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sabraeal · 11 months ago

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The Man of Progress, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

If there is one thing Viktor has learned wrangling with these crystals these past two years, it’s that Talis’s forges can cast a blast door as sturdy as will still take a hinge, but they still can’t make steel thick enough to keep Jayce’s voice from cutting through.

“He’s not going to go for it.” The man might well be standing in the same room for all the door does to stifle it; a pillow might do a better job. To make matters worse, his voice is pitched lower still, trying to locate a whisper and instead finding the precise frequency that turns solid metal into a screen door. “You can ask him if you want, but I don’t know what good it’ll do you.”

The Councilor’s reply is muffled; her cultured tones may be able to quell a querulous council room, but it cannot defy the very laws of physics. Little more than the highest curves of her conversation curl through the gap between steel and concrete, but Viktor doesn’t need to hear the content to know exactly what’s happening in that showroom. Their patron has a plan, and as much as Jayce might dig in, a broad-shouldered barrier between her and their work, Councilor Medarda hasn’t ascended to Piltover’s loftiest heights to be stopped by mere flesh and bone and spirited protest. No, she’ll bully herself right past him, and if six feet of muscle-bound engineer can’t stop her, eighteen inches of steel won’t be much of an impediment either.

The door swings open with a squeal, stopping only just short of the dent Jayce made the first time he opened it. She approaches at an unhurried pace, not so much a sashay but a stride, confidence radiating from every subtle clack of her golden heels. They echo up the walls, gathering in the the ceiling’s vault like the prelude to a storm, inexorable, unavoidable—

And here. “Viktor. Good Morning.”

He sighs, contemplating the pliers in his grip. There had been boys who would gather at the shore when the clouds turned heavy out to sea, who used to dig into the sand when thunder pealed over the waves, waiting for the lightning to scrape across the sky. They’d stand in the water up to their knees, watching the skies churn even as their own darkened, swearing they could feel sparks when it hit. That there was a thrum that came in with the tide— better than Shimmer, one of them had boasted, long before any of them had been lost to it— one that made them powerful, invincible, like the enforcers in their armor—

At least, until one of them was struck. Wandered too far, or maybe too close, and was swept away before any of them could see if there was enough of him left unburnt to breathe.

Jayce’s scuffled steps struggle over the threshold, stumbling to catch her heels, and he might as well be knee deep in the water, wading out to see the storm. There are just some boys, it seems, that long to be burned. “Councilor, wait…”

Viktor, for his part, keeps his feet on terra firma. The sand’s no place for a man with barely a leg to stand on. He’d learned that well enough watching the other children scuttle across the rocks as he tinkered with his boat. Playing the same games as them only ended in bruised pride and scuffed knees.

So he only dares to glance at her in reflection, through the warped mirror that chrome creates. At least there she looks something closer to human than sublime. “Councilor.” He sits back on his heels, squinting into the clockwork clutter. Makes no move to turn toward her— she’ll get what she wants by the time she sweeps out of this lab, but he’ll be damned if he lets her have it ten steps through the door. “To what do we owe this pleasure.”

Jayce strains a breath through his smile, all his dire warnings about teeth and hands that feed caught between his own. But even the warped reflection can’t manufacture the lift of the Councilor’s eyebrow on its own, or how her mouth moves to mirror its curve. “Am I not allowed to check in on my investment?”

She circles behind him; a slow, measured saunter marked by the clack of her heels on the concrete. And by the accordion pull of her reflection, languidly stretching across the metal’s peaks before pooling in its valleys, a flicker of the real before the reinstatement of the absurd. And yet there’s no mistaking where that sharp gaze lingers— not on the machine, but on his back, carving a line between his shoulders from attention alone.

“We’re the best minds the Academy has to offer, Councilor, do give us some credit.” The pliers clench around a cog, wrenching it to where its teeth mesh with the ones beside it. “I think we’ve learned by now that we couldn’t hold you back, even if we tried.”

His name hisses out from behind Jayce’s perfect smile— oh, this afternoon’s going to be a litany of hands, food, and would it kill you to be nice for once?— but the Councilor only lingers behind his shoulder, mouth stretched so wide across the metal that a millimeter more would turn her all to teeth. “What a…flattering assessment.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” he lies. “I’m simply acknowledging the reality of the situation. No matter how unpleasant.”

Jayce practically chokes on his own forced laugh. “He— he doesn’t mean that. We enjoy every moment you choose to spend down here.”

“Not that we have much of a choice,” Viktor adds, setting aside pliers for a wrench. “Since I doubt there’s a man alive that could keep you from where you mean to go.”

One perfect brow twitches. “Some have tried.”

And failed, she doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to with the way her chin lifts, conquest etched in every line. He nearly likes her better for it— after all, if a storm is meant to sink ships, it should take pride in each one scuttled in its wake.

At least, he might, if he wasn’t already watching one founder. “Councilor, Viktor’s just, er,” —making Jayce sweat bullets, from the look of it— “joking. He’s a real kidder.”

Viktor’s head swivels on its axis, quick enough to make his neck ache. It’s worth it to spear his partner with a scowl where he stands, letting the angle of its furrow heavily imply, what the hell are you doing?

Jayce’s hands splay helplessly in a shrug, eyebrows hiked so high there’s barely any forehead left before his hairline. What are you doing?

“A kidder.” The Councilor is unconvinced, arms folded under her chest like a guillotine’s blade. “Really.”

It’s not a question. But at a bulge of his partner’s eyes, Viktor cobbles together an answer. “That’s me,” he blurts out, ignoring the coughing jag coming from behind her shoulder. “A jokester. A real…funny guy.”

The inviting pout she wears tightens to a close-lipped purse, eyes narrowing the way doors might before they slam shut. “I would never have guessed.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s a laugh riot.” Jayce steps up beside her, grin so wide Viktor’s gut goes cold. “You should ask to see his Heimerdinger impression.”

The Councilor glances back— incredulous, of course, though too politique to show it in anything more than a squint of the eyes— and Viktor lets his brow pinch behind her, displeasure seeping out of every pore. His early years at the Academy had made for a veritable world tour of puerile pranks; a lame boy from the Undercity made the perfect target for callow youths, missing the sort of bullying they had been able to wreak at all the best private institutions Piltover could offer. He had become a connoisseur of the uncomfortable, an epicurean of embarrassment— and with a glare, he lets his partner know he has not forgotten a single one.

Jayce sends a worried glance toward the coffee pot. Ha. A single trick he’d been subject to would make that man beg for bodily fluids in his cup.

“I’ll take your word for it.” She turns back, frowning at his placid expression. “Though I do wonder what inspired him to humor this morning.”

“I thought I would keep the mood light,” he tells her, already angling himself towards his cogs. “You know, since you two seem so serious after conspiring in the showroom.”

Jayce nearly chokes. “You heard that?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle. So go on”—he spares the Councilor a weary look— “what is it I’m not going to like?”

“The Distinguished Innovators Competition,” she informs him, shameless, as if his eavesdropping had been part of the plan all along. Knowing the way Jayce’s voice could carry, it might well have been. “I was just discussing it with Mr Talis. He didn’t think you’d be a fan.”

“Distinguished Innovation?” Two relatively benign concepts. “What’s not to like?”

“She wants us to enter it.” That earns the golden boy a glare from the Councilor. Apparently throwing her beneath the carriage had not been part of her plans.

“Oh.” He glances between them, disinterested. “He’s right.”

“What I was saying,” she begins, sharp enough to tug his attention away from cogs and chrome. “Was that it would be a good opportunity to show that Hextech is a real, viable resource, not just another pipe dream of two Academy engineers.”

“Oh?” He blinks, sitting back on his heels. “I didn’t realize pipe dreams regularly blow out windows in the government building. How difficult that must be for you, Councilor.”

She grunts softly; a palpable hit. That’s one point to him. “I’m not talking about a proof of concept. If you can show these people a concrete demonstration of just one crystal’s power, the interest it would generate in Hextech’s future…it would be enormous.”

“We have enough interest.” He shakes his head, turning it back towards the table. “The last thing we need are more investors wandering around here, cackling over their winning horses.”

Jayce shifts, leaning so close to the Councilor their reflections blur together, one big puddle of patron and patronized on stilted legs. “I told you.”

Her hand lifts, a soft curl that quiets him quicker than a shout. With a turn of her head— a tilt of her chin, really— she manages to say without speaking, I’ll handle this. Or maybe, I’ll handle him— a mistake, on her part. Viktor has learned to keep his head down, to toe the line these top-siders are so partial to, but he’s Undercity, through and through. Ungovernable, as her colleagues are so fond of saying.

A fact Jayce knows all too well. But although he may snort, may toss his head like one of those metal steeds strapped to their track, he still turns, tromping his way right across the floor. Throws his hands up for good measure, with a shake of his head to give it a resigned flavor. It’s a lost cause, he doesn’t say, because the slam of the door says it loud enough behind him.

It's still ringing in his ears when her hand presses flat to the table; a warm earthen brown stark against the cold gray of metal and stone. Comically small next to the gauntlet’s size, like a child’s pressed against their father’s. Something startlingly real compared to plates and pistons. The rest of her follows after, the curve of her hip resting against the hard corners of the counter.

“I’m not recommending you participate for bragging rights, you know.” The Councilor’s voice is lower now, less strident; not made for an audience but to fill the inches between them. Intimate, almost. Enough to make his shoulders itch just beneath his nape. “If you place in the competition, you’ll have all the clans bidding to sponsor you. Enough money to fund you for a year, at the least.”

Tempting. But then, what she offers always is. “What’s the matter, Councilor? Purse feeling a little tight?”

Something huffs out of her, not a laugh but a kissing cousin, one not so sweet but infinitely more interesting. “It would take more than a lab like this one to beggar Medarda’s coffers. But needless to say, you are hardly our only investment.”

Just the biggest risk. Or at least, the most entertaining one, by how often her itinerary takes her past the workshop. “Even so. We’re more than adequately funded through the next three years, let alone one.”

“Oh?” One brow lifts. “For all your projects?”

Her gaze rests pointedly past him, on a tarp haphazardly tossed over a machine, dust collecting in the valley tented between its arches. An ungainly shape, sequestered to the most solitary corner of their workshop, abandoned yet refusing to be forgotten.

“It’s part of the process,” he murmurs, faint even to his own ears. “Innovation requires experimentation. And some are…less promising than others.”

She shifts, close enough to startle him, to make him stare straight up into the shine of her eyes. “Albus Ferros has outbid every clan for the winning innovator seven years out of the last ten. He may not have been sold by Cassandra Kiramman’s little sales pitch last year, but if you show him that you can outshine your competition…well, you may think my pockets run deep, but Clan Ferros…”

She hardly needs to tell him. Ferros may not sponsor many Academy graduates, but the ones they did— their portraits all hung in its hallowed halls, its proudest successes: men who changed the world.

And lined their pockets doing it. Though that mattered more to the students that walked those halls, rather than the trustees who commissioned the portraits.

“It’s also a good opportunity for you.” Gold glimmers as her shoulder lifts, following her movements less like metal and more like a second skin. “At least, to be known as more than Jayce’s assistant.”

Ah, that’s the problem with letting the Councilor linger around here, watching the process. As much as she learns about her investment, she also learns about them, and it leads to— to this. To this way her words wedge beneath his skin, caught like a metal sliver beneath his nail.

“I’d rather people that close to the top not know me by name. It’s bad for the neck,” he explains, rubbing at his. “You see, I like how mine is attached to my shoulders. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

The Councilor doesn’t frown, but her arms cross, cheeks stretching sharp over the architecture of her face. “What, so you think they’ll string you up for being clever? Insolence? Magecraft?”

“They did once,” he mumbles into his machinery. The Undercity doesn’t teach history to its children— at least, not anything past the debts the Chem-Barons collect when a person is fool enough to deal with them— but he’d seen the frescoes on the government buildings walls, the paintings hung in Heimerdinger’s office. “What’s to say they won’t find a taste for it again? Some of them could use a hobby.”

Her eyes narrow, honing all that carefully maintained beauty to a fox-like point. “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by my colleagues.”

“I’m not intimidated.” He rolls his wrist absently, wrench still in hand. “I’m cautious.”

She sniffs, all incredulity. “I must admit, I’m not seeing the difference.”

“You wouldn’t,” he mutters— a mistake. She’s too close for it to be lost in metal and machinery, an aside gone astray. No, the Councilor hears every word, spine stiffening with the affront only the privileged can afford. “Councilor, when you look at me— what is it you see?”

Viktor does her the favor of leaning back, of turning toward her so that she can take all of him in. He half-considers reaching for his crutch, of maybe even getting to his feet and taking a step toward her, so that she could see the way his shoulder dips as he walks, the grotesquerie of his movement—

“A genius.”

That’s it; no hesitation, no pity. A simple assessment without the fixed point of her gaze ever straying.

“Councilor…” he coughs, surprised. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Her mouth threatens to smirk. “No, it won’t.”

“No,” he agrees, oddly amused, “it won’t. You’ll call me a genius today because you’re pleased with my progress, but when I disappoint, well…then I’ll be��”

“A pain in my ass?” she offers with a quickness that implies practice. She shifts, spine falling into its usual coy curve. “A downright bastard.”

A laugh barks out of him before he can leash it. “To say the least. To your honored colleagues, I might be an Academy engineer today, one of the best and brightest balls of gas the professor has ever condensed into a star, but tomorrow…” His mouth rumples around the sour taste in his mouth. “Tomorrow I could just be another piece of Undercity trash. A rat from the sewers who slipped under the door.”

He leans toward her, one arm braced on the table, conspiracy curving his smile. “I’m sure you know how it is, Councilor— the higher you climb, the further you have to fall. Academy Engineer might not seem like a lot to you, but to me, well” —his shoulder lifts, lazy as he sits back— “I have much deeper depths to plunge.”

