back door flew open, and a young man with white hair and a blue coat jumped to the ground. Noticing the audience, he abruptly stopped.

"V? What are you guys doing here?"

V quickly realized what he looked like, on the white plastic chair and gaping. Hurriedly, he stood up and reached for his cane.

"Perhaps, I can ask the same question," he said, approaching Nero. Behind him, he could hear the soft tread of the Shadow's paws. "Didn't we agree that you'd be back in a month? Shouldn't you be spending all this time gathering strength for the battle?" - He was aware that his words sounded sharper and harsher than the person he presented to Nero should be capable at, but he couldn’t help it. The child, on whom so many of his fears and hopes were concentrated, was not supposed to return until two weeks later, and V was completely unprepared for this meeting.

Nero snorted and put his hands on his hips... two hands? This caused V to stop and fix his gaze on the metallic gleaming structure attached to the stump of Nero's right arm.

"Hey, asshole. Relax. We will start our campaign as planned, in two weeks. Now... this is just a combat test." He waved a design, which, to V's surprise and admiration, had five movable fingers and, when viewed closely, looked extremely like a human hand. "Do you remember when we talked about the search for power? Nico made me this toy to replace the lost one. We wanted to test it in the forests of Fortuna, but for some reason all the demons there seemed to have disappeared. So, in short, we decided to combine business with pleasure and come here."

Before he could finish, the driver's seat door opened, and a tanned-skinned girl with bushy black hair appeared. Noticing V, she chuckled and pointed at him with the butt of a cigarette.

"Oh, so you are the Mysterious One, huh? I must say, you look a little less like a vampire and a little more like a bum than our angryman described! The name is Niko. Nice to meet ya’!" she held out her hand to him, which he, after a moment's hesitation, shook. Her grip was surprisingly firm for a human girl of her complexion, and the cigarette aura around her was so strong that it immediately made V's nose itch. Noticing the expression on his face, she pouted. "Don't say you're on the Health Army too! Damn bores, you don't understand the beauty of ordinary human habit."

"Nico, the number of cigarettes you burn through isn’t the habit. It's an obsession." Nero looked around the square, frowned, and turned back to V. "Seriously, what are you guys doing here?"

V raised an eyebrow.

"Have you forgotten the reasons for my stay I gave to you?"

"No, I mean...here. Like, now and here." Nero shifted his gaze to the extinguished fire, and his eyebrows went up. "Are you... camping?"

"We need to live somewhere," V shrugged.

Nero's face turned to stone. Behind his back, V heard Niko whistle, and then muttered, "Oh, my-… Well, now the beast is awaken..."

"To live somewhere," Nero repeated in a flat voice. Sucking in a breath, he went to the fire and poked the coals with his toe of his boot.

He turned to the fountain, next to which the bottle of liquid soap was still lying, examined the messy pile of Griffon's trophies. "Correct me if I'm wrong. You don’t have an apartment or a house or any home in the city, yeah? And, during the two weeks you spent here, you lived in the open air, without a tent or even a sleeping bag, eating what you find in abandoned stores? "

"Don't lecture me like a child," V replied irritably. At the mention of home, his heart clenched uncomfortably. "I am more than capable of taking care of my well-being. My familiars provided me with everything I need…"

"Yes, we took good care of the princess!" - Griffon. V already started to wonder where he had gone. "Baths with the best fragrant oils, rose petals in the bed, the most tender game for dinner..."

Nero covered his eyes with his hand. He stood motionless for a while, as if counting to ten, and then cursed softly, walked over to the truck and flung open the door.

"Get in."

"Sorry?" V felt that he missed something important. Behind him, Niko giggled.

"I said get your asses inside." Nero shook his head, clearly not taking any objection. "We're going hunting now, kicking the asses of every demon we can get our hands on, and then we're all heading to Fortuna together. Where you get a normal human dinner, a bath, and a night's sleep. In bed." He glanced at V and scowl. "Am I making myself clear?"

V was stunned. He went through Hell - literally - and withstood unspeakable torture and clawed his way to the surface. As debatable as the age of his current body was, his mind was that of an adult, forty-year-old man who had managed to survive where another would not last even a few seconds. And these...children...thought that they had the right to control his actions?

The Griffon's mocking croak sounded in his ear, but before the insolent bird could burst out laughing, V tsked and called him off, causing the him to splatter across his skin into tattoos. He had enough impudents who dared to trample on his authority, even without an annoying familiar.

Nero, still with his arms crossed on his chest, continued to stare at him. V looked wearily into his stubborn, uncanny familiar blue eyes.

He didn't want to communicate with this child more than minimally necessary. Not only was one glance at his right elbow enough to remind him of his deed, which led to all this mess, but also, the yound man definitely carried the blood of Sparda in his veins.

Perhaps, a distant relative from a family that Father had started during his two millennia of life in the human world. Perhaps, Dante's son (and apparently the idiot didn’t find a gut to tell his offspring about his origins? Moron. No wonder if he had a child by accident. He was always too careless). V didn't want to think about it. The blood of Sparda was destined to hurt each other, and Nero, for all his temper problems, was a good child.

V didn't want to hurt him more than necessary. And he didn't want to be hurt again.

But Nero continued to look at him with the same furious, unwavering look. Just like Dante back then, on top of Temen-Ni-Gru.

(He didn't regret not grabbing his hand. Not really. But still, during the past decades, under the pain of unbearable wounds, burning with fever, freezing in ice, he occasionally heard a voice quietly asking him: what if?..)

Besides...whether he wanted to admit it or not, V's human body had its limitations. Weeks of life on the street, without proper sleep and nutrition, took their toll on him. He did not want to leave the city, because he was ware of weakening. But in reality, where would his body weaken faster? Could it be that without requiring him to neutralize the demon meat toxins, without constantly fighting, he would be better able to preserve the meager grains of his demonic powers?

V raised his eyes again to meet Nero's and briefly nodded. The young man's posture immediately relaxed and, grinning, he turned to the car.

"Hit the gas, Nico. We have a long way ahead."

So... The end, I guess? Don't know if I will ever write the continuation. On one hand, I've already said everything I wanted and this is a good place to stop. On other hand, there is still a place for the "confused V in Fortuna" chapter, and I live for Vergil&Nero relationships, and this includes V&Nero too so it probably will be fun.

Well. If you want the continuation, please, say me so!

#devil may cry fanfiction #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry #dmc #nero #vergil #v #dmc nero #dmc vergil #dmc v #dmc griffon #nero is the best boy #v is confused #visions of v #one day Nero will remaind Vergil about this little camp #Vergil probably will only make a stony face but well

33 notes · View notes

trulycertain · 3 years ago

Text

small scandals

f!De Sardet/Vasco, 2.5k. One of the most disgustingly fluffy things I've written. Based on the thought that Constantin would totally have opinions on who you romance.

A carriage rattles along the cobbles outside, and she lies there, half-listening to it. The few mornings she can be in her own bed, she’s come to know it; it’s the ten o’clock grain shipment. Ordinarily, she’d already be in a meeting somewhere, or traipsing along a dirt road, perhaps with Kurt and Vasco at her back. But she had a morning free, and this… is not an ordinary morning. She’d been settling in with paperwork and then she’d heard the knock at her door and… well.

She should move. Probably. But her bed is so warm, and – unusually, but in a wonderful development – it contains Vasco.

This really was meant to be a brief assignation. And she was sure they were meant to be talking about… something. Potential routes for tomorrow, perhaps. She has no idea why they’re lying next to each other, words barely thought-out and… comfortable, somehow.

She says with a lazy half-grin, “’Important business with the legate’? Did Cécile actually believe you?” She’d close her eyes, but she likes looking at him too much to manage it for long. Softness suits him. And besides, the thought of him politely tipping his hat and lying to her housekeeper...

He tilts his head, consideringly. “She sent me upstairs.” But his voice is wry.

“Mm. She definitely knows.”

He sighs, that long-suffering thing she’s learned to like far too much, and says, “Try living on a ship.”

“Try living around nobles,” she counters, and laughs at his pained expression. “Exactly.”

He says, quietly, “They can’t all be that bad. Rumour is, there’s one that some Naut captain’s fond of.”

She says, “That legate’s always been an odd one.” But she presses her forehead to his, eyes sliding closed, and she feels his hand stroke through her hair.

The gentleness should surprise her – almost did, at first, coming from the frustrated, tattooed sailor who’d barked orders at his crew – but she realised soon into their acquaintance that he is gentle. Subtle as he tries to be, and much as he’d probably mutter something offhand and drily amused about it. That same sailor was worried for a cabin boy. And he was horrified at the Guard’s ghost camps, asked her to avoid bloodshed at every turn and stepped forward for his brother without a moment’s doubt. He tossed her antidotes in the middle of battle and held off beasts for her; he apologised for his early shortness, called her a good person without hesitation, argued to a Naut that the noble who’d caused him so much trouble was sea-born, and we always help one of our own. She'd dared to suspect, but still, that gentleness was far more than she’d ever have imagined, turned on her.

She’s half-dozing when she wakes up and says, startled, “Constantin." She reaches out of bed and gropes for her watch. "I’ve got a meeting in…” She flips it open, checking. “Ten minutes. Damn.”

A quiet, displeased noise from next to her, and Vasco mutters, “Can I at least get dressed before we have to think of your cousin?”

She pauses, looks back to him… and has some trouble looking away. “Don’t strain yourself on my account.”

He raises a brow, but there’s wryness lurking around the corners of his mouth.

She only smiles at him. She was aiming for lascivious, but it softens into something fonder before she can help it. She probably shouldn’t tell the truth quite so easily, what with being a diplomat, but around him it always slips out. Generally meetings aren’t such a trial, tired as she is - but generally she doesn’t have an unnecessarily handsome Naut stretched out in her bed, wild-haired and with the sunlight clinging to his skin.

She shifts across to kiss him, and for a golden moment, he responds in kind, a hand under her chin.

(She’s still not used to that. It was the sort of idle daydream she always told herself would never come to fruition, even if he was sarcastic in turn, even if he smiled at her and she wondered…)

Then he pulls away. “You should go,” he says. She suspects he's trying for gently chiding, but it lands in amused instead.

“I won’t be long,” she says, and the words come out too hopeful.

It’s not that she expects him to stay like some sort of bedwarmer, she just…

Well, she thinks, considering him again, she wouldn’t entirely mind.

But she knows he’s not made to be idle. Neither is she, normally; it was one of the reasons they understood each other, and one of the things she could tell surprised him at first, when he was used to the thoughtlessness of nobility. And she hadn’t quite meant to lose track of time, she’d just…

“I’ll meet you at the docks,” he says. “I need to check in on a shipment. The Guard are lying in the ledgers again.” He adds, in a mutter, “Not that that’s unusual.”

She nods. “Of course.” And then she drags herself away to hunt for her clothing.

She can feel him watching her; it prickles up her spine, a certain warmth that’s growing familiar. She should probably be more self-conscious. She was often teased about her lack of delicacy, growing up in court. She’s about six feet of lankiness and leg – excellent for her reach with a rapier, but not ideal for a court lady. Also, since she’s come here, new scars, and lean muscle that some would say makes her look like a labourer. But he’s called her beautiful more than once, kissing the word breathlessly into her skin, and somehow, she believes him. She certainly believes the way his eyes linger. She looks over her shoulder and his gaze meets hers, without a hint of shame. Then he rolls out of her bed, too.

She’s buttoning her doublet when she feels his hand against hers. She looks down, and takes her hat from him with a nod of thanks. He half-smiles at her, with the ruefulness that comes from having to snatch these moments while they can, in between governors and dantrigs and narrowly-averted civil wars. She places it on her head, idly watching him re-tie his hair and start to re-don the mantle of the quiet, hawk-eyed shadow at her back.

She tries not to be embarrassed. Neither of them is entirely used to this, not yet. They’ve only managed perhaps three occasions where the world has relented enough to give them any time together; they’ve only had one night sleeping in the same bed. And her previous dalliances were at court, not with a friend who knows her, who looks at her like… that. Not with a man who read her poetry and actually seemed to mean it.

She can’t help but step forwards, pretending to pull up the collar of his coat, adjusting a buckle. Absolutely because they’re trying for some measure of discretion, and not because she’d like to touch him again, for as long as she can.

He knows, of course. He’s spent long enough watching her back, and he’s always been good with people - differently from the way she is, but good all the same. When she looks up from her work, his eyes are warm and a little amused on hers.

And then he’s pulling her in, gently but inexorably, and kissing her. It’s a slow, lingering thing that makes them both breathless, and he holds her there, a gloved hand smoothing down her lapel. Suddenly she suspects she isn’t the only one having trouble tearing herself away.

When they part, he stares at her for a moment, dark-eyed - then reaches up and swiftly adjusts her hat where it’s been knocked askew. She can’t help grinning stupidly at him.

And then he takes his own tricorne from her bedside table and pulls it on, and they leave the house with the ease of their usual missions. She pretends not to have a spring in her step. And she certainly doesn’t look over her shoulder when they part in the square.

Constantin is, for once, not holding court. She finds him in his office, he greets her - as usual - as if she’s just come back after being thought dead at sea, and they make an itinerary of which higher-ups she’ll have to meet in Hikmet.

All in all, entirely normal, until she says, standing, “Well, I ought to be off. I’ll take Aphra and Vasco; they might be useful.”

And Constantin smiles at her and says, “Of course. Take care of yourself! And give my regards to your Naut.’”

She freezes mid-way through reaching for her hat.

Their eyes meet. She carefully doesn't say anything.

Then she breaks. “He’s not my - “

He’s lazing in his chair, with the smugness of victory. In that obnoxiously cheerful I know something you don’t way, the one that makes her fingers itch to push him out of a tree.

She raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask how you know?”

“Oh, no,” he waves a hand, “you were both being very discreet. You remember the time I asked you if you wanted to go out drinking?”

She sits down, slowly, and tries not to feel like a mouse lowering itself into a trap. She says, with gentle understatement, “There were a few.”

“Yes, well. The most recent one. The one where you refused, because you had terribly important business to attend to.” He looks like some sort of painting of innocence, and that’s how she knows she’s damned to never, ever live this down. “You might have left his poisons belt on the bannister.”

She’s too court-trained to blush, but she feels heat trying to crawl into her face all the same. “There’s more than one poisons belt in New Serene.”

