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charliemwrites · 4 months ago

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Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #government asset!Soap #asset soap #heavy kink #mind the tags #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader

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hoseoksluna · 22 days ago

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THE FUN DAY, pt. II. | kth

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, a little angst

word count: 5.0k

summary: you didn't prepare a fun day this time, but it became more than that.

pin: tba. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

note: this was the first fic, during which i absolutely sobbed my heart out. i never had this happen to me and i'm sure you'll feel it as you read. please, show me your love. enjoy. <3

An abandoned woman can weep, but an abandoned boy can weep not. Uncried affliction pains the most, even love, when seven mountains repose between it, the seven mountains of hard rocks.

I have two small windows, I have two big eyes, but writings I have none that would drift, at dusk, upon my table, reminiscent of an ivory cloud, and that would say: people love each other, man!

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — The Evening by Jiří Wolker

Paris was chilled to the marrow, yet embraced by winter. Dotted with mute stars and coruscating lights, life and poetry that were missing syllables—as if it were trying to speak, trying to converse, but something was prying its fingers inside their mouth, not allowing them to let out a sound.

That’s precisely how you felt within the depth of your afternoon nap.

The Eiffel Tower tried with all its monumental might to say something. The cafés with their myriads of intellectual words, glasses of wine and desserts strained their throats much to their dismay. You gazed upon it all—and you felt it deeply, their forced inability that wasn’t theirs at all. You wore nothing but a flimsy, tattered white T-shirt that has seen its better days, an item of cotton that belonged to Taehyung, and your feet were bare on the cobblestones, scratched and raw, though not cold. In spite of it, you feared for your baby. Feared the cold, that you did not sense, would touch it and bring something unfortunate to its developing body. And you drifted like this through your dream, carrying fear and pity. For the whole vastness of Paris, forbidden to speak; and for the smallest of Paris inside your belly, unable to speak yet.

You drifted and stood, gazing and gazing. Wanted to leave. Wanted to go back to your apartment, but you couldn’t. Your guilt kept you in your place while your fear strangled you until you were blue.

No people in sight and you were dying. Blue and pregnant, blue and abandoned. Blue and maddened—within the realm of dreams, that is.

And then just as you internally reach for Jimin, as you have many times since October, a hand is brushing through your hair, stirring you awake, stealing you away from the tragedy of it all. And the sensation of iciness prickling the tips of your toes is what you feel first, the heft of the large palm on the crown on your head second.

A tearful whimper gushes out of your throat, the awareness that you’re no longer rooted in your dream making your body squirm under the fleece blanket. The fear punctures through the flesh of your heart one more time before it escapes through the crooked center of your shoulder blades.

And there’s a figure sitting by the edge of your bed, nestled in the arc of your folded legs and rounded form.

And it’s no longer afternoon.

You blink in the dark, try to make out what is happening and before your sleepy brain comprehends who that large figure is, your heart knows.

Your heart smells the autumn spices of his being. Apples, pumpkin and cinnamon, despite being clouded by the wintry air. It hasn’t seen him in three months, but it knows him.

It knows him intimately.

“Taehyung?” your heart whispers, the sound coming out of your throat loosely, yet with a piercing pain that is greater than the fear you felt.

The autumn boy sighs, enveloping you in the homely snugness that you missed, that you lacked all this time. You reach for his hand, blindly, finding it somewhere on his lap, and upon that first contact, he speaks.

“Hi, baby,” he croaks out, the words new and untouched by this strange reality—as if he saved them for this very moment, keeping them deep in his clavicles all those months. “I’m home.”

The noise that leaves you could be mistaken for a saddened sob, but it’s one of such absolute joy. The autumn boy coos, leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. The yellow light shows him to you and you discover that the autumn boy isn’t a boy at all.

Taehyung is a man.

Short, black hair decorates his forehead in a sweet, seemingly youthful way that is painstakingly oxymoronic. His bulbous cheeks are pallid, carrying the weight of the winter in them—new, new winter that you barely even recall basking in with him. They hold up his boxy smile, though, something that you never shall forget. And lingering your eyes there, the sight is surreal.

So surreal that you lift a hand and caress that meaningful cheek, coloring it in a rose tint that grows warm in your palm.

A man of all rose gardens and sculptures that are alive.

And when he tilts his face into your touch, your heart swells to such an extent that you spring up into a sitting position and melt into him within a clasp. A warm, a real clasp.

He’s real.

He’s here.

His hair is silkily soft, the tresses of an angel that takes care of flowers such as these. The skin upon the nape of his neck is feverish, as is the torso of his body that you half press up against. He didn’t feel this warm when you were wandering unknowingly in your imagination. And when you pull back to make sure that what you’re seeing isn’t that figment of that damned imagination of yours, he ascertains to you that he is real by letting his boxy smile quiver.

It quivers; it is not frozen in place. Beautiful still, but not frozen. Quivering with the heft of all the emotions due to your reunion.

And when you slide your palm down his chest, his two perfect lungs lift to kiss it, just to fall and kiss it again. Over and over again.

Large chest. Large shoulders. Large biceps.

And large eyes that melt into chocolate pools as he deepens your shared gaze, studying the way you’re comprehending his presence. He gives you all the time in the world, as if understanding that his absence was too long and, tenderly, you break.

Tears rush to your irises while you acknowledge your soul with the principle of it all by tracing his body with your fingers. The veins of his hand, thumping under your touch, that are the roots of the trees that watch over the roses in his garden. So full of life and present time. The forearms that aren’t hidden by the tweed of his usual suits, but clothed in the plush of an off-white zipper jacket that your heart mourns. A clash of what you’re used to and the reality.

He must have gotten off the plane at this hour. His duffel bag must be somewhere in the living room, abandoned now in place of you.

You’re no longer abandoned. He’s here.

You’re no longer delirious. He’s here.

He was supposed to come in the morning. That’s what he said in your last phone call, where he let you in on what Jimin had done for the both of you. Your response to his promise in October manifested in the following months, but Jimin fought against it. Knelt before the feet of the man he’s afraid of and begged. Begged the Sergeant to make that call and allow Taehyung to have his vacation. Begged until his knees bruised and his hands left a wet print on the dirty floor.

And the Sergeant softened, impressed by his strong will and the respect he showed him. Nodded his head and made it so Taehyung leaves by the end of the year. Did so well in North Korea, protected his military brothers before himself, the Sergeant interceded with those facts and off Taehyung went.

Off to catch a plane in December.

I’ll be home on New Year’s Eve, Taehyung said over the phone to you, and somehow he must’ve seen the pout that was forming on your mouth because he added a reassuring I know right after.

You didn’t understand why he couldn’t have come a day earlier, but now you see that you didn’t have to understand it.

Because Taehyung made it.

He came home on his birthday.

You press your face against the side of his, your arms back around his neck. “My love,” you whisper and gently squirm, for you feel a movement in your belly. You open your eyes, brushing your lashes across his rose petal cheek, smiling a smile that quivers just like his. That is first movement of your baby that you ever felt. The tears pour out, watering the soft skin. You kiss the pathway it created, only to stray away and go up, nudging your nose against his. Let out breaths of your overwhelmingness against him like this. Feel that your baby spoke to you, spoke in the only way it can, telling you to tell him. And you do. Finally, you do—after nearly six months. “I have a gift for you.”

Humming, his long fingers find the back of your head, his arm caging you in as he buries his digits into the waterfall of your tousled hair, grown thicker now due to your pregnancy.

You didn’t make any plans for tomorrow, fearful it would turn misfortunate like it did in October. And because his return is so sudden, so unexpected, telling him now feels more than right. Feels divine, feels memorable, the destiny propelled by your baby.

Within the snug atmosphere of your embrace, you travel with your hand on a journey across his back far longer than it used to be, down his strong arm until you wind up at his fingers. You take them and place them on your swollen belly, bigger now than it used to be as well.

Both of you changed in different ways.

“Happy birthday,” you breathe out, the words accompanied by your strangled sobs, and just like the cafés, the Eiffel Tower and the life and the poetry of Paris in your drowsy, afternoon dream, Taehyung doesn’t say anything.