He expects her to huff, to protest, maybe even to laugh— that’s what Jayce has always done, shaking his head at every refused invitation as if he were a child pushing away a full plate. But instead the Councilor simply stares at him, her smooth brow marred by a furrow. Utterly still, not even a twitch to give her away as something flesh and blood.

Ah, now he’s done it. Made things awkward. “Jayce is better at dealing with those people anyway,” he tells her, a pleasing patch over an unpleasant truth. “He even looks like one of them.”

Because he is. For as far as he is from the Council’s heights, he’s still a clansman, albeit a minor one. Not something he enjoys being reminded of, especially not when he’s being stuffed inside one of those monkey suits, going off to ape his betters.

“Ah.” The Councilor hums, her chin taking its usual superior lift. “So that’s it. You think that next to Talis, they’ll find you—?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” At least, he’s not trying to. But the words come out at all angles, the way his shoulders do when he walks, and the only way to stop them is to snap his teeth around them like a steel trap. “I don’t care what those people think of me. I know who I am.”

“An easy thing to say.” Her heels clack, achingly slow as she steps towards him, so close that the hair raises along his arm. “A harder thing to live. Especially when you aren’t the one drawing the line in the sand.”

He risks a glare at her, but she only smirks, amused.

“If the only face they see with Hextech is Talis, then they’ll assume that Talis is all there is to Hextech.” Her hand may rest on the wrought wrist of the gauntlet, but her gaze swings wide, settling on the ungainly mess in the corner. “And it will only ever be his vision that sees the light of day.”

Viktor’s jaw clenches, hard enough it aches. “Our ideas are implemented equally. It is just the nature of the work that not all of them bear fruit.”

The Councilor hums, fingers brushing across smooth metal as she removes them. His own wrist flexes in some strange sympathy. “If you say so.”

She stands then, fabric flowing after her like a wake. “Think about it, at least. The Distinguished Innovators Competition, I mean.”

On a lesser mortal, that skirt of hers would tangle, would trip her up as she sashayed across the floor. But instead it moves like a part of her, her walk all hips and suggestion.

One that turns into a question when she stops, one foot lifted hesitantly.

“For what it’s worth…” she tosses over her shoulder, gaze not quite meeting his. “Even if you didn’t win” — not likely, her tone says— “I think you would at least cause quite a stir…”

“Sorry about all that.” Jayce scratches at the back of his head, bashful, the way naughty dogs were. “I didn’t want to put you on the spot like that. But you know how Mel is.”

Viktor grunts, one brow hiked. Funny, it’s all Councilor this and Councilor that when she’s swanning around the showroom, deigning to grace them with her esteemed presence, but once the woman’s out of earshot—

Mel. Ha. By the flush slapped across Jayce’s neck, it’ll take a few more years yet before he tries it to her face. A couple more of those fancy parties, one or two awards under his belt. Get more than a few stiff drinks in him, and Jayce might try it even sooner— clothing optional.

With a snap the wrench tumbles out of his hand, clattering across the table as something small and metal pings against the concrete. Viktor blinks. Ah, well…that’s never happened before.

A hand comes down heavy on his shoulder, a perfect lantern jaw hanging itself over it. “Woah, you okay there, buddy? Lose your grip or something?”

“The opposite.” His hand uncurls— aching, still— to show where a small spike of metal juts out from the plating. “The bolt sheared right off.”

“Huh.” Jayce looms closer, squinting at the jagged edge. “Well, would you look at that. I’ll have to talk to the professor about it— it’s fine if it’s one or two, but if it keeps happening, someone’s going to need to talk to the supplier about quality control.”

“Right.” Viktor flexes his fingers, oddly light-headed. “Quality control.”

It’s a clean fingernail that prods at the wreckage, not a speck of grease trapped in its bed; Jayce must have scrubbed before the Councilor came in the door, saving her the indignity of touching anything real. The broken shank doesn’t give so much as a wiggle, not even when a thumb joins the finger, bearing down before it tries to twist and tug.

“Man, that’s in there good.” He steps back, slapping a pair of pliers across Viktor’s palm. “At least it’s one of the small ones. Not a lot of metal, not a lot of room for mistakes. Probably just flawed from the start.”

Viktor grunts, fitting the nose hard against the shank. Flawed from the start. That’s one way of putting it.

“If we were to do this…this Distinguished Innovators thing,” he says, uncertain, twisting until threads peek up from the gap. “I’m not saying we are, but…what would we present?”

It’s easier to talk about this with Jayce behind him; that way he doesn’t have to see when his jaw drops. “If we…?”

“Hypothetically,” Viktor reminds him, but it’s too late; he can hear the excited pace to his steps, like a dog that has caught a glimpse of its leash.

“Of course, of course.” It may sound like an agreement, but Viktor knows all too well: it’s a clearing of the slate, a tabula rasa of thought. He can protest all he likes, but to Jayce, a maybe is as good as a yes. “We’re coming along pretty well on the gauntlets, aren’t we? With a couple more weeks on them, we might have something that could really wow people.”

Viktor takes in the visible bolts tucked between chrome plates, the barely hand-like appendages jammed onto the end of its wrists. When he looks back up, catching Jayce with the corner of his glance, he hardly needs to say, bit of an anemic showing.

“W-well, I mean, we won’t just have the presentation,” Jayce stammers out, scrubbing a hand through the thick mass of his hair. “We’ll have floor space too. We could probably show off most of what we’re working on. Let people get a real glimpse of everything Hextech could do.”

“Everything?” Viktor asks, tone utterly even.

“Ah, well” —Jayce glances to where the tarp sits, wrought metal peeking out beneath its hem, before his eyes skitter away— “Sure. Why not?”

His words might convince him, if only a note of it was sincere. “Because you’re afraid of it.”

“I’m not— I’m not afraid.” An assertion that might stand if he didn’t flinch while making it. “They’re just not…er…”

Safe. That’s what Jayce means to say. It’s not safe. It thrums in the air between them, like the moment before lightning strikes, so charged— so contentious that all his hair stands on end.

“…I just don’t think they show off Hextech to its best advantage,” Jayce says instead, mincing through his words like he was barefoot and each one was a shard of glass. It’s careful, politic, and it sounds more like that woman than it does his partner. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“They are a proof of concept.” It’s the same disagreement they’ve had a dozen times— no, two dozen. None of the sting is left in it, all his arguments so worn that his brow settles into its furrow like a cog does in its groove. “A demonstration of the power that could be wielded by the crystals if we could be refined past their raw state. Something beyond the household applications we’ve tried, which—”

“Which isn’t what Hextech is about,” Jayce says, loud enough that its echo rings throughout the lab, buzzing in his ears. “I appreciate the work you’re doing on it, really, I do. Even if it’s not the direction we chose to take, it belongs at the show. But if we’re going to present something…”

He hefts the gauntlet onto his arm, visibly straining under its bulk. “It’s got to be something people know how to use. Only academics appreciate the abstract.”

Viktor can’t argue with that. But that hardly means he doesn’t have a quibble or two. “You can barely lift that.”

“That’ll just make it all the more impressive,” he grunts, teeth more grit than grin. “When we fire this thing up and I’m swinging it around like I was born with it.”

They’re still weeks away from that, from getting the crystal to do anything but spit and sizzle as it sits in its bezel, but even so— he can picture it. The way Jayce will swing his arm, gesticulating with the cogent verve these merchants clans breed into their children; the halting way the fingers will fold into a fist, unnatural and yet more human than any machine could manage. And the bare blue glow of the Hextech beneath it all, casting a new set of shadows across its onlookers.

“All right,” he relents. “As long as the arches are displayed too.”

“They will be.” Jayce claps him on the shoulder, as good as a promise. “We’re in this together, aren’t we, partner?”

The Councilor wastes no time in submitting their paperwork; within a day she has a form couriered to them, every field filled in her meticulous cursive save for their abstract . It’s blatant enough that even Jayce grimaces, tugging at his collar as he asks, “You don’t think she, uh…?”

“I think,” Viktor says, plucking the sheet from his hand. “That she was not willing to entertain second thoughts.”

“Ah…” Jayce rubs a hand over his neck, concern finally filtering through common sense. “Right. When was this thing supposed to be again?”

“Six months.” At least one of them knows to read the fine print. “It’s part of the lead up to Progress Day.”

“Right, right.” Jayce sucks in a breath deep enough to broaden his shoulders, hands coming to sit at his hips. “Well, that’s plenty of time.”

Viktor turns, arching a dubious brow. “Is it?”

“Hell yes.” His hand drops, giving a gauntlet a proud pat. “We’ll have these babies done with weeks to spare.”

Viktor tries not to find something ominous in their dull clank. “If you say so…”

What had seemed a spacious six months quickly becomes a cramped two weeks of all-nighters and mounting anxiety. They had fallen for the siren song of Piltover’s spring; thinking that their projects would bloom in the passing weeks with all the steadiness and ease as the city transitioned through its seasons. Oh, how easily they had forgotten what even the first year engineers knew all too well: progress was never linear. Two steps forward often led to ten step back, and by the time the competition loomed on the horizon, well—

“Just a little more,” Jayce promises, a pair of over-glorified tin snips in his hand, trying to notch the last few gears. His hands tremble, gripping tighter as the steam carriage rocks beneath them, groaning with each sharp turn they take. “Couple more clips and we’ll be done, I promise.”

Viktor groans, head wedged between the cabin’s wall and his elbow, struggling to keep the bile at bay. The carriage must be on a mission to find every pothole between Midtown and the Academy, engine rattling as it hurtles over the cobbled streets. “I’m going to throw up.”

“You’ll be fine.” That might assure him, if any of that confidence came from an actual lack of concern, rather than force of will. Jayce does spare him a glance, one that turns quickly toward a grimace. “When was the last time you slept, by the way? Or ate?”

Cogs jostle as the driver goads the gears faster, setting the acid sloshing in his stomach. The faces of the other passengers are pale, some even screwing their eyes shut, as if that might save them from a flying gear. Viktor tries the same, wondering if it might stop the roll of his stomach, but oh, ah…that’s worse. So much worse.

“Viktor!” A hand bands around his shoulder, as much a steel vise as this brace he wears, and his eyes jolt open, meeting Jayce’s open concern. “Seriously. You look like you need a sandwich.”

Just the thought of it puts acid in his mouth.

“I think if we win this thing,” he manages, swallowing back bile. “Heimerdinger needs to clear out a lab.”

Jayce huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure thing, buddy. It’s the least he can do for his most promising protégés, right? Be nice to get a little recognition around here.”

He lets his head lean back, settling against the seat. “I’ll just take never having to get in one of these hellish conveyances as long as I live.”

If it could have been left just at that, the carriage would have been at worst an inconvenience; a mode of transportation Viktor would require copious cajoling to consider again. But instead the whole carriage hitches, weightless for a moment before it pitches from one side then to the other. Other passengers are nearly flung from their seats, held in only by the strength of their own grip, but their gears— they fly off Jayce’s lap, skittering across the carriage floor, lost beneath a confusion of boots and skirts.

With all the subtlety of a burst pipe, the whole thing lurches to a stop, engine spewing steam into the cabin, and Viktor—

He can’t take it.

To say he struggles with the door would be an overstatement; he merely jiggles it until the latch prises loose, managing two shuddering steps across the cobbles before he pitches to his knees and loses what little breakfast he forced into his belly in the gutter.

“Viktor!” Jayce springs out after him, hand clasping his shoulder. “Are you all—? Oh, hell. The whole baggage compartment…”

With a queasy glance over his shoulder, he sees it: the metal compartment tucked beneath peeled open like a can of sardines. Bags are strewn across the street, too haphazard for the other carriages to miss, crumpling beneath the wheels of those who can’t bring themselves to stop.

“I want to go home,” he groans, sitting back on his heels. “Can we do that?”

There’s no humor in Jayce’s laugh, just simple bravado. The simple refusal to be cowed by whatever fate can throw at them. Viktor might even feel fond, if he had room for anything but the nausea. “We’ve come too far now. The convention hall is only two blocks away. Just let me find our case, and we can hoof it.”

Viktor glares up at him. “Don’t tell me you expect me to walk.”

“Come on.” He claps him on the back this time, nearly bowling him over. “I think a little fresh air is just what we need.”

Viktor arrives at the convention hall with all the dignity of a collapsed soufflé: drenched in sweat, covered in stains of ignominious origin, and worst of all, limping.

“Really?” Jayce croaks, shouldering him up the steps. Not that his weight is the problem— soaking wet, Viktor would struggle to tip the scale to eight stone— but with both him and the gauntlets’ case, even his partner’s knees start to buckle. “That’s what’s got you? You walk with a cane.”

“A cane is dignified,” Viktor informs him loftily. As much as one can when the only way air can enter and leave through his lungs is a wheeze. “This is” —pathetic— “a trainwreck.”

Complete with a peanut gallery to rubberneck. Each head swivels as they pass, curiosity and pity mingling in most of their onlookers, but others— others sneer with disgust, or worse, forget to smother their smirks. They should have told us there’d be a freak show, one man in a white waist mutters just a hair too loud, I would have brought peanuts.

Viktor heaves himself away, brace clanking under the sudden shift in weight. “I can do it myself.”

One arm still hovers behind his back, as heavy as if it held him still, and Jayce raises a brow. “You sure? You look like you’re going to fly apart like that boiler—”

“Don’t.” Bile gags him at the thought. “Just— my crutch.”

“It’s seen better days,” Jayce warns, and ah, it’d never sat straight to begin with, but there is distinctly more twist to it now, as he hands it over. “Really, Viktor, if you need help, I’m happy to—”

“I’ll manage.” Annoyance sharpens the words to a point, one his partner hardly deserves aimed at him. He shakes his head, fitting the support beneath his shoulder. “Our table is only around the corner. If I can’t make it that far, then maybe I should have gone home.”

