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impaladolan · 4 years ago

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Home Alone - Grayson Dolan

summary: after a long week of work, y/n needs some sort of relaxation and relief. although, her outlook on relieving her frustrations isn’t what grayson had in mind...

warnings: tid bit fluffy, swearing, vibrator use, & smut

a/n: been in my unfinished drafts for a bit..

"Are you sure you don't want to tag along, baby?" Grayson longingly questioned, his brows crinkled and his lips almost forming a pout.

"I haven't been able to do laundry all week. God knows it won't get done unless I do it now." Y/N chuckles, balancing a full basket of freshly dried clothes on her hip, watching her lover wrap his fist around the front door's handle.

Every other weekend, at the Dolan residences, the two brothers, and sometimes their wives, would gather with some of their friends and watch their favorite football teams. And later on, they'd play board games or watch some movies. Normally, Y/N would be the one begging Grayson to hurry up and get ready to attend the biweekly event, except this time.

Y/N has different plans...

It had been a brutal week at work, her boss was currently taking out her "divorce emotions" on her employees and Y/N was getting the rougher end of it. She was relieved when it was finally the weekend and she could stress clean, calm her nerves in some sort of self efficient way and relax after a tough couple days.

She hadn't even had the thought of a sexual release, until she had dreamt multiple naughty scenarios just last night during her deep slumber. She couldn't exactly pinpoint what all she had dreamed, but she remembers waking up with a dripping arousal and a sore ache at her very center. And though her husband was laid right next to her, perfectly capable of satisfying her womanly needs, she decided using other resources would be a better fit.

Don't get her wrong, she loves being pleasured by the only man who knows exactly how to, but she felt embarrassed. She didn't want to come across as a sex-crazed women to Grayson, even though it would never make a difference to him.

They're married, for goodness sake.

"I can stay back and help out. We could even have our own little movie night if you wanted," He began, releasing his hand from the door and taking a few steps toward Y/N, whose lips turned into a cheesy smile as he drew closer to her.

"Just you and me," He took the basket filled with clothes from her hip and set it on the floor, intertwining his large hands with her smaller ones, eliciting a short laugh from Y/N. He brought her closer to his frontside, creating a ballroom dance-like formation and began shuffling around with her in his arms. Like an old married couple, they slowly danced around the room, him twirling her in his grasp while Y/N admirably gazed upon him.

Her cheeks were rosy with admiration, finding his little act of affection adorable. "You get easily distracted, huh?" Y/N grinned, resting her chin happily on his shoulder, his minuscule beard hairs tickling certain parts of her neck.

"Well, you looked too pretty over here by yourself," He softly explained against her ear. "And I wanted to dance around a room with a beautiful woman like you. So, I am." He lowered his hands beneath her and slew her into a romantic dip, planting a sweet kiss upon her lips. She returned one back, feeling her heart grow two sizes larger, much like the Grinch movie portrays, if anything.

"Grayson, I know how much you enjoy football, especially with the boys," She was only making excuses, but he had tempted her to just cuddle on the couch all day and watch plethoras of movies and munch on various snacks. But the low rattle in the depths her core was motioning her in a different way, and she just couldn't survive the rest of the day without fixing her little problem.

"Hmm, you're right. But when I get back, we're ordering take out and watching movies. Got it?" He chuckles, bringing the both of them back up into a standing position.

"M'hm, be safe." Y/N smiles, planting another kiss on her lover's lips before leaving his warmth. She waved goodbye to him as he left their abode, sweetly grinning as she went back to finishing up the laundry before the real reason she was staying home, would begin.

Though the couple's intimate relations seemed innocent and loving, they each had a different side to them, specifically in the bedroom.

The two never shied away from new experiences and would most certainly dabble into different areas of the "sex world," if you will. They, of course, had their preferences and different kinks, but Y/N seemed to be more open and freeing for that sort of stuff.

For the different occasions that they felt a bit more lustful and yearning for one another, they kept a locked trunk of knickknacks in their closet. You see, that's the one Grayson knows about, but Y/N keeps a smaller one, filled to the brim with all of her own toys, in a section of her closet that he never really pays attention to. If he had any idea that she kept self-pleasuring items for her own uses, he'd be absolutely ballistic.

Thankfully, he doesn't...

The moment Y/N threw the last bits of dirty laundry left, into the washer, she practically sprinted to their shared bedroom. After rummaging through the trunk filled with "accessories," she found a nice, pretty pink vibrator to do the trick, as well as a black silk blindfold to shield her own eyes. She was already rid of her clothes and sprawled across the wide bed in an instance, tying the piece of cloth over her eyes.

Though, unbeknownst to Y/N, Grayson was already on his way back home. As soon as he had pulled into his brother's driveway, they had called to cancel— a certain emergency about something Grayson didn't really pay attention to listen to. He was thrilled that he didn't have to leave Y/N at home, all by herself to do chores all day. And luckily, their houses weren't too far apart from each other, so Grayson was back home within fifteen minutes of leaving it.

He didn't feel the need to text Y/N, she was probably busy anyway and possibly wouldn't respond. He figured she would hear the garage door open and expect that he was already home.

Little does he know...

As soon as he was parked and out of his vehicle, Grayson was trudging down stairs to the laundry room, in search of Y/N. He was surprised that she wasn't there, but he figured she might just be folding on the couch, trying to get ahead on one of the TV series the two were drawn into.

Grayson chuckles as he makes his way back upstairs, though his brows curtly furrow, his ears almost perking at the muffled sounds coming from the hallway.

Their shared room, to be precise.

With a pondering look upon his face, he kicks off his shoes and makes his way towards his bedroom, quietly twisting the door handle and pushing it inward. He opens the door wide enough to secretly look inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that enveloped the entire expanse. The noises he had heard only seconds ago were more prominent, and his eyes had fallen on the object creating the aroused sounds;

Y/N.

She was laid out on their bed, legs wide open and shaking while her hands were constantly pressuring a fucking sex toy against her soaked pussy. Grayson froze, pure anger washing over him and turning his face a turbulent shade of red, washing away his pleasant mood. He almost stormed in there, ready to rip the stupid machine away from her hands and show her what a real orgasm feels like.

But he somehow contained himself, and instead, watched the scene play out in front of his very own eyes, vexation spilling from his entire countenance.

Y/N didn't hear the garage door open and close, or even the beep of Grayson's truck when he locked it. She hadn't even heard his feet stomping up and down the stairs, or his lingering chuckles. She was so caught up in how she was feeling.

The artificial vibrations that buzzed upon her core made the world around her so euphoric and heavenly. She'd brush the toy upon her clit, forcing her entire body shake with deep pleasure and a soft moan to emit from her mouth. It felt so nice, and she was so close to the brink of releasing.

She was already feeling better, and naughty. If Grayson were to find her this way, masturbating freely in the open and satisfying herself, she would never live to see another day. But she didn't care at this point, she just wanted to finally cum.

And she was extremely close.

Her hips began to buckle, while her backside rose from the bed and her free hand twisted at the sheets beneath her. "Mm- just a little more—" Her entire core was pulsating, so fucking close to just letting go.

So close..

"Don't fucking cum yet, slut." Grayson's voice boomed throughout the room, making Y/N's movements freeze in terror and shock. Before she could think of some sort of explanation or reasoning as to what she's doing, her blindfold is ripped from her eyes, while the vibrator that was once nuzzled up on her pussy, was taken away as well. Now, she felt so empty and wanting, edged to an almost release.

"Jesus- You're fucking dripping, for fucksake." His tone was harsh, and Y/N felt like crying. She held onto her tears as she watched him examine the drenched vibrator, still buzzing in his hands. Out of the loss of contact, she began to whine, squeezing her thighs together to create at least a little bit of friction.

"Grayson, please—" She began to huff, but her shuttering voice was interrupted by the aggravated man pacing in front of her.

"I don't think I fucking asked you to talk, did I?" He glared at her, though just the sight of Y/N's exposed body made him shudder with a tinge of want.

Against his wishes, Y/N continued her whines, her breathing still ragged and finally her own hand traveling down to her soaked heat. She didn't care if she'd be in more trouble, she just needed to unravel the knot inside her, whether she'd pay for that mistake later or if not.

She didn't get far, because Grayson caught her wrist before it made it all the way down to her center, and brought it up to the headboard. He wrapped a leather strip around both of her wrists, mumbling incoherent spews of anger, doing the same with her ankles against the bedposts.

"I-I, I thought you were gonna watch football.." She began, but a low growl sounded from Grayson, and the blindfold was placed back over her eyes, while a different type of cloth was shoved in her mouth. Y/N feels the numbing slap across her thigh before hearing the connection's sound, an exasperated scream muffling out of her filled mouth.

"I'd stop talking if I were you. Unless you want to be choked by Daddy’s fucking cock, darling." His voice rattled her insides, and she dared not to make another sound, already dug far too deep in a hole anyway. "Get ready princess, m'gonna edge the fuck out of you. Maybe then, you'll remember to ask me for permission to use your fucking toys." His voice soon faded from her ears as a higher vibration than before was nudged right up against her swollen clit, making her figure convulse in imploding pleasure.

It took an entire hour for Grayson to edge Y/N twelve fucking times. She was a mess, sweat droplets dotting her hairline while her pussy remained in slippery shambles. He didn't say a word, and Y/N held her tongue from shouting profanities after the several losses of contact. She hadn't came yet, but if she didn't soon— she would find a way to get out of her restraints and finish off what she had started herself.

It had been several minutes since Grayson had pulled her to the brink of an orgasm, and she was starting to think that he'd never come back. She had heard the sound of a zipper earlier, and she couldn't tell if he was doing something to ease his own pain while she laid there, so high strung and breathless. She was about to call out his name, but the warmth of his tongue wrapped around her bundle of nerves and she let out an exasperated sigh, pulling on the cuffs tied around her wrists.

He slipped his tongue in skillful motions, his hands pushing up underneath her thighs as he lapped up her liquids. Y/N was so sensitive to touch, anything that remotely stroked her could heighten her arousal and make her lust for more.

Within seconds, her hips were shaking and her back arched above the mattress, her toes curling under the pressure. And his voice finally sang the heavenly words she had been waiting for the entire time;

"Cum, princess."

Y/N released all over his lips, a high-pitched scream sounding from her mouth as she finally unravels, her legs bucking against their restraints. She spits out the cloth from her mouth and heavily breathes, murmuring praises to the man between her legs.

"I'm sorry, Grayson."

a/n: did this completely suck? i haven’t really written in third person in awhile, so i need honest opinions..

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ficforce · 4 years ago

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Take Me Out

Hinawa Takehisa x Female Reader SFW Takes place during the Netherworld Arc Established relationship

“Lieutenant?” Y/N poked her head around the door, her hands carefully wrapped in bandages, “Shrinra is going to make it, he’s got a lot of healing to do but we’re not going to lose him.”

Hinawa nodded to himself, “Of course he is. There are no weak links in Company 8.” There was a small smile on his lips, his tense shoulders relaxed and his bruised body felt some relief, “You did well, you handled the situation and took the lead when your team needed you.” Y/N walked in, closing the door behind her and standing by his bed, Company 6 was kind enough to treat them all, the Hospital like Company was number one for treating pyrokinetics. They treated her hands in no time too. Hinawa reached out and took her left wrist, gently holding her hand in his, his thumb brushing over the bandage, “Is it bad?”

“No,” the back of her free hand stroked over his cheek, “I absorbed too much heat and had nowhere to release it until it was too late, I broke your spare glasses when I fell through the ground - Sorry.” She always kept his spare glasses in her coat for emergencies, the archer had caused his usual pair to break and she had crushed his spares. “You’ll have another pair at home, right?” Hinawa leaned into her touch and shut his eyes, his vision was blurry and the overheat earlier made his head throb more, of course, he had another set, he was always prepared. “I heard you shooting in the tunnels, it sounded like a cannon going off, Arthur said you destroyed the tunnel and slew the enemy… and then something about coming to your rescue and Knight King, blah blah…”

He wasn’t surprised, he bet Arthur left out the part where he nearly decapitated him. “Arthur’s an idiot…”

“But?” Y/N knew there was more to it, she sensed it and she could tell by the slightest changes in his expression. “He’s our idiot and he did well.”

Y/N giggled at the admission and leaned in to kiss his cheek, “I knew you would be alright…”

“But?” He knew her too, knew there was more she wanted to say.

“I was…” She hesitated, it was never easy to admit her weaknesses to Hinawa, she held so much respect for him and she worried her ever capable lover wouldn’t want such a fragile woman at his side.

The lieutenant pulled her closer, his body ached from the earlier battle but he wanted her closer and she sat on the edge obediently, “Y/N, you can tell me anything, not just as your lieutenant but as the man who loves you. We went into the Nether, we all faced dangerous situations and Shrinra was dying on us. You held his hand through the dark tunnels and you kept up morale when we couldn’t find the way out. You didn’t flinch and you didn’t panic when it mattered.” Y/N could feel her throat tightening and her eyes begin to sting, “I… I was scared, I couldn’t find you, Takehisa, I couldn’t… it was dark and I…I was useless, I was utterly useless!” She had heard the fighting echoing all over, the sound of Hinawa’s guns, metal screeching from Obi ripping up the tracks, sputter and flare lighting up the tunnels as Maki worked her magic. Her only helpful action was defending Iris from one of the white clads, even then the Sister saved her. “I’m better than that, I am a strong member of this company and I shouldn’t be - “

“You were scared?” Hinawa had pulled her close, tucked her head under his chin and began stroking her back until the trembling subsided and he could hear her breathing stutter, she didn’t want to cry. He admired her for her cool head, for the way she always tried to be calm but she wasn’t him, she couldn’t just shut out her emotions when she wanted to. He liked that she showed her warm smile, he liked that she never shied away from helping her team and he liked that she could withstand his most serious glares with a confident nod and a salute. “Being scared kept you alive, it kept me going too, I was scared I wasn’t going to make it back to you - that you would resurrect me and shoot me with my own gun.” A vibration went through his chest at her light laugh, it sounded a little wet but she was strong.

Y/N looked up at him, “You know I’d shoot you in the knee, right?”

“Of course,” as if she would let him off easily. “As soon as we get back, I’ll cook your favourite.”

She kissed his chin, “Or you could take me out?” “I used all my gun barrels in the Nether.” Hinawa winced as he felt her hit him, his joke was in poor taste but she was looking at him with the greatest of affection and the hint of discomfort from hurting her burnt hand on his bruised chest, “If you don’t treat your Lieutenant with respect, I‘ll have to discipline you.” The young woman hugged him a little closer, “That better be a promise, Takehisa.”

#hinawa takehisa #reader #fire force #enen no shouboutai

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

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“i love you.” read: 6:45 pm.

drabble inspired by this post that @hobi-gif tagged me in. i'm a sucker for misunderstandings, y'know? also, this is unedited and not proofread. xoxo

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. a bit of dumb angst due to misunderstandings, some fluff to make up for it, mentions of drinking/alcohol, idiots in love. idk. wc. 1.9k.

“So, you’re shooting bourbon at 7:30 on a Wednesday why, exactly?”

How Yoongi manages to keep the judgment out of his voice, you’ll never know. Maybe it’s a bartender thing - some skill you acquire over time, like an achievement in a video game.

Charisma: +30 Listening: +20 Interest: 0

“Because he replied ‘hella’ when I told him I was in love with him.” You think if it weren’t so funny (and embarrassing and bruising to your ego), you’d have a hard time repeating it. Instead, it cuts off the edge of your teeth in a melodramatic wail and you knock back your fourth shot in not very long at all. It burns on the way down, igniting your insides in a very different way than you’d like.

Luckily, the bar is packed - it’s freshman night! - and your cry is lost in the crowd, eaten up by the awful din that seems to only exist in college bars. It’s only you and your favourite bartender that hear it and for that you’re grateful.

“You’re not serious.” From the look on his face, you know he believes you. Has to, because he knows the culprit behind your heartache.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” You deadpan before waving your liquor-laden wrist in a lazy circle. “Another, bar wench!”

It’s not that funny but between the alcohol that’s buzzing in your veins and lighting you up like a goddamn Christmas log to the humiliation that’s burning its way through all your sensibilities— well, you can’t help it.

You’ve always resorted to humour when you were hurting.

“I think you should slow down.” He means well - you can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the way his mouth tilts just enough to make you feel like a kid in front of the principal - but you don’t want well. You want more. Need it.

For a split second, you feel a wave of emotion. It crests and threatens to swallow you whole, dragging you seven thousand miles beneath your own misery.

You swallow it down as best you can, tasting salt water and the sea when you tug a rough hand through your hair. It aches a little where your rings catch, threading silver through silk. “Yoongi, c’mon.” You ignore the way his name slurs out of your mouth, trapped between wet lips that don’t quite move like they should. “I’m fine. Please.” The desperate edge to your plea tells him enough - that you’re well on your way to having too good of a night, inebriation playing at the sidelines of your vision. You play it off and shift in your seat, sneakered feet kicking this way and that to right yourself.

To his trained eye, you’re about two minutes from slipping backwards off the worn leather stool.

“Can I call someone at least?” He’s meeting you halfway, begrudging and a little worried.

“I’m fine!” It shoots off your tongue, a rocket to the moon. You don’t want to come down.

He sighs once, a sharp inhale of breath through his nose. He’s got that look on his face - the one that tells you you’re going to owe him one. You think that might be better than returning to your dorm, empty-handed and heavy hearted.

“Please?”

Amber liquid finds itself in your shot glass again and you’re quick to snatch it up, worried that Yoongi might dump it the moment he has a chance to consider how he’s indulging you. You swallow it greedily, as if it isn’t pooling uncomfortable heat everywhere it hits - down your throat and around the sides of your mouth.

“Take it easy,” comes a voice - an achingly, devastatingly familiar voice - to your left. It steals your breath - tugs it out of your lungs in the same instant your heart heaves out of your chest.

Jeon Jungkook’s grinning that megawatt smile at you, dimples on full display. His hair’s a little damp and more than a little messed up, sweeping across his forehead in that way that makes you want to run your fingers through it. Shoulders are swathed in soft cotton and plaid, the navy blue and grey pattern a stark contrast to the blinding white of his tee shirt.

He looks so good you want to eat him up.

Instead, you jolt like you’re about to lose the contents of your stomach.

Hands - both his and yours - dart out. Yours grip the sticky booze-stained bartop; his seize your elbows, steadying you easily. You try to ignore the way his palms burn heat across your skin.

“You okay?” He says it so sweetly, as if he hadn’t just shattered your hopes and dreams into a million little pieces less than an hour ago. He says it like he always does, with affection painting his words and stars in his eyes. Even in the dim light, they’re mesmerizing, constellations swirling in his irises.

You have to make a conscious effort to tear your gaze away, redirecting your - admittedly fuzzy - stare to the speck of lint on his collar. It honestly doesn’t help much, because like this, you can see the trail of ink that drifts past his neckline. Swirls of black work that make up the roses that span his shoulders, capping each segment of bone prettily.

He repeats himself when your silence stretches too long for his liking, a tattooed finger rising to tap gently along the ridge of your jaw, thumb sweeping just so across your chin. “Hey, baby. You good?”

A part of you wants to live in the way that sounds. You’re a sucker for pet names and while you’ve heard this one once or twice (or a hundred times), it coils itself like a cobra around the organ in your chest, poised to ruin you. One wrong move and you’d be paralyzed on the ground.

“What’re you doing here?” You finally manage, tearing your roving eyes from the patterns you know lie beneath cloth.

It’s not the smartest move - because you’re distracted by his stupid handsome face again.

“Well, you didn’t answer my text so I got worried. Checked your Snapchat and saw you were here.” It comes so nonchalantly, like he hadn’t just discovered you drowning your sorrows in cheap whiskey.

“I didn’t answer your text?”

You can see Yoongi lingering at the edge of your periphery, hand paused around a glass that he’s in the middle of passing off. You wonder how crazy you must sound, or if you do at all. Maybe just pathetic? You don’t want to think about it too hard.

“You said ‘hella’ to my confession! What am I supposed to say back to that?”

“What’re you talking about?” It’s Jungkook’s turn to take the title of village idiot, big doe eyes widening to the size of saucers. You want to smack the expression off his face - would, too, if your heart didn’t also clench pitifully at the thought of hurting him.

You think he might be backtracking when he retreats a hairsbreadth, releasing you in the same moment his other hand dives into the front of his too-tight black jeans. The denim strains against his thighs, muscle and sinew flexing when he transfers his weight enough to allow him to yank his phone out of his pocket. Said device is in your face in the next instant, glaringly bright screen making you shy away.

Who the hell kept their brightness at 100%?

“Hey - look at this.” He sounds stern as he continues to wave the sleek black iPhone before your eyes, seemingly unaware of the fact that you can’t damn well see a thing with him constantly moving it.

“Stop!” You snap, finally, drink-addled hands snatching it out of his hands when he’s still twirling it like the most annoying wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man in existence.

With the phone in your own two hands, you peer down at the screen, trying to make sense of what you’re looking at. There’s definitely your last two texts - you cringe at the sight of them, blue bubbles bursting your own - but there’s a slew of others beneath it and they’re all delivered, the read receipt mocking you.

You nearly yeet the phone across the room when, after two or three read-throughs, you grasp what he’s said. “You want to date me?” The words fumble on their way out, knocking into each other in a way that’s equal parts drunk-girl and stupefied-crush.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He’s got that shit-eating grin of his lighting up his face, sweeping sunshine and daisies into every corner of his expression. It’s at complete odds with the way his mouth twists and turns, flat of his cheek rounded by the tongue he presses into it. You’re both awestruck and turned on all at once. You feel like you might short circuit or maybe that you already have.

