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pleasantanathema · 4 years

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The Witcher’s Woes

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: bruising/marking, rough sex, dirty talk, light degradation, mentions of blood/injuries, very mild angst, porn with plot

Word Count: 10k

A/N: This is a collab piece for the Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab hosted by myself, @present-mel, and @linestrider

You can find all the other wonderfully creative and smutty pieces on our masterlist!

P.S.: This is a long one, if you feel like only reading smut, feel free to jump down to the second line break and begin there.

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A Witcher: someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals, which take place within Witcher schools such as the Wolf, Cat, and Griffin in their respective hidden Kaers, or home castles, in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. (source: fandom.com).

The storms were raging on the coast, salty waves crashing into the shore like heavy hands attempting to crawl out of the sea, only to get dragged back into the abyss. The winds were howling, lightning crashing, yet the storm was the last thing on your mind as you opened the door to your lowly estate.

Ushijima of Velhad still had his arm raised from where he knocked on the wood, his yellow eyes glowing against the darkness of night. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his chestnut hair tousled, lines of rain water dripping down his nose, his cheeks pallid. Even still, The Witcher looked to be a living memory, no new wrinkles or scars that you could detect when the rumbling flashes lit the sky. If it wasn’t for the rain, he would’ve looked entirely the same since you last saw him years ago, smiling in the evening glow of the countryside before departing for a new journey.

You ushered him in quickly, silently, your instincts for hospitality taking over before you could begin to think of questioning him about his sudden arrival. His armor was damp, heavy, sloshing and clinking as he undid the leather and meteorite laced straps from his shoulders. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. You rushed to grab towels from a chest, blanketing him in warmth as he sat before your rolling fireplace. He uttered a quiet thanks, never one to use words out of place.

The tea you had been brewing above the fire began to boil. You quickly poured two cups, adding a dash of the alcoholic white gull to his and using a burst of fire magic between your palms to keep the cup warm. You settled into the chair beside him, noticing how his gaze leered into the sparking fireplace.

“Ushijima,” you finally called him, after time had passed and his hair began to dry, “are you hurt? Is that why you’re here?”

He grunted from beside you, moving the hand you noticed had been clutching his rib cage.

“Yes, but not badly. I needed refuge from the storm more-so than a potion.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps pondering if he should simplify the truth.

“A sorceress, even in hiding, is never hard to find. The townsfolk talk, you know. I knew you were nearby before even beginning my hunt.”

“You could have asked for more than the tea I gave you, you know I’m here to help.”

He leaned back in the chair, his thick, long legs spreading out before the fire, his socks still damp and clinging to his toes, a big cat uncurling his weary limbs.

“It would have been rude to barge in begging for assistance.”

Ah, yes. He was still as courteous as always, his Griffin School teaching still ingrained in his mannerisms. Most Witchers were not so polite, but that school in particular valued traditional teachings. You knew you’d have to indulge his small conversation before getting more answers from him; he always played the chivalrous game, after all.

“Tell me, what brings you to the shores of Blaviken? Last I saw of you, you were riding north, returning to what is left of Kaer Seren.”

“There is nothing left,” he sighed, both arms now resting on the chair, the last remnants of tea staining his cup, “everything was destroyed, save a few books I found amongst the rubble.”

“What a shame, that library was a marvel. I would’ve liked to visit it myself.”

The story of the destruction of Kaer Seren was only well known to those acquainted with the last remaining Witchers. The keep was tucked away amidst the edge of the sea and the snowy mountains of Kovir to the north. The Witchers of that school, all of Ushijima’s kin, were well acquainted with magic and kept a vast library of mystic tomes within their home. But they were secretive, protective of their knowledge. Witchers, men created by magic to become the monsters they killed, were guarded for good reason. Years of persecution had left their numbers in ruin.

A group of mages felt scorned by the Witchers’ refusal to share their wealth and toppled the castle of Kaer Seren in an avalanche, leaving bodies and crumpled books in the wake, all never to be used again. You could almost picture the blood and ink that stained the snowy graves.

You’d only heard this story from the mouth of Ushijima himself, one night after too many scuffles and too many drinks.

“I brought some for you,” he smiled then, warm and soft, full lips on display, “that’s the real reason I’m here.”

His eyes were especially luminous in the firelight, gold irises reflecting the flames like the most precious of coins. His cheeks were flushed now, color regaining across his skin. Freckles smattered his cheeks like dried blood; you had to hold yourself back from reaching to him, from caressing his skin to see if the marks were lost war paint or new stories etched into his skin. He was tanned from all his time spent meditating in the sun, truly a unique specimen to behold. It was rare to see someone so brutal be so beautiful.

You were excited at his words, your fingers digging into the grooves of your cup at the mention of magical books awaiting you to peruse them.

He could see the eagerness behind your eyes and he laughed, then coughed, but continued his soft chuckling again. You paused, realizing he must be in more pain than he was letting on. His arm had returned to his torso, the thickly corded muscle clutching and protecting whatever injury was lying beneath.

“They’re in my bag by your door, you should go look at—.”

“Ushi, you’re hurt. Let me take care of you.”

Before becoming friends with the valiant hunter, you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to read hidden knowledge. But years of acquaintance with the hardened man had your heart tugging in another direction; suddenly, Ushijima was becoming more important than all your years of study and practice in sorcery.

He had a habit of breaking everything he touched: monsters, glass cups, weapons, he had a very powerful grip, and perhaps you were just the next thing in line to come undone by his hands.

You stood from your place by the fire, strolling over to a cabinet where you kept all the alchemy ingredients you had collected from your years living alone here by the sea. Many travelers had come by, having heard of the witch by the shore, bringing elements and components to sell at a high price. And you had taken them all, emptying your purse at even the faintest glimpse of a rare material peeking from their bag. You loved your craft, you had perfected it, almost, and every day you spent toiling away finding new ways to create potions and expand your magical knowledge.

“I need to know what you were hunting earlier.” Your fingers began rustling within the crowded shelves, grabbing an empty bottle as you heard him sigh behind you.

“A Hym,” he said softly, “it scratched my side, it’s deep, but not fatal.”

You stilled, eyes darting across all your ingredients. He said the word so easily, so nonchalantly, like he didn’t just battle a demon.

“A slice from Hym’s ethereal claws drains the life force from their victim, the longer that wound sits untreated, the worse you will get.” You mentally cursed at him, blaming his chivalrous nature for hurting him for longer than he deserved to be in pain. If he had said something when he came in your front door, you could have had him on the mend already.

“I know that, but a small potion to get me through most of the pain until now.”

“You’ll need more than that. You’re lucky, I just went to town last week and managed to find vitriol. I can make you a superior swallow drink, just…stay still.”

Quiet mumbles tumbled from your lips as you worked: measurements, ingredients, small musings as you set aside all the components to begin assembling them upon your alchemy table. Plants like white myrtle, celandine, crow’s eye fell into the bottle of enhanced swallow you already had on hand; you added fruit, nothing too exotic, just the common berbercane, and finally the blue tinted vitriol powder.

You eyed the hunter as you mixed the potion, swirling the now red liquid within the high neck of the bottle, speeding up the mixing process with a little magic of your own. Only he would have such insouciance concerning a fight with such a wicked creature. He was talented, perhaps not as much as the more legendary Witchers that roamed the lands, but Ushijima was strong, sturdy, nimble and smart when in battle. His stoic nature allowed him to distance himself from the horrors of his life, a life you knew he had not chosen.

He was an orphan, brought up by the Griffin School and transformed into a monster hunter without much consent, though you knew he had none to give. But he wore his profession like a badge of honor, looking at his life through a lens of helping those who could not help themselves in a world infested with demons, ghouls, and humanoid monstrosities.

You’d always wanted to admit how admirable you found him, but you knew he was never one to take compliments.

Standing next to where he was patiently sitting, you offered him the small bottle, the glass precariously dangling in your fingers.

“Take this,” you pulled the flask away just slightly as he reached for it, “but only after you tell me what the hell you were doing fighting a Hym.”

“You said it yourself, I get worse every moment I don’t drink that.”

“You’ve lasted an hour, Ushi,” you chided, “I think you can take a few moments to tell me why there was a Hym near Blaviken.”

You sat the bottle back on the table, moving to stand behind him and press the towel around his shoulders a little tighter into his neck. He gave you a contented sigh, eyes closing. He never liked to talk about his work, but you always pressed him. You lived in this monstrous world as well, had killed a few drowners while walking along the sands, aided an earl with a botchling, once even made friends with a rather tempting succubus. Everyone in this world was plagued by wretched creatures, he was just more qualified to kill them with his training and silver swords.

Your fingers pressed into the soft cloth around his neck, picking up the fabric and using it to brush against his hair and continue drying the damp spots still lingering around his ears, the back of his neck. You normally weren’t so blatant with your affection for him, but you knew you had him as a captive audience within the chair. He’d have to tell you his story before earning what he desired, but you might as well humor him with soothing touches while he did.

“Hyms are nasty things, you know. Demons that feed off the guilt of others.” He began.

“I found a note from a daughter in distress about her father on a notice board not too far down the road. He was going mad, she wrote, she thought perhaps he had become possessed. I did some searching in their house, found love letters tucked away under the old man’s mattress addressed to his sister-in-law. He wanted her, he loved her, so he killed his own brother to have her. But then she threw herself into the sea from her own grief; I think the Hym could’ve gotten to her first, then transfixed itself onto the man.”

“Hm, the things we do for love.” You mused, hands coming to rest on his shoulders once again.

Somehow, he felt stronger, broader than the last time you’d touched him. You sunk your fingers into the sinews on display in his damp shirt, humming to yourself. You’d thought about this before, about having the strengthened hunter sit vulnerably before you, only your thoughts involved the two of you in much less clothing and talking of much less rotten things.

You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the sketches you’d seen of Hyms in bestiaries. They were murky, shadowy beings, devilish horns upon their faceless heads, long black claws dripping from their hands. You would have cowered at the sight of such a creature, yet Ushijima sought out to destroy it.

His gruff voice continued on, “I confronted the man, called out the Hym, and it began to attack. Its claws are long, it scratched me from the very beginning. But it’s gone now, perhaps banished to the dark realm from whence it came.”

You plucked the bottle from its resting place, handing it to Ushijima over his shoulder. He took it with a simple thanks, head tipping back as he drank the entirety of its contents. You watched almost gleefully at his thick, irresistible neck on display. Everything about him was so strong, so well kept, even as he sat before you dampened from a storm.

“You know, Ushi, I could listen to you talk like that for hours.”

“Oh yeah? Then maybe I’ll stick around for a bit this time, let you listen to all my seedy tales.”

“Mhm, they’re only seedy when that bard friend of yours is around. Is he still alive? Tendō, that is.”

A flash of red hair and a catlike smile flashed before your mind’s eye as you thought of the dangerous, yet comical bard who often clung to the Witcher’s side.

Ushijima laughed, clutching at his stomach as you circled his chair and came to stand before him, arms crossed delicately in front of your body. Your figure cast a silhouette across his own, making you seem larger than life in the firelight. He was enraptured in the inky vice of your shadow.

“Yes, somehow he is still alive. Last I heard of him, he’s off singing songs in the capital of Redania to some rich heiress.”

“Good to hear,” you shrugged, “I always liked him.”

“No, he always liked you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, the action sending you into a fit of giggles as well. “And I can’t blame him.”

Your laughter subsided at his words, a warm tingle spreading across your body. Normally Ushijima was not one to flirt without the aid of alcohol; perhaps you’d given him more than you thought in his tea earlier? You watched him relax in his seat, lifting his shirt to reveal a quickly fading wound upon his tawny skin, the old blood sinking back into the muscle where it belonged.

Thunder rumbled outside the walls, a heavy boom resounding from the gods above.

“You should bathe, Ushi.”

“What, do I smell?”

He was suddenly so playful, so charming, his grin making you feel flustered.

“You will soon, I’m sure. Go beyond those doors,” you pointed over your shoulder, “It’s a heated pool, one of the reasons I chose this god forsaken estate.”

“Will you join me?”

You took a pause. This man was always making you pause, making you step back and evaluate your words and actions around him. Surely, he was joking. But the gleam in his bright eyes told you a different story, there was more lingering behind his words that you did not yet understand.

“I will, but only after I take a peek at those books you brought me. Now, off with you.”

You brushed by him as he stood, arms stretching above his head, his body shifting as he evaluated the healing wound upon his flesh. His heavy boots clunked against the floorboards as he followed your command, the sound of an enhanced predator marking his path. He slid through the door at the back of the great room and left you alone once more.

You would’ve been ashamed if he saw how quickly you rushed to his bag, gathering the cold, dusty books in your arms before setting them gently on the table. They were relics, ancient, undoubtedly hiding secret runes and magic within their spines.

Your fingertips brushed over the titles of the four books he brought you, but despite being entranced by the knowledge lying in wait for you, you were imagining your fingers to be elsewhere. You flipped one book open, your nails following the lines of ink, but your mind took in no words you read.

You were somewhere else; you were mentally with Ushijima, your fingers back in his hair, your hands exploring places unknown to you on his skin. He was the well-guarded book you desired to read, to hold, to explore.

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Ushijima was astounded by your bath. He knelt to the stones on the ground, using his keen senses to feel the heated rocks and look for their source. There were some offshore vents that were connected to this place, feeding in warm water to the bath. He took in a deep breath, smelling the lingering hint of salt in the air, but the scent didn’t entirely match the ocean.

He dipped his fingers in the water, finding it smooth, warm, unsalted. You must have put magic in place to filter all the sediment from the pipes. You always were clever, even in the smallest of ways. Your wit was something he admired about you.

He took his time undressing, his ears perked as he heard you rustling paper in the other room. He had felt embarrassed at first about being so sentimental towards you; he had known from the beginning of his journey that any tomes he found would be placed into your care for you to enjoy. He’d read them, of course, the journey from Kovir and Poviss still a long one to the border of Redania where you lived. As he divulged himself in the ancient knowledge of his Witcher school, he always pictured you reading the same words he did; he felt your presence nestling into his skin, enveloping him like a magic spell. He liked to imagine how you’d react to the pages, how many notes you would scribble down from certain intriguing sections.

Ushijima thought about you more than he cared to admit.

Naked, he stepped into the bath, his screaming muscles finally silenced under the hot press of water against his body. The bathing pool had a ledge around its border, and he took a seat at the back, arms spreading out like heavy wings along the rocky edge. He sat where he could watch the door; it was instinct, he told himself, to always be aware of his surroundings, but he knew he was just waiting to glimpse your figure appear before him.

Some nights, when preparing his tent under the stars, he would think of the first time he met you. He had traveled with Tendō to some opulent gathering in Toussaint, one filled with wine and vampires he knew were hidden amongst the crowds, but any thought he had of a hunt had vanished when he saw you. You were delightful, enchanting, eye-catching amongst the throngs of people. It didn’t take long for his friend to seek you out, to gain your friendship, and Ushijima watched patiently from the sidelines, watched how you held yourself with such poise and dignity. But all the while, he was aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to know you.

You had become his guilty pleasure over the years, a fantasy he envisioned as he lay alone at night. Even when he was meditating, he was hard-pressed to not find himself seeing your skin behind his eyes, imagining how your body would feel within his hands. The hands of a killer, a fiend, hands that crushed whatever he held all too easily. But you, you were so powerful, so seemingly untouchable, and he found himself unworthy to behold you. He was just another creature, a man turned monster, someone wholly undeserving of a divine sorceress.

He huffed to himself, a shy smile pulling at his cheeks as he thought of your words from earlier.

“The things we do for love.” He repeated the words to himself, sinking a little deeper into the water.

He didn’t have to wait long for you to enter. He was unexpectedly aware of his nakedness as you entered, fully clothed still in your corset and trousers. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, spreading down across his belly, at the prospect of watching you change; it would be impolite to ogle you. He turned his gaze instead to the water, watching how the surface lapped at his skin as he shifted his weight.

“Are you comfortable?” You called out to him from across the room. He could hear your clothing shuffling, hear the laces coming undone one by one from your body. The room felt quiet, the air smothering. He’d felt so bold earlier, but now he felt almost ashamed that he had asked you to join him.

“Ushiwaka,” you implored with a little more strain to your voice, “don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me.”

His gaze shifted up for only a moment, catching a glimpse of your naked back as you peered over your shoulder at him, your hands ready to pull down your breeches and become fully naked. He couldn’t help himself, he gawked at your beauty, tracing every curve, line, and dip across your splendidly sculpted skin. You looked more beautiful than any constellation he pointed out with his finger in the night sky. He unabashedly gazed at the planes of your shoulders, the gentle slope of your spine. He imagined taking his time to map the uncharted waters of your body, of discovering every hidden cosmos tucked away within your curves.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve become even more comfortable at the sight of you.”

He held his breath for a moment, waiting for your reaction. Upon seeing you smile and turn your face away, he sighed, sinking deeper into the pool, arms barely keeping him afloat from where they rested on the edge.

He heard splashing as you waded into the water, submerging yourself up to your neck before you came to sit just a few feet away from him. From here, he could study you more closely, see the elegant slope of your neck into your shoulder. He was pleased to note that he could still make out the form of your breasts in the water, the lovely globes just barely dipping out of sight.

“I must say, even in the given circumstances, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.” He always loved how silky your voice was, always melodious to his ears. He always worried he’d forget how it sounded, but your timbre matched the tone he had been playing in his head since he last saw you.

“I haven’t heard the name Ushiwaka in a long time,” he confessed, “it’s always Witcher now, or Ushijima of Velhad since that’s where I did most of my work.”