“Only a few with a Naut’s compass carved into them. And what were you talking about a few weeks ago? Your painstaking modifications…”

She tries to regain her equilibrium. “I… We’re Merchants. We give gifts.”

“I know, cousin, and I’m very grateful for my last two hats. The feather was a lovely touch.” He leans his chin on his hand. “But the last time I saw you, you were inexplicably cheerful. Normally I like watching all the longing gazes, while he stares nobly elsewhere or prepares your maps. It’s the best entertainment I’ve had in years. Only, all those had stopped, and suddenly you were studiously trying not to look at him.” He tilts his head, and grins like the cat that’s caught the canary. “And you’re blushing. Adorable.”

“Constantin...” She attempts to hide from the onslaught, but there really isn’t anywhere to go.

“I only wanted to offer my congratulations.” He stands, as if propelled from his chair by the force of his own smugness. “My father would kill you, of course. It’s rather marvellous, really. You were always the one he never had to worry about. I was so certain you’d end up single, or with one of those dreadfully dull nobles from a court somewhere.” He pauses like he’s just remembered she’s there. “Nice, of course, and as long as you were happy – But to think, a Naut! Usually I’m the resident disappointment. Was it the tattoos? They are so very fascinating...” And then he must catch sight of her face, because that pulls him to a stop. “I’m sorry. I’ve got ahead of myself.” And he sits, just a little deflated.

“He’s not some scandal,” she says, quietly. “He’s my – He’s Vasco.”

He’s sober, now, watching her softly. “I know. And I really am pleased for you both.” He looks back to his own papers. “You may have to be subtle, to prevent accusations of favouritism for the Nauts, but… you certainly don’t have to hide it from me. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He’s almost worthy of you.”

She squints at that. “How does he look at me?”

“I thought you’d have noticed! That said, he is rather subtle, isn’t he?” He grins at her. “Hmm… Like a man who’s been hit about the head with something heavy. That sort of not-quite-dazed look. He looks” – and he considers the bookshelves, mouth a theatrical moue of contemplation – “like a man startled by his own luck. I’ve seen enough winners at cards. Only the odd moment, of course, and then he wipes it away and pretends to be very solemn and businesslike.”

She stares, warming at the thought despite herself. “I… he does?”

“He's not bad. I’m sure anyone else wouldn’t catch it. But we, dear cousin, were raised at court.” He looks at her - incredulous, delighted. “And you call yourself a diplomat!”

“I was… busy.”

“Yes. Throwing him your own adoring looks.”

“Being a diplomatic envoy.” She’s quite sure her shade of purple is clashing violently with her coat.

He ostentatiously checks his nails. “Do Nauts marry, perchance?”

“So help me, Constantin, I will leave your court and never come back - “

And then he’s laughing, rich and uninhibited, and it rings like a bell off the high ceiling. It’s been too long since she’s heard that.

“Constantin knows,” she announces, when they’re in a camp a quarter of the way to Hikmet, and Aphra’s left to answer a call of nature. “And he’s laughing at us both.”

Vasco’s brows raise, and then he says, flatly, “I’m not surprised. The man’s been smirking at me in the throne room for a month.”

“I…That’s just his face.”

“To you, it might be. He’s worse than my crew.”

“I... think he’s threatening to buy you a drink.” Grimacing, she admits, “I might have fled before he finished talking.”

He considers her, sharp-eyed and face carefully straight, and says, “I could poison him, if you like.”

“Please don’t. They might make me governor.”

The facade cracks, and he smiles at her, broadly and all sharp teeth. Then it fades. “Do you mind him knowing?” And his voice is quiet, that sort of carefully brisk that means he’s trying to bandage being businesslike over potential hurt. The same tentativeness she saw when he asked her what she thought of the poem, as if he had any hope of hiding what he really meant.

Her first instinct has always been to try charm, and when words fail her, to joke; that’ll end with her in a duel someday. “That I’m with a brave, dashing captain who’s one of the best in the fleet? No. I was just trying not to make him jealous.” She says, with her own uncertainty, “Why? Do you mind him knowing?”

He looks surprised at the question – and then thoughtful, and more than a little fond. “I’ve weathered worse than a bit of scuttlebutt,” he says, stepping forwards to close the distance between them, his hand drifting upwards to map her jaw, her cheek. He smiles when she leans into it, and then he’s kissing her, gentle and far too sweet for a man who can terrify bandits. “My tempest,” he says softly, against her skin, resting there.

A man startled by his own luck.

And now she’s certain her smile must make her look like a fool and would have her pilloried at court, but she can’t bring herself to care. She just lets the silence grow for a moment, and leans into the warmth of him.

Even so, she can’t quite help herself: “I’ve changed my mind. You can poison him, if it would make you feel better.”

He laughs at that, one of her favourite sounds in the world. But he doesn’t let go of her.

#de sardet x vasco #de sardet #vasco #constantin d'orsay #greedfall #my fic #marie de sardet #idiot and fiasco #also based on how fantastically sappy vasco is when you #romance him #and how difficult it probably is to have any honeymoon period #when you're a horrendously busy diplomat and a horrendously busy captain

61 notes · View notes

zet-sway · 3 years ago

Text

Spiritual Shrios Summer - OASIS

This is a prompt fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer!

PROMPT WORD: OASIS - | - WORDS: ~2600

Rated: "E" for "Extremely Spicy" [NSFT] AO3 Link: "Alive with the Dawn" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: "Please, Siha, lie with me beneath the sunrise."

A/N: @yennas sent me an ask box prompt for "a kiss on the wrist" and I got... carried away lol. I had been planning to write a "oasis vacation fic" and that prompt was the spark that lit the fire lol

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

Thane has a way of awakening her body like no one else does.

The first wisps of sunlight begin filtering through the open patio in their bedroom, bidding her to wake with the dawn as he bids her to wake with his body. Nearly soundless, he whispers over her bare skin, hands blazing a trail ahead that he follows with his mouth. He’s so gentle she might even call him reverent, every sound on his lips like a prayer to his gods and his loves.

He presses firmer as she stretches off the stiffness of sleep. Her eyes are closed, but she can feel him - a palm low on her belly, pressing her backside against his unclothed hips.

For a moment she almost forgets where they are. The atmosphere is like a dream - plush sheets beneath her, gauzy pale curtains shifting with a gentle desert wind, casting slow flickering shadows across their bed. Fresh air in her lungs, silent but for the leafy palm fronds that shake in the breeze.

An oasis. A moment just for them, two lovers snatching one earned moment in the chaos of the galaxy on the cusp of war.

She rolls back against his body, humming at the welcoming heat of bare scales, smooth and lustrous after so many days under the desert sun.

“Good morning, Siha,” he whispers. He leans over her, sheets cast down around his hips, and kisses her forehead.

“Morning.” She works the sleep out of her features and cracks her eyes open, still bleary. “Is it just the sun or have you always been this gorgeous?”

She rests a hand on his cheek, stroking his glossy green scales.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” he says in amusement, closing a gentle hand around her forearm and shifting his lips to her wrist.

The way he kisses her makes her body sing unlike anything else. She might be spoiled for pleasure for the rest of her life, because there’s never been a person who’s touched her like Thane does. His devotion makes her spine tingle, firm lips opening over her pulse to lave his tongue along skin she never knew could be so sensitive.

To have died and been resurrected for the privilege of sharing a bed with this man… there are no words. She surrenders herself to his soft affections; he’s hungry for her in a way she never would’ve thought possible. At times it's lust and at times it's sweetness, but always, it's something deeper, difficult to grasp. He practices love the same way he lives it - with whispered devotion. Every touch is a sacrament, every word a promise.

She sighs as he tastes her skin. She never knew, never would have believed in intimacy this perfect. Past lovers took their pleasure from her, left her bored and unsatisfied. It wasn't until she first kissed Thane that she learned the purity of a lover's touch.

“No scale unturned,” she murmurs as he kisses along the inside of her forearm, fingers soothing not far behind.

He's bemused. “Turned scales are painful, Siha."

She closes her eyes and smiles, unwilling to stop him as he blazes a trail across her collarbones. “I’d have guessed. I was making a joke. Humans have a phrase: No stone unturned. It means you’re very thorough.”

He hums, lips over her breastbone. “It warms my heart to see you like this.”

Her smile is beaming. “It warms my heart when you… oh…” his lips push tenderly into the side of her breast, just over her pulse, and again atop one dusky nipple. “Fuck, how are you so good at this?”

Shepard bites back a moan as his attention shifts to her other breast, flicking its peak with his tongue. With confidence unfaltering, he responds, “I have the privilege of a receptive lover. One might argue that you are simply good at receiving pleasure.” There's delicious pressure on her ribs as his hands push into the base of her breasts, appreciating their softness. “I’m called to you, Siha. I seek only to love you as you deserve.”

Heat blooms across her cheeks and she presses into her pillow, averting her eyes.

Scaled fingers graze through her hair. “You’re flushed. Are you... blushing?”

It’s embarrassing, but she meets his eyes as he cradles her cheek in his palm. “Shut up. It means I like you.”

From somewhere within him comes a deep sound. She’s heard it before, the one he only makes for her. With a kiss atop each of her flushed cheeks, he says, “Dra’shu, se tu-fira.”

Each syllable rolls off his tongue like water, coated in that rumbling baritone she loves so well. She could listen to him talk for hours, as though only good and beautiful thoughts could be spoken in such a language. She whispers across his lips, "What did you say?”

He answers with a gentle kiss. “By Arashu, I am lost in you." The words are their own kind of reverence as he nuzzles into her neck. "Even your skin calls for me. You are a blessing."

She kisses his scales in gratitude. Accepting compliments has never been her strong suit, but he knows that.

The mattress shifts and he stands from their bed, fingertips trailing along her arm. "Come out on the patio with me?"

She cracks open an eyelid to catch his scales glinting in the dim light as it creeps through the doorway. "But it's so early."

"Indeed, it will be more tolerable for you while the sun is still low," he offers, kissing her forehead. "Please, Siha. Lie with me beneath the sunrise."

He's poetry in motion, and she is his willing listener. She shifts, throws an arm out to leverage herself up only to feel his strong arms snake beneath her waist and knees. As if she were a damsel, he carries her out to the patio, scales warm like glazed clay against her bare skin. Why had they even packed clothes? There’s no one around for miles.

Their vacation villa is settled among a manicured collection of desert flora. Tall palm trees sway above smooth stones and greenery, partially surrounded by a swimming pond, and further still is the sandy stretch of desert dunes. In the sky, night is beginning to melt into day, stars still twinkling in the darkest reaches of the sky as the sun begins to peek over the horizon behind their villa. And there among the various amenities is an outdoor sunning bed, complete with white sheets and gauzy fabric draped around a breezy canopy. Thane sets her gently on the mattress and she settles in, stretching out on her stomach in sleepy contentment.

He's right about one thing - the warming sunrise feels like autumn in reverse, slowly heating the chill of desert night into a sweltering day. The air is just right. It strikes her that she doesn't find it weird to bask fully nude under the sky. Years of combat training have conditioned her against such vulnerabilities, but the persuasive power of their luxuriant getaway is too great to ignore. Years of hypervigilance unravel with startling expediency, but does it matter? If this is to be how she spends her last moments, she won't complain.

Thane sits upright beside her, wordlessly brushing her hair away from her skin. She's nearly fallen back asleep when he begins rubbing sunscreen slicked hands across her back.

Those hands of his - the first time she’d seen them, they were snapping necks and crushing windpipes. Back then, sharing his bed had been the furthest thing from her mind. Now, luxuriating under a brightening sky, it feels like they’ve known each other for a lifetime; she's been privileged to learn that those same, deadly hands are capable of no small number of pleasures.

She breathes out her anticipation when he straddles her thighs. The first deep press of his strong, scaled fingers into her flesh sends a throaty groan from her lungs. If he wants to rub her back like this, she sure as shit isn't going to stop him.

“Fuck , never stop doing that.” she sighs.

Thane merely hums in appreciation, massaging sunscreen into her muscled arms and shoulders.

It’s hard not to fall back to sleep beneath those incredible hands of his. Like he knows her too well, he's carefully keeping her awake as only he can. He covers her, lips brushing the back of her neck and ghosting down her spine as he drags his hands down her sides. When he kisses the small of her back, his palms settle on the firm hill of her backside, sliding and kneading with confident strokes. Shepard honestly never thought a butt rub would feel so good - to have gone her entire adult life without experiencing this? Ludicrous. His hands are heaven sent, igniting nerve endings she never knew she had, sowing his own need into her skin, tempting her to arousal.

He reaches the backs of her thighs and he's not shy about letting his fingers brush along their apex. Each firm press of his hands carves deep rivers of pleasure into her flesh and she’s melting under his touch. Her body sings with contentment, longing, and everything in between. She hasn’t felt this unguarded since before her enlistment. The promise of pleasure to come, the wonton love he lays into her, endless worship of her flesh until he finally surrenders and presses his fingertips into her wet center.

This time, when she moans, it’s another sound entirely. Her voice betrays the heat rising in her chest and between her thighs as he works her. Plush lips meet the base of her spine as he settles between her knees and pushes her hips up in the air. She lets him - good god, she’d let him do anything after he’s carefully unraveled her for what feels like hours. Ass in the air, he pulls her against his mouth, tongue swirling over the bud of her arousal while his hands roam the curve of her backside.

He licks into her lazily, clearly in no hurry and indulging in her arousal. That deft tongue carries his venom into her body and before long she's tingling with that familiar high. She's slowly burning up, eager for more - her body begging to be loved senselessly in the morning sun.

She tries to flip over, but he stops her with his firm grip, a demure "Please..." slipping her throat with every unrelenting stroke of his tongue. He doesn't linger - in moments he's upright on his knees and teasing her clit with the tip of his unsheathed erection.

She bites her lip. "This isn't too impersonal for you?"

"Shepard," he says, in that deadpan he uses when he doesn't want to repeat himself, "Please believe me when I tell you there is nothing impersonal about the way l’ll make you scream for me."

Whatever thoughts that might've been lingering in her mind are gone the moment he utters those words. The chills down her spine are the only warning she gets before he's pushing into her slick channel, prying her open with that exquisite, smouldering sting that feels like nothing else. He huffs out a breath, each subtle ridge of his florid length stretching and filling her, slowly pressing forward until his hips go flush with her thighs and she rocks impatiently into him.

