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inoreuct · 1 year ago

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*drums my fingers on the table* so… weretiger zoro angst, anyone? (happy ending tho bcs. always happy endings) [cw: slight gore]

Zoro is on the hunt. There is something in the back of his brain snarling protect them, protect them, chase it down—

“—arimo!”

He’s so hungry. Hell, he doesn’t even need to chase— His prey is right there in front of him, fresh blood racing through its veins as its tiny heart works overtime. He can taste its fear at the back of his throat, and he bares his fangs in a grin; the poor thing screams, a sharp, high keen of terror as it scrambles backwards, and Zoro pounces.

“—arimo!”

He is kind enough to give it a quick death. Its throat rips out easily, trachea crushing between his jaws as he slits its torso open with his blades. Blood sprays across his body. Why hadn’t he shifted? He spits out a mouthful of bone and cartilage, pierces his fangs through a forearm and yanks, feels something pop and hears a wet tear. This would be so much easier with his claws—

“Zoro!”

Oh. His human is calling for him.

Sanji looks scared. Why, though? He drops the arm in his mouth, lets it hit the deck with a wet splat as he croons a soothing apology at not replying sooner. Gore is sticky beneath his boots as he stalks forward and he holds in a growl of irritation, nimbly avoiding the guts strewn across the wooden planks.

Rumbling his reassurance does nothing. Sanji still looks vaguely afraid, and so Zoro tries again; safe, he purrs, and the tip of his tail does not swish through the blood puddled on the ground like it’s supposed to. He cannot feel it at all.

The cook doesn’t budge. Zoro can smell his apprehension, his nerves, the slight sour tang of fear that makes him want to go hunt down whatever’s causing it and make it hurt. He smells it on the rest of his crew, too, and he doesn’t get it. The threat is gone, no? He senses no danger. Scanning their surroundings on the enemy boat yields no answers; all the men around them are still very, very dead. Zoro had made sure of that, so what was the problem? They should be back on the Sunny right now, sitting in the galley debriefing and having dinner—

Something clicks into place in the recesses of his mind, and dread starts to prickle through his body.

He had been so… He’d almost eaten—

Oh, no.

Zoro tries to shift the shape of his soul and fails. He does not feel his body changing. His shadow is, has been, in the shape of a man’s, and the blood on his skin suddenly feels disgusting.

In the span of a moment he becomes hyper-aware of it all, pouring down his front, dripping off his chin, salty-sweet-metallic on his tongue. He turns to the side and spits multiple times, tries to get the cloying taste out of his throat as he raises a hand before realising that it, too, is coated in red. Zoro almost retches as he swallows instinctively, nausea slamming into him in a wave so strong that his stomach churns. He tastes bile. He’s thankful for it— It’s better than blood.

Anything is better than blood.

“Zoro?”

His head snaps around so fast that something cricks in his neck. His eyes are saucer-wide. Sanji takes a step forward and he is rooted to the spot, frozen statue-still; he is sure his heart stops beating for a second. Fitting. He knows he should step back— Knows now that he had been the threat, and yet he cannot move.

“Let’s just… go back to the ship, how about that?” Sanji says tentatively, wincing as he kicks aside something that looks like a liver to put his foot down again, and he’s so close. Too close. “Let me—”

“No,” Zoro rasps, and God, fuck, he sounds like a fucking death rattle and he wants to claw his own voice box out of his fool mouth. The cook’s expression is a twist between desperation and something else, something that makes Zoro want to gag and cry and scream. Sanji should never look like that and it’s because of him. “No,” he tries again, quieter. He looks away. He doesn’t think he can stand looking into those blue, blue eyes. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean up.” Sanji makes a noise like he’s about to protest, and Zoro pierces through his own heart as he turns his back. “Alone.”

A beat of silence, and then Sanji is walking away. His crew is walking away. Zoro stands, surrounded by bodies he’d ripped apart, and thinks that perhaps this is how everybody that has ever been under his claws had felt.

And that’s that.

The following days are hell. He breathes in and everything he smells is wrong; anxiety, worry, an undercurrent of tentativeness that makes him throw himself into his training with renewed fervour. He is torn between the urge to bare his throat, show his belly and prove to his crew that they will never come to any harm from him, and the pride that insists he will not go against his nature to make himself more palatable for anybody else.

He is all fang and claw and wickedly sharp teeth. He is a predator by nature, given humanity and a mortal form. This is the shape of his soul.

But they are his family. His nakama. And sitting here on the floor of the crow’s nest after running every kata he knows countless times, Zoro feels painfully, inexplicably sad. It is unfamiliar; he doesn't really do regrets, but it reminds him that at least some part of him is still human.

He lost control. He doesn’t do that, either. He never does that. But he did, and now none of his nakama can look him in the eye.

Somebody climbs up the ladder, and his nostrils flare.

“Zoro?” Chopper asks, peeking his head up, and the swordsman immediately tries to look like he’d been busy, which… is ridiculous. He is sitting on the floor and moping. The sigh that whooshes from his lungs is defeated.

“Hm?” he prompts, when the tiny reindeer doesn’t say anything else.

Chopper climbs up fully, rubbing his hooves together. “I’ve checked everybody over except you.”

Zoro can see the way he takes a fortifying breath and walks closer with a purpose. He stretches out his legs and allows Chopper to do as he wishes.

“…We’re all worried about you,” the reindeer says after a while, staring intently into Zoro’s eye and testing his pupillary reflex.

The swordsman gives a non-committal hum. “Scared of me, you mean.”

“No!”

Zoro jumps when a hoof whacks him across the forehead. “Wh—?!”

“We’re scared for you!” Chopper scolds, sounding dangerously close to tears. His distress turns Zoro’s stomach. “Do you know how scary it was to see you like that?! And then! You haven’t eaten in three days, and you probably haven’t slept, either, have you? Sanji’s been trying not to push because he knows you’re upset, but he’s been pacing a hole into the galley floor and chain-smoking like—”

“Wait,” Zoro interrupts. Replays that chunk of speech in his head. “You just said it was scary to see me like that.”

“Because we didn’t know what happened to you!” Chopper cries, huffing shakily. “And the look on your face when you realised—”

Zoro’s back bumps into the bench as Chopper grabs him in a hug, arms around his neck. His breath catches in his chest.

“Don’t do that again,” Chopper says firmly, shoving Zoro’s shoulder for good measure as he pulls back. “You seem okay, at least physically. Any pain?”

“No.”

“Any trouble shifting?”

“Haven’t tried.”

The doctor makes a noise, a cross between displeasure and something softer. “Well, try soon. Can Sanji come and see you?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay.” Chopper stands, giving Zoro one last look. “For the sake of our cook’s lung capacity, come down to dinner.”

Zoro sucks down a breath and holds it until it burns. He smells worry-care-care-anxiety-care and pats a hand over Chopper’s hat. “Alright.”

He sits back against the bench as their tiny doctor leaves, and within a minute someone is climbing up again. Sanji stands, silhouetted by the late-afternoon light. Zoro’s chest aches.

“Marimo,” the cook says evenly, and Zoro resists the urge to scent the air.

“Swirly-brow,” he returns, neutral. Testing the waters. “Heard you missed me.”

Sanji is silent, and Zoro’s heart gives a sickening squeeze. Has he overstepped already? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and nearly jumps when he ends up with a lapful of gangly limbs, his spine pressed hard into sanded wood.

There are hands on his face, in his hair, lightly callused and holding him in place as Sanji kisses him like he’s got a point to prove. Zoro freezes up at first, because even in his human form his teeth are sharp and he doesn’t know what he will do if he draws Sanji’s blood. Maybe run away to live out the rest of his life in well-deserved exile.

But then he smells salt, and something wet smears against his cheek, and Sanji’s lashes are clumped with tears as he pulls back and there is a slender finger jabbing hard into his sternum.

“Don’t you ever,” Sanji hisses, poking him again for emphasis, “do that shit to me again, you fucking bastard.”

He smells like bitter fatigue, acrid worry sharpened with anger and underneath all of it— love, lemon-bright and so goddamn sweet that it coats Zoro’s tongue like honey, wipes every memory of red iron and rust from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, eyes roving over Sanji’s face; the curled ends of his brows, the long lashes, the high cheekbones and strong nose and a sharp cupid’s bow, so familiar he could trace it in his sleep. “I thought you— wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Sanji spits, his face crumpling, and he goes easily when Zoro coaxes him to his chest. “Do you know how long I spent worrying about whether or not you were okay?”

“I know,” Zoro soothes, and his heart is beating so fast that his ribs hurt. “I’m alright.”

“Well, I’m not,” Sanji announces, digging his knee up into Zoro’s side with a vengeance until he gets a wheeze. “You owe me three packs of cigs. You owe the whole crew an apology. Luffy’s damn near lost his appetite; even Nami won’t so much as insult me when I try and get a rise out of her.”

Sanji’s glaring at him with the force of the sun, fierce and beautiful and golden-bright, but the dark circles beneath his eyes make guilt drag razor-thin talons across Zoro’s stomach. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says softly, brows furrowing as he cards Sanji’s bangs out of his face and cups his cheek.

“You shouldn’t go berserk and then isolate yourself without considering the fact that your crew would be worried sick about you,” the cook fires back without missing a beat. He leans into Zoro’s touch anyway, and Zoro smooths a thumb into the hollow between his bridge and brow.

“Weren’t you scared?”

“More— unsettled, maybe. Marimo,” Sanji’s throat bobs, eyes flickering over Zoro’s face. “Your eyes were slits. Like you were expecting to get attacked. We didn’t know how to talk to you without you panicking and running away.”

“I do not run—” he begins, scowling, and then shuts his mouth. What has he been doing these past three days, if not running away? “I think…” He digs deep into the memory, lays everything out in his head and ah.

That man had crept up in Sanji’s blind spot, a wickedly long knife in his hand, and Zoro hadn’t thought. Hadn’t planned, just jumped. “He was gonna get to you,” he mutters, forcing himself to hold Sanji’s gaze even as the cook frowns. “I’m sorry, cook. I lost control. It won’t happen again.”

The words are clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth. He’d almost eaten a man in his human form. That had to have looked all kinds of fucked up; he really didn’t blame his crew if they—

“Oi,” Sanji scoffs, flicking him in the forehead. “Are you always so distracted even with pretty people in your lap?”

Zoro huffs through his nose. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Just contemplating how I nearly ate someone.”

The cook’s mouth twitches. “There are a great many jokes I can make about that, but I’ll save them for later. You’re a tiger, marimo. You were just protecting us. We really can’t hold it against you.”

“…You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs one last time, because he has to be sure.

“I’m not,” Sanji confirms easily, rubbing his thumb over the shell of Zoro’s ear, dragging through his earrings and making them tinkle like wind chimes. “Come down and the rest of them won’t be, either.”

Something in him gives. Shifts, releases, crumbles in his chest like a little collapsible galaxy as he pulls the cook down for another kiss. He feels Sanji’s tongue trace over the points of his teeth, utterly fearless— It steals the breath right from his lungs, this blatant, unwavering trust that he’s been allowed to hold cupped in his battle-rough palms. He gathers flaxen hair into his hand so that he can look the cook in both eyes, blue as the sky at high noon and crystal clear. Sanji leans into his chest with a ragged exhale and Zoro slides one palm up to the nape of his neck, one over his ribs, if only to feel him breathe, and the words slip out. “I love you.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s never said them before. They must have crossed his tongue hundreds of times by now, his mind a hundredfold more. He loves Sanji, he knows; it aches under his ribs, next to his heart, woven into his soul. He loves his crew, he knows; he gives them leeway he would allow nobody else, and refuses to accept that he needs their affection as much as they want his.