Not for a while.

His lungs pause. The moisture of his lips crumbles into dryness like a withering blossom. His eyelids remain unmoving, irises fixed on a spot you cannot see because you cannot stop gazing at his evident shock.

One he begins to wake up from when the baby kicks against his hand.

He blinks, a heavy breath gusts out of his lips, upon which he runs his tongue. He turns his head to face you, no longer smiling, but trembling. A film of wetness clouds his sparkling eyes and you think the wholeness of the magnificence of the Eiffel Tower is in them, perhaps even greater than it. And against the place the baby kicked, it rests with their small body, drawn to their Daddy’s warmth. And it is only then that your tears and his, at last and in tandem, fall out. And along with it—every stress you ever felt regarding not being able to conceive.

“We did it?” he asks, carefully, his voice raspy, quiet and deep, wanting to hear it from you first before he looks down, and you can merely nod. He whimpers, sniffling, glancing into your eyes with such depth that it moves through you, sealing something within you. Perhaps joy, perhaps satisfaction with life, perhaps the boundless love that you feel for him, and you want to stay in this moment for far longer than time allows you. But it is foolish, this want of yours. Because when Taehyung finally looks down at your belly, it is a moment that is slowly and surely carving itself into your skin, your flesh and your bloodline. For your baby to see in the future. He fondles the rounded valley of their little body and comes to terms with it, vividly. His sobs stream out, pained but ebullient, and there his mouth cracks that boxy smile. Real, colorful, shining. “We did it.”

You nod again, the warmth of his hand boiling, homely, so right. “We did it, Taehyung.”

His eyes flick to yours and as they close, he closes his fingers around the back of your neck as well and kisses you. Boiling, homely, right and real.

Not a figment of your imagination. Not your delirium, caused by your abandonment, by the other end of your love that missed him.

This is reality. This is the present moment.

Taehyung deepens the kiss and in it you feel the gladness of his being, the words ‘finally’ that begin to unfold down your throat, hasty to meet your baby in your belly.

And Taehyung is hasty, too.

Breaking the kiss, he leans down and presses his lips against that rounded valley. Peppers a hundred, a thousand, a million kisses against that part of the baby’s body. Lingers there, cheek against it, head on your thigh, and breathes.

You let him bask in it for as long as he needs, raking your fingers through his short hair. And your teardrops fall onto his colored cheek when he begins to talk to his baby.

“Daddy’s here, little one,” he says, his tone mellifluous, his lips brushing against their body with each pronounced word—just like Jimin’s thumb brushed against your small belly at the time when he held your hand outside of the jazz club. “Daddy loves you so much. He can’t wait to meet you, but he has to finish his military service first and then he’ll be home for good. With you and Mommy. I’ll take care of you both. I’ll never leave again.”

You swipe away your tears from his cheek and Taehyung straightens. Kisses your lips. Kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck and hugs you as if he never hugged you before, three hearts connected in that embrace when he pulls you onto his lap and holds you.

He inhales your scent, your hair, the sleep you emerged out of, tracing patterns on your back. And then the sweetest form of interrogation happens.

He brushes your hair back with both hands, keeping it in place behind your ears. “How far along are you?”

You can’t halt the bloom of the grin on your face, the question reminding you of Jimin. “Five months. Six next week.”

He reciprocates the smile, but as he begins to do the math, it withers. “So your due date is in May?”

The corners of your mouth downturn. You haven’t allowed yourself to fully think about the time in the near future in terms of you giving birth, knowing the pain it would bring. You’re aware you should prepare yourself for it, so the worst doesn’t happen, but you also don’t want to prematurely cause harm to your baby with that stress.

Your emotions are in shambles. They are a threat and you wish they weren’t.

“May 30th is my due date, but it doesn’t mean I give birth on that day. I can give birth in June, too. It depends on the baby.” You laugh, softly and shortly. “Can you take a leave?”

You can see him racking his brain, his features solemn and tense. “I get discharged on June 10th and I don’t know if the commander will allow me…” he trails off, briefly looking away before finding his way back to your eyes. “Don’t worry about that. It’s my responsibility. I’ll be here. You won’t be alone during your first childbirth, I promise you that. I’ll be here. Do you trust me?”

Without a shadow of doubt, you do, and so you don’t hesitate to nod your head and express it through your own words. “I do, Taehyung. I trust you.”

He smiles, the blush in his cheeks deepening its hue. “Good.”

He kisses you, gently, and it’s a kiss of such romantic affection that you forget about the threat of the stress, the threat of him not being here during your childbirth. You melt into him, basking in the demonstration of his love for you, of the pride he feels because of the way you trust in him. You can enormously feel it all, as if it was written on his lips and you could read it.

He’s daubed in this resplendent romance as he withdraws. Coated in sweat, he’s so refulgent that you dissolve, falling in love with him all over again. Your inner child swoons and you sense her emotions, as though you were her in the autumn of your childhood, being caught by him during a chase, surrounded by pumpkins and apples. The emotions she felt when she looked at him more differently than she ever did in her lifetime and realized that she wants to marry him and have a baby with him.

That undreamed dream came true. And somehow that is healing her. Somehow, that allows her to rest peacefully, having drawn her last breath.

Taehyung kisses your chin. And kisses her goodbye at the same time. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

You shake your head. “The doctor asks you at the five month check-up if you want to know the gender, but because you weren’t with me, I didn’t want to. My next check-up is next week, though. We can find out together.”

You expect him to smile at that, but Taehyung frowns, placing a kiss on your forehead. “I’m sorry you had to go to these check-ups all alone. I’ll go with you this time, baby.”

The anguish you had buried in yourself deep resurfaces. Maybe that is one of the reasons why you were so delirious in October. You had to go through the final stage to adulthood all by yourself, abandoned.

Something tells you to tell him, but shame holds you back, twisting your tongue. You furrow your brows, breaking free of the amorous eye contact you had with Taehyung, and he immediately catches onto the shadowed side of your emotions.

He grasps it into his hand, like he so very often grips your hair. “What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip, still looking away. “Did Jimin tell you anything about the day you were supposed to have your vacation?”

There’s an interlude between his response and you glance at him to see him drifting through the library of his memories. With furrowed brows, just like your own.

“I only spoke to Jimin once and he asked me if my commander allowed me to have his vacation. That’s how I found out he was willing to give it up for me, but I didn’t know why,” he says, lifting his head from the myriads of life-records, uncertainty and confusion covering his eyes. “But I didn’t get his vacation. My commander gave me a reward vacation because of what I did in the north. Why did Jimin want to give up his vacation for me?”

The shame inches closer, scratching your back, but for your baby, you shake it away. Decide to tell him because you trust him and because you can tell him anything without the fear of prejudice.

“Because I went mad on that day,” you start, straight and flat. Taehyung widens his eyes, but then his brows lower down, as if they were saying, excuse me? Anger eclipses his face, one that feels safe, though. “I imagined you being here with me. I planned this fun day with you and Jimin, taking you on a walk through the park on the way to the jazz club, where you kissed me for the first time. I wanted to tell you about the baby. Jimin was supposed to honor you for your mission in the north by singing, but I ruined everything. Nobody saw you when I saw you very clearly… until I didn’t.”

Pensiveness smooths out over his anger that boils, quietly. And once again, like Paris in your dream, he doesn’t say anything at all. He contemplates the information you’ve given him and the patterns he’d been engraving into your back reach their end, no longer circling on their own without his assistance.

“Why didn’t he tell me any of this?” he asks, keeping his voice low, so his anger doesn’t touch you. “I should've known…”

There was no contact between you and him for the two months he was on his mission, and phone calls were forbidden. It seems as though he’s dwelling on this fact as he doesn’t finish his sentence, rooting his eyesight on your lips, absentmindedly.

Jimin said one month, but he was wrong.

North is brutal. Too, too brutal.

Thank God Taehyung came out unscathed.

Another interlude of foreign, but not entirely uncanny silence settles in between and, blinking rapidly, Taehyung sighs. Brushes your hair back one last time before he takes your hands in his. A gesture of absolute genuineness, a foreshadowing to his following words.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice throaty. “I’m sorry for not being here. I’m sorry for being so far away. And I’m sorry our dream came true when I have to be away.”