“Well, you lost that name—Wakatoshi—a long time ago when you were picked up by the Witchers, but I know it is sentimental to you still. If you prefer, I can just call you Ushijima.”

“You know I don’t mind it.” He felt like he said the words too quickly.

“Hm, well, I’ll call you anything you let me, Ushiwaka.”

A shiver hit his body at your words, he was keen enough to know there was innuendo laced behind them.

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You closed your eyes, head leaning back against the warm stone as you allowed the steamy water to wash away the grime of the day. You moved your hands over your body, feeling the sticky sweat melt away. You reached for a small towel, tossing one in Ushijima’s direction and watching how he caught it so effortlessly, like a cat swatting at a shadow on the wall. He received a small bar of lavender soap with the same ease, his nose wrinkling at the flowery scent.

You both took a moment to wash, you humming an old tune, Ushijima remaining silent aside from the sloshing of water made from his heavy limbs beneath the surface.

You’d never been in such an intimate space with him before. A bath is time of solace and cleansing, but also one of exposure and susceptibility. Water intentionally brings forth feelings of intimacy and ambivalence. You knew he was there, watching, his heightened senses attuned to every sound, smell, every minimal movement around him. You couldn’t take his silence any longer.

“I—,” you began quietly, “can I ask you something?”

His movements ceased, those radiant eyes now focusing entirely on you. You instantly felt heat spread across your chest, climbing up and darkening your ears with blush. You wondered for a moment if he could see through you, in you, see how fast your heart was pounding blood through all your veins. His intense stare made you feel like he was closer, his deadly hand wrapped acutely around your heart, aiding it as it struggled to beat harder, faster.

“Of course.” His words were direct, poignant, the deep vibrations almost tingling the water itself.

“When you were facing that Hym, at any moment, did you fear it would sense your grief?”

You could tell he was taken aback by your words. He placed the wet cloth to his chest, his long fingers digging into the fabric as he pondered what you said.

Once again, he wasn’t sure if he should simplify the truth. He mulled over your question, let the words seep into his consciousness as he looked up to the ceiling. He should’ve known you were astute enough to see through him.

“Yes,” he stated, “I did.”

He didn’t wish to elaborate any further, but he could tell his curt response didn’t satisfy your internal reasonings.

“I see.” You noted somberly.

“How did you know?”

He watched you slink farther under the water, searching for cover, searching for a way not to express your thoughts. He noticed how your legs crossed beneath the surface, the light from the hanging candles glittering through the water.

“I know you didn’t choose this path, didn’t choose to be a Witcher. That was forced upon you; you were lucky you even survived the Trial of Grasses that made you into what you are—.”

“A monster.” He interjected flatly.

“You’re not…” you sighed, dipping your head into your wet hand, “you’re no monstrosity, Ushi, not even a miscreation.”

He tensed at your words, catching how you regarded him with a solemn look.

“I didn’t choose a life of sorcery, you know. I was torn away from society when I was a girl, taught to use my source of magic to heal wounds, but also how to kill someone in an instant. People…powerful people used me to their advantage. It’s why I stay hidden now, I’m running from my past misdeeds. I know what it is like to have regrets; to grieve.”

He only nodded in understanding, afraid of using the wrong affirmations.

A heavy silence fell between you once again. You plucked the soap from its resting place behind you, thoughts tumbling through your mind like the waves crashing at the shore outside. So many words were desperate to leave your mouth, to be birthed and said and made into reality between you, but you dared not.

If anyone understood the weightiness, the hidden meaning behind silence, it was Ushijima.

But even he couldn’t bear it much longer. He grunted, running his wet hands over his face as he contemplated his next move.

“Well, tell me this. What would you be if not a sorceress?”

“Hm? Oh, I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve just…always accepted my fate.”

“I’d have been a sportsman,” he declared, a slight uplift in his voice.

“Oh really?” He watched as a grin pulled at your cheeks, the heaviness of the conversation before dissipating. “And what sports are you good at, Ushiwaka?”

“Anything with a ball,” he shrugged, “some kids down south play games with poorly strung nets, and they do their best to keep the ball from hitting the ground as they toss it back and forth. I think I’d be quite decent at it; I am agile, after all.”

“Powerful, too.” You remarked.

“You think so?” He teased.

He eyed you carefully as you set the cloth and soap aside.

You began to move... towards him. His eyes narrowed, his hands mimicking your actions and setting his bathing instruments to the side, freeing his hands.

You were ethereal in the water, gentle waves lapping at your skin, the ebb and flow of it shimmering around your body.

“Now that I think about it, I know what I would at least be proficient as if not a sorceress.”

The smirk that tugged at your lips intrigued him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for you, taking your arms and pulling you towards his chest.

“And that is?”

Time stopped for a moment as you settled yourself into his lap, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of skin upon skin, touch upon touch, the only increments of time needed.

His body was so hot, so willing to accept yours upon it.

“I’d be a wonderful whore.”

Golden eyes flickered up to you, lashes low, his lips parted.

“Care to show me?”

Your skin was cold to his warm touch, his hot breath fanning across your cheeks. He was so close, so eager, you could feel hardness begin to form between where your thighs cradled his.

Your hands slid across his shoulders, feeling the grooves and puckers of scars pass under your touch. You settled your grasp onto his neck, steadying yourself above him. His hands played against your skin under the water, the heavy fingers finding your hips and sinking into the smooth flesh he found. You gasped aloud at the feeling; his grip was strong, iron-clad, daring to leave marks behind. You wanted to break under his touch, collapse against his chest and allow the water to pull you both under into euphoria, but you secured your inner desires. Your back straightened, your fingers clawing into his thick skin.

“Ushiwaka,” you whispered it like a humble prayer, your lips brushing his, “kiss me.”

He groaned, pulling you a little closer, spreading your thighs a little wider.

“Why don’t you kiss me, little temptress? Show me how much you want me.”

You felt bewitched, wondering for a moment if he had placed you under a mind control spell with his words. Your thoughts were jumbled, but they were still yours: kiss him, touch him, read the hidden words on his inky pages like you had long desired.

Your lips met his tenderly, hesitantly, tasting the salt of water and sweat against his awaiting mouth. He breathed through his nose like he was exhaling life into you. He moved his mouth against yours, testing you, pushing at you, and effortlessly you gave in. Your eyes were closed, but you felt like you could still see him, felt like you knew every step in the dance he was leading you in. It felt so natural, so smooth, and you found yourself clinging to him with every press of his lips against yours.

Then his mouth fell open; an invitation. You followed him, sliding your tongue in, finding his own past his teeth. He felt like true sin, his tongue tempting yours to reveal its secrets to him. It was slow, methodical, a mutual exploration of tastes and pleasures you had both long craved to discover.

Your chest fell to his, your breasts meeting the hard planes of muscle found there. You moaned, the sound of water moving igniting your hunger as one of his hands meandered up your back, fingers lapsing into your soft muscles. He offered you a groan, and you took it desperately, hastening your kiss and plunging you both deeper into one another. One of your hands wandered from his neck, slipping down his chest, pressing him back against the edge of the pool. Your nails pulled at his flesh, wanting, needing, unknowing how to gain purchase against such solid muscle.

He tasted like tea leaves: earnest, alluring, but also like the earth, like something natural and primal. It was a taste that was familiar, enticing, and every time he took a moment to breathe, you found yourself diving back in for another taste, another glimpse of what lay hidden beyond his lips.

“Mhm,” he moaned as he finally pulled away, chest rising and falling, “perhaps I’ll mold you into my own personal whore.”

“I’d like that, Ushiwaka.”

The blood within his veins rushed to his cock at the sound of his name, of that personal name, falling from your sweet voice. Fuck, he would give anything to have you, but it seemed that he didn’t have to. He could feel by the way you clung to him, by the way you kissed him with such fervor, that you desired him all the same. It was thrilling to know you wanted him, and he wondered how far he could take you.

His hand glided away from your back, circling around to your chest. He cupped one of your breasts in his hands, holding back a groan as he felt the weight of it within his palm. He watched how the water lapped at your skin, the ripples from his movement brushing against a hardening nipple. The small sound of delight that left your lips had him refocusing his gaze to your face. You wore a sly smile, your own hand upon his neck tightening in anticipation of his next move.

“I’m a dark man, my love. Hardened.”

He was toying with you, but his words offered some truth. Ushijima had been envisioning you like this for far too long; there many devious things he wanted to do to your body.

You leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to his ear, your voice low, “hardened indeed…I can feel you between my thighs.”

He smirked at your words, taking your nipple between his fingers and listening to you gasp as he gave it a simple tug. Your teeth found his ear in response, nipping tenderly.

His eyes fluttered at the feeling; a groan caught in his throat. He wondered if you could sense it. You pulled back slightly, angling your head to give him another kiss. He accepted it gladly, tongue ready to find yours again.

“You can be an obedient little whore, can’t you?” He rumbled against your lips; his words being lost inside your mouth.

You ate the words like you were starved, a hot moan swallowing them down as you felt a shock of pleasure race down your spine. He grunted at your action, the hand upon your breast squeezing in response.

“Yes,” you said softly, as he allowed you to escape his kiss, “where did all your chivalry go, Ushiwaka?”

He smirked as you teased him, his lips dipping to your neck, tongue tracing the lingering water droplets that fell down your skin.

“It’s waiting between your legs.”

It was a growl, the sound of a predator marking his prey, the sound of a man holding back his lusts.

You sucked in a breath, eyes closing as you dipped your head back and allowed him more access to the length of your throat. The hand at your breast squeezed harder, his thumb and forefinger rolling languidly across your straining nipple. You felt like you were lost at sea, the weight of the water around your bodies feeling heavier as Ushijima pulled you into his tides. He was the moon, pushing you, pulling you; he always has been. For so long he kept you at arm’s length, toying with you, teasing you, bringing you so close to him but never close enough. But tonight, the moon was waning, his control faltering as he finally gave in and allowed himself to fall into the calling sea.

He held you back on his thighs, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body below the surface. One of your hands trailed down his chest as he sucked dark red marks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, staining your skin with colors from his own making. He bit your skin especially rough when your wandering fingers found the hard lines of his stomach.

You were tentative, taking a moment to feel if his wound was finally gone from the magic bestowed upon him. You could only feel scars underneath your palm, though one felt particularly puckered and new. But his stomach wasn’t your goal, it was what was straining against it.

He cursed into your skin when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers pumping against the silken skin within the water. His lips fell lower, his eyes closing as he littered open-mouth kisses against your chest, now using both hands to cup your breasts and bring a nipple within his mouth. You moaned loudly, a rush of ecstasy coursing through your veins. He pulled you forward, forcing your hand away from his cock. Instead, he shifted to where his cock was nestled between your pussy and his stomach, allowing just enough friction to keep you wanting.

He needed to keep his head clear if he was going to please you in all the ways he had dreamt of. He was going to taste you, tease you, earn the right to claim your body as his own.

“Ushi—,” you went to whine, but a calloused pinch to your nipple ripped his name away from your mouth.

“Be quiet.” He demanded against your breast, teeth lightly tugging at your hardened bud.

You only gasped in response, hands smoothing across his broad shoulders as he worked his way to your other breast, hands needy, mouth exceptionally hot. Your hips pressed down and you felt the length of his thick cock against your aching pussy. You experimentally slid yourself against him, desperate to feel more touch against your most sensitive flesh, against the place that had wanted him for so long.

His hands moved to your hips to still you, his vice-like grip returning.

His mouth left your breast, his chin tilting up to look at you. Those glowing eyes were dark, ravenous; perhaps there was something monstrous sleeping inside of him, ready to awaken.

“Stop tempting me. You’ll regret it.”

His reflexes snapped as your lips parted to speak. Two thick fingers slid onto your tongue, pressing it down, the taste of water and leather swirling in your mouth. His taste was a mixture of his worn gloves and the floral soap he’d cleansed himself with. You groaned, head tilting back as you let him have his way, your mouth suctioning around his fingers for some kind of relief.

He eyed you carefully, watching the sinews in your neck come on display for him. Bruising marks of his design were blooming on your skin, little fragments of memories coming to life before his eyes. Your mouth felt like sin and he could already imagine how it would feel to have his cock sliding against the supple lips wrapped around his fingers.

Ushijima twisted your nipple again, a little harder, a little tighter, feeling pleased with himself as he heard and felt the grumble of a groan against his skin. A small drip of saliva trickled down your chin and he used his thumb to smear it into your cheek.

He could’ve held you like this for all eternity, had you pressed against his cock, his fingers padded against your tongue, your beautiful breasts on display as he groped one, watching the flesh mold into his hand. He had you subdued, compliant, a wondrous creature caught in a dangerous trap. He could do anything he wanted to you right here and now, and the realization had his cock twitching against your cunt.

For his own enjoyment, he was going to mark you, leave something behind on the picturesque pallet of your body.

You would never be allowed to forget him, as he knew this vision of you would forever live inside his mind.

He took his time, each bite and suck carefully and meticulously placed. Ushiwaka was never one to use his mouth without purpose, whether it be for his words, or his kisses. Your shoulders, your chest, your breasts, nothing was forgotten, and you felt like you had been sitting on his lap for eons. Each time his mouth curled into your flesh, his hair tickling you, you felt hotter, more alive than before. You pressed down harder against him, searching for some kind of release to the pleasure he was building inside of you. But he had you pinned, a strong arm encircled your back and kept you exactly where he wanted you.

When he sucked your nipple back into his mouth, you cried out against his fingers, your tongue darting between the digits as you sucked a quick breath in through your nose. He paid you no mind, his own tongue licking meticulously at your nipple, up and down, slow and steady. The bliss that erupted from your breast was almost mind-numbing. Your thighs clenched around his, your head lolling back even farther than before. You needed more, you were desperate to feel that talented mouth back on yours, to feel his fat cock slip inside you were you needed it.

Finally, he released you, his mouth leaving your breast as he slipped his fingers from your mouth. You took a moment to catch your breath. He splashed his drool covered fingers in the water, bringing the wet digits back to your face to wipe you clean, his thumb tracing your lips with care.

“See what being quiet gets you?”

You nodded your head in agreement, your nails finally releasing his shoulders where they had been clawing into his skin.

“I need you,” your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding his in a tender kiss, “please, Ushiwaka.”

“You beg so prettily, my love. Perhaps I should have you beg a little more.”

“No! Fuck, please…” you entangled yourself around him, legs curling around his toned waist, your face nestling into his shoulder. You brushed the skin found there with your mouth, hungrily moaning against him. You were frantic; you had already waited for him for so long, thought about him for too many nights, too many years.

His strong arms enveloped your back and he lifted you easily from the water. You adhered yourself to his body, ready to have your muscles clench around him to assist, but he needed no such help. Your weight was effortless to him.

Ushijima used the ledge of the pool as a step, faultlessly exiting the pool like a nautical divinity coming to soft shores. He was cautious as he laid your wet body upon the heated stone, careful not to crush you under his weight. He watched your eyes alight as you took in the sight of him out of the water, now hovering above you. Your gentle fingers traced over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, finding the constellations of scars upon his skin, his own physical galaxy for you to explore.

He took your face in his hand as one of his muscled thighs spread your legs. You were entranced in his gaze, finding yourself lost in the molten amber of his eyes as his pupils danced across your face. He was taking in every bit of you that he could, burning this vision of you below him into his memory. You were flushed, lips parted, slightly swollen from his ardent kisses. Your delicate hands moved to rest beside your head, palms facing him, submissive.

“Please,” your voice broke him from his trance, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

He nodded in response, eyes tracing down across your body. He relished having you before him like this, back arching towards him, breasts falling, your hips shifting against his legs. The hand on your face trailed away, making a path down your torso, fingers swirling against the lost dewy droplets against your skin. And then he finally peered down farther, having to steel himself from groaning as he found your awaiting pussy.

Your skin was prickling from the cool air meeting it, gooseflesh creeping up your legs, down your arms. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you watched him, waiting for him. You could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, though you wished you could know them. What was he thinking? Was he hesitant?

Your own contemplations vanished when his warm, wet fingers spread your pussy, two fingers deftly sinking along the sides of your lower lips. You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, heat pooling within your belly. He took his time exploring you; he was a man of patience, after all.

You could feel his weight shift back as he sat on his knees, spreading your legs across his thighs. He curled one leg back for him, opening you up more for his viewing pleasure. His finger slowly traced up the center of your cunt, finding your sticky wetness coating the digit as it carefully curled against your clit. You let out a quick gasp, hips twitching, and he repeated the motion, watching you slowly come apart from the simplest of touches.

His other hand found his cock, fisting it as he played with you. You could hear the slick pumping of his hand against himself, and you moved your weight upon your elbows to sit up and watch him. Even on his knees, Ushijima of Velhad was intimidating, all broad shoulders and heavily corded muscle across his body. You admired how his arm flexed as he stroked himself, how his toned stomach was clenching with need. Your mouth fell open as you glimpsed his thick cock within his palm. It fit so perfectly in his big hand, throbbing, thick veins calling out to be inside of you.

You wanted to beg for him again, but your words were lost when one of his fingers slid inside of you, stretching your walls to fit around him. You dropped back against the warm stone, mouth falling open.

“So tight,” he said it like a fact, like he expected it, “you’ll feel so good stuffed with my cock.”

You bit into your lip in a whimper as he curled the digit inside of you, pumping it once, twice, with agonizing slowness. But soon, he added a second finger, the thick digits spreading you, testing you. His pace was calculated, fingers pleasurably systematic. You moaned at every twist and plunge, hips arching off the floor to meet his pace. His thumb began to circle your clit and you swore that stars overtook your vision, bursting in the corners of your eyes as you tried to focus on the ecstasy churning deep within your stomach. His long fingers were stroking your velvety walls just perfectly, each plunge feeling deeper and deeper than before, fanning the flames beneath your skin even hotter.

