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ronearoundblindly · 2 years ago

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The Things We Do For Love

a Fools Rush In mini-tale for Valentine's Day

Steve Rogers x wife!LabLead!Reader (Sketch & Keeps❤️🤍💙)

Summary: An accident in the lab leaves you a bit less than desirable for a romantic evening.

Warnings for the teeniest, tiniest bit of language, but otherwise it's just hilarious fluff. This came from a prompt line of Valentine's Day starters and is my submission for @the-slumberparty's Blast From the Past Challenge!

Steve adjusted to enhanced senses fairly soon after the serum took hold. What took longer was recognizing where ‘regular human sense’ fell on his new scale of feeling, seeing, hearing, tasting, and smelling.

By all accounts, human or superhuman, Steve Rogers knows that scent—the one wafting from behind him as he cleans the stovetop—is foul before the door even opens.

The odor is so strong, so intensely pungent, that he has to squint in order to turn and look at you.

But there you are, standing on the front mat covered from head to toe in some sort of thick, putrid muck that lands somewhere on the color wheel as a tertiary combo of yellow and brown. No artist would use that…except maybe to represent such a horrible smell.

The shit—uh, right, the substance—is tough and rubbery, hiding huge swaths of you.

Steve not only covers his mouth, but he also pinches his nose closed in order to address the halted mess that you are right now.

“I have some questions,” he starts, swallowing to rid his mouth of the adjacent taste, “that I’m not going to ask. Except for the obvious are you okay?”

You sigh deeply. It’s clear you are nose blind due to the sheer amount of whatever it is on you. Steve almost wants to vomit in sympathy. He imagines most humans would have fainted by now.

“No,” you say, staring forward, “thanks for asking.”

You lift one foot up to see a thin line of gunk tracking in around your shoes.

“Damnit. Sketch, I need to get to the shower.” You look to him as if asking him to carry you the rest of the way.

“Will it wash off?!” Steve bursts, regretting releasing his nose the instant his hand swings out. “No, sorry, I just meant…no,” he tries again, firm, “use the guest bath. You’re not tarnishing our bathroom like that.”

He can’t make out your facial expression, so he steps around to get closer, god help him.

You nod which produces a kind of friction-squeaking sound. “It is water-soluble.”

Steve’s not encouraged and whispers, “is it feces?”

“Actually, it’s an experimental building material—” you toe off one shoe gently then use your heel to push away the other “—for one of the Union planets, but since it’s here on Earth and we have humidity, the rigidity isn’t the same. ‘Spose to be like concrete on their home world. Still pliable here which is good because—“ you walk on your socked feet, tiptoeing to the spare bath, Steve a respectable distance behind.

You don’t continue, instead struggling to pry off the now two-centimeter thick layer of the top over your torso.

“No, not those. Clothes are a total loss. Just get in and rinse. I’m taking them to the incinerator as soon as you’re presentable.”

He rushes to open the sliding door so you touch nothing on your way in.

“It’s not toxic, Steve. It’s meant to instantly make supported structures in the desert, but our new tech forgot about the expansion rate so—“

“Yeah, yeah, Keeps. Less talking, more washing.” He turns on the water. He imagines you can’t even feel the temperature through the layer.

“Don’t be an ass.”

He grimaces at the color thinning on its journey down the drain. “Don’t smell like one and we’ll talk.”

Your husband points to the back of the shower for you to drop your now malleable clothes and shoves the bar soap in your hands. For good measure, he drizzles liquid body wash down your back. He waits for most of the ick to rinse from your hair and face before helping scrub shampoo through. It’s…unclear if the smell is lingering on the clothes and tile only or if you still stink. “Uh god,” he coughs out, “should I get the vinegar? Would that do it?”

“Steve.”

At least he can see this very sour face you’re making.

“I’m serious. I won’t be able to sleep next to you like that.”

You simply turn the tap hotter. “You’re being a bit dramatic. Our dinner is at eight.”

He sputters. A tragic side effect of increasing the heat is that the smell now seems to bake into everything around you.

“Uh-uh. First things first. I get it if this is the field or out on a mission, but you are inside our home, and that is nasty. I’m getting the vinegar.”

He deliberately nudges the water to a cooler setting and points between his gaze and yours to communicate under no circumstances are you to think this is a relaxing affair. Cleaning your body is now your sole purpose in life as far as Steve is concerned. You just laugh, exasperated but understanding.

Anyone on this planet would agree you are currently rank.

Turns out vinegar doesn’t do shit for this aroma, but you get a text—that FRIDAY reads aloud because your phone sits in the lab on your desk where you left it—from Tony saying a paste of baking soda all over for ten minutes should do it. You remain soaking on the shower floor while Steve takes a bag of your clothes down to be burned and finds an outrageous amount of baking soda to smear all over your body.

Of course, since he has such an acute sense of smell, it’s not a ten minute process; it’s forty.

“Next you’re going to tell me that my eyeballs are too gross because I can’t put this nonsense on them.”

“I have eyedrops for that.”

“Steve!” You flick some of the white paste at your disheveled, focused husband who sincerely looks like he’s wondering where to drop you off in the woods instead of take to a nice dinner. “We have reservations in an hour. It’s time for me to start getting ready.”

“I love you. I love you so much, you know that. You will clear that whole place out if you go tonight.”

“It’s not funny, Sketch. It’s Valentine’s Day. You promised me that ridiculous golden dessert they serve,” you whine, flopping down on the tile.

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

You pout and huff. “Still you, spoil sport.”

He stands up straight, towering over your tiny tantrum, stretching a crick in his back from leaning over to help you for the better part of three hours now. “I will have them deliver whatever you want, honey, but trust me, I’m doing this out of love.”

“Prove it,” you say flatly.

Steve cocks his head, confused.

“If you truly love me,” you coo, “you’ll give me a kiss. Right now.”

Ah shit. He walked into that one. Maybe the stench has dipped below the human threshold, but Steve ‘Drug Dog’ Rogers still thinks you reek…in the most honest and loving way, of course.

He rests his hands on his hips, squelching the waterlogged shirt now covered in god-only-knows-what, looking off to the side and licking his lips in thought.

He has to. He’s a good man. You’re his wonderful, smart, sassy-ass wife. It’s no big deal. Then he sniffs on instinct as a reaction to weighing his options, and yuck, that is…not pleasant, sweetheart.

You open your arms to draw him in. “Lab experiment meet lab experiment,” you snort.

“I will get you two gold desserts,” he starts negotiating, and you drop your hands with a frown. “Everything on the menu.”

“Found your Achilles heel, Rogers?” You maneuver carefully to your feet, almost slipping at the last second.

He does jump closer to help, but he doesn’t quite make it there. Both of you know Steve’s actual reflexes could get him to you if he wanted.

“One kiss or I will cling to you until you have to wash it off you, too.”

He’s…not encouraged.

“Fine, Mister Positive Reinforcement,” you grit out. “Give me one sweet kiss and I will stay in here scrubbing until the food arrives. Deal?”

Steve sighs. The things he does for love…

Carefully, he steps forward and juts out his lips. He’s awkward, more awkward than those first dates you two went on, and it’s obvious he is holding his breath.

As you lean closer, he shuts his eyes, praying you understand that this is just one of those things that’s happened and caught him off-guard and is just…gross. It barely has anything to do with you. Of course, he’d love to take you out and shower you with love, affection, and praise, but right at this second, he’d love to just make you keep showering.

He feels awful about it. You smell so awful though.

Thank goodness your mouth was not covered in paste, and seeing as it was the first place you scraped away the original substance—that and your eyes,—your lips don’t hold any of the scent or taste of stuff.

Then your pasty hands clamp onto his cheeks and Steve moans, not in a good way.

When he pulls away quickly, you’re smiling, tracing the back of one hand down his forehead to pony-pet more residue over his face.

“My white knight,” you dub him.

Steve cracks, grinning from ear to ear.

“Keeps—” he lets your nickname rumble deep in his chest “—are you trying to get me to shower with you?”

“Oh, Captain,” you say, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling, “you’re losing your touch if it took you this long.”

For the water being lukewarm the whole time, it turns out to be a pretty hot shower. Good thing a super soldier can hold his breath extensively.

A long, long while later, sitting together on the floor in front of the couch with matching gilded donuts, Steve kisses your wet, peach-scented hair and smiles.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

You hum and turn to reveal gold leaf stuck across those plump lips he adores. “Happy Valentine’s Day, you big wuss.”

You get your good, proper, sweet kiss then, and the next day, the new guy gets put on active research probation.

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @claireelizabeth85 @patzammit @supraveng

So I also realized I've created a mess for myself with taglists. I used to only have Steve Rogers stories, and then I branched out. I don't actually know which people want to be tagged in everything, or just CE characters, or just Steve Rogers. IF YOU NOTICE A POST YOU WISHED TO BE TAGGED IN, PLEASE LET ME KNOW BY ASK OR REPLY! I'm working on it, I swear...

[Light Masterlist; Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #sketch & keeps #fools rush in #navy and roo's sleepover #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #captain america x you #captain america fluff #steve rogers fluff

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elch-im-ausland · 9 months ago

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well I feel bad for neglecting this account so I'm going to keep a little log of my trip to berlin just for fun

Saturday Feb. 17 2024

I wake up in Tübingen in Helia's dorm room because Fiona wanted the Deutsch Kompakt Kurs to hang out again at the end of the semester on Friday and Helia still had to return my book (Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata) to me and the party was in the common area of her building. So anyway I spent the night in her room since she has an extra mattress and when I woke up she made breakfast (hot milk and muesli... don't ask) and then I took the bus to the Tübingen Hauptbahnhof and from there I got to the Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof at 11:30 am. I should mention that I'm a chronic overpacker and my bag was so fucking heavy but I made it.

Then I went to Yorma's and bought a Butterbrezel (I wanted the thick one with the green onions but apparently I didn't order the right one so I got the tiny Brezel with a measly swipe of butter so that was fun) and also a mozzarella and tomato sandwich (also not the one I wanted and also all the lettuce fell to the bottom of the bag 🥲). But if you were me at a busy train station and there was a long line behind you, you would also just take what you were given without complaint. I also bought an apfelschorle and Haribo gummies cuz I like to get a little silly with it.

So anyway then I check my email and find out that my train to Berlin got switched so my seat got rebooked so instead of sitting in front of the luggage rack (to make sure no one stole my stuff) I sat in a normal seat like a normal person. Luckily though the guy from Mannheim who was supposed to sit next to me decided to sit somewhere else :D yay!

Train ride was about 5.5 hours long with stops in Mannheim and Frankfurt. Free WLAN and I got some solid knitting done. the sky was very pretty.

Arrive at 19 Uhr and the woman who is hosting me sends me very long directions on how to find her place. She is a friend of a friend of a friend of my parents. As it turns out. I get stopped by a guy doing a survey? I think? outside of the Berlin Hauptbahnhof but I slithered out of that interaction by answering all of his questions and being very unassertive.

I arrive at the apartment building my host lives in which is covered in very cool graffiti and is just so German idk, she rings me up and I get to discover just how many flights of stairs my poor body can handle. Remember how I overpacked? I do always regret it in the end, yet I never learn. The apartment is on the top floor and it's covered in very cool art and vintage posters and maps and things and full of very luscious plants it's so rad.

My host is really nice, she is also studying art (I think her Master's program?) and she invites me to this party she's going to tonight that's a 50th birthday party for a woman she knows. So I take a shower and go there and it's also on like the 5th floor (my asthma is loving this). There is music, live experimental jazz and EVERYONE is smoking inside and it is also decorated in a really cool cluttered artsy way. The music was really good, but there were a lot of people there and my german isn't exactly at the conversational level so I only stayed a couple hours until 1 am and then took the train back to the apartment because I was also really tired.

Overall it was a nice day, I wish I could have left for Berlin when my last class ended on the 14th so I could go to clubs but that can wait until next time and I was happy to see my Tübingen buddies again.

My room here is sort of small but there's a really cool lamp and the window looks out onto the courtyard of the apartment building which is very sexy.

#germany #study abroad #travel abroad #berlin

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brytnoter · 2 years ago

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Introduction to "An Illustrated Life", a book by Danny Gregory

(2000 words)

I know I can't exactly show you the book full of several people's lovely drawings but I can type out the introduction, which activated something new in my brain and changed the way I look at sketchbooks and drawing in general…

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I have been looking for this book since I was a boy drawing at the kitchen table. I’ve looked for it in dusty secondhand bookshops, in the art sections of libraries, in online bookstores and in auction houses. Because I never found it, I had to put it together myself - a book full of sketchbooks and illustrated journals from all sorts of people who love nothing better than to hunch over a little book and fill its pages with lines and colors.

That seems fitting somehow, making a book about books people have made - books that were generally not intended to be shared at all, and certainly not to be seen by strangers in large numbers. The pages of this book are filled with doorways to pirate worlds, drawn and written to record impressions, to work without judgment, to take risks and chart new directions.

It’s that intimacy and unguarded freedom that makes these books my favorite art form. It’s the closest one can get to being inside an artist’s head, to feeling the raw creativity flow: a book bulging with drawings and scrawled captions, some pages experimental, come pages carefully observed. The pages are buckled from layers of watercolor. The margins are filled with shopping lists and phone numbers. The cover is battered from traveling about, stuffed in a bag or pocket and yanked out in the rain or thrown down in the grass.

This is not an art form that can be displayed easily in a gallery or museum, and throngs of viewers can’t flock around it hanging in a golden frame. No, this is an art form that must be experienced as it was created, one on one, just as you are doing now, your head bent over the pages, absorbing each sketch and note, then turning to the next. With each turn, a fresh surprise, a new juxtaposition. The pages unfold like a story, a journey, a life. Each of the books is a slender slice of a life, a slice that could be weeks long or months or years, depending on the habits of the artists and the thickness of the volume. As you turn the pages, you feel the time pass. You see moments being recorded in sequence. You see ideas unfold and deepen. You see risks, mistakes, regrets, thoughts, lessons, dreams, all set down in ink for posterity, for an audience of one.

In each book, the form is the same - pages set between two covers - but the approach is as varied as the lives the pages record. Some journal keepers are methodical, bound by self-imposed rules that instill regularity and consistency in the drawings. Others are wildly improvisational, radically changing style, medium and subject - the pages almost unrecognisably from a single hand.

Some of these books are unromantically utilitarian, rough sketches for professional tasks, but they too demonstrate the gestation of ideas being hatched and fed. We see the first inklings of several stages as a notion blossoms. There are pages that feel like scrapbooks, filled with a collage of scribbles on napkins, yellow legal pads and post-it notes - repositories rather than true journals.

There are books that were filled like crossword puzzles, doodles and sketches to pass the time while waiting for a load of laundry or the express train. But as you page through dozens of random sketchy portraits of commuters or empty streets, you feel the accumulation of time, the flaky layers of pastry that make up the years of a person’s life, enriched by living in the moment instead of doing sudoku, contemplating the world as it passes - even if it is serving up just a glimpse of a Kmart parking lot or a slumbering night-shift worker.

Then there are books that are achingly intimate, full of worries and ambitions, and you wince at what the artist must feel to share them with the world. You can feel the anxieties spilling out or the disappointments being massaged with layers of ink. These artists chart their obsessions with death, or failure, or sex, or food, or the simple visceral pleasure of hypnotic cross-hatching. Their sketchbooks are their therapists, their sidekicks, their crying towel.

There are some people in this book who are secure in their roles as artists, who sell their work to put food on the table. There are others who do not equate their art with work, who do it solely for their own pleasure, who would never rip a page from their book even to put it on the block at Sotheby’s. Some of the contributors to his book are famous for their art, and consider their sketchbooks to be important chronicles of their work, if not their work itself, while others dismiss them as very raw materials for projects that are infinitely more polished and considered.

There are people in this book whose lives have been transformed by the simple act of drawing their breakfast in a book, who have seen their world for the first time by sketching it on the page. Many of them did not grow up with any understanding of their artistic potential, were flummoxed by the system of art education, and late in life taught themselves, slowly, to make their hands draw what their eyes could see. These pages contain the works of prodigies, self-flagellators, millionaires, paupers, professionals and novices. But they are all following the same path, working toward the back cover one page at a time.

I began drawing, and drawing in a book, at one and the same time, when I was in my mid-thirties and convinced I could neither draw nor make books. Ten years and some sixty volumes later, I know I can do both. My art rarely steps out from between the pages of my sketchbooks. I don’t paint or draw for exhibition or commission. I just draw the things around me that count. It may be my toothbrush, my dogs asleep in the sunshine or the corner Korean deli. Mundane stuff that I used to pass blithely by every day until I stopped to notice what my life was made up of, the blessings I need to count to give myself meaning.

I have drawn in many types of books. I began, as most do, with those black, covered sketchbooks with the lousy paper. Then I moved onto spiral-bound, watercolor pads. Eventually, frustrated by my options at the stationer and art supply store, I took classes in bookbinding and made tall narrow books filled with smooth, heavy bond, which I covered with ink and brush markers. I filled dozens of Moleskines, most small enough to fit in my hip pocket and pop out several times a day to record a five-minute sketch of a street corner, an old man on the bus, a glass of wine.