“As long as you’re sure. It’s not like I can’t handle it. Heck” —Jayce grins, flexing one of his ridiculous arms hard enough his shirtsleeve strains over his bicep— “I could probably carry two of you without even breaking a sweat.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“Hey, it’s not rubbing it in if it’s true. Just because I’m the buffest guy in this whole Academy doesn’t make me any less of an engin— ah, here.” Jayce doesn’t so much set the case down as heave it onto its side as gently as its weight allows. “We made it.”

Their projects haphazardly litter the floor, dropped wherever the university’s teamsters saw fit to leave them. Despite all of their hours of last minute fussing, peeling years off their lives until chrome was polished and shined to gleaming, it would take time to get them showroom ready again. With a hundred other academic hopefuls’ dreams to cart from every corner of the city, the workmen had handled every project with equal care— that is to say, none at all. It’s time they don’t have, half of it lost between the carriage catastrophe and the convention hall.

It’s enough crunch to make his stomach churn, acid washing over his tongue with all the familiarity of an old friend. But if there’s no time for a spit and shine, there’s even less time for panic; with a steeling breath, Viktor bends his mind to what it’s best at: numbers. He tallies up every last tweak and polish, the number coming out just shy of impossible. Improbable, maybe, but he’d seen projects more hopeless.

That is, until Jayce pops the latches on the case, proving that the carriage’s mishap caused more casualties than the contents of his stomach.

“The gauntlets…” Its case might sit open at his knees, but there’s nothing glove-shaped inside, just a thousand piece puzzle made out of the most delicate machinery human hands had ever made. “They’re…it’s ruined. All of it. I can’t…we can’t…”

Viktor sways on his feet, not so much crouching beside him as falling into a squat. “You put them together, didn’t you? You can do it again. I’m sure someone around here has some solder—?”

“These took me over a year to put together, schematic to prototype.” Devastation turns his voice thready, same as it had been in that council chamber, years ago. As it had been when he stood on that ruined ledge of his apartment, unable to watch as his foot took a step into free fall. “There’s no way I can build it all again in” — he glances at the clock overhead— “oh, god, a half hour? That’s all we have?”

“Huh.” Viktor grips his crutch, settling into his squat. “So that carriage ride was the longest in my life.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough to get a huff out of him, even if there’s no humor in it. “We have to withdraw.”

Jayce levers himself to his feet, scrubbing a hand over the stubble that’s already started to pebble the planes of his jaw— really, what do they feed them in Clan Talis?— leaving Viktor to stare up at him, acid churning in his gut. “What do you mean?”

His hands splay, fingers spiking out toward the case. “We don’t have anything to present! It’s all ruined, every single part of it. And we can’t…”

He shakes his head, shoulders slumping as he turns, putting his back to it. To all of it. To him. After Viktor already walked half the city to be here, shaved days off his life to meet a deadline just short of impossible to have the chance of winning this ridiculous competition.

“We can’t just give up.” Viktor can hardly believe he is the one saying it. “It’s a blow, I’ll admit, but it’s hardly the only thing we have. Our other prototypes are here, in working order, I assume. We can just—”

“But we can’t present any of them,” Jayce snaps, looming over where he squats. “The gauntlets were the thing we put all our time into. We can’t even guarantee any of these will turn on, let alone perform.”

Viktor’s grip tightens on his crutch, chin tilting up to meet his partner’s desperate glare. “There’s at least one.”

Jayce blinks, but confusion quickly clears to fear. “No. No way.”

“I could get them up and running in fifteen minutes,” he reminds him, creaking his way to standing. “All you would have to do is look good. And stand where I tell you.”

“Uh-uh. Not happening.” His hands wave between them, as if somehow Viktor might manage to physically force him to use the thing. “’Stand where you tell me?’ Viktor, I appreciate that you’ve done the work, but that thing isn’t safe.”

“It’s completely safe,” he insists, “so long as you listen to me.”

Jayce stares at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“You wanted to show something big, didn’t you? Something they’ve never seen before.” He sweeps a hand toward where the arches sit, impressive even covered. “And this fits the bill, doesn’t it?”

“I meant something that would represent Hextech. Something that would be helpful. Not…” Dangerous. Jayce sighs, hand raking through the mass of his hair. “Hextech isn’t supposed to be…be…”

“Who knows what it’s supposed to be, Jayce.” It’s not easy to approach him— every step aches, even with the aid of his crutch— but Viktor does, not stopping until dark eyes peer up from that hung head, more scolded dog than agonized academic. “It’s the arcane. We’ve been working on this for two years, and we’ve hardly scratched the surface. There’s so much we don’t know…that we’ll never know if we stop here.”

“Yeah? And maybe we’re not supposed to.” His head wrenches away, a scowl furrowing the stern lines of his face. “You ever think of that?”

Viktor stoops, mouth pulled thin. Enough was enough. “You didn’t sign every page of your notes to give up whenever things got a little too hard, did you?”

Jayce glares at him. “It’s not just…hard. It’s impossible. Suicidal.”

“So?” Viktor steps back, shrugging his shoulders. “What’s progress but a laugh in the face of death?”

“Of course you would say something like that,” Jayce grumbles, arms folding forbiddingly across his chest. “You’re proud of blowing out that window.”

“It was a promising result. Nothing a little calibration couldn’t fix.” He casts Jayce a long look from the corner of his eyes. “Besides, I bet a man like Albus Ferros needs a little danger to impress him.”

A laugh saws out of the vault of Jayce’s chest. “Well, he’s certainly not known for being safe, that’s for sure.” His head shakes. “Fine. You got me. Let’s do it.”

Viktor blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Jayce gets to his feet, brushing the dust off him. “And hey, who knows. Maybe if this stunt of yours does impress Lord Ferros, we can try things your way. Think big. Outside the toolbox.”

He coughs, shaking his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, well.” The Councilor sweeps down the auditorium aisle no different from if it was a grand stair, lingering on every step as if there were more than empty seats to provide her adulation. The addition of the professor, however, does detract from the dignity of it, hopping down happily with that poro hot on his heels. “The prodigal engineers arrive. Fashionably late, I see.”

Jayce’s wrench rattles the tray as he turns, arms stretched as wide as his smile. A showman if there ever was one. “That’s why you like us, don’t you? We have style.”

“I’d like you more if you showed up earlier than the eleventh hour,” the Councilor sniffs, skirting around his outstretched hands to circle around the podium. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

Heimerdinger hops up to the stage, peeking his head through each portal, whiskers bristling bushier with every step. “This isn’t the project I thought you would be presenting today,” he says, a note of distress threading through his hum, “What happened to your…er…what did you call them? Alter garments?”

“Atlas gauntlets,” Jayce corrects, tugging at his collar. “They had, ah…technical difficulties in transit.”

The Councilor arches a brow. “And what does that mean?”

Viktor grins into the guts of the machine. “They broke.”

“Oh, ah!” Heimerdinger’s shaggy brows hike up his forehead. “Well, there’s no helping it then. If only you boys had let me bring it over earlier, we might have been able to avoid such an unfortunate setback with your research!”

“There were still some last minute tweaks we wanted to make,” Jayce informs him, broad smile slapping spackle over the holes in that argument. Sounds better than, we hadn’t finished it, at least. “We thought we might sneak in a few more man hours if we finished it in the— ah, I mean, before the carriage arrived.”

“Ah, I should have known.” The professor puffs up proudly, even as he shakes a finger at them. “I hope all this has taught you boys a valuable lesson. Just like any artist, an engineer needs to learn when a project is best left done!”

It’s the sort of fatherly chiding that always set Viktor’s teeth on edge, but Jayce simply chuckles, huge shoulders heaving in a bashful shrug.

“Of course, sir. But I think we’ve got something here that’s just as exciting as what we had planned.” A broad hand pats an arch with the same sort of blustering pride as a lord with his new steam carriage, boasting about how fast it crawls through the streets. “Viktor’s design, actually. One he’s been working on since, er…”

“You blew a hole in the side of the government building?” The Councilor offers, the hem of her skirt sweeping so close to chrome Viktor’s atoms practically vibrate in sympathy. “So what does this do, exactly?”

Jayce flounders. Make real big sparks isn’t exactly what this room wants to hear. Neither is, we don’t quite know. “Ah…”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait and see.” Viktor hands never pause in their work, but he spares her a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Patience is a virtue, isn’t it, Councilor?”

The stare she turns on him might be unimpressed, but a smile flirts with the edge of her mouth, tempting a wayward corner to curve. “It is. My least favorite, I must admit.”

He smothers his smirk to a twitch. “I think a person of your caliber can live with a little delayed gratification.”

“I can.” One finger reaches out to trace up a wrought curve, skin barely brushing the metal. “As long as I leave satisfied.”

A strange static crackles along his skin, his assurances stuck in the scoured pit of his throat— a nervous response, perhaps; a reaction to seeing his invention so thoroughly inspected. An engineer’s instinct—

One Jayce must share, since he barks out, “Don’t touch that!”

The Councilor’s fingers flinch away, hovering uncertainly above an arch. She glances over her shoulder, first at him— still speechless, though for different reasons now— then at where Jayce stands, wide-eyed.

“It’s, uh…” Dangerous, that’s what he’s trying to say— it’s written in the furrow of his brow, in the glaring whites of his eyes. This is no prim protest, but pearl-clutching alarm. And for some reason, glances toward him for support. “…Delicate?”

Viktor scowls up from where he’s crouched. Between the two, he’d rather frightening than fragile. At least one doesn’t call into question his credentials.

“Oh.” The Councilor’s laugh bubbles over his shoulder, rolling up from deep in her chest. It does nothing to help the static. “It’s hardly my first time. But I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Jayce grimaces. “Viktor…?”

“What? I’ve told you. It’s perfectly safe,” he scoffs, turning back to where a panel sits open, gears and wires exposed. “Not going to blow up just from being turned on, that’s for sure. This time, at least.”

The Councilor’s hand drops down to her side with a sigh. “Please do not explode the exhibition hall.”

“Not to worry, Councilor Medarda,” Heimerdinger hums brightly, circling the stage. “If I’m correct in my understanding of how this particular machine is engineered— and I’m sure I am— there’s simply no chance of it exploding.”

“Well." Her arms cross over the narrow nip of her waist, as casual as she is unconvinced. “That’s a load off my mind.”

“Oh, yes.” For all the professor’s previous reservations, he’s quite chipper as he adds, “With a design like this, the only risk is of implosion.”

There’s a slight pause before she turns to Jayce with an artfully rumpled brow. There even seems to be actual concern— for the lecture hall, most like. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

His partner smiles weakly. “Kind of?”

The Councilor sighs, pinching at her brow. “If you would do me the favor,” —her heels clack as she takes the steps up to the doors— “keep the property damage minimal, please.”

Viktor sits back on his heels. “No promises.”

“That,” she sighs, “is exactly what I was afraid of.”

It’s only when Viktor has nearly finished his last round of calibrations— and finally put the final chalk ‘X’ on the stage floor— that Jayce blurts out, “I can’t do this.”

He blinks up from his crouch, chalk still pinched between his fingers. “Of course you can. All you have to do is stand around and look good. You already do that all the time, I’m not sure why you think it will be hard to—”

“No, I mean…we shouldn’t.” The back of his hand rubs at his forehead leaving a smear of grease behind. “This…this can’t actually be safe. What if it hit someone? What if it hits me?”

“It won’t hit you,” Viktor assures him. “As long as you don’t move from your mark, at least.”

“Urgh, I knew it,” Jayce moans, clapping his hands over his face. “This is a mistake. Someone is going to get, uh…”

“Teleported, theoretically.” He lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “If my math is right. If it works at all.”

“Great, not only do we not know what this thing will do if it hits someone” —his hand swings out, jabbing at the arches— “we don’t even know if it’ll work.”

“It will work just fine.” Viktor grips his crutch, hauling himself to his feet. “I’ve done it dozens of times in the lab. As long as I haven’t dropped a decimal or forgotten to carry a one, there shouldn’t be anything to—”

“And what if you have, huh?” Jayce snaps, a dog at the end of his leash. “You were just sick all over Grand Avenue this morning. Just how good is your math right now.”

Better than yours, he doesn’t say— even if it’s true. The last thing he needs now is to be pulling transcripts when they need every second to prepare. “You’re really not going to stand in the cage?”

Broad shoulders square, and ah, Viktor knows that stubborn set to Jayce’s jaw, that firm line of his mouth. “No. I’m not.”

“Fine.” He sighs, fitting the crutch beneath his shoulder. “If that’s how you feel about it.”

He gets two steps across the stage before Jayce asks, “What are you doing?”

“Recalibrating,” he grunts, crouching down. “I’m shorter than you, which means I can get closer to the cage without worrying about getting my hair singed. It’ll look more impressive.”

“That’s…” Jayce scrubs a hand over his face. “When I said I wasn’t going to do it, I didn’t mean you should.”

“Well, someone’s got to.” He traces another ‘X’, reaching out to smother the last. “And if it’s not going to be you, then—”

“It shouldn’t be either of us!”

“What?” Viktor cocks his head, curious. “You think the Councilor will do it?”

“What? No! Hell, Viktor…” He groans, clawing through the thick tangle of his hair. “I think we should shut the whole thing down.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous! You could get yourself killed— or worse!”

“Teleported?” He sits back on his heels, forearms balanced across his knees. “I’ve already told you I’ve done the work: it’s safe.” He hesitates, the floor suddenly unsteady beneath him. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Viktor, I— of course I do!” His hands catch on his hips, breath heaving. “You’re my partner. I’d trust you with my life.”

Funny thing to say when he’s the one quibbling about which set of shoes are going to stand on a chalk mark. “But you won’t trust me with mine?”

“That’s not what I’m”—Jayce grits his teeth, an annoyed grunt straining through them— “that’s not what this is about!”

Viktor cocks his head, agitated. “Then what is it about?”