But it feels new. Every single time, it feels brand-new. Like a freshly-minted coin that never tarnishes, pure, solid gold— So he lets himself be greedy and leaves his fingerprints all over it, goes to sleep with it tucked in his fist like a child holding on to a dream. “I love you,” he whispers into Sanji’s hair, and he feels the cook shift in his arms, feels the same words shaped against his throat, teeth to bone, fingers around his heart.

He purrs the words subsonic, over and over even when his crew cannot hear. He will put them out into the world until his nakama know and he will think them a thousand times more.

But for now, they have an hour left till dinner. Sanji is breathing slowly, his arms tucked against Zoro’s chest. The lines of worry between his brows are smoothed out.

Zoro thinks he’ll take a nap.

#zosan #one piece zosan #roronoa zoro #zosan au #black leg sanji #zoro x sanji #one piece sanji #straw hat pirates #one piece #weretiger zoro au #it’s like 4am im going to bed #goodnight zosan nation #waiting for my weretiger zoro anons to see this like hehehehehehe #ino writes

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ahtae · 1 year ago

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a little sugar

warnings: sugardaddy!nanami, oral, mentions of penetration

being Nanami's sugar baby and coming home to a bouquet of roses larger than you are, sitting on the counter next to your new chanel bag you've been asking him for. How can he deny you? His special princess. How can he deny you when you suck him in so good, squelching and crying on his cock?

Nanami who spoils you whenever you say so. Denying that he's wrapped around your finger but shoving his black card in your cleavage every time he picks you up for a shopping spree.

Nanami who will send you a thousand dollar to get your nails done, telling you what color (he loves coffin french tips). When you tell him that your nails don't even cost half of that, he tells you that it's his sugar tax <3

Sugar daddy Nanami who gets a tad jealous seeing you with other men. How your pretty white teeth gleam in a smile. He shouldn't be, he knows he just pays your bills. But does that boy know how he makes you scream? Does he know how he wraps your hair around his fist and pounds so deep into you you can't even breathe? He snickers, he'd like to see his face while he pounds into you better than he ever could.

Nanami who buys you the pink iPhone, claiming he saw you oogling it on tiktok. When you ask what you're to do with your old phone, he tells you that your not to contact anyone else on this phone but him. and only him.

Nanami who always let's you finish twice before he puts his cock in you. "First on my mouth then on my fingers, princess, need to feel you everywhere."

Nanami who starts fucking you in missionary instead of doggy, cupping your neck and chin, forcing your dumb fucked out brain to look at him as he pounds into you.

Nanami who now lets you sleepover after a night of rough sex, greeting you with the image of his muscular, claw-marked back. "Sweet thing why don't you get back in bed, hm? I'll bring your coffee to you."

Nanami who kisses your forehead when he brings your breakfast to you, a diamond incrusted bracelet waiting for you. Telling you how good you are to him as he laces your hair with more sweet kisses, thicker and more tender than normal.

Nanami who takes you to Fendi right afterwards, practically buying out the entire store. When you ask him why he's being extra sweet today, he tells you your look extra sweet for him, pulling you in close and breathing into the crook of your neck.

Nanami who comforts you when you break up with your boyfriend. "How could he hurt my sweet girl?" He coos, running gentle fingers through your hair, eyes caressing your body. His calloused hands envelop yours, open your car door, and lead you straight to your favorite massage place<3 treating you to an entire self-care day because you deserve it.

Nanami who only eats you out that night, tongue driving languid circles on your clit, lapping and sucking on your swollen bud, drinking up your whines and moans<3

Nanami who spoils you so rotten you forget all about your ex. Buying you anything your heart desires: an entire new wardrobe of clothes, a new car (for you drive to brunch with the girlies when he's busy with work), and a new puppy for the two of you to raise.