It’s the only explanation for the way you’re surging forward - because you’d never do it otherwise, unless you weren’t in control of your own stupid body - and all but throwing yourself against him.

As if he anticipates it, he receives you like a bed you’ve been away from for too long, broad palms sweeping across the backs of your thighs as you cling to him like a koala. Your cheeks burn white hot and steeped in something - love, lust, a mixture of both - and you hum comfortably against the column of his throat. The sound is returned tenfold, echoing from his cavernous chest like the happiest cat in the world. It shakes your entire body, so closely pressed to him that you can feel every vibration that runs through all five feet, ten inches of him.

“I’m guessing that’s a yes?” His words lose themselves in your hair, breath warm against the shell of your ear as he squeezes you tight.

You give him his answer in the press of your mouth, parted and a little sloppy, more tongue and teeth than technique. You swallow the laugh that builds, devouring it like a kid in a candy store with the intensity of your adoration. “Hell-a yes.”

The way he grips you in response, laughter rolling off him in intoxicating waves - because you’d happily get drunk off the sound - fizzes excitement through your limbs.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Both of you know the answer to that question, the knowledge passing silently between you.

You smirk; Jungkook mirrors it. He surges forward for another kiss and you’re meeting him halfway, slanting your mouth greedily across his. He relents for the briefest moment - lets you savour the gentle brush of his lips, the soft pass of his tongue - before he’s taking all he can get. He’s licking over your teeth, laving hotly across every inch in a way that makes your head spin.

“Get a room!” It comes from your right, somewhere just behind you.

“We should take their advice, baby.” He coos, breaking away just enough for you to gulp in lungfuls of air. His lips are the prettiest shade of red, kiss swollen and slicked with spit.

At any other time, you might be ashamed - you can only imagine how you look - but here and now, fueled by the knowledge of reciprocated love and the pleasant warmth of liquor, you couldn’t care less. So you kiss the boy you love, eager and with hands trailing the expanse of his back.

“Let’s go.”

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miraculouscontent · 4 years ago

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*moon walks in* have you ever written anything for zutara? If not that’s cool *moon walks out*

I’ve written a piece, yes. It’s a what-if on Zuko’s scar getting healed by Katara instead of them getting interrupted after their conversation in the catacombs:

"It's a scar. It can't be healed."

"This is water from the Spirit Oasis at the North Pole. It has special properties, so I've been saving it for something important. I don't know if it would work, but..."

Likewise, Zuko didn't know why he allowed Katara to touch his scar. He'd long grown used to the fact that he had it, but that also didn't mean he let people idly touch it like it were something to gawk and poke at.

And what did he really expect? That his scar would be magically taken away, just like that? His life had never been that easy. He'd struggled all throughout his existence, and any wounds caused along the way were likely there to stay.

This girl was clearly fooling herself, acting as if it'd just be--

"Yeah, I--" Katara summoned forth her spirit water. "--I think this might work."

He gave her a weird look, though given that his neutral expression usually made him come off as sour anyway, she probably couldn't tell. "What?"

She seemed to ignore him, her spirit water bending around her hand. She looked up at him, eyes briefly squinting like she was unsure, then stared down at the spirit water with the same expression. She took a breath, apparently solving whatever mental debate she was having as she raised her hand to touch his scar again.

He flinched, and then hated himself for flinching. The water had been freezing.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Sorry. You're a firebender, so it must be too cold for you."

He was almost suspicious, but the look in her eyes seemed genuine. He had a slew of responses for her, most of which were sarcastic, but he somehow ended up saying, "It's fine. I can handle it," instead.

She tilted her head, concerned, but that just made him more determined to prove her wrong. He forced himself to stand rigidly in place, staring her down like he was ready for a fight.

She snorted - actually snorted - at him! Was she amused? The nerve!

"Alright, hold still," she ordered gently, raising her hand again.

Zuko tried not to look so obviously like he was steeling himself up. Thanfully, if Katara had noticed anything this time, she showed no sign of it, and the water touched his face without issue. He was surprised in a way, as he'd expected her to make the water colder just out of spite.

It was nice to be wrong, he supposed.

The water felt strange against his skin. He couldn't see what she was doing obviously, his left eye closed from the water while his right could see a bit of her hand if he really tried. Katara's gaze, meanwhile, was focused and steady, never wavering from where her hand was.

He was only forced to stop looking when the water began to glow. The temperature of the water suddenly stopped mattering, as he couldn't determine it. Maybe it was numbing him?

He could feel the vibration as the liquid shifted like a calming wave, like it were washing over the left side of his face over and over despite it already being submerged. At first, he didn't understand how it felt like it was seeping into his skin, seeking impurities and washing them away, without hurting him at all.

But water was the opposite of fire. His father's flames had burned him and the heat had dug so deeply as to leave a scar, so it would only make sense if water could reverse it. He'd just never imagined it was possible, and he was more glad than anything else that the light forced him to close his eyes as to avoid Katara seeing any more emotion than he was comfortable sharing.

Could someone's sins really be washed away with something as simple as water?

Suddenly, there was the sound of rocks collapsing nearby, jarring both he and Katara out of their state. Katara staggered forward in surprise, but seemed compelled to keep her hand on the left side of his face. Likewise, he tried not to move, unsure of how interrupting the process would go and not wanting to tempt fate.

His left eye couldn't see beyond the now-faint light of the healing water, while the right could only stare at Katara. She'd averted her gaze, presumably to look at what'd caused the disturbance, and although Zuko couldn't see it himself from where he was at, he knew well enough that she was capable and would say something if anything were wrong.

Katara's eyes widened. "Aang!"

Recognizing the name of the Avatar, Zuko's head twitched on reflex to look, only barely managing to keep the rest of himself still as Katara's hand was still on him. She went through something similar, shifting her body as if to run off before remembering the situation.

She peered up at him, the light intensifying now that her focus had returned. She tilted her head and eyed him critically as she ran her thumb where his scar was. He may've taken the critical gaze personally under normal circumstances, but he supposed it was just the water having an effect on him.

Finally, the light died down, Katara pulling her hand away along with the water. Zuko was immediately hit with the strange sensation of just the left side of his face, covering it with his hand in surprise at the shift in his vision.

Katara had already run off. He straightened, looking over to see her in the middle of hugging Aang, who was currently glaring at him. Iroh was nearby, rushing to Zuko to embrace him. It wasn't that Zuko wasn't happy to see his uncle, but he focused on returning Aang's glare, not sure what the Avatar's motives are.

Given that, he wondered aloud, "Uncle, I don't understand. What are you doing with the Avatar?"

Aang broke away from Katara and replied, as if he'd been asked, "Saving you, that's what."

Needless to say, Zuko didn't appreciate the cheekiness in his tone. He tried to move, ready to fight, but Iroh hugged him tighter to prevent him from going anywhere.

"Zuko, it's time we talked," he said sternly, but quietly. Finally pulling away - allowing Zuko to lower his hand from his face - Iroh turned to face Katara and Aang. "Go help your other friends. We'll catch up with you."

Aang bowed, then ran off for the nearest cave. Katara followed, but kept a slower pace to look back at Zuko.

He saw a slight raise of her brows, then a smile that wasn't directed at the Avatar, but at him. He tried not to show too much of a reaction to it, not matter how bizarre it was, but that didn't stop him from continuing to maintain eye contact until she'd fully disappeared into the cave.

Then, remembering himself and that Iroh had never answered his question, he turned. "Why, Uncle?"

Iroh faced him, looking serious. "You're not the man you used to be, Zuko. You--" He cut himself off, eyes going wide and mouth dropping open in surprise. Apparently, all the seriousness had just drained out of him. "You're really not the man you used to be!"

"What?" Zuko asked, but realized a second later exactly where Iroh was staring. Bringing a hand up to his face, he finally felt along where his scar was.

Or rather, where his scar used to be. His skin was smooth, his vision just as good in his left eye as it was in his right. In fact, the only sign that there'd been a scar at all was his lack of a left eyebrow, though that could grow back with time.

"The... Katara," he began, "she used a type of water she got at a spirit oasis."

"A spirit--of course..." Iroh's expression regained its calmness as he placed a hand on Zuko's shoulder. "Zuko, listen to me. You are stronger and wiser and freer than you have ever been, and now you have come to the crossroads of your destiny."

Zuko raised a brow (well, the only one he had), not sure he understood.

Iroh continued, "It's time for you to choose. It's time for you to choose good."

Zuko opened his mouth, but the conversation was cut off by a sudden earthquake. He managed to keep his balance, but a slew of crystals suddenly burst through the ground, separating him from Iroh and trapping the latter in a crystal prison.

He gaped at the sight, then assumed a fighting position at nothing in particular and readied himself, not showing any emotion even as Azula descended form the sides of the crystal chamber alongside what he presumed to be two earthbenders.

Walking to Zuko and Iroh, Azula kept up her usual demeanor despite his vanished scar. "I expected this kind of treachery from Uncle, but Zuko," she began, "Prince Zuko, you're a lot of things, but you're not a traitor, are you?"

Zuko glared. "Release him immediately!"

"It's not too late for you, Zuko," Azula insisted as she stopped in front of him, not paying his order any mind. "You can still redeem yourself."

Iroh shouted to Zuko from his containment in the crystals, "The kind of redemption she offers is not for you!"

"Why don't you let him decide, Uncle?" Azula challenged. She glanced back at Zuko, voice softening as she continued, "I need you, Zuko. I've plotted every move of this day - " She raised a fist for emphasis. " - this glorious day in Fire Nation history, and the only way we win is together. At the end of this day, you will have your honor back. You will have Father's love. You will have everything you want."

Father's love? Everything he wanted?

"Zuko," Iroh called out gingerly, "I am begging you. Look into your heart and see what it is that you truly want."

Zuko looked back and forth between the two, Azula's eyes unusually gentle while Iroh's were as gentle as they always had been. However, he lowered his gaze, not meeting either.

"You are free to choose," Azula said. She raised a hand, the gesture wordlessly telling her guards to leave the premises. That done, she simply walked off into the cave that Aang and Katara had gone.

Zuko thought back to Iroh, though still not looking at him. I'm begging you, he'd said, and it was familiar because he'd said it before. Zuko had been down this path before, being asked what he wanted and what his "destiny" really was back when he tried to take the Avatar's bison. He remembered it well.

I'm begging you, Prince Zuko! It's time for you to look inward and begin asking yourself the big questions. Who are you, and what do you want?

Prince. Iroh had called him that, even back then. Azula was doing it now as well, but...

Zuko knew deep down that it was one of her tricks. He'd played her games too many times; been played too many times. He wasn't foolish enough to think otherwise, but he also couldn't be sure that Azula would betray him completely.

Already, he could hear a fight ensuing in the the direction that Azula had gone. His feet were itching to move; to do something, but what?

Iroh spoke up, "You said it was water from a spirit oasis."

Zuko glanced over at him, giving him his attention.

Iroh continued, "Zuko, that scar you had was full of suffering and terrible memories. Had you truly wanted to go back to that, I'm sure that you wouldn't have been able to be healed from it." He shook his head, his voice thick with sorrow. "All this time, you've been trying to make up for something I've never held against you."

"What do you mean?"

"Think," Iroh urged. "You spoke up, yes, but against the idea of lives being lost! Are you going to apologize for that?!"

Zuko blinked, eyes wide at the fact that he'd never thought of that.

Iroh's voice softened. "I'm sorry that I let you into that meeting. I had to live with that guilt for the scar you had on your face."

"What? Uncle, no, I'm the one--"

"You were young, but you were already a far better Fire Lord than your father will ever be. You cared about the lives of others even if they weren't for your own benefit. I'm proud of you, and I'm so happy that you have a moment to start over again." He paused, squirming briefly within the crystal restraints. Realizing that he was firmly stuck, he looked back to Zuko, uttering firmly, "Go."

"But, Uncle--"

"Go!"

Zuko's feet finally moved. He dashed past Iroh and into the cave as quickly as he could.

He felt stupid. He felt pathetic. He'd spent all this time torn and twisted between two sides when his heart had made up its mind a long time ago and his body struggled to listen.

"The Fire Nation took my mother away from me."

"I'm sorry. That's something we have in common."

Common. Relating to someone was not something he often did. His father and sister had long since convinced him that he was less than nothing without earning his honor back, but what did honor mean? If he was less than nothing, why could he get so close to the Avatar and his bison with his own efforts?

The only thing he had in common with Ozai and Azula was blood, and it'd been boiling away ever since he'd been banished.

Who are you, and what do you want?

As he made it out of the cave, he jumped, letting out a blast of fire between the ongoing fight that Azula, Katara, and Aang were having. They all stared at him as he landed, his stance ready for action as he looked around at the lot of them. Now that his mind was clear, he could see the almost expectant look in Azula's eyes, along with a hidden threat if he dared to betrayed her.

He was no pawn. Not anymore. He wrote his own destiny.

"I'm Zuko," he declared firmly. "and I want the kind of honor that you and my father could never give me!"

He inhaled, then thrust his arms forward to let out a blast of fire so loud that it drowned his own cry of frustration. Years of pent-up aggression were put into the flames, and he just barely caught the sight of his sister's wide eyes before she almost seemed to become engulfed in it. It wasn't that he thought he'd truly destroy her with it, but finally letting it out gave him a sense of freedom he hadn't felt before.

Aang and Katara flung themselves back due to the heat, despite not being within the flames' particular range. Aang gaped, confused, then glanced at Katara for answers.

But she wasn't looking at Aang. She was meeting Zuko's gaze with her own. For the moment of calm in the battle, they simply stared at one another.

They said nothing, but shared an unspoken promise, held together by the simple commonality they shared.

Let's take down the Fire Nation together.

#other: non ml talk #((Could've sworn that I'd posted this a long time ago. Sorry about that!))#Zutara

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ratchedspeach · 5 years ago

Text

The Weight of Remembering

Prompt written for the Falliam Frenzy Week 1 — “please stay” CW: mentions/depictions of (mild) PTSD, also SPOILERS from the most recent episode, as this is supposed to come in canon after it’s ending.

She had never seen him angry before. Annoyed? Sure. Disappointed? Whenever she took one of her vendettas a little too far (which … was more often than she’d ever admit out loud). But not angry. Never angry. Liam pushed Adam like he was trying to kill him with a simple shove — like the weight of his world depended on it, and Fallon realized that to some degree, it probably did. He remembered — remembered more than her, than the life they had started creating together before it was taken away from them. He remembered the accident that wasn’t really an accident, the accident that Adam had …

“Oh my god.” Fallon murmured, her chest tightening like it was about to break in two.

He was going to kill her brother if she didn’t stop them — push him into the still blazing vineyard below. Fallon lunged, pulling her husband - turned fiancé - turned boyfriend off of him, not because she cared what happened to Adam (truth be told, there was a part of her that wanted to just … let this play out), but because she couldn’t bare to lose him again. She couldn’t stand the thought of him being placed under arrest and taken away from her, or getting injured and forgetting again, or the slim chance that Adam would overpower him and that he would …

“Liam … Liam!” She shrieked over the ringing in her ears.

He wasn’t just angry — he was fucking furious, his entire body vibrating with the intensity of his memory returning all at once. Liam glowered at the gaunt man she was forced to call her brother, his hands clenched into fists, his jawline tense.

“It was him, Fallon.” He snarled. “He hit me over the head with that flowerpot. I … I could have died. I could have …!”

She felt his intent to attack again before he was able to initiate the action, placing herself firmly between the two men. Adam stayed cornered between Liam and the charcoaled vineyard below, dabbing a trickle of blood coming from his nose which was surely broken now.

“Liam.” Fallon tried again, placing either hand on his shoulders, eyes wide and silently pleading.

He looked at her like she was a stranger, and it brought back the remembrance of when he really couldn’t remember her. Tears prickled in the corners of her deep blue eyes, and Liam …

Liam broke, and would have plummeted to his knees were she not to catch him. She brought them down together, pressing him firmly into her shoulder and holding him, and listening to him cry, and maybe even shedding a tear herself. They didn’t speak — hardly moved save for his shuddered breaths and her entire form trembling with some amalgam of anxiety and pure, unadulterated despair. She didn’t cry, though. Fallon had trained herself long ago to compartmentalize what she now categorized as undesirable emotional baggage.

She wished she hadn’t.

At some point during the commotion, she saw Adam sprint out the barn and into the shadows, but she didn’t care — not right now, anyway. All that mattered was him — Liam. His hands came to clench the back of her coat just below her shoulder blades. Were it any other moment, she would have shaken him off, warning him of its delicacy and expense. That thought process was thrown to the wayside as she continued to cradle him, replaced by a slew of “it’s okay”’s, and “I’m here”’s, and “I’m so sorry”’s.

“It was him.” Liam murmured again. “It was him.” Over, and over, and over, and …

Fallon felt the fire’s heat before she smelled it. She craned her neck to see the blaze beginning to overtake the wooden barn, and without being fully cognizant of what she was doing, she sprung into action.

“We have to go.” She ordered, pulling Liam off the ground and shoving him towards the far door. “Now.”

Liam wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead, hiccuping like a child, but complied. With Fallon supporting practically his full weight against her shoulder, they barely escaped before the infrastructure collapsed under the weight of the flames — crackling morosely. Some morbid part of her couldn’t help but consider it a metaphor for the trajectory of her life. That thought was taken over by the flashback of what had happened just over a year prior. It played behind her eyes like a projector — paralyzing her as she watched it happen in front of her once more — the stable house went up in flames, almost taking her with it, and succeeding in charring her already dead step-mother..

“Cristal.” She hissed in a bout of confusion, taking a step towards the barn, only to feel strong arms around her waist, and to hear her name from somewhere beyond the fog of her traumatized mind.

“Fallon …? Fallon!” Over, and over, and Jesus if either of them had to say the other’s name one more time, Liam thought he might implode.

Fallon shook her head, lightly tossing her loose curls from side to side. Her balance swayed as she met Liam’s concerned stare. “I…”

“You’re ok” He mumbled into her hair, recognizing it as his turn to take care of her, as he waited (hell, practically expected) for her to break down.

All Fallon could do was feel guilty — so fucking guilty, as she once more managed to make it all about her. She shook him off of her, tensing her shoulders and putting up her bravest front, before stalking off towards the car and letting herself into the driver’s side. Liam came to sit next to her, his eyes still puffy, and now streaked with concern and a little confusion. She couldn’t hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds before she turned her blue eyes towards the ignition and focused on the hum of the Porsche’s engine.

“I can drive if you want.” Liam half offered, half whined, but it only made her push the throttle into drive and barrel off down the road faster than even she had intended.

They drove in relative silence, Liam marveling at the extent of his memories returning. He thought about his childhood, his mother, the first time him and Fallon had ever …

Fallon, on the other hand, tried her best to keep her mind blank for fear of Cristal polluting her mind’s eye. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles went white, and she found some semblance of solace in the way it made her palms tingle. Liam had always known her to be a … how could he put it kindly … a fucking batshit crazy driver … but this?

This was different.

The speedometer hit 100 before they had travelled more than a couple seconds from the rubble, and it only continued to go up from there. Liam tried to mask a the sigh of relief he expelled when he realized that they weren’t actually leaving Carrington property — just going from one portion of it to another, and so the speed that Fallon Carrington was traveling didn’t actually matter. The relief didn’t last long, though, because despite the legality of her speed no longer being a factor, it didn’t change the fact that their lives still hung in the balance.

The road to the main entrance of Carrington Manor stretched before them like a goddamn funeral procession — perfectly manicured trees lining either side of it for as far as the eye could see. When they finally pulled into the circular driveway, two maids opened their car doors, both asking what had happened, and if they had seen Adam. The couple shared a fickle look, Liam deferring to his girlfriend’s judgment on how to handle the matter. In true Fallon fashion, she ignored the help, breezing past them and heading directly for the stairs in the main hallway, not without adding a promise that there would be hell to pay if she was followed.

Liam stopped short, and it’s like she could feel his pause, because she looked over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes, and calling “not you, Liam”.

She wasted no time in shedding herself of her matching green Gucci coat and dress, crumpling into a heap on the foot fo her bed in a bout of exhaustion … and nothing but her bra and underwear. Liam stood precariously in the doorframe of her room, watching the scene unfold in front of him. He had seen her naked close to, if not a million times (as he had only recently come to remember). There was something decidedly unsettling about her not stripping completely, because it meant that this wasn’t an act of sexuality or seduction, which meant that it was … Oh shit. Vulnerability was rare in the heiress, and save for the times that he had hurt her, or rather, when his memory had betrayed him, it wasn’t something she allowed anyone to see — especially him. Fallon grit her teeth, feeling his eyes practically burning holes into the profile of her face. Burning …

The stable house. Cristal’s body going up in flames. Smoke filling her lungs. Her father’s arms around her waist, carrying her out and —

“Hey.” Liam’s tenor snapped her out of her thoughts. She didn’t know when he had come to sit next to her, but there he was, tenderly brushing a few misplaced pieces of hair off her forehead. “You ok?”

“Are you?” She countered, raising an eyebrow pointedly, almost harshly.

Liam smiled, his silver eyes glinting in the early evening light. “I remember.”

So do I. She thought bitterly, but held her tongue before the words could topple from her lips. His remembering should be positive, but truth be told, the admission hit them both like a pile of bricks. Fallon studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. She sat up, kissing his cheek, then resting her head on his shoulder. Liam placed a hand on her bare thigh in return, stroking his thumb back and forth, and reveling in the smoothness of her skin. Her hair, usually sweet with the scent of lilac and primrose, was masked by the scent of charred wood, rubble, and sweat. It didn’t take him long to recognize that he probably smelled of it too.

“I am so sorry, Liam.” The waver in her voice caught him off-guard. “I am … I am so so sorry.”