There’s a pause-- too long, too heavy not to be something-- before Jayce sighs, shaking his head. “You know what? Fine. Go stand in the cage.” He leans over, plucking the wrench out of Viktor’s grasp. “But I’m the one finishing up these calibrations.”

“What?” His nose wrinkles, stopping just short of a sneer. “You think a little light vomiting is going to keep me from remembering where the decimal place goes?”

“No.” Jayce shakes his head, mouth slanting into a smirk. “I do think you need to change though. You smell like a gutter. Looks like you just rolled out of one too.”

Viktor glances down, taking in the grease and sweat and faint stains of something that still smells vaguely of sick.

“Ah,” he hums, smoothing a hand down his front. “Fair enough.”

It’s impossible to find a spare set of clothes his size, Viktor would know— he’s the one who painstakingly takes in his trousers until they stop falling off his hips, who changes the fit of his shirtsleeves so that the stiff corsetry of his brace makes a seamless line with his chest. What Jayce does manage to dig up is a set of women’s trousers— he won’t ask how— with a shirt to match. The hips are far too wide, and the chest refuses to sit flat, but it’s nothing a few safety pins and a jacket can’t cover.

Even still, when he hobbles out in front of that crowd, crutch twisting his frame as he makes his mark, he feels less like a lecturer in front of his peers, and more like a child playing dress up in his mother’s frock. By the looks the gallery gives him, half-curiosity and half-disgust, the reality cannot be far off.

Viktor doesn’t make a habit of attending symposiums— and even less the kind that draw crowds like this— but he’s seen Jayce put on a show before, striding out onto the stage with all the confidence of a born actor. This is the part where the crowd is supposed to hush, awed by the cut of his jaw, or the way his shoulders fill out a jacket. But for him there’s not even a pause, not even a lull he could elbow into. Hell, he’s pretty sure it gets louder, speculation suddenly running rampant as the room realizes another man has taken Jayce Talis’s place. That somehow the sideshow has taken over for the ringmaster.

“Welcome.” His accent bites into the word all wrong, all elbows and knees instead of Jayce’s sure stride, and the murmur only grows, rising like the noise might swallow him whole. It was a mistake to come out here; they’re all expecting a man to rise from the stage perfectly formed, like a god emerging from sea foam, and instead—

Instead they have him.

Presenting isn’t that hard, Jayce had told him as the lecture hall filled. Just pick someone, anyone. Make eye contact. Then it’s not some big show— you’re just talking. Anyone can talk.

Easy thing to say when someone’s walking around looking like him. With a suit one size too large and a face that looks like it’ll faint the next time someone breathes a little too hard in his direction, Viktor isn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to attentive onlookers. At least in this crowd.

He scans the seats, eyes darting from one face to the next, trying to find someone— anyone, really— to hold to. This is why he’d done so well as an assistant all those years; he faded so well into the wallpaper, no one thought to hesitate in front of him, to wonder if Heimerdinger’s dour shadow might remember the promises they made, or the offhand remarks they let slip. But now there’s not one set of eyes that will—

There. It’s the Councilor, half turned in her seat, her conversation partner rambling on, undaunted by her lack of interest. Their eyes meet, that strange static building beneath his skin, and when her brows rise, there’s a question in it— no, a challenge.

“Welcome.” It’s louder this time, breaking through the loudest crust of conversation. “Ladies, gentlemen. Fellow academics.”

Her whole body swivels in its seat, facing him, one hand raised to stem her partner’s words to silence. Her head tilts. Well, it says, curious. You have my attention. What are you going to do with it?

His mouth twitches. Wouldn’t you like to know? “I am sure many of you here have heard of Hextech. That one day we will harness the arcane— the same force that allowed mages to build empires and make miracles— and put it in the hands of ordinary people, just like you, or me.”

This is where Jayce might pace the stage, weaving through the arches like the first step in a magic trick. But Viktor only steps back between them, placing his feet firmly over the smudged cross.

“A pipe dream, some of you might call it. Impossible. Destined to be a pale imitation of the power they wield. But today” — Jayce said to smile here, to be friendly, but Viktor takes one glance at the Councilor's raised brows and it’s a smirk that unfurls instead— “you’ll see the true power of Hextech.”

He lifts his arm, the cue to start flipping switches, to turn a trick to reality, and—

There’s nothing. Not a single spark. Such absence of something that Viktor can’t help but wonder if Jayce has changed his mind, if he’s decided that this is too much of a risk after all. If his second thoughts have brought him back to handy tools and tight boxes, leaving him out here to flounder.

And then, the lights flicker. A flash of dimness that sets a murmur through the crowd. Another chases its heels, longer this time, and in the darkness—

There, the first arc of arcane, stretching from the side of one arch to another. A larger one next, a bolt from top to bottom. Three, just after, bleeding into each other until there’s a pane of glowing blue, so thin he can see through it a moment before it collapses. But then there’s another, and another, larger pieces of a rippled window, staying for seconds before flashing to nothing until—

Until a pane stretches down every arch, roiling like waves against the rocks, a glowing cage that nearly lifts himself off his feet.

“There you have it,” he manages, barely holding back a gleeful laugh. “Man-made arcane.”

He stops fighting his weightlessness, crutch dropping as he floats up from his mark, watching his audience like a fish does from his bowl. Their face fall agape, hands pressed to bosoms and men half crawled out of their seats, torn between awe and fear, and—

Well, there’s one way to make sure it’s wonder that wins the day.

“As you can see…” He reaches out, fingers just barely skimming the surface of the arcane—

Only to find himself on the other side of the arch, gently lowering to the stage. “Even surrounded, I am perfectly safe. Anyone could stand in my place and never fear injury!”

There’s more murmuring now, a din threatening to rise to a fevered pitch. There’s more to the little speech Jayce drilled into him, but there’s no hope of making them listen, not when doubt and fascination already struggle to hold their attention.

None of it ends up being necessary, however. Not when a clear voice calls out “Do you take volunteers?”

Viktor looks up into the Councilor’s self-assured smirk, the glow of the arcane turning the gold flecks on her skin to stars, and reaches out his hand.

There’s more than enough back-clapping and congratulations to last Viktor a lifetime when he steps off the stage, feeling too heavy under his own weight. Former classmates— ones who had so easily let their eyes drift over him when he stood in Heimerdinger’s shadow— crawl out from the woodwork, crowding him before he can get a word in edgewise.

“Hey, hey! Give me some room to get to the man of the hour,” Jayce laughs, elbowing a few engineers aside. “You can ask him for the whole spiel when we’re on the exhibition floor.”

“Don’t make promises I don’t plan to keep,” Viktor grumbles, wincing under the hand that clamps onto his shoulder, too tight.

“Speaking of promises,” Jayce says, smile stretched thin as they mount the stairs to the door. “I don’t think we talked about that little stunt you pulled up there.”

Ah, well. “Inspiration of the moment.”

“Inspiration of the…? Are you kidding me?” He groans, scraping a hand over his stubble. “What if you had gotten split in two? Or shattered into a thousand pieces? What then?”

“I ran the calculations,” Viktor informs him primly. “That didn’t seem likely.”

“Likely.” He shakes his head. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

"Listen, may--"

“Excuse me.”

A man stands at the top of the aisle, frock coat squared at the shoulders, capped by what seems to be actual gold epaulets, toothed like actual gears. But for all the attention his coat demands, the man beneath it is rather nondescript— save for the mustache, perhaps, and the spectacles set above it.

“I hate to interrupt,” he says, not the least bit contrite. “But I was wondering if you lads might have a moment.”

Jayce blinks. “Ah, we were just heading back to the exhibition hall—”

“Of course, of course. It’s only…I saw your presentation.” The man takes a single step down, and in the light, the rune of Clan Ferros shines. “And I find myself quite…interested in the future of Hextech.”

#melvik #arcane #arcane league of legends #The Man of Progress #my fic #1000 followers #friends let me tell you i was not sure if this thing would be out on time #the first 3K went so slow i thought i would tear my hear out #and i was terrified because oh god this is supposed to be 7K I can't do 7K like this....#well good news the next 7K went REAL WELL #and now this is 10K #and has thrown my writing schedule into disarray because GOD i have had to edit this TWICE #and it takes HOURS. HOURS to edit this much #but like worth it. can't wait to write these idiots again #in fact going off to write my notes for ch 4 so i don't forget what stuff i was planning on doing 🤣#thankfully everything for the next few weeks should go a LOT faster

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the-window-monster · 5 months ago

Text

Excerpt From My Old Book

Oftentimes I have the desire to completely give up and let go, to stop caring about anything in this world and just float over the waves. My arms would be splayed out on the surface of the water and I would occasionally sense the ripples of a fish or a seagull, but I’d never catch one to keep, only see them out of the corners of my eye before they inevitably swim deeper into a sinkhole or fly so much higher than I could ever hope to. I would feel the sun in my eyes, warm and loving, and I’d smile, because I’d be too far out to care about anything at all other than the current moment.

The seasons would pass, the euphoric pulse of summer, the crisp coziness of autumn, and then winter.

Ice would harden, creeping over my arms and legs until I couldn’t swim even if I wanted to. I would blink, slow, and see the seagulls above the clouds, calling to each other and laughing. I would try to call them, but as soon as my mouth opened, my tongue would be ossified.

My face would be consumed next, until I dropped into the ocean, another numbing rush encasing my entire body. I would feel my blood become infested, colonized, and wouldn’t have enough energy to care.

With one last breath that drowns my lungs, I would see a feather, beautiful and sun-kissed, just above the surface.

Maybe that’s not such a good idea, I think.

So I wade, for now. Touching the water and running back to shore like a little kid when my legs are grazed by a jellyfish, or a wave gets a little too close to my head. One day I'll probably grow up and get a nice house inshore and forget about this whole thing. My bones ache for that day, when I can look back and think how juvenile I was, how wrong I was, but for today, I will jump back into the sea.

#Writing #Metaphor #Prose #excerpts

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sophswritingthings · 1 year ago

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Longstar AU — Chapter Three

“ThunderClan!”

Longtail turned to see a WindClan patrol, headed by Mudclaw. His eyes narrowed, unsheathing his claws. He bared his teeth at the hostile WindClan warrior, the brown tom doing the same back.

“Calm down, both of you,” Deadfoot padded up from behind him. “Fireheart,” He greeted the ThunderClan deputy with a dip of the head. “What are you here for?”

“I need to speak with Tallstar,” He mewed, dipping his head back. “It’s urgent.”

“This way, then,” Deadfoot flicked his tail, turning tail toward the WindClan camp. Longtail and Fireheart padded behind him, leaving the rest of the patrol behind. “What’s so urgent you're upsetting my patrols?”

“It’s.. kind of only for Tallstar's ears,” Fireheart meowed softly.

“I’m his deputy,” He hissed. “I'll find out sooner or later.”

“Bluestar is planning an attack on WindClan,” Fireheart murmured.

“Wrongly, I might add,” Longtail mewed, padding beside Deadfoot.

“.. Yes.” Deadfoot narrowed his eyes, “What could we have done to upset Bluestar? As far as I know, nothings happened with borders or anything.”

“We know,” Fireheart sighed. “Bluestar's a bit.. under the weather. She’s not thinking straight. She thinks WindClan is stealing prey,” He said, holding Deadfoot's yellow gaze. “We know she’s not right. We just don’t want any blood to spilled over nothing.”

“I agree with you,” Deadfoot mewed as they slid into the camp, making a beeline for Tallstar's den. “Tallstar.”

“Deadfoot,” He greeted, stretching his paws. “Fireheart. Longtail.”

“Fireheart needs to speak with you,” Deadfoot curled his tail over his paws, “I'll leave you two to talk. Longtail, you can come with me.”

“.. Er, alright,” Longtail mumbled, following the tom out of the leaders den.

“So, are you and Fireheart close, hm? You're the one here with him,” Deadfoot glanced at Longtail.

“.. Not really,” Longtail shrugged. “I don’t think he trusts me much.”

“Why would you think that?” Deadfoot brushed his tail across Longtail's flank.

“I dont.. I don’t know.” He whispered, obviously lying. Oh, he knew why. But he couldn’t say that. They don’t need to know ThunderClan is struggling anymore than they already know. And Tigerstar.. well, he’s definitely a struggle.

“Maybe you should just chat with each other,” Deadfoot shrugged, rising to his paws. “That’s what I’d do, anyway. Well, I have a mate to visit. See you at the gathering tonight, Longtail.”

With that, the tom padded away, stopping at a gray speckled queen and a jet black kit. Longtail's ears flattened, Deadfoot seemed to have such a good place in the clan. Deputy, a mate, a kit. He envied him, really.

“Alright, we’re all good now.. well, hopefully.” Fireheart padded from Tallstar's den, with nervous twitch of his whiskers.

“.. What did you do exactly?”

“I’ve arranged a meeting between Tallstar and Bluestar,” He mewed as they excited the camp. “If Bluestar agrees to go, that is..”

“The way she’s acting doesn’t seem she will,” Longtail murmured, flicking his tail with irritably.

“Let’s just.. leave that in StarClan's paws, and hope she will,” He took in a deep breath, padding ahead of Longtail. He flattened his ears, padding after the tom.

“There you two are,” Whitestorm greeted as they reentered the camp, “Where were you, hm?”

“Just for a bit of hunting,” Fireheart replied before Longtail could speak. “Didn’t catch anything.”

“Aw, too bad,” Whitestorm flicked his tail, “Well, I’ll see you later. Taking out the sunset patrol.” With a dip of his head, he padded out into the forest with an entourage of cats behind him. See, now he'd make a good deputy.

“Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather beneath the High Rock for a clan meeting!”

The yowl startled both tom's, drawing them toward the High Rock. Fireheart took his place on the High Rock, and Longtail waded into the crowd, settling beside Mousefur.