“Ushi, please…”

“Please what, my love? Tell me.”

He was particularly cruel, electing to rub your clit faster, harder, making your words choke in your throat. You cried out, feeling the orgasmic coil begin to tighten in your belly. You were already so strung out for his love, for his touch, and you knew your little death was just around the corner.

“Make me cum, p-please!”

You felt his heavy body come back to yours, the hand on his cock ceasing its movements and instead finding your hand beside your head. His strong fingers wrapped around your flesh, curling into your forearm, thumb tactfully pinning down your wrist to the stones below.

He repositioned the hand between your thighs, now using the palm of his hand to press against your aching clit. His fingers found the soft patch of flesh inside of you, petting against it skillfully, like he already knew exactly what you needed, knew exactly what made you fall apart to his immoral hands.

His face dipped to yours, causing your eyes to flicker open to find his adoring gaze above you. He pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, muffling your moans as your legs began to press against his forearm, thighs begging for the release he could bring you. His mouth matched the rhythm of his fingers within you, his body in harmony with your own, pulling you tightly like the strings on a well-played lute. You were so ready to snap, so ready to sing songs of praise up into him, but all too soon his mouth and his hand left your body.

He could read the bewilderment on your face, feel you try to press back against him, but he held you down easily with the weight he forced onto your wrist.

“I want to feel you come undone on my cock,” he whispered against your lips, “are you ready?”

His hand, now slick from your pussy, pushed your thighs apart wider, curled your legs back farther, his own thighs pressing into your soft flesh. You felt his cockhead brush between your dripping folds.

“Yes! Take me, for the love of all things hol—!”

His hips slammed into yours, his throbbing cock filling you, stretching, pressing you far beyond what you expected. He hushed your cry with his mouth, his hand cupping your thigh and urging your body to move with him as he began to thrust within you. Your hand that he pinned to the floor fisted in on itself, your nails threatening to break your own skin as your mind struggled to catch up with your pleasure. You were so full, so fucking full, so overwhelmed by him.

His dewy, tawny skin felt so sinful against yours, the lingering moisture on your bodies bleeding into one another. His hips were strong, fast, each plunge of his cock going deep, deep, deep into your awaiting depths, finally uncovering every hidden place on your body to have as his own. You gasped and moaned into his mouth, and his sighs melded with yours, his kiss desperate, lips crashing into yours with more fervor than the storm that raged outside.

You felt so utterly lost, yet so wholly encompassed by him, by his earthy scent, by the weight of his body against yours. Your breasts slid against his chest, nipples pebbling as they brushed against his downy hair. Your back was skating against the warm stones below, the pressure against the hard surface enough to make you ache, but it paled in comparison to the jolts of pure pleasure that resounded through your body with every thrust of his massive cock inside of you.

“More,” you pleaded softly, lips peppering him with ardent kisses, “more, more, more.”

You felt him place more pressure on your trapped wrist and you gasped, worried for a split moment that your bones would splinter under his power. But he was cautious, moving your arm gently to rest above your head. The hand on your thigh crept up your body, stopping for only an instant to grope at your bouncing breast. But his fingers quickly moved on, skimming up your other arm, palm smoothing against your dampened skin. He soon found your wrist, now using both his mighty arms to pin your own above your head, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

His words were a dare, a wicked promise.

At the nodding of your head, he smirked, lips coming to your ear.

“Tell me to stop if it becomes too much, you promise?”

His thrusts had never faltered, the air in your lungs still hot from all your heavy breaths. You closed your eyes again, finding your voice.

“I promise.”

The primal sound that left his chest startled you; you could feel the rumbling spread across your body like aftershocks of an earthquake. His hands around your wrists tightened, arms tensing. He shifted forwards, pushing your hips up, legs wider.

And then he began to pound mercilessly into your body. You screamed, the high-pitched shrill echoing within the room, rebounding off the walls, soaking into his naked skin. Every fantasy he ever had of you suddenly came alive inside his mind, burning like a roaring fire, making his vision go blind as he pounded himself inside of you. You were so warm, so god damn tight, your pussy sucking him in with every unbridled thrust that he felt like he would break open from all the euphoria that was crackling within him.

He called out your name, over, and over, and over again, reminding himself who he was with, who he finally had coming undone below him. He was still holding back, too afraid of breaking you, but even still his hips moved faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing in his ears like the constant moans and praises that feel from your mouth.

“Ushi, fuck, fuck, yes!”

He was being cruel, he knew it, slamming into you like this, making your body bow into the floor, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel that coil that was tightening inside of you earlier come to fruition on his cock, he needed to spill his seed inside of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel what was happening to you. All your focus was upon his cock stretching your pussy, filling you so perfectly that you knew you’d never want to feel another again. It was like you were made for him; all your limits were being pushed at once. Your wrists ached within his grip, surely bruising under such an immense hold, but you felt secure, safe underneath his power.

Your knees were bent to their threshold of flexibility, your ass now well above the floor as he curled you to fit him. His cock was so deep, his thrusts now remaining almost entirely inside of you, pounding away at your insides like a man gone mad. You were at the borders of your composure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, eyes watering, mouth open, body stinging, longing, begging for him, “g-gonna, gonna, cum!”

“That’s right,” he murmured, tongue daring to skim the shell of your ear, “cum on my cock, baby, cum for me.”

Your nails finally pierced the flesh of your palms as you came completely undone around him, orgasm bursting forth and blooming around you in euphoria. All your senses came crashing down, every small detail becoming more alive and ever present than ever before. It was all so much, the pleasure pooling in your belly and spreading across your body faster than lightning that raced across the sky. His hot breath was against your neck, your legs aching, blood dripping down your palms, water still cooling against your skin, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. You could hear every sound: your screams ringing against the stone, his grunts into your hair, the wet suck of your pussy around his cock, even the still water resting in the pool.

Your body was wrecked with tremors as he continued his ruthless assault, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Your orgasm drenched his cock with thick, wet slick, encouraging him to drive a little harder, push a little deeper. He heard little pained gasps from your mouth, but he warned you he was corrupt, told you to stop him, yet you were taking him so fucking well, so fucking perfect like he knew you would. He was so close, so painfully close, his cock throbbing, his rigorous pace becoming unsettled as he felt your sweet thighs wrap around him.

Then there it was, the sound of your voice, the sound of his goddess calling to him.

“I want your cum, n-need it, please, fill me up, make me yours.”

He finally crashed, your words like the irresistible call of a siren. Hot cum filled your tight pussy, his cock thumping deep inside your womb. You felt like you could breathe again, his inhuman strength finally laxing upon your ruined body.

His mouth found yours again, his lips tender and now so familiar and welcoming. The tension in your body washed away, his loving hands tracing over your body as he allowed your legs to finally rest. Your heart was hammering in your chest; you could feel every beat inside your rib cage as you finally calmed down, mind returning, body waking up from its lust.

Ushijima slid himself from inside of you, leaving your body with a groan of satisfaction. He watched his cum pool between your thighs, pearl white and stark against the stones. He looked up at you, all of you, admiring your spent body below him. He watched how your breasts heaved with breaths, how your eyes were blinking mindlessly up at the ceiling as you came down from your high.

But then he recognized the bruises on your arms, the bites on your chest, the indentions of the stone upon your sides, the bloody nail prints in your open palms. He cursed himself, cursed his monstrous hands—he knew he was never meant to hold you, that he was unworthy.

“I hurt you.”

His simple words brought you back to reality.

You sat up then, stretching your body as you came face-to-face with him once more.

“Oh please.” You chided, a smile forming on your face as you cast a simple spell within your torn hands. He eyed you curiously as the blue tinge of magic twisted within your palms, your small wounds closing, even the marks upon your chest healing to a more reasonable color. They were still there, the small reminders he created, but they would fade on their own in a few days.

You took his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his handsome cheeks.

“No more grief, Ushiwaka. Please, for me?”

He only drew you closer in response, cradling you in his arms.

A few words of thanks came forth from his mouth, but you paid them little mind, too caught up in his embrace. You remained entangled in one another for a moment longer, both at ease in the company of each other’s breaths, your heart beats, the feeling of fingers skimming over skin.

“Stay with me awhile?” You questioned softly into his chest.

“Did you think I was going to leave after that?”

“You always leave, you know, at some point.”

“Not this time, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

You both felt the pull then, the same tug that you had both longed to feel for so long.

You were at home.

Ushijima pulled you to your feet, wordlessly leading you to get dressed and follow him back into your great room. You saw the books still open on your desk, forlorn and nearly forgotten.

He settled back into the chair after stoking the fire in your pit, bringing the flames back to life. He stretched out, yawned, and appeared wholly comfortable there, magnificent arms crossed upon his chest.

You could get used to seeing him there, and you knew little by little, he’d allow you to read his pages, too.

_______________________________________________________________________

Note: I don’t own anything from Haikyuu or the Witcher Universe.

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goldentournesol · 4 years

Text

The Receptionist and the Profiler (Epilogue)

Chapter Eight: Epilogue

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: Welcome to the final chapter of the series. this is just a summary of what Spencer and Reader’s life is like in the future. thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I’ve enjoyed it so much more than I thought I would. So without further ado, enjoy.

Working for the FBI made for a pretty wild life. Even though Y/N wasn’t an agent, her life had been caught up with work just like all the other agents’. It also didn’t help that her boyfriend was endangered practically every minute of every day. It was hard, but Spencer and Y/N made it work. Among the darkness, they created light for each other. Spencer was no longer dreading coming home to a quiet life of reading and rereading his favorite books. He had a partner, he had a lover, someone to depend on. She was there for him as he grieved the loss of his friend and coworker deeply and she was there when he struggled with his excruciating migraines. They walked through life together, facing the challenges head on.

Emily’s death had taken a toll on the both of them, but they were nothing short of relieved when they found out that she was alive and well. Many changes took place after that.

JJ had worked long and hard to turn into a profiler, the liaison had years upon years of experience before switching jobs which meant Hotch had to find a new communications liaison, but he didn’t have to look far at all. He had offered Y/N the job without a second thought. A lot of her job as receptionist covered a liaison’s job. She would often get numerous calls a day from nosy reporters and she’d have to shut them down. However, with the added responsibilities, she’d had to take classes and had undergone copious amounts of training with JJ and Hotch, but she found that she flourished in this new job, despite the hardships that came with it.

This meant that she had her own office now. Whenever Spencer wasn’t at his desk, he was in her office, and whenever she wasn’t in her office, she was at his desk. She often found that she missed her old job as receptionist, but nothing could replace the newfound feeling of making a difference in the world. She used to admire JJ’s ability to stand before nosy reporters and judgmental cops, and here she was, blowing herself (and the team) away with these hidden abilities.

Before, she was aware of the general gist of the job, she knew it wasn’t easy, but the team often kept the gory details to themselves around her. Now, she had to pick and choose the gore which constantly left her with the question of whether she’d made the right choice or not. The intensity of the job had slightly damaged her spirits, but thankfully she had an amazing support system. She couldn’t have done it without Spencer’s unending support, or Hotch’s for that matter. Before allowing Y/N to accept the job, Hotch had made sure to warn her about the horrors first. She assured him she was ready, even though sometimes she felt like she wasn’t.

On the somewhat bright side, this also meant that she was around during most, if not all cases. This had Spencer jumping for joy, but it also terrified him to his bones. All his emotions were always on overdrive when it came to her. He was glad that he didn’t have to spend so much time away from her, but it simultaneously meant that he was constantly worried for her safety. He never wanted her to go into the field, ever. No matter the amount of combat training she did with Morgan. She found that she preferred interviewing victims’ families and controlling the press to facing serial killers head on anyway.

Sometimes it was easier for her to control the press from Quantico, so it wasn’t uncommon for her to stay back during cases. One particular case had dragged on for much longer than any of them had expected. The whole team was gone in Wisconsin and Hotch had asked her to stay back and hold down the fort at Quantico. The team ended up staying there for two weeks. It was the longest she’d ever been away from Spencer. Nightly calls weren’t enough for them and Spencer truly hadn’t experienced such an emptiness without her before.

As he scooped her into his awaiting arms right outside the elevator when they finally made it back to the office, he breathlessly declared to her, “Marry me.”

She pulled back from the tight embrace to examine his features, “What?” She said, voice thick with confusion.

“I don’t want to be away from you for that long ever again. I don’t want to wait anymore. Marry. Me.” He enunciated firmly. She broke out into a grin.

“Okay, I will.” She laughed and he squeezed her once more, savoring her warmth.

“This isn’t the official proposal by the way, you deserve something far nicer than all this, but I just want you to know that I’m ready if you are.” Spencer clarified and she threw her head back with laughter. Spencer’s heart soared at the sound.

Spencer took that statement and ran with it. He teased her every chance he got. At one dinner date they had planned, he had the nerve to begin his sentence with her full name, her heart dropping to her gut.

“Y/N Y/L/N, would you do me the honor of...sharing this fine wine with me?” Spencer said smugly, resulting in a shocked, but somehow relieved scoff coming from her.

A different time, he decided to give her a false alarm during one of their daily lunch walks in the park nearest to Quantico. He knelt down to one of his knees in the middle of their promenade.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you...wait for me while I tie my shoe?” Spencer asked with a face-splitting grin. This time, she didn’t hesitate to shove his shoulder slightly, causing him to lose balance and almost faceplant into the pavement.

At this point, she truly had no idea when he was going to pop the big question. Knowing him, it could literally be at any point in time. She had to admit, though, he kept her on her toes. A month later, she was sure he’d pop the question during JJ’s wedding reception because of the way he was staring at her all night. He’d looked dreamy in his tux to say the least. Y/N was almost too shy to dance with him because of how magnificent he looked. What she didn’t know was that he was thinking the same exact thing about her. She looked exquisite in the evening gown she adorned and Spencer was absolutely enraptured by her.

Being so surrounded by love and admiration, Spencer finally asked her to marry him the second they made it through her front door. They stood in the small hallway between the kitchen and the living room. She had just turned around from taking her heels off and was met with Spencer down on one knee, holding the most beautiful ring out to her in a navy blue velvet box.

“I had this elaborate speech planned, Y/N, I really did. I was going to talk about the stars, about the first conversation we had when I told you about the origins of yogurt, about how stupid we were for not realizing our love for each other earlier, but I realized that none of that matters right now. All I know is that this feels right, you make everything feel right. Will you marry me?” Spencer asked, his face incapable of hiding even a sliver of the adoration he felt for her.

“Yes, I’ll marry you in every lifetime and every universe.” She said, tears falling freely from her eyes. He sprang to his feet and wrapped her up in a long awaited embrace. He felt her body shake with wet laughter against his. He placed the ring on her finger and quickly kissed her passionately. Their giddy giggles flew through and around them.

Spencer knew she didn’t want a long engagement. Her previous engagement was hard enough of the both of them. Their jobs were just so demanding, it was hard to set a date and keep from pushing it back. Their wedding planner was beyond frustrated with them, but what can they do? They’re literally out there saving lives. And before they knew it, two years had passed them by and they were due to be married in two months.

But, alas, Spencer Reid seemed to have a knack for getting shot by unsubs right before weddings. While they were investigating a difficult case in Texas, Spencer was shot in the neck. Y/N was at the police station when she’d heard. She wasn’t sure who took her to the hospital to see him, everything was a blur since she got the call. She was plagued by the fear of losing him.

She’d overheard Alex Blake and JJ discuss how he’d always wanted children when she arrived at the hospital. In the back of her mind, she screamed that she’d give him all the kids he wanted, if the universe just let them breathe.

All too quickly, she was a sobbing mess in JJ’s arms. He’d gotten hurt before, he’d been in danger before, but she’d never been as close to it as she was then, it terrified her. Garcia had arrived and guided her to Spencer’s room. In another flash of events, there was a loud bang and Y/N had barely registered that a gun was shot inside the room.

The ringing of her ears subsided just enough to hear Spencer tell Garcia, “You saved my life, do you hear me?”

That was the second time his life was endangered in the span of two hours. Y/N looked her fiancé square in the face.

“I don’t want to wait anymore. As soon as you’re up and well, we’re getting married.”

Exactly one week later, they’d rushed through whatever they could rush through. Thankfully her dress was ready and altered, the cake was made to order, but sadly, they’d given up their gorgeous, gorgeous venue. Rossi was more than happy to offer up his backyard and the couple found it more than fitting to commemorate their love in the very location where Spencer had first confessed his feelings to her and where she’d returned them later.

Life truly came full circle as Spencer stood in the same exact spot where he’d confessed his undying love for her the very first time. Spencer did everything he could to keep from sobbing like a child as he saw the owner of his heart stand before him, just like she did that day, but this time adorning her white dress.

Being the romantic sap that he was, he recounted almost every milestone in perfect detail during his vows. Through the unrelenting tears, of course. Y/N’s words came out wobbly and wet, but she managed to get her vows out. There really was not a single dry eye in the small, intimate crowd. The entire team had watched them fall in love oh-so-gracelessly over the years.

Their ceremony was beautiful. It was different than JJ’s had been, it was more special to the two of them. Spencer was in nothing short of awe as he watched his wife sway with Henry wrapped up in her embrace on the dance floor. Henry’s little arms and legs were wound tightly around her, the bottoms of his shoes surely smearing dirt all over the back of her dress, but she didn’t care. Not when Spencer was looking at her like that. His throat clogged itself up as she caught his eye and smiled sweetly. The same thing was on both their minds, it was like an unspoken agreement had been made through some kind of special, invisible bond between them.

He couldn’t wait to have a family with that woman.