He shook his head, moving his hand from her thigh to cup her cheek and lift her gaze towards his. “Hey.” He murmured steadily.

Fallon didn’t expect the smile that spread across his features, but there it was — gentle, and precarious, but still present. It crinkled the corners of his eyes, and made his dimples protrude, and her heart fluttered in return.

“I’m here.” Liam promised. “We’re both here.”

They would stay like that for longer than either of them realized, holding each other’s gaze like the world might crumble if they looked away, and if he was being honest, Liam wasn’t totally certain it still wouldn’t. He was there, and he did remember, but a twinge of anxiety gurgled at the base of his stomach, because for how long? He wouldn’t say any of this to her — he knew better than to scare her like that. It was in part because he loved her too much to place that burden on her, but mostly because he had seen what the fear of him forgetting again had done to her, and he’d rather not have a repeat. He smiled, remembering the way her mouth popped into an “oh” shape as she stepped on the hunting rifle and it sounded with a loud bang. Fallon’s brow furrowed.

“What?” She puzzled, her curiosity quickly giving way to concern.

Liam shook his head before kissing her forehead delicately. “You.” He breathed, rubbing a smudge of soot from just above her left eyebrow. “Just … you.”

Warmth spread through Fallon’s frame, providing her relief from the low ache her joints had grown used to over what had otherwise been an impeccably stressful day — even by Carrington standards. She tried not to let it be fleeting, tried to suppress the thought that she needed to find Adam.

Find him, and then fucking murder him for everything that he had put them through — that he had put Liam through.

He didn’t know when she fell asleep. One moment he was stroking her hair, tangling and untangling his fingers in the curls at the base of her skull. The next she was snoring softly (something that he had never heard her do before … at least that he could remember … he decidedly liked it), her weight going limp against his torso. Liam tilted his chin to get a better vantage of the woman in his arms. She looked so … peaceful. God he didn’t know if he had ever seen someone look so peaceful. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyelashes fluttering delicately, her hands pressed between both their chests and grasping the cashmere of his sweater.

Liam smiled again, unable to help the butterflies in his stomach, because he remembered — remembered watching movies in the Carrington’s personal movie theatre for hours on end, and the way the light of the car windows dappled her pale cheeks while they drove through downtown Atlanta. He remembered the way she pursed her lips when she was angry, and tilted her chin when she proved her business savvy, and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying desperately to stifle her laugh — which she hated, but he absolutely adored. He remembered forcing her to attempt a ropes course with him one time, only for her to immediately vow that she would never ever do it again (“This is for middle schoolers,” She had whined before adding with a flirtatious, teasing smirk, “and man children, I guess.”)

He remembered the first time he told her he loved her — the mixture of fear and adrenaline it surged through her eyes. He remembered the first time he slept over, and when she asked him to marry her on the Lake Carrington.

He remembered the spike of pain as the flowerpot shattered against the base of his skull. He remembered his vision going white, then purple, then black. He remembered forgetting, and that scared him most of all, because …

Fuck. If he could remember forgetting, what was keeping it from happening again?

He felt her shift in his arms, letting out a muffled sigh. Liam laid back, taking extra precaution not to jostle her into consciousness. He loved the way she felt against him — loved the way she brought her leg over his and she burrowed into the side of his body, and the way her breath leveled when he pulled her closer. Liam studied the woman, bringing a finger to trace across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, her lips, her chin, all the way down her neck and to the dip of her collarbones, but not daring to go any further. He wouldn’t forget her again. He didn’t know if he could survive it, and he sure as hell knew she wouldn’t. Liam shut his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers like it was the only thing keeping his head from falling off and rolling across the linoleum floor.

“Please.” He whispered, pleading to his own subconscious in a way that would have previously mad him feel utterly insane, but now was the only thing keeping him from coming undone at the seems.

“Please stay.”

#falliam #Falliam frenzy #falliamfrenzy #liam ridley #fallon carrington #angst #fluff #yeah yeah this is dark what else is new #dynasty #nat writes #you don't know me #lol why is everything I write so heavy #I um sort of really like this one though #one shot #fanfic

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

Text

To Be Totally Locked Up By You

It’s not a big deal.

So, Clarke and Bellamy are sharing a Spotify account. They share plenty of things already. An apartment. A school. Buying rounds at the bar four blocks away. This is basically the same thing.

Until. Octavia tells them about the playlist. Joint music and both of their listening habits on full display, some ridiculous algorithm that leaves Clarke, quite suddenly, feeling more exposed than ever, sharing emotions and feelings, all set to a soundtrack.

—-

Rating: Teen Word Count: Nearly 8K AN: It’s happening! Admittedly sooner than I expected (I’m still only in season five, but the feelings. I’ve got them) and this is almost too autobiographical to be entirely fair, but I wrote this in like…four hours. So, here it is. Long-time Bellarke fic-reader, first-time Bellarke fic-writer. With lots of thoughts on Bellamy Blake’s curls. Joining a new fandom is exciting and terrifying.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

—-

“Why are you and my brother sharing a Spotify account?”

Clarke nearly breaks the pencil in her hand. She lifts her head slowly, not entirely surprised to find Octavia staring expectantly at her, arms crossed tightly enough that it’s very likely doing permanent damage to her ribs.

Possibly her lungs.

It’s been a very long time since Clarke took those anatomy classes.

“Well,” Octavia prompts, one eyebrow arching perfectly. “Yes or no question.” “How did you get in here?” “Did you not hear me come in?”

Clarke makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat, tugging her legs closer to her chest so she can rest her chin on her knees. She’s genuinely impressed with the state of Octavia’s right eyebrow. It appears to be defying gravity.

She doesn’t really know enough about gravity either.

Maybe she should make a list of the things she doesn’t know.

That seems inevitably depressing.

And Octavia is very clearly not going to move until she gets a response she wants, that stupid eyebrow and a pile of papers resting against her hip. Her phone is just barely hanging on in her back pocket, the soft vibration barely audible over the music coming from Clarke’s laptop speakers and the creaky pipes in their bathroom.

Bellamy is in the shower.

Clarke is at least sixty-seven percent positive Octavia planned her ambush that way.

“How do you even know about Bellamy’s Spotify account?” Clarke asks, burrowing further into the corner of the couch. “And seriously, did you pick our lock?” That eyebrow should be studied.

“I have a key,” Octavia drawls. “Obviously. So, your lock is fine and you can stop trying to deflect the important part of—” “—Why are you here?” Octavia gnashes her teeth, but there’s not really any threat there and Clarke only huffs slightly when she tosses her sketchbook on the coffee table. Because she knows that expression. The phone stops ringing. Only to start again.

“How many places are you going today?” Clarke asks knowingly, pointing at the open spot next to her.

There’s another round of huffing and flailing legs, Octavia’s left foot nearly colliding with both of Clarke’s knees, but that’s also impossibly familiar and nearly comfortable and—

“He thinks I should have a wedding cake,” Octavia mumbles. “Like an actual cake. Apparently it’s very historic—” “—Oh my God what an idiot.” “—There’s ancient nonsense involved and something about how that proved you were rich or something—” “—In Rome?” Octavia hums, eyes falling closed like she’s resigning herself to the horrendous ordeal of her older brother buying her a wedding cake. And, really, it’s almost nice. That’s a lie. It’s better than nice and just as expected as Octavia’s flailing limbs.

Because for as long as Clarke Griffin has known Bellamy Blake, since she met Octavia in an intro to stats class they both hated, she’s known several things about him.

One, he loves his little sister. More than anything. Two, he likes taking care of people. Octavia, especially, but at some point that also started to include Clarke, which is another nice thing and another vaguely overwhelming thing and—she doesn’t think about that. It is fine. Three, that same protective streak makes him certain he has to do things and provide things and that means driving Octavia crazy with possible wedding ideas.

And that leads to thing four: he’s an idiot and a nerd in an endearing sort of way that makes Clarke sure he didn’t have to look up that fact about Roman wedding cakes.

It also makes Clarke smile.

She ignores whatever happens to Octavia’s face.

“In Rome,” Octavia echoes. “Anyway that’s what we’re doing. Traipsing around the city and taste-testing cakes and—” “—That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly.” “Stop interrupting me, it will not distract me from my ultimate goal.” “Which is?” Octavia props herself up on her elbows, ignoring Clarke’s groan when she moves. “Do you know how expensive real wedding cakes are?” “That feels like a trick question. In Rome or—” Octavia sticks her whole tongue out when she responds, a noise that Clarke is sure will get stuck in her head for the rest of the day, The shower shuts off.

And Clarke’s mouth doesn’t go dry, per se, but she’s only momentarily worried that everyone in the apartment can hear the way her heart speeds up, falling into rhythm with her perfectly curated Spotify playlist and it hadn’t been much more than a suggestion, a monetary decision that made sense because—

“Jesus fuck Bell, put clothes on!”

Bellamy grins, another shift of eyebrows that Clarke is genuinely starting to resent, rivulets of water falling down either side of his face and dripping towards the towel wrapped around his waist. “Did you break in here, O?” “Used her key apparently,” Clarke mumbles, hoping the heat she can feel rising in her cheeks isn’t obvious.

Because thing number five Clarke has always know about Bellamy Blake is that she’s kind of..into Bellamy Blake. In a passing sort of way. That’s just happened to linger for years.

It’s his hair.

It’s far too curly.

It’s not—it’s more than that, it’s things one through four and a whole slew of other numbers she hasn’t come up with yet and how easy it’s been to live in the same space, both of them looking for roommates at the same time, mixing lives and remembering to buy creamer and always keeping an extra box of strawberry Special K in the back of the cupboard for breakfast-type emergencies, but Clarke likes to lie to herself and—

“Right, right, right,” Bellamy chuckles. “Well, she’s also ridiculously early.” Octavia scowls. “And standing here. Having a conversation you’re not actually a part of. Or invited to.” “Wow. Scathing.” “Do you wander around your apartment naked all the time?” “That’s not what’s happening. Obviously. Also, I live here. Why are you here so early?” “Just super psyched about cake.” “You’ll want to practice that some more before we leave. You might insult the baker in Brooklyn.” “You’re going to Brooklyn?” Clarke balks before she can stop herself, another noise out of Octavia that cannot possibly be good for her throat.

“The bakery got really good reviews.” “Oh my God you looked up bakery reviews.” Bellamy tilts his head, more drops of water that are equal parts horrible and far too distracting to be fair. “Was that supposed to be a question?”

“No, no, I am not even remotely surprised that’s exactly what you did.” Endeared, maybe. Perpetually. But not surprised.

Clarke doesn’t say that.

Octavia is far too busy swinging her feet back on the floor, a slightly different look than earlier and Clarke glances down to make sure her stomach hasn’t actually dropped. She’s still retained enough anatomical knowledge to know that it is supposed to stay in her body.

No drop.

And yet.

She can’t stop the butterflies or the nerves that rise up the back of her throat, another expression she’s far too familiar with.

“Fine,” Octavia snaps. “We will go to Brooklyn. We will taste test all the cakes—there better be hummingbird cake—” “—Who do you think I am, O?” Bellamy mumbles. It gets him a well-deserved eye roll.

Clarke’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You and Clarke are sharing a Spotify account!” Bellamy blinks. Once, twice, runs his fingers through his hair and maybe it’s just a Blake thing, this seeming ability to twist their bodies in wholly unnatural ways. “Do you know what that looks like?” “Like I wanted to save a couple bucks a month? So it would be easier to do cake-type things?” “Phrase that differently,” Clarke suggests, but Bellamy just smirks and the towel thing is really starting to become a problem. The whole liking him is becoming a problem. But she’s just as unsurprised that this is what Octavia wanted to talk about as she was that he looked up bakery reviews, so.

“Also,” Bellamy adds, “Clarke already had Spotify premium. It made sense.” Octavia shakes her head. “You’ve got to live together to be on the same account.”

“I thought we already covered that you have a key to this apartment. The one where Clarke and I live. Together.” “It looks romantic. It looks—” Octavia waves a pair of clearly frustrated hands through the air. “—Domestic. Partnered and, like joint playlists and—” “—You know he gets unlimited skips now, right?” Clarke interrupts, a desperate attempt to end this conversation and, maybe, get Bellamy to put a shirt on.

“Don’t forget the no ads,” Bellamy grins. “That’s been a godsend.” “What an old sentence. Also, you’re a podcast dweeb.”

“Informed, princess. There’s a difference.” “Yuh huh. Whatever.” “As always, your arguments are well-structured and articulate.” She flips him off. He grins. Octavia makes a noise previously unheard by human ears.

“You two do know,” she hisses, “that everyone is talking now and—” “—You all need to find a hobby,” Bellamy groans. “And I did not tell you this to make you lose your mind.” Clarke perks up, something in the back of her brain startling at that particular string of words. “You told her?”

“Yeah. I mean—well, I know it’s not a ton of money saved, but it’s something and…” He trails off, dots of color on his face and eyes that are suddenly very preoccupied with the floor. “It was nice of you to offer. So, I looked up Brooklyn.”

The music gets louder.

Clarke is sure. She’s not sure how, but it seems to swell, the beat settling under her skin and in between her ribs, wrapping around a stomach that refuses to stay where it’s supposed to, flipping and flopping and feeling and, for a moment, she forgets Octavia is there.

For a moment she smiles at Bellamy and he smiles at her and there’s no smirk, nothing except the way his eyes crinkle slightly, half a head tilt and damp curls falling and it’s good and great and then—

Octavia coughs. Pointedly.

“Alright,” she sighs. “Well, I think it’s dumb and you guys should opt out of the joint playlist. It’s the absolute worst and definitely embarrassing.” “What?” Clarke asks.

“Do you not know?” “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Does Bell know about your secret Jonas love?” “What?!” Octavia throws her whole head back when she laughs, a sudden shift of emotion and the water falling off Bellamy’s elbow is starting to leave a small puddle on their floor. “Lincoln and I had it at first,” Octavia explains, “when we got it.” “You don’t think it’s a little hypocritical to be judging our Spotify purchases when you’ve got your own family plan?” Bellamy mutters. Octavia ignores him. “It’s some algorithm or something. I don’t know how it works, only that it takes all the songs you listen to all the time and turns it into a playlist that the entire family can listen to. In this case, that’s you guys. It’s very telling. About you know—you personally.” “I know Clarke personally,” Bellamy reasons.

“Do you, though?” “I really don’t know how many times we can talk about this apartment.”

“You don’t have to. Because you didn’t know about the Jonas Brothers, did you?” “I really don’t—” “—Exactly,” Octavia says. “Music is...emotional. Certain songs for certain feelings, things that were playing in specific memories. It’s—it’s a whole new avenue to getting a person. Listen to this. Clarke, tell me the truth, how long did you spend making this playlist?” Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. Not long, but it’s all kind of the same theme...Fleetwood Mac, Clapton, Jefferson Airplane. Good music to draw to.” “What’s the name of it?” “Of the playlist?” Octavia nods. Clarke scrunches her nose. “Music to sketch and avoid stress to,” she grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Bellamy’s staring at her. Gaping. Like he’s never seen her and it would be overwhelming even with a shirt on. As it is, Clarke swallows back the emotion taking up residence in the back of her throat, ignoring just how exposed she feels and— “You’re stressed?” he asks softly.

“Not really. Just end of the quarter and you know parents at the school—always think their kid deserves a better grade and I’ve got meetings all next week. So. It’s—” God, she’s going to kill Octavia. And write a strongly worded letter to Spotify. “I knew you guys were going out today. The music is a lot of my dad’s favorite stuff. Calms me down.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything else, a blessing and the single worst thing in the world, but the ends of his mouth curl up slightly and Clarke should stop looking at his mouth. Octavia grins like she won something.

“You should put clothes on Bell,” she says. “Don’t want to miss the baker in Brooklyn.” He salutes, all sarcasm and snark, eyes flitting back towards Clarke’s before he and Octavia leave and she lets the playlist repeat three times. He brings her back a slice of cake.

Octavia texts them both the next day.

Bellamy grumbles, cursing under his breath about the sanctity of Sundays and Clarke resists the urge to make jokes about the New York Times crossword puzzle or his obsession with finishing it every weekend.

She reads the text instead.

Octavia Blake, 11:42 a.m.: I think you guys should stage a bet. A music bet. About the joint playlist.

Clarke Griffin, 11:43 a.m.: Stop calling it that.

“Now, you’ve done it,” Bellamy murmurs, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper. There’s a pen stuck behind each one of his ears.

Octavia Blake, 11:45 a.m.: No. I won’t. It’s weird and you guys are weird and if you're going to commit to Spotify, then I think you should bet to see who can control the playlist.

“Don’t answer,” Bellamy suggests.

Clarke grunts.

Clarke Griffin, 11:46 a.m.: What kind of bet?

Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.: You guys can set terms. But basically see who can annoy who first with their musical tastes and seize control of the playlist.

“Why is your sister so violent at all times?” Clarke asks, but Bellamy just fills in another clue and it’s an admittedly interesting idea. She’s nothing if not perpetually competitive.

Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.: One musical genius to rule them all.

She kind of forgets about the bet.

Or, whatever.

Clarke’s too preoccupied with those meetings and the Wallace family continues to be the worst family at Mt. Weather, old money and far too many expectations, even for art elective classes that she promises won’t affect your child’s changes at the Ivy League, I swear, and her spine does not appreciate the way she’s sitting in her desk chair.

She’s got a free period, is seriously considering slumping forward and taking a nap when she hears footsteps moving through her doorway. And Clarke’s got every intention of telling whoever it is to fuck off, but she also knows those footsteps and she can hear a soft beat playing in the background, so her curiosity is piqued.

“Have you listened to it?” Bellamy asks, brandishing his phone and his tie is a little crooked.

��What are you doing here?” “Isn’t this the same conversation you had with Octavia?” Clarke rolls her eyes at the same time he drops onto the corner of her desk. She lets out a noise — a warning about paint and half-finished projects she’s got to move to the back of the room, but Bellamy just gives her a steady look and the beat is coming from his phone. “Plus,” he continues, “we just got back from the Museum—” “—Did you geek? “I was a responsible adult figure, princess.” She hums, doing her best to infused as much disbelief into the sound as she can. It’s an old nickname—older than the joint lease and breakfast emergencies, a past Clarke doesn’t always like to think about because they hadn’t always gotten along, but at some point the word had lost its sneer and gained its own look she’s started to covet just a bit.

She really needs to move those eleventh-grade acrylics.

“So, like on a scale of one to three-thousand, how much did you geek, then?” Bellamy clicks his tongue. “I’d never been to the Morgan. 3,000 B.C.! They had stuff from 3,000 B.C.! Scrolls and artifacts, actual jewelry. That is—” “—Old?” “Ancient,” he corrects. “Proper ancient.” “I’d give this geek out a two-thousand, six-hundred and forty-seven. Out of the previously discussed three thousand.” “Yeah, that seems about right.”

“And you had a soundtrack to go with it?” Clarke asks, nodding towards the still-musical phone.

“Kind of. Spotify caught up.” “To?” “Us.” It takes a moment for Clarke to figure out what he means, but then she’s taking a deep breath and trying to remember what she listened to in the last five days. A ridiculous amount of My Chemical Romance.

It’s been a week.

“I didn’t peg you for pop punk,” Bellamy laughs. “Or is MCR a different genre? I was never really sure how that worked.” Clarke groans, sliding further down her chair until his smile threatens to stretch the muscles in his face. She can’t flip him off in school.

“I think, technically, they’re more power punk,” Clarke says. “Or maybe emo—depending on what album the algorithm picked up on.” “What have you been listening to more of?” “Mostly Welcome to the Black Parade on loop.” “Is it Wallace? All your stress and—am I missing out on jam sessions?” “God, not if you call them that,” Clarke exclaims. He blushes again. She may make a list of all the times she can get Bellamy to blush. “But kind of. You’ve had those Model UN meetings after school, so I’ve been blasting music when I get home. I think Pike’s going to rat me out to the super eventually.” “Yeah, well, he’s a dick neighbor. So.” “And my options are limited. No scream-singing in the car when I take the Subway every day.” “You could start singing on the Subway.” Clarke chuckles, sitting up a little straighter. Her spine appreciates it. “Showtime on the downtown six.” “You might be able to make some money. Learn how to flip on the polls.” “I’d donate it to your cake fund. Also, did you call them MCR?” “Is that not right? O went through a very serious Hot Topic phase when she was in high school and I remember some of the lingo, so—” “—You are seriously the oldest man alive.” “Who’s your favorite Jonas Brother?” Clarke scoffs, the song changing and she doesn’t think it’s one of hers. “Frank Ocean?” “A genius.” “You know we don’t have to do this. The sharing playlist thing. It’s—well, O was being crazy, especially with that bet idea, and there’s got to be a way to opt out of it.” “Do you want to opt out of it?” The question seems to hang in the air around them.

And Clarke isn’t sure why it sounds impossibly important, like some line they’re crossing and can’t come back from, but she can’t shake the feeling or the admittedly lyrical genius of Frank Ocean. She turns the music up.

“It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” Bellamy asks. “Seeing what changes it picks up on and how the playlist evolves with what we’re into.” “Please stop talking about the playlist like it’s a sentient being.” “Fair, fair. But, uh—what do you say?” “To?” His fingers find the back of his hair, pushing curls away from his eyes and he’d left earlier than her that morning. That explains the glasses. He only wears his glasses when he’s tired.

Clarke knows that.

She knows...a lot about Bellamy. And not. Nothing about Frank Ocean, at least.

She’d like to.

She likes Frank Ocean.

She loves—

“If we only listen to the playlist, we’re not going to change it,” Clarke points out.