His pity cuts through you, reminiscent of your dream, and you realize that the pity you felt in that other world wasn’t yours. It was his, and the element of the inability to speak was the principle of him not being here and not being able to react. It’s all connected—your dream told you about his return and about his feelings. And you felt them because you’re a part of him, carrying his child.

You soften, seized by it all, and you hide your face in his neck, fading into him. “It’s okay. You’re here now. Maybe it was supposed to happen now. We both changed, didn’t we? We grew up.”

He forces you to look at him and the pity on his face breaks you. The rose petals in his cheeks died, the smooth surface now swirls with pallidness once again. His brown pools are glossy with the depth of that emotion, millions of words swimming in them. He can’t say them, he can’t catch up to them, and when he closes his eyes, presses his forehead against yours and sighs, you’re aware of how hard this is for him.

You had five months to come to terms with this star-crossed situation. He’s barely had an hour.

“I want to be here for you. I want to help you. I don’t want to leave you alone with the baby,” he murmurs against you, squeezing your hands to make you understand how much this means to him, and you allow the wall, which you had built up along with Jimin to keep your mind and your emotions safe, to collapse, completely. Fresh tears drip down your cheeks, your chin trembling. “Have you had any morning sickness?”

You nod, recollecting your first nausea in the first trimester when Jimin was still around. “Yes, it started when Jimin was here. He was there for me. Until he had to go back to Korea.”

A war flashes on his face and, right away, he lets you know which side has won. “I want to be here for you, not Jimin. Do you understand me?”

You open your mouth in shock because you still, faithfully, remember the words he spoke to you in your imagination. Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone. And with shock comes the realization that the chapter ends. It is the final puzzle piece, the last enlightenment you needed—because in reality, Taehyung didn’t say those words. Taehyung didn’t give his blessing for Jimin to take care of you in his absence. Your own ego did.

Taehyung mistakens your silence and your comprehension of that for displeasure, and he clicks his tongue in regret, sighing your name.

“I’m glad Jimin was there for you, don’t get me wrong, but I just wish it was me. Who knows if I ever get a chance to be your partner in this again,” he spills out, truthfully, and watches as another rivulet of tears trickles down your face. He wipes them away, blinking his own away, too. “I want to rub your back, baby. I want to watch your belly grow big. I want to tie your shoes, bring you food and buy baby clothes with you. I don’t want Jimin to do that because it’s my job. It’s my duty.”

You understood him then and you understand him now. Agree with him as that truth anchors in your heart. Jimin was kind to do what he did and you’re grateful for it. Without him, you’d be roaming in your delusions. And Taehyung needs to know that he helped you with that first and foremost.

“Jimin wasn’t my partner in that, Taehyung,” you croak out, inhaling deeply so your sentences flow out better. “I agree with you that it’s your job and I also want it to be you. But what Jimin did was save me from my own mind. I was lost without you, pregnant and alone, and he kept those delusions far away from me. I needed that. I needed a friend.”

Taehyung nods, understanding, caressing your tear-stained face. The color percolates back to his cheeks, little by little. And you can see a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

Calmness expands in your sternum.

“I will give him my thanks for that,” he settles, kissing your temple, leaving his lips there, against that intimate place. “You won’t be left alone with your mind again. I’ll try my hardest to be there for you, to keep in touch. I’ll talk to my commander. I’ll do anything. But I promise you won’t have those delusions again because you’ll be busy with me.”

The last tears that surge out are of relief and you hug him, squeeze him in gratitude. “Thank you, Taehyung. I love you.”

He sinks his fingers into the patterns he engraved into your back, rocking you side to side in that embrace, his lips by your ear. “I love you, baby. I’ll buy you a big house. We’ll go on a shopping spree next week and get all the things the little one needs. I’ll take care of you both.”

You kiss him and in the middle of that expression of affection, the baby kicks again. Taehyung feels it against his own tummy and he grins and laughs into the kiss, lifting you up with utmost ease and setting your feet down on the carpet near the record player by the wall.

And the music he begins to play isn’t of the jazz kind he loves so much. He put down a vinyl that bears Billie Eilish’s face and when Halley’s Comet sounds out throughout the bedroom, he takes your hand and drifts on the carpet with you.

Not under the brown, dimmed lights of the jazz club, but under the yellow lights of the bedroom where you reached the beginning journey of your adulthood. And now as you dance with him, pregnant with his baby, you feel as much as an adult as a human can possibly feel like one.

The final stage.

Everything changes with this song.

Halley’s Comet comes around more than I do…

Taehyung doesn’t come often, but he’s here now. Big and buff, cinnamon, apples and pumpkin. The boy you loved turned into a man that you love even more.

From a baby boy friend to a baby Daddy.

And as he looks down into your eyes, he asks you what names you want to give to the baby. And you whisper it to him, letting yourself be led into a dance of adulthood.

“Perfect,” he whispers back, kissing you and staying there for as long as he needs, for as long as you need because you grip his shoulder with all your might, afraid to let him go.

Because after he piles up your apartment with the crib, the stroller, the high chair, the diapers and so many non-colorful baby clothes that you need another set of furniture, he has to leave again. And you cry so hard that you can’t get any words out. But Taehyung hears them. He hears them in the hundreds of kisses you exchange and he hears them in the last hug you give him and in the last goodbye you say to him.

And he comes back on May 29th, bigger and more buff than he was, prepared to be a Daddy. Spends the day moving into the new house he bought you with Jimin as his help and no one else. Paints the baby’s room pink because you’re having a baby girl that he grew his muscles for to protect her.

His commander gave him a special leave and forbade him from coming back and finishing his service. Apparently, the man himself has five children and four grandchildren. Is a softie when it comes to them.

And when Taehyung is done with the house and sits with you on your new couch, he announces it to the baby girl. Your home is ready, little one. You can come out now. And he laughs so hard that the delightful sound pulses through the walls, taking a sip of his soda.

And she does come out the next day, sharing the same number of her birth date with her Daddy. Taehyung holds your hand, as calm as the spring wind, as you push her out. Breathes with you, guides you, controls your inhales and exhales. Keeps his lips pressed against your temple—and he purses his lips against the same spot on the baby girl’s head once he holds her.

And Taehyung looks at you, and you look at him. Joyful tears fall, in tandem, with his.

And the happy event repeats two years later. What Taehyung feared the most didn’t come true. He watched your belly grow with his second child while holding the hand of the first. He rubbed your back while you threw up the breakfast he had learned to make for you. He tied your shoes when you couldn’t bend down due to your large bump, his daughter standing beside him, watching his every move, learning about love from him. And he bought colorful clothes for the baby with its gender already in mind.

Blue, brown, green and beige.

A baby boy for the baby girl. A reversed picture of you and him, growing together.

And as your babies grow together, you grow old with Taehyung, too.

And he never leaves. Never again.

And he buys you tulips of all colors every single week, whose sweet scent the children inhale and whose pink hues color their cheeks. And they play with Uncle Jimin until he brings them cousins to utterly fall in love with.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

BACK to masterlist | read part one

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lady-arryn · 1 year ago

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DREDGE (2023) ▸ The Marrows

Today we're sailing around the island and inlets at the back of Greater Marrow. I love the rocks here: the layers and colours are so striking.