“Fuck… fuck, Thane. I wish you knew how good this feels.”

He chuckles quietly and the expression vibrates through him enough to make her eyes roll back. “I'm not even moving, Siha."

"Yeah," she huffs. "My point exactly.” From this angle, he lodges so perfectly against her core that even the unmoving press of his hardness makes her see stars.

Cradling her hips, he pulls back and rocks into her again, groaning at the wet, silken heat of her body. She's already beginning to come apart, clutching at the sheets beneath them. It’s unparalleled, what he does to her. Becoming one flesh, whispering his admiration to dive straight into her heart and know her as the woman she is with no pretense, no reservations. Two people from different worlds, but crafted so finely for one another. She swears she can feel every nerve in her body as sure as a tree feels every quaking leaf upon its branches. She absorbs the intense, breathtaking heat of him like a life force, granting her power beyond imagining to receive every pleasure he has to give. From his most subtle touches to the blinding fire of each deep thrust, she feels him.

And good god , how she screams for him. Sound carries across desert sands just as much as it does on a starship, but this time there's no one around to hear her come undone. Her voice is boundless, lost and drifting through ruffled palm fronds and across golden dunes. The sounds of their ecstasy lighting upon no ears but their own.

His palms round over her backside, drifting over muscled thighs, finding the heart of her arousal and slicking his fingertips against it without mercy. He tilts his hips just so and the new angle is somehow impossibly deeper, the darkness behind her wide-shut eyes erupting in shards of color. Her voice is a throaty sob beneath his touch until she breaks apart, shouting for dear life because there's nothing in this world or the next that feels as good as he does. She rides herself on him until her climax saps her strength and she's left moaning, quivering and breathless, Thane above her seeking his own completion.

He could never hope to know the pleasures his body bestows upon her. Her world is immaterial. There's only the sun and sweat on her back, the sweet, light air in her lungs - the snap of his hips sending chills down her spine and blooming heat in her chest as though her nerves aren't evolved enough to interpret the sensations rushing through her. She fists her hands in the sheets, back arched downward with a cheek pressed into the mattress and unable to think of anything but the blood-boiling pulse of him between her legs.

He chokes out a roar when his climax takes him, suffusing her depths with the tingling warmth of his release. The sweet, floating high of him overtakes her nearly instantly as they tangle against one another, panting and spent, rustling air dancing over sweat-slicked skin and glossy scales. Above them, the golden sky is banishing the last touches of night and the sleepy warmth of exertion overtakes them both.

She slumps heavily into the sheets, and he beside her.

“I’ll be honest, this isn't what I expected when you asked me to ‘lie with you beneath the sunrise.’”

He brushes an errant lock of hair from her eyes. “Nor I," he smiles. "I confess, you're very… distracting.”

Shepard laughs, "No shit, you're insatiable. I haven't had this much sex since… actually I don't think I ever have."

"Surely you had lovers before me?"

"You aren't my first, if that's what you're asking. But I wouldn't call them lovers." She pulls her arms around his neck and he nuzzles his face unabashedly into the softness of her chest. Her voice is low. "No one's ever given me what you have, Thane."

His throat rumbles in appreciation, and he shifts to meet her eyes. The sun illuminates the brilliant green of his irises and it feels like gazing into peace eternal. And then he laughs, unexpectedly.

She quirks an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, Siha,” he says with a smile. “Simply put, I never thought I’d get to call myself Commander Shepard’s boyfriend.”

She kisses the dark scales adorning his forehead, giggling, and pulls him into a tight embrace.

Commander and assassin are long forgotten titles as they lose themselves in one another in the lazy sunlit morning.

#shrios #zet writes things #thane krios #fshrios #spiritual shrios summer #spiritualshriossummer #lenny faceeeeee #good morning and happy sunday

26 notes · View notes

bbugyu · 4 years ago

Note

hi can i request a wonwoo friends to lovers!!

abso-fuckin-tutely! since you were a lil vague, i asked my friendly neighborhood wonwoorideul for a prompt and she shouted out the song nothing by bruno major (aka one of the sweetest songs on wonwoo's spotify playlist)!

nothing + jeon wonwoo

moving in with your best friend was the best idea you ever had, even if he claimed it was his.

wc.3707 | fluff, angst, roommates/friends to lovers au, gn reader, like one swear and it barely counts bc it was hoshi, slowburn pining, wonwoo sees you and his mind is full of poetry, happy ending! (jp ver.)

thank you so much for my very first request! i tried to post this quickly, so i’m sorry if it’s not as polished as my other pieces. i was so impatient to get this out hahah. i love me some domestic wonwoo

wonwoo wasn't just your roommate, to be perfectly frank. the lanky guy had wormed his way into your close circle when you had worked part time together at a grocery store fresh out of high school, and when you both decided you needed to be closer to the big city, it just made sense to go together. you had never lived alone before, and your mother had said she would feel better if you had someone she knew around, someone to take care of you for her, even though you insisted you would be fine. she tried to get you to move in with your auntie, and while eating her food would be a definite plus, you absolutely despised the idea of living under the same roof as your chaotic cousin. so, when wonwoo mentioned wanting to get out of your podunk village, you excitedly told him you wanted to move to seoul.

"okay," he had said, looking at you over his comic book as he lounged on your family's couch. "let's go, then."

two months later, his dad was helping the two of you move into a tiny two bedroom apartment in a neighborhood of seoul that housed mostly old married couples, but you liked that it was a little more quiet than downtown. it felt more like home, but busy enough to give you your fill of the city. you could walk down the street to a cafe every morning on your way to the station, headed to your shitty temp desk job that you had just to pay bills. wonwoo was able to transfer to the main seoul office of his existing job as a software engineer, and was even able to work from home most days. you were forever jealous that he could hop onto remote meetings wearing a tie and button up over a pair of sweats. on days that he had to go into the office, though, he would walk with you and point out shops that you had yet to visit in your few months of living in the city.

"since when are you a flowers kinda guy?" you asked, gaze following his finger to the florist shop he pointed out.

he shrugged, adjusting his backpack straps over the blazer he wore. "might be nice for the apartment."

you eyed him. despite knowing him for years, sometimes he still surprised you.

on days that he didn't ride the subway with you, you would come home to find him sitting on the couch, swinging around a digital new york city from a web on the tv. you noticed the potted plant on the kitchen counter when you dropped your keys off in their designated tray. they were red, with tight round petals. you thought they almost looked like roses, but you knew that wasn't right. peonies? begonias? you didn't know enough about flowers to recognize them, but you figured he went to the florist in your neighborhood while you were at work.

he paused his game after landing on a roof somewhere. "how was your day?"

"good," you said, pulling off your light jacket and standing by the couch. "what's with the flowers?"

wonwoo looked around you to the yellow ceramic and red blooms, both colors that suited the other few colorful items in your minimalistic (mostly from having only lived there a few short months) white kitchen. "camellias. i thought they looked nice."

you nodded, thinking that he had more to say, but decided not to press. "have you eaten?"

he stretched on the couch, hands falling to the back of his beanie clad head as he let out a strangled noise. "do i ever eat without you?"

that made you smile. "any thoughts on dinner?"

wonwoo shook his head, settling back into the couch. "what do you feel like?"

"i'm craving pizza."

wonwoo pushed his glasses up his nose and adjusted to fish his phone out of the pocket of his favorite track pants. "go take a shower, i'll order."

you grinned. "you are such a good roommate."

"correction, i'm the best roommate. oh, also," he pointed towards the fridge in the kitchen. "soonyoung came by with side dishes from your aunt."

"oh, thank god," you said, walking over to wash your hands quickly and check the haul. "i was worried we were gonna have to buy kimchi this week. he wasn't annoying, was he?"

wonwoo shook his head, chuckling at the way you talked about your cousin as he tapped through menus on his phone. "he was fine. complained that you weren't here."

"doesn't he have a job?" you opened a plastic container and popped a sweet braised potato into your mouth. your voice was muffled as you chewed. "he knows i get off at five. if he wants to see me he should come when he knows i'll be home."

the small smile on wonwoo's face never left as you rambled about soonyoung, then your fantastic chef of an aunt, and then the new guy that sat at the desk next to you that microwaved fish for lunch. seriously, who microwaves fish? in an office?

wonwoo commiserated with you, then told you to hurry and go wash up, because he had just submitted the pizza order, to which you responded "okay, okay, i'm going. i'll be back in a minute."

after a steam filled shower, you left the bathroom while toweling your damp hair, sporting a plain black v-neck with your, similar to wonwoo's, favorite track pants.

wonwoo looked up and laughed, tugging on the hem of his shirt. "we match."

you eyed one of the several black muscle tanks wonwoo sports regularly and giggled, pulling at the stripes down your pants. "we do. you want wine?"

"hell yeah. friday night, baby."

you laughed, returning to the bathroom to hang your towel before making your way to the kitchen, pulling a couple of stemless wine glasses out of your cabinet. they were the only glasses in the apartment because, as wonwoo had said, your priorities are notoriously bad. but, you reminded him, they worked just fine with water too, so you convinced him that buying real glasses could wait until you were both slightly less busy. you grabbed the bottle of red wine off the counter and looked at the seal. "wonwoo."

"yeah?" he paused his game and looked at you over the small kitchen cart that acted as an island. you held up the wine.

"new bottle."

he sighed dramatically. "what would you do without me?"

you grinned happily as you got the wine opener out of a drawer, holding it out for him. he snatched the bottle and opener from your hands and made a face, but began twisting the corkscrew into the cork nonetheless. you planted your elbow on the wood topped cart and watched him as he tugged out the cork, decidedly ignoring the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless shirt and he definitely looked like he had taken a trip to the gym today.

"you pour, i always miss."

you laughed, pulling at the shrapnel of the seal that wonwoo always refused to cut away before removing the cork. "maybe if you didn't make the neck such a mess it wouldn't go everywhere when we pour it."

"unnecessary step," he retorted, watching you as you poured the wine into the two glasses. he took the one closest to him as you finished. "cheers."

"cheers," you repeated, clinking your glass against his and taking a gulp. you let out a noise of approval. "happy friday."

wonwoo was smiling as he took a sip. "happy friday."

"where's the pizza?"

"uh," he patted his empty pockets, then put down his wine glass to retrieve his phone from the couch. "down the street."

wonwoo had to shove his feet into a pair of slides to meet the delivery person at the entrance of your building, and when he returned, you were giggling into your glass at your sns feed. the wine hit maybe a little too hard, but you hadn't eaten in too long for you to have almost polished off a glass already.

wonwoo gestured for you to join him on the couch, so you grabbed the bottle of wine and tucked it under your arm, carrying the two glasses over to where he was shutting off his game.

you ate merrily, and then you talked. about nothing and everything all at the same time. this happened more often than you ever thought it would, but a week into living in the city, wonwoo had come home from hanging out with some old friends to you crying on the couch with a show on that was far too comical to be the source of your tears. that night, he stayed up with you until the sun was peeking up over the buildings, listening to your worries and struggles. he shared his own fears. you were a blubbering mess. he kept sniffling his nose, acting like the tears welling up in his eyes weren't there when you laughed, despite yourself. wonwoo and you had always been close, or as close as past coworkers that had the same friend circle could be, but this was different. you couldn't remember the last time you had cried like that in front of anyone, much less someone who wasn't your mother.

when you woke up on the couch past noon, your sunday to a late start, your arms were wrapped around wonwoo's torso as he slept, one hand tucked behind his head and the other on your back. his face was inches from yours. your cheeks were pink and you suddenly felt hot, trying as gently as you could to escape without waking him. he stirred, but only to readjust as you snuck away.

he said nothing about the cuddling when he woke to the sound of you closing the front door, and you smiled as you held out the iced americano you got him at the cafe down the street. he squinted at you and scratched his head, taking the drink and sipping it before even testing his voice.

"thanks."

he looked at you, eyebrows furrowed. "what? you bought coffee. thank you."

you sat next to him and swirling the straw in your own drink. "no, i mean for staying up with me. sorry i was a mess."

there was a pause, and your heart almost stopped when he put an arm over your shoulder. "you weren't. and i'll stay up with you whenever you want."

wonwoo sipped at his drink again, giving you a light squeeze when a tear fell down your cheek.

living together meant you saw a side of him you had never seen before. the little things he did throughout his day, when he wasn't even particularly conscious that you were in the same room as him. he always bit at his thumb when he was working, and he had a habit of leaving the milk carton open in the fridge. he always made you smile when he emerged from his room with his headphones loud enough for you to hear them from across the room, and he cluelessly bobbed his head to whatever he was listening to while he refilled a water bottle, waving and smiling before he returned to his room. when your mom asked you how living with wonwoo was, you told her he was great. clean, respectful, and quiet. that you had never been closer. that he made you feel safer so far from home. you didn't, however, tell her that you discovered that he liked running home from the gym at 2 pm on the weekends, laying out on the floor with his shirt over his head before he convinced himself to take a shower.

you had always thought wonwoo was cute. how could you not? he was a handsome guy, but you had accepted your place as a friend to him and happily let it progress no further. but, now that you spent your afternoons off arguing with him on whether or not showering was even worth the trouble, you couldn't help but stare at him. watching his toned chest rise and fall as you thought about how he had admitted his crippling fear of failure to you at three in the morning when your face was puffier than a padded jacket.

you never noticed, but wonwoo watched you closer than he did anything in his life. that night, when he found you crying, he felt his heart clench as you told him all your insecurities. when he had pulled you into his chest and held you tight as you questioned whether moving so far from home was a mistake, he patted your hair and told you that it was going to be fine. you had him, afterall. he had you. the two of you could make it out here. and if you still wanted to go home when the lease was up in six months, he would be there to help you move back.

he didn't stop holding you until your breathing settled, your shoulders stopped shaking. he leaned back into the couch, bringing you with him, and you didn't protest when he ran his hand up and down your back, coaxing you to sleep.

since then, every time you spoke to him, he couldn't help but stare at you intently. he watched your eyes light up while you talked about something you loved. he watched you scrunch your nose as you talked about your new desk neighbor. he watched your lips push into a pout when he said he should go get some work done. he wondered if anyone else noticed the way you sucked on your teeth while you thought up a witty comeback, or the way you carded your fingers through your still wet hair. or the way your eyes creased into a laugh, your hand coming up to block your open mouth. or the way you chewed on your red wine stained lip while he tried to form a sentence in response, when all he wanted to do was put those lips on his.

wonwoo had been stewing with these feelings far longer than he thought bearable, but stuffed it down in fear that he might lose you altogether. he didn't want to lose you altogether. he had gone on a walk halfway through his workday at home, feeling antsy for no particular reason, though if he thought about it long enough he would have realised it was because you had said something about feeling lonely lately that morning. he saw the florist he had pointed out the week before, and his feet brought him through the door.