And they’d wasted absolutely no time. Three months after the wedding, Y/N announced that she was carrying a baby Reid. Tears and cheers erupted for them all. They had found the perfect little house with the help of Morgan. It was perfect for their growing family.

Pregnancy wasn’t easy on Y/N at all. Flying all around the country and helping catch serial killers was not an activity that pregnant Y/N wanted to engage in. The team had been more than forgiving as they dealt with her mood swings and crazy cravings. It also turns out that soon-to-be mama Y/N was especially helpful in chewing out unsubs in the interrogation room, but as useful as she proved to be, she couldn’t wait to pop the little peanut out.

Spencer and the team were rushing off the jet to the hospital as they’d heard Y/N had gone into labor. Spencer had only missed the very beginning and was by her side the entire time after that.

They welcomed baby Emelia Reid into this world on a chilly September night. Spencer was over the moon, he was borderline obsessed with looking at the baby and keeping a hand on her at all times whenever she was in the room with them.

He waited for his mother to fly out a few days later just to meet baby Emelia. He wept as he watched his mother kiss the top of his baby girl’s head. No other feeling could ever compete with the one he experienced at that moment in time.

Emelia had grown into such a radiant little girl. She was a miniature hurricane of chocolatey brown curls and rosy red cheeks. She’d already blown her parents away as her intelligence only seemed to increase with time. The similarities she had to her father were astonishing. She was a daddy’s girl through and through, but Y/N didn’t seem to mind sharing him. Not when the sight of them together instantly melted her heart every single time.

Diana tried to be as active in the baby’s life as she could possibly be, however her condition began to worsen over time. Eventually, Diana had had to move in with Y/N, Spencer, and Emelia. Thankfully, their house was large enough, but taking care of a toddler and Diana while being 6 months pregnant was inarguably too much to handle for Y/N. She’d found out that she was pregnant again, and they were expecting another baby girl. Y/N had also taken time off from work to focus on the dilemmas at home.

The at-home nurse was doing the best she could since Spencer was always either at work or off finding Diana some kind of new treatment. He’d told Y/N that he’d been going to Mexico to get her some special medication and so she didn’t mind as long as she’d been kept in the loop of where and how he was. Spencer Reid never kept anything from his wife. They were always transparent with each other. Y/N was glad that he’d told her about his trips down to Mexico, or else she’d be out of her mind looking for him.

But suddenly, during one trip, he’d stopped answering her calls. Complete silence on his end. It had driven her absolutely mad. It was only until JJ visited her the next morning informing her that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico for the illegal possession of drugs and possibly murder. If JJ hadn’t been around to catch Y/N before passing out, she or the baby would have been in extreme danger.

But Spencer Reid never kept anything from his wife. She’d been adamant that she would have known if he was struggling with drugs again. The last time she’d seen Spencer was during the trial. He’d looked so terrified as they pronounced him guilty and shoved him away from her. From his family. He’d spared Y/N one last broken glance, his gaze drifting down to her swollen belly. Their second child was on the way and he won’t be there to meet them. He mouthed a heartfelt apology before they took him away. Y/N wept and wept until everyone but the team left the courtroom.

“How am I gonna do this, Pen? How am I gonna do this without him?” She spoke between breathy sobs. The baby, Emelia, Diana. She couldn’t do it on her own. It would break her.

“You won’t be alone, Y/N. We’re all going to help you.” Penelope reassured her, but the only thing that was capable of reassuring her was currently in handcuffs behind closed doors.

She’d had to keep Spencer’s whereabouts from Diana and Emelia. She’d told him that he was consulting a case somewhere in California, where he also had access to the beach. Up until that lie wasn’t viable enough. Emelia’s questions about her daddy absolutely tore through what remained of her heart.

Diana’s caretaker had apparently quit and a new one came by. Y/N thought something was off, but she pushed that thought aside as she worried over her husband and the baby that they were due to meet any day now. Two months had passed and Spencer was still incarcerated, he hadn’t allowed Y/N or Emelia anywhere near the prison, but she’d broken down at the possibility of him being locked away for 25 years.

She’d visited him once, right after the birth of their second baby. They’d had another beautiful baby girl, whose name had been decided long ago by the two parents. Baby Adaline. The delivery was immensely difficult without him, but she pushed through. Y/N had almost begged Emily to pull any, any strings she could to get them to meet since Spencer said he’d only agree to see them if he could ensure their privacy and safety. They’d managed to get them in with Spencer’s lawyer, Fiona. Y/N cooed to Adaline as she cradled her in her arms, wrapped in her little blanket. The cooing served as a distraction as she waited anxiously for Spencer to meet them in the small little room.

Suddenly the doors emitted a loud buzzing noise, prompting a loud cry from Adaline. A sound that was strange to echo off the walls of this place. Y/N shushed her gently until she caught sight of her husband walking through the door. Tears gathered in her eyes as she took in his disheveled state. His eyes found hers and quickly flitted to the squirming bundle of joy in her arms. Spencer’s lip wobbled as he entered the room. Y/N shifted Adaline to rest upon her shoulder as she wrapped one arm tightly around Spencer. No touching was allowed, but the guards pretended to look the other way, courtesy of whatever strings Emily had pulled.

The three of them bawled against each other in an unceremonious reunion. Spencer at last pulled away from his wife and stared at the baby in the bundle. He hesitated to carry her. His hands were clean, but they still felt so dirty. How could his hands hold this beautiful gift of life while they’d been committing such heinous acts within these very walls? But one utterance from his wife made that all vanish.

“It’s okay, Spence.” She smiled slightly, angling Adaline towards him.

He gazed at Y/N closely, as if checking to see if she was sure. Y/N carefully handed her over to him and he instantly turned into less of a shell of himself and had begun to resemble the man that Y/N could recognize. He cooed to her softly, kissing her face repeatedly. Adaline instantly quieted down at her father’s touch.

The small interaction had fueled the pair for weeks. Spencer found a source of hope and was determined to see through to the other side. He would not rot away in his cell forever. The team continued to try and crack the case from the outside. Y/N was instructed to be more careful than ever. She often brought Emelie and Adaline to work with her. She had not been flying out with the team, preferring to stay close to her girls until Spencer was back.

On one of the days Y/N brought her girls to work, she’d found out that Diana had been missing. Her caretaker was accompanying her to visit Spencer in prison and then neither of them had been seen afterwards. They quickly identified the caretaker as Lindsey Vaughn. If Y/N had been on the case with them ten years ago, she would have identified her, but she was just another face to her. Y/N was livid, Vaughn had been around her children, she’d been inside her home. If Spencer didn’t get to catch the bitch, they better believe Y/N will.

Spencer was released quickly after the BAU proved his innocence. He was on his way to the office now. Y/N had been peering into Adaline’s carriage when she’d heard the high pitched voice of Emelia.

“Daddy!” Emelia exclaimed, racing across the bullpen to jump into her father’s arms.

“Hi baby. Daddy missed you so much.” Spencer said, hiding his tears in his daughter's hair. He held her tightly to his chest as he crossed the bullpen and made it to Y/N’s office. He put Emelia down gently and scooped his wife into his arms.

“You’re back.” She said softly through tears.

He hooked his chin over her shoulder and sniffled strongly. He might not be the same man he was before, but he still loved her unconditionally. He still loved all three of them unconditionally.

“I’m here.” He repeated the phrase out loud like a mantra.

And he was here, but he also wasn’t. His wife could tell that the man who stood before her had endured hell, but when he cradled their baby girl so tightly to his chest, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a loving, gentle father, and a compassionate partner. She knew she’d hold onto that thought forever. Once they retrieved Diana, they knew they could face anything.

As long as they were together.

And they knew they would be, for as long as the universe would allow in this life, and then the one after that.

~THE END~

previous chapter/ bonus chapter

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thank you for all the love, feedback is always appreciated!

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid series #spencer reid angst #spencer reid masterlist #the receptionist and the profiler #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fic #cm #spencer reid fluff

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chrstbll · 4 years

Text

miracles and lucky days| ben hargreeves

(gif not mine)

+tags: @lalisbitch @spaceclone-mom , @meowmeowrex23 @strangeyouthcrusade

plot: after coming back from the 60’s, instead of finding the sparrow academy, the group come face to face with a much more positive outcome of their actions.

The words of Klaus were diluted, inaudible and ringing loudly in your head. Your limbs could barely hold the weight of your body, and the nausea from jumping between timelines hitting your stomach didn’t quite put you at ease. All was blurry at first, not hearing nor seeing properly caused you to feel light-headed as well, but before your legs or your mind gave in, somebody strong arms held you up protectively.

- Are you good? – Diego’s gentle call for you brought you back to reality. He was always a little bit concerned about you. He didn’t show it in great actions, it was in the seemingly unimportant things he did for you. There wasn’t anything romantic involved between you two, instead of that it was a deep understanding of each another that made you appreciate the other significantly. You nodded to confirm that you were in fact all right, shrugging it off with a smile.

Klaus was right. After you successfully registered what he was saying, a wave of relief washed over your heart, mind, and soul. Your whole being. For once, all seven of you managed to successfully jump back to 2019 without any harm or mistake being done. It was quite unbelievable. A dreamlike scenario which proved itself to be nearly impossible to believe. Looking around the hall, everything seemed to be all right. It felt okay. The aura was intimately comforting, yet something was amiss. Different. Changed. It certainly was not a malicious ambiance that you discovered, but one new, something yet unexperienced thing. The others noticed it too, as all six of them were looking around suspiciously. Memories, feelings, and people rapidly invaded your mind, those you haven’t thought about a lot. Pogo? Grace? Are they okay now?

Luther suggested to enter the living room ahead of you, so that’s what you all mutually agreed to. Five was the one who went further on before you heroically and begged all of you to proceed with caution, because we don’t know what’s waiting for us there. The walk from the hall to the living room happened painfully slowly given that the feeling of uncertainty was sitting in one and all’s eyes and was at fault for your lack of speed. Upon realizing the academy was unnervingly noiseless, the anxiety birthed a huge lump in your throat, which you couldn’t swallow. Your heart was terrified from the possible negative outcome of this time jump. What if that moment of clarity and amenity was only a façade and was only felt because none of you faced reality in the short but drunk moment of arrival? Sometimes you thought about how nice it would be to just live without worry. To live in pure bliss, without a care in the world. Without a problem in the universe to solve. How astonishing it would be not to recall what loss, trauma, or sadness feels like. But then again, we would live in ignorance that way.

Turning towards the divans and sculptures in the living room, your attention automatically focused on the small moving figure, who was absentmindedly cleaning the shelves with dusting feathers. Recognition hit you like a truck, as the character of an ape appeared before you. Your breath hitched in your throat. Mercifully, it was a positive reaction, a sentiment you haven’t undergone in a long time.

- Pogo?! – Allison was the first one to call out their siblings’ friends’ name. Barely letting his name roll from her tongue, the sea of emotions instantly overthrew her, and tears stormed down her face. Their beloved guardian turned around in shock, he looked so puzzled, it was as he didn’t recognize the people in front of him. You feared that was the case. What if we screwed it up even more?

- Oh, children. I was waiting for you all to return – he’s spoken politely and gifted us with a kind smile, just like he always did. You almost forgot what a courteous and caring figure Pogo was. His scarce although deep voice reminded you of simpler times. A type of nostalgia which you subconsciously yearned for god knows how long. Everyone gathered around him in a matter of seconds, engulfing him in a suffocating hug. Pogo was still bewildered from the sudden act of affection, as you all were from seeing him alive and breathing, but in this instant of happiness, the questions why and how didn’t matter. What mattered was the present minute, what you currently knew as is.

And next, a voice broke the silence.

Who would dare to turn around first? Who wanted to confirm that the voice that was just heard from behind them, came from a legit source? On a serious note, was it even real? Your minds are only playing tricks on you. You were ecstatic for having Pogo back, but it would be too good to be true to turn around and see the possessor of the voice. We can’t have all the wonderful things. It never went that well for you. Your bodies turned stiff, and your feet were frozen on spot. But what made you fear to turn around? The horror of hearing something that’s not truly there or facing it bravely. Something…someone you haven’t faced in roughly two decades.

- What the hell took you guys so long? – the annoyance sounded so raw, hence genuine. You could hear and understand the words crystal clear; then why didn’t you believe your ears?

The group hug disassembled at a snail's pace and turned to face what they never expected to see ever again in their lifetime. You, on the other hand, had secretly wished for a moment like this. Your heart was aching for the chance, not caring about being rational nor delusional. It kept the faith in your soul steady.

- Please, tell me I’m not the only one who can see him – Klaus muttered.

- Ben – Diego confirmed in a hushed tone without letting out any more words as he didn’t need to. He was the bravest out of all of you to speak up.

So, there he stood in his monochrome outfit, with his black leather jacket hugging his form and a coy smile painted all over his face. The faint rosy cheeks, lively eyes and vivid emotions displayed told you everything. The Ben standing in front of you was very much real, and more importantly, alive, and well.

- All of you look like you’ve seen a ghost – he grinned from ear to ear, and his light-hearted joke legitimately freed your body from the tension which held you in your place so aggressively. Number Four didn’t hesitate one second longer, and slammed himself against his brother, who sweetly returned the embrace. Registering it, savouring it, then finally loving the physical contact, Klaus broke up in a hysterical laughter. The group succeeded to pull the strings in a way his death was luckily prevented. How the hell did we manage this? But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the present minute, what he currently knew as is.

- You’re telling me, man – his laugh slowly started to die down, but his joy only rose. Of course, a group hug was crucially needed and initiated effective immediately. Everyone surrounded him, and you held onto each other tightly, so he never slips away from your grasp again. You admitted it to yourself, that it felt heavenly, but more precisely, it felt so damn terrific. The others eventually backed away, but you stayed right in front of him.

- Hey, you – were all he needed to say for you to go flying into his arms – Where have you been? I missed you – his confession was a simple, warm, and loving anecdote, and it broke your heart in the best way possible.

You missed me?

Your loud sobbing, and ocean of tears was baffling and a mystery to him, and he looked at the others with a perplexed expression. They asked him to just let you be because they understood everything perfectly. Each tear was valid and every one of them had a reason. His arms were wrapped around your body, as he was shielding you from all the cruelty in this world. His embrace wasn’t tight, but fond and sensitive enough. You weren’t greedy at all; it was just all too marvellous. Hearing his stable beating heart as he held you close to his chest completely fulfilled you. A featherlight kiss was tenderly placed on your forehead by him, in an attempt to calm you down. It failed, as more droplets of salty water coated your apple-like cheeks. Even so, the kiss was given so compassionately, it must have come from heaven itself.

Maybe you were in Heaven. Maybe your life ended when you arrived in the hall. This isn’t real and I’m probably dead in Diego’s arms by now. But what if you accepted it as your reality now? You couldn’t believe it, even after feeling his touch and his kiss on your body. It might be because you thought you didn’t think your wish to see the person closest to your heart again would ever come true. After the horrific months you went through, it was certainly an impossibility to be gifted with something this enormous, significant, and joyous.

Maybe miracles and lucky days exist. Maybe they existed both on the same day in favour of you. I’ll accept this, I deserve this. You absolutely deserve to be happy and to drop the burden that’s been weighing on your soul for years. Nobody deserves to live their lives in inescapable guilt and grief. Having Ben back in all your lives meant the world to you. You were thinking about how you might have to fill him in on the details of the previous events, but that was a case for a later part of the day. For now, it was nice to bask in his love and warmth. You’ll care about every other issue later. This was the only feeling that mattered in that moment. Peace finally taking its rightful place back in your heart, which has been waiting for it for a long time now. He radiated pureness, an energy which was incomparable to anything else. Clutching his jacket was your anxiety making sure he doesn’t leave again. Maybe he was reading your thoughts, but at the same time he was realizing he’d never leave you even if it meant his life.

- I missed you too.

#ben hargreeves #umbrella academy #the umbrella academy #netflix tua #ben hargreeves x reader #ben hargreeves imagine #ben hargreeves fluff #ben hargreeves fanfiction #tua x reader #the umbrella academy imagine

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edward-little · 4 years

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honestly honestly honestly goodsir’s characterization in the mutineers’ camp is so fucking interesting. people have talked about how he loses his zest for life, his will to live, his gentleness, his hopefulness (or naïvité, depending), his ego in its entirety. goodsir as we come to know him drops off the face of the planet; he has no reassurance to offer gibson, nothing but instruction for crozier. even names, a symbol of the individual even if everyone within a 10 mile radius is called thomas, escape him.

when gibson comes to him about his progressing illness, goodsir outlines his decline and tells him that he should expect to die. that he has no sympathy for the men who took him is understandable, as gibson points out: “i wouldn’t, either, doctor.” “what’s that?” “comfort us. any of us.” goodsir expresses his disdain for the mutineers by withholding the qualities required of a doctor, and loses the characterization we recognize. even his ep 5 “does that really work on anyone, mr. hickey?” remark was prompted by hickey remarking on a gesture of kindness offered him; goodsir has gone from “you shouldn’t carry heavy things until your wounds mend” to “it will get worse, this.” we can detect a chipping away when he resolves to test the tinned food on jacko, or when he goes to crozier to report on his findings. he shows some sort of horror at jacko’s death and carries her corpse on the walk out as reminder and incentive; he directs silna away from the tinned food and breaks down when morfin dies as a result of the pain he endured from lead poisoning. in these moments, we see him acting, resolving to act, or having a crisis over the lack of adequate, life-saving action. at the mutineers’ camp, he’s spurred into action by an imminent threat to hodgson’s life, but that action is an order from hickey. the only self-affected momentum he displays brings him to his own death.