#gamingedit #dredgeedit #gamingscenery #videogameedit #gameplaydaily #dailyvideogames #indiegamesource #gamingnetwork #dredge #dredge 2023 #**#*gif #*dredge

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admiringlove · 1 month ago

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falling stars. the sixth part of @angstober is here! i really loved writing this one, ugh. anyways, happy reading <3 masterlist of the event can be found here.

being immortal was both a blessing and a curse.

zhongli had always been the god of contracts. it was the essence of his existence, a purpose etched into the very marrow of his being. he wasn’t always the composed, reserved man who carried the weight of centuries with quiet dignity, his gaze heavy with the nostalgia of eras long past. no, once, he had been sharp and unyielding—a man who lived and breathed duty. his loyalty to liyue was unshakable. liyue came first. always.

duty was his creed, his unwavering religion. the god of stone and earth, as immovable as the mountains he shaped. whenever his focus wavered, that mantra echoed in his mind: liyue comes first. duty comes first. it was an unrelenting rhythm that kept his soul in check.

but then, somehow, you happened.

you were the anomaly, the gentle rain that smoothed his jagged edges. he never quite understood how you slipped past the walls he’d spent millennia building. the god of contracts, once as steadfast as the stone he commanded, found himself softened—worn down not by time but by your presence. you were like the tide, subtle yet persistent, shaping him with a patience he didn’t know could exist. his rigid mountains melted into quiet hills, his soul drenched in the warmth of your laughter, the soft glow of fireworks, and a nostalgia he had never allowed himself to feel.

and now, for the first time, zhongli questioned where duty ended and where you began. you weren’t just a fleeting moment in his never-ending timeline. no, you were something far greater. you held his entire existence in your hands, like magic woven into your fingertips. you weren’t just his past—you were his present, his future, everything all at once.

and he hates that he’s slowly forgetting you. hates that he's still here, living, while it’s been eons since he last heard your voice, since the scent of you clung to his memory.

your scent. it was the first to fade, slipping through his grasp as the years stretched on. he remembers fragments—how you always smelled of the river, like the waters of qingce village clung to you. you loved the water, always said it felt like home. he’d once joked that you should have been born in fontaine, where the tides ruled, but you loved him long before you knew who he truly was.

you loved your god, and your devotion to rex lapis was so pure, so sacred, that it unsettled even him. most revered him with fear, with trembling awe, but you—no, you loved him as effortlessly as breathing. it's how he'd found you, standing before his statue, lighting incense in the stillness of prayer. he approached as zhongli, hands behind his back, watching as you offered your quiet supplications.

"did you know he's the eldest of the seven?" he murmured, his gaze lifting to the likeness of himself carved in stone. there was something serene in your posture, a calmness that baffled him. most would pray with reverence or dread, but you. you smiled softly as you waved the incense in the air, placing it at the statue’s base.

"everyone knows he's the eldest," you replied, casting him a sideways glance, "but most people don’t realize that barbatos is the second eldest."

zhongli blinked, a flicker of surprise playing at his lips. it was true—his old friend, the carefree anemo god, was the second oldest, though few knew this because of barbatos’ lighthearted demeanor.

"you seem well-versed in the ways of the gods," he remarked, curiosity piqued as he watched you. you chuckled, the sound light and warm. "my father’s a priest. i suppose that’s why. but i think rex lapis is different from the others."

zhongli’s interest deepened. he tilted his head. "how so?"

"you’ll laugh if i tell you," you teased, a grin tugging at your lips before you looked back at the statue, "but i think he’s a romantic. being the eldest must come with so much responsibility. i imagine he’s tired, weary from the weight of it all. from all of us."

zhongli frowned, something in your words striking a strange chord within him. "but that is his duty, is it not?" he asked, his brow furrowing, unsettled by the way your insight crawled beneath his skin.

you simply shook your head, smiling to yourself. "duty and purpose don’t always align, you know. rex lapis is a magnificent god, strong and wise. but i like to think he’s also present in the small moments, like an old friend. sometimes, i talk to him about my day."

zhongli’s gaze sharpened, a mix of amusement and suspicion in his eyes. "do you now?" he asked, voice low. "then perhaps he’s listening."

"if only," you laughed softly, the sound like wind brushing through leaves. "gods are mysterious creatures. i doubt they have the time to listen to a priest’s child ramble on about their mundane life."

if only you had known how closely he listened, how deeply your words had taken root within him, like seeds planted in the fertile soil of his heart. you were like water—gentle yet unyielding—flowing into the spaces between his thoughts, shaping him without him even realizing. after that day, you became something he could never quite shake, lingering like the soft glow of a lantern after dark—an ever-present warmth, like coming home after centuries spent wandering.

he finds you again, unexpectedly, sitting alone by the harbor in liyue city. there’s a heaviness to your expression, your brow furrowed as your eyes gaze out at the endless stretch of the sea, as if seeking solace in its waves. the wind tugs at your hair, carrying the salt of the ocean in the air, and you sigh—a quiet, resigned sound that makes something tighten in his chest. he watches you for a moment longer before making his way toward you.

"it’s you," he murmurs, his voice soft as the breeze, "from qingce village."

your head lifts slowly, and at first, your gaze holds no recognition, dulled by the weight of your troubles. but then, your eyes widen, lighting up with sudden relief. "you! by rex lapis, am i glad to see you."

his amber eyes, with their distinct diamond-shaped pupils, flicker in surprise. he hadn’t expected that reaction. you press on, your words tumbling out with a mixture of frustration and desperation. "this city is impossible. my father sent me here to assist a doctor with medicinal herbs, but i’m completely lost. and not one statue of morax inside the city! not one! where am i supposed to go every morning to pray?"

a small chuckle escapes him, low and warm, and he tilts his head slightly. "that is true. the nearest statue is just beyond the city’s borders, but it can be a dangerous journey. perhaps... you could join me for tea each morning instead. madame ping brews the finest oolong, and we often sit together in the high grounds before i start my day. you might even find your doctor there."

"really?" your face lights up, like the skies of liyue igniting during lantern rite, a spark of hope rekindled in your eyes. "you’d do that for me? include me in your routine, even though you barely know me?"

he smiles softly, settling onto the bench beside you. "you’re fond of rex lapis, aren’t you? so is madame ping. and so am i. i believe you’d make for good company."

"that’s... incredibly kind of you," you murmur, fingers loosening their tight grip on the straps of your bag, a hint of vulnerability slipping into your voice. "i never got your name, though."

he turns to face you, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the red liner beneath his amber eyes, making them glow with a soft, almost ethereal light. "zhongli," he replies, watching you carefully, as though gauging your reaction.

you take in a slow breath, your eyes widening slightly as you look at him, something shifting in the air between you, fragile and significant all at once. "you know," you say, your voice a little softer now, "zhongli, you have a very familiar face."

he chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the quiet of the harbor. "do i, now?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

and so, the friendship between you and, unbeknownst to you, rex lapis began. you spoke of him in the way a devout follower might speak of their deity, yet with a warmth, a familiarity, that zhongli couldn’t quite grasp. it was as if, in your heart, rex lapis was not a distant god ruling from on high, but a cherished friend; someone you could confide in without fear. and that comforted him in a way nothing else had. for once, someone revered him not out of awe or terror, but out of love. someone placed rex lapis on a pedestal for reasons beyond his power, beyond his duty. simply because they cared for him, deeply, genuinely.

perhaps that was why fate had woven your paths together. to teach him that he was more than his role, more than the weight of his eternal duty. to remind him that his purpose did not need to be solely bound to protecting liyue until the end of time. there could be more—there was more.

"i don’t think i can love anyone as much as i love the god of geo," you once confessed, after finally mastering the confusing streets of liyue harbor. the two of you were descending the stone steps after your usual morning tea with auntie ping—though now, you had grown fond enough of her to call her that. zhongli’s brow raised at your words, his steps slowing to match your pace, for you were always a little slower, always taking your time. "what do you mean by that?"