I am by nature and training a writer foremost, so I have always surrounded my drawings with captions and titles. I try to add a little wit when I write, to write beyond the obvious descriptor and make a connection or describe the larger scene. My sketchbooks are personal but not private. I assume that several times, in the course of filling each volume, I will be asked to share my book with some curious passers-by. If they chuckle while they flip the pages, I know we are sharing a worldview.

Generally I write with a scratchy dip pen, scrawling, so no one but me can read my words. I love the look of an ancient manuscript, like Da Vinci’s Codex, or a Beethoven script on vellum. For me, the spidery marks make the page complete, and I feel a drawing or painting, no matter how long I have worked on it, is incomplete without a flowery, embellished piece of text. I am a student of Ronald Searle’s ink blotches and Saul Steinberg’s illegible calligraphy.

Periodically, I give myself assignments. I will draw each bite I take of an apple, or every car on my street, or all the contents of my fridge, or each position my dog assumes when he pees in the park. I have filled entire books with daily self-portraits, or drawings of each person on death row, or all the African-American CEOs in the Fortune 500. I like the music that emerges from drawing variations on a theme.

I also impose limits on the materials I use. For a month, i’ll just draw in pencil or just with a 000 Rapidograph pen, or grey Sumi ink. I burst in a new direction after I lift the restriction and find myself in a brand new phase, brimming with ideas.

My journalkeeping ebbs and flows. Sometimes, I go a month or two without drawing, and then I slide back into a regular rhythm, stopping to sketch several times a day. I feel empty during the barren phases and wholly myself when the pen is my daily companion. I love to look back through these books I have filled, for they are little time machines. A glance at a page can send me back a decade, and I am fully returned to a moment long gone, re-feeling and seeing and smelling and hearing the experience I had when I was so intently concentrating on my drawing. The hard drive in my head downloads the whole moment again and again whenever I look back at this page. A twenty-minute patch of time spent nine years ago on a cold SoHo sidewalk can be a lot more vivid than what I ate for breakfast yesterday morning.

Illustrated journaling has transformed my life and given me the clearest form of identity I’ve ever had. I am now a person who draws; they can carve that on my headstone. Next to being a husband and a dad, it is the thing I am most. My passion for drawing has taken me on many adventures, opened many doors and made me many friends. We draw together in all sorts of places, wild or familiar, then pass our books around like family albums. I draw before work, in the middle of the night, at dinner parties or sitting shoulder to shoulder with my son as he draws as well.

I began keeping an illustrated journal because I was inspired by people who did the same. Extraordinary artists like Robert Crumb, Ronald Searle, Chris Ware, Hannah Hinchman, Frederick Franck and Dan Price published their journals and shared their daily lives in their work. As I looked through their books, it felt so right to me, and I began to chart my own days. At first my drawings, my calligraphy, my design and my observations were cramped and crude. But I found the process os interesting that it soon became habit. Within a month or two, I hit my stride. I started to augment my pen drawings with colored markers, then pencil, then watercolors. And I began to feel like I was making art.

A sketchbook is a great, nonthreatening place to begin to draw. It also turned out to be an ideal place to develop ideas, experiment and break away from the restrictions imposed by our increasingly digital workspace. Computers are key to so many parts of the creative process, but they don’t fit into a coat pocket or really let ideas stream out of the brain, down the arm and onto the page. I found that a pen on the page inspired many new connections and creative breakthroughs.

I hope this book will inspire you, too. I have purposefully assembled a group of people with all sorts of experiences, professions, philosophies, backgrounds and degrees of ability. Some may intimidate you. Some may scare you. But I hope they will all encourage you to buy a little blank book and start recording the contents of your medicine cabinet, fellow passengers on your commute, the clutter on your desk.

Whether you are an artist, a designer, a writer, a musician or a CPA, I hope you’ll discover the richness, the adventure and the endless horizons of your own illustrated life.

Danny Gregory

IMPORTANT QUESTION TO ALL ARTISTS

How do you stay happy with your work? Motivated? How do you keep a style you like and make things for yourself? How do you find who you are and what your art is. I’m just so lost right now

#alternative response #quote #excerpt #yes i sat and typed all 2000 words #with the book sitting in my lap #long text #i don't know how to inspire others #other than showing the thing(s) that inspired me #writing #artists on tumblr #questions

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fanfoolishness · 2 years ago

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The Boiling Point

Hawke and Varric have always been there through each other for thick and thin. Pity they're both also incredibly oblivious. Hawke and Varric dance around each other for years, but what happens when they finally figure themselves out? ~3500 words of friends to lovers, fluff and angst, and idiots in love. written for Hightown Funk 2022 for @veorlian. :)

“I didn’t realize it was possible for something to smell like that,” Marian Hawke hissed, using the tip of her staff to poke at a pile of sludge. Something twinkled in the muck, a faint gleam of gold. She forced herself to swallow her gorge. “But coin is coin, right? I don’t suppose Bartrand would object to another sovereign, even if it is a Darktown special.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you do a spell? Magic the stench off of it? My brother does love gold, but this might cross the line.”

“Really Varric, where do you come up with these ideas?” asked Merrill. “Hawke, I’m afraid you’re on your own for this.”

“Oh, yes, just a bit of a destenching spell, first magic I ever performed,” Marian snickered. She glanced at Carver, who gave her a warning look. “I suppose you’ve got a point. Growing up with siblings, it’s a good spell to keep in one’s back pocket.”

“As if you weren’t right there with me, getting dirty as anything,” said Carver. “Bethany might be the only one of us who’s ever known decorum.” He gazed skeptically down at the sludge. “Are you certain we can’t just find another job? Do we really have to scrounge about in the muck?”

Marian wavered. “I can’t bear to leave it, not when we’re so close to having enough for the expedition. Stench or no.” She reached for mana, experimentally trying something halfway between a force spell and fire magic --

Flaming shit exploded outward in all directions, spattering the passageway, the ground, and the entire party.

Varric and Carver got the worst of it. Wrong place, wrong time. Merrill was slightly protected, standing a bit behind Carver as she had been: she had a split second to summon a touch of frost magic to neutralize the foul flames. Merrill shuddered at the fate she had nearly suffered, and turned her attention to de-flaming Carver. Frost magic settled over him. The set of his ice-studded eyebrows predicted imminent apoplexy.

Varric stood where he had been struck, unmoving. Tragically, he had transformed into a shit-covered impression of a dwarf. Marian felt a slight pang of regret. Only time would tell if he had really survived the blast, though she suspected by his thousand yard stare that the scars might be permanent.

Marian’s shock slowly retreated, replaced by awareness of the most astounding smell. She reached up a shaking hand, gingerly wiping hot filth off her forehead. She blinked. Then she bent down, picking up the now sparkling clean gold sovereign and tucking it carefully into her purse.

“Is this something you’re planning on trying out in the Deep Roads?” Varric managed, the last word ending in a choked gag. “If so, I request to be somewhere far, far away the next time you pull out that little number.”

“You’re the one who asked about destenching, Varric. This is at least your fault as much as it is mine,” Marian insisted, wiping off her front, which only seemed to smear things around more. She heaved a sigh of defeat. “Besides, we’re one sovereign closer, so I count this one as a win.”

“You’re something else, Hawke.” Varric shook his head, looking greenish under the splatter. But she could have sworn, despite the stink, that he still gave her a smile.

Or maybe it was a grimace. Considering he bent over and vomited about five seconds later, she wasn’t sure which.

“Varric,” Marian said carefully.

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone too light to be perfectly casual.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?”

“What makes you say that?” he said heartily, turning around in the junction of the crossroads to face her and the others. Three completely identical paths stretched beyond him. “This is absolutely where I meant to take us.”

“Up the ass end of the Deep Roads?” Carver asked.

“It’s all right to admit it, Varric. I hate these bloody roads too,” said Anders sympathetically. “Perhaps we can sort it out together. Anything to get out of here a bit faster.” He focused, looking down the identical halls. He turned to the north fork. “Come on, this one feels like it might be right. Or, well, at least it’s not got darkspawn down it, and that’s something. What have we got to lose?”

“You mean after everything went pear-shaped?” asked Carver. “Not much.” He followed Anders, and Varric and Marian brought up the rear.

Varric was quiet beside her, too quiet by far. She knew him rather well by now, as well as she knew Anders or Fenris or Merrill, and this wasn’t right. She pondered the evidence as they walked, the downcast gaze, the way he shuffled next to her, the hand worrying something in his pocket. His quill, maybe. Her gut nagged at her.

You ought to say something.

“This is Bartrand’s fault, you know. Not yours,” she said at last. “I mean, there’s plenty of times I’ve taken the fall for Carver, brothers being what they are, but you’ve got nothing to fret over here. Unless it’s the food, in which case, I agree, I’m getting rather tired of hardtack and nothing.”

He trudged along, his mouth twitching to one side as if he wanted to say something.

“Come on,” she wheedled. He was starting to worry her.

“It’s not --” Varric let out a long breath. “It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“Bartrand’s always been an ass, but this is… this isn’t him, Hawke,” he muttered. “I don’t know what it is -- greed? Magic? I’m out of my depth here.”

“Funny thing to say, given we’re in the Deep Roads,” Marian cracked, but he didn’t smile. He seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her.

“I know I’m not the one who locked us down there, but I don’t know. Still feels like it’s on me, that’s all,” he said, his face drawn. He shrugged. “I talked you into coming down here. Not Bartrand. I’m sorry.”

Marian gave him a hard look. “Well, if that wasn’t Bartrand back there, this isn’t you here. Self-flagellation’s got its perks, but it’s an odd fit on you; doesn’t go with your outfit. And to think, normally you’re such a style maven.”

A faint smile finally flickered across his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. “Yeah? Huh. Maybe you’re right.”

“Ahh, there’s that Tethras optimism,” she said fondly. “Now then. Onward and hopefully upward, yes?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the idea.” They picked up the pace, Carver and Anders having pulled far ahead of them. “Thanks, Hawke.”

“No worries, Varric. After all, what are friends for?”

Varric didn’t say anything the first night Marian stayed over at the Hanged Man. She’d had a lot to drink, she was tired, it made sense for her to crash in his overstuffed, dwarf-sized armchair, even if she didn’t really fit and the arms dug into the small of her back.

He didn’t say anything the second night. The gangs had been roving around more than normal. He understood why she didn’t want to climb the long stairs back to Hightown, alone, this time of night. She tried the rug beside his bed and woke up in the morning complaining about the wooden floors.

He didn’t say anything the tenth night. She’d run out of excuses to invent. Eventually she drank to the bottom of her glass, and all she said was, “Mother wanted the manor so badly. It’s… it still isn’t home.”

Varric just smiled at her. He let her take the bed while he took the chair by the fire. And the next day he put in an order for a human-length settee, the plushest one the merchant had to offer.

He’d never seen her look like this before. When Carver fell ill in the Deep Roads was the closest. But this --

She looked more ghostly than Leandra.

It was the second day, the dust settling, the reality sinking in. Marian was a jumble of long limbs, curled in on herself in the seat by the hearth; Varric sat a few feet away. The great hound uneasily guarded her feet. The manor felt more vast than ever.

“She never really knew how to be a mum, I think,” Marian whispered across the empty room. “Sometimes I hated her for it.”

Varric blinked. “Some mothers just know what to do. Suited to it, I guess. Others…” He left out the part about his own mother, turning yellow in her own sick at the end.

“But she suffered,” Marian said, still in that same broken voice. “She never deserved -- that.”

“No,” Varric echoed. “No, she didn’t.”

The crackling fire swallowed his useless words.

“Well,” Marian said, her feet swinging over the edge of the great stone steps outside the Chantry.

Varric sat beside her, his legs swinging much further above the ground. “Well,” he agreed.

“That might have gone better.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Varric. “I think the Qunari got something out of it.”

“Viscount Dumar might have a few words to say about that. Mother Petrice’s corpse probably would as well.”

Varric mulled this over. “Fair enough.” His boots dangled idly, their swinging stilled. “It’s going to be a mess. Scratch that, it already is. The Viscount’s son…” He whistled, shaking his head.

“He hadn’t wanted any part of this. And she had him, and those Qunari, killed to make a bloody point.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s all another mess that I’m somehow deep in the middle of. Maker’s balls. What was that madwoman playing at, Varric?”

“Whatever it was, I don’t think the Maker’s anything had much to do with it.” He shook his head. “She wanted a war with the Qunari. It’s not looking good.”

Marian rubbed at her eyes. “This is an absolute shit show. And it’s going to get far worse before it gets better.�� If it gets better.”

He reached out, patting her knee. The weight of his hand felt good, a fact she tucked away for another time. Hm.

“Hanged Man?”

She nodded fervently, lowering her hands and giving him a rueful grin. “Hanged Man.”

“You look like hell, Hawke.”

“I look better than the other guy,” she said stubbornly. Dark circles ringed her eyes, fading bruises still visible on her face and arms, and she was still in bed, but she’d managed to sit up, which was a definite improvement. A veritable explosion of pillows precariously supported her, keeping her upright.

“Hasn’t Anders been doing his glowy thing? Or am I gonna have to have a talk with him?”

“He has been,” Marian said. “We mages might be magical, but we’re not miracle workers. Just because we can bend the laws of nature doesn’t mean we can ignore them entirely.” She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him. “I’m healing as fast as I can, honest.”

Varric winced, dismayed. This was after a week of healing? From Anders, the guy with a spirit supercharge and more talent for healing than any mage he’d ever heard of?

Shit. Shit. This was too damn close.

“Don’t look so pained,” she said. “You’ll make me feel worse if you treat me like I almost died.”

“That ignores the fact that you did almost die,” he pointed out, perfectly reasonably.

“Arguing with the recovering patient. Charming of you,” she said, coughing with the effort, her face twisting in a pained wince.

“Hawke, it’s time you faced the truth. I’m always charming.”

“You having anything to do with the truth? Oh now that’s absolutely rich --” She started to laugh, but the laugh quickly transformed into another wracking cough, one that made her double over. “Maker,” she groaned, panting.

He was at her side before he realized he’d moved, laying a hand on her shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. “Take it easy now. Didn’t mean for the charm offensive to take you out,” he said hastily.

“You’re a bastard, Varric,” she wheezed. She draped her arm over him, leaning hard into him, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. “I hope you know that.”

He braced himself so that she was more secure, slipping his arm around her waist and helping her stay upright. “Guilty as charged. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Varric kicked the floor, dust billowing out in clouds beneath his boot. The ghosts of Bartrand’s manor had faded, but Varric was still pale, the set of his jaw hard and unfamiliar.

“Want to talk about it?” Marian asked, already knowing the answer.

“Are you crazy?” asked Varric.

“Suppose it depends who you ask, doesn’t it?”

Varric glanced at the pouch at her waist, where the red lyrium’s glow faintly emanated through the fabric. He sighed. “Thanks for taking that thing.”

She shrugged. It felt warm against her hip. “It gives me a terrible feeling,” she said in a low voice. “You know the feeling you get, right before walking into a trap? Where the hair on the back of your neck rises before you even know why? That’s how I feel, thinking of you keeping this thing. It’s caused an awful lot of trouble. More than the two of us combined, and that’s saying something.”

“Seems like trouble follows that stuff wherever it goes,” he said, tilting his head to regard a dusty portrait on the wall. She could just make out the faint outlines of dwarven faces, one of them seeming a little familiar, if very young.

“Is that you?”

Varric snorted, which turned into a loud, forceful sneeze. “If you squint. Definitely not one of the better portrait artists in Hightown. It wasn’t all her fault, though. As Bartrand told it I couldn’t sit still to save my life.”

She peered at the dusty portrait. A towheaded, round-faced little boy stared back at her, looking uncharacteristically solemn. He was right. It didn’t look much like him at all.

“I’ll take care of the red lyrium,” Marian said. “What will you do with everything else?”

He turned away from the painting, no trace of a smile on his face. “I’m doing it,” he said tiredly, and he walked away.

It’s coming to a boil.

The phrase repeated in her head, a warning knell beneath her jokes, her chatter, her rare quiet moments. Coming to a boil.

Kirkwall had been seething for years now, a tempest in the making. She could feel it in the hard glares of the templars, the furtive paranoia of the mages, the denials of the Chantry. Something was coming. Something big.

She did her very best to ignore it.

It wasn’t too difficult, at first. She could pretend that things were normal when she settled into a game of Wicked Grace with her friends, or got out of the city for a bit of fresh air with her Mabari, or put out little fires in Darktown or the alienage. Pretty standard stuff. She knew how to deal with that.

She didn’t know how to deal with people calling her Champion. Or tense, dangerous audiences with Elthina, Meredith, Orsino. Or rumblings about uprisings and rebellions, strident whispers from both the templars and the mages.

So she found herself at the Hanged Man for the fifth time in a week, sulkily staring down her third pint, waiting for the sun to set and her friends to join her so she wouldn’t need to be alone with her thoughts.