Nanami who spoils you so dumb on his cock and with his wealth you don't have to worry a singular day in your life

~~~

IM OBSEESSEEEDD AHHH

#nanami kento #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu sorcerer #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #nanami x y #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami smut #ahtae

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hermesserpent-stuff · 5 months ago

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based on this post: Link!

@golden-buddle anndddd @honey-minded-hivemind

tw: torture, referenced child abuse, government experiments

Remy stares at the ceiling finger tracing and retracing where he knows that device was implanted what feels like forever ago in the back of his neck. The feeling of it cutting off his ability to move his leg and it shocking him to tears. He can taste the electricity on the back of his teeth even now. Or is that the powers that he had not been allowed to use in weeks? He shivers and finds his face wet. He had not noticed the tears starting to escape him and berates himself. Sabretooth is always wilder when he smelled tears on Remy, refusing to let him get up for food and other necessities. Scrubbing the tears away would not help.

Some sort of government agency had captured Remy. Captured him and shoved something under his skin that he wants to claw out with blunt fingernails. Victor Creed had come for him. And then the horrid people had dumped something on Creed and blasted away his shreds of humanity, leaving Sabretooth behind. Colonel William Stryker who seems to be running the base wanted Sabretooth as an attack dog, using Remy as his leash. From how Remy understands the situation, Creed is taken off of… whatever pheromones to go out on missions for Colonel Styker, left with just enough humanity to be able to find a target and rip them to shreds before returning. In exchange for a good job, Sabretooth gets another dose of whatever they were using and visual on Remy, with some vents so that he can smell Remy.

Sabretooth used to try to attack guards and scientists and the walls between him and Remy. But even the beast could understand that when he did things that the guards and scientists did not like, Remy got shocked. And Remy’s pain seems to be a great deterrent to doing any misbehavior. Probably has something to do with Sabretooth seeing him as cub, even if it does not seem that the beast recalls much else.

Fight, kill, eat, sleep, and care for cub. That seems to be it. Remy has not had a true conversation with anyone in so long, and he fears he will never be able to talk to Creed again.

For particularly well-done hunts, Sabretooth gets to come into Remy’s cell to physically scent him and press too close for Remy’s shaky comfort. But the man does not recall how much Remy distrusts physical contact he does not initiate or makes him feel trapped. Colonel William Stryker loves the fact that Sabretooth grows more vicious and feral when Remy has been ripped away from him. Which they always do in the end.

The device in his neck pulses and he can feel is nerves arching and wiggling as he looses control of his limbs. He lets out a sob and he can feel his Charm starting to slip from his control. He clings to it tightly and closes his eyes as scientists touch him and take his blood and inject him with something that makes him loopy. They kept drugging him to keep him from blowing things up. Not that he had much at hand to blow up anymore. And if the Charm impacted the scientists and they did things? Well, Remy learned long ago how to lock his brain away from what is happening to him.

But today he keeps his Charm under lock and key.

“Right. He’s good to go. Might need to get some hair and spit samples later after we test this set of blood samples. Let the feral in.”

Remy whimpers at the last words and he can hear snickering from the gaurds that find his reactions amusing. He had heard their laughter the first time Sabretooth had pinned him and Remy had screamed and cried, fighting against a beast that pressed far far to close.

Remy gets the use of his limbs back and curls into a tight ball as he waits. He hears the doors reopen and the sound of sniffing and growling. Remy takes a deep breath and twists, shifting to lean against the wall as best he can with the dizzying drugs pulsing in his system. He finds his Charm slipping away from his control as he looks at Creed who is crouched and sniffing the air from the other side of the cell.

“H-hey kitty.”

He whispers out, voice cracking violently. Sabretooth surges forward, tugging him away from the wall and starts licking all the places that needles had been. Sabretooth growls and purrs, holding Remy tight while his sandpaper tongue goes over Remy’s skin. Remy shivers and feels his stomach flip violently at the touch; but he can see the absolute fear in the back of Sabretooth’s eyes. The worry. The pain. Tucked right in there with the violent feralness that has left blood in Sabretooth’s hair and under his nails. Remy takes deep shaky breathes, shoving down the bile in a way that is far too familiar. Sabretooth needs him calm.

“H-hi. G-good hunt, huh, homme? Your hair’s all… messy.”

Words are hard as he feels his chest protest the feeling of a nose at his neck as Sabretooth pins him to the floor. He slowly raises his hands and gently runs his hands along the man’s sides.

“Y-you did good. Got back to me! Bein.”

He is crying. He cannot help it. It is how his body responds to all the different layers of distress that are crushing him with their weight.

Would they ever get out of this hell?

Sabretooth purrs low and sweet and Remy closes his eyes, pretending that he is at home. In their nest with Creed who is asking him about- something, anything. He sobs again and the beast on top of him croons and nuzzles, the attempts to comfort only driving Remy’s mind further into the sickly sweet embrace of the dizziness caused by the drugs. There is a ding that informs them both that there is now food in the cell. Sabretooth presses more firmly into Remy to discourage him from getting up. Remy whimpers and curls his fingers against the feral whose weight is fully on him. There is no escape from Sabretooth like this.

Maybe he would get used to it. The possessive rages and the pinning to keep Remy from moving around. The nuzzling and purring without asking in all the places that Remy hates. Maybe he… used to it… Maybe…

He finds himself slowly fading into sleep as Sabretooth’s warmth slowly leaches downwards into his bones.

#x men evolution #evo gambit #evo sabretooth #sabretooth #gambit #remy lebeau #victor creed #hermes speaks

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bananasofthorns · 11 months ago

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now that it's all gone

read on ao3

At the end of the day, after Ren and Big B are dead and the smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air even though the fires have mostly gone out, they return to the ruins of The Relation. Something heavy settles in Joel’s throat as they approach, squinting against the setting sun. He spent an entire fucking week on that boat, and it’s just— gone. There’s nothing left except a fraction of the hull, some scattered bits of wood and wool, and scorched grass.

He should’ve known better, really. Should’ve remembered that it’s no use getting attached to anything, not in a world like this.

He’d thought that burning down half of the rest of the server had helped, but suddenly all of his raging emotions are back, filling his chest in a way that makes him think his ribs are going to crack with the weight of them.

A furious, guttural scream tears itself from his throat. Behind him, Etho startles; he ignores it and slams his axe into the only remaining piece of their boat, cleaving it in two. The force of the strike leaves his palms buzzing.

“ Fuck,” he shouts, suddenly breathless.

He’s on the verge of either screaming until his voice gives out or shattering into a thousand pieces. He needs to kill something, needs to feel blood on his hands because maybe this time it’ll stop them shaking and soothe the ache in his chest— if he wears out his axe enough that the blade goes dull, then maybe he’ll feel okay again. It hasn’t really worked before, but, hey! Third time’s the charm, right? Right?

“Joel.”

He reaches up and tears a half-burned plank from what’s left of the boat. Splinters dig into his palms but he doesn’t care, just squeezes it tighter in his fist until his nails leave gouges in the charcoal.

“ Joel.”

With another scream, he flings it at the world border so hard that he sees the forcefield shiver. He does it again, and again, and again, until the remains of their boat are scattered in the field before them, highlighted in dull gold by the sunset.

“Joel!”

Someone grabs his shoulder. He jumps and spins, axe already rising into a sloppy attack. For a moment, his brain doesn’t register anything more than threat, and he’s a centimeter or two away from chopping off Etho’s head and ending both their lives when a hand, cold and surprisingly strong, catches his wrist.

“Seriously?” Etho asks, eyebrows raised; his tone is incredulous and unamused, but Joel knows him well enough by now to see the alarm hiding in his eyes.

“Shit,” he breathes. “ Shit, Etho, I could’ve killed you! What the heck? Why’d you do that, are you a fucking idiot—?”

“You weren’t listening to me.”

Joel takes a slow, deep breath. He lowers his axe. “...sorry. I just—” He runs his free hand through his hair only to remember a second later that it’s covered in soot. Shit. “Sorry.”

It still feels like there’s fire in his blood and a wild animal in his chest, trying to claw its way out of his ribs and up his throat. If it were anyone else in front of him, they’d be dead.

“...Did you wanna talk about it?” Etho asks, awkward. He’s still holding Joel’s wrist; the freezing points of his fingertips serve to quiet some of the inferno raging in his head.

He scoffs. “What is there to say? I’m fucking pissed, Etho. I spent an entire bloody week on this ship, only to have it burn down in less than an hour! This always happens and I never learn!”

His voice rises until he’s shouting again, staring up at Etho’s ever-impassive face and wondering why it’s so easy for him to act like he doesn’t care.

“Well. Even so. It was nice while it lasted,” he says quietly, like it means something, and apparently Joel’s body takes that as its cue to stop the adrenaline keeping him on his feet.

Etho yelps when he all but collapses onto his knees, dragging Etho down with him since he’s still holding onto his wrist. With an annoyed groan, he tosses his axe aside - careful to not hit either of them on the way - and flops back to lie on the grass.

“Dude,” Etho laughs, finally letting go.

Joel flexes his hand. “Sorry. Kind of tired myself out, there.”

“You think?”

“Shut up.”

His anger has faded, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion that makes him want nothing more than to pass out for a week. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen, but it’s a nice thought. He lies there for a moment longer before sitting up, adjusting so that he and Etho are side by side.

This is something that’s different from every other time he’s experienced this: he’s got a partner this time. They’ll get through it together or die trying, but Joel really hopes it doesn’t end up being the latter, because he wants to win.

He glances at Etho out of the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to say thank you, but he feels like that would be weird. He wouldn’t know how to put it into words, anyway. He’s never been good with stuff like that.

“Did you know that your hands are absolutely fucking freezing?” he asks instead.

Etho laughs. “Oh, are they? Are you sure?”

Joel isn’t fast enough to dodge the hand he rests on the back of his neck. He shouts, then shoves Etho away.

“Oh, you jerk!”

It’s twilight. They’re both laughing, sitting on the grass a few feet away from their burnt-out husk of a boat. Joel still kind of wants to kill someone, but he’s exhausted and knows he needs to rest. There will be time for revenge later.

For now, with Etho by his side, he can wait.

#smallishbeans #ethoslab #boat boys #banana made a post #banana writes things #VINE BOOM. BANANASOFTHORNS BOAT BOYS FIC IN 2024 BE UPON YE #wrote this like. a year and a half ago When This Episode Came Out and never posted it #BUT. i am posting it now. enjoy

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sajirah · 7 months ago

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Come Away O Human Child

Part Two

This started out as a fun little problematic one-shot that I was supposed to get out of my system in 3k words or less and instead it’s turned into a three parter because it just kept getting longer and longer. Whoops. I was just going to post a really long Part Two, but @rosanna-writer convinced me to split it in half. So you're getting one more chapter after this (unless I really go off the rails and add even more scenes).

Additional Trigger Warnings for this fic: Ritual Sacrifice and Suicidal Ideation/Thoughts

As always, this fic is for the lovely @whatishowedyouinthedark who loves nothing more than to root on every unhinged, problematic thought you have. Now everyone go tell her how hot she is.

Part One can be read on AO3 or here.

Part Two can be read on AO3 or below the cut. Enjoy.

-o0o-

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

He arrived as he did every night, with an arrogant grin, smug in the knowledge that she had once again failed to escape him. Though, this time, he didn’t come alone. A beautiful woman had arrived with him. All alabaster skin and large doe-like eyes that stared so obsequiously up at her as she kneeled at Feyre’s feet.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

She didn’t even have the chance to ask what gift that was before Rhys was pressing a knife into Feyre’s hands. There was no warning. No time to understand what was happening before she felt those now oh so familiar claws close in around her brain and force her hand to slash forward.

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Feyre could only watch in horror as her body, still held fast by those mental talons, was made to lean forward and lick that blood straight from the source as the woman twitched and gasped in her death throes. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

Feyre certainly didn’t feel strong. If anything, she felt ready to shatter at any moment. Willing or not, she was not made for murder. For watching the lifeblood drain out of her victims before lapping it up like wine. There was only so much trauma she could endure.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

-o0o-

Every day was the same.

Wake up alone. Upturn every inch of the palace for an escape. Scream in frustration when she inevitably failed as the sun set. Be made to commit yet another ritual sacrifice. And then become Rhysand’s plaything until dawn.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

Feyre didn’t even know how long she’d been here anymore. She’d tried scratching lines into the wall but Rhysand must’ve noticed because one morning she’d awoken to find them gone. Now any time she tried to scratch another into the wall it would be gone the following day.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Time was beginning to lose all meaning. She saw the sun rise and set every day, but the days themselves were beginning to blur. All of them the same environment. The same horrors and frustrations. And the same man.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

