#but it seems I am still struggling at colouring ribbons | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cake-writes · 2 years ago

Text

A Dutiful Disaster (Part Six)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Cis Female Reader (she/her), No Y/N Usage, Second Person POV, POC-inclusive descriptors, Toxic Relationship (lil bit of abuse from both parties - mostly screaming matches with the occasional physical thing but he never like slaps her or anything), Smut, Slut-Shaming, Mommy Issues, Reader has anxiety, 18+

Chapter Warnings: anxiety, major argument involving a knife, this is not a healthy relationship you guys lmao

Word Count: 5.5k

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Five

A/N: And we're back! Apologies for the quality, I'm a bit rusty after not writing for a few months. Enjoy!

When the canvas rustles for the third time in as many minutes, you expect a lecture that doesn’t come.

“You seem troubled, dear,” Frigga says gently.

The Queen’s motherly sort of kindness has always felt unfamiliar—certainly nothing like how your mother would react if she found you like this, yet you still find yourself wracking your brain for an excuse.

You only meant to take a temporary reprieve away from the suffering. Just a short break, really. But you’ve been plagued with nightmares these last few nights, and you’ve barely eaten a proper meal in nearly a week, and your anxieties about the state of your life have grown with every passing day—so much, in fact, that you can scarcely round a corner without fearing an encounter with your husband.

Loki has yet to grace you with his presence in the five days since your impulsive decision to return to him the shreds of his own letter. Thea told you later on that she’d delivered it to him in a box per your suggestion, elegantly wrapped in a ribbon the colour of plum wine. Your colour.

Hilarious, for all of about a minute. Then came the anxiety.

You haven’t decided if it’s better or worse that you haven’t seen him since. All you know is that you’ve been feeling less and less rational the longer you go without suffering the inevitable explosion, but there is still some rationality to your fears.

He's laid his hands on you. Twice.

What you fear most a third time—and so you’ve spent far more time in the supply tent today than you originally planned, taking inventory of your life. Evidently long enough for your absence to be noticed by the Queen of Asgard.

The very moment you hear her voice, you plaster on a watery smile. A mask. “My apologies, Allmother, I was—”

“Hush, child. There is no shame in taking some time to decompress,” Frigga chides fondly. The warmth you see reflected in her kind blue eyes almost makes you think cares why you’ve been staring blankly at a shelf of medical supplies for the last few minutes, struggling not to cry. She offers you a sad sort of smile and adds, “You’ve done well to maintain your composure for someone so unaccustomed to battle.”

“Battle?” you repeat, before you snort derisively. “Surely you jest! I am hardly a warrior.”

Though it comes out sounding less like a joke, and more like you think it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, Frigga doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she hums. “I would argue that the strongest warriors seek not the glory of battle, but tend to the aftermath.”

“Or they are women,” you suggest.

Frigga doesn’t hide her amusement as she sends you what you assume is meant to be a scolding look, but you can see that knowing twinkle in her eye, the one that all enlightened women seem to share. Her humour waxes apologetic, however, as she steps closer to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Ready yourself, dear. This will not be the only act of war we’ll encounter in the coming days. I am sure of it.”

An act of war.

The phrase sounds familiar. It takes you a fair few seconds to place, but when you do, a cold chill ricochets down your spine from the memory. Loki had shared similar sentiments the night that he—

You briskly wipe your clammy palms on your apron and focus back upon the shelf. “I shall—” You clear your throat to dispel the sudden uneasiness settling into your chest, and try again, “I shall do my best to prepare.”

Frigga slowly pulls her hand away, hesitant, uncertain. She studies you for an uncomfortable pause while you pretend to deliberate over a jar of calendula salve for no other reason than to busy your hands. The amber glass comes as a small comfort, something to roll between your fretful fingertips, though her voice also makes for a good distraction: “Forgive me, but I must ask you an unpleasant question.”

You turn your attention back to her, questioning.

Her brow creases with worry. “Has he… Has my son harmed you in any way?”

You freeze.

She knows.

She knows—

“It is not my intention to pry,” she reassures you quickly. “My sight may be a wondrous gift, but it very much lacks decorum.” A joke, you’d think, if not for the grim expression settling into the fine lines of her face. “I believe I saw a memory.”

She saw—?

No. She couldn’t have.

“You saw nothing,” you spit venomously, bristling at the mere suggestion—a means of protecting your weaknesses from anyone who might exploit them. Even the Queen of Asgard.

Especially the Queen of Asgard, whose son would harm you in a fit of rage.

Despite Frigga’s calm demeanour, you suspect that she can easily discern your lies. She is, after all, Loki’s mother, and you’ve never met a more talented liar than your despicable husband whom you hold so dear.

“You are hesitant to trust me, I know.” Her hand cups the side of your face, soft and cool against the angry flush on your cheeks. When her eyes soften further, so too do your defences. “Life has given you many reasons not to trust so easily, but I must seek the truth. If Loki has hurt you—”

“Frigga, please,” you plead. “I am fine. I will be fine. Please forget what you saw.”

Loki can’t know that she knows. No one can know. He’ll only get worse.

Lips pursed, Frigga searches your expression until she sees something that prompts her to nod – just once, resolute. “Very well,” she sighs reluctantly, giving your cheek an affectionate pat before she lowers her hand to her side. “I will respect your wishes under one condition. You must come to me if it happens again. Yes?”

You open your mouth to object to her terms, but she doesn’t let you.

“This is not a request. Not even my son is exempt from the laws of common decency, let alone those of Asgard. Yes?”

Upon hearing her sharp inflection of the word, it's impossible not to notice that Loki would have picked up that particular habit from her. He always did complain as a child that his mother was stricter than she seemed, but only now are you starting to see why.

When you glimpse the fierceness in her gaze, what else can you tell her but yes?

“Fancy meeting you here, Highness,” jokes the first unofficial member of your personal guard. You regard Sigurd with a mock frown as you step outside of the tent, and he grins. “No bandages today! Have you finally practiced to your heart’s content?”

This time, he falls in step beside you without asking. Not that you mind.

“I am exhausted, Sigurd,” you lament, just as a yawn overtakes you. “I shouldn’t think more practice will help when I cannot even seem to grasp the proper technique. I truly am terrible at it, you see.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he quips amiably, casually resting a hand upon the hilt of his sword. “The man at the front of the tent has been fussing with his for hours.”

You huff. “As if I didn’t feel awful enough already! That poor man has struggled more than most, and I only add to his discomfort.”

“Ah, but whenever you so graciously deign to check on him, he always seems right as rain. The sight of a beautiful woman does wonders to heal a man!“ Sigurd jokes, and you playfully slap his arm for his lack of propriety – far less concerned about it now than you were the first day, for these daily escorts have long since revealed him to be this way with anyone he meets. “Of course, I also saw him gawping at His Highness in a similar fashion yesterday, so I suppose his only preference is for beauty.”

You stop in your tracks.

“Or royalty,” he continues on for a moment, ignorant to your plight. “Ah, but he doesn’t look at the Queen in such a way, so perhaps—”

“What did you say?”

The shrillness of your voice immediately captures Sigurd’s attention, and his grip tightens on his sword until he locates you three paces behind him, staring at him, bewildered. His brows furrow in confusion. “He… doesn’t look at the Queen in such a way?”

“No, not that. My husband has been by?”

He blinks. “Aye, a few times—come to see you, I thought. He always brings a snack for the lady.” Sigurd cocks his head to the side. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know!“ you snap, massaging your temples.

Loki has been by? With snacks? For you?

How absurd.

The man you know would never do such a thing—but then, Frigga has been particularly adept at convincing you to take your breaks of late, somehow always managing to lure you away from your duties with the treats you so enjoy.

Apples. Dates. Pastries. Any manner of sweet things, really.

Not only that, but she’s mentioned a few times now that the sugar would do well to keep your energy levels high – except there’s always been a hint of something in her voice that makes it sound like a jest. A hint of laughter. Like she knows Loki brought them for you. A memory of the cherry tart during your break this afternoon begs the question—

Did he come by then, too?

Did Frigga tell him about your conversation?

Or maybe he’s shapeshifting again? Because it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Loki has played that particular trick on you. It's as annoying as it is confusing, and whenever he blessedly lifts his spell, you always find yourself tempted to throw something at him.

Sometimes you even do. A book, the last time; serves him right for startling you while you perused the shelves in the library.

Insufferable bastard.

“Princess? Are you alright?” Sigurd asks, drawing you out of your reverie.

You can’t continue on like this. You can’t continue being scared of him like this. You shouldn’t have to feel this way.

“I need you to deliver a message for me,” you answer, full of conviction.

Freshly supped, bathed, and ready for bed, you’ve just cracked open the primer on healing magic you took from Loki’s chambers when you hear your ladies’ voices out in the hall.

“Your Highness, I really must protest!”

“Please wait, the Princess isn’t dressed—”

After which the door slams open with all the force of having been kicked.

You fully expected that this would happen—ensured that it would, in fact, when the letter you asked Sigurd to deliver was intended to be a provocation. But even though you’ve been waiting for your husband to make an appearance all evening, actually encountering him is another story; the well of your short-lived courage dries up all too soon.

Quite the opposite, you shriek in surprise and scramble to cover yourself just as Loki storms into your sitting room. Upon finding it empty, he quickly hones in on you sat up in your bed, clutching your blankets taut to your bosom.

His icy glare pins you down despite your obvious state of undress, or perhaps because of it: face cleansed of all makeup, hair still damp from your bath, thin silk nightgown spilling like a waterfall over the delicate swell of your breast. All you can do is stare at him in terror as he stalks toward you like a predator cornering his prey.

“You,” Loki hisses, “are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”

And corner you he does. With a single wave of his hand, the doors separating your bedchamber from your sitting room forcibly shut, trapping you inside with him.

You thought you’d have your ladies here for this. It was a baseless hope, really; a misguided reassurance that he wouldn’t do anything otherwise, but you’re on your own—trapped and alone with the one person on all of Asgard you can’t stand, in the one place you can take off the mask.

Your bedroom. Your safe space. Yours.

Your blood boils in an instant, fear and righteous fury bubbling to the surface until it overflows, taking your sense of self-preservation right along with it. In all of half a second, you shove your hand beneath your pillow to procure the dagger you’ve slept with since you came of age; you’ve never known how to use it, not really, but you don’t think twice before you’re already up on your feet with the blade held out in front of you.

“Get out!” you snarl at him, wild, feral, reminiscent of an animal. “You will not use me to assuage your anger, Loki Odinson. Not this night. Not again.”

Fight-or-flight takes you over. Spurs you on. Not according to plan, but you’ve long since forgotten what it even was, now, with every rational thought wiped so clean from your head.

The flood of adrenaline helps you to discern the slightest shift in his footing, the barest twitch of his fingers as his gaze drops to examine the knife in your hand; but even when Loki surely sees the uncertainty in your grip, his eyes turn sharp as the steel you wield. Calculating. Ruthless.

They cut back up to yours, and you scarcely manage to suppress a shiver.

The warrior.

Loki is as terrifying as he is glorious; every part the fearsome god you avowed yourself to. You can only assume he means to intimidate you into submission, and when his eyes narrow upon yours, it’s all you can do not to give in.

“Poor with a blade, indeed,” Loki observes, tone neutral—your previous admission come to light, but you don’t miss the tension in his posture, same as yours.

He still considers you as a threat.

Good.

You smile sweetly and lower your hand just enough to point the blade at his groin. “Shall we find out?”

His soft laughter sounds unfamiliar to your ears, now; not at all like the mocking sort you despise, but something sharper – darker – dangerous, and the hairs raise on the back of your neck. “Darling, I strongly suggest that you put that down.”

You don’t. Instead, you wave the tip of the dagger toward the locked double doors of your bedchamber. “Unlock them.”

“They aren’t—”

“Now.”

Irritation visibly sparks at the command, but Loki doesn’t act on it. Rather, a careful, deliberate flutter of his fingers brings your attention to his hand, after which he takes far more caution than necessary in motioning to the doors – pointedly – as if he means to indicate that he’ll do as you ask.

“Go on,” you order.

A muscle tenses in his jaw, evidence of his patience wearing thin, but still, Loki listens. He reaches over slowly, tediously, as if he means to placate a wounded animal—you, and you watch with baited breath as he finally places two slim fingers on one of the intricate door handles. Then he presses down.

The door unlatches.

“As you can damn well see, they were never locked,” he says tersely.

“Open them, then,” you retort. “Unless, of course, you fear what my ladies might do when they witness how you behave behind closed doors.”

Of course, you’ve seen nothing to indicate that Thea and Eris are waiting your sitting room to ensure your wellbeing once he leaves. Loki may very well have locked them out of your chambers entirely, but it’s a bluff you’re willing to make.

“Her Highness may wish to reconsider that last command,” Loki drawls, caustic and biting, holding his hands back up in front of him in a show of defence. “Or have you forgotten, Princess, who it is you hold at knifepoint?”

A Prince of Asgard. You are threatening a Prince of Asgard.

You’ll be tried for treason. Branded a traitor. Put to death.

Your grip falters.

“Yes, darling. Now put it down. I will not ask a third time.”

It’s a double-edged sword, your dagger; the only thing between you and the safety you deserve. Your grip on it feels slippery from how clammy your palms have become, and a cold sweat comes over your body as the adrenaline shifts to panic.

You’re just as trapped as you ever were.

If you put it down, Loki will hurt you again. If you don’t, he could just as easily use his magic to open the doors and reveal your treasonous act to the world. Your ladies would have no choice but to confess to what they’ve seen, lest they become conspirators themselves. Hanged, right along with you.

Only then do you realise how well and truly fucked you are, but it’s too late.

Something shifts in your periphery, and you don’t even have a chance to move, let alone blink—your only concession the startled gasp that rips from your throat. Your husband vanishes in a shimmer of illusory green at the same time his very real fingers encircle your wrist, and then it’s all over.

I will not ask a third time, he’d said.

You should have listened.

Loki roughly wrenches your arm behind your back and angles it into a brutal, unforgiving lock, one that allows you to feel all the strain in your shoulder as it almost dislocates, all the tension in your wrist as it nearly breaks, and all the pain that sends you straight up onto your tiptoes in your desperation to avoid it, avoid him, avoid the inevitable.

You bite out a nasty, colourful swear because it hurts like hell.

You have to focus on something else. Anything else. Anything would be preferable to the gnawing pain shooting up your arm.

You focus on the warmth of his body at your back. The spice of his cologne. The danger. The chaos. The skilful press of his other hand at your throat, just firm enough to keep you still, keep you from struggling, keep you from hurting yourself in an ill-thought attempt to escape. It’s an exceedingly effective way of immobilising you, and an unwanted reminder that your husband holds your life in his hands. Your pulse thunders beneath his fingertips as fear and something else you refuse to name unleash a swarm of butterflies in your gut.

Carefully, as if he thinks you’ll shatter like glass, Loki twists your wrist just a fraction more – just enough to loosen your grip.

Your dagger clatters to the floor.

His laughter holds a bitter note of mockery – victory – as he whispers into your ear, “My little assassin.”

Then he shoves you forward, sending you sprawling ungracefully onto your bed where you land face-first. Your body bounces from the impact, and you’re forced to dig and claw and fight with every fibre of your being to try and pull yourself up, keep him in your sights—and you manage to, just in time to see him stoop for your dagger.

Another bitter curse escapes your mouth. Everything feels like slow motion as you rush to get to the doors, but the moment your fingertips brush the gilded handle—

“Not another step.”

The words are spoken quietly; dangerously so, but to your ears, they sound deafening.

Heart pounding, you turn to face your fear head-on at last. He’s given you no other option.

Light from the full moon cascades through the window, illuminating your husband’s silhouette as he examines your dagger with all the boredom you’d expect, but the silvery glint of the blade in his hand makes you tremble.

When his eyes lift back to yours, your throat goes dry. Loki stares you down for one long, unreadable moment before he leisurely gestures to your bed with the tip of the blade. “Sit.”

The unmistakable click of a lock follows. Now he’s locked you in.

You take three shaky steps to the foot of the bed, and proceed to collapse upon it when your knees go weak, but you try not to let it show. You keep your posture straight as a rail and ball your fists in your lap, making a point to stare straight ahead. Not at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

You hear his footfalls, first, as he approaches from around the side of your bed. Then, from the corner of your eye, you see emerald linen and dark leather finally enter your line of sight, before indignation prompts you to slam your eyes shut.

You won’t look at him while he enacts this torture. Instead, you hold your head up high, even when his footsteps finally come to a stop before you. It’s failed attempt at maintaining your composure, because the overarching silence resounds with every shallow, ragged, fearful breath that passes through your lips.

One second passes. Two. Three.

Loki tentatively reaches out to caress your cheek, and you flinch.

“You are absolutely terrified of me, aren’t you,” he murmurs. It’s a statement, not a question, and his voice sounds softer than you've ever heard. Kinder. Not mocking. Not now.

His fingers trail from your cheek to tenderly tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and you feel your chin start to quiver. How cruel he is, to lull you into a false sense of security before he—

Loki quickly tears his hand away like you’ve burnt him—or perhaps the opposite, because you hear him audibly swallow the lump in his throat. “How poorly I have treated you. You have every reason to fear me as you do.”

Hesitantly, you squint open your eyes to find him all but kneeling before you, now, in a way that almost makes him appear smaller than his too-tall stature should otherwise allow. One knee loosely holds his weight as he sits back on his heels; upon the other rests his arm as he looks up at you – up – with something you never expected to grace his features.

Reverence. Repentance. Submission.

Surely not.

Then a silvery gleam catches your eye, and you glimpse your dagger in his other hand, where he holds the blade pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Loki waves it once more – just a little, just enough to ensure that you’ve seen it – before he makes a very cautious, very deliberate point of setting it down atop the tangled blankets to your right. Returning it to you.

“I’ve wronged you terribly. I should never have laid my hands on you.”

An impossible admission.

It’s all you can do to stare at your husband, stunned, because the Loki that you know would never admit to a single lick of wrongdoing. Especially not to you. And yet, he just did.

It disarms you—somewhat.

“No,” you answer haughtily, crossing your arms over your bosom, where you can feel the still-frenzied rhythm of your heart beating out of your chest. “You should never have even considered it, let alone done it twice.”

Something flickers in his gaze, some recognition, and his adam’s apple bobs with the guilt he swallows for a second time. “No,” he readily agrees. “It should never have happened at all. You are unquestionably right.” How easily he acquiesces makes you nervous, particularly when he takes a moment to extend his hands to you, and beckons for your own. “May I?”

You eye him warily. It could be a trick.

“I am always right,” you sass despite, nervously uncrossing your arms to place your hands into his – hesitant, cautious, uncertain of his motives. “Is—Is that not the first lesson any husband must learn?”

Your voice wavers from your nerves.

The uneasiness must show on your face, too, because he begins to rub soft, reassuring circles into the backs of your hands, but all you can think is that his gentle touch feels far more soothing than it should. You should hate it – hate him – but you don’t. Not when he treats you so tenderly.

“The second,” Loki corrects good-naturedly, and the corners of his lips twitch with silent laughter when yours tug into a frown. “I must first learn to honour my wife, merciful as she is.” A more teasing lilt follows, “The most merciful assassin I’ve ever met, to be sure.”

“I am hardly an assassin,” you grouse, and tug at your hands, but he brings them to his lips to leave a kiss upon the back of one, then the other – all the while peering up at you with those stunning green eyes of his that make you so desperately want to trust that this isn’t a trick.

“Indeed. Which is exactly why I seek to offer you my penance.”

Loki has always been a talented liar, but there’s something vulnerable about his expression. Something honest. Something real.

You scoff. “As if you would ever—”

And then, for the first time in centuries, Loki says your name – your actual name – without a shred of mockery, when even his wedding vows held that same familiar bite you’ve grown so accustomed to. “I mean every word. I’ll not so much as speak to you, should you find it amenable.”

You’d love to entertain the idea, but it would never work. “I rather think that will be impossible, Loki. Such a thing would soon become gossip amongst the court.”

“Do you truly believe I care about gossip, when you—” he begins in exasperation, but as soon as he sees your withering look, he relents. “Fine. Then…” Loki pauses to contemplate another option until he seems to take notice of your hands; after which he gives them a gentle squeeze, just one, and releases you. “I’ll not touch you, then, if you so wish it. A fitting recompense, I would imagine.”

That suggestion makes you feel some kind of way. Your stomach twists. “For how long?”

“For however long you should deem it necessary.” Loki takes another moment to consider his answer more thoroughly, and then, “Perhaps a decade to start. Is that suitable?”

“A decade? My, how generous,” you remark, examining your nails. When you glance back up at him, however, it’s clear you’re being contrary just for the sake of being contrary, and his eyes shine knowingly.

“A century, then. Will that suffice?” he questions, tone lighter than previously, but you can still detect the sincerity in his words.

Oh, hell. You’re starting to think he’s serious.

“A century is quite a long time, you know,” you taunt, crossing one leg over the other. The autumn chill in the air bites at your skin, bare halfway below the knee, but you ignore it in favour of sending him another pointed look. “Are you certain that you are up to the task? I would so hate to set you up for failure, ambitious as you are.”