(the most dramatic change in goodsir, in my opinion, shows when crozier tells him to cut open irving’s stomach. however, the murder of an indigenous family is not About a white man on an imperialist expedition, nor is the character of goodsir capable of understanding the loss in an appreciable way. after all, he tells silna that people in england are good.)

one of the questions i’m interested in ruminating over is, is his part in the goodsir-gibson-(later hickey-)tent scene cruel? it’s not comfort, and the discussion of whether or not the mutineers deserve comfort isn’t one i find relevant in this case-- desert, as it were, isn’t on the table. the part where hickey stabs gibson pits goodsir and hickey against one another, hickey holding gibson on the knife and close to him, while goodsir tries to separate them from one another. hickey looks at goodsir with reproach over the top of gibson’s head. hickey’s prior words to gibson-- “we’ll make the best of a bad situation, as we always have”-- suggest that he considers it a killing done for a greater good (whether that greater good means feeding the camp alone or if he included putting gibson out of his misery in that assessment, i couldn’t tell you.) but while goodsir makes no effort to comfort gibson regarding his imminent death, he still makes some effort, however belated, to stop hickey’s murder of him. we can infer (or, at least, i can infer at 3:45 AM) that he prefers letting gibson’s illness play out to its conclusion, knowing in great detail the misery it brings. he had cried after morfin’s death; it was admittedly a violent one, but it was one which came as a result of one of the two illnesses the crew suffered. he offered morfin treatments for his symptoms, but has nothing for gibson but candor. if we position hickey as the merciful one, then of course goodsir becomes the cruel one. with nothing in his arsenal but broken glass, poison, and his medical knowledge, maybe the only mercy is the one he enacts upon and through himself.

the other thing i’ve been thinking about is what would goodsir have done if he, rather than bridgens, had been the one to tend to fitzjames just prior to his death. firstly, in staying with crozier’s crew, would he have undergone the same loss of substance as he had with the mutineers? my guess is that it would have been slow enough so that he would have been in a better mental place during fitzjames’ death scene than during gibson’s. then again, he would also have had more of his things at his disposal, and would likely have had more to offer than an indifferent recitation of worsening symptoms. secondly, when fitzjames asks crozier to “help [him] out of it,” would goodsir, like bridgens, have offered a drug to ease him along? if bridgens was thinking romeo and juliet or hamlet at the time, goodsir would likely have taken a less poetic approach. the goodsir of ep 9 is also a different goodsir from ep 7, though, so maybe he would have had less of a tolerance for life for life’s sake. goodsir from gibson’s death scene might have sat and watched crozier massage the mystery liquid down fitzjames’ throat, or he might not have volunteered any assistance at all. a goodsir who hadn’t been removed from the others, who had some sort of emotional attachment to the crew he was around (if not for the presence of warm feelings, than for the fact that none of them were hickey), who hadn’t yet been confronted with the prospect of aiding and participating in cannibalism, might not have changed the scene.

#harry goodsir #death ment //#murder ment //#racism ment //#ask to tag //#no fucking clue where i'm trying to go here i'm just. i'm just vibin

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gh0ulgeist · 4 years

Text

major tma spoilers from the end of season 4 onward all the way to the end of season 5

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cw: talk of r*pe, grooming, breaching consent of bodily autonomy

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i didn’t notice this until my second or third listening of the entire podcast nor do i know how intentional it is on jonny’s behalf but to me, personally, mag160 and jon being deceived into being the lynchpin for the fearpocalypse reads like a very clear and cut and dry allegory for being raped/assaulted/being taken advantage of with all of the horror and pain something like that entails. how jon acts in season 5 is very reminiscent of a survivor processing the trauma they’ve just undergone and learning how to cope however slowly and bumpy that process may be for them, and the allegory only gets more real and sad the longer the series goes on and as the event is discussed among the characters. jon being chosen as a child by the fear entities to bring about their apocalypse reads to me like child grooming but i don’t have much else to say on that since this canon is so new. all in all season 5 makes me very sad as an assault survivor who projects way too hard onto jon mingus archives and i hope this makes sense. jon deserves to have a support system that loves him and doesn’t blame him for what happened and helps him cope and grow

[noncon fetishists do not even look at this post i swear to god this discussion is not meant for you. nothing about this is meant to be romanticized or fetishized]

#tma spoilers #tma #rusty quill tma #the magnus archives #jon sims #jonah magnus #elias bouchard #jonathan sims #assault cw #grooming cw #consent violation cw #my posts #text post

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avatraang · 4 years

Note

#27, azulaang 😶

THIS WAS SUCH A CHALLENGE!!! I’ve never written or even thought of these two in my life. But it was such a good test, thank you!! If any of y’all want to request a prompt and pairing, it’s from this post.

Without further ado, here is your azulaang fic <3

when the sun goes down.

It’s a rainy day when Aang feels her presence. To say they are tied together is an understatement – Aang is connected to all worlds, but to her more than most. The way his scar almost stands on end, a phantom of electricity ghosting across it. He often feels such thunder in his veins when she’s nearby, the universe’s way of reminding him that he is tied to her in more ways than the norm.

Azula has been out in society for a number of years already – indeed, her in public is not what threatens to surprise him. What almost throws off his balance is that she’s at the Southern Air Temple. He’s known of her presence since he landed there early that same morning, climbing the winding peaks til he’s sitting on a crumbling balcony, mediating on his past to gain clarity on his present and future. Upon giving it some thought, Aang comes to the conclusion that it isn’t so odd that Azula is at the Southern Air Temple. Indeed, before he’d personally seen that the remains of the monks and Fire Nation soldiers had been given proper funerals, the temple gave the clearest examples of the wrath the Fire Nation could produce. Even now that the bodies are gone and the temple cleaner, charred wood and blackened walls still lend evidence to the tragedies of times past. Aang supposes that him being here, the lone airbender mediating in the empty temple of his people, serves as even more proof. Azula, from what Zuko had told Aang, left to see first hand both the horrors and wonders of the world through newly unclouded eyes. Of course she’d stop here.

What drives home that Azula’s come along way from delivering blows rivaling death, is how she reveals herself to him. Sitting up on the balcony, Aang can feel her as she climbs the broken staircase towards him. Her footsteps are as silent as they were when they were children; if Aang weren’t the voice of the wind and if he were unable to feel the earth under his toes, he would not be able to tell she was coming. But her steps are still sensed by the ground, and the wind tumbles around her, interrupted by her small frame. Stepping out into the balcony, Azula crosses the threshold and moves to settle in front of Aang, so she is in full view of him. Aang is struck, easily and almost comically, by how different an image this is compared to times past. The circle of life is funny that way.

They sit there meditating for quite some time, the cool air flowing around them, the sun rising until it’s warming Aang’s nose. Air courses through his veins and through the temple, which, even after over a hundred years, still makes a pleasant noise when the wind runs through it. It sounds like the waves against the ocean, like muted wind chimes while one watches the flying bison play, like a baby’s sleepy laughter. The monks had designed it that way, and that way it had remained. Constant as the air around them.

Finally, Aang opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is that her hair is short. Unconventionally so – it’s short on the back and sides of her head (shorter than Sokka’s). It reminds him vaguely of his days with hair, back when he was hiding in the Fire Nation. It makes her face look sharper, but more open, too. A small scar rests on the top left corner of her upper lip, and there’s a tattoo on her right wrist. Azula opens her eyes and looks back at him, soaking him in with the same open wonder in which Aang is regarding her. “Hello.” Azula says, and for all intents and purposes she sounds exactly the same but also very different. There’s no anger or malice dripping in ever letter, just an openness that can only come from someone who has gotten to know themselves. “It’s nice to see you.” She gives him a smile that is so awkward, Aang finds it easy to see the resemblance between her and Zuko.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Aang says, and he means it. “What brings you here?”

Azula’s eyes widen only fractionally, but that is the only noticeable change in her demeanor. “I came here to see, for myself.”

Aang tilts his head, “And what do you think?”

“I think it must have hurt.” She purses her lips, wringing her small (dainty, yet Aang knows the power she wields so well) hands. There’s a note in her voice that Aang registers easily as compassion. He holds it for every living thing he sees. “It still hurts.” Azula looks past him, as if reaching for something she can’t see. The scar on his back tingles again. “I’m sorry.”

With an honest smile, Aang waves away her apology. “It’s not okay, but it’s also not your fault. There is no guilt on your shoulders or blood on your hands. I forgive everyone, and my people do, too.”

With a small shake of her head, Azula continues. “Not just about your people. I’m sorry about what I did to you. And to Zuzu, to Ty Lee, to Mai, Katara, Sokka, Toph, Suki.” Azula lists names like she’s spent the past few years writing them down every day. She gives him a sardonic sort of laugh. “Caldera City. Ba Sing Se. The world.” Aang doesn’t speak. Something tells him she isn’t finished. “I am sorry for what I’ve personally done, the hand I had in inflicting conflict onto the world. I’ve come a long way, still am coming a long way. I have my own personality and views, now.” Azula throws him a smile, a real one, that showcases her sharp canines and perfect teeth. “I know my purpose, my place. And I know I shouldn’t guilt myself, but there are people I owe proper apologies to. And you are one of them.”

“What’s your purpose?” Aang’s curiosity is piqued.

“To do what little I can to help people. To travel the world without any aim other than that.” Azula shrugs, “At least, for now. For now, I just want to help. However I can.”

And well, shit. He can’t think of a nobler, brighter purpose. And her apology is so genuine it almost hurts him. For a second Aang just stares, smiling brightly at her, entire body beaming like he is reaching for the sun. Then he realizes Azula might be weirded out by this, so Aang clears his throat and stands. Reaching down, he offers his hand to her. Tentatively, Azula takes it, letting him haul her to her feet. Aang pulls her up with more force than he ended up needing (she’s much lighter than he remembers) and as a result she ends up colliding with him. With a gust of wind behind him to keep them from crashing down the stairs, the two steady themselves and then step away from each other. Neither of them blush (one ever poised and the other ever shameless), but they both busy themselves with readjusting their clothes for a good while. Finally, Aang turns and motions for Azula to follow him. As they wander down the steps, skipping over missing ledges, Aang speaks. “For what it’s worth, your mission is amazing.” He looks over his shoulder at her, “Reminds me of my people.” Almost tripping over a missing step, Aang tears his eyes away and continues. “It’s all good, Azula. You’ve undergone more of a journey than most people do in a lifetime, and are determined to keep doing it.” He takes an exit on the second floor, crossing into a room that’s surprisingly untouched compared to the others. Momo is sitting on the window ledge, Appa resting down below in the courtyard on the first floor. Kneeling, Aang picks up a mostly deteriorated Pai Sho tile and vividly remembers Gyatso gifting him the game for his eleventh birthday. “I forgive you. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud to know you.” He tosses her the tile and smiles, a charming thing that could give birth to a million stars.

Azula stares. “It’s that easy for you?”

“Of course.” Aang says.

“How?”

He shrugs. Sits down on the stone slab that’s under the windowsill Momo’s sitting on. “Because everyone deserves love and forgiveness.” Aang says it simply, because to him it is so. “Especially someone who’s actively making an effort to do better.”

Azula’s eyes are owlish. She’s running the tile across her fingers, the tips of her ears red. “Was this your room?”

Aang doesn’t stop her from changing the subject. “Yes,” he says.

Azula eyes the space next to him, and sits down next to him with the same confidence one would have if he’d himself invited her to invade his space. “Tell me.” Azula says, “If it’s not too much to ask.”

Talking about his people is never too much to ask, so Aang does one of the things he does best: Tells her stories.

Click Here To Continue Reading.

#atla #azula #aang #azulaang #azula x aang #my fanfiction #my writing #prompts #requests #Nat out here pushing boundaries #love that for us!!#fics for friends

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magicalmarauder · 5 years

Text

Yours

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Language, slight suggestive themes

Word Count: 3.2k +

Summary: Usually your boyfriend struggles with insecurity and believing why you would choose to stay with him; however, after a talking to from you in which you explain exactly how special and loved he is, he transforms into your sexy super soldier to ward off potential suitors and claim you for his own.

After checking your makeup one last time, you placed the tiny mirror you had been using back into your clutch as the elevator dinged, signaling your arrival onto the top floor of the Avengers tower for the latest soiree that Tony Stark had arranged. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the next few hours of tedious conversations and lingering stares from random individuals who respected your work as an Avenger enough to come and support the team, but who were still too terrified to actually approach you and strike up a conversation.

It was one of the two main reactions you would usually garner at these types of events: reserved and fearful attention from afar or overly confident assholes who would approach you with the express goal of hooking up with an Avenger to then go brag to their friends about. Either way, these events and the people you had to endure were exhausting. Considering a majority of your time was spent in life or death situations, on your time off, you would really rather just curl up in bed with your beloved boyfriend, laughing at the latest ridiculous reality show and soaking in the sweetness of such peaceful and rare moments.

Speaking of said boyfriend, you craned your head around the crowded rooftop, searching out the super soldier. Your eyes wandered first to the lone corners, suspecting him to be hiding himself away as far from people as possible. If there was anyone who hated these events more than yourself, it was definitely Bucky Barnes. Although the public had come around to the Winter Soldier and his involvement with the Avengers, there was still a certain level of fear and caution that was exercised by most who came in contact with him.

“He’s hanging around the bar with Steve and Sam,” you heard a sudden voice murmur from behind you.

Turning, your eyes focused on none other than the Black Widow herself, dressed to perfection in a stunning blood red dress and sipping on a glass of champagne.

“Thanks, Tasha,” you grinned, receiving a nod in acknowledgement, before she sashayed over to where a larger crowd had congregated together, looking like a shark about to sink its teeth into its prey. Out of all the team, Natasha was probably the one who enjoyed these parties the most, reveling in every opportunity to terrorize the male population and the seedy individuals who often frequented these events.

Shaking your head with a fond smile on your face, you turned in the direction of the bar, preparing to join your boyfriend with the hopes of easing each other’s suffering until you could finally call it a night.

As you drew closer, you finally noticed the gorgeous form of your boyfriend, dressed up in a sexy navy-blue suit paired with a white dress shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing a portion of his toned chest.

Licking your lips, you sidled up next to him, placing a hand on his bicep and placing a sweet peck to his cheek. “Hi there, handsome,” you murmured sweetly before pulling away to gaze up at him.

A beautiful smile lit up his face as he beheld you, an expression that only seemed to arise when you were near. Allowing his eyes to wander up and down your form, he let out a low, slow whistle. “You look incredible, doll,” he complimented, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he remembered that you were his girl and that you were here with him and that more importantly, you would be going home with him at the end of the night. “Most beautiful girl in attendance.”

“Oh, stop,” you chuckled, swatting at his chest playfully and rolling your eyes at the adorable man who never failed to make you swoon. For a man who had undergone intense mind-control for the better part of a century and claimed he had retained no ability to flirt, he sure could turn you into a puddle of goo with just a look and a few words.

“Why, it’s nice to see you too, Y/N,” a sudden voice to your right interrupted. “I’m doing fine, thank you for asking. And I’m looking mighty fine tonight also, not that you noticed or anything.”

Sam sniffed in mock offense, turning his nose up and looking slightly away from you and Bucky. However, despite his peeved stance, he couldn’t hide the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Of course, how rude of me!” You exclaimed in faux horror. “Why, you look absolutely dashing, my dear Samuel,” you jested with the best English accent that you could possibly muster. “And you, as well, darling Steven,” you continued to the highly amused Captain standing beside Sam.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Bucky cut in, drawing your attention back to him. “No more calling other men dashing or darling.”

“Awe, is the wittle Winter Soldier jeawous?” Sam mocked, imitating a baby voice and drawing a scowl out of Bucky.

“Of course not,” you cut in before your boyfriend could respond. “Because he knows that I only have eyes for him, right baby?” You questioned, wrapping your arms around his torso and blinking sweetly up at him.

A slow smile spread across his face as he gazed down at you, taking in your loving expression and giving you a look full of adoration in return. “Absolutely, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to your eager lips.

A gagging sound suddenly interrupted your sweet moment. Turning your head to the side with a raised eyebrow, an obviously disgusted Sam came into view, pretending to choke back vomit. “Save it for the bedroom, you two. No one wants to see that.”

“Sam!” You exclaimed in shock.

“What?” He questioned innocently. “No one wants to see that shit. Especially not me. Cap here agrees with me. Right, Cap?”

“Oh, no. Don’t drag me into your little drama here,” Steve stated, raising his arms up as if in surrender. “I know better than to get in the middle of your bickering.”

“We weren’t bickering,” you corrected. “We were just having a lively conversation, right Sam?”

Sam nodded over-dramatically, killing the illusion of innocence you were trying to create. “Absolutely, Y/N, just a fun back and forth between friends.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Right. I’m going to go greet some of the other guests. Don’t get up to too much trouble now, kids.”

“Yes, dad,” the three of you chorused sarcastically together.

Rolling his eyes one final time, Steve set his drink down on the bar counter and walked away from your little group.

“Well, this was fun,” Sam announced. “But it’s about time I go and search out some female companionship of my own, if you catch my drift,” Sam winked.

Shaking your head at the oversized child in front of you, you waved him away. “Yes, yes, we know what you mean. Just get out of here.”

Throwing one last mischievous grin your way, Sam sauntered off, finally leaving you and Bucky alone.

Turning around in Bucky’s arms, you placed your chin on his chest as he smiled down at you, his grip on your hips tightening. “Finally,” you smiled. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Bucky smirked at you. “Careful there, doll. You’re gonna get me into trouble saying stuff like that and looking the way you do.”

“Maybe I like trouble,” you purred coyly, running your hands up and down his muscular chest.