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan.” “At the risk of giving O any credit, it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it? That we keep listening to our own music during the day or night or whatever, but when we’re coming home from school we listen to the joint playlist. See what happens with it.”

“And are we trying to influence the playlist?” “That’s up to you, I guess.”

“Yeah, ok. Try to influence the playlist, see what we can force the other person to listen to and—” He tilts his head, a forced casualness that makes Clarke widen her eyes. “—Whoever eventually seizes control of the playlist with the majority of their songs by...O and Lincoln’s wedding wins.” “Wins? Wins what?” “I don’t know. Something at home. Or one of us can just pay for the other’s Spotify account.”

Clarke twists her lips, considering it. Bellamy’s eyebrows fly up expectantly. “Yeah, ok. We judge the playlist based on what we hear when we’re leaving school.” “Makes sense. And what happens if we leave school together? You going to share headphones with me?”

“Only if you’ll join my showtime brigade.” “Good name.” “Is that a yes?” He grins — another one of hers, which is vaguely possessive and a little insane, but Clarke’s heart is doing its best to beat its way out of her chest as well, so she figures the whole thing is kind of a wash at this point. “I will definitely join your showtime brigade,” Bellamy promises. “If only because I’m pretty confident in my ability to flip from the top bars.” “No you’re not.” “I’ve got upper-body strength you couldn’t even imagine.”

“Sure, sure. When do we start with our musical experiment?” “Today.” “Today?” “Today,” Bellamy repeats, as students start to file into the hallway and Clarke’s not all that upset with how her free period turned out. “I will pick you at exactly 3:15, Ms. Griffin. Be prepared for an introduction in modern classics. And 90s hip hop.” “I’m going to listen exclusively to pop punk for the rest of the week.” “May the algorithms ever be in your favor.”

“Idiot,” she calls, but he’s already walking away and none of her students look remotely surprised.

Raven slides the glass across the bar without a word. She doesn’t have to use words. Her face is judgmental enough.

Clarke sighs. “What?” “Did I say anything?” “Did you have to?”

Raven waggles a finger, more opinions and very obvious thoughts and Clarke knew it was only a matter of time. She blames intro to stats. It’s how she met Octavia, after all. Which is how she met Bellamy, which is how their friends group grew and evolved and there’s been good and bad and this bar and she’s fairly certain Raven has a very detailed bet with both Monty and Murphy about her and Bellamy.

They all know about the Spotify playlist.

“I guess not,” Raven admits. “Has anyone ever told you that your psychic tendencies are both terrifying and impressive?” “Not in so many words, no.” “What about your weird flirting rituals?” Clarke downs the drink — not sure if it’s actually meant for her and not worried either way. It burns the back of her throat, settling in the pit of her stomach with an almost audible thump, right next to her ever-expanding knowledge of Bellamy’s musical taste and his determination to shift the playlist. He’s been listening to nothing except It’s Tricky radio for the past three days.

She’s got to figure out how to fix this.

On several levels.

“It’s not flirting,” Clarke argues. “Or a ritual. That’s weird.” “You’re telling me.” “Buy me another drink.” “No,” Raven says. “Tell me about the ritual.” “Stop calling it that!” Clarke’s voice rises of its own accord, drawing more than a few curious glances and Bellamy looks up from where he’s talking to Lincoln and Octavia. She smiles. She doesn’t mean to.

Raven cackles.

“Oh God,” she mumbles, the words barely that, “so, how screwed are you? Like ballpark.” “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Have you figured out that he secretly loves the Goo Goo Dolls?” “How do you know that?” “You don’t?” “Oh my God,” Clarke groans.

Raven reaches a hand out, a move that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but feels far too heavy when it lands on Clarke’s forearm. “Slow down on the liquor, Griffin. You’re a lightweight. And I know that because the one night I was there—don’t make that face.” Clarke definitely makes a face. She’s a little buzzed. Cage Wallace is setting up a meeting with the school board. About her art classes. “Anyway,” Raven adds, “I was kind of...looking to get out of there quick, but he had music playing and—” “—He played music while you guys were hooking up?” “Nah, he let me shower. He was reading.” “Oh my God.” “Anyway. I don’t think he knew that I could hear the music and it was definitely an entire Goo Goo Dolls album. Straight through. Not even a mix.” “Huh.” “You act like you’re not fascinated by that.” “Should I be?” Clarke questions, but it’s another badly formed lie and the energy under her skin is starting to make her restless.

Raven nods. “Yes. Eventually that’s going to show up on the playlist too. I know. Or you could ambush him with the Goo Goo Dolls.” “What a sentence.” “Matchbox Twenty?” “Those are two different bands.” “Similar genres,” Raven reasons, Clarke waving down Miller for another round of something, anything. “And I’m trying to help you, here. Rule the playlist, rule the world, right?” “Or at least part of our roommate budget.” “Say roommates again like you don’t want to make out with his face.” “Jeez.” “Not an objection,” Raven points out at the same time Miller decides to show up. Clarke does her best to melt. It does not work.

“It is not,” Miller adds. “And—just in case you were looking for some more information. He’s been asking about your musical tastes too.” Maybe Clarke is drunk.

She wishes.

“Why?” “Search me,” Miller admits. “But a lot of it seemed to revolve around your favorite Jonas.” Clarke refuses to look at Raven for the rest of the night.

It goes. Days, weeks, the rest of April.

The music keeps on playing. Or, whatever.

She listens to more My Chemical Romance. Bellamy goes through a pretty serious ten-day spiral over Weezer that leads them both down some 90s-alt rabbit hole, both of them bobbing in rhythm while they do the dishes on a Thursday night.

At one point Octavia threatens to ruin it all, grabbing Clarke’s phone while they’re at the bar and announcing, “I am getting married, so I pick the music.” It ends with Carly Rae Jepsen on loop and a playlist that refuses to recover for the next two days.

Clarke comes home to Bellamy humming Run Away With Me while he folds laundry in the living. She spends no less than five seconds processing that before she starts matching socks.

They play the song fourteen times in a row.

He counts.

And she learns things. Raven had been right about the Goo Goo Dolls and Clarke girts her teeth when Bellamy asks “why are there so many Frozen songs on here now,” but that leads them to debating the merits of twisting traditional mythologies in Disney movies until Monty tells them to “shut up and drink.”

So, they do.

And then, May happens.

It’s not that Clarke often finds herself stressed enough to burst into tears as soon as she closes the apartment door behind her, but her stomach is churning and between self-important parents at school and her own parents—parent, singular—she’s an emotional, exhausted mess and—

“Oh, shit,” she sighs, sliding onto the floor. She hasn’t listened to the playlist all week. And she knows Bellamy won’t really care, but Clarke has started to depend on the structure and the ever-increasing knowledge and while she might not admit it, Arcade Fire probably would have done a pretty good job of psyching herself up for an afternoon with her mom.

As it is, Clarke spent the better part of the last six hours listening to backwards compliments and questions about that school of yours and not-so-humble brags about the cardiac center at Lenox Hill and the “opportunities you passed up, sweetheart.”

That sentence played on loop in Clarke’s head the entire train ride home.

She sniffles, a quick lip of suddenly dry lips because she’s started breathing out of her mouth too and—

“Clarke?” Her head bumps the door when she snaps it up, Bellamy standing there with curls that desperately need to be cut and glasses and he’s wearing socks. It makes Clarke’s pulse speed up and slow down at the same time.

She’s very glad she’s not a doctor.

“Hey, hey,” he says quickly, rushing into her space and there are already tears on her cheeks. She hates that. Bellamy drops in front of her, knees cracking and a hand on her shoulder, staring at her like she’s going to fall apart or break in half and neither is true. Clarke is just mad.

Pissed off, really.

She’s angry at her mom and the cardiac center with its looming benefit, Clarke’s lack of a date some black mark on the whole thing, apparently, far too many veiled suggestions that her own choices are less structured and real, because Clarke has made her own choices since she was eighteen and hated stats and she’s got a schedule and she can’t believe she forgot about the playlist. She’s harping on that. “And how was the esteemed Dr. Griffin today?” Bellamy asks knowingly. Clarke isn’t sure what sound she makes at that, but it might just be the audible version of gratitude, and he grins.

Exactly like she wants him to.

“Chock-full of opinions as always.” “Mmhm, I figured. You want to talk about it?” “Not really. She just—” Clarke grits her teeth, fighting against another wave of disappointment and could have been and every one of her muscles tightens when Bellamy’s lips ghost over her forehead.

That’s absurd.

It’s not the first time he’s done it. Or her. Quick displays of affection when things went well or things went bad and she can remember every single one. Which, honestly, is pretty telling, but she spent most of the day lying to her mom.

This shouldn’t be any different.

This is the complete opposite.

“Go ahead,’ Bellamy mutters.

“She’s just—God, Bell, she’s the worst and she’s so positive she’s right and I’m wrong, but she doesn’t even have the decency to really tell me I’m wrong and—” Clarke runs out of air. Bellamy brushes away the tears on her cheeks. “They’ve got this gala coming up and she wants me to come. She’s getting an award.” “Prestigious.” “Self-absorbed,” Clarke corrects. “The hospital she works at is awarding her for her work at the same hospital. I know it shouldn’t get to me. I do, but she kept talking, like she was going down a list of make Clarke feel like garbage and—” “—You don’t deserve to feel like garbage, princess.”

“Tell me mom that.”

“Here, give me your phone.” Clarke’s skull can’t cope with much more of this, but there’s an earnest edge to his voice that she’s never heard before and her phone suddenly feels impossibly heavy in her pocket. She pulls it out, willing her fingers not to tremble.

It takes him exactly twelve seconds to start playing music.

There’s no Arcade Fire. No Goo Goo Dolls or 90s hip hop.

“Fleetwood Mac?” Clarke whispers, Bellamy’s soft hum of agreement in her ear and she’s sure, eventually, they’ll get up. She’s not in a rush. “If you play Landslide,” Clark warns, “I will cry even more.”

“I can cope with that.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like another thing in a way that things shouldn’t be things. Not with roommates and weird bets and—“You know I do have some rhythm. I could...if you don’t want to show up to this thing by yourself.” Clarke doesn’t pull her head off his shoulder. She’s not sure when her head landed on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.” “It wouldn’t suck so bad.” “That's not true at all.” “I’m serious. We could make fun of people. Come up with ridiculous backstories. Wow them with our Fred and Ginger ways.” “You sound very confident in your dancing talent.” He kisses the top of her hair.

“That’d be nice,” Clarke says, voice a little scratchy and she’s not sure if that’s because of the day or the week or how goddamn comfortable his shoulder his. “And you’re going to ruin the playlist algorithm with this.” “I’ll live.” “Good.”

Dr. Abby Griffin’s eyes get very wide when Clarke and Bellamy show up at Gotham Hall.

They dance. They drink undoubtedly expensive champagne. They dance some more.

She smiles.

A lot.

And Bellamy doesn’t ask before handing Clarke one side of his headphones as soon as they slide into the Uber back home, her eyes fluttering shut while the music drowns out the sounds of the city on their way home.

She gets really annoyed with him one week and plays the original Broadway cast recording of Cats every night while she’s asleep.

He hates that she can’t ever remember to turn the AC off when she leaves the apartment. So, he plays Bizet from Carmen every time she walks in for a four-day stretch.

It takes another two days for the playlist to realize neither one of them is mad anymore.

At some point around Memorial Day they both realize they love Ben Folds.

Bellamy plays a ridiculous fake piano.

Clarke sings the Regina Spektor parts on all their duets.

They blast Killer Queen on a Saturday afternoon in June after Cage Wallace’s kid graduates.

Clarke stands on the couch, hands thrown in the air and something akin to joy leaping up her spine, Bellamy shouting lyrics from the kitchen while he blends...something.

It presumably has alcohol in it.

Or, more alcohol.

It’s a celebration.

And it doesn’t take long for Pike to start banging on their shared well, but neither of them move to to turn own the music, just sing louder. Bellamy grins when Clarke throws a pillow at the wall, shouting “take that dick,” like Pike can hear them over Freddie Mercury.

She almost falls over.

It is...patently stupid and inherently romantic and Bellamy is impossibly solid behind her, cotton t-shirt not doing much to distract from the planes of his chest and—

“What was that about upper body strength?” she breathes.

Bellamy laughs into her shoulder blade, nosing at the top of her shirt, and there must be hair in his face, but he doesn’t seem all that upset by it, which is only messing with her head a little bit. His fingers splay across her hip, tugging Clarke back to the floor.

His glasses are falling down the bridge of her nose.

Clarke presses up on her toes, suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than her and how clear his eyes are when he looks at her — more earnest energy and a flick of his tongue between his lips, like he’s waiting for whatever she does next and only a little impatient.

“A solid save.” Bellamy barks out a laugh, head falling close to Clarke’s, and it takes everything in her not to card her fingers through his hair. That lasts about four seconds.

If even.

Her calves are still aching, but she doesn’t back down and she doesn’t think and for one of those four seconds she’s absolutely positive Bellamy is going to kiss her. He doesn’t blink, just stays impossibly still, except for the flutter of his fingers and the way they push under the hem of her shirt and—

“Turn your fucking music down!”

They both jump back, like they’ve been shocked, Clarke wincing when her legs slam into the front of the couch.

“Are you ok?” Bellamy asks, but she’s already nodding and any sense of joy has rather quickly morphed into something much worse. Regret. That’s the word for it.

She’s neither a doctor nor an English teacher.

“Fine, fine,” Clarke stammers. “I, uh—I’m going to turn the music down, ok?”

“Nah, Clarke—fuck that guy, c’mon, it’s…” “It’s really loud, Bell.” He’s setting a record for not blinking, she’s sure. He stares at her—a little appraising and just a hint wary, the moment drifting away as the song fades out. Clarke swallows.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy agrees. It still doesn’t sound like the words he’s saying. “What do you think about celebratory David Bowie?” “Good call. You going to keep mixing?” “10-4, princess.”

“Idiot.” He grins, a quick twist of eyebrows and squeeze of his hand, but Clarke can’t help to think that the end of the school year may also be the end of something else.

Octavia’s getting married in two weeks.

Her dress is blue.

And it makes her boobs look great, which Clarke isn’t focused on, but Raven’s mentioned it enough that eventually she agrees and she’s happy.

Octavia is getting married.

It’s sunny. It’s warm. There’s already music playing, soft and melodic outside the door where they’re waiting, Raven’s far-too-knowing stare boring into the back of Clarke’s head.

“Don’t do that,” she warns, and she doesn’t have to turn to know Raven rolls her eyes.

“I’m still not saying anything.” “Again, you didn’t have to.” “The experiment ends today, right?” “You say that like you don’t know. “And what did we learn?” Clarke turns around. It’s a mistake, she knows, but part of her has also been dreading today, which is pretty fucked up. All things considered. Octavia looks gorgeous.

She’s got a five-dollar bet with Murphy that Bellamy will cry.

Bellamy’s definitely going to cry.

“You’re supposed to learn something in an experiment,” Raven says. “Even one as weird as this one. With all its flirting. You seriously haven’t made out with him yet?” “No.” Raven crows, Clarke grimacing at the admission that isn’t really that because everyone knows and she’s always known and—she bets he looks very good in his tuxedo. “Oh, god you’re an idiot,” Raven exhales. “But seriously, did you learn things? That he—”

“Yes to the Goo Goo Dolls. Slide is a very predictable favorite, but it’s been on the playlist since the get. He knows way more lyrics than he should. O had a pop punk phase too and he’s way too confident in his own rhythm, but sometimes he’s good at dancing. His mom used to listen to a lot of ballads and Karen Carpenter makes him feel emotions, but mostly at Christmas, so that hasn’t really affected the playlist and—what? You’re doing that thing with your face.” “Am I just?” “Nothing’s going to change, Rae,” Clarke cuts in. “We’re going to keep our musical preferences and our separate playlists and one of us will pay for no ads.” “Seriously, tell him how much you want to kiss him.”

“Shut up.”

And the photographer sounds like he’s on his way back. With Octavia. Who certainly does not want to hear about Clarke’s unrequited feelings for her brother. On her wedding day.

Priorities, Clarke’s got them.

“We had some fun and—well, O was kind of right. It was like getting a chance to…” “See into his music-loving soul?” “I really like Arcade Fire now.” Raven hums noncommittally and Clarke can practically hear the gears in her mind turning, but she’d been right about the photographer and maybe they’ll all just cry over Octavia.

She’s beaming.

And there will be hummingbird cake at this reception.

“You guys ready?” Octavia asks.

Clarke nods, ignoring Raven’s expression. “Definitely.”

He cries.

Clarke gets five dollars.

She doesn’t have any pockets in her dress.

That feels like a sign.

Strictly speaking, Clarke hasn’t been to too many weddings. A family friend when she was a kid. Her mom’s. This one.

And yet.

She’s positive that this is the most beautiful wedding she’s ever been to or could ever go to and part of that is because of the music and part is because of how often she’s noticed Bellamy smiling and most of it is because he keeps glancing her way.

It’s a very blue dress.

She’s still holding a five-dollar bill.

And there is a whole schedule — toasts and more tears, posing for photos and ignoring the way her stomach flutters when she spends an inordinate amount of time glancing Bellamy’s direction. Octavia laughs. She and Lincoln flit from table to table, a hint of tradition in a wedding that is still them and this family and—

“You want to dance?” She’s sitting at the head table, a glass of half-finished champagne in front of her and they haven’t cut the cake yet, but Clarke figures that's soon. Bellamy doesn’t blink. Again. One side of his mouth tugs up, fluttering his fingers in her space until she feels her own smile stretch and maybe her stomach should just be studied.

There’s color on Bellamy’s cheeks.

Clarke never got around to making that list.

“Don’t leave hanging, princess,” Bellamy says. “They’re playing good music.”

He’s not wrong.

It is good music. It’s...oddly familiar music. And Clarke had been too happy to really notice it before, but now that she’s listening, she hasn’t heard anything that’s not hers and—

“Oh my God, you idiot.” He laughs. Loud. And honest. And one-hundred percent hers. The sound sinking into the very center of her, where everything else she’s ever loved has taken root, a foundation for the rest of it, for all of it, for a family.

A Spotify premium family plan.

“You keep complimenting me like that and—” “—Did you do this?” “Did I do what?”

Her hand finds his, warm fingers and slightly callused skin. Clarke can’t stop shaking her head. It’s absurd. It’s vaguely romantic.

“Is this…” she starts, but Bellamy smirks and she’s a lost cause.

In a far more romantic sort of way.

She jumps up, closing the already minimal amount of space between them and, to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He might still be smirking. Clarke can feel the curve of his lips as soon as hers land on them, a little cautious at first, but that lasts about one verse of whatever Jonas Brothers song is playing and then it’s all mingled breaths and an arm slung around his shoulders, fingers in his hair and the sudden swipe of his tongue.

Clarke arches her back, desperate to feel as much of him as she can, like that will ground her or remind her that it’s really happening.

He tilts his head, changes angles and cups her face. It’s soft and bruising and a perfect contradiction that leaves her pushing up further in her heels, pulling on Bellamy’s curls until he groans against her and she’s going to think about that on loop for the rest of the night.

The room spins.

Clarke’s only seventy-two percent certain she’s not the one spinning.

It doesn’t seem to end. They don’t seem to end. She can’t tell where his hands stop, moving across the expanse of her back and tracing across skin, as if he’s memorizing every shift, every way she rocks against him, trying to fill the space with him and them and— “Oh my God, finally,” Octavia cries.

Clarke snickers, Bellamy’s head dropping to the curve of her jaw, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Still smirking. “Huh,” he muses. “Look at that.” “Don’t be smug,” Clarke chides. “I’m wooing you, was that not obvious?” She leans back, expecting a wholly confident expression, only to be met with something slightly hopeful and a little young and yearning and, really, the only thing to do is kiss him. Again. So, she does. Again.

And it’s good and great and exactly what she thought it would be when she thought about this, far more often than she ever would admit to.

But it’s also...something else. It’s the perfect chord and a well-constructed bridge and the song she wants to play on repeat forever, a favorite she knows she won’t get sick of, until the melody finds its way into her memory and her.

Full stop.

“Yeah, it was,” she whispers. “Is this—” “You know when you first offered to go half on this premium thing, I really was in it for the money.” “It’s like an extra ten bucks a month,” Miller yells. Both Octavia and Raven swat at his side.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy admits, “But I wanted to help O and I was sure this would help and then the playlist thing came up and I just—” He shrugs, another brush of his fingers over Clarke’s arm. “—Well, it was...you know you hum under your breath? Constantly. Every song. Even the ones you said you didn’t like. And you’ve got drawing playlists and I can’t believe how strongly you feel about All Time Low.” “They’re good,” Clarke shouts. More than a few members of the peanut gallery let out exasperated sighs.

Bellamy kisses her hair. “I know. I know. And that’s been—the first time O talked about you, I figured you were some uptight—” “—Am I still being wooed? I am a fun person!” “Let me finish. You were old money and plans and structure and I thought I had to hate you on principle. But then. Clarke, you’re—ok, yeah, you like some structure and plans, but there’s so much more and it’s...every single time you start dancing to David Bowie I think I love you a little more.”

She’s not sure what sound she makes.

An exhale and a sigh and a give — into the feelings and the want and he’s not done.

“So, uh, it hasn’t been easy. It took a lot of repeat plays. But yeah, to answer your question. This is the playlist and it’s our playlist, with...mostly your music because—” He scrunches his nose. It makes the freckles more obvious. “You’ve gotten under my skin, princess. So has your music. And the Frozen soundtrack isn’t that bad.” “Get that in writing,” Octavia demands.