"hi!" he looked up from the colorful display by the door to the person behind the counter and smiled politely. "did you need help finding something?"

"um," wonwoo blinked and looked around for a moment, then moved towards the counter. "i need a gift, i think."

the florist's eyebrows quirked curiously. "you think?"

he nodded, eyes flicking down to the nametag on his chest. he wondered if he was a foreigner with his three character name, but didn't mention it. "yeah. housewarming. for my, uh-" wonwoo paused, catching himself not knowing how to describe his relationship to you. roommate? wannabe lover? he bit his cheek. "my friend."

joshua nodded slowly, watching wonwoo's eyes as he worked his way through the sentence. "just friend?"

wonwoo stared at a flower arrangement to his right. "something like that."

"got it." joshua walked around the counter and gestured for wonwoo to follow him deeper into the store. "since it's a housewarming, how about a potted plant? something to brighten up the space for a long time. they'll think about you every time they see it."

wonwoo nodded, not saying anything about how funny he thought it was that he said he was getting his own roommate a housewarming gift. "that sounds nice."

"now, i'm not gonna claim to know you," the florist started, putting up his hands to exaggerate his words, they kept moving as he pushed and pulled pots, looking for one in particular. "you've said, like, maybe a full sentence to me, but those were some complex emotions when you called them a friend, so i'm gonna assume i know the situation. i think you should get camellias. specifically red ones."

wonwoo looked at the sunshine yellow pot in the soft featured man's hands. the petals of the flower were round and delicate, and he thought about how you said the color yellow made you happy. "why's that?"

"i think you should look up the meaning when you give them this," joshua said, and for some reason, wonwoo trusted him.

he came back to the apartment thinking about how he might have just gotten scammed into buying the potted flowers in his hands, only to find soonyoung about to hit the buzzer to call your unit, a far too large cooler bag sitting on the bench by the entrance of your building.

"is y/n around?" soonyoung asked, trailing behind wonwoo as they walked up the stairs, struggling slightly with the overpacked bag. "they didn't respond to my kakao."

"they're at work," he replied, flipping his keys over in his hands to find the one for your front door. "they'll be home around six."

"ah, shit," soonyoung laughed. "i always forget you guys have adult jobs. i would kill for a monday through friday."

wonwoo almost laughed, but left the smile on his face. "weekends are kind of overrated, anyways."

the shorter hoisted the bag of dishes onto the kitchen cart while wonwoo closed the door. "who're the flowers for?"

wonwoo stared at the pot in his arm as if it was the first time he had seen it. "oh, uh. just the place."

"for y/n?"

he looked at soonyoung, who had his chin in his palms, elbows planted on the counter as he smiled. he knew he was right when wonwoo didn't respond.

"i think they'll like them," he said, unzipping the top of the bag and starting to unload his mother's packaged dishes for his cousin. "they like the color yellow."

wonwoo just said "i know," before he opened the fridge and started rearranging things to fit the new food.

according to soonyoung, wonwoo was painfully obvious. when he had come by a couple weeks prior, you were arguing with him about some ridiculous childhood memory at your grandparents' home, and while soonyoung laughed, he noticed the smile on wonwoo's face when he watched you. he also noticed the way he instinctively put a hand on your back when you sighed about your newest temp gig, and soonyoung pulled on his ear as he looked at the ceiling, leaning against the kitchen cart much like he was today as he told wonwoo about how oblivious his cousin must be.

you pulled your knees to your chest as you sipped at your wine, the pizza box almost completely polished off by the two of you sitting on the floor in front of your couch. you stare at the pot of flowers.

"they're pretty," you said finally.

you too, wonwoo thought.

"camellias, right?" you turned back to him. "i like them."

i like you, wonwoo thought. "i went to that place down the street. the guy working was nice."

you nodded, sipping again. "any reason in particular?"

"i-" wonwoo paused, staring at his glass. he finished the last gulp in it and put it on the floor next to the pizza box. "you said something about being down recently," he said, folding his fingers together as he leaned back against the couch. "i wanted to get you something, i guess."

you watched his fingers as they pushed his glasses up his nose again, and your heart fluttered at the idea of wonwoo thinking about you when you weren't around. "really? that's so nice," you pouted, shoving his knee.

he laughed, pulling his knee onto the couch to face you. "the guy there - the florist, i guess? his name was joshua. he seemed to really know flowers." he knitted his brows together when he realized he was procrastinating on saying what he was nervous to. he put his arm on the back of the couch, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm before continuing. "he said i should look up what they mean when i give them to you. red ones, specifically."

you perked up, heart racing. "what they mean? they have meaning?"

"y-yeah, i guess so," wonwoo said, then cleared his throat.

"hey google!" you looked over to where the device sat by your tv. "what to red camellias mean?"

wonwoo stared at your profile as you watched the device think before its automated voice piped up.

"camellia flowers are available in white, pink, and red, with each color having its own unique symbolism."

you looked over to him, excitedly putting your glass to your lips as the voice continued.

"pink camellias symbolize a longing for someone, and is given to people who are missed."

wonwoo swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting against his temple.

"red camellias symbolize love, passion, and a deep desire."

your eyes widened slightly as the device shut off, glass still to your lips and eyes still on wonwoo's. he stared back at you, and you wondered if he meant it. but he never claimed that he didn't feel those things for you.

before you could think, you clumsily put your glass on the floor and moved. you didn't stop moving until your lips were on wonwoo's, pushing him back into the arm of the couch as you practically crawled into his lap.

his hands found your hips and he helped you settle into him, your fingers tracing his jawline as it worked against yours. you sighed into his lips as his hand slid up under your shirt, placed gently on the small of your back. pulling you into him. when you paused for a moment, you thought about waking up to this exact same view, that day after you had cried all night. but this time, his other hand pulled your jaw back to kiss him again, and you happily complied.

#YAAAA #thank you so much for requesting i owe you my life #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #jeon wonwoo imagines #jeon wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #yoonpancake #requested #i wrote dis #do i have a wonu tag yet #sure dont #wonton

421 notes · View notes

beelsjuicytitties · 4 years ago

Text

You’re Wonderful

First fic oh wow! Its been a while since ive written anything other than poetry, so im a lil rusty, but im super excited to post this! Feel free to let me know what you think!

Warnings: NSFW

Pairing: Mammon x GN!MC

Words: 2253

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-Neutral Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Reader-Insert, Light Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff, Smut, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Blow Jobs, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Nipple Play, Kissing, Not Beta Read

Summary: MC teases Mammon, but notices something is wrong. They then make it up to Him

Note: This is also on my AO3, which is linked in my bio!

“Sometimes you really can be an idiot y’know,” y/n laughed gently as they closed the door to Mammons room. They both had just finished getting chewed out by Lucifer after flunking a test, and Y/N was trying to lighted the mood with a bit of humor.

“You failed too, don’t go about actin’ like you’re better than me.” There was a distinct edge to Mammons voice as he said the words, keeping his body turned away from y/n. His shoulders were hunched in slightly and it was clear he was upset.

“Mammon? Hun?” y/n moved closer to Mammon, stepping so they were standing almost in front of him before gently setting a hand on his upper arm. Mammon looked to where their hand was resting with a sad, slightly dejected look. “Are you alright? I know Lucifer went pretty hard on us.” He shook his head slightly.

“‘M used to that from him..” He sniffed slightly. “D’you really think ‘m an idiot y/n?” Mammon looked up to y/n’s face, and they gasped slightly.

“N-no Mammon, I-” they began.

“‘Cause I know all my brothers do. Always callin’ me a ‘No good, greedy idiot.’” Mammon’s throat grew tight as tears threatened to spill as he reached over to grab y/n’s hand from his arm. “An’ I can take it from them, I don’t care what those fuckers think, but you..” he placed their hand against his cheek. “I care what you think.” Y/n gently stroked their thumb against his cheek.

“Mammon I didn’t realize.. I’m so so sorry, it must be so hard for you. Can I try to make it up to you?” Mammon nodded against their hand, and y/n smiled. “Thank you Honey.” They gave him a gentle kiss and dropped their hand to his shoulder. “Let’s get this jacket off okay?” Mammon shrugged his jacket off at the words. “Shoes as well please.” He complied with a grunt, and y/n picked them up. They put both his jacket and shoes away in his closet, along with their own shoes, and pulled out a fluffy blanket they had stashed there.

They gently pushed Mammon to his bed, propping pillows up before motioning for him to get in. Mammon crawled into his bed with a small grunt, wiggling around a bit to get comfortable. Y/n followed him shortly, fluffing up the blanket so it covered the both of them up to their shoulders. Y/n faced Mammon, and cuddled against him, placing a gentle hand on his far cheek so they could turn him to face them.

“Mammon,” they started, a serious yet loving expression on their face, “You are amazing, so passionate and caring.” A light blush dusted Mammons tan cheeks as he snaked an arm around Y/n’s waist. “I see how wonderful you are in every moment of every day, the way you care for your brothers, and me.” They rubbed their thumb idly against his cheek. “You’re not an idiot, you’re incredible when it comes to equations, and yeah maybe you struggle with your grades, but that is by no means indicative of your intelligence.”

Y/n tilted their face forewards to rest their forehead against Mammon’s. “Hell Mammon, if it wasn’t for you I doubt I’d even be alive at this point, you’re truly my knight in shining armour.” Mammon was blushing deeply now, but he kept his eyes locked with Y/n’s. A small smile cracked across his face at the words.

“You got that right Y/n” Mammon’s voice was still a little croaky, but there was a light note to it. Y/n slid their hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. The kiss was soft, and Y/n did their best to convey all the love and appreciation they had for Mammon. When they separated, the both of them continued to lay just as they were, staring into each others eyes, breathing each others air, for seconds, maybe minutes.

Eventually, Mammon pulled his arm from Y/n’s waist, and gently grabbed the wrist of the hand they had resting on his neck. Y/n hummed curiously, as Mammon slowly moved their hand down to his crotch, where a notable bulge had formed. “Mmm,” Y/n smiled and rubbed against Mammon’s cock through his jeans. “Want me to make this feel good as well?” A coy smile spread across their face as Mammon swallowed hard and nodded. “My pleasure~.”

Y/n shifted, bringing their hand up to push Mammon’s shoulder down so he was laying flat on his back. They straddled his hips, gently grinding against him as the blanket fell away. Y/n leaned foreward, dotting kisses all over Mammon’s forehead, temples, nose, cheeks, before finally catching his mouth. Mammon ran his hands up along their thighs, hips, and up their back under their shirt. Y/n flicked their tongue out, and Mammon quickly responded in kind, their tongues tangling together. Reluctantly, Y/n pulled back, to the protests of Mammon, before quickly moving their mouth to his neck. As they licked, bit, and sucked at all the tender spots on his neck, they reached down and under his shirt, pushing it up and rubbing their hands all over his stomach and chest.

“Your muscles always feel so wonderful under my hands.” Y/n whispered, to which Mammon let out a small moan. They leaned back and tugged Mammon’s shirt up and off, flinging it to the floor, before lowering themself down to take a sensitive nipple in their mouth. Mammon moaned again, this time a bit louder, while Y/n sucked on and teased a nipple, their hands tracing over his arm and torso muscles. Once Y/n was satisfied with their work on Mammon’s chest, the began shifting lower, kissing down his torso and running their hands up and down his hips. “I think it’s about time i pay attention to this.”

No more teasing, Mammon was whimpering at every kiss and touch as Y/n worked off his belt, undid his jeans, and slid them down along with his underwear. He kicked his bottoms off the rest of the way as Y/n wrapped a hand around the shaft of his cock. They let spit drip from their mouth onto the tip of his cock, and spread it around to the rest of it with their hand. “Oh, Mammon, you’re so wonderfully excited aren’t you.” Y/n teased before taking the head into their mouth and sucking. They kept their hand stroking at moderate pace, and swirled their tongue around the tip in their mouth. Mammon pushed a hand into their hair, he was breathing heavily and gentle moans and whimpers fell from his mouth freely. Y/n pulled his cock out of their mouth with a pop. “Fuck Mammon, you taste so good,” the were practically purring as they moved down to swipe their tongue against his balls, then dragging their tongue back up the underside of his cock before taking it back in their mouth. They began to bob their head up and down his shaft, stroking around the base with one hand and fondling his balls with the other.

“F-fuckkk..” is all Mammon could manage as he threw his head back. Y/n then pushed their head down as far as they could, filling their mouth and throat with him. They moaned on his cock, causing Mammon to buck upwards a few time into them. Y/n kept their head there for a few more seconds, before pulling back with a slight cough.

“Your cock fills my mouth so well, so warm and hard for me,” they punctuated each work with a kiss or lick, “but I want more, I want you in me, I wanna ride you Mammon, God I want that so badly.” Mammon nodded rapidly and Y/n pulled themself up so they could strip themself bare. Mammon leaned over to his bedside drawer, grabbing the bottle of lube out. He gazed up at Y/n, now naked and grinding needily against him.

“Lemme warm you up.” As much as Mammon wanted to get inside Y/n, he also wanted this to be as pleasurable as possible for the both of them. Y/n nodded in response.

“Please- hurry,” they basically whimpered. Y/n leaned back on their hands to provide him better access, and he squirted a fair amount of lube onto his fingers. He brought his now lubed fingers down to Y/n’s entrance, and started rubbing gentle circles around it at first. He then slipped a finger in, he slowly fingered them, curling his finger to hit all the right places. Y/n moaned and panted, as he slid a second finger in. He could feel Y/n tensing around his fingers as he worked and stretched them. He worked their hole until he couldn’t hold back any longer, and pulled his fingers out.

“I wanna fu-fuck you Y/n.” He had already grabbed the lube, and squeezed out some to slick up his cock.

