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lilbittymonster · 3 months ago

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Day 11: Surrogate

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The road was long. Every ilm of his body ached under his armour. The lance that was once so proudly given as the honoured weapon of the Azure Dragoon had been reduced to being used as naught but a cane. The rolling hills of the Central Highlands were all beginning to blur into one green mass before his exhausted eyes, and only the years of treading these roads made sure he and his young charge were heading towards the tents of Camp Dragonhead.

The child hadn’t uttered a single word the entire journey, and the weeping had ceased bells ago. Now, still dusted in soot, he stared listlessly ahead as he clung to Alberic’s gauntlet. He’d been limping for the last malm and Alberic wasn’t sure if he was in any state to carry the boy should it come to it. Blessedly, the light of the campfire was visible off in the distance. All he had to do was wait until they were spotted.

“Who goes?” called a sentry as they drew nearer.

“Ser Alberic of the Knights Dragoon,” he called out hoarsely. “And…..child.”

The knight straightened at Alberic’s call. He said something to the other knight beside him, and they ran off into the camp.

“Full glad are we to see you returned, Ser Alberic,” the sentry said as they approached. “We could see the battle raging from here.” He turned to peer at the boy trailing slightly behind Alberic. “And who have we here?”

“A survivor,” was all Alberic said. “He needs to be seen by a healer.”

“Of course, of course,” the sentry nodded quickly. “Whatever you need.”

Alberic nodded wearily, and with another look at the boy, he led them further into the camp towards the healer’s tent. Now that they were in full lamplight he could see the burns on the child’s feet and hands. Smears of blood from unseen wounds crusted on his skin and tear tracks through the soot ran down his cheeks.

“Good evening, how- oh, good heavens above,” said the attendant chirurgeon. “What happened to this child?”

“Dragon attack,” Alberic said wearily.

The man was already pulling clean rags from a shelf with one hand and tugging the boy’s hand away from Alberic towards a bed with the other. Alberic released him and leaned his full weight on his lance, content to let the boy be seen to first. He was still silent, unresponsive to the healer’s prodding as he was wiped down. The burns were an even angrier red once the thin layer of black was removed and Alberic feared the boy may scar. The chirurgeon’s lips pressed together worriedly as he worked.

“What is your name?” he asked the boy gently.

No response.

“Do you know?” the chirurgeon asked, turning to Alberic.

He shook his head. “He’s said nary a word the whole journey.”

The chirurgeon hummed in disappointment. “Were there any others with him?”

Alberic shook his head again.

“A shame. How many more good innocent folk must we lose to the thrice damned Horde?” His hands were methodical in their movements, and in small concentrated bursts were the burns slowly eased. Satisfied with his work, and that there were no other injuries in need of tending to the boy, he straightened and turned to Alberic.

“Do not think your slumping has escaped my notice, ser dragoon. Sit, I shall be with you shortly.”

Alberic obeyed without complaint, glad to be off of his feet. He set the stained and bent lance to the side of the bed and stiffly began the process of removing his armour.

The boy said something in a mumble.

“I beg your pardon?” Alberic said gently leaning in.

“Estinien,” the boy said in a whisper. “My name’s Estinien.”

“Hello, Estinien. I am Ser Alberic Bale, of the Knights Dragoon of Ishgard.”

Slowly, Estinien looked up at Alberic with hollow eyes. “Where are we?”

“We are in Camp Dragonhead, not far from the Holy See. You’ve been hurt badly.” He hesitated. “Do you have any family that live in another village? Grandparents, maybe? Or an aunt and uncle?”

Estinien paused, then shook his head minutely.

Alberic closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through singed lungs. Another orphan of the war.

“Well, Estinien, once you are rested up a bit, I shall take you to the Holy See. You’ll be taken care of there.”

Estinien just looked past him again, eyes unseeing once more.

Alberic shouldered open the door to the apartment. It was far less glamourous than his previous lodgings, but a knight’s barrack is no place for a child. A lantern was already filled on the counter next to a small flintbox, and he methodically went around the room lighting the various wall lanterns. The room filled with soft light, and he turned to see Estinien still standing in the open doorway, staring wide eyed about the space.

“Come in, and close the door behind you, lad,” Alberic said as he set down his bag on the bare floor.

Hesitantly, as if waiting for an enemy to spring from the woodwork, Estinien stepped over the threshold and closed the door softly behind him. Trailing a hand along the wall he made a slow circuit about the common room. He paid no mind to the kitchen, but the washroom seemed to confuse him.

“What is this?” he asked.

Alberic looked up from the small wrapped bundle of plates he was putting away.

“What is what?”

Estinien was standing over the toilet with a confused tilt of his head.

“Surely you’ve seen a toilet before,” Alberic said, half jokingly.

Estinien frowned. “I have. Why is it inside, though?”

That brought Alberic up short.

“Ah, the city has sewers all throughout it,” he explained, trying not to laugh and embarrass the boy. “It keeps all our washrooms clean that way.

Estinien seemed to accept this explanation, not even looking at the tub, and continued his walk about the apartment. His meager belongings put away, Alberic watched wordlessly as the young boy assessed the space, leaning against the counter. First the bedroom on the left, then the right, before finally coming to rest back in the middle of the room.

“Well?” Alberic prompted.

“It’s big,” was all Estinien said.

“And…..that’s good?”

Estinien nodded, and Alberic’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“Well, which room would you like for yourself?”

Before Alberic had finished asking, Estinien was already pointing to the door on the right. Alberic chuckled.

“Go on, then, it’s all yours. We’ll get you a proper bed after supper.”

Estinien slipped inside and closed the door, and as Alberic picked up what was left of his belongings to enter the other bedroom, he thought he could hear the faint sounds of crying through the wall.

The smell of bitter and sweet herbs wafted up from the steaming mug as Alberic mixed in a healthy spoonful of honey before bringing it to the currently curled up elezen on the couch.

“Here, it’s still hot,” Alberic said as he approached.

Estinien slowly sat up with a wince and took the mug from his hands, sipping tentatively at the liquid. He pulled a face at the first sip and Alberic made a sympathetic noise.

“How much longer until it arrives?” he asked morosely.

“The letter that said it was sent from Ul’dah is dated two moons ago. It shouldn’t be long now,” Alberic promised.

Estinien grunted and winced again, taking another sip of tea.

“Is that barley sock still hot enough?” Alberic asked.

Estinien shook his head and unfurled himself enough to hand over the simple cotton tube. Alberic took it and laid it out on the stones by the fireplace again, careful not to let it get close enough to the flames to burn before sitting back down on the couch. Estinien leaned against his shoulder as he settled back against the cushions.

“I can’t wait to not have to do this again,” he muttered.

“Again!” Estinien demanded.

“We have been at this for bells, now, son,” Alberic panted as he straightened.

“If I am to be the next Azure Dragoon, then I need to be better than all the rest,” Estinien insisted.

“Aye, and you’ll never survive even being a Temple Knight if you kill yourself training,” Alberic countered.

Estinien scoffed and muttered something, but relaxed his stance. He was nearly the same height as Alberic now, and the set of old training maille rested snugly on his frame. Secretly, he had hoped to keep the danger of joining the dragoons from Estinien and spare him the same fate as him, but the lad was stubborn, and the flame of vengeance burned brighter in his eyes with each passing day.

And so, with a heavy heart, Alberic had agreed to instruct him. And that included making sure that Estinien did not run himself into an early grave.

“We’ve done these same drills a hundred times,” Estinien complained. “When are you going to show me something new?”

“You lack the balance to accompany your strength,” Alberic said, noting the small gathering of onlookers in the wings of the proving grounds. “It takes more than simple might to slay a wyrm.”

Estinien processed this with a furrow in his brow. Alberic rested the sparring lance against the nearby training dummy and stretched his legs. A few of the newer recruits were still fighting at the other end of the sand pit, and Alberic caught some of them gawking, only to avert their eyes as he met them.

“And how am I meant to practise balance?” Estinien asked finally.

“That we can do at home,” Alberic promised. He paused. “And I may be able to call in a favour.”

Estinien’s eyes lit up.

“I cannot guarantee anything,” Alberic clarified quickly, “but I did promise I would impart to you all that I know, and I plan to keep my promise.”

Alberic sat up in bed, heart pounding in his chest and pulse loud in his ears, but no memory of what he had dreamt beforehand. Perhaps it was for the best that he didn’t. As he tried to slow his breathing down his sleep-addled brain eventually recognised that there was light leaking in from beneath his door. He hauled himself out of bed and dressed slowly before cautiously opening it.

Estinien looked up from the table, where he was sitting with a deck of cards spread before him and a bottle of wine at his side.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asked, placing a card down on a row of others.

“Seems so,” Alberic said groggily as he meandered into the kitchen.

“Plenty of wine left in the bottle,” Estinien said without looking up.

“How considerate of you.”

Alberic slumped into the chair opposite and watched as Estinien laid down card after card. The wine was a bit too dry for his liking but it took the lingering edge off. He got back up to retrieve the last of the wheel of cheese from the icebox to cover the aftertaste.

Estinien stacked the fourth and final column of cards and swept the deck back into his hand and began shuffling.

“Care for a hand, if you aren’t sleeping?” he asked.

“I could go for a round of Skyfish, sure.”

Estinien raised a brow as he shuffled. “Skyfish, huh? The children’s game?”

“Ah, come now, humour your old man.”

“You’re hardly that old, Alberic,” Estinien said.

“If you’ve the brains for a more involved game, I’m all ears.”

Estinien chuckled but dutifully dealt them their hands. Alberic swept up his four cards, and immediately regretted the choice of game.

The manor was quiet in its comfort, the meal finished and plates cleared away by dutiful staff. Estinien and Aymeric were in the parlor across the hall with the cats. Alberic could hear the gentle tinkling of a bell and scampering claws on hardwood as Arienne skittered across them.

“I’m so glad you could join us this year,” Vivienne said as she sipped her wine contentedly.

“As am I. ‘Tis good to spend time in your company outside from formal matters for a change.”

Vivienne laughed at that, tilting her glass in a small cheers. It had taken the better part of the dinner and two glasses of Lominsan red for Alberic to relax in the company of nobles, even nobles he ostensibly already knew.

“Truthfully, I am glad of the excuse not to attend the larger Starlight celebrations,” she said. “My old bones aren’t what they used to be and the chairs are never comfortable enough.”

The sounds of the bell had stopped, and distantly Alberic heard the echoing sound of a door being closed followed by the wails of a small cat. Alberic hid his smile in his glass of wine. A minute later, Arienne appeared in the doorway voicing her complaints.

“Oh, did you get thrown out, your poor dear?” Vivienne said sympathetically. She patted her lap in invitation. “I know I’m not my son, but-ah, hello my darling.”

Arienne pushed her head against Vivienne’s hand, purring loudly, before circling twice and curling up contentedly.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips. “Have you ever had anyone special to call your own, Alberic?”

He coughed on the wine slightly at the unexpected question.

“Ah, nay, I have not,” he said quickly to recover. “Being a knight, then a dragoon, I had not the time nor desire to tie myself to anyone I might soon leave behind. And then when that path was closed to me, well….” he trailed off with a meaningful look towards where the boys had disappeared to. “All my time went towards ensuring the happiness of my son. And I don’t regret a single moment of it.”

“And he makes my son very happy as well. I can’t tell you what a blessing it’s been to have Estinien around.”

Alberic’s chest swelled with pride at her words. It was a relief to hear that Estinien had come out of his shell just as much as he’d hoped.

“I thank the Fury every day that they have each other,” he said.

I loved you as a father, but I can ill forgive you for Ferndale.

Estinien’s final words to him still rattled about between his ears. The din of the room hardly drowned them out, much as he tried. He tried to think of any other way that conversation could have happened. Any way to spare him that pain. But as always, Nidhogg had other ideas.

He supposed it was a good thing Kitali stepped in when she did. He doesn’t know if he could have had the strength of will to fight his only son. He leaned back in the rickety chair and closed his eyes.

Halone, hear this prayer of a desperate father, he thought. Keep my son safe.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite 2024 #my writing #alberic bale #estinien #estinien wyrmblood #estinien varlineau #I Am Very Normal About Alberic And Estinien's Relationship I Promise #as is demonstrated by this being the longest fic i've written for xivwrite thus far #proud member of the 'alberic is a good father' defense squad #bc i see an alarming amount of people writing him to be antagonising to estinien for some fucking reason and it bothers me #they're both doing their best given the circumstances and i think they turned out okay! all things considering!#anyways good morning to the europeans checking tumblr before work i should have been asleep two and a half hours ago

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uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years ago

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Mandy Davis, you punk ass bitch - Sam Winchester/Reader (for #samweek2023)

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader. Tags/Warnings: just fluff! Word Count: 2k Notes: for @ghostsam and @suncaptor's Sam Winchester Appreciation Week :) happy birthday baby boy!!! ily ily ily <;3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

The alarm clock in Bobby’s guest bedroom was a little busted, so you weren’t crazy confident that it could get you up at midnight like you wanted. True to form, you were hauled ass-first out of sleep a little after two in the morning, and staggered out of bed bleary-eyed and cursing.

What kind of sick freaks tortured themselves like this? Very, very dedicated girlfriends. Just like you’d predicted, the other side of the bed hadn’t been touched. Sam was probably still downstairs, straining his neck over a book and adding to his exhaustive research notes. Totally clueless. You groped around the floor for the spare pajama pants you’d stolen from him ages ago and hopped into them as quietly as you could. The house was serene but not quiet, filled with the natural creaks and sighs of the old wood and the flutter of the loose siding in the breeze. You knew it would be impossible to stay silent on the stupid ancient stairway, but you were determined not to wake Dean. There was no way you were letting him beat you to this like he had last year. Pouring all of your hunter chops into the task, you snuck down the stairs like a goddamn ghost, and made sure to throw Dean’s door two gloating middle fingers in the dark. Eat that, Winchester.

Every inch of the first floor was covered by safe blue darkness, except for a teeny circle of buttery lamplight that you followed to the kitchen. Before you turned the corner, you made bets with yourself about how Sam would be sitting: hunched completely over the kitchen table, that’s for sure, probably rubbing at his aching neck and glaring at what he was reading.

When you were close enough to see, you let your footsteps be heard so as not to scare him. Man, you were good. The same angle you’d pictured and everything.

Sam pried his face away from his research and squinted at his watch, then at you, sheepish. “Oh, hey… sorry. I promised that I’d be up hours ago.”

You knew he was already finding ten ways to beat himself up over it, so you drew yourself towards him with an understanding smile. “No sweat,” you waved it off, “I’m glad you’re still up. It means I get to do this.”

The first chance you got, you pounced on him, sliding up behind his chair and squeezing your arms around his shoulders. Sam made a pleased little sound that quickly became embarrassed—you scooped up his face and started smushing noisy kisses everywhere you could reach. Sam pretended to squirm and groan for your benefit, but he was a lousy actor. Just a few kisses melted him like butter.

As he relaxed, so did you. Sam wrapped a loose hand around your wrist, and you gave him one more deep kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”

“So that’s where this is coming from,” Sam realized. He started scrubbing sleepily at his eyes, sighing and laughing without humor, “God, I didn’t even know it was May.”

You hid your evil smile in Sam’s hair. “So… I take it I beat your brother to saying it first?”

“You did,” Sam confirmed. Just by hearing his voice you knew he had on that small, dopey smile that he reserved only for you.

“Fuck yeah,” You hiss in victory. You put on a whole show to get a laugh out of him, pumping your fist and salsaing in a happy circle.

A few tired chuckles seep out of your boyfriend. He sounds beyond exhausted, and you’ve got it so bad for him that just that makes your heart throb with sympathy. Feeling stupid and in love and obsessed with him, you fall down into the closest empty seat and take Sam’s hand, wishing more than anything that the whole world would throw him a party. He deserved so much more than what this shitty world ever gave him. Even the small gift you’d managed to pull together for him didn’t feel like enough.

“I have two gifts for the birthday boy,” you tell him, holding up two important fingers. “Do you want to open them both right now?”

Sam has had a sum total of two good birthdays in his entire life, so he props a hand on his thigh and shrugs. He’s never been very eager to make a thing out of May 2nd. “Whatever you wanna do.”

You make a sound like an incorrect gameshow buzzer. “Wrong! Birthday boy makes the decisions today.”

There it is. Sam cracks an even bigger, shier smile, sinking into his seat a little bit. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “...Can I open them now?”

“Of course you can,” you flirt, and start to feel around under the table. It is your greatest joy in life to mess with Sam, and for a moment you’re flooded with that joy when you find the gift with your hand, pull it loose from where you taped it, and slap it onto the table.

Sam’s face blooms with amused disbelief. He’s been grinding away at these books for hours, and of course, his birthday gift was right under his nose this entire time. “You masterminded all of this, didn’t you?” He guesses, smile growing, “Is the second one under my chair? Behind my ear or something?”

“Close,” you admit, and gesture him in. Dutiful as ever, Sam listens, only to be pulled into a deep, loving kiss. “She’s right here,” you murmur.

It’s a really dorky gift to give him, but more than anything you want this day to be special for him. Underneath all the teasing attitude you’re throwing around, you’re overwhelmed with the urge to do something for him, to make up for the myriad of shitty birthdays he’s survived, and the strength of it could pulverize every monster in the whole damn state. A content hum drains out of him. You kiss him like you could squeeze the fear out of him with your hands, curling your fingers through the tufts of hair at his neck and stroking his scalp.

When you draw back, Sam’s face is bright red. He gives you this bashful look like he’s never in a million years been kissed like that, and instead of getting smug, you just feel plain happy. “I love it,” Sam confesses, “That’s the best birthday gift I’ve ever been given.”

You’re sure that’s not a tough race to beat, but hey, it’s nice to hear. Sam gives your hand a sweet squeeze before scooping your actual, physical gift off the kitchen table. The gift-wrapping resources at Bobby’s house were pretty lacking, so you got creative with some paper bags, twine, and markers, wrapping your gift in the paper and then drawing stars all over it. Sam stares at it for so long that you consider making fun of him, but even the stupid impromptu wrapping paper you came up with is something he’s never had before. You’d kind of hoped that he’d just tear into it, but Sam takes the time to carefully untie your twine knot to keep the paper intact, his long fingers moving delicately along the string.

Packed inside the paper is a set of envelopes. They have teen-you written all over them, from the color of the envelopes, the glitter pen your decorated them with, and the old stickers all over the sides. Some are creased and folded awkwardly, others have smeared pen and peeling stickers. Every single one has Sam’s name written on one side.

“This is your handwriting,” he notices, curious. “...What are these?”

“These,” you enunciate, trying to contain your excitement for his reaction, “are all the love letters I wrote for you in high school.”