Loki rolls his eyes and pulls himself back to his feet—to make as grand a departure as his arrival, you assume. But you’d almost forgotten how tall he is, so effective was his apology, and your spine instantly stiffens because of how easily he towers over you.

Especially when you’re still sat upon your bed in nothing but your nightdress.

Especially with him blocking the only exit—the only exit, which is still locked.

With a slight flick of his fingers, the doors unlock and swing back open, revealing your sitting room and the freedom just beyond.

When you finally glance back up at your husband, the expression he offers you in response is solemn, bordering on apologetic. “Darling,” Loki says softly, “I will wait however long it takes for that terror in your eyes to dissipate, and longer still.”

The breath catches in your throat.

He is serious.

Loki’s emerald gaze rakes over your body for the briefest of moments, then, before he lets out a long, weary sigh. “Now do get some rest before my mother worries herself into an early grave. Yes? You’ll be of no help to anyone in that state.”

“You speak as though you aren't the primary cause of her worry,” you clap back, wholly on instinct with your mind still reeling from the rest of the conversation. The familiarity of it helps you to regain your footing, though, and you add, “You’ve made such an awful habit of creating all manner of mischief to your own detriment that Frigga would no sooner give you an earful than tend to your wounds.”

Loki’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Frigga, you say—Stars, now you’ve made me worry.” He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval and adds, “It will hardly do for my mother to have an accomplice in all of her lambasting, petal. Not when I value my hearing.”

Sleep deprivation would be the likely culprit for the peal of laughter that escapes you, so joyous and light without the weight of the last week on your shoulders. So light is the feeling, in fact, that your natural laugh comes out for the first time in several decades, and a snort escapes—not unlike that of a pig.

Loki’s brows shoot up in surprise.

Mortified, you rush to clap a hand over your mouth. A torrent of shame rushes through your brain, bringing along with it every single one of your mother’s harsh criticisms about your laugh.

Crude. Unseemly. Ill-mannered at best, and at worst, you look like a peasant. A strumpet. A farmer’s wife, whose laughter matches her livestock. Common.

Face burning hot as the sun, you quickly turn away from Loki to look out the window, where you can only pray that the moonlight will alleviate the heat in your cheeks. You try to focus upon the smattering of lights twinkling in the distance, the homes of the peasantry beyond your gilded cage, and you can’t help but wonder if the farmer’s wife feels any less trapped than you do.

“You are radiant when you laugh.”

A lie, surely.

Flustered, you turn your attention to your duvet, where a fraying thread captures your attention. You pick at it absently, appreciative that your dagger is on the other side of you lest you toy with it instead, and that’s a hair more dangerous. “Hardly.”

“Truly,” Loki counters. "I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you laugh so freely, even when we were young. What could possibly possess you to hide it as you do?”

You know you should be mindful that this is Loki. Your lifelong irritation. You know that he is the one person on all of Asgard to whom you shouldn’t admit your weaknesses, but the night has been... strange.

“A lady should never be seen to laugh so exuberantly,” you quote your mother verbatim – an honest answer, but only on the surface. Then you don the mask of the Duchess’s prideful, snobbish daughter, and arch a perfectly-manicured brow at him. “It is crude, is it not? Uncouth. Not at all suitable for polite society, let alone any woman hoping to secure a highborn match.”

His eyes start to regain some of the steel from earlier, barely enough to notice. “And now you have.”

You blink.

So you have. You hadn’t really considered it until now. But then you laugh – dainty, delicate laughter, meticulously crafted since birth to suit your title – because now the pressure to maintain your façade is even worse. “Oh, yes, and what a spectacle it would be! A Princess of Asgard, looking common,” you spit the word. “Such would be an embarrassment for the Crown.”

You would be the embarrassment.

“Common?” Loki repeats the word with a obvious note of distaste, like it’s a joke he doesn’t particularly appreciate. “Dear girl, you couldn’t look common if you tried.”

You shoot him a look. “It is entirely too late in the evening for your mockery, Loki.”

Your husband studies your face, perplexed, like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite manage to solve. His eyes search yours for the answer to a question he doesn’t ask, nor does he seem to find whatever it is he seeks. Instead, he lets out a long, slow, frustrated sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

“My flattery,” Loki corrects – not combative, but firmer than a jest. “Even I can discern when to hold my tongue.” It sounds like a jab, but you recognise it to be a concession, one even you can see he’s struggling to make; any other time he’d never have managed to keep his temper in check. “I’ll call upon you in the morning. Perhaps we might discuss your letter over breakfast.”

Right. Your provocation. You’d completely forgotten.

You nod, and bring yourself to your feet to see him off. “Until breakfast, then.”

“Indeed. Get some rest.”

Something is different, you think. Off. It’s almost like he can’t quite look at you, and certainly not as he did just a few minutes ago, on his knees begging for your forgiveness.

Then again, the night has been strange.

When Loki takes his leave, his long, brisk strides almost seem to indicate exactly how little he wishes to intrude upon you any longer—though you’re suddenly left wondering whether it’s more for your benefit, now, or his.

Part Seven

#loki x reader #loki #loki imagine #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki odinson

363 notes · View notes

omiscurls · 3 years ago

Note

Hello you precious human! I saw you're taking request and I thought of something.. mabye you have an idea for this one, if not just ignore the ask >.< what if diluc and zhongli (seperate) don't know that their s/o is an artist and one day their sweetheart gifts them a full ass beautiful portrait of them. Maybe they had a hard day and you wanna make them feel better and surprise them or it's an anniversary gift idk, go wild with it ♡

Have a nice day ! Ily and thanks!

gift(ed)

a/n: thank you for this absolutely lovely ask! hope you enjoy reading this!

plot: the reader makes the character a portrait of them

contains: diluc, zhongli

warnings: none!

diluc

you know he hates his birthday, for very obvious reason

but what hurts even more when you hear it, is that from what his old friends say, he used to love it, once

it hurts to think that it became one more aspect of himself he has grown to forget

so you decide to do something about it

you know very well he doesn’t want any celebrations to be held, so therefore he also denies any gifts, but you can only hope he’ll accept this one

you work your ass off for a good long while, wanting it to be absolutely perfect, not one flaw on your canvas, worried he’d notice right away

when the time comes to finally gift it to him, you’re stressed beyond reason, sweaty palms probably ruining the nice packaging that covers the result of your relentless efforts. you have arranged to meet with diluc on starsnatch cliff, hoping to do it casually enough for him not to notice it’s a birthday thing, but also sure he will know, he’s far too intelligent to fall for anything like this, after all.

the sun begins to set as you sit down on the edge of the cliff, testing how far away from the stone can you move your foot without starting to feel dizzy.

the grass is already getting cold from the humidity of the night air, and you wonder if you should stand up after all, so not to stain your outfit.

it’s only a call of your boyfriend that rips you away from your train of thought.

“darling?” is what diluc says, voice uncertain as he stands below you “you asked to see me?”

you turn around, a welcoming smile crawling up your lips, and even though he doesn’t know the reason he’s here for yet, he already thinks it was worth it, just to see you, smiling like that in the field of cecilias.

“you’re here!” you exclaim happily, almost making him chuckle, because how could he not if it was you who asked?

you get up, careful not to show him the package behind your back too soon. he takes a big step forward, arm already securing you from the edge, hovering around your waist, but not touching you, still.

“let’s get further away from the edge, shall we?” he asks softly, and although you want to laugh at his endless worries, the love and care in his voice makes you swoon internally. “so?” he asks after making sure for your safety. “what’s with the scenery?”

“well” you grin, looking down at your feet, over the minute he’s been here he already managed to make you forget everything you had on your mind. “don’t take it as a birthday gift, cause it’s not that!” you explain rapidly, shaking your head “the only thing i wanted was to make you smile, or, i don’t know, the thing is, i hope you like it-“

you don’t quite know what to say, but diluc chooses to surprise you with a soft look you so rarely get to see.

“darling, it’s not like i have a phobia for birthday gifts or something” he assures “it just feels a bit weird to celebrate myself on such an anniversary, but i’m honored that you spent your time with me on your mind, i really am”

you feel more confident with that on your mind, and you hand him your gift.

he takes it, raising an eyebrow, slowly untying the ribbon you ornamented the packaging with. as he slowly unwraps the paper, his eyes notice something he genuinely didn’t expect.

it’s a painting of him, or at least he thinks so, smiling with his eyes closed, hand tilted and resting on his hand, slight blush creeping up his cheeks. he wonders if that’s really him, but the physical resemblance is unquestionable, even though he doesn’t remember the last time he has seen this kind of expression on his face.

“i-” he attempts to speak up, but stutters “where have you had this ordered?”

you grin even wider, knowing the biggest surprise is yet to be dawned upon him.

“i didn’t” you explain “i painted it myself, do you like it?”

you catch a sparkle shoot through his eyes before he lifts them up from the painting to find yours.

“no, really?” he asks in shock, quickly going back to admiring the gift. “it’s- you’re- you’re very talented, do you know that? it’s so detailed-” he shakes his head slightly, having a hard time comprehending all that was happening.

“i managed to sneak a photo of you on our anniversary dinner” you say “i wouldn’t be able to paint this without a reference, plus, i’d like you to know what moment i based this on. if i’m able to make you smile like that from time to time, then i never want to stop.”

you can swear his eyes glisten with a thin layer of tears forming, but he blinks them back as soon as possible, and you can’t get a good look. instead, he looks at you again, love practically seeping through his gaze.

“thank you” he says quietly, smiling just how you like it, not even fully aware that he is. he approaches you to wrap an arm around you and press a quick peck to your forehead. “this just might be the best birthday i’ve ever had.”

zhongli

you’ve been to someone’s birthday party together

and it came in the conversation between the two of you that he has never received a proper gift

offering is not a gift

it was a whole deal, with choosing the present for that person, wrapping it up, decorating...

and you decided - why not just make him something, with no occasion necessary? maybe he’ll like it, maybe he’ll just acknowledge it’s existence, worth a shot

so there you are, waiting outside the parlor, gripping on the package in your hands, and waiting for him to come out.

it feels like ages since the moment you arrived, but can’t be longer than a couple of minutes. zhongli has no liking to material possesions, and you’re aware of that, so you’re hoping he’ll value the effort and thought you’ve put into your gift. you know he’d never hurt your feelings, not on purpose, at the very least, but you’re still kind of worried.

“hello there” you almost jump out in surprise as you hear a tranquil voice behind you.

“oh my, you scared me!” you let out a breathy laugh, but he seems to have ignored your comment.

“have you been waiting long?” he asks instead, to which you shake your head slightly.

“no.” you say immediately, a gentle smile welcoming him as always. he nods and attempts to take your hand, intent to go on a walk in his mind, but stops, surprised as he feels the rectangular object in your hand.

“oh, are we planning to go to someone’s party again today? i wish you’d included me in the gift picking process this time too, it was entertaining the last we did it” even though he says that, no disappointment shows up behind his eyes as he waits for your response.

“ah, no, you see-” you take a breath “that’s actually for you”

his eyebrow rises ever so slightly as he mentally studies what date is today and if he has forgotten about anything.

“oh” he finally mumbles “and may i ask to what do i owe the pleasure?”

his talent with words seems to be on his side, and he’s apparently able to talk himself out of the confusion you put him in.

“to absolutely nothing” you shrug, smile growing bigger, as his mind spins even harder, not getting the point more now. “other than being my amazing person.” you add.

he feels his heart flutter in a weird pattern, but ignores it as you place the gift in his hands. he just sort of looks at it for a while, and you’re already scared he’s going to say something unexpectable, but instead he starts to unwrap the thing gently and carefully.

you watch his eyes widen as he sees himself, painted by your hand, the softest of smiles painting his expression in warm colours. to you, that’s just how he looks everyday, but to him?

this is just one of many forms to him. he doesn’t look in mirrors a lot, he doesn’t pay much mind to it, he never studies his appearance how others do. he doesn’t get insecure in a way humans do.

it feels foreign to look at the picture. it feels as if he’s looking at someone, indoubtly at himself, but through your eyes instead. he never knew his eyes looked this kind, and that the corners of his lips didn’t lift evenly when he smiled, instead having one slightly above the other.

you notice so many things, he realizes, and he looks up at you, a wandering gaze searching for your eyes, as he struggles to comprehend just how wonderful of a chance he had gotten to meet you.

he had seen miracles come to life and crumble before him, but never once had he though he’d be one to witness something as beautiful as your love and your affections are.

meanwhile you wonder if he’s searching for the right words to say you “just shouldn’t have”

you almost speak up, about how you just felt like doing something like this, and he doesn’t have to keep it, or something, but he manages to comment before you do.

“your work is gorgeous, dear.” he says blandly, but quickly adds “but you’re the best gift i could ever encounter.”

#genshin impact #genshin boys #zhongli x gender neutral reader #zhongli fluff #zhongli headcanons #zhongli x reader #zhongli #diluc #diluc fluff #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #diluc imagines #diluc x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff

294 notes · View notes

inessencedevided · 3 years ago

Note

Wei Wuxian enters the Underworld Chamber with several scrolls clutched in his arms, struggling to keep them all together but he is able to settle them down on a table next to the one that is holding his client with a great clatter. For a moment he entertains himself with thinking what the Second Jade who was known to be very rule abiding would say to his general … everything. He would probably have those straight, black eyebrows furrowed and reprimand him with a single word.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here, hm?”, he offers and sifts through his collection of scrolls from the library of the Lan sect. “Your older brother gave me access to some very interesting scrolls, you know?! Your sect is famous for musical cultivation, he told me that you were on your way to become the best guqin player, close to Lan Yi. Fascinating stuff, this. Inquiry. Talking to the dead through the means of music. Maybe this will help me before I use Empathy. Which is a method I invented.”

He does this a lot, chattering away at people to break the ice. There is not a lot of ice to break because the person he is talking to is dead but it still feels nicer than to be completely quiet. And according to ZewuJun, his brother is still here, so maybe he will feel less alone like this. So he shuffles over to the guqin that seems to have been repaired. There is still some brownish-red residue on the wood and he knows that it only can be one thing. Blood. “Alright. Let’s do this,” he says softly. Carefully, he follows the movements that are described on the page, lets the notes ring out, waits for an answer in the dark.

There is silence for a moment and he is afraid he played so badly that the ghost is somehow offended and doesn’t want to come. But then, suddenly, there is an answer. No unnecessary embellishments, played slowly so he can understand but still so beautiful that he knows who it is. Who it only can be.

Who are you sings the instrument and he makes an excited sound, shuffling even closer. Wei Wuxian he answers, carefully playing out the notes. Your brother. Asked for help. he answers haltingly. It is almost like learning a new language. I go through memories. Am I allowed? There is another moment of silence, then he swears the answer sounds almost surprised. Yes. You may, Wei Wuxian. He giggles and bites his lip. “Call me Wei Ying,” he tells the room before remembering that he should have used the guqin. The instruments sings out, completely unprompted. Wei Ying.

His grin threatens to split his face and he gets up, walking towards the body, taking in the serene face, the inky hair, the creamy skin. He really is a beauty. “Just a moment,” he tells him and pats his hand, walking to the door and calling Lan Xichen in, who comes without any further prompting. “He gave me permission,” Wei Wuxian explains and then hands the sect leader a Clarity Bell, a thank you from Jiang Yanli for helping her sect when it called for it. “Ring this when things get sticky or I do not wake up. It will call me back.”

ZewuJun nods, taking the Bell, settling in, watching them both with a worried expression but Wei Wuxian just smiles and kneels next to the body, taking his hands, noticing how cold and yet soft they are, callouses at their fingertips from playing the guqin. “Lan Wangji,” he whispers. “Show me. Show me what is keeping you here.”

The memories feel like the first snow beneath naked feet, dropping into a body of cold water but also like standing on a mountain and letting the winds rush by. They start with a little boy kneeling in front of a house surrounded by gentians, clad in the same white the whole sect wears. He is six at most and why this memory is shown, Wei Wuxian doesn’t know but he keeps concentrating, diving deeper. He sees a strikingly handsome teenager studying in the library, copying old scrolls, playing quin and sneaking vegetables to the back hills where white bunnies roam. The images flash by, a lecture with disciples from other sects, Wen Chao and his entourage arriving and making a scene.

One moment stands out. The same teenager who must be Lan Wangji catches a young female disciple roaming the back hills, a Wen from the red of her robes. He walks away with her and the scenery shifts. They are in a building that is most likely the home of the sect leader, ZewuJun and his brother who stands next to him, straight-backed and breathtaking. He can hear voices, hears them talking of something Wen Ruohan wants, that he will raze the Cloud Recesses to the ground for it. The Yin Iron. Part of it is hidden away here. They will need to prepare for the worst.

The scene shifts again, to Caiyi and Lan Wangji walking through the busy market, holding his sword in his hand, one hand in a fist behind his back like a proper gentleman. He can hear crying and both of them look for the source of it, Wei Wuxian constricted by the limited sight he has. It is little girl with braided buns, crying heartbreakingly next to a stall with animals made from colourful cloth.

The cultivator with the severe face and the countenance of a remote, snow-capped mountain, kneels next to her and hands her a bunny rabbit made from colourful cloth, just purchased apparently, waiting for her to talk. “I lost my gege,” she sobs and shuffles closer, hugging him, getting his white robes dirty. He does not seem to care, instead looks at her and gently lays a hand on her shoulder. “I have a gege as well. I would be scared if I lost him in the crowd,” he says and oh, his voice. It’s calm and deep, trying to settle the little girl. “Shall we look for him together?”

She sniffles and nods, taking his hand in hers, looking up at him in awe and Wei Wuxian can relate. After just a moment, they have found her big brother and the little girl runs to hug him with a shriek of delight. He can see the corners of Lan Wangji’s mouth tilt up into a soft smile, barely noticeable but it is there. He seems to be content with a job well done.

Another shift. They seem to come quicker now, more talk of the Yin Iron, someone he recognises as Lan Qiren taking stock of their most valuable scriptures, letting it be taken away. It is terribly busy but Lan Wangji is a mountain in a rushing stream, carrying what he can with his impressive arm strength.

Yet another and the Cloud Recesses are burning. The disciples are running, many of them armed, some carrying instruments. Caiyi is in disarray as well, people barricading their homes, locking up their animals. Lan Wangji is making a sweep through town, his immaculate robes already stained with soot. The little girl from before runs towards him and hugs his leg, tearful and scared but she knows she is safe with the young cultivator. He gently pats her head and does the same to her rabbit doll.

Then, his face grows serious and he kneels down to look at her, reaching up and undoing his ribbon that falls into his hands, carefully tying it around her wrist. “Keep this safe. Go and take your brother, your parents and look for a grey mountain with yellow veins. This will give you free passage through the secret entrance. You will be safe,” he tells her gently and gets up. “Look for a man who looks like me but older. Lan Xichen.”

Another shift. This one seems to be the last. Lan Wangji is riddled with arrows, bleeding profusely, staggering but still standing upright. His forehead is bare, his hands around the hilt of his sword are bloodied but he carries himself with grace and sheer bullheaded stubbornness. What was that saying again? No matter how the wind howls, the mountain cannot bow to it. He is so very brave. Wei Wuxian can feel his need to protect the ones who are hidden in the cave behind him even at the cost of his own life.

He seems to have set his mind on something, following Wen Xu, even as another arrow buries itself in his back and a voice cries out “A-Zhan! No!”. A sharp crack, bones crunching. His leg is broken but Wen Xu is dead, staring into nothingness. Lan Wangji does not cry out, instead uses his sword to get up again, breathing hard, spitting blood but still, there is a defiant light in his eyes. Someone trips him up and he falls to his knees, his head held high, his guqin on the ground next to him, strings bloodied. As the sword finds its mark, Wei Wuxian does not look away. Dares not look away. Lan Wangji stays proud and brave until he crumples to the ground and stops breathing.

Ringing, silvery and gentle, pulls him out of the cold waters, guides him back into his own body. As he comes to with a gasp, he notices that he has been crying. He wipes his eyes and looks at the body in front of him, at this brave and stubborn man who died defending those he cared about. “You were so good. So good, Lan Zhan,” he whispers, the personal name slipping out as he squeezes the cold hands, looks into his serene face. “The best.”

He turns to Lan Xichen who looks like he has been crying as well. “He died with the deep wish to protect still ingrained into him. He wants to make sure you are alright. And… he is guarding something. I… you spoke of the Yin Iron.”

The way Lan Xichen pales is answer enough.

- 🍄 anon

(Part one for all who didn't read it)

Omg!!! You sent me through every feeling IMAGINABLE 🍄 anon 😭😭😭

That line about there being a lot of ice to crack made me laugh and then you just came at me like that with feelings about lwj dieing! Not. Fair. 🥺

And lwj + little kids = love :D

#🍄 anon #ask #undead lwj fic #that's going to be the tag now #because he's not a fierce corpse not really a ghost either so ... generally undead it is ^^#the untamed #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wangxian #wangxian fic #cql #mdzs

63 notes · View notes

jumpship90 · 3 years ago

Note

“I’ve read a lot about this Christmas holiday of yours. I never expected it to be quite like this.”

For jaq and phin pls 🥰

Thank you so much for this prompt! :) Ok, I am super late with this but I reckon it still counts as Christmas as we're pre-new year so here are roughly 1700 words of pure romantic fluff of Jaq and Phineas enjoying their first Christmas together aboard The Hope

Pixelated flames flickered away on the aetherwave screen and Phineas Welles gave a contented, heavy sigh as he sank onto the sofa. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this full in his life.