“Shut up, O,” Bellamy grumbles. She flips him off. The photographer takes a picture. “Anything to add?” he asks, an undercurrent of misplaced nerves that she doesn’t understand at first. She hasn’t said anything back.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s—” she starts, shaking her head and she kisses him before she answers. Third time’s the charm, or something. "I love you too.”

There are cheers. And louder music. A ridiculous bass line and shutter snaps and—

“We going to dance?” “Did I not ask first?” Clarke hums, already tugging him towards the floor and she’s got high hopes of his hand never leaving hers. For the rest of the night. If not longer. “Semantics,” she says. “C’mon, this is definitely a good song.”

Her favorite Jonas Brother is Joe.

She tells him while they’re tugging clothes off, stumbling down the hallway of their apartment.

“Don’t mention that again.” “10-4,” Clarke laughs, but the words get caught between them and she very quickly forgets about anything other than the noise Bellamy makes when she moves her hands into his hair.

They never opt out of the family playlist.

And it takes a few weeks for the algorithm to catch up, but eventually it’s a pretty even split, his and hers and theirs, all perfectly curated in replayable format.

#bellarke ff #bellarke fan fiction #bellarke #bellamy x clarke #the 100 #just casually inflicting my jonas opinions on new fandoms #oh hai new fandom #i've got thoughts and feelings about bellamy blake's hair #so here they are #there's kissing #that's my jam #laura writes bellarke #laura writes

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strawberry-skies-xx · 5 years ago

Text

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R F O U R

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: last chapter :D

main masterlist | story on ao3

Jaskier woke up from the sleep he didn’t even know he’d fallen into, and he couldn’t feel the press of ropes against his skin, or the blindfold against his eyes.

He unfolded from his position, somehow not panicking at the sudden freedom, stretching his legs and arching, and slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the light. The cabin was dark, however - there was no light to be adjusted to. He could hear the even breathing of what he assumed was Ciri, because somehow he knew Yennefer didn’t breathe that loudly after being on the run from Nilfgaard for months, in danger nearly constantly. He didn’t question how he knew it, he didn’t realize he even knew it - he just did.

But he was still vigilant in keeping himself in the dark about Geralt. Those memories would not slip through, they brought on too many feelings and it was easier to stay oblivious before he remembered and started fighting again. Fighting was difficult, fighting hurt him and made others hurt him and Jaskier didn’t want that.

He rolled to his other side, and hit a hard wall of muscle. Geralt was laying in the bed with him, almost falling off of it with the way he was trying to keep himself apart from Jaskier. Jaskier remembered the confining darkness of his arms, the warmth even as he was held in place - and then he remembered how he had left so suddenly, without a word or a comfort, and he had had to ask Yennefer to get what he wanted.

He frowned, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the bed, legs hanging down. There was something off now, he felt wrong, like there was something missing. He didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t hesitate to make itself known, making his leg bounce and his eyes dart around, unseeing in the darkness.

The darkness used to be comforting. He knew that, if he didn’t feel so wrong right now, he’d relish the way he couldn’t see a thing, and he’d probably roll over and press himself against the safety of Geralt’s shirt, and the warm darkness there.

He didn’t know what had changed so suddenly, but it made him restless and he didn’t like it at all. He picked up the pants Yennefer had magicked onto the floor when he had asked her to tie him up, and pulled them and the shirt on before standing up as quietly as possible. He paused, listening to Geralt, but the Witcher didn’t move, and he let out a quiet, controlled breath.

Jaskier walked carefully forward, using the map of the small cabin he’d formed in his mind, and found the door, slowly turning the knob and closing it silently behind him - miraculously without waking up any of the occupants inside. The moonlight glinted off of the trees, bathing everything in silver, and for some reason Jaskier found the comfort in the fact he could see something, rather than that he couldn’t.

And, the memories were tugging at his mind, begging to be let out.

Jaskier already knew more about Yennefer than he’d like. Memories of her were slipping through the cracks, not tied to any feeling at all, but still slipping. The way her eyebrow raised condescendingly, the way they were not quite friends but not quite enemies, her smile which betrayed nothing and the way he’d imagined her fucking him - before… before something he didn’t remember. Something that involved Geralt.

Jaskier slid down to lean against the wall of the cabin, staring up at the dark sky scattered with stars, and flinched when a shadow came over him and Yennefer was suddenly there. She’d appeared without him noticing, like she was a ghost.

“Can’t sleep?”

He hummed. Someday, he thought, maybe he’d talk. Sing, even. Not now, though. He didn’t want to talk, or sing, but the past Jaskier was begging to be let out and he wasn’t sure if he could fight him. Especially with the objects of his affections and so many of his best memories around him constantly, talking to him, making him remember.

“A few hours ago you were asking to be in complete darkness. Now you’re seeking out the moonlight?” Yennefer asked, not accusatory or judgmental. Neutral, and it gave Jaskier the feeling that he had the choice of whether to answer it or not. The freedom… wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

I’m… remembering, he thought, and felt the resulting brush of her magic against his mind to tell him that she’d heard him.

“How much are you remembering?”

Your condescending eyebrow raise, he thought, and she laughed softly. We were… not enemies, but not friends?

Yennefer nodded. “I wouldn’t wish this on you, Jaskier. You’re not my favorite person, but this…”

She went quiet, shaking her head slightly, and Jaskier didn’t answer. They both fell into a comfortable silence, neither of them keeping track of the time.

Why am I remembering you and not Geralt? he asked suddenly, what felt like several hours later. Her magic had been drifting near his mind the entire time; he knew she heard him. The old Jaskier… the one Geralt cares about, he cared about Geralt too. You and I weren’t friends like I was with Geralt.

Jaskier did remember the feeling of safety he got when he was with Geralt, the deeper feeling that he got and didn’t want to spend the time analyzing, though it was both warm and painful at the same time. He knew he had a closer connection with Geralt than he did with Yennefer - so why were memories of her slipping through and not Geralt?

Yennefer leaned her head back against the wall. “You locked away your memories because they made you feel too much,” she said, both question and statement. Jaskier nodded and she continued. “I have less emotional ties to you than Geralt does. Memories of me don’t bring up as many feelings that memories of Geralt do, so you’re not fighting as hard against them.”

Jaskier frowned. He wanted to fight against all of them, he didn’t want any memories to come through. But, he supposed if he was being forced to drag the memories back up, Yennefer was right. She didn’t give him as much emotional turmoil as Geralt did. Fuck, even just thinking of the name brought on a whole slew of emotions, ones that were too tangled and painful for him to sort through, so he simply put it on the back burner.

He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted again, but he didn’t want to face the darkness inside. For once, the darkness wasn’t comforting at all. Something, some part of the locked door, had broken in him, and he was being slowly brought back to himself whether he liked it or not. And, that started with the dark, which had suddenly become suffocating rather than welcoming, cold rather than warm.

Yennefer stood up. “You’re about to fall asleep. Let’s go inside.”

Jaskier hummed. No. Inside is dark.

He got a laugh in return. “I’ll give you a light.”

Fine, he thought reluctantly. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, standing up and following Yennefer inside the cabin, where she flicked her fingers and a soft glowing light appeared over his bed.

He frowned at it, still restless and anxious, but he obliged when she gave him a sharp glare and slid into his bed. Turned out, the light above his head was rather comforting against the shadows, and Jaskier found himself sinking into sleep faster than he thought he would, subconsciously rolling to curl into Geralt.

Jaskier woke to a soft, amused rumble from Geralt, vibrating through his chest and against Jaskier’s ear where it had been pressed against him. He hummed and tightened his arm around Geralt, not realizing what he was doing until Geralt tensed and Jaskier pulled away like he’d been burned, eyes wide.

That was- far too close for comfort. Jaskier could feel his memories, could sense them on the edge of remembering and he hated it. Something like needles poked at his skin when he looked at Geralt, a feeling he hadn’t felt for a long time because he locked away the memories that gave him it.

Jaskier frowned and pushed himself off the bed, not looking at Geralt’s puzzled golden gaze. His eyes filled with something too close to hurt for Jaskier to be comfortable, before they shuttered and all expression fled, replaced by a neutral mask. He walked to the door and out without saying a word, without looking at the Witcher he knew too well laying in the bed.

He slid down against the wall as soon as he got out, burying his head in his knees and fighting away the panic threatening to overtake him. He wasn’t supposed to remember Geralt. None of this was supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to be here. If Nilfgaard had just. Taken the information they wanted from him, did with him what they would, instead of- of being rescued and forced to remember things he didn’t want to. It would’ve all been better.

Slowly, he dragged his breathing down and darkness didn’t dance at the edges of his vision, he stopped shaking and he raised his head from where it was buried in his knees. The sun was rising above the trees, casting everything in golden light, like honey.

Like honey. Jaskier’s breath caught - the words were. Familiar. They were poetry - poetry that the old Jaskier wrote, poetry that the old Jaskier sung. He sighed and stood up abruptly, taking his eyes off of the rising sun, not thinking about honey or gold or a mountain with a similar view, flashing briefly in his mind.

He looked at the cabin - quaint, like you’d find in fairytales with the wicked witch and the innocent girl, his mind supplied automatically - and ran one hand through his hair, tugging slightly and relishing in the pain. Pain, like Nilfgaard had brought. Pain like he was supposed to run away from, to get rid of. Not- not bring back, not look at a golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher and feel needles pricking him, not look at a violet-eyed sorceress and feel the surge of irritation he didn’t even fucking remember where it came from.

He gave a soft growl of frustration. Everything was fucking poetry now, he thought like the old Jaskier and something in him wanted to sing it, too. Wanted to sing of the emerald green grass, sing of the amber eyes glowing in the night and moonlight glinting off of white hair. He wanted to be annoying, like the old Jaskier. The one Fringilla had worked so hard to get rid of.

Jaskier felt his breaths coming faster for a second time, could see his vision tunneling and his body shaking, but this time he couldn’t stop it. It was all too much, he was remembering too much too fast and now- now that damned Witcher was beside him, unfairly deep voice rumbling in his ear, so fucking soothing no matter if he didn’t even remember him. It set off a new surge of irritation in Jaskier, and he wanted to curse, to rage and scream at the world for dragging him back to the pain his past memories brought.

“Jaskier. In, out. Breathe.”

Of course, it was Geralt, so Jaskier’s body was practically trained to follow the rumbling instructions, pulling his breath down, pulling his heart rate down and the world slowly returning to his view without black spots dancing at the edge of it. He shook - somehow, between the panic attack and Geralt, he’d started crying - and sank slowly down, feeling Geralt’s arms circle around him and attempt to pick him up before he hit the ground.

Except, this time it wasn’t comforting. Jaskier thrashed, fought against Geralt’s arms until he let go, and he glared before running into the forest. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he wanted to be away from the scent of leather and sword oil and the strong arms holding him and golden eyes, white hair, a deep voice. It was overwhelming, too much, too fast.

Jaskier ran until his breaths were coming short and his legs were burning, and he stopped, leaning against a tree and breathing hard. He shut his eyes, feeling himself start shaking - again - and sunk slowly down against the bark until he hit the ground, a sob caught in his throat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself - and of course, there was the brush of magic against his mind telling him that Yennefer had heard him. His breath hitched and another sob rose in his throat, catching until he swallowed through it and thudded his head back against the tree bark, staring up at the sky through the leaves.

Blue sky, his mind told him, with white clouds like cotton. Jaskier couldn’t escape the poetry now, couldn’t escape the way he thought of the world, with the foolish optimism and way he saw some sort of beauty in everything before. The old him was pounding against the locked door, yelling and screaming and demanding to be let out. Jaskier didn’t know if he could hold him back - some small, hidden part of him didn’t want to.

“Jaskier.”

He sighed, tilting his head slightly towards the feminine voice as Yennefer slid down to sit next to him. She stayed quiet - not demanding anything, not uncertain of what to do, not judging. It was a refreshing change of pace from Geralt, who, for all he wanted Jaskier to get better, didn’t quite know how to deal with him - both before and after.

What, he thought flatly.

“Nothing. You don’t have to say or do anything. But I’m here,” she replied neutrally. Her magic wove around his mind, not waiting for a response but ready in case he did.

And, he did. There was too much in Jaskier to keep in, he was feeling and remembering far too much to hold it all in.

I don’t know why I’m fighting so hard, he thought first. He paused. I’m around you two, and I know the memories are going to come back whether I want them to or not. I know fighting against them is only going to make it harder and more painful when I do remember. But-

He shook his head. Yennefer didn’t say anything, only resumed her companionable, unjudging silence. They locked me in that dark cell for a month, Yen, he continued, the nickname slipping out again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. No food, no contact. Just a bucket of water, a cup, and a corner to piss in. It was freezing. Couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

Somehow, he didn’t panic when he thought of it. There was this detached numbness to his thoughts, as if he hadn’t lived it. Sure, if someone tried shoving him into that cell again he’d kick and scream and fight against them with all that he had, but thinking about it only gave him a sense of detached neutrality and that was it. And, he knew he was supposed to have his memories back. His memories contained everything he fought for, they were why he kept fighting until he locked them away to save himself, but now he wanted to fight and he didn’t even remember what he was fighting for.

I don’t know, he finished. He didn’t know what he was going to say after that. He just didn’t know.

“I can’t help you with your memories, Jaskier,” Yennefer said. “But we’re not against you.”

He sighed. I know.

She stood up. “Let’s go inside.”

Jaskier closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them and standing up. Okay.

Dinner that night was dried jerky and fruit. Jaskier sat in the chair at the table, Geralt on his right, Ciri on his left, and Yennefer across from him. The table was silent and Jaskier shifted in his seat from discomfort, glancing up at the three before glancing down.

“How was training today, Ciri?” Yennefer asked finally, sending a glare across at Geralt for making it so uncomfortably silent.

“It was good,” she said simply, then paused. Her face was thoughtful, as if she was hesitating to say something, and she looked up suddenly, emerald eyes sharp and piercing, like when she was going to ask something and wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Tell me a story of the old days.”

Geralt frowned and Yennefer’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but Jaskier watched them both smooth out their features and Yennefer respond first. “What story would you like us to tell?”

Ciri’s brow furrowed, and she turned her attention to Geralt. “Tell me about when you met Yen. I want you to tell it.”

Yennefer grinned into her drink - imagine when he got to the part where he walked into her hosting an orgy. That was sure to be the most interesting part of the story, she was sure. Or, maybe the naked mayor.

Geralt frowned, giving a quick glare at Yen - who was failing to hide her smile in her drink - and glancing at Jaskier before looking at Ciri. “I was hunting a djinn,” he said.

Ciri grinned. “The ones that grant wishes?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there, and Yennefer looked like she was having the time of her life watching him try to tell the story - minus the inappropriate parts.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Jaskier again, hesitating, and Jaskier suddenly didn’t like where this was going. “Someone-“ Geralt cut off and paused. “Someone was with me. I found the djinn and the amphora was opened accidentally. They thought they had the wishes. They made two wishes and I told them not to make a third one. I was the one with the wishes, and I wished for some peace without knowing it. I took them to Yennefer when the djinn misinterpreted my wish and decided to take their voice.”

Jaskier frowned. Oh, and I suppose you’re just going to not mention the fact that you said my singing was like a fillingless pie, he thought sarcastically.

Jaskier froze. Yennefer’s eyes snapped to him and he met them, realizing what he’d said. Geralt frowned, glancing between the two. “What?”

Fuck. Jaskier stood up from the table abruptly. Ciri’s brow furrowed and she looked between the three. “What’s happening? Jaskier?”

He shook his head and turned, walking out the door. Yennefer followed; he flinched when the door slammed behind her and she stopped a few steps away from him, watching him carefully. Surprisingly, he wasn’t panicking- but bits and pieces were coming back to him in a flood, snapping together like a puzzle.

“I just want some damn peace!”

“Well, here’s your peace!”

Jaskier turned wide blue eyes on Yennefer as the memories came back - everything, from the panicked moment when he’d started vomiting blood and couldn’t speak, to when he’d watched Geralt and Yennefer-

Oh.

Yennefer tilted her head, violet eyes sharp as she watched him. “Jaskier,” she said carefully. He shook his head, hand going to his throat as he tried to push words out for the first time since he’d been captive - and some broken part of him still fought against the memories, against his voice.

And then, more memories came flooding back. Flashes of living in Lettenhove, running away to Oxenfurt where he drank and fucked and sang. Leaning against a pole in an inn in Posada with his lute in hand, having bread thrown at him, seeing white hair in the corner of the inn and walking over - come on, you must have some review for me; three words or less.

Walking next to Geralt after hunting a devil, singing a song at full volume as the sun shone down and his future laid in front of him - toss a coin to your Witcher, o valley of plenty, oh-oh-oh. Asking a favor of Geralt, “and the last thing I want is someone needing me-“; “and yet here we are”, singing at a betrothal feast in Cintra’s court.

Sitting by a fireplace in Cintra, with Ciri, with his fingers dancing across lute strings and his voice filling the air. Hunting a djinn, staring through a window as Geralt and Yennefer fucked.

Climbing a mountain to hunt a dragon, waking up late. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Now- now it was too much, now Jaskier could feel the panic setting in, his vision tunneling and breaths coming short. Some part of him berated himself for having yet another panic attack, the broken part of him didn’t want to be such a burden. Jaskier forcefully dragged his breaths down before he could show any symptoms, blinked and kept Yennefer’s face in clear view, made sure he wasn’t shaking. His hand was shaking, but no one needed to know that.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and a bolt of panic shot through him so he bit his sleeve. No talking then. But, he remembered everything. Heartbreak needled at him now, pain and mild irritation when he looked at Yennefer, and suddenly he understood why he felt so safe when Geralt held him.

Yennefer didn’t react, didn’t make a huge deal out of any of it. “Jaskier,” she said quietly. Jaskier silently thanked her for that, because she might be the least overwhelming person of the three of them. Even Ciri might ask questions, might be confused or panic because he was acting weird. And Geralt- well. Yennefer was the only stable one, she was the only one that could truly make him relax for now.

He lowered his arm, feeling steadier than he had since he’d been rescued - and, now he could say that it was a rescue and not something terrible. He remembered why he was fighting against Nilfgaard now, he knew why he had broken and he knew he wouldn’t ever do it again if he could help it. The memories alone would be enough to haunt him for months - years, maybe.

I remember you, he thought. Yennefer’s face didn’t change, but her magic skimmed his mind so he knew she heard him. I remember Ciri. And Geralt. I know why-

He cut off. He wasn’t going to tell Yennefer that. Jaskier was in love with Geralt, and that was how it was going to stay. Geralt wasn’t in love with him, Yennefer didn’t need to know. It was a secret that stayed with him.

Yennefer’s eyes softened. “I know, Jaskier.” She didn’t continue, just watched him, and suddenly Jaskier felt a lot like a bug pinned to a board. Like she knew something he didn’t.

He glared. I’m going inside, he thought in frustration, and turned on his heel and did exactly that. This time, the door slammed and he didn’t flinch.

He did stop, however, when Geralt stood up from his place at the table and fixed his golden eyes on him, curious but not pressing. Ciri was nowhere to be found - perhaps outside the back, reading or collecting herbs. She wouldn’t go far, never as far as for Geralt to lose her scent, but even that was quite a distance.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking closer. Jaskier stood frozen, his newly-remembered memories flashing through his mind. He stood still when Geralt stopped two steps away from him and never did he feel a flash of fear.

Geralt’s golden eyes met his, and Jaskier thought maybe he knew what Yennefer wasn’t telling him.

“Geralt,” he breathed, and closed his eyes when the shadow of panic shot through him, but Geralt was reaching out now, circling his arms around him and pulling him closer and Jaskier found himself calm before he had even begun to start panicking.

Still, he took a breath before speaking again, trying not to shake when he did. “Can I-“ he said softly, and Geralt didn’t move, which he was thankful for because Jaskier didn’t know if he’d be able to continue without Geralt surrounding him with his body, his arms, the scent of leather and sword oil. “Can I tell you something?”

Geralt pulled away. “Yes, Jaskier. Anything.”

He let out a breath and nodded, as if steeling himself, then started pulling Geralt over to the bed. He stopped beside it and hesitated. This could either go terribly or amazingly, and he didn’t know which way it would go. His heart was pounding just thinking about it.

Jaskier turned to face Geralt, whose brow was furrowed and golden eyes confused. “Jaskier, what’s-“

He cut him off with a kiss, tilting his head and leaning just slightly up - Geralt had always been the smallest bit taller than him - and felt Geralt tense in front of him. Jaskier pulled back, eyes wide, scared that he’d done something wrong-

Geralt’s hands went to Jaskier’s waist, holding him gently, like he was something fragile, and he pressed his lips back to Jaskier’s, swallowing his small hitch of breath.

“About time,” came Yennefer’s voice from the door. They both broke apart, though somehow knew this wasn’t over, but was barely beginning, and turned to her - Jaskier suddenly energized from what he’d discovered, and Geralt irritated that she’d interrupted. “You can do that later. Ciri is coming in soon.”

She turned around and left. Geralt turned to Jaskier, who met his eyes, and Jaskier glanced down.

Geralt’s fingers slid under his chin and lifted it, until Jaskier was forced to meet his eyes again, and Geralt slotted his lips against Jaskier’s again. He melted into it, eyes closing, before Geralt pulled back.

“I love you,” Jaskier whispered, then shut his eyes again at the slight panic rising up at the words. Geralt pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him and sitting on the bed. Jaskier brought his legs up to fold in his lap, and Geralt swung his legs up on the bed until he could lay down and let Jaskier curl into him, adjusting the position until Geralt’s arms were circled around Jaskier as his face was buried in his black shirt.