It’s coming to a boil.

“You look deep in thought, Champion.”

“It’s been known to happen, on occasion. And don’t call me Champion,” Marian said as Varric climbed onto the bench beside her, a pint in hand.

“Don’t worry, Hawke. All in jest.”

“Damn right,” she said, finishing her pint. She cast around for the barmaid and nodded when she caught her eye. “How’s tricks, Varric?”

“Same old, same old.”

He looked just as world-weary as she felt. “Liar.”

He chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”

“Obviously.” She tossed a silver to the barmaid in exchange for another ale, and took a long draught. “You ever have those days where you’re just counting down the hours, hoping that somehow, some way, tomorrow will be different?”

“Something on your mind, Hawke? Not that there’s anything wrong with introspection, of course,” he said, taking a drink of his own ale. “You’re worried. About Kirkwall, I take it.”

“Is it that obvious?” She let out a huff. “Something’s brewing, Varric, and I don’t like it.”

“Well, you’re gonna hurt Corff’s feelings with that. He’s been working on this new crappy lager for months now.” His mouth quirked in a grin, one that she didn’t return.

“You know what I mean. You feel it, too, don’t you?”

His smile faded, and he nodded. “Yeah, I do. Why do you think I came over here? Distracting you is a great way to distract myself. Funny how that works out.”

Marian sighed into her ale. “At least whatever existential dread there is lurking about feels a little less nasty when I’m with you. You’ve always helped. That’s got to be something, don’t you think?”

Varric’s face had gone ruddier than normal. “That’s me, worth my weight in gold.”

“Is that a blush, Master Tethras?” she asked, her voice rising just a little too high.

“It’s the ale,” he said defensively. “Something really has gone wrong with that lager.”

Marian considered. “I think you’re blushing. And I think it’s because I said I feel rather better when you’re around.” She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, contemplating things. “It’s true, you know. Has been for ages.”

How long? How many hours had she put in at the Hanged Man, hoping to see him? How many nights had she stayed over when going back to a vast empty manor seemed too hard? How many times had just the sound of his laugh lifted her spirits?

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“Oh really?” Varric asked. “Come to realize how wrong you were? Most would say I’m more of an annoyance than a comfort.” His flush deepened, if anything, but he leaned closer, his arm brushing against hers. Her heart beat faster.

“Shit, shit, Varric. I’m an idiot.”

“Hey! That’s slander about my favorite misfit, and I won’t hear it,” said Varric. “But now why would you say something like that? You’re a lot of things, Hawke, but an idiot's not one.”

She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. “No, no, I’ve been quite daft. Argh.”

“If you’re trying to paint me a picture, it’s clear as mud.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” she grumbled. “Happy now?”

He froze. He looked up at her with hazel eyes the size of sovereigns, his cheeks flaming. If she hadn’t been so mortified it would have been funny, seeing him finally at a loss for words.

“You, uh -- you what?” he finally forced out. “Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

“Ugh, you heard me. I can’t believe I’ve been so dim. Why do you think I’m always hanging about here? It’s not for the bloody ambiance, it’s for the company.” She hauled her arms up to the table, resting her head on them and burying her face so Varric couldn’t keep staring. “I’m an absolute fool, Tethras. I hope I haven’t put you off permanently. Still friends at least, yes?” she asked, voice muffled in her sleeves. Oh, if she hadn’t put her foot in it.

For a horribly long moment the only thing she heard was the background chatter of the other patrons in the pub. Then Varric’s laugh started up, a low, deep rumble leading up to rich, rough chuckles. “You’re really serious,” he managed, as his laughter trailed off.

“Of course! You don’t have to rub it in,” she muttered.

“It’s just -- hey, hey. Would you look at me, Hawke?”

“So you can laugh at my ridiculousness? Oh, I must be a glutton for punishment.” But she lifted her head from her arms, her hair falling into her eyes, her cheeks burning.

“No, no, it’s not that at all,” Varric protested. He laid a hand on her arm and took a deep, long breath. He swallowed, then said in a shaky voice, “It wasn’t love at first sight. That’s the crap I put in Swords and Shields; that doesn’t really happen. But… I’ve loved you for years, Marian. And that’s the honest truth.”

“Oh,” she croaked.

Oh.

“That’s, ah, very interesting, Varric.” Her hand wrestled awkwardly with Varric’s until their fingers interlaced. That felt pretty good. It felt right. “Maybe we should talk about this?”

A smile spread slowly across his face. He opened his mouth, his eyes bright; he always did love getting the last word. Before he could speak she bent down and kissed him, his stubble brushing against her cheeks.

And for a moment, they didn’t say anything at all.

---

(end)

(for @veorlian , whose prompts were right up my alley!)

Thank you very much in advance!! <3 Here are my prompts:

- I love slice of life mutual pining friends to lovers fluff where it's snippets of Hawke and Varric together going on missions and spinning lies and just generally being incredibly important to each other while fully ignoring how important they are to each other

- I really enjoy stories that fill in missing parts of the story, so I'd love to see the things that happen in between acts. For example, Hawke going to visit Varric at the Hanged Man because their manor is too big and doesn't feel like home; Varric and Hawke going on low-stakes adventures together, and so on. Really, whatever you think might fit in the several years we didn't get to see!

- Varric and Hawke get into a competition for who can tell the most elaborate lie and one of them messes up and accidentally confesses their feelings and/or one of them decides to use the opportunity of a lie to confess their feelings

#hawke x varric #varric x hawke #hightown funk #dragon age 2 #varric tethras

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skipps-writes-for-gojo-satoru · 4 years ago

Note

Oh my god I meant no. 54 I'm so sorry HHHH

Smut Prompt #54 " You're going to regret that, sweetheart."

This isn't what you should be doing at a school of all places, even more as you're both teachers. Gojo sits on his office chair his zipper down, while you kneel underneath his desk. Your tongue giving longs licks to his thick cock while your hand gently cups his balls, massaging them. You feel his hand tangled in your hair, urging you to take him. It's a shame he has his blindfold on, you would have loved to his see his beautiful eyes filled with pleasure. Gojo releases a groan, getting impatient by your teasing. You figured you worked him out enough.

You stroke his cock making sure it's fully coated with your saliva while you give his head short licks and kisses. You experimentally twirl your tongue around his head, which rewards you with a low groan. You lift your head parting your lips before taking him whole, you could feel his head hit the back of your throat, promoting a gag from you. It's impossible to fully take him but you try to take him in as much as you can. Your head slowly bobbing up and down while your hand works on stroking his cock. While taking him in, you press the flat of your tongue against his length licking the protruding vein. Gojo's grip in your hair tightens, trying to guide you into speeding up.

You smile as continue sucking while swirling your tongue against his length, increasing your speed. Using your other hand you cup his balls, giving them a light squeeze. You could feel your saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth. While Gojo's mouth is pressed in a firm line while his hand guides your head, low groans escaping his lips the adrenaline of being caught with you in this position fueling his release. You could feel his balls harden in your hand, signaling his release coming soon. You could feel his hand pushing your head making you take in more of him, his head repeatedly hitting the back of your throat-feeling your eyes rolling back as you try not to gag.

You could feel Gojo's body shiver as his breathing quickens but before he could release, you stopped all actions. With a pop, you peer up at him with a grin on your face only to see your lover panting- his lips twitching in trying to form a smile.

"You're going to regret that, sweetheart..."

Taglist: @the-fandoms-georgie @crapimahuman @annie-acadia @iwanttobefuckedbysatorugojo @spicyyren @asmaeackerman1 @clearlynotasimp @josie-jovan @your-waifuuuuu

#gojou satoru #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk gojo #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen smut #jkk x reader #jkk smut #skipps writes #smut prompts

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sidespart · 4 years ago

Text

The Fall of King Romulus Part 6

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him...

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

EXTRA WARNINGS - this chapter is pretty much unrelenting whump and the violence and consent issues (past) tags strongly apply. I have put more detailed (spoiler heavy) warnings at the bottom so if you’re particularly sensitive to that stuff and want to scroll down to check before you read you can do so.

Feedback appreciated.

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

In a tavern just outside of Leovan the crowd roars another! And Roman laughs and gamely starts to play another jig. He’s been playing for hours and he drinks in the attention happily, even as the cheers of the crowd become a ringing in his ears. The night is long and his throat is raw and his stomach empty and it’s harder and harder to keep his eyes focused, but his hands are steady on the strings. He sways in place, sweat dripping into his eyes, but it doesn’t matter- the crowd adore him. They sing and dance and laugh along, and after each set they call another, another, another until the room is spinning and his throat is bleeding and the audience’s laughter had turned cruel and high and lilting and-

Roman woke with a gasp and immediately regretted it.

The underground room was still pitch black, the humidity still cloying. At some point during his fitful sleep he had slumped to the floor, Lucius’ ill-attempt at binding having come loose enough to allow him to slide his arms down the length of the pipe. He was awkwardly sprawled at the base with his wrists still pinned above his head and his legs twisted underneath him. He tugged experimentally at his binding and got a sharp spike of pain down his shoulders and spine for his trouble. Whilst he had wasted time sleeping, the silk had become sodden from the moisture of the room and shrunk tight against his wrists, making even Lucius’ knotwork impossible to pull apart.

Not that it would have made much difference if he could get it loose.

Stay here until I come back with your transport.

Grunting with pain, he managed to untangle his legs out from under him and sit up. He pushed himself up on his knees as best he could, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his wrists, but gave it up quickly as the pain lacing down his shoulders intensified.

This was bad.

He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think, but the heat was making it almost impossible. The black of the room kept swirling back in to crowded tavern, the rush of water into the jeers of a crowd…he could feel the raw burn on his throat and his mind scrambled desperately for another song-

Except it hadn’t happened like that. He shook his head furiously, his hair flicking sweat into the room, trying to banish the tavern from his mind. He had already started traveling with the others by the time he sang in Leovan and if he’d tried to perform so late into the night Virgil would have come stomping down the stairs to tell him he was being ridiculous and to go and get some sleep.

Or Patton would have sat up listening, playing bodyguard, until he couldn’t keep his own eyes open and sweetly suggested that the crowd might want to be getting home to their own families.

Or Logan would appear, pocket watch in hand, demanding he finish within a set time frame in order to allow for optimal sleeping hours.

Roman could almost hear the lecture, relief at a chance to escape the crowd mingling with exasperation at the scholars ridged scheduling.

In the dark Roman glanced over to where he thought the door should be.

The only sound was the gentle hiss of water.

He tried pulling at the rope again.

***

“Hey! It’s you!”

The man blocking Roman’s path back to the ballroom was clearly drunk. He stumbled towards Roman, half leaning on the hallway wall for support, a big dopy smile on his face. “I saw you- I saw you back there – wow!”

“Thank you friend.” Roman smiled brightly and took a step backwards, but not quickly enough to prevent the guy from grasping onto his sash.

“You’re so pretty.” The guy breathed, his eyes unfocused but his grip firm, “I saw you lookin’ at me when you were singin’.”

Roman squirmed. He was almost certainly better trained than his admirer, and he had had a lot less ale, but he was also shorter and skinnier. With the man pressed so close in the narrow hallway it was almost impossible to find the leverage he needed to push him off.

And. This was a nice place. And by the quality of the man’s clothing he was an honoured guest not a servant. Roman had been the one to convince his new companions to accompany him to the local lord’s house for the ball, he had wanted to give them to a chance to relax whilst he performed. He didn’t want to get himself, and them, kicked out by causing a scene- not when he was half hoping they would allow him to continue to travel with them even though the job he’d been hired for was done.

“I look at everyone-” he said, smile fixed and polite ”– engaging the audience is actually very important for-“

“Shush.” The man whispered.

Roman shushed. Grinding his teeth in frustration.

His assailant brought one hand up to paw at his face in a clumsy attempt at seduction, thick rings knocking against Romans jaw. His other hand released the bard’s sash to grip his wrist instead.

“Kiss me,” the man breathed, the stink of ale on his breath making Roman gag.

Face burning with mounting frustration and embarrassment, Roman attempted to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, but the man twisted his head at the last moment to meet his lips with his own. Pressing Roman back against the wall with a slobbering assault as he attempted to pry Roman’s lips open with his tongue.

Panic flickered in Roman’s belly and then just as quickly dulled. It was generally easier to let these things run their course.

And then, suddenly, the pressure on his mouth – and wrist and chest - was gone.

Roman blinked open eyes he didn’t remember squeezing shut to see Patton with an expression so furious Roman had to fight the instinct to cower.

“What.” Patton snarled “Do you think you’re doing?”

“I di-didn’t mean to-“ Roman started.

“Well?!” Patton roared and Roman realised he wasn’t speaking to him – but rather the rich man who appeared to be rapidly sobering up in Patton’s grip. The warrior held him by the scuff of his neck, his toes just scraping the floor. When Patton shook him, the plethora of chains around his neck clinked together musically.

“Roman,” Patton asked, his voice still shaking with an anger that made Roman draw his shoulders up instinctively “do you…know this man?”

“Well…no.” Roman glanced at the chains again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his heart rate started to return to normal “I think he might be the mayor though Pat, put him down!”

“I don’t care if he’s the King of the elves! Did you want to kiss him?”

“Well no, but – but its fine! These things happen!”

“You call yourself a Prince and this is how you carry on?”

Wait. What?

Roman blinked, feeling strangely hot in the cool hallway.

Patton wasn’t supposed to say that. Patton was supposed to ask what he meant. And Roman would backtrack and feed him some lines about people often feeling entitled to performers time off stage – which was not untrue – and Patton would look at him wide eyed and tell him that would never happen again –

“You’ve been told over and over, to keep yourself to yourself.”

- that Patton would stand guard at every performance from now on if that’s what it took.-

“If you insist on putting yourself into these situations, don’t come crying to me when the inevitable happens.”

-And Roman would be so elated at the implication that they were to keep travelling together that he would almost forget to feel embarrassed at the situation.-

Patton’s lips narrowed into a thin disapproving line, “Don’t be naive. You are far better off alone, Romulus.”

“Dad?” Roman whispered.

“He doesn’t look much like the Prince.”

“Oh, like you’ve seen him.”

“Well he’s meant to be handsome right? This guy’s not winning any contests.”

Roman opened his eyes, squinting against the light. Three men stood around him, illuminated by the glow of an oil lamp. For one wild moment elation flooded through him - his friends had found him after all!

And then their conversation registered and he scowled. Disappointment robbing him of a witty comeback to their insults.

Still. Let them travel almost non-stop for three weeks, spend a night standing out in the middle of a field whilst an old woman sang at herbs, march for five days through a forest - including a detour through he thickets brambles known to man- and then follow that up with an entire day wandering around the city, have two panic attacks and be left to sleep tied up in caller. And then see if they looked their best.

With the gag still in his mouth, Roman’s attempt to covey this sentiment were mercifully muffled.

“I don’t know.” The biggest of the three stepped forward, grabbing a handful of Roman’s hair and yanking his head back painfully, abruptly cutting off his complaints. “I can kinda see it.”

“Be careful Niki,” the one who had first spoken whispered, he was holding the lantern and keeping well back from Roman. “His nibs thinks he’s got devils with him.”

“In here?” Niki cast a glance around at the iron cage of pipework that covered the room. “If he does they’re not coming out.”

“Still.” Lantern-boy whined.

“Well let’s test it.” Niki grinned down and Roman spitefully and released his grip on his hair. In one quick movement he had produced an iron dagger, not unlike Roman’s own, and pressed the flat of it to Roman’s cheek.

Roman stared at him.

“There you see? If was possessed he’d be screaming.” Niki said smugly and pulled his knife back, twisting it slightly as he did so, leaving a shallow cut along Roman’s cheek, making him wince.

“Careful,” lantern-boy said meaningfully “he’s still the Prince’s brother.”

“Oops.” Niki smiled cheerfully down at Roman. “My bad.”

“He needs to drink.” The third man stood far enough back from the lantern that Roman couldn’t see his face, but he saw the way the other two responded to his soft voice, their posture automatically stiffening.

“Here,” lantern-boy stepped forward after a moment, holding out a water skin to Niki who rolled his eyes but reached down to rip the gag from Roman’s mouth.

Roman coughed, swallowing air greedily. His throat was painfully dry, all moisture sucked out by the silk, but he still hesitated when Niki held the skin up to his mouth.

“Listen to me.” He croaked “you-“

“Just drink it.” Niki snapped and Roman surged forward despite himself, swallowing a few precious mouthfuls before the skin was yanked away again.

“You’re from Notaleveale.” he whispered. “Right?”

“Obviously.” Lantern-boy muttered, taking the water skin back from his companion.

“Well then,” he drew himself up as much as he could, ignoring the pain the movement caused “ – as true men of The North I must implore you to assist me. The Marquis has been embroiled in some- some conspiracy of untruths, is perhaps plotting against the very crown itself and-“

“The Marquis de Orenlla couldn’t plot his way out of a paper bag.” Niki snorted contemptuously.