“Yes, oh yes please Mammon,” Y/n’s voice was full of need. “Please put it in, fill me up with your cock mmh.” Mammon lined himself up, pushing into Y/n slightly, before he grabbed their hips, and pulled them down onto him. Both Y/n and Mammon let out loud moans as they slid down him, quieting slightly as they bottomed out. “Oh fuuck Mammon, you’re so big, filling me so good,” Y/n moaned out words of praise. They leaned forwards, placed their hands on Mammon’s chest, and slowly began to move. They rolled their hips as they moved, doing their best to pleasure Mammon. At the same time, Mammon took a hand off their hip, and placed it onto one of Y/n’s hands, slightly holding it. Y/n’s mouth hung open as the bounced and rolled on Mammon’s cock, picking up a bit of speed.

“Lemme flip ya over,” Mammon said between pants. “I wanna fuck inta ya, make ya f-feel as good as you’ve made me feel.” Y/n nodded and stopped moving long enough for Mammon to swiftly flip the two of them, so he was now leaning over them, arms resting on either side of their head. He rested his forehead against theirs, and felt Y/n wrap their legs around him. He began to thrust into them, a strong, steady pace. Y/n ran their hands through his hair and against his neck as they stared into each others eyes. Happy smiles spread across both of their faces as Mammon fucked into them, speeding up and slowing down seemingly at random.

“I love you so much, my wonderful Mammon.” Y/n’s words were partially lost behind moans, but Mammon fully understood them.

“I-I love you too-” his thrusts were getting more frantic “-I love you my-” a loud groan “-my treasure..” They were both very close at this point, and Mammon tilted his head to kiss Y/n. A deep, loving kiss. Y/n squeezed around Mammon inside them. Mammon pulled away from the kiss and whimpered “I- I’m gonna-”

“M-Me too, sso close mmnh.” Mammon bit down on Y/n’s neck as his thrusts turned short and quick, Y/n held tight onto him, trying to have as much contact with him as possible. Mammon let out a muffled groan as he came inside Y/n without slowing down his thrusts until he heard Y/n let out the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard, and felt them twitch and pulse around him. He slowed, then came to a stop, he released Y/n’s neck from his teeth, the skin surprisingly still intact, but bruises were already forming. Mammon flopped over to lay next to Y/n, his cum oozing from them slightly. Y/n turned and shakily took his hands in theirs.

“That was amazing Mammon.” Their voice was light and breathy as they praised him more. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

“I should be sayin’ that to you Y/n..” Mammon struggled to find the right words. “Ya really make me feel like.. Like I’m worth somethin’.” Y/n kissed Mammon’s hands, and then his nose, and a quick kiss to his lips. They both stayed there for a little while, basking in the afterglow, and in each others love.

“Hey, Mammon,” Y/n whispered. Mammon hummed slightly in response. “As much as I would love to stay right here as we are, we should probably get cleaned up.” Mammon groaned and turned his face into the pillows.

“I knoooooow,” Mammon said, voice severely muffled by the pillows. He pushed himself up and climbed out of the bed. He went to the bedside drawer, and pulled out a pack of wet wipes. “Here, lemme getcha cleaned up.” He pulled a wipe out of the packaging.

“Thank you hun.” Y/n smiled at Mammon, and adjusted how they were laying to make it easier for him. He cleaned them up, cleaning up a bit that had spilled onto his sheets, and tossed the wipe into his trash can. “Now we can cuddle as long as we want~” Mammon climbed back into the bed, pulling the blanket back over them before wrapping himself around Y/n.

“As long as we want eh? Guess you’re stuck here then.” He nuzzled his face against their neck.

#obey me #shall we date obey me #mammon #mammon avatar of greed #mammon x mc #mammon x reader #smut #obey me smut #fluff #light angst #my writings #obey me one shot #obey me fanfic #not sure what else to tag #mammon is soft and deserves better treatment #adrians writing

134 notes · View notes

yeti-the-infinity · 4 years ago

Text

hanami

matchaloveblossom - founder's trio festival day 1

Kojiro and Kaoru were from respectable families themselves once upon a time, but even back then they had not been permitted to visit Adam’s family estate due to the fact that they were pierced up, loud-mouthed, skateboarding hoodlums that had once landed a teenaged Ainosuke in a holding cell for an hour and twenty-three minutes.

It’s part of the reason they eventually agree to Adam’s invitation. The other parts being that 1.) Adam will not stop asking, 2.) they are trying to give Adam a second chance, and 3.) they want to see what he’s planning.

Adam spends the better part of the first hour of their visit leading Kojiro and Kaoru on a tour of the Shindo estate’s sprawling gardens. He lists off the names and meanings of flora and fauna like poetry before leading them across a stream over a whimsically ivy-hung stone bridge and into a grove of vibrant, sweet-smelling cherry blossom trees.

As Adam steers them both by the arm into a small clearing, they set eyes on a large blanket sprawled across unnaturally healthy grass. A hefty picnic basket weighs the center of the blanket down, with a bottle of a wine poking out of its top, and a cat has settled itself just beside this, snoozing in the warm, breezy afternoon.

“Well, isn’t this fucking adorable,” Kojiro croons, the first to settle on the blanket, kneeling, one leg stuck out as he pops open the basket and peers inside. “Did you do all this yourself, Adam?”

Kaoru recognizes that Kojiro’s gauging how much effort Adam put into this versus Adam’s servants, trying to understand how much this gesture matters.

“Yes.” Adam shoos the cat away with a feign of his boot and a canine snarl and then lowers himself gracefully onto the blanket as if he hadn’t. He sprawls onto his back, not unlike the cat had been sleeping, and crosses his arms. Kojiro catches but ignores the mild glare he receives before lifting small containers of strawberries, cherries, and sliced peaches out of the basket and retrieving three stemless wine glasses.

“Not all of us went to culinary school, sweetheart,” Adam drawls and kicks at Kojiro’s thigh across the blanket. “You could at least pretend to be impressed. Wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings.” He pulls a long face, his hands flutter over his heart, and Kojiro snorts.

Adam turns toward the shadow stretching above him and reaches out both hands, his long fingers callused for an aristocrat’s, but clean. “Sweet, delicate, Cherry Blossom, will you kiss my feelings better? You like it don’t you?”

Kaoru smothers an indulgent smile with the back of his hand and makes a show of surveying the picturesque, sugar-scented, sunny grove, with its swaying pink trees. Petals drift on the wind like fresh, warm snow, and Kaoru’s always been partial to the trees he had been nicknamed after, even if sweet, delicate cherry blossom had once been an ironic title given to a teenager who enjoyed getting into brawls and beefs and generally didn’t lose them.

It’s difficult to argue that the scene is not idyllic.

“It is very beautiful here…” he allows, his eyes gradually drifting back down to Adam and Kojiro, sprawled comfortably on the blanket. They look fairly idyllic themselves, well-dressed, casual, relaxed. Kojiro with his sleeves rolled up, to show off his absurd muscles as he pours out a Riesling, liberally as always, and Adam licking sugar from a strawberry a little too slowly. “And I see you brought wine, so, I’d say I’m content.” Kaoru lifts his sandal delicately onto the edge of the blanket, feeling for rocks underneath. The garden is immaculately manicured and all is smooth as he folds himself neatly by Adam’s legs. “Although, I didn’t expect we’d be roughing it…”

“Hm.” Adam’s hum stretches too long, his smile a little nasty as he rises to sit, the better to hold his wine glass—the better to reach out with his free hand to run his thumb across Kaoru’s cheek, just before pinching it. “You must be misremembering my proclivities.”

Kaoru snaps teasingly at Adam’s fingers with his teeth—he knows better than to rap at them with his fan—and Adam retracts them with a smug smile, as Kaoru mutters, “I remember them just fine.”

Kojiro pretends to ignore their antics, his eyes shifting from the trees to the picnic arrangement, drawing both of their gazes as he replies to Adam as if he hadn’t paused, “No, he’s right. It’s… nice… Just not exactly your usual fare.”

Adam holds Kojiro’s stare for a moment in recognition of the challenge in it. Kojiro seems to both tease and approve of Adam’s softness at once and it makes Kaoru’s stomach flutter faintly.

Adam breaks the gaze with a downward glance and then sighs. “Mm, yes, well,” he tilts his glass, making the wine swish, “my therapist might have suggested it.” Adam’s gaze shifts to Kaoru, because Kaoru asks more often, “And I do rather like this one. I think I’ll continue courting her a while…”

“You have your therapist giving you dating advice now?” Kaoru bats back, the muscles of his jaw stiffening.

“Not exactly,” Adam dodges and frowns back, fine lines between his brows, and leans forward to smooth Kaoru’s hair and give him his wine glass, since Kojiro had been distracted from pouring a third. “Relax. There you are, pet.”

Kaoru’s lip juts out, eyes narrowing, and he gives Adam’s shoulder the mildest of bats with the back of his hand. “I am not your pet.”

“No, of course not,” Adam sings, fond yet dismissive. He looks perfectly aware he has the upper hand as Kaoru accepts the glass and leans unconsciously into another caress of Adam’s palm, also callused, against Kaoru’s cheek. Kaoru’s skin is faintly pink from the blatant attention, and Adam wonders dimly and not for the first time if that’s why Cherry Blossom really wears a mask.

Kaoru swats Adam’s palm away when he lingers too long, but Kaoru does not flit his golden eyes away from the ruby ones that stare longer.

“You’re our beautiful Cherry Blossom,” Adam sings.

Kaoru can see Adam’s eyes flicker with devilry as his lip curls. “Joe’s our pet.”

Kojiro grunts an objection. “Come say that to my face why don’t you?” he challenges from over Adam’s shoulder, smiling and rising up to his haunches, all rippling muscle.

“You are our tiger,” Adam flirts, pleased with the response, crawling across the blanket on all fours, with more catlike elegance than either of the other two. “Big, strong, fiercely protective. Overly fond of very bold prints.” Adam reaches his target, and Kojiro leans back to let Adam climb into his lap. Adam sportingly tugs open the collar of Kojiro’s loud sky-blue shirt with its pattern of palm leaves, as he straddles Adam’s thighs.

Kojiro laughs, bright and overwhelming as direct sunlight, as Adam rests one hand on his collar bone. The other plucks one of the various blossoms Adam had collected in his coat pocket earlier and tucks it prettily behind Kojiro’s ear, smoothing back green curls with his thumb. “A tiger lily for a tiger man.”

Kojiro bares his teeth at Adam with a sly smirk, and then his eyes shift Kaoru’s way, smile warming, tone mocking, “I’ll take that over gorillaany day.”

Kaoru rolls his eyes, sips at the wine, and watches Kojiro’s brawny arms wrapping Adam’s broad chest as Adam shifts in his lap to watch Kaoru. Heat rises under Kaoru’s skin, and he feels a bit like a steaming up kettle as he exhales slowly.

“And how does your therapist feel about your fascination with pet play?” Kaoru counters, closing his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of the sun with its fuzzy pink cherry blossom glow heating the bare skin of his cheeks, neck, ankles…

All the sun, of course, he tells himself.

“Need I remind you your skateboard calls you Master, darling?” Adam counters quickly enough that he may have had the comment on standby for just such an occasion.

“I…” Kaoru grimaces.

“Yeah, wait a second.”

Kaoru finds himself saved by Kojiro who wraps his hands around Adam’s which have absconded with Kojiro’s wine glass and is lifting it daintily to his lips.

“What exactly are you focusing these sessions on, Adam,” Kojiro echoes, “that led to sappy, romantic picnic?”

“Oh, the usual.” Adam gives an exaggerated eye roll, ruffles his own hair in mild exasperation. “We’ve been talking about healthy outlets: ways to relax, destress, let off some steam without…” Adam swishes his hand in a euphemistic circle, “maiming anybody.”

Kaoru tenses, eyes flickering open and finding Kojiro’s already on him, soft with concern. Adam is oblivious, head leaned back on Kojiro’s shoulder, watching the flowers above shift and shimmer in the breeze like a mirage. Adam’s hand shifts restlessly with his explanation, “Not an entirely fruitless effort, I suppose. Recently, I’ve been experimenting with yoga and the sacred art of meditation, and my therapist suggested hanami.”

Kaoru’s shoulders relax again hearing him sound so comfortable with such formerly foreign concepts.

“Meditating and connecting with nature, huh?” Kojiro’s hands have wandered from Adam’s arms to his chest, roaming with a thoughtless kind of ease. “Well, look who’s turning over a new leaf.”

“Everyone could do with taking a little time to stop and view the cherry blossoms,” Kaoru says, voice unusually soft, shifting closer to the center of the blanket, where the basket had been. Petals polka dot the warm fabric, and Kaoru scoops up a handful, leaning forward to lift them over Adam’s head. “Here, let me help you appreciate them properly.” They flutter down his face and broad chest, catching on his hair, his cheek, his lip.

“Full of yourself, are you?” Kojiro teases, flicking a few petals from Adam’s shoulder.

“I deserve it,” Kaoru counters, eyes still focused solely on Adam’s.

Adam chuckles quietly, as Kaoru touches the petal sticking to his lip, and then Adam kisses his palm and wraps his wrist in his hand.

“Not just view them, Cher,” Adam purrs, “breath them in, admire them, meditate with them, worship them… and I thought…” Adam sets down his glass and reaches for Kojiro’s wrist, drawing Kaoru and Kojiro’s hands together, watching their fingers intertwine.

Kojiro’s grip is firm and Kaoru’s tightens to match it. Their eyes meet, always, Adam observes, with that sharp sizzle of tension and the thick underlying glow of trust.

Adam eases himself off of Kojiro’s lap, squeezes their wrists and releases them. “…Who would know more about viewing Cherry Blossom in all his glory than you, Kojiro?”

“My glory?” Kaoru smirks but his eyes flicker nervously between them, his fingers twitching. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

Kaoru watches Kojiro’s pupils dilate as a smooth, confident smirk slides across his face, his expression beginning to mirror Adam’s.

Kojiro’s knuckles bump Adam’s shoulder. “You know I never pass up a chance to show off.”

Adam reaches to the shoulder and begins to shrug off his suit jacket. “I’m going to have to insist that you do. For my therapy.”