“These kits have reached the age of six moons and are ready to be apprenticed,” Bluestar mewed, her meow raspy. “Ashkit and Petalkit will be known as Ash’Paw and Petalpaw until they have earned their warrior names. Dustpelt, you will mentor Ashpaw and Sandstorm, you will mentor Petalpaw.” The two warriors padded from the crowd, touching noses with their new apprentices.

With no other words seemingly to say, Bluestar jumped off the High Rock and bounded into her den. At least she did something right, Longtail rolled his eyes. Still can’t make our apprentices warriors, though.

“.. Longtail?” As the crowd faded, Swiftpaw padded up to him. His yellow eyes were clouded, his ears flattened and his tail drooping.

“Is.. something wrong, Swiftpaw?” Longtail mewed, surveying his apprentices worried expression.

“Why is Cloudpaw becoming a warrior, and not me, Brightpaw and Thornpaw..?”

Longtail stared at Swiftpaw, his green eyes wide as the moon. Since when was that happening? Suddenly, his eyes flared with anger, narrowing his eyes to slits.

“Where did you hear that?” Longtail growled.

“C-Cloudpaw said that’s what Fireheart said,” Swiftpaw mumbled, shifting his paws nervously in the dirt. “Am.. am I not good enough to be a warrior?”

“Of course you are!” Longtail yelped, “You all are. Not just Cloudpaw. I'll be right back.”

With that, he turned around with a flick of his tail. He noticed Fireheart talking to Sandstorm, bounding across the clearing.

“Something wrong, Longtail?”

“Why in StarClan is your apprentice becoming a warrior, and not mine? Or Whitestorm's? Or Mousefur's?” He growled.

“Listen, it wasn’t my choice, Bluestar—“

“I do not give a rats-tail about what that crazy cat thinks!” Longtail bared his teeth, Fireheart unsheathing his claws. “You are our deputy, Fireheart, you need to be trying your best to do what’s best for the clan. And as of now, we need more warriors. You should be trying to convince her, and guide her to make the right decisions! But here you are, holding prejudice against me, Darkears, Dustpelt, even. I thought.. maybe you would be able to show the clan we were trustworthy, seeing how hard you had it when you got here. But I was obviously wrong.”

“Longtail..—“

“Save it,” He hissed. “You obviously think that I’m just like Tigerstar. That I’m plotting with him, that I’m still on his side, I’m a spy—whatever you think. You thought I would attack you, Fireheart. My own clanmate. You think I’m disloyal, I can see that,” His eyes narrowed. “Darkear's was right. You and the rest of the clan we'll never see us the same again, will you?”

“Nobody sees you any different, Longtail,” Fireheart murmured.

“Don’t lie to my face,” He growled. “Have fun at the gathering, Fireheart. I’m not coming. My clan obviously doesn’t want me there, seeing as I could share secrets with ShadowClan.” Ears flattened and tail tucked between his legs, he turned toward the warriors den.

#warrior cats #erin hunter warriors #warrior cats au #longstar au #longtail #fireheart #sandstorm #warriors tpb #warrior cats fanfic #darkstripe #whitestorm #mudclaw #deadfoot #crowkit #ashfoot #tallstar #bluestar #cloudpaw #swiftpaw

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allthatglittersisnotgoldrush · 10 months ago

Note

happy Valentine’s Day authors!! Since it’s the ~day of love~ may I request a snippet of some upcoming or past romance between our canon pairings Fingon/Wachiwi, Luthien/Beren, Mae/Estrela or even my dearest hearts desire (even if they’re not canon here yet??) Caranthir/Haleth the Warrior Queen? Your series feeds my soul

Thank you so much for this ask! I (TolkienGirl) will start this off with a little Fingon/Wachiwi summer fun in Lake Mithrim :D (and my co-authors will reblog with any additional scenes they have to share... definitely something for Maestrela)

SIREN SONG

“You grew up by the water, didn’t you? Rivers to the sea… Aredhel has told me so much.”

Fingon stares up at the sky, his eyes beginning to sting from the strong sunlight. Beside him, the dry reeds flare and rustle. “I did, but Wachiwi, I know this may seem… overly particular, yet I must say it. It is… it is very improper for a man of my upbringing to see a woman in a state of undress. I thought we had—reached an understanding about this.”

“Your upbringing?” He can hear the smile in her voice even without seeing it on her face. “But you are a doctor. Doctors see… everything.”

“Doctors do not minister to the persons they intend to—” It isn’t quite true, and he feels foolish saying it aloud, so he stops. “I am sorry. I cannot join you.”

“I will stay entirely under the water,” Wachiwi says, very solemnly indeed. “And I am wearing far more clothes than Finrod and Ames were, that time when—”

“Please,” Fingon interrupts hurriedly. “We all swore never to speak of that again.”

“Pssh. All right. Come in with your eyes closed, Padre Doctor, a most holy man.”

He hesitates a moment more, but the day is very warm. Even his thinnest shirt clings to his shoulders with perspiration, and a drop of sweat rolls uncomfortably down his spine. His braids are damp at the roots. Fingon casts down his eyes very quickly so as to avoid catching sight of anything, and begins to remove his boots.

Wachiwi has fallen silent. That is unusual.

“I am only doing this for my health,” Fingon grumbles, as if his whole family is assembled and demanding an account of his actions. “A hot head can be dangerous, you know. We shall not play any… unseemly pranks on one another, because that might expose us both to gossip.”

“Mm,” Wachiwi murmurs, which does not quite count as agreement. “Mithrim loves gossip.”

Fingon exhales gratefully at the cool touch of water on his feet. He has rolled his trousers to the knee, but of course does not intend to undress further. He wades in cautiously through the soft silt until the lake has reached his waist, and prepares to drop slowly through its shimmering surface into position for a stroke. Then, most unexpectedly, his ankles are seized by unseen hands, fearfully strong, and he is dragged, yelping and sputtering, into the murky depths.

When he resurfaces, Wachiwi is laughing almost hysterically.

So, popping up beside Fingon, is Aredhel.

“Oh,” his sister gasps. “I thought I should never hold my breath long enough to—” Her voice is swallowed as Fingon ducks her vengefully. Before she reemerges, he takes off after Wachiwi, moving—he is sure—like a pike-fish through the water.

“You said no pranks!” Wachiwi cries, fleeing ahead of him—but either Fingon is the more skilled swimmer, or she does not really wish to escape, for at the last moment she turns, catching his outstretched arm and pulling him into a siren’s embrace.

#fanfic #ficlet #tumblr fic #fingon/wachiwi #the silmarillion #gold rush au #happy valentine's day

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doctorstethoscope · 2 years ago

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And the Devil Appears (Part Two)

If there's one thing about me it's that i'm gonna write a happy ending (or at least a more satisfying one) ty as always @hotchs-bitch for betaing for me :)

part one here!

contains: alcohol + tobacco consumption, misogynistic undertones,

wordcount: 1.6k

An unbearable winter had finally broken into an insufferable spring at Atlantis Cable News. Will hated every goddamn second of it.

To be fair, he was the only one who seemed to be so forlorn. The rest of the newsroom was abuzz with the delight of Mackenzie’s upcoming big day. He could hardly take a step out of his office without overhearing Maggie talking to Tess and Kendra about the dress she’s thinking about wearing to the reception, or catching pieces of the conversation between Don and Jim as they discuss whether or not they should go in on a gift together. Sloan is Mackenzie’s maid of honor, of course, and she’s taken to discussing details with Mac at all times of the day– including through the headpiece during commercial breaks, seated only inches away from him when she’s on for segments. It drives him damn near insane— he can’t keep focused on the broadcast with the inane chatter in his ear.

He takes it all with a vow of silence. He spent all that time punishing Mackenzie, and that which goes around had finally come back. He deserved this, this misery, the torture of watching her happiness infect everything and everyone around them. And she deserved that much happiness too.

The worst part of it all, was that everyone else in the newsroom seemed to be happier about the news than she was. Planning a wedding was stressful, he reminded himself. Or, at least, that’s what he’d heard. He’d probably never have one at this point. But this seemed different. For better or for worse, he understood Mackenzie, could read the creases in her forehead and at the corner of her eyes with far more ease than he ever read his law textbooks. He could see the machinations of her emotions on her face– this wasn’t stress. This was despondency, apathy, anxiety, or some stomach-churning combination of the three. Which is how he found himself following her to the ACN patio once again, in the middle of her wedding shower.

He hesitates, this time, in the doorway. These steps had hurt him before. But, at this point, what did he have to lose?

“You know, I think the party in there is for you,” Will remarks gently as he steps out onto the patio, finding her standing against the rail and looking out over the New York skyline.

“It’s my party and I’ll take a breather if I want to,” Mack says, turning towards him and blowing her bangs out of her face.

“You doing okay?” He asks her.

“I’m great,” she lies, knowing full well that he can see through it. “I just needed a minute. I’ve never liked to be the center of attention, you know that. That’s more Wade’s speed.”

“He seems to be getting along well with the folks inside,” Will agrees.

“Oh, he’s a regular charmer. He’ll fare excellently on the campaign trail,” she spits out.

“He’s running for mayor?”

“He doesn’t fucking know, Billy. In his head he’s running for mayor or senator or governor or whatever, but supposedly he hasn’t put much thought into it and it’s not serious.”

“It seems pretty serious to you,” he remarks, trying to tread lightly.

“He sat me down last week and tried to have a conversation about wifely duties,” she says, spitting out the last word as if it were a curse. “About what he’d need from me as a political spouse.”

Will nearly chokes on the air he’s breathing in, but does his best to hold back his disgust– this is the most he and Mack have talked since the last time they were on this terrace together, and he was scared to overreact and break whatever spell had temporarily come over Mackenzie and made his presence tolerable.

“He’s met you, right? And somehow he still said those things and risked castration?” Will remarked.

Mackenzie lets out a humorless chuff. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t know me at all.”

It’s Friday, June 9th, which is the day before Mackenzie’s wedding. Her last broadcast was yesterday, and Jim is in Will’s ear tonight. It should distract him from the soul-crushing gravity of what’s going to happen in the next 24 hours, but it doesn’t. All he can think is that she’s not in his ear because he fucked up, as always.

He stumbles through it, sends the staff home as soon as the broadcast’s over because he knows they all have to prepare for tomorrow. He’s not in any rush, and even if he was, he’d have to hide in his office to avoid the discussion of tomorrow’s festivities anyways. He hides out in his office and helps himself to a generous pour of scotch.

He’s still not quite ready to face his empty apartment by the time his team has dispersed, so he reaches into his desk and grabs the “secret” pack of cigarettes that everyone knows he has before he heads up towards the patio. The building is nearly empty now, save for the cleaning crew, so he does a double take when he looks out onto the patio to find Mackenzie standing up against the rail. He’s halfway convinced himself it’s the booze by the time he steps out into the night, until she turns to look at him.

“Of course. I should have known. You always find me here,” she remarks, and he can’t be sure, but she sounds like she’s been crying.

“I wasn’t exactly looking for you this time. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be drinking with Sloan, or getting a massage, or something. I don’t think work is on the list,” he says, coming to stand alongside her.

“I can’t do it Billy. I’m not going to,” she confesses, the words tumbling heavily from deep in her throat.

“Not going to get drunk with Sloan? I think that’s probably in your best—”

‘Can you take me seriously for like two seconds, please?” She practically begs.

“I take you seriously. I always have,” he assures her.

“He scheduled a fucking campaign kick off for the day after we come back from our honeymoon. He didn’t even ask me, I got looped in on a stupid email from his fucking campaign manager—”

“He hired a campaign manager without talking to you first?” Will asks, the scotch getting in the way of him restraining himself like he normally would.

“Oh yeah,” Mack insists manically. “And a finance director, and he filled out the fucking paperwork with the FEC, too.”

“Jesus,” Billy breathed out.

“I’m not a congressman’s wife. I can’t just bake pies and suck up to people and have babies!” She laments.

“Of course not. You’re Mackenzie Fucking McHale. You’re a force of nature,” he agrees passionately.

“He was using me. He thought I’d get him in with you and it would get him good fucking press.”

If Will thought he was mad before, he was fucking furious now. Mackenzie was the most tediously ethical person he knew— she’d put her own life on the line before she aired a story that wasn’t 100% airtight. She was relentless in pursuit of the truth and indifferent to anything else. This time the truth just fucking sucked.

“He really doesn’t know you at all,” Will offers, and he knows it’s inappropriate, but he needed her to hear it– he knew her, knew what she needed, and knew that she was far better than what Wade had put her through. And, if he was honest with himself, what he had put her through, too.

“I hadn’t found a subletter yet for my place. So I hired movers to get my stuff– they’re coming when we were supposed to be exchanging our vows. So, if you don’t mind, I may still take some time off next week.”

“Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Billy,” she says, reaching out for his hand. He squeezes her fingers in response. They sit silently for a few minutes before he speaks up again.

“I have a cabin upstate… I was planning on going away this weekend. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get out of town,” he offers.

“You weren’t going to come to my wedding?” Mackenzie asked, and he knows he’s hurt her a little with his confession, with the truth, once again. He cringes.

“You aren’t going, either,” he points out, ever the master of dry sarcasm, especially in situations where it went wholly unappreciated.

“I suppose that’s fair,” she rolls her eyes. “Give me one of the cigarettes I know you came out here to smoke,” she demands.

He complies, passing her a cigarette and lighting it before taking one for himself.

“So when do we leave?” She asks.

“You don’t… want some space?” He asks, confused but not wanting to give the impression that he doesn’t want to be with her. “I figured you’d want to get away from all of this, not bring the mess with you.”

She lets out a little chuckle and shakes her head as she puts out her cigarette. “You are the least messy part of all of this. And I think I’ll lose it without company. Would you come?” She asks hopefully.

“Of course,” Will says, trepidatiously wrapping an arm around her waist. “We can leave tonight, if you want. We can do this all at your pace,” he tells her, and she knows he’s not just talking about the weekend.

“Billy,” Mack whispered.