“You know, I’ve read a lot about this Christmas holiday of yours. I never expected it to be quite like this.”

Jaq chuckled where they were slumped beside him. They languidly draped an arm about his shoulders, knocking his paper crown askew, before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, very much so. Though, I’m not sure I’ll need to eat again for several days.”

The feast had been like something from the old Auntie Cleo’s ads from his youth showing the perfect, wholesome, Halcyon family crammed around a table groaning under the weight of the food. Only, in place of ruddy-faced parents and beaming children, the long benches in the canteen had been filled with his lab-coated colleagues and the Hope’s support staff, all tucking into a spread that had been carefully prepared over the course of the morning. Not all of the colonists celebrated in what he was informed was the traditional sense, and there had been other holidays besides this one, but this was Jaq’s favourite and so Phineas had decided it was his, too.

Jaq hummed in agreement and patted their stomach.

“Not quite a turkey with the trimmings, but that was easily the best meal I’ve eaten since thawing out.”

There’d been a great deal of debate over the food in the weeks leading up to today. Everyone seemed to have a different signature dish, a perfect recipe or a family tradition that had to be incorporated. There’d been boarst wrapped in cysty-bacon, mounds of golden roasted potatoes, vegetables fried with cysty-bits, and in pride of place at the centre of the table, the largest chicken Phineas had ever laid eyes upon. This alone would have been more than enough but several colonists had insisted that the meal wasn’t complete without trifle topped with purpleberry-pieces followed by crackers and wooly-cow cheese. After all that, the walk back to their quarters had been quite the undertaking and Phineas was feeling warm and drowsy, his eyes slipping closed.

Jaq nudged him. “No sleeping just yet, you still need to open your present.”

Oh yes, presents. How could he forget after the weeks of agonising over precisely what to give them? Jaq had explained that it should be something small and personal, and preferably inexpensive. Which suited him just fine. He didn’t often leave the Hope, and vanishingly rarely without his partner at his side, so it would have been near impossible to purchase something without them discovering the surprise. No, he had turned his ingenuity rather than his bits toward finding them the perfect gift.

“Come on, we can snooze after this,” Jaq said, getting to their feet with a grunt. They offered him a hand that Phineas gratefully accepted, struggling upright. Good law, all this celebrating was exhausting.

The tree had appeared a week ago, lugged over one broad shoulder from the Unreliable and deposited in the corner of their shared room. Apparently, Jaq had liberated it from the vaults of the hidden Museum of Earth recently uncovered in Byzantium. It was, they explained, a replica of the fir tree that had filled their home each year at this season, and that they must decorate it together. Phineas didn’t quite grasp the significance of hanging coloured paper ribbons and taped together ornaments on a plant, but it mattered to Jaq so he had thrown himself into it with gusto. A few chipped glass flasks and test tubes painted with snowflakes had served well to adorn the plastic spruce and Jaq had been thrilled by it. At the top sat a star, cut from spare sheet metal they’d been using to patch up the hold. It twinkled in the dancing light of the screen as he eased himself down to the woolly cow rug before the fake fire.

“Yours is a little rough around the edges,” Jaq said as they rummaged beneath the tree, groping around the floor for something. They emerged a second later clutching a rectangular object carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with a ribbon. “I couldn’t find the mineral oil I wanted to finish it with so had to make do with the stuff in the storeroom.”

They gave a near shy smile as they handed him the gift, sitting back on their heels to watch as he peeled away the wrapping a layer at a time until an intricately carved spoon appeared.

“You made this yourself?” he asked, turning the utensil in his hands, marvelling at the workmanship. He’d seen Jaq take apart any number of electrical items and knew that they were talented when it came to mechanics but he’d no idea they could turn their hand to carpentry as well.

They nodded. “Where my family are from, sailors used to give them to their sweetheart before they went to sea, as a token of love and a way of winning their heart. If it was accepted, traditionally that meant you were a couple.”

Phineas ran his fingers over the wood, following the grain. He could imagine the hours of work that had gone into this, could perfectly picture Jaq leant over the bench in the Unreliable’s hold, calloused hands cutting and chiselling, sanding and smoothing, their handsome brow tugged into a neat V of concentration as they worked.

“It’s made from a mock apple tree we’ve transplanted to the New Hope Centre build site. The anchor’s a symbol for safety and security, and these bits, they’re called celtic knots, they mean everlasting. Eternal.”

He glanced up at that to find Jaq watching him intently, a faint flush to their cheeks visible in the twinkling lights strung about the tree.

“I’ve not worked with wood since I was kid, so I hope it’s alright?”

It was a good deal more than alright, Phineas thought. Handmade items were rare in Halcyon, given colonists did not usually have the time nor energy to create them. He knew he held something precious; a link to Jaq’s past, the fruits of their toils, a physical manifestation of their regard for him. He ran his fingertips over the curve of the handle with reverence.

“It’s splendid,” he said, setting the spoon down cautiously between them so that he could take their hand. “And I wholeheartedly accept your gift, my intrepid sailor.”

Jaq grinned, ducking their head. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I do,” he assured them, giving their hand a squeeze before releasing it to go hunting under the tree for his own present. “Now, let me just find . . . aha! Here we are!”

A frisson of nervous excitement sparked in his chest as he slid a thin, square package out from between the branches. He handed it over with care, worrying at his lip as he watched his partner slide a finger beneath the fold of the wrapping paper. Stars, after what Jaq had given him he hoped this would be a suitable gift in return.

Once all the paper sat in a pile by their feet, Jaq was left delicately holding a sheet of plastic. A faintly confused smile turned up the corner of their lips.

“It’s . . . a brain scan?” they said, looking to him for confirmation.

“Yes! My brain!”

He leant over to better show them what they were looking at.

“To be precise, it is a scan of my brain showing the nucleus accumbens – that’s a structure that mediates emotional and pleasure processing – lit up as bright as our Christmas tree.” He took Jaq’s hand, directing them to a bold, white patch between grey squiggles, circling it with a fingertip. “And you see all these sections? The colours here? These are the dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin pathways. Increased activity here is associated with experiencing romantic love.”

He beamed up at them. “Everything you see here is what’s going on in my brain when I think about you.”

Jaq sat silent, processing, and Phineas near reckoned he could hear their own brain ticking over that information. He watched their gaze running over the image as softly as their fingers, deep brown eyes moving from one luminous patch of grey matter to the next with a look of wonder.

“This”- he tapped the plastic film -“this is irrefutable, scientific proof of my love for you.”

Their mouth parted at that but no sound passed them. Their throat bobbed around a hard swallow and Phineas found himself with the sudden urge to fill the silence for them.

“I wanted to see if there was any difference in emotional processing in the brains of those awoken from extended cryosleep, and of course, that required a comparison to a non-colonist brain, and you know I have always been a strong believer in testing the science on oneself . . .”

He knew he was rambling but they seemed to need a moment so he continued on, explaining the basis of the experiment that had led to this particularly delightful illustration of his musings on them.

“ . . . and it can get rather dull lying there in the scanner, so naturally my mind wandered to you and –“

He didn’t get any further as suddenly Jaq’s lips found their sense of purpose, impressing upon his own a kiss that left his head spinning. He found himself gripping tight to their shirt for balance.

“Thank you,” they breathed, their head pressed to his own. “It’s perfect, Phin.”

When eventually they drew back, he could see pure, unfiltered affection writ large across their face and a warmth shining back at him from their eyes that could have engulfed a star. There was no need for a brain scan; Jaq made no attempt to hide the strength of their feeling for him.

Phineas uncurled his fingers and flattened his palm against their chest. The steady, reassuring beat of their heart pulsed against his skin. He gave a thoughtful nod and kissed the tip of their nose.

“Well, yes, of course it is.” He gave them a mischievous smirk, eyes twinkling. “That’s the mind of a genius you’re looking at.”

The delighted laughter that burst from Jaq’s throat rang about the room and a moment later, their fingers tangled in his hair as they pulled him in for a deeper kiss. As Phineas found himself pressed back into the soft embrace of wooly fur, the lights of the tree softly blinking above him, he considered that truly there was something to this talk of magic at Christmas.

Posting this was delayed by me going down a rabbit hole about brain scans and trying to come up with something suitably clever for Phineas to say regarding reward processing centres and the rest. I won’t pretend any of what I’ve written is particularly accurate but if you want to read some of the same articles I did then you can find out more here:

https://www.livescience.com/18468-relationship-longevity-brain-scans.html here -

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2954158/

https://www.medicaldaily.com/what-love-mri-scan-reveals-what-stages-romantic-love-youre-brain-map-326080

I also watched this fascinating video of people thinking about love in an MRI scanner and trying to “win” at loving the most - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1npQEdTsF8

Also, for anyone interested in the history of Welsh love spoons, there’s a bit of info about the tradition and the different symbols here - https://angelwoodcraft.co.uk/history-of-the-welsh-love-spoon/

#just a bit of late christmas fluff and magic #because Jaq and Phineas deserve to have a lovely time together #jaq/phin #captain jaq #phineas welles #christmas fic #tow fic #my writing

22 notes · View notes

thisisthehardestthing · 4 years ago

Text

18+

GOLD

TENDŌ SATORI X FEM!READER

Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab. This is a loving dedication to my favorite fairytale as a child: Rumpelstiltskin. 9k words of smut, I apologise for it’s length, but it has to mirror Tendo’s big dick energy, y’know. wordcount: 9,300 Warnings: yandere-ish, virgin reader, oral (receiving), fingering (receiving, penetrative sex, one derogatory word (whore), cheating (this is just to be safe). Nothing too wild, but it’s hella dirty. Tags: @joyousandverywarlike I love you wifey, thank you for beta-reading before we both crashed. Thanks for the eternal hype @whats-her-quirk you make my heart sing! @pleasantanathema , @present-mel and @linestrider . I am so, so happy to have met you three xx

> MASTERLIST HERE <

GOLD.

You pace the small space of your house, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath your weight. The King summoned your father three days ago, and by your calculations, he should be back any minute with news. Your eyes are downcast, watching your bare feet shuffle across the floor, the tattered hem of your skirt rustling with each movement. You sigh, smoothing down the white of your apron and catching a glimpse of your reflection in the polished tin on the wall.

Huffing, you turn away and close your eyes, not wanting to see the worry laced in them. You are a pauper, your father a poor miller. There must’ve been a terrible reason for his presence to have been so urgently demanded at the court. The land has been in crisis for a while now; businesses have started shutting down, and you fear that it is now your small family’s turn to be thrown out onto the streets.

The doorknob twists and the heavy door swings open as your father steps across the threshold, removing his grey cap, cheeks sallow. His best clothing no longer looks dapper but rather worn in, lackluster.

“Father! Welcome home,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck, bringing him in close to smell the lingering scent of a mare and travel. You can tell something is off from the way he half-hugs you, grip weak around your waist. You pull back, that gnawing fear in your gut itching its way up your spine.

“Pray, tell me, what did the King want? Must we shut down the mill?” you ask, helping him to undress, taking his single-breasted coat from his frail shoulders. Was he this small when he left? He chokes back a sob, clutching his chest with one hand to cup your cheek with the other.

“Oh, daughter, my sweet, beautiful daughter,” he begins, his palm sinking to your shoulder, his voice watery as he continues, “that was his original intent, yes.” You feel the weight of his hand pull you beneath the earth, yet there is some hope in your chest as you suck in a sharp breath.

“And what of now?”

“I’m sorry, my darling, I’m sorry,” your father repeats his words, hanging his head before meeting your stare with a shaken one of his own. His lower lip trembles beneath his thick moustache, and you clutch his hand in a vice, it’s ice cold. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s madness.”

“Tell me, please.”

“The King asked me if I had anything worth more than the mill to barter with, to absolve us from not affording the tax, and I replied with you, my daughter. You’re worth more than any precious metal to me.” Tears begin to pool in your fathers eyes, and your hands tighten around his, unsure of where the conversation is heading.

“I had told him that you are the most beautiful maiden in the kingdom, however, he cares not for beauty but for material possessions, and without thought I exclaimed that you could spin straw into pure gold,” he says. You gasp, releasing his hand as if made of ice, the cold burning you.

“Father!”

“I am to send you to him by tomorrow evening. You’re to leave on the morrow. I will pray that your beauty is enough for our King to be merciful.”

Merciful? The King is anything but. You feel your world begin to crumble. How are you to spin straw into gold? That is a power only the Fae possess, and you tremble at the thought of what will happen once the King realizes your father has lied.

***

The looming gates of the castle are opulent, brass shining bright in the late afternoon, glinting against a peach and lilac sky. You have ridden on your father's mare through the day and can feel your thighs twitch from the exertion. You’re weary from the hot sun, the travel, and your frantic nerves twist knots in your stomach. Soldiers in fine armor stand to attention, and although they do not move, you can see how the men leer at your features, feel the difference in status crawl over your flesh like spiders.

Although you are wrapped in a dark green cloak, you feel bare beneath their stares, as though they can see the beige shift dress. Clutching its opening tight against your body, you keep your eyes straight ahead to avoid contact with any lingering gazes. You dismount, giving your horse a final stroke before you follow servants into the stone castle.

They walk fast, and you struggle to keep up, taken aback by the marble floor. The stained glass windows litter a rainbow of colours against the white stone, dancing across your skin as you walk through it and into a large hall where King Ushijima is waiting for your arrival. He’s handsome, but the scowl on his features twists your intestines, knotting them intricately. As you move closer, however, his eyebrows begin to relax and lift, his eyes widen, only slightly, taking in your appearance. You keep your head bowed in respect, eyes on the tips of your leather slippers peeking out from beneath the cloak.

The servants excuse themselves, and the doors close. All you hear is the beating of your heart and the drumming of the Kings fingers against the armrest of his throne.

“Lift your chin, girl.”

The King’s voice is gruff, commanding, and you find yourself obeying and straightening up tall so that he can see your face. He huffs, standing up and walking down grey stone steps that seem to glitter in the candle light and the last of the sun. The red of his coat is akin to blood, and it sweeps graciously around his tall frame as he stands over you.

“I thought your father was lying when he said his daughter was the fairest maiden in the Kingdom, yet he has proven me wrong. It gives me hope that the other claims he has made are not false and you may not hang in the morrow after all,” he announces, peering down over his nose at your frame. “Follow me.”

“Your Majesty,” you curtsy, and trail behind the King as he leads you through the high ceiling hallways of the castle, up and up and up the stairs, to a wooden door.

He pushes it open, the weight of the door pulling a groan from the iron hinges and steps aside for you to enter. The smell hits you first, earthy and overpowering, and you see towering piles of straw completely covering the floor and walls. In the center sits a spinning wheel in a pale birch. Your heart drops to your stomach and you feel the colour drain from your face. This must be a dream, a cruel, cruel dream.

“You have until the sun rises to transform all this straw into the finest of gold, or I will have to sentence you for trickery.”

With that, the King shuts the door. You hear the lock turn with a resounding clank. The room is shrouded in darkness and you fall to your knees, sobs uprooting in your chest at the predicament you find yourself in. You tug at the ribbon of your cloak, letting it fall open to the floor as you cry, the tears silver in the light of the full moon shining through the window.

You sob for a while, tremors shaking your body as you curl in on yourself. You barely notice the door open an inch, pale fingers curling around the side before a head with hair the shade of pomegranate peers at your sunken figure.

“Oh, ho ho! What have we here~?” a lilting voice shocks you. Your head snaps up to watch a figure bound into the room. He is tall, waif-like, with heavily lidded eyes. Your breath is snatched away as you gaze upon his hair that seems to stand on end, as though wind travels through the air, but the room is still and the window shut. The door was locked, how did he enter?

“Why are you crying, little girl?” The strange man asks, bending over at the hips with his long fingers reaching out to lift your chin up, wiping at the tears under your eyes. You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry, feeling embarrassed for your weakness, and being called young. You are of proper age at three and twenty.

“I have to spin all the straw into gold before the sun rises or I will be hanged. It’s an impossible task and I’m not sure what to do!” you begin to cry again, the tears streaming down your face and slipping down the nimble fingers that hold your jaw. The stranger tuts, tilting his head as he regards your solemn appearance.

“It’s not impossible. What will you give me if I complete this task for you?” There’s a smirk on his lips, and a glint in his garnet eyes that ensnare you to fall into them.

“I have nothing on me to give, I am a pauper,” you whisper, ashamed of your low class. The hand withdraws and you see him stretch up, a hand on his hips as he waves at your body in a grand gesture, fingers seemingly bending backwards.

“False, you have your beauty, and I am a lover of beautiful things~,” the song in his voice then drops an octave as he asks again, his eyes narrowing as if you’re prey, “so what will you give me in return?” You ponder his words, feeling blood flush your cheeks at being complimented by someone so boldly.

“I can only gift you a kiss,” you finally say, pushing up to stand. He eagerly grabs your arms, tugging you close, against his chest. You smell spice and the green of the forest after a heavy rain, transporting you to a far away land, an escape.

“I accept this trade~.” His lips crash against yours, soft pillows melting into your skin. He tastes like molasses, sweet yet dark. The kiss is bruising and his hands wander across your back and down to your waist, pulling you ever closer, letting you fall drunkenly into the taste that is him. He pulls away too soon and you have to bite the protest from escaping your lips.

Humming an odd tune, the stranger sits down at the spinning wheel, picks up a handful of straw and weaves it into a glittering gold thread. It takes only three turns of the wheel before the bobbin is full and he picks up more straw. Like this, he works throughout the night until all the straw has been transformed into precious metal. You’re still drunk from his touch, mouth agape at his elegant movements, and when you next blink, the work has been completed with plenty of time before the sun is to rise.

Wordlessly, he rises from his seat to tower over you, cupping your face delicately between both palms, he plants a lingering kiss to your forehead. He resumes humming, a devious smirk on his mouth as he saunters out of the room and the door closes behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the stillness.

The sun rises, and the King walks through the door with a purpose, expecting for you to have failed at the test. When he sees the glittering gold in the morning light, his eyes darken and a smile splits his face in half as greed consumes him.

“You can live for another day, but do not think you are liberated yet. I will need you to prove it to me once more as this could be the work of illusionment and fade throughout the day,” King Ushijima booms. Turning on his heel, he strides out the room, ordering you to follow.

He leads you into another stone room, this one larger than the previous, filled with even more straw to the top of the ceiling and you start to feel dread claw up your ribs, piercing your skin. There’s no telling what would happen the following morning.

“Turn all this straw into gold by the morrow and I will let you live,” the King states, and curtly exits to leave you alone with the scraps of your freedom.

You spend the entire day in the room, pacing and crying at the thought of failure. When night falls and casts its shadows, you hear the door click open and a familiar tune carry through the air. The handsome stranger from the night before curves around the door, peering at your frightened yet hopeful body. The moon is brighter tonight, almost full, casting a glow around the room and onto your skin.

“Miller’s daughter, you need not cry~,” he sings, making you freeze at the mention of your father’s profession, but the tears continue to pour down your face. He closes the distance between your bodies with two steps of his long legs. His flaming hair wafts around him as he wipes the salted water from your cheeks.

“What will you give me tonight if I spin this straw into gold?”

He notices your brow furrowing and sees how you swallow down your nerves. It makes him want to chuckle at the depravity of his question. You are so innocent, and so desperate for help.

“You are a maiden, are you not? Unwedded, unbedded?” The stranger asks you and he feels how your cheeks warm beneath his palm, letting his smirk twist into a wide smile. You nod, shifting awkwardly under his hold. He drops his cool hands to your shoulders and his skin is the colour of porcelain in the moon’s light. “Then give me your first sexual death in return.”

You step backwards, bewildered, unsure of his advances. You can’t let a man defile you in a way that is meant for your husband, yet here he is, requesting something so perverse. The memory of his lips against yours, the weight of his palm into your waist, flood your mind and you forget to breathe. The straw seems soft enough, your head swims. The King’s warning echoes in a chill up your spine, so you agree to his offer, which is met with a cunning grin.

Either you weigh less than a feather or he’s strong as an ox when he lifts you by the waist and over his shoulder, the round of your ass in the air, which he playfully taps and elicits a squeal from your tear-swollen lips. He hushes you while spreading a pile of hay with his foot.

“You cannot be too noisy, little girl~” he sings, placing you gently on your back, crouching between your ankles, “we wouldn’t want anyone to hear you.”

He seems utterly feral as his deft fingers ghost over your calves to thumb the hem of your simple shift dress. The fire in his eyes burns with impatience as he bunches the fabric up over your knees, to the gentle curve of your thighs where the hem of your breeches end, until it's on your waist. He takes a deep breath, you hold yours, and with your heart beating in your ears, the drawstring of your undergarments comes undone.

You realise he’s humming that strange tune when you shimmy out of your modesty, and the song hitches in his throat when your untouched cunt comes into view. It turns into a low moan and then a whistle, throwing the cotton pants behind him.

“Your sheath is as beautiful as your face, cunning as it calls out to me.” There’s no hint of rhythm in his voice, but rather a deep vibrato as lust takes over and he licks his lips. It makes your heart throb, pounding in your chest and in the delicate skin of your sex.