"i don’t know," you sighed, your gaze flickering to the distant horizon, "i have this... strange relationship with rex lapis. i love him. i idolize him. i think of him as an old friend, someone i can share my burdens with. but i also feel that... if someone were to love me, it would be hard for me to return the same intensity. i think it would pale in comparison to the way i love him." your voice trailed off, quieter, more uncertain. "it’s strange. like i said, a strange feeling to have. i don’t even know why i’m telling you this."

zhongli’s eyes softened as he watched you, his lips curving into a gentle, knowing smile. "i believe the word you’re searching for is sacred," he said quietly.

you blinked, surprised by his response, and for a brief moment, you narrowed your eyes at him as if trying to figure something out. because that familiar feeling tugged at you again—like a jigsaw falling into place, though you couldn’t quite see the whole picture yet. the way he smiled at you, the way he seemed to understand. it made your heart skip, just a little.

and, without realizing it, you began to favor a certain funeral parlor consultant over the god you once idolized.

he made you smile wider than you ever had, more than you ever did for rex lapis. zhongli had quietly woven himself into the fabric of your life, so seamlessly that it left you baffled, wondering when it all began. your days started to revolve around him—sometimes even your nights. he would tell you stories of liyue’s ancient history as if he had witnessed every moment himself, painting vivid pictures of a time long past. it left you in awe, admiring him more with every tale, until the realization struck like a wave crashing against the shore.

you had come to love zhongli more than rex lapis.

the thought gripped you with quiet terror. the way his eyes would crinkle with a knowing smile, the way his soft chuckles echoed in the silence after you mentioned your god—it all made your heart stumble, beat after beat. he was hiding something, you knew it. and it wasn’t just you who noticed. even auntie ping, with her ageless wisdom, seemed in on the secret. zhongli had once called her an old friend, but just how old, you couldn’t quite tell.

"how did you meet auntie ping?" you asked one evening, crossing the bridge near the funeral parlor, heading towards dinner. he paused, a flicker of hesitation passing through his amber eyes. "i don’t quite remember anymore," he said quietly, "we’ve simply been friends for a very long time. there was another once, but... she’s gone now. her name was guizhong."

"was she beautiful?" the question left your lips before you could stop yourself. "was she clever?"

his soft laugh carried through the evening air. "immensely," he said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "we miss her, every now and then."

"did she..." your voice faltered as you stopped in your tracks. "did she pass away?"

he nodded, a touch of sadness lingering in his expression before he resumed walking. you remained rooted in place, pieces of a larger puzzle scattering through your mind. but it was as if your thoughts grew foggy whenever you were near him—like familiarity slipping through your fingers, just beyond reach. zhongli glanced back at you, tilting his head ever so slightly. "aren’t you coming?"

you murmured a soft “yes” and quickened your steps to catch up, brushing away the weight of your thoughts. "how did morax befriend cloud retainer?" you asked, steering the conversation back to familiar ground. he seemed to know so much more about your god than even your father, things lost to time.

and with every answer he gave, you found yourself more bewildered than before.

your curiosity always brought a quiet joy to zhongli, a chance for him to indulge in your questions, your wonder. at first, he thought nothing of it, simply an opportunity to share the knowledge he had gathered over centuries. but slowly, he found himself captivated, drawn to you in ways that puzzled even him. he started accompanying you outside the city, watching you in silence as you lit incense and knelt before the statue of rex lapis. but today, something was different. your expression had shifted, lips set in a thin, guilty line. like a river running cold, your posture stiffened as if weighed by an unspoken burden.

"is something troubling you?" his voice was gentle, though there was a faint edge of concern as he watched you stare up at the stone likeness of the god. you blinked, shaken from your daze, shaking your head with a quiet denial. but zhongli had known you long enough to see through the facade. "you’re different today. while you pray."

your throat tightened, words tangling within you. how could you admit that the man beside you, the one you’d come to know for mere months, had taken up more space in your heart than the god you had worshipped all your life? it was a storm within you, like water crashing through the valleys of your soul, eroding the bedrock of belief you had built.

"i can’t tell you," you murmured, turning your back to him. "this is between me and rex lapis."

"am i not your friend?" his voice was soft, almost too soft. "am i not as close to you as rex lapis is?"

he faltered then, realizing the weight of his words. what had he just revealed? he hoped the slip of his tongue wouldn’t shatter the delicate line he had walked all this time. you were clever—more clever than anyone he’d known—but perhaps your heart would refuse to see the truth.

yet why had he even said it? he was rex lapis, wasn’t he? so why did it matter that zhongli, the mortal, had become more important to you than the god? why did he feel envy, for his own self?

"you are not him," you whispered, a note of disturbance in your voice. "you are mortal. he is my god."

"he is your friend," zhongli replied quietly, searching your face, "and so am i. if something troubles you, something that disturbs your prayer, why not tell me? i don’t want to see you unhappy like this."

"i can’t," you insisted, your shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "why don’t you understand-"

"but why not?"

"because i’m in love with you!" the words bursted from you, raw and trembling in the space between you both. your voice did not crack with tears, but the defeat in your eyes spoke of an agony deeper than tears could show. "and you’ve taken up more space in my life than my god. and that... that breaks me."

the confession hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, as if the world itself had stilled in the wake of your words.

"oh," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "i am sorry."

he watched as your face twisted in thought, a realization settling behind your eyes, something heavy and final. "i know," you murmured, turning away, your voice distant. "we should head back into the city before it gets dark."

"wait, i must tell you-"

"no, zhongli." you shook your head, your defeat palpable. "i know you don’t feel the same. it’s alright. i shouldn’t feel this way either. i’m supposed to love him more."

"but i do feel the same," he said, his voice suddenly firm, cutting through your words with a softness that startled you. "i feel the same, so why shouldn’t you?"

your mind went blank. his words left you utterly speechless, like the world had tipped sideways. you blinked up at him, confusion written across your furrowed brows, eyes glassy as you struggled to make sense of what he had just said. it felt almost sacrilegious. zhongli stepped closer, his hand finding your shoulder with the familiarity of an old friend. "it is why i want to spend every moment of my life with you. why i want you to stay by my side until my last breath. is that not fair?"

you stared at him, blinking rapidly, fighting back tears that threatened to spill. how could this be real? how could the man who had become your constant, your guide, feel the same way you did? he spoke again, his voice steady and warm, as though wrapping you in a promise. "if you love morax so much, then let’s draw a contract between us. that you will love me with the same intensity as you love him. and in return, i’ll help you love him more. i will tell you stories about him, i will show you more of liyue harbor, i will take you to the temples, and pray alongside you until your last breath—if that is what keeps you content."

his words washed over you like a tide, a promise carved from stone and time. you felt the weight of it, the gravity of his offer. this man, this mortal, who had unknowingly become the center of your world, was offering himself wholly to you—not in opposition to the god you revered, but alongside him, like two halves of the same whole. it was a contract, a binding of hearts, one that felt as sacred as the prayers you had once whispered at the foot of the statue.

and so another chapter of zhongli’s infinitely long life began. but you were not infinite—you were fleeting, a moment in time that would fade. you aged like the finest wines of mondstadt, while he remained the same: tall, revered, handsome. your hair greyed, lines formed at the corners of your eyes, and soon, you grew older than auntie ping. and then, just like that, you were gone.

the scent of you vanished with the passing breeze, the smell of the rivers from qingce village where you grew up, the fragrance of old history books you lovingly stored, cleaned, and kept in your home. all of it—gone.

but zhongli remembers. he remembers every lantern rite spent by your side, watching the fireworks burst in the sky, but always, always watching you instead. the way your eyes lit up in awe at the colors that painted the night sky—he treasures it more than any celebration. and even after you were gone, liyue continued to bustle, unchanged. and zhongli stayed the same.

he lived on, because immortality was both a blessing and a curse. every year, he would stand on the high grounds, watching the fireworks bloom in the heavens with a weight in his chest that only grew heavier with time. and every year, he thought of you—your boundless curiosity, your devotion that never wavered.

he remembers the day he found your letter, tucked away like a relic, jagged edges and all. the curiosity that once led you to him now led him to unfold that paper with trembling hands. your words were simple, but they cut deep.

you had told him to live a long life—how ironic. as if he could do anything but. to eat well, as if you were still there, cooking for him each morning and night. to drink tea with ping, because you knew the weight of his loneliness. and you told him you loved him, as if he didn't already know, as if he couldn’t feel it in the way you breathed life into everything around you.

and then, what struck him most, what lingered in the back of his mind even after centuries passed, was how you signed it.

"thank you for everything, rex lapis. i leave you with love."

it was the last thing he had from you, and yet it was more than enough to keep your memory alive—because in the end, you had known. you had always known.

in his long life, he had done countless great things, and shall do countless more still. as they say: the waters change course, but the mountains move not.

so zhongli continues to live. carrying your love with him like an echo in his heart, as eternal as he was.