“Yeah?” He asks her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t ready. When you told me last time,” she apologizes vaguely, but he knows exactly what she means.

“You think you’ll be ready someday?” He asks.

“Yeah,” she answers. “I do.”

“I’ll be waiting, then,” he assures you. “For now, there’s the weekend.

#will mcavoy x mackenzie mchale #mackenzie x will #will x mackenzie #mackenzie mchale #mackenzie mchale x will mcavoy #will mcavoy #the newsroom #the newsroom fic

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as-if-and-only-if · 3 years ago

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(I’m sorry to post this. A lot of obvious negativity and despair and worrying here at 6:30am. It’s not particularly insightful or useful as far as i can tell; it’s things we all know. I just need to get it out of my head right now. I would absolutely put this under a read-more, but I’m on mobile. Feel free to scroll. Sometimes the weight of the world’s problems—and your own problems—just grinds these feelings out of you and doesn’t relent.)

i am really feeling despair as a member of the world right now. and the worst part is that it feels justified. For one, covid isn’t going away and has long term effects even when vaccinated, which, by the way, isn’t even very effective (even with a booster, after a few months!) at preventing infections of the variant that makes up 99% of cases and which is second in infectiousness/transmissibility only to measles. and infection is all it takes to be subject to the chance of getting one of these disabling cognitive impairments. (as if I needed another brain problem to worry about potentially acquiring!) meanwhile places I’m the US are unmasking, the CDC apparently changed its risk assessment under people’s noses to show what would be high risk as now low risk (need to double check), vaccination rates have plateaued at far too low a value and there seems to be no hope of getting a vaccination mandate.

and that’s just Covid. and I didn’t even get to all of the reasons.

so then what else have we got? anti-trans laws in Idaho and Texas and more. anti-abortion laws even for ectopic pregnancies. these laws are death sentences (and would be even if they didn’t extend that far). and, the worst part: people who unreservedly support these things. people who are firmly rooted in their harmful beliefs and, when presented with a ballot for “suffering” or “way more suffering”, check the box for “way more suffering” proudly and safely every single time. South Korea just elected a president who ran on an explicitly anti-feminist campaign and promises to worsen the lives of poor people. reactionary conservatism seems to be a virus spreading parallel to Covid.

and, okay. climate change. climate change. climate change. climate change. that’s existential. and what changes have we actually enacted? nearly none, relative to what needs to be done. I can’t do this justice. there really is so much. and there are so many more environmental and planetary-stewardship concerns, even beyond climate change—ocean pollution, air pollution, land pollution, animal cruelty, preparation for another pandemic, preparation for a coronal mass ejection or an asteroid, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, earthquakes, droughts, deforestation and derainforestation, etc.

oh, did I mention the suffering due to war? the senseless death and destruction in the service of empire? right now, most saliently, the invasion of Ukraine by Vladimir Putin? So many have died. So many have lost their homes or a loved one. And for what? For the whims of an autocrat who saw Ukraine slipping away from his imagined future empire, and decided to try to stop that by force. For nothing. All of this death and all of this loss.

and that’s “just” Ukraine. Look at Syria, look at Palestine, look at Iraq and Afghanistan, look at so many more. And imperialist invasion per se has not been their only strife. There are, of course, knock-on effects that persist and evolve as a result. The Taliban are unequivocally evil, and now they’re in power as a result of the USA’s invasion after all. and then, of course, there’s the endpoint of the arms race: the threat of nuclear weapons, ever-evolving and ever-growing.

and what else? I don’t think we covered healthcare enough but I’m too tired to do it justice. and that’s tied to capitalism, of course, which is tied to…I mean, just so much struggle and suffering. I feel like everyone here is pretty well aware of the modes of injustices I’m referring to when I gesture to “capitalism” all at once, though. you get it.

ok and have we done government enough either? what about voting rights? or gerrymandering? or the courts in the US? what about abuse of power in general and the way it can be used to self-perpetuate? what about the complexity of modern day finance that entrenches that economic power? what about the fact that economic power gives you governmental power through lobbying? what about the way governmental and financial power thrives off of violence via the military-industrial complex and our militarized police forces? what about police brutality?

hey, what about racism? you know, one of the core vices of our society here in the US, something that’s shaped countless aspects of our government, society, and people’s lives. And while we’re looking at the world’s problems through the lens of personal categories of oppression, what about another, parallel “core vice” which has a similar-in-magnitude systemic entrenchment and breadth of impact: sexism and misogyny? what about queerphobia and homophobia and transphobia? what about anti-semitism? what about ableism? what about all of the ways people can be terrible to each other which have been etched into our society’s frameworks and enshrined in its institutions?

what about the fact that I’m tired, but unable to sleep. I’m in a comfortable bed, blanketed by layers and layers of troubles woven tight and too heavy for me to move. Am I only able to toss and turn as I wait for the sun to rise?

#there are things to be done and actions we can take. there IS hope. it is just so collectivized that it’s hard to know one’s part in it.#obviously we can only do what we can do. but I am so incapable.#i can’t even make my own life work.#i want more than anything to be able to help. but I’m just too terrible at doing things. (really bad ADHD is the diagnosis.)#i want things to be ok too. i want to play games with my friends and learn and create and have a happy life.#but this feels impossible.#i know it’s not. i know it’s not but I just need to despair for a bit #because any of what I want is only possible with a great deal of work #and I’m trying. I’m putting the work in. I’m working with an adhd coach. I’m doing my best but I’m still so slow at making things better.#I’ve been trying for ten years under the assumption I had just OCD. which I did (and do). now the ADHD has finally been identified #and it feels like I’m starting from scratch.#how long?#i can only wade so far before I have to catch my breath.#but will the river of time swallow me up as I’m standing still?

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inkykeiji · 4 years ago

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i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

#takami keigo x reader #takami keigo smut #bnha smut #hawks smut #hawks x reader #takami keigo #hawks #AAAAAH ITS SO VANILLA LMAO #it's really sweet tho #i hope it brings some of you some comfort and feelings of buzzy happiness <333

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taleswritten · 1 year ago

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Yes. I've got you.

Any other time and perhaps Clive would have flinched away from the palm on his marked cheek but this is not any other time. This is a time where he needs as much touch as Joshua is willing to give him.

Keep looking at me, Clive.

His eyelids feel so heavy, he still feels like he's wading through water, like everything is happening in slow motion but the hands on his cheeks and lifting his eyes to look at Joshua helps.

Tear-filled eyes lock onto Joshua's. The hands on his cheeks and looking at Joshua seems to calm heavy heaving breaths, his breathing slowly starting to even out indicating he is no longer teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

But he is still not okay. He is far from okay when all he wants to do is break into a fit of sobs until he is too exhausted to cry anymore.

Say your name. What is your name?

Clive opens his mouth to speak, only to close it. His breathing trembles, his lip quivers with the way he's holding back his sobs. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, he wants to speak. No, he has to speak. He has to. It's the only way.

"C-Clive." Not Mythos, or Wyvern, or Cid the Outlaw. He is Clive, he is Clive Rosfield, maybe not the proud noble he had once been but he is still Clive.

"M-My name is Clive R-Rosfield." His breathing and voice shakes with every word he speaks but it's something at least, it's better than the silence Joshua had been met with before.

My name is Clive. I'm Clive. I am a brother, a person, I am no longer a slave. No longer someone to be abused and tortured.

I'm Clive!

Suddenly, Clive throws himself forward. It is not enough force to knock him off their feet but it is enough that he is certain Joshua has to catch him. His arms wrap tightly around his brother, bleeding fingers grasping the fabric on Joshua's back as if Joshua is his lifeline and he is afraid to let go, face pressing against his shoulder as the shaking begins again. He's still holding back his sobs but how much longer will it be before he breaks?

Is it even okay to break? For so long he has kept so many emotions inside of him because crying was always a sign of weakness. Crying ended up getting him mocked and hurt and while he knows Joshua will not treat him that way, he's not sure he'll fully let go when he doesn't know if it's okay.

"M-My name is C-Clive. I-I'm not there....I'm not there....I-I'm here. I'm here. I'm s-safe. I'm safe with you. I'm safe, aren't I?" He can no longer be harmed, right? This is safety. Joshua's arms wrapped around him, his warmth, these PTSD fueled memories can not hurt him any longer.

Even if they feel so real that he can taste, smell, and hear everything - he is safe with his brother, at the Hideaway, not a slave in some dirty cell to be mocked and abused.

I feel so stupid, so weak, but please tell me I'm safe. Please. Help me, Joshua. I beg of you.

@riotseas

The wood splits─Joshua hears it before he can even see it. The table isn't sanded, isn't polished with anything; so Clive's fingers eat away at the structure with ease and he wants to curse everyone and everything.

Joshua's hands fly up to pull at Clive's wrists but he wavers─he can't stand the sudden smell of blood, the thought that slivers of shavings are now embedded in the other's skin─it's nauseating but not because of that, but because he doesn't know what to do with that.

He doesn't know if he should give in to his instincts and let them take over, or if he should find someone more qualified, or if he should do anything at all. Nothing in any book has ever equipped him with the knowledge of what to do in these situations, even so, Joshua has a brain. He can figure something out as long as it's working─which, seems like it is, for the most part.

Joshua hasn't looked down, hasn't looked away from Clive's face yet. He stares, watching like a hawk for any signs of answers to his never-ending list of questions.

What he doesn't expect, is for Clive to reach out first. That adverts his gaze into pursuing where he pulls, his hand limp in the grasp until it's pressed against a flushed cheek.

❝ Yes, ❞ He repeats, just barely above a whisper ❝ Yes, I've got you. ❞

Joshua brings his other hand up to Clive's marked side, palm hiding any indication of the inked scar. He does this to even it out, make it equal so Clive doesn't have to remember such a token, so he doesn't slip back inside that place he can't follow.

❝ Keep looking at me, Clive. ❞

He swallows, spit thick as it slides down his throat. Joshua wants to do right by his brother, he wants to do right so fucking bad. Clive has done nothing but been the best he could be for him, regardless if he knew Joshua was alive or not.

He's heard stories, from Jill, that kind lady at the counter, others in passing; that one look at Clive told them everything they needed to know about his mission in life. Founder, he'd be presumed dead and yet his brother fought for him anyways.

It would take Joshua multiple lifetimes before he could ever begin repaying Clive back for everything he's done─he's eternally grateful, so grateful it gets stuck between his heart and his rib-cage with nowhere to go. He hasn't done a very good job of expressing his gratitude before, but he can change─he has changed, now.

❝ Say your name. ❞ Joshua says, ❝ What is your name? ❞

He's trying to use what he knows to his advantage, so maybe he can build up off of it.

Clive. Clive Rosfield.

He knows that name, knows who it belongs to; all that's left is to get confirmation that Clive himself knows too. They can start there.

#riotseas #roscest tw #roscest cw #incest tw #incest cw #clive interactions

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erythrum · 3 years ago

Text

𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓

𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘖𝘯𝘦

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨,𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧,𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦,𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹,𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘴,𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝙖/𝙣: 𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 1.9𝘬 +

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘺/𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

The boneyard was a melting pot, pogues, tourons, and kooks unalike all gathering for one of the last kegger's of summer. This mash together of kids from all over Kildare and the mainland always ended in chaos, it was just a matter of time before shit went down tonight.

Rafe had his arm thrown around my shoulders as we walked down the path to the boneyard. I could faintly see Topper and Kelce downing the cups of pogue provided beer. Didn’t matter whether or not the kooks or pogues could get along, as long as it was on the cut and alcohol was provided, the teens could get along for a limited amount of time.

“Hey y/n! What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving for college this week?” It was Sarah who yelled out to me, running up to her brother and I in her floral printed dress. Rafe’s arm dropped to his side as she came with Topper not far behind.

“Oh I just couldn’t miss my last kegger before leaving, Duke can wait on me one more day.” The two of us embraced in one of those hugs that has you shifting your weight from side to side. I guess she didn’t realize I wouldn’t leave for college for another month, but I was sure she was already too drunk for me to explain it to her that she was not thinking of the right month.

As Sarah was hanging onto me probably a little too tight, Topper was giving Rafe one of those looks that said everything but also nothing at the same time. Like prior knowledge had to be known to understand the context. I of course did not, those two always had some stupid shit planned and I can almost guarantee it had to do with messing up the pogues’ little party.

The sun hung low on the horizon after I had finished my third cup, the colors illuminating the sky so brilliantly it felt like a fantasy. I stripped off my top and headed for the water, the pinks and purples of the sky reflected in its crashing waters. It was so cold, the temperature sent shivers up my body and a familiar rush in my energy. Almost waist deep now, I submerged my body completely under the water. It was always how I remembered it, calm and refreshing.

“C’mon Rafe! Don’t be a little bitch and get in there, I see the way you look at her,” Topper spewed, pushing his friend to have a little courage.

“Man what the fuck are you even talking about?” Deny everything Rafe thought.

“Oh come on dude, you’ve been making please love me eyes at her since the sixth grade, and please fuck me eyes at her since the tenth, when are you gonna do something about it for once? You’ve got a month to make a move, or regret it your entire life,” Topper continued his monologue as Rafe tuned him out, too distracted by the girl, his girl, staring out into the Atlantic like it was calling to her.

His heart was pounding as he made a B-line for the water, a light jog, but not so fast someone would think he’s crazy, or just madly in love. He swiftly pulled his polo over and off his head before plunging into the chilly water. Topper clearly knew whatever he'd said had worked.

I heard him before I saw him, Rafe approached and submerged himself just as I had a few minutes before.

“If we get hypothermia I'm sending you my hospital bills.” He laughed, wading around in the shallow water.

“Oh shock! Rafe Cameron threatening his medical bill payments? I never could’ve guessed!” We enjoyed our few minutes of peace before talking again.