He lets his strong, long fingers knead the flesh of your thighs, smooth and supple under the glow of the moon, inching them upwards. You bite your bottom lip to keep from sounding out, sure in the fact that a guard may pass at any moment. The wine-haired man shuffles forward, pulling apart your legs until you’re spread for him, accessible. You can feel the blush start from your pubic bone and catch fire all along your body to heat the very top of your head. His intense stare summons your need to shut your knees but he lays down to his stomach, wedging his body so that you are at his whim.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?” he asks, the palms of his hands so large they cover the meat of your inner thigh, his thumbs ghosting over your outer labia. Your head falls back in shame— no, anticipation. His movements are precise, teasing, and you shake your head to answer him.

“No one, you are the first.” You say silent thanks to the Lord that your voice is unwavering, breathy, and the strange man’s eyes darken to sangria.

“Lucky me to be the first to taste the sap of your fruit, your ripe nectar~!”

His thumbs glide over the soft casing and into the fold between your inner lips, unfurling them, your clit jutting out as the skin pulls taught. You suck in cool air as the nerves tingle against his warm breath. A second passes, and then three more and you’re almost tricked to relax when you feel a wet muscle press against the opening of your cunt. You shiver as he moans, the tight muscles tingle within you; your spine lifts into a delicate curve in response.

He wastes no time in making you writhe, lips encasing the displayed clit and sucking powerfully. You feel yourself drop into him, hands flying down to grab his hair, fingers burying themselves in his locks. There’s immense pleasure, instantly. Tiny shockwaves travel outwards from his mouth into your feet, and they curl in the straw, bending, snapping, folding them beneath your toes.

Soft whimpers escape, struggling to keep them contained as you bite down on your lip. No sooner than a minute must’ve passed for you to feel the heat building in your chest, the tips of your ears burning and your core clenching.

It feels as though a spring winds itself, tighter and tighter, your walls oscillate and spasm around nothing and his warm tongue laps at your slick and sucks at your clit. It draws alphabets and circles, spinning you into a dizzy haze and when he inserts the tip of one of his long, magical fingers, you lose it, snapping that cord within you.

The moan you’re holding back releases, freeing your soul as your eyes roll to see the stars in your mind, a bright light, la petite mort. Your body goes rigid and you can only see black, think of nothing but your own ecstasy as it rolls through your body, tremors in your skin.

The finger withdraws, the mouth gives a final suck, jolting you, and then a lick to lap up any remaining juices before the nymph-like man in front of you sits back onto his haunches. He leaves you trembling in your orgasm, analytical eyes absorbing the far away look on your face.

“And how did death feel~?” he asks, likening your orgasmic wave to an ascension to heaven. His voice returns to a playful tune, coaxing you back to earth.

“I’ve never known such pleasure,” you admit with tears in your eyes and longing in your voice. There’s a small bout of shame in your chest from greed at wanting another, from him.

“Now, you do, hmm,” he hums, trailing off into his signature beat as he stands and begins work on the straw.

You watch him from the ground, tugging up your undergarments with heavy limbs and smoothing your shift down. With three spins of the wheel, the handful of straw is transformed into a full bobbin of gold. The curve of his spine hunching over the machine ignites a curiosity in your mind. Who is he? What does he want? Why is he helping you? But the focus in his eyes, the cheery tune he hums and light tapping of his feet forbids you from asking him these questions.

He’s a savior of your life, there’s no need to know the reason.

The nymph works until two hours before dawn, at some point you drift off into a light, sex-induced slumber, but wake the moment he stands and stretches his popping spine. He gives you a final look, sucking on the finger that was in you, before skipping out the door, humming. It shuts with a click, the lock back in place. You are to live another day.

***

You hear a cock crow thrice before the door opens and the King stands, almost as broad as the frame. The gold in the room reflects in his amber eyes and in the glint of his adornments on his cloak and crown. You curtsy low until his voice booms.

“Arise, girl. You have kept your word and so I will keep mine, your father is free from his debt.” He rubs his chin, rings catching the rising sun as he muses out loud, “however, with a daughter like you, it’s a wonder there were dues to be paid.”

You curtsy again, saying your thanks, expecting to leave the castle and be back in your village by the following day, but King Ushijima has other plans. The sight of all the gold has swallowed his mind with greed, and the thought of being the richest King in the world is a goal that is so near, so attainable. He peers at your frame, slender from malnourishment, your simple garb, the way you instinctively shrink under the gaze of someone with so much of a higher rank than your own. It’s enticing.

He leads you to a third room in the granary, larger than all the others, the center of his stores. He sees the confusion and worry on your features, waving his hand around the room as he explains.

“Turn all this straw into gold by sunrise tomorrow and I shall take you as my wife.”

The glint in the Kings’ eyes is dangerous. He thinks that even though you are but a miller's daughter, low born, he will never find a richer wife. There’s no room for refusal as he turns to leave, ruby red cloak flurrying behind his tall frame and the door shuts for the third time that week.

You’re dazed, swaying uncontrollably as you fall to your knees, the stone floor bruising. The thought of becoming queen makes you giddy, nauseous, terrified. Although you’ve had help these last two evenings, what’s to say the stranger will appear again? And at what cost will it be? Tears prick your eyes, and you think of the last time you were happy; when you weren’t trapped in an exchange for your life.

The sky melts into orange, geranium, the sun falls below the skyline. Your heart follows, dropping to your stomach as it turns and you dry heave. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and that familiar, welcoming hum returns. The stranger practically hurtles into the granary, fingers like the crest of a wave as curls and swings from the ends of his arms.

“Innocent girl, why are you crying again~?” he sings, stooping low to cup your tear-stricken cheeks. His fingers are cold against flushed skin.

“I am to turn all this straw to gold by sunrise. He will make me queen if I succeed and if not, I cannot bear to consider the consequences!” you wail, peering into the quizzical vermillion eyes of the waif, nymph, or whomever this magical being is. His laughter echoes in the room, deafening your ears with it’s cadence.

“And what will you give me if I complete this task for you?” the question is not a surprise, but you have no answer, shaking your head as your lower lip pinches between your teeth in regret.

“There’s nothing left to give.”

The hands on your cheeks grip harder, fiercer, beneath your jaw to pull you up to standing.

“Nonsense, you are a virgin, are you not? Let me do this for you and in return, give me your maidenhood.”

His request is so shocking, so taboo, that it takes you several seconds to comprehend. Your mouth drops, heart hammering away at an unfamiliar beat in your ears. You tremble. There’s no way you can give him what is meant for your husband. He seems to register that thought as soon as it flies through your mind. His hair crackles like lightning, standing on end, his eyes are dark and stormy, and although he speaks with a song, his words are dangerous, dragging you beneath the waves.

“Surely, your virginity is not worth your life?”

With nothing to barter with but your body, you wonder if there is an alternative. Will the King realise you have been tainted if the marriage is consummated? You hope he does not. The stranger's tongue clicks, his hands fall from your face to leave the skin cold and you feel the desire for their return coursing through your veins.

“Time is wasting, Miller’s Daughter, do we have a deal?” his question flips over in your mind, your fingers wring together as you stare up at the looming figure. There’s impatience in his eyes.

“Yes.”

He claps his hands together gleefully, before interlacing them and stretching overhead. Tonight, he doesn’t collect preemptively, sitting down at the spinning wheel to begin. A hand full of straw is scooped up, the wheel spins thrice and the bobbin fills with glittering gold thread. It clatters to the floor as he begins on the next spool, his work methodical and timely. You watch him for a while, the way his heart shaped face is complacent, as though it was second nature to practise this magic. He hums that strange tune. His skin is milk under the pale glow of the moon, and suddenly, you’re thirsty.

Memories of the previous night play through your mind, clear as though a mirage. The way his eyes surveyed you over your mound, the obscene noises you made when his tongue dipped into your tight hole. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, and the enormous room is all of a sudden too small, too confined. You begin to pace. He never stops his humming. The sound bleeds into your pores, into your veins and pumps through you. It calls you to touch him. It’s wrong. You can’t. The night drags on and you don’t notice his song stops, or that he’s standing behind you.

His hands snake around your waist, pulling you back against his chest so that your head hits the firm muscle beneath his tunic. His nose finds refuge in your hair and with his inhale, your breathing stops.

“Mmm, you smell like fresh snow,” he mumbles into your skin, the meaning behind his words not lost on you: uncorrupted, untainted. It sends shivers down your spine and there’s a crackle in the air as every muscle in your body freezes.

His palms drift lower to rest on the meat of your thighs, digging to inch the fabric up slowly, methodically, until the hem is in his grasp and he pulls it over your head to leave you near-naked in the gold-filled room. Your bloomers are tied in a simple bow that loosens with a tug, the cotton dropping down your legs. You haven’t taken in oxygen yet, your lungs screaming at you to breathe, your knees trembling under his shadow. You gulp air hastily.

It is not that you do not want him, in fact, your body craves the very touch he bestows. You’re frightened, anxious at the implications of the act you’re about to perform. He spins you around, and you find those ruby eyes glinting down at you with ravishment, devouring the apex of your nipples in the full moonlight before tracing the length of your collarbones, the line of your neck and jaw, and feasting on your lips.

The way the lid of his eyes wilt, pupils widen, instinctively ushers you forward and into his waiting kiss. Your lips barely touch before his tongue darts out to swipe yours, tasting you impatiently. He’s waited far longer than he usually would to take what he wants, and he’s almost reached his limit. You’re pliable in his grip, body bending and arching with his palms, pressing your bosom flat to his chest. With rough fingers, he trails them up your spine, inciting a moan from your throat, filling the room with a richer sound than the clinking of golden yarn. He almost falls apart at your whimper when his teeth nip at your lips.

His hands advance up, scorching before touching the base of your skull, fingers wrapping around to grip the soft skin of your neck beneath your ears. His palms are so large, manipulating your body so that your jaw tilts up, away and you lean back onto his forearms. His lips slide from yours, trailing fervent kisses down the column of your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up with his strokes. Your lack of experience is evident when your hands dangle lifeless at your sides, almost touching the floor as he bends you backwards to lay down on the hard stone.

It’s sobering, clammy, welcome against your heated flesh. The stranger continues his descent. You feel gravel pressing into the blades of your shoulders, and you shift unpleasantly. All is forgotten when your right nipple, trembling and painfully erect, is captivated by a silky, moist touch. Your saviour suckles, bites, licks, and the static in your skin begins to crackle at his touch, threatening to spark. Luckily, there’s no more straw to ignite a fire. Your left breast is stimulated by massaging presses, five fingers gripping roughly, but not enough to bruise. No, there will be no trace of his defilement on you tonight, for now.

The other hand trails down between your legs, dipping experimentally into your slick folds, testing the waters. Your wetness had begun to grow when your imagination raged earlier, in truth, you don’t think it disappeared from the night before. You bite back a moan as a finger toys with your clit, the shivers current your spine in small convulsions. There’s a warning that you might come undone with just this, and he feels it too, the pulses of your walls contracting the muscles of your lower abdomen.

As though controlled by the impending orgasm, your body moves. Gripping his wild hair harshly, your jaw goes slack, eyes rolling to see nothing as the explosion rips through your body. He does not stop sucking at your nipple, flicking the bud harshly, a finger tracing lazy circles to your clit as you fall back into your body. His lips move to the side of your breast, planting increasingly desperate kisses into the plump flesh. Your grip does not loosen, it follows the winding of his head as it trails to overwhelm your collarbone, your throat with heavy licks.

You can feel a fresh burst of slick drip from your slit. He catches it knowingly and his face lifts from your skin to peer into your eyes. He brings his coated finger to your parted lips, pressing your nectar onto your tongue. It’s tart, musky, unlike anything you’ve tasted before. You swallow it down into your aching stomach, feeling the flames of your orgasm dwindle. You want more, and he sees it in the hungry way you suck. And oh! How he wishes it was his cock sheathed between your plump lips.

“Isn’t it splendid~?” he sings, pumping his finger in and out of your mouth, your tongue curling around to massage the individual knuckles automatically. There’s a heavy silence in the air, your breast is squeezed. You realise he’s waiting for you to answer, even with your mouth full.

“Yesh,” you fumble with the syllable, warmth spreading to your cheeks and he seems glad with the answer. Removing his finger for his palms to push up a knee, he leaves a gentle kiss on the bruise from your morning fall into despair.

You’re spread for him. He only then realises how clothed he is. He retracts his touch, tugging his tunic over his head to reveal smooth, unblemished skin that reflects the golden thread and garnet hair. He’s a stained glass window of colours, an inferno burning bright. It’s breathtaking. There’s a trail of red hair, enticing you to look lower, beckoning you to discover what is underneath. He doesn’t remove his breeches completely, choosing instead to loosen the leather lacing on the front, the fabric splaying open to unveil phallic gold. It makes you squeal, the implications of what is upcoming ramming into your chest, your body humming with ferocity. An eyebrow quirks up in response, along with a simpering chuckle.

“How amusing,” he quips, wrapping his large hands around an equally thick and long cock.

“Will it fit?” you can’t help but ask. Surely not. His laugh is raspy in response, erupting from deep within him rather than on the tip of his tongue like his usually lilting words.

“It will. Or I will make it.”

There’s something in his tone, in his ambitious stare, that sends your skin into overdrive, shivering and vibrating with anticipation. You’re openly waiting, nerves fissioning and calling out. He answers. Your mouth drops open, gasping in shock. It's so soft. And wet. The head of his cock slides up between your folds, tapping your sensitive bundle of nerves teasingly. He’s teasing you, making your hips shake and twitch. A hand comes to stabilize you, pinching the bone. Your eyes are wide, heartbeat in your ears and cunt and when you lock stares, time freezes as his hips move.

You’ve never seen a wider grin on someone’s face. It’s wild, face splitting, imitating your stretching slit as he slowly inches in. There’s a low whistle, a hum, turning into a chuckle as you feel a pressure unknown begin to build within. It’s choking, your throat swelling and with no inhibitions, you moan. Heaven above, hell below, all listens attentively as the desire to be sinfully fucked explodes in your womb. Your hands scramble to grip onto something, him, slinging them around his neck to pull him low. There’s a grunt, his breath tickling your ears, and a jerk of his hips as he sings,

“How needy, how desperate, How infinitely tight and perfect~”

It melts into your skin, the same rhythm as the hums you’ve grown accustomed to. The wind of his words fan flames, your eyes rolling back to escape the heat. But oh, how it’s inside you, boiling in your veins and you clutch on tighter as his hips rock into yours. Each pulse of your walls around his cock makes him vibrate, giddy as he pulls out an inch, only to sheathe himself in completely once more. He hears your whimpers against his neck, so soft, so delicate, not enough.

He sets into motion, plucking your limbs from around his neck, pinning them above your head as each snap of his hips jostles your being. Your simpering cries turn into moans and before you realise it, you’re screaming out for God and his Angels to witness the rapture happening within these stone walls. The man keeps a hand on your wrists to secure you, the other to your sensitive breasts, pinching and massaging as he grins salaciously.

Those fingers trail down the soft skin of your stomach, watching as it leaves indents against your skin before the flesh plumps back up. He raises goose-pimples, your shivering spine clenching your cunt tighter. Each thrust sends a ricochet through your body, bouncing it up before it falls back in rhythm. His blunt nails trace from bone to bone of your hips, lowering until it runs over the tuft of hair on your mound.

There’s enchantment in his eyes, reeling you in deeper, lulling you into a sense of security. A thumb finds your hooded nerves, grinding down until you see stars on the roof of the granary, past the glowing face of your savior. Has the ceiling fallen away? How magnificent. They reflect in your eyes, in the shine of drool on the corner of your lips, your tongue darting out to lick it up before you suck down.

“More.” The words are a caress to his ears, and the smile on his face splits wider until it swallows you whole. All you know is his touch.

He can feel you slipping beneath the waves, your silken walls oscillating around his girth. He leaves your wrists to grab your right thigh, lifting it so that it rests on his shoulder. With your hands now free, they fly out, pressing into the stone floor like trying to stay afloat as the swell of the ocean begins to ripple within you. It’s torrential, the rain within, and unlike before, when it was just his fingers, the dam explodes.

You feel perfect wrapped around him, dragging him down into the depth of the sea along with your desire. He doesn’t want it to end, no, he can’t let it end. He pistons his hips, the rhythm knocking the air from your lungs as he nears his release. The stars above give way to black, then white, and he sees it in your face as you reach a higher plane of existence, one he knows only he can provide. That fire returns, lighting up your insides, evaporating the spray of the ocean, making room for the foam of his seed to take place and fill you.

His hips slow, the fluids within you stirring around until you’re dizzy. Your thoughts can’t be strung together, mind blank. Satisfaction ripples in every corner of the room: carnal and raw. It can be tasted on the air, like the salt on your skin. He withdraws from your swollen walls, adamantly watching as the efforts of three days trickle out of you. His pounding, soaring heart drops as he thinks of the morning. He’s grown addicted to you, he realises. You’re his. This cunt should be no one else's, he’s ruined you for all men, he’s sure of it. It’s dangerous, this feeling in his chest, the plan hatching in his mind. You will not be able to forget him soon.

The rise and fall of your chest is soft, your body exhausted and blissful as you’re already in a post-orgasmic slumber. He traces your skin with open palms, seeing the way you react, even asleep, to his touch, committing your curves to memory. You’re angelic, surrounded by gold. His gold. He stands, limbs heavy, before snapping up to stare at your splayed out frame from above an upturned nose.

“I’ll see you soon, Queen,” he hums beneath his breath, waving his hands so that you’re dressed again, clean and tidy, prim and proper for the King to inspect the room within an hour. He skips out the door, the bounce in his step a little more pointed, sharper, and the lock clicks back in place.

***

You’re sour, like wine stored in the sun. Once married to the King, he promised you that you never had to work another day in your life, the gold spun from straw enough for twelve lifetimes over. And he was right. Your days are spent doing nothing. You have time to spare, and more often than not, you find your thoughts drifting to a red haired stranger, his face contorted in lust, desperate for the taste of your skin. It has been a year since your encounter with him.

It’s midnight, a waning half-moon. There’s no sleep. It has been avoiding you every night, so you lay awake next to your husband. The rise and fall of his deep breathing does little to lull you, and your body is charged with a sexual fire. You’re unsatisfied; richer than you could’ve ever dreamed, but unsatisfied.

Like many nights now, your fingers creep beneath the silk bed sheets to swirl at your ignored sex. A soft sigh kisses your lips as your nerves tense up at the touch. Before you can stop yourself, you hum a familiar tune that melts into your skin as you stroke to the rhythm. With your eyes closed, you picture that strange man that brought you to a place of such intense pleasure, something you had not felt since that night. The next morning when you woke, you had only the residue of what he left behind between your legs. That was the only proof that it was not a dream.

Like the swell of a wave, it begins to crest. You spread your ankles slightly wider, tapping the King’s legs delicately. He stirs but doesn’t wake. He never does. Your hums come out in ragged breaths as you imagine every thrust, every pinch against your body. And when his hands grip around your neck, you almost break against the shore of your orgasm. The familiar smell of forest wafts around you. Are you so starved that you can conjure up scents and touch?

Your eyes fly open, staring up at twinkling rubies above. A dark grin is spread onto a face you had not seen for a while. A cool hand is against your throat, floating up to palm your lips and halt a squeal that would’ve flown from between them in shock. He raises a finger to his lips in a signal to keep quiet, eyes darting to your husband face up next to you. He hums lowly before he whispers to you.

“What do we have here~?” his voice carries a jovial, teasing tune, releasing your face to peel back the edge of the sheets and reveal your naked form. You cover your breasts with one arm, the other snaking down to press flat against your quivering sex. Your orgasm had been so close before it was snatched away, the thoughts blazing through your mind nothing except immoral.

“Does the King not satisfy you, millers daughter?” he pokes at your thigh, hard fingers trailing up, leaving burning lines that sink into your pores greedily. You swallow down the rising heat in your body, the shame of being seen touching yourself.

“I am queen now,” the husk in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by the strange man.

“Ah yes, but you are still your father’s daughter,” the pinch of your hip jolts your being, and you snap your legs shut, the bed bouncing slightly. King Ushijima grunts, rolling to face away from you and the intruder. You let out a shaky breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“What are you doing here?” you ask the man, slowly sitting up right, shielding your lower body once more with the covers. His grin falters at your actions, feeling a tightening in his gut at how you hide what’s his. He swallows down his fury, standing upright. His form blocks out the little light trickling in from the moon outside the window.

“I had come to steal you away from the comfort of your new life,” his eyes flicker to the back of King Ushijima, his voice hushed and low, disdain dripping into his words, “it’s the only proper way to pay for my skills, afterall.”

You swallow down your nerves, feeling a pooling of heat between your legs at the thought of being carried far away, somewhere wild and unknown. It’s an escape you would not be against. Long fingers reach to caress your hair, picking up a strand to twirl it. He inspects the way you shiver under his touch, feeling pride at the reactions he can evoke from your body, but his eyes are hesitant. You may very well not want to leave behind all you have gained in the year.

“Please do.”

That same grin reappears on his lips, splitting his face wide open with giddy pleasure. Oh! How he was not expecting the night to unfurl like this at all. He can feel the desire roll off your skin in waves, and he drinks it in. He can’t give you what you crave so easily, he must play a game with you first.