Roman opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“Isn’t he your Lord?” he asked eventually feeling bizarrely offended on the Marquis’ behalf. Niki and lantern-boy were both wearing chest plates embossed with the three peaked mountain range that signified allegiance to Orenlla, the royal kraken of Notaleveale floating above. They were clearly guardsmen brought with Lucius on his journey south.

The third man, who hadn’t spoken since he mentioned Roman needing to drink, wore no identifying uniform.

“It’s not an insult.” Niki shrugged, “personally I prefer an employer too daft to organise a coupe.”

Lantern-boy nodded in agreement, “It’s a, whatcha call it - a positive working environment, innt?”

“…alright.” Roman decided to change tactics. “I’ll double what he’s paying you.” This time both men laughed.

“With what?”

“Well, I. I’m still a Prince I’ll have you know - I have many rich and influential friends who would gladly-“

“Oh really. Where are they then?”

There was an unpleasant pause whilst Roman desperately tried to get his brain to think. He was supposed to be more creative than this!

“You’re no Prince of ours anyhow.” Lantern-boy stepped a bit closer to glare into Roman’s eyes. “Traitor.”

Roman flinched back at the pure look of venom on the young man’s face.

Little fae touched traitor.

“Listen to me. Whatever you’ve heard – it’s not true. My father-“

“Don’t you dare speak his name!” Niki surged froward, pulling Roman up by the neck of his tunic. Their faces were close enough that Roman could feel the spittle from the man’s mouth land on his cheek as he shouted: “After your despicable actions you would dare to-“

“Nicolas. Don’t upset yourself.”

The third man was barely visible to Roman over Niki- Nicholas’- shoulder, but as soon as he spoke the large man stilled, lowering Roman slowly back to the ground.

“Marcus. Some more light if you will.”

Lantern-boy -presumably Marcus– quickly produced a box of long matchsticks, almost tripping over himself in his haste to light more lanterns around the room. By the time he was done the room was brightly lit, the glow from each lamp bouncing off the metal pipes until it filled every corner.

The third man did not look especially Notalevealean, with skin almost as white as Virgil’s and pale white blond hair. He was dressed plainly, with pale grey robes and soft shoes, and carried only a thin walking stick. If he hadn’t spoken, he could have quite easily faded into the background - camouflaged against the dull back drop of pipes.

“Nicholas. Marcus. Go and guard the passages.”

“But we already have a dozen men out there-“

“And I’m sure they’re in need of leadership. Go now.”

The two men glanced at each other. Roman thought for a moment that they would stand their ground, but then Marcus snatched up his original lantern and headed for the door, Niki following after one last reluctant glance back.

“W-wait.” Roman called. “Is my Father alive?”

They disappeared into the gloom of the next room.

Left alone with only the quiet grey man, Roman found himself wishing they’d stayed.

The grey man smiled at him as he shuffled towards the kneeling prince. His smile was an awful thing that did not touch his eyes.

“The young Marquis de Orenlla is a rather silly boy.” He told Roman in his soft papery voice. “Much like yourself.”

Despite himself Roman let out an offended squeak, but the grey man continued unhindered. “He has very little idea how to survive alone, can barely function without his servants.”

Roman caught himself staring at the floor and snapped his gaze back to the grey man’s face. He didn’t want to miss any information he might let slip but looking at him was-

It was difficult.

When he tried to look at the details of his face they seemed to slip away. Was he young or old? What colour were his eyes?

The whole time he had been talking, had his mouth actually moved?

“What are you?” Roman whispered.

The grey man smiled again, Roman shuddered.

“But also like you, he is not wholly stupid. He has started asking some inconvenient questions.”

Within the blink of an eye, the grey man was next to him a knife in his hand. Before Roman had a chance to do more than flinch, he had cut the ties biding his hands, and was back across the room.

Dazed, Roman rubbed his wrists, trying not to wretch.

Up close, the grey man smelt of death.

“Now. Sit there, and listen to me until I finish.”

Romulus whimpered.

“Your father is dead.” The grey man told him bluntly. “You killed him.”

“No.” Romulus- Roman shook his head. Used his newly freed hands to cover his ears. “He was sick.”

“You poisoned him over many weeks.” the grey man whispered. “Disguised it as a common sickness. You tried the same on your brother but he was too strong to succumb.”

Roman lowered his hands. They were pointless anyway- the grey man’s voice seemed to be inside his head.

“That’s not how his strength works!”

“And so instead, you allied yourself with a traitor to the fae court and placed a curse of madness on the crown prince, rendering him unable to rule. You hoped to take over in his place, but luckily your father’s advisors found you out. You were forced to flea with your fae companion.”

Roman stared at him, eyes wide. “That’s insane!”

“That’s the truth.” The grey man insisted. “When The Marquis asks you for the truth, that’s what you’ll say.”

“No.” Roman shook his head. “No, no, no.”

The grey man reached forward, resting his hand gently against Roman’s cheek. Romulus stared up into his eyes.

“Julius?” he whispered.

“In a way.” The grey man’s face seemed to twist. For a single moment, it was Julius’ face that looked disdainful down at him, rendering Romulus mute with terror. And then with another twist to reality it was gone, back to the grey man’s blank visage.

“I’ve had eyes all over looking for you Romulus. I was so sure you must have died in the mountains and yet –“ His fingers tightened on Roman’s face, nails digging cruelly into his skin. “Here you are. Like a little cockroach.”

With a shove he released Roman’s face and walked swiftly to the centre of the room, where the largest pipes rose out of the floor. “Stay on your knees and come here.” he ordered. Face burning, Roman shuffled after him, knees bruising on the stone floor.

“Put your hands here.” He gestured to one of the larger pipes. Even before his hands touched the surface, Roman could feel the heat radiating from it. It was far hotter than the one he had been tied to and although he braced himself he couldn’t hold back a yelp of pain when his hands made contact.

He snatched them back quickly, his palms an alarming shade of red. And without pausing, sprang to his feet, aiming a punch directly at the grey man’s immobile face.

“Stop moving.”

Roman felt his muscles lock, momentum sending him crashing to the ground as the grey man easily sidestepped his swing.

“Don’t move until I tell you too.” The grey man added, leaving Roman frozen on the ground where he landed.

Slowey the grey man stepped around him, crouching down by his head. “Look at me, Romulus.” Roman did so, only moving his eyes to stare at the flickering mirage of the grey man’s face.

Up close, the smell was so bad Roman felt the remains of his pastry threatening to make a reappearance.

“I am going to ask you some questions. You are going to tell me the truth. Nod if you understand.”

Slowly, Roman nodded. The grey man – Julius – whatever it was, had already told him what it wanted him to consider the truth. But even so, ‘tell the truth’ was an easy enough order to get around. Truth being in the eye of the beholder and all.

“And if you don’t, I am going to tell you to hold onto that pipe again, and I am going to tell you to keep holding it until I am satisfied with your answers. Do you understand?”

Roman swallowed. He nodded again.

“Did you kill your father? Tell the truth now.”

“No.” he said quickly and then bit his tongue, cursing. Franticly he looked up at the grey man “You, you said that was a truth for The Marquis, not for everyone I can’t just –“

“Raise your left hand.” the grey man said mildly. “Bring it here.”

Romulus felt tears of frustration and fear spring to his eyes. He was stupid for thinking he had a chance at this. Julius’ tests were never designed for him to pass.

***

Roman wasn’t sure how many hours passed before the grey man seemed satisfied.

Fortunately, he had methods of persuasion beyond just the pipe. When Romans’ left palm had become completely coated in blisters the grey man had handed him walking stick and instructed him to bring it down hard on his own back instead. And then his shoulders. The side of his face. His left palm.

The grey man never touched him himself.

He didn’t have any need to.

Whenever there was a pause between punishments he ordered Roman to stillness. Time which Roman happily spent fantasising, first of smashing the stick down across the grey man’s head, then of pressing his own eyes to the hot pipe.

Even if they took him home – he could not allow himself to lay eyes on Remus. That was the one thing he could not fail on.

“Did you kill your father?” asked the grey man.

“Yes.”

The stress of raising Romulus, of hiding the curse; there was no doubt he’d contributed to his fathers early death. It was true, at least to him.

“Did you curse your brother?”

“Yes.”

When he was a little boy there had been a phase where he tried to put a curse on Remus daily, and Remus him. The kind of curses they dreamed up were for itchy feet and stinky farts, and none of them had worked, but it was still technically true.

“Why?”

“I was jealous of my brother.”

If Roman had only been born a half hour earlier he could have avoided a lifetime of being second best. He could have avoided his curse. Grown up with his Father instead of Julius. Not that he would wish any of that on Remus but. It was natural, surely, to be a little jealous of his brothers freedom.

“Good.”

Julius’ face smiled down at him. He reached out with the grey mans hands to stroke Romulus’ hair, like he sometimes did when he was a child. “You see Romulus, there is always a way to work within the confines of your curse, so long as you are willing to look for it. I taught you that.”

“Where are you?” Romulus whispered.

“I am waiting for you.” he smiled. “I have no sons Romulus, no one to pass the Stewardship to. And we must think about the future of our kingdom. When you are back, we can write a new story.”

“You…you’re ruler?”

Romulus frowned. There was a missing piece here but he couldn’t find it. The heat and pain were making his brain slosh against the inside of his skull. He found himself leaning in to the hand in his hair, even as revulsion rippled through him. “If you’re ruler then where’s –“

“Where’s the serpent?”

Roman blinked. Looking up, he found that Julius was gone again, the grey mans expressionless face staring back at him.

“What?”

“The serpent. Where is he?”

“I don’t – I don’t know what you mean.” Romulus held his injured arm close to his chest, curling over it protectively.

He heard the disappointed sigh and flinched even before the grey man brought his other hand to Romans’ bruised shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Look at me.”

Romulus did, eyes bright.

“I know he has left his prison. I know he was with you at that inn. I sent that stupid boy to get him and he found you.”

“I don’t know what you mean!” Romulus wailed, hating the childish wobble in his voice. “There wasn’t anyone else at the inn.”

“No?”

Julius eyes were peering out of the grey man again, a cruel glint to them. ”You were alone?”

“Yes.” Roman told him. Voice steady.

He’d entered the inn alone. He’d sat in the room alone. Climbed out of the window alone. Anything else was none of Julius’ business.

Before the grey man could speak again, a clatter from the next room made them both jump.

“Hmph. He’s early.” the grey man murmured. “Get back to your place.” He gestured to the pipe Roman had originally been tied to and, haltingly, Roman crawled towards it, sprawling at the base.

“If The Marquis asks, tell him nothing about your injuries.” the grey man added lazily, taking up his position in the centre of the room, fading back into the background.

Roman grunted. It wasn’t a bad plan: his most visible injuries – the burns on his hand which he couldn’t stand to look at – could be explained away as being caused by the very pipe Lucius had tied him to. As usual, nothing could ever be pinned on Julius.

They waited. But neither the Marquis or his men appeared.

The grey man stood across from him, gazing out into the darkness of the next room. Roman wasn’t even worth looking at.

He slumped further against the pipe and tried to focus on breathing. There wasn’t a single place on his body that didn’t hurt, though the worst by far was his hand. He shivered from cold, which, given the heat of the room, couldn’t be a good sign. He let his eyes slip closed. Exhaustion threatening to take him again.

And then he felt a soft pressure on his lap.

“Mrrp.”

Roman opened his eyes. Then he closed them again.

He opened one eye. It was still there.

“Mister Mittens?” he asked, slightly hysterically.

Romulus and Remus had grown up with dogs. He wasn’t sure if cats were supposed to be able to feel smugness, but this once clearly did. It butted it’s head against Roman’s chin with another self-satisfied “Mrrp.”

“What?“ The grey man was staring at the pair of them, looking as confused as his expressionless face could manage. “Where did that thing come from?”

Roman was saved from having to answer by a crossbow bolt. One that came through the open door, burying itself in the grey man’s skull.

Chapter 7

Extra warnings

Consent stuff – Roman relives a memory of being sexually assaulted (he doesn’t necessarily think of it in those terms). A drunk man kisses him and pushes him against a wall. The man tells Roman to ‘kiss me’ without knowing anything about Romans curse. They are interrupted before it goes beyond kissing. (whether anything else would have happened, or whether the man would have stopped if he had known about the curse, is not shown in the text). It is implied that this sort of situation has happened to Roman before, and that it has gone further, but this is not explicit.

Violence stuff – Roman is tortured in this chapter. This includes cutting, burning and beating with a stick. The majority of this is not described in explicit detail but it’s certainly going on. Due to the nature of his curse, most of this takes place due to another character ordering him to hurt himself. Roman briefly contemplates burning his own eyes (for ‘trying to get around my curse’ reasons rather than ‘self harm’ reasons) . Someone also gets shot in the head with a crossbow. Roman also spends most of this chapter dehydrated and suffering from heat stroke .

I’m not totally sure what this falls under but its grim stuff – a character from romans past spends a lot of this chapter tyring to gas light him/ manipulate him into believing a set of false memories. Roman retains his correct memories but gets hurt a lot in the process. Meeting said character causes Roman to dissociate (I think this is the correct term but please correct me if I’m wrong), he continuously switches between his name and his childhood name during the chapter and at some points reacts as if he was a child.

#ts roman #roman sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #creativitwins #sidespart writes

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

Text

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 20

First time reader click here

TWs/SUMMARY: Explicit content. Some fluffy Bruce Banner lovin'. We know our scientist is a soft dom/service top. 🥺💚 With a Tony twist at the end... Because I am an evil woman. 😏 BRUCE BANNER MONSTERCOCK NATION RISE!

Bruce licked his lips.

Despite the obvious intent to ravish me in the sweetest way possible, Bruce made no move to undress or get physically closer to me.

The man was content to kiss the breath out of me, lightly caressing the side of my face and my neck. With each shared, rushed inhale I slipped deeper into the narrow space between drowsiness and arousal. The scientist's presence had the most peculiar effect on me: all my walls crumbled, paving way to a sense of mellow tranquility.

"Lay down," Bruce whispered, pulling my blanket aside. My skin tingled in the cool air of the room. I had gotten pretty toasty under the covers.

With his palms gently pushing on my shoulders, I had no other way but to oblige. Those very same large hands brushed my neck and slid further under the collar of my shirt, tenderly tracing the lines of my collarbones. I felt delicate in his arms, light-headed.

The quiet thud of Bruce's shoes prepared me for the slight dip in the mattress that followed. With a rustle, the textured fabric of his trousers sweeped and finally settled between my parted legs. He radiated warmth, my body involuntarily arching into it. Bruce's lips found mine, again, meeting in a chaste kiss, moving on to nip and peck my jawline, my throat.

There was something erotic in the slow, sensual yet subdued way the scientist was giving into my desires. He wasn't holding back on purpose, it seemed he was rather fond of taking his time to explore my body, his new playground. It was always hard and fast and easy for me, to just take my pleasure, get it torn out of me with sharp words and clever fingers.

With Bruce it was more of a gradual increase in intensity. He wasn't all over me yet he made it known he was in charge. Our bodies connected only faintly but where they did, it left a sweet, pulling ache. I caught myself leaning into it, following the slow motions with twitches and curves of my own.

"Arms up, Princess," He sounded so calm and steady. There was a new definition to his voice, that low undertone of desire, previously unheard. I marveled at how different my lovers sounded.

My (read: stolen from Tony) t-shirt slid from my shoulders with his help, immediately getting neatly placed next to my pillow. I wore no bra; the regret at not wearing fancier panties had been already lived through by me the moment Bruce's lips first landed on mine. For some reason, I was convinced he wasn't the kind of man to care about the amount or the retail price of the lace on my underwear.

I decided to finally open my eyes.

Bruce sat on his shins in front of me, one intense furious blush the only indicator he was affected by our activities. Seeing his eyes - I had to take that back. Devils danced in his green-ish orbs. The man was enjoying himself, quite a lot.

"Off?" Words and other trivial things I didn't worry about anymore. I tugged on his button-up to indicate my own want to see him, to finally see that firm chest that had inadvertently acted as a pillow for me to cry on more than one occasion recently.

Button by button, Bruce was either teasing or provoking me. Which was fine, for once I was happy to fully relinquish the reigns of the situation to someone else. The man was, and I am not exaggerating, perfect under all those frumpy clothes. Bulky chest with coarse dark hair - I wanted to run my hands through it, all over him.

His shirt landed right next to mine and he came close, mouthing leisurely at the space between my breasts, covering my chest with the warm moisture of his breath. Hot and wet wrapped around my nipple just as my eyes drifted closed again. Arching into the bliss, I moaned softly.

And any other time I'd be embarrassed at how soft and kitten-like was the sound; then, however, I was ready to yowl if that meant he wouldn't stop. One nipple and then the other. Bruce didn't apply anything but gentle pressure. His tongue made a slow, deliberate circle around my navel, dipping into the sensitive spot. I was surprised, my hips twitching. I had no idea it could be so pleasant.