Pure delight slowly transforms Sam’s face. His jaw drops, and the second he realizes the absolute treasure trove of glorious teenage embarrassment he’s holding, he slaps the letters protectively to his chest. “No—way,” he gapes, eyes sparkling. “No. There’s no way. There’s no way in hell you’d ever just give me such quality blackmail material like this.”

But you did, because for whatever reason you’re totally into this loser. Those letters are full of the cringiest, sappiest writing one can possibly imagine, back when you’d convinced yourself you were a poetry-writing god and were utterly obsessed with Sam. (Well. Some things never change, but). The two of you hadn’t started dating until much later, so you figured he’d love to see just how long he’s been driving you insane. And, yeah. Blackmail material. If anyone else but Sam ever read these, the galactic weight of your embarrassment would instantly blink you out of existence.

“That’s how much I love you,” you tell him, shrugging. That simple.

The biggest, dorkiest grin takes up his whole face, and you force yourself to relax, happy to know you’ve at least given him this one thing. Without hesitation, he fishes the first letter out of the pile and carefully peels it open. The actual letter is on plain notebook paper, and, to Sam’s utter delight, is also penned in glitter.

He clears his throat and reads the heading. “Ooh. March 6th, 1998.” His smirk is a little too evil for your liking, “We would’ve been in… tenth grade?”

You shove your face in your hands and groan.

“Dear Sam,” he says, in a high, girly voice. You smack him on the shoulder for the shitty impression of you, which just makes the laughter splitting his sides even louder. “Today, I saw Mandy talking to you by your locker—”

“Oh god.”

“She doesn’t even try to hide her stupid crush on you,” Sam reads, biting back giggles. “At least I’m subtle about it.”

Not true. You were not at all subtle about it. God, this is torture… But it’s been a long time since you’ve heard Sam sound this happy.

“I swear, Sammy, I wanted to punch her lights out so bad. She doesn’t even know you, or your family, or what we’re all really like.” Sam throws you a mean little smile at this next part, “Nobody knows you like I do.”

He loves to fuck with you just as much as you love to fuck with him, so, of course, this sends Sam into a full-body fit. He’s bent over the table wheezing for breath just a couple minutes later. You try to hold on to your shame, you really do, but he’s just too damn cute. Sam never laughs like this anymore.

You stuff your blazing hot face into his shoulder, pouting. “Are you happy, now that you’ve humiliated me?”

Sam slouches back in his chair, his whole face bright with humor. He’s so happy that he pulls you out of your chair and loops you into his lap, where you can feel every bit of his bassy laughter seeping through your back. A big, long arm seals around your waist and keeps you close to him, and while you’re distracted by his warmth and hands and cologne, he’s trapped you.

“I am,” Sam confesses, and it’s even more embarrassing how your whole body floods with butterflies. “Think you could keep reading these to me? I wanna hear them in your voice.”

Pfft. Okay. Whatever. With his stupid cute face. “Sam…” I warn.

“Authenticity! And hey,” he budges you, “I thought the birthday boy makes the decisions today?”

You make a face, just to remind him who he’s testing here. But he’s giving you the same pretty, boyish smile you wrote about in these letters a hundred times, the tension in his body gone, and the whole world is quiet just for the two of you. And yeah, it is his fucking birthday.

Sighing, you find the spot where Sam left off. He thanks you with some kisses to your shoulder that make you consider writing poetry about him all over again, and the two of you snuggle close.

“Sleep with both eyes open, Mandy Davis, you punk ass bitch. I know where you live!”

taglist: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon

#samweek2023 #sam winchester appreciation week #sam winchester week #sam winchester #uncouthspn #user uncouth #spn #supernatural #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader

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ohtobealady · 10 months ago

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Quiver

(Here is my belated contribution to the Cobert Winter Fanfic Exchange. Thank you to @bella-caecilia for organizing it. My prompts were Quiver and "I didn't mean it." I used the dialogue as inspiration. It works as a bit of a companion piece to Ch 4 of Le Langage des Fleurs. This is also posted on FF dot net.)

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She rubbed the lotion in, making small circles against the heel of her palm. Robert was talking behind her, by the bed, and she glanced up to him in the mirror and suppressed a small laugh. Oh, sometimes he wound himself up so tightly over the simplest things—cinema starlets not excluded.

“And did you see the layers of paint she was wearing?” he was saying, pulling back the bedsheets and agitatedly sliding in. “Like a piece in a gallery.”

Cora’s laugh came out in a huff. “Oh, Robert, don’t be unkind. I think she’s beautiful.” She stood from her chair, and was pleased she felt no lightheadedness. She smiled. “Besides, it must be quite invigorating to know of one’s own sex appeal.”

“Nonsense. No one can be that sure.”

She rolled her eyes as she also climbed into bed beside him, noting that she did so with ease. She wasn’t sure if it had been the small glass of wine, or the powder Baxter had given her before dinner, or perhaps if it was simply a trick of her mind, but the aching and fatigue that constantly plagued her was absent in this moment, and she would cherish it. She’d use it.

Robert was still going on and on—about what now, she didn’t follow—as he rolled to switch off his lamp. And then, just as he had rolled to his left, he rolled just as swiftly to his right to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss good night. A quick kiss. Right at the corner of her mouth.

And she melted at it.

Oh, she missed him. She yearned for him. And it wasn’t because they hadn’t lain together in weeks, six or even seven—far longer than a month. No. It wasn’t merely that. It was because who knew? Who knew how much longer she’d be able to love him in that way? How much longer would their lives be free of the shadow she knew was lurking just behind her? How much longer would she even exist?

Cora drew in a breath, and she let herself roll towards him.

Her lamplight allowed her to study him, all his curves and lines she’d studied so many nights before: his closed eyes, his lips he moved slightly as he yawned and pressed his mouth, his jaw and chin and his silver stubble. She began to work to commit it all to memory again—images she could have forever, moments she could keep. But then…but then, would that be so? She felt her throat tighten at the abrupt thought she’d spent so much time trying to keep at bay: Did the dead have memories?

Stillness, then. Gravity. Was this—Was this all she had left of him? Just these few precious moments?

This was it.

She lifted her chin to loosen the knot choking her. She tried to convince herself she wasn’t sure what her condition was, for she wasn’t. She knew well-enough her symptoms—the constant fatigue, the chest pains, the breathlessness and dizziness and dyspepsia…the sudden, drastic weight loss—could be true of any number of illnesses. Couldn’t they? No. Even her earnest persuasion to believe otherwise failed her. She was no fool. She knew she was ill. Very ill. And her husband did not.

She looked at him still. She watched the way his breath came in and out evenly beside her, unaware of her thoughts. He was unaware of so much, which was just as Cora wanted it. She wanted to treasure it all. She wanted to savor the beauty of what her life had been–her life with Robert. There were only a handful of hours of their life here before they left for France, and then their life would be different–irrevocably changed.

She’d tell him after Marseille. She’d have to.

She heard his small exhale of breath beside her, and she watched the way his chest rose and fell. It made her heart ache. So, much like a pilgrim paying homage, she touched at his shoulder. She touched at the collar of his pajama shirt. And when he didn’t move, she traced a soft fingertip along his throat.

No. She did not feel lust for him. She did not feel need as she sometimes did, warmth growing deep in her core. No, only yearning.

He hummed, and he opened his eyes.

She smiled back at him when he smiled coyly at her, for she was sure he knew what she meant. He understood the secret language they’d created between them in these three decades together. He understood what she meant by her small touches, and by the way she pushed herself ever closer to him. He watched her as she did so, and behind her ribs, her aching heart beat wildly.

Cora lifted her chin, and she kissed him. Her lips felt the stubble she’d adored, and she let her lips linger at his jaw. His hand, as it always did, went to her arm, and he tugged slightly. Just as he had understood her, she, too, understood him. Her own body flush with his, she slowly rose to rest her weight upon her elbow and she hovered very near his face; and she looked at him.

His tired expression was half-hidden in the shadow made by her head and hair, the lamplight glowing behind her. But tired as he was, he also looked happy. His mouth was relaxed, his lips were parted, and the knot that she’d loosened in her throat quickly tightened again.

He was beautiful. Every curve, every line…everything. And she loved him.

She loved him.

Her chest ached more acutely, and drawing in a deep breath, she pushed herself to him again, and she kissed his lips, feeling his fingers tighten further on her arm. Then, as he lifted his head more to meet hers, she felt him rush to deepen their kiss.

It surprised her, how eager he was, and she sighed in her throat before he broke away.

“You aren’t too tired?” he whispered, his voice low, and she shook her head.

“No.”

“Lie back.” He shifted himself, and Cora did as he asked of her, nestling herself down into the bedding as he moved to cover her.

“Are you certain–” Robert nodded at her voice, silencing her; he kissed her mouth and then cheek and then neck. “You needn’t take over completely,” she tried again, but this time Robert shook his head against her.

“It helps to begin this way.” His voice was in her ear as he kissed her jaw.

She nodded, knowing what he meant.

“Yes,” she amended. She nodded again. “I—“

But she stopped, her thoughts beginning to whir too quickly as he kissed her body. As he palmed her breasts. As his fingers touched and pressed in places that made her breath catch. Still, they whirred, but they weren’t of pleasure. They weren’t of him. They were of herself: Did he feel how much thinner she’d gotten? Did he feel, too, how swollen her tummy? Did he feel how unattractive she felt herself to be?

No. She reminded herself; no. She loved him. She felt well just now. She couldn’t squander it. She loved him.

She trembled as she fought against her compulsions–the part she played when they laid together. The other her, the woman six months ago, would reach between them and feel for him. She’d maneuver her fingers inside of his waistband and then around him, to where his aging body still hardened for her. And she would hear him exhale against her.

But she couldn’t seem to, and she hated herself for it.

Her hands went instead to his cheeks, the backs of her index and middle fingers stroking the stubble there. And then his hair, where she wove them into the soft, gently graying waves.

“Touch me,” he said against her ear, and her stomach flipped. “Darling.”

She closed her eyes, and she pushed a hand between them, but slowly. Slowly feeling the fabric of his nightshirt. Slowly feeling the drawstring of his waistband. Slowly feeling the soft, smooth skin of his body–and her lip quivered. Love. So much, so much, love.

“I did worry.” His voice was huskier, breathier, and Cora swam in the headiness of the moment.

She whispered, “Worry?” and kissed his jaw. His cheek.

He nodded, and she felt his small smile against her lips. “That I wouldn’t be up to snuff.” He kissed her, softly. Soundly. “That my age would be against us.”

“Oh, darling,” she sighed, and kissed him again, and again. “Our age,” she corrected him. And then, she pulled away, slightly, so that she could see him better. So she could see his eyes. And her voice wavered when she spoke. “We’ve grown old together.”

“Yes,” he laughed, appreciatively, and pressed his lips to hers. “And together we’ll grow older, still.”

It was a lie, her nod. “Yes.” Her eyes prickling with tears, her throat tightening, and her heart aching, she pushed the lie from her chest as her husband kissed her breasts through her gown. “And together we’ll grow older, still.”

#downton abbey #downton abbey fanfic #cobert #cobert drabbles #cobert winter fanfic exchange 2023

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historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year ago

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Can I get a 20- this is all your fault? I feel fruk in this but would love to see what delicious ideas you have for anyone!

I am so gone. I don't know if this makes sense, but I TRIED. It's been so long since I wrote fruk, and what comes out? fluffy banter-filled Proto-smut. Not full frontal but definitely making out and intent. Rated F for the French (European, affectionate). Warnings for smut, victorian britain fake-prudery, some light dicking about. On ao3 here.

1840s, England

Arthur awoke not to sound but to its absence. The wind seemed to be dying; it no longer howled down the chimney with the force it had when he'd dosed off. He curled into Francis' back for a moment but made himself rise. He got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, shoved his feet into his slippers, took up the lamp, and lit it with much swearing. Francis huffed into the pillow and rolled over, looking harassed.

"Rosbif–" He said his voice thickening with irritation. "It is too early!"

"How would you know? You laze about until noon," Arthur shot back. Lately, Francis had been in one of his hedonistic moods, dressing like a dandy, painting strange art and drinking absinthe at all hours. One had to drink quite a lot of absinthe and rather a lot more whiskey to tolerate the philosophy of the continent. Francis stirred again, and his helix curls shone in the lamplight. Francis looked rather a grumpy, flustered state, and Arthur softened just a bit. There was always something so very endearing about Francis when he wasn't terribly sleek and polished. He let the ghost of a laugh whisper out of his mouth as he swooped to kiss the man on his mussed hairline.

"Come back to bed," Francis muttered, leaning in, reaching out, eyes heavy and dark with want and sleep. A slow, sleepy shag before breakfast was clearly on his mind. Francis made one of a number of his French noises, this one horny and perhaps a bit cold.

"I'm only off to the loo," Arthur lied. He fully intended to start his day. Francis muttered something about how he didn't fancy freezing to death in frozen rainy little England alone. Arthur pecked the foolish fop again and shut the bed hangings behind him. The velvet still rustled as he stepped into the dark hall and began his day.

____________

Well after sunrise, François appeared for breakfast in only his shirt and kissed him. Arthur turned his chin away, intent on drinking his tea.

“The English!” He cried. “You are so cold!”

Lifting his class like a beer bottle, he swung it as if to toast the King's good health. “Hence the lovely tea."

François made his offended noises.

“The English, honestly, you'd leave your mothers to die for a cup of Earl Grey!”

"Oh, do turn down the histrionics,” Arthur sighed. “Sit down, you fool. Let me have my tea and wake up properly before you renew your assaults on the dignity of England,"

François snorted and sat down. "My dear, there's no dignity to assault."

François, never content to sit and eat with anything so lowly as propriety, brought his seat to the same side of the table. He slid his arm around Arthur, his hand pulling along his jacket seam. Mediterranean warmth followed, and Arthur shuddered as François drew his fingers down, trailing the buttons ensuring a snug fit at the back of his waistcoat, and found his way to a sensitive spot along his spine at the small of his back. Arthur put down the tea. He picked it back up, looked left to ensure none of the children or servants were about, and leaned his head in for a quick kiss. A morning peck, that was all. But François' other arm looped around him and kissed his mouth open, gently deepening and pushing.

“For heaven's sake,” Arthur gasped into his jaw. “The children are about to. Have that custard you insist on calling chocolate and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Then let's go somewhere more private,” François whispered, punctuating it with another kiss.

“Not now,” Arthur pulled away. “I’ve things to do.”

“Do it later.”

“I can do you later,”

“You can do me now. And later. The children will still be there tomorrow!"

“Francis,”

“Has Mother England grown soft with her brood?” François teased good-naturedly, reaching down where England was certainly not soft. “You are frumpy now."

“I am quite happy with my—”

“Three year old suit,”

“Its new,” And, ah, there was the indignation, the spike of prideful lust François had been waiting for.

“Perhaps in England,” François sighed.

"It's more than serviceable,”

“For tending to your overly full nursery, mayhap,”

"It's Saville Row, quite bespoke.”

“For playing cricket with toddlers, perhaps.”

"It is so unbecoming, I must–

"For Christ's sake, my best colour is green. If you aren't pleased with this—”

“It is so unbecoming I must take it off you.”

“Ah, well, in that case. I cannot permit myself to offend any further.”

He drew Arthur closer, his fists in his collar. They were then standing, moving, kissing against the wall, back against the panelling, hands scrambling for a grip on the buffet. Arthur gripped his hair; they pushed from the furniture and began the entwined waltz up the stairs back to the privacy of the bedroom. He was practically biting at Arthur’s jaw when he heard footsteps, tiny tapping ones, the click of a small child’s shoes, a gasp, more footsteps, and silence. How had they gotten upstairs? No matter. The bedroom door clicked behind them. They stood in a beam of light. Arthur’s eyes were lit. His finest features always looked elegant in green, especially green wool with warm brown threads woven into it. The smirking English bastard knew it, too, taking him by the jaw and kissing him again.

“What were you saying about my suit?”

“It’s horrendous, and it is entirely your own fault I must rip it from you.”

“Please do."

#fruk #freng #hws england #hws france #Arthur and Francois || our most dear enemy #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #the ask box || probis pateo #Francois || temperee par des chansons #Matthew || my country is winter #ive been drinking since like noon so it IS WHAT ITI S

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aneurinallday · 6 months ago

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The Grey Man

Chapter 12: Blue Eyes, Green Eyes

After the warmth and glow of Doctor Holford’s presence, Tommy’s room was cold and dark in comparison. He stripped naked, and washed the old-fashioned way with tapwater and a coarse cloth. Luxury was for his guest; he himself was accustomed to frugality and discomfort. Accustomed to solitude.

Not so long ago, he’d retreated into the hills in his black wagon, preferring to face his tuberculoma alone rather than allow his loved ones to watch him deteriorate. The isolation had been a welcome relief. After a lifetime of chaos and noise, he’d finally found peace and quiet. A blessed reprieve from the madness of being Thomas Shelby.

So why was the thought of sleeping alone tonight so unappealing? Why did he already miss Holford’s company - the sound of his voice, the scent of his hair, the accidental brushes which inevitably arose from sharing a bunk? Perhaps during the weeks they’d spent cooped up together in the wagon, he’d grown more attached than he realised.

He wasn’t planning on returning to Holford’s side. But as he readied for bed, he suddenly remembered that the doctor would need fresh clothes for the morning. Pulling his trousers back on, he grabbed a few items from his wardrobe - shirt, trousers, socks - and carried them across the landing.

The few metres separating his bedroom from the guest room felt suddenly long, as if the universe were giving him a chance to turn back; but the prospect of Holford drew him onwards.

“Fuck’s sake, Tom,” he muttered to himself, “Have you ever made a good decision?”

He did the courtesy of knocking before entering, just in case Holford was exposed. He opened the door to find Holford in soft lamplight, perched on the edge of the bed. Naked apart from a pair of white linen shorts. He was fresh out of the bath, towelling his hair dry. Revelling in the simple pleasure of being clean.

“Brought you a change of clothes,” said Tommy, dumping the pile of folded clothing on the dresser. “Can’t send you out there indecent, eh.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Mister Shelby, will you sit with me for a while? I thought we might talk.”

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Tommy sat down beside him. “This whole business is done. Soon you’ll go back to your home. Your routine. Your office. Your friends, if you can call them that.”

“They were never truly my friends. They were just…present. I just needed somebody. I had nobody else. Until now.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“But you are present.” Holford hesitated, then set his towel aside and turned to face Tommy. “Am I truly free to leave?” he asked.

“If you’re well enough to travel.”

“So I can walk out of that door any time I please?”

“If you choose to.”