“Oh ho ho, miller’s daughter, how desperate you are! I can taste it.” he sings, palms boxing either side of your thighs. The touch doesn’t dip the bed, as if he is made of air.

“I will give you three nights to find out my name, or I will leave you here with your eternal longing for more than what he can bequeath,” he propositions, the words dancing around you. How badly do you want to feel such pleasure again? You barely have to think.

“Three nights,” you agree.

With a squeal, he leaps away from your bed, skipping over to the door of the chambers. It’s a miracle the sleeping King besides you remains asleep. Or it’s magic. Head swinging around to looking at you with such intensity, you almost melt as he says one last thing.

“Don’t touch yourself until then.”

***

That night, you have no rest. All the names in the world run through your mind, but how are you to know which one is his? You spend the day compiling a long list, feigning it as names for a future child with the King. ‘You are getting old, I must have an heir within the year.’ It was a curt discussion, not one open for arguing. It is also why every night has been loveless tumbles, only leaving your core soaking with his seed, but nothing grew inside you.

The sun sets below the horizon, the moon rising and you sit next to a warm fire in your chambers. The King is passed out on the bed, fast asleep and unaware of your musings. You can feel how the slick inside you trickles out, unwanted but you resist the urge to wipe it away. It is your wifely duties, after all. Instead, you focus on calming your nerves, trying to untangle the knots in your belly before the strange man visits. He enters, skipping soundless as he hums under his breath.

“So, miller’s daughter, what is my name~?” he flops unceremoniously onto the floor next to you, head coming to rest on your lap. His lidded eyes stare up at you expectantly, a knowing smirk on his face at just how difficult of a challenge he has given you.

You begin to list the names compiled, with each name, he shakes his head, ‘that is not my name,’. As the night drags on, he tantalises you with what you so badly want. The laced hem of your night dress is hiked up around your knees, his unabashed fingers cloying with the soft skin of your thighs, inching closer to your dripping cunt.

“Abel, Balthazar, Oikawa, Hisoka,” you recite, each name getting huskier as he teases you. He barely touches you, instead feeling the remnants of the Kings spill, before pulling back and standing. The movement jostles you.

“The sun is rising, you have two more nights.”

His usual lilting tone is gone, voice hard. He wipes the semen on his finger against the black of your dress, leaving a patch of white, and strides out the door without looking back.

The next day, you send out messengers and knights to scour the town for new names, asking every servant in the castle for theirs. As evening creeps up and your nightly tossle with the King ends, you clean up all that is left over with a dampened washcloth. The stranger peers around the door, taking in the sleeping figure of the King before floating into the room. The static of his gaze as it rakes over your skin catches flame, and the fire beside you seems to dim against the red of his hair.

He leans over you, hands gripping the arms of the wooden chair as he asks you the question. You begin to list the stranger of the names you’ve heard, Martinko, Rumpelstiltskin, Melchior, but each time, he replies that it is not his name. His breath ghosts over your face as you speak, his eyes closing to listen to the whispered cadence of your voice. Instinctively, you widen your legs for his to slot between. He falls to his knees, cheek once more pressed against your thighs, lips mumbling quiet no’s into your hips. With a deep inhale, he smells that you are clean tonight, and it makes his heart soar. His fingers come back to stroke beneath your dress, a deep forest green. You don’t stop saying names.

“This task is impossible,” you whisper out of breath. He had two fingers up to his knuckle inside you, pumping lazily as you recite. Like many times throughout the night, he stops his movements at the brink of your collapse, pulling back to suck at your nectar. He licks his fingers off fluidly, trapping your gaze in a trance.

“You have one more night, or you remain unsatiated,” his grin splinters at your will, a groan tearing from your lips in the quiet room. The crackle of the fire had stopped hours ago. The King twists on the bed, mumbling under his breath at the noise.

“Hush, miller’s daughter, don’t be so desperate.” the man warns, standing and skipping over to the door, humming as he shuts it behind him.

On the third day, you ache for sexual release. The opulent castle walls seem too small for you, and so you wander around the forest just outside the walls. With the sun shining overhead as you stroll, it warms your skin to the degree of the never ending heat between your legs. The earth is soft, and with each step, you seem to fall in deeper to the ground, wanting it to swallow you until you’re no longer charged and lusting.

You are seconds away from turning back when you hear a familiar hum, except this time, there are words. You hide behind a tree, peering out at a small clearing in the woods. Red hair dances like the fire in front of him. The stranger moves around the fire in a trance, celebrating something unknown. You strain to listen in on the words he sings.

"Today I dance, tomorrow I sow, In the evening, I will steal her away from home. And oh! I am glad that she does not know, That the name I am is Satori Tendō!”

That night, you can barely contain your gaiety. You even enjoy the love-making your under enthusiastic partner pounds you with. You take in his heavy touches, the way it doesn’t bleed into your skin, but rolls off like oil with water. It’s your last night with him after all. He’s deep asleep, you had slipped something into the drink he has after the ritual.

You’re waiting for Tendō to enter the room, humming his tune under your breath as you pour wine into your chalice. The nightdress you’ve worn is a red, like the seed of a pomegranate or the sky when the sun sets, the colour of his hair. Sturdy arms wrap against your waist to pull you back against a muscled chest. He laughs into your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Tell me, Queen,” he spits the name out as though it was too bitter for his taste, “what is my name?”

Feigning ignorance, you list names for the final time. ‘Jack, John, Harry’, hands stroke up the back of your legs, dragging the linen up until your bare ass is on display and pressing against a growing bulge behind you.

“That is not my naaame~” he sings, kissing the side of your neck. Cupping your breast with one hand, the other snakes between your thighs to swirl around at the mess he coaxes from you. You can’t hold in the whimpers, tearing up at the touch given to you after almost a year of loveless sex.

He had introduced life beyond living in those three days, and it was so close now, you can feel it between your fingers. His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back. It’s not the right time. He folds you forward, your chest resting on the table top, your head turned to see your sleeping husband, so blissfully unaware of the presence in the room. Tendō pulls at the strings of his pants, letting the leather slip down his toned thighs, lining up the head of his cock with your pulsing core.

“Daichi, Bokuto, Ryunosuke,” you mumble out, shifting back against him to feel the silken hardness poke at your folds.

“No, that’s not my name, miller’s daughter,” and he presses in. With all the strength you can muster to not scream out, your knuckles grip the table's edge at feeling so stretched out.

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, the crude word not suitable to pass from a lady’s lips. It sparks a chuckle from the man thrusting into you. He inches in, knees going weak at feeling your walls wrap so deliciously around him once again.

“What’s my name?” he asks, the snap of his hips with each word. Your body jostles against the table top. You moan, clenching around his thick dick.

“Tendō.”

He freezes, twitches inside you, and you hold your breath in anticipation. A large hand wraps around your hair, pulling it up so that your back curves, tightening the space that clamps down on him between your legs.

“Who told you?” the question seeps into your skin, chilling your bones with their weight. He begins to pound into you again, pace picking up considerably to attempt to rouse your husband from his sleep. The sleeping aid you gave him is strong, but you still worry he would see you, not that it would matter after tonight.

“No one,” you moan, pushing up against the wooden table to try and lessen the tug on your scalp.

“Lies!” he roars, fury fueling his thrusts. Although he is getting what he ultimately wants, he has lost the game of cat and mouse. You have won. Oh, how his blood boils. A hand snakes around your throat, squeezing as he fucks into you with ferocity. You cry out, whimpering his name over and over again. Each time it leaves your lips, he feels his anger dim, and instead begins to revel in how the syllables tease his ears, echoing in the room.

“Who told you, whore?” he asks yet again, not expecting you to react to the rude name. It’s all it takes to fall off the cliff within you after three days of bringing you near the edge. Your skin is on fire, being called a ‘whore’ bristles your nerves, scratches you, and you need more, another orgasm, another death to ascend higher.

“No one, I swear,” you retaliate by bouncing back against each thrust with as much vigour as what he pours into you. “I saw you- uh, in the woods, singing.”

He slows, stills, and leans to kiss at the moist skin of your exposed shoulder. With a smile, he manages to twist you around, unsheathing for a second, only to reenter when you’re seated on the table. Legs spread around his waist, you cross your ankles behind his back to draw him closer.

“A promise is a promise, Tendō,” you whisper, arms locking around his neck to pull him close to your lips. “Take me away from here.”

You close your eyes in the kiss, tasting sweet molasses, smelling rain and dirt, and when you open them, you’re not in the castle anymore. Trees reach up past where you can see, multicoloured stars shine in the night sky. You laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest, and Tendō grins, dipping to litter kisses along your neck. His hips begin to move, your fingers curling into his hair as you moan louder than ever before.

You are free.

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

fuck, this is long. sorry! I hope you enjoyed it.

MASTERLIST HERE

986 notes · View notes

j0hnj4ej3n · 4 years ago

Text

i wish you all the best, really.

renjun x fem!reader (no real interaction between them though - very much all in renjun's pov)

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: angst due to break up and pettiness // was inspired by Olivia Rodrigo’s ‘happier’ + i love angst i can’t not write angst :”)

Note: break up songs truly inspire me the most!! Hello, it’s been a while since i posted anything and i really wrote this in one shot so it might not be the best. I just heard the song and really had to write something about it. Sour is a great album and I think Olivia Rodrigo is so talented and pretty!! Also I hope everyone is well and holding up okay, even if you’re not, I’m sending you love and strength <3 I hope you like this even though it’s a short one, I may or may not post more since I’m currently on my summer break. We’ll see hehe ><

Dear You,

It’s been a month since we broke up, I find it hard to believe that you’ve found someone new already. How have you managed to move on so quickly? You seem really happy with him, it seems you found another one who brings out the better in you. I thought I was starting to get over you too but when I heard from our friends about the two of you, I started to miss what we had again.

He must be really sweet and kind. Since you’ve found him, does it mean you’ve forgotten everything we had? I truly hope you’re happy, but not like how you were with me. I know it’s selfish of me, I admit that I am. I can’t let you go, not yet. I’m happy that you’ve found someone who gives you whatever I could not but I hope you’re not happier than you were with me.

Does he tell you you’re the most beautiful person in the world? Does he make you feel like one? Do you tell him you’ll be his eternal love too? Just like you told me? Look where we are now. To think I believed it when you first said it to me. I can’t help but compare myself to him and picking both of us apart. Why me? And then, why him?

He is wonderful and extremely kind, so I’ve heard. He probably gives you butterflies. You’ve found someone great and I am happy for you really. I hope you love him, just not like you loved me. I would like for what we had to be untouched and only ours. It’s selfish, I know. And almost insane to expect this from you but it seems to be the only way to finally move on from you.

So, I hope you’re happy but don’t be happier.

Farewell,

Renjun

“To: y/n” he writes onto the front of the white envelope. He places his pen down after scribbling these words on the violet coloured paper he knew you liked so much. He remembers buying it just to write letters to you when you two were dating. He folds this letter into quarters and slides it into the envelope. He seals it with purple washi tape and presses it down gently. His fingers glide over the smooth white paper as he sighs and toss it to the stack of white envelopes on the side of his study table.

Renjun has been writing you letters ever since you two broke up a month ago. He has written to you even more than when you two were together. Words he can no longer tell you, things he never got to or those he couldn’t bring himself to tell you. He went through all the emotions one would when going through a break up. Denial, sadness, anger.

When he feels like he’s about to drown in these emotions, he pulls out pen and paper, and lets his emotions overflow onto them. These letters are left unsent because why would his feelings mean anything to you anymore?

When he found out you moved on, he tried to be happy for you, he really did. But how could he? Here he was, struggling to stay afloat amidst his sea of emotions and you’re already on a speedboat, riding off to the shore. It's not like you cheated him, but he still feels betrayed somehow. He was overwhelmed with all these ugly emotions. He was envious and angry and spiteful. It was boiling deep in his chest and he knew he had to do something before it overflowed.

So he wrote this letter to you. The last, he promised himself.

He found the ribbon he kept from one of your gifts to him and bundled his letters up. It all seems so irrational, so delusional of him. But it was over between you two, can’t he be selfish just this once? He picked up the bundle of letters and his car keys and drove towards the direction of your house. Writing these words down stopped giving him the healing effect it once did. You had to read them, you had to know how he felt. You owe him this much for moving on so quickly. Did he mean so little to you? One month to forget a whole year with him.

He parked a few houses before yours and tried to think through what he was doing. Almost stayed long enough in the driver’s seat to think about turning back. He brushed off that creeping thought and grabbed the letters from the back seat and got out of his car. He didn’t even know if you were at home but he didn’t care enough to ask. If you weren’t home, he would just leave it outside your door, all the letters were addressed to you anyways.

As he got nearer to your place, he heard a laughter so familiar that he stopped in his tracks. His heart raced and he almost broke into a smile. He loves the sound of your laugh, even more when it was because of him. He stepped back slightly, to stay out of sight when he realised that your new boyfriend was there with you too. He remained close enough to see you from your neighbour’s house but far enough to not be spotted.

You looked so happy, truly. You looked great and he thought of how beautiful it was that your hair was glowing under the sunlight. And then how unfair it was for him to walk in and ruin the atmosphere with his ugly, angry thoughts and words. He loves you so much and it hurt him terribly that he wasn’t the one sitting next to you right now. And he loves you enough still to put your happiness before his own. Sure, it hurt seeing someone else's arms around you and how badly he wished he could still be the one to hold you. But seeing how happy you are, he couldn’t do it.

He chuckled to himself and couldn’t believe what he almost did. And was in even more disbelief with what he was about to do. He took one last look at you and silently bid you farewell in his heart. You didn’t need to know, it isn’t going to be easy at all. But maybe, he will become strong enough one day to be happy again. So he sighed as he stared at the bundle of letters in his hand and turned around. As he walked past your neighbour’s house, he flinged the letters into their rubbish bin. There was no point holding on to them anymore anyways.

Farewell, it was enough to know that you’re happier. He knows he’ll look back and think of you fondly. He got back into his car and took one last glance as he drove past your house. And this time he doesn’t check his rearview mirror to see if you saw him drive by.

#nct #nct dream #nct au #nct angst #nct scenarios #nct renjun #nct dream renjun #huang renjun #renjun au #renjun angst #renjun scenarios #happier inspired #j0hnj4ej3n

30 notes · View notes

kryptored · 4 years ago

Text

Secure and in place

To celebrate @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers reaching 250 followers, here's a lil' sumn-sumn to commemorate that. And out of the 50 prompts that we had to choose from, I went with number 36: "Helping brush their hair after a shower."

Also, if you've read "Fall" from the LBSC Valentine's Day Exchange event, this fic can be considered some sort of sequel to it. Or not. It can stand on its own, too. And if you haven't, you're more than welcome to check it out :) .

AO3

The bathroom door opens, and out walks Marinette wearing an old beige coloured shirt and white pyjama shorts, her feet warm inside her pastel pink home slippers. Her arms are both raised up, holding and rubbing a towel against her wet hair. Feeling the strain on her arms, she tilts her head down a little, drying her hair as she starts walking towards her card-making room. As she nears the desk where her latest clients’ cards sit, she makes sure to keep her hair from dripping onto the wedding invitation cards by setting a fair distance between her and the desk.

The deadline for the cards and meeting back with the client is in three days, yet Marinette feels proud of herself for finishing it early. Still, she feels as if something was missing. For that reason, she tosses her hair behind her - uncaring of the wet spot it will form on her shirt - and hangs her damp towel on her chair. She puts both of her hands on the desk, leaning on its weight as she regards the cards in front of her. The lettering, the colour palette of white, créme, and lavender, and even the small details of flowers on the borders look just right. Well, it looked almost right. She just wasn’t sure what else to do. Should she use envelopes? A wax seal? Twine? The couple who ordered the cards were more than willing to pay extra, but she also didn’t want to spend more on something that might not work. As her arm reaches from corner to corner and leaning further down onto her desk, Marinette misses Luka entering the room.

In his hands, he carries an open notebook filled with what seemed to be another song he is working on for the band. He stops by the doorway when he looks up from the page, the question on his mind left unsaid. He smiles when he notices that she’s wearing one of his old shirts, big enough to hide almost all of her shorts. He also sees her wet towel hanging on the back of her chair, as well as the wet spot forming on the back of the shirt, and shakes his head. He quietly places his notebook on top of a box beside him and walks towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

He hears her gasp in surprise, her still cold hands touching his arms to steady herself, before realizing who is behind her. She turns her head around with a wide smile on her face.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey, yourself.” He drops a kiss on her nose and sees the cards she has been working on for weeks. “Those look great. Does that mean you’re finally done with them?”

“Mm… kind of. I feel like it’s still missing something — just one last thing.”

“I see. Well, I do hope you haven’t forgotten how wet your hair still is.”

“I was in the middle of drying it.”

“Uhuh… Of course you were." He lets go of her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and pushes her down onto the chair. “How about you stay there and see what else you can do with the cards, and I’ll get your brush and hair dryer.”

“Aw… thanks.”

“Do you also want me to tie it up?” He asks her as he walks out backwards.

“Hm… yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be right back.”

As he walks out of the room, Marinette turns back around to the cards. She hums as her fingers play with stray strands of her wet hair, her other hand cautiously touching the edge of each card, as if it would give her the answer to her problem. Her eyes wander around her desk and the shelves containing all her supplies, hoping to see something that will help her. It’s when she’s going from drawer to drawer that she hears Luka’s footsteps coming closer.

“You’re supposed to use heat protectant before using a hair dryer, right?” He asks her, his hand showing her the spray bottle he was referring to.

“Mhm.”

“Okay, good. Let me just put some of the stuff on something.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Luka walk over and move one of the chairs from the corner closer to him, using it as a small table. He gently nudges her to lean forward to grab her towel, and proceeds to dry her hair with it as much as possible. When he’s satisfied with the lack of dripping, he reaches for a wide-tooth comb to help him remove some of the knots from her hair. He makes sure to slowly and carefully untangle strands of her hair, occasionally using his deft fingers in place of the comb.

After smoothing down her hair, he uncaps the bottle and whispers to Marinette, “Close your eyes for me, love.”

She does as she’s told, and Luka starts spraying the heat protectant all over her hair. It takes him a few seconds before Marinette hears him put the cap back on the bottle, and set it back onto the chair.

“You’re good now, sweets. I’m just going to plug the hair dryer, so keep an eye out on your cards.”

“Okay.”

She puts paperweights onto the stacks of cards, making sure that nothing is folded or crumpled in the process. For extra measure, she also pushes them off of her, and sits up straighter when she feels Luka return to his place behind her.

“I’m turning it on now.” He warns her, before he switches the device on and a strong blast of warm air blows past the side of her face. “Let me know if I’m hurting you, okay?” He tells her in a louder voice, adjusting the strength of the air from high to medium heat and speed.

“I will!”

Marinette feels the heat of the hair dryer blowing at her hair — the back, before travelling up to the crown of her head. She closes her eyes again, only this time, to prevent any stray baby hairs poking at her. She feels Luka’s fingers carefully combing through her hair, lifting some of the strands to let the heat reach her roots. His hands systematically move from one area to another, making sure to not miss a spot of wet hair. Once he sees her head full of dry hair, he turns off the hair dryer, and sets it aside. He unplugs it from the outlet, takes hold of a brush, and starts brushing her hair from the bottom to remove remaining tangles. He continues brushing from the top of her head, making sure to do it as gently as possible and not to hit her temple,.

“Tilt your head for me a little bit? Yes, like that. Okay… you still want me to tie your hair up?”

“Yes, please.”

“You have a hair tie with you?”

She shows him her right wrist that has a hair tie wrapped around it. He hooks his finger into it and takes it off of her wrist, only to wear it around his own. With his eyes back to her hair, he decides to go with something simple.

He starts by taking a small piece of her hair from her left side, brings it over, and adds it to the inside of her left side. He repeats this a few times, making sure to grab from the outside part of each section with his pointer finger, and keeping his hands above the braid to keep the hair in place. After he leaves enough length of unbraided hair, he secures it with the hair tie from Marinette.

“Hm… I think I need something else for the finishing touch.”

“What,” she chuckles, “like how I am with the wedding invitations?”

“Maybe,” he tilts his head from side to side, until an idea pops into head. “Stay right there.”

Marinette can only laugh more at Luka’s meticulousness, but continues to sit still and goes back to her own brainstorming. It takes Luka about a minute or so to come back, and when she turns around to ask him what he had in mind, something clicks into place when she sees the blue hair ribbon on his hand.

“I think I also have an idea, but I’d have to ask for your permission to let me borrow it.” She tells him, her eyes focused on the ribbon he’s holding.

“Oh?” he notices her line of sight, and it doesn’t take him long to realize what she means. “Oh. Yeah, for sure.”

He gives her a small smile and walks back to his place behind her, taking hold of her braided hair. He carefully puts the ribbon around the hair tie, tying it into a neat and tight bow without jostling his hard work. Meanwhile, Marinette reaches for the lavender silk ribbons from the left side of her desk, and cuts them down into a certain length — enough to keep the invitation cards secure and in place.