The man's soft chuckles were absorbed by my panties where his breath ghosted over my core. My squirming increased as I was no longer able to contain my excitement, my body remembering on it's own how good Tony was with his tongue, bringing me extasy - he ate me for what felt like hours when he felt I did something exceptionally well. I'd be a rotten liar if I told you that alone wasn't motivation enough to excel at everything.

"I can see you like that, Princess," Bruce observed in quiet joy, moving instead to rub his cheek on the inside of my thigh, the slight stubble producing just enough friction for me to get slightly wetter. Beards were just hot.

"Mhmm," I agreed with him, raking a gentle hand through his unruly mop of curls. Bruce groaned and I continued to steadily part his hair, loving the muted noises coming from the scientist, enjoying his breath returning to elicit shivers all over my lower body.

The gusset of my underwear was promptly moved aside, exposing me to his eyes. I've never felt an ounce of shyness with a man but it seemed that day was one of firsts for me. It was the most exposed and vulnerable I'd ever felt; like a door pried open, my inner world for anyone to see. The urge to close my legs and hide under the blankets overcame me.

"Such a pretty pussy, Princess," Bruce's voice was even rougher now, scratching.

An open-mouthed smooch was placed on my lower lips, a nimble tongue slowly stroking experimental lines through my folds. The man purposely avoided the clit, I was sure. He dove down multiple times to my entrance, lapping up my juices with an obscene noise. A lewd moan followed every time. My hips met his mouth with every movement.

My shameful freak-out was abruptly cut short by the devotion Bruce radiated. His hands firmly gripped my thighs securing his meal in the right place. And eating he was; like a starved man, the scientist followed the noises leaving my mouth to find each and every nook and cranny that made me feel closer to Eden. There was no finesse, only slippery, sloppy movements as I reached my first peak with his name leaving my lips in a strangled moan.

I was boneless, weightless. Bruce pushed me more, delving straight back into the oversensitive folds of my cunt like he hadn't just made me see stars and galaxies. Floating in time in space, not a coherent thought in my skull, my last functioning brain cell on it's long overdue vacation.

"How do you feel?" He asked me once he deemed me sufficiently removed from this plane of existence and deposited me somewhere on another world where everything was light and easy.

"Mm-Brucie," I tried to articulate my thoughts. He must've been painfully aroused himself yet he made no move to be intimate any further. The idea of him holding back and refusing his own gratification nagged at me unpleasantly, invoking a primal hunger deep in my belly. "C'mere, want you."

He climbed over on top of me slowly, stretching his limbs, caging me in the sweet trap of his arms. His pants were gone; I felt the hardness, very sizeable hardness budge against my hip. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at him with unseeing eyes and my mouth hanging open slightly.

We kissed lazily for a while, me finally having the chance to roam my hands on his body. He was almost as warm as Bucky - a perk of his own knock-off serum, I supposed. Reasonably toned with a healthy layer of fat, Bruce certainly wasn't ripped or even built like Tony. Banner's body screamed comfort and safety where Tony was all strength and durability. Once again, I marveled at the difference between the two men, finding them both equally appealing and beautiful in their own ways.

Bruce's boxers went to hell and beyond. He was easily the biggest partner I've ever had; both long and thick, my insides clenched involuntarily at the weight of it in my hand, the engorged veins all over the shaft. No time like the present - hiking a leg over his hip, I insistently pressed the leaking tip of his cock against me, swiping it through my folds for extra lubrication beforehand.

The scientist twitched, growling quietly, low and dangerous. "Princess," Bruce hissed, momentarily dropping his forehead onto my shoulder.

"Brucie," I replied breathily, feeling him shudder as the tip breached my entrance. The sting was slightly south of pleasurable, just enough to give me an edge and return to reality. "You're so big," I gasped. The very room I and Bruce were (what felt like) making love. Such a foreign concept. "For the love of both God and Satan, move."

"That's my girl." Giving a watery chuckle, the man obliged, sheathing himself fully within me. I was unprepared for the surge of pleasure - it felt like he was everywhere at the same time. It was unlike everything I'd felt, the burn of the stretch becoming a source of new heights of pleasure.

Bruce's shallow thrusts increased in speed and amplitude as soon as I arched my back, presenting all of myself at his mercy. His movements weren't pounding yet he shook me with every single shift of his hips. "Fuck, so good, my sweet girl," He kept muttering, barely audible. "So tight, so hot, oh God."

The praise only made me clench tighter around him, my orgasm rapidly approaching and finally crashing into both of us with a firm, steady force. His cock throbbed inside me, releasing the seed with force I swear I felt in my guts. I took it all, milking every single drop, there was so much of it. Bruce's release - this one - belonged to me and to me only.

Ever mindful of himself, Bruce rolled over, pressing as close to me as possible, throwing an arm over his eyes. I immediately relocated to make a nest on his chest, idly running my hand through his chest hair. Fascinating.

"Feel good?" And finally he sounded slightly winded. Wow, I couldn't help but wonder what could make him really lose it. What would make him go feral for me. What could trap his breath in his lungs and attach him to me forever.

"Mmm, amazing. You're good at this," My usual snark and sass was returning; I gently teased him. Lovingly.

"That's good to know, it's been a while," He snorted. Must've felt my confusion, too, because the next sentence threw me for a loop: "It's been, uh, years."

Years? For this man?! The universe was unfair. Depriving the entirety of female sex of this man? Abhorrent. "You have quite some things to catch up on," I whispered coyly. "Humbly do I offer my services."

His chest began shaking: Bruce was laughing, no trace of shame, just good-natured relief and happiness in his features. "This is exactly why we love you, Princess. You say the weirdest shit but somehow it all makes perfect sense."

I chuckled, the words spreading warmth - not the physical one - throughout my body and lulling me into a sense of sated exhaustion. I let my eyes fall shut on their own and for the first time in ages, I fell asleep with a calm heart.

Bruce's soft snores kept the bad dreams at bay.

Tony's callous hands roused me tenderly, coaxing the sleep from my brain with grace although there was very little grace about the situation; first thing I noticed upon waking was the sticky puddle between my legs and the sharp smell of sex in the room. Bruce's slightly spicy sweat mixed with the warm vanilla of my perfume. The messed up bedsheets and the warm but empty space next to me.

"Had fun, baby girl?" If Tony's lopsided grin was any indication, I had at least committed some sort of scientific breakthrough. "You know, I had a bet running on when Bruce was going to break his celibacy. If you had waited until next year, which is technically in a few months..." The engineer trailed off teasingly, looking not at all worried about the fact that his best friend had blown my brains out a... Few hours ago.

I cleared my throat. "So, who won?" It seemed only appropriate I ask.

Tony's face immediately fell. "Merlin."

My eyebrows rose. "Didn't take him for the gambling kind." I sat up in bed, stretching the stiffness out of my joints, clearing the sleep from my head with Tony's gaze firmly glued to my naked tits. Some things never change.

"You called him old. That does things to a man's ego," Tony answered dismissively. It was easy to see the obvious pleasure he held for that particular conversation: the billionaire greatly enjoyed it when people gave into his antics and indulged his sometimes childish vices. One of those vices happened to include annoying the resident wizard.

I decided to test the waters. Biting my lip, I gave him an appreciative once-over. "How are you on sloppy seconds?"

He clicked his tongue, eyes sparkling, obviously having expected this question. "I'll join you in the shower. We have thirty minutes before Clint sends Nat down here to retrieve us deviants."

I pranced in the direction of the bathroom, putting an extra wiggle in my walk.

Turns out, Tony had absolutely no problems with sloppy seconds. He was as eager to hold me by my hair, viciously pumping his cock out of me, whispering utter filth into my ear.

His honeyed voice rough, telling me how dirty I was. "You little tart, parading around, making old men drool over you. Fuck, you make me feel like a dirty old man."

I let the sassy remark to be drowned in the sound of his hips slapping against my ass. "I love dirty old men," I moaned. "Want me to get down on my knees for you, daddy?"

"Fuck," Tony's hand tightened in my hair but he made no move to cease the assault on my pussy with his cock. It was steel-hard, deliciously thick and hit all the right places without much effort.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

#bruce banner smut #bruce banner x you #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner x y/n #tony stark x you #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #stephen strange x y/n #stephen strange x you #stephen strange x reader #party favours #bun writes

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masterjedilenawrites · 4 years ago

Text

The Sniper and The Medic: Chapter 10

Starring: Crosshair, OC Joan Vo

Chapter Warnings: Discussions of bullying, death, injuries, and other tragic things, offset by a lil fluff at the end

Taglist: @proadhog @skippyhopperwisdom

AO3 Link (In case you like it better over there, it’s okay, no judgement)

A/N: Just want to quickly apologize for the 2 week delay in updating this story, but also this will be my 99th post on this blog which is kinda fitting once you read it, so I guess some things are just meant to be...

< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >

Chapter 10: Good Grief

He met her at the designated place that evening, barely able to contain the mixture of excitement and dread that welled within him. On the one hand, Crosshair welcomed any opportunity to spend time with Joan, especially after she had shown interest in wanting to grow closer to him. She looked as beautiful as ever when she joined him, wearing her cute little shorts and signature smile.

But on the other hand, they were running out of time. He deployed tomorrow afternoon. How could they possibly grow closer in such a short window?

And how could he possibly say good-bye if they did?

He led her through the set of double doors and down a long hallway, keeping his strides as relaxed as he could, despite his every nerve being on edge. She walked fairly close alongside him, but nothing too scandalous. Not that it was likely they'd be caught. This part of the facility was more-or-less abandoned, only used to house the more rarely-used supplies for the maintenance crew. Half the walls were stripped of their usual white sheen, revealing cracked plaster and dirty insulation instead. Only a few like himself knew it was a good place to go when in need of some privacy.

But there was also something here he wanted to show Joan. A way to help her understand his life as a defective clone. He wasn't sure why the idea had popped into his head earlier; he should have just suggested the simulation room again, programmed it to a nice, romantic beach or something. But it was too late to go back now.

They neared the door in question and Crosshair punched in the code. He gestured for Joan to walk in ahead of him, wanting to keep an eye on her reactions.

It was barely considered a room, more of a corridor that was meant to connect this hallway with another. A motion-sensor light flickered on as they entered. Miscellaneous boxes and crates had been pushed up against the wall on the left, dusty and unimportant. It was the righthand wall that gave this space significance. It had long been reduced to its concrete foundation, and chiseled crudely over most of its surface were names and numbers. The largest script was in the top left corner, only two symbols.

"Ninety-nine," Joan read out loud as she stood in the center of the room and looked over the wall in reverence. "This is a memorial."

Crosshair nodded. "All the clones who've died here, never stepping foot into battle. Most of them defects, like 99. Their names won't be found anywhere else. This... is their only legacy."

She nodded at him solemnly in understanding. He watched as she brushed her hands over some of the etchings, fingers tracing the lines as she read them over. There were mostly numbers, many of them not having lived long enough to find a nickname. One of his own batch-mates had been like that, only living a few short years before his defective heart had given out.

Crosshair tore his gaze away from Joan to find his brother's number on the wall. Beneath it was the second lost brother, who had made it just a little longer. Scraps, they'd called him. He brought his hand up to rest alongside their names, frowning deeply at the memories they gave him.

He felt Joan come to stand next to him and he swallowed hard.

"He was sick all the time, but he kept trying," he explained. "He was worse off than me, and yet I was the kid who cried every night, and he'd talk me down. He'd tell me we had to keep fighting, we had to prove them all wrong. And then one day... he was gone. He'd failed some test and they just... they took him and...."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Thankfully Joan didn't need him to. She laced her fingers through his and squeezed reassuringly.

"They told me I'd be next," he said, his voice getting lower. "The Kaminoans. The training Sergeants. The other cadets. With Wrecker, Hunter, it was obvious they'd be useful, their mutations were fine. But me? What was I good for? Who could look at me and know what I was capable of?"

His words hung between them for a short while before Joan gave another squeeze of his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Crosshair," she said and he knew she meant it. "You deserved better. They all did. But... I know this might not sound quite right, but without that pain, you might not have become as determined and passionate and committed and loyal as you are now."

He finally looked away from the wall and down at her, surprised that she remembered the words he'd once written for her, all those months ago. The words he believed embodied who he really was.

"You didn't let your past break you. You used it to make you stronger. You should be proud of that."

He had never been told such a thing before. He'd never been given permission to feel proud, to take ownership of his life. It made him feel... relieved. To know that all of his struggles could mean something made the burden of grief that much lighter to bear.

And to hear it coming from Joan made him feel things, too. He realized he wanted to kiss her. She was standing somewhat close, her fingers were still grasping his own. She seemed to be enough at ease, comfortable here with him, even in such a sad moment. But he panicked and looked away before he could act on such impulses. He still didn't know what she wanted, or any of the things she'd alluded to having gone through herself. It didn't feel right to make to such an intimate move yet.

"Um, we can talk about you now," he stuttered awkwardly, overly aware of how clammy his hand felt under hers. "If you want...."

She laughed a little, but it wasn't a joyful sound. "I'm afraid my story's not any happier."

"Oh."

She cocked her head a little and reached up with her free hand to lightly touch the tattoo around his eye. "Didn't get a chance to tell you before, but I really like this. It's perfect."

He smirked but kept his eyes carefully fixed on hers, waiting. She seemed to be deciding what she wanted to say.

"Not sure if you've seen my own." She tried to sound playful, letting go of his hand in order to turn slightly and show off the splattering of tattooed birds around the thick scar on her thigh. "It's... kind of a memorial, too."

Joan looked toward the wall and took in a measured breath. "When the war started, my family did what we could to help. But then comes the Republic with its grand, shiny new army, and they tell us they've got it from here. Go home. My parents listened... I didn't. I couldn't. No, I marched up to the first battalion I could find and I told them I'd be helping them whether they liked it or not. They were the 116th, led by Commander Crowe."

She held a small smile on her face, fondness peeking through the sorrow like rays of sunlight into a curtained room.

"Your brothers," said Crosshair knowingly.

"Mmhmm.... They were so good to me. They taught me everything I know. We went through so much together. And then one day..." she looked over at Crosshair apologetically as she borrowed his previous words to tell her own story, "my speeder exploded, messed up my leg really bad. I did everything I could to try and fix it myself, but we were short on supplies and it just wasn't getting any better. Crowe insisted I go to Coruscant for treatment. I didn't want to, I hadn't been apart from them in years, but there was no choice."

And then the curtains were snapped shut and all that was left on Joan's face was sorrow. Sorrow and darkness.

"They died while I was recovering. All of them. A single missile to their ship somewhere in deep space. And that was it. No more 116th battalion. No more family."

Instinctually, Crosshair reached for Joan's hand as she had done for him. She seemed surprised, breaking out of her haze and looking at his hand like it was the only thing grounding her.

"I should have died with them," she said in a hoarse voice. "At least, that's what I told myself for seven months. Until Cody came. He'd been good friends with Crowe, knew all about me. He told me to get over myself. That I was still alive for a reason and that I did nothing to honor their memories by letting myself waste away. And then he offered me a job, said I could help some of his other brothers, the way I'd done for the 116th."

Slowly her sadness was fading and Crosshair was grateful. It was easier to hold on to his own pain and learn to live with it, but seeing the same feelings in Joan had scared him. He didn't know what to do to help her. As she wrapped up her story, though, he began to realize that he already had.

"He said it was an experimental unit and that none of you would look like, well, the regular clones, so maybe it'd be easier for me to get back into it. And it was. I knew I loved all of you boys from the first day. You were all confident and eager. None of the battle-worn spirits I was used to dealing with. You gave me life again. Helped me rediscover my purpose. My passion."

She took a step closer to him, holding his hand back firmly.

"You were the tough one," she smirked. "You're so calm and relaxed, so sure of yourself. Any time I felt anxious or like I wasn't making a difference, I knew I could count on you to put me at ease. Even when you were a little sassy."

She giggled, but Crosshair's mind was reeling. She thought he was the assured one? This whole time she'd been seeing him the same way he saw her?

"And then, you know, you stood me up that one day," she sighed dramatically and then it was his stomach that started doing flips as the regret from his actions returned. "Which happened to be the, uh, anniversary of their passing.... And I didn't think I'd be able to do anything that day, except that I knew you'd be coming by, and so I actually got out of bed and did some chores and saw other patients.... And I was trying to think of ways I could keep you for longer than just a consult on your injury. I was going to have you teach me darts and maybe help me sneak some good snacks from somewhere or ask to get a tour of your new ship...."

She was looking up at him with bright eyes and the thought of kissing her returned. She was definitely close enough now, and as he made eye contact, she couldn't seem to remember what she was going to say next, her voice trailing off into short little breaths.

"I really am sorry," he said, stalling for time. He wasn't sure why he kept hesitating when it was something he wanted so desperately. So much for her thinking he was confident.

"I know," she said softly. Was she leaning closer or was he?

"I... I'm leaving tomorrow," he said.

"I know." Both of their hands were clasped in each other's now, pulses beating rapidly beneath hopeful grips.

"And," he kept going, even though the space between them was continuing to grow smaller, "I've never done this before."