Bucky sucked in a breath, but couldn’t hide the grin he was sporting.

“You’re the definition of trouble, sweetheart,” Bucky teased affectionately, pinching your side teasingly.

“But you love me anyway,” you sing-songed, a twinkle in your eye as you gazed up at your adoring boyfriend.

“That I do, doll, that I do,” he replied softly before pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss.

***

About an hour later, the party was in full swing with most of the guests having arrived and already finished a couple rounds of drinks. You and Bucky had split up not too long ago with him going over to talk with Steve and Sam and you spending time catching up with the girls, yet that didn’t stop the two of you from sending flirty little looks to each other every few seconds, something that definitely didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha.

“You two are disgusting,” Natasha grimaced after watching Bucky bite his lip and send you a particularly suggestive look, which consequently sent you into a fit of excited giggles.

Pulling your attention away from your super-hot and distracting boyfriend, you glanced at your friend, red creeping into your cheeks as you realized you and Bucky hadn’t been very discreet with your flirtations.

“What?” You questioned innocently. “He’s just too damn attractive, Natasha. I can’t be held responsible for how I react to that man’s adorable, yet sexy looks.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, used to your fawning over Bucky.

“I happen to think you two are adorable,” Wanda cut in, smiling at you. “You both deserve to be happy, especially after all that you’ve both been through.”

A softer smile appeared on your face as you thought about Bucky and your relationship. When you had first joined the team and met the infamous Winter Soldier, he was like a ghost. Bucky was just a shell of a man. He was simply existing, going through the motions. He wasn’t really living, only allowing himself to be consumed by guilt and self-deprecation. Even once you two had become closer and eventually started dating, Bucky always seemed to hold the attitude that he didn’t deserve anything good in life. He was hesitant around you, waiting for the world to snatch you away like every other good thing in his life. It had taken you so long to drill it into his stubborn skull that he deserved love, possibly more than anyone else, and that you were not going anywhere. Nothing and no-one could take you away from him. And although Bucky had made tons of progress and you were so unbelievably proud of him, you could still see that he struggled with insecurity and self-doubt, mainly when it came to your relationship. It was a bummer and definitely something that the two of you still needed to work on together because although your relationship was so strong in other areas, when it came to that basic trust and confidence in the other persons affection, there was a lack.

It was hard, but it was something that you and Bucky were working on together and you knew the fight would be so worth it. He was worth it. It was only getting him to believe that.

“I’m definitely very lucky,” you finally responded back to Wanda, eyes trained on your boyfriend as he gazed back at you, a look of adoration plastered across his face.

However, that look was short-lived as a young man approached you, pearly white teeth flashing and a charming pick-up line already on the tip of his tongue.

Unfortunately for this guy though, there was only one man that you had eyes for. You quickly, yet politely shooed the man away and eagerly turned your attention back to your boyfriend, hoping that he would give you some sort of signal that he was ready to duck out of this party and return to your shared room for a bit of fun of your own. However, when your gaze turned back to Bucky, his head was down and fists clenched, an unreadable expression marking his face.

Frowning, you searched the area, looking for any indication of what possibly could have upset your boyfriend in the span of a few moments. Finding nothing, you quickly excused yourself from the girls and made your way over to him, hoping to talk and figure out what was wrong.

Carefully, you reached out a hand and grasped his elbow, leaning into him, hoping to offer some comfort. “Hey,” you murmured softly. “You ok?”

Bucky looked down at you, eyes searching yours for answers you didn’t yet know, but desperately wanted to give him. Anything to get that sad expression off his beautiful face.

“Damn, Agent Y/N, you’re a magnet for these young bachelors tonight! We were just telling Bucky that he better watch out. That was, what? The fourth or fifth guy to approach you tonight?”

Suddenly it all clicked. Bucky was insecure. He had seen several men approach you tonight and surely whatever idiotic comments Sam had been making hadn’t helped. But he must have seen how quickly you brushed them off, right? He had to know that you had eyes for him and him alone.

Steve, sensing the seriousness of this moment, grabbed onto Sam’s arm to drag him away and give the two of you some privacy. “Come on, Sam, let’s give these two some peace and quiet.”

You watched as the two soldiers stepped out of hearing range before turning your eyes back toward your boyfriend, frowning at the sad, uncomfortable look on his face.

“Is that what has you upset?” You questioned, wanting confirmation from him before continuing. “Were you upset that those guys approached me tonight? If so, you have to know that I didn’t pay them any mind, Bucky. I’m your girl and your mine. That’s it. I would never even dream of looking at another man.”

“No, I know,” Bucky interjected quickly, not wanting you to doubt his faith in you for even a second. “I know you would never do anything like that, Y/N. Believe me, I know.”

“Then what is it?” You questioned, bringing your hand up to his face to caress his cheek.

Bucky leaned into your touch, closing his eyes briefly before opening them once again to meet your concerned gaze.

“I just worry sometimes that you’ll see one of these young, good-looking guys and see how much easier it would be with them,” he admitted. “They don’t have a ton of baggage like I do. You could have a much more normal life if you chose one of them,” he swallowed, breaking his gaze and looking out across the room as he continued speaking. “You wouldn’t have to deal with me waking up screaming every other night. You wouldn’t be held back at social events to babysit me and make sure I don’t have a breakdown because of the anxiety. You wouldn’t have to deal with the judgmental stares when you go out in public together.”

Bucky released a slow breath before returning his gaze back to yours. “And there’s so many other reasons,” he sighed. “And I’m so scared that one day you’re going to realize that the hassle isn’t worth it anymore. That I’m not worth it,” he shuddered. “And I couldn’t even blame you if you decided that. You would have absolutely every right to - “

“Ok, that is enough,” you cut him off, voice stern and eyes blazing as you looked your beloved, yet incredibly stupidboyfriend in the eye. “You are not a hassle or a burden or unworthy, or any other ridiculous thing you have convinced yourself that you are. You are nothing but worthy and selfless and brave and kind and wonderful. And I am so, so, sounbelievably lucky to love you and to be loved by you. You have no idea how happy and complete you make me. You seem to think that you were this mess before we met and my life was perfect, but I’ll tell you something Bucky, it wasn’t. My life was empty and it was hollow and it was purposeless. Until I met you. And you completely turned everything around. Suddenly, my life was full of light and love and beauty. And Bucky, baby, that is all because of you,” you cried, pouring your every emotion into your words, hoping that that would convince him of how entirely you meant your words.

You brought your other hand up to his face, so you were now cradling it in both of your hands. Your thumb gently swiped his cheek, clearing away the tears that had fallen at your words.

“My life is infinitely better with you in it,” you stated firmly. “And don’t you dare doubt that for even a second. No one could ever compare to you. I can’t even look at another guy, even if I wanted to, because my heart and head and everything that I am is so consumed by you. Always. Ok?”

Bucky sniffed, tears still pooling in his eyes as he struggled to form words after your little speech. Finally, after realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to form an adequate response to your declaration, he simply nodded. “Ok,” he smiled. “Ok.”

“Ok,” you responded, a small smile appearing on your face. “Good. Now that that’s settled, shall we get out of here?”

Bucky let out a booming laugh, pulling you into his arms and pressing a kiss to your neck. “Yeah, doll, let’s get out of here.”

Grinning, you pulled away; however, before you could say anything more, a young man, wearing what looked like an incredibly expensive suit walked up and tapped you on the shoulder.

“Hey, beautiful,” he smiled. “Would you care to dance?”

You stared at the man in disbelief, unable to comprehend the boldness of this guy. Clearly, you were here and already taken with somebody. What on earth made him think that this would be an acceptable thing to do? And especially after you had just reassured Bucky. You were afraid that your little speech hadn’t really had time to take and that this incident would send Bucky back into that pit of self-doubt.

However, you were pleasantly surprised when Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist possessively, pulling you closer to his body before placing a lingering kiss to your cheek, dangerously close to your mouth.

“Sorry, pal,” Bucky drawled. “She’s got everything she needs right here. Now, get lost,” Bucky commanded before bringing one of his hands behind your head and guiding your mouth to his in a passionate kiss, mouth immediately opening and tongues meeting in a fight for dominance. After a few moments, Bucky pulled away, leaving you breathless.

“Wow,” you finally stated after gaining your composure. “Glad to see my little pep-talk worked.”

Bucky blushed, a bashful smile appearing on his face, a direct contrast to the sexy, suave super soldier who had just grabbed you and claimed his territory in front of every man in attendance at this party.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist and gazing up at him. “I found that little display of yours incredibly sexy.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened as he returned your lustful gaze. “I think it’s about time I took you up on that proposition from earlier, doll. Let’s get out of here.” He grinned suggestively.

Face lighting up in excitement, you grabbed his hand and followed him out of the huge room, ready for a night of love and passion in order to remind each other that you were his and he was yours and nothing and no-one could come between you two.

“Let’s.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes oneshot #marvel fic #bucky fluff #bucky angst #marvel #mcu #magicalmarauder #insecure bucky #bucky barnes smut

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punsandfuturekingsmen-archive · 3 years

Note

😏🤔

The Angst Meme

😏: What angst tropes are you a sucker for?

🤔: Any angst tropes you’re not really fond of?

//Hmmmmmmmm. This one is hard because I’m bad with tropes. I think I like sacrificing yourself to save someone trope when they just make that impulsive decision, and then surviving and dealing with the other person being pisssed. I also like the injured greviously but makes a joke haha to lighten the mood trope. I’m a fan of possession because it’s so complicated and interesting and complex in how it affects things. I love horror where a character is scared for their life and isn’t sure they’ll survive. Just-- that fear and grim determination and saving everyone else as best they can and fighting to survive.

For the negatives now!

I feel like saying ‘angst for angst’s sake doesn’t properly encapsulate what I mean. but I kinda hate grimdark where it’s just a constant deluge of it. i love moments of levity too, or finding comfort with other in the pain. Using that pain to help others who they can empathize with. So when it’s just angst, it gets grimdark and...boring. it’s constantly escalating just to escalate to keep the audience on the edge of their seats, but all that does is make the story samey and just about inflicting pain. Sometimes creators and writers seem to stack on angst for their characters just to hurt them. They give them something to take solace in, only to yank it away to inflict pain, and it’s just like--- why would that character be happy? At least arthur has friends and family. he struggles with trauma and being closed off and hurt he’s undergone for years, but i would never take what he has from him because he deserves a respite from mean anons and magic and plot that can get hard on him. What he goes through will change him and he’ll be a different person for it, but i won’t ever take everything from him just to-- do it.

Also I’m really not fond of the way a lot of fic and characters utilize certain traumas. I feel like if you’re going to go into some, you should try and do research to some degree, especially if you’re picking something that’s incredibly touchy as it is as a topic. Having been through some stuff personally, I can usually notice the difference between when someone is genuinely trying to explore the impact of trauma and how a person deals with it in their life, and when the trauma is just being used for angst’s sake or even to have ‘bonding’ with other characters, where it’s more about a springboard for a ship by endearing the traumatized character to the other because they tell them it’s not okay they suffered whatever it was. There’s just. a way to handle it, and i think sometimes people miss the mark and when it’s something i’ve gone through personally, while i can acknowledge that everyone handles trauma differently, it’s hurtful to see it utilized in a way that seems to be more about characters bonding and using it as a trope to facilitate.

The last thing i’ll mention since this is already getting long is-- i’m not a fan of two things. The corruption arc that ends badly, and the There Are No Happy Endings. I love me some angst, but i want to see comfort. I want the characters to do their best, and i want to see them succeed for it. there’s something so gratifying in seeing them hit lows, and then come back from it. Have angst, but pull through and get to survive and be happy by the very end. I don’t want character to slide down towards darkness, and not manage to find something to bring them back, because i think people are inherently good. So when a character falls, I want to see them stand up, not lose themselves and their morals. It just honestly makes me sad when that’s the ending. They became horrible people who don’t care about anyone anymore and they’re ruthless and evil. I think it can be done and done well, but often that’s not the story i want to read for myself. Same with the ending just being angst. It’s not wrong to like that stuff by any means. but I just don’t like it for myself. I don’t want a bitter end. I want to see hope. The world honestly kinda sucks sometimes, so I don’t need that in fiction too haha.

#answering things #ooc #tristan rambles #ask meme answers #Anonymous #long post #negative #kinda?#in talking about negative tropes #so just in case #mun meme

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kareofbears · 4 years

Text

desperate as that sounds

Five times Ryuji ran for Akira (and one time he ran for himself.)

—

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

It’s 4:45 am with the weather sitting at a brutal -3 degrees when Ryuji really starts wishing that he brought another jacket.

People are lined around Akihabara by the hundreds outside of closed electronic stores, and the sun has yet to even rise. Some people are yawning, some are clutching their rapidly cooling coffee in a death grip, and most have dark, purple bags underneath their eyes—proof of the battle scars that they’ve acquired. Every person here had the same goal in mind: To get what they need and get out as quick as possible.

As it turns out, if everyone has that same mindset, it creates the violent, yearly November tradition that is Black Friday.

Glancing around, he notices that people came in packs, teams. Teenagers and pre-pubescent kids are all scuffling around, hyping themselves up and creating strategies for the war to come. The more seasoned veterans of the yearly massacre came in pairs—the smaller the group, the faster you move, the move land you cover.

At the biggest electronic store in a region that’s already been nicknamed ‘Electronic Town,’ he is fourth in line—an impressive feat, especially for a first-timer. But it came with a heavy toll: he is completely and utterly alone.

”Skull, do you read me?”

Well, physically alone, anyway.

“Loud and clear,” he replies, readjusting the mic in his ear. “Not that I mind, but what’s with the codenames?”

Futaba scoffs. “You think Black Friday is just about the physical aspect? Foolish boy—the psychological aspects are half the battle. If I get you into the mindset that we’re in a Palace, then you’ll get into infiltration mode, and you’ll be OP compared to the nerds out there.”

“Ooo, I like it! Your brain is effin’ galaxy sized!”

“I do what I can for my faithful pack mule.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

His deal with Futaba had been a simple one. She helps Ryuji navigate the horrors of Akihabara during Black Friday in exchange that he acts as what is essentially a drug trafficker sans the drugs. Despite her rigorous societal training she’d undergone with the Thieves, something about entering a borderline stampede still seems somewhat unappealing to her. Besides, he doesn’t mind. He’d always wanted to do something nice for Futaba anyway, and the store that has her computer thing is the same store that holds what he needs.

”Five minutes to go,” her voice crackles into his ear. ”Infiltration route—go!”

Their deal had also come in with an intense tutorial session that ended up lasting until one in the morning. “Floor 4, down 3 aisles, 8 steps in, turn right, second shelf, grab a box that says ‘GTX graphics card.’ Pink, if possible.”

“A+, Skull! You know, if you can memorize that, I seriously don’t get why you’re failing English verbs.”

“Please, this is actually important.”

Futaba cackles. “Now you’re speaking my language. With your legs and my navigation, this’ll basically be a Tuesday afternoon in Leblanc.”

People around him are starting to straighten up, some going as far as to remove the extra layer of clothing and shoving it in backpacks for maximum speed and minimum restrictions. “Damn, people here look more intense than some dudes in my track meets.”

“If you’re throwing out portable chargers with 30-hour battery life for only 800 yen, you’d be a little intense too.”

Ryuji scoffs and begins to stretch, being extra sure to get his right thigh. “I’m plenty intense. Just last Saturday, I almost beat the Big Bang Burger challenge.”

“Pretty sure Akira beat that on his second week in Tokyo. You know, you still haven’t told me why you’re bothering with this whole Black Friday mess. I didn’t peg you for an electronics type of guy, and your phone is as crappy as your posture.”

“Rude! But I can’t argue with that.” He starts to run in place, and for a brief second, he wonders if he should’ve packed a protein shake.

“Well, too late now. If your thing sells out because you didn’t want to give your Navi information, that’s on you.”

“Gimme some credit, Futaba,” an employee who looks equal parts sleep-deprived and terrified approaches the glass doors. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m failing either of us this morning.”

The glass slides open, and as if sunlight was released from the captivity of the clouds, or perhaps a meteor just broke through the earth’s atmosphere, the people start pushing, shoving, and flooding inside. The crowd looked both impenetrable and unwavering; an unstoppable force and an immovable object rolled into one giant stream of desperate shoppers.

Ryuji spares a split-second to crack his neck. Mission Start.

The moment he breaks through the initial threshold, people who were only one step behind him suddenly became ten, twenty, thirty. Weaving through crowds and aisles with the precision of a seamstress, Ryuji evades it all with ease.

”Skull, status report.”

“Smooth sailing, Oracle!” He ducks as an overly buff businessman turns around with a 3-metre pole used for studio lighting threatens to bash his head in. “You’re totally right about the codenames, by the way. It’s almost like I’ve got Captain with me.”

“Right?” She laughs. “It’s all about the mindset.”

Ryuji turns, and finally gets to the stairs—the most brutal section and the biggest gamble. It’s the reason why it was essential that he’s one of the first in line. Once the stairs get jammed with people, it’s game over. Making a mad dash up four flights of stars, he thanks any God that may be that Palaces are fantastic for rehab.

He makes it to the top, panting. It’s empty, save for a few nervous-looking employees. He hopes the smile he throws their way came off as ‘pleasant and grateful for their service’ rather than ‘a delinquent asshole who might steal loads of shit.’

“Down 3 aisles, 8 steps,” he mutters to himself as he quickly scans the fourth floor. “Turn right, second shelf,” eyes landing on his target, he grins. “I effin’ rock.”

”You got it?”

“Of course I did!” He fist pumps before swiping the box. In his excitement, he nearly runs over to give a random employee a high-five. “Alright Oracle, you’re up.”