Finally done with his work, Luka clears all his materials away, before coming back and taking a seat beside her. He grabs his own pair of scissors and another roll of the silk ribbon, takes one of Marinette’s already cut pieces, and uses it as reference for cutting.

“How many are we cutting?”

“About 30 more. The wedding is a small one, so they only ordered 50.”

“Okay.”

They cut them in peace (hehe, pun), neither minding the sound of their blades cutting through silk.

Marinette starts humming an unknown song, and so does Luka. Luka starts swaying side by side, and so does Marinette.

When all fifty ribbons are cut, Marinette starts showing Luka how to tie each of them into a ribbon on each card. He is unsuccessful at first, his fingers clumsily maneuvering the silk every now and then. He tries not to let the frustration get to him, trying again and again. Marinette sees him struggling and takes hold of his hand, giving them a reassuring massage before kissing them for luck. He gives a hearty laugh and feels motivation coming back to him; he turns back to his pile of ribbons and starts doing them again, and succeeds. They silently tie their cards, one by one, before they simultaneously reach for their last one together.

“That was nice. Maybe I should start helping you with the cards more.”

“Is that you asking me to pay you as my assistant, then?”

“Are you hiring for part-time?”

“I dunno… I feel like I need you full-time.”

“For the job?”

“No.” She twists to her side and faces him, sitting much closer to the edge of her seat, and takes hold of both of his hands. “If you have the availability, I was wondering if you could stick around with me full-time?”

He mirrors her actions and entwines their fingers, the smile on his face threatening to break his cheeks.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

#LBSC #LBSC 250 followers celebration #pro lukamari #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #Luka Couffaine #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #ml fanfic

40 notes · View notes

shimmeringclouds · 4 years ago

Text

❀ | ⑥

╔═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╗ 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ╚═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╝

Setting down his teacup with a sigh, Karamatsu's gaze didn't wander from the perfect view of the gardens just behind the large windows.

It had been a few days since he had gone on that magical horse ride through the forest with you, and ever since you had arrived back at your palace, it seemed as if you had been avoiding him. Which he found to be most unfortunate, as he had found the conversation the both of you had then was heartfelt and honest, and he even thought that it had brought you two ever so slightly closer together.

Alas, he was wrong. The words you had exchanged with him had only weakened your bond and any chances at becoming closer, it seems. Now, whenever you spotted him around the palace halls, you would swiftly turn the other way and scurry off before he could get the chance to speak. He would be left in the dust of your footsteps, a hand outstretched towards your silhouette and a frown on his lips.

Karamatsu wasn't sure what to do.

His words were true; he wanted to get to know you, bit by bit. He wanted you to give him a chance, despite his reputation as a stupid and unwise prince. Despite all his flaws and imperfections, he wanted you to take his hand and walk alongside him, if not as lovers then at the very least as friends.

Clearly, however, you didn't have the same thoughts in mind.

He sighed again, much heavier this time, his sorrow almost visible in the air around him. Karamatsu had no idea what to do. He had never been in this situation before — he had never even lasted this long inside someone else's kingdom! He usually would have been kicked out, literally, as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. Although you didn't give him the kindest of welcomes, you had at least allowed him to stay. He thought that to be very kind of you.

Resting his palm against his cheek, he cast his sullen gaze to the sky. No matter what he did, his mind would always fall back to you. He would like to think it was love, but he wasn't that stupid of a prince to truly believe that.

"Prince Karamatsu?" He startled at the call of his name, sitting up straight and turning to look over his shoulder to find your mother, Queen Koume, walking steadily towards him with a kind smile. He stood up from his seat, bowing low as his signature smirk worked its way into his face.

"Queen Koume! It is truly a blessing to be in your presence."

"Likewise," she chuckled, tapping his shoulder and gesturing for him to rise, "But I think formalities can be dropped for a short while, don't you agree?"

"If that is what you wish," he flicked his sparkling cape around him, the material elegantly twirling around him before settling along his back.

"I hope you have been enjoying your stay in our kingdom," she started, moving to take a seat opposite from Karamatsu's.

"Of course! I expected nothing less from the Aoki Kingdom — full of beauty as far as the eye can see!"

Queen Koume chuckled again, silently liking the flowery words that always seemed to flow seamlessly out of the young prince's mouth. He had quite a talent for it.

"And my daughter has been treating you well?"

"Indeed! She truly is a kind and soft soul, to treat me as gently as the flowers that bloom in her wake—!"

"Then why is she not with you?"

Karamatsu stilled, eyes wide and smile stiff. He glanced over to the Queen, and upon seeing her raised brow and the suspicious squint in her eyes, he deflated, sitting himself back down and tracing a finger around the rim of his teacup.

"How long has she been avoiding you?"

"...Almost three days, now..."

She sighed, her eyes falling to her folded hands in her lap. A few moments of silence go by, and she interrupts it with her soft voice.

"I would like to apologise for my daughter. She has always found it difficult to bond with those from outside our kingdom."

"No, no, I understand her completely." Karamatsu shook his head, a small smile on his lips that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I am a prince from the kingdom of Akatsuka. We are known for our unwillingness to become kings and our poor knowledge on royal duties. I'm not surprised that she wouldn't want anything to do with me... It is something that I have become used to."

"But it is not something you deserve."

He paused, slowly raising his eyes to meet hers.

"Appearances are a struggle for royals to upkeep, because it is the only thing that others are willing to look at. When I look at you, Karamatsu, I don't look at the failure of a prince. I look at the heart you wear on your sleeve."

Karamatsu's cheeks tinged a light pink, her knowing smile making it hard to look away.

"When others look at my daughter, they see a cold and silent girl, with her head full of pride and her eyes full of malice. But when you look at her, tell me, what do you see?"

"...What do I see...?"

He saw a beautiful girl with a heart that was closed off to the world in fear of getting hurt. He saw a girl who spoke her mind without the fear of the opinions of others. He saw a girl with a strong and matured mind with a young, caring heart, a weakness that she didn't want to expose. Because if it ever was, her world would crumble around her.

Queen Koume stood up, walking around the small table to reach Karamatsu, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her with wide eyes, akin to a child. Her fondness for him grew.

"Talk to her. She will try to run, but don't let her out of your reach."

With those words, she left him to his thoughts, disappearing around the corner. Karamatsu's mind was onto telling him one thing.

'I need to see her.'

He bolted from his seat, running down the hallways in an aimless attempt to find you. As he passed by the entrance to the gardens, he skidded to a halt, rushing over to one of the gardeners who was busy pruning a bush of purple and blue flowers.

"Excuse me!" He called, standing over them. "If you would be so kind, I need some assistance with a gift." He gestured to the flowers around him, his thick brows furrowed into a pleading frown. The gardener stared up at him in shock before relaxing into a grin.

"Of course! I have the perfect gift."

He clipped a hefty bunch of the flowers in front of him, grabbing a ribbon from his pocket and tying it around the stems into a neat bow.

"Hydrangeas. For anything that is sincerely heartfelt." He winked, handing them over to the prince.

"Wonderful! Thank you!" Karamatsu turned on his heel to run off, only to then back around with a sheepish grin. "Do you know where I can find the Princess?"

"She usually hides herself away in the library. But you didn't hear that from me!"

"Thank you!" He called again over his shoulder as he dashed off, coloured petals drifting around him as the wind carried them away. A woman peeked around one of the hedges, grinning down at the gardener.

"Playing Cupid, are we?" She chuckled.

"That's all on him," he shrugged. The both of them watched a blue blur run off into the distance, mentally sending him the best of luck before returning to their tasks.

Karamatsu ran as fast as his legs could carry him, barely making it down the right corridors until he came to a stumbling halt in front of a large set of double doors, the wood engraved with ivory stems curling around bookshelves. This was the place.

He took a moment to catch his breath, brushing his hair back into place with his hand and gathering the courage before opening the doors with a firm push, pausing as they revealed a vast library filled to the brim with books and rolled parchment.

He glanced around as he walked in, scanning every empty table and chair until he came across a set of stairs spiralling upwards, swallowing thickly as he ascended, one slow step at a time.

His heart was thundering in his chest as he reached the top, almost fit to burst as he finally saw your figure hunched over a pile of books that were opened up and spread along the floor, your studious gaze stuck the words on the pages of text until the sound of his footsteps made you look up in surprise.

Your eyes met his, wide and unsuspecting. Karamatsu's heart sped up, skipping a beat as he saw your skin becoming flushed in shock, his own cheeks matching the reddening tint that was spreading across your face.

Neither of you could speak, finding yourselves speechless. You always had something to say, but now, sitting there and peering up at the man you had been attempting to push away for days now, you found that your throat had run dry, and your lips slightly parted, searching for words that couldn't escape you.

You watched as he took careful steps forward, kneeling down in front of you on one knee to reach your eye level, his brown eyes never once leaving yours.

In his arms, he carried clusters of hydrangeas, swirling colours of blue and purple, and your heart jumped. It startled you; it was if it had leapt up your throat.

He held them out to you, a determined glint in his eyes.

"Princess [Y/N]."

His words were firm but gentle, enough to get you to stay, and enough to tell you that there was nothing stopping you from leaving. Even so, you found yourself unable to move.

"These flowers are for you. I hope these will suffice as a gift, in exchange for a chance to speak with you."

#osomatsu san #karamatsu matsuno #karamatsu x reader #prince!karamatsu #princess!reader #royalty au #romance #love #fluff #floriography #flower meanings #its about time i updated this one #sorry for the long wait!

22 notes · View notes

ahsokasanity · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Thirteen

A Court of Shadow and Ribbons Chapter Link

Oh, you’re gonna wanna read this one!

The house arranged a beautiful table setting and centre piece. The room was bathed in the orange and bright pinks of the evening sun. Azriel was already there. Dressed casually in black pants and a teal shirt with the cuffs rolled up nearly to his elbows. Cassian and Nesta wandered in, drink in each hand. Cassian passed his spare to Aziel, who took it gratefully and swallowed a large gulp. He looked up at them quickly

“sparkling water?”

Nesta answered for them “I’m not, you know drinking anymore so the house offers what’s best for every situation. Cassian agreed, a totally sober night for him and you will be best – especially with the work you have to do tomorrow”

Azriel nodded “I see, and I agree alcohol is not necessary, maybe I was looking to take the edge off, but I don’t need it”

Cassian laughed “You might, but we’ll back you up buddy”

Gwyn arrived taking the last step slowly and looking around furtively. She was talking to herself quietly “Are you Idisi? Is this scarier that fighting for your life on Ramiel? Can you chill out and have a quiet dinner with your friends and with Azriel? She sucked in a breath “Oh Mother, would you look at him”

Nesta stepped forward and took Gwyn’s hand, having left her drink on the table.

“You are so welcome Gwyn, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before” they hugged and walked to sit at the dining table.

“Please sit down Gwyn. Cass, Azriel we can eat whenever we are ready”

She turned to Gwyn “You know since the house was gifted to Cassian and I, we don’t venture to the kitchens. Every now and then I send a basket of treats or some blooming flowers of Elain’s to say thank you, but Windy does it all. It is an interesting way to live never knowing or bothering to think about what we should eat” she smiled and Cassian stopped talking to Azriel for a moment to appreciate that spirit. A year ago he could not have fantasised about this kind of hope and happiness for her.

Aziel noticed too but his eye was caught more by the slight giggle that Gwyn made, her curls bouncing either side of her face and the way her eyes sparkled with merriment.

“Windy” as Nesta had begun to refer to the house of Wind did not disappoint with dinner. Although you might think it was a Den Mother the way each person was served different amounts depending on their body’s requirements and tastes. It was all food on a theme, but no two plates were the same.

Gwyn was enjoying the food and the easy conversation ranging from training, to the mating ceremony, to singing and pranks that Azriel and Cassian had played on each other and Rhys growing up.

Dessert was served and when Gwyneth’s plate arrived bearing a colourful meringue pegasus, she burst out laughing. The house had remembered her request from the girls night months ago.

She really did not relish eating the work of art, but the dinner had been served in order and amounts to leave her room for this treat. Azriel had heard the story from Cassian about what the house had provided the three recovering females and was so pleased to see Gwyn relaxed and joyful. When she offered him some of her meringue, he took the tail.

“This is only so that we can tell people you did not eat an entire pegasus by yourself” and popped it into his mouth. Gwyn watched every move, caught by the idea of that melt in your mouth delicacy on his tongue, dissolving and fizzing and finally being swallowed. She consciously dropped her eyes to her plate, but hoped that he would not scent her want. A feeling that she just couldn’t stop, rising within her.

Suddenly she wished that she had not eaten all that the house had offered. Her stomach knotted and her heart beat was going to drown out the conversation. In fact, she noticed Cassian and Azriel had stopped speaking and Nesta was looking at her worriedly.

“Gwyn, what’s wrong? you’ve gone pale all of a sudden”

She abruptly stood, pushing the chair back and stumbled toward the dark doors leading to the roof.

“I just need some air.” She scrambled outside. The others too shocked to follow

It was dark outside, but she knew every corner and seat and railing here. She moved to a bench overlooking the city and it’s twinkling lights, with one wall of the house behind her. Gwyn sat and breathed. She counted to ten for each inhale and each exhale until the nausea stopped, then began the proper Valkyrie exercises to centre her mind. On purpose she did not try to find a reason for her panic. It was all too obvious.

Moments or hours later Nesta came out to her, carrying one of the house’s magical light sources so that she could find Gwyn. Although, she knew the layout better that anyone, Gwyn realised she was announcing her presence.

“I’m so sorry Nessie, I don’t know what happened” (even though she did and it scared her to death). Nesta sat beside her with one arm over her shoulders.

“Don’t mention it, you know around here, we’re all about do as you feel” She winked. Gwyn knowing full well about Nesta’s behaviour when she arrived up here, and about how many different rooms she and Cassian had enjoyed each other in. She just smiled and said

“Thank you. Really, I appreciate that, but I’m not sure what to do now. Do I sit here breathing or do I come back and face my trainers feeling embarrassed and silly?” She shrugged and Nesta could see the internal struggle for the female who always put on a brave face to cover the unforgettable trauma of death and rape that dogged her still.

“How about a compromise?” Nesta dipped her chin, “Azriel and Cassian and I could come out here to sit with you in the dark, then you don’t have to feel like you look silly because they won’t be able to see you!”

Gwyn huffed a laugh, then it broke to the surface and it came out properly. Nesta joined her and they pushed on each other’s shoulders making the other start up again.

It didn’t take long before Cassian and Azriel made their way out to see what was going on out there. They were talking loudly and teasing each other about who was the best trainer, Nesta blessed them for their attempt at subtlety.

“What’s your opinion Gwyn, who is the best trainer? Your General, OR the guy who helps out sometimes?” Cassian had arrived and dragged over a sunbed made for wings to lay on.

Gwyn looked at Azriel who stayed standing on the other side of Nesta. His silk shirt caught the moonlight and she could see the colour ripple as he breathed

“Well, General" She started and the others laughed

“You definitely make me work harder, Azriel seems to like stretching and cooling down best” Cassian made to accept his win.

“But….” Gwyn continued “The person who helps out sometimes, has, I think, been the reason behind my technique improvement” She smiled at Azriel then and he looked modestly at the ground.

“So, I’m not going to choose!” Gwyn declared. Cassian and Nesta clapped and congratulated her, and Azriel laughed and the joy in that laugh had Gwyn tensing up inside. In a good way. The stomach churning did not happen, but a bubbly, happy humming started in her chest.

Cassian held out his hand to Nesta, beckoning her and she went and lay next to him with her head on his chest and their hands linked across Cass’s belly.

Azriel glanced at the bench vacated by Nesta “May I?” he asked Gwyn softly.

“Of course” She said shyly. What else could she say. She edged a little further from him so that she would not accidentally touch his wings. His shadows stayed as a second skin around him, but where his hand rested on the bench closest to her, they seeped out a little. Gwyn did it without thinking, she ran a finger through the darkness of the inky feelers. She pulled away as they touched her coolly, but stretched her hand out again when it didn’t hurt.

“Can you feel that?” she said quietly

Cassian and Nesta were silent, she knew they could hear her, and Azriel’s reply, but surely someone had asked the shadowsinger about his shadows before.

“Yes, but it’s a feeling not a sense”

Cassian called out “REALLY?” and Nesta put her hand over his mouth laughing. Azriel shook his head “Yes, really. I don’t feel hot or cold or sharp or blunt with my shadows. Right now I just feel happiness, and maybe uncertainty?”

Gwyn slid her hand away. He was reading far too much of her mood right now.

“That’s really amazing” she looked properly at him and fell headlong into his dark blue eyes. He blinked and she was able to look away

“It is pretty good. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have the power, but it’s saved me, well, us, so many times I’m grateful despite the “feelings’ all the time”

Nesta “oohhhhed” from her chair like suddenly Azriel made more sense. Cassian nudged her and she squirmed “What?”

“Well, I was just thinking how tired I am and that I have to get up early tomorrow for Rhys’ little errand, and you know, maybe it’s” he spoke lower “bedtime”.

Nesta got the hint and went a little pink cheeked, although it was too dark to see.

“Good point Cassian, what a responsible mate you are. Definitely bedtime when we’ve got to get going early” she yawned deliberately. Cassian merely stood and took her hand bowing to Azriel and Gwyn

“Brother, Gwyn, thanks for tonight. Let’s do it again soon”

Nesta nodded and giggled at Cassian’s attempt at politeness and sudden need to be alone with her. She had the same idea.

“Thank you Nesta, Cassian” Gwyn nodded but didn’t attempt to rise, instead she looked at Azriel. He stared back but farewelled his friends absentmindedly

“Yeah, bye”

#Angsty stuff #acosf #acotar #sjm #Gwynriel #Nessian #House of Wind #Shadows #Double date #triggers

20 notes · View notes

isitgintimeyet · 4 years ago

Text

Just a Friend

So I finally started to write another story...

I will try and post weekly, but can’t promise on account of real life and my inability to actually focus on translating what’s in my head onto paper (or screen!)

Getting the courage to post never gets any easier, but here goes. I hope you enjoy this frothy bit of fun. I will also post on AO3.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for being an excellent beta.

Chapter 1: From Airport to Aggravation

Bank holiday crowds, on the whole, are hell.

And this one is rapidly turning into an even deeper level of purgatory. The hottest May for years in Scotland and I’m stuck at Glasgow airport with a dozen women, collectively known as ‘Geillis’s Hen Party Posse’, each displaying varying degrees of inebriation, hangover or general sleep deprivation, and all aiming for the luggage carousel showing the flight from Barcelona. Which apparently is where several hundred other disembarked passengers are also heading.

Eventually, I manage to get a view of the bags and cases slowly making their way around the belt. They’re pretty picked over by this time, apart from the couple of boxes covered in gaffer tape that always seem to be first off a plane—any plane—and last to be collected. They’re always there, on every flight. Why is that?

I pause from my musings to wave frantically at Geillis, who now has a trolley and is clearing a path straight towards me.

“I got us a trolley.” she informs me, stating the obvious. “I thought it’d be easier. Have ye seen ours yet, Claire? I canna see the others. They must have already gone through.”

“No,” I answer, keeping my eyes firmly on the little hatch, willing our bags to appear. All I want is to go home, put my sleep mask on and try and get some sleep. Three days in Barcelona celebrating Geillis’s forthcoming nuptials have worn me out, and, I glance at my watch, I am due in theatre in approximately seventeen hours time.

"It's there, it's there," Geillis points excitedly at the neon pink and green leopard print bag making its way towards us.

She makes a grab for it as I continue to look for my bag. Predictably, it’s one of the last ones on the carousel. I recognise it immediately from the piece of red gift ribbon tied to the handle of the plain black Samsonite. I load it onto the trolley and Geillis and I head through customs to join the rest of the posse.

We say our goodbyes loudly, with much hugging and kisses. A stranger viewing this scene might imagine we won’t be seeing each other again for weeks or even months. In truth, I’ll be seeing most of them in the next week or so at the hospital as our schedules coincide.

“Shall we two get a taxi, then?” Geillis asks me.

I start to answer as my mobile pings — a text from Frank...very nice, very caring, very predictable.

Darling, it’s been a long three days without you. I am ready to collect you from the airport if you would like. If not, might I see you later this evening? xxx

And that is very clearly Frank. Correct grammar and punctuation, even on his texts. I shake my head as if to drive away my inner bitch and pretend I haven’t read it. I will respond, of course, just later when I’m back at home.

So, I smile at Geillis and agree. “Of course, we can go halves.”

***********

As I walk into my flat, the peace and quiet and sheer bloody calm wraps itself around me like a swaddling cloth. It’s blissfully cool too, with all the shutters closed.

It’s not that I didn’t have a good time in Barcelona. It was actually great. But being in the company of others twenty four hours a day is wearing, much as I love them. And we all had to do everything together. No sneaking off for a solitary walk, or escaping to bed for a little siesta.

I deposit my suitcase by the bedroom door, slip off my converse, pour myself a glass of orange juice, settle down on the sofa and figure out how best to tell Frank not tonight without offending him.

Frank, Sorry but tonight isn’t —

I delete and try again.