"I know." She grinned, and that undid him.

Whatever self-conscious walls he'd put up for whatever irrational reasons came crumbling down as he finally closed the gap and pressed his lips against hers.

#star wars #the clone wars #the bad batch #clone force 99 #crosshair #crosshair x oc #original clone characters #clone trooper 99 #commander cody #angst #sorrow #tw: death #fluff #kissy kissy

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saxxxology · 4 years ago

Text

puppet (crimson king)

Sam plays with his favorite puppet.

PAIRING: King of Hell!Sam x Reader

WARNINGS: smut, bondage (female), orgasm denial, dub-con only if you read fast and skip around

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Sam likes ropes. The coarse feel of them in his hands. The indentation the fibers leave on your creamy skin. The way they snap dully in thick, lust-heated air.

Tonight he’s got you strung up in them, tied to his bed, one limb to a bedpost. He’s using softer ones this time, ones that only get tighter as you struggle. You’re naked, blindfolded, legs spread wide to expose wet, quivering flesh. He could keep you immobile with just his mind, but he likes the reality of your bonds.

You’re like a puppet, doing whatever he wants as he pleases.

You’ve been like this for a long time—hours, it feels like. You can hear the soft click of his shoes on the stone floor, and the anticipation is making your heart flutter in your chest. The heat between your legs is at a low simmer; Sam likes to build until you’re desperate, then hold off on giving you what you want, but he’s taking longer than normal.

“My Lord,” you try.

“Hmm?”

You take a shuddering breath. “What are you doing?”

He keeps staring down at your body as you reflexively roll your hips towards the ebb of heat he’s kept between your legs for the better part of an hour. “Playing with my toy. Why? Do you want to stop?”

You shake your head, a slow loll from side to side. “No.”

He smirks. “Good. Do you think I would?”

He would stop, and you know it. He says things like that to get under your skin, put you on edge. He only hurts you when you want him to, when he knows the pain will be enjoyed and he can listen to you screaming “yes” and his name over and over again.

If he really hurt you, or if he crossed a line, he’d never forgive himself.

He hears the skip of your heart, smells the warmth in the air as your blood runs hot. Oh, he’d love a taste of it, just to get that little kick that heightens his senses.

But no. He’ll remain sober this time.

“So eager to please.” He runs a finger up the inside of your thigh, watching bumps rise on your skin. Your leg trembles reflexively, and you let out a shaky breath through your nose as his finger reaches the crux of your leg, between firm muscle and the soft wet flesh of your labia. “Such a good little slut.”

The throbbing between your legs intensifies, tendrils of heat snaking out and wrapping around the most sensitive parts of your body. It’s too much too fast, and you’re immediately greedy for more.

“That feels so good,” you whimper, head tipping back, “please... more.”

“Hmmm… you did complete everything I asked of you earlier.” Sam’s deliberately stretching the temptation as you writhe and twitch under the force of his pleasure.

“I did,” you cover eagerly, “I did so good, didn’t I? I was good for you…”

A dark chuckle makes your skin prickle. Sam never laughs unless he plans on tormenting you to your wildest limits.

“Maybe you do deserve a treat,” he ponders, “or do you… no, I don’t think you do.” He cuts off your whine of frustration with a light slap on your bare mound that makes you nearly jump off the mattress. “I should use you first. Make your cunt good and sloppy before I let you cum.”

You chew your lower lip, a deep groan leaving your throat. “Anything… anything for you.”

His clothes are gone with a snap of his fingers. The bed dips, and you shiver when his hands cave the soft bedding on either side of your shoulders. You can’t see him, but you know he’s close, just hovering over you, knowing the sheer closeness is putting you on edge. He could have his knife, planning where he’s gonna trail it over your skin, where he’s gonna press hard enough for you to feel the sting.

The blunt, firm heat at your entrance draws your attention away, and you hold your breath as he sinks in, seating deep with a heavy grunt of pleasure. Your fingers curl into the sheets, and when the bed shifts you know that Sam’s sitting back, watching your pussy stretched around his cock.

“That looks so pretty.” His hands run up the insides of your thighs. “Such a beautiful sight.”

You shudder under his touch as his cock gives a hard throb inside you. “You’re so big, Sam… I… fuck…”

Uncontrollably, you squeeze him tight, bearing down to try and get yourself that final nudge you need to cum, but Sam doesn’t let you get very far.

“No.” He presses down between your hips, forcing you to stay still as he pulls back, the slide of his cock making you whine loudly. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Do I have to make it hurt?”

Shaking your head, you manage a breathless gasp. “No… just feels good…”

He smirks, his upper lip curling into a snarl as he shoves himself in so deep and hard your vision blurs. “You cum before I’ve given you permission and you’re gonna really regret it.”

“I won’t,” you pant, “I promise I won’t, my King… I’m yours.”

Sam grins wickedly. “That’s right.”

Your squeal of pleasure cuts off when he starts rutting into you, hard, fast, hips slamming against your ass so hard you know your skin will be black and blue.

“Look at you,” he growls, hands on your tits as you bounce on the mattress, “all fucking strung out like the little whore you are.”

He swallows your long, drawn-out moan with a brutal kiss. You thrash underneath him, forced to the edge of an orgasm that refuses to come. Sam doesn’t stop, even when your pussy chenches tight and slicks his cock with a wet, hot burst. Your whimpers turn into cries, then sobs. To any passers by, one might assume that Sam’s doing the worst, but little would they know that you love every single bit of what he gives you.

Sam doesn’t last very long. He’s been pent up all day and he’s been playing with you for too long. You feel it before anything else, the stiff jerking of his hips and the shudder of the mattress as his hands clench tight on either side of your shoulders. He cums with a loud, gasping groan, thrusting wildly until you feel his seed begin to drip out, making a mess between your legs and staining the comforter underneath you.

He pulls out with a soft huff, watching his release pour from your body. You’re shaking, tears flowing freely from your eyes, and when he runs a thumb experimentally over your clit you writhe, too sensitive for his touch.

“That’s what I love to see,” he coos, running his hands up the insides of your thighs. “What a good girl… I think you deserve it, now.”

You nod frantically, breath hitching. “Please, I just—”

Your words cut off when he slides back in, still hard and throbbing. Sam chuckles, holding a hand over your clit and focusing his energy exactly where you need it. “Don’t let me stop you,” he directs, “I want to hear it.”

You don’t even make it a full minute. The hot pulsing on your clit is too much to handle, and your entire body vibrates with the force of your climax as it finally crashes through your body. Sam has to hold your hips in place with his free hand, and you let out a sob of his name when you hit the peak before letting go and giving in to the pleasure.

He works you through it, letting the pleasure he controls ebb away until you’re numb and his cock slips free. The mess and sweat is gone with a snap, and your bonds come loose. He pulls you into his arms, rolling onto his side and planting a gentler kiss on your lips.

“I’ll never tire of you,” he murmurs affectionately. “I chose right with you… my pretty little vixen.”

You hum, trying to bring something remotely coherent to your tongue as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ll always serve you, my King,” you stutter, “anything you ever want, I’ll give it to you.”

He pats your hip, eyebrows raised in appreciation. His lips meet yours in a deeper, more passionate kiss, and you sigh when he fills his hands with your ass and tugs you even closer.

“That’s my puppet.”

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#the crimson king #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester reader insert #sam winchester fanfiction

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teaplease1717 · 4 years ago

Text

Cheer for Me

Title: Cheer for Me

Chapter: 2 of 3

Relationship: Todoroki Shouto x Yaoyorozu Momo

Rating: E

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947014/chapters/74220609

Kudos to @flourchildwrites for betaing.

XXXXX

It was like Kaminari had shocked him. Electricity sizzled down Shouto’s spine and every thought in his head scattered as her lips moved slowly against his.

Her mouth was soft, and she kissed him as Shouto had always imagined. With a groan, his eyes closed as she ran her tongue along his lips and slid it inside his mouth with a soft noise. His body quivered.

This wasn’t real.

She pressed closer. Her hands curled into his jacket.

This was a hallucination. And yet, even knowing it was fake, Shouto didn’t want the illusion to stop.

His fingers twitched, and Shouto found that his hands were already around her bare waist, pressing against the small of her back, arching her closer. His tongue slid against hers as his hand lowered to the thin waistband of her skirt before skimming down the fabric to firmly cup her ass.

It was soft with just the right amount of firmness, and Shouto couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like slapping against him as he took Yaoyorozu from behind.

Tightening his grip, Shouto rolled his hips into hers experimentally. Yaoyorozu pulled back slightly with a breathy gasp, and Shouto dragged her closer.

Everything felt fuzzy. He could barely think. Yaoyorozu’s body was warm and felt so right molded against his. And Shouto’s cock was already hard and aching for her.

Kissing the side of his mouth, Yaoyorozu followed his jaw line planting slow open-mouth kisses up towards his ear. Shouto shuddered as a flood of heat shot through him, and she nuzzled the thin patch of skin underneath his ear before nipping him.

Shouto groaned low in his throat, and he realized he didn't want to stop this. He wanted to touch and be touched by Yaoyorozu, more than anything.

‘They call themselves “Heroes” and keep fooling everyone! The only ones these “heroes” protect are themselves! With all that ugliness inside, they use you people to give them protection! Approval! Admiration!’

Dabi's words cut through his foggy lust-induced mind.

Shouto froze. That’s right; this warmth that Yaoyorozu was offering wasn’t something he was allowed to wish for, even in a dream. If he wanted to be a true hero, he needed to be better than this.

The thought sobered him, and he caught her hands as they slid up to circle his neck.

“We can't.”

Slowly, Yaoyorozu pulled back to stare up at him. Her eyes were dark, and her chest was heaving as she looked at him in confusion. “Todoroki-san?”

Shouto gritted his teeth, and he pulled her hands away. “We need to stop. A hero wouldn't do something like this.”

Yaoyorozu blinked. “What-What do you mean?” she asked shakily. Her expression wavered.

Shouto inhaled deeply through his nose to steady himself. “I can't become a hero if I give in to these desires.”

At those words, something flashed across Yaoyorozu’s face, and her dark onyx eyes widened. “But you are a hero already!”

His stomach twisted. He wanted to take her face into his hands and kiss her senseless but stopped himself.

“No,” Shouto said firmly, looking away. He hesitated a moment. A tight lump had wedged itself in the back of his throat, and he swallowed thickly. “I’m not. Not a true hero at least. There is still too much of my old man’s teaching in me. I'm still too selfish and let my emotions control me.” He swallowed and forced the next words out. “This illusion is evidence of that. A true hero wouldn't have a dream of their friend this way.”

Yaoyorozu was silent a moment.

“But there are plenty of heroes with lovers or families. Are you saying they aren't respectable heroes?” Yaoyorozu asked finally, pulling her hands out of his and stepping back.

Reluctantly, he let her go as he looked back at her.

“No, but I need to be better than them.” Shouto pressed his lips into a hard line. “Since I was made for the sole purpose of becoming a hero, I have to work harder and be better than anyone. I need to be perfect.”

Yaoyorozu opened her mouth and then closed it. Her lips twitched, but she swallowed whatever she was going to say and dropped her gaze to stare down at her shoes.

“To defeat your brother?” she asked softly after a few seconds.

Shouto nodded. “They call themselves ‘heroes’ and keep fooling everyone. With all that ugliness inside, the only ones these ‘heroes’ protect are themselves.”

“Those were Dabi’s words?”

“Yeah.”

Her head jerked, and she looked sharply at him, her eyes flashing. “But Dabi isn’t right! You shouldn’t let him influence you,” she said, her voice rising as she pressed a hand to her chest.

Shouto shook his head. “Dabi may be crazy, but not everything he said is wrong. And unless I am able to achieve those goals, I don’t know if I can defeat him.”

“That’s why we’ll work together. You don’t have to do this alone.” Her eyes searched his face, her expression pleading.

Shouto curled his hands into fists. “No.” It felt like one of Mineta's purple balls had wedged itself into his mouth, making it hard to speak. “There’s a reason top heroes—All Might, Hawks, Best Jeanist—are single.”

“Just because they are single doesn’t mean you have to be,” she said. “You aren’t them. It’s your life, isn’t it?” Her body quivered before him.

His heart clenched at her words. They were so similar to what Midoriya had said to him at the last sports festival.

Shouto swallowed over a dry mouth and shook his head slowly. “True heroes need to stand alone. If we let our emotions control us we only hurt those people we want to protect. I wouldn't be able to stand seeing you suffer because of me.”

“But,” Yaoyorozu wavered, her eyes growing glassy, “isn't that my decision to make?”

Shouto’s breath caught in his throat.

Yaoyorozu continued, taking a step closer. “I don’t understand. You say heroes need to stand alone and that if I get close to you, I’ll suffer. But what about my feelings? Is having people who care for you truly that wrong?”

“That’s not it.” His voice was thick. “I want to be with you. More than anything I want to be with you and the rest of the class. But this is my cross to bear. Otherwise, I’ll just bring misfortune onto everyone more than I’ve already have.” His fists tightened until his knuckles were white.

He didn’t know where these thoughts had arisen from but, somewhere in the depths of his subconscious, Shouto realized he believed them. Someone like him—someone created to be the perfect “hero”—didn’t get love. Didn’t deserve it. No matter how much he wanted it.

This was for the best. Forcing himself to realize this now, in this hallucination, was just saving himself from future unnecessary hopes and desires.

“Is that truly what you think?” Her voice snapped Shouto out of his thoughts, and he looked up. She was staring at him pointedly. “That you can’t have love because you feel responsible for your brother?”

It felt like someone had hollowed out a hole in his heart as he stared down at her. Shouto inhaled unsteadily. “Love. Relationships. Those kinds of things are for other people. Heroes need to be better-”

“You’re wrong, Todoroki-san.” Her voice cut through the air in that steely, unwavering quality of conviction.

“Wrong?” he echoed, eyes widening at the look of anger and heartbreak written across her face, as if it were her that wasn’t allowed to be loved and not him.

Yaoyorozu straightened her shoulders. “Dabi’s manipulating you into believing that the only way you’ll defeat him is if you’re alone. But, if you let him do that, all you’ll end up doing is hurting yourself.”

Her gaze was intent as she met his eyes, and she pressed her hand to her chest. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Todoroki-san. More than anyone, I’ve been watching your progression, and I know what kind of person you are. You’re kind, and despite your stoic demeanor, there is a lot to you. But, because I’ve been watching, I can also tell that those emotions you’re trying to suppress in order to meet this unrealistic vision of a ‘hero’ are slowly becoming too much for you to handle. Eventually—eventually they’ll overflow, and at that point it may be too late. All you’ll be left with is regret.”

“Yaoyorozu…” Shouto whispered.

Biting her lip, she swallowed and dragged in a deep breath, composing herself. Then, in a softer voice, continued. “Someday, you’ll see. But, until then, will you let me take some of your burden?” Yaoyorozu searched his face. The heartbreak of a moment ago was gone, and her expression was collected. But her eyes–

The way she looked at him—a mixture of longing and hope—was enough to take Shouto’s breath away. And the thought of moving away never even crossed Shouto’s mind as she stepped closer.

“If it’s in here, in this dream world, it should be okay, right?”

Slowly, as if to give him the chance to pull away, she reached up to the metal zipper of his gym jacket and pulled it down. Shouto’s body trembled as she slid her hands underneath. The heat of her palms transferred through his undershirt as she pushed his jacket aside and rested her hands over his chest.

“Please.”

Yaoyorozu leaned in and kissed the space over his heart. Shouto inhaled sharply.

“Please.” She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. Shouto’s heart pounded as fast as if he had fought a nomu. She pushed up on her toes.

"Even if it's a dream..." Her lips hovered over his mouth. “...let me be your motivation. Let me love you.”

Yaoyorozu closed her eyes and touched her lips to his for the second time that day.

#todomomo #todoroki x yaoyorozu #My writing #Cheer for Me #My Story #todomomo fanfiction

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fuwafuwagem · 4 years ago

Text

Client file: CHISAKI, Kai

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Chisaki Kai | Overhaul & Reader Additional Tags: Amputee Overhaul, Tartarus, don't ask me what readers job is, they are a PROFESSIONAL!

Session 2 here!

Your supervisor had advised you to be wary of the villain as you headed out, and you’d simply rolled your eyes. Being vigilant around villains was part of the job. You’d almost asked if he really had so little faith in your skills but had instead opted for silence. No point in picking senseless fights. It was less a moment of being undermined after all, and more a request to be particularly cautious.

Overhaul had been a very dangerous man.

You’d thoroughly looked over the file on Kai Chisaki on your way to Tartarus. It was quite an extensive read. From his takeover of the Shie Hassaikai, his grotesque abuse and experimentation of an unconsenting minor, his drug distribution network, and countless deaths at his hand, Chisaki had no doubt been a true villain.

The operative word being had.

The situation had changed significantly somehow between Chisaki’s battle with the heroes and his eventual arrest, and that change was the reason you were now at Tartarus.