“And if I choose to stay a little longer?”

“Why would you do that?” Tommy snorted. “You’ve no reason to stay.”

“Perhaps I feel safer here. With you.”

“With the man who held a gun to your head?”

“With the man who didn’t pull the trigger,” Holford corrected him. “And then saved my life, twice.”

“That means nothing. I was just…” Tommy hesitated, “I just didn’t want to see you die.”

“Are you glad that I’m alive?”

“Gladness isn’t a thing I’ve felt lately. But if I were to choose a word, I suppose that would be it.”

“Do you find me attractive?”

Tommy was genuinely taken aback by the forwardness of the question. Holford hadn’t seemed the type to make a direct advance.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Tommy, “It’ll spare you the awkwardness of retracting it.”

“I’ve no intention of retracting it,” said Holford. “Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Why? Are you offering?”

Holford smiled. He took Tommy’s hand and kissed it, just as he had while pleading for mercy - but now it was an act of affection, not supplication. Then he kissed Tommy’s mouth.

“Allow me to do this,” he murmured between kisses. “I’ve been lonely for a long time.”

“You’re married,” Tommy reminded him softly.

“A marriage of convenience, nothing more. I signed my name on a piece of paper, but we’ve never shared a bed in a meaningful sense. She knows about my men, and I know about hers. She wanted a comfortable lifestyle which a doctor’s income could provide, and I wanted…well, I wanted a wife. I thought the speculation might stop if I had a woman at my side.”

“And did it?”

“No. But let’s not talk about it. Besides, you’ve no grounds to take issue with my adultery. Didn’t you spend a night with Diana Mitford?”

“…Fair enough.” Tommy shed his trousers, slinging them aside.

There was no rush - Holford took his time. He started at the top, kissing his way along Tommy’s handsome jaw, then down his vulnerable throat, his neck, his shoulders.

“Wait,” Tommy stopped him. “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes. It’s alright,” the doctor whispered, and the assurance was all Tommy needed to surrender.

Tommy let his blue eyes close and his head fall back, exhaling - losing himself in the kisses, focusing all his attention on the little sensations, the impression of a man’s unfamiliar lips on his skin. It was different from Lizzie. Different from Grace. But that was alright.

“I’m a fool,” he sighed.

“We’re both fools.”

Holford kissed his collarbone, his tattooed chest, his belly - forging a trail of kisses that led ever down, further and further. Simultaneously, he eased himself backwards off the bed and onto his knees on the rug. The position was unkind to his aching joints, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the beat of Tommy’s pulse, the changing texture of Tommy’s skin as it began to prickle with goosebumps, the low sound of Tommy’s breathing as it quickened.

He rested his hands on Tommy’s thighs, and tenderly kissed the insides of them. And then his cock.

Reflexively, Tommy tensed, his fingers tightening to grip the blanket. He was half-expecting to feel teeth, but there was no bite, no pain - just the caress of Holford’s tongue as it traced a lazy design along his swelling shaft. Holford swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip, causing Tommy to curse.

Then he took it in his mouth.

Holford’s head began to move rhythmically - slow at first, then faster. A slight scrape of teeth elicited an involuntary groan from Tommy. Tommy opened his eyes, and the sight of Holford kneeling submissive at his feet - not for the first time - delivered a sudden thrill of exhilaration. A sense of power.

“Fuck,” he muttered through gritted teeth. The throbbing tightness of his cock was becoming unbearable.

Holford pushed his head forward, trying to draw in the full length, and almost choked as it hit the back of his throat. Tommy felt the delicate membranes of Holford’s throat tighten and spasm around his cock, delivering a jolt of ecstasy which elicited a wordless cry. He grabbed a fistful of Holford’s hair, fingers clenching with more force than he intended, and moaned. Both of them were struggling to breathe.

“Fuck,” Tommy repeated with a tone of wonder - but whether he was marvelling at his own foolishness or marvelling at the surrealness of being fellated by his traitorous doctor, he wasn’t sure.

With sudden boldness, Holford reached for Tommy’s testicles and began to massage them in his hand. Almost immediately, he choked on a gush of thick, viscous fluid which dribbled down his chin. He endeavoured to swallow it. A light squeeze of his fingers brought forth another spurt, then another, then another - each one smaller than the last - while Tommy cursed and swore above him. He continued to gulp and suck and rub until there was nothing left.

“Bastard,” Tommy grunted, and let go of Holford’s hair, indicating that he was done.

Holford released the cock from his mouth and sucked in a deep breath, wiping his mouth with one hand, while his other hand eked out the last few pale, translucent drops of ejaculate. He looked up at Tommy.

“You’ve twice been married,” Holford said, “And I hear you’ve had a lot of mistresses.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘a lot’.”

Holford started to straighten up, but then winced. He’d been kneeling for too long - pins and needles stung his lower legs as the blood began to circulate again. He leaned against Tommy’s leg for support, then laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and rested his head against it too. The simple joy of laughter, after several weeks of misery, made him chuckle more, like water starting to leak from a cracked dam.

He smiled up at Tommy rather sheepishly. It was a genuine smile, bright and surprisingly sweet.

“Have you had a man do that to you before?” he asked.

“That’s not your business.”

“But you don’t deny it,” Holford teased.

Tommy tutted. He put his hand on Holford’s head - gently this time - running his fingers through tousled curls. With his thumb he stroked Holford’s cheek.

“Don’t be fucking cheeky,” he warned, but it was a perfunctory warning, bereft of menace.

“Sorry.”

Still smiling, Holford ran his hand up Tommy’s calf - against the grain of the little hairs - until the hair ended at Tommy’s knee. He kissed Tommy’s smooth kneecap. Then the smile faded, and the light left his green eyes. Suddenly he looked tired and sad again.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. And Tommy knew he wasn’t just apologising for teasing him, but for everything. For all the unhappy circumstances that had led them to this moment.

“Get up,” said Tommy. The mood was gone - Holford had ruined it. “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Can I wash up first?”

“Fine.”

Holford kissed his knee again, and said so faintly it was almost inaudible: “Forgive me.”

Tommy said nothing. He hadn’t acknowledged the apology, but he hadn’t rejected it either.

He rose to his feet with some difficulty, and walked slowly to the en-suite, his eyes downcast. Tommy slumped back on the bed, and sighed. He heard running water, soft splashes as Holford washed his face and hands. He glanced over to see Holford standing in his underwear by the wash-basin, patting his face dry with a small towel. The doctor’s expression looked sad and subdued.

Tommy thought for a minute, then sat back up.

“Come here,” he said. “Come here. Sit down.”

Holford obeyed, and they sat side-by-side on the bed. Tommy gestured to Holford’s underwear.

“Take it off.”

“Why?” Holford hesitated, a little doubt entering his eyes.

“Because it’s your turn.”

“For what?”

“You gave me a diversion. I’ll give you the same.”

“…Oh.”

Holford wasn’t sure how to respond. The shadow of Mosley still hung over him.

His hand rose. He reached out hesitantly and touched Tommy’s face. The uncertain touch landed on the hinge of Tommy’s jaw, between his ear and his pulse. Realising he may have crossed a line, Holford quickly lowered his hand and averted his eyes. But Tommy caught his retreating hand, and pulled it firmly back to its position on his jaw. His other hand went to the doctor’s crotch, and gently massaged him through the warm cloth.

“Take it off,” he repeated, but it was a request, not a command.

After a pregnant pause, Holford made his decision. He slipped off his shorts and tossed them on the floor. Tommy shifted position so that he was sitting cross-legged. He placed his hands on the doctor’s hips, and turned him so that they were facing each other on the bed, naked. Holford’s eyes were filled with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

“Should I lie down?” he said.

“No. Face me,” Tommy said, and Holford obeyed.

Tommy’s blue eyes held no threat. He placed his hands on either side of the doctor’s head - dark curls, damp from the bath - and drew him closer. They kissed deeply.

With his right hand, Tommy began to excite him. He trailed his fingers up and down Holford’s cock, from the tip to the testicles and back again. Holford’s breath hitched; Tommy could sense his mounting anticipation. Keeping his grasp light, he began stroking up and down. Holford moaned into Tommy’s mouth.

Tommy broke off the kiss to glance down and check his own hardness. He was already erect again. Holford made a small noise of disappointment when the stroking stopped, but didn’t complain.

Tommy grasped Holford under the thighs and lifted him up a little, pulling him closer until he was straddling Tommy’s lap. Tommy guided himself inside. He entered as slowly as he could, giving Holford’s sensitive muscles time to adjust. The doctor winced and tensed, but then relaxed again.

Once Holford was comfortable, Tommy began to thrust - carefully at first, searching for a rhythm. He put his arms around the doctor to support him.

Face to face, and slightly above Tommy, Holford wasn’t sure where to look. It felt strange to be looking down at another man. Mosley had always bent him over and taken him roughly, not caring if it hurt - not caring about Holford himself, but about the thrill that came from taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. It was an act of dominance, not attraction.

But there was nothing domineering about Tommy’s touch. He held the power, yes, but Holford felt safe in his hands.

“Forget everything else,” Tommy murmured, “Think only of me. Of us.”

Holford rested his head on Tommy’s shoulder, and shut his eyes. Entrusting himself to him completely. Tommy met his trust with tenderness.

“Think only of us,” he repeated.

Holford let out a fervent whimper. His breath was warm puffs against the side of Tommy’s neck.

“Tommy,” he uttered, as if the name were a prayer.

Tommy adjusted his angle slightly. He found an area of smooth texture that felt different from the surrounding tissue. As soon as he hit it, Holford gasped and groaned. Now they were moving in unison. It wasn’t just Tommy any more - Holford was reciprocating. Keeping one hand on the doctor’s back to support him, Tommy moved his other hand downwards to Holford’s cock. He stroked vigorously.

Holford lifted his face off Tommy’s shoulder, leaving behind a small patch of dampness where his mouth had been. He struggled to speak.

“I can - I can - ”

Tommy knew what he was going to say. I can turn around for your convenience.

“No,” Tommy panted, “Face me. Face me. I want to see you.”

He hugged the doctor close, thrusting with increased urgency. Holford kissed him again - this time desperate kisses, frantic kisses. Tommy savoured them.

Holford shuddered, letting out a wordless cry, and Tommy felt a sudden wetness blossom between them. Within moments, his own climax followed. Holford was rapturous in his embrace.

Done, Tommy pulled out slowly. Holford collapsed back on the bed, breathing heavily. He was exhausted, but it was the glad exhaustion that followed a joyous exertion, not the aching fatigue of hardship. Tommy wiped himself clean with the towel, then lay down beside him. Through a euphoric daze, the doctor smiled at him.

“Thank you,” he said, and kissed him. For the first time in their entire acquaintance, he looked completely serene and unguarded.

“For what?”

“For everything. For letting me live. For giving me a chance. For the hot bath and the bed. For making me forget.”

Their breathing was returning to normal, their pulses slowing down, muscles relaxing. The kisses gradually ceased, until they lay together in satisfied repose. In a few hours, they would have to awaken and face the day, and the cold reality that came with it. But that didn’t matter yet.

“For a while, it was all gone,” Holford said. “Mosley. The lies. Your gun. All of it. All I could see was you. Your eyes. I felt as if you could see me too. I wish it could stay that way.”

“You’re tired. Sleep,” Tommy bade him.

“I’ve always liked your eyes,” Holford carried on. “From the first moment I saw you, I liked your eyes.”

“Sleep,” Tommy repeated.

Holford was struggling to keep his eyes open. Smiling, he let them close.

Too comfortable to move, Tommy lay and gazed at the doctor’s resting profile. Beautiful. Tommy reached out one hand, and with the back of his finger traced the elegant contour of his lips, his chin, the softness underneath.

“You were almost right,” Tommy said.

Holford made a questioning sound, only half-awake, already half-dreaming.

“I’m not sick with guilt. I’m at peace with who I used to be. So you were wrong about that. But I have been on a journey, and I can’t go back.”

Holford’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. He was fast asleep.

Tommy withdrew his hand, closed his eyes, and lay listening to the doctor’s steady breathing.

Peace at last, he thought to himself as he drifted to sleep, Peace at last.

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thewatercolours · 7 months ago

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King's Quest Fic: "Residue" (Path of Kingship, Pt 3)

Previous chapters here.

Graham woke in the night with a withering thirst in his throat. His aching body begged him to lie still, but demanded water at the same time. He stumbled out of bed, feeling odd in the mayor’s scratchy nightshirt, which was perhaps three times too large for him. His foot brushed the slippers that had been left for him on the rug. No, he could tiptoe more softly barefoot. He suspected he would die on the spot if he had to face anyone before he was out of this house. He turned about vaguely in the dark. Which way was the door, again? And what time was it? He ran a hand through his hair. It was still wet from a fierce but only half successful wash. Better, but still full of paint.

His fingers found the curly door handle, and crept into the hall.He congratulated himself on the lightness of his tread, considering the way every muscle was making itself known in the worst way. He stole down the staircase, using the same instincts he used to avoid the creaky spots in the lairs of bandits or monsters.

Surely the kitchen would be that way. It felt like ages since he’d slept in an ordinary house. Large and well-appointed as the mayor’s home was, it was no castle.

He rounded a corner, and paused. Lamplight played under the parlour door, and hushed voices carried to his ears. Maybe it wasn’t as late as he had assumed. He drew nearer, telling himself he only intended to pass by. The voice doing most of the talking sounded like Hector. Yammering on as usual, Graham thought dryly.

But just as he was about to turn into the next passage, he heard the second voice more clearly, tired and nasal. “It doesn’t matter. Once the pass is open, we’ll get him straight back to the castle, and I expect the king will delay the rest of the village visits till he’s recovered from his fall.” It was Number One.

Graham did not like to think of himself as an eavesdropper. But he had always been one, and there seemed little point turning over a new leaf here and now. He did not exactly put his ear to the door, but he did put his back up against the wall, and held still.

“Very wise,” said Hector. “Better cancel the next half a years’ worth of public appearances at least, if you ask me. Give it all a chance to blow over.”

Number One did not respond.

The mayor coughed. “I was meaning to ask. Exactly how old is the king?”

Graham’s cheeks and ears burned. He swallowed hard.

“Twenty-one,” said Number One distractedly.

“Really?” said Hector, and Graham winced at the surprise in his tone. “Dear me. He’s altogether a bit young for twenty-one, isn’t he?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t take me wrong,” Hector put in comfortably. “He’ll be all right in the long run, with a good dose of firmness. Youth, high spirits, perfectly natural. But the boy needs to be taken in hand. Immediately, I should think.”

It was Hector doing all the talking, but all Graham could imagine was Number One on the other side of the door, not even needing to speak or even nod. Agreeing loudly just by silence.

Graham seemed to hear Hector’s words slowly somehow, as though they caught in his ears and stayed there. “You know the sort of thing I mean. Squash his pride a bit. Rein him in, knock a bit of adult sense into him. Before he does something he can’t undo. He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

He couldn’t stomach more. Afterward, he didn’t remember choosing to leave. Only that he climbed the stairs in even more perfect silence. That he was shaky as he turned the key in the lock of his bedroom door, burning with shame and nearly choking as though something were stuck in his throat. He sat down on the floor in the dark and smacked his forehead with both palms, over and over. If he could have torn himself in half with his bare hands, he would have.

Why was this so much worse?

How long he sat there, raging in silence, he did not know. At last exhaustion forced him back to bed. He lay on top of the covers, since the night was as hot and humid as the awful day had been. He traced circles round his eyes with his fingertips, and worked to slow his breathing. The weight of the new reality seemed to press him deeper into the mattress: as king, he wasn’t even allowed the right to his own mistakes. Always someone else would carry the consequences and have to solve it all. And they’d be within their rights to hate him for it.

Sleep never came back for him. Calm did, eventually. He lay still until first light. Then he got up, pulled on the slippers, and faced the mirror on top of the bureau. He looked wan and tired, but he unclenched his jaw and plastered on his ordinary face. “You can’t be bitter about any of it,” he told himself sternly. “You just can’t. If you start collecting moments like last night, you won’t stop.”

He was still dreadfully thirsty.

—

“He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

More asleep than awake, Number One suddenly realized that the mayor was still talking to him. He tore his gaze from the popping of the foam head on his beer, and nodded at Hector. “Hm? What’s that you say?”

Hector took a long pull on his own drink, and settled back in his easy chair expansively. He smiled tipsily and wagged a smug finger. “That you’ve got to take the lad in hand at once, for all our sakes. Show him just where he stands.”

Number One stiffened. He set his beer down on the bookshelf, and fixed Hector with a level gaze.”You’re saying I should assert authority over him. Over the king of the land.”

Hector stifled a yawn and waved his hand abstractly. “I’m only saying he needs a little growing up. Nobody’s in a better position than you to make a proper man out of -”

“The Twelfth Edict of Daventry,” said Number One coolly, his stare unwavering. “The Treachery Act. In the case of usurpation of the ruler’s right of authority by action, compass, plan, or suggestion, treason is understood to -”

“Oh, bah!” Hector put aside his tankard as well. His smile stretched wider. But he tugged nervously at the cuffs of his housecoat.“Who’s talking treason?”

“You are.”

He faltered under the captain’s unrelenting gaze, casting his eyes down at the empty hearth. “As if I were talking about taking away his authority! You know I didn’t mean it in that sense.”

“No, I don’t.” Number One let the silence sit for a good long stretch, keeping his body language under control only by falling back on long years of training. When he spoke again, his voice was monotone. “And that’s the end of this conversation, I think.”

His eyes widened indignantly. “Upon my life,” he muttered. “Apparently nobody can say anything anymore.” Hector rose to his feet and took the drink in one hand and the lighted candle in the other.Number One stepped into his path, drew himself to full height, and raised his voice ever so slightly, feeling as though he would burst if he did not.

“Stars above, man, who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?”

Hector’s tone grew more defensive. “We’re officials. And I thought we could talk, as one official to another, about the very obvious -”

“Who do you think he is?” Number One cried sharply, gesturing in the direction he knew the staircase to stand.

Hector glanced about nervously. “Shh!” he said. “The household - the king -”

“Yes. The king,” said Number One more quietly but no less severely. “That man is your king. And a fine showing you made as his official today. You drag him out here to boast about the way you’ve been wasting royal funds on that ridiculous contraption you call a tollbooth. You make him pay to cross his own border -”

“It was a demonstration! That’s what you do at a state visit!” Hector sputtered, drawing himself up too, as though he had any hope of matching Number One’s height.

“Yes, a demonstration where nothing happens and nobody gets hurt when he pays you.”

Hector had the decency to blanch a little, and opened his mouth, but Number One was hardly finished.