”I love you so much in a non-weird way. Okay,” he hears the clacking of keys on the other side of the mic. “What do you need?”

“Two words: game console.”

The clacking stops. “You’re joking.”

Ryuji snorts. “I ain’t waking up at 3 in the morning for a joke.”

”Those are hard enough to get as is, and on a day like this—”

“So you can’t do it?”

In the same way every one of the thieves know they could bait Ryuji with a few choice words, it’s a lesser-known fact that Futaba is quite nearly as bad when it comes to open defiance. “Jerk. Of course I can.”

“Then let’s do it!”

“Ugh, fine!” The clacking resumes, more vigorously. “Yikes, only 3 left. Make it quick!”

“Got it,” he replies. He turns around and his stomach drops as he sees people rushing in. “What floor?”

“Third.”

Ryuji groans. The stairs, with people packed in like sardines, are a circus. It would take at least two minutes to try and go down a single flight of stairs. The elevator is even worse, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it had already started to malfunction. Only one choice, then.

He takes a deep breath. “Pray for me.”

”Godspeed, soldier.”

Ryuji, like a wild animal on the loose in the streets of Tokyo, jumps on the handrails and begins his descent that way, begging to the skies that he doesn’t slip and create a domino effect that knocks down a dozen people.

In thirty seconds flat (with no small amount of cursing from both the customers and himself) he jumps off and lands (tumbles) onto the third floor, grinning triumphantly. Eat your heart out, Sumire.

“Oracle, I’m here. Almost broke my ankles. Where to?”

”Straight ahead,” she replies. ”Only one left, though. Better make it quick.”

His eyes land on the last game console, and he sees someone making their way towards it. “Not a problem.”

Ryuji sprints.

Throwing every societal rule and common courtesy into the air, he makes a mad dash and, somehow, miraculously does not bump into anyone or knock down any huge shelves.

In approximately 3 seconds, he grabs his treasure and yells a very loud but completely genuine “sorry!” over his shoulder as he half runs back to the stairs, face red for multiple reasons.

Delving back into the sea of the crowd, trying to navigate himself to the cash register, he sighs. “I’m going to hell.”

”Mission success, then?”

“I had to steal it from some guy! I feel so bad. What if he’s like, buying it for his long lost son or something?”

”Whatever! That’s just part of the Black Friday spirit. Congrats! At least you finally got a game console.”

“Huh? Oh, I already had one.”

Static crinkles in his ear, before, ”WHAT!?”

“Ow! Don’t yell!”

”You already had one and you still did this shopping run?”

“Yeah…?”

”Why?! Are you gonna sell it? Are you one of those sleazy men who take advantage of the good will of gamers, Sakamoto?”

“Hell no!”

”So—“

“Oops, almost at the front of the cash register. I’ll drop off the goods at Akira’s. Talk to you later, shortie.”

Click.

”Wha— Hey! Ryuji!” Silence. “Ugh!”

————

After a much-deserved nap, Futaba climbs up the stairs to Akira’s attic.

“The star has arrived!” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Where’s Ryuji?”

“He left,” Akira answers. He’s looking at something on his worktable. “Your stuff is on the bed.”

Futaba whoops and snatches up the little plastic bag. Peering inside, she sees an adorable GTX hot pink graphics card, and a note. In a horrific scrawl, it writes: dont tell him plz ;)))

She looks up quizzically when her eyes land on Akira’s desk: A shiny new game console.

“Um…”

“Hmm?” he looks up. “Oh, Ryuji dropped it off. Said his mom won it at work, and since he already had one, he gave it to me. Nice, right?”

She opens her mouth, before closing it with a clack. Just two weeks ago, Ryuji had asked Akira in the group chat if they could play video games at his place. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget about Akira’s situation: false accusation, an attic for a room, no definitive meals, not even a proper bathroom in the building, but Akira plays it off like it’s easy. He answered by making a joke that he’s too poor for something like that when you can buy faux battle axes and realistic shotguns instead. Everyone had forgotten about that interaction.

But apparently, Ryuji hadn’t.

He’s an idiot, Futaba thinks. To which boy she’s referring to, she’s not sure.

“Yeah,” is what she says instead. “It’s nice.”

====

The dust motes flying around the attic of Leblanc are lovely. Swirling in senseless formations, floating through the still air like snow. The way none of them collide with each other, as if they have some sort of motion detector that tells them to move out of the way. It’s pleasing to look at.

It’s a shame Ryuji doesn’t give a single shit about them at this moment.

He’s sitting on Akira’s bed, back pressed against the window sill with his hair tipped up, staring unfocused at the wooden beams, eyes glazed over. He’s been like this for the better part of the day, and now the evening is slipping by him. Time continues ticking on like a rigged bomb; an ongoing reminder of how many seconds he’s losing, and how much more he can lose.

He’s considered moving. To walk around the room, shift the dust that’s surely settled on him. Getting up, stretching his legs, outwardly expelling some of his trapped, balled up energy is a good idea. Healthy, even, if those shitty YouTube videos he’s watched on his phone about anger management were on to something. But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Amidst all the uncertainty and the wound-up anxiety that has currently made permanent residence deep inside his core, he knows that if lets his joints unlock, he’s going to fucking lose it.

Slam a fist inside the dry wood, tear up a blanket, throw the adorable ramen bowl he gave Akira against the wall until it shatters into a hundred pieces. He’s so terrified of ruining this room that he won’t even give himself the option. And Ryuji would rather let hell freeze over than scare Futaba again in his fit of fucked-up rage that comes with the package that is Sakamoto Ryuji.

So he’s stuck on the bed for God knows how long.

Footsteps come up, and he doesn’t need to look down to know who’s going to chew him out. If it’s not Akira that’s going to chide him out of his stupor (which it isn’t, even though Ryuji would do anything if it means that Akira’s back here with them), then they’d send in someone who’d drag him out of it with her nails perfectly manicured.

“You look terrible.”

“Screw off,” Ryuji spits automatically, and he cringes inwardly. Ann doesn’t deserve the sharp end of his horrible mood. It’s not her fault that it feels like his insides feel like they’re trying to eat their way out.

She ignores him and moves to hop on top of the old work desk. The wood creaks underneath her. “You’ve been here all day.”

“I know.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Yes. No.” He feels Ann’s stare burn into the side of his face—a ghost of Carmen’s presence. “I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Irritation swells in him. She’s never learned to take a hint in her life. “Really? Are you seriously saying that?”

“Are you saying he would?”

“I’m saying he’s too busy having the living shit beat out of him to see me like this.”

His body twitches, and that’s all he needed for his resolve to break down. He jumps from the bed, feet landing heavily enough that he’s sure they can all hear him from the floor below. Unconsciously, his feet pace around the small room; quick with agitation but heavy with dread. Anything to distract from doing something stupid.

“You’re worried about me, what, not sleeping? For lying down on this damn bed for too long? Screw that. Akira’s being grilled like cheap meat for the past couple of days and you’re expecting me to act normal about it? That’s bullshit.”

Bad. This is bad. His fingers are already curling in his fists, eager and all too willing to be used. He settles for balling the edge of his shirt instead.

“He isn’t here. That’s the fact, isn’t it? And what the fuck am I doing about it? Freaking out? Trying not to throw a tantrum about it like some kind of stupid kid? Am I really this messed in the head that everyone on the team is—-is hiding from me like I’m some kind of—” he cuts himself off.

Delinquent.

Ryuji takes a deep breath, fully inhaling and slowly exhaling. He focuses on the dust motes again. In and out. Countdown from ten. He can do this. He can get a grip on himself. Thank God it was Ann that came up—if it had been anyone else, he doesn’t think he can put his pride aside as easily. (Unless it was Futaba. God, he loves her so much.)

For a while, it was silent except for his breathing; it stuttered occasionally, but eventually it evens out. Ann only watches from her perch.

When he feels stable enough, Ryuji drops to sit on the hardwood.

“Okay?” she asks. Ann never babies him when he gets like this—she’s good that way.

“Okay.” And he really is. Not completely, of course not. His nerves weren’t strung as tight, but he still feels a heavy weight right in his stomach.

She hops off the desk and goes to sit in front of him on the floor. Crossing her legs, Ann waits. They regard each other for a long minute.

“He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met,” he says. It feels weird saying this out loud, instead of repeating the mantra in his head like a broken record. “If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.”

She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

“I know that.”

“Sooner than later, his dumb ass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.”

“You bet he is.”

“And I get to yell at him as much as I want.”

“Get in line.”

“I’m not going to lose him tonight.”

Ann reaches over—slowly, giving him plenty of room to shift away—and places a hand on his knee. “You’re not going to lose him tonight.”

Ryuji laughs, a little breathy but still genuine. He prods at her hand. “When’d you get so good with me, Takamaki?”

“I do the Lord’s work around here, free of charge.” She grins, before her tone drops again. “Can you do something for me, though?”

“Lay it on me.”

Ann pulls back and leans on a propped hand, her blue eyes piercing. “When Akira comes back, and he will—”

“And he will. No doubt about it.”

“Obviously. He’s the best person for this. But when Akira comes back, he’s…” Ann gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “He’s not going to be okay, Ryuji.”

Somewhere in his mind, he already knew what she was going to say. While the biggest of his worries is that he’d never see Akira walk through the doors of Leblanc again, there was a quieter fear. A very specific fear, one that Ryuji knows all too well. Because stories don’t just end at the climax of a single event—they keep going. It’s the fear of what happens once he does see Akira.

The aftermath.

The bell chimes downstairs.

His heart lurches, and he makes the briefest of eye contact with Ann before he’s gone.

He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met.

It’s like his feet have a mind of their own.

If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.

In an instant, he’s scrambling towards the stairs on all fours before pushing himself up.

Sooner than later, his dumbass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.

His hand finds its hold on the old wooden railing as he sprints his way down. More than once, he almost trips and bangs his head into the wall.

And I get to yell at him as much as I want.

Rounding the corner, he jumps on the landing, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots up his thigh. He ignores the stares from everyone else. Looking up his breath catches in his throat. Gray eyes meet his brown ones. He takes one step forward, and then another. And then he sprints the rest.

He’s going to be okay.

Ryuji stops himself right in front of him, an arms-length away. Akira’s face looked like it’s been through hell and back. Split lip, black eye, bruised cheekbone. An intense fury flares up his spine when he sees the grime and dirt up along his temple.

He hesitates.

As much as he wants to reach forward, close the gap, to make sure that this boy that he can’t afford to lose is real… he can’t do it.

Because he knows what would happen if he tries to cross a boundary that isn’t ready to be crossed—he might not be ready. Ryuji could hurt him by touching any injuries he doesn’t know about (God, how much more is he hiding in there? He’s this close to either throwing up or throwing a punch). But what he’s most scared about, what he’s terrified of doing, is touching Akira in the state of mind he’s in right now. For someone to grip him, grab him, even just brush past him right now, it might be too much. Judging by how beat up he looks just from his face? That does shit to people. That changes you.

Ryuji would know. So he keeps his distance.

Akira’s eyes turn dark, and for a second, Ryuji is terrified that he must’ve overstepped a boundary.

Then he throws his arms around Ryuji, the force knocking them both back by a couple of steps.

“Akira?” he asks, bewildered. Never in their friendship has he seen Akira act like this. It sends alarm bells ringing through his head. “What—”

“Don’t,” Akira cuts off, voice hoarse and quiet, so quiet that even this close, Ryuji is straining to hear him. The arms around him tighten. “Don’t be like that. Please. I can’t. Not right now, Ryuji.”

It hits him all at once. And in his sixteen years of living, Ryuji doesn’t think he’s ever been stupider.

Akira’s been trapped in an interrogation room with nothing but a bunch of make-believe police officers. He got the shit beat out of him, had to stage his own suicide.

And Ryuji just tried to push him away.

He lets his arms wrap around Akira tightly; not too tight, but enough to make sure he won’t slip away from him again. (Never again. Not if he can help it.)

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers. Tilting his head up, he stares at the soft lighting of Leblanc, forcing his lungs to breathe evenly—not for fear of losing his temper, but for fear of exposing the tears silently streaming down his face. “So fucking glad.”

Akira doesn’t answer. He only buries his face deeper into Ryuji’s shoulder.

Ann was right—Akira isn’t okay. Not for now, not for awhile. It’s up to Ryuji and everyone else in their group of friends to fix that. That’s fine. They’ll all take as long as they need. He isn’t okay right now, but he will be. They can work on that.

But one thing was clear.

I’m not going to lose him tonight.

====

Summer in Mementos is pretty gross.

Granted, it’s always nasty in here—there’s a perpetual air of moisture, like the inside of a whale, if Ryuji had ever been in one (he’s basing that off of an American movie Ann showed them last week; he didn’t even know it was possible for a fish to get lost in the ocean). There’s also the ongoing sound of trains passing by them on loop, and to him, trains are just inherently cramped and humid and always too sticky for his liking.

Of course, there’s the disgusting, weird amalgamated Shadows that litter every level of Mementos. At least in Palaces they sort of resemble something from the real world, but he guesses they didn’t even bother with these ones. The worst part of all this is that right now, it’s hot, but not hot enough for the Shadows to process a heat wave.

So essentially, they’re fighting with additional bucket loads of sweat, but with none of the usual reward that comes with it.

Well, not that they needed it.

“Fox.”

“As you wish.”

Yusuke’s boots skid to a halt as he points his katana at the fast-moving Shadow, the tip perfectly still. “Your assistance, Goemon.”

They’re on their weekly Mementos grind, the list Mishima keeps updating finally too long to ignore. (Akira hates it when things pile up. It’s a big reason why Ryuji hastily cleaned up every time he wanted to come over. Now though, he doesn’t even bother.)

The current All-Star team includes Yusuke, Makoto, Ryuji, and Akira, with the rest of them keeping a close eye in case they need a quick shift in strategy.

From his katana, black ice crawls in the ground beneath rusted train tracks, the air suddenly chilly despite the humidity that was there a moment ago. Frost shoots forward, encasing the legs of the Shadow only to shatter with a strong jerk forward. It roars, the ear-piercing sound causing the scattered debris around them to vibrate. Akira clicks his tongue.

Strong against ice. Easy fix. Ryuji mouths the words along with Akira when he says, “Panther, you’re up.”

“Finally!”

Ann darts in, high-fiving Yusuke as he rushes out. Ryuji can see Makoto pat Yusuke on the back, sympathy etched on her expression and Futaba mussing his hair. He always took it the hardest when he had to be switched out.

Akira’s gloved fingers brush the edge of his monochrome mask. “Come, Principality.”

As if a human version of justice has been summoned down to earth, the winged statue floats for a moment, eyes filled with scorn as she casts a simple, yet effective memory loss spell. The Shadow shakes its head aggressively. It works, but it won’t hold for long.

“Skull.”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

He grins and sprints right, squeezing into the Shadow’s blindside. It tries to twist around to take a swipe at him, but Ryuji is too fast—he slides right between its legs to confuse and disorient it. Once it seems like it completely lost sight of him, he raises his hand to grip the edge of his black mask. “Come on out, Captain!”

It’s a classic tactic; make the enemy lose focus, stun it, and stop it.

A pirate straight out of the Caribbean materializes from the embers of his mask—Captain Kidd in all of his glory regards the Shadow with a look of disdain before sparks fly from the hull of his ship, and an intense streak of lightning bursts forth, shocking its target like something from a regrettable movie about torture, knocking it down to the ground, a buzz perceptible even from here. He might have overdone it.

Ann whistles. “You didn’t even let me get a chance with it.”

“You can have the next million Shadows we bump into, I promise.” He calls Captain back into his mask, fragmented pieces forming together impossibly quick. “We good, Leader?”

Akira nods. “Just let me get the loot,” he smiles at Ryuji. “Awesome voltage on that last one, Skull.”

A grin stretches over his face before he can stop himself. He won’t deny it—getting a compliment from Joker was always something he filed away for later.

He’s too busy feeling pride surge through him that he can’t even bother to get ticked off when he hears Morgana scoff. “It doesn’t matter how good that attack was; he got in the way of Lady Panther’s finishing blow. That’s a crime in my eyes.”

“But doesn’t that just mean he saved her from doing anything?” Makoto raises an eyebrow. “Technically, he prevented any danger from befalling her, right?”

“Queen, as a gentleman, I have an obligation to tell you that that is a sexist notion.”

“You did not just say that.”

Something makes Ryuji pause. Immediately, his eyes flicker around them automatically. He tunes their chattering out, and finds himself tapping his foot, a slight jitter overcoming him. His nerves are trying to tell him something. Or maybe he’s imagining it? Is it just an aftershock from the intense lightning he cast out? No. It’s been too long since he’s had any problem with electric moves, and he’s never had problems from ones that he threw out himself.

Something was wrong, and he can’t put his finger on it.

He rattles his brain trying to figure out what it is. No one’s hurt, everyone’s safe and together. Well, mostly together, since Akira’s still approaching the Shadow—

A cold sweat drapes the back of his neck. Akira is still approaching the Shadow.

The Shadow hasn’t disintegrated yet.

“Akira—!”

The name slips past his lips, codenames forgotten. In slow motion, Ryuji sees Shadow’s body tense, its mouth frothing with what looks like liquid magma made from pits of hell—specializes in curse, and a strong one at that; Ryuji can feel the potency of its malignancy from where he’s standing. He watches as Akira stiffens, fingers twitching towards his mask, ready to retaliate, or at the very least, defend. And like a domino effect of bad luck, Ryuji feels bile rise to his throat.

Akira is good at what he does. Infuriatingly good. Took the whole Metaverse bullshit like a fish to water. But even he can’t switch Personas the same moment he summons them.