Various security protocols were initiated throughout your long walk to his cell. You silently endured each, as you had many times before. The officer led you through the halls of the maximum-security prison until your destination was reached and simply advised you to call for him when you were done.

Kai Chisaki sat opposite you behind a glass screen. His shoulders were slouched forward, and he only offered you the briefest eye contact as you took a seat at the small desk you’d been provided with, laying out your file and the notes you’d taken on your client.

“Mr Chisaki. It’s good to finally meet you,” you said politely. “I’ve read all about you, so it’s good to finally be able to see you in person.”

Chisaki shifted slightly in his seat but did not make any response. You’d seen him in photographs. As the young head of the Shie Hassaikai, he had always looked to be a proud man, but he had lost that pride along with many other things; some were more obvious losses than others.

“I’m sure you’ve been told why I’m here,” you continued, unphased by his apparent disinterest. “I’m here to assess you. Basically, I believe you are eligible to be moved to a lower-security facility. Somewhere like that would allow you more freedom.”

Chisaki’s head still hung low, but his eyes rolled up to meet yours. “Why?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why would Chisaki be eligible, after all the heinous things he had done, to the luxuries of any place other than Tartarus?

“Because you are no longer considered dangerous.”

Chisaki’s head finally lifted and his glaring eyes narrowed.

“Because–” you began, but you were swiftly interrupted.

“Because I lost my quirk along with my arms?” he hissed, raising the stumps so that you could get a good view of the damage that had been done to him. “I was, for all intents and purposes, neutered.”

You didn’t flinch at the venom in his tone. “That’s right,” you said simply, again with a polite smile and inclination of your head. “I believe that you would be much better suited in a different sort of correctional facility.” You arranged the papers in front of you and continued. “Depending on how these sessions go, I will be able to recommend your transfer. A transfer would mean you’d be given a custodial sentence and a chance at rehabilitation. How do you feel about that, Mr Chisaki?”

You heard a harsh snort of air expel from Chisaki’s nose, and his expression darkened. He didn’t speak though, and you took that as a signal that he was willing to listen. What you really wanted, however, was communication.

“I want to begin my assessment by discussing the events which brought you here.” You wet your lips with your tongue. The file had been an unpleasant read, even to a professional like you. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, keeping your client’s best interests at heart. You didn’t really mind if he died in Tartarus, but your job needed you to remain a neutral party, and so you would do your best by him. “You’ve experienced a great deal of loss. Both your arms and your quirk were forcibly taken from you in quick succession. That would be a traumatising experience for most people. Have you been receiving therapy?”

Chisaki grimaced, then sighed. “They tried. I wasn’t interested.”

Your brow furrowed slightly at his confession. There was no doubt that Chisaki had gone through acute trauma. When the police had initially found him, he had been in a severe state of shock, his body trembling violently. You wondered where he found the strength to come back from something like that.

“The loss of your quirk must have been quite a shock to you, but it’s that very loss that has opened up this opportunity. If you are transferred to a lower security prison, you may also be entitled to receive prosthetic limbs.”

That announcement seemed to stoke some fire in Chisaki. “Prosthetics?”

You nodded. “They’ll be simple. Nothing that can have the potential to be modified into a weapon, but it will mean you have some means to hold items; cutlery, books, that sort of thing. Prosthetics aren’t permitted while you’re incarcerated here in Tartarus, so there is a silver lining if you’re open to viewing it as one.”

Chisaki’s back straightened as he rolled back his shoulders, finally choosing to face you more directly. “What exactly do you want from me?” he asked.

You smiled. “Just a conversation. Some of it might be painful to talk about, but I want to understand you more so I can make my assessment. I truly believe that Tartarus is not somewhere you belong, but I need you to confirm it for me.”

Chisaki sucked in a long breath before his lips parted again. “Fine.”

You glanced at the file in front of you. There was something that needed to be addressed; more than his quirk, more than his run-in with the League of Villains, more than his cruelty and manipulation. “Let’s begin with your relationship with the leader of the Shie Hassaikai.”

You saw Chisaki’s body grow tense. “Pops …” he whispered, and as the word quietly rolled from his lips, the pain in his eyes deepened.

“Mhm, that’s right. He was a father figure to you, right?” you asked, though the answer was already clear from what you had read about Chisaki.

He nodded. “He took me in, raised me, tried to teach me his values.” His mouth curled down at the corners. “He wanted the yakuza to have honour, not to become like villains. But the yakuza have sunk so low. People used to respect us, but we became nothing but lapdogs for those more powerful than us. Quirks threw everything into chaos.” His gaze hardened as the creases in his brow deepened. “The world stopped progressing. The advancements of science and technology came to a standstill, and even now, everything revolves around quirks. People’s futures, their careers, are practically decided the moment their quirk manifests. Quirks have made our society sick, and that sickness continues to spread.” He stopped and drew in air through his clenched teeth. “Pops wanted to protect the yakuza name, but he wouldn’t make the sacrifices needed to restore us to our true glory.”

You lifted your chin and met his frigid gaze. “But you would, and you did. Starting with your takeover of the Shie Hassaikai.”

The stumps of his arms moved as if he had tried to cross his arms defensively. You almost felt sorry for him as his mouth warped into a thin line of a man frustrated with himself.

“If I’d known …” he began, but his voice caught in his throat.

“The doctors haven’t been able to do anything for him,” you said, a sympathetic tone leaking into your words. “He’s currently in a hospice, but there’s no hope that he’ll recover. He’s being kept comfortable, though, if that is reassuring at all.”

“I planned to restore him once I’d achieved my goals,” Chisaki said. “He wouldn’t let me do what needed to be done. I would have fixed him once the cure began to spread. It would have only been a matter of time. He would have returned to being the head of the Shie Hassaikai in a world where the yakuza were once again revered.” The golden gleam of his eyes shimmered slightly, damp with unshed tears. “I wanted him to be proud. I wanted to show him how grateful I was for everything he’d done for me. But now …” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “Now my quirk is gone, and I can never bring him back. I wanted to thank him, but I killed him. I killed him, and I have to live with that.” His head drooped once again. “I wanted to give the world a cure. I was so close, but the sickness was too strong for even me.”

“Do you regret what you did?” you asked.

Chisaki stood, making you jump slightly, but you quickly settled. He was behind a thick wall of glass. He approached it, and pressed his forehead against the barrier, his eyes boring into yours, holding your gaze like a hostage.

“That is a pointless question. What good is regret? What’s done is done. Pops is in a hospice, I’m in this cell. No amount of regret will change that. We’re all right where our choices led us.” His eyelids dropped, releasing you from the hold of those glittering irises. “I failed. I’ve come to terms with that fact. This is the consequence of the actions I took. I won’t say I regret what I did, but I am … sorry. To those I hurt.”

You watched him as he returned to his seat. You didn’t feel like there was any deceit in his words. Only sorrow. His losses had changed him. He was a man who had suffered great pain, both physically and emotionally, and that pain had left scars; in some places, the wounds were still wide open and raw.

Kai Chisaki, who had once insisted on being called Overhaul, did not belong in Tartarus. Of that, you were becoming more certain.

“Thank you for your openness, Mr Chisaki.” You rose from your seat, motioning to the guard that you were ready to leave. “I will be returning. We are scheduled to have two more meetings, but I believe that we have made a positive start.”

Chisaki’s jaw stiffened, but he nodded. “I guess, thanks,” he muttered. “Not many people would be so willing to help me. It’s not like I have a lot of friends.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you insisted, but gave him a reassuring smile. “Until our next meeting, Mr Chisaki, take care.”

You were led away from Chisaki’s cell by the same guard who had led you in. The same security protocols were followed, as well as some additional ones, and it took you a full twenty minutes to get out of the prison. The air you breathed once you were outside was the freshest you felt you’d inhaled in your life. Tartarus was never a fun place to visit, but you’d still be back soon enough.

Chisaki would be waiting.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #overhaul #kai chisaki #mha overhaul #mha #bnha #reader

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dinrenan · 3 years ago

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Dinrenan Origin

It took me ages to finish it all together, I had to rewrite it because the file on my computer got corrupted or something! Go and restart, then it did not save. So I opted to write on my phone and send it all to my discord server where I keep all my stuff, texts included, ported it to Drive and tadah! here you have it!

WARNING! This chapter contains: Mental torture (implied), physical torture (implied), mention of torture and blood, cannibalism, child poisoning and death. And Bad english grammar in some parts.

Sylaise had many children, but none of them survived, no matter how hard she tried to keep them alive. Until one did, a daughter, this one survived longer than any of her children and reached the age of 6 before passing out due to poisoning, the goddess found out pretty soon who it was, Hellathren, the child's slave and keeper while the Goddess had duties to attend to. The girl died in her sleep and Sylaise was devastated, no matter how much she tried to reach for the weakening spirit still inside her body. In desperation she went to the one who could help her, Falon'din, who did not know of the girl's existence, nor did the other Evanuris, they just assumed that the last child was dead, like the others. But this one had been the child she and June always wished for, and they tried many times to make any of them live enough after their first breath, and when this one made it, it was taken from them. Falon'din agreed to help the Goddess out, but made no promises of his success; he also needed to confront Ghilan'nain and his brother, Dirthamen, if he wanted to succeed. The young Goddess accepted to help, although not knowing for what she agreed to, and gave Dirthamen the knowledge he needed. Dirthamen on his part modified that knowledge, for it had flaws, and made it perfect if applied in the right way, if not the child would turn into something like one of Ghilan'nain's new experimental creatures, a beast with horns and grey skin, good only to fight like a rabid beast and nothing else.

Sylaise wanted to join the other Gods in this ritual while June simply mourned the loss by locking himself in the chamber they both shared, but the woman wasn't going to give up on either her Husband or child, there was still something that could be done and when Falon'din asked for blood, she gave it. She gave the traitorous woman who poisoned her daughter to Falon'din, for she had to live till the day of the ritual, then came the blood of her High Dragon Guardian, its unhatched eggs, and a vial containing her own blood. Falon'din chose the location, an underground temple he used to his own pleasure, few loyal slaves were permitted to stay there but mostly spirits roamed its dark and dreary walls.

When the time came only Falon'din was in the chamber, the high dragon throat was slit open to permit the blood to flow in the little canals carved on the floor and slide in the well, previously filled by a fountain figuring an owl, that was now empty of the stone structure and the child's body lay limp on the tiles. He had fun carving his markings on Sylaise traitorous slave, the blood still pouring from them was steadily forming streams in the canals and mixing with the High Dragon's Blood, filling up the empty space at the center, reaching the corpse.

He could feel the power held in the blood, and how it sought to enter the child's body, an empty shell perfect to host it and flow again, live again, it needed a spell to adjust itself and Falon’din was working on it when something started to go wrong. The Dragon's body began to spasm violently when the child's body got fully enveloped by the blood and the beast’s heart came out from its throat like it had regurgitated it from its place. The heart was big and pulsating, Falon'din lost his focus on the well and the spell broke loose, making the God hit the nearest wall, it was a moment before it all happened. The child's body began floating in the air, at the center of the pool, the heart was shrinking and reshaping itself while where once the High Dragon's and Slave's body laid, only a pile of bones could be seen now. The eggs that were placed on a corner started to explode, masses of blood, meat and scales flew towards the heart, now shrunk to a chest sized living organ, and with a stupor the God saw as all those materials started to mold over together and create a round shape, an orb. A blinding light had him covering his eyes, his ears could hear the screams of agony coming from the girl, he didn't move an inch, fearing that the sentient being, whatever it was, would strike him. And strike him it did, a stream of blood resembling a hand reached for him while he was still blind due to the light but heard the air moving, he reacted and tried to defend himself, only to be cut in the process, that did the trick, a thick line of blood got absorbed by the shaped blood claws and it all disappeared, like a spirit who lost its interest in him.

With slow movements, he rose up, dusted his clothes and advanced toward the Well. It was now void of blood and the orb was nowhere to be seen but the child was there, sitting on the floor and fixing him down with void glassy eyes, they were violet mixed with blue gems filled with nothing but despair in them. He swore he could feel his heart feel something resembling fascination, his brother and him were always curious after all. Some sentinels felt the blast and came bursting through the door to make sure nothing was attacking their lord, when they noticed the girl they all fell silent, for they could feel their Master magic radiating from her.

"Take her, my part is done" He decided to ignore the little pang his heart did but noticed the sentinels didn't move an inch when the girl simply turned towards them, staring at them this time, and with a scoff, Falon'din used his magic to make the girl float out of her 'nest' and right in front of the sentinels, they refused still to lay a hand on the girl, his temper wasn't known to last long, especially not after something came after his blood.

"Did I stutter?" He was now getting angry, he gave a simple order, were these loyal sentinels of his gone dead? He just marched towards them, took the girl in his arms, and walked off, if they weren't going to obey simple orders, he was going to do it himself. The girl did not speak during the whole time and was focusing her eyes on him again, he had to speak with his brother and focused himself on the task of reaching Dirthamens's room before a new day started. The child was not his problem to deal with anymore, or so he thought.

Sylaise received the child at the doorstep of her chamber situated in one of Elgar'nan palaces, the man had some territory issues to talk about, little did she care when she saw the girl. The two guards that accompanied her were Dirthamens's and she gestured them away while letting the girl inside, but something was off, she couldn't feel the same energy as before like it was replaced by something else.

"My girl...how do you feel?" her voice was trembling, she feared the worst and when the girl turned to look at the mother, glassy eyes was all she could see, the same eyes her brothers and sisters shared when the Goddess tried to revive them, something tore inside her once again, another failure. But with grief came rage, if the girl was nothing more than a useless shell there was no space for her love, but in reaching her the Goddess got stuck to the floor and no matter how much she tried to free herself, what kept Sylaise on the spot wasn't ice, no, it was too solid and transparent, she was being held by thick crystal.

"Mother" was a feeble little word that made the Goddess stop her struggling, if the girl spoke then it wasn't too late, she could still make her regain full consciousness, the crystal cage disappeared as soon as the rage inside her did, and the girl was between her mother's arms in a moment, not that the girl seemed to care, she just stayed motionless.

"It will be alright, I will make this right"

But the child had to remain a secret to the other Evanuris, Ghilan’nain did not know what her knowledge was used for, Dirthamen just told her he was seeking new knowledge and the Twins had little care for the existence of the girl as far as Sylaise knew. June was happy and relieved to see his daughter breathe again and held her body gently between him and Sylaise that night, fearing she would disappear in a cloud of smoke.

The day after, all the discussions were done, Falon'din and Elgar'nan had a disagreement, Sylaise cared little, she was ready to walk in her and June's room, take the child and go home, Her husband had made a little piece of jewelry for the girl, to hide her aura and give the illusion she was indeed a grown child, not even a teen yet, but enough to be used as a maid to the Goddess, and since there seemed a fight was to come, she wanted her daughter by her side if things got to the point of fleeing.

When Falon'din’s knight died both parents were ready to leave, their presence was requested no more, June gave a little look to his daughter, only to find her walking towards the fallen elf and with a firm voice, he called her, hoping she would obey.

"Maid, you are not supposed to leave your Mistress side " with those words Sylaise turned as well and tried to not panic in front of the others.

"It seems like this one does not listen to you, what family did you say she comes from?" was Andruil sneering comment, she always hated how Sylaise went around with a noble's kid always at her side, just to feel like a mother, she told the huntress a long time ago, Andruil did not understand the other and simply scoffed at whoever child Sylaise put her claws on every decade. The girl, in the meantime, had approached the elf lying there, Elgar'nan's knight looking down at her like she was a pile of dragon dung, but little did she care, she just knelt beside the dying elf, she could feel the regret for something inside him, and his life slowly fading, the elf wasn't dead yet and so she did the only thing she remembered made her mother relax. She started to sing while cleaning his face from the blood, his eyes focused on hers and his ears focused on her voice, he suddenly wasn't scared to close his eyes anymore, and for a moment he felt peace in the arms of someone so young willing to help a dying man finding his last breath, he hoped the best for the girl and wished that her life wouldn't end in slavery. When he finally went limp, the girl smiled sadly down at the pale face in her lap.

A soft hand reached for her and in a second she was on her feet, Falon'din himself was dragging her away while the other Gods were stunned, except for Elgar'nan, who smiled coyly at the other. Mythal simply shook her head, Sylaise and June froze on the spot, the Goddess didn't dare to reach for her daughter and June knew better than to go against Falon'din, so kept both hands on his wife's shoulders, to stop her from moving if she tried.

When the Eluvian closed behind them the girl had no trouble adjusting her eyes to the dark corridor they arrived in but had to look down when Falon'din turned to speak with her.

"Do you have a name?" His voice was a mix between cold and veiled amusement and on her part, the girl did not know, she never had a name for all she knew, her mother and father only called her with nicknames and Hellathren called her young Master, so she simply shook her head and subtly looked up, the God was smiling. He noticed right away the glossy emptiness had left her eyes, that meant she had regained her will to live. Then came the rational thought, such being could help him, and since she was so young he could easily use her as he pleased, he needed her voice, with the future wars to come the girl would be a valid asset. He had to deal with some problems, the girl's parents for a start, but he had time.