#zhongli x reader #zhongli fluff #zhongli angst #rex lapis x reader #rex lapis #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact zhongli #angstober #genshin impact fluff

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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animalic (5)

← chapter four // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 3.4k summary: an unwelcome confrontation warnings: enemies to lovers, violence, blood and injury, mentioned death, fighting, angst, morally questionable characters, miguel o'hara is not nice notes: this chapter caused several headaches and i don't even like the end result, but i can't pick at it forever sooo. enjoy!

While you’ve never been renowned for making the most accurate of assumptions, there are certain patterns you’ve come to expect in order to have survived this long. To never have a glass of orange juice after brushing your teeth, or maintain eye contact while being threatened. That a kilogram of antimatter produces ten billion times the energy of chemical combustion upon annihilation, and that any quantity larger than that should not be contained.

Of such paradigms, you’ve noted only one to be entirely reliable. That a spider-hero would always fight crime, whatever the greater good.

“Absolutely not.”

You might’ve been mistaken.

“Those people are in danger, O’Hara.” You strain, trembling against the cough battering your chest. Your diaphragm spasms with every stride he takes, crushed against the curve of his broad shoulder, desperate to make up for lost breath.

He lets the plea hang, countenance obscured from your view. With the way he carries you now, all that meets your eye is navy – navy, and the bright red geometry stretched over the brawn of his back. The nanotech suit warps to fit every muscle, glinting as they push forward to meet the sun. And it dips, right between his shoulder blades, lining a clear contour of the anatomy he fails to hide. A dosser of intercostal sinew. Tapered laterals, cinched to curve at–

Your core broils uncomfortably, and his grip tightens around your knees, levelling up to the degree of his treatment thus far. After slinging off that rooftop, he’s made sure to keep you particularly close, like the effort could prevent your powers from manifesting. Like you could make it happen.

(Though, he doesn’t know that you can’t.)

But he’s smarter than that. If nothing else, it serves as a cautionary gesture. A reminder. You’re disarmed – quite literally – the only force between your nose and the sidewalk being the behemoth of a man whose body you’re strewn across. And, if you could control it – transcend the material at any given whim – it would be the extent and end of your efforts. Not with the neon webs binding you, nor your clear lack of skill.

The wind quivers with the distant sounds of calamity. You’re drawn back to the very real situation at hand.

“You make for a lousy excuse of a spiderman if your first instinct isn’t to save them!” You raise your voice, hoping to be heard over the sirens that blare towards the destruction. By counting them as they pass – two, four, six – you’re able to assign a severity to it. But it isn’t, won’t be, enough. You’d heard the screeches; primordial, clawing out from beyond the capabilities of an ordinary threat. You’d felt them – seeping into your bones, grating the spongy marrow – until Miguel had gathered enough obduration to reel you in the complete opposite direction.

Speaking of–

You tilt your head upwards, surveying the street down which he runs. It’s deserted, yet the presence of its civilians is slower to leave, a molasses that slinks towards locked doors. It’s thick with an apathetic acceptance, bordering on resignation – bitter and not unlike your own resting inclinations. You’ve never known an evacuation to happen this fast, especially this far out from the scene; people are stubborn like that, refusing to face what isn’t in front of them. That is to say, they might be used to it.

“You’re not even going the right way, dickhead!”

Of all things, that makes him stop.

(Of course it does.)

Your form flops uselessly as he turns to make sense of his surroundings. There’s the sign – 30 St and 7th – which should give any New Yorker an idea, but he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, he shoots a web to wrap around the railway of a fire escape, propelling the both of you onto an accompanying balcony. Swallowing the bile that swells along your throat at the sudden jump, you shoot him an incredulous look, which he chooses to ignore as he drops you to the floor.

His mask retreats, hair bouncing upon escape from its smothering embrace. For all that he tries to hide his pinched lips, you sense the scepticism emanating off him in waves.

You take a moment to stew over it, examining him while he calculates the path of your previous chase. From the convenience, to the corner, and into a nearby store lot. Perhaps he hadn’t been paying notice – which you sincerely doubt, considering the efficiency with which he treats everything else. Could he really be unfamiliar with the layout of a city his job is to protect? Or–

It occurs to you steadily, washing up on the fringes of your arrogance; a realisation in pieces.

Nueva York. 2099.

A metropolis. Likely one with no grid system.

Your cackle beckons his attention, severe stare snapping to your grin.

“We’re on Seventh.” You specify.

He cocks his head, nostrils flaring. Warning or question – you have a hard time deciphering the difference.

“The convenience was on Sixth and Third. You know, third avenue, East of Fifth?” You push it, spurred by your awareness that he, in fact, does not know.

“¡Ándale pues! What exactly is your point?”

“We continued down east until you bit me, judging by the way the sun hit the lot upon rising. But now, we’re on Seventh, on the other side of Fifth.”

His jaw clicks, pulsing in irritation. You toe the line of what you can get away with, how long you can drag this out before he decides you’re not worth the trouble.

“West. You’re heading West, and–” Wriggling, you adjust your posture into one more reflective of your current pride. “If you have any hope of finding that day pass, then you’re gonna need to go back.”

The bid translates, weighty, bubbling like the arid smoke off nuclear strife. He processes it, understands – you watch as it unfolds in that intimidatingly intelligent glare – yet the circumstance takes a while to establish itself. Even when it does, he doesn’t grant you the satisfaction of a full blown breakdown. No. His hands just find his hips, chin sloping to the sky.

“No puedo más, no puedo más, no–”

You probably shouldn’t rub it in any further.

“Since it’s on our way–”

"No." He snaps, voice laced with a prickling irritation that sears through his supposed indifference. The heat of it greets you, wiping the simper that had begun stretching your cheeks. “You must think this is some game, and while that might explain the shit you’ve pulled in the past, I have a responsibility. I can’t interfere with their canon.”

“So, what? You’re just gonna let them die?”

His expression lifts, brows rising expectantly, like he’s imploring you to shut up without his verbal confirmation.

Right.

It starts like a taut bowstring, straining as it verges on release.

On one end, there’s Apollo; drawing his arrow, a god amongst men. The direction with which he aims his weapon can be seen as prophetic – plague was always meant to befall the crowd at his mercy, their fates little more than a thread of mass design. Some call it righteous – epithets dedicated to his name – agreed upon by the same men who claim that rational means right. Some craft sculptures in his visage, this muse of the kouros, likening stone to flesh and deluding the observer that the two can be synonymous. Nietzsche, Bernini. You, yourself, had managed to believe that the muscle rippling below you could be anything but an Athenian tragedy.

You linger on how startlingly poetic it all is, and the string pulls tighter. You’ve never claimed to be a hero, but you have the instinct, just the same. He, on the other hand, seems entirely dismissive of the urge you assumed would wreck him too.

(Partially your fault. You know better than to expect the obvious from him – that’s his pattern.)

As the two of you veer closer to the havoc, the arrow discharges, striking the tension that’s kept you still thus far. When it snaps, it shatters, congealing to form a beset of sounds, sights, fear. Heaving sobs from a limping group of friends – the middle one rapidly losing blood from what you can tell. The pungent clog of burning debris, fed by the ash that lays suspended, mid-air. The painful creak of metal collapsing in on itself, peppered amongst the constant buzz of radio static. Miguel curbs to a stop, hidden in the notch of an alleyway, and uses the cover to reposition you in his carry. You go from slung over his shoulder to laid across his arms – not quite bridal style, but a placement similar enough that he retains a solid hold of you.

His mask comes back up, concealing the cynicism that had begun to creep up onto you both. You scoff at the unambiguity of the action, the parallel it poses to the reality at hand. He blocks himself to the obvious, the avoidable.

Glowering, you trace his line of vision to the encompassing wreckage. The street appears hauntingly familiar, thrumming with the hurried echoes of a recent memory. It lacks the colourful components – the vivid signage, the star speckled windows – yet, you recognize it all the same. The very avenue you frantically traversed only hours ago. Your companion, too, begins to grasp the truth, and you find yourself biting your cheek, a twinge of unease settling in as the revelation hits you: that perhaps you had divulged too much, far surpassing the realm of personal gain.