Oh, he was there. If anything, she felt like she couldn’t escape the man half the time. And then, even when he was gone, he was a permanent presence at the edge of her mind. Always listening. Always watching. Always chiming in with mocking advice and observations. Not that there was much to watch. It wasn’t like she had much to do in this godforsaken palace besides wander around aimlessly, hoping a door back home would magically reveal itself.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

The one time she’d tried to bring up seeing someone, anyone, other than him, he’d simply smiled down at her with that now familiar condescending smile of his and Feyre had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

-o0o-

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

She didn’t want to. Sometimes she even tried to resist. But even when he wasn’t taking control of her body like he owned it she still had to wrestle with the pull she felt towards him. That deep-seated need inside herself that told her she can’t live without him. That she needed his touch, his taste, his constant attention just to feel content.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

She never wore anything else these days. Her own clothes had mysteriously disappeared almost the moment she’d awoken in this place and everything else left out for her to wear these days were flimsy gowns and dresses. And no underwear. Probably so nothing would be able to impede his easy access.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

Her skin was fevered. Belly and breasts and face flush against the cool table. She could feel the grain of the wood cut into her cheek as he drove into her with the kind of measured and merciless control that pushed her anger right out of her head.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“Because you were made for me,” he replied to that stray thought before reaching down to slide-slide his fingers over her clitoris. She keened and jerked, the sensation making her writhe on his cock like an animal.

She was beyond words now. She couldn’t have answered him even if she tried. But then, it was clear he didn’t expect her to. This was exactly how he wanted her. Reduced to unintelligible cries and moans and shivers all because of him.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

What she couldn’t say, but knew to be true, was that she wanted that too. For all his faults. Even after he’d caged her inside this palace she still craved his touch. She never felt more alive, more at peace, than when he was rutting into her and she could just…give in.

“Yes!” He hissed in response to her thoughts. His fingers sped up and she felt herself convulse. Impossibly, it felt like his cock had swollen even more inside of her. The idea of her submitting to him exciting him like nothing else.

Her climax hit hard. A symphony of shudders and moans. Her legs kicked out and her toes curled but there was nowhere for her body to go between the table and the heavy thrust of Rhysand’s hips as he came with a groan.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

-o0o-

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

Truthfully, her cycle had always been rather sporadic. After years of poor and infrequent meals and a solid decade of constant stress this was certainly nothing new. But the possibility was still there. After all, she hadn’t exactly been celibate since she’d been here. And she wasn’t completely ignorant. Nesta had been sure to explain where babies came from in very graphic detail when Feyre had come crying to her the first time she’d woken up to blood on her sheets.

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

You don’t. A traitorous voice whispered at the back of her mind. Because the truth was that she’d need to actually escape first to be able to raise her (hypothetical!) baby in the increasingly barren wasteland that was her home. And thus far her attempts had only resulted in her being made to commit nightly ritual murder and then being fucked so thoroughly she forgot her own name.

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

In an instant, his gaze grew hot and ravenous. She saw then what he envisioned without even needing him to put the image in her head. Her, round with his child. Proud in the knowledge that it was his seed that had made her that way. That it was his child that tied her to him forever.

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

“But those are my favorite parts of you my Darling Feyre,” he crooned, hands threading gently through her hair. “Those hateful little thoughts you think I don’t hear. Your pettiness. Your selfishness. Your shameful need to be touched and loved and told what a good girl you are.”

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

“I know of that secret part of yourself that you ignore. That deep yearning need for a family who loves you. I can give you that. And you know it. You know I would and that’s what scares you the most.”

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Before she could stop herself an image of his beautiful naked body chained to the bed, her riding him with abandon and torturing him mercilessly the way he had tortured her all this time entered her mind.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

-o0o-

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But, true to his word, he mostly just proceeded to lounge around the palace while she went about her usual (always fruitless) search. At one point she found herself investigating a wall she’d passed dozens of times before, wondering if there were some sort of secret door.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

The sound of Rhysand’s voice nearly startled her out of her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised though. He’d made a habit of following her from room to room, smiling slyly at her efforts as if they were the height of hilarity.

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

The rest of her search went much the same. He followed her from room to room like an extraordinarily bothersome shadow, all the while making snide comments about her methods while she valiantly did her best to ignore him. For all the good it did her. It was a lot like trying to ignore a particularly needy cat.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

It was late in the afternoon, nearing sunset when she walked out onto one of the balconies. The same one, in fact, where she had made this disastrous bargain. She stared out at the mountains and trees wistfully, longingly, before her eyes inevitably trailed downwards past the railing.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

#come away o human child #my fanfiction #my fanfics #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #feysand

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amnevitahwritesstuff · 7 months ago

Text

The fae come to our world to kidnap humanity and Feyre finds herself snatched up like all the others.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Non-Con, Kidnapping, Sexual Coercion, Memory Manipulation

Chapters: 1, 3

AO3 Link

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Part Two

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Every day was the same.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

#my fanfiction #my fanfic #come away o human child #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #feysand #fanfiction #fanfic #amnevitahwritesstuff

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heranubis · 10 months ago

Text

LAST HOUSE IN THE BAYOU: Infernal Alex Keller mini-series ◇ chapter III. FIREWEED ◇ img cred ◇

◇ CONTENT WARNINGS: alex bites out of aggression and wound is vaguely described being treated

- ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ -

The dreams and long, sleepless nights continue as time slowly crawls by. Weeks into months as you work on bringing life back into the old house. The demon torments anyone who tries to offer help - hiding tools, making screams far off in the bayou, even the shadows move like something evil and ugly. But you are not deterred - and simply take up the jobs yourself.

Many days are spent with you on your knees ripping up old carpets and humming along to your old radio as he stands in the doorway, his hooves clicking as he shifts his weight. You still don't have a name for him, nor does he have yours. He growls and hisses and speaks in a language that hurts whenever you try to call him anything other than 'demon'. You gave up shortly after the first nose bleed.

The next project is perhaps the most tedious and annoying. You decide to repaint the walls before installing new flooring - and every time you decide on a color, the nightmares start up again. Still you as a child, still those sharp claws digging into your shoulders. But the old woman doesn't save you again - you simply stand in the hallway with him behind you until morning arrives and the sun saves you from his touch. When you decide on a soft shade of blue, his grip doesn't seem as tight.

- ◇ -

You decide on carpet - picking a soft gray that pairs well with the blue on the walls; it also masks the sound of his hooves, gives your brain a moment to forget he's there and watching. He's not as hostile as he was in the beginning, and you think perhaps it's time mellowing out his temper - or maybe he finally realized you're not going anywhere.

And then... you have another dream. This one is different from the others, it feels like something you're not meant to see, but your eyes won't open.

It's a battlefield, and there's a gun in your hands - but this body is not your own. "Alex" you hear a voice call, and your head involuntarily turns to greet it. "Cmon, man - we can't save them. We have to go!" You don't know who they are, or who this Alex is, but you know the words hurt him. It feels like knives shoved between the ribs and twisted with an anger no man should possess. It hurts and it burns and you feel like you're dying.

Everything moves fast and slow, a blur and crystal clear. There's pain in your left leg and then suddenly... you don't feel anything. Your eyes open and you're looking directly at the demon as he leans over you on your bed. His clawed hands braced on either side of your head, his knees pressed tightly against your hips and his tail swaying angrily. His lips curl back in a snarl as he glares down at you.

"Stay out of my head. Or else" he growls - and then, in the blink of an eye, he's gone and you're alone in the bed.

- ◇ -

The demon doesn't disturb you for the rest of the month, but you see him in doorways and shadows. He never stays long enough for you to get a good look, but you know he's there. You almost... feel bad for him. Clearly he'd been through something traumatic as a human, and maybe it was that anger that kept him bound to this world. Privately, in the safety of your mind, you call him Alex. And you think the wallpaper matched his eyes almost perfectly.

- ◇ -

Making peace with the demon is far harder than you could even begin to imagine. The whiskey bottle you had hung in the soul tree for him constantly shatters, and yet you always find one to replace it. It's almost a daily ritual, changing out the bottles and silently hoping this one lasts longer than the others - but it never does.

You leave out sweets and desserts for him. Bottles of strawberry jam, a pile of honeysuckle blooms, even a spare bottle of moonshine you'd found tucked away in the cupboard. It seems this type of offering is accepted - as you find a ghost orchid resting on your pillow the next time you lay down for sleep. He doesn't stomp as often, nor does his tail lash so violently. He almost seems... demure, tamed.

- ◇ -

The first time you call him Alex is when things truly reach their peak - he bites you. Right on your shoulder, you feel his sharp teeth break skin and the smell of blood in the air and then he's gone. You're too busy tending to the wound to notice how he slinks into the bathroom behind you and places clawed hands on the sink, trapping you between his arms. "Don't call me that" he says - his voice soft and gruff; he hasn't truly spoken since that one time you'd told him to get out.

"It's your name, isn't it? Alex?" you mumble softly, tenderly wiping the blood from the bitemark, ignoring how his eyes burn into you. "Nobody's called me that for a long time" he whispers, his tail curling tightly around your leg, his head almost hesitantly nestling against the back of your head. "A thing like me doesn't deserve a name"

You pause at that, and make eye contact with him through the mirror. His eyes are the same blue as the walls that surround you - and he looks tired. But this is a tired no sleep can fix, this is the exhaustion of existance.

"I'm not human anymore. Don't call me that" he hisses again, his eyes now hard and pupils sharp - slitted like a crocodiles. "I don't want you here - why won't you just leave?! Like everyone else - just go! Get out!" he practically snarls, his voice inhuman and otherly as his words seem to claw down to your bones.

You look at him through the mirror - and you see the hurt, the fear. Turning around, you look down and finally notice why his hoofbeats sound off. Just below the knee, his left leg is metallic and skeletal - he notices your stare and shifts his body to remove it from your sight. His tail whips and he disappears, the smell of sulfur strong enough to make your eyes water.

- ◇ -

The next time you walk outside, the whiskey bottle in the soul tree is on the ground - perfectly intact, as if someone had cut it free. You kneel down and pick it up, glancing back at the other bottles, and you notice something. All of the other bottles have slips of paper in them - names written down with words of love and warmth scrawled across. Aged by the elements yet remaining - you know what to do now.

Brown glass shines dully in the sun, held up by a thick cord and deep in the belly of the bottle lays a paper with a name carefully inked.

Alex.

#heranubis #call of duty #alex keller #alex keller x reader #modern warfare 2

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affectionatecorpse · 5 months ago

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Does anyone else who's ever had a near death experience just... sit up and think about it sometimes?

Thinking about how much you've been through despite the odds?

Wondering if you really had died, and this is your life flashing before your eyes, as something that's already happened, playing as a distant memory?

Or do you wonder if you aren't alive fully, living as a zombie or a ghost, without even realising it?

I think about it sometimes. A lot, actually. Every time that scar on my head itches, or aches. It's something I don't talk about a lot, not with other people. I don't know why. I feel almost ashamed of it. I guess because I'm unsure if I was supposed to survive? So now if I do anything the slightest bit wrong, my brain resorts to saying I'm wasting my chance at survival.

I don't talk about it much. But I kinda want to. If you don't like gorey details, stop reading now.

It happened when I was just a kid. I think I was about 7 or 8. I remember because that same year, I got a dog, and considered 8 to be my lucky number because of it.

Things were just so... normal. Too normal, I'd argue. I was at my dad's house, 500 miles from home. Usually my dad would pay attention to me for the first few hours, but once the luxury wore off, he'd tell me to go and entertain myself while he went to play Skyrim, or a Sonic game.