“You force him to go up a slick, dangerous cliff. You let him fall right over the edge. Your idiotic “security features” nearly kill him a dozen times. Your paint machine makes him look like a fool in front of the people. You trap him here with no change of clothes, no servants, and a host who likes a little treason with his nightcap. Who exactly needs reining in?”

“But you and I both know the reality - that if the king hadn’t…” Hector trailed off, then muttered sulkily, “I don’t think he’d be best pleased to hear the way you’re bullying me, Captain. You know how much he needs Mannerly Stove and the road out.”

Number One let his voice drop low. “For your sake, that had better not have been a threat. But even if it were,” he barreled on, ignoring Hector’s attempted interruption, “I can assure you that if Mannerly Stove turned against us, we could we deal with you so quickly it would shock you. But more to the point. You know our king is the dragon-blinder. He is more than capable of tearing down a mountain to give us a new way in and out. Good night, Lord Mayor.”

He swept out of the room, leaving Hector opening and shutting his wide mouth.

—

Graham stayed in his room and took all his meals there the following day. The guards left him to himself for the most part, except for Number Four, who reported regularly on the road crew’s progress. The crew worked tirelessly while the sun shone to clear a narrow stretch of road on the Daventry side, broad enough for the royal carriage.

When nightfall arrived, Number Two knocked carefully on the king’s door.

Graham opened it slowly. “Yes?”

Number Two looked him up and down. They’d provided him with some young villager’s green linen shirt, with a black vest and simple trousers. His hair was still flecked with telltale colours, but he was smiling. A little too determinedly. He had prepared himself to speak with Graham whatever state he might be in - crushed, or haughty, or guarded. But he didn’t seem to be any of those. His face was open, his eyes frank. He smiled pleasantly when Number Two announced that the foreman had pronounced the way safe for the carriage to make the descent into the valley, and even cracked a pun or two about “rubble” and “trouble.” In fact, he seemed like his ordinary self, but almost studiedly so. As though he were testing every word and motion to see if they felt like him before he committed.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” Graham murmured, letting his gaze brush the carpet. “I was pretty stupid yesterday, and you guys had to do all the cleanup.”

“Eh, it wasn’t exactly our brightest day either,” said Number Two with a smile. But he couldn’t help adding, “You, um… you all right?”

“Oh. Yeah!” laughed Graham hurriedly. “I mean, I’m about five hundred bruises at once, but at least we got some rain overnight, right? Temperature was way better today. No, seriously, I really dropped the ball, but I’m good. I’m good. I’m good.”

They didn’t overcrowd the carriage tonight. Numbers Four and Five were to stay in Mannerly Stove to oversee the rest of the landslide recovery. Number Three took the reins this time, while Number Two climbed in next to Graham. Finally, Number One, who had hardly spoken a word all day, took his seat across from the king. Above, Number Three called, “Walk on,” to the snutes, and gave a tap of the reigns. Off they drove into the night.

“Do you wish to go straight to the castle, sire?” asked Number One, clipped and brief.

“Unless we have somewhere else to be?” Graham said, in such an ordinary voice it wasn’t ordinary at all.

“That’s as your majesty judges.”

“Oh. Then let’s go to the castle.”

“Just so, sire.”

Silence fell.

Number Two looked back and forth between the two of them, and back again. “Oh blimey,” he sighed, facepalming.

#Don't worry - it's not a miscommunication plot.#king's quest #king graham #fanfiction #my writing #path of kingship #(This fic was previously known as 'Paths')

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milkmynk · 1 year ago

Text

C279 of The Husky and his White Cat Shizun

(I'm pretty sure I posted this before?? Did Tumblr eat my post or is my memory failing me??)

>>> SPOILERS

In a hidden valley.

It was late at night, and fresh snow drifted down outside the hut.

These few days, Mo Ran’s wounds kept deteriorating. Even though Chu Wan Ning used the Flower Soul Sacrifice spell to heal him, there was little effect.

In the afternoon, he groggily woke once, but his consciousness was vague. His eyes barely open, he saw Chu Wan Ning and cried, he apologized, then begged him not to leave, his words were jumbled and nonsensical, and at the end he simply wept, unable to speak.

He kept dreaming, constantly travelling through those years of unease.

One moment, he thought he had just been picked up by Xue Zhengyong, the other, he thought he were during those five years he had lost Chu Wan Ning.

The only thing he couldn’t dream of, were those memories that the Eight-Suffering-Hatred Flower had stolen from him. He couldn’t dream of all his sacrifices, of all his efforts at protection, of all his innocence.

“Mo Ran……” Carrying a bowl of freshly cooked congee, Chu Wan Ning came to his bedside.

The congee was just barely edible, and was made with the culinary skill of his past life.

He sat by the bed, raised a hand, and stroked Mo Ran’s forehead.

It was extremely hot with fever.

He called him, but couldn’t awaken him no matter what. So Chu Wan Ning waited, waited until the congee slowly grew cool, then cold, he felt that this would not do and warmed the congee in a water bath.

He didn’t know when Mo Ran would wake, but if he did, he would immediately have something to eat.

“I made it with chicken stock, your favourite,” Chu Wan Ning spoke to him softly. The spells keeping Mo Ran’s heart beating had never stopped, but Mo Ran could not wake up.

If he could not wake up, that meant that the moment the spells stopped, perhaps he would never wake up.

It was impossible to save him.

But he couldn’t bear to give up, how could he bear to give up?

Mo Ran was still alive, he still drew breath no matter how weakly. These days, as Chu Wan Ning kept a constant vigil at his side, seeing that his chest still rose and fell, he felt that there was still hope, that there was still turning back.

It was still in time.

Chu Wan Ning even remembered, one night, Mo Ran groggily woke. At that time, there was no lamplight in the hut. Mo Ran stared dazedly at the lamp, his dried lips slightly moving.

He was very agitated and grabbed Mo Ran’s hand hurriedly, asking, “What are you trying to say?”

“...... Light……”

“What?”

“...... Light….. I want light……” Mo Ran gazed at the lamp that he was fated never to be able to light, and a tear fell, rolling down his face, “I want light…”

In that moment, it was like time had reversed.

It was as if they had gone back to that year, when Mo Ran had just come under his tutelage. Mo Ran fell ill, the skinny youth curled up on the bed dazedly.

When Chu Wan Ning visited him, he was sobbing quietly and calling for his mom.

Unsure of how to soothe him, Chu Wan Ning sat beside the youth’s bed, raised his hand hesitatingly, and stroked the youth’s forehead.

That skinny child began to cry, and said, “It’s dark…… It’s all dark…… Mom…… I want to go home……”

In the end, it was Chu Wan Ning who lit the lamp, the flickering fire casting light on the four walls, and on Chu Wan Ning’s face. As though he felt the warmth of the light, the feverish child opened a pair of black, damp eyes.

“Shizun……”

Chu Wan Ning made a sound of reply, and helped cover him with the blanket. His voice was low and sounded very gentle, “Mo Ran, the light is lit… Don’t be afraid.”

After so many years, a lone, small lamp was once again lit up, the warm yellow light spreading in the hut, driving away the endless darkness and chill.

Chu Wan Ning caressed his bangs, and called him hoarsely, “Mo Ran, the light is lit.”

He wanted to continue, don’t be afraid.

But his throat choked on a sob, and he couldn’t say it. Chu Wan Ning managed to hold his tears back, but he finally placed his forehead against Mo Ran’s, and begged in low, fragmented sobs, “...... The light is lit, wake up, please?”

“Answer me, please…...”

The lamp kept burning, the flame going from clear and bright, until the oil was exhausted.

Afterwards, the sky lit up, white light flooding in from the windows, but Mo Ran still did not open his eyes. Those times when that deeply sleeping youth could be awoken with a single lamp, were over.

There was no turning back.

Another three nights passed.

These days Chu Wan Ning kept vigil by his bedside everyday, caring for him, accompanying him, giving him spiritual energy, and also telling him about those things which he had slowly forgotten.

This evening, the snow had stopped and the sun was red outside their window, the remaining sunlight scattering over the land. A pair of squirrels bounded on a snow-laden branch as they passed, and a flurry of glittering white flew, then fell.

This light fell on the man lying on the bed, the evening light adding some color to his sickly white complexion. Under his thin eyelids, his eyes moved slightly-- Then, he gradually opened his eyes.

After several days of heavy illness, Mo Ran finally woke.

He opened his eyes, his gaze dazed and empty, until he saw Chu Wan Ning sprawled on the side of his bed in shallow, exhausted slumber.

Mo Ran whispered hoarsely, in a daze, “Shizun……”

He lay under the sheets, his consciousness slowly coming back to himself, slowly, he vaguely remembered while he was drifting in and out of sleep, those things Chu Wan Ning repeatedly told him about.

That cup of wine on Mid-Autumn’s, the crabapple handkerchief..…. And that year in the Red Lotus Pavilion, the Eight-Suffering-Hatred flower that he had chosen to take in his place.

Was it a dream?

Was it only that he yearned for salvation too much, that’s why he dreamt that Chu Wan Ning had told him those stories; was it only that he longed to turn back too much, that’s why he dreamt that Chu Wan Ning was willing to forgive him, was willing to give him forgiveness.

He slanted his face and reached out one hand, wanting to touch that man sleeping deeply by his pillow. But his fingertips had yet to touch him, before they retracted.

He was afraid that once he touched him, the dream would shatter.

He was still in the Tianyin Pavilion, he was still kneeling on the Stage of Guilt, below him were the masses of observers. He was kneeling alone in front of thousands, those people in the end turning to a sea of blurred faces in his eyes, turning into those vengeful souls that had died under his hand, laughing and screaming for his life.

Nobody wanted him, nobody saved him.

It was all his shamelessness, it was all his wild ambition, it was him going crazy, it was him hallucinating that Chu Wan Ning had come--- It was him, in the violent torture of having his heart dug out, he had hallucinated the last fire in the world.

It was all false.

There was never anyone who broke his chains, there was never anyone who embraced him, there was never anyone who rode the wind to him, there was never anyone who brought him home.

His eyelashes trembled, tears formed in his eyes. He stared at Chu Wan Ning’s sleeping face, he didn’t dare to blink, until his eyes finally blurred, until his tears finally fell.

Chu Wan Ning’s reflection shattered into a thousand million shining splinters, and he looked upon his good dream again.

The dream, was still there.

Mo Ran lay weakly on the bed, his eyelashes wet, his throat contracting, tears falling endlessly from the corners of his eyes…… His heart hurt greatly, the blood was oozing outwards without stopping. Afraid that he would wake Chu Wan Ning who had fallen asleep for a moment, he bit his lip as he wept soundlessly.

He had woken, but he knew his own body. He knew that this was only temporary, that it was just a final burst of life.

It was also the last mercy the heavens had given him.

He, Mo Wei Yu, had lived in anxiety for most of his life, had lived in insanity for a lifetime. His hands covered in blood, unable to escape from his reputation, only at the last was he finally convicted. Hence he felt very dazed, even a little uneasy.

He didn’t know whether this was fortune or misfortune.

It was misfortunate, that he had lived both his lives in absurdity.

It was fortunate, that the remainder of his days, could finally be spent in peace.

But how many days did he have left? One day? Two?

This was a peace he had exchanged for with his life.

--- Peaceful days, which he had never had before.

Eventually he heard Chu Wan Ning stir, and he hurriedly wiped his tears away, not wanting to let Shizun see that he was crying.

Mo Ran turned his head, watching the lashes of the person beside his bed quiver, watching those narrow eyes ease open, watching himself be reflected in those eyes.

Outside, the sky turned dark.

He heard Chu Wan Ning lightly call him in a slightly hoarse voice, “Mo…… Ran?”

That sound was low and gentle and slow, like a spring bud breaking through the soil, like the thawing of a frozen river, like tendrils of warm steam rising from a heated jar of wine, warming one’s heart. It was a heavenly music that he would never forget in this life. So Mo Ran was silent for a while, then he smiled.

“Shizun, I’ve woken.”

The night was clear, the life ahead was long.

That night, in the hidden valley, Mo Ran finally experienced the most carefree, most gentle time of both his lifetimes. He woke, and he could see the overjoyed surprise and sorrow in Chu Wan Ning’s eyes. He woke, lying on the bed, he let Chu Wan Ning do whatever he wanted, say whatever he wanted, he let Chu Wan Ning tell him about this and that incident and misunderstanding.

To him, it was not important.

He just wanted to hold on a little longer, just a little longer.

��Let me see your wound again.”

“Nah.” Mo Ran smiled as he held Chu Wan Ning’s hand, carrying it to his lips for a light kiss. “I’m fine now.”

After rejecting a few times, Chu Wan Ning gazed at him, then seemed to suddenly understand something, his face going pale little by little.

Mo Ran forced himself to stay at ease as he gently repeated, “I’m really fine now.”

Chu Wan Ning didn’t reply, after a while, he stood up and walked over to the stove. The firewood in it was gradually burning out, he turned his back to Mo Ran as he slowly agitated the wood.

The fire rose and the hut became warm again, but Chu Wan Ning didn’t turn his head back, using the poker to continue stirring the wood which no longer needed stirring.

“Congee……”

At last, his voice was hoarse as he said.

“I kept the congee warm for you, waiting for you to eat it after waking up.”

Mo Ran was silent for a moment before he lowered his eyelids and laughed. “...... I haven’t had Wan Ning’s congee in a long time, after you left in my last life, I’ve never had it again.”

“I didn’t make it well.” Chu Wan Ning said, “I’m still not good at it, probably…… It’s only barely palatable……” His voice trembled a little at the end, as though he could no longer continue talking.

He paused for a long while before slowly saying, “I’ll fill a bowl for you.”

Mo Ran replied, “...... Okay.”

It was very warm in the hut, as the night deepened, snow began drifting down.

Mo Ran carried his bowl of congee, carefully eating it. Every few mouthfuls, he would look at Chu Wan Ning, then lower his head to continue eating, then look back up at Chu Wan Ning.

Chu Wan Ning asked, “What’s wrong? Do you feel discomfort anywhere?”

“No,” Mo Ran replied quietly, “I just want to look at you more.”

“......” Chu Wan Ning didn’t say a word, and used his silver dagger to carve the fish roasting over the stove. The river fish was meltingly tender, but there were still spines in it, he removed all the spines and separated the snow-white fish meat meticulously.

In the past when he ate, Mo Ran always took care of him.

Now, the reverse was also true.

He handed the cut fish to Mo Ran, “Eat it while it’s hot.”

Mo Ran obediently ate it.

When this man was lying on the bed covered by the blanket, he did not seem so tall. The orange firelight illuminated his face, it was very youthful.

At this time, Chu Wan Ning suddenly realized. Truthfully, whether it was Taxian-jun, or Grandmaster Mo, they were both younger than himself by an entire decade.

Yet, they had endured so much hardship.

Mo Ran finished his congee, but picked up the plumpest piece of fish meat and was about to hand it to Chu Wan Ning, but stopped. “Shizun, what’s wrong?”

Chu Wan Ning lowered his head, the rim of his eyes slightly red. He steadied his emotions before unemotionally saying, “It’s nothing, it’s just a little cold.”

Afraid that if he sat here he would be less and less able to control himself, he got up. “I’m going to patrol the surroundings, after you finish eating, hurry and go rest. When your wounds are better, I will bring you back to the Peak of Life and Death.”

They both knew that this apparent recovery was nothing more than a temporary burst of life, that there weren’t many days left.

Yet, they spoke of tomorrow, of the future. As though they wanted to cram the next few decades into this one night, as though they wanted to spend all their future days in this one snowy night.

After Chu Wan Ning left, Mo Ran sat in front of the stove for a while before loosening his clothes and lowering his head to look at the ugly wound.

He sat there blankly for a while, emptily.

The snow outside fell more and more heavily, Mo Ran didn’t know when he would suddenly deteriorate, nor when his life would come to its end. He sprawled beside the bed and watched the snow drifting outside, the whistle of the wind in his ears, and suddenly felt like his life was like this harried wind, everything in his past flowing away.

Actually no matter whether it was his past life, or this life, there were always such intelligent people scheming and calculating.

Whether it was Shizun, or Shimei, one of them wanted to protect him, the other wanted to harm him, but they all had their own calculations. Even though through some twist in fate they may not have succeeded, but they all had their long-term schemes.

Mo Ran wasn’t like them, he was the sort of canine that was extremely stupid, and didn’t have any such roundabout thoughts. He didn’t know how to plan each step, or how to play a beautiful game of chess. He only knew how to steadfastly protect the one he loves, no matter whether he were grievously wounded to the bone, he would still obstinately stand in front of that person, and never leave.

Said in a nice way, this sort of person is brave.

Said in a bad way, this sort of person, is stupid.

This extremely stupid person lay by the window, his lashes quivering, and suddenly saw a familiar figure standing under a distant plum tree.

Chu Wan Ning didn’t go to patrol, this was only his excuse.

The snow was too heavy and he was standing too far away for Mo Ran to clearly see any emotion on his face, only his blurred silhouette. He stood under the blanket of falling snow, unmoving.

What was he thinking about?

Was he cold?

He……

“Shizun.”

Chu Wan Ning was in a daze when he turned his head back and saw, in the dark night, in the snow, that black-clothed youth wrapped in the blanket. He had, without him realizing, come up behind him.

Chu Wan Ning startled and immediately said, “Why are you out here? What did you come here for? Hurry up and---”

He hadn’t managed to say, “go back”, when a warmth enveloped him.

Mo Ran raised the blanket over them, darkness and warmth descended, and he enveloped Chu Wan Ning into the blanket.

The two of them stood under the old plum tree, standing inside that thick, disused blanket which smelled a little musty no matter how long it was sunned. No matter how heavy the snow was, or how the wind howled, it had nothing to do with them.

Mo Ran embraced him inside this warmth and pitch darkness. “Don’t think about it anymore, even though I don’t remember any of those things Shizun told me about, but……”

He paused, and kissed Chu Wan Ning’s forehead, then continued in a small voice, “But if I had to go back and go through it again, I would still have done the same.”

“......”

“Besides,” he felt for and caught Chu Wan Ning’s frozen hands in his own, “Shizun doesn’t have to feel bad. Actually, I feel that what Shimei said was correct, the Eight-Suffering-Hatred Flower merely amplified and realized those unspeakable thoughts and desires in my heart.”

Their fingers entwined.

Mo Ran touched his forehead to his. “I originally had a lot of hatred in my heart, it’s just that I didn’t vent them when I was young. Massacring the Rufeng Sect…… I did think of it. Conquering the world, I also thought of it. It’s pretty funny, when I was five or six and hiding inside a broken room, I did fantasize about one day being all-powerful. These are all my own desires, nobody forced them on me.”