Thanks for the offer to pick me up. I was already in the taxi when I got it. Can we give tonight a miss? Theatre in the morning and I’m knackered totally exhausted. You know what Geillis is like. Speak tomorrow, I promise. C

Frank knows what Geillis is like. Frank thinks Geillis is a bad influence on me, with her larger than life personality and wild ideas. I think Frank doesn’t really know me at all if he believes I can be influenced like that. I hang out with Geillis and my friends because they’re fun and we laugh… a lot.

Without realising, I feel my shoulder muscles relax as soon as I’ve sent the message. These are not good signs for my relationship with Frank. He’s investing far more into ‘us’ than I am willing to do. But as long as I’m honest with him…

There are advantages to being with Frank, of course. He’s punctual, very organised and a proficient and considerate lover. He always makes sure I come, even if I sometimes...er… exaggerate my reactions to hurry things along. So much for honesty, then.

I finish my orange juice and plan my evening. Four things to do - unpack, grab some food, shower and sleep. Not even going to wash my hair. That would really be too much effort, struggling with my untameable mane, and it’s going to be stuck under a surgical cap for most of tomorrow anyway.

It takes a bit of effort to actually move from the sofa. I could quite happily fall asleep there. But then I’d wake up in the middle of the night—starving hungry and still smelling of sweaty airports. Reluctantly, I haul myself into a vertical position and head for my bedroom picking up my suitcase en route.

Opening the suitcase, I am not greeted with the expected haphazard mass of sun dresses, t shirts and shorts—all with the evocative aroma of Hawaiian Tropic—but a layer of white dress shirts, immaculately folded and the faint scent of a musky cologne.

Shit, shit, shit!! Some else has walked off with my black samsonite with the red ribbon on the handle. My evening plans are rapidly going awry. I delve into my handbag praying that I kept my boarding pass with the sticky bar code luggage receipt. The relief when I find it lurking in the bottom of my bag is immense. Quickly I google the airline lost baggage number and dial.

After a few bars of some god awful plinky plinky hold music, I hear a recorded message. “Your call is important to us, please hold. Your call is important to us, please hold.”

Good to know, then back to the plinky plinky before another message. “The office you are trying to reach is now closed. Please try again during office hours nine am to five thirty. Thank you.”

“If my call is so important to you, why is no one there at six o’clock?” I yell down the phone, but the plinky plinky ignores me and continues its irritating melody.

I sigh. I don’t want to have to wait until tomorrow morning to sort this out. Besides, by nine am tomorrow morning, I will be somewhat unavailable - reshaping the hip bone of a seven year old boy. So, I have no alternative. I will have to have a bit of a dig around this stranger’s suitcase, looking for any clue or contact details.

As I start to have a feel around, it occurs to me that some stranger might, at this very moment, be doing exactly the same thing — having a poke around my suitcase in the hope of finding my details. No doubt judging me based on my choice of holiday attire. And, I suddenly realise, his judgement may well be coloured by the discovery of some items of a more adult nature.

I say ‘he’, based on the XL white shirts, the pair of battered jeans and faded Scotland rugby shirt, but I could be wrong. I don’t have to dig any further into the case as I spy, in a mesh pocket, a neat rectangle of card with a name — James Fraser — a mobile number and an email address.

Relief sweeps over me. Perhaps we can get this all sorted tonight. Unless this James Fraser lives miles away and was just passing through Glasgow on his way to, say, the Outer Hebrides. That could be a whole other level of problem.

I quickly reach for my phone. Another message from Frank awaits.

Are you sure, darling? I’m looking forward to seeing you. Would tomorrow evening work for you?

I ignore it for the moment. Let me sort my luggage issue out first.

I dial the number on the card and begin to pace around my bedroom as it rings and rings. I am just about to give up when, thankfully, it’s answered.

“Hello?” A female voice asks warily.

I clear my throat and put on my most pleasant phone voice. “Is there a James Fraser there please?”

“Ye’ve the wrong number.”

“Oh, sorry, I must have mis—“ I begin, but find myself apologising to dead air.

I try again, carefully comparing each digit to those written, very neatly, on the card.

“Hello?” The same female voice answers, more than a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“I’m sorry, but this is the number I have for James Fra—“

“And I already told ye, ye’ve the wrong number. Dinna bother again.”

In the days before mobiles, I’m sure this would have been accompanied by a deafening crash as the receiver hit the cradle. Pressing a soft key doesn’t have the same dramatic effect. But I get the message anyway.

So, new plan needed. All I can do is email this James Fraser and hope he actually has written down the correct email address. If not, I’ll have to sort it out with the airline tomorrow afternoon.

My stomach rumbles and I suddenly realise that I’ve not eaten since breakfast, unless you count the slices of fruit in my jug of sangria. I wander into the kitchen and peruse the contents of my cupboards and fridge. I’m not the most gifted cook, but I’m not too bad and can usually rustle up something edible and fairly tasty. The bread feels a bit on the dry side but will be fine toasted, and I know I have eggs.

I put a knob of butter in a pan and text Frank while I’m waiting for it to sizzle.

Think tomoz will be ok. Talk 2morrow. C

I don’t normally use text speak at all, but something about Frank’s perfectly formed text messages always makes me want to rebel. I can imagine him wincing right now. He’s a professor at the university and is forever complaining about the standard of literacy amongst his undergraduates. If he thinks he has problems, he should try dealing with junior doctors.

With my scrambled egg on toast all eaten, I focus my attention on the email to James Fraser. I write it quickly, brief and to the point: I have your suitcase and therefore presume you have mine, can we meet to swap them over and here’s my phone number.

The longing for a shower and then bed is now overwhelming. I strip off and bundle all my clothes into the laundry basket, tie my hair up with a scrunchie and step into my shower. This is undoubtedly one of my favourite places on earth and possibly the reason that I bought this flat. Large enough for two, I suppose. Although none have yet been invited to partake in this heavenly experience. Maybe I’m saving that for someone extra special. It has a huge overhead rainfall shower head and a handheld shower head too.

My indulgences are all in here — a selection of expensive shower gels, scrubs and lotions and an assortment of huge fluffy bath towels. I choose a lavender scented gel and scrub all traces of the day from my skin.

Wrapping myself in one of my pristine white towels, I slather shea butter lotion on my slightly sun-burnt skin, noticing the uneven red patches where the sun cream hadn’t quite reached but at least it’s not sore.

A quick check of my emails shows there’s no word from James Fraser as yet, so I decide to just settle down to sleep and leave luggage worries until the morning. Fortunately, I had changed the sheets before my weekend away, so I simply unwrap my towel, leaving it in a heap on the floor and slide into bed. The feeling of the cool, crisp bedding against my skin is wonderful. I assume a sort of diagonal starfish position, not having to worry about any other occupants. It crosses my mind whether to reach for the tiny vibrator in my bedside drawer, but I’m too comfortable and drowsy for that, so instead I check my alarm and settle down for sleep.

#outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Just a Friend #chapter 1 #Here goes

222 notes · View notes

doiefy · 4 years ago

Text

10:28 am, osaka w;; language, implications of death, blood

I wrote this at 3 am and woke up this morning with no memory of any of it. it’s probably wayyyy too long to be considered a timestamp (0.9k) but whatever lol. enjoy!

Yuta couldn’t remember how long he’d been gone. A year, give or take. The days and weeks had all blended together into some incoherent mess, a muddled recollection of events he couldn’t piece together in the right order. Days he couldn’t differentiate from nights, sunsets that looked exactly like sunrises, a murky grey that filled in the long hours between the two.

The stench hit him when he pushed the door open—the lock had been destroyed, a single bullet lodged in a deformed keyhole—so unbearable that he physically reeled back. It smelled pervasively like must, staleness, death, all mixed together with the smoke and ashes from outside. But as with everything, it faded quickly. He’d faced much worse.

He could still smell the blood and sweat from whoever had stumbled into his home some nights ago, and could only hope that he didn’t find a body in his living room. Covering up his mouth and nose with his shirt to staunch the flow of rotting air into his nostrils, he scolded himself, telling himself to be a bit more grateful. At least he still had a place to come back to after the horrors he’d lived through. Had he not heard from the old man on the street that his building was still intact, he wouldn’t have bothered checking at all. After all, half of downtown Osaka was gone. From the window of his first floor apartment, he could see nothing but the ruins of a few buildings across the street; he imagined that the rest of the city looked similar.

He dragged his eyes over the living room slowly—and with a jolt, realized that he couldn’t remember what it used to look like. The house plants he kept on the window sill had been reduced to a tangle of shriveled-up, skeletal limbs that spilled off the ledge and crawled along the walls. Thin streaks of sunlight broke through the grimy windows, splashing across the floor in dirty blotches and spots.

After a moment, he made his way down the hallway, stopping at the second door on the right. It was open. He could see that his bed had been stripped bare, and the only thing that remained was a pillowcase shredded into ribbons, the sheer fabric stained with someone’s blood. He stepped inside tentatively, nervously, making his way to the desk. Something crunched underfoot.

He glanced down to see a scattering of glass shards at his feet. They were too delicate to be the remains of a shattered window but too fine to be from the broken lampshade on the table. His eyes followed the trail of broken glass to a wooden picture frame left forgotten in the corner of the room.

For a fraction of a second, he couldn’t remember what it could possibly be.

He bent down. Flipped it over, gently swept away the pieces of glass obstructing his view of the photo nestled inside. It was covered in a layer of grime and the colours were blotchy, weathered away by the sun. He wiped the dust away to uncover a memory that seemed so far away, one that had begun to fade despite how important it was to him.

You stared up at him with curious eyes, with a type of innocence and softness he almost couldn’t understand after months of hard faces and hostile expressions, cold silence between strangers in the bunkers. You had an arm around him, pulling him into a friendly headlock as he struggled to take the photo with his hands outstretched towards the camera. A candid moment, one that took him more than just a few seconds to place. To remember when he’d taken this. He didn’t recall framing it.

With trembling hands, he picked the frame up, gently cradling what remained of it. Pale sunlight reduced the entire photo to only faint outlines of two faces on a blank polaroid.

Suddenly, the memories came back, crashing into him with so much force that he toppled over. The room was deteriorating, spinning around him until everything was a dizzying blur. He was on his hands and knees, the sharp sting of glass piercing his skin and the only thing keeping him attached to reality. He was falling through time, images of the past rushing past him: your hands intertwined with his as you sat huddled in the corner of the shelter, your reassuring words whispered in his ear even as the rest of the world went to shit all around you, the way you’d begged him to find a way home. But the details were beginning to blur, the sound of your voice distant and the features of your face hazy. Why couldn’t he remember?

He clutched at his stomach, but it didn’t alleviate the pain or the nausea. There was something building at the back of his throat, and the stench in the room only made it worse. He forced himself to swallow, to bear it a little longer, fingers clutching the wooden frame so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He turned the frame over in his hands again to find it empty—there were only the sharp edges of glass drawing drops of crimson from the tips of his fingers, blood-stained pieces of wood caked in soot and ashes. A distant memory of the person he was supposed to come home with, but had left behind against his will. And now, the last tangible image he had of them had been swept away, reduced into the ashes that covered his city, the ashes upon which he was now expected to rebuild his life. Without them.

You were gone.

#i hate this #nct #nct fanfic #nct yuta #yuta fanfic #nct 127 #nakamoto yuta #nct angst #yuta angst #nct imagines

28 notes · View notes

chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

Text

Heartbreak Hotel (d.s.) - Chapter Twenty-Seven

A/N So many variables and such little time

It had been six days of Loretta living in a Los Angeles without Daniel. Eleven since they had even spoken. The first few days were easy – as easy as it could be with your soulmate always on your tastebuds – and Loretta distracted herself with Corbyn as often as she could. Corbyn had been fired from the car shop due to Christian ratting his violent outburst out to the manager but it didn’t seem to phase him; it only meant more time with his girlfriend. Corbyn attended a local Los Angeles community college so he didn’t have to move which also allowed for Loretta to never have to leave his side. Loretta was riding this bit of a high at first as she spent day in and day out with her long-term boyfriend and they went on various dates throughout the week but as the days passed on, her mood started dropping. Right around the day Daniel left for upstate.

With Daniel gone, Corbyn permitted Loretta to visit the diner again – although he always went with her anyway – so she was back to her 3:00 strawberry shakes although they didn’t seem to taste as good as she once remembered. This Friday was no different.

Corbyn and Loretta sat at a booth in the diner for a late lunch, waiting for their meals with a shake in front of her and a Coca-Cola in front of him. Corbyn was talking about something to do with his car and what he had planned to do in regard to aesthetic improvements on it, but Loretta was hardly listening. She was staring right past him to the jukebox on the far wall, expressionless, milkshake almost completely untouched in front of her. Corbyn didn’t ask her if she was okay.

Her own boyfriend didn’t seem to see her melancholies but Jack and Zach sure did. They had taken their food orders – Corbyn ordering for her again – and brought over their drinks without much additional conversation. Loretta still thanked them quietly by name but without looking at them at all costs. Jack and Zach stood at their usual spots behind the front counter, watching the couple from a distance as Corbyn rambled on and Loretta sat in perfect silence.

“That’s sad.” Zach mumbled, rolling some cutlery into the paper napkins.

“Sure is.” Jack sighed, looking over at his best friend. “I wonder how Daniel’s doing.”

“No better probably.”

“Yeah, well…he did all he could.”

Jack and Zach stared back across the restaurant to the couple.

“-Hopefully I can finish her up by next summer. We’re going to be driving in style before you know it, doll.” Corbyn smiled, lifting his glass bottle of pop to take a sip from the pink and white striped straw.

Loretta didn’t answer.

“Hey, doll. What’s going on?” Corbyn glanced over his shoulder as if to see what she was staring at. “Are you sulking just because I didn’t give you a nickel for the jukebox?”

Loretta shifted her eyes to his face blankly, “No. Sorry. I’m just not feeling myself recently.”

“Time of the month?”

Loretta audibly scoffed at him and leaned down to sip her milkshake; the whipped cream already almost melted into the pink ice cream with how long it had been sitting untouched on the table.

“It’s not my time of the month, Corbyn.” she grumbled.

“So then what’s your issue?” he leaned back in the booth and pulled out his pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket. He waited for her to answer while he set one past his lips and flicked on his lighter. She watched him silently, flatly, as he took a long drag, letting the smoke tumble from his lips as he tucked the lighter back in his pocket and plucked the cigarette out of his mouth by two fingers.

The couple stared at each other as if waiting for the other to speak first.

They didn’t need to as Jack and Zach brought over their plates and set them in front of each of them.

“Can we get you anything else?” Zach asked.

Corbyn waved his hand to get him to leave but Loretta replied with a gentle, “No, we’re fine, Zach. Thank you.”

Jack and Zach shuffled back off to let them eat in peace. Or what was as peaceful as it seemed it was going to get.

“Dammit. I just lit this.” Corbyn grumbled as he stamped out his cigarette in the ash tray on the table. He then grabbed his fork and knife and dug in right away.

Loretta picked up her fork but let it hover in the air for a moment as she watched her boyfriend take his first bite. He chewed, humming contentedly at the flavour. Loretta didn’t taste anything.

She looked down to her roast beef and suddenly didn’t feel hungry. She set her fork back on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

Corbyn glanced up at her mid bite and flicked his eyes between her flat expression and her untouched lunch, “You better eat that or I’ll have you pay for it yourself.”

Loretta ignored him, staring down at her lap as she fiddled with the ribbon of her dress around her waist.

Corbyn sighed, taking a drink of his pop to washdown his mouthful before speaking, “What’s with your attitude, Loretta?”

She answered before she could think it through, “Why are we lying to each other, Corbs? Why are we making each other miserable?”

Corbyn frowned for a moment and rested his elbows on the table to lean towards her, “What are you talking about?”

His grey eyes were narrowed in her direction, his jaw clenched.

Loretta wasn’t scared of him or his intense stare; she only laughed humourlessly, shaking her head slightly, “I think you know just as well as I do what I’m talking about.”

“No. I don’t.”

Loretta pushed her plate away from her to rest her folded hands on the tabletop, “We’re not soulmates, Corbyn, and we both know it but we’re too scared to admit that to each other.”

Corbyn’s eyebrows furrowed and he sat back a little, clearing his throat, “What…why…why are you saying that?”

“When I turned eighteen, I realized you weren’t my soulmate but I was too crazy about you to tell you the truth. It’s been a few months now and I tried to ignore it but I cannot anymore. I want you to tell me the truth. Am I your soulmate?”

Corbyn dropped his gaze to the table.

“Corbyn. Tell me the truth.” Loretta said sternly.

He licked his lips slowly in thought, raising his eyes up to hers again and he tapped his fingertips on the top of the table anxiously for a second. He took a shaking breath, “No…you’re…you’re not.”

Loretta knew it was coming but she still felt like it was a stab to her heart and she stumbled over her next breath.

The two fell into silence for a moment. Corbyn set his elbows back on the table and held his face in his hands through a deep exhale. The let the news rest heavy over their diner table.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Loretta breathed.

“Because I loved you.” Corbyn admitted softly. “I wanted to wait until you turned eighteen because maybe it wouldn’t work properly until we were both of age. Then you told me that I was yours and I just…I felt like I was…fucked up or something.”

“Me too.” Loretta said. “I didn’t want to lose you…I had those rose-coloured glasses for the first bit of our relationship.”

Corbyn cracked a small smile in agreement but it faded nearly just as quickly as it was formed. Neither spoke for another moment.

Corbyn sat back against the booth and raised his eyes up to her again, “So is he really your soulmate?”

Loretta nodded slightly, waiting for him to start to yell, but he didn’t. Corbyn only ran his hands over his face again with a heavy sigh.

“I don’t want to lose you, Lori.” Corbyn mumbled.

“I didn’t want to lose you either.” Loretta said, “But it’s so different now…the universe is literally forcing us together and…now…with him so far away it’s like…I have no energy.”

“You can’t biologically function without him now.” Corbyn stated the known fact.

Loretta nodded sadly.

Corbyn did too.

A beat of silence.

Loretta reached for her necklace and carefully unclasped the chain around her neck and held it out to him, “I’m sorry.”

Corbyn took a shuttering breath and shrugged as coolly as he could manage as he took his ring back from her, “Not your fault.”

Loretta picked up her small purse from the booth beside her and opened it with trembling hands, pulling out a few dollar bills to pass over to him, “For lunch.”

“No.” Corbyn gently pushed her hand back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Corbyn pulled a tight smile, struggling to keep looking at her in fear of completely breaking down, “Just…get outta here.”

Loretta didn’t move for a moment, as if it was the last time she was ever going to see him in her life. She nodded once and got up from the booth, stopping to press a kiss to his cheek without another word and rushed towards the front counter. Corbyn watched her go.

Jack and Zach were startled to see her stood right in front of them, her green eyes full of so many emotions that neither of them could read off of her.

Loretta flicked her eyes between the both of them before taking a nervous inhale and speaking strongly, “I need you guys to do me a huge favour and drive me upstate. Right now.”

#🍓#soulmate au #soulmate!wdw #daniel seavey #corbyn besson #jack avery #zach herron #jonah marais #why dont we #why dont we fanfic #1950s #daniel seavey fanfic #au

23 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

tapestry 👑 XXIV

Warnings: dark elements

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader prepares for her wedding.

Note: Alright, so I managed another chapter. I’m working an awful shift that gives me no time before or after and it’s all so depressing. That being said, I think we all sense cummies in our near future as we get closer and closer to the thottening. Anyways. Enjoy. :)

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

masterlist

You were halfway through your glass of wine before the next guests arrived. Your mother’s voice floated in from the corridor as you tried to hide in your cup from both the king and his dowager mother. You looked up as Steve lifted his head too and Sarah lifted a brow in mild interest.

“Oh, you’re rather strapping, aren’t you, sir?” Your mother trilled with a bawdy laugh.

“I suppose,” Lord Barnes’ returned and you had to resist a chuckle of your own. You kept your face straight as you listened patiently. “You must be Lady Malford.”

“I must be,” She affirmed. “Lord Barnes, was it? I recognize you. You did imbibe at the harvest a few years past and found yourself under the table and nearly up my own skirts.”

“It was not intentional, if you would believe it,” He countered dully. “A regrettable night.”

“I should hope not. The best nights are spent with liquor warm in one’s stomach,” She chimed.

“After you, my lady,” Barnes diverted her. “My lord.”

“Lord Barnes,” Your father said evenly.

Hugh appeared in the doorway at once and entered. He stopped short and spoke with his eyes to the ceiling. “Lord Willis and Lady Elizabeth have arrived, your highness,” He announced. “And the Lord James Barnes.”

“Thank you, Hugh,” Steven pushed himself to his feet and you rose in kind. Your mother was the first to enter with your father close behind.

“Lady Elizabeth.” Hugh introduced your mother. “Lord Willis,” Your father stood beside your mother as they bowed to the king, “And Lord Barnes.” The third stepped forward and bent in kind.

“I do prefer--” Your mother began as she straightened.

“Bessie,” The dowager’s voice rose above hers. “I should have guessed.”

“Your highness,” Your mother greeted Sarah genially. “I was not informed you’d be attending.”

“I thought this mouse was some distant niece of yours, a cousin even,” You looked to the royal widow; she was almost smiling. “Though with a tongue so candid, I cannot say I’m surprised. She does lack your humour, alas.”

“Oh, she merely hoards it,” Your mother returned.