I'd spend all day by myself, getting yelled at by my dad if I bothered him, and getting yelled at by my grandparents if I bothered them while they were watching Only Fools and Horses. This was just my normal. It sounds like a tragedy, but it wasn't. This was routine.

It was night time. My nan was cooking in the kitchen, my grandad was yelling at the football game on TV, and my dad was upstairs on his computer. I was so, so bored. I sat by the window and wished, just wished they'd pay attention to me. I wished to end my boredom, to end the neglect, and feel like my family cared for me.

After this wish, I got spooked by a hallucination. I've suffered from psychosis my whole life. This was part of my normal. But this vision was something else entirely. I could feel it. A cold, dead hand, leaving the shadows, clawing into my chest, trying to grab my heart.

I screamed and ran like any rational kid would. I was 8, of course I did. I ran. I tripped. Dyspraxia is my curse. I had caught my foot on the rug, and fallen.

And smashed my head on the solid, cold, stone wall.

It wasn't cold for long. I remember that pain, that agonising pain, so well. The hotness of my blood coating my face, and the wall, and the floor, and my favourite butterfly shirt. It was gushing everywhere. I could feel myself getting dizzier. I could barely hear my nan's screaming, my ears were ringing so loud. Everything was muffled and dead, like they weren't talking at all, just murmuring like in their sleep. My vision was blurred and colourless, like the brightness and joy had been sucked out of the world.

Yet I felt absolutely nothing. I felt the agonising pain, but that was it. I felt no fear, nor sadness. I just felt tired. Like I'd just woken up from a nap. Time felt like a thick jelly. I can't remember much else, because I'd lost too much blood by that point. But I got my wish.

I woke up a few days later. At least I think I did. I can't remember if I'd woken up at all before then. This was just where my memories picked up. I remember trying to look for my mother, and being met with tension all down my head. Not pain, but numbness, and tension, like my hair was pulled back into a too tight ponytail.

Somehow even then, I didn't know if I was alive or not. I never figured that out. Even when I got older.

My skull had received massive damage. It had cracked. The nurse told me they superglued it back together, but once I got older, I figured I had a minor surgery. My head had to be sewn back together, from the top down to the back. The scar is still there. I feel it sometimes when I'm thinking. Sometimes if I poke it wrong, I get dizzy. It aches and itches constantly. It won't let me forget it's there.

I should've died. I've heard that ever since. People either told me I was lucky, or that they wished I hadn't survived, depending on context. My parents have said both at some point. It's the only thing they really have in common.

I don't know if I love or hate it. I laugh at calling it a lobotomy with my friends. I sob into my pillow about why I had to endure it. I sit motionless in the shower, staring at the wall, wondering if it was my wish that had caused this. Or if my hallucination was my warning.

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fetabathwater · 1 year ago

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Alone midnight and skin for ms lamby lamb my lov <33

prompts here!

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there’s no one around to see them?

Loneliness to Jennifer is like an itch. It's not enough to call it a phantom limb, even though that has increased exponentially since the vote, but loneliness as a child was her purposely standing in the middle of the house and screaming until someone came running. It was the outbursts in class and the clawing for attention, only to rebuff it as she hit her teens and thought she was above it all. Loneliness crawls all over her brain and down her spine and it eats away at her, because Jen never really had her parents, and her grandmother passed, and her grandfather sits in his chair or in the garden, just waiting away each day. Her other half is gone, through actions of her own too, and yeah, Jen can stand in a room and feel the separation, because she doesn't want to go through the motions again. Noise isn't enough to scare the loneliness away, when no one else has her in their eyesight. Lights are on, tv blaring, music playing, and Jen's fingers do itch to start taking something a bit heavier to ease it all away.

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

Thinking and re-thinking and replaying the fight. In her mind, she's got variations of the vote running, sometimes hard enough that she convinces herself that is real. Her phone keeps her up, hovering over Seven's number, and no matter how many times she throws it to the other side of the room, she still gets out of bed, picks it up, rinse and repeat. Jen's nightmares about no longer being palatable. About never being enough. All the sites say their voices work better apart, but Jen sees how expendable she is, because what if she stops appealing? What if the band doesn't need her anymore? Kicking out a singer never stopped anyone before, historically. Those small hours of the morning are the worst, when she's on her phone and the independent journal sites and the odd vid dedicated to breaking down what happened. Jen tells herself if she doesn't stay on top of this, then the worst will happen - but she also knows that's bullshit.

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

Jennifer stands in front of the mirror and feels like she's a marionette and the one pulling her own strings. The curse she bears is the word 'palatable'. It was an offhand comment, a reason for her to stay lead, but something in the way she was already so broken after the vote ate that word up, as if it was glue to keep her together. Palatable. Easy to digest, pleasant, constant. Just as easy to replace for something better. Jen dyes her hair and brushes her teeth, does her makeup and puts on the clothes but she doesn't recognise herself, really. She should cover the tattoo, remove it, burn it off, anything, to sell the image that the band wants. They can't have someone who is walking a very fine line, right? What would that say? She's still stamped, even though that ended swiftly, all those years ago. Reinvented herself into the star that would appeal; Jen digs her nails into the skin around the tattoo. Half-moons, as if she might be able to take it off herself, because having it still there means that Jennifer Lamb, duet partner, carried by her former everything, still exists - and she can't face that any time soon.

(and when she saw that Seven still had her initials, her carefully constructed everything ached, as if who she was might still be alive, and not this version of herself she's trying so hard to be)

#uldren-sov #replies #oc: jennifer lamb #OH OKAY LEMME JUST FUCK LAMBY UP EVEN MORE HEY???#KJHDFKJSHFKSDFHKSD #im so sorry baby girl i swear it'll be alright soon

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beautifulnightmareconnoisseur · 7 months ago

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Literally just dumping this on here Cuz I can't really talk to anyone about it yet and almost everywhere I could put it would have someone I know able to see it and I just can't handle keeping it to only me right now.

I got into a fight with my mom today which tbh was probably coming for a while but I still hate it and I can't stop thinking about it. Don't worry about my safety or anything, we got the anger part mostly sorted I think and I don't normally live with her or anything. We have just spent the week together in her hometown, just the two of us, and we go home tomorrow (thank goodness).

She asked my opinion on something in a medical related article that was basically an acknowledgement that sex and gender aren't the same but that the article was using gendered terms in the context of bio sex. She doesn't understand why it's a thing, the whole why does it have to be my problem argument basically. I am a firm believer that for things like that, if it doesn't make sense to you it isn't meant for you, and that's OK. Just ignore it and move on. To me, a nonbinary person who is constantly misgendered in everyday life, including in a medical setting, that kind of thing is just a nice little bit of acknowledgment that puts the part of my brain that get really uncomfortable being referred to incorrectly at ease.

To be somewhat short, it kind of blew up into why can't trans people just be trans quietly on her side, and trans people deserve to be acknowledged just like everyone else on mine. I apparently implied at some point that I understood her perspective (or something similar, I'm honestly not sure) which set off a part of her brain that hates being told how she feels. That's fine, I didn't mean to set it off and she can't control the feeling it creates, but it just got worse and worse.

I tried to disengage pretty early on, because I get passionate, then angry, then mean when I feel like I'm not being heard, and I knew this conversation would cause that. But I felt like I couldn't escape the conversation (which she apologized for later) and it just continued until my physical signs of stress kicked up. When I get too stressed and overwhelmed, especially in an argument, I start to panic. I start crying, breathing gets harder, and I start scratching at my skin violently (never been so thankful for my short af nails). I said I had to stop the conversation and go, and got up to get some space, and she blew up at me. I blew up back, because I was already at the end of my capacity, and it devolved into screaming.

I spaced out for a while after that. I think I had a panic attack or meltdown or something, Cuz I kind of remember sitting in a corner, on the phone with my fiance, clawing at my throat and arms Cuz I couldn't breathe. Mom says she told me to get out, which I apparently was going to do, but I asked to pack my shit (sounds like me tbh) which confused the hell out of her. I don't think she expected me to actually leave, but I think I was going to, and just walk to the nearby winco until I could figure out what to do next. I'm about 16 hours from home by car so it would have been a task.

I ended up sitting in a closet until I felt OK again, and I texted her to say sorry after a bit. I don't know if I should have reached out first, tbh, Cuz I tried to end the conversation before it got that bad, then I tried to leave at the start of my meltdown, and she asked me for my opinion and I offered it. But i don't know that she would have had the strength to do it, and one of her biggest fears is ruining her relationships (hence why this is being shared here, where no one either of us know will see it, and its lacking my less sour thoughts on the situation).

Anyways it's just making it hard for me to sleep. She said something about misgendering during the screaming bit, but I don't know what because I kinda wasn't mentally there anymore. I don't know if it was referring to me, or herself, or something else. I tried to give her the chance to bring it up after, but she didn't, and no way in hell was I gonna push.

My brain just won't leave it alone. It's hard. And I'm just so tired.

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onecanonlife · 4 years ago

Text

In which Tommy has a nightmare, and enderwalk!Ranboo is of the opinion that grass blocks make everything better.

(word count: 1,413)

----------

Tommy jolts out of a nightmare that he doesn’t want to remember, and a few seconds later, finds himself hyperventilating outside on the grass.

It’s not on, is what it is. He hardly asked for this, for these awful dreams and this inability to sleep for more than a few hours at a time at best, for this creeping certainty that Dream is breaking out, is going to come for him, and that it’s only a matter of time before something awful happens. He didn’t ask for any of this, but he has it, and he’s not moving out of his house, because that would feel like a concession, but on nights like these he wakes up and the dirt walls press in around him and he can’t breathe, and it is completely and utterly the worst.

So. Outside. Grass. Hyperventilating.

Calming himself down is old hat, by now. He figured out how to do it a long time ago, around the time when he realized that there wasn’t going to be anyone holding his hand anymore, that he was well and truly on his own, without a friend in the world. Other than—but no, he doesn’t go there. He knows better, now, even though his brain still tries to play tricks on him sometimes, tries to convince him that Dream is the only one who actually has his best interests at heart.

The point is, he knows how to do this. He’s used to it. And frankly, he’s glad that he is, glad that he can do this on his own, because he doesn’t want anyone else around him when he’s like this. Doesn’t want anyone else to see, doesn’t want anyone else to know that this happens, doesn’t want anyone else to be able to point at him and go, look, the great TommyInnit brought low.

So when he regulates his breaths and swipes the tears from his face and unclenches his fingers knuckle by knuckle, he looks up and most definitely does not expect anyone to be crouched in front of him. When he sees that there is, he scrabbles backward and lets out an incredibly manly scream, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for it, because what the fuck?

“Holy shit,” he wheezes, “holy shit, you can’t just—” And has to stop, because it’s not just any weird crouching person. It’s his fucking—what’s the word for when a very irritating and terrible person marries your best friend? What’s the title for that? Annoyance-in-law?

In any case, it’s Ranboo.

“What,” he says, “the shit are you doing?”

Ranboo makes a sound that is not words at all. In fact, it sounds very similar to an enderman vwoop, which, alright, the guy’s half enderman, that checks out. Except, his eyes are also purple, and he looks rather taller than he normally does, even crouching down, so something is weird here. Something is very, very weird.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Go and, go and raise your shitty child or something. Sing ‘im a lullaby. Go on.”

He makes shooing noises with his hands, like one might do to a dog, or a persistent crow. Ranboo tilts his head very slowly, like a complete fucking weirdo, and then rises in one fluid motion, and goes walking off somewhere. Tommy stares after him, because he hadn’t really expected that to work. But alright, he’ll take it.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “Just fucking, fucking leave, go on.” He stares down at the grass, running a shaking hand through his hair. He is, maybe, not quite as recovered as he’d like. He’s usually not, after the initial panic, usually can’t make himself relax until the sun has crested the horizon and the sky has begun to lighten. He’s ruined for sleep tonight, that’s for sure.

But it’s alright. It’s alright, he’s used to it. He can do it. He can do this. He’s a big fucking man, and he can survive on a few hours of sleep a night, and he can avoid looking at himself in the mirror and remembering another face, eyebags just as dark, hair just as wild, eyes only slightly more desperate. He doesn’t have to remember things. Not if he doesn’t want to. He’s great at not remembering things, him.