The darkness there wasn’t anything like Jaskier had felt before. It was the same warm, safe feeling, but he knew if he moved Geralt would let him, and he had no desire to block out all light like before - but there was still light coming through anyway. Geralt wouldn’t cage Jaskier, and this time that thought was comforting. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to go into a dark room, or be pinned in place, again.

The door opened, letting Yennefer and Ciri in, and Jaskier shifted closer to Geralt. He heard Yennefer’s soft voice talking to Ciri, and them taking up the other bed, and felt himself slipping into sleep.

“Love you,” Geralt rumbled quietly in his ear, nearly a whisper - he didn’t think it was meant for Jaskier to hear, but he did.

He smiled softly to himself and closed his eyes, knowing he had all four of them as a new family, and even though he knew he’d be haunted by the memories of Nilfgaard’s torture, he’d have them - and Geralt, especially - to help him through it. That would always be worth it in the end.

There was no place he’d rather be.

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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ibelieveinahappilyeverafter · 5 years ago

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Boku no Hero Academia - curiosity killed me my dear (but you brought me back) (Drabble)

Okay, this one is interesting! This story was originally a drabble on my Patreon account that someone later commissioned me to make into a full story! Here’s what the original story was, however, and I hope you enjoy it!

If you want to read the full 18k story, then click here!

Summary: Thanks to a mission gone wrong and the ill timed use of Erasure, Yamada Hizashi is now stuck half way between being human and being a cat. It was better than being a cat, but not by much. Luckily, Aizawa Shouta always knows just what to say to set Hizashi’s worries at ease.

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationship: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic

Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic

Rating: Teen Audiences

Word Count: 2,566

Check out my writing commission information here! Pledge to my Patreon to get exclusive content like this drabble!

⁂

Watching the slew of quirk and mutant body specialist doctors file out of the room, Yamada Hizashi dragged a hand through the ends of his hair, nervously picking out some of the knots as the words from the doctors bounced around his head, words like partial body morph, complete new structure, and permanent. It was only the sound of a recorded guitar plucking out a tune to one of his favorite songs that had the tension draining out of his shoulders, a shaking breath leaving him as he looked over to where his husband was setting down his phone on the table, music playing from it softly.

“You know,” Hizashi finally managed. “I thought you would be more excited by this.” Shouta twitched, startled enough at the words to finally look up at him, Hizashi almost whining at the guilt he saw in the man’s eyes. “C’mon, Shou-chan, am I not a good enough kitty for you?”

The guilt at least edged away, but Hizashi wasn’t sure if annoyance and anger was any better. “Is this really the time to be making jokes?” The words were harsh, but Hizashi could see nothing except the worry and fear wrapped around them.

“Are you kidding? This is the best time for jokes! Hey, you think the Wild, Wild Pussycats will ask me to be a part of their group, now? Because I’ll have you know that Sosaki-san wanted me to join when we were all still in school! She said I would look cute with the ears, which, now we have proof that I do, but I turned her down because, hello, if I’m going to be part of a hero group it would be with you, Nemuri, and Tensei, yo. Hey! What if we formed a duo? I mean, I know you shot me down, like, twenty times before, but I really think-”

“Hizashi.” Snapping his mouth shut at the call of his name - at the desperate call of his name - Hizashi shifted on the hospital bed he was trapped in for at least another day, shuffling to the far corner and then looking at Shouta expectantly.

They had been confined to hospital beds enough times over their life that Shouta didn’t even hesitate, instead crawling into Hizashi’s bed, not quite leaning against him or touching him, but far closer than he had been. It was enough to soothe some of Hizashi’s restless energy, his jokes and assurances leaving him as he gave a tired smile.

“You, my hero, take the blame for things that aren’t your fault far too much.” Ah… And there was the guilt, clear and bright as day. “Shouta… I would be a lot worse off if you hadn’t stopped that quirk when you did.”

“It’s because of me that you’re half cat.” Shouta didn’t shout, but he might as well have for all the emotion that was wrapped up in his voice, staring at where Hizashi could feel the ears that were now pointed, furry, and on top of his head. It didn’t help that he had the tail to match and who knew what else until his x-rays showed up.

Tugging at his hair again and picking out another knot and trying not to focus on how something about his hands felt wrong, Hizashi settled for looking at his husband, a part of him calming at the sight. For as bad as it had gone, it could have been a lot worse.

“Shouta,” Hizashi said softly, frowning when Shouta flinched and looked away. “Shouta. This is not your fault. Our information was wrong. It was as simple as that.”

Seeing Shouta’s mouth open to argue again, Hizashi decided that for as fun as it was to debate and argue with Shouta some days, today he didn’t have the energy to hear it and keep up a smile.

Reaching over to lightly slap his palms against Shouta’s cheeks, Hizashi kept him from looking away as he continued speaking. “No. You’re the one who’s always saying how much of a ‘genius’ or whatever I am, right? With the information we were given and the measures we took, we did everything right, Shouta. I’ve run over everything in my head a hundred times since I got pretty much shackled to this bed-”

“You are not shackled to the bed, Hizashi,” Shouta interrupted, Hizashi just raising his voice to compensate.

“Since I was spiritually chained to this bed!” Finally there was a smile from the man. “There were only two ways this could end, Shouta, and I think I prefer the option where we both lived.”

Shouta was silent, finally whispering a soft, “I should have reacted quicker. If I had, then you wouldn’t be here like this.”

“You did everything right, baby,” Hizashi sighed, tugging Shouta closer and leaning their foreheads together, taking solstice in how Shouta near slumped against him, hands moving to tangle together with his own. “Now, really, you’re allowed to show a bit of excitement about this.”

“I’m not obsessed with cats like you seem to think I am,” Shouta pouted, pulling back and already looking much better than before, shifting to get more comfortable on the bed while pretending he wasn’t trying to look at the cat ears that were now on top of Hizashi’s head.

“Mhm.” Hizashi felt fondness and warmth bubbling up as Shouta grabbed his phone and switched over to one of the softer playlists Hizashi often had playing when they were home. He was so stupidly in love with this man. “You can touch them, you know.”

Shouta could act uninterested all he wanted, but it was easy to see how much Shouta wanted to just by the twitch his fingers did as he set the phone down. “Hizashi-”

“Please?” Hizashi asked quietly, looking away when he saw Shouta’s surprise. “I just… really need you to act like everything is normal right now, Sho.”

It felt like a lifetime passed before Hizashi felt fingers skimming down the edges of his new ear, the sensation feeling similar to the moment a tough knot was worked out of his neck, something soft and warm and wonderfully good that had him slumping back into Shouta’s side before vibrations were leaving his throat in a way that reminded him of their cats at home.

“Are you… purring?” Oh. That’s what those sounds were, then. Tilting his head back to look at Shouta, Hizashi saw the hidden glee there. “As if the cats needed anymore reason to love you more than me.”

“It’s because I feed them the good cat food!” Hizashi beamed, pushing down his unease at realizing he was purring. While he could use his quirk to achieve something similar, the fact his voice did something he hadn’t had any control over was… more than unsettling.

That was okay, though. That was fine. Hizashi wasn’t in pain, Shouta was smiling again, and everything would be alright. It would be fine.

It would not be fine. The doctors had revealed that not only had Hizashi’s body structure changed, but so had some of his instincts, which meant his years of cultivating his fighting style and hero instincts now had to be completely relearned; which was something he couldn’t afford to deal with when the whole damn world felt like it was starting to fall apart, especially after All Might’s downfall and Endeavour's almost downfall.

As it was, Hizashi had screwed up his last three patrols and almost let multiple people get away over basic mistakes. His sense of balance was completely off to the point he was tripping and falling into walls and doorways every time he stopped paying attention, which was too often for his liking.

His hearing had also changed, to the point that he no longer needed his hearing aids. At the same time, however, he couldn’t use his quirk until his hero support could figure out a way to not let his even more sensitive ears be damaged. He was a hero without the use of his quirk and damn if that didn’t give him some new nightmares.

And now, as if that didn’t make him pathetic enough, he was sobbing like a fucking child in a pile of his clothes that no longer fit due to his changed musceluer and spine structure. Instead of sighing and going to get new clothes, because between him and Shouta and the five jobs they worked they could certainly afford it, he was crying like it was the end of the world.

It wasn’t even the clothes that were the problem. He knew it wasn’t. It was just the final shattering from the pressure that had been weighing down on him since this whole mess had begun. The instincts he could have handled on their own. Present Mic may have been upbeat and social and loud, but Yamada Hizashi knew what it was to crave peace and silence and the company of only one or two people at a time. The instincts were stronger, and there were some odd ones like chasing moving lights and getting the urge to hiss and purr, but they were nothing insurmountable, but the physical changes?

He had to learn to walk, move, and fight in a completely new body. He would have to relearn on how to essentially use his quirk, which had been dangerous enough the first time and was the reason he had needed hearing aids for most of his adult life.

“‘Zashi?” Hearing Shouta’s voice in the doorway, and too tired to try and pretend it was all okay to the man who knew him better than anyone, Hizashi only kept glaring down at the clothes on the floor around him, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You know, usually it’s me destroying the closet trying to find something.”

“They don’t fit,” Hizashi mumbled, hoping that would be enough to explain why he was on the floor now made of clothes while crying and wearing nothing but a pair of new boxers that allowed for his new tail. “None of them fit.”

“Then we can go shopping,” Shouta said, no hint of pause or hesitance in his words. Just a simple solution for what was a simple problem. “You love shopping and now you can try even more clothes that you couldn’t before, and whatever you really want to save we can get altered to fit you again. Right?”

Hizashi flinched as he felt his tail lash out and thwap against his skin, reminding him that it wasn’t just the clothes that was his problem. “I can barely do my patrols because everything is different.”

“Then we’ll just train more until we figure out a new way for you, like we did when I couldn’t use my binding cloth as well.” The memory of Shouta re-learning new ways to use his quirks and binding cloth after USJ had Hizashi giving a small shudder before he noticed Shouta’s voice was closer, Hizashi finally looked up only to have fabric dropping over his head, Shouta pushing and nudging at him for a minute until Hizashi was soon wearing an overly large sweater that was soft and warm and settled the restless itching of his skin.

Tucking his hands into the sleeves of the sweater, Hizashi felt like a pathetic child as he felt Shouta wipe away the tears that were beginning to slow. The man’s voice was soft and warm when he spoke whispered words of encouragement. “We’ll get through this, ‘Zashi, just like we have everything else.”

“Shouta…” The clothes would easy to fix. The physical training would be harder, but it was nothing Hizashi hadn’t done before. The little things like the new ears and tail he could learn to be okay with, but… “I can’t use my quirk like this.”

His vocal folds had changed and they had no idea if his quirk was going to be more powerful or less powerful because of it. There was no way to even test it with his new ears, bulky and awkward and too dangerous around loud noises. If Hizashi wasn’t careful, then he could go completely deaf with just one scream. He had been hard of hearing before, but he had still been able to hear, and his hearing aids had been made to restore almost full sound. The idea of going completely deaf and never being able to properly use his quirk again without risking damage and harm was too awful a thought.

If it was just him in this mess then Hizashi wouldn’t know what to do. If it was only him, Hizashi would have been lost. Stupidly, though, he had almost forgotten. It wasn’t just him.

“And since when has a quirk decided who you are?” Shouta’s hand settled on his jaw before lifting his head up, Shouta’s entire focus solely on him. “How many fights have you been in where you won and didn’t use your quirk?”

“I- Those were specialized cases or training exercises or times where I just got lucky, Shouta, it doesn’t mean-”

“And since when did you need your quirk in order to do your show? As far as I remember, they hate when you use your quirk on your show; and you hate it because it damages the equipment.”

Hizashi bit his lip at that, conceding that he did have a point with that, at least. Hizashi didn’t need to use his quirk to still be a DJ, which was one of the jobs he loved most.

“You also don’t need your quirk to teach your students. In fact, I think they’ll appreciate that you can only scream at them normally when they fall asleep instead of quirk screaming at them-”

“It was one time and that little punk had it coming,” Hizashi defended himself, slightly startled when Shouta’s hands tangled with his, palms clasped together and grip tight on his own. For the first time in days, it felt like Hizashi could breathe again. “Shouta…”

“Since when did you ever need your quirk to be Yamada Hizashi?” Shouta gave him a soft, fond smile, bumping their foreheads together and startling Hizashi into giving a wet laugh. “This isn’t the end of the world, Sunshine. Isn’t that what you told me all those months ago?”

“Maybe, but you said it better.” Hizashi tilted his head up to give Shouta a chaste kiss, fears and worries chased away by Shouta once again. “At least I’m even better looking than before, right?” Hizashi joked, feeling his heart skip a beat and his stomach drop as he saw the heated look in Shouta’s eyes and the smirk on his face. “S- Sho?”

“You’ve always looked amazing, ‘Zashi, but a few days ago you were telling me that your skin sensitivity had increased, right?”

Before Hizashi could respond, he felt himself shoved back, a grunt knocked out of him as he slightly squirmed on the uneven ground thanks to the discarded clothing. Before he could ask or complain, he felt the sweater Shouta had put on him slowly being pushed up, trails of goosebumps erupting across his skin wherever Shouta’s fingers touched, already more sensitive than he had been in years.

If nothing else, Hizashi supposed, at least he would have Shouta to help him through this like he had with everything else in their lives. And, well… maybe the half-cat thing wasn’t so bad.

#bnha #erasermic #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #present mic #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #my writing #my patreon #original

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sm-entertain-me · 6 years ago

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Our Last Night (M)

Contains: Kim Doyoung x (f) reader, smut, adult language, sexual situations, angst, marking, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (female receiving), passionate sex. TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of deteriorating health/family dying.

Synopsis: All good things must come to an end.

Author’s Note: I am so sorry, I was listening to Billie Eilish and I got in my feelings. And this GIF of Doyoung makes me want to hug him forever because he deserves so much love.

What started off as one of the best days of your life quickly turned to the most painful as you sat on the edge of the bed, holding Doyoung’s hand in yours as you told him what he needed to hear. You’ve known since about two months ago that this had to be done, but you wanted to hold onto someone as wonderful as Doyoung for as long as you could. Just seeing the look of extreme sadness in your eyes let you know that telling him at the last possible moment was the only way you could live with yourself.

“I can’t stay in Korea, I have to go back home,” You said, making sure to not hold proper eye contact with the man that had stolen your heart the moment you met him. Somehow you managed to convince your parents to allow you to stay with Doyoung so long as he could prove his worth to them. Your parents adored Doyoung the minute they saw him on Skype, taking note of the huge smile you wore whenever he opened his mouth to explain the situation to your parents. But no matter how much they loved him, you had things to attend to in your home country.

Your mother’s health had been declining for about three months now, but the last two have proven to be the worst she had ever endured. It was something your family never imagined would happen to someone as healthy as her, especially not something this aggressive. When you got the phone call that your mother had become too weak to take care of herself and how your father couldn’t afford a caretaker while he was at work, you knew what had to be done to let your mother live out her last days filled with nothing but love and kindness.

“L-Let me come with you,” Doyoung stuttered, his hands tightening around your delicate ones desperately, trying to find some way to let you two be together during this painful time. But you knew there was nothing he could possibly do for you. He has NCT, he has the tour, the new music; he has his whole life here. You can’t just take that away from him.

“Doyoung, you can’t. I’m not going to ruin your music career, you know I would never ask you to do that,” You responded with a quiet voice, turning your head to the side to allow a tear to slip down your face, a small drop of water leaking into the duvet. Doyoung noticed this as he reached his hand out to cup the underside of your chin, pulling your face towards him to look at him properly. It was when he saw the tears flowing down your face that he produced tears of his own.

Although you both were hurting, you tried your best to fake a smile as you brought your hand up to your eyes, batting the tears away to clear your vision. Doyoung’s face was void of any color as he watched your every movement with concern, returning your fake smile in hopes of feeling better. But he couldn’t make it any better as he sniffled, trying his best to not break down in front of you.

“At least... Let me kiss you for the last time,” Doyoung spoke as he let out a ragged breath, letting his bloodshot eyes look back into yours that mirrored the same color.

“I’d like that,” You responded as you scooted closer to him, looking deep into his eyes to admire his pristine beauty for the last time. A small sigh could be heard from Doyoung’s lips as he cupped either side of your face, holding it delicately in his soft hands as he pressed his lips onto yours. As your lips molded together, you couldn’t help but feel the need to pour your whole entire soul into the kiss, placing your hands on top of the hands that held your face so tenderly to lean in further.

Doyoung didn’t seem the least bit surprised as he mimicked your actions, leaning in further to the point his teeth were gnashing against your plump lower lip, forcing out a slew of moans as he continued to give you everything he could. While he worked on turning your lips into a violent shade of red, you allowed your hands to drop from his face, pushing yourself off of the bed and choosing to sit yourself on his lap for better access.

As you sat on Doyoung’s thighs, Doyoung took this as an invitation to go that much further, taking his hands off of your cheeks and latching one of them to the back of your skull. His other hand hooked tightly around your waist, gripping your hip hard enough to pierce through your shirt and leave tiny crescents into the pristine flesh.

A small moan fell from your lips as Doyoung’s fingers tightened in your hair, yanking you back with your hair to give himself uninterrupted access to your neck so he could litter the skin with pretty love bites. Doyoung was particularly keen on turning your neck into lovely shades of reds, regardless of who was going to see. Usually he would pick biting or sucking, but this time he combined the two, biting down on the section to hear you gasp and sucking on the abused skin to soothe your pain. It drove you wild.

“Mmmm, shit Doyoung,” You keened, gripping onto his raven locks as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling your body up against him to rub your aching core against him. You could feel small vibrations on your neck from Doyoung chuckling as he pulled away from your neck to look up at you with blown wide pupils. With the way he was looking at you, basically eye fucking you, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what his endgame was.

Doyoung ordered you to tighten your legs around his waist while his hands slipped underneath your ass, standing up momentarily so he could place you on your back. When your back hit the soft fabric of the sheets, Doyoung was immediately in between your thighs, pulling at the material of your jean shorts desperately. The scene was quite amusing as you watched Doyoung struggling with yanking your shorts down your thighs, giggles flying from your mouth. This caused Doyoung to glare up at you with feigned anger.

“Laughing at me, huh?” Doyoung asked as he took his finger and traced delicate shapes into your inner thigh, admiring the skin that felt damp from your arousal that had already leaked through your panties. “You won’t be laughing when I wreck you with my tongue, babygirl.” He’s got a point.

Soon, Doyoung got both your shorts and your panties off of your body as he licked his lips at the sight of your arousal spilling out of you and coating the sheets beneath you. You hated when he stared, taking your hands and covering your reddening face to shield yourself from his intense gaze. Doyoung sighed at this little act of insecurity, grabbing your hands and forcing you to look into his caring eyes, “Don’t hide those beautiful eyes baby, you’re beautiful. Now let me make you feel beautiful.”

As the last syllable drifted from his lips, Doyoung buried his face in between your legs, taking your already sensitive clit into his mouth and sucking harshly. Doyoung was particularly good at giving oral, determined to have you cumming twice with just his tongue. You could feel his lips forming a smirk when your hands flew to the back of his head, your fingers tangling into his dark locks while bringing your hips up to get as much stimulation as you could.

“D-Doyoung!” You cried out as your knuckles were becoming white from how hard you gripped his hair, tears starting to prick your eyes from both how good he was making you feel and the fact that this would probably be the last time you would ever get to love him like this. You loved him, you really did. In fact, you still love him. But now is not the time to reflect on sadness, especially since Doyoung’s tongue was deep inside of your aching walls with his nose tapping the sensitive bundle of nerves.

It didn’t take very long for you to cum with Doyoung’s tongue fucking your pussy open, accompanied with the sensual movements of his nose rubbing harshly on your clit. At the scream of his name and the clenching of your walls on his tongue, Doyoung looked up at you with fond eyes, pulling his tongue out of your walls slowly to relish in the feeling of your arousal coating his tastebuds generously.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Doyoung cooed as he shimmied up the length of your body, propping himself on his elbow to admire your fucked out features. Your eyes being hooded was not a new sight tonight, but the soft features of your face with the bright red tinge of your cheeks had him falling head over heels for you yet again. Doyoung was quick to lean down and place a tender kiss on your lips, leaning back up to glance down at his violently hardened member resting on your waist, “But you’re even more beautiful when I’m deep inside of you.”

Doyoung was slow in taking off your shirt, taking his time to study your body while cursing at himself for taking such a beautiful sight for granted. But he wasn’t going to let his emotions get the best of him as he was quick to remove his own clothes, settling in between your thighs to accomplish his main goal.

As Doyoung entered you, you moaned out from the delicious stretch, digging your nails into the honeyed skin of his back to arch up against him. Although your eyes were closed tightly, you opened them momentarily to watch as Doyoung’s head flew back, his mouth slightly agape from the wonderful sensation of your walls clenching around his throbbing cock. He was beautiful in every way to you... And you were having to leave him.

You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until Doyoung looked down after he was fully settled into you, commenting on the tears that were building and subsequently falling down your face.

“Oh baby, please don’t... don’t cry,” Doyoung sputtered, struggling to choke back tears of his own as he watched your eyes close tightly to try and get rid of the tears as best you could. You felt Doyoung reach down and grab your arms, pinning them to the side softly so he could lace his fingers with yours to show you how much he truly cared for you, how much he truly loved you. The last thing he wanted to you to feel at this very moment was sadness, leaning down to whisper into your ear, “I love you with all of my heart, Y/N. Please don’t forget that.”

When the tears dried, Doyoung proceeded to draw his hips back to pulls his cock almost all the way out of you, pushing himself back into you slowly until your hips joined together. The feeling of his cock sliding against your walls was euphoric as your grip tightened around his hand, losing yourself in your desires quickly and moaning his name to the ceiling, edging Doyoung to go harder.