Yeah, the day pass is here. And you can only hope that he won’t find it.

For now, though, it appears to be the least of your worries.

A crimson creature prowls along the fringes of the decimated ruins – deliberate, relaxed, like a predator with its teeth already halfway dug in its meal – circling a man clad in a lab coat. Its size is menacing enough; standing at seven feet, with limbs as thick as pipes. Yet, what truly strikes you are the protruding bulges flanking either side of its jaw, and the white, emblematic eyes gazing out from upon its face.

“Spider-person?” You whisper, not so much looking for clarification as you were putting the possibility out there. Miguel is unwavering, dead-set on waiting the interaction out.

“Something like that.” He affirms.

“Y’know, I remember you, doc!” The creature jibes, its inflection nearing maniacal. “You sat on my jury! Yes, yes. Hard to forget a shiner like that.” Laughing, it points to the balding patch atop its victims head. He trembles, bowing in a silent cry.

“O’Hara–”

“Wraith.” He warns.

“Sixty seven years! Not even you look that old, ‘course you don’t understand how damning that sentence was! But you see, I got lucky. Some higher being must’ve taken pity on me, enough to grant me this miracle of a symbiote. Mhm, yeah–” He skips closer to his prey, considering him in the new light. “‘Cause now I can do things like…” A sharp blow echoes. The glassy spear, red as the flesh it extends from, skewers through the doctor’s chest, a spout of blood following through on the other end. “This!”

Miguel’s palm slaps over your mouth, knee supporting the portion of your body he releases whilst angling you away from the scene. You’re thankful for it, despite the overwhelming anger you bear against him. You’ve no trust in the horror that wracks you suddenly, all at once. It launches you back to that convenience, the robbery. How powerless you had been to stop the clerk from dying out, your hoodie fruitlessly wedged to her neck. You’d been spared the grief so far – the blur of the last day tamping to little more than an aching numbness. Yet you should have appreciated that it couldn’t last; guilt is far too familiar a prospect for you to have expected it to let off so soon.

(Your mistake.)

“Oops. Did that go through your heart? My bad, doc.” It howls, stuck in its own stand-up routine. “You’d been doing your… erm– civil duty, sure.” The loud squelch of gore triggers the imagery for you, regardless of your averted gaze. The limb-turned-spear being pried out from between his ribs, caked in bits of tissue.

Dead. You could’ve prevented it.

He could have.

From behind the veil of unshed tears, you watch as he ponders the risk of retracting his hand. You betray nothing, blinking back the hot dismay from your eyes, and instead meet his regard in cold defiance. Slowly, as though your apparent sensibility means anything, he removes the muzzle.

You contemplate screaming, to coax the creature from the group of people it has surrounded and make it Miguel's problem to handle.

Then, you remember your rather unsavoury predicament. How prone you are to harm with your limbs locked; you aren’t the best in combat, but you still could’ve stood a chance at survival if it wasn’t for your restraints.

Your captor reaffirms his grip, tucking you to his figure as he creeps up to a corner. His back remains glued to the brick wall, obscured in shadow. The stance is primed – far from the hesitant sidle he’d adopted before. It isn’t hard to figure out why; you see it too, buried under a pile of trash bags, on the other side of the road. Purple, luminescent.

The day pass.

As if on cue – choreographed by a sadistic deity with no favour for anyone involved – you glitch.

It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for you to fall to the ground, erupting in a pained groan. The creature twists to lay its terror on your curled frame, shaded by a man who – despite his vast height – is dwarfed in comparison to its colossal self.

“Better start learning not to ignore my spidey sense! I’d felt you tiptoein’ over there,” It growls, neck stretching in preparation for attack.

“We’re not here for you.” Miguel urges.

“No? That hurts my feelings, and here I was thinking you wanted to be friends.” At the feral rip of its taunt, it lunges, tearing through the space separating you. The spider-man, in turn, dodges the barrelling assault, swinging in a blur of motion to a wreck not far off. You thank God for his flashy suit; the creature seems to forget you completely, pivoting to charge at him again.

You force yourself to look away, sickened at the unhinged savagery with which it thrashes. There are people still around, crippled by quickly debilitating injuries, the paramedics meant to aid them now amongst the lost. This is what you wanted – the opportunity to help – and of course you’re still hindered by the asshole who’d refused you in the first place. Desperation weighs heavy on your chest as your eyes scan the spoilage, seeking anything you could use to cut yourself free. And there, you catch it – the sharp end of a broken gutter, its jagged edge catching the afternoon sun.

Using your heels as anchors, you push yourself across the coarse pavement. It isn’t a long way, thankfully, but sweat already starts to dampen your shirt by the time you reach the potential lifeline. Angling yourself, you press the webs to the serrated metal, ready to start shoving. That is, until you remember Miguel; how he sat on your legs, his talons performing much the same feat. He made sure to hold your wrists apart, so you didn’t suffer damages he didn’t intend.

You remedy your approach, arms straining to separate, then thrust downwards. The telltale signs of your success come as pops, like elastic bands splintering. Then, it’s the easing pressure on your skin, irritated and surely marked in places where the binds come undone.

The makeshift blade catches your elbow once you’re halfway down, burying deep enough to touch bone. The world narrows to the searing intensity that blazes up your nerves, eclipsing all else. You almost forget your goal, your brain stirring signals to pull away, but the fight that rages in your peripheral is only growing more barbaric. Alarmingly, Miguel is losing.

If he dies, you’re next, and it’d all be in vain.

Biting your tongue, you stifle the pain and continue pressing. The gutter inches sideway, ripping through flesh and web like butter, the sleeves of your top mangling at its lip. Miraculously, you stay awake for the time it takes to finally get your arms loose. It’s harder to preserve that triumph when you sit up, though, dizziness distorting the plan of action you’d set for yourself.

(Get… get the people to safety. Then, your legs. No–

Free your legs, get the people to safety. And… what?

The day pass. Yeah.

But Mig–)

Your body moves with an unsettling disconnect from your own command. Unable to fully grasp the dissonance, you blanch in bewilderment as you navigate the clearest cut path through it all. A dance in a mechanical rhythm; pulling the webs off your calves, running over to the nearest civilian, and helping them up on their feet. And again. And again.

There’s a boy, young enough that you worry he doesn’t understand you’re harmless. His cherubic face is coated in a grey layer of dust, disturbed only by the tear marks that run from big eyes. His foot has been crushed, stormy blue blotching his knee. You dismiss the agony of your numerous wounds and crouch to pick him up, hugging him to your chest.

New squadrons of emergency services trickle in, careful to leave their sirens off as they round the corner. It’s an odd enough choice that it distracts you from the child’s fingers, which dig into your abrasion for purchase. An ensemble of prospects occur to you.

When you hand him off to an awaiting EMT, it clicks.

What’d the creature call itself? A symbiote?

(You haven’t always been science-oriented.

Freshman year of college, you’d joined as an undeclared major within the school of arts and architecture. ‘Course, you only had your general education requirements to fulfil at the time; useless classes that fit your self-imposed four day weekend, meant to do fuck all as your tuition went to waste. Needless to say, your ambition had been directed at more carnal pursuits.

Then, there was astronomy. It’d awakened your curiosity for the cosmos.

Astro 8, to be exact. Life in the Universe. Your post-midterm lesson had been on a recently discovered, space-faring civilization. Symbiotes – they were called – based on the initial assumption that they thrived in mutual beneficial relationships with other lifeforms. But the projection that flickered for its class of drowsy students entailed another truth entirely. Darkened bullet points in big, bold letters. Known weakness.

Fire, and sound.)

You sprint towards a nearby cop car, its door wide open and the driver's seat vacant. It’s instinctual, devoid of consideration. A singular objective dominates you, beyond the day pass – to kill that thing. Not for Miguel, who’s choked in its gnarled hand. Not for yourself, or your deep-rooted desire for heroism. No. Just for them – the boy and that group of friends, the doctor who still lays dead on the scene. For the sake of this world, and to reconcile the life you took just last night, as if such a trade-off could absolve you of the weight of your sins.