Principality would crumple like tissue paper against the Shadow. And Akira along with it.

You’re too late, a voice whispers in his head. You wouldn’t make it.

A heartbeat passes. And then Ryuji is flying.

It’s never too late, screams back something stronger, something unshakeable. Not ever. Especially not for him.

His boots hit the ground like the first strike of lightning amidst a storm—impossibly fast and unexpected. Lungs wheezing and legs throbbing, he crossed the distance in the span of a breath.

The Shadow throws the curse at Akira, red and black and filled to the brim with intensity, and Akira’s eyes can only widen, pupils dilated wildly to the point where there’s only black—a mirror of what’s about to hit him if Ryuji isn’t fast enough.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Ryuji shoves Akira, hard enough that he crashes onto the ground and he can hear the breath forcefully leave his lungs, and suddenly Ryuji can’t hear anything at all. His fingertips are fire and ice, his sense of surroundings have completely dissipated. Any energy in his body is being drained, like a dam cracked into millions of pieces—and all he’s left with is air. Vaguely, he can hear a choking noise, a broken sort of sound.

The blow is not just a violent one—it never is, with curse attacks. Instead of just feeling his skin bruised or blood running down his temple, he also feels himself get weaker, his mind growing heavier. An attack on the mind and body; a perfect cocktail of fucked up.

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the glint from Akira’s knife slicing through the Shadow’s throat.

====

Tokyo is currently at a wicked thirty two degrees.

The sun radiates scorching temperatures down from the sky, the concrete eagerly absorbing every bit of its heat, making something akin to walking across hot coals. It’s hot enough that a mirage is visible to the naked eye. It’s hot enough that every ice cream store has a forty-minute line-up. It’s hot enough that no birds were flying, in fear that they may truly be fried by the sun above them.

Basically, it’s hot as hell.

“Ryuji-chan, pick up the pace!”

But Haru is more vicious than any conceivable temperature.

Looking like a survivor who was lost in the desert for several days, Ryuji lets out a half-garbled battle cry and sprints the last dozen meters. Haru clicks her stopwatch.

Sitting on a lovely lilac blanket, she tsks from underneath the shade. “Three seconds slower.”

“Ugh!” he collapses beside her on the cool grass. If she looks at him from a certain angle, she can see the steam positively radiating off of him. “I’m going to beat the living shit out of the sun.”

“You know I’d support you in anything you do, Ryuji-chan, but I don’t think you’d be fast enough to catch it,” Haru says. She hands him a cold water bottle. “Drink slowly.”

He rolls over so that he can squint up at her. “You’re mean.”

“I’m harsh,” she corrects, shaking the bottle in her hand. “There’s a difference.”

He takes it. “Have you done this before?”

“Helped someone train in running? No. But,” she rummages through her pastel pink tote bag, and proudly shows him a handful of books. He squints at them. “Since I’m so new to the group and everyone has such broad interests, I decided to try reading up on them! Did you know that drinking cold water after running results in less dehydration than drinking warm water?”

Ryuji stares at her. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying you’re mean. You’re not mean. You’re real nice, Haru.”

She smiles at him and pats his head, despite the overflowing heat and moisture settled on top. “You’re very sweet Ryuji-chan, but that’s not going to make me go easy on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the tough-love kind of coach.” Ryuji sits up, cracking open the seal. Chugging down the water, he makes eye contact with Haru before slowing down substantially.

He dumps the rest of it on his head, sighing and shivering in relief. “That’s the good shit.”

“Why not wait for the sun to go down a bit?” she suggests. “The heat is really scorching, and there’s still plenty of time to keep training later.”

“Nah,” he stretches his arms behind his head before he stands again. “I gotta keep going while I still can.”

Haru frowns. “Overexertion isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Don’t you worry your fluffy head! I may be stupid, but I know when to stop when I gotta.”

“I really think you should rest for a bit.”

“I will when I’m done, I promise.”

“You looked rough in that last lap—”

“Haru,” Ryuji is grinning, but his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’m going to keep training.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, before Haru’s shoulder sags slightly. “Alright.” He’s about to say something when she cuts him off. “But only if you tell me why you’re so insistent.”

Ryuji shrugs. “If that’s what it’ll take to prove it to you, then sure. It’s kinda stupid, though.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Oh, wait till you hear it,” he laughs, a little shy. “So you know how Mona and Futaba are, like, the Metaverse experts? And Makoto is the big brain? And Yusuke does the whole calling card part?” Haru nods, and he continues. “Well, I’m not really… anything. Ann already took the role of moral support and there’s no way in hell I’m the ‘brain’ in anything. Jeez, last time I picked up a paintbrush was in kindergarten. So I figured, I’d be the fast one, you know? The one that can get to someone fast enough to help them out.” Ryuji’s grin turns into something softer; less edge and more fond. It does something to her heart. “And if it’d help ‘Kira down the line, then it’d be worth it, right?”

Haru stays silent.

“Anyway! That’s enough of that cheesy shit.” He moves back to the track, running shoes scuffing at the concrete. “Wish me luck, maybe I can actually catch up to the sun this time. Teach it a lesson.”

“Ryuji.“

Looking back, he gives her a curious look. “Yeah?”

Haru hesitates.

I never once thought you were stupid. You’ve given so much more to the team than you can imagine. You have no idea how many times you’ve helped Akira without even lifting a finger.

“I have a cooler full of water behind me, so… please try your best out there.”

Ryuji gives her an enthusiastic salute. “Yes ma'am!”

He runs off, the sun continuing to beat down him relentlessly.

====

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ryuji knew they were all going to die someday. It’s inevitable. The circle of life, the winds of time, la vie en rose, etc.

He just didn’t expect it to happen at the age of 16, on the sinking cognitive ship of their next Prime Minister, wearing a wack-ass leather outfit surrounded by his panicking friends.

“We’re going to die!” Futaba wails, knees shaking uncontrollably to the point where she can hardly keep standing. “I don’t know how to swim!”

“It’ll be fine,” Akira spits through gritted teeth. He’s far tenser than anyone else, red gloves formed into fists and eyes constantly darting around to see what can save their lives. “We just need to focus.”

Makoto points to something on their right and shouts, “There! A lifeboat!”

Sprinting down the slowly escalating ramp, their eyes widen at the single lifeboat propped at the very top of the bow—which is slowly approaching a ninety degree angle. They all had one thought in their minds.

“We’re not going to make it in time,” Yusuke says, quietly.

Akira bangs his fist into a nearby column. “To hell with that. There’s no way I’m letting us die here.”

A heavy silence falls over them. The air is practically crackling with electricity and pure agitation, but there’s also a determination between all of that. Everyone’s overcome with a need to protect their friends and teammates, but they were at a loss of what to do. A quiet realization overcomes the group—there wasn’t going to be a miracle to save them.

Ryuji’s eyes land on Akira. He’s scanning the area, Third Eye activated but unable to pick up anything that isn’t the lifeboat. There’s no panic in his clear, gray eyes, but the terror in it is the most prevalent out of anyone present.

It hits Ryuji, all at once. The boy in front of him may be his age, and even younger than some members of their group, but he is undoubtedly the leader of the infamous Phantom Thieves. Every decision he made had led them here, in this moment, in their imminent death. And if he lets them all get taken, whether it’s through the ocean or the approaching explosions behind him, the truth of the matter is Akira feels that he would be responsible. That it’s his fault that a cognitive boat would take the lives of his friends.

Yeah. That’s not happening.

Ryuji clenches his eyes shut for a few seconds and slowly opens them. He begins to jump in place, hyping himself up.

“Skull…?” Haru asks, brows furrowing.

“Hang tight, guys,” he says, taking quick breaths. He can do this. “I’ll nab the boat.”

A chorus of gasps and heated objections rang through the air, and Akira steps forward, more shaken than Ryuji’s ever seen him. “No. Skull, please—”

Ryuji throws him a wobbly grin, more for Akira than himself. In one smooth motion, he jumps down and hits the ground running.

“No!”

Immediately, he feels his knees and thighs begin to protest, only intensifying the further he sprints up. For a minute, if Ryuji closes his eyes, he can imagine that he’s in a meet. A race. That the screams he hears behind him are his track mates, and not teammates, friends, best friends that would die if he failed to get to the boat fast enough.

He pushes himself even more.

It’s a miracle that he gets to the raft before his legs give out, and he feels a satisfying crank underneath his palms when he rotates the lever. As he throws a thumbs up at his friends, seeing them safe, healthy, alive, he feels relieved beyond words.

He makes eye contact with Akira, and he really should’ve expected the explosion that comes next.

====

His ceiling has seventy-nine plastic stars.

Ryuji stares up at it from his bed, arms crossed behind his head; they’d long since lost their cheap light. It was raining hard outside, enough to rattle against his window like pebbles calling for his attention. He ignores them.

It’s been years since he got those stars—dating all the way back in middle school. He got into a bad habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night to look at the sky from the roof of their apartment building. It scared the shit out of his ma when she finally caught him, scolded him to hell and back. By the end, they found a compromise: she’d buy him a crap ton from the hundred yen store, and they’d stick it up together. When they did, it kept falling down, so she went back and bought him a bottle of superglue. Now you can’t take them off, even if you tried to use a little scraper.

It bothered him, for a while. Young boys were cruel, and anyone who came to visit always poked fun of him for it. It wasn’t until he visited Akira’s room one day, saw how pleased he was that Yusuke bought them for him that he couldn’t help but revel at his own stars again, after all this time.

Ryuji twists his body sideways, ripping his eyes away from the plastic figures. Enough of that.

His eyes have long adjusted to the darkness that surrounds him, allowing a clear view of his room in the limited moonlight. Laundry splayed around his tatami mat from his sprints training today, gaming controllers scattered on the center table from when Akira came over a few days ago. That was a blast. He helped him beat a boss he’s been stuck on for weeks, and Akira beat it like it was nothing, it was the coolest shit ever—

Ryuji forces himself to flip over to glare at the wall. Sleep. That’s a better idea.

He takes a deep breath, forcing his breathing to go steady. There’s lots to do tomorrow—school is a drag, but they plan on meeting up at Leblanc afterwards. The thought allows his muscles to relax. Really, the atmosphere of Leblanc is just so pleasing to him. The warm lighting, the run-down booths, even the smell is a welcome presence. Well, that’s mostly because Akira drags it with him wherever he—

Slowly, his eyes open.

It always comes back to him, doesn’t it?

He rolls onto his back, in a position to stare at the stars again. The rain hammers on.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid.

It’s not a self jab, it wasn’t manifested by some sort of long-standing insecurity. It’s a fact. He’s never been good with a book, never done anything half-decent by picking up a pencil, his mind was never programmed to listen and retain information in long classes. It’s definitely not like he’s the brains of the Thieves, never a strategist of some kind. His ma encouraged him to take on a tutor in the past, and he’d rather bite a finger off than spend her money on wasted potential, so he found himself wandering the streets of Central Street as a way to pass time.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid, but even he knows he’s irrevocably, completely, stupidly in love with Kurusu Akira.

He sits up and ruffles his hair, frustrated. There are too many things wrong with that sentence, too many things that can go wrong because of that sentence. Of course, he finds the one thing that can mess up the unshakeable foundation that he and Akira built for each other. He must’ve really pissed off some God upstairs for him to have a hell-bent queer awakening with his best friend.

No, that’s wrong. It was the furthest thing from hell-bent—it was soft, it was gray, it was raining, and most importantly, it took its time.

They were halfway through Kamoshida’s Palace when Ryuji realized it; the sheer amount of power that hindsight gave him made him pause long enough to get clocked out by a Shadow.

Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because he would never, ever do anything to fuck up what he has. Not again.

Wait, no, that’s not true. Even before Kamoshida, he’s never had something like this. He’s never had someone like him. He’s never had someone who’s so entirely on the same wavelength as him, who’d have his back even when his was against a wall. Kurusu Akira is…ethereal. Out of this world. Cool as fuck. (Hot as fuck, too.) If you lined up the entirety of Tokyo and told him he could pick one. One person out of the whole lineup to be his friend, he’d have his answer in a heartbeat.

See, now that isn’t something that changed with hindsight—Ryuji’s known that he’s been in love with Akira since before they completed Kamoshida’s Palace. And when he figured it out, he didn’t feel shock. His eyes didn’t widen, his heart didn’t start thumping like crazy. It’s more like he just scratched his head in a huh kind of way. It felt like his life had been waiting for that day in April, like everything was at a standstill until he finally met Kurusu Akira. It made sense. Everything just makes sense when Akira’s involved.

Which just makes this all the more fucked up.

He knocks his head back against the wall, eyes stuck on the raindrops’ rapidly moving shadows on his bedroom floor. Karma. That’s probably what’s happening. The world still hasn’t forgiven him for losing his shit, so they decided to make him pine for the only person that he can’t afford to lose.

He can’t even stomach the idea of trying to get over it, to try and put distance between himself and Akira. He spent a lifetime waiting for a miracle, for someone who didn’t know existed. He’s not giving up a single second of time with him. That’s probably why the world relentlessly shits on him; he’s selfish enough to keep the feelings that he has. But he can’t bring himself to regret that decision. Not with the way his breath hitches in his throat whenever Akira walks into the room.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He’s accepted it. Just like how the sky is blue, or that he well and truly hates Calculus. It’s a factor of life.

The rain seemed to fall harder, droplets sounding like rigorous hail against the windowpane. He lets out a long yawn.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

That’s not the reason why he can’t sleep at night.

Akira is a quiet guy. He gets his point across with as few words as possible, as if each letter costs him fifty yen to say out loud. So he speaks through his expression; a quirk of his brow, a tilt of his head, a certain smile is enough to carry half of the conversation.

And, every once in a while, Akira gets a look.

It comes up at the weirdest times—when the two of them baton pass in the Metaverse, when Ryuji eats ramen too fast and gets sick, when he helps an old lady cross the street. Plenty of times it’s because Ryuji is doing something incredibly stupid (like when he said that the square root of sixteen is six, because if you just get rid of the one, then that makes sense, right?), or when they’re laughing so hard neither of them can breathe. But sometimes it comes up in quieter moments, too. The two of them talking quietly in the attic at Leblanc, or when Akira confesses that he’s relieved Ryuji’s always there for him. (As if there would ever be a time where he won’t be.)

The look is subtle enough to miss but easy to find if someone knows what they’re looking for. The usual attentiveness that resides in Akira’s eyes disappears, in its place a softer gaze; his pupils get dilated, and the edge of his eyes get all crinkled like Valentine’s tissue paper. A half-smile rests on his lips, never quite turning into a full-blown grin, but that’s okay. For some reason, it all reminds Ryuji of the moon. Of soft moonlight. Of streetlamps on empty roads.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s a small, tiny, infinitesimal chance that his best friend might love him back.

His eyelids slide shut, though he knows that it won’t be enough to let him rest.

Realistically, he’s probably wrong. Akira isn’t in love with him, and he’s only seeing what he wants to see. With every eligible person seeming to fall in love with him at some point in time, how would it even be possible that Akira would love him?

He rubs his eyes, desperate to get rid of the unending fatigue that’s plagued him for months on end. It doesn’t work.

Bad excuse. Akira does love him, just like he loves everyone he encounters and befriends and ends up risking his life for. Ryuji’s surprised Akira hasn’t passed out yet, given his bleeding heart for the entire population of Tokyo.

Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles as he rubs his eyes harder.

But what if he wasn’t wrong? What if the signals he’s seeing aren’t based on misunderstood yearning?

When his eyes start to burn, his fingers move up to his hair.

There’s no way in hell he’d ever risk losing his best friend. His partner. His Akira. It’s not something he can gamble. It’s not worth it.

He begins to tug, hands shaking, and he can barely feel the sting of pain from nearly pulling his hair out his scalp.

It’s not worth it. He decided that in the very beginning.

Ryuji buries his face into his palms.

But he is so, so exhausted of being tired.

Lightning flashes, and for a split-second, his room is bright.

Fuck it.

By the time thunder rumbles through his apartment, he’s already out the front door.

His sneakers squelch against the wet concrete, soaking his unsocked feet. He’s sprinting fast enough that the street lights around him blur, and he can feel quick breaths getting pulled out of him. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he forgot to wear a raincoat, but he doesn’t care.

Akira is his best friend. Akira accepted him, flaws and all. Akira loves him, one way or another. That’s what held him back. He can’t risk losing that.

Ryuji quickly checks both sides before running across the street, wiping the rain off his brow, and keeps going.

But that’s what should’ve pushed him into confessing sooner. Because if that’s all true, then that can only ever mean that Akira would accept this part of him too, right?

He jerks out of the way as he almost barrels over a fire hydrant, making him step into a deep puddle. It doesn’t slow him down.

Maybe he would’ve realized it sooner if he wasn’t too fucking tired to think straight.

His lungs begin to complain, his breaths turning to wheezes, but he ignores it in favor of going faster.

Too late for that now. All the matters now is to talk to—

He skids to a halt.

In front of him—eyes wide, hair drenched, no shoes—stands Kurusu Akira.

Ryuji’s mouth falls open, and for a minute, he almost laughs. Of course. He should’ve known. Just as he’s willing to sprint to Akira at an unholy hour in the night…

He smiles sheepishly at him, and Ryuji feels his chest constrict in the loveliest way possible.

…Akira would do the exact same thing for him.

The rain slows, and the thunder ceases for a moment. The world pauses long enough for both of them to speak in the same breath, the same heartbeat:

“I’m in love with you.”

#fic tag #akiryu #pegoryu #fanfic #writing #ryuji sakamoto #akira kurusu #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #mine #desperate as that sounds #and yeah man thats a jon bellion song #fic

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