Footsteps. He jerks, looks up again, and Ranboo is standing over him, and why is he so fucking tall?

Ranboo makes another vwooping sound. And then a little trill, almost like a bird, if a bird gargled gravel and then turned into an eldritch monstrosity. He crouches again, and then holds out his hands, and there is something in them, something that he is offering him, and—

Tommy squints. It’s a grass block.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Could you just stop being so fucking weird?” he demands. “For five minutes? I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really. God, you’re just. The worst.”

Ranboo shifts a bit closer, still holding out the grass block. Like he wants him to take it.

“I’m not taking your stupid block,” Tommy says, and accepts it.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Why would you even—” he says, burrowing his fingers into the dirt. A bit of it crumbles to the ground. He doesn’t understand how endermen manage to do this, keep these blocks in perfect shape, grass and all. “Why would you even give me this? What are you trying to pull on me, eh? It won’t work. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, pal. You’re up to something. Why are your eyes all purple?”

Ranboo vwoops.

And then—Tommy remembers something. Something he wasn’t particularly trying to remember, and usually, that’s not such a great thing, but it’s not so bad this time. Because this memory is from just a couple of weeks ago, in Snowchester, one of those times that he was trying to hang out with Tubbo, but Ranboo was just there and wouldn’t leave, and Tubbo wouldn’t make him leave, so Tommy spent the entire time being vaguely pissed off. And he was trying not to pay attention to Ranboo, really, he was, except he remembers him saying something about how he gets anxious, and how holding blocks of things and putting them down places helps him. At the time, he made a point of not acknowledging him, because Tommy’s not an idiot. He knew what he was trying to do, and he didn’t appreciate it.

But—

He stares at the block in his hands. And then back at Ranboo.

He wants to be angry, at the idea, at the presumption, because who the fuck does Ranboo think he is, trying to patronize him like this? But Ranboo keeps up his soft warbles, and he finds his eyes filling with tears instead.

“Are you,” he says, and his voice is not choked, it’s not, “are you trying to help me?”

Ranboo vwoops. Chirps. And then reaches out, slowly enough that Tommy doesn’t feel the urge to flinch, and runs gentle clawed fingers through his hair.

“Oh,” Tommy says. And doesn’t lean into the touch. He doesn’t. But if, hypothetically, he does, that’s between him and Prime on high. Or at least, it would be, if all his muscles didn’t go lax a few seconds later, and if he didn’t accidentally on purpose tip forward against Ranboo’s chest.

The dirt slips through his fingers. But that’s alright, because one of Ranboo’s arms wraps around him, and the other keeps carding through his hair, like Wilbur used to do when they were younger and things were better and they were two halves of a whole rather than puzzle pieces that got bent out of shape. The way his head is, he can feel vibrations running though Ranboo’s chest, like the purr of a cat, and it’s going to lull him to sleep if he’s not careful.

He can’t let that happen. He has more dignity than that.

Except he’s very tired. And Ranboo is clearly—sleepwalking, or something. Not all there in the head at the moment. So maybe he won’t remember this in the morning, if Tommy makes sure to wake up first. And that would be alright.

“You’re still terrible,” he mumbles, but the words are slurred, and Ranboo’s arms are very warm and comforting, and he’s drifting. He can feel it.

So he lets himself. Ranboo’s warbles follow him into sleep, and he dreams of stars.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #tommyinnit #ranboo #enderwalk ranboo #allium duo #/rp #cw swearing #cw panic attack #cw past manipulation #cat writes fic #i should let y'all know that tommy deffo does not wake up first #the conversation the next morning goes something like this:#ranboo: why are we here??? why are you on top of me????#tommy: i'm attacking you #ranboo: ??????#tommy: i'm winning

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wallflowerimagines · 3 years ago

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Hi! I looove your posts! Thank you so much for sharing your writing!

I was wondering… could you maybe write about the Four Lords with a shy S/O that gets bold and defensive when someone insults the lords? or calls them names? And the Lord’s reaction to the S/O acting different? Dk if im explaining myself >.<

Again! Love your work! Have a great day!

We stan protective partners on this blog!!

Warnings: uh...insults? They're pretty over the top😅 Also swearing.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Honestly, Alcina is more than able to defend herself.

She's got a tongue like a viper, and the thickest skin imaginable. If you really want to hurt her feelings, you have to be someone whom she already respects to a certain degree, or she won't even be phased.

Still, when she leaves a room, there's always some idiot that thinks it's a smart idea to talk shit.

Maybe it's a maid, maybe it's a guest in the Castle, but either way you're not having it.

"God, you're annoying." There was a pause before they opened their mouth again, and you rolled your eyes. "No please, by all means, continue to share your lack of taste with the rest of us."

You disassemble this dumbass, starting small with comments about their personality (trying to keep it classy), but escalating the more they choose to double down on the comments.

Alcina comes back into the room to find you practically screaming at this asshole.

"Look, all you have accomplished here today is revealing that you are a fundamental disappointment on every possible level. My life is worse now that I've heard you open your mouth, you disrespectful, shit licking worm fucker."

Alcina is stunned. You do not give off "aggressive guard dog" vibes at all, yet here you are defending her tooth and nail. While she had seen brief moments of your inner strength and protective streak (mostly towards her daughters) she just...never thought you would do the same for her.

It's not because she doesn't trust you or love you! But nobody has ever done something like this for her before? Ever? She's never had anyone try to protect her--not physically, and not even verbally. She's been so independent for so long that it's... Strange to see you support her so openly.

She doesn't need you to do this for her, she doesn't even expect it, but you do it anyway for no other reason than the fact that you love her. You want people to give her the respect she deserves.

I'm going to be real here: Alcina has never been closer to swooning before in her life. You're overcoming your shyness because you believe in her so much-- it's not a gesture meant to be romantic, but Alcina can't help but see this as a massive statement of your commitment to her.

Seriously. This is such a massive thing for her that if proposals weren't already on her mind, she is mentally picking out a ring for you the minute this happens.

Then, of course, she glides into the room, kisses you until you're breathless and babbling, and smirks at the unfortunate peon who thought they could get away with insulting House Dimitrescu.

She's in such a good mood that she's considering going easy on the idiot. Maybe removing their tongue would be enough of a warning?

Donna Dimitrescu

You don't really know how it's possible but apparently some people don't like Donna Beneviento? Some people think she's scary and unpleasant????

Wild. Can't imagine what that's like.

The two of you are honestly the sweetest, most toothrottingly adorable couple-- blushing when you hold each other's hands, sneaking glances at each other across rooms, giving each other kisses and forgetting whatever was on your mind...

Honestly, anybody who's critical of your relationship with your girlfriend is just a hater. Fuckers can pound sand😤

Still, you are pretty shy, so it takes a lot for you to defend yourself if someone comments about you. It can take a lot of courage to stand up against rude remarks, and sometimes it's easier to walk away.

Defending Donna, on the other hand?

The minute someone even thinks about dismissing her, you are ready to throw hands.

"My lovely girlfriend already said no, meaning you're either deaf or too stupid to pick up on simple social cues," you purse your lips and give the rude and pushy Villager a patronizing once over. "You and your opinion are equally useless. Get the fuck away from us."

Donna blinks.

She... Was not expecting this??? At all?? You're so nice! You always tell her about your attempts to avoid confrontation! What's going on??? How did you get the guts to say what she's always wanted to say?

Meanwhile, Angie is LIVING.

The little doll chimes in to assist you with the verbal homicide, working as a tag team to absolutely murder this moron. She's half partner, half hype man, and is so excited to do this with you. Normally, she has to protect Donna all by herself, but she's relieved and reassured that you stepped in first.

'USELESS IS TOO NICE, THOUGH! THAT IMPLIES THEY AREN'T A POINTLESS, RANCID, LONELY FREAK. THEY LOOK LIKE THEY CRY WHEN THEY MASTURBATE.'

You high five Angie, still glaring daggers at the unfortunate villager.

The two of you continue to ream into the villager, while Donna hovers nearby.

As surprised as she is, she's also grateful. She's only really ever had Angie to help shield her from insults and disrespect (and occasionally inducing horrifying hallucinations that make people claw off their own skin), but having you in her corner makes her feel safe.

Not to get totally sappy, but you're like her knight in shining armor in a lot of ways. And the fact you two are so similar is really motivating-- She wants to one day be confident enough to return the favor. Until then, she's happy to watch her two favorite people have fun insulting some stranger ❤️

Salvatore Moreau

With you being so shy, Salvatore is surprised how often he takes the lead in your relationship.

He's not normally all that outgoing, but you seem to bring out a side of him that's very protective. Whenever you have a bad day he wants to bundle you up and keep you safe from the world.

If he so much as holds your hand you start stuttering and avert your gaze. It creates a feedback loop where you both get flustered, but Moreau has never felt steadier. Despite your shyness, you make sure he knows how much you love him.

You're sweet as pie and twice as kind--Salvatore is the luckiest man in the world, nobody can convince him otherwise 💕💕

So it comes as a total shock that when a passing fisherman spits in your path and calls him a freak, your entire demeanor does a 180.

Your posture straightens and you look the villager dead in the eye, "I don't believe anyone asked your opinion."

Salvatore: 😳

This is not the time, and he totally knows it, but, uh, something about your tone??? Really does it for him???

While he's attempting to process why exactly he's starting to short circuit, you proceed to verbally shred this person to bits with clinical efficiency-- nothing is off limits.

They might try to defend themselves, but it's useless. You do not let up.

"Ugly? Monster? Bitch your teeth are throwing gang signs, don't throw stones from your shining glass house."

You insult their appearance, what they're holding, their smell-- you get so fucking mean that you might even make them cry.

Moreau is just lost right now, trying hard to figure out how exactly you were able to gain all of this confidence so quickly.

He's not upset! In fact he's very flattered! But, he also doesn't want you to get into a fight with some unimportant stranger. (After all, if they so much as throw a punch, they're straight up dead. Moreau is a patient man, but he's not that patient. You do not hurt his partner and live to tell the tale.)

He may a healer but...

Eventually he steps between you and the fisherman in an attempt to deescalate the situation, but you just kiss him on the cheek and step around him, determined to make your point.

Blushing hard, Moreau lets you do what you want. What can he say? Fish man likes himself a protective partner 💞

Karl Heisenberg

Magnet Man is not the most social guy to begin with, so any opportunities you have to stick up for him are already pretty slim.

He mostly knows you as the shy, sweet, easily flustered partner that lets out a cute squeak every time he sneaks up to hug you from behind.

Karl's honestly happy just to spend time with you all alone in the Factory. It's not the best or healthiest mindset, but he'd be perfectly content to only ever see you for the rest of his life. Spending time with anybody else feels like a boring waste in comparison.

But occasionally, you do head out into town with him. Heisenberg wants you to be safe so he doesn't do it often, but running errands with you is a weakness of his. It's domestic in a way that he's never experienced before.

He likes it ❤️

What he does not like is the shopkeeper starting to give their opinions on the quality of your relationship with him.

Most insults Karl will let slide because he doesn't particularly care. However if anyone makes a comment on how scared (shy) you look around him, how you must be being threatened into being with him, how poorly Lord Heisenberg is treating you...he won't stand for it.

But before his fingers can even twitch towards his hammer, you snap.

"You're clearly the blindest cocksucker I've ever met--so wipe the cum out of eyes and mind your own fucking business."

Karl does a double take.

He's heard you curse before, but quietly. The words coming out of your mouth are WILD right now, he has NEVER seen you so angry. You're defending him with the aggression of a wild animal, and it's simultaneously HILARIOUS, but for some reason he's also getting a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest?

He doesn't need you to protect him like this, but seeing you blatantly argue how much you love and cherish him in public reassures him in a way he didn't know he needed.

Still, hearing you call the shopkeeper "shit for brains" is the funniest thing that's happened in years.

Heisenberg starts laughing, and the more you shout at the idiot, the harder he laughs. Is it weird how hard he wants to kiss you right now?

Eventually, he just has to drag you away, cackling as you continue to shout insults at the unfortunate shopkeep. There's got to be an alley around here for some good old fashioned privacy 💕

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #donna beneviento x reader #salvatore moreau x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #resident evil village #re8 #resident evil 8 #resident evil #alcina dimitrescu #donna beneviento #salvatore moreau #angie beneviento #karl heisenberg #angie the doll #swearing #insults

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saltedpeppermintmocha · 3 years ago

Text

how sweet it is (to be loved by you) - Chapter 7 / 9

Summary:

You are the head baker and owner of a struggling bakery. When pro hero Creati comes in for a wedding cake, of course you accept.

As a business owner, you are excited about the boom in profits resulting from the publicity of working a hero wedding.

As a baker, you are ecstatic to work on an extravagant cake - your most ambitious one to date.