Doyoung’s strokes were slow, but very calculated as he would ram himself the furthest he could inside of you, cursing from how tight your walls were clamping down on him when his cock brushed against your G-spot. Occasionally, Doyoung would look down at you to make sure you weren’t crying, offering you a kind smile before he would go back to pounding into you with enough force to break the bed. Your head almost slammed against the headboard a couple of times if it weren’t for the new pillows that acted as a barrier, allowing Doyoung to go as hard as he wanted.

With the pace Doyoung set onto you, you knew your couldn’t last much longer, letting him know so he could pull out before he finished, “I-I’m close baby.” But instead of Doyoung meeting you with an ‘I know’ or ‘Okay, I’ll pull out’, his strokes intensified, hips slamming into yours at a hellish speed and letting out the most lewd sounds you had ever heard. He wasn’t pulling out... And you didn’t want him to.

Your legs wrapped tightly around Doyoung’s waist as the knot in your core snapped, sending you spiraling to your edge as you screamed at the ceiling, begging Doyoung to not stop for your benefit. Doyoung wasn’t planning to as he gripped onto your delicate hands, continuing to fuck himself deeper into your steadily clenching walls until he himself was cumming, the feeling of his hot cum splashing all over your walls something you would never forget.

As the two of you cam down from your highs, you sat in the comfortable silence while looking deeply into each other’s eyes, wondering who would be the first to cry. It was you, of course. Tears found you again as you struggled to keep them inside, closing your eyes and allowing your eyes to squint together to accurately reflect the anguish you felt in your heart. Oh how you wanted nothing more than to stay with Doyoung forever and love him the way he loves you, but you can’t.

In the midst of your sobbing, Doyoung’s hand found your cheek again, causing you to look up at him with puffy eyes. Luckily for you, Doyoung was crying with you as you watched the tears fall from his cheeks to the tip of his nose, threatening to fall to your bare stomach. “Y/N, please don’t cry,” Doyoung begged as he let the tear fall on your chest, taking his free hand to dab only your tears but never touching his. In all the time you had been dating Doyoung, you had never seen him so vulnerable. It only made your bond that much stronger.

It was true that you love Doyoung more than words could even express, you always have. You aren’t sure you could ever stop.

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captainkurosolaire · 6 years ago

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Demise... I am...

<“This voyage... It spells of an End. I am a foolish, flawed and overall sinful man, do not mistaken this as my apologies or sincerity, for I cannot wipe away anything I’ve done or take it back nor would those simple words be justifiably allowed to let me off. These should stick to me, ingrain, devour me wholesomely. I brought wrought to those in my waters of haven, I’ve involved to many to give themselves to my cause and affairs... And I’ve failed, every single time. Not once did I win. Or fight solely to capture that by any means. I leave now, to the unknown. To slay a demon who possessed my dearest matey even if I have to give that release personally, I will. My sweat runs rivers, not of fear, but anticipation. I made a vow a promise, t’ not die. Though in honesty, I cannot assure this. If I never hunted those Damned Relics, this would haven’t happened, I wouldn’t have those lives buried and sunken to the depths, tattooed into my inner design. This Lair of a sprawling Devil, will ensure I don’t leave unscathed, though it’ll learn --- The souls inside me, they wish to torment have already done the job of self-destruction.”> A passage was written while extending vocally a monologue in the same simulations, printed to a worn-down stained Captain’s log over-top his desk. Unpacked and several wrapped layers of loose variant astonishing silk was drawn on a scarred up canvas, often this individual didn’t wear anything but himself and a familiarized hat. Though he was shaken to a core, undeserving of holding the mantle of the Captain until he properly slew the demons and plagues that he tried drowning out through feverish one night stands to get by or the thicket of a brew, giving replacement to dealings. A recently engraved Sigil was inked to a chiseled frame right above his left-pectoral which was carefully wrapped to layers subtly behind his chosen appendages. Its properties enhanced the wielder and gave them a more even playing field against the atrocities that awaited in the stain of darkness. He sat on the edge of a reflected bedside and drew a set of wrapped field dressing around his fists in combination. Every delicately wearing apparel was in preparation, a trip to the Unknown..

Removing his family heirloom compass coated and imbued with the last extracted increments of Kahzoo’s own essence to pin-point and confuse the transportation he was seeking to hit certain homing coordinates.Delving through a portal through the making of his fellow Voidal Peers for a usage. He dropped from nasty lilac textured stormy clouds and fell in a hard dropping thud. “Ow.” He silently left before standing up and draping off his dust. A long pause followed as he observed. “Wow... whole lot of nothing. No wonder they invade us. This place is more depressing then last time..” Breathless how a place could exist with nearly nothing of extensive value. He brazenly shrugged off before shouting loudly throughout the whole realm, “HEY, Dumbass! KAHZOO, Get yer sorry-excuse for an ass out here! I..., just want to talk...” He shouted attentively with little braved concerns on who or what may be waiting to call in answer... Fumblingly lower off breath with mumbles, <Firstly though..., I need to wrangle a noose around the throat before I banish ye once and for all.> More silence broke....

Before, ~ “You came here searching to slay someone certain... But you only found your deathly demise, inferior.“ Feet of a charred black landed with three separations in sharp nailed toes like talons. Immensity of gloom settled in with a rising shift in aetherial pressure, it whirled chaotically and stung like a chain of administered whips. A thick blanketed of dark fog... or a cloud. Hung around its upper body swirling like a shroud of finery. The pitch of the screaming eeriness that cultivated fear that boiled goosebumps and chills, bred formation. As it’s tongue rolled from a putrid poisonous mouth holding more unsavory words that tone enough shattered the carriers of hearts in control. “You called a brother of mine...You must be the one so highly mentioned in spiteful complaints... A failure Captain who led his crew astray that allowed not only his dearest and only other remaining tatted brethren to his painful demise, you abandoned him and allowed him to be consumed by us. Giving my own brother a new suit of flesh, oh how, I like humanity.” It drew manically laughter to the crag-spires in underline vibrations. “Humanity. A storied flaw of what is between us. I hold little, you hide yours but overall hiding doesn’t abandon them. It’s why you’re weak, helpless. Emotions eat and fester attached to your hearts take you to travels out of stupid blind passion. But commonly, its their end they walk on. A grave they dig for chasing vengeance, ambitions, things too lofty for humane hand’s to wrap around, they’re too feeble.” A flex of this unidentifiable demon crackled its bones wickedly through its inner palms as it licked to attempt provoking uneasiness, before its targeted prey in the pirate opposing him. Jaded eyes seething of devouring, that only could be described otherworldly peered through the vapor.

The smug Seeker who typically should be blown away but was warded to the sinister tricks of the Voidkin currently. “My, my. You don’t shut up do ye lad? Humanity, this, humanity that.. News flash, I don’t hide mine. Why else do you think I’ve survived this long pencil dick? I’m flawed written on a blighted canvas! -- This place... Leviathan, it’s cozy to me even though aesthetically you’ve no talent for decor. Can say I feel at home. Cause like you, and you’ll learn if you listened to those whimpering moans of yer brother Kahzoo, I am a monster too. One who eats sins up like another pass-time. I don’t really give a shaded chub for the majority of the reasons, I am brought here. A hunt of those Relics, I obtained all those Summers ago, has brought me here to provide release of yer own unpleasant brother to one way or another for the benefit of mine... I’ll set him free, It’s my obligation and coded in my own set guidelines!” Pointing outwardly and show a symptom of no regard of what stood before him or where exactly they were in. “Fool, fool, FOOL... I feel like that is something you’ve been told. ~ Yes...” The overwhelming foul beast drew an arm up and closed its silted eyes.. Scanning for the heaviest memories and recent sorrowfulness affairs to stir pots. “You were told under crying beloved tears not to venture here. To not be so... densely stupid. Yet, here I find you. Avoiding their words? Ha, I would curse you of misery but it already awaits even without a guide of my touch. Ahhh, but there is more... You left a crew alone, You left behind without taking care of someone who holds yer heart closely and ever devotedly unwavering you have given them the keys of your inner-world but you cast ruination on all they hold precious attached to those sleeves out of this stubborn notion, you’ll prevail here. That what you sought would be claimed and answered... I even think you, -think you’ll honestly win. -- That won’t be a scenario. Here you’re in my Lair. I am infinite, I am eternal, unwavering, no ripple you make can shake me.” An unholy blasphemer quips further to regulate dread throughout a poorly designed creation in accused mortal. Nearly falling asleep while standing up from the sheer boredom and passing out a yawn as he was attempted to be riled, finally snapping back and eye-rolling, he’d shake his head playfully as the pirate launched to a springing jump and kicked in velocity his loosely worn studded leather-boots that pulled pins hung to his toes that detonated at a few second delay. A huge random holy explosion caught against the opposing demon developing him in a bright flash and hearing a screeching in frustration.

Landing back with light-steps. “You didn’t want to keep the mouth-flaps locked, I chose to do you the favor, I typically save the whole gags for another encounter of pleasure, but this was on the house.” As the crags debris and rubble all scattered and picked up a dust cloud. In the silhouette a bridle of crowned tentacles squirmed over head half of the opposing demon’s face was entirely obliterated off. As he was gargling against his own saliva the cloud that wore around started to draw into the exposed injury and rejuvenate at an accelerating rate. Tension drew in and instinctively a meteor formed above the Seeker to dodge from the heat in combination with a secondary hand of the purest of darkness etched into its violently purple complexion. A set of beams followed in tracking suite as the pirate started nimbly putting every bit of his athletically heritage running tantrum to the finesse placed on alert test to juke and dodge as many as possible. Anger was now tipped over and the time of talk finally concluded for now. No matter how swift one ran, It could not attend with so many concentrated beams. As pains of agony flinched against him from welted hits smoldering hence of fog his flesh burnt in several spots already one mean puncture against his arm that made carrying the weight of his scimitar difficult as it was unsheathed to coiled clutches. Stammering with his teeth bitten across his bottom lip drawing own blood it left a scent as he hung behind a spire to steadily, formulate a counter. Silence broke through out the dimension by standby and as the pirate took a peeking look over to see if it could determine the location of its monster. He was senseless and felt ready to run towards another spot to secure himself, in mid-step in a cosmic set of speed a thunderous connected kick echoed through out the jaw of Kuro and sent him spiraling through a layer of terrain and momentum. Raw overwhelmingly monstrous strength cracked against his spine threaten to shatter every bone in a throttle. His grip lost hold of his blades nearly by handles.

Barely his exposable fingertips hung on in desperation, only seconds already into the Void and already his own headspace was reeling back nearly wanting to go unconscious there... A blurriness to his one amber-eye watched these taunting and tormenting steps being heard against the brush of his feline ear... Slowly, methodically drawing out. Every echoing thud against the cryptic soils and nearly no sign of life in the dimensional realm. The fiend pausing purposefully before halting away a few ilms off distance. As the pair locked up once again in eyes. Kuro hardly saw the look of the ferociousness pumping in virile unadulterated and matched strength. A singular gulp was prepped as the Miqo’te braved himself for a thrashing watching that contorted face start to merge back its skin its lips still chunked off. In a split shifting speed once again the demon clutched the throat of the intruder and before the scimitars could be mustered to cut they were swatted ferociously with a tail as helplessness settled in defensively. He was being manhandled and being raised swatted with excruciating whelps by the stinging tail, his tendrils hung over head grabbed and bounded his ‘preys’ four limbs before swinging him around back and forth, over and over in crashing thwacks. His eye was blanking out and becoming more hazy as he was donning the horizon of no return. Even with a Sigil to nullify a lot of the Void’s age progression and overall corruption or to break the illusions it didn’t overall grant anything extraordinary in feats. Pain cried throughout the emptiness of the dimension. After enough invented fall-away slams, the demon got bored with his toy and threw it off to watch it try to slump up and stand. It hung back and crossed a leg just simply levitating a balance on one. Though slowly and surely that reckless and stupid, stupid, man spit out blood over himself drooling slops of streaming saliva before wiping his chin and ripping his rags off that were just decimated this point. He weakly and surely slumped over back to his two feet, his face left blank and darkened across. Before lightly wrapping a set of hands around his coveted eye-patch and rippling it off breaking his own hold. Glistening and glowing two set of the more brilliantly golden hues peered from his eyelids. Yes... Now he could see, truly. He glamoured up a smile in curvature, It didn’t need following words only the expression in his look the blood oozing and battle-worn frame that took a tremendous pounding from a far superior and overall overwhelming enemy. Round two had just began!

B L A C K

D E V I L

S A G A

~ Master-List of Previous Chapters

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lorettadelluci-blog · 6 years ago

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TASK IV: THE EXTRAS.

summary: when loretta calls, you always pick up. there’s never any other choice. word count: 1.9k trigger warning: ptsd mention, illness mention

i. what’s worse, do you think: falling out of love with someone quick enough that it’s like it never happened, or falling out of love so slowly you wish you’d never met?

ada wilhelm can answer that question with ease. she stares at her call log, mouth pressed into a tight line. it’d been hard enough to hear it over the low roar of the private jet, but she’d gotten the voicemail.

ada, loretta had said, like she does every time she’s going to break ada’s heart, her voice emotionless, listen to me.

listen to her? for what? but ada --- stupidly, recklessly, knowing she’d have four board meetings waiting for her once the wheels hit the ground --- sat there and listened as loretta made it clear.

i don’t --- i’m not sure when i’m coming back. and i know it’s not fair to you, but i think it’s best if we... called this done.

she cycles through the emotions rapidly: anger, sadness, joy, grief, pure and unfiltered rage and envy. it’s not fair. but loretta’s never been fair. she’d thought for so long that maybe they could make it work. that if ada worked hard enough, kept up with the phone calls and text messages and spoke when loretta needed to listen that maybe things would be different this go around. she’s not sure what it is, exactly, keeping them together, but it hurts more than an open wound.

they’d met when they were barely kids, just out of college, and ada... she’s not stupid. she’d been in love with loretta since the day they’d met. and she’d never been selfish. not exactly. WILHELM was rightfully hers. her position at the top of the ladder is still hers. everything she’s clawed out of flesh, every minute she’s spent pouring over code and emails and texts and videos --- it’s all still hers. loretta wouldn’t take that from her. her wealth, her home, her newfound family --- they’d all be safe.

but this sacrifice doesn’t feel fair. not to ada. her phone shakes in her hands so she sets it down and smooths her skirt out, attempting to regain some semblance of poise. restraint. she thinks of the wedding ring, still in its velvet box, sitting on her mantelpiece. her fingers twitch. it’d been a nice dream, at least, for a little while. a happy one.

she orders a drink and lets it be. loretta’s been a ghost in ada’s head for too long. maybe it’s time to stop mourning.

ii. the phone rings at three in the morning, when the party is still raging. they’re celebrating a good closing to the fiscal year: more wealth, more power, more room to grow. she’s not sure when someone gave her another mimosa, but what the fuck is franchesca gonna do? not drink it? she pulls her phone out and stumbles upstairs, laughing in the same pitch as hannah in accounting past a slew of guests.

they’re happy. why shouldn’t she be happy? this is --- this is her fucking company. she did this.

she stares at her screen, squints. the letters eventually blur together to form a name: ‘etta.

the joy drains out of her chest like water in a sink. oh shit. oh, shit. oh, shit. oh shit. she fumbles with her hands to slide the button on the screen, pulls the phone to her ear. “loretta! hey!” does she sound drunk? fuck, she better not sound drunk. she sets down the mimosa near the bed, where hopefully the cat won’t decide to swipe it over.

“franchesca,” loretta says. there’s a long pause. franchesca can picture her now: reading glasses on, the weariness of hours without sleep on her face, looking the picture of medusa. beautiful, tempting, deadly if you stare at her too long. her heart skips a beat.

“what time is it in italy? shouldn’t, uh --- shouldn’t you be asleep?” is she slurring her words? she swallows.

“it’s nine in the morning, and i’m currently enjoying a cup of tea. it’s three am in new york, though, franchesca. should you be awake? i know you have an interview with entrepreneur at ten.” oh, she sounds pissed. she sounds so fucking pissed. franchesca’s known loretta long enough to know when she’s pissed.

franchesca’s not going to question how she knows about the interview, either. best not to beat around the bush if this is how it’s going to play out. “’m not... you just woke me up. what is this about? is everything okay?”

“listen to me, franchesca.”

two things about loretta delluci franchesca has learned in her best efforts to imitate her: she likes to use names, because it grabs attention. it’s not uncommon to hear your name three times in five sentences around her. when she says listen to me, you fucking listen. she straightens her spine and gets ready for the lecture.

it’ll be short and sweet. “i’m listening.”

“franchesca, if you fuck up this interview tomorrow like you did with bloomberg, i’m going to take a red eye back to rhode island and ruin things so badly for you that you’ll be in debt for the rest of your goddamn life. you have a job to do, and i’m paying you to do it for a reason. get it together. no more slip ups. i won’t ask twice. am i clear?”

there’s a clatter, sharp and sudden, from right beneath her. orange mimosa is spilling across her floor, beneath her prada pumps, and there sits garfield, staring up at her with relative innocence. franchesca swallows. “i hear you.”

the line goes dead. party’s over.

iii. each day in verona has henri asking himself why, exactly, he decided that verona was the city to get away from the mob in.

you leave chicago to get away from the mancini-sullivan bullshit and you end up in capulet-montague bullshit instead. great job, morrol. real smart, dean might have said. but dean’s dead and buried somewhere in the desert outside vegas.

dean, as it happens, also looks so much like faron vasiliev that henri’s having some feelings right now he’s not particularly comfortable addressing. he pops his nicorette --- sourced in from the states en masse, because jesus christ, quitting is hard and nothing else really works --- and lifts the binoculars back up.

even from almost a mile away, it’s still easy to see that faron vasiliev looks at calina sokolova like she’s the sun. legs kicked out in front of him, tilted back in his chair, henri watches them cross the street and disappear into some antiquated tea house often frequented by capulets and montagues both. it’s a miracle the little place hasn’t been set on fire yet by either group.

he’s not sure why he does this shit for loretta. not really. sure he’d owed her a favor, but this is different from a favor. this is putting his life on the line for someone who otherwise doesn’t give too much of a shit about him.

the sound of dean’s body hitting the dirt rings out in his head, just before the shot of the gun, and the guilt. the immense, incapacitating guilt that had henri running from chicago in the first place. he knows, idly, that dean had deserved to die for what he’d done to the sullivan family. he’d fucked them over. he’d known that then, and he knows now.

when cristopher mancini tells you to kill a man, you just do it. you don’t ask why.

but dean had wanted nothing more than to just... get away from everything. disappear just like henri had asked him to, over, and over, and over again.

let’s get married. let’s just fuckin’ do it, dean. we can go, he’d said. we’ve got the money.

just a little while longer, dean would insist, every single fucking time. what bullshit. absolute bullshit. he wishes, maybe just a little, that he’d died with him. it’d be easier this way.

his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he answers without checking to see who it is. who gives a fuck anymore?

“henri, how are you?” loretta asks. she sounds... chirpy. criminy.

“peachy keen,” he lies. “what do you know about a faron vasiliev?”

iv. three things happen to freya when she returns to los angeles after her second year abroad in italy: she gets the internship she asked for. her mother’s medical bills are magically paid. both her brothers listen to her when she talks, now, and that’s almost enough to make her want to be honest with them.

she goes back to st. louis in august to finish her degree, finally, and then after that it’s off to work with whatever tech-based company will take her. twenty-two years of hard work and determination and a little bit of lying, and her dreams are coming true.

loretta calls every friday at seven o’clock, and freya’s not dumb. she knows to pick up the phone. the nail polish on her hands is still drying when she fumbles with her new iPhone, using her foot to clumsily crank down the volume on the radio she’d been using in her bedroom. “loretta! hi! hey!”

“hey, kiddo, how are you doing?” loretta’s voice is warm, and it fills freya with unexpected affection. the things she’d done in verona had been awful, and she’s still not sure that those ghosts won’t follow her home, but they’d been worth it.

worth it for the free tuition and worth it because her mother’s chances of survival over the next twenty years are so much better than they’d been three months ago. “good. how’s verona?”

“boring without you here. i miss our morning reviews and you ranting to me about ancient architecture and history.”

she snorts. “not the cool, fun, spying stuff? just the history?”

loretta quiets for a second or two, and she’s wondering if she maybe put her foot in her mouth. “i almost wish i’d never dragged you into any of that. but you’re safer in america than over here, at least. i’ve got your back.”

it’s a relief to hear something she wasn’t really listening for anyways, but freya feels a sudden tightening in her chest. “i don’t regret any of it. it was --- what the capulets and montagues are doing? they’re ruining verona. i’m not even from there and i saw it. the bridge...”

loretta sighs. “yeah, i know. but hopefully this whole thing will be done. i’m working on it, and you and i can both go to bed resting easy.” she sounds tired. really, really tired.

“will you call me next week?” she asks, voice soft, like she always does. maybe it’s stupid, but she worries, and loretta delluci isn’t a woman you just forget. she can almost picture her face: the way the lines around her eyes soften, the curve of her smile, the warmth of her arms when they’d hugged one last time in loretta’s apartment before freya’d had to go to the airport.

“of course i will. you keep me updated, okay?”

“sure thing. i’ll let you know if --- if anything happens.”

loretta never says goodbye, over the phone. she always just ends the call. with the promise she’d apparently needed, loretta leaves freya with bad punk rock on the radio and a smear of blue polish on her index finger.

she still scrubs at her suddenly wet eyes anyways.