Stepping on the gas, you accelerate abruptly, gaining speed with every pothole you drive over. It looms ahead, crouched in front of a hollowed-out apartment complex, suffocating the futurist spider-man and vibrating with glee. If you can align it – aim and time it just right…

You activate the wail siren. Your hypothesis is validated when it screeches in response to the racket, throwing Miguel off to the side.

Good. He won’t be collateral.

You grab a gun from the cupholder on the dash, throwing it on the pedal to keep it down, then jump to the backseat.

The impact is seismic; a violent convergence of metal and brick and brawn that sends shockwaves rippling throughout your being. You become captive to the merciless momentum, forcefully propelled against the leather cushions. Chronic whiplash shreds upon the vulnerable muscles holding the weight of your concussed head; its talons raking through the fibres, pulling apart the once sturdy tissue. A relentless ring envelops the cacophony of noise, and silences it into one, tender hum.

You’re hauled out the window, detained in the embrace of some unspecified form, which settles above you for cover as the building comes crumbling down.

Or – not unspecified.

That mix of patchouli and musk.

Your consciousness turns to black as you're buried beneath the rubble.

chapter six →

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justpoliteconversations · 9 months ago

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Midnight Impulses [Chain + Healer!Reader]

Keeping your abilities hidden is difficult when the object of your attention is so close.

It keeps growing. Will the trash heap never end?

Masterlist

TW: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

You stare up at the night sky with a pinched expression, something ominously similar to a pout pulling at your lips. The blankets are pulled up to your nose, and above the soft rim your eyes glare squinty-eyed at the man laying beside you.

In the light of the pit fire, you can see the way his shoulders and back are tense with pain and fitful sleep. The shine of his hair taunts you where it highlights the delicate curve of his ear, the soft pink of a bang an elegant curve contrasting the harsh shadows of the fire light.

His bare skin. If only you could touch his skin without waking him, even just the tips of your fingers. But he's always been cagey, especially when he's in so much pain. He'd snap awake before you could even pull your hand from your covers, and then he'd be awake and suspicious all night. Just like every night before.

Your fingers grip into the inside of your bedroll, jaw clenching, resisting the temptation to rush him while he's vulnerable and force your healing magic into his aching joints and creaking, burning bones.

It wouldn't take long. If you could get your whole hand onto his face or maybe an arm, the deed could be done in less than a minute. He'd struggle, yes, but his gauntlets are off and you could keep him pinned for a few precious seconds after he manages to escape the confines of his covers.

Just one minute of struggle, and it'll be done. Sure, he'll hate you more than ever and will most certainly never trust you again. But his arthritis and damaged body (so damaged, laden with so many old, untreated wounds it makes your heart ache) will be gone.

He'll be free of them all. The pain, the weakness, the insecurities and the memories. He'll finally be able to put all those hurts behind him and just live, free of the burdens his path forced upon him. Free to look forward to a future not overshadowed by the slow, inevitable breaking of his body.

Free of a future that sees him stripped of mobility and restful night by the time he's 30. If he even lives that long, damaged as he's been by the cruel hand of destiny.

It would be worth it. Just one moment of struggle. One final twist and ache of his bones as he fights against your hands and arms and full body grip, and then he'll be released from the bondage of everlasting degeneration. The agony of a body sacrified for the greater good.

Just one-

No. The thought is irrational and unfair to the man in question. It would also reveal your hand to the Chain, and you had no intention of putting yourself in that situation.

You'd learned your lesson. Even the kindest and most honorable of men can be brought low by the promise of life. The guarantee of no more brothers lost to the slow hand of time, and the knowledge that tomorrow will find you and all you love there to greet it.

Life is so precious. Who wouldn't be tempted to keep it forever by your side.

You envied Hyrule. For his strength and his cunning. For no shackles shall ever find his wrists, no tether will ever bind his arms and legs. No force on this plain of existence will ever break his spirit.

You are nothing like him. Not a hero. Not a fairy borne. Not a beloved brother of the many powerful men who came before him.

You are just yourself. Someone who got unlucky with their blessings.

You envied him, for your healing is nothing like his. It is slow and bone deep, poorly suited to the riggers of field wounds but inevitable in its power nonetheless.

In this world of fairies and potions and the blessing of Goddesses, the hand of death will not come in the blaze of battle. No. It will creep slow and steady into the very marrow of your bones. It will start with aches so deep no fairy light can reach them, with a cough so thin no potion can grasp it.

For many, death will not be by the sword, but by the bone deep memory of what it left behind.

If you could still the hand of fate, wouldn't you? Wouldn't they, whom fate has chosen so readily? Even if it cost just a sliver of thier humanity?

You never intended to find out if these men had it in them to pay that price. No need to tempt fate. Not with men like these, who live and die by such sacrifices.

The ear twitches in his sleep and so do your fingers, the shine of his ruffled hair like a siren's call to your eyes.

You suck in a sharp breath. The temptation flaring once more within you, pushing you forward like strong wind at your back. Calling you like the promise of cool water under the desert sun. Like the shelter of home as a thundering storm shakes the land.

It twitches again. The shine of hair.

'Fuck.'

---

"He's messing with them again." Twilight grumbled, arms crossed as he levels his most unimpressed stare at the Vet's back.

Time chuckled, stretching along the log at his back and savoring the smooth roll of muscles and bones unhindered by pain or aches. He couldn't wait to bring you home to Malon and let you work your magic. His beloved wife had even planned out their sleeping arrangements to encourage your helpful nature.

"If Legend wants to drag this out, let him be. He's the only one suffering from it." He smiled then, more of a grin than anything. "And it's cute." The older man admitted impishly, leaning fully back against the log he'd been stretching over in a boneless sprawl.

Twilight wanted to say something back, but honestly couldn't deny any of it. Especially not when Legend rolled over and let his hand fall just inches from your bedroll. And your eyes widened and then narrowed, your mouth twisting into an obvious pout. How you whipped your back to him with a growl, hiding your face in the covers. Only to peek over your shoulder moments later to glare at the motionless hand with a single, leering eye.

Not when Warriors was hiding his face in Wind's sea-salt hair, trying to cover his amused grin and single cracked eye. Not with Wind's shoulders shaking with mirth, just barely hidden beneath Warrior's greater size.

Not with Hyrule smothering his laughter with both hands, back turned purposely to you so you wouldn't see. Not with Sky out like a light, breathing free and soft and unrestrained for the first time since they'd been forced onto this quest.

And not when Time looks so relaxed, spine arched freely like a man who'd not known the burden of the world pressing down on his shoulders. The effortless roll of his muscles a stark contrast to the painful twists of naught a week before.

"Fine." He eventually conceded, narrowing his eyes. "But if this keeps up for more than a week, game's over. They've not slept well in the last 3 days."

Time nodded, eye closing as he began to drift into a light, mediative doze. "Of course. We wouldn't want our shyest member to lose too much sleep over our brother's aches, now would we."

The heavily ringed finger twitched when you rolled back over to face Legend's back and began hesitantly reaching for it. You squawked at the unexpected movement and jerked back, hands flying to your mouth when you realized what you'd done.

Legend opened his eyes then, feigning sleepiness as he snapped. "What are you looking at, hah?"

You glared back. "Nothing!" Before turning your back to him once more and crossing your arms with an even deeper pout. Hunkering down in your covers.

Vet huffed, though an amused grin stole across his face the moment you looked away. "Weirdo." He snapped in a falsly waspish tone, his grin growing when you growled lowly under you breath.

Twilight looked at Time again. Frowning.

"Tomorrow. I'll talk to him." Time hummed in assurance, though he didn't bother to open his eye.

Twilight sighed again, and Time chuckled.

Near the fire, the shifting of covers, the reveal of a bare neck and another quiet gasp. The smothered giggles of Hyrule laying closest to them. The whisper of Warrior's trying to keep Wind from blowing their cover. Four returning from his watch, multi-colored eyes already rolling skyward with exasperation at the now very familiar sight.

'Yeah.' Twilight thought. 'You and me both.'

---

Return to the shadows.

#linked universe x reader #linked universe

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