“But it’s basically impossible anyways, you get use to it after awhile, maybe it’ll calm your hot-headed ass down,” I giggled and prepared for what always came next. Rafe pickup me up around my waist, lifting me over his shoulder before attempting to sprint as fast as he could deeper into the water. His hands had been wrapped around the back of my knees for a few moments until he threw himself and I down into the deeper water, both of us completely submerged beneath the surface.

The sun was dipping below the horizon now, and the deep blue of the sky was beginning to envelop the boneyard. We had come up for air, and I began splashing him with the water around us, payback for his antics. Theres no way in hell I’d be able to throw him down into the water too, this was the best I could come up with. The two of us were laughing before Rafe grabbed my arms and twisted me around so my back was flesh against his front. I gave up on trying to fight him off. Instead I just rested against him in an attempt to catch my breath.

“Hey Rafe, can we talk about something?” Oh fuck she knows, he thought. This was gonna be it, it’s going to fuck up his entire plan.

“Yeah, uh sure, like here?” He questioned.

“Maybe not here, I think we’ve got as audience,” he knew she was referring to Topper and Kelce, they were watching from the beach.

"The truck then?" I nodded my head, not at all prepared for the favor I needed to ask of him.

The sand stuck to my feet as we headed back to where his truck was, the chilly air wrapping around my body. Rafe opened the backseat door and pulled out a towel for me, always prepared. He pulled the passenger side door and I slid into the seat, the heat of his car pumping through the interior. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t sure if his was too. We made it about halfway to tannyhill before speaking.

“Soooo,” he said.

“You’re going to think I’m absolutely crazy, Rafe," I laughed in an attempt to hide my nervousness.

"First of all, you're already crazy, and second of all, I'm pretty sure I know exactly what you're going to say," his hands were clenching the steering wheel harder now.

""Oh really? You already knew that I was going to ask you to take my virginity?" I don't know why, but I just blurted it out.

His car came to a screeching halt on the side of the road, lunging me forward as he stared in disbelief at the road infront of him.

"Im sorry, what did you just say?"

"That I want you to take my virginity? V-card? Cherry? Damn Rafe how else am I supposed to say it?"

"And," there was a pause in his voice like he didn't believe me, "your being serious, correct?"

“Correct.”

“And, come again? I need to hear that one more time.”

“Jesus fuck Rafe, I’m being dead serious, I want you to take my virginity, what about that is so hard to explain?” It came out as more of a yell than a scream, he took a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. He was thinking long and hard, I knew because he always had something to say, and now he wasn’t saying anything at all. It felt like hours had past before he spoke again.

“Why?”

It was my turn for a long sigh.

“Well, I guess I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and I want to do it, but whenever I think about it in my head the only person I can see doing it with is you. You’re the only person I trust enough with my own body, I mean shit,” I had to think for a long time before admitting what came next.

“Whenever someone, you know like Scarlet or whoever, asks about who I’m interested in or whatever it may be, not a single person ever comes to mind except you, it’s like all I see when I look at you is you, everything else is like blurred around you and whenever I think about who the love of my life will be, I always think of you, not some mystery guy that I haven’t met yet.” I didn’t plan for this to be a full confession on how I feel about him, but here I am spilling everything I’ve been holding in my heart for the last three years.

“And I know that sounds fucking stupid I know, I mean we’re still teenagers for crying out loud, but when I’m with you it always feels like I’m home.” I was nearly crying at this point, struggling to get the words out of my chest that had been waiting for so long. He was listening, deadly quiet, and I had no idea what he was thinking for once in my life.

“You know what? Just forget about it, can you take me home please?” I was definitely crying now, it felt like I’d ripped my own heart to shreds. Theres no way he could ever feel the same way about me, he protected me like I was his own blood, not like he was in love with me. My face was nestled into the sleeve of my hoodie as the tears came out. His hands had moved back to the steering wheel now, gripping onto it so tight I thought it might break. The muscles in his forearms almost looked like they were twitching, but he still had the car in park.

He wanted to just grab her and kiss her right now, the girl he'd been in love with since the sixth grade sitting in his passenger seat, her seat, confessing her feelings to him. Rafe knew it was alot for her to ask, but it meant even more to him everything that she had said after her original question. And there was no way in hell he was going to let her get away again.

Rafe reached his hand over to hold onto her tear stained cheek.

"y/n," The bother of them were breathing heavily.

"I'm in love with you," it slipped from my mouth and he leaned in to kiss me. It felt like I had a wave of electricity coursing through my body. His hand grasping onto my face as he leaned over the center console. My hand reaching for his chest, his lips on mine as we intertwined with one another. It felt like everything in my life was complete, and the tension has been released. His fingers tangled in my hair.

It was over before I realized it, and Rafe was driving me home. My breathing hadn't normalized in any way, it was like I needed to throw up my heart to get the knot out. I couldn't stop thinking about the way his had felt on me, the way his lips felt on mine, the way it felt for once in my life like I was loved.

"i'll think about it," his voice cracked.

I leapt out of his car as fast as I could with tears streaming down my face. Did he feel the same? Did he not? My brain was spinning so fast I barely made it inside my bedroom door before collapsing. I wrapped myself up in the thick comforter, a heart full of ache and a body exhauster with sleep.

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

#rafe #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #rafe cameron #obx smut #obx #outerbanks smut #outerbanks

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keilemlucent · 4 years ago

Text

mother knows best

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~4.6k

keigo’s dick catches up with him in the form of a fat, red strap

warnings: daddy kink, subby hawks, mean reader, lingerie, pegging, dumbification (a wittle), dacryphilia, revenge sex, degradation, keigo’s a cock slut ❤️

...

oh wow so this is actually a wip from all the way back in august!! i got some good inspo, so enjoy some subby hawks goodness loveys <3

You wanted nothing more than fucking ruin Keigo.

He’d been a shit lately, more annoying than usual. Fuck, you’d even say that he had been a downright brat.

It was obviously somewhat endearing, getting bent over countertops, teased through your clothes and getting left wet and wanting as he would just so happily walk away, whistling triumphantly to himself.

Or, maybe, it was how at the recent Hero’s Gala, Keigo had dragged you into one of the hotel’s lavish bathrooms, meters away from his colleagues and shoved you up against the large dressing mirror, his bulge shoved against your ass, whispering about how he was going to shred your dress from your frame.

“You just look too good, babe,” Keigo’s hands raked up and down your chest, nearly pulling your breasts from the delicate fabric of your dress.

You’d pleaded with him, “I get that you’re horny, but this really isn’t the place.”

You still let him fuck your mouth to orgasm.

Twice.

He’d been at least nice enough to help you wipe the smears of the professionally done makeup from your face.

“Sorry,” Keigo spoke with a smile, thumbing away a run of mascara from under your eyes as you sat on the edge of the sink. “You did great though. You were so beautiful for me, angel. So sexy. ”

You frowned, grabbing his hand and pulling it away from your face, meeting his eye with an uncomfortable amount of intensity.

“Keigo.”

He blinked.

“Yeah?”

You felt his palms begin to sweat in your grip.

You smiled, something eerily dark.

“How do you feel you’ve been lately?”

You watched his throat bob, his keen mind going just where you wanted it to. As much as you loved indulging in Keigo’s insatiable, unstoppable, carnal need to bend your back until it broke, you were also very tired of the attitude he’d gotten from it lately.

“I think...” Keigo wet his lips, pressing between your spread legs from your perch, “I think I’ve been good.”

“You do?!” You repeated, laughing a bit as you squeezed your thighs around Keigo’s trim waist. You grabbed his cheeks between your thumb and middle finger, forcing his gaze to be on your messy, smeared face. “I didn’t think my ‘good boy’ was such a fucking dumbass.”

A whimper dripped from the back of his throat as you frowned, knowing how quickly being taken down a peg got him hot and bothered.

“You’ve jumped my ass without any regard for circumstances how many times in the last week?” You sneered, digging your nails into baby fat above his jaw. “Did you think about the consequences of your actions, babe?”

Keigo let out a deep breath, “Angel, I—”

You fully grabbed his cheeks and jaw, squeezing his lips puckered, “What did you just call me?”

His eyes went wide, hands tensing on the tops of your thighs.

“If I let you speak, are you going to do so properly?” You relished the frantic nod he tried to give you.

You dropped your hand to the front of his dress shirt, hooking your fingers into the top of his tie, “Speak then.”

“I’m sorry, mommy,” Keigo’s eyes went big and doughy, refusing to look at you.

“That’s better,” You hummed, playing with the silky fabric. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, okay, sweetheart?”

He forced his gaze up to yours.

“We’re gonna go back out there, smile for the cameras, and then head home and get some good sleep.”

“B-but aren’t you going to p-punish—” Keigo words were gluey and slow, giving you all the more reason to interrupt him, even going so far as to shift to tighten his tie around his neck, perhaps a bit too constricting.

“I will, when the time is right. You just try to be a good boy until then, see you actually can.”

A filthy, but very fun plan was brewing in your head. It just would take some time.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

The opportune time struck a few weeks later. Though Keigo had at first been on some better behavior, he reverted to his typical, bratty self a week after your threat was made.

You were just biding your time, besides, custom orders took some time.

It wasn’t hard to contact Keigo’s PA, requesting his measures for ‘unknown’ purposes.

What was harder was wading through the hundreds of beautiful designs you could order for him. You spent a good few hours scrolling and fantasizing about what colors and patterns Keigo’s pretty, lithe body would look best in. After beating one out, you made your decision, entered his measurements, and sent the order off. It might’ve been the fervor of hot pleasure you had, but you threw in an extra item or two to your purchase. You were spoiling yourself, really.

Three weeks later, it arrived, perfect in every way, along with the extra items.

Then, it was just about watching Keigo and waiting to strike.

...

He came in late one night, feathers all but bare, uniform muddled.

As Keigo fell on the bed following his shower, you took note of his downy stubs, bare of most of his usual feathers. You grinned something wicked.

Tomorrow was the day.

Keigo crawled up to you, immediately pulling your back to his chest, peppering your shoulders with kisses before drifting off. You turned to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, hoping he’d get enough rest to be ready for all you had planned.

...

The next morning, Keigo lumbered out of bed while you were finishing your coffee on the couch, already donned in your business casual attire (with some additions, but he couldn’t see those yet).

“Hey, angel,” His voice was scratchy with sleep as he plopped down next to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “How’d you sleep?”

“I slept super good,” You smiled, returning his sweet gesture. “How about you?”

“Good, very good. I’m just glad I have a day off.” Keigo relaxed into the cushions. He flexed the roughly two-foot-long stubs of crimson feathers, “Gotta grow these back out, and that means I’m relaxing all day.”

You grinned, the pieces of your plan having perfectly fallen into place.

“I’m very glad, sweetheart,” You gave him a fleeting kiss before standing up and heading back to the bedroom.

Keigo called after you, “Where’re you off to, angel? I wanna give you some love before you gotta leave me.”

“One sec! I just gotta get my shit together for work,” You purred back knowingly. Your purse was already packed and ready. You had other traps to lay.

Flitting into the closet, you rummaged through a small set of drawers to retrieve one of the several packages you received. It was a clean, white box, about half the size of a pillow, wrapped in red ribbon.

You laid it on the freshly made bed, adjusting some of the satins as you did.

Keigo beamed at you as you exited to the living room, sauntering up and wrapping his hands around your waist to kiss your forehead.

He stiffened when he felt the straps beneath your work blouse.

“Angel?” He squeezed your waist.

You smirked, kissing the corner of his mouth before gently cupping his jaw, “Now, sweetheart, can you be a good boy for me today?”

Keigo, the sweet thing he was, turned to putty in your hands.

He nodded, his bottom lip poking out.

“Good,” You tightened your grip on his jaw. “You have a lot to make up for, considering what a brat you’ve been lately.”

The way Keigo trembled in your hold, cheeks hot, made your head spin with your ideas for the evening.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” You walked him back, only stopping when his ass hit the kitchen table. He jumped when he slid just the slightest bit back, forced to sit.

“F-forget what?” Keigo genuinely couldn’t remember, based off the quirk in his brow.

You clicked your tongue, shifting a knee between his legs, “At the Gala. Use your brain, sweetheart.”

His expression fell with the revelation.

Your punishments were never easy. Very fun, but god, they were excruciating.

Watching the expression on Keigo’s face drift as he worked out the context of your actions made you shiver. You were sure he’d be a brat later, but catching him off guard always made him particularly weak to your touch.

“Now, baby, I was nice enough to leave a pretty present for you in our room.” You pinch his plump bottom lip between your fingers, “When I get home, I want you on the bed all dolled up for me, understand?”

He swallowed, nodding against your hold as enthusiastically as he could manage.

“Good.” You released him, kissing the indent that your nails left. “I’ve got to get going, but I love you lots, okay?”

Keigo was comically stunned with a very noticeable bulge in his boxers, “I l-love you too.”

You throw your purse over your shoulders, smug at your ability to turn Keigo into obedient mush.

As you opened the door to leave, you were gracious enough to shout and remind him, “Oh, and sweetheart? Be a good boy and don’t you dare touch yourself today, or I’ll make tonight far worse for you. Have a good day off, love!”

...

The moment you left the apartment, Keigo let out a tight breath.

Holy fuck.

He really thought he’d get to spend the day relaxing and letting his wings regrow, but as it turned out, you had far better plans for the two of you and Keigo didn’t have the mind to fight it.

Not yet, anyway.

He’d give you shit later. It was fun to push you around, in any context.

When he was sure you were far out the door, he quickly padded to the bedroom, eyeing the box that lay on the duvet.

Slipping onto the sheets, he kneeled and pulled it closer. He rubbed at the ribbon, frowning.

The two of you had used toys and... devices plenty of times, tending to each other, just in different ways. But, when Keigo picked up the parcel, it seemed far too light to have any sort of toy in it.

Keigo frowned, slipping off the satin and pulling off the lid.

...

Oh fuck.