He stroked Chu Wan Ning’s face. “So, if the one who had been parasitized at the time had been Shizun, perhaps you wouldn’t have become an evil tyrant like me. And you wouldn’t have been used, or tried by the Tianyin Pavilion.” He laughed, a nasal tone to it, and nuzzled his forehead against his comfortingly. “I didn’t substitute you, so don’t think about it anymore, come back to the house and sleep.”

The bed was very narrow, Mo Ran cradled him in his arms.

The moment that had to come would always come closer and closer, there was no escaping.

Mo Ran’s consciousness began to become blurred and scattered again, the twisting pain in his heart was greater than it had ever been before. This final burst of life would not last too long, when Mom died it was like this as well, he knew that he didn’t have much time left.

He lowered his thick lashes, the stove’s fire at this time had already dimmed. That hazy yellow light illuminated his youthful, handsome face, and made it seem extraordinarily gentle.

This stupid man, probably seeing the pain in Chu Wan Ning’s gaze, endured his own pain and asked with a smile, “Does it look good?”

Chu Wan Ning paused for a moment, as expected. “What?”

“The scar.” Mo Ran said, “A man should have a few scars, it’s more manly.”

Chu Wan Ning fell silent for a while, raised his hand, and slapped him neither lightly nor heavily. The slap was so light, it seemed more like a caress.

After a moment, he seemed to finally no longer be able to bear it, and buried himself in Mo Ran’s warm embrace. He didn’t make a sound, but his shoulders were trembling.

He knew.

Chu Wan Ning knew.

Mo Ran startled for a moment, embraced him, kissed his temple and hair.

“It’s so ugly, huh.” After going through crisis, he was far gentler than before, he lightly sighed. “It’s so ugly it made Wan Ning cry?”

If he had said Shizun, that would have still been alright.

With this ‘Wan Ning’, two lives crossed.

Chu Wan Ning hugged this man’s hot and alive body under the blanket--- He had always despised and been ashamed of expressing any of the strong emotions in his heart, but at this moment, he felt that all his tension and shame were so ridiculous, so absurd.

So in this close embrace, on this narrow bed, in this empty hut, on this long, snowy night.

Chu Wan Ning said softly, “How could it be ugly? Whether you have a scar, or whether you don’t, you’re still good-looking.”

Mo Ran startled.

He had never before heard Chu Wan Ning confess so directly.

Not even that day, when he confessed while riding on the flying sword.

There was only a little firelight left in the hut, it was very quiet, and very gentle.

A belated tranquility and gentleness.

[This is a play on Wan Ning’s name; Wan = late, Ning = tranquil]

“Whether it’s in the past life, or in this life, I like you, I am willing to be with you, even in the future.”

Mo Ran listened to him speak, sentence by sentence, he couldn’t see Chu Wan Ning’s face properly, but he could imagine Chu Wan Ning’s appearance right now.

Probably, his eyes were red, even his ear tips were red.

“In the past, I knew you were parasitized but I couldn’t show it, I could only hate you…… I can finally repay it to you.” Chu Wan Ning’s face were hot, the corners of his eyes damp, “I like you, I’m willing to marry you, I’m willing to split my soul for you, I’m willing to submit to you.”

When he heard “willing to submit to you”, Mo Ran’s heart seemed to be set aflame, his whole body trembled.

He was touched, and sorrowful, pained, and yet tender.

His voice was practically quivering, “Shizun…...”

Chu Wan Ning lifted his hand and stopped him. “Listen to me finish.”

But after waiting a long while, Chu Wan Ning was after all not good at saying sweet words. He thought of a lot, but none of them seemed appropriate, none of them seemed enough.

For a moment, Chu Wan Ning really wanted to say, “I’m sorry, I let you bear too much hardship.”

He also wanted to say, “In our past lives until I left, I couldn’t honestly tell you the truth, I mistook you.”

He also wanted to say, “That year in the Red Lotus Pavilion, thank you for being willing to protect me.”

He even wanted to throw away all his pride at this moment, he wanted to cry to Mo Ran, he wanted to hold this body which had yet to lose its warmth, and say, “Please don’t go, please don’t leave.”

But his throat constricted, his heart was filled with pain.

At last, Chu Wan Ning lowered his head and kissed Mo Ran’s wound. His lashes shivered, as he said.

“Mo Ran, no matter what happened in the past, or what will happen in the future, I will always be with you.”

Embarrassment permeated his entire body.

But his words were grave.

“For my whole life I will be Taxian-jun’s, as well as Grandmaster Mo’s.”

It was too hot.

Mo Ran only felt that this flame in his arms lit up again, in his eyes fireworks bloomed, all pain and sorrow seemed to fade away at this moment.

“Both lifetimes, belong to you.”

“No regret.”

Mo Ran slowly closed his wet eyes.

At the last, he kissed Chu Wan Ning’s lips, and sighed. “...... Shizun…… Thank you.”

The snow outside fell heavier and heavier, the night turned darker and darker.

They cradled each other in their arms, thinking, so, this is the remainder of life.

Mo Ran knew that his shirt was soaked with tears, but he didn’t say anything. He had wished from young that the remainder of his life would be filled with happiness, at this time, they should at least be happy.

He held Chu Wan Ning and said, “Sleep, Wan Ning. Sleep, I’ll hold you. You’re afraid of the cold, I’ll warm you.”

“When I’m well, we’ll go back to the Peak of Life and Death together, I want to seek forgiveness from my uncle and aunt, I want to squabble with Xue Meng again…… We still have many things to do……”

He stroked Chu Wan Ning’s hair, his voice was soft.

The copper-sweet taste of blood filled his mouth, and his breathing became more and more difficult.

But he was still smiling, his expression at this time was very tranquil. “Shizun, I will carry your umbrella for you for my whole life.”

In his arms, Chu Wan Ning wept soundlessly.

“Xia-shidi……” He teased him again, he obviously could barely speak anymore, but he still teased him, “Shi-ge...... will tell you a story…… I’ll tell you a story every night, from now on…… Don’t be disdainful that Shi-ge is clumsy with words and can only, tell the story of a cow eating grass……”

At the very, very last, Mo Ran lifted his eyelids, and looked at the thick snow piled on the window sill.

The land was covered in pure white.

“Wan Ning.” He embraced him, his heartbeat echoing in Chu Wan Ning’s ear, his voice quiet, “I will always love you.”

He slowly closed his eyes, his dimples were shallow.

His heartbeat slowed little by little, becoming more and more erratic.

Suddenly, a tree branch outside the window snapped from the weight of snow piled on it, making an abrupt disturbance. The snow and tree branch fell to the ground together with a loud noise.

After this disturbance, Chu Wan Ning, could no longer hear that heartbeat in his ear.

He waited for a bit, he waited for a moment, he waited for a while, he waited for a long time.

No more sound came.

No more sound…… There was nothing……

That was a terrifying silence that chilled one to the bone.

It was a terrifying silence that made one despair for his whole life.

Final.

Still.

Silence.

The room was filled with a deathly silence, so quiet it was frightening.

After very, very long, Chu Wan Ning still didn’t move. He still lay in Mo Ran’s embrace, still lay on the bed, he didn’t even get up or lift his head, nor did he speak.

His little disciple, his Mo-Shixiong, his Taxian-jun wanted him to sleep.

He said he would carry his umbrella for him for his whole life, tell him stories for his whole life, love him for the remainder of his life.

Mo Ran said, it’s cold outside, it’s snowing heavily.

I’ll warm you.

Chu Wan Ning curled in his arms, curled against that chest which had yet to lose its warmth, and stayed unmoving.

They had to set out on their journey home tomorrow.

He had to rest properly with Mo Ran.

Chu Wan Ning reached out his arm, and wrapped it around Mo Ran’s waist.

In the black night, he said, “Fine, I’ll listen to you and sleep. …… But, tomorrow, once I call you, you have to remember to wake up.”

He pressed against that chest which no longer rose and fell, his tears soaking and warming Mo Ran’s clothes.

“You’re not allowed to sleep in.”

Good night, Mo Ran.

This night is very long, but I’ll be with you, wishing you a good dream, with fire, with light.

And home.

#the husky and his white cat shizun #erha #2ha #spoilers #translation #C279

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v-thinks-on · 2 years ago

Text

The next day dawned grey and cold. I regret that it was on my account that Watson began to stir, peaceful repose giving way to tired groans. Even as his eyes fluttered open and his muscles stretched with renewed purpose, I was tempted to remain in bed with him; he was still warm from sleep, his cheek rough with the night’s shadow.

Instead, I encouraged him into awareness with a brief press of my lips and offered for his troubles, “What do you say to embarking upon a deeper investigation, as Inspector Lestrade was so kind as to extend us an invitation to accompany him?”

Watson sat upright with a yawn, his nightshirt hanging half-open over his chest to a most flattering effect. “You can hardly refuse such an invitation.”

“I am certain Inspector Lestrade would find his way to the truth eventually with his dogged perseverance, but if you are so inclined as to accompany me, we might be able to spare him some chasing down the wrong track.” I extended my hand to Watson in an invitation.

I did not miss the instant of hesitation before Watson took it and replied, “Certainly!” But his solid, warm grip and sincere enthusiasm, no less than my own, were enough to allay my doubts for a time.

We dressed quickly and went to meet the inspector. His investigation had led him from London to a small, ordinary house on the outskirts of town. The exterior was weathered and overgrown, in sore disrepair.

“What do you make of it, Watson?” I asked with an encouraging nudge of my shoulder against his. “Perhaps it would benefit from your fanciful eye.”

His answering glance was reproachful, but he said, “It must be long abandoned, and I confess it is difficult to imagine it was ever a welcoming home; it is so cold and spare.”

“Excellent! But what’s this?” I bent over to examine a faint impression in the wild grass. “It appears we are not the only visitors to this cold, lonesome abode.”

Watson pressed in close to peer over my shoulder. “But why should they come here, of all places?”

“We’ll find out why soon as we’ve caught him, what matters now is that we’re on his tail,” Inspector Lestrade said, leading the way to the door.

I righted myself and with a nod of assent from Watson, we followed the inspector inside.

The interior of the house was little more remarkable than the exterior, only dark and close with plumes of dust rising after our every step. We entered through a narrow passageway; Lestrade hurried through with hardly a glance to explore the rooms beyond, but I forestalled Watson with a hand upon his shoulder.

“We are not the first to come this way. Let us see where our predecessor leads,” I said.

We followed the faint impressions in the dust to a door off of the hall which bore evidence of having been recently opened. The handle was cold to the touch, and when I pulled it open with some force, chill, dank air came rushing out. Beyond was a staircase leading down into the cellar. Watson and I exchanged another glance and began our descent.

Just as we stepped inside and I took the lantern by the top stair to illuminate our way into the dark, the door slammed shut behind us.

“The handle won’t budge,” Watson said, his voice still close at hand.

I felt for a match in my pocket and used it to light the lantern.

“Shall we?” I said, motioning deeper into the cellar. “If Lestrade has not freed us by the time we have completed our investigation, then we can test our strength against the cellar door.”

“Of course,” Watson said. “I wonder what someone was doing down here.”

“That’s the question, my dear Watson.”

We descended the narrow, damp, stone stairs, and with each step a deeper chill filled the air, until we could see our breath like smoke by the lamplight. We both drew our overcoats tighter around us and huddled nearer against the cold.

The house upstairs was empty and largely unfurnished, but the thin beam of lamplight illuminated stone shelves built into the cellar walls scattered with old, dusty jars and bottles which remained as evidence of tenants long since departed. In the middle of the room was a table, bare except for a narrow triangle which reflected back the light with a sharp glare. It was a knife, its tip stained a rusty brown.

“Holmes,” Watson whispered, “is that blood?”

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #ACD Holmes #ACD Johnlock #H/W #John Watson #December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness #prompt: a cold knife #not as sure about today's but it's going somewhere

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moorishflower · 2 years ago

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but what if pirate/siren dreamling

(TW for gore and very brief cannibalism mention (is it truly cannibalism if it's your deep sea predator lover taking a friendly nibble of an organ you aren't using))

The problem with having a lover who has multiple arms, Hob muses, is that when one does something foolish, that means there are that many more limbs with which they can hit you. He thinks this as a tentacle pelts him on the top of the head, not hard enough to sting, but definitely enough to bring him to attention.

"Hold still," Dream says, quite casually, in Hob's opinion, considering the fact that he is currently two hands and one tentacle deep in Hob's entrails, and has been rooting around down there for some time, and shows no signs of stopping. Hob has, within the last ten minutes, taken to staring fixedly over Dream's shoulder at the map mounted on the wall of his cabin. Hic sunt monstra, it says, at the very edge of the ocean, and Hob feels a half-drunk laugh bubble up out of him. Christ, if only that mapmaker had known.

"You're lucky my spine's what got hit," he says, "else I'd be screaming and you'd have to knock me out," and Dream hums softly. His voice, even above the water, has a tonal quality that Hob always has trouble defining in any meaningful way. It's like the cry of gulls at twilight, just before they settle into the darkness; it's like the hum of whales moving below the surface of the sea, their huge backs breaking the surf in plumes of silver and grey; it's like the creak of the masts and the beat of the sails when the wind is high and the sky is so clear it feels as though the ship might leave the water entirely.

A siren, Hob had thought, when he'd first found the man washed up upon the strand. One of those beautiful creatures of the deep, what tempted Odysseus and drew men to their dooms upon the rocks.

He's rather certain no siren has ever been depicted with tentacles, though.

Blood slicks Dream's pale arms up to the elbow as he pushes aside loops and coils of Hob's intestines, glistening grey-pink and pulsing faintly in the lamplight. The blood will not stop -- it drenches the bed, despite the oilskin tarp they've laid down, and pours in steady rivulets down onto the planks of the deck. Lucky that the men he's picked to crew his ship all have strong stomachs, for he's sure that some of his blood is going to drip down into the mess, and he is already dreading having to explain himself come morning. It's common knowledge that Captain Robert Gadling cannot die -- he's favored by luck, they say, the Lady herself, he's made a deal with the devil, he's drunk from the pure blood of Christ and now death cannot touch him.

There's a kernel of truth in every rumor, he thinks, as Dream finally reaches where one of the bullets has lodged itself. He knows Dream has found it, because he hears the gentle hum become a clacking of teeth, a chitter of excitement.

"Have you got it, my love?" he asks, and thinks himself wildly magnanimous when he does not try to bite the slender night-blue tentacle that pats vaguely at his cheek.

"You are very complicated inside," Dream says. "More so than fish."

"I'd hope so. How many did that cunt actually fire, anyways?"

"I have found…" There's a distressing squelching noise, and then Dream's hands emerge, gore dripping from his fingers and wrists, but, triumphantly, bearing several blood-drenched bullets. "Three. Including the one. In your spine."

"I didn't even feel you pull it out," Hob says wonderingly. Dream casually drops the bullets to the deck, where they roll, and scatter in several directions, trailing blood according to the whims of the listing ship.

"You would not. Your spine, as you said. Was what got hit."

"Nothing some good rest won't fix. Can you, ah. Pile me back inside, darling?" He looks pointedly down at his belly, still a gaping wound from Dream's careful, knifelike talons.

Dream, ever helpful, but without much of a grasp on human anatomy, slops his intestines loosely back into place, and then sits for a while, the tentacles of his lower half writhing, snuffing along the blood-soaked floor like eager hounds. He tastes it through his skin, Hob thinks -- or something to that effect. He tastes it with his mouth, also, fastidiously cleaning the scarlet from his hands and forearms with a tongue as pink and soft as dawning, and if Hob hadn't spent the past half-hour steadily bleeding out, reviving, and then bleeding out again, he thinks he would find the sight almost unbearably arousing.

You're fucked in the head, he thinks to himself, though not without a certain amount of wry affection. 'Fucked in the head' is one way to describe the man who cheated Death at cards. He blesses every century that passes that she was a good sport about it.

"Am I to your satisfaction?" he asks, beginning to feel woozy, again, the lightheaded feeling of bloodloss so close to drunkenness that it seems an old and faithful friend. Dream pauses with his tongue still partly out, and Hob wishes he were able to move, that he could lean forward and take it into his mouth, and suck the taste of iron from it until all that's left beneath is the iodine tang of the sea.

"Always," Dream says, and lowers his arms, and slinks closer, his upper half as still and calm as a tidal pool, and everything below that a roil of constant movement. He shapes himself legs when he must walk among men, but here, in the relative privacy of Hob's cabin, he rarely bothers. Hob should find that less attractive than he does, perhaps. But he has already established that cheating Death has, in some ways, rendered him insane.

"Then can you please start stitching me up," he says sweetly, with just an edge of gritted teeth. "I'm about to go out again. Good time to practice your. Your." Hob feels his eyes cross. Can feel his heart stuttering.

"Your needlework," he manages to get out, just before his vision blacks, and the last thing he sees is Dream peering closely at him, concern in his eyes, the fractal flare of luminescence sparking across his cheeks in a mimicry of the night sky. Stars, Hob thinks. Death had told him he would sail the stars if he only wanted it for long enough, though she'd expressed her doubts that he would last that long. You'll be asking for me within the century, she'd said. No human is meant to live much longer than that. Your minds aren't wired for it.

Yet here he is. Three hundred years later, and no signs of stopping. Other than the blood loss, of course, but as he feels his heart give a final, thready thump he feels reassured in the knowledge that Dream has, in fact, been practicing his sewing, and has been getting fairly good at it when he helps to repair the sails, and he's probably not going to try and sneak a bite of any of Hob's organs, because he loves him, and you don't eat the ones you love. Probably.

(If he wakes up missing a small chunk of his liver, well. His spine is still broken, and everything below his breastbone is a fuzzing numbness, and it's not like the organ won't grow back, eventually. These are the things he tells Dream, anyways, when he comes to at last, and finds his belly stitched neatly closed, and his otherworldly lover rubbing his gore-sodden mouth against Hob's neck in fitful ecstasy.

"My love," Dream is murmuring, and Hob cannot help but pull him close, and let all the many arms and limbs wind around him, a sweet parody of drowning. "My love, my love, inside you taste of the sea.")

#dreamling #the sandman #fanfic #drabble #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream/hob #tw gore #tw cannibalism

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damiano-mylove · 3 years ago

Text

Movie Night

Pairing: Damiano David x fem!reader

Wc: 2.6k (sorry)

Cw(s): SMUT, bit of angst, swearing ofc, long for some reason, begging, not proof read

*Masterlist*

Work is a healthy habit to get into - to a certain extent. If you work to avoid your problems, that's not particularly one of the most healthy things to do. The only problem working can fix is if you're poor, but really minimum wage doesn't fix that either.