Kaoru’s scoff catches in his throat and his voice comes out a little thin, “Need I remind the two of you,” Kaoru pauses as Kojiro lifts their folded hands and kisses the inside of his wrist, and Adam crawls to kneel at Kaoru’s back, his hands settling possessively on Kaoru’s shoulder blades, “where we are right now…?”

“In a grove of sweet, ripe cherry blossoms…” Adam’s fingers knead hard into Kaoru’s back, and Kaoru can’t help but lean into the warm, certain attention.

Kaoru’s head rests against Adam’s slow, steady heartbeat, his chin tilting up as Adam’s face draws closer. Kaoru can feel Kojiro’s lips pressing and nipping their way up his arm, drawing the flowy fabric of his sleeve up to his shoulder. “Ah…”

“Flowers waiting to be outshone by a more…” Adam whispers, his tongue tracing Kaoru’s lips before Kaoru leans up to close the distance. Adam’s kiss is firm but brief. “… superior specimen…”

Kaoru feels a faint pinch in his bicep and a low pained noise comes from Kojiro’s direction. Kojiro watches a string of saliva pass between their lips, before the distance closes again with a muffled squeak from Kaoru that might have been inspired by Adam’s teeth or Kojiro’s hands dropping to wrap Kaoru’s slender, muscular thighs, effortlessly easing them up onto Kojiro’s thick, stony ones.

“Ko… Kojiro,” Kaoru scolds, voice thin, half-breathless, hand reaching out and grabbing blindly for Kojiro’s arm, as the hands slide slow and hot up his thighs. “You big, thirsty galoot—” The heels of his palms trace the grooves of Kaoru’s hips on their assent toward the belt of his trousers. “We’re out-outside…mm.”

Adam’s fingers press briefly to Kaoru’s lips.

“Hm, so, what?” Kojiro purrs, his massage spurred on by the way Kaoru melts and rises against his hands.

“On private property…” Adam tacks on, sliding his chest down Kaoru’s back and wrapping Kaoru’s hair around his hand. “You said you’d help me appreciate you properly.” Adam’s lips find the back of his neck and Kaoru’s eyes flutter half shut. “Let us appreciate you, Kaoru. All of you.”

“I have not had enough wine,” Kaoru insists smooth and articulate as ever, leaning the back of his neck into Adam’s teeth, sliding his hands along the muscles of Joe’s upper arms, “to take off all my clothes in the middle of your garden, in the middle of the day…” Although the thought of skateboard rough hands on his bare skin makes him sound increasingly less certain with every breath. “Why don’t you ask Six Pack Joe here?”

“I can get you more wine,” Adam muses into the nape of Kaoru’s neck, and gets swatted in the shoulder by Kojiro for his trouble.

“You spend so much time appreciating my muscles,” Kojiro answers, and Kaoru watches Kojiro’s tan arms stretch as he grasps the collar of Kaoru’s shirt. “Maybe I just want to return the favor, Lord Cherry. What, too intimidated?”

“Our tiger’s muscles might be intimidating, but you’re captivating in your own right. I’ve seen you at S and on the news. People line up to see you too.” Adam’s hands wrap Kaoru’s stomach and reach toward the lower buttons of his shirt, as Kojiro’s thumb presses in on the top one. “What are you so afraid of, Master Cherry?”

“I’m not intimidated by you, musclehead,” Kaoru leans forward to butt his forehead against Kojiro’s, the challenge straining his face slipping into a more thoughtful expression as he worries his lip, “I suppose I’m just afraid the three of us, the two of you, are too good to be true. But…”

He realizes Kojiro and Adam have gone still. Their playful expressions hardening with concern, maybe guilt, and it’s contagious.

Kaoru shakes his head, feeling the light delicious pull of his hair against Adam’s immobile hand. “I don’t want to feel that way anymore.” He meets Kojiro’s eyes and burrows further into Adam’s chest, “I want to let you see all of me, touch all of me, have…” “We’ve got you, Kaoru,” Kojiro leans forward to brush their lips together carefully.

“There’s no safer place in the world…” Adam’s tone is half comfort half-threat, as he presses his lips to the back of Kaoru’s neck once more and begins to pluck open the bottom of Kaoru’s shirt. His touch is almost unfamiliar, his palm smoothing over Kaoru’s abs careful as if he’s cradling a flower blossom. “Yes, I know.” Kaoru closes his eyes, giving into the friction of their hands, feeling the warm air on his chest mingle with the damp, mind-dazzling softness of their lips, their kisses falling everywhere like petals. “I trust you.”

#shows up 7 days late with a day 1 fic #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #matchaloveblossom #cherry blossom #lovematchablossom #shindo ainosuke #kojiro nanjo #kaoru sakurayashiki #adamcherryjoe #foundertriofest2021 #sk8 fic #adam #joe #my writing #hanami

28 notes · View notes

seeingteacupsindragons · 3 years ago

Note

Random writing question - have you ever tried/wanted to try any other forms of writing besides novels and short stories (playwriting, screen writing, poetry, etc.)?

Well, I've obviously done flash fiction and novellas/novelettes, but it's pretty clear you mean "other than prose fiction."

But the answer is still yes!

First off, you have to remember that I majored in creative writing in college, and creative writing at my college did not mean "prose fiction."

I don't especially care for poetry and read very little of it (there's a few poets I like, but the form isn't super appealing to me), so while I have a bunch of (very bad) lyrics I wrote in high school and some poems for various classes....it's generally all very bad because I don't read enough of it to get good. In fact, I went out of my way to avoid taking poetry classes in college.

But the way I got out of writing poetry class in college was taking Screenwriting instead. I have a bunch of notebooks with scripts from middle school and high school of my characters doing interviews or something, and I've had to write stage plays for classes (drama classes...). I think I was pretty good at screenwriting for a beginner, or at least I adapted to the form well. I actually adapted one of my own novellas for a screenplay for class, which then got read aloud at a table read in front of my entire class because my teacher liked it so much. It, uh, was a gay YA romance, so that was embarrassing, but it's not like many of my classmates hadn't been forced to read that before from me for workshops. I enjoy screenwriting a lot, but I don't know what to do with it. I know nothing about that industry at all, and scripts require such a specific format that I'd have to upload a PDF online to even be readable...and I don't know where I'd host the PDF. So while I find it fun, I don't really indulge in it a lot anymore because I don't even know what I'd do with any of it, ever.

I also had to take Creative Nonfiction in college...memoirs, personal essays, things like that. I didn't find it very fun in college, but I think that may have been at least partially the professor. Because, guess what! I find it pretty fun now.

Obviously, I write a lot of lit crit and meta-type things on this blog. I find that fun, too! I love writing essays about topics I care about. It's nonfiction prose, but I think I'm quite good at it and can write it well and be entertaining with it.

I also like roleplaying. My dad actually taught me Dungeons & Dragons when I was about five or so...old enough to read (I started reading independently when I was about 3), but not so old I really had a lot of other options lol. And he taught me others as well. It's not always writing, but it's a form of storytelling that I enjoy engaging in with others. And of course, roleplays and tandem stories with friends may sometimes look like novels or short stories, but so often they come in other forms, and I just. Find that kind of writing so much fun. It's like taking my favorite toy out and playing with it with a friend.

Also when I was in middle school, I very much wanted to write a manga or graphic novel, and have a few pages of very-poorly drawn manga. A few friends and I even threw around names for a CLAMP-style mangaka group (obviously this never went anywhere).

I'm a copyeditor for a living at the moment, but I would not be opposed to writing marketing copy, either, although I've done it only very rarely and usually in the form of queries for my own novels. And wiki-documents, which I once did for a role-playing game called Dawn of Civilizations—which is yet another very different format for creative writing, since I was making up an entire culture and country, in the form of a wiki document. I'm a pretty good mimic and chameleon of different writing formats and styles (which is likely part of why I'm so good at character voice as well), and it's fun to stretch my muscles there a bit

So, uh, yeah. I really just like writing and story-telling in...well, most forms they come in. I just. Really like it.

A lot.

#writing

5 notes · View notes

iphisesque · 4 years ago

Note

Joe + Nicky + Saint Sebastian + ☕

(this started out as a fun little question to answer! might throw around some headcanons! might even reference some of my favourite renaissance artists along the way! and here we are, a couple of months and 1.1k words later, with a fanfiction about joenicky, saint sebastian and antonello da messina. i have no idea how this happened --- you can find the link to this on ao3 in the source!)

---------

Yusuf loves drawing Nicolò, that much is certain: whether it be a doodle on the corner of a page in his sketchbook or a painting on a panel larger than either of them, he's always found something almost sacred, almost divine about it, about tracing the curve of his nose, the bright glimmer in his eyes, the relaxed grin on his lips and recreating his image like Allah created man in his own. They often joke about Yusuf making Nicolò into a saint, giving his face to George slaying the dragon, or perhaps painting both of their likenesses onto an embrace of Sergius and Bacchus commissioned by another wealthy Florentine with tastes not unlike theirs, but nothing really ever becomes of it --- until.

They're staying in Venice at Antonello's house, not long after he's returned from his latest travel to the Flanders; him and Yusuf are excitedly discussing the latest news in oil painting, while Nicolò is dozing off in bed as he pretends to follow the conversation, still tangled up in their sweat and spill and little else.

He stretches and stirs, more asleep than awake, and both of them look up at him from the desk in Antonello's room they're sitting at; the man glances at his figure, lightly constrained by the bed sheets strategically covering his body, his face still blissed-out, and reaches for his sketchbook, showing his latest preliminary sketches to Yusuf. A young man, tied up with rope to a pole, arrows penetrating his near-bared body in an intent more sensual than murderous, if the man's expression is anything to go by.

"San..." He can't recall the saint's name on his tongue, but he knows the man is one: it's always saints and Marys with Catholic artists, which isn't necessarily a complaint. "Sebastiano," Antonello helps him, his voice low. "I was commissioned a Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian by the Church of San Zulian, and I thought you might appreciate the idea."

He glances up at his lover, fast asleep in bed still, and back down at the sketch. "Who's the man?" he asks, an artist's silent understanding: every painting contains a part of its maker's soul, but masterpieces such as Antonello's seldom are created without a certain familiar face to inspire the hand that paints its likeness.

"An old friend," he answers, his eyes growing dark. "Loved him and left him in Messina, like too many other things in my life."

Yusuf nods, he too well aware of what it means to leave people behind; his heart still aches when he thinks of his sister Maryam sometimes, watches over her descendants in Mahdia and Tunis as best as he can alongside his beloved. "I'm going back there as soon as I finish this commission, tell you that," Antonello interrupts his thoughts. "I far too much miss my dear Smeralda and my dearest hometown, though I'm sure a man like you would have none such problems."

Yusuf scoffs playfully. "I miss more places and people than you could ever think possible, believe me," he replies, and that much is the truth: the pain of leaving people and places he's loved never stops or dulls after centuries of life, or at the very least it still hasn't for himself and Nicolò.

He comes back home that night with his head buzzing, and dreams of his sister, of his past life in sun-scorched Mahdia, of his beloved's embrace as they ate and drank and recited poetry in his family's house in Damascus, back when they were still learning to know and love each other for the very first time. He dreams other, abstract dreams too: a broken arrow, lengths of rope holding strong muscles tight, his beloved's face enraptured, the near-indecency of a drape slipping off his bare lap, and these don't fade from his thoughts even after he wakes up.

He tells Nicolò of the sketch Antonello showed him, the sketch that hasn't left his mind since he first saw it, and his lover's eyes widen, his interest piqued. "Would you like to paint me like that?" he whispers, his voice low and raspy like he knows it drives Yusuf wild.

He nods, not wanting to break the heavy intimacy of the silence hanging between them, and Nicolò presses a kiss to his lips, his hand caressing at first his cheek and then moving lower and lower.

"Paint me then, beloved," he tells him in that same voice, before dragging him to the bedroom, and Yusuf begs Allah to let him at least finish the sketch that night before succumbing to the desires of the flesh. (If He hears that plea, He seems to pay him no attention.)

---

Centuries later, one French art forger baptised as Sébastien Le Livre has joined their warrior group of immortals, and he finds himself with them at a safehouse in Florence sometime between the two world wars; he's still young, barely been undead for more than a century, and cannot wrap his head around the idea of his mates having been alive since way before his country or the one they're staying in were united. Safehouses like that are a blessing to him, filled to the brim with material testaments of his and his companions' eternal lives, and often hiding pieces deserving of a place in a museum; it is one of these he stumbles upon that afternoon as he explores the dusty old attic, holding a torch high and not too close as he theatrically removes the white cloth covering a painting --- late 1400s, he thinks with a glance at the technique and at the style, further proved by the signature in the lower right corner reading "al-Kaysani, 1479".

Yusuf's old art, and certainly not his oldest, he thinks to himself, and he has a better look at the subject: a Sebastian like himself, painted as was the norm in the day, penetrated by arrows and tied up to a pole, in an expression of supposed agony resembling more of a petite mort than a real death.

Only when he pays closer attention to the face does he realise who the subject is, and he recoils so suddenly he drops his lamp in the darkness --- he cannot look Nicolò in the face for a week following the incident, and they only find out about that when Yusuf goes to store another masterpiece in the attic alongside the cursed San Sebastiano. They laugh it out eventually, of course, and it becomes something to tease them both about, but he is more than glad to be leaving Florence and going to London the week after that, where he starts going by Booker and buries his old name for good.

---------

A few notes:

1) the mention of Saints George, Sergius and Bacchus is not casual: Saint George, in particular, was the patron saint of the Republic of Genova, and Sergius and Bacchus are two saints martyred together who are often thought to have had a homosexual relationship and are somewhat of the patron saints of the gay community.

2) Antonello da Messina was an early Renaissance painter who introduced Flemish oil painting to Italy and Italian perspective technique to the Flanders; his portrayal of Saint Sebastian, inspired by Andrea Mantegna’s, was among the first ones to popularise what we now consider to be the classic portrayal of the martyrdom of Sebastian, aka “young man tied to a pole and sensually struck by arrows”. In Messina, Antonello was friends with Saint Eustochia Smeralda (the Smeralda Antonello mentions), and he allegedly based his masterpiece Virgin of the Annunciation on her.

3) the headcanon of Yusuf coming from Mahdia belongs to @hottopicmonk, and him having a sister named Maryam comes from a conversation with @tovezza!