"Then welcome home, first off, remove that thing around your neck, I will ask June to make another one and I will infuse it with my own spell...and burn those clothes, you are not going back to your lifegiver anytime soon" with that he started to walk and the girl diligently followed him, not looking at anyone, she simply stared at the head of the God, or well, at his black long hair. After a short walk, they reached a throne room full of slaves and sentinels, there were some tables as well filled with Nobles who whispered between themselves as the God walked toward his throne, the girl still in tow. When he reached the throne the girl had stopped at the steps, not sure what to do with herself, she could smell the meat on the tables and something inside her stirred, her mouth started to salivate and she gulped, fixing her eyes on the clean floor, she had to stop that urge of biting and chewing, although something disagreed inside her. Falon’din saw as to how the girl tensed at the smell in the air and made a gesture towards one of the sentinels, he ordered that one chamber was to be made for the girl as well as a cell in the dungeon, near one where enemies were left to slowly fade away, only then he spoke aloud, to let everyone in the room listen to his claim.

"Let this be a joyful moment, for a new member joins my court, my loyal friends, I present to you my future High Priestess, Dinrenan!" with a smile he gestured with one hand towards her form, and she understood that he just gave her a name. All around the nobles all started to clap loudly, it was unusual for Falon'din to have a new member joining his court, more so if said member was no more than a child in their eyes. The feast was going to be that same night, Dinrenan was escorted to her room by Falon'din himself and whispers started to spread all around, thanks to the working slaves that saw them. Could she be the Master's daughter? Was she some powerful spirit that chose to form a body? What was her purpose? She had a scary look.

Her life was a simple one to the eyes of the people, singing when people died during a battle, for Uthenera, for the Gods, singing for the future to come, to mourn the lost, nothing more and nothing less. What they didn't know was that Dirthamen started to train the girl, under the permission of his brother, and discovered soon after her strengths and weaknesses. Unlike her mother, she wasn't a powerful healer, but more like a crafter, like her father. She had the ability to shapeshift in every living creature as long as she saw it first, and he tested that in every way possible. He had locked her in a black cell filled with people who couldn't give him any more knowledge, and he couldn't turn them into slaves, they were no use to him until he decided to starve the girl and see how she would survive. Survive she did, when the elf chose to reopen the dungeon, five months later, all he could smell were the rotten flesh of the decaying corpses and almost dry blood, it didn't take him much to scan the room: on the far corner were all white bones, near them there seemed to be a tall crystal bowl of what he could only assume to be wastes, even although the room didn't smell like them. He saw on how there was a pile of ragged clothes forming a nest of sorts, and on top of that body parts with flesh still on them, but Dinrenan was nowhere to be seen, then his gaze checked the walls and she was there, hiding in the darker corner where the light did not arrive, she seemed to be one with the wall, he could only spot her because of her blue and violet glowing eyes roaming his form like he was her next prey. Only once she stepped towards him he noticed that she had discarded the jewelry Falon'din made June craft for her and she turned back to her true size and looks, a girl of 6 years old covered in dry blood, with nothing but rags and sharp teeth shining in the feeble light, then he noticed the crown of horns on her head.

“I see, to survive you gave in to your dragon instincts...I won’t let you go out of this place until you return to your...civilized state, I thought this could happen...but it won't be a problem, you will have to stay with me for at least another three months, do you understand me?" he wasn’t going to let a feral thing run through his temple, she would burn everything down if the chance was given to her.

The girl did understand him, but at the moment she wasn't totally sure how to react to his presence, a part of her wanted to attack him, tear his limbs apart and drink his blood to satisfy her bloodlust, the other part, the rational and weak one, wanted nothing more than to beg him to let her out, to let her wash herself of the dry blood. As if sensing her intentions Dirthamen smiled coldly at her, his yellow and purple eyes shining in the dark.

"You won't get out of here unless you turn back, young one. My brother will be pleased in knowing he just has to starve you before locking you up with those who refuse to worship him..." he saw as she nodded slowly and the horns on her head faded away. She wanted to speak, to let him know she wasn't feral at all, not yet, the last meal had enough meat on his bones to fulfill her hunger, for the moment being.

"Food" it's all that she managed to say before walking, more like stumbling, towards the black-haired man, who at the sight felt a little guilty and disgusted, that was not something he was used to, the guilt. Only when he looked away from the creature, he saw the spirits in the cell, spirits of mercy, pity, hunger, and shame, they all stayed in the near corner where he stood, with grey colors as to not be seen by him got curious.

"How long before she killed you?" He asked them but it seemed like they did not want to answer, no one spoke aloud, they only stared at the girl and refused to answer the God, which meant he wouldn't get a straight answer from them, but Dinrenan spoke before falling on her knees and arms.

"I...I sang, I sang to them, to reassure them nothing was going to happen...and some of them refused to wake up...so...I...I..." she couldn't say it, Dirthamen saw on how the girl struggled to get the words out of her mouth, he only scoffed and turned around, leaving the door open, the girl was no threat once her instincts died down and so she was free to leave, he had a guest to attend to after all, and it wouldn't be kind to let him wait. The girl did not understand, she looked at the spirits and they all walked towards her sides, patting her on the back and on her head, she gave them the mercy they requested, to listen to her voice and never wake up again. With a sniff, the girl picked up the broken necklace she destroyed in a fit of rage and walked toward her so-called freedom, as long as she behaved normally and didn't give in to her dragon instincts Dirthamen had no interest in keeping her secluded. Step after step she found herself walking in the shadows to avoid the slaves and sentinels till she reached her room, but someone was already waiting for her, one of Falon'din noble sentinels that years later would still protect her from herself and keep her memory in order to protect her until the day she was ready to face them.

His name was Dinlin.

Someone that years later she would call Pity. -----------

Took me long enough to finish this! I started with a picture and ended up with another, the end picture is somewhat decent while the first I made included more bones, blood, and all happy stuff. Had to cut some parts as well, a friend of mine that read it threw up her dinner, so I choose to cut the Slave Carving, remove the reason as to why Hellathren did what she did (It will be explained in Dirthrenan "Blood relationship" with Dinrenan), the other funny exercises Dirthamen put her through and along the way I got carried away and put Dinlin in it as well...so, for the most part, now you know who Dinrenan's parent are!

#Dragon age #Dragon age Inquisition #Dinrenan #Evanuris #Sylaise #June #falon'din #dirthamen #heed the warnings #I warned you #Dinlin #My art #My writing #Dinrenan Origin

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vannahfanfics · 3 years ago

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Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Daffodils Bloom After Winter

Ao3

Chapter 11: We All Fall Down

“No… Don’t go…” Shikamaru mumbled in his sleep, tossing and turning. The blanket bunched around his legs, twisting them up like he were a bug slowly becoming wrapped in a spider’s sticky web. Sweat shone on his forehead as he tossed his head back and forth, and more dripped down his pale face. His breath left his mouth in ragged gasps, wheezed between half-audible mumbles. “Don’t leave me… Not like this… Temari!”

As he shouted, his body convulsed and he reached into the open air. He slipped off the cushions into the small space between the coffee table and the sofa. He yelped when his head struck the wooden edge of the table. He lay on the floor for several moments, holding his throbbing skull in his hands with tears stinging his eyes. Gradually, the pain ebbed, and he melted against the floor as all the strength left his body. The rain was still falling, drumming against the side of the house with the same fierce intensity as before.

“Ugh… How long was I out?” he wondered aloud, pushing up from the floor to drag himself in a slumped sitting position. He rubbed the tender spot on the side of his head as he squinted around in the gloom. To be honest, he didn’t recall laying down; however, there were a lot of gaps in his memory when he got into his manic fits.

I hope I didn’t do something I’ll regret, he thought, and then gasped lightly as he recalled his son’s angry outburst. He slumped against the sofa while he ran a hand over his face, feeling the wrinkles and lines that grew more by the day.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, so stop trying to push me away!” “For better or for worse, all we have is each other.” “I can’t live like this anymore!”

Shikadai’s words bounced around in his head, only worsening the growing headache eating away at his skull. He laid his head against the sofa cushions, watching the shifting light streaming through the waterfall of rain coating the windowpane play across the thick fibers. He’s trying so hard, he thought and closed his eyes, I can’t believe I said that to him about Ayumi… He opened his eyes again, and his lips curled down into a frown.

He knew that Shikadai wasn’t trying to replace his mother. If anyone was trying to replace Temari, it was him, and that scared him beyond reason. He loved his wife, more than life, more than death. The notion that he was beginning to see Ayumi in a light that went well beyond “just his son’s history teacher”... Well, to put it blankly, that terrified him. At the mere mention of her name, he’d gone and said something completely heartless because of that fear. At that moment, he wanted to rip her away from his son, to plant it in his head that they didn't need her.

And the reality of it was that they did.

“Ugh,” he groaned, turning his face into the sofa and smearing his nervous perspiration across the fabric. “This is a fucking drag.” A drag of his own making, unless the gods were out to get him, throwing him in this ongoing saga of misery. He didn’t know what to do anymore; pondering on it for too long made it feel like his skull was going to split open, made him feel like he was going to puke his guts out. As his belly roiled, he pressed his face further into the sofa, barely able to suck in air through his nose as he nearly suffocated himself.

Calm down, he told himself even as the thunder rumbled overhead, making his nerves titillate with anxiety. Calm down. One thing at a time… Whatever I can handle right now… And the thing he could handle, he felt, was talking to his son.

Prying himself away from the sofa with a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet. The shadows and light created by the rain on the window made him feel like he was walking underwater, as did the pressure bearing down on him—like he was on the bottom of a great trench staring ever-so-hopefully at the light so far above he couldn’t even see it anymore. But it was there. He knew it because Shikadai could see it, Shikadai had fought his way there and was now trying to extend his hand down for him. Shikamaru just had to find the courage to take it.

Courage was something very hard for him to come by these days.

He shuffled down the hall to Shikadai’s bedroom, finding the door closed— of course. He rapped his knuckles on the door a few times, then asked, “Shikadai?”

He received silence as an answer, which wasn’t unexpected given the circumstances. Shikamaru sighed deeply and pressed his forehead against the door. “Shikadai,” he pressed. “Please talk to me… I know what I said—” he paused as a strange sound echoed through the room, and he narrowed his eyes. It sounded like water pattering across the floor. He looked down to the handle and gave it an experimental tug— it wasn’t locked, which usually wasn’t how this went.

He pulled the door open immediately, and the wind gushed in through the open window, spreading more water over the already drenched floor. It soaked into the rug, saturated the half-made fabric of the futon, and slicked the fabric of the fluttering curtains. Shikamaru stared at the reflection of the sparse sunlight in the water, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. Then, with a horrified gasp, he shot across the room, nearly busting his ass in the puddle in the process, to the window. Shikadai’s footprints had long since vanished under the assaulting rain, but he didn’t need them to know where his son had gone.

Ayumi…

Frowning, he closed the window. Mist immediately appeared on the glass at the rapid change in temperature, and the water spread across the sill to drip down into the puddle below. His reflection refracted in the ripples as he looked down, drinking in his tired eyes and the hard lines etched into his skin. He then looked up at the window, watched the lightning illuminating the gray clouds choking the sky.

He didn’t want to go out there, but he knew he had to.

Shikamaru sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, mentally steeling himself for the daunting task before him. After taking a moment, he pushed himself away from the window and marched out of the house before his courage could fail him. He immediately winced as the cold rain slapped against him, drenching his clothes and slicking his hair to his forehead. The thunder rumbled overhead, and the lightning snaked through the clouds. His hair stood on end as he leaned back against the door, already panting.

Get a move on, he told himself. Clenching his jaw against the urge to scream, he hopped off his porch into the sodden yard. The mud squelched under his boots as he padded through the muck out into the equally flooded street. He held his hand over his eyes as the rain streamed down, trying to peer through the thick curtain of water. It swirled around him in a maelstrom; the wind tugged insistently at his clothes as if trying to pull him back to the sanctity of his house. Get a move on! He told himself again, pushing himself through the storm.

And then he saw her, like he always did when it rained. He froze as she flitted through the rain like a ghost, her golden ponytails glowing unnaturally in the gloom. His heart slammed into his sternum and knocked the wind out of him from the inside. He knew that he shouldn’t follow her, he knew that it wouldn’t end well, but when had Shikamaru been able to make a rational decision of late? So he ran after her, screaming her name to the howling wind.

She turned to look over her shoulder, a smile gracing her blue-purple lips, before disappearing into the haze of rain. The mud splashed up his legs as he tottered unsteadily after her, staggering through the street like a drunken man. He muttered her name under his breath like a prayer while he looked around with unfocused eyes; everything was beginning to blur into a watercolor landscape of smudges and falling rain. He turned in a circle as he hunted for her in the gloomy downpour, still whispering “Temari, Temari, Temari” like it would summon her forth.

“Over here, love.”

Shikamaru whirled on his feet with a strangled gasp, and he slipped in the squelching mud. He grunted as he landed on his arm, pain shooting through his nerves as his bones crunched awkwardly under his weight. He curled up in a ball with a groan, grimacing at the slimy sensation of the mud slathering the side of his face. Then, he looked up with a gasp to see Temari’s crisp, glowing image a few yards away.

“Temari,” he groaned, rolling onto his belly and tucking his aching, pulsing arm under his chest. He slid his other forward through the mud and stretched out his hand. Rain and mud slipped down his shaking fingers, desperate to grasp the phantasm of his wife even though he knew she’d slip right through his fingers. “Temari, please!” he gasped, his voice broken shards squeezing out of a scarred and bleeding throat.

He knew how this ended. It ended the same way every time. Yet even now he held on to the thinnest thread of hope that it wouldn’t play out that way, that she wouldn’t—

“Darling, did you hear that?”

Her image transformed in an instant, with the flutter of his lashes as he blinked. Her pale skin was now the white of death, making the blood spattered across her face and bubbling from her mouth shine all the more ruby. She grasped at the long blade of the sword protruding from her chest, but with her nerves overcome by shock, she probably couldn’t feel its sharp edge slicing through her palm. Her beautiful blue eyes, the eyes that had always gazed at him with such love, were shrunken into a sea of white as she just stared at him—confused, terrified, desperate. The part he’d always hated most was watching the light fading from her eyes, watching her body go slack like a marionette suspended only by the cold steel dripping with red.

He never screamed initially, not even the first time. It lodged in his throat like a bowling ball; it stuck there, choking him, making the stale air swirl in his lungs while it tried desperately to force its way through. And it would, eventually, and that scream would explode out of his mouth with such force that it tore his throat raw and shattered the air around him like glass.

He slammed his face down in the mud because he didn’t want to look any more, but that image was seared into his eyes, into his dreams, into his memories. His good hand scoured trenches into the wet earth of the street with such force that his nails splintered down to the quick. He kept screaming, even as the mud leaked into his mouth and spread a chalky, earthy taste over his tongue, because he could still see it, he could still see it, he could still see it—

“Shikamaru!”

His head snapped up and he blinked against the mud and rain. Everything was a haze of color, but he’d sworn he heard his name.

“Shikamaru!”

“Temari?” was his garbled reply. Everything was swimming, his vision, his body, his head. Somehow he could still recognize that someone was kneeling in front of him— wait. No, not Temari.

Ayumi.

“Shikamaru!” she gasped as she leaned over him, tucking her sodden brown hair behind her ear. “Shikamaru, get ahold of yourself!”

“Ayumi,” he groaned, and as his head wobbled precariously, she grabbed the back of his shirt to haul his upper body over her thighs. He immediately flopped his face down into the downy fabric of her cotton dress, and he was relieved to be drowning in it rather than the mud. It smelled of daffodils, of coffee, of hope.

He slid his good arm up to hug her legs the best he could, desperate to anchor himself lest she be a phantom too. Ayumi crooned gently, and all the tension melted from his body as he felt her leaned down to press her face against the top of his head.

“Shikadai…” he managed to grunt even though his consciousness was beginning to slip. Blackness fuzzed the edges of his vision, while the colors in the middle continued to swirl into a confusing mess.

“He’s safe,” she reassured him, and he melted even further against her even though he was pretty boneless already. He wasn’t sure when he started crying, but he could feel the tears smudge against her dress as he tilted his face enough to peer miserably up at her.

“I wanna be brave like him, like Shikadai,” he whispered. “How do I do it, Ayumi?”

“Silly man,” she chuckled quietly, and he could tell that she was crying too, the tears slipping into the streams of rain running down her pretty face. “You just take one step at a time.”

“And if I fall…?”

“Well,” she smiled gently, “everyone inevitably falls. But that’s why it’s important to have people to help you back up again.”

He managed to twitch his cold lips into a smile, but he couldn’t hold it for as long as he wanted to. The darkness finally eclipsed his vision, and as his whole body began to go slack and numb, Ayumi curled over his body to shield him from the incessant rain.

“We all fall down,” she whispered against the back of his neck, “before we learn to stand on our own two feet again.”

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