But your Damiano wasn't poor, he wasn't being paid minimum wage. You knew how much he loved working on music with his friends, but he was barely home and you missed him. Being without Damiano almost felt like being without your left arm - especially since it had been so abrupt, going from him spending a few hours writing, to spending almost a full day in the studio.

Tonight was supposed to be movie night. That Damiano had suggested. To make up for lost time.

So, you found yourself, alone, on your velvet red couch, watching Alice in Wonderland, with your cat on your lap. His purrs filled whatever wavelengths were left empty by the film, but you didn't mind that at all. Your fingers found their way into his incredibly soft fur, which felt like silk between those fingers of yours.

The clock soon struck midnight, and the film hit the end credits soon after. Damiano was still not home from the studio, which almost worried you. Almost. In the earlier days of him spending all of his time at Vic's for writing or in the studio, you had thought he'd run off with someone else. You woke up the next morning with him next to you, but that never really put that specific worry to rest.

"Romeo, Baby," you whispered to the silver tabby cat on your lap. He flicked his tail to let you know he heard you. "Dad's not home yet and I'm tired, we gotta go to bed. C'mon." Romeo only lifted his head to lay his grass green eyes on you once you stopped scratching his neck. You smiled to him, though his eyes didn't return it. "You've got half a minute before I move your furry tush."

To no one's surprise, Romeo took more than half a minute so you picked him up like a baby over your shoulder. Your palm cradled his soft feet. Like the lazy cat he was, Romeo fell back asleep on your shoulder on your short walk to your bedroom that you shared with the one and only, Damiano. He used to be a god to you, but now he was basically a roommate who you shared a kiss with every once in a while.

With Romeo asleep on the bed before you finished putting on pyjamas, you slunk off to brush your teeth. The door unlocked. Your heavy eyes cast unto the clock on the wall which read nearly half midnight.

Damiano came in like a whisper in the wind, save for the closet opening so he could deposit his coat. Shaking you head, you just finished brushing your teeth. Your mouth felt dry even though you'd just rinsed it with water.

"Cara mia," Damiano purred once his eyes caught your figure in the lamp light from the bedroom. You smiled at him and went into the bedroom to curl up with your cat and go to sleep. You had work in the morning and customers didn't appreciate workers who look like sleep-deprived zombies.

This was the first time in a long time that you didn't immediately greet him once he came through the door. So Damiano could sense a shift in the mood of the flat; really, he felt it as soon as he walked in and smelt chocolate and strong tea.

His footsteps never gave away where he was, but you could feel his presence enter the room. The bed dipped on the end just as Romeo curled further into you. When Damiano's hand held your ankle, Romeo let out a soft meow.

"What's wrong, Amore?"

"Did you forget or did you do it on purpose?" You immediately sat up as you asked the question. You were tired and to act like it was fine just wasn't in the cards tonight. Damiano's eyebrows drew together. You began to nod. "Movie night? You said you'd come home early to watch a film with us."

Damiano's face darkened in realization. You pursed your lip balm coated lips. Even Romeo could sense the tension and decided to stand up and sit square on your thighs, facing your boyfriend as if to protect you. Damiano looked to his hands which rested in his lap.

After a second, he said, "I-I thought that was tomorrow."

"Tonight was Tuesday night, now it's Wednesday morning," you muttered. Your fingers found the reassuring warmth of Romeo's fur once again and Romeo let out a rather sad sounding meow. "Oh, Romeo, don't worry. Dad just has to tell us he's sorry then we can sleep."

Both you and your cat looked to your boyfriend with tired but expectant eyes. Damiano's eyes never tore from his hands. Then it was like he was speaking to himself. "I was going to buy you flowers. And let you pick the film. And you were supposed to fall asleep on my shoulder, on the couch."

"It's okay, Dami, it's just a movie night," you told him. But your conscience caught you before you continued. Why the fuck were you reassuring him when he was the one who fucked up? Tell you that he'll be home in time for a sort of date night, then skip out. "We'll do it another night, it's all good."

"It's not all good, Y/n." One thing you could agree on tonight, though you'd never say that out loud. Finally, Damiano lifted his eyes from his soft hands. You noticed his eyes shimmer in the lamplight. "I really fucked up your night and for no good reason. I'm really sorry."

Leaning forward, you patted his arm. "Forgiven. We're adults and life gets in the way of romance."

"Not always, and not for us. I'm supposed to be the best boyfriend in the world but I've barely been a boyfriend to you at all lately, and I apologize." His words were stringing together faster in faster as he kept trying to keep his tears at bay. "It's just with the new album and everything, I'm finding out how shitty I am at balancing my life." Damiano came closer to you, holding your hand that once held his arm. "How can I make it up to you, Y/n? You're the love of my life and I don't want us to fizzle out."

For some reason, a little chuckle escaped your lips. His passion for you warmed your heart as you caught a glimpse of how you first had your heart captured by the man sitting before you. The light glittered in your eyes, for Damiano and Damiano alone. "We're not going to fizzle out over one missed movie night."

"Yes, but I've missed many of our nights, whether we made plans for them or not," Damiano rebutted. Your lips pressed together in a flat line. There was a certain ounce of truth to that statement. Damiano pressed a kiss to the back of your hand without maintaining eye contact. "Cara mia, nights are for the lovers, and I seem to have forgotten that."

His warm breath tickled the back of your hand just before his pressed more kisses to the back of your hand, then wrist, then fingers.

Sensing the warming room, Romeo left your lap. He threw you a final glance, seeming like he was making sure you didn't need him in the room to which you slightly nodded at the tabby. Romeo turned on his paws and left the room - leaving two starry-eyed partners who were still most ardently in love.

Without another word, you joined your lips with Damiano's. It had been a long while since a kiss such as this one had occurred. In the place of the usual passing kisses, this one made the love shared prominent. This kiss felt as if your Damiano was once again yours and totally yours; not as if he ever wasn't, but this was a much needed reminder of that.

Holding your face in his large hands, Damiano deepened the kiss by turning his head ever-so slightly. His tongue slid into your mouth with a passionate fervour. There was no battle for dominance, but a mutual exploration of each other's mouths.

Damiano tenderly laid you down against the pillows on your side of the bed, though his lips parted from yours which was an unhappy fate. "Do you want to go further, Cara mia? I know this doesn't equal forgiveness."

"I've never wanted anything more, Dami, my sweetest love," you promised him. Damiano smiled at your admission. He began to place gentle, loving kisses to your neck. "Only if you want to."

"Oh, trust me." Damiano nipped your collarbone, resulting in a yelp from you. You could feel his smirk against your warming skin. "I want to."

Damiano's bites roamed the skin of your chest that your tank top allowed, before you sat up to take it off. Your fingers found Damiano's soft hair as he left sloppy, wet kissed all over your now exposed chest. A bitten back moan escaped your mouth just as his tongue began to circle the tender skin of your nipple, making your back arch into the man above you.

This was an admission of your pleasure, so Damiano's mouth fully encircled your nipple as his hand that once caressed your hip, now cupped your other breast. His warm palm massaged you firmly, having Damiano's name fall from your lips. It had been a while since he'd touched you like this, with such care and attention. Every fiber of Damiano's being was now focused on making his love for you known.

When his warm mouth left your breast to be exposed to the chill of the room, his teeth grazed your sensitive nipple, having goosebumps multiply on your skin at a sky high rate. His mouth then was turned to your other breast as his other hand twisted and pinched the exposed nipple.

Your hands began trying to get his deep red shirt off, to bring his warmth to you. But before Damiano would let you have what you wanted most, he bit the sweet spot beneath your boob, no doubt leaving a mark that would be apparent the next day.

As Damiano leaned up to pull his shirt over his head, you nearly melted underneath him. His hair was already beginning to become delightfully fucked up and the look in his eye was absolutely dark. The look he gave you before joining your lips once again was full of love, accompanied by lust and desire. Damiano slid off his tight leather trousers while he was at it, allowing you to palm him through his briefs.

The kiss shared was now hungry and feverish. The nails of the unoccupied hand scratched down his back, resulting Damiano bucking his hips into your hand. You removed it, which finally gave you the glorious friction that you so completely craved. Damiano no doubt sensed this as he grabbed the back of your thigh as he continued to grind right into the thin layer that separated you both.

"Damiano, please," you nearly cried. The chuckle that came from Damiano was low and only made your panties become even more wet.

"Please what?"

"You know what I mean." He was killing you. Once the words left your lips, Damiano ground his hips into you again. "Fuck me. Fuck me, please. Please."

"See, was that so hard, Amore?" Damiano purred as he lowered the waistband of your pyjama bottoms. He threw them somewhere in the room before pressing his index finger against your clit. You tried to pull him in for a kiss, but Damiano resisted. "Ah, ah, I want to see just how much I effect you."

"You're the fucking-wow-devil himself."

Damiano's laugh bordered upon an evil one. "You love me."

"I love you, I love you so fucking much," you moaned. Damiano smiled as he lowered your grey panties. Those were discarded somewhere along with your pyjama bottoms, but you couldn't give half a fuck because Damiano's perfectly manicured finger found it's way inside of you. You bucked against his hand, making Damiano laugh.

His finger drew circles inside of you while his thumb still played with your clit. God, Damiano was so much better than your own fingers. Without a warning, another finger was added, making a sort of porn-esque moan leave you. Damiano groaned at the sound as well as the sight in front of him. Even his dreams of you weren't as good as this.

It wasn't as if he could help himself from leaning down once again and attaching his mouth to your erect nipple. Your eyes crossed at three parts of your body were on fire with immense pleasure. The flames of rapture enveloped most of your body, even your soul.

"I'm-m-m gonna cum," you cried out. Damiano smiled against your breast as his fingers began going faster. "No, no, let me cum on your cock." Damiano looked up at you with a bit of surprise. You'd never said something like that without prompt.

The needy look that painted your face was all Damiano had to see before he complied. His briefs were off in the blink of an eye and he began to pump himself just to prepare. Your legs were spread wide as you could already feel yourself drip onto the sheets below which made Damiano groan with barred teeth.

He lined himself up with your entrance and gave you one final questioning look. You nodded adamantly before he pushed himself through your folds.

Truly, you could feel your soul ascend as you remembered just how big he was. You big your lip so hard you nearly broke skin while Damiano hissed an intake of breath. He came down to your lips to taste your minty mouth just as his hips began rocking into you, first at a slow pace, then began to get closer.

Damiano's hips snapped into yours quickly, and the sound of smacking skin filled the room, along with the scent of sex and sweat. The combination of both of your moans filled each other's mouths. The bedroom was incredibly hot but somehow you were in a cold sweat, save for where your body joined with Damiano's in sweet harmony.

"Fuck, Y/n, you're so fucking tight," Damiano huffed. You clenched around his cock, only making Damiano cry out with pleasure. Your nails drew down his back, clinging him closer and closer to you with every thrust against your g-spot. Tears brimmed your eyes as a knot formed in the lower part of your stomach.

"Soon, I'm cumming soon."

"Cum on my cock, Baby, just like you want."

You could tell his thrusts were getting sloppy because he was closing in on his release as well. But you couldn't help but cum first as the knot suddenly exploded within you.

Your walls spasmed against Damiano as your release washed over you. Your legs tingled and your toes went a bit numb. Damiano then hit in you a few more times before his own seed seeped into you. It was warm and you felt incredibly full as Damiano stayed within you for an extra few seconds, before falling next to you.

"I know you said this wouldn't equal forgiveness but I'm feeling very forgiving," you sighed. Damiano chuckled and looked over at you. Your skin glowed in orgasmic radiance and your hair was completely fucked out. Damiano's heart swelled at the sight and he couldn't help but kiss you again.

He cleaned you both up after, with a warm wash cloth, and got you new pyjamas. Romeo reentered the room once the sex smell was gone and you were in Damiano's arms once again. Your cat curled between both of you in the dead of night, like the beginnings of a family.

Damiano came home Wednesday afternoon with a massive bouquet that must have cost a pretty pence, a box of Belgian chocolate and a bag of cat treats. It seemed a movie night was in order.

#damiano #damiano david #damiano x reader #damiano david fanfiction #damiano david x reader #damiano maneskin #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin #måneskin #smut #x reader

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lavendermin · 3 years ago

Text

if all stars fell at once (4) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3.1k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warnings | light smut, eventual smut

Routine.

Defined as habitual tasks you partake in on a regular basis. These monotonous daily routines are what provided a grasp of control amid the uncontrollable and brought you order in a time of uncertainty.

The dawn of a new day started with the bittersweet greeting of the mourning doves’ songs. It gently tugged your consciousness forward, your weary limbs stretching out beneath warm covers. Your eyes would peek open and be greeted by the same dull room, bed tucked in a far corner. The sheets over old furniture still haunted you, the house inherited by past ghosts of memories.

It was a husk you resided in, perhaps a tomb you inherited. And as with every morning, you push the thought away.

A quick wash-up and breakfast helps kickstart your day before you’re off to run any errands listed off in your mind already. Fresh morning dew still glistens on the grass when you leave.

Days where errands would carry you to the harbor would have their own side routine you knew fairly well. Checking Bubu Pharmacy for any medicine pickups for the village elders, a quick chat with Ganyu as you passed her during one of her duties, a passing stop to the markets by the docks for supplies, and the occasional prolonged stay for lunch per the invitation of Zhongli and his courteous acquaintance. Every week, just like clockwork.

The busy day would wind down near the docks, watching the waves as they crashed upon rocks and taking in the scent of the sea spray that swept by you with it’s breeze. If you closed your eyes, the sounds of the sea and bustling voices of the harbor would meld together into one— a comforting cacophony of background noise to keep you grounded before the harbor’s relentless energy swept you away.

The city was a little much for you. It made you miss the tranquility of the small place you resided in tucked far back in the village.

And so everyday your heels pointed back towards home, ending with a meal in between more work you buried yourself in until odd hours of the night.

This was the routine you came to know with seldom any out-of-the-ordinary variation.

And then, curiously, slowly, the yaksha you came to befriend incorporated himself into the routine— first embedded into your routines and soon enough ever-present in your heart. Perhaps you could say that he altered your habits for the better.

Nowadays, leaving the harbor after errands is pleasant. No longer does the road back to Qingce isolate you into your thoughts. The sun that casts mesmerizing hues upon the sky as it sets leaves a pleasant warmth on your face. You look forward to his name on your tongue.

‘Xiao.’

The summon rings out clearly amidst his tumultuous headspace, bringing brief peace with the familiarity of the voice. In an instant he’s at your side, the ominous mist that enveloped him subsiding. There's a wordless question in his eyes as he shyly laces his fingers with yours.

With a light squeeze of his hand, you reply, “Let’s go home.”

There’s a pleasant silence that accompanies these walks, his hand firmly holding yours as if you might slip through his grasp at any given moment. On occasion, he would ask how your day went just to hear your voice. Though he wasn’t fond of the crowded hustle and bustle of the harbor, hearing your little enthusiastic retelling was enough to leave him with vivid imagery. Your voice was his comfort.

Arriving home has also taken on a newfound normalcy. With Xiao around, the once-empty house you inherited no longer feels foreign. Finally, with sure conviction, you can say it feels like your own.

Shelves that were once scarce with items and decor were now neatly arranged with ornaments and small handcrafts that Xiao has given you. The bookshelf that was once littered with dust and cobwebs is now rich with rows of books of all sorts. Even tables and bedside stands that were once empty are now always adorned with flowers that you and Xiao pick while out stargazing. These items are glimpses into the new pastimes you treasure to make time for.

Today was one such day where the breeze was pleasant as the sun tucked away for the night. However instead of being outside, you chose to take up comfort reading indoors. There on a pile of blankets and pillows you sat comfortably, Xiao resting his head on your lap to intently listen to you read aloud.

The adeptus reminded you of a cat that’s getting comfortable with a stranger they keep meeting. The spots he chose to rest on were getting much closer in proximity, but never directly on you. That is, until you boldly asked if he would like to rest on your lap and he settled there gratefully with your permission.

You closed the book, running your hand through his hair to get the yaksha to open one eye. “Are you sure you want to hear me read this poem book again? I’m sure you know it by heart at this point,” you pointed out with a laugh. “Why don’t you choose a book this time?”

There was a moment of contemplation before Xiao relented and went to search through the many book spines readily available. A glistening stone caught his attention again—his hand visibly hesitating for a moment.

You leaned your body over a bit from your comfortable pillow haven, curious as to what book he would select. Part of you expected him to select a random one off the bookcase, and was surprised to have a quaint little red book placed in your hands.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… about this one,” Xiao started, his face neutral but betrayed by the twinge of pink that was hidden by the dimness of the lamplight.

“This is…?”

He shrugged. “The subject of this book— is this something you like?”

Confused, you opened the cover. Inscribed on the inside in unmistakable cursive was a message from a certain librarian— a friend. Your brows creased, mouth pressed in a thin line as your eyes skimmed over the note the particular librarian left. A subtle feeling of dread crept over you.

‘Hey cutie, sent you a few goodies that were offloaded from our catalogue this season. Thought you might enjoy this one to spice things up a bit. I know how curious you were about the forbidden section, so here’s a little glimpse for you.’

Oh no… You quickly skimmed through some pages of the book that felt hot in your grip. Or perhaps it was your entire body flushed with embarrassment at the lewd imagery the story portrayed

“I–I didn’t… I d–didn’t know Lisa sent this along with the other books. This book— I haven’t read before so… um…” You anxiously bit your lip, voice growing quieter the more you went on. “I–It was a gift. I didn’t know.”

Xiao hummed, hand grazing your reddened cheeks curiously as you fanned your face. There was practically steam rolling off you.

“So,” Xiao started cautiously, “The things the book spoke of— it’s not something you like?”

If you were red before, you couldn’t possibly imagine how you looked now.

“N–No! I mean— Yes. I mean—!” You fumbled over your words, flustered over such an erotic novel unknowingly being in your possession.

“So, it makes you… happy?”

“Xiao— Stop, please— I’m going to die of embarrassment,” you squeaked into your hands.

His persistent curiosity would be the death of you at this rate. You buried your face under a pillow, too overwhelmed by the suggestive images still swirling in your head.

A little dumbfounded by your reaction, Xiao could only watch your huddled form hide away as he awkwardly rubbed your back in an attempt at reassurance.

The adeptus finally gained a bit of your attention, quietly inquiring, “Do you not wish to talk about that type of subject?”

The grip on your pillow slowly eased up, partially uncovering your face to meet his gaze. There wasn’t an ounce of discomfort on his face, and it was reassuring save for the fact that you were the one needing to explain.