As a woman, you are terrified as you begin to grow feelings for the one person you REALLY cant: the groom.

NOTES: NO infidelity, NO cheating, NO divorce!

Chapter One

Chapter Seven

MATURE : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT // 18+

2 Weeks Until the Wedding

You stare up at the ceiling, vision a bit blurry and headache threatening to begin any moment. There’s no alcohol to blame this time. No, it’s a bit more complicated than that. You take a few deep breaths and try to calm your racing mind. It doesn’t help.

You don’t know what to do.

When you had seen it, you hadn’t known how to properly react. You had frozen, watching it happen in what seemed like slow motion. The feeling of just needing to leave this situation clawed at your throat. You practically threw Momo’s card on the table, mumbled something about a phone call, and hightailed it up to your apartment. And well…that’s where you are now, completely planning to hide out here until they leave.

Your phone vibrates, another concerned message from Momo. Maybe you should feel bad about ignoring her, but you’re too stressed to really care at the moment.. Sure, it hadn’t been the most graceful of exits, but what else were you supposed to do?

And what are you meant to do now?

Is Momo really cheating on Todoroki? You never would have believed it if you didn’t see it with your own eyes. Even still, you’re unsure. That kiss replays on a loop in your brain. At first you tried to rationalize it: maybe you saw it wrong somehow, maybe they are just really close friends that kiss, maybe they’re french, maybe maybe maybe . But none of the maybe’s make an real sense.

Does Todoroki know? He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to stay in a relationship with someone who cheated on him. Then again, Momo didn’t seem like the type of person to cheat, so maybe you’re just a worse judge of character than you previously thought.

Then you wonder if they are in an open relationship. That’s a thing, right? It sort of makes sense, since Pro Heros are not known for their monogamous relationships. Maybe they’re all in one large open one?

What the hell am I thinking? That makes even less sense than cheating. You groan and roll onto your stomach, hiding your face in your pillow.

And now, really, what are you supposed to do? Do you say nothing and let Todoroki marry someone who obviously doesn’t feel the same? That seems so wrong, a betrayal of the man who has been so kind to you. But, also, is it even your business? Sure, they have been kind to you, but they are heroes . Its practically in the job description. And it’s not like you have any proof. What if you say something and he gets upset at you?

You scream into your pillow.

Soon you are going to have to get your ass up. The bakery doesn’t wait for your internal struggle, and you do have to help Tanaka close for the night. You pat the bed blindly looking for your phone, checking the time when you finally grasp it. As you expected there are a few notifications from Momo. You scroll past them and set an alarm for ten minutes. Ten minutes to get yourself together.

The alarm goes off in what feels closer to five minutes. You peel yourself off the bed, sliding towards the bathroom to make sure you are at least somewhat presentable. A few minutes later you make your way downstairs to the kitchen. The bakery is closed by now, so you won't have to actually interact with anyone. Perfect. You listen to Tanaka sing off-beat in the front area he cleans and starts to pack up the kitchen. You are almost done with the main portion when he calls your name.

“Yeah?” No response. Odd. You wipe at your hands as you make your way out front. “Tanaka, what's up…” You tail off as you take in a familiar figure standing beside him. “Oh, uh, hello. I thought you left.” You look at Tanaka, who simply shrugs.

“I wanted to make sure that you are alright.” Was she here the entire time? A quick glance around the bakery proves that Jirou and Mina are gone. You look back at Momo, whose expression is serious. “Can we talk?” I’m kind of busy right now.

No, I don’t want to talk to you.

I think I’m going to be ill.

Thoughts race past your mind, half-baked attempts at ways to escape this conversation. But you look into her eyes, ones that look just as upset as you feel, and don’t have the heart to say it. “Yeah, okay. Can I get you a tea or coffee?” “No thank you.” She says, calmly denying you the time to get yourself ready that you had hoped. She heads to the furthest table. It’s the only one still set up as if the bakery is open.

“Sure.” You sigh, grabbing your own coffee for something to do with your hands. You follow after her.

There is a long moment where you both sit in silence. It’s awkward, so very awkward. Momo takes a deep breath, seeming to steady herself. It makes a part of you feel a bit justified that she also feels a bit put upon by this conversation.

“Please, can you tell me what is wrong?” She asks. “You disappeared so quickly, and Tanaka wasn’t able to fetch you. I’m concerned.” You swallow, not sure how to even begin with a response. To give you some time, you bring your coffee up to your mouth and take a sip.

“I don’t understand.” She continues. The look on her face is one of pure concern, which puts you on edge. Why is she the one concerned? “First you start to ignore Shouto, and now me. What did we do?”

Oh god, she sounds truly upset. Pain goes through your heart. You don’t like being the one to make her like this, even if you feel justified in your reaction. You’re going to have to just come out and say it, aren't you? “I saw you and Jirou kiss earlier.”

Momo’s eyes widen. Ah, there it is. She sits up straight, a tenseness in her face that wasn’t there a moment before. This is where she says I didn’t see what I thought I saw. Or maybe she’ll skip to the part about not telling Todoroki. Whatever her reaction is, part of you feels like this will be your last time seeing her. You bite your lip.

“Is it…because Kyoka is a woman?” She asks, voice a mere whisper.

What?!

“No!” You immediately reject that notion. “I never even-no!” You stumble through your words, confused and unstable. Momo gives you a moment to find your words, dark eyes staring intently. Eventually, you manage. “That part didn’t bother me at all.”

“Then what is it?” She leans forward, insistent. Your hands fall lightly on the table as you stare back at her. Is she serious? What is happening here? How come you feel like you are the one on trial? “Please tell me, why are you so upset about me kissing Kyoka?” What am I missing?

“Cheating.” The word slips out, less than a finished thought. At her surprised expression, you’re forced to elaborate. “It’s the cheating that I’m having trouble with, that’s all.”

Now, you’ve never called someone a cheater before, but you expect more of a reaction than pure confusion. She tilts her head a bit to the side. “Cheating? Who is cheating on who?”

This circular conversation is getting frustrating. You are exhausted, confused, stressed, and now starting to feel stupid. Your headache is threatening to begin anew, and you just want to go back to bed. This needs to be over. You look away. I give up. “You are cheating on Todoroki with Jirou, right?”

Momo’s mouth opens, undignified in a way you’ve never seen her. There is a long moment of silence. The air is thick with tension.

“I am married to Kyoka.”

What? “What?” You look back up, eyes locking immediately with hers.

“I am married to Kyoka.” Momo repeats, reaching into her coat pocket. “It’s been almost three years now. The anniversary is in a few months.” She holds out her phone to you, showing you the lock screen. The picture shows a gorgeous wedding, with Momo and Jirou in the middle. They both look amazing, laughing in the photograph. They look happy. It looks completely legit. You look up from the phone, mouth open but unable to speak. “We aren’t public with our marriage. Both of us are in enough danger daily without adding another target to our backs.”

“But…you’re marrying Todoroki??”

“I’m not marrying Shouto.” She frowns, tilting her head to the side. “Why do you think-” Her eyes widen. “The wedding?” For the first time since you’ve known her, she looks completely nonplussed. For a long moment, you both stare at each other without words. Then, she suddenly laughs. It's a quick thing, quiet too. “So that means…” She brings a hand to her mouth, mumbling words you barely catch. “Oh my, you two are both so clueless.”

“What?” You prompt, hoping for her to let you in on whatever she just figured out. She doesn’t respond to you, standing up and grabbing her phone off the table. Wait. Is she leaving? Now?!? Your attempts to protest fall on deaf ears.

“Please wait a moment, I’ll be right back.” Momo slides on her coat and wraps her expensive scarf around her neck as she walks outside. It’s only the fact that she leaves her purse on the chair that makes you truly believe she’ll return.

“Sooo, what's happening?” Tanaka asks, using the excuse of wiping already clean tables nearby to talk to you. You don’t have it in you to say anything about it.

“I don’t know.” You respond honestly. “But she seems to know something.” You let out a frustrated sigh, feeling dumb like something obvious is going right over your head. “Was she here the entire time?” “Yup.” The two of you fall into silence, with Tanaka eventually moving back to his other closing tasks. He’ll be done on time, but you’ll be late. You can’t blame it on Momo, really, it was your own decision to disappear for hours.

About five minutes later, the bells above the door chime. The delicate sound makes you look up. From across the room, you can see an odd smile on Momo’s face, but she seems to school her expression as she gets closer to the table. She doesn’t sit down.

“Um…” You attempt to restart the conversation.

“I’m going to head out now. It was nice talking with you, as usual.” Her normal, kind smile is back. It’s both confusing and relieving.

“But- wait- what’s going on?” You press.

She shakes her head softly. “I don’t think I’m the one you should be talking to you about this.”

“I…respectfully disagree.” You respond. “Momo, please, I’m really confused here.”

There’s a moment where she looks like she’s about to give in, face soft and pitiful, but she gets over it soon enough. She straightens her back and looks away, the set of her shoulders telling you she won't back down on this. You know better than to argue with a hero. “It will be okay.” She promises. You open your mouth to protest uselessly. “As a friend, I am telling you it will be okay.”

Those are the words that shock you into silence, they hit you hard. For the last few hours, you were certain that you had lost any potential friend in Momo. Either you would lose her by exposing her secret ‘affair’, or not expose any secrets and still be unable to face her. That knowledge had weighed on you in unexpected ways. When you first met Momo, you had been certain it was a one-time thing. You would make her a cake for her wedding and that would be it. It was a mutually beneficial, transactional meeting. But she -and Todoroki- just kept popping up, kept making an effort to talk to you and learn about you. Without you really acknowledging it she had pushed the boundary of acquaintance to friend. You had resisted at first, the hero was nice to everyone. After all, there is no way someone like that wanted to be friends with someone like you. Someone unremarkable. Yet, despite your best efforts, you really began to see her as a friend, someone you would continue to be friends with after the wedding. So, when you were faced with the prospect of ruining the first new genuine friendship you’d made in a long time, it had really done a number on you. Her words just now, that confirmation that despite everything, you haven’t lost her, lifts a weight off your back and shocks you into silence.

“I’ll see you later.” Momo’s voice brings you back to the present. She shrugs her purse onto her shoulder and turns around. “It’s nice to see you again, Tanaka.” She says. “Thank you for letting me stay so long. “

His cheeks redden. “Any time!”

Momo wishes you a good night and leaves the bakery. You watch her in silence until you can’t see her anymore. While you feel even more confused than you did prior to the conversation, there’s a bit of hope there now where there wasn’t before. Maybe things aren’t quite as bad as you thought? Somehow? Maybe things will turn out alright?

“That was odd.” Tanaka’s voice finally breaks the silence. “You said it.”

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

You resolve to try your best not to think about it. It works during the evening when you can blast loud music to drown out any thoughts while you clean and prep the bakery. However, once the night truly falls, quiet hours start and you can no longer escape. It keeps you up at night, of course, but at least your thoughts are a bit less aggressive than before. Your mind replays her words and tries to find meaning in them. It’s futile, honestly. While you can come up with a lot of ‘what if’ scenarios, you can just as easily come up with ways to denounce them.

You wonder what is going to happen next. In the end, you can assume Momo wants you to talk to Todoroki, but the man is on a mission. He isn’t meant to be back before the wedding, right? That’s just under 2 weeks away.

Ugh.

Eventually, you manage to pass out, exhaustion winning.

When you do wake up, the alarm blasting from your nightstand, you feel surprisingly alright. It’s a bit suspicious, and you have a feeling that it won't last long. You take a mental note to have a lot of caffeine today.

Going through your morning rituals, you are mostly successful in avoiding thinking about any unnecessary topics. You are well aware that if you let yourself linger on it, your day will be ruined. You don’t want another repeat of yesterday.

You play some soft music on your phone, humming along to the songs as you turn on the industrial ovens and make your way over to the coffee machine. It makes an odd screeching noise as it pours, a reminder that sooner or later the thing will just stop working. Still, for now, it manages alright. You sip at your coffee as you go unlock the back door. Tanaka still hasn’t texted you to let you know if he found his keys. You really hope he did, keys like that can be expensive to replace.

After downing the coffee, you make your way to the fridges and start pulling out the necessary prepared dough. Even after all this time, seeing the dough ready in the fridge sends a small thrill through you. The next part -kneading and shaping the dough- has always been your favourite. It brings back memories of being a kid and helping out grandfather. You take out one of the labeled containers and place it on the counter. Now is the time to shape the dough into your ‘famous’ danishes. You can’t wait.

One by one you make it through the containers, savory and sweet pastries slowly filling your trays and headed for an oven. You are covered in flour and the air around you smells absolutely delicious. For the first time in quite a while, you feel at peace again in your kitchen.

Of course, that's when things go horribly wrong.

The back door opens, metal scraping against metal. Tanaka must be here for his shift. You shove a tray of chocolate croissants into the oven, triple checking the heat before closing the door softly. You immediately go back to the dough you had been shaping, humming a little tune as you work. It’s only then that your eyes go to the clock. You look away, then look back.