#diveronatask #illness tw #ptsd tw #fellas is it valid to get absorbed in unimportant side characters you'll never really think about again and proceed to cry a lot about them #is it valid to pour your entire afternoon into finishing graphics for each individual character #mmmmmmm i went a LITTLE overboard but it's. it's fine #character study.#graphics.

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connywrites · 6 years ago

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of flesh and blood 11

start - part [10]

Honey, I wanna break you, I wanna throw you to the hounds. Yeah, I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear it from your mouth. Boy, I wanna taste you; I wanna skin you with my tongue. I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna lay you in the ground.

“Now. Care to explain the situation from earlier?”

Gavin’s eyebrows twitched as they furrowed into his usual scowl, a predictable response that the RK900 completely anticipated.

“Wh-“

“You know precisely what. Or rather, who. You were ready to swing at Lieutenant Anderson and we both know that.” Gavin narrowed his eyes and felt exactly as he did then; challenged, agitated, with a twitch in his lips as they curled back in a snarl.

“You heard him. The way he was talking about you, about me.” RK900 remained unmoving without so much as a flicker in its expression.

“Why do you think I would care what he was saying at all?” Gavin felt his body recline on itself as he realized that it wasn’t only the truth, but the fact he’d nearly started a fight over what the android would have seen as something miniscule and unimportant brought back the embarrassment he hadn’t felt for a couple of days now.

“No words of defense?” Gavin stared at it, and his aggression didn’t leave. The irritation had lingered within him, swirling with sparks in his mind ever since he stepped foot into the meeting room. A frustrating irony as it had gone better than any he’d attended previously, yet he wasn’t satisfied – he’d felt worse.

“Ah. Wait. It was not him you were angry at.” Gavin blinked, and in a moment of confusion, his offensive stance faltered.

“It was the fact he pointed out what I’m doing, and that it’s working. Yes? Or at least, combined with your oppositional nature with him. Chen mentioned similarly and it didn’t bother you at all…interesting, the differences in human relationships. So perhaps you were further triggered because you dislike him, but nonetheless, that behavior is inappropriate, and especially in that setting. How is anyone going to take you seriously if you--“

“Maybe I don’t want them to take me seriously!” His voice raised with a bark, wrinkles forming around his nose as it scrunched, the man baring his teeth not unlike a threatened dog.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. If I asked you to hurt me, whenever the fuck that was, haven’t you done it enough already?”

Reaching forward, RK900 gripped the simmering tie and pulled Gavin forth by it with a vigorous yank, though its eyes remained steady and its expression nonchalant.

“Some seem to believe I am helping you, and this is how you treat me?” Anxiety crawled down his back again as his muscles stiffened in the action of being afraid rather than provoked.

“Do you want to revisit the other night?” Gavin’s expression dropped almost immediately as he stared into cold, slate eyes with his own, not quite brave enough to say no.

“Your day was great. Your meeting went fantastic. You got the raise you wanted and you’ve contributed to the Department with advice that they took rather seriously, to everyone’s surprise, even your own. You want to go back on that because of a few words a man said to you?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” RK900 allowed itself to feel the emotion Gavin was currently under, calmly settling into the strange, foreign discomfort that made it feel something similar to what it imagined Gavin might have the night he killed its previous chassis. It presumed he still didn’t even remember the event, considering how far under the influence of the medication he had been.

“Indeed.” There was a bite to its tone as an idea bloomed in its mind, tilting its head with a glare that held more bite than Gavin had seen to date. Suddenly, he was trying to pull away, feeling his stomach knot as something like horror struck him, the innate urge to run making him panic and wrench in a way that encouraged the tie to constrict tighter around his neck, making him bring his hands up to claw at the 900’s hands the same way as he had when it was choking him before.

“Let—go—” In response to that demand, it pulled him closer, nearly bumping his nose to its own as it brought him near until there was half an inch between them. A different idea followed a different sensation, one that would seem rather random if it didn’t already have a secure database for human psychology, deciding to follow through for the pure sake of instigation.

In what was a pair of seconds for the android and a startling eternity for Gavin, their lips met, and there was the taste of coffee on its mouth in the moment that was shared. Letting go of the tie, it let its arms fall to its side, making no movement to pull away but letting Gavin regain full freedom as he stepped backward so fast he almost lost his balance, smacking a hand to cover his mouth in a moment of combined shock, embarrassment and lingering fright from the way the 900 spoke, looked at him, yanked at him, dragged him, threw him—an image of the android with eyeless sockets pouring shimmering blue blood flashed into his mind, and for a moment he thought he might retch. Why was he seeing things like that, and why at a time like this?

What the hell flared in his mind, a vibrant neon sign that flashed red flags, and suddenly he felt himself against the wall.

RK900 licked its lips like a hungry wolf, savoring the taste and storing the memory into its hard drives.

“W-wh—what was that about?!” Eyes dilated, his body vibrated with the shaky desire to flee, but all of his proper thinking was thrown out the window with the rush of alarm flashing through his mind. Walking closer, the entity settled its hands on his waist, glancing down at his midriff as its thumbs brushed under the fabric of his dress shirt, tucking it upward as it rubbed small circles along the inward curve of his hipbones.

“You didn’t like that?” Gavin felt his heartbeat race in his ears at what seemed to be quadruple the rate, feeling ultimately helpless as he stood in place with no idea what to do. Every instinct in his mind warned him to fight back and try to push the taller male away, but there was no use as he knew he would easily lose at best, and end up hurting himself again at worst.

“Hm. Interesting. Again, your response seems to depend entirely on who is touching you.” Tilting its head, its demeanor was suddenly soft, tender while its hand slid up under his shirt, running over the warm, clammy flesh of his muscular stomach, seamlessly sliding apart the buttons with dexterous movements while it traveled its touch up his chest. Once it was halfway and felt the hair of his chest, it curled its fingers, trailing synthetic nails along the flesh of his torso, soft at first, before digging harder until it left whitened streaks behind that quickly turned red in their wake.

Sighing, as if bored, it let its hands fall away again, feeling no desire to pursue its actions as it stared at Gavin and soaked in the frightened expression on his face, awakening something else in the darkness of its programming. With one hand dipping to the inside of its jacket, it pulled out something Gavin couldn’t see, even when his eyes followed its movements; he only felt the cold, sharp metal when it was pressed against his neck, and without a moment of thought, he yelped as soon as the keen blade nudged against his skin.

“I could cut you like tissue paper. Do you want that?” Perplexed and ultimately terrified, wide eyes glanced down towards his own neck, then back up at the 900 as he felt his entire body begin to shake against its own will. He didn’t want to speak, he didn’t want to move, lest he shift too rapidly and add another scar to the pile in favor of a healing wound; but there would be no subtlety in going to work with even a cat scratch streak on his neck.

“N…no.” The flow of its own thirium pump seemed to increase as another sensation steamed up from within; excitement.

“Beg.” Wincing, Gavin wasted no time in swiftly forming the words and exuding the emotion in his voice as he spoke.

“P-please. Dear god, please, d-don’t hurt me,” he murmured with frightened breaths, a flashback in his mind of the android in the interrogation room that had belonged to 28-stab-wound murder victim, Carlos Ortiz. The way it shook and stared with fear and couldn’t speak, so his suggestion was naturally to try and rough it up a bit.

Suddenly, he understood how it felt, and it wasn’t a comfortable sensation at all.

“W-we’re partners. Friends. Remember? Th—there’s no need for this,” he murmured, squinting one eye shut as half his mind tried to escape, the other still peeking at Nines in fear.

“Is that how you felt when you slew me in cold, blue blood?” Eyebrows twitching, they slowly knit together in confusion, but the acknowledgment was apparent as his eyes lit up with recognition.

“I—you—this is why…” A sly, predatory smile crossed the 900’s features as it let the realization sink in.

“Nines…” Unsure of what he was really going for, he felt the prick of the sharp blade press against the skin of his neck, nicking it open just enough to sting.

“You—” Catching himself in an accusatory statement, he paused, swallowing briskly as he swallowed it down.

“I didn’t mean for that,” he said in a whisper, all too aware of the blade against his neck.

“Oh, I doubt that,” it responded, and in the blink of an eye, the blade struck a diagonal line across his neck – nearly parallel to the indented scar on his nose – cutting deep enough to spill a pleasant stream of dripping blood. Tears stung his eyes, and Gavin was quick to find himself sniffling in an attempt not to fully cry.

“You’re a terrible liar, and pathetic at trying to cover your own hide. At this rate, I should fire you.” Surprised, then agitated, then returning to being afraid, Gavin’s face contorted with disbelief.

“You can’t—”

The large hand was tangled in his hair and his skull smacked against the wall, before his balance was thrown and he found himself tumbling to the ground, not unlike it had happened the nights before.

“We really need to work on your phrasing, hm?” Bringing a hand to his neck, Gavin tried to press it to the wound as his breathing quickened and he hyperventilated, trying to ignore the salt water trailing down his cheeks, first in a trickle, then in a flood as rather than trying to flee entirely, he scrambled for a place to hide, ducking down behind the arm of his couch to nestle into the space between the furniture and the wall, bumping the base of the tall floor lamp as he remembered being thrown into the end table mere days ago.

“Oh, how pathetic. Tsk, tsk. You think you can get away with being an aggressor, then cower away when the tide shifts against you?”

The next thing he felt was the now well-acquainted yank of his hair, but nothing else, scalp stinging as he was pulled by the fistful of strands alone and scurried to his feet so as not to be simply dragged by the 900 while following wherever it was leading him.

The next thing he saw was the bed as he was forced to face it, then shoved down into it. His arms were behind his back, his tie was pulled undone, and the nice, freshly ironed shirt was pried off his body as the buttons popped off with the motions.

Then, the pain, similar that of the shattered glass, but more intense as the cuts were much deeper. One, then another, then another, initiating pained screams in response, but it was muffled within seconds as his face was shoved down into the pillow. The weight of the body pressed against the small of his back as RK900 sat on him, keeping his head shoved down and holding his body still while the other continued to carve in fine, shallow, slow lines across his back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll bathe you and bandage you up.” It’s voice was unnervingly soft, as if it were speaking from the point of view of a tender lover, a stark contrast to the pain he now felt in the front of his neck and scattered across his back.

“Maybe this will be a consistent reminder not to talk back. To anyone.”

Once he was out of the bath, he was given a few moments of peace while the android went to make coffee, taking advantage as he shamefully wiped the tears from his face and glanced into the mirror, turning around and casting a glance over his shoulder while he tried to make out how bad the damage was. Another wave of shock that immediately sunk a weight of foreboding into his stomach struck him as he recognized a pattern in the bright red, swollen lines: RK900 could be made out in reverse from the mirror’s reflection, perfectly carved in the all-too-familiar Cyberlife sans. Guilt welled in him, sinking into fear, then depression and raw self-loathing as he stepped back from the mirror, placing a hand against the wall in attempt to stabilize himself as he sunk to his knees on the floor.

He sobbed. For how long, he couldn’t be sure, taking the freedom of isolation to let himself break down, body shaking while any and all coordination and motor function gradually left him, growing unsteady all over again the tremors revisited him, shaking his entire form in heavy waves of emotion.

“You don’t have to shower this morning since I cleaned you up last night. But I do request you give your hair a swift wash and rinse before you put in the product.”

Gavin’s eyes stared at the ground, chin dipped to press against the top of his chest as his head hung, shoulders squared with his hands behind him, fingers interwoven in a polite posture.

“Yes sir,” he whispered just barely loud enough for its microphones to pick up on. With a snap of its fingers, it pointed to the bathroom, glaring with its usual cold stare as it silently demanded him to get moving, and so he did. As if on cue, it continued to hover close behind while it followed him to revisit the bathroom.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“October 7th, 2039.”

“That’s right. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s my birthday.” It wore a sarcastic smile, pretending to be proud of him for grasping such a basic concept.

“Thirty-seven years old. How do you feel?”

Once he was done making swift work of his hair, a quick and easy routine by now, he turned to face 900 with his arms stiffly returned to his sides. If he told the truth, the response wouldn’t be good, so he made a point to lie through his teeth.

“Fine.”

“It’s Saturday. You have the whole day to celebrate.” Reaching forth, it placed a hand to his cheek – he barely winced, now able to predict and somewhat expect when it was going to lay hands on him, and the times the touches would be gentle rather than abrasive.

“What would you like to do?” Sleep.

“I don’t know. I don’t usually celebrate.” Tilting its head back, it cast him a downward gaze before pulling its hand free again.

“That’s a shame. You have so much freedom now,” it cooed with a generous amount of irony in its tone.

“You have no idea what you’d like to do?” I haven’t seen my favorite TV show in a week.

“I’d like to stay home for today, if you don’t mind.”

Perfect.

“Alright, then. You can change into your more comfortable clothing and spend the day in bed.” The undignified feeling of foolishness rose up within him again as he was treated like a child, but his responses were all but naught.

“Thank you, sir.”

#rk900 #gavin reed

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blueyemxn · 5 years ago

Text

My Persephone (Pt. 6)

Calamity Days

Spoiler Warning: Content below contains spoilers for the lvl 80 Shadowbringers MSQ, if you have not reached this point in the game and do not wish to be spoiled please refrain from reading. Otherwise enjoy my trash shipping at your own risk.

Relationship: Emet-SelchxWoL

Ao3 Story - Here Part One: Here Part Two: Here Part Three: Here Part Four: Here Part Five: Here

“Welcome to the final days of Amaurot.”

His voice towered above them, scornful and all knowing, setting the stage of disaster. The screams and the fire, the towering Amaurotines running and quaking in fear, their wisdom lost in the hysteria. Nua had only taken one step and she could barely breathe, grief striking at her core.

“This is so… terrible,” Ryne’s voice was just above a whisper, but it spoke with an unmistakable quiver. But then, who wouldn’t be?

“Steady, Ryne! Remember: this is just a recreation.” And, as ever, Thancred’s voice was a stable sound of reasoning, but seeing the look on his face spelled the opposite of calm.

“A recreation it may be, but I can see storms of emotion… the aether here is seething with it.”

However, she was not interested in the destruction set before them, for as Emet-Selch set the stage with entitled grandeur the test he was so stubbornly committed to began. A test to see if they, if she was worthy of his patronage.

With nary a word, Nua hauled out her axe and proceeded, heart heavy and mind bracing itself for harsh memories that would assault her being. The smoke and ash of the world filling her lungs and bringing a sense of despair that she hadn’t felt in what seemed like millennia.

“The fabric of our star began to fray… and the unchecked energies of creation begat malformed beasts. And lo, vile beasts did rise, leaving naught in their wake but blood and ash.”

Leaving naught but terror and panic, flailing around like frightened children, helpless in their endeavor to survive. Her companions called out to her, their voices drowning out amongst the roars and aching pains of the world around her.

“...re.”

Within the heated streets, battling Dooms and avoiding the buildings crumbling from above, a stray sound made it to her.

“K...ore.”

Ringing in her ears, the world shattering and crackling while another horde of horrors fell at her feet. But the voice was still there, coming back to her mind, inching it towards another memory, another shard. Another shard she didn’t have time for.

“...Kore.”

Hacking away at all those in her path, ignoring the cries of her people, ignoring the pain and the agony and the despair as their screams became the chorus of a horrendous discord. Her axe-head swung, etched in blood and all manor of disgusting gore from the corpses of dead creatures. The way the metal sang was low, half-hearted and melancholy, her focus elsewhere, staving off the past that was determined to remember.

“Kore!”

Nua shut her eyes, baring her fangs as she ripped apart another monster. But the voices didn’t stop. They never could.

“Kore!”

“What?!” Unable to bear the voice anymore, she opened her eyes and violently turned with a snarl, only to be met with a tall figure with neither hood nor mask, revealing a slender and tired face of an irritated mother.

“Kore, inside voice.” She said, her tone hollow and soft. “That’s no way to talk to your mother.”

“Why are you here?” She asked. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“We need to talk. I know you’re irritated—”

“Is it that obvious? Gee, I wonder why! You’re keeping me from Hades!”

“Emet-Selch is participating in a dangerous thing, you are no longer allowed to be around him.”

“I have a right to decide who I can and can’t stay with; I’m an—”

“Enough.” Her arm motioned for silence, the exhausted Amaurotine ending the interruption. “Emet-Selch cannot and will not be your patron any longer. You must stay here, where it is safe.”

A twitch. An anger filled her chest. This was unfair. This was not right. She was not going to leave Hades. She was not going to abandon him now as their star fell apart.

“I’m going whether you will it or not, Mother.” Kore turned away.She reached out to grab her arm, determined to spare her from her fate. Kore turned on her heel and lashed out, her other arm swerving in for a devastating blow—

“Nua!” Through the memories did her true name ring, calling and pulling her away from the intruding thoughts just in time for her axe to stop short before a wide-eyed Ryne.

Blue eyes blinked, fear pooling from their irises. “I...” she put on a brave face, but Nua could hear the tinge of fear in her voice. The Auri cursed.

“Dammit—Ryne, what were you doing? I could’ve killed you!”

“I… I saw the Light within you fluctuate and feared something was wrong.” She looked away in shame and Nua felt a pang of guilt run through her. As wise as she was for her age, Ryne was still a naive child, wanting to help and make peace and preserve life; unlike Nua who only knew war, and battle and death.

“Well, I’m fine so—”

“Ryne!” Called out Thancred as he barreled though, gunblade out and ready. “You really need to stop running off like that you know!”

“Sorry, it’s just Nua…”

“I’m fine, as I said.” She turned away, looking to see that the path before them had opened forward, awaiting the queue for the next slew of events to unfold within this grand theater.

“The land buckled; the cities burned; the waters ran red with blood. For soon did the sun bend low, scorching earth and boiling seas”

The land screamed; it tore itself asunder as the illness plaguing the star erupted and corrupted, spread through a world doomed to fall. Our heroes journeyed forth, arms at the ready, plucking the life away from all who dared to block their path. Running across the bodies of Amaurotine, clutching each other in a desperate need for comfort; in pain as the illness of the star consumed them.

“K..re!”

Another fracture, calling into a memory, pulling and sinking deep within her psyche. A warning? A beckoning? Neither matters to her; only striving forward.

“Kore!!”

It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It. Isn’t. Real!

“Kore watch out!” His voice vibrated painfully in her ears and she looked up to see one of the creatures raising it’s gnarled claws up to strike her down. Her heart beating a mile a minute, hands shaking in terror. She was frozen.

“All that I have and more, I bring to bear!” The sound of Hythlodaeus’ voice managed to wrangle her back to her senses as his magic shielded her from the blow. Her breath was ragged as she looked upon the beast so desperate to tear her apart. “My friend, if you aren’t careful you’ll end up being cut down before you reach the Convocation!”

She could hear his usual calm, and grinning self despite the chaotic loudness sounding around them. He was there as he always was; supporting her; helping her; guiding her.

“I know! It's just…” a clenched fist and gritted teeth; what was she waiting for? Why does she hesitate? Why was she so afraid? A hand on her shoulder and she looked to see his smile radiating a reassuring glow.

“Do not shed tears, my friend, I am here. Together we will overcome this!” He told her as he wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“Daeus… We must move on, we can’t keep fighting everything in our path.”

“Then go without me.”

“What?!”

“I am causing you hesitation and discourse. Hurry and move on ahead, I shall keep the beasts at bay.”

“But—”

“You do not want to keep Hades waiting do you? You know how he gets when he’s kept waiting. Now go!” His magic pushed forward, staggering the creature before it was assaulted by his magics. Kore turned to him, but all he did was grin at her, a hint of mischief playing upon his lips even as the world around him crumbled to dust.

“Yet this was far from the worst of it. Come, and I will show you… Just a little further… and you will see the end of a world.”

The voice of Emet-Selch boomed once more, clearing her mind and bringing her back. Beneath her did the dead carcass of the bird monster lay, its body plastered all over the arena after being cleaved in half. Beyond was a portal to the final part of this farce; of this judgement.

Just a little more and perhaps we can end this without having to kill each other A hopeful and impossible thought, she knew, but hoped for it nonetheless.

“What do you suppose lies beyond…?”

“Only one way to find out!” Before anyone could stop her, Alisaie charged through with weapon in hand. Thancred cursed and followed after, followed by a nervous Alphinaud and Ryne and followed more by a huffing Y’shtola and a silent Urianger. She was the only one to stay behind.

Nua stared at the portal, knowing that the ever present narrator was eager to end his tale and remind them of the folly of their past and of their future. But she couldn’t help but stare, blinking at the swirling aether while the horrifying echoes of a dying world became white noise to her inner thoughts.

“I can only wonder if you’re doing this on purpose; provoking my memories like this, or if this is just further proof you need that I’m too broken to fix.” She said, bitterness resting on her tongue.

“. . .”

She did not expect him to answer of course, but she knew he was watching her. While the stage was set to show everyone the tragedy of their world, his eyes were always on her. Watching. Judging. Hoping. Even now when her allies were waiting for her to jump through the portal his gaze, his attention was on her, on what she would do next.

Nua took a step forward, feeling the aether churn before her, almost touching her armored form. But she did not go through, not yet. “We both know how this is going to end. You will judge us. You will dismiss us. You will fight us as your brethren have done before you. You say you want to follow the road of lesser tragedy and yet you repeat the mistakes of your fellows.”

“. . .”

He must hate her, ruefully gazing down on her at the audacity to say such things, but if Hades was going to spill out the entire truth then so shall she.

Her hand clenched and finally found the will to move once more, to enter the beginning of the end; the genesis and the oblivion; the first and the last. The world beneath them glittering with chaos, a world destroying itself from the sins of its people and its past. One final time her eyes looked back, towards the heavens, to wherever he may be watching her.

“In the end it is your decision on how we walk this road. Whether it be hand in hand, or not at all.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv shadowbringers #emet-selch #|| drabble

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