“It’s not… that I don’t want to. Intimacy like— that—“ You pointed accusingly at the book now in his hands. “Is something, uhm, highly emotional— in a good way! Ah, what am I saying… It’s an act of love and bonding with a significant other, so to speak. Usually. Ah— it’s a little complicated.”

As you fumbled with your train of thought, his hand slowly placed itself over yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. It drew your little state of panic to a close, feeling him press his lips to your forehead in a moment of soft distraction. It quickly brought a small thankful smile to your lips.

Kisses made you happy. This was a fact Xiao had learned.

“Let’s talk about it another time. Do not stress yourself over it.”

You nod timidly, choosing to hide your face in the crook of his neck. “...Okay.”

Xiao leaves not too long after, disappearing into the shadows to diligently tend to his duties. Sleep finds you quicker when he’s not around, though your mind is still tumultuous.

You had half a mind to go straight to Mondstadt and give Lisa a stern reprimand, not that she would care. If anything, it would fuel her amusement and her teasing would become more unbearable especially when your heart could barely handle Xiao boldly initiating displays of affection. That librarian was more perceptive than her languid facade let on.

For the time being you buried the cursed erotic book within cluttered closet boxes and called it a night.

Out of sight, out of mind.

—

A bead of sweat rolling down his temple caught a glimmer of the pale moon watching over him. Beasts that were affected by his karmic debt laid strewn across the battlefield. It weighed heavy on his mind, a distasteful reminder of increasing demonic activity with the Lantern Rite a few weeks away.

There was a light burning sensation that twinged Xiao’s calves and arms, and he rolled his shoulders to relieve his muscles from the fatigue of ceaseless combat. His tired muscles were just about ready to turn in for the night and make his way to Wangshu Inn.

But he paused. The voice tugged at his mind.

‘Xiao…’

There was no mistaking it. It was your voice.

The ache in his muscles was an issue for later. There was strain in your voice, evident discomfort. The reason was uncertain but as much as Xiao wanted to deny it, he was alarmed ever so slightly.

A blur of black mist was all it took and he was gone under the serene moonlight. When he found you, his guard was high with lingering confusion. An intruder was his first thought.

A quick walk around the house, footsteps lighter than the breeze that accompanied him. Nothing. No other presences detected either.

‘You called me, but why?’ Xiao questioned.

The bed gently dipped with quiet creaks where he sat next to you, brushing his thumb over your cheek. Your peaceful sleep was broken as your brows slightly furrowed, breathing slightly labored with small whimpers you let out.

“...X–Xiao,” you quietly whimpered amidst your sleep.

Ah, you had summoned him in your sleep then. How odd. It was a first, to say the least, but he couldn’t be upset with you.

‘Another nightmare…?’

Just how bad could a nightmare be that you would desperately call his name in your sleep, he wondered? But a promise was a promise. He was determined to rid you of your ailments if it was within his power.

The yaksha took in a deep breath, focusing himself fully before slowly exhaling a puff of dark mist. The aches in his body went ignored.

Dearest dream eater, won’t you save her?

—

The sound of his footsteps pacing a dark corridor— humid, stuffy as he pressed forward following the muffled sound of your voice. It’s something he will never forget though he feels he should.

To feel haunted by a dream’s fragments that refuse to vanish is something he should laugh at. It’s not real.

Then why?

Bits and pieces are burned into his memory. Perhaps in a torturously pleasant way he never really imagined. Blame it on him never finding someone he considered such private feelings with.

Xiao did not stay that night after consuming the dream, nor did he come back to check on you come morning as he usually did. On the tiled roof of Wangshu Inn he lays, brows furrowed and a strange warmth pooling throughout his lower torso.

The memory is unlike others that plague him, though it causes him inner turmoil with the increased bodily frustration.

Those eyes… haunt him. The smugness on the face that stared back at him then was enough to piss him off. The reasons festering in his tightened chest he couldn’t quite explain. The fragments would rewind and play, rewind and play, over and over since that night.

‘So,’ the familiar red stranger began with an amused smirk. ‘Looks like the yaksha really will answer any call of his name.’

They made it a point to maintain eye contact as they pressed their lips to your temple, arms holding your back flush against his chest.

Those piercing jade eyes— a mockingly similar exterior. It was like Xiao stared at a twisted reflection of himself conjured by your dream, the red accents in his hair and clothes a fiery scarlet akin to the bubbling anger he felt upon seeing the illusion lay its hands on you. The fact that they spoke in his same voice was enough to raise a rumbling growl within Xiao’s chest.

Quiet huffs left your parted lips as your chest heaved, a scarlet sash tied over your eyes like a blindfold.

‘Xiao, I–‘ Your body shivered at the feeling of his hands gliding over the inside of your thighs. It made you let out an involuntary whimper, cheeks aflame with arousal.

‘That’s enough,’ Xiao commanded the dream illusion of himself through gritted teeth.

The scarlet-hued Xiao shifted you in his lap, his lips set in a mocking smirk as his hand slipped between your legs to elicit sweet mewls from your parted lips. What Xiao wouldn’t give to conjure his spear then and there to wipe that irksome grin off his own face.

The illusion hummed, making it a point to place a kiss to the swell of your exposed chest. ‘Surely you don’t mean to ignore our person’s feelings? Or our own, for that matter. How crude of you, adeptus, to try and stop something she begged me for— something our body clearly begs for, as well.’

‘Quiet.’

The silence was deafening, though the illusion only seemed to stop momentarily out of amusement in seeing how long the real Xiao could uphold such a serious facade. Internally, he battles with two new emotions he hadn’t experienced before— jealousy and arousal. Somehow, because he could channel a warrior's rage through jealousy, the other warm feeling seemed to be drowned out. For now.

‘Silence me all you’d like. Deny your desires until you grow numb, for all I care. But for your human, these desires are your bond,’ the illusion persuaded, unbothered by the icy daggers Xiao glared through him. ‘Isn’t that right, my love?’

His fingers slowly working at the sweet, throbbing ache between your legs left you unable to form any coherent thoughts. Perhaps it was deliberate so your mind was elsewhere, drowning in a hazy pleasure. The gasps and mewls leaving your shaking body were slowly getting to the adeptus. Ironic, just how similar to that stupid book this was.

Xiao scoffed, and prepared himself to finish what he had sought out to do. ‘I don’t concern myself with desires. I’ve had enough of you.’

As Xiao unraveled and crumbled the dreamscape around him, the illusion remained smiling with sly intention.

‘Dishonesty will get you nowhere, Adeptus Xiao. She will be forced to forget this dream, but these feelings you both harbor cannot be erased so easily.’ The illusion lifted the ribbon from your eyes, leaving Xiao momentarily frozen.

Eyes are the windows to the soul, and what he saw in those misty eyes left his body aflame— confused. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he swallows thickly.

Once you get a taste, a dormant desire will begin to flourish.

The sly illusion holds their hand out invitingly, jade eyes unreadable as they scrutinize Xiao’s movements. It’s hesitant— the small step forward he takes.

‘What are you waiting for, adeptus?’

—

There’s a harsh gust of wind that blows through, the skies of Liyue harbor a dull grey with the rolling storm. The crashing sounds of waves upon the rocks below the docks resonate with your tempestuous heart. Weary eyes scan the horizon of the uneven sea, looking past the peaks of Guyun Stone Forest in the distance. You cling onto the hope of catching a glimpse of something— something to ease your worrisome heart.

“It’s been a few weeks,” you note quietly, the door of the balcony clicking shut as you walk back into the warm home office.

Yanfei answers without looking up, her hands still furiously scribbling on the parchments that have slowly accumulated into a towering pile. “He’s probably busy. With what exactly, I wouldn’t know— but I’m sure you have a better idea.” She sighs, regretting the coldness of her blunt tone. She adds in a softer tone, finally looking up, “Sorry, I’m not much help if it’s not consultation involving the law.”

The legal adviser can only watch helplessly as your eyes drift back to the window to gaze out beyond the sea’s horizon.

“He’s going to the Lantern Rite festivities with you, right?”

You turn back enough to meet her hopeful gaze with a sad smile. The silence is all the answer she needs.

“Was that a stupid question to ask?”

You shake your head, and turn your face back to the window so she can’t look further into the feelings you try to conceal.

The Lantern Rite was in a few days, and Xiao was nowhere to be seen. Though there've been occasions where you hardly saw him, this… this time was different. It was a feeling you couldn’t shake off and it filled you with uneasiness.

The thought of calling his name and receiving no answer terrified you. Doubt was quick to grip your mind in a vice.

“I think I’m the stupid one.”

#adeptus xiao #Xiao #xiao/reader #xiao x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin xiao #eventual smut #domestic fluff #fluff #xiao fluff #developing relationship #pwp #light smut #mii writes #fic: iasfao #yanfei

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years ago

Text

In the Lamplight (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

A/N: This has really no plot except I got upset because of what Arthur can say when he looks in a mirror and it makes me just wanna hug him and kiss the sad cowboah away. Also, I’m trying out Arthur calling his S/O pumpkin instead of the usual ‘darlin’. Here’s another Arthur Morgan fluff if you wanna take a look at it:)

Warnings: self image issues, Arthur having issues with himself as a person??? I don’t know the right way to word it, self conscious!Arthur Morgan, shy!Arthur Morgan I think?, sad but fluffy ending, very fluffy

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Arthur has issues with himself, but you do your best to make sure he knows just exactly why you love him.

**picture isn’t mine**

The light from the oil lamp flickered, casting ominous shadows across Arthur’s face.

He stood in front of the mirror in just a pair of jeans, studying his features with a scowl etched into his face. He was in the process of changing when he caught sight of himself on the reflective surface. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t look, but he couldn’t help it.

He could see more wrinkles by his eyes than he recalled from the last time he had looked into a mirror. For as long as he could remember, he had a few sunspots on his face. It came with years of working outside, of being out in the elements and exposed to the sun.

Scars littered nearly every inch of his skin. Some were big and nasty looking, while others were small and barely visible.

A hand on his side made him blink, pulling him from his trance-like state.

You were peaking around his shoulder, peering up at him with your brows knit together.

“Is everything okay?”

“Just fine, pumpkin.”

“Then why were you starin’ for so long?” You looked to the mirror, rubbing your hand up and down his side.

“Just cause.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why’d you get outta bed? Ya aren’t wearin’ any socks. Your feet are gonna get cold.”

“I called your name twice. You didn’t answer.” You kissed his bare shoulder. “Had me worried.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“M’thinkin’ about tomorrow, pumpkin. We gotta long trip ahead of us. Gotta make it to camp before sundown. Don’t wanna be travelin’ after nightfall.”

You nodded and moved to get into bed, pulling up your chemise so you could climb into the bed.

“How many scars you reckon I get a year?” Arthur asked, unbuckling his belt and shucking off his pants.

“Just depends on how many reckless and stupid decisions you make in a year.” You pulled the blankets up over your legs.

He barked out a laugh, but it was short lived.

You watched Arthur as he sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He let out a heavy breath, running a hand over his face.

“You ever…. You ever think ‘bout anyone else?”

You drew your brows together, tilting your head to the side.

“What kind of question is that, Arthur?”

He sat back, rubbing his thigh as he locked his jaw for a moment.

“At the saloon earlier…. That fella that was gettin’ chatty with you…. Who was he?”

You were quiet for a few moments, carefully reading Arthur’s body language. He was rigid and tense, and he sat on the opposite end of the bed from you. It was like he was trying to put space between you two.

You knew how insecure he was about himself, though he rarely vocalized it. He hated how he looked and he hated himself. It hurt you to know how poorly he felt about himself.

“A rancher. Didn’t catch his name.” You answered, glancing down at your hands. You brushed your fingers over the top quilt, tracing the stitching to keep your hand occupied.

The man he was talking about was some stranger who had tried to get friendly with you at the saloon in town earlier in the evening when you and Arthur stopped in for drinks. Arthur stepped out for a moment and when he returned, there was a man, maybe ten years younger than him, in his seat. You didn’t flirt with him and Arthur knew this, but the voice in his head had been getting louder and louder all evening, demanding that he address the situation.

“I wasn’t interested in findin’ out.”

“Why not?” Arthur didn’t look at you. He was too busy staring at the floor in front of him.

“That’s a silly question. Because I have you.”

He cleared his throat, shifting in his spot.

“Do I-I hold you back?”

“That’s another silly question. Where is this coming from?” You looked up at him.

“I’m just…. I don’t know. Just thinkin’.”

“Well you better stop all that thinkin’. It’s not doin’ you a lick of good. You don’t hold me back from anything, Arthur.”

He said nothing, keeping his eyes on the floorboards in front of him.

You wanted to lay down, to tell him that you both needed the sleep, but you knew he just needed time.

You stayed sitting against the headboard, eyes flickering around the room for a while. You didn’t want to fall asleep without him.

“Be honest with me, pumpkin.” He murmured quietly, his eyes still avoiding yours. He messed with his fingers now, picking at his nails. “Tell me something that you don’t like about me.”

“Arthur-,”

“Don’t go telling me that nonsense ‘bout how you like everything about me. That’s horseshit.” He cut you off, but he never raised his voice. “Be honest with me.”

“You want me to be honest?”

He nodded, eyes closing as if he was preparing himself to hear the worst.

You pushed the quilts off of yourself and shifted around to sit on your knees.

“Come here, Arthur.” You spoke his name softly, patting the space on the bed in front of you.

He hesitated, blue eyes flickering from your hands to the bed, then up to you.

He stood up and moved around the bed, coming to sit on the edge next to you. He was being stubborn and not facing you, so you climbed into his lap.

Instinctually, his hands came up to hold on to your backside.

You reached up to cup his jaw, fingertips brushing along his scruff. He leaned into your touch for just a moment. You wished he did it more often.

You let your index and middle finger create an imaginary line along his jaw to his chin. From there, you went down the front of his neck. Your eyes followed your touch, admiring every little scar that tried to hide beneath his growing beard.

He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your fingers. You smiled a little. His eyes fluttered shut.

“There is so much to you, Arthur Morgan.” You whispered. “So much to admire and to love about you.”

Your touch traveled down to his collarbone. You found a scar from a knife there. The skin was jagged and much more pale than the rest of him.

You recalled hearing about how it was from one of the O’Driscolls. He’d run out of bullets and ended up in a knife fight with another man. Lenny recalled there being three O’Driscolls in all, but Arthur never went into detail about it.

Arthur watched you, the way your eyes examined the scar carefully as if you’d never seen it before. He was just about to open up his mouth and ask you when you leaned forward to kiss it.

Goosebumps broke out across his skin and a wave of heat rushed through him.

He expected you to pull away, but you didn’t. You kissed the front of his neck and then nuzzled your nose against chin, gently coaxing him to tilt his head to the side.

He was a little confused, but he followed your silent instructions, bearing his neck to you. He felt exposed and naked, more so than he did when you two were intimate. You were kissing his neck. Your hand was creeping up his chest, your featherlike touch trailing up along the opposite side of his neck that you were kissing.

He let out a breathy gasp when your teeth scraped over his pulse. His hands tightened around his hips.

“Hell are you tryin’ to do to me, Y/N?” He rasped.

“Just lovin’ up on you.” You teased lightly, doing your best to hide the smile on your lips.

You pulled back, looking up at him. He held your gaze for maybe a split second before looking away. You caught his chin, holding him in your hands, and turned his head to you.

“My least favorite thing about you, Arthur Morgan, has got to be the way you think so poorly about yourself. How…. how you think that after all we’ve been through, I’d leave you.”

“‘Cause I know there’s men better suited for ya out there.” He mumbled, pulling your hand from his face. “I know I ain’t the greatest choice-,”

“You are for me, Arthur.” You cut him off. “You are the best choice for me.”

He shook his head, muttering a few incoherent words of disagreement under his breath.

“Arthur Morgan, you stubborn man.” You sighed. “What makes you think you aren’t the best man suited for me?”

“‘Cause I look like an old sack of shit, goin’ round stealin’ and killin’ and…. And you- You’re just…. You’re fucking…. Can’t even find the words to fit you, pumpkin.”

“I ain’t no show pony either, Arthur. I’ve done my fair share of sin. Shit, how the hell do you think me and Hosea met?”

He shook his head again.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” You leaned forward to kiss his chin. “Even if you have your doubts about us.”

“I don’t doubt us.” His hand slipped around to the small of your back. With ease, he pulled you closer to him. “If I doubted us, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“You doubt me. That I’m going to stay.”

“That’s ‘cause…. ‘Cause everyone always leaves eventually.” His eyes drifted down to your chest, finding a scar where your collarbones met. “No one ever stays. I always push ‘em away. Either with my overly charmin’ personality or the whole career criminal.” He tried to make a joke to lighten the mood but you didn’t laugh. Now wasn’t the time for jokes. “Just tryin’ to prepare myself for when you do leave, pumpkin.”

“The only way I am leavin’ you, Arthur Morgan, is when I die.” You took hold of his jaw with both hands, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet your eyes. “I’m here and I’m not goin’ nowhere.”

His blue eyes watched you carefully, gazing into your own as his hands on the small of your back tightened a little, drawing you closer.

“I happen to like your personality. You’re a kind man with a big heart, and a funny sense of humor that not everyone gets.” You leaned forward to kiss the space between his eyes. His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into you, resting his forehead against your chin. This made talking a little difficult, but you made it work. “And I’ve got a record as long as yours, Mr. Morgan. I don’t think I can use your criminal history against you. Actually, I think mine might be longer than yours….”

His broad shoulders trembled a little as he chuckled.

“I know you haven’t had good luck in the past, Arthur.” You gently pushed him away so that you could look at him. You wanted to be able to see his eyes. “And I know every time that Linton girl writes a letter to you, it reopens old wounds, but you are more than her. You are more than just the gang. You have a big heart. You’re a good man and she’s an absolute jackass for making you think otherwise.”

“But…. how do you know that?” He asked quietly.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, letting out a soft breath.

“Let’s get comfortable in bed.”

You climbed off of him and clambered across the bed to settle underneath the blankets. Arthur followed behind you, getting comfortable too. You scooted as close to him as possible, hooking your leg up over his hip and resting your head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around your back to hold you to him. You put your hand on his chest and began to trace shapes into his skin.

“You don’t kill for fun, Arthur. You try to save as many people as you can when we do jobs. You go out of your way to help others when we’re out. You remember that mom who lost her son outside of Strawberry? You helped lead the search and even after everyone gave up, you kept looking for him. And you were the one to bring him home. Or how about how when we pass someone on the street who needs money, you give them enough for food? Arthur, you would give the clothes off of your back to a complete stranger in a blizzard to keep them warm if they needed it.”

“I guess so.” He muttered.

“You’re a stubborn man, Arthur.” You kissed his chest. “I guess it’s a good thing I get to spend the rest of our lives reminding you why you’re a good man.”