Huh. It’s still quite early. Why is Tanaka here? For a man that chooses a lot fo the morning shifts, he really isn’t a morning person. You hear him shuffling about in the small coat area. Maybe he’s hungover? It’s weird that you haven’t heard anything from him yet. Normally he’d be ‘projecting’ across the room. Even a tired Tanaka is a loud Tanaka.

Someone steps quietly into the kitchen, pausing at the door.

Tanaka isn’t quiet.

A chill goes up your spine. Your hands freeze in the dough, curling deep enough to leave holes.

That’s not Tanaka.

“I-” You scream at the voice, turning on your heel to chuck the dough at the intruder. The second the dough leaves your hands, you reach for the rolling pin, hands clutching hard at your only close available weapon. Your eyes focus on the area you know the intruder is.

Two-toned eyes stare back at you, wide. An expression, unlike one you’ve seen before on a familiar face.

Um.

You freeze completely, rolling pin clattering to the ground.

Todoroki??

The hero stands a few feet in front of you, one hand holding a white take-out cup. Your own shocked expression mirrored on his…surprisingly powdery face…

Flour. Your brain supplies. The dough. Oh my god, the dough.

Slowly your eyes trail downwards, following a trail of flour down his expensive-looking dark sweater to the floor where the dough is splattered. You swallow, slowly bringing your eyes back up to meet his. By now, his face has softened out of its shocked expression. His lip twitches. The hand not holding a cup raises to his mouth. His shoulders shake. Is he laughing???

You break free. “I am so sorry!” You immediately step forward and reach out to his sweater, desperately trying to wipe off the flour. It’s futile, you know. It’s like glitter, almost impossible to get off without washing. Still, you don’t know what else to do but try. You do manage to get a bit off, moving upwards on the jacket until…

Oh. You’re really close now.

By now he’s stopped laughing, but the mirth on his face is plain to see.

“I'm so sorry.” You repeat, quieter this time.

“At least I know you can protect yourself.” He smiles, a bit wider than any you’ve seen before. Oh god, it does something to your heart.

Your face heats up immediately. “I still have some of your shirts from before. I’ll go grab you another. Watch the ovens.” Turning away, you practically bolt up the stairs. Once you reach your door at the top, you slide through and slam the door -a bit too loudly- behind you. You lean against the door for a breath.

What the hell is happening?!

Todoroki is in your bakery. Todoroki - who was meant to be many kilometers away on a mission at this very moment- is in your bakery at six in the morning. Todoroki is is covered in flour that you just chucked at him in your bakery.

Somehow repetition didn’t make it feel more real. You groan and bury your head in your hands. What even is my life right now? Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A quick look shows a new message from Momo, just a happy face. She knew. You also see a few messages from Todoroki, informing you that he was coming by. You hadn't seen them at all before. Of course.

After another breath, you push off the door and go in search of his shirts. You find them piled in their usual spot and look for one that might match what he’s wearing. You find one that looks like it maybe doesn’t cost double your rent, and start your trip downstairs. Passing the backdoor, you see his coat hanging neatly beside…well, his other coat on the rack. You peek around the corner as you near the kitchen. Yup, still there.

Todoroki somehow still looks ridiculously gorgeous, leaning back against your kitchen counter and looking at the ovens. Those eyes flicker over to you briefly, before returning to their post. You let out a small chuckle at that, stepping into the room.

“Aren’t you on a mission?” You ask, passing him the shirt. He takes it. “Is it over early?” You wonder if you’ll see anything about it on the news tonight.

“No.” He responds simply, down to grasp at the bottom of his sweater. In one movement, he gracefully pulls his sweater off.

Oh my god. You let out a sound and step back, covering your face with your hands. You had forgotten his tendency to do…this. You fight the urge to peek. “How are you here then?”

“Momo called me. Apparently, she is cheating on me.” He replies. Uh, oh no. “I was able to get a flight back the same night.” There’s a moment of relative silence as he pulls on his other shirt. “It was a good thing she called. I was supposed to be on a stakeout with my father all night. You saved me from that.” A pause. ”I’m done.” It takes you a moment to realize what he said and lower your arms from your face. A part of you wants to ask more about what he said. There have been articles speculating about that particular relationship for years, but well, it doesn’t seem like the right time. “Uh, well that's good then?”

“Very.” Todoroki agrees, looking around the kitchen. “Do you need any help?”

“No, uh, you did a good job watching the ovens. Other than uh, well, that -” You grimace at the dough still splattered on the ground. “I’ll be okay for a little bit. Thank you.”

He nods, passing you the take-out cup he’s been holding. “I brought you some tea.” You can see the logo of the cafe from before on the side. Damn. Your stomach feels wiggly. You thank him and take the cup, unable to resist a small sip for taste. It’s perfect.

The two of you lapse into silence. Somehow, after everything, it’s not awkward to be in silence with the hero. Then again, you started this interaction by screaming and chucking dough at him, so silence might just be the preferred thing right now. He seems perfectly content to look around the kitchen as you sip tea and check on the pastries, interested as if he hasn’t been here many times before. It’s nice, really nice, after avoiding him for so long. After missing him.

It feels like almost an hour later -but could not have been more than 10 minutes- when he breaks the silence. “We do need to talk.”

Ah, right. That. Your mood plummets. “Of course.” You say shakily, happy butterflies turning to nerves in your stomach. This is where something is going to happen, you just can’t figure out what. “Do you want to go sit in the front to talk?”

“That isn’t necessary.” He says. Todoroki looks at you a moment longer, eyes locked on yours and seemingly searching for something before he steps forward. It’s a purposeful step of long legs, bringing him to the edge of your space. “I am not marrying Momo.” “Right.” You understand that part, at least.

“She is married to Kyoka.” “Okay.” You nod slightly.

“I am not getting married.” He insists, taking another step forward. You have to crane your neck to look up at him. Your legs shake a bit, and you lean back a bit on the counter. Two-toned eyes stare intently into yours. So, he’s not getting married at all?

Oh. You breathe out shakily.

Another step and there is barely enough room for your tea in between you. You clumsily place it down on the counter. “I think you misunderstood my intentions.” “Intentions?” It’s a squeak of a response. His mouth twitches.

“I like you.”

“Oh.” You reply instinctively, then it clicks. “OH!” Your mouth opens in shock, a dozen of half thought words all trying to escape your throat at once. What comes out is a stumbled mess of words. Damn.

Todoroki’s mouth curls back up at the side, neither completely a smirk nor a smile but something in between. Every large breath pushes your chest lightly against him, each breath sends individual strands of your hair across your face. Shivers go down your spine, and heat pools in your stomach.

For a brief moment, you both look at each other, searching. Then he steps back. “I won’t pressure you.” Immediately you mourn the loss, reaching out to grab his arm lightly.

“Wait! I-” Your face is red, mouth still unable to fully align with your brain. You know what you want to say, but forming that sentence is proving extremely difficult.

Todoroki shakes his head lightly. “Take time to think it over.” When he looks back, the expression on his face is soft. “I don’t want you to rush into anything you are not sure about.” A pause. “I look forward to hearing your answer later.” For some reason, that sends another pool of heat through your stomach.

Slowly your hand uncurls from his arm, dropping to your side. “Right.” You get it, you do. You thought he was getting married up until a moment ago. Your feelings are weighed down by your own assumptions and expectations. You both deserve an answer free from those.

Still…

’I like you’.

It literally just happened, and you’re already replaying it on loop in your head. Damnit, this man has ruined me.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, breaking the tension of the moment. It startles you, to be honest, so out of touch you are with anything except the man in front of you. You reach into your pocket and bring out your phone.

[ Contact: Ryunosuke Tanaka ]

You stare at it a moment, knowing you need to pick it up but also not feeling like you want to go back to ‘real life’ yet. Mouthing an apology to Todoroki, you panswer and bring the phone up to your ear.

“Hey, boss!” His cheery voice echoes through the phone. “ Good news, I found the key!” You know where this is going, “And the bad news?”

“Who says there is bad news?” You let out a sigh. “Tanaka, please, what happened?”

“Ah, well. It’s a funny story. I was looking for the key this morning and found it. So I got super hyped, right, and went for a victory jog. It wasn’t even a big one, I did worse in my high school days. So I do the jog and then get home and wouldn’t you know it-”

“You’re locked out of your house.” You say, interrupting his rambling story.

“Yea, and the key is inside.” He sighs. “I already have the building owner on the way, so I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

“It’s okay.” You reply, rubbing your temple with your free hand. “There’s not much else you can do anyways.” Tanaka apologizes again before you say goodbye and hang up.

Well, this is a problem. You are a little behind in the kitchen due to Todoroki showing up, and you doubt Tanaka will be here in time to properly set up the front for opening. You haven’t had to open alone in a while, and hope you’ll be able to open on time. You can’t really afford to open late.

You look around the kitchen, worried eyes finding Todoroki’s concerned ones. A desperate idea pops into your head. “Can I…still take up that offer for help? Or do you need to leave soon?”

Todoroki glances at the clock, before reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “I can ask the plane to wait an hour or two.” Asking a plane to wait?! Can heroes do that?

“Oh, no please don’t!” Your voice stops him from typing a message. “I don’t want anyone else to be held up because of me.”

He tilts his head a bit to the side. Cute. “It’s a private plane. Nobody else will be waiting.”

You blink. Right. Rich people. At least he wouldn’t be stopping an entire commercial plane. Still, you feel a bit bad about the staff it takes to get a private jet working. At least they’ll be getting paid, right? Todoroki types a bit more on his phone before it starts vibrating in his hands. He picks it up.

“Hello, father.”

Your mouth opens. Oh my god, that's Endeavor on the other side. You shudder as you think of the imposing hero. That man always terrified you.

“Yes. No. I know. Yes. I will.” And he hangs up. He doesn’t look affected by the call and just slides his phone back into his pocket. The hero looks up at you. “How can I help? His voice is different from the phone call, you notice. It’s softer. You like this voice much more.

So you bring Todoroki to the front and explain what needs to be done. You don’t expect perfection, it’s not like he’s been trained on any of this. Still, he rolls up his sleeves and takes to it with ease. You suppose opening a bakery is one of the least stressful things he’s done. You smile at the sight and head to the kitchen.

The time slips away as you work. Todoroki pops into the kitchen a few times to ask some questions or grab supplies, but overall it’s pretty quiet and peaceful. It’s comfortable and reminds you of the many mornings he’s spent helping you in the kitchen. Of course, your mind often shifts to whatever the hell just happened and so you have to pause multiple times to just freak out a little.

‘I like you.’ said so simply and matter-of-factly. It’s something you never thought you’d hear from the hero. And he’s single. Oh damn, you actually have a chance at all that. You can feel some self-doubt threaten to claw up your throat and push it away. You are not going to let yourself get in the way of your own happiness. Not anymore.

“I’m hereee- oh, hello Todoroki.” Tanaka’s shout can be heard easily through the bakery.

“Hello Tanaka.”

You smile and set aside your supplies, brushing your hands off on your apron as you make your way to the front. Tanaka looks -reasonably- surprised to see the hero, but brushes it off and makes his way to the backroom to put away his coat.

“I guess that means you’re free.” You say to Todoroki, looking around. Honestly, he’s done a pretty good job…although the display looks a bit crazy. Maybe you’ll leave it like that, just for today. “You did well.” “Thank you.” Despite his quiet words, he seems to shine under the praise. He reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone, looking at the display for a moment before sliding it back in. “I have to head back.”

Tanaka passes you both as you head towards the back door. Todoroki slides on his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck. “Thank you again for…well, everything.”

“For you, anytime.” He responds, smooth in a way you did not expect. You feel your cheeks heat again. He smiles. “Come here.” It’s his only warning before you’re pulled into the most comfortable hug you’ve ever had. You breathe in the faint scent of cologne and warmth as you wrap your arms around him. His arms tighten a bit around you. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

He sets his chin lightly on your head. “I’ll see you after the mission.” And then his arms slowly let go. You pull back, already regretting it.

“Yea, see you soon.” You respond, taking a deep breath in to settle yourself. “Please be safe.” He nods and begins to turn to leave. Two weeks feels too long, although you know realistically it isn’t. The next time you’ll see him should be at the wedding. Wait.

The wedding.

“Wait!” Suddenly you call out. He stops and looks back. “If it’s not your wedding, whose is it?”

“Izuku and Ochako.” He says simply.

Izuku and Ochako? It takes you a second. Izuku Midoriya, Deku, the pro hero. Alright, that makes enough sense. But Ochako? Your mind fills with images of round cheeks, a large smile, and big brown eyes.

‘The Uraraka’s spoke wonders of your grandfather’s work’

‘You are very highly recommended by the Uraraka’s.’

Your hand raises to your mouth in shock, things slotting together like a well-made but very confusing puzzle.

“Uraraka?” Your question. “Ochako Uraraka?”

Todoroki nods.

Oh my god.

The man does have to leave. You watch him until he rounds a corner, mind swimming with the information you just learned until Tanaka comes to pull you back into the bakery.

Tagged As Requested

@shoutocakie

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x y/n #todoroki shouto x you #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x y/n #todoroki fic #bnha fanfiction #bnha fic #fanfiction #fanfic #j writes

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