“She must get that from her father then,” Sarah chided. “Do come sit. I think you should keep me from nodding off through this dinner.”

“I cannot promise I won’t,” You mother approached as the old queen beckoned her forth.

“Time has seen you well,” Sarah said. “Pardon me, lady,” She turned to you, “Would you offer your seat to your mother? My son does have another shoulder you can sit upon.”

“Certainly,” You assured her and rounded to the other side as your mother took your place.

“Bess, you old cow, you do seem as well-fed as ever,” Sarah sat and pulled your mother down with her.

“And you do seem as decrepit as your soul,” Your mother cackled. “I daresay, I do cling to my youth yet. Does the grave call to you, hmm? Does the descent seem less perilous?”

“The prospect of rest has never frightened me. Truthfully, it does seem a comforting fate,” Sarah laughed softly under her breath. “I see you are still latched onto Willis the Weasel.”

“We do have quite a cozy little burrow between us,” Your mother boomed as you father scowled and sat at her other side. “A few kits of our own.”

“I only ever had the one but he is more a snake. No surprise he does choose to feast on a mouse.” She remarked.

“She looks a mouse, but she’s a fierce beast indeed,” Your mother assured. “Why, I was sure by now you’d gone to stay with your husband.”

“Not just yet,” Sarah said. “Merely his former abode. A castle most quaint… and quiet. No doubt a relief from this den of fools.”

“Surely, but how bored we should be without fools to entertain us,” Sarah poured your mother a goblet of wine and you looked across at them astounded.

You’d known your mother to have been at court as a youth but she never mentioned such a kinship to the queen. The two of them were enlivened by their former acquaintance and you were stunned to find the dowager almost giddy. Her son looked just as surprised. The women leaned in as they lowered their voices and began to titter over their rims.

“Hugh,” Steven motioned to the footman, “You may call for the food. We’re ready to begin.”

The servant nodded and marched off to his task. The king sat back and held his chin in his hand as he watched the ladies laugh quietly. Slowly his eyes strayed and found you watching him. The wrinkles left his forehead as he smiled and sat up. He leaned on the arm of the chair and towards you.

“My love,” He whispered. “You handled her as well as any can. Even me.”

You nodded and lowered your lashes. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps your mother can soften her yet,” He said. “But she does not hate you entirely. It is only her way.”

“I shall be patient.” You replied softly.

“As I will be,” He countered with a smirk, “As I have been.“

👑

Your mother insisted on silk the colour of rose petals. She said it made you glow though you felt little more than an impostor. The first fitting had been near disastrous but the second was reassuring. This one was stressful.

In a week, you'd be taken away to the castle of Heron's Ford. There you would spend the fortnight preceding the wedding in isolation with your mother and your maids. The tradition offered a brief respite before you were to face the inevitable but in your mind, it was barely long enough.

You stood before the long mirror as your mother placed pins to mark the last of her adjustments. Along the neckline, she'd woven silver and magenta ribbons over the bodice. The shoulders were wide set and displayed your collarbone without seeming risque. The sleeves were fitted to your wrists and slitted with white satin. The skirts were full and the same silver ribbons trimmed the hem.

You inhaled deeply and sighed. Your mother looked up from her work and stood straight.

"Dear… what is it that troubles you so?" She asked.

"Oh mother, you are braver than me for I feel a terrible dread." You mourned. "I have felt it since… since the last queen was marched to her death."

Your mother frowned and set aside the pins. "We all do. Ladies, that is. To think a queen could be cast aside so easily but… it does embolden us to think an earl's daughter can be raised all the same."

"I know I'm fortunate but I do not feel it." You lamented. "I know little of being a queen, I was a poor enough lady."

"You will learn because you must," Your mother said. "And there is one thing that should secure you against the fate of the queen."

"Which is?" You wondered.

"An heir. If you can bear a child, or more, you will not need to fear." Your mother touched your sleeve kindly. "I never struggled to conceive though I did bear only daughters and your sister quickened almost upon her wedding night."

"And if I cannot?"

"You mustn't think of that now," Your mother said. "You must cling to hope until it is extinguished."

"I fear I've not had hope since I was a girl." You admitted. "I have ever disappointed father and I do think my husband shall one day be as cruel to me as he is."

"My girl, you are… blind. I see the king and how he dotes on you. He abides more of you than any. I see that he does long for you deeply and while I cannot promise his faithfulness I do see his persistence." She mulled. "Why, you only need tend your wifely duties and I think he should be pleased."

"And if I cannot?"

She frowned. "Well, a wife's ability barely matters for a husband should perform his duty either way."

You hung your head. "I am trying." You uttered. "But I cannot accept it though I know it is not up to me." You turned from her and tried not to loosen the pins. "This crown shall ensure the hate I've sown among the court. I know it."

"Dear, you do have too little esteem in yourself," She chided. "These people do not hate you. They fear the king and his impulses. They have seen the unbelievable and they do appease the king's wrath. They see a girl like a fawn; terrified but caught in a hunter's snare."

"Is that what they see?"

"They should. And if they do not see that, they see the blood of a queen upon their hands and that they do fear that theirs could just as easily be spilled." Your mother came up beside you.

"You are not Eleanor, you are not trained to be queen. And you are surely not Sarah. But you are you. You are kind and you are sweet. Those are as much strengths as any." Your mother turned you to face her and cradled your face in her hands. "You are strong for you have remained resilient through all this."

"But I am scared." You breathed.

"That, my girl, is human. We are all afraid." She said. "Even me. Even your father. Even the king."

You stared at your mother and she drew you into an embrace. "I love you, mother."

"I love you too, dear," She cooed. "My queen."

"Mother," You pulled away from her and she grinned.

"I must practice." She said. "It'll take some getting used to but I think I can manage. Oh! Imagine your father. How he should hate to say it."

You shook your head and giggled. "Then I shall make him call me nothing else."

There was a knock at the door. You had dismissed Rita as you'd quickly tired of her silence after breaking your fast that morning. You crossed to the doors carefully and opened the left one. Your mother watched from behind as she grabbed her pins once more.

"Lord Barnes," You greeted him in surprise.

"My lady," He returned. "I come bearing a gift from the king."

"Why, my lord, thank you," You replied. "A valiant messenger indeed."

"It is for your wedding, I understand," He said dully. "I see you are already of the mind for preparations."

"Do invite him in, daughter," Your mother called. "I never turn away such a handsome caller."

"Mother," You reproached as you looked over your shoulder.

"We should need a second opinion," She added. "Even a man's."

"I should be on my way. The council does gather." Barnes intoned.

"It will not take very long," She insisted. "Only if you should continue to delay."

"Very well," He relented and you shuffled backwards to let him through.

He closed the door behind him and you turned back to approach your mother. You stood before the mirror as she placed another pin. "Now, Lord Barnes, do you think I should add another ornament along her bodice?"

He squinted and clung to the box in his hands. He stared at you in the mirror and shrugged. "My lady, I am not one for fashion but I do think she looks fine indeed." He replied. "And I do offer another ornament already."

"Ah yes," Your mother nodded, "Let us see this newest bauble."

He removed the lid from the box and held it out. A thin silver coronet with pearls along it sat upon a cushion. "The king did say it is merely a placeholder until the coronation," He explained.

"A rather extravagant placeholder," Your mother took the coronet and lifted it as she turned to you. She lowered it onto your brow and stepped back. "Beautiful."

"Indeed," Barnes agreed. "I think I prefer the simplicity."

"As you would," You snorted.

Your mother tilted her head as she looked between you and Barnes but said nothing.

"This court would distort the merest turn of phrase and the simplest stitch of thread," Barnes countered. "I do not think it unnatural to long for the simple."

"If one should abide the court, they must bide its nuisances," You challenged. "There is but one escape from such."

"Surely, we do abide," He said firmly. "As painful as it should prove."

Your nostrils flared as you met his gaze at last. He finally looked away from the mirror as he turned to you directly. You glared at him as his brow crinkled. You set your jaw as you sneered at him.

"I thank you, Lord Barnes, for delivering this gift." You reached to touch the coronet. "I shall be a beaming bride indeed."

"So you will," He nodded curtly.

"You may tell the king I thank him," You said stiffly as you lowered your hand and grasped your skirts tightly. "That I do look forward to our union most… eagerly."

"As you wish…" He bowed and slowly backed away, "My lady."

"My lord," You said all too sharply as he retreated to the door. "We should hate to keep you from council."

"I should be in time, I think," He contended. "Good day, ladies."

"And you, Lord Barnes." Your mother answered as you returned your attention to your reflection.

The door opened and closed again. A silence pervaded the chamber as your mother watched you in the mirror. You avoided her gaze as you pretended to adjust the coronet.

"You are mad at him." She mused.

"No." You lied.

She scoffed and crossed her arms. "Don't play coy with me, girl. I suspect if I hadn't been here, he might not have been spared a strike across his cheek."

"If you were not here, he'd not have been permitted in my chambers." You declared.

"You doubt your potential, my dear, yet you sound a queen to me already." She snickered.

"He does not bother me," You insisted. "He is but the king's man. I tolerate him."

Your mother's smile fell. Her eyes found yours in the mirror and she quirked her head. She dropped her arms and her hands went to her hips.

"Oh, dear," She said though you could not figure if she referred to you or expressed the concern which wrinkled her forehead. "Do not let that boy affect you so."

"He does not." You retorted.

"He does so," She argued. "Oh, no no no. I do like your head as it is and not only for that pretty gift the king has sent you."

"Mother," You huffed.

"Daughter," She mocked. "Do not think others will not see as I do. That man is more than the king's man. You encourage him this and he shall want to be yours."

"That's silly. He is loyal to his master. He has done his bidding, delivered his gifts, delivered me." You spat. "He is beholden but certainly not to me."

"The heart is silly," She grabbed your arm as she stepped before you and looked you in the face. "And you should know it is hardly restrained by decorum."

You stared back at her then looked to the door. You surely didn't care so much for Barnes. You couldn't, he was the king's friend and you were the king's betrothed. It could not be. So then why were you so mad at him? And why did it hurt so much?

#tapestry #Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #fic #series #au #medieval au #mcu #marvel #captain america #dark fic #dark!fic #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes

845 notes · View notes

dem-animebois · 4 years ago

Text

Tenshi’s story part 1

Welcome to the villains world!

This will be a combination of the first few prologues with a bit extra to do with my oc.

*Rustle. Bang. Squeak.*

‘What was that noise....?’ The girl though to herself. It sounded like someone was hitting wood. Wait, was she asleep. She tried to wake up but her eyesight remained black. Was her eyes closed? No she could blink. The girl could also hear herself breath, feel the walls on her back . She wasn’t dreaming. Then what was stopping her from seeing? It was a good thing she no longer had a fear of the dark, their was no light to be seen at all.

Her back was against something hard, a wall mabye? It was hard and felt rough, like wood. She could feel the wall in front of her touching her chest while the sides touched her. Moving her hands up to the wall in front she pushed with as much might as she could, trying to move it. It was no use.she felt something asleep in her arms. It was an animal of some sort. Feathers? So a bird. Oh wait. It was yukino. The girls eagle owl she had raised. Guess he got caught with her.

Her hand was still resting on the wood board in front of of her, when she heard yelling from outside. It was coming from outside, muffled by the layer of thick oak.

“Crap. People are coming. Got to find a uniform while...” The voice was croaky with a accent. She couldn’t pinpoint how, but it sounded familiar.She felt slight bangs from the wood in front. Almost like someone trying to open it.

“Grrrr!!! The lid is too heavy.” The creature sounded out of breath and upset. Whining loudly. The banging continued whoever was outside was stubborn. She will give them that.

“ Time for...*heavy breath* my secret move!” A tiny bit of light was starting to expand in one of the corners. It was blinding:“Guwwaahuuh~~~~ There!”

‘F-fire?!’ She cries out in her head. For a split second she swore blue flames had appeared in front of her. Was she hallucinating? No. Her brain couldn’t be that good especially since her own name had slipped her mind.

The slab of oak had been removed from her box and she could see again. She was in some sort of room? There were coffins floating around the room much like her own. The dark blue pillars had lamps on them shining a dingy green. In the center of the room was a mirror. The black surface was surrounded by silver vines.

“Ok, ok. Gotta get... Whaaaaaaa!!!!” Ow. Her ears. “Why are you up!?” The sound awoke the bird in her arms as he went flying down the hallway. It’s fine yukino can take care of himself. She will call him back if she needs him, it’s best to let him calm down though. Looking down to the floor she saw where the voice was coming from. A grey.... raccoon? Was screaming, eyes widened with shock. Wait a second, raccoons don’t talk!

“A talking r-raccoon?!” The red-head screams, not believing what she is seeing.

The tiny animal huffed and puffed out its chest. Stomping its foot and pouting it shouted“I’m the Great Grim!” Uh-oh. She seems to have got a nerve. “Well, whatever. Hey,human! Hurry up and gimme those clothes!”Smirking he put his hand out, beckoning for her to undress. When she didn’t start to hand over the clothing, his smirk grew wider. “Otherwise.... I’ll roast ya!” He lifted up his hand- paws. Blue flames appeared again taller than before dangerously close to her face. As if to ask to eat her layers of skin and burn her. She didn’t know why but seeing those flames didn’t scare her. Mabye it was the colour or maybe it was the fact she was still quite numb. Her feet stayed in place. “Dreaming about getting roasted by a raccoon, that’s a new one!” she said while staring blankly at the culprit of the flames. “I said I’m not a freaking raccoon!” The creature started trying to attack her.

Knowing it’s probably best not to let this angry furball hit her she started running. She run down hallways with lockers, through classrooms with blackboards and all the way to some sort of library. Massive bookshelf up to the ceiling were lining the walls. Some books were even hovering about. Weird.

“Where the heck am I?” She asked nobody while running into the darkness to hide.

“Did you really think you’d get away from my nose? Dumb human!”The angry raccoon said after running through the entrance. Great. He started walking towards a table. Looking for her. The same smirk plastered on his face. “If you don’t wanna get roasted, better hand over-”*Smack* “Buwah!? Ow! What’s with this cord?!” A black cord had rapped around its waist keeping it in place.

“It’s no mere cord. It is a lash of love!”

The owner of the whip corrected. He was a tall man with yellow eyes. He was wearing a blouse, with a vest and tie. Over the top of that he had some sort of cape. He wore a black top gap with a blue ribbon tied around it. On its side was a smaller version of the mirror in the first room.

“Ah, found you at last. Are you one of the new students?” He questioned. Closing his eyes he spoke again. It seems he couldn’t see the girl because he was yet to comment on her gender and appearance. “You shouldn’t do things like that. Leaving the Gate on your own!” He crossed his arms why sighing, reopening his eyes. “Not only that, you have yet to tame your familiar which has broken a number of school rules.”

“I’m not her freakin’ familiar!” Cried grim while trying to escape.

It seems once again the gender has gone over his head. “Sure, sure. The rebellious ones always say things like that. Now just quiet down for a moment.” He places a hand over grims mouth. Telling him to shut up. “My goodness. It’s unprecedented that a student leave the Gate on their own.” *sigh* “How impatient could you be? The entrance ceremony is well underway. Let’s head to the hall of mirrors.”

“Gate?” The girl asked stepping out of the shadow. Gasps could be heard from Grim. Grim new she was a girl, of course but he didn’t take time to look at the burn scar covering the left side of her face. Not quite reaching past her eye but traveling all the way down to her back as far as he could see.

“It’s the room you woke up in with all the doors. All students who wish to attend the academy must pass through one of those doors to arrive here.” He looked up to see her. His face was shocked for a few seconds. “Normally., students wake up only after the door is opened with a special key but...”

“The fire must of blown the lid off.” She stated. Personally she hated the suspicious look he was giving her.

Unfazed by her he spoke. “So in the end the culprit appears to be this familiar.If you are gonna bring it with you you have to take responsibility and properly take care of it.” He looked up at the girl and finally seemed to of noticed their scars and gender. “....Oh my! Now isn’t the time to be long winded. The entrance ceremony will soon come to a close. Let’s get a move on.” He started walking to the entrance, expectingher to follow.

“Just a second.” The girl asked,still confused. “Who exactly are you?” She may be in a different place but she knew better than to follow strange men she had only just met.

“What’s this? Are you still dazed?” The man retorted with a questioning tone. The raccoon still tight in his grasp. “It appears the magic teleportation has left you disoriented.... well it’s fine. It happens often enough.” Turning to face her, smile on face, he continued. “I will explain to you on the way there. For I am gracious.” Feeling as if she had no choice, the red-head followed him. This seems like the only way she was gonna get answers.

He led her to a courtyard. A fountain stood in the center with paths coming of it from all sides. Patches on grass say in the corners one containing a apple tree. “This is Night Raven College. Those magicians blessed with a unique apitude for magic father here from all over the world, here at the most prestigious magical academy in Twisted Wonderland.” Magicians? What is this crazy old look talking about? Does he mean the people who sit on stage on wow you with some tricks. Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. She had never heard of a country called ‘Twisted Wonderland’ mabye she didn’t pay enough attention in geography. You would of thought she’d remember a place with a strange name like that. “And I am the principal, appointed to take care of this academy by the board of chairmen, Dire Crowley.” Wait, that surname.... THEY HAVE THE SAME ONE?! Of course someone has the same surname as you but she didn’t expect it to be this crazy old man! Good thing she doesn’t use her surname at all. The thing that bothered her is how come she is able to remember her surname and geography class but not her NAME? The headmaster didn’t seem bothered by her internal struggle and continued. “Only those magicians seen worthy by the dark mirror can attend this school. Chosen ones use the Gate and are summoned here from around the world.” He looked at the small human. “An ebony carriage carrying a gate should have gone to meet you as well.”

An ebony carriage? She doesn’t remember stepping into one but.... “I think i remember a horse with a terrifying face....” Yes, its dark, beady eyes where engraved in her memory. How they were void and empty yet beautiful at the same time. How it stared at here empty of emotions.

“The ebony carriage goes to welcome new students chosen by the Dark Mirror.They are special carriages that carry the doors to the academy.” He sounded dull like this was something she should already know. He then continued speaking. “The market decided years ago that carriages are used to welcome people on special days.” It was odd to say the least. Why a carriage? There are plenty of good buses you could of used. Carriages went out of style during the 1900’s“So your saying a carriage just brought me here? On its own?”

Grim yelled in anger but it came out muffled due to the gloves hand covering his mouth. The raccoons hands and legs flailing about, trying to escape the headmasters tight grasp.

“Come let’s go to the entrance ceremony.”

The trio travelled back to the room with the mirror as the center. It was filled with students, all different shapes and sizes. She could see a small boy with lilac hair and a tall boy with blue hair. In the corner she could see a tanned person with white hair and... are those animal ears? Wait, where they real?

“Is that all for the new dorm assignments?” A loud voice boomed. The girl looked over to see a fellow red-head yelling at some people. “Listen up new students. Here in Heartslaybul I am the rules. Break them and it’s of with your head.” Wow, bit extreme.

“....Uuugghh.The stuffy ceremony is finally over. We are going back to the dorm. Savanaclaws follow me.” A dark haired male yawned. He had animal ears poking out the top of his robes.

“To the new students, congratulations on entering this academy. Enjoy your life here to the fullest.” Who was this? “As the dormitory leader of Octovinelle I will support you to the best of my ability.” Just hearing his voice and actions made the small girl uneasy. It may sound nice to the untrained ear but she could hear the undertone of a shady schemer. She made a mental note to stay clear of that one.

“By the way, where did the dean go? He flew right out in the middle of the ceremony...” A taller figure spoke.

“Abandoning his post...” Where was this voice coming from? Perhaps the person was short?

“Did he get a stomachache or something?”

“Not at all!” The headmaster exclaimed.

The younger students jumped, startled by the sudden bang. The Leaders however ,did not flinch, it must be normal for them.

“Ah, he’s here.”

“I cannot believe you all. We were missing one new student so I went to find them.” The crow says crossing his arms and pouting. He turns and looks at her emerald eyes. “You are the only one yet to be assigned a dormitory. I shall watch over the raccoon, step in front of the Dark Mirror.”

Sounds of protest were made from Grimm still with the headmasters hand around his mouth.

Looking around the room, she noticed a massive, dark mirror. It was floating, somehow. She made her way towards it, pulling her hood down more. As her high heels clicked against the floor boards she felt all eyes on her and she hated the attention. “Wait, is that a girl?” “What is a girl doing here?” Here the whispers come. She was shocked at the fact they commented on her gender ; not her appearance. It must be the hood she was wearing. The garment that adorned her was a black and purple robe with the details being in gold. It was odd and probably made for a special occasion. She didn’t remember putting them on, she doesn’t remember stepping into the coffin- the thing which she awoke from.

Stepping in front of the supposed ‘magic’ mirror , her breath was hitched. Nervousness flooded her body ;the only thing she could do was stand and wait.

All of a sudden, when she thought nothing was gonna happen, the mirror spoke up. It’s face watching her, judging her every move.

“Child of man, burnt by flames. The shape of your soul is.....”

You could hear a pin drop it was that quiet. The atmosphere was tense and hushed.

“I do not know.”

Huh?

#disney twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #disney twst #twst #twisted wonderland #oc #tenshi crowley #disney twisted #disney twisted wonderland

5 notes · View notes