#the old guard #the old guard fic #tog fic #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard netflix #nicolò di genova #yusuf al-kaysani #sebastien le livre #tog fanfiction #mine #my fic

98 notes · View notes

highsviolets · 4 years ago

Text

ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO

ne plus ultra (n).

(1) the highest point capable of being attained

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off. in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling. “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

Tags: @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @ohhellokenobi @obitwo @nobie @cherieboba @lazzwhile @rentskenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @justrunamok @citadoll @obirain @catsnkooks @royalhandmaidens @kyjoraven @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @snips-n-skyguy0501 @saintlaurentkenobi @answer-the-sirens @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @icedcoffeeandgays // please send an ask or fill out this form to get added to my taglist!

#userkarina #userlilylils #usernobie #ayatlovesme #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan x reader insert #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x y/n #prompt requst #cristina writes #prof kenobi #fic: ne plus ultra #i have been so fucking excited to post this #also i actually proofread this one

117 notes · View notes

spicycreativity · 4 years ago

Text

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/12 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus content. This chapter only: alcohol use Characters: All Pairings: Moceit, background Prinxiety, background Intrulogical (yes I played a little game of "pair the spares") Additional Tags: Hey it's the fic I published on Anon because I was embarrassed of how utterly pretentious it is!, post-PoF, sickfic, dirty poetry, humor interspersed with philosophy and Janus-typical pontification, this is VERY speculative and will get Jossed in the future lmao Summary: After claiming his place in the Light and coming face-to-face with the consequences of his actions, Janus finds himself unwillingly re-calibrating his moral compass. For selfish reasons, of course. But one apology snowballs into several, and soon he's running around the Mindscape with a low-grade fever and a guilty conscience as he desperately tries to regain some sense of self. Oh, and he's definitely not falling in love with Patton, so don't even bring it up. One Last Note: I wrote this in an ADHD fugue state. It is HEAVILY influenced by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but there are also references to poetry and various other works of literature. I also deliberately used symbols, themes, and motifs. Most of them are pretty in your face except for the recurring ouroboros, which is used as a symbol of rebirth. ...Told you it was pretentious.

When you wake up to the promise of your dream world comin' true With one less friend to call on, was it someone that I knew? Away you will go sailing in a race among the ruins If you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon

Janus appeared in the Dark side of the Mindscape, elation swelling in his chest. Even the ringing headache and bitter taste in his mouth couldn't hollow the unfamiliar triumph that warmed him to the core. Caught up in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to register the sight before him: Remus, upside-down on the couch, his brow furrowed and face an alarming shade of purple.

For a moment, Janus stood stock-still as he tried to get his bearings. He must have been more flustered than he'd realized-- He'd been aiming for his bedroom.

But here he was, staring down at Remus, who was definitely going to burst a blood vessel (or several) if he didn't flip over soon.

"That's not horrifying at all," Janus said, thinking it would be rude to dismiss Remus, especially since he had probably been eavesdropping. He had likely heard everything. Everything. Even the ugly parts.

"Do you remember when Thomas read that post about Nutty Putty Cave?" Remus asked in a strained, strangled voice. "That spelunker who died because he got stuck upside-down?"

"No," Janus said, before realizing his mistake. "Yes." He definitely wanted Remus to remind him of the gory details.

"That's what I thought," Remus said with a wicked grin.

Janus sighed through his nose. Remus, though he thrived on attention, seemed content enough to continue his experiment by himself. On the other hand, if Janus didn't bring up a certain insult he'd levied at Roman, Remus most certainly would, and at a time where it would cause the most upset and turmoil. Better for Janus to deal with it now, even if he would have to fight the tension pulling his muscles taut. He wanted to dance. He wanted to scream.

Hesitation proved to be Janus' downfall, and by the time he'd opened his mouth to broach the subject at hand, Remus had beaten him to the blow. "You're not usually this quiet, Oralboros. Snake got your tongue?"

Janus, again, sighed. Rather than answer, he doffed his hat, set it on the coffee table, and clumsily arranged himself upside-down next to Remus. The change in position immediately made his head throb. He ignored it. "I definitely meant it when I called you 'evil'."

Remus' eyes widened in faux-shock. "You called me evil ?" he shrieked, voice ringing out high and clear. "Me? How dare you. I'm an angel!"

At least Remus was taking it well. "Sarcasm is my thing," Janus said, realizing that he might make it out of this without having to properly apologize.

For some reason, Patton's face flashed into his mind, and a subsequent twinge of guilt made his tongue go sour. Fine. If there was ever a time to start telling uncomfortable truths… "But I am sorry I said that."

"Wow!" Remus laughed. "You must be upset." A red stain began to spill across his left eye. "You don't apologize."

"It’s not like I care about your feelings or anything." Janus would have liked to have drawn himself up to his full height, but it was impossible to do while upside-down. "As much as I'm enjoying watching your blood vessels slowly burst, would you please turn over before you hurt yourself? I've suffered enough psychological trauma for today."

"Oh, fine." Remus kicked his legs and landed neatly on his toes like a gymnast.

Janus, by contrast, got his arms tangled in his capelet and nearly folded himself in half before he found his balance again. "I meant to do that," he said, turning to grab his hat so Remus wouldn't see the blush on his face.

The sudden sensation of blood draining from his head made the room whirl. He steadied himself against Remus' shoulder until it slowed somewhat, but nothing could dampen the horrible ringing in his ears.

"Well," he said, adjusting his shirt. The sudden appearance of his conscience had taken the wind out of his sails more than he cared to admit, and all thoughts of dancing bled out of him along with a good deal of energy. "I'm not going to go scream into my pillows until I tire myself out."

"Being an agent of chaos is hard work," Remus said with a sage nod, "but that doesn't sound very relaxing, Mr Self Care."

"It's a form of meditation, if you think about it," Janus said.

Remus made a face. "You know I don't do that."

"...Meditate?"

"No, think."

"Ah. Well." Janus made only a token attempt to hide his fond smile. "Good night, Remus. Please stay up late and injure yourself."

"Can do, Snakeypoo.”

Janus turned. It was close enough, he might as well walk to his bedroom, especially considering how well his last attempt at appearing in it had gone.

The reason why that had been so difficult became apparent in mere moments. Janus froze in the hall and dropped to his knees at the giddy wave of horror and delight that made him too light-headed to stand.

He knelt in front of the empty stretch of wall where his door had been previously. Heat flooded his face.

"Jay?" The rounded toes of Remus' boots appeared in his line of sight. Janus zeroed in on them, the mud splatters and stains on the soft leather. "You have an aneurysm or what?"

Janus, unable to speak, motioned for Remus to turn around. He couldn't deal with this right now.

"Ohhh," said Remus. "Well. Good luck with that ." He hauled Janus to his feet. "So you're a boner fide good guy now, huh?"

Janus stared over Remus' shoulder at the empty stretch of wall where his door used to be. "That depends entirely on who you ask."

Remus shrugged and rose up on his toes. "You can scream into my pillows instead, if you want."

"As tempting as that is…" Janus trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the wall. It was tempting, despite the constant chaos in Remus' room. But he'd have to face the Light side sooner or later. It wasn't like he could move his room back, not without psychologically damaging Thomas and undoing all the work he'd done. "I'm really looking forward to getting insulted some more."

"Alright," Remus said with a shrug. "Try not to throw me under the bus this time, alright? Unless it's a real bus…" His gaze became dreamy, unfocused. "And it's doing 50 in a school zone and there's a whole pack of screaming kids in the crosswalk--"

"Goodbye, Remus." Janus turned and left.

The barrier between the "dark" and the "light" sides of Thomas' brain had been a joint venture. It would have been there in some form no matter what, but it was Janus and Roman (with Patton's tacit blessing) who had worked to put up something more physical between them.

Janus ducked under the red curtain, trepidation percolating in his stomach, but what he found on the other side was anticlimactic to say the least: It was dead silent on this side of the barrier.

Janus wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew by now that the so-called "Lights" had issues working out their interpersonal issues, and this most recent conflict wasn't the kind of thing you just got over. It did follow that they would all go off to lick their wounds for a time.

Hesitantly, toe-to-heel, Janus crept down the hall. It felt for all the world like he was sneaking around a vast hotel, right down to needlessly ornate design on the plush carpeting. That was probably Roman's doing.

Janus focused, trying to call the Mindscape to work for him. He wanted to go to his room.

The Mindscape listened. Janus turned a corner and found a row of doors stretching down yet another brightly-lit corridor. His eye was immediately drawn, not to the brilliant yellow of his own door, but to the figure huddled in front of it: Patton sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on his knees.

"Looking for someone?" Janus asked, slightly louder than necessary.

Patton jerked his head up. "Oh! Janus!" He plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "You sure pop star-tled me."

Scaring Patton hadn't brought Janus nearly the level of schadenfreude he'd thought it would. He crossed his arms over his chest, extending a third to help Patton up. "Take your time getting to the point.”

"Oh." Patton accepted Janus' proffered hand and got to his feet. Warmth spilled from him, permeating the fabric of Janus' glove and gently heating his palm. "Well, it's just…" He took a deep breath. "I noticed your door and I thought-- Well, I wanted to make you feel welcome!"

A high-pitched tone resonated in Janus' skull. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the mounting pressure-pain-exhaustion in his temples. "Aren't you just a saint ." Patton's face fell. Janus fought the urge to swear aloud. He usually had a better handle on himself, and he knew better than to alienate potential allies. "I mean, thank you, Patton. Truly. I appreciate it." Patton had proven himself useful. Janus should at least cultivate that relationship, even if it meant a little discomfort.

"Have you eaten?" Patton asked. "It's a little late, but I could make something if you wanted." He paused. "Maybe we could play cards or something." Another pause. "O-only if you want to, I mean."

Janus let his face remain impassive even as he internally cringed at the idea of staying awake for even another second. It would be so easy to brush Patton off with a few honeyed words and disappear beyond the barrier of his door. But Patton had stood up for him today, or at least he'd tried to. Janus sighed. Quid pro quo. "That sounds like an utter waste of time."

"Are you… I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell when you're…"

"Yes, Patton. That sounds lovely."

Patton actually hopped in place, an adorable little jig that absolutely didn't send a confusing little shockwave of fondness through Janus' ribcage. "Really?"

"Really," Janus lied.

He followed Patton down the hall into the living room, which opened into the dining room and the kitchen. Janus studied his surroundings, trying to take in as much as his exhausted faculties would allow. Even in the absence of other Sides, the living room felt warm and welcoming. All the lights were on, and they bathed everything in gentle golden light .

"You're awfully quiet," Patton said.

Janus shook himself. "I was just getting my bearings."

"I guess you've never really been over here, huh?" Pattton opened the refrigerator. Was he actually going to cook , instead of just manifesting something? How quaint. "Do you like grilled cheese?"

It had been a long, confusing day. Doublespeak came to Janus as naturally as breathing, but he was obviously running circles around Patton even when he wasn't trying to. "Yes," he said, hoping to telegraph his sincerity by not emoting at all.

It seemed to work. Patton studied him for a moment before turning back to the fridge. "Then that's what I'll make."

Janus took advantage of this temporary distraction to clamber onto one of the barstools. The slick velvet of his capelet tended to disagree with surfaces like wood and vinyl, and he needed a moment to arrange things so he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.

He watched Patton work in the kitchen, a detached coolness washing out the scene. Quid pro quo, he reminded himself when he felt his facade begin to slip. He owed Patton this.

He certainly didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt, that he had been the one to orchestrate this breakdown. Yes, the Light Sides had loaded the gun, but in the end it was Janus who had pulled the trigger.

He shook his head and thought about playing cards, good Bicycle playing cards with holes punched through them like they'd come from a casino. "What should we play?" he asked, pulling the deck from his breast pocket.

Patton looked up from the stovetop, his eyes flicking to the cards in Janus' hand. "Do you know Kings in the Corners?"

"Not personally, no."

Patton laughed, but there was something cold about it. "It's really simple," he said. "I'll show you how to play and you can tell me if you like it."

It was nearly impossible to cheat at Kings in the Corners. Janus doubted this had been a calculated measure on Patton's part, doubted he had the capacity for that kind of foresight, but he respected it just the same.

They played in funereal silence, staring each other down across the light wood of the dining room table. Janus, ill-inclined to take off his gloves, utilized a napkin to keep from staining them with melted butter from the grilled cheese Patton had made. Neither one of them smiled. Neither one of them spoke.

Janus pulled a card from the deck to indicate the end of his turn and glanced up at Patton. His face was somber, almost sorrowful, and it clashed against the gentle domesticity of the dining room, with its floral table runner and mismatched placemats.

Janus started to laugh.

"What is it?" Patton asked, cheeks darkening. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Janus swallowed down another peal of laughter and cleared his throat, unable to wholly restrain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You look like I’m holding you here at gunpoint." It was somewhat ironic, considering Janus was the one who felt like he couldn't leave.

"What?" Patton smiled, but it was more akin to an offering than an expression of joy.

"It’s not really funny. " Janus wasn’t quite sure how to make Patton understand.

Patton sat back with a sigh, placing his cards facedown on the table. "But I guess it is pretty funny, huh? In a really sad way."

Janus almost asked what was sad about it before realizing that Patton probably missed his friends. Instead he said, "Yes" and stifled a yawn behind his free hand.

"I'll make coffee!" Patton leapt to his feet and was off to the kitchen before Janus could so much as blink.

The newfound solitude made it that much harder for Janus to ignore his headache, which had only worsened in the hour or so he'd been playing cards with Patton. Despite the nonchalant facade he'd tried so hard to project, he'd been holding himself tense.

Maybe the night (or morning, at this point) would be easier to tolerate if he had, say, a bit of gold rum.

The corner of a flask dug into Janus' hip. He smiled.

"Just how late are you planning on staying up?" he asked Patton when the latter returned holding two mismatched mugs.

"Oh, I don't know," Patton said. Lied. He set a mug down in front of Janus and then resumed his seat, the cards forgotten by his elbow. "I'm… A little scared of what tomorrow will be like."

Janus eased the flask out of his pocket. "Rum?"

"Oh, um," Patton said, staring at the flask. "I don't know…"

Janus raised an eyebrow, working something out. He landed on it a millisecond later: Patton wanted to be convinced. Easy enough. Janus opened the flask and poured what he hoped was a shot into his own mug. It was black, he noticed, except for the yellow snake that wrapped around it, its tail firmly in its own mouth. Ouroboros. "Surely you don't intend to make me drink alone?"