“The rest of our lives?” He repeated, looking down at you with raised brows.

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.” He groaned, though you knew he was just teasing you.

“Don’t worry, cowboy. With our lifestyle, we never know how long it’ll be. That’s the thrill of it all.” You smiled a little and closed your eyes.

Silence fell between you two for a little bit and just as you were about to fall asleep, you felt Arthur kiss the top of your head.

“Good night, pumpkin.”

“Night, Arthur.”

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#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 fic #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #arthur morgan fluff #queenxxxsupreme #oneshot #rdr2 oneshot

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radiosandrecordings · 4 years ago

Note

i’m almost scared to ask this due to the angst potential but 22 with jm, please?

You blessed me with a Good Martin earlier, I’ll spare you from the angst storm (I have nooo ulterior motives here, me, who doesn’t like writing angst? None whatsoever)

Set in some nebulous no-powers au where they get to go home from a Normal Date. Thank you @horngryeyes for letting me just message him asking for Polish swears

22) Things you said after it was over

“I had a really nice time tonight.”

Martin smiled as Jon leaned closer into his side, joined hands between them stilling from their gentle swing, purely because they no longer had space to with Jon cosied up against him. “I’m glad, I had a wonderful time as well.”

The restaurant they had been to had been close to Martin’s apartment, and so they were currently on their way to the nearest tube station for Martin to see him off safely. They proceeded to walk in a comfortable silence for several minutes, the comforting presence of the other at their side driving off the chill of the early Spring evening.

It was only when they reached the entrance to the tube station and Martin’s eyes drifted to the screen displaying a digital clock did they realise something was wrong.

“Wait, what?” Jon vocalised his concern before Martin, a furrow forming on his brow. “That can’t be right.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glared at the lock screen. The harsh white light illuminated exactly the same numbers as those staring back down at them in green LED from the wall of the station. 1:06AM. Aka, past the time any of the trains were running in Jon’s direction home.

“How? I checked as we were paying, we were getting ready to leave the restaurant at 11:40, it can’t have taken us over an hour to walk here, it was barely a mile!”

“... Jon what day is it?”

“What?”

“Just, check for me?”

Jon hit the button again and his phone screen lit up. “Just turned over to the 28th. Is that anything?”

“Spring forward, fall back, kurde,” Martin muttered under his breath. “Of course. Just our luck. Clocks just went forward for British Summertime. So we essentially just lost an hour, and it’s now one as opposed to just gone twelve. So... No trains.”

“... No trains”

There was a silence for a moment, breath starting to cloud in front of them as they breathed in the cool night air, rapidly getting colder. The silence was broken by the sound of Jon typing, fingers quickly skimming over his phone as he began trying to search for alternatives. “Buses maybe? I think they’re still running but I’m not sure if there’s any going my route....”

Another few seconds passed of Jon hurriedly typing and Martin chewing his lip. Eventually, he managed to muster up the courage to speak, “I mean.. You could always come back to mine?”

And immediately, his mind was racing with all the different reasons for why he shouldn’t have said that. This was only their third official date, was that too soon to invite Jon back to his house? They weren’t even technically dating yet, there was still a certain degree of casual about their relationship, they weren’t actually boyfriends. God, what if Jon misunderstood what he was saying? They’d had that conversation even before they’d started seeing each other, one friend trusting another with an intimate detail of their life. Martin didn’t want Jon to think he’d forgotten, or worse, was disregarding it. And even past those two points, Jon was technically still his boss - Logically he knew if they were breaking any kind of office conduct they would have done so three dinners ago, but this felt different, to invite someone to your home felt far more vulnerable, and serious.

“Uh- That’s okay, Martin I wouldn’t want to impose...”

Martin isn’t quite sure where he got the courage to continue. Normally he’d take Jon’s response to heart, overthink it, and end up interpreting it as ‘I don’t want to do that and am trying to let you down easy’. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine he’d had at dinner, or some spirit of the moment daring, but whatever it is possessed him long enough for him to say “You wouldn’t be imposing. Actually, I would rather like you to be there?”

Jon looked slightly stunned for a moment, before Martin began to see a faint flush darken his cheeks. “Oh, uhm...” A spike of anxiety shot through Martin as Jon dipped his head to cough into his fist, but when he drew it away again he looked somewhat... Bashful? “Well, if... Yes, okay then. I would like to be there as well.”

“Good.”

There was another few beats of silence before both, tipsy on averagely-priced wine and drunk on nervous energy, lapsed into childish giggles. “Lead the way, Mr Blackwood,” Jon crooned, leaning into his arm again, and Martin knew he was joking, playful atmosphere being allowed to overtake the anxious one between them, but he rather liked the sound of that.

It was another ten minutes of walking further to get back to Martin’s flat, and Jon only managed to stumble over his own two feet once, which may have been partially due to his own three glasses of red setting in, or just the fact that it was rather awkward to walk when trying to merge with the coat of the man beside you.

“It’s uhm, sorry if it’s a little messy, I wasn’t expecting company, obviously,” Martin apologised as he fumbled with the key in the lock.

“’M sure it’s fine.” Jon’s speech was getting a little messier now, but really only to the degree that was notable by Standard Jon English. He wasn’t quite at the swaying on his feet stage yet, but he was blinking sleepily, a small, content smile playing gently at his lips.

As he stepped in the door, Martin shrugged his coat off and hung it by the door, gesturing an invitation for Jon to do the same, which he accepted. Martin took his hand again to lead him inside, but let go again soon enough to step into the small alcove of the kitchen to fetch two glasses and fill them at the sink. “I think we could both use these,” he said softly, handing one to Jon, who took it gratefully. They sipped their water in silence for a moment, enjoying the relative peace and warmth that being inside afforded them. They didn’t sit, both just leaned against the wall while Jon took in the contents of a bookshelf and Martin watched him do so, both with equal levels of intrigue.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the muffled sound of a yawn from Jon, who tried to cover it with one hand. “Right, maybe time for bed then?” Martin suggested, taking the glass from him and putting them both beside the sink to deal with tomorrow.

When he returned Jon was hovering around the couch, like he wanted to take a seat but was unsure how to go about doing so. “You okay?”

“Oh, uhm, yes, I just... You wouldn’t happen to have a spare blanket, would you?”

“What?”

“Sorry to be a bother I just- Never mind, it’s fine. Good night, Martin.”

“...What?”

“I- I’m sorry did I do something wrong?”

“No, just... C’mon, bedrooms this way.”

“Oh!” And there was that flush again, more visible under the lights of the flat than it had been under streetlamps.

“... Jon, did you think I was going to make you sleep on the sofa?” Martin felt his voice trail slightly upwards at the end, struck both by humour and concern.

“I didn’t want to presume!” Jon said, shaking his hands out. “Um... Okay then, lead the way.”

Martin smiled, before doing the mental math and squinting. “Two seconds?” He said, before quickly making his way into the bedroom and doing his best to make the room look as presentable as possible within a short amount of time. A minute or two later he opened the door again, and Jon made his way inside.

His room wasn’t anything special, just a standard bedroom in a low quality apartment, but the duvet and quilt had been straightened and clothes haphazardly strewn about the room had been banished into the laundry basket, and the lamp on his bedside table was casting a soft yellow glow about the room, making the room feel warm and cosy.

Jon just kind of stood there for a moment, like he was trying to figure out what to do next, before Martin realised what was wrong with the picture. “Oh, uhm, clothes, do you want to borrow a shirt or something?”

The words were out of Martin’s mouth before he could really think through the implications of them, practicality and comfort overriding the realisation that Jon borrowing his shirt would mean Jon, in his bed, wearing his clothes.

“That would be good, thank you.”

Martin attempted to keep his composure by going over to his drawers and rooting around for two shirts, one for himself and one for Jon. “I’d offer you bottoms too but I’m not really sure they’d fit, is that okay?” Martin said, turning to hand Jon a shirt. He wasn’t sure what Jon was comfortable with, where boundaries lay yet, he didn’t want to force Jon into something that overstepped.

“I think that should be fine,” Jon said, and Martin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Right, uh, do you want to take the bathroom and I’ll...?”

“Okay, sure, sure.”

Jon made his way through the other door in the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Martin was just finished changing into his own pyjamas when a knock came from the other side of the door, startling him slightly. “Oh, finished!”

The door opened, and Jon walked into the room. Now, Martin had known, theoretically, for the last three minutes that Jon had been gone that when he saw him again he would be standing in his bedroom wearing his shirt. But it was quite another thing to actually see it, soft golden lamplight reflecting against eyes that at this point were losing the fight to stay open, too-large shirt with a faded movie poster on it hanging loosely around his shoulders, panning down to boxers and bare feet on the wooden floor. Martin felt his breath catch in his throat slightly.

“Are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, fine. Do you, uhm, need anything?”

“No, no, I’m fine thank you, I think I’m just about ready to pass out if it’s all the same to you.”

“I can agree with that.”

Jon kept his eyes on the bed, watching until Martin had walked over to his chosen side and pulled the covers back before padding round to the opposite and climbing in beside him.

There were a few awkward moments where they both got comfortable. Martin hadn’t shared a bed with someone in quite a while, and it was an odd sensation to try and get used to again. “Pillows, do you- Is that enough?”

“Two is more than fine, thank you Martin,” Jon said, cleaning back against them.

“Right, well... Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.” Jon said, voice barely above a whisper now as his eyes drifted closed. Martin took that as a cue to turn the light off.

Martin had never been aware of how loud the analog clock hanging on his wall was until that moment, dull ticks making themselves thunderous in the silence between them. He must have counted to sixty several times over before Martin heard a rustling beside him, and felt the duvet twitch.

“Martin?” If Jon’s goodnight had been a whisper, this was barely audible, but as it was Martin was so aware of every footstep of his neighbours, creaking of pipes, or car going past outside, it sounded like it was said directly into his ear. Which, really, wasn’t that far off, considering how close Jon was, lying on the pillow next to him.

“Mmmh?”

“I.. Thank you, for today. For this.”

“You don’t have to thank me for a date, Jon, that’s... I mean, not that I’m not tempted to thank you in return but that’s not how that works.”

He rolled on to his side to face Jon, and was greeted by a face only a few inches away him his. “Oh. Hi.”

Jon smiled. “Hi.”

“Can I... Do you mind if...” Words failing him, Martin leaned forward. When Jon didn’t seem to retreat, he leaned further, until he was pressing a kiss to his brow. “Is... Is that okay?”

There was a low rumbling from Jon’s throat, vibrating across the pillow. “More than okay. Encouraged, even,” Jon said, and suddenly he was pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek in return. He searched under the duvet for a moment, before twining his fingers together with Martin’s, and proceeded to roll over to face away from him, dragging Martin’s arm with him until it was draped across him, gently cradling their bodies together. “Good night, Martin.”

Yeah. Yeah, it was a pretty good night.

#My Post #My Writing #I hate to say it but it's 2:15 if there's spelling errors that's tomorrow oran's problem #The Magnus Archives #Jonmartin #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #dudeiwannasleep

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kuroopaisen · 4 years ago

Text

tiny love || 9

➵ as tooru’s younger sister, falling in love with iwaizumi hajime was easy. iwaizumi ultimately decided to rebuff you. through a few strange twists of fate, you’ve ended up living with the very boy who’d broken your heart. but, perhaps it’s not as bad as you thought it’d be. he is the perfect gentleman, after all.

warnings: f!reader, angst, swearing, a touch of spice?

wc: 1.5k

m.list | ch. 8 ↞ ch. 9 ↠ ch. 10

There was a knock on your door.

“What?” You yelled. Maybe you were being dramatic. But you certainly felt like you had the right to be.

“Can I talk to you?”

You bit your cheek. You didn’t have the emotional fortitude to look him in the eyes. But…

“Fine,” you sighed. “But you have to stay out there.”

“Okay.” He didn’t hesitate.

You sat up, sitting cross-legged on your mattress. “What do you want?”

There was an uneasy silence – the kind that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“You said I broke your heart.” You barely heard him. His voice was so low, so uncertain.

You didn’t know how to read his tone. Surprise? Regret? Confusion?

No. Fuck his feelings. He hadn’t given a damn about yours.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“I—”

“What did you think would happen when you kissed me and then told me to pretend it never happened?” Your voice was barely below a yell.

They were words fuelled by rage. Maybe you’d regret them in the morning. But in that moment, you didn’t give a shit.

“You knew I had feelings for you and you just—you just—” Your breath caught in your throat, choking you. You wouldn’t cry. You couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Hajime,” you hissed, the words dripping with vitriol.

You hadn’t thought it through. It was just what you felt; raw, honest, angry. It was a revelation to yourself just as much as it might be to him.

“I know.”

There was no frustration in his words. Just pure, simple acceptance.

“I was stupid.” His voice was almost illegible through the door. You knew that tone. It was the one he adopted whenever he was being sincere – something he struggled with outside of the odd frustrated outburst. “I… I should’ve talked to you about it instead of just making a decision for you.”

“Exactly.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, drawing your knees up to your chest.

Everything was so muddled. You’d been wanting to hear those words – you deserved those words.

You’d never known how to ask for them. If it hadn’t been for the weird tension tonight, you might never have heard them.

But were they worth it?

“I shouldn’t have behaved like that,” he said. “That was a mistake.”

“Good,” you sniffed.

In all honesty, you’d expected him to bite back after your outburst. He’s fiery, a tempest that’s easily stoked. But his words were so calm, so full of awareness.

He’d been thinking about this for a while, hadn’t he?

The realisation gave you less satisfaction than you’d hoped.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said. He meant it. “If this… arrangement makes you uncomfortable, I’m happy to find somewhere else to live. And I’ll deal with finding you a new roommate.”

Your blood ran cold. What was he talking about?

How was that his solution to this problem?

“I… I’m angry with you,” you admitted. “But… but I don’t want to stop living with you.”

The weight of the contradiction burned through your skull. Honestly, you’d been angry with him for a while. The resentment had never really dissipated. Not as much as you’d believed it had.

But it was like he’d been trying to make up for everything since the beginning. Or, maybe he’s just a good guy. That in itself seemed like an apology.

God, why’d he have to go and be so likeable?

“Look, Hajime, I…” What did you even want to say? What could you say? “I… I… I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “Take your time.”

You sighed, stretching your legs out and flopping back on your mattress.

It felt like you were supposed to say something.

But there was too much to say. And yet, there was too little.

“If you want to talk, let me know,” Iwaizumi said after a long moment.

The sound of footsteps faded away, leaving you with an uncomfortable silence.

He was gone.

You bit your cheek, clenching your fists at your sides.

How could everything go to shit so quickly?

All he’d done was act a bit bratty. Well, ‘bratty’ was an understatement. He’d been acting like a little shit.

But had it really warranted your outburst?

If you asked Amaya, she’d say ‘yes, absolutely!’ She’d probably tell you that you’d gone soft on him. Maybe she was right.

But it felt like there was more nuance to it. Or, maybe you just wished that was the case.

He’d apologised.

He’d said he regretted treating you the way he had back then.

But he hadn’t said he regretted kissing you.

Albeit, maybe that wasn’t on his mind. But it felt like an important omission. He hadn’t said “I shouldn’t have done it,” or “I regret it.” The act itself wasn’t the problem.

It could be wishful thinking. You wanted him to not regret kissing you. Especially when the two of you were getting so close. Especially when you could feel your resolve to not fall into the same trap as two and a half years ago crumbling away.

And he’d been jealous. Of Kohei.

Jealous.

Did that mean…

You sat up, swinging your legs off the bed and planting your feet on the ground.

Your heart was thrumming in your chest, an insatiable, excited rhythm that you felt all through your body. It was like your brain was pulsing, a whirlwind of thoughts rushing through.

Were you sweating? Everything was so confusing, so real and yet so unbelievable, a cacophony of confusion and—

Your feet moved before you could register it.

There you were, standing in front of his room. What did you want to say? What did you want to do?

Your mind was blank. You were running on pure instinct and nothing else.

A knock on his door.

“Hey, Hajime?” You called.

“Hm?” His response didn’t give much away.

“Can I come in?”

A very long silence.

“Sure.”

Your hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment, nervous. For what, you weren’t sure.

You took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

He’s laid out on his bed in the lamplight, the warm glow cast flatteringly across his face.

You bit your lip, your mind racing with a myriad of jumbled thoughts that you were too tired to decipher.

“I… want to try something,” you swallowed, clenching your fists.

Iwaizumi frowned, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Deep breaths, you thought.

It was a stupid idea. A reckless one. But it’d buried itself deep, seeping into your bones.

You walked over to him slowly, each step its own ordeal. You stopped in front of him, an arm’s length away.

“You can say no,” you murmured.

Confusion rippled across Iwaizumi’s face as his eyebrows drew together.

His expression reflected exactly how you felt. But it was too late to back out now; that would only confuse things even more.

You cupped his face with trembling hands.

Iwaizumi’s eyes widened as he gazed up at you, the confusion crumbling away to reveal something else. Something vulnerable.

He didn’t move away. You lingered for what felt like an eternity, but he didn’t pull back, didn’t tell you to stop.

He didn’t say no.

You swallowed roughly, your heart beating so hard you felt like it might burst through your chest.

This was stupid. Unbelievably stupid.

But you leant forward.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And you kissed him.

It was gentle, even reserved. But it was a kiss.

Warm, soft, gentle. Those were the only words to describe it. Iwaizumi leant into it, sending a jolt through your body. It was more a question than a kiss; a challenge, even. Nothing else mattered. Just this moment. This gesture.

You drew back slowly, finally ending the kiss. Iwaizumi leant forward with you for a moment, as if he didn’t want it to end.

He was staring at you with half-lidded eyes, his cheeks flushed red. You bent down to his ear, letting your lips brush against the shell.

“Do you want to pretend that never happened?” You whispered, the heat emanating from him almost overwhelming.

A moment of excruciating silence.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you forward onto his lap. You buckled against him, grabbing his shoulders in an effort to stabilize yourself.

You blinked at him, your bravado dissipating as you realised just how close you were.

He was staring again, his eyes glinting with something close to hunger.

Was he waiting for permission? Rejection?

He plunged forward, capturing your lips in a rough, eager kiss. You gasped, digging your fingers into his shoulders. That was different.

“Fuck no,” he growled against your lips, his hands sliding from your hips to your back.

You sighed, leaning into him.

This was what you’d wanted all along. Being friends with him was fine. Nice, even.

But there was no way you and Iwaizumi could be ‘just friends’.

You wanted all of him.

And he was eager to give it to you.

✧ ✧ ✧

a/n: if i change my mind and delete this... you didn’t see anything

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime x you #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu x reader #tiny love

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