Inside, neatly packaged with crisp tissue paper, was a carefully folded set of clothes. Special clothes, notably.

This became abundantly clear as Keigo carefully pulled the mesh and lace out of the box, blood rushing to his half-hard cock.

It was an incredibly pretty set. Stockings, garters, even a ribbed bodice with lacey cups, all pale pink with gold embroidery and accents.

It was pretty, but not your size at all.

As he pulled out the last item, a pair of satin and lace panties with extra fabric at the front, he realized that these were undoubtedly for him.

A hot blush sped to his cheeks as he stared down at the pretty mess in front of him.

Sure, he’d talked about this kink to you in passing, but you’d never mentioned it and he’d never asked you to indulge him in it.

However, it was quite clear that that was indeed what you were doing, giving him such a beautiful set.

There was even a small card.

“Keigo,

Despite the fact that you’ve been nothing but an ungrateful brat lately,

I’ve been gracious enough to give you a sweet gift.

You’ll have to earn it tonight.

Be good.

(Y/N) <3”

Keigo stared down at the garments and the note, already far too hard to be comfortable.

It was hardly going to be a leisurely day off.

...

You took the opportunity to torture Keigo just a little.

Honestly, you deserved it. With the way he’d been randomly dragging you into bathrooms, alleyways, and dressing rooms to wreck you, it was truly only fair that you got to wreck him.

So, you started early.

You sent picture after picture to him throughout the day, stepping from your office to tease at your own special garments that hid just under your modest clothing. Keigo probably wouldn’t touch himself, knowing what that would cost him. Fucking with him throughout the day would just make your revenge that much sweeter.

He was easy to get riled up, it was one of his biggest weaknesses when this dynamic came up. Keigo might’ve had the stamina to go for hours, but he didn’t have the heart or mind not to beg for it.

And god, by the end of reaching your own workday, straps feeling almost too tight and pussy dripping, you were more than ready to fuck Keigo up beyond belief.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

“Kei’? I’m home!” You called as you came in the front door, slipping off your shoes and hanging your purse.

“I’m in here,” Keigo’s voice echoed from the bedroom.

Oh.

Perfect.

Your plan, long thought-out, had turned out perfectly. Now, you reaped the reward.

You were going to fucking ruin Keigo.

Destroy him.

If he wasn’t a shaking pile of cum and sweat when you were done with him, you’d just keep going.

You strode to the bedroom, anticipating the sight before you with bated breath.

And god, did Keigo take yours away.

Like a ‘good boy’, he was just as you ordered him to be.

He was kind enough to keep the lighting the room low, though he was more than visible and fucking gorgeous.

The lingerie set fit him beautifully, as you expected. The pink satin and lace stretched over his tanned skin so well, showing off the tone of his muscles and the swell of his light curves, as well as his already weeping bulge.

He sat on his spread knees atop the bed, garters pulling tight over his upper thighs. The panties were maybe a bit small for Keigo’s fat cock, but seeing a bit of him peeking out was never a bad thing.

The bodice of the piece was truly beautiful. It was ribbed, a blushing pink and had small threads of golden stitching accenting the lace work. The cups of the piece were pressed to Keigo’s hardened, pierced nipples, the fabric undoubtedly teasing the skin raw (not that you didn’t plan on getting them such a way yourself.)

“Oh, baby,” You sigh, a light, genuine smile coming to your face. “You look beautiful.”

Keigo must’ve already been pretty deep in it, ducking his head and biting his lip, “Thank you, mommy.”

You smiled at his usage of the proper title, though none of your irritation or anger faded. It was only a few drops of water on a much hotter burn.

You walked up to the bed, leaning over the end of it to tilt up his face to yours, “Kei’, what’s your safeword?”

“Quill,” He leaned into your touch, stubbly cheeks brushing against your palms.

Nodding to yourself, you stepped back from him. Watching Keigo was like observing a moving piece of fine art, the shadows and highlights of his body crafted by some finer being than you. You were just there to tend to him, use him and bend him in the ways you knew he craved.

You fetched the last two parcels from the closet, setting them onto the nearby dresser. Close by and in-sight, teasing the two of you.

You turned, directly regarding Keigo. He must have been watching you move about the room, eyes rounded and knees spread just right.

“So, tell me, Kei’,” You hummed approaching the bed while popping the buttons on your work blouse. “Have you been a good boy lately?”

His fingers stiffened over the lace of the stockings, stubs twitching behind him, “I... don’t think so.”

You hummed, fully peeling off your top, “Wow, so someone’s finally got some sense to himself now? Mommy’s proud, but it’s a little too late for that.”

Keigo audibly swallowed now that you were barer to him.

Your set was a leather of some sort, black straps adorning and squeezing your frame and flesh in the best ways, linked by o-rings and pretty buckles. If Keigo was in a different mood, he would have half a mind to tug you close by the ring dangling between the slope of your breasts.

But he wasn’t, he was mommy’s good, sweet brat, and that meant sitting and shutting up unless he wanted this to be worse for himself.

You tapped your hip, over the slim zipper to your skirt.

“Unzip.”

Keigo nodded, too quick and too eager as his shaking hands slid the zipper over the curve of your hip.

You stepped back before Keigo could get too much satisfaction from the action, shimming the skirt down your legs—

And the set you had on top kept going.

Garters and black stockings settled over your thighs, perfectly fitted and perfect for you and your perfect body, Keigo just wanted a taste—

You slapped his hand down onto the bed, holding it there and leaning forward with a sickly syrupy smile, “I thought you said you knew you were being a brat, baby boy? Wouldn’t that mean you know not to push your fucking luck—?”

You left his hand on the duvet with an order to not move it, to which he complied.

And you slipped back over to the dresser, unfurling your last parcels.

Rope and a pretty new toy.

He didn’t deserve them, they were for you.

The new harness was perfect, custom made to your size, so it sat perfectly over the curves of your thighs and ass. It looked even better when you attached the curved, thick strap to it.

“Is that—”

“For you?” You finished Keigo’s sentence with a click of your tongue. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll just suck on that cute little cock of yours until you’re fucked dry. Maybe, I would let you near my dick. Or, you learn to be a good boy like you say you are—”

You grabbed his jaw in one hand and squeezed, “And you’ll get mommy’s pretty strap?”

...

To his merit, Keigo really, really was being good.

Each expression of his was just so, so delicious, and that wasn’t even taking into account the beautiful ways his body arched and writhed below you.

What would the public think if they knew ‘Hawks’ was fucking mama’s boy who craved nothing more than getting stuffed with thick cock and edged until he was crying sweet, sweet tears?

Who knows! You didn’t, and you didn’t fucking care.

You’d stuffed Keigo with a cute plug as prep, one with a glittering, yellow gem that just looked so good between his pert little ass cheeks. The new rope was put to use as well. Though, the knots were kept mainly to his arms and wrists. The new lingerie was too pretty to hide. You had tied the intricate knots and binds torturously slowly, as you’d be so kind as to attach a small, vibrating egg to the tip of his dick.

Though, the first thing you did was lock a cock ring at his base with the promise that he ‘wouldn’t be cumming until he was screaming’.

You had him under you, tits squished to his ribs. Your thighs slotted on the sides of his braced and squeezing him just enough so he knew not to dare to try and move with your word.

You smeared lube up and down his angrily red cock, thumbing the head. The slick and pre slipped down and stickied his balls and the roughed-up panties tucked beneath.

Keigo was a fucking mess for it. Whining and gasping with each breath for little, reverent pleas— ‘more, more, more—’

His wrists were tied together, pale pink rope making flushed marks against his heat softened skin. They were secured high on the bed, pulling his body taut and flat against the sheets.

You nipped at one of his pierced nipples, tugging the tender bar with your teeth with little regard for how Keigo squealed again.

Each sound had you dripping, just as needy and wanting as your sweet, sweet boy, but you’d be damned to let it be as apparent as his wanting.

Keigo was a goddamn sight.

Blond waves stuck to his forehead and temples, cheeks red and lips bitten to cherry. His mouth hung open, drool spilling from the corner and soaking the pillow you graciously kept under his head.

(Only because you’d ridden his face for a good while prior, and you were such a nice mommy, you gave him a nice cushion while you let him tongue fuck you to another orgasm.)

“M-mommy,” Keigo’s voice shook. “Please.”

You tsked.

“Disappointing, sweet boy,” You chastised, lightly. Keigo had already wept hard enough, you didn’t need to push much more before he cracked just as you wanted. “You know to beg better.”

Keigo choked on a sob, something that made his bound, stubby wings shudder and writhe against the sheets.

“But, I-I already have,” Keigo sputtered, tugging on the bindings and breathing hard as you toyed with the ring at the base of his swollen cock. “Please.”

He deserved it, all the teasing and sweet torture, considering what a bastard he’d been in the past week.

“Needy and you’re talking back?” You rolled your eyes. “So what, you want me to ride your cock? That’s too good for you.”

“‘T-too good for me,’” Keigo repeated, tearfully, stomach shaking with the way he was still trying to holding back.

He just needs to let go. Be the shameless cock slut he is.

“Guess I’ll just fuck that cute little ass of yours until I’m satisfied.”

Keigo gulped as you helped him onto his tummy, bound hands freed from the headboard to brace below him. His back arched, a practice ‘c’ curve that you made dip deeper with a press to the small of back.

“Do better,” You reminded him, cruelly. He stifled another sob, nodding.

He shrieked as you eased the lubed plug from his ass. You poured a gracious amount over the red strap-on, admiring it.

It was thick, it’d be a stretch and would press deep enough to knock Keigo out if you so chose.

Good.

As much as Keigo loved fucking you hard and fast, wherever and whenever he pleased, he needed this sometimes. A bit of handful (or so) of mean words, and a thick cock to fuck him full and dumb.

“Baby boy,” You cooed, tapping the toy over his blushing bottom. “You ready? Or should we wait—”

The impatient bastard.

“No, no, no,” Keigo sputtered against the sheets. “I c-can’t mommy, I can’t—”

“Can’t what, baby?”

“I can’t wait!”

It was the concept of waiting any longer for your fat cock that sent him sobbing into the bedding, hiccuping and writhing.

Keigo, the sweet thing he was, sagged and fell apart. Breaking good and proper, coherency gone.

You guided him through it, good and proper.

Truthfully, Keigo had been put through it. The sudden expectations, having him wait his entire day off, tempted by your skimpy little photos. And when you finally deemed him worthy of you, it was just to tease him and pretty cock for a few hours just to let off some of your own steam was cruel.

But Keigo had been bad, and loved getting used when you both needed it.

His tears must’ve felt damn good, considering when you reached under his hips (while rubbing tender little circles over his spine) his cock was harder than ever, leaking and wet with need.

He seized beneath you, sputtering little ‘n-no’s and ‘p-please’s mixed with his weeping. He twitched in your hand as you ran the pad of your finger around the ring at its base.

“I could take this off,” You mused, pressing the tip of the strap against his hole. “Or—”

With a slow grind of your hips, you stretched him wide and trembling.

Keigo’s cries got louder, deeper and rougher as he clasped his hands in their binds. Bent over his body, you teased his cock with a light hand, humming as you nonchalantly fucked him to the hilt of the strap.

“Now, sweet boy,” You nudge your hips flush to his, just barely shifting “If I take this off, can you come for me? I need you to cum for me as much until you can’t anymore. Can you be a good boy?”

After a moment of sniffling, he nodded, “Yes, m-mommy.”

You flicked the clasp on the ring, discarding it and rolling your hips.

And Keigo instantly came.

With all of that build-up, he shuddered, wings writhing as his back bent harder as he drenched the sheets beneath the two of you.

“My good boy,” You hummed, petting between his wings as he rode it out. “Keep it up.”

And without relenting, you grabbed his wings for leverage and fucked him.

Maybe, it was a little cruel.

Your pace was set hard and fast, tugging the feathery stubs and enjoying the feel of his round, downy feathers where you held the base. Your grip was the only thing keeping Keigo as he resisted collapsing.

You were nice enough to occasionally reach down and give Keigo a few quick pumps, just enough so he’d crest again, sticking your hand so well and thick. The cum was smeared onto the fatty round of his ass with a slap or two.

As much as it was a damn treat to see Keigo so fucked up and fucked, you let up when his orgasms were still hot and harsh, but his cock was nearly dry. It hardly sputtered anything, drained and sticky and overstimulated beyond belief.

“N-no more, no more!” Keigo sputtered as he trembled and convulsed with a dry, painful orgasm, your hand still fisting the sore flesh on his cock.

You knew him well enough to stop then.

Your hips stilled, breath labored, though nothing like Keigo’s teary, nearly-dry sobs. He slowly fell into the sheets, aching body falling with nothing left to give.

Everything was slow for a moment.

You pulled out, graciously slow and tender, mindful of his raw state.

With a few skillful tugs, his wrists were free and unbound. Weak arms and shaking hands grabbed for you, needy as ever, but still, you could indulge him.

‘Mommy, m-mommy, please,” Keigo tried to tug you down into the soaked sheets as you unbuckled the harness from around your hips.

You raised an eyebrow, “Still needy?”

Keigo choked on something between a sob and scream, nodding and needing.

(Completely wrecked, just as you craved and planned. He really was good.)

Your heart softened, the energy in the air diffusing as you freed his wings, coaxing them to stretch out and release any remaining bottled up tension.

And you fell into the bed with him, tugging your sweet boy to your chest and peppering kisses over his salt-slicked cheeks.

“You were wonderful dear, my good, sweet boy,” You layered on the praise, enjoying how his shudders came from your words as opposed to the discarded cock.

Keigo opened his cracked lips but quickly closed them, settling before nuzzling under your chin and practically purring as he came down.

You always knew that you did your job well when Keigo was fucked silent.

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thank you for reading 💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #hawks x you #takami keigo x reader #hawks smut #tw mommy kink #mha x reader #uwu i love indulging and breaking keigo over a good strap #<3

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