As Janus had expected, Patton buckled the second he was pushed. "I guess not."

It was funny, Janus mused as he carefully tipped rum into Patton's coffee, how lying was only off-limits when Janus suggested it. Hilarious.

But now wasn't the time for bitterness, now was the time to repay the debt he owed Patton. "Cheers," he said, pocketing the flask once more.

"Cheers."

Janus sipped his coffee. "You put milk in this," he observed.

Patton's smile was surprisingly sly. "I know you want me to think you take it black. Virgil did too, at first. I know you ‘Dark Sides’ have an image you like to uphold."

"And how does Virgil take his coffee now?" Janus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"With Snickers-flavored creamer."

"Well, I do take my coffee black," Janus lied.

Patton's smile never faltered. "We'll see, kid-- Uh, Janus."

"Patton," Janus said, before he could start thinking about the implications of Patton wanting to call him 'kiddo,' "you are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"Maybe eventually," Patton said, suddenly unable to look Janus in the eye. "At some point."

"Tomorrow will come whether or not you sleep. It's definitely better to pull an all-nighter and feel like garbage instead of facing everything with a clear head."

"I know." Patton leaned forward so he could rest his head on his hand.

For a moment, Janus was tempted to mirror him. Sitting up straight was becoming quite the chore. "I know how the others love a calm, rational discussion."

"Oh, I wish." Patton's expression turned wistful.

Janus stifled a yawn behind his hand. He had half-expected the coffee to counteract the depressant effect of the alcohol, but all he had to show for the combination was a racing heart.

"I'll be fine out here if you want to go to bed," Patton said. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, he brought his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

It was a tempting offer. A day ago, Janus would have taken it. After all, it wasn't like he cared about Patton outside of professional courtesy. They weren't friends. But guilt nagged at him and wouldn't let him entertain the idea of abandoning Patton for longer than a second.

"That's a remarkable impression of a window," Janus said, waiting for Patton to look confused before elaborating, "I can see right through you."

"You got me." Patton smiled sadly. "That's something I've always admired about you, Janus."

Now it was Janus' turn to be confused. "What?"

"You're so… clever."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "Please do keep trying to change the subject."

"It's just… I don't want to have to lie there and, and think about today and everything I did wrong. I hurt Thomas. I hurt my friends." Patton's eyes were shiny behind his glasses; the unshed tears sparkled in the light when he locked eyes with Janus. "Aren't you going to think about the same thing?"

Anger flared, perhaps prematurely, in Janus' chest. "About what you did wrong today?"

"About what you did wrong," Patton said timidly.

"I," Janus said icily, "didn't do anything wrong." He stared Patton down across the table, jaw set, daring him to push back. Let him lecture and nag, let him prove that he hadn't changed no matter what he said.

But Patton only nodded, his face lined with misery. "Okay," he softly. "I think you're right, Janus. We should go to bed."

Janus thought about how much faster he could get to bed if the table was cleared, and all the dishes and cards vanished in a blink.

"Um, Janus?" Patton said.

"Yes?"

"I don't regret everything that happened today."

"Oh?"

Patton only nodded and sank out.

Janus made a beeline for his own room; better to find his way there on foot rather than risk appearing in the wrong spot.

Once inside, he looked around to ensure nothing was amiss, eyes roving over the dark wood of his bookshelves and desk, his mirrored closet doors, the leather armchairs across from his bed.

Everything was exactly as Janus had left it. He nodded, satisfied, set his hat on the nightstand, and sprawled out of top of the covers without bothering to further undress.

One hazy thought crawled to the surface of his mind before he fell asleep: At least he wouldn't be one of the regrets haunting Patton tonight.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #janus sanders #moceit #spicywrites soft-shoe shuffle #song featured is: race among the ruins - gordon lightfoot #pics are free to use from unsplash and wikimedia commons

10 notes · View notes

smarchit · 4 years ago

Text

In Between

This is a side chapter to Poetry for an Heiress. It is not intended to add anything to the original story, and you don't have to have read the previous chapters to understand it, but I definitely wanted to include this. It takes place between chapters 7 and 8.

While the rest of the story has a general rating, this piece is rated 18+.

Ezra x F!Reader (Duchess)

Warnings: oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (please wrap it before ya tap it folks), yearning, feelings

"Take me to bed, Ezra," you whispered against his lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

His hand snaked down to your waist as he returned your kiss, tilting his head to deepen it after a moment. He pulled your hips closer to his and slid his hand up your back to tug on your hair. "Tell me what you want, Princess," he breathed, angling your head back, gently forcing you to look up at him.

A shudder rippled through your body and you pressed yourself against him, feeling his cock straining his trousers against your bare thigh.

"I want you," you whispered, moving to kiss him again, already missing the feel of his lips against yours. "Please. Even if this is the last night we're together, I need you."

"Anything, Princess," he promised. He released his slight grip on your hair and slid his thumb against your cheekbone. "Will you let me taste you first?"

You felt your cheeks heat up at his request and you nodded, feeling slightly lightheaded. He led you to the bed and urged you to sit on the edge, thighs slightly spread to accommodate his wide shoulders.

Ezra knelt before you like you were something holy, his idol to bring both praise and sacrifice. He looked up at you in reverence and nudged your legs further apart, drawing gentle patterns along bare skin as he smiled at the relaxed look on your face. Your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths as his deft fingers neared your core.

He gripped your thigh and parted your legs further as he peppered your skin with kisses. He brought his lips down to your ankle, taking his time with your pleasure.

You sighed with soft pleasure as he slowly circled your clit with his finger tip. Your thighs were already trembling and you had barely gotten started. If this was all it took to get worked up, he was going to wreck you completely.

Ezra slipped one finger inside you and glanced up at you as your body jerked forward slightly at the intrusion. You ran your fingers through his hair and brought one leg to rest over his shoulder.

"Already so wet," he remarked. "How long has it been since someone has touched you, Princess?"

"Ages," you breathed. Your eyes fluttered shut as he added a second finger. A quiet moan left you when Ezra lowered his mouth to you and wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud between your legs.

He curled his fingers up into you in time with his tongue flicking against your clit. His eyes slid shut as he let out a groan of pleasure when you drew him closer with your heel digging into his shoulder blade.

"Ez," you whispered, glancing down at him through your lashes. He opened his eyes briefly to look at you, his gaze intense and determined.

Ezra pulled back and nipped at your soft belly, chuckling a bit as you gasped in surprise. He pressed a chaste kiss to the swell of your thigh before diving back in with renewed vigor.

You cried out sharply and tugged his hair to hold him closer to you. Warmth was slowly spreading through you, a fire between your legs and up your spine.

He added a third finger, moving his mouth from your clit briefly to watch you stretch around his fingers. The wet, obscene sound that filled the room caused you to shudder and clench around him so tightly, you feared you would hurt him.

"Princess," he murmured, his breath fanning over your cunt as he worked his digits in and out of you. "An angel, plain and simple. All for me. Kevva help me, you taste divine."

You whimpered and clenched around his fingers again, the pressure building steady in your belly, a coil ready to snap and shatter you into a thousand pieces like stardust.

Ezra sucked a deep mark against your skin, his teeth marking a halo around the bruise. He closed his eyes and licked a solid stripe through your cunt with the flat of his tongue.

You cried out and drew Ezra closer, your fist tugging sharply on his hair. The coil finally snapped, and Ezra moaned against your folds when your arousal flooded his tongue.

He flicked the sensitive bud between your thighs until you released him, your thighs streaked with your own orgasm.

"Good?" he chuckled breathlessly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I need you," you replied, swooping down to kiss him. You moaned softly when you tasted yourself on his lips.

Ezra got to his feet and crowded you back against the mattress, keeping himself upright with his hand.

You felt his cock against your thigh and reached down to tease him through the thick canvas of his pants. He thrust weakly into your hand and let out a breathy moan into your ear.

"Princess, please," he chuckled weakly. "I've endured for long enough. Don't tease a man who's come as close to death as I have."

You smiled and pulled back a bit to study his features. The silvery scar on his cheek, the way his nose had been broken one-too-many times, the tiny flecks of scars that littered his forehead. The tiny crease in his bottom lip. You wanted to memorize them and keep them forever. Wanted to keep him forever.

"Can I ride you?" you whispered, feeling your cheeks burn with the question.

Ezra made a small noise in the back of his throat and for a moment, you worried you had upset him with your question. You knew many previous lovers weren't so keen on the idea. But you wanted to look at him, see his face for all he offered you.

"Fuck," he chuckled softly, moving his head to nip at your jaw. "Our night almost had a premature ending, Princess." When you looked a bit taken aback, he shook his head and then smiled broadly. "I would like nothing more than to see you on top of me," he added.

You grinned and pulled him down to kiss him again, tugging sharply at his hair. He hissed through his teeth and the sound made you clench around nothing. You wanted to hear him make that sound again.

You pushed yourself up, chasing his teasing kisses. "Sit," you urged, moving the pillows out of the way.

Ezra pulled away and quickly undid the snaps on his pants. You yanked them down around his thighs and he kicked them off, along with his underclothes, discarding them in a pile for you to find tomorrow.

Only when he was seated against the headboard, nestled against the pillows, did you approach, crawling towards him over the blankets. You saw his cock twitch in anticipation as you drew nearer.

You swung your thigh over his waist to straddle him and bit your lip as you reached down to grip the base of his cock and gently guided him inside of you. It felt a little strange, taking control like this, but Ezra was nothing if not encouraging.

"Just like that. Fuck, you're so good," he breathed as you slipped the head past your entrance. His hand kept a bruising grip on your thigh as he bucked his hips up, wanting to be deeper inside. "Good girl. I've got you. Go on, Princess, take what you need." He let out a low moan and let his head fall back, the muscles and tendons in his neck straining with effort as he resisted slamming his hips up into you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you, your lips finding his in the dim light.

Ezra deepened the kiss and moaned into your mouth when you tugged on his hair gently. He loosened his grip on your hip and moved his fingers down to rub against your clit once he was fully seated inside, completely overwhelming your senses.

You gasped and saw stars when he shifted his hips and hit something bright and blinding inside you. A moan bubbled from your lips and you could see the soft yellow lamp light glinting off Ezra's teeth in the darkness when he smiled.

"Oh, did you like that, Princess?" he whispered, sitting back further against the headboard to get a better look at you.

You bit your lip and nodded slowly, almost embarrassed by his question - and by the obscenely wet noises that accompanied the movement of his hips.

"Such a good girl," he breathed, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. "You're taking my cock so well."

You leaned up slightly, wanting him to kiss you again. He bared his teeth as he surged up to capture your mouth in another deep kiss.

Ezra snapped his hips up and you both moaned at the action. He braced himself with his hand on your shoulder, forcing you down further onto his thick cock. He chuckled breathlessly at your slack jawed expression and gave an experimental roll of his hips.

"Ez," you squeaked, clenching around him. You put your hands on the headboard behind his head to steady yourself and rocked your hips down to meet his thrusts. "Fuck, that feels good."

"I know, Princess," he murmured, brushing his thumb against your neck. "Fuck, you look so beautiful like this."

You nodded and whined as you circled your hips against his. With every gentle roll, your clit caught on the coarse hairs at the base of his cock and sent shivers up your spine.

Ezra moved his hand from your neck to your breast and lightly pinched one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it gently. He leaned forward and captured the other in his mouth, sucking and biting with his teeth.

You whimpered and brought one hand from the headboard to tangle in the short hairs at the base of his neck.

"Could keep you like this all night," he hummed against your skin. He ghosted his lips over the swell of your breast and rested his forehead between them.

"Please," you begged as you clenched around him. "Ez, please!"

Ezra lifted his head to look at you, his soft eyes appearing black in the darkness. He palmed your breast once more and gave your nipple another tug, wrenching a cry from you, which he caught and silenced with a deep, desperate kiss.

You lifted your hips and brought them down, quickening the pace and driving you both towards completion. With a shudder, you tossed your head back, exposing the column of your neck to Ezra, who latched on with his lips.

"Fuck, Princess," he gasped, sliding his hand up from your breast to your neck. He pulled his mouth from your heated skin and curled his hand against the side of your neck. "Look at me. I want to see you cum. Let me look at you."

You moved your hands to his shoulders and looked at him, losing yourself in his dark eyes.

"Faster, Princess, don't stop now," Ezra gasped as you rolled your hips down against his. He let his head fall back against the headboard as he let out a strained moan.

As you rolled your hips against his, the coil inside you, for the second time that night, snapped and shattered you into starlight. Something deep and warm and planet-shakingly bright came apart as you did, singing praise to the man below you.

Ezra had a death grip on your arm as he rode out his own orgasm inside you, panting and trembling with his own effort.

Beneath the ragged breaths, he whispered something you hadn't heard and found you were too tired to ask him to repeat. You knew however, it was not something that needed repeating. It was something that had been on both your lips for months now, something you had both said without stating it outright.

"I love you," he gasped again, breathless, his hand running over the marks he had made earlier on your thigh. His hand moved up to trail up your back, up, up, until his fingers were on the back of your neck, gently guiding you back to his lips. "I love you."

You returned his gentle kisses, your hands in his hair, mirroring his own. The room was rapidly cooling down around your bodies and you rested against his bare chest, trying to cling to that last bit of warmth.

"I love you," you replied, pressing your lips to his collarbone.

Ezra scratched blunt nails down your back and smiled when he felt goosebumps emerge in the wake of his fingers. He pressed his lips to your shoulder and closed his eyes. "We should clean up, Princess. I- I'm sorry, I didn't, I couldn't pull out--"

You smiled and shook your head as you kissed him. "It's alright, Ezra. Don't worry about that. I'll clean up. Just hold me like this for now."

Ezra nodded and pressed his hand against your lower back. He shifted on the bed slightly, desperately wishing that when the morning came, you would want to stay.

TAGLIST:

@the-feckless-wonder @gallowsjoker @phoenixhalliwell @waatermelon-sugaar @huliabitch @miscellaneous-mando @lestrange2703 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @auandromedus

#my writing #ezra prospect #ezra x you #ezra x reader #poetry for an heiress

